#among ink rain and clouds

[athenalvss]

TOMORROW? ( Bruce wayne! )

requested!

summary: On his first patrol as Robin, Dick can't keep his mouth shut and tries to set his mentor up with Detective Gordon's assistant, but there are things the boy doesn't know.

pairing: Bruce wayne x fem reader

open request - dc masterlist

The rain was barely felt from the roof of the building, but the lights of Gotham City flickered as if they were also afraid. You adjusted your coat, watching the Bat-signal projected onto the clouds. Gordon hadn't arrived yet, but you were there, as always, ready.

You didn't wait long for it to arrive.

The dark figure emerged from the edge of the building without a sound. Imposing, wrapped in his black cape, Batman strode toward you with a presence that commanded even without saying a word.

You'd been working for the police department for almost three years, Commissioner Gordon's right-hand man since he handpicked you for the position. You were no ordinary officer. Your reports were accurate, your deductions sharp, and, most importantly, you weren't intimidated by the city... or the shadows that loomed over it.

That was one of the reasons Batman started trusting you.

At first, there were only short, dry exchanges. He wasn't exactly the life of the party. But over time, the conversations lengthened. There was a silent understanding between you. Gordon had even started sending you in his place to some meetings with the Dark Knight, fully trusting your judgment.

And that night was one of those.

You didn't have to wait long until he appeared.

The dark figure emerged from the edge of the building without a sound. Imposing, wrapped in his black cape, Batman walked toward you with a presence that commanded even without saying a word.

"At time as always" you said with a slight smile, breaking the silence as if it were an old habit among you. "Gordon's stuck in a scene across town. He asked me to deliver this to you."

You handed him an envelope. It was open, revealing a deck of poker cards inside: two hearts, two Jacks, and a two, all stained with red ink.

Batman watched them closely. "Did this arrive today?"

"Earlier today, it was left at the station, addressed to you, and I dared to open it early."

"Cards, games. Could be Nigma or Two Face," he murmured, running his fingers over the ace.

"I thought the same thing. But there's no message, no threat. Just the letters."

I was about to make another observation when something landed with a thud on the roof of the parked patrol car. You instinctively turned, hand near your gun. But the one who appeared on top of the vehicle wasn't a threat. Or at least, not yet.

A teenager, or barely more. His black hair was tangled, his mask was worn, and his shiny suit stood in stark contrast to the darkness of Gotham City. He slid to the ground with an agility that reminded you of a circus acrobat.

"Am I interrupting something?! Are you receiving love letters at work?" he asked with a smile, his voice young and clear.

"And you are...?" you asked, eyebrows raised.

The boy stood proudly in front of you. "I'm Robin. First official night. Impressive, huh?"

"Robin," Batman chimed in with a small sigh. "She works with Gordon."

"Oh," Robin looked at you more closely. "Nice to meet you. I thought you'd be more... I don't know, old."

"Thanks... I think"

"one more question, I mean, ummm, are you single?"

Silence fell like a bomb. Batman turned slowly toward him, his jaw tense.

You raised an eyebrow, not moving. “Pardon?”

"I mean Br... Batman" Robin clarified, awkwardly jerking his thumb. "He's always alone, you're so cool, you know about crime... you two have chemistry. Just connecting the dots."

Batman turned to him very slowly. He said nothing. But that silence was worth a hundred warnings. "Robin," he finally murmured.

—What?! I'm just saying you two could make a great couple, you could solve crimes together all the time.

You crossed your arms and looked at the horizon, pretending to hold back a smile.

"Watch the perimeter, now," Batman ordered without raising his voice.

"Okay, okay, I'm going now," Robin spoke in a tone of resignation at the rejection of both adults to his great idea, and went jumping across the roofs.

"You didn't tell me he was so cute..." You turned to him, with a smile that was barely noticeable, but that shone in your eyes.

Batman barely turned his head, the shadow of a smile crossing his face, fleeting like everything that isn't made to last. "I wanted you to meet him for yourself."

In the distance, a small figure peeked out from behind a water tank. Robin. Peeking out with an expression somewhere between curiosity and confusion.

"He's watching us," you murmured, not moving.

"I know, I trained him" he replied calmly.

You adjusted your coat and spoke without looking at him: "Same place tomorrow for lunch?"

"If you make it in time this time," he replied, still maintaining his neutral tone, although his eyes shone a second brighter than usual.

"This time you won't have to wait for me"

"We'll see, I can call Alfred to pick you up."

Your smile barely grew, showing a hint of indignation. "See you tomorrow, bats, be careful please."

And you walked away into the shadows, letting him watch you as you went down the stairs to enter the station again.

[xi4oyan]

@skymoral hope ya like it ( ͡º ꒳ ͡º)

‧͙⁺˚･༓☾When the Light Fell from the Sky ☽༓･˚⁺‧͙

No one witnessed when she fell.

It was like a wayward comet torn from its firmament — a soul wrapped in ash and glass, ripped from the modern world by a fire whose flames consumed not only flesh, but also name. When Angel awoke, the sky above was a deep blue, veined with clouds that resembled marble. A damp, clean scent lingered in the air, like after rain, and the breeze whispered in a language she didn’t know, yet somehow understood.

She lay upon a bed of soft, damp moss, where tiny white flowers bloomed like fallen stars. The trees around her stood tall and solemn, and bamboo swayed in reverence to her waking. Sunlight filtered through the leaves in golden threads, and the silence wasn’t emptiness — it was welcome, like the Earth itself breathing gently.

Angel sat up slowly, her long dark hair spilling over her shoulders like waves of warm ink. Each heavy strand glinted with golden highlights, and her skin — a soft, earthy bronze — glowed with minuscule drops of dew. She wore a pale tunic of translucent gauze, cinched at the waist with a cord of gold thread entwined with tiny pearls of light. The fabric, white as new-fallen snow, was embroidered with flowering peach branches and swirled around her ankles like living mist. Delicate bronze anklets chimed softly with every movement, like notes from an ancient instrument.

She did not know her name. Only the word “Angel” remained — tattooed in small, fine black letters behind her ear, like a whispered secret. And she knew, in her very soul, that she no longer belonged to the place from which she had come. She had been pulled from it — from suffocating heat and flame, from screams no one remembered — and now she was reborn in a world that breathed legend.

Led by an intuition she could not explain, she wandered through the silent fields. The wind played with the hem of her robe, and the branches respectfully parted before her. The birds did not sing — they simply watched. And then she arrived at the clearing.

There, at the heart of the world, was the egg.

It was immense and smooth, like a drop of moonlight solidified. Its surface was pale gray, faintly blue, veined with golden light that pulsed as if it were breathing. It sat nestled among rounded stones, surrounded by golden flowers that never wilted. The air around it shimmered, caught in a trance, and time itself seemed to pause.

Angel knelt, her knees sinking gently into the moss. Her hands touched the warm surface of the stone, and her heart pounded at the recognition of something she had never seen before — a memory seeded before birth. She rested her forehead against the shell and whispered, as if in prayer:

“Sunny…”

The name escaped her lips unbidden, but carried with it a sweetness, as though a thousand suns had planted it inside her. And the stone trembled.

That night, the starlit sky opened like a ceremonial veil. Angel slept at the base of the egg, her hands resting over her belly, hair spilling over the ground like ribbons of dusk. She dreamed of a golden monkey with bright eyes and a burning heart, running through endless showers of peach blossom. He held out his hand and laughed with his gaze, and his name echoed in the wind — not as a call, but as a reunion.

When dawn broke, the stone began to crack.

The light from within was golden, like sunlight trapped in amber. The shell split silently, fragments floating gently before touching the ground. And from within emerged a small creature — golden-furred, with eyes like living embers. He trembled, newborn, and his first gesture was to reach for Angel, stumbling, his little hands coated in stardust.

She held him. His body fit in her arms like an ancient promise. He smelled of just-extinguished fire, sweet fruit, and warm stone. He looked into her eyes, vast with questions and quiet acceptance. And Angel smiled, tenderly — not because she had found something, but because, finally, she had been found.

“You’re the sun,” she said softly. “And I’ll be the sky where you shine.”

Sunny — Wukong — nestled into her arms, and the world around them exhaled a long breath. As if the Earth had finally been released from its waiting.

The days that followed were woven in gold: she bathed him in a crystal spring while he tried to bite the water. His fur gleamed like threads of lightning, and his mischief was light as childhood. Angel taught him to speak — even when all he wanted to do was scream — and he taught her how to laugh, even when all she carried was sorrow.

And as he grew, the embroidery on her robe frayed, and her hair grew longer. But her hands were always open to him. He was chaos and laughter, she was silence and comfort. She covered him with her cloak in the rain and cradled him against her chest when the nightmares of his fiery birth still burned his skin.

She never told him where she came from.

And he never asked.

Because there was love — a love born not of duty, but of choice. Angel was the sky where he danced, and he was the spark that reignited her soul.

And so, between eternally green leaves and paths that led to myth, the Girl of the Sun and the Golden Monkey rewrote their destinies not in stone, but in petals and footsteps shared. The Mountain of Flowers and Fruit, once home to only echoes and silence, became a place of laughter, of stories whispered beneath the moon, and of two hearts that had fallen from the sky — one as sun, the other as star — only to find each other at last.

༓･˚₊‧✩‧₊˚･༓

[zhn6104]

They existed in a realm where time lost its dominion, like sand slipping through fingers — two silhouettes entwined in the dance of eternity. Hannibal and Will. Their story was not written in ink; it breathed in the silence between sighs, in the flutter of eyelashes, in the warmth of palms that found each other in the dark, like stars tracing their constellations.

When Will spoke his name — the sound dissolved into the air like the first ray of dawn grazing the ocean’s surface. It was a word that belonged not to language, but to the chasm between heart and abyss, tender as the whisper of waves kissing the shore. Hannibal answered with a silence louder than a thousand poems. His hands, carved from marble by time and secrecy, touched Will as though fearing to shatter the fragile glass of reality. Yet there was no fear in their contact — only the certainty of souls long intertwined, like ancient trees rooted in a forgotten forest.

“You turn me into an ocean,” Will murmured as their foreheads met, breath mingling with the scent of rain beyond the windows. And it was true — tides raged within him, not chaotic, but those swayed by Hannibal’s moonlight. Calm waters cradled every contour of his mind, shielded him from storms, kissed the wounds the world had left. And Hannibal, ever the deity of his own inviolable universe, melted like snow beneath spring sun under Will’s gaze. His frigid cosmos of calculation and symphonic control cracked open, revealing something fragile and infinitely beautiful — a desire not to be a god, but a man whose heartbeat synced with another’s.

They spoke in metaphors: Will’s smile was dawn tearing through gray clouds, Hannibal’s laughter a cello echoing in an empty cathedral. Their love needed no explanation. It was an ancient book, pages scented with incense and petrichor; a scar that no longer ached but whispered that pain had not been in vain.

Sometimes, in the hush of the library, dust swirling in sunset’s glow, Hannibal would sketch Will — not with pencil, but with a gaze that memorized every freckle, every shadow of a lash. And Will, in turn, would find corners of Hannibal’s soul even he feared to tread, filling them with light soft as silk.

“You are my irrevocable finale,” Hannibal confessed once, lips brushing Will’s temple, and in those words lay no room for doubt. They were two wings of one bird, two notes in a chord that resonated eternally. Even as the world crumbled around them, their oceans remained still, for in the depths — among corals and sunken treasures — they had found what outlived time, fear, and death itself: a quiet harbor where tenderness knew no shores.

[ghostmaldo]

ˏˋ ╎ ⁀➷❤️🍒´ˎ˗ Prompt: You don’t have to earn my affections with Lucifer and GN!Human!MC ˏˋ ╎ ⁀➷❤️🍒´ˎ˗

⭐️Headcannons⭐️

I didn’t have any energy left to really proof read this one but I was feeling this one a bit 😭.

Ask box : Open heart💙

Playlist played during writing process: https://youtu.be/a50H8JJ_kaE?si=q1lOOgvWQrJIFlnT

<—Lucifer pov —>

~It’s been a long grueling last few days for Lucifer. His paper work never seems to become lighter. The head aches become stronger and worse of all… his thoughts were swimming in self doubt. Even if he is the avatar of pride… his self doubt grew with each passing hour. Hair in disarray and his uniform splayed out messily on his body. Too consumed by the ink on the page to be bothered to fix it.

~ What was he doing wrong? His brothers didn’t like him… He wouldn’t either for being the soul reason for them to be kicked out of their heavenly home. He hadn’t been strong enough then… hell… he may not be strong enough now to carry them all.

~Thoughts like this continued to swirl in his clouded mind. Dragging him further in a dark abyss. The words on the page became mute and his hand holding his pen stopped moving.

~”Lucifer?” He flinched. Eyes flickering up to the door where he found MC standing there staring at him worriedly. He lifted his head quickly, greeting with a half-assed smile. “Ah, (MC), forgive me I didn’t see you standing there.”

~This didn’t deter the worry in their eyes. They calmly walked over to where he was, taking the seat next to him. “Lucifer… are you sure your alright?” They asked sweetly, it nearly made him break right there. Yet his pride kept a strong hold on him.

~”I’m fine (MC), I’m a bit busy with all this paper work-“

~ His words were cut off when MC wrapped their arms around his torso. Carefully laying their head over Lucifer's frantically beating heart. He froze, unsure of what was happening. Awkwardly stiff while MC comfortably embraced him.

~”You're a terrible liar.” They spoke simply, burying their head further in his chest. It was at that point he surrendered himself. He let his pen fall to his desk, melding himself with MC. Breathing in the scent they’d come to adore. He felt himself completely relaxed against them. The numbness in their fingers disappeared as he ran his hands through their hair.

~”I don’t know what's gotten into that silly head of yours Luci… But I’m here for you. Always.”

~He struggled to find a response to their statement. But it touched his heart in a way no other being had ever accomplished. He pulled them into his lap. Cradling them as close as possible to him. His worry slowly chipped away with the presence of MC.

“Thank you MC.”

~~

MC POV

~The sudden lack of rain drops slamming against their shoulder brought them out of their busy mind. Turning their gaze upward, they found Lucifer standing above them with a brow raised. An umbrella shielding them from the freezing rain.

~“MC, your soaking wet…”

~They peered at their uniform… sure enough he was right. Their clothes stuck uncomfortably to their skin and it was then they realized how cold they were. They’d been so caught up in their self loathing they hadn’t even realized when it had started raining.

~”Why don’t we go inside before your catch your death, perhaps you can tell me what's on your mind?”

~They nodded slowly, rising to their feet and followed Lucifer along to his room. Leaving behind a trail of wet foot prints along the carpet. Once in the safety of his room, MC cracked. Softly sobbing while Lucifer gently changed them out of their soaking clothes and provided his t-shirt and comfortable pants to be in. They confessed how unworthy they’d felt lately. Other demons' words lurking the back of their mind… what gave them the right to be among them at all? They were only human after all.

~ Lucifer directed them to sit on the bed, laying them down against his chest as they sobbed softly. Rubbing soothing circles into their back. “Human you may be, albeit perhaps not a smart one at times…” he flickered his eyes over to the soaking pile of clothes currently in his bathroom sink. “I’d say you are more than worthy to be here, here with us… with me. Don’t ever forget that. We cherish you very deeply MC.”

~He wiped away the stray tears from their eyes. Giving them a warm kiss on their forehead. The darkness chased away by Lucifer's confession. Soon enough, they both lay asleep in each other's arms. Forgetting about all those crude words. They didn’t matter. All that mattered was this moment.

[creaturefeaturebypadfoot]

The Augurey in Harry Potter: Origins, Symbolism, and Role in Wizarding History

Among the many magical creatures introduced in the Harry Potter universe, few are as misunderstood—or as melodramatic—as the Augurey. Also known as the Irish Phoenix, this peculiar bird is far from fiery or flamboyant. Instead, it cuts a thin, gloomy figure, resembling a small, underfed vulture with greenish-black feathers and a sharp, sorrowful cry.

A Shy Bird with a Bad Reputation

Native to Great Britain and Ireland, the Augurey is intensely shy, preferring to nest alone in thorny brambles. Its tear-shaped nest is often hidden deep in the undergrowth. It survives on a diet of insects, flies, and even fairies, which it hunts during heavy rain.

The Augurey’s mournful cry has long carried an ominous reputation. In wizarding folklore, it was once believed that its cry foretold death. This superstition caused many wizards to go to great lengths to avoid Augurey nests. But in 1824, magical researcher Gulliver Pokeby put those fears to rest with his book Why I Didn’t Die When the Augurey Cried. He revealed the truth: the Augurey simply sings when rain is on the way. Rather than a death omen, it’s a magical weather report.

From Myth to Meteorologist

Once the myth was dispelled, Augureys were sometimes used as magical weather forecasters. However, their constant moaning during rainy seasons—especially in wetter regions—made them less than ideal pets. While their feathers are striking, they repel ink and are therefore useless for writing. That said, the legendary Quill of Acceptance at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is believed to be made from an Augurey feather.

Love in the Rain

The Augurey’s courtship rituals are surprisingly complex, peaking around Valentine’s Day each year. Sadly, Augureys raised in captivity often struggle to find mates if released, having never learned these intricate social behaviors. Their shy and melancholic nature doesn’t make matchmaking any easier.

Famous (and Infamous) Augurey Moments

Over the years, the Augurey has popped up in several curious moments in wizarding history:

Uric the Oddball, a notoriously eccentric wizard, once kept 50 Augureys as pets. On a particularly rainy day, they all cried in unison—leading Uric to believe he was a ghost. He promptly gave himself a concussion trying to walk through a wall.

In 1927, Newt Scamander—the famed Magizoologist—had a pet Augurey named Patrick, who lived among other magical creatures in his enchanted suitcase.

Hans, an oversized and gloomy Augurey, became the mascot of the Liechtenstein National Quidditch Team, even gaining a fan club.

Most hauntingly, Delphini, the daughter of Voldemort, grew up with an Augurey and later adopted it as her personal symbol. She had a tattoo of one on the back of her neck, and in an alternate timeline where Voldemort won, she took on the name “The Augurey.”

What’s in a Name?

The name “Augurey” cleverly plays on augury, the ancient Roman practice of interpreting omens by observing birds. Given that the Augurey’s cry was once thought to predict death (and now rain), the term is fitting. Some even suggest the "-ey" suffix hints at "grey"—a color symbolic of sadness, clouds, and rain. Very on-brand for such a moody little bird.

So, while the Augurey may not be the most glamorous creature in J.K. Rowling’s Wizarding World, it certainly leaves an impression. Equal parts misunderstood, mystical, and moody, the Augurey reminds us that not every ominous sound is a bad omen—sometimes, it’s just time to grab your umbrella.

[magntx]

⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀WHAT IS LOVE IF NOT THE WAR WE ENTER WILLINGLY -- OCCASIONALLY BLOODLESS, BUT NEVER QUIET.

⠀ ⠀Magnus had always thought of love in architectural terms. Foundations, cracked. Columns, load-bearing and bowed. The grandeur of impossible domes—unsupported yet standing, because belief held them aloft when physics failed. Magnus was not in bed that morning. The sheets remained barely disturbed, the faintest lingering heat still pooled where he had last lain. The apartment was filled with the soft sounds from a vinyl. The sky outside was bright, but the city oddly quiet. Past the curtains, it became apparent it is still night, barely the sun peeks somewhere at the lick of a horizon. But the stars...  they fall like rain across the empty sky where there are no clouds. They glow with soft halos visible despite the light pollution of the city.

⠀ ⠀A coffee percolated on coils of magnetism. There was a single violet on her bedside table fashioned from a material unknown to her. A flower forged, not grown. The scent-- Something like myrrh and memory. A note. The first of many, she will find.

⠀ ⠀" What gift is worthy of you, мой Полярный Звезда? A crown? A city? My blood, again and again? I find, none suffice. So, first I give you this: the stars will fall when you command them. The planet turns because you walk it. I have sinned, and I am learning how to worship and pray again."

⠀ ⠀He was not a man of gifts but acts. The vinyl whispered an aria to the empty room, all strings and moan, something yearning and old. The vinyl played but there was no sign of him across within the kitchen nor living room.

⠀ ⠀Then came the clues. The coffee still hot. A note. " You already awoke in the first promise and gift. The home, humbly, the world. The second here. You will not hunger. Not the kind that devours. Not the kind we were raised by. " She shall not feel emptiness of belly or soul.

⠀ ⠀The table laid like a chapel of small devotions: breakfast, humble but deliberate; figs, dark bread, marmelades, eggs, whatever her heart desires. Reminders of Greece, France and Russia with snacks from New York's finest local. Prepared just so she could enjoy it while the sky weeps. An open book of Dostoyevsky where the breakfast waited-- his personal, battered edition of The Idiot, pages dog-eared, annotated in the margins in Yiddish, German, and Russian. The ghost of a touch, the familiar electricity of his fingertips, lingered on her back. He was barely hiding.

⠀ ⠀A page folded sharply, where Prince Myshkin says:

⠀ ⠀" To love someone means to see them as God intended them. " And his inked response in the margin: " I see her clearer than God ever dared. "

⠀ ⠀" I could not have you upon our first meeting. And we parted. Those are 20,089 days I could have given you the world. But I suppose the gods needed to humble me first. "

⠀ ⠀Then another note and another gift. A pendant, carved from a meteorite and amber with curls of white imbedded. His presence hovered in the smallest of gestures, his thumbprint visible even in the smallest of things. From a meteorite, carved and cooled in space, pulled into orbit solely for this moment and a shrapnel of his red helmet. He surrenders himself to her, gives up all that was broken and remade into her hands. It is a compass that always points to him. In her grasp, it hovers and points to the coast and horizon. Over the back of the couch lay a sun dress. A particularly fancy knife on a holster just next to it. Another note with the ironwood weapon.

⠀ ⠀" С днем рождения. < -- Happy Birthday -- > Should I fail you, I would deserve no less than this knife as your reckoning. Metal. Yet it does not easily heed my command. Illyana will take you where you need to be. "

⠀ ⠀She would curse him within the hour. More clues but instead of gifts-- riddles. It became more and more scavenger hunt without a sign of him. The arrogance of a king who has stood among emperors and ascended above them-- leading her on with childlike vanity. Riddles-- When the trail grew cold. And hot. And maddening again. Magnus pushed her patience on purpose, revelling in games and tests of patience.

⠀ ⠀Magnus could not help himself. Subtlety was not something he had mastered. His presence pulled at the magnetic spine of the city: traffic lights twitched out of rhythm; fire escapes quivered as he passed. The pigeons seemed to flee his orbit in synchronized spirals.

⠀ ⠀And eventually, the clues drag her to Island M where the Northern Lights have the sky in tears. Dropped off by Illyana. Where he stands patiently at the cliffs of the castle abode.

-- { @belayadeaths }

[logeion-proseify]

The sky was heavy with dark, swirling clouds that hung low, pressing against the earth like the breath of something ancient and watchful. The air was thick with the promise of rain, damp and electric, carrying the scent of wet earth and rusted metal sharp, biting, familiar. A soft drizzle had begun moments ago, barely enough to soak the ground, but just enough to coat the petals of the roses scattered around the clearing in a glassy sheen. Their once-pure white blooms were stained red, streaked and patterned with winding designs that seemed deliberate, almost intimate, like the delicate stroke of an artist’s hand.

And there she was, lying among the flowers, the love of my life. Her dark hair spilled around her like ink, her skin pale against the blanket of roses beneath her. Her chest was open, ribs splayed like petals of a grotesque flower. Her heart lay nestled in the cavity, pulsing faintly, impossibly alive for a moment each beat a whisper of the love we once shared. I could feel it warm and perfect, full of everything we ever were, everything we could have been.

I knelt beside her, my fingers trembling as they brushed the edge of her ribs, cold and smooth like polished bone. I leaned in closer, my face near hers, breathing in the scent of rain and blood. For a fleeting instant, I could almost hear her heartbeat echoing through my fingertips, soft and rhythmic, like a lullaby meant only for me. It told me secrets, promises of eternity, of love beyond the confines of flesh and time.

Her lips were still, curved in a ghost of a smile, a final act of defiance against the dark. I traced the path of the blood, the swirling patterns on the roses, and it felt as if they were telling a story a story only we knew, written in crimson ink on the petals of flowers that had always symbolized purity.

To love her was to be consumed, to be whole only in the act of becoming one. And in that moment, I understood that love is not gentle, nor kind it is a flame that devours, a storm that drowns, a hunger that leaves you hollow and full all at once.

I pressed my ear to her chest, listening one last time. There was no heartbeat now, just silence. Still, I stayed there, cradled by the echoes of her love, feeling more complete in her than I ever did as one.

[bungostraydogs-atsinh]

Chapter Ten: Doctrine of the Dead

In the aftermath of a disturbing crime, Ranpo and Yosano are sent to examine a body that may hold answers to a growing pattern of ritualistic violence. Inside the freezing stillness of the morgue, the pair uncover something far more complex than a killing—a quiet doctrine etched into flesh, grief, and belief. As threads of an older, hidden world begin to emerge, and connections to forgotten enemies surface, the Armed Detective Agency is forced to confront the possibility that the crimes are not isolated, but ideological. What begins as investigation soon reveals the shape of something darker—something that could ignite the city's underworld if left unchecked.

Word Count: About 5,247.

The rain had passed, but the clouds lingered like breath held too long.

Gray light slanted through the venetian blinds of the Agency’s briefing room, dissecting the long metal table into alternating bands of shadow and cold steel. The air was thick with the residue of the storm—damp stone, ink from overused files, and the scorched tang of burnt coffee that no one had bothered to clean. On the far wall, a city map was pinned like a cadaver laid bare for autopsy, its once-smooth surface marred by punctures. Seven red pushpins marked the skin.

Seven women.

Seven crimes.

Fukuzawa stood at the head of the room with the quiet composure of a man who had seen too much to flinch. His hands were clasped behind his back, shoulders squared beneath the black cut of his coat. His gaze didn’t waver from the map. Not from the pattern taking shape. Not from the wound it represented.

Near the window, Ranpo Edogawa was curled like a crow roosting in a high place, limbs folded with casual defiance into the chair. The lollipop in his mouth twitched as he spoke, its stick jutting from the corner of his lips like a cigarette gone sweet. His coat was wrinkled from sleep or apathy—possibly both—and his glasses had slid just off-kilter, failing to dull the glint in his green eyes. That glint had nothing of his usual arrogance. It was rawer, wire-strung, like electricity coiled too tightly in too small a space.

Across the table stood Yosano Akiko—her figure still, pristine, a surgeon among wreckage. Her lab coat hung open, immaculate despite the hour. Sleeves were rolled with clinical precision, baring pale wrists ringed faintly with the red shadows of gloves worn too long. She said nothing. Her expression was unreadable. It was the first time she had been called into a case involving her—the girl whose name filtered through back halls and quiet rumors like the echo of a ghost still living.

She listened, for now.

And Ranpo ranted.

His voice cut the silence like the slats of light across the table—sharp, slicing, impatient. There was no amusement in his tone, only frustration, brittle and bristling as he gestured toward the map with a candy-sticky finger, speaking as if the room couldn’t keep up, as if time itself were dragging behind the speed of his mind.

“I told them she was a victim,” Ranpo snapped, coiled tightly into the window seat like a crow sheltering on a rusted ledge. His knees were drawn to his chest, lollipop jerking like a metronome of irritation. “That she saved the kid. That she’s not even registered—no Agency file, no ability license, not a whiff of a criminal record. But do you think they listened? Of course not. Because the police are idiots. And that one guy in the tan coat smells like pickled cabbage.”

Yosano didn’t flinch. One brow arched, cool and composed. “I assume that last part isn’t in the official report.”

“It should be,” Ranpo muttered, crossing his arms like a child denied candy. But the sharpness in his voice lingered, too serrated to be mere theatrics.

Then Fukuzawa spoke—low, even, and clean as the draw of a blade through silk. “What did you learn from her?”

The question stilled the room. Ranpo didn’t answer right away. There was a hitch—just a breath, a pause that didn’t belong to the arrogant detective persona he often wore like a second skin.

“She’s an empath,” he said finally. The lilt was gone from his voice now. “Full-spectrum. Not some mood-ring trick or emotional guesswork. It’s constant. Like her body forgot how to close the door.” His eyes flicked briefly to the map, then down to his own fingers, twitching slightly in his lap. “Pain, fear, memory—she absorbs it. All of it. It’s why she flatlined. Not just her injuries. She drowned in everyone else’s.”

Yosano’s fingers, still interlaced, tensed. Her mouth parted, just slightly. “That’s possible?” Her voice didn’t carry disbelief—only horror.

Ranpo looked up. His green eyes were unblinking now, razor-bright behind his smudged lenses. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

Fukuzawa’s gaze remained fixed on the wall. The city map stared back at him, perforated and mute. “And the pattern?”

Ranpo shifted. The childish hunch fell away. He uncrossed his legs, sat forward. When he spoke again, his voice was steel wrapped in velvet.

“All seven women were former Port Mafia.” His tone was clinical now, stripped of sarcasm. “Not active. Not even on Mori’s radar anymore. They left after having children—faded out, off the grid. No known associates. No signs of trouble.”

His fingers tapped the edge of the table once. Then again.

“Now they’re being picked off. One by one. Not random. Someone’s hunting them. And whoever it is...” His eyes darkened. “They’re not from around here.”

Fukuzawa turned, his profile cutting sharp against the pallid blinds. “An outsider?”

Ranpo nodded, slow and grim. “Feels like it.” He leaned back, the edge of his coat trailing along the floor like a discarded thought. “There’s a fingerprint to the scenes. Not literal—symbolic. Salt burn patterns in the corners of the room. Inverted torches drawn in soot. Butterflies—always butterflies, near the child or the mother. It’s not Japanese.” His voice had dropped to a murmur, eyes narrowing behind the smudged lenses. “Greek, maybe. Whatever it is, this isn’t just a killer. It’s a belief system. A philosophy wearing skin.”

Across the room, Yosano’s voice barely rose above the hum of the overhead lights. “Noriko Hayashi. She was Port Mafia?”

Fukuzawa didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Silence stretched for a beat too long.

“Then this isn’t over,” Yosano said, soft but certain—less a comment than a sentence.

Ranpo nodded, once. “No. It’s just beginning. And when the Mafia realizes what’s happening...” He let the weight of it fall. “It becomes their war.”

Without a word, Fukuzawa reached for a manila folder and slid it across the table. The photograph clipped to the front showed a man in profile, caught half-turned as if sensing the camera just before it cracked—Alexandros Papadiamantis, grainy and incomplete, framed by the disintegrating lens of a train station feed. Two frames later, the camera had shattered.

Fukuzawa’s finger tapped the photo. “Go back to the scene. Take Yosano.”

Ranpo perked up instantly, his earlier gravity abandoned like a shed coat. “Can I wear the little crime scene booties this time?”

“No,” Yosano said flatly, not missing a beat.

Ranpo slumped, already half out of his chair. “I never get to have fun.”

“Be careful,” Fukuzawa added, his eyes never leaving the map. “If the Mafia gets there first, they won’t appreciate the interference.”

“They never do,” Ranpo called cheerfully over his shoulder, sweeping out of the room in a flurry of half-buttoned coat and mischief.

Yosano followed, quieter, her heels clicking with clinical finality.

And then the briefing room was still again.

The city map hung in silence, its surface stippled with red.

Seven pins remained. But now— finally— there was a thread.

--------

The front door opened with the hesitant groan of something that knew it should stay shut. The hinges creaked—not from rust, but reluctance. As if even the apartment itself couldn’t bear witness to what had happened within its walls. Ranpo stepped in first. For once, there was no performance—no tilt of the head, no flourish of breathy confidence. Just silence. The soles of his shoes squeaked faintly on the hardwood as he entered, but even that seemed too loud for the weight of the room.

The heat inside Noriko Hayashi’s apartment clung like guilt—dense, cloying, inescapable. Yosano didn’t speak. She stood just behind Ranpo, arms folded, her white gloves flecked with dust and sugar. The ruined remains of the birthday party sprawled before her—streamers wilting like dead nerves, cake deflated and stained, a child's plush toy half-submerged in bloodied frosting. The kind of scene that made even trained professionals flinch.

She was used to blood. Used to bodies. To rooms colder than this and darker still. But something about the heat unsettled her—the wrongness of warmth in a space that now only held decay. The temperature clung like a fever. And the scent…

It hit her like a memory.

Buttercream. Frosting. Sugar so thick it soured the air. But laced beneath it, like a second layer of skin, was iron. Metallic. Sharp. The juxtaposition was obscene. A celebration cleaved by violence. A birthday party that ended in attempted murder. Streamers sagged from the ceiling, drooping with the resignation of ruined joy. Pastel ribbons curled against the corners of the walls, their brightness dimmed by the heat and the silence. On the table, the cake had collapsed in on itself—a deflated mimicry of joy, its center caved like a chest post-impact. Frosting bled in uneven ridges down the side, smeared by something heavier than fingers. Blood, probably. The “5” candle lay cracked in half beside it, a birthday never fully claimed.

Plastic forks lay scattered like bones. Wrapping paper—smeared red—peeled back to reveal toys that would never be played with. In the corner sat a plush cat in a party hat. One side of its white fur was soaked through. It had been dropped or hurled, forgotten in the rush. Now it watched them from its puddle of sugar and blood like a sentry from some child’s nightmare. Yosano’s gloves creaked faintly as she pressed a hand to her forehead.

“Jesus,” she muttered—not in revulsion, but exhaustion.

There were child-sized handprints on the floor. Some small and erratic, fingers splayed and frantic. Others deeper—Kafka’s. Reaching. Grasping. Trying to pull the child away from the edge of something that couldn’t be undone. Ranpo crouched, silent, near the blood trail that led toward the kitchen. His fingers hovered above it.

“Someone ran in mid-ritual,” he murmured. “Disturbed the formation.”

“Kafka,” Yosano said softly. It wasn’t a question.

He nodded. “The salt spiral’s broken. That’s why the possession collapsed. But not before it got what it came for.” They followed the blood. It became more chaotic—splashed, sprayed. The kind of trail left by someone thrashing. By someone dying.

In the kitchen, the air grew colder. Not physically. Psychically. A child’s stool had been knocked over. A porcelain vase lay shattered, jagged petals of ceramic poking out from a spill of withered chrysanthemums. The linoleum beneath it bore a spiral of salt, half-scattered now, as if someone had tried to erase it with their hands. In the center of the ring, a scorch mark. Butterfly-shaped. Ranpo bent low beside it, glasses gleaming. The salt was burned through, the pattern corrupted.

“She broke it,” he whispered. “She felt it. Even if she didn’t understand the symbol, her ability must’ve… connected.” Beneath the kitchen sink, Yosano found the first aid kit. Torn apart. Gauze soaked through. Empty morphine ampules. Scissors rusted red.

“She tried to save her,” Yosano said, her voice hollow. “Tried everything.” She stood slowly, her eyes moving to the sink—where streaks of blood had mixed with the slow drip of water from the faucet. A grotesque watercolor. And still, the decorations remained. The banner that read “Happy Birthday Mei” hung above the room, off-kilter, one end loosened from the wall. Below it, frosting congealed on paper plates and a deflated balloon dragged itself across the tile with each sigh of air.

A child’s party.

A sacrificial altar.

Yosano folded her arms. Her jaw clenched. “She shouldn’t have seen this,” she said tightly.

“No child should go through this.” Ranpo didn’t respond immediately. He was staring at the television in the other room, where a children’s cartoon played on loop. A smiling bear waved through the screen, mouth opening and closing in some sick pantomime of joy. No one had turned it off.

“No girl was ever the target,” he said finally. “They were just… mirrors. Carriers of memory. Innocence. Symbols.”

Yosano turned to him. “And the mothers?”

He looked back at her.

“Scalpels. Grief was the hand that held them.” They stood in silence. The only sound now was the hum of the refrigerator and the faint giggle of the cartoon in the other room. Yosano moved toward the hallway, but stopped near the kitchen counter. Her hand trailed briefly across the ruined cake. Her fingers didn’t press into it—but hovered, as if mourning what it had meant.

“They say birthdays are when we celebrate a child’s life,” she murmured. “But here, it became the day someone tried to end it.”

She looked down at the pool of sugar-stained blood. “Do you know what kind of irony that is, Ranpo?”

He nodded slowly. “The kind philosophers would call… divine.”

And then—

He looked up. At the doorway Kafka had rushed through. The place where celebration had turned to carnage.

“It’s not about Mei. It never was,” he said. “It’s about the idea of Mei. The potential of innocence, cut down just as it becomes self-aware. Like a warning. Or worse—a message.”

Yosano said nothing.

Because she knew.

She had spent her life sewing flesh. Rescuing lives from the jaws of death with her own cursed hands. And still, she’d never seen anything so hollowing as this—a child nearly killed by the hands that loved her most.

The worst part wasn’t the blood.

It was the frosting.

Because that meant someone lit the candles first.

And then tried to kill her.

Yosano remained quiet, her gaze drifting to the butterfly-shaped scorch mark. It reminded her of smoke blooming from a field tent during the war—chemical fires and sterilized pain.

“He’s not just killing,” Ranpo continued. “He’s performing an act of what he thinks is mercy. Reenacting something he thinks was right.”

Her throat tightened.

Ranpo’s voice softened, the way it only did when he’d found something too human beneath the cruelty.

“His wife killed their daughter in a manic episode. Then herself. Left a note. Said it was kindness. Protection. You know what that does to a man like him? A man who loved them both?” He shook his head. “He started believing her. And now he’s trying to justify it. He’s been chasing that moment ever since. Trying to make it noble. Each victim he picks is a mirror—overworked, alone, steeped in regret. He gives them structure. A script. A ritual to justify their collapse.”

Yosano turned slowly. Her voice was low. “He thinks he’s saving them.”

Ranpo met her eyes. “No. He thinks he’s saving the children. He thinks its mercy.”

Yosano exhaled, slow and silent.

Mercy.

The word turned in her mind like a scalpel lodged too deep to pull free.

Yosano turned away. “What kind of world does he live in, where death is the only kindness?”

Ranpo said nothing.

But in her mind, Yosano was already far away—in muddy tents, among screaming boys sewn back together only to be broken again. The war had made her a savior. And a curse. She’d resurrected soldiers to send them back into hell. They’d called her an angel. A savior. They brought her soldiers torn apart by artillery, their lungs collapsed, bones shattered, begging to die—and she healed them. Again and again. Because she could. Because she was ordered to. They screamed as their bodies mended. Screamed as they were sent back into the slaughter. Sometimes they returned to her a second time. A third. Sometimes, they didn’t scream anymore.

Not because they were brave but because they were already broken. She remembered one—he had called her true—dragged in with half his chest missing. His eyes were gray. Not the color. The feeling. Like the sky before a storm you can’t outrun. She healed him. Watched the blood retreat. Watched breath return to lungs that had already exhaled their last. And as he opened his eyes, he whispered one word:

Why.

She had no answer.

Because her healing wasn’t mercy.

It was a sentence.

A way to prolong their suffering in the name of duty. Of function. Of the nation. And now, standing in the aftermath of another child almost lost—not to war, but to grief dressed in ritual—she realized Alexandros and she had one thing in common.

They had both mistaken salvation for kindness.

And both had been wrong.

Ranpo’s voice brought her back.

“Kafka stopped him,” he said. “She broke the ritual. Not by accident. She felt it. Even if she didn’t know what it meant.” His gaze slid to the bloodied plush toy. “She saved the child.”

Yosano nodded faintly, eyes still on the spiral.

“But what now?” she thought. “What becomes of a child who survives being offered to death? And what of the girl who stepped into that death and called it by name?”

She didn’t know.

But she felt the answer wouldn't come cleanly.

Because in this world, mercy had teeth. And even love—especially love—could become monstrous if left in the dark too long.

--------

The morgue was freezing.

Not the sharp sting of winter wind or the clean chill of ice, but a suffocating stillness—the kind of cold that leached warmth from your skin and silence from your thoughts. It clung to the white-tiled walls like frostbite, sterilized and dry, humming faintly beneath the buzz of old fluorescent lights. Everything gleamed: metal drawers, surgical tools, the brushed steel sink where remnants of death were rinsed away.

Yosano Akiko stood motionless in the center of the room. Her white coat was buttoned high, sleeves rolled just enough to allow movement. Her gloves fit tight against her wrists. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The stillness spoke enough. Behind her, Ranpo Edogawa entered in a flurry of dramatic shivers and muffled complaints. His breath fogged the air as he hunched deeper into his coat.

“Whyyy is it always this cold?” he whined, voice bouncing against the tile, dragging his feet with the exaggeration of a sulking child. His arms were wrapped around himself, one sleeve twisted, and his glasses were slightly fogged from the sudden temperature drop. “Why do morgues always feel like bad hotel lobbies? No snacks. Terrible lighting. Dead people. If I wanted to freeze to death, I could’ve just opened my fridge and climbed in.”

“You know that’s because it is a morgue,” Yosano replied dryly, not turning.

Ranpo squinted at her. “Still. A heater wouldn’t kill them.”

Yosano said nothing. She pulled open a drawer. It groaned metallically, then slid out to reveal a woman’s body—thin, stiff, lips parted as if caught mid-sigh. The cold had claimed her long before the morgue did.

“My brain doesn’t work in subzero temperatures.” Ranpo grumbled.

“You say that every time, and yet, it still somehow works.” Despite his sulking, he moved toward her without prompting. His eyes flicked briefly toward the center drawer she stood beside. The tone of the room shifted. Then, quietly, without fanfare, Ranpo removed his hat. He held it in both hands as Yosano pulled open the drawer. The body slid out on smooth rails—female, early thirties, limbs neatly arranged, mouth slightly parted as if caught mid-sentence. Her skin was pale with that mottled gray only the dead carried, but her expression still held something—regret, maybe. Or apology.

Ranpo’s voice, when he spoke again, was softer.

“She didn’t die easy.”

Yosano nodded once, tugging the sheet down with careful precision. “No ID. No visitors. Preliminary cause of death: overdose.”

“But?” he prompted.

“She was Port Mafia. And this isn’t an overdose.” Yosano gestured toward the woman’s wrists—faint bruises, not fresh but recent. Her ankles bore the ghost of restraint burns. Her throat was ringed with faded red. “These are ritual prep injuries. She was meant for something.”

Ranpo bent slightly forward, eyes narrowing, breath suspended in the cold. “But she died early. Before the curtain rose.”

Yosano reached for the tray beside her and picked up a penlight. “Or she wasn’t part of the performance at all. Maybe she was the stage.”

Ranpo blinked at her, then slowly grinned. “Ooh. Morbid poetry. That’s new.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she drew a tongue depressor from the tray and leaned down over the body. Ranpo followed, setting his hat down gently on the counter beside him. No more jokes. His childish act peeled back—just slightly—as the detective leaned closer to the woman’s face.

Yosano murmured, “Let’s see what you were meant to carry.”

The tongue depressor clicked gently against the woman’s teeth as Yosano guided it past slack lips. Her gloved hand was steady, her motions careful—gentler than they would be with the living. The dead deserved precision too. She tilted the jaw slightly, the penlight held low and firm in her other hand. A faint, uneasy sound escaped her throat. There, etched into the soft tissue of the upper palate, just behind the teeth, was a carving—shallow but exact, the skin healed around it as if it had been there for weeks. A butterfly, wings unfurled, symmetrical and too precise to be improvised. The lines weren’t jagged like self-harm. They were deliberate. Surgical. Ranpo leaned in, brows furrowing, his posture suddenly rigid.

“That’s new,” he murmured, voice tinged with something close to reverence. “He didn’t mark the others. Not like this.” Yosano withdrew the depressor, slowly closing the jaw. She stepped back as though the body had whispered something.

���She carried the symbol inside her,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t for the room. It was for her.” Ranpo was already pacing. Not dramatically this time—restlessly. Like the gears in his head were too fast for his limbs.

“It’s a mutation in the ritual. Before, he left symbols around the victims—on walls, in salt, in blood. Always external. A message to the world.” He paused. “But this… this isn’t a message. It’s branding. Internal. Private.”

Yosano’s mouth was a thin line. “So it was never about spectacle.”

Ranpo stopped. Turned. “No. It was about transformation.”

He crossed to the nearby autopsy table and swiped aside the stack of preliminary notes, fingers brushing over photos and chemical reports without looking. “He’s not just killing them. He’s converting them. Turning pain into dogma. Guilt into faith. This is a body made into belief.” Yosano looked back down at the woman’s face. Even in death, her mouth had been left slightly ajar—like the symbol wanted to speak.

“She didn’t die because she was part of the ritual,” she said. “She died because she embodied it.” Ranpo’s hands hovered just above his hat, but he didn’t put it back on.

“She was supposed to carry the doctrine,” he said. “To completion. But something broke.”

Yosano’s voice turned colder. “She remembered who she was.”

Ranpo didn’t smile. Not even a little.

“Or maybe she forgot just long enough to escape,” he murmured. “And he couldn’t let that happen.”

A long silence followed.

Then Yosano stepped away from the drawer and peeled off her gloves with surgical finality. Her eyes lingered on the woman’s face as she folded the gloves into a crisp square. Ranpo stood frozen, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the autopsy table, his hat still in his other hand. He wasn’t looking at the woman anymore. He was staring past her—eyes narrowed, breath slow, thoughts moving too quickly for speech.

Something wasn’t aligning.

The sigil inside the mouth. The ritual’s shift from public to internal. The escalation in control. None of it was random.

This man—Alexandros Papadiamantis—he’s not just a fanatic, Ranpo thought. He’s a strategist. A believer, yes, but one who learned belief the hard way. Pain first. Faith second.

His mind conjured the reports: former Port Mafia women, all retired. All mothers. All off the grid. All hunted. That part made sense—targets shaped by guilt and love, sharpened by isolation.

But why Port Mafia?

Ranpo’s fingers twitched around the brim of his hat.

It wasn’t coincidence. It wasn’t about the women themselves. It was about what they represented. About who they once worked for. He’s not choosing them randomly. He’s choosing them because of who protected them. Who trained them. Who discarded them. And then it clicked—not a vendetta against the women. A vendetta against their former employer.

The Port Mafia.

Ranpo’s thoughts accelerated, like the flash of his “Super Deduction” pulling the threads taut. Alexandros. A foreign name. Greek. Not a common presence in Yokohama’s underworld. Too clean. Too methodical. Not a local madman. A transplant. And not just anyone—someone raised in power, taught control, the elegance of violence. Not an amateur. A former player. He’d seen this kind of pattern before—not in the crime itself, but in the ritual precision. The belief dressed as mercy. The targeting of mothers. Of daughters. The use of symbols as language, not decoration. That wasn’t born from grief alone. This is the behavior of someone who lost everything… and rebuilt his meaning from the ruins.

And then—

What if the Port Mafia had a hand in those ruins?

Ranpo’s eyes flicked to the corpse, then to Yosano, who still stood silently beside the open drawer. Her expression unreadable, her gloves neatly folded in her hands.

He turned back to the body, gaze narrowing.

Alexandros didn’t just lose his wife and daughter. He lost his place. His family. His wealth. He didn’t fall—he was pushed. And whoever pushed him…

His fingers curled around his hat brim.

...wore red.

He remembered something from the surveillance stills. The way Alexandros dressed. Not cheap, but old—tailored and aged, like a man clinging to the bones of a ruined legacy. Like someone who used to belong to something powerful. Something cruel. Something global. The Port Mafia had enemies everywhere. Japan’s underworld was a maze of debts and betrayal. But Greece? Ranpo exhaled sharply through his nose. Greek mob. Exiled aristocracy. Family wiped out, honor shattered. And somewhere in that collapse… the Port Mafia. And now Alexandros was rewriting the ending. Rebuilding a world that made sense through sacrifice. He slid his hat onto his head, angling it low over his eyes. The final piece of performance clicking into place.

“We’re not just chasing a killer,” he said aloud, voice low and steady now. “We’re chasing a ghost of the old world. One the Mafia forgot it made.”

Yosano didn’t respond. But she didn’t need to.

She followed without a word as he turned toward the morgue door.

The cold remained behind them.

But the silence wasn’t empty anymore.

It was personal.

---------

The doors to the Agency opened with a mechanical sigh.

Ranpo entered first, hands stuffed into his pockets, coat dragging behind him like a cape long outgrown. His breath fogged faintly in the lobby’s warmth. He didn’t pause to complain. Not this time. His steps were quick, brisk—almost annoyed.

Yosano followed. Her heels clicked with their usual precision, but her posture held a rare stiffness, the kind that settled between her shoulders after too many hours spent beside the dead. Her gloves were still folded in one hand. She hadn’t bothered to put them away.

Fukuzawa was waiting in the briefing room.

He stood at the head of the long steel table, arms folded behind his back, gaze fixed on the city map that still hung, pinned and red-stippled, on the wall. Seven pushpins remained. Seven wounds that hadn’t closed.

He turned slightly as they entered, reading their silence before either spoke.

“What did you find?” he asked, voice calm but sharpened at the edges.

Ranpo dropped into the nearest chair and yanked off his glasses to polish them. “He’s not just some obsessed killer,” he muttered. “He’s an exile.”

Fukuzawa’s brow lifted, just slightly.

Ranpo gestured toward the map with one hand, the other adjusting his lenses. “Alexandros Papadiamantis. Foreign name, Greek origin. Tied to high-society networks—old money. Probably came from a family that did business with the underworld. Port Mafia-adjacent, at least. Maybe even a partner family from abroad.”

He popped a lollipop into his mouth and continued, the words quick, clipped. “But something happened. A fall from grace. Wife and child died under suspicious circumstances. The kind of thing that doesn’t make the papers, but leaves a burn in every room it touches.”

Fukuzawa nodded slowly. “And the connection to the victims?”

Yosano stepped forward, placing a small envelope on the table. Inside were photos—close-ups of the corpse’s mouth, the sigil etched in pale scar tissue.

“He marked her from the inside,” she said. “A butterfly carved into the upper palate. It was healed. Weeks old. That wasn’t for us. It was for her. To carry.”

Ranpo leaned forward, lollipop stick jutting from his lips. “He’s not just killing them. He’s converting them. He finds these women—former Mafia operatives, all retired after childbirth—and feeds them a script. Gives their guilt structure. Tells them that what they feel isn’t weakness. It’s purpose. That love is suffering, and suffering can be redeemed.”

Fukuzawa’s expression didn’t change. But his voice, when it came, was quiet. “And they believe him.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Ranpo said, not unkindly. “You’ve got a baby. No support. You’ve done terrible things in your past, and now you’re terrified of passing that darkness on. Then some soft-voiced man in a coat tells you there’s a way out. A ritual to purify the love you have. To protect your child from you.”

He leaned back, chewing slowly. “He doesn’t push. He waits. He grooms. He prepares.”

“And if they change their minds?” Fukuzawa asked.

Ranpo’s smile vanished. “Then he finishes it himself.”

Yosano’s voice was quiet. “That’s what we found in the morgue. A woman who tried to escape his doctrine. Died anyway.”

Fukuzawa looked at the photo again. Then up, toward the map. The wind outside howled faintly against the window panes.

“He’s targeting the forgotten,” he said. “Those the Mafia abandoned.”

“And he’s using their children to do it,” Yosano added. “Turning birthdays into sacrifices.”

Ranpo tapped the table once. “This isn’t just murder. It’s revenge. Religious, symbolic, slow-burning revenge. And the Port Mafia is the reason it started.”

Silence settled between them like a drawn breath.

Then Fukuzawa turned fully toward them.

“Get me everything we have on Alexandros Papadiamantis. Travel records. Old contracts. Surveillance near known Mafia-affiliated areas. Cross-reference with foreign embassies. And contact the Intelligence Division.”

Ranpo blinked. “You’re going official?”

“I’m escalating the threat level,” Fukuzawa said. “He’s not hiding anymore. And if this really ties to the Greek Mob…” His eyes narrowed. “Then we’re not dealing with one man. We’re dealing with a philosophy—and possibly a resurgence.”

Ranpo stood slowly, the weight of it finally settling. “If this leaks to the Mafia before we find him…”

“They’ll kill him before we get answers,” Yosano finished.

Fukuzawa nodded once.

“Then we move fast,” he said. He turned back to the map, eyes tracking the pattern of pins—the silent constellation of women and blood. His voice followed a moment later, low and even, but edged with steel.

“Because if the Port Mafia realizes someone’s using their ghosts to start a fire, and we haven’t put it out…”

He looked over his shoulder, gaze meeting theirs.

“…this doesn’t stay a case. It becomes a turf war.”

And this time, no one said a word.

[apocalypsewriters]

I posted this snippet a few days ago and thought I should release the whole poem into the world. Enjoy!

I am not a Romantic.

That’s Romantic with a capital R.

But there is something to sunrises. I’ve seen hundreds 

And still could watch a thousand more. 

Pale golds stretching fingers into clouds, 

spinning them into sugar across an indecisive sky. 

The air is made young by morn 

And sweet by birdsong, 

Even among concrete trees far 

From metropolis of forest. It is inevitable and infinite, 

Infantilizing in nature, starting the world anew.

But sprawling forests, drowning 

Plains, mountains, and valleys steal my breath 

Before giving it back a hundredfold. 

A simple symphony of trees whispers 

To their shrilling occupants. Company rustles 

In every bush following ghosts of the millions 

That came before them, treading the same trail. 

Among green so dense, I can pretend there is nothing 

But wind and rain shaping the earth, sparing none in its path.

But there is something gloriously equalizing 

In the silence of a waterfall. 

With gentle frenzied hands, it carves 

Through mountains and their peaks until freefall. 

Mist kisses rocks, teasing ferns and algae into bloom. 

Dragonflies flicker like stars 

Among froth and reeds in wordless synchronised chaos.

I am not a romantic. 

That’s romantic with a little r. 

But if I could wake up to my family 

Snoring in a glorious cabin every day, I’d feel 

Carnally home. Under cotton and down sheets, 

A dozen or more of us coexist in a blanket 

Of care and comfort. I’d lay there forever, the only one 

Awake, knowing contentment, knowing love.

But the midnight after prom makes me believe in love. 

I went alone with the closest family I found 

At school, all two of them. 

Alcohol and sleepiness loosened my mask, 

Sent my tongue flying to spew words I held 

Behind barred lips. Brain fuzzy, phrases tripping, 

I laughed myself to sleep with my best friends. 

Their presence sits with me in anything 

I do, itching to share with them both.

But turning pages to reunions and first times and hand-holding 

Makes my heart swell. Whether 

The fictional are destined to find each other or 

Coincidence writes them to find their mirror, 

I burn through books

At breakneck paces. The human experience 

Immortalized in ink, echoing authors' desperate 

To be remembered. Their togetherness 

Brings a smile to my eyes and tears to my chin.

I am aromantic.

That’s aromantic, one word.

But I am afraid of being alone. Connection is 

Heralded as inevitable, inescapable. But my connections 

Aren’t seen as enough. But I might be left behind 

For romance, tossed aside in friendship. 

But even though there are people, I won’t have 

My person that I’m supposed to bring everywhere. 

But I’m afraid that I will be left with a hole in my chest, 

Trying to fill it with butterflies that flit away to be together.

But there are few like me. 

I wasn’t born speaking the language 

Of four out of five people my age. 

But there are others who don’t understand 

That language, yet I get lost 

In their conversation. We are unaddressed and left

Undressed and alone, together. I tug 

On the sweater sleeve and it all turns to yarn 

In my hands as I lose the thread of conversation. 

And I am adrift in a colourful sea, threatening to drown.

But I will find company in platonic romance. 

My love multiplies, dividing my heart into infinite 

Treasured pieces, unencumbered. 

Because there will never be The One 

Because there are so many to love. 

We found friendship first and I will hold it 

Forever. My feelings won’t be fickle, instead 

Flourishing in gardens of affection. 

While romantic happenstance escapes me, 

Platonic suits me fine. 

[auburniivenus]

25.  UMBRELLA :  for one muse to share their umbrella with the other on a rainy day.

Rain falls gracefully, bequeathing ethereal ballads upon the realm. Symphony of droplets, a delicate overture, plays upon petals like a whispered secret shared among the trees. Flower’s vibrant hues, saturated by the rain’s touch, burst forth in a kaleidoscope of colors, as if nature herself is immersed in a vivid watercolor dance. With grace, the auburn maiden opens her pastel pink umbrella, encompassing Sora's head with its canopy. “I knew it would rain, so I came prepared.” She lifts her head to admire him, now properly shielded from the deluge. Rain becomes the celestial ink that inscribes the narratives of the gods upon the canvas of mortal existence.

“It’s amusing how water can enhance the petite flowers. It rarely rains in late spring.” Affirms, entwining her arm in his, strolling across the promenade. While in motion, a precipitous gust of wind promptly traverses the air. Overhead, foreboding, ominous clouds hang, poised to unleash their wrath. With a firm hold on his arm, Inoue experiences a rush of excitement and apprehension running through her bloodstream. As precipitation increases, the once dry promenade undergoes a remarkable change, becoming a luminous canvas. “We need to find a shelter.” Utters, trying to hold her umbrella. Lightning illuminates the horizon with its electric fury crackling across the sky. Thunder booms, echoing as if ZEUS is applauding their daring escapade. @bishonenprince

[inc0rrectmyths]

Can you write more about Artemis and Athena and Zeus interactions?

Omg sure!

Here's a small drabble!

Context: Titanomachy

Summary: Zeus is accompanied by his two most able daughters to face the common enemy, Kronos. But when Kronos unleashes his deadliest weapon to strike young Athena and Artemis, Zeus finds himself standing between his father and his daughters. The thought of losing the two most superior females amongst his children was horrifying.

(also kinda throwing shade on Zeus' sons lmao)

---

In the midst of the chaos and thunderous clash of battle, Zeus stood shoulder to shoulder with his two daughters, their determination was unwavering, and Zeus has never felt more proud. His daughters were more capable than his sons will ever be. Both in courage and in wit.

The battlefield echoed with the clash of weapons and the roars of combatants, but amidst it all, a sense of unity and strength held Artemis and Athena together. Zeus' heart swelled at the view of his two young daughters wielding weapons in their gentle hands. Athena's spear tore through the flesh of the enemy's infantry. While Artemis' arrows cut through the air and landed on their targets.

As the enemy, Zeus' very own father, Titan Kronos recognized the immense skill and power possessed by his own granddaughters, fear spread among his ranks. In a desperate bid to eliminate the threat, he unleashed a devastating weapon, a weapon of unimaginable power that could wipe out anything in its path, the weapon of time itself, the scythe of Kronos. He directed the weapon towards his targets. As Athena and Artemis were busy with combat, oblivious to the attack that was threatening to attack them from the back, Zeus took notice of it. Thunders roared in the sky as the mountains shook.

Zeus' rage was as big as Mount Olympus. As his eyes grew darker, his adrenaline rushed.

In that dire moment, as the deadly weapon hurtled toward the sisters, Zeus' instincts kicked in. Without a second thought, he stepped forward and shielded his daughters from the impending destruction. His heart pounded with a mixture of fear and love, and he braced himself for the impact.

And suddenly everything went dark. Thunder roared louder, the ocean was disturbed as if Poseidon himself yelled in agony, the ground shook signifying Hades' cry of defeat.

But Zeus wasn't in agony nor was he defeated. His chest was striked by the scythe, as he stood there, golden streaks of liquid poured out of the injury.

The weapon struck with a blinding burst of energy, its force ripping through the air and consuming everything in its radius. The ground trembled beneath the intensity of the blast. When the dust and debris finally settled, a scene of chaos was revealed.

"Father! " two feminine voices filled with rage and with despair were heard, so harsh, they almost sounded masculine.

Then Zeus felt himself feeling lighter and lighter as he dropped to the ground. And the final thing he remembered was two familiar and very distinct scents engulfed him. One of the wet forests after rain, of hilly mountains up in the clouds, fruits and nuts and another scent that was like old books, ink, incense and of honey.

Zeus lay there, his body battered and broken, his armor scorched by the weapon's power. His daughters knelt beside him, tears streaming down their faces as they realized the extent of this war. He had taken the full impact of the deadly weapon to protect them, to ensure that they could continue their duties as the goddesses of Olympus.

Through the pain and weakness, Zeus managed to smile weakly at his daughters. "My brave fighters," he whispered, his voice filled with pride and love. "Olympus is proud of you both.. "

<time skip>

Zeus' eyes opened in a familiar place, surrounded by familiar faces. He spotted Hera, worry evident in her face, Hestia and Demeter sat with Hades, discussing something in a hushed voice while Poseidon sat alone, his face in his palms. Zeus also felt two pairs of soft hands holding onto him.

"Father! You're awake! " Athena's voice beamed with joy.

Zeus tried to sit up, but a sharp pain stopped him from doing so as he fell back with a groan.

"Don't even try to sit up. You need rest to recover… " Artemis' voice said, very close to him.

"The.. the war.. " Zeus managed to mutter.

"Ares and Apollo replaced Athena and Artemis. We joined the forces too. Victory was ours. " Hades announced and Zeus has never felt so relieved in his godly life.

"And fath-.. Kronos.. we put him back in Tartarus.. " Demeter added.

Zeus smiled at his siblings, his gaze lingering a while longer at Hera who gave him a smile of relief and comfort.

"At the end.. My daughters proved their worth. And that's what means the most to me.. " Zeus muttered to himself, his hand painfully rose and patted the backs of Artemis and Athena.

"Good job girls. " he smiled and closed his eyes, he can finally have a good sleep after weeks of hard work.

[reblog4myfics]

Name: The Weeping Woman

Alias: The Cat Mother, Lady of the Oak, She Who Weeps, The Mourning Bride

Apparent Age: Unconfirmed (appears mid-20s)

Status: Undead / Spirit / Urban Legend

Alignment: Vengeful Guardian Spirit

Gender: Female

Species: Undead Spirit with Spiritual Powers

Voice: Echoing and teary, similar to Moaning Myrtle with moments of gentleness and horrifying rage

---

Backstory:

Once a mortal woman trapped in the cruel confines of an arranged marriage, The Weeping Woman was wed at a young age to an older, violent man. Her life was a cycle of bruises and broken dreams—until she gave birth to a baby boy. For the first time in her bleak existence, she glowed with joy. Her son was her reason, her light, her only comfort in a world that had been nothing but unkind.

But the happiness was short-lived.

One storm-ridden night, her husband—drunk and raging—turned his fury toward the child. In a final act of brutality, he ended the infant’s life. The woman’s sanity cracked like porcelain. In a blind, grief-fueled fury, she murdered her husband with her bare hands.

She wrapped her baby’s lifeless body in a delicate blanket and walked through the rain to a massive old oak tree—a tree said to be older than the town itself—and buried him at its roots, whispering lullabies through her sobs.

Soon after, she was captured and locked away in an asylum. The asylum itself eventually shut down mysteriously, its records lost or erased. No one remembers her name. No one knows how long she stayed there. Only the echoes of her loud, anguished weeping remained… and they earned her the name The Weeping Woman.

And then the cat came.

A thin, scrappy black kitten began to visit her door. She welcomed it like kin. Some say it was the reincarnated soul of her son. Whatever the truth, the kitten became her anchor, her familiar—and perhaps even her heart.

After the asylum was consumed by time and nature, stories began to surface. About a woman who cries beneath an oak. About a cat with wide, sorrowful eyes. About children being saved by a wraith in a veil.

---

Appearance:

Height: 6’0”

Build: Lithe and gaunt, long limbs, hauntingly elegant

Hair: Long, ink-black, often tangled but soft

Eyes: Large and glassy, brimming with sorrow—when angry, they burn like lightning behind storm clouds

Skin: Pale, almost translucent under moonlight

Aura: Cold and damp like early morning fog

Clothing: A tattered bridal dress or mourning gown; sometimes a long black coat with cigarette smoke trailing behind

Accessories: A locket with no photo. A baby’s blanket wrapped in her arms when she walks.

She can appear beautiful—angelic, even—when she’s calm or happy. But when overtaken by grief or fury, her face contorts into something unnatural: eyes hollow, jaw slack, tears pouring endlessly.

---

Weapon of Choice:

Her Cat: Serves as both familiar and warning sign. The cat is not ordinary—its eyes glow, and it can scratch out eyes or vanish into shadows.

Blade: A thick, ancient ceremonial blade that appears to be forged from obsidian or jagged iron.

Powers:

Electric Manipulation: Lights flicker, wires spark—she can shut down power and electrocute at will.

Spiritual Influence: Her cries can summon hallucinations, invoke guilt, or paralyze the wicked with dread.

Possession of the Cat: Some stories say she is the cat, or can take its shape to walk among the living.

Lullaby Curse: Those marked for death hear a haunting lullaby seconds before their demise.

---

Legends and Sightings:

The Oak Tree: Many say she returns to the great oak on stormy nights, still rocking a small bundle in her arms, whispering lullabies.

The Cat in the Classroom: Children say a black cat sometimes watches them from windowsills, and if they’re in danger, it meows—then disappears.

The Woman in the Fog: Lost children report meeting a tall woman who holds their hand and walks them home. When asked who she was, they only say, “She was crying.”

---

Victim Profile:

She doesn’t kill without cause.

Targets: Abusers. Child predators. Those who harm the innocent.

Exceptions: Children. Lost souls. The broken and kind-hearted. She’s been known to comfort bullied kids, guide the lost, and even pet friendly dogs.

---

Fun & Haunting Facts:

Her crying is said to be heard miles away during heavy rain.

The bundle she carries? Some believe it’s just cloth. Others swear they hear it coo.

A static-filled lullaby on the radio is a sure sign she’s nearby.

No one’s been able to capture her on camera—photos blur, and audio becomes nothing but static and soft crying.

Some say if you leave flowers at the oak tree, she’ll watch over your home for seven nights.

[agnes-mac]

In the beginning, before time was carved into days and nights, the ancient gods wove the fabric of reality with threads of pure sound and light. They spoke the cosmos into existence, each word a spark that hung in the void, igniting stars and pulling galaxies into spirals of fire and frost. Among these gods was Lysara, the Keeper of the Written Word, who understood that spoken words faded but written words lived forever—binding destinies and shaping worlds long after voices fell silent. Lysara’s quill was carved from the bone of a celestial serpent, its ink the darkness between stars. With it, she inscribed the book of The Vision, a tome that held the destinies of mortals and gods alike. Each letter glimmered with power, rippling through time and space, forging paths unseen. In her hands, words were not mere symbols but living things—roots that burrowed deep into the fabric of the universe, drawing forth branches of fate and consequence. Among mortals, one was born with eyes like fractured mirrors and a voice that hummed with forgotten truths. Her name was Anaris, and when she spoke, walls trembled and rivers shifted their course. But it was her writing that held true power; words bled from her fingertips, curling into the air, weaving themselves into reality with every stroke. She wrote of rain, and clouds gathered heavy and dark; she wrote of freedom, and chains cracked and fell away. Upon finding Lysara’s hidden temple, she inscribed her name on its empty pages, unafraid of the gods’ wrath. As she wrote, the ground quaked, and the sky split open with light. Her words pulsed, living things that breathed and spoke, unbound by divine will. Words were the first magic, and those who mastered them could unmake even fate.

https://a.co/d/cBuM11d #PersonalGrowth #VisionAndOutcome #Manifestation #LawOfAttraction #SelfImprovement #MindsetShift #GoalSetting #Empowerment #LifePlanning #JournalingForSuccess #Motivation #PositiveThinking #VisionBoard #LifeGoals #ThePowerOfNow #Inspiration #SuccessJourney #MentalClarity #ManifestYourDreams #ThePlanTheVisionIsTheOutcome

[2882-davidcheme]

Landscape

 Among the Trees

Once again, I find myself among the trees, watching as the sun fades away, as if bidding farewell to the day. It feels so fleeting, witnessing time slip away like this. And yet, the trees, the sun, the clouds, and the sky seem untouched by it all unmoving, almost eternal.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how we take nature for granted, as if it will always be there for us, as if it’s endless, indestructible. Sometimes we barely notice it, other times we don’t appreciate it as much as we should. Maybe it’s because of how vast and imposing it is compared to us, how small we are as individuals in the face of something so immense.

And I do feel small dwarfed by the towering trees around me, as if they were bars blocking my view of the sky. Even the clouds seem to conspire, covering the sun as if trying to pull me away from its light, reminding me just how insignificant I am in the grand scheme of nature. And yet, instead of fear or uncertainty, all of this brings me peace.

I notice the wild chaos of the vegetation, growing unpredictably, almost at random. And still, within this chaos exist harmony, the trees spilling like black ink against the deep blue sky, clouds floating like waves or sea foam. The world feels muted, wrapped in peace after the rain. There’s something so solemn about it, something that pulls me into the present.

Landscape Perception

After writing about the landscape, I just realized how fast my life moves sometimes. I forget to pause, to take a moment and simply look around to truly appreciate nature. I guess it’s something I take for granted. I’m usually in Cumbayá, where nature is much more present than in Quito, and in a way, I’ve grown used to it.

In the moment, I didn’t fully notice it I was just letting myself flow with the atmosphere but now I see how the layers of trees and clouds almost create barriers between me and the sky, between me and the sunlight. And also, because of the backlighting in the photos, the vegetation looks like spilled ink crashing against a canvas of blue and white.

Finally, as I wrote about the landscape, I found myself being honest about how nature makes me feel. It brings me peace, yet at the same time, it demands a certain respect. The sky and the trees have always been there for me, and they will most likely still be there long after I’m gone. That thought makes me feel fleeting, but at the same time, I’ve realized that nature, despite existing far longer than I have, is also fleeting in its own way.