#because like.... she keeps having vision in ways

[dragonfire2lm]

Holy shit, reading all of this just felt so damn good. I'm blind in my left eye and need glasses to see through my right, so reading other's experiences with only one functioning eye is...nice.

I thought I might share some of my experiences, because I don't really think too much about it honestly, I just know how things go for me because being half-blind is my normal.

Slopes and uneven ground are the worst. Walking is more than just seeing the ground in front of you, its also feeling it with your feet. When just out and about during the day, I can see just fine, but I do need/prefer stable ground because my depth perception is off and my balance is shit. So when dealing with say, a hill or holes i nthe ground, I take it slower, feel out each step because I can't tell how deep something is by just looknig down at it.

My night vision is also...not a thing, lol! I've gone out at night before, but would have to rely on having a torch (flashlight for you americans) with me and point down at my feet so I can see where I'm walking. For real, one time when I was walking home i nthe dark I accidently stepped onto the curb of the road because I couldn't tell I was veering that close to it, but I course corrected pretty quick. Because of my shit night-vision, we've got a motion-sensor light in the hallway for me, and I have a little lamp in my room for whenever I need to get up in the middle of the night. I don't necessarily need to turn a room's light on to see, I just need enough to tell where I'm going because gonig from darkenss with some light to full on "let me turn the bathroom light on for you" means I need to take like..ten, twenty seconds for my eyes to adjust to the suddenly bright light flooding my vision.

I'm not sure if this next thing is because I'm half-blind, or just a me thing, but I tend to not do well with navigation or cluttered environments. For example, If I need to find a phone on a table covered in clutter, you can see it, its right there surrounded by other things, but its there. I cannot see it, its not in an obvious spot where I could notice it at first glance, there's too many things, even if you point it out to me, I would still have trouble finding it. This applies to video games too! I often get lost in video games, or need my friend to point out something I missied because I just don't notice it amongst everything else.

I hate bright light. I'm very sensitive to bright light to the point most of the curtains in my home are closed, I wish real life had a brightness setting, and sunlight glinting off cars on a sunny day is my own personal hell. I've gotten flashbanged walking into the bathroom a couple of time because Mum opened all the curtains in there for important reasons I can't remember (like, she did close them later on, they are normally closed but sometimes they're open if the windows need to be cleaned or something).

People think I'm more blind than I am at first. When they first learn I can't see out of one eye, they assume I need to have things pointed out to me, like "watch out for the step/curb." when its during the day... I can see just fine, that's what the glasses are for. Yeah I can't see shit at night and will let people know that, but I know what I can and can't do...it's like people take a bit of time to really get the message that only under certain conditions do I need help and can manage the rest of the time perfectly fine on my own.

I prefer to have people walk on my blind side, because that's the side I'm keeping a closer eye on, so its easier for me to walk and talk with someone if they stay at my left.

Let's see what else? I do the head turning thing too! Its way easier and less eye strain to just turn my head towards something to look at it.

With my vision being the way it is I need to be mindful of what videogames I play. Yeah there's the obvious thing of most horror games are out because I would need to crank up the brightnesn super high and its frustrating not being able to see shit, but there's also ui elements to take into consideration. If a game uses small font, or a small hud, that's just eye strain and a headache waiting to happen. I've bought games wheere I;ve had to stop laying them because the console ports just aren't made for people like me who need larger font sizes and ui scaling, and I don't play PC because my laptop isn't a gaming one, and its much more comfortable for me to play console games because my large tv means less eye strain because its a bigger screen.

Speaking of the laptop! I wish most sites were zoom-friendly...like I need to have my web browser set to be zoomed in because again, I need the larger font and ui elements even when browsing the web. Most of the sites I frequent are fine with this (namely tumblr and AO3) but some of the sites i do use aren't zoom firendly and I have to zoom out to use the site properly, and that means tiny font and stress because I have my shit zoomed in for a fucking reason! but no, a lot of sites just don't do well with the fact that I have stuff zoomed in at 90 or 100%, like they weren't desinged to be used with zoom or larger fonts in mind.

I have to write my fanfics with font size 22 or 24 and then scale it down to a more presentable size 16 when I want to share previews of what I'm writing via google docs. Thankfully I don't have to worry about doing this on AO3.

Some of this wound up being a little bit ranty, don't take it too seriously, its just little things that frustrate me sometimes.

Stuff about having monocular vision that people don’t know (in my experience)

1. You only ever sit on one side of a room. (Especially if you’re in class) If you’re blind in your left eye like me, you sit to the left of the room so your right eye has the greatest scope, and there’s not much to your left to look at.

2. Harder time seeing past obstacles. People with two eye vision have the perception of both their eyes blend together for one image. Without this, you only have one eye, so you’re don’t get to see past obstacles the same way. For example if something is blocked for your right eye and not for your left, you can still see it through your left. For people with monocular vision this isn’t possible.

3. People don’t walk on the side of your blind eye. It may just be me, but because I’m blind in my left eye I tend to accidentally bump into people if they’re on my left. So when people walk beside me I naturally go so they’re to my right, or they do, without it being discussed.

4. 3D movies are headaches. Even though we’ve progressed past the red-blue type glasses, 3D just doesn’t work well for monocular vision. (And you know those fun optical illusions? A lot of them don’t work at all- nothing happens!)

5. Things like grabbing a pencil without looking at it are extremely difficult. (Due to lack of depth perception, you have a hard time discerning where things are in 3D space). This also stretches to having bad posture and balance. Meanwhile, things that are flat are relatively easy.

6. You turn your head when you’re looking at something, so your good eye is focused on it. This includes tilting your head at worksheets, TVs, and computer screens- and also people.

7. Seeing in the dark is also much harder, because people rely on their depth perception for it, and without that stuff gets real hard

8. The headaches. Most people with blindness don’t experience total blindness, but instead low vision, where their vision is not able to be used in a way that’s helpful. Your brain tries to merge the images, or use your bad eye to see something in the peripheral. This just makes your head hurt. Much like people who need time to adjust to having glasses due to the headache, getting headaches is common because your vision is always at odds.

9. More susceptible to eye damage. Since you’re not overly aware of your bad eye, you may not notice if the sun is shining directly at it. I tend to squint with my bad eye whenever I’m outside, without thinking about it. Additionally, you’re more wary of anything that could damage your good eye. It’s the only one, so you gotta be careful with it.

10. Also, it makes things really, really weird if there’s a bright light from one side but not from another. There are often after images that float in my vision.

11. Looking at things that are moving can be hard. I can focus on an object, but if a camera is panning in some direction without being focused on one thing in particular, I just stop being able to make sense of what I’m seeing. It becomes very jarring.

12. Sometimes it’s not that your eye necessarily has anything wrong with it, but that your optic nerve isn’t fully connected. So the eye may be healthy, but your brain shut it off, and the connection between the light coming in your eye, and the way the brain interprets it, never fully formed. Funnily enough, I’ve heard that this can cause the connection between your good eye and your brain to be stronger, as it is with mine. For some people it’s the opposite, and it makes both of their eyes worse. Peoples experiences can really differ.

[crimsoncandy04]

Had to take a brief break and nap (the flesh vessel demanded it) but I'm back now.

Here is The Unwilling Sex Slave of The Balladeer pt 3!

Before Scaramouche had left for Sumeru he had given you a gift. Not that it was useful to you at that point.

Your old electro vision.

You had wondered what happened to it.

Apparently he had kept it.

And as you felt him hang it from your clit piercing and give it a small tug, you had wondered briefly if he had given it back to mock you in some way.

Because literally without arms and legs what vision could possibly be useful to you? Maybe this was for protection or something? You couldn't imagine why Scaramouche would just let you have it suddenly unless it was as a humiliation or a way to keep you safe while he was away.

However after a few days you began to notice that your vision was showing up differently now.

What had been liquid lightning almost after the fight in Inazuma damaged it and made it "leak" according to you, was now becoming scarily useful as you realized it was not only able to move at your will, but it was solid enough to morph into a sort of "vine" that you could now wield a little with your mind.

For the past few weeks you had been practicing reaching out with the cursed tentacle-like violet appendage and would grab things by coiling around certain objects and then pulling them towards you.

It was easy from that point onwards to slowly start making more of these electro vines until eventually you could successfully lift yourself up again by making them all materialize from your spine and acting similarly to spider legs underneath you.

You got yourself out of bed first. Then began to practice walking around and eventually scurrying up walls and hanging on the ceiling.

FINALLY after what seemed like ages, you began to form a plan to escape once and for all. And it involved the subordinate girl who had been in charge of caring for you in Scaramouche's absence.

You had purposely let yourself fall to the floor one night. Feigning a terrified shriek as you heard the bedroom door swing open and saw the worried face of the young fatui girl who quickly came to pick you up and put you back onto your cushion.

You made your move then.

Using your vision in its damaged but useful new form, a thick violet vine suddenly sprouted from your back and wrapped itself around the girl's neck.

Squeezing until she fell to the carpet completely unconscious but thankfully not dead.

You were better than the evil prick who captured you and ruined your body.

You didn't kill innocent people.

Leaving the "base" wasn't that hard once you realized you had just been upstairs in Northland Bank the entire time and utilized your new ability to crawl across the ceiling and get to the door undetected. Once the secretary was distracted by a client, you quickly used your new "legs" and scuttled out the door before it shut again.

The cold midnight air kissed your cheeks like a long lost lover of yours. You wanted nothing more than to stay here in this moment forever and just relish in the fresh air that had been denied to you for archons knew how long.

You were a little out of breath now but decided to slowly go in the opposite direction of mondstadt as you knew for a fact Scaramouche would hear about you being in the small nation probably before you even got there.

You could just picture it now.

You cross the bridge to the gated city of freedom, only to realize freedom wasn't for you as Scaramouche would be waiting for you just outside of the gates, arms crossed in his usual stance as he captured you once more and did archons know what to you next for trying to leave him again.

No.

You knew your best bet was just probably stay in Liyue for now until you gave birth at least. And so you hoped to probably find a village or something as you pulled yourself up the mountain side behind the bank and headed west towards the chasm instead.

However luck was on your side this time.

Because as you crawled over some large rock formations and found yourself inside the old mining area now condemned from the public, you realized a little too late that a group of hilichurls had spotted you.

They didn't even have time to charge at you before they were suddenly wiped from existence via a powerful anemo twister that picked them up and threw them over the cliff side.

Your heart began to burst with sheer joy as you spotted your friend Aether after so long. You immediately called out for him. His eyes widened as he saw you. Not from disbelief. But from horror.

You used your electro legs to scuttle over to him as he instinctively reached out and pulled you into a big hug just like you used to. Tears ran down both of your cheeks as you could hear Paimon yapping about what happened to you in the background.

"Y/N! You're you again! I thought I'd never see you after you vanished again!" Aether sobbed as he held you protectively against him.

You just blubbered back.

"I'm so sorry! He did something to me! He did this! I hate him! I hate him so much! I'm so sorry Aether!"

"Don't be sorry! You didn't do anything wrong yet suffered everything alone... I'm the one who's sorry. I failed you. I failed you as a friend so many times... please... please forgive me Y/N..."

You and stayed in each other's arms in silence for a moment until Paimon's screeching voice finally cut through to you as she squeaked about there being fatui making their way into the entrance to the chasm.

Sure enough. In the distance, a large group had gotten in and seemed to be breaking off into two large teams before heading in opposite directions within the chasm. You looked into Aether's eyes with fear and desperation.

"Aether please don't let them take me again! I need to hide!" You imagined him grabbing you maybe. Perhaps running to a far away location and helping you hide somewhere safe. What you didn't imagine him doing was suddenly pulling out a fucking teapot and grabbing your waist as you three were suddenly warped inside.

You feel grass underneath you as you tilt your head and try your hardest to get up again using your vision. But it was harder for some reason now. Luckily Aether seemed to notice and just picked you up and carried you inside what appeared to be a fully functional and rather extravagant looking Liyue themed mansion. Once inside Aether put you down on the sofa in the front room and then asked if you were hungry or sore anywhere. You were confused about why he'd ask suddenly until you remembered your pregnancy.

Honestly you tried to disassociate from this truth at times. But as your friend showed you kindness that wasn't laced with horniness for once, you felt tears begin to fall from your eyes as you suddenly break down on the spot.

"Yes! It hurts everywhere! I hurt every day! I hate being alive anymore! I hate everything! I wish I was never born to begin with! I hate what he fucking did to me!" The sobs that escaped my throat were nothing short of pitiful. Aether said nothing as he quickly rushed over and held you close again. Trying his best to offer you comfort as you wept bitterly for the life that was taken from you.

"Don't worry Y/N. You can stay here forever for all I care. I won't let him hurt you anymore. I promise. I'm just so glad that you're alive. And here again. You don't know how much sleep I've lost, wondering if he killed you. Wondering why I was such a terrible friend for not being able to find you no matter how hard I tried." Aether began to shed tears as well as you both just sat there for a long time after. You couldn't even embrace your friend anymore. That bastard Balladeer has stolen so much from you.

You hated him so much.

***Time Skip***

Aether stayed by your side for quite a while. You didn't tell him about your vision because you felt like it was slowly ceasing to work now anyway. You couldn't use it as much and when you tried, you'd get zapped across the room and after this happened twice, you decided it would be unsafe for the baby and removed your vision using your own teeth to unhook it from your clit before tossing it into a nearby storage chest.

Other people visited now and then. Namely a woman called Noelle and a very fun young lady from Liyue who worked as a chef called Xiangling. Aether would step out for commissions and other things but the day he suddenly disappeared and didn't return for almost a year, you grew worried.

You delivered your baby boy late one night. Noelle tried her hardest to help you as there was no time to get a doctor or take you anywhere. You remember screaming for her to just kill you. To stop the pain and cut off your head if needed. Thankfully Noelle was a very patient and calm lady and she assured you it would pass and that you would be okay.

You were. And after you successfully delivered the child, Noelle even swaddled him for you and placed him on your chest so you could somewhat hold him even if you didn't have arms anymore.

It was a bittersweet moment.

You had dreams about that long haired woman with the fox several times while Aether was away. She seemed to be almost watching over you and your son.

Giving you advice and mental comfort now and then.

You finally learned her name.

In fact after a few days of being nameless, you in turn, gave this name to your son as a way to thank the spirit woman for watching over you.

Makoto.

He was such a sweet boy. Always wanting to be next to you. Always laughing and playing with Paimon and Guoba so nicely. You were actually amazed at how fast he seemed to catch onto the emotions of others and how quickly his tiny mind learned things.

By 10 months he was already walking and attempting to make little noises that resembled words. The only thing about baby Makoto that you weren't exactly gushing over was his appearance.

He looked EXACTLY like Scaramouche.

Like a tiny clone.

But thankfully his personality seemed to be a stark contrast to his father's.

At least you thought so.

One night after "Auntie Xiangling" had successfully helped you put Makoto to bed, you had another strange dream involving someone who looked like Scaramouche but wasn't exactly...him?

He was clearly him. But his eyes held a certain shine that reminded you of Makoto. He wore a long purple veil and was dressed in all white robes.

To your surprise, he suddenly reached out and pulled you into a gentle embrace upon seeing you. Your spirit looked like the old you so this time you were able to wrap your arms around him back. However instead of kissing you or attempting to do something nasty like... what was his name?

This man suddenly began to cry as he held you. His voice shaking as he spoke in broken sobs.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I love you so much! Please... please... I'm so sorry!"

He sobbed violently as he began to fade a little. You didn't know why, but for some reason you couldn't be angry with him. You didn't know who he was but as he became even more transparent by the second, you almost felt a sense of loss come over you as you felt him softly kiss your forehead before telling you that you were the best thing that had ever existed in his life. And that he deserved a thousand painful deaths for harming you.

You woke up from your dream to see Aether standing beside your bed trying to gently shake you awake.

His voice was urgent. And what he had to ask you was nothing short of a terrible way to begin your day.

"Y/N, I hate to bring this up so suddenly, but I really need to know how you ended up in your condition again. Please I need to know what you remember!" Aether noticed your worried and hesitant expression. He places a gentle hand on your cheek and assures you that it's important but to not worry because you were still safe there.

You sighed and told him the same brief summary you gave everyone.

"long ago, I was kidnapped and trafficked by the fatui. I endured terrible things at the hands of a man who I believe had an electro vision like me. Evil things. In fact his treatment caused me to have memory issues due to the amount of trauma it gave me. But you saved me Aether! And now I'm here. And my baby and I are safe!"

You saw Aether's expression change to confusion, then shock, then realization.

He quickly fled again. Calling out over his shoulder that he was coming back again but needed to go to Inazuma.

You couldn't possibly fathom why your friend was such an oddball at times.

***Time Skip***

Aether came back as promised and after that life became a lot easier for everyone.

Makoto had just celebrated his first birthday and was now impossible to handle as his curious and playful spirit refused to be tamed for very long.

It hurt you to have to reprimand him but you tried your hardest as you didn't want to raise a spoiled child and knew he would need guidance regarding his sensitive and empathetic nature in a world as unforgiving as this one.

Aether found someone in Fontaine willing to help you with getting some prosthetic arms and legs and by that time you desperately needed them as Makoto was everywhere.

You were struggling to stay balanced on the metal limbs and learning to maneuver yourself again was beyond difficult at first but you couldn't keep your son locked away in a teapot dimension forever. He needed socialization and friends.

And so you decided to try your luck and take him for a little trip to the nation of wisdom to get him some new educational books for children and hopefully let him run into a new friend while you two were out.

You were in the busy market place trying to haggle for some promising beginner language books when suddenly you turned around and realized that Makoto had run off again.

You quickly dropped everything and went running to look for him. Nearly falling several times as your long dress that was originally meant to hide your new legs suddenly became a mobility hindrance. But you refused to stop.

What if he was hurt?

What if he was lost and scared?

What if someone took him?

Your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest until you rounded a corner and saw your son...in the arms of a man who looked identical to him.

Makoto seemed to sense your presence and his little arms immediately reached out for you as the man brought him over and handed him to you.

Thank the archons!

"thank you so much sir! He's such a handful sometimes. I swear once this one learns how to run I'll never find him again. Heh." You hold your son close as the man suddenly looks you dead in the eyes and asks if you would like him to accompany you while you shopped since he had time and your son seemed hell bent on exploring.

Normally you'd immediately say no.

What kind of mother just handed off her baby to a stranger? Just ABANDONED them to do her own thing?

But the way Makoto kept trying to reach out for him made you pause a little.

Why was he so comfortable with this man? They looked identical but there was no way this man was...

No.

That man wielded electro. You distinctly remember it. This man before you, although similar to your son in appearance, wore an anemo vision on his chest clearly.

There was no way.

You sighed as Makoto started to get fussy and began to squirm in your arms.

Well, he didn't exactly hurt him the first time... and he even gave him back to you without needing to be asked.

Maybe just for an hour?

You'd be keeping both of them in your line of sight though.

"okay. But don't you dare go too far with him! I really do need to get some shopping done before we go home and it'd be nice to be able to focus for once without tiny hands hitting me in the face and demanding new toys."

The man chuckled.

You oddly liked his laugh a little bit.

You decided to ask his name.

He hesitated.

"I have had many names. Most unimportant and useless. But I suppose if you want an alias to refer to me by, The Wanderer should suffice."

Makoto began to kick now.

"Hey sweetie please stop, that hurts. It's not nice to kick people either. You're hurting momma."

Makoto persisted. A tantrum quickly starts to form. However without being told, Wanderer suddenly gets the boy's attention with a rather scary and stern tone. Holding out his hands as if to ask you for the fussy child in your arms.

"You, stop that right this instant." Wanderer took Makoto and held him gently.

"And after your mother was so kind in bringing you with her here today. You should be more grateful. I know many mothers who'd never bother being as generous as yours." Wanderer and Makoto made eye contact and strangely enough the boy was listening to him. He stared up at the man with the huge hat as if he could actually understand him.

"There now. That wasn't so hard was it? There's no need for such tears right now. And look, you've made your mother happier too. You should be a good boy more often and keep her happy with everything she does for you." Wanderer spoke in a low tone. His words were almost soothing to hear despite them being a reprimand.

Why did Makoto like him so much.

At least he was nice?

You sighed and thanked Wanderer before turning and motioning for him to follow you as you went back to your shopping.

***Time Skip***

Wanderer proved to be more than just a good and trusted babysitter for Makoto. He was almost scarily intuitive to what you enjoyed as well like your favorite foods, songs, clothing brands, preferred books, etc. it was so easy to talk with him that you quickly became friends much to Makoto's delight as well and spent a lot of time together. You were practically a little family.

And dare you say that by your son's second birthday, both of you seemed to have developed feelings for each other.

Though Wanderer seemed to be a little more smitten than you. (You wondered if he was just into motherly women or something because his infatuation was almost shocking and you weren't used to the attention at first)

It all happened so quickly in your opinion; Wanderer had just finished giving Makoto his bath and had put him to bed before he met you in the small apartment living room and joined you on the couch (you didn't know why Aether refused to let him be around you and you introducing Wanderer to him as your friend had led to a small fight between you that ended with Wanderer inviting you to live with him temporarily in Sumeru City while Aether cooled down.)

You might have been a little desperate yourself as you felt him gradually get bold and cautiously take your hand in his. His lips eventually found yours too. And after that it all felt like a blur.

His head somehow ended up between your legs. Your thick thighs squeezing his head as Wanderer tongue fucked your tight canal and pulled you against his face using your hips. You screamed and whined as he got you to finish several times before you started seeing stars. He seemed to pay a lot of attention to your clit too. In fact by the time he finally sat up from where he lay, it felt a little sore.

Not that you minded.

He held you protectively in his arms as his head rested between your large breasts and his lower body thrust into you. His girthy length stretching you wide as you swore he was trying to fuck another kid into your womb. Wanderer groaned and moaned as he came deep in your hot depths. More than once.

Finally after that he flipped you over on the couch and began to fuck you again from behind.

"Fuck you feel so good Y/N. What IS it about you that just makes me want to devour you like this? That makes me want to claim every inch of you ~" his last words came in a sort of growl that made your pussy throb and clench even harder around him. He grunted as he bottomed out in your sopping cunt for perhaps the 5th time that night.

"harder Wanderer ~ please don't slow down! I need you so much! You feel so good inside me~" you whine as you feel him reach under you and cup your breasts before pounding roughly into your pussy from behind. Using his own weight to pin you underneath him as he kissed your neck and continued rambling.

"you feel divine. I could fuck this pussy for the rest of my life. Fuck Y/N don't squeeze like that! Fuck. I'm gonna ruin this pussy for anyone else! Gonna stretch it to fit MY cock only. Fuck I love you Y/N" Wanderer panted in your ear as he obliterated you and continued to pinch your nipples.

You were rendered speechless and incoherent as the night went on and Wanderer filled your pussy to the brim.

Time went on after that night. And within a few months it felt like Wanderer was practically your spouse as he made himself extremely useful in nearly every way. He cooked, cleaned, tended to Makoto, and even kept you beyond satisfied sexually.

You eventually found yourself even referring to him as your partner in front of strangers.

Everything would have been perfect if Aether didn't seem to hate Wanderer's guts for seemingly no reason.

And everything came to a shattering halt one day when you learned that you were pregnant again and decided to tell Aether in hopes that your friend would try to get along with the man you loved.

No such luck.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'RE HAVING ANOTHER KID WITH HIM!?" Aether had screamed as he quickly turned on Wanderer who had been sitting beside you in the Cafe.

What did he mean "another?"

"You have no conscience! Not a single ounce of decency or respect! What the HELL is wrong with you?! After EVERYTHING you're just going to cozy up with her as if it all NEVER happened!?"

Aether got up and left abruptly after that. His parting words being only.

"I told you to be honest with her. She deserves to know. But yet here you are, so selfish...I need to go. Congratulations Y/N. I know you're happy. And no matter what I'm not upset with you. It's HIM I hate seeing."

And then he stormed out and left.

Leaving you in tears as Wanderer tried to comfort you and assure you it's alright. Wanderer gave the waiter mora before just ushering you out soon after that.

You wanted to brush off what Aether had said but some things were confusing you still.

"another kid?"

"tell you what truth?"

"everything that happened?"

What was going on?

You tried to ignore these thoughts as you watched Makoto laughing and running alongside his stepfather as Wanderer carried you in a backpack on his shoulders (You didn't mind letting him do this when you grew tired of using your fake legs and wanted to be carried. It actually seemed to make Wanderer happy when you did as he often joked about enjoying the feeling of carrying his entire family and keeping them safe when Makoto grew tired too and was put into his harness that Wanderer wore on the front of him.)

But tonight you really kinda let him carry you because you wanted to think for a bit.

You felt like you needed to see Aether.

What was going on with him?

Was Wanderer perhaps...

Not who he seemed?

[witchofhimring]

Being the daughter of Daemon Targaryen

Daemon x reader (platonic)

I will split this into four different parts depending on who the mother is (Laena, Rhae, Mysaria, Rhaenyra)

Your relationship with Daemon really depends on who your mother is. Although I think he would love his daughter regardless of who the mother is, your relationship will still differ depending on who she is.

Mysaria:

- As his first born you hold a special place in his heart. Daemon keeps you in a mansion with your mother. Despite your bastardy he still has you educated. And anyway, he planned to have you legitimated in time. Unlike with his other wives (except Rhea) there will be a battle between your parents on who has the most influence. Daemon will bring you up to be a true Valyrian. But Mysaria does not agree with everything he does and do the two will argue.

- ‘I will not have my daughter riding those beasts.’ Mysaria stood over Daemon. Although she was not ignorant as to the threat he could pose, Mysaria felt very strongly about her daughter riding a dragon. She had always been a careful woman. Ever since she was a little girl who endured her father’s abuse Mysaria had known how to survive. And when her daughter was born she swore you too would be safe. That meant, for Mysaria; No. Fucking. Dragon. Daemon sat hunched in his chair. He was tired but equally determined. ‘She is a Valyrian. Whatever the circumstances of her birth are.’ Standing in the doorway you watched nervously. You hated listening to your parents fight. Quietly, you slunk into the darkness.

- Unfortunately this will result in Daemon taking you from Mysaria once their relationship is over. This causes a lot of tension and your relationship with him will change. It is hard being away from your mother for so long. Daemon takes you with him wherever he goes. He will try to be more stationary for your benefit. And the word is "try". Life is both tough and fun. Constantly moving around made it hard to make long lasting friends. But Daemon will do fun things such as going to the market, dragon riding and buying items for any hobby you are into. Mysaria finds secret ways to contact you without Daemon's knowledge. You sort of lead a double life with both parents.

-Your mother's most recent letter was quickly slid under the pillow as your bedroom door opened. Your father stepped in holding a wooden box. Curiously you asked what was in the box. Daemon opened it and inside you found cloth and sewing needles. With a smile you took it and went through the materials. Daemon had a small smile on his face as his daughter rummaged through everything. He did not really understand your love of sewing but he was happy to provide the materials.

-You do get a dragon. Daemon lobbies hard for you to have a dragon and for a while Viserys says no. Not because he doesn't think you deserve one but because of your status (this is before you are legitimated). This changes when Rhaenyra had her first born and Daemon will snidely make remarks when Viserys brings up your bastardy. Eventually Viserys relents. Your dragon is called Saephrin, a thin green scaled creature who is called the Sky Snake. He is very fast an nimble. You spent a lot of time in the cave and riding Saephrin. Daemon likes to ride beside you on nice day. The dragons do keep some distance between each other since Caraxes can get a bit snappy around the younger dragon. These outings usually end in picnics and going to far off places.

-Higher and into the sky you climbed. Wind whistled past your ears, wind whipping hair around. Just behind you was Daemon on Caraxes. Above the clouds you flew looking at the ground bellow. The house you lived in had become a simple blip on the ground. The ache in your thighs felt good. Riding on dragon back brought you more satisfaction than anything else. Showing off you father burst up from a sea of clouds, sending white mist everywhere. Despite your vision being temporarily obscured you were not scared. Daemon was an expert dragon rider, you were in no danger. Your dragon let out a wiry cry and you dove. Leaning back you could see the ground bellow you coming nearer. You looked up to find Daemon still circling above. Saephrin then extended his wings and you were shot back into the air. With a whoop of laughter you went to meet him in the sky.

Rhea:

-Daemon would not allow Rhea to raise you. Despite him belief in Valyrian supremacy you are still a Targaryen. He will use his position as a prince to limit contact between Rhea and yourself. This leads to some tension between Daemon and Viserys, who feels your place is in Runestone. In this scenario Daemon is in Runestone more often. There is a back and forth between who has more influence. Daemon will try to distance you from Andal influences and Rhea vise vera. This leaves you feeling constantly torn.

-Their voices echoed down the hall to where you sat alone. By all rights you should be in bed already. If anyone were to find you out there would be trouble. One would think that years of this would harden you to your parents constant fights. 'My daughter will not be taking part in your filthy Valyrian traditions! I am only glad that she has no brother for you to force her to fuck.' You could almost see your fathers reaction in your mind. There was the sound of a physical altercation and you buried yourself deeper into the shadows. You were not sure when the fight ended. Only that your father slunk through the hall and you hardly dared to breath as he walked past. Once you were sure both parents were gone you wandered the halls.

-A dragon egg is given to you by Daemon upon birth. The pearl coloured egg hatches and a light pink dragon is born, named Willow. You grew close to the dragon and liked to bring her into your playroom. Whenever she was separated from you a tantrum resumed on both ends. You could not live without Willow. Your father would becomes a less present figure om your life. For a while life grew slightly easier. At least no parents were fighting. And so a quiet existence descended. Your mother taught you to hunt and command a falcon. By her hand you sat at council meetings. One day you would become Lady of Runestone and command these people. Unlike many other women, even high born ones, you would be permitted to wield power without the say so of a man. When your mother died Daemon came back for you. He tried to take you from Runestone but the lords protested. Swallowing his rage, Daemon would fly between his residences and Runestone. He was more involved now. because of your position Daemon would teach you battle strategy and swordplay. Daemon was determined to make you a proper ruling lady.

-'Block!' Daemon's sword came down from ahead and you only just blocked it. He did not relent with each blow, causing witnesses to shoot mistrusting looks. While Daemon was not being gentle there was a method to this. The world was not kind to women especially women who took the places men more often occupied. You must become strong enough to defend your own. And Daemon had a feeling war was not too far off. Daemon felt Rhea had been a poor teacher. He would not have some docile Andal lily for a daughter. Gods damn it you were a Targaryen. Each strike was used to test your ability. Eventually the sword was knocked aside. 'Dead.' Daemon pointed the sword to your chest. The he heaved you to your feet. 'Good.' Daemon was not one to hand out compliments. But you had done very well and made much progress. You gave him a small smile.

-Once you are older Daemon will have you visit him on Dragonstone. You never knew your first step mother Laena as you were too young to fly to Pentos on dragon back. But by the time he married Rhaenyra you were older and Dragonstone was closer. You would fly in on Willow and spend time with your father and the new editions. Your relationship with Rhaenyra is alright. She had always wanted a daughter but she remembers you are the daughter of Rhea and that always unsettles Rhaenyra. You like Baela and Rhaena well enough. Daemon is happy when you arrive. Even if he has a hard time showing it. As the eldest you are given the most responsibility. He has you informed of the comings and goings of political situation, and you help the Blacks keep ties with house Arryn. He places a lot of trust in you.

-You had come in late that night on Willow. Inwardly groaning with exhaustion you climbed off the dragon and staggered towards the castle. Your father was there to greet you. Nodding in acknowledgment Daemon turned and beckoned you inside. This might have been considered cold for a father, but from Daemon this was "warm", in his way. You followed him inside and he allowed you to quickly wipe down, change and eat. By the fire both of you sat till Daemon deemed you settled in enough. 'How are you unruly men?' He had never taken to the people of Runestone. 'They are just fine father.' You did not like your father talking like this. It made you feel unfaithful to those you lead. 'Good, and the Arryns?' He said this with less skepticism. 'I think if it comes to war they will side with us. Lady Jeyne Arryn was no love for Otto Hightower or his ilk.' 'Good.' He grunted. For a while the pair of you talked of these things until Daemon sent you to bed. As you got up he patted you on you shoulder. 'You've done well.'

Laena:

-You are born a year after Baela and Rhaena in Pentos. At the time Laena and Daemon were traveling Essos so you did not have a permeant home. Despite not living in Westeros at the time you were still a Targaryen, one of only a few. There were already discussions about your future. Daemon preferred for his family to remain in Westeros, perhaps you could marry a Pentoshi prince. Laena on the other hand would rather you marry into Westerosi aristocracy. You, along with your two sisters are brought up to be noblewomen like your mother. On the other hand Daemon is interested in teaching Valyrian ancestry and swordplay. His interest will hinge on how much you are like him. This does not mean Daemon does not love his children. But he does show more interest in his children who are dragon riders. Daemon is largely unaware of the effect it had on his children (i.e. Rhaena). Like your sisters you will get a dragon egg. It eventually hatches, but it takes a while.

-Daemon did not normally feel uncomfortable, especially around his own children. Last week his youngest daughter's dragon had hatched, a small grey think with spikey scales running up its neck. He had been undeniably proud of his daughter. Three years had passed since his now ten year old daughter had received her egg as name-day present from Viserys. Daemon had lost hope that her dragon would hatch. he would check if the two dragon eggs resting in the fireplace had hatched. Now only Rhaena's egg rested there. Y/n was sitting alone by the see with Kaeros on her lap. One day that dragon not be small like a kitten, but larger than any one of them. Daemon took a seat beside her. 'Your dragon hatched.' He felt foolish for posing such a silly question. Y/n would be a dragon rider and carry out the Targaryen traditions. Y/n shrugged her shoulders but said nothing. For a while they awkwardly sat beside one another till Y/n headed in.

-After Laena's death the family headed back to Westeros. Daemon married Rhaenyra and Dragonstone became home. It was very different from the warmth and vibrancy of Pentos. During this time Daemon and you became closer, although some distance remained. Because you were a little older the subject of marriage became prevalent. Daemon is very picky about who your future husband will be, only a Valyrian will be accepted. When your half brothers are born you become closer to Daemon. Sometimes the two of you will play with the children in their nursery.

-Baby Aegon totted on his legs towards you .A few spaces away at your father, newborn Viserys on his lap. 'The babies are staying with us, right?' Daemon looked up from his youngest. 'Of course.' 'Oh. I just thought that you might send them to be fostered with their future betrotheds family.' Daemon looked at you confused. 'What gave you that impression?' Shrugging, you replied; 'Just what your doing with me.' Daemon only looked more bewildered. 'I...we have no intentions sending you away.' Daemon had no idea why you had this idea. What he did not understand was the empty pit widening in your soul. This feeling of loneliness that threatened to devour you. All your life you had felt like an extension of the Targaryen name. You did not realize how deeply your father loved you. While the gap had somewhat lessened over time there were still things left unsaid. Then Daemon, for reasons you did not know, he set Viserys in his crib and got up. In a moment he was by your side. In an unexpected motion Daemon brought you into a hug. Not merely one in greeting or goodbye, but along, warm one. Gently you rested your head on his shoulder.

-As war broke over Westeros the dynamic between Daemon and yourself changed. You were his youngest daughter, too young to fight. He may have pride but even Daemon balked at the idea of sending his youngest, untested daughter into war. In the past few years your relationship improved greatly. The two of you had grown closer. But was would rip the two of you apart, forever.

-It was already unsettling enough to send Baela out to war, and have Rhaena so far away. You were to remain at Dragonstone. Not completely out of loop but not at the front like Baela. It made you taste bitterness. Why could he not see you were ready! Now was the time you should be tested. Your father had gone on and on about Targaryen pride. But here you were as cupbearer. Of course he preferred Baela to you, to Rhaena. As your father got ready to take Harrenhal you were hiding by a window, too angry to speak. At these moments you felt no more than a sulky child. 'Y/n.' Startled, you got up to see your father, fully plated in armor, coming forward. 'I'm heading out.' 'I know.' You replied. Standing there you did not know whether to say goodbye. Silently you feared for him. War was an ugly thing. 'I will send for you when the time comes.' This surprised you. 'Really?' Daemon let the ghost of a smile come across his lips. 'You are my daughter. A Targaryen. You belong with us.' Tears welled up in your eyes. Deep down you think; 'One day I will tell father I love him.' This was the last time you would see your father.

Rhaenyra: (au where Rhaenyra wins the war, Visenya survives and is your older sister)

-Daemon felt rather old when you came into the world. You had been born well after they thought Rhaenyra past childbirth. He was not sure how he felt about this newest edition. Having another child was no bad thing, but he just felt too hold. Although Daemon was still in good health he was no longer a young man. His joints had started to ache from long years of battle. This did mean he spent lots of time with you. He watched his youngest roll around in her cradle. There was some joy to be found in reading to you. This continued as you grew, learning stories of your family and Old Valyria. Soehow this gave Daemon some peace, and the pair of you grew close.

-Daemon was no stranger to fatherhood. As a father of three girls and two boys (not including Rhaenyra's children) this new baby was no surprise. What had struck Daemon was how very old he was. Now in his fifties Daemon found it a bit astounding to be this old and a father. If fact Daemon never though he would reach such an age. Men as reckless as the King Consort rarely lived to see such an age. Yet here we was, older and with knees that already started to ache. In the cradle was his youngest and likely last child. Y/n was fast asleep, wrapped up in a blanket. Daemon was not a sort man, and perhaps not the warmest father. But he did love his children. One finger reached in and the baby's hand shot out. With all her little might Y/n grasped him. her wide eyes met his and she gave him a toothless grin. Something warm stirred in daemon's head. "I'm becoming a sort old fool.' Daemon thought.

-Daemon read by the fire as you dozed off in bed. This was your favourite part of the day. When night had fallen and you listened to his soft voice lull you to sleep. Tonight he read of Queen Rhaenys, second wife to King Aegon. Even though your mother and sister preferred Queen Visenya you always admired Rhaenys's love for the arts. Out of all her siblings Rhaenys loved her dragon Meraxes best. You had named your own dragon after hers. Mother has tried to talk you out of it but to no avail. Your father continued to read stories of Targaryens long gone.

-'This one." You demanded. It was the end of the day and Daemon had come up to read. Already you were in bed with a book one your lap. Daemon was pleased to see it was about House Targaryens, the best house in all the realm (totally not a biased opinion). Sitting down Daemon picked up the book and flipped to chapter one. 'Not there.' You passed several chapters until landing on the one titled "Queen Rhaenys". Aegon the Conqueror's second wife had never truly captured his attention, not that he had anything against her. But you were his little girl and Daemon was more willing to capitulate in his older ager.

-Despite his advanced age Daemon will expect you to be well educated. The best teachers will be found. You will learn history, Valyrian, astronomy, philosophy, writing and much more. He sees no reason for you being female as a reason a child of his should not be well read. You share classes with Visenya and sometimes Viserys and Aegon. Sometimes Daemon will ask you to show him what you have learned. His interests mainly lye in Valyrian history so he will ask you to show him what it is you have learned. When all his daily duties are finished Daemon will sometimes listen to you talk about everything you have read that day. Even if it is not things he is particularly interested in. As he gets older Daemon becomes more sentimental and focuses more on his family.

-A quiet afternoon was upon Kings Landing. Daemon had just gotten out of a long meeting and was glad for it. he was sore all over from sitting so long and walked, alone, to take the edge off. His walking did have an aim. Y/n, his youngest, would be out of the schoolroom by now. Loneliness was not a feeling Daemon was well acquainted with. But with Rhaenyra gone to the North and Visenya being a ward of House Baratheon, Daemon found himself lacking family members. Jacaerys and Baela had gone on tour in the West, Rhaena gone to see her Arryn friends. The other children were being wards elsewhere. daemon finally arrived outside the schoolroom. he remembered days when he and Viserys were sometimes tutored here. Just as he arrived Y/n burst out. 'Daddy!' Y/n gave her father a great hug. Daemon ruffled her messy hair before inquiring what she had learned today. As she chattered away they found themselves in the courtyard. Under the Weirwood they sat together. Sunlight beat down upon them, Daemon finally relaxed.

[msclaritea]

From Ani O'Brien, on Twitter:

Why centring her campaign on abortion was a bad strategy for Kamala:

1. It was based on a lie. Access to abortion was going to be the same regardless of which candidate won. The Supreme Court ruled that abortion law was a matter for individual states TWO years ago. Trump's policy is to leave it as a matter for states to decide & he stated many times there would be NO federal abortion ban. Harris' has done nothing for TWO years to improve access despite being the VP. There is no indication that she had any plan except to wait for room on the Supreme Court to install a pro-abortion judge to ensure a challenge would get through. This would likely take years.

2. It was never going to entice soft Republicans to jump ship.

3. Many Democrats & Independents are pro-life and by focusing so closely on abortion they were alienated from her campaign.

4. Also alienates many minorities who are more likely to have religious beliefs e.g. Black, Arabic, and Latino communities.

5. Many women will never have an abortion or see abortion as something that happens only when something has gone very wrong, and while they care about it, life is so tough that they are likely to vote for matters more pressing and immediate to their survival.

6. The Democrats have been appalling on other aspects of women's rights because they believe men can declare themselves to be women. They have destroyed Title IX, put men in women's prisons, and refuse to acknowledge what a woman is. It can be viewed as hypocritical.

7. The attempt to start a movement of dads voting for their daughter's to have access to abortion seems alright on the surface but only to their base who votes for them already. Other dads (rightly or wrongly) do not want to think about their daughters having sex and getting accidentally pregnant. They may agree with abortion access but are uncomfortable with the thought of their daughter needing it.

8. The issue became so aggressively and hyperbolically discussed in media and online to the extent that more extreme views of no-term-limit abortions were being demanded and some women were bragging about how many abortions they have had. The activist madness then put off moderates who associated it with all the other woke issues that are irritating people.

9. Kamala spent so much time on this and demonising Trump that she did not offer an alternative vision and solutions to the real problems that Americans were saying mattered to them.

10. Many states have legalised (or are in the process of legalising) access to abortion already. Given Trump's assurances that the Federal Govt won't get involved the women of those states may feel confident to focus on other issues.

11. People could see through the scaremongering.

There are probably many other reasons I have missed. I am personally pro-choice but see it as a very serious decision not a form of contraception. I was disgusted by the scaremongering and out right lies. She centred her campaign on the lie that Trump was going to take immediate action to ban all abortions and she was going to reverse the SC decision on Roe V Wade which she cannot do.

Besides this, I am aware of Russia not being good. But, the fact is, they've been partnering with Africa for decades and are currently helping Burkina Faso against Jihadists insurgents. I also get the fact that our country is responsible for having installed Zekensky, who is a corrupt leader. It is no longer possible to see any entities or subjects as purely black and white. Geopolitics are changing, rapidly. Europe? It has been going downhill, for a while. If Africa continues to kick Western countries out of the region, who steal their resources, Europe and the rest of the West will keep going downhill, because places like Belgium and France have built their whole economy out of brutal colonization and theft of resources. America has, too. Our history in Africa is beyond appealing.

Finally, the way Harris treated her supporters, some who traveled hours to be there, at her alma mater Howard University, is pretty telling about what kind of leader she would have been. After having her back, Harris dipped out, without saying one word.

[pandapetals]

The Edge of Safety

Living in Lowtown meant crime happened all the time. After your sister gets taken, you turn to Patch for help to find her.

patch/logan howlett x fem!reader - takes place in madripoor, no y/n used, no reader description but reader does have a sister named emily, violence, blood, death, killing, very action packed, some sexual tension, patch is an asshole, angst, reader is a lowkey badass, kid and sweetheart nickname used

a/n: okay this one is an essay of an author’s note but listen….I honestly haven’t stopped thinking about Patch since deadpool and wolverine soooo I did some research on Patch’s character, read some comics and googled it. Then like a vision this idea came to me so i was like okay gonna write it after i finish other stuff but nope, ended up writing nonstop so. Not complaining (okay maybe my fingers are) but yeah, hopefully this is accurate. i did take some creative liberties because patch is still logan just in a “disguise”---if you can call an eye patch a disguise. lol

word count: 21k

The acrid stench of sweat and cheap cologne filled the cramped convenience store, mingling with the faint buzz of flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you gripped your sister’s hand, pulling her close. The rough concrete floor felt cold even through your shoes, grounding you in the grim reality of the moment.

 Lowtown was no stranger to crime—muggings, drug deals, the occasional gang scuffle—but you’d always managed to keep your head down and avoid it until now.

“Don’t make me ask again!” The man’s voice was rough, edged with a brittle desperation that set your nerves on edge. His eyes darted around the room, wild and unfocused, like he was looking for an excuse to pull the trigger. The barrel of his gun swung in a lazy arc, cutting through the air as he fixed his gaze on the store owner. With a sneer, he herded everyone to the front of the store, shoving people together like cattle pressed up against the cold metal shelves.

His eyes fell on you and your sister, and something dark flickered in his expression—a hint of menace that made your stomach drop. You tightened your grip on her hand, feeling the tremor in her fingers as she clung to you. Her wide, fearful eyes darted around the store, seeking a way out, but there was none.

The store owner, a grizzled man with leathery skin and a face set in a permanent scowl, barely blinked. He watched the gunman with an almost bored expression like he’d seen this kind of thing too many times to muster any real fear. The gunman’s jaw clenched his impatience mounting. “You heard me,” he barked, voice cracking as he waved the gun in your direction as if you were somehow responsible for the old man’s slow compliance. He stabbed the air with the muzzle, the barrel now pointed squarely at your chest. “Open the register, or I swear I’ll blow her head off!”

Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your ribs. The gun was only inches away, the metal glinting under the fluorescent lights. You could feel your sister shaking beside you, her small fingers squeezing yours so tight it was almost painful. 

You took a step back, instinctively trying to shield her with your body, but the movement only drew the gunman’s attention. His eyes narrowed, zeroing in on you, a twisted grin stretching across his lips.

“I said, hurry up!” The man’s voice was splintered, the wild edge creeping further in. There was something unhinged in his eyes—a flicker of mania that made your skin crawl. This wasn’t just a man looking for a quick score. This was a man on the verge of losing control, and you were all trapped in his orbit.

The store owner finally sighed, his shoulders slumping as if he was annoyed. He shuffled over to the register, his gnarled fingers moving with an infuriating slowness as he popped it open. The old, rusted drawer creaked, and he began peeling off crumpled bills one by one, as though he had all the time in the world.

A low growl escaped the gunman’s throat, his patience wearing dangerously thin. “Faster, old man—”

Suddenly, the air exploded with movement. The gunman lurched forward, his arm swinging as he reached for your sister, his fingers digging into her arm with a brutal yank that tore her from your side. The world seemed to splinter at that moment, her terrified scream slicing through the heavy silence like a knife. Time slowed, the sounds around you muffled as adrenaline flooded your veins.

Without thinking, you lunged after her, instincts overtaking reason. You swung wildly, aiming for anything you could reach—a fist, an arm, something to get him off her. But he was faster, or maybe just more desperate, and in one fluid motion, he spun around and cracked the butt of the gun against your head.

Pain flared, white-hot and blinding, and the world tilted. Your vision blurred, your knees buckling as darkness closed in at the edges of your sight. The last thing you heard before everything went black was your sister’s panicked cries, growing fainter, slipping away into the shadows as you fell into oblivion.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You awoke to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the soft hum of medical equipment. Your head throbbed like someone was pounding nails into your skull. The sterile white of the hospital room pressed in on you from all sides. Panic spiked through your veins as the memories rushed back—the robber with greasy hair, the gun, your sister’s terrified face.

“She’s gone!” The words tore from your throat, raw and ragged. You struggled to sit up, but a firm hand pushed you back down.

“Easy now, hon,” a nurse said, her voice soothing but firm. She was a broad-shouldered woman with lines etched deep around her eyes. “You’re safe. Just breathe, okay? You're in the hospital. You took a nasty blow.”

“My sister—” You fought against the dizziness threatening to drag you under again. “Where is she? Did they find her?”

The nurse’s expression tightened, sympathy clouding her eyes as she glanced away, studying the dull linoleum as if it held an answer. “No one knows where she is yet, sweetheart. The police are looking.”

You shook your head, frustration tightening in your chest. “The police won’t help,” you spat, your voice cracking. “This town is rotten—crime’s everywhere, and the cops don’t do a damn thing.”

“I know,” the nurse began, her voice gentle but uncertain, “but—”

“No, you don’t understand!” The words erupted from you, raw and desperate. Your throat burned with the effort to keep from breaking down. “I have to find her. She’s all I have left. My only family.” The last words came out like a plea.

The nurse hesitated before her eyes softened. She leaned in closer, her tone shifting, becoming almost conspiratorial. “Listen,” she whispered, her gaze flicking to the doorway and back again, “there’s someone who might be able to help you.” Her voice dipped lower, barely audible over the hum of the machines.

You blinked, struggling to steady your breath. “Who?” you managed, your voice thin and rough.

“A man they call Patch,” she said as if the name itself carried weight. It slipped from her lips like a secret traded in the dark. “He’s... not with the police. More of a vigilante, some say. Others call him a mercenary. Word is, he deals with the kind of trouble that the law won’t touch. The kind that hides in the shadows.” She glanced at the door again, then took a step back, as if wary of saying too much. “If you’re serious about finding your sister, he might be your best shot.”

The name hung in the air between you, heavy with promise and risk. A flicker of hope sparked, but doubt quickly smothered it. Who was this Patch? And would he care about some girl from Lowtown?

You pushed the thought aside. You couldn’t afford to be picky. “Where can I find him?” you asked, forcing the words past the knot in your throat.

The nurse’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “It won’t be easy,” she warned, her gaze steady. “Patch isn’t exactly the friendly type. He’s got a reputation for being... rough around the edges. Dangerous, even.”

“I don’t care,” you said, your jaw setting with grim determination. “Just tell me where.”

She sighed, folding her arms across her chest as if trying to shield herself from the weight of what she was about to say. “He usually hangs out at a place called The Lucky Dragon,” she said. “It’s a casino in Hightown. You can’t miss it—big neon sign, a dragon wrapped around a roulette wheel. Classy place, for all the wrong reasons. Just…” Her voice softened, almost pleading. “Be careful. Hightown’s not like here. It’s meaner. More secrets. And Patch—well, if you get on his bad side, don’t expect him to show mercy.”

Her words settled over you, cold and unyielding. There was a flicker of a warning laced within them. The kind that whispered, if you were willing to walk through the fire, there was still a chance.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, though your voice shook a little. “I just need to find her.”

The nurse gave a slow nod as if deciding whether or not to believe you. “Then good luck, hon,” she murmured. “Oh, and—Patch isn’t in the habit of doing favors. You’d better be ready to give him a reason to care.”

You swallowed hard, pushing down the fear and doubt that threatened to surface. It didn’t matter. None of it did. There was only one thing you had to do now—find Patch, and hope that somewhere in that smoke-filled casino, amid the clatter of dice and the murmur of broken dreams, lay a path that would lead you back to your sister.

The image of your sister—small, terrified, yanked out of your reach—burned itself into your mind. It was like a fever that spread through your limbs, propelling you off the hospital bed. The dull throb in your skull was nothing compared to the hollow ache in your chest, a void that swallowed every other sensation. You had to move. You had to do something.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

Outside, the city loomed like a beast under a blanket of murky night. Neon lights buzzed, reflecting off the rain-slicked pavement as if mocking your urgency. You stumbled into the street, your legs feeling weak. Everything seemed to cling to you, as you raised a hand to hail a cab.

The first few drove past without even slowing, and panic tightened its grip around your throat. Finally, one screeched to a halt, and you threw yourself into the backseat.

“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. His eyes widened a little when he took in your bruised face, blood-stained clothes, and the hospital bracelet still dangling from your wrist.

“The Lucky Dragon,” you said, voice hoarse. “In Hightown.”

The driver’s eyebrows lifted. “You sure, lady? That’s not exactly a place for—”

“Just go,” you snapped, too drained to care about his judgment. You slumped back in the seat, your hands balled into fists on your lap as the cab sped off, the engine’s low rumble vibrating through your bones. The city blurred past outside the window—crumbling brick, flickering signs, and the occasional flash of blue and red from a distant police cruiser. It was a cruel world you’d stepped back into, and every second that ticked by seemed to deepen the chasm between you and your sister.

As the cab climbed the steep hill toward Hightown, the landscape began to shift. The streets became wider, the grime less visible under the garish glow of high-rise billboards and polished storefronts. The Lucky Dragon stood near the end of the strip, towering above the other buildings like a gaudy temple. A giant neon dragon wrapped around a roulette wheel glared down at you, its ruby eyes glinting like a predator’s in the darkness.

You tossed a handful of crumpled bills at the driver and stepped out, feeling the weight of stares from passersby almost immediately. Your clothes were wrinkled from sweat with bits of dried blood splattered on them making you look completely out of place. 

The cold air bit your cheeks, and you could feel the eyes crawling over you: casino patrons in tailored suits and glittering dresses, eyeing you with a mix of suspicion and contempt. A few whispered, nudging each other as you walked by. You kept your chin up, though it felt like every step was sinking you deeper into quicksand. You didn’t belong here, and everyone knew it.

The casino doors hissed open, releasing a wall of sound that crashed over you—laughter, the ringing of slot machines, the clink of glasses, and the low murmur of conversations spoken in secret. The Lucky Dragon’s interior was drenched in crimson and gold, a haze of smoke curling beneath the chandeliers. You drifted in, feeling small beneath the vaulted ceiling, and glanced around, searching for a face that meant nothing to you. How were you even supposed to know who to look for? The nurse had given you a name, but nothing more—no description, no sign to point you in the right direction.

The poker tables caught your eye. Figures hunched over cards, some grinning like foxes, others steely-faced, staring down their opponents. Then you saw him. It was as if the world sharpened, everything else fading into the background.

He sat at the farthest table, a tall, brooding figure in a crisp white suit that made him stand out against the dark wood and dim lighting. His hair was dark, almost black styled into two high tufts. An eye patch covered his left eye, leaving the other to gleam with a harsh intensity as he studied his cards. There was a casual elegance in the way he leaned back in his chair, a hand resting on his chin, but the lines of his body spoke of coiled strength, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

You hesitated, your legs suddenly heavy as you took a step forward. What were you even going to say? You didn’t have a plan, just desperation driving you forward but the thought of your sister—lost, afraid—pushed you into motion. You could feel the weight of judgmental eyes again as you approached the table, but you didn’t care. Not anymore.

“Are you Patch?” The question came out stronger than you’d expected, even though your heart hammered against your ribs.

The man didn’t look up right away. He flipped a card over with a lazy flick of his wrist, then let out a low, dismissive chuckle. “Depends on who’s asking.” His voice was deep, rough around the edges like gravel. 

Finally, he raised his gaze to meet yours, and you felt the full force of that single, piercing eye lock onto you, taking you in from head to toe—the blood-stained clothes, the bruises, the desperation etched into every line of your face.

He arched a brow, an almost amused smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “You lost, sweetheart? 'Cause you sure as hell don’t look like you belong here.”

You swallowed hard, steeling yourself against the urge to wilt under that gaze. “I need your help,” you said, fighting to keep the tremor out of your voice. “Someone took my sister. I was told you’re the kind of guy who could help.”

His expression didn’t change, but the air around him seemed to shift, growing colder, and heavier. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and for a moment, you thought you saw something flash in his eye—something dark and dangerous, like a knife unsheathed. 

“Kid,” he said slowly, “do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”

“I don’t care,” you replied, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find my sister.”

Patch’s gaze held yours, unyielding, for what felt like an eternity. His single eye was cold, appraising—like he was stripping you down to the bones, searching for the truth behind your words. You could feel a bead of sweat forming on the back of your neck, your skin prickling under the weight of his silence. His stillness was unnerving, like the calm before a storm, and the longer he just sat there, the more your frustration flared.

Finally, you couldn’t take it. You shifted your weight and crossed your arms as if bracing yourself. “Look, mister,” you snapped, your voice cracking from the strain of holding back tears. “The police aren’t going to do shit. Lowtown’s a goddamn warzone, and you know it.” You took a step closer, your fingers tightening into fists at your sides. “While you sit here, lounging around in a fancy suit, playing cards, and sipping drinks, people like me are getting robbed, beaten, and killed.”

Patch’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in that eye—a spark, a shadow, gone too quickly to read. He leaned back in his chair, casually swirling the remnants of his drink as if your outburst had barely registered. “And what makes you think you’re any different?” His voice was low, edged with a hint of boredom. “Another desperate girl with a sob story, wandering in from Lowtown, hoping someone else will clean up her mess.”

His words cut deep, stoking a fury that flared hot in your chest. “This isn’t just some ‘sob story,’” you spat back, your voice rising despite the stares from nearby tables. “My sister is out there—taken by some lowlife who had a gun in her face. I can’t just—” Your breath hitched, and you forced yourself to push through it. “I can’t just sit around hoping she’ll magically come home. I have to do something.”

Patch’s gaze sharpened, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. He set his glass down, the dull clink resonating like a judge’s gavel. “And you think coming here, shaking like a leaf, is doing something?” There was a bitter edge in his tone as if he was testing you, pushing to see how far you’d go before you broke.

You took a steadying breath, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks. “You think I wanted to walk in here like this?” you shot back, gesturing to the dirty clothes clinging to your skin. “I came because I don’t have any other choice. I was unconscious in a hospital bed while some bastard dragged her away. So yeah, I’m desperate. But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to give up.”

For a heartbeat, the silence stretched between you. The murmurs of the casino faded to a dull roar in your ears as you locked eyes with Patch, refusing to look away even though every instinct told you to. His expression remained inscrutable, but there was a shift—a subtle change in the air between you, like the first stirrings of a breeze before a storm breaks.

Slowly, Patch’s lips curved into a humorless smirk. He tapped a finger against the poker table as if coming to some unspoken decision. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “But guts don’t count for much if you don’t know what you’re doing. The kind of people who snatch girls off the street don’t just give them back because someone asked nicely.”

“Then tell me what I need to do,” you said, swallowing hard. “Or are you just going to sit there?”

Patch’s smirk faded, replaced by a cold, calculating look. He stood up slowly, the chair scraping against the floor, and took a step toward you. The scent of smoke and whiskey clung to him like a second skin. He was close enough now that you could see the faint scars trailing along his knuckles, the signs of countless fights hard-won. “I don’t take on charity cases,” he said quietly, his breath warm against your cheek. “You want my help, you’ve got to prove you’re worth my time.”

“How?” you asked, your voice trembling but resolute.

He held your gaze a moment longer, then jerked his head toward the back of the casino, where the neon lights barely reached and the air was thick with shadows. “There’s a back room here where debts get settled,” he said. “People who owe money and don’t pay. There’s a guy inside—a dealer who owes the house more than he’ll ever be able to repay. Find out what he knows. If you can handle that, then maybe—maybe—I’ll think about helping you find your sister.”

Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and began to walk away, the white of his suit disappearing into the crowd like a ghost fading into the night. You took a shaky breath, glancing toward the shadowed hallway he’d indicated.

How the hell were you supposed to make some guy talk? You didn’t have the kind of presence Patch had—the kind that could silence a room with just a look. He was the sort of man who wore danger like a second skin, and you’d bet he could get a confession out of someone without saying a word, just by staring them down with that single, unnerving eye. 

You? You were just a woman caught between terror and adrenaline, your whole body trembling as you tried to keep your breaths even. The absurdity of everything pressed down on you like a weight, threatening to crush you. 

You sighed, your breath shuddering out of you as you glanced toward the darkened hallway Patch had pointed to. The back room where debts got settled—the very idea sent a chill crawling up your spine. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been in shady places before, growing up in Lowtown, but this was different. This was Hightown’s version of shady, where the rich got away with sins even the criminals in Lowtown wouldn’t touch.

The image of your sister flashed in your mind again—her wide, frightened eyes as the gunman dragged her away. A hollow ache twisted in your chest, and you straightened up, forcing your limbs to stop trembling. You didn’t know how to do this, but you were about to learn. There was no other choice. There never had been.

You slipped through the crowd, weaving past tables and drunken gamblers. The din of the casino grew muffled as you approached the dimly lit hallway. The red and gold of the main room faded, replaced by shadowed walls and the stale scent of sweat and cigar smoke. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses died down to a murmur like the world had turned down its volume, leaving just the thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

At the end of the corridor, a heavy door loomed, the kind you could tell wasn’t meant for guests. You hesitated in front of it, feeling the weight of the moment pressing on you. How were you supposed to do this? What were you supposed to say? You didn't have Patch’s cool composure or his casual air of authority. All you had was your desperation and that gnawing emptiness inside you—fuel that burned hotter than your fear.

You shoved the door open and stepped inside.

The room was cramped and dimly lit by a single dangling bulb, casting harsh shadows across stained walls. A poker table sat in the center, scattered with crumpled cards and empty whiskey glasses. In one of the worn-out chairs slouched a man in a rumpled suit, his fingers drumming nervously on the table's edge. His eyes flicked to you as you entered, his expression shifting from bored indifference to wary curiosity.

“You’re not one of them,” he said, his voice gravelly, squinting as if he was trying to place where you’d come from. “What do you want?”

You took a breath, forcing yourself to step further into the room, your sneakers silent on the gritty floor. “I need information,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though it wavered at the edges. “About a girl. She was taken recently. You know anything about that?”

The man’s gaze darted toward the door, then back to you. A thin, crooked smile tugged at his lips. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, sweetheart,” he sneered, reaching for the cigarette resting on the ashtray in front of him. “I don’t know anything about any girls, and even if I did, why the hell would I tell you?”

His tone was dismissive, the kind of tone that told you he thought you were harmless, a nuisance to be shrugged off. It stung, but it was also exactly what you needed—because he didn’t see you as a threat.

You took a step closer, letting the harsh overhead light catch the bruises on your face, the hospital bracelet still dangling from your wrist. “Because if you don’t,” you said, your voice hardening, “the next person who walks through that door won’t be as nice.” You leaned in just enough that he’d have to catch the seriousness in your eyes. “It’ll be Patch.”

The name dropped like a stone, and you could see the reaction ripple across his face. It was slight—a tightening of the jaw, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes—but it was there. He looked you up and down again as if reevaluating what kind of game he’d walked into. “Patch sent you?” he scoffed, but there was less conviction.

You nodded, playing up your calm, letting it stretch out like you had all the time in the world. “He sent me to ask nicely,” you said, “but I’m sure he’d be happy to finish this conversation his way if you’d prefer.”

The man’s cigarette wavered between his fingers, his gaze sliding to the door as though expecting Patch to walk through it any second. You didn’t have to know what kind of history lay between them to see that he was rattled, that the mere mention of the name had carved a crack in his defenses.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face as he exhaled slowly. “Alright,” he muttered, stubbing it out in the ashtray. “What’s the girl’s name?”

You swallowed, relief flooding through you even as you kept your expression neutral. “Her name is Emily,” you said, your voice steady now. “And I need to know where they took her.”

The man’s eyes darted away, his fingers tapping anxiously on the table again. “Look, I don’t know much,” he said, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “But I heard some guys talking a few nights ago—something about a shipment coming through the docks. They mentioned girls, and... well, it didn’t sound like they were there by choice.”

Your stomach twisted, a knot of dread tightening as his words sank in. “What else?” you pressed. “What do you know about the men involved?”

He shook his head, glancing nervously toward the door again. “That’s all I’ve got,” he said. “Just some lowlife dealers from the docks. If Patch wants more than that, he’s gonna have to dig for it himself.”

You turned to leave, but before you reached the door, the man spoke again, his voice barely audible. “If you’re smart, you’ll walk away now,” he murmured a note of pity in his tone. “People who go looking for the kind of trouble you’re in don’t usually come back.”

You didn’t respond. There was no point because you would do whatever it took to get your sister back even if it meant crossing lines you never thought you’d cross.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You wandered the casino, weaving through the smoke and noise, scanning every shadowed corner and poker table for a glimpse of that white suit. It was like he’d disappeared into thin air. Your pulse quickened with each passing second, dread tightening its grip on your lungs. What if Patch had already left? What if he’d sent you into that back room as some kind of test and then walked out, leaving you here alone?

“Excuse me, ma’am?” A voice cut through the din, and you felt your stomach drop.

You turned slowly, your heart thudding in your chest. A security guard stood a few feet away, arms folded over his broad chest. He gave you a once-over, his eyes narrowing as he took in your disheveled hair, the bruises darkening your cheek, and the smear of dried blood on the sleeve of your jacket.

You swallowed, forcing a shaky smile and trying to smooth down your hair. “Me?” you said, aiming for innocence, though your voice betrayed a tremor. “Is there a problem?”

The guard’s gaze hardened. “You don’t exactly look like a regular customer,” he said, his tone flat, the words edged with suspicion. “And you shouldn’t be wandering back here.” He took a step forward, making it clear that you were not welcome in this part of the casino. “We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

Panic flared hot and fast in your chest. You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could get a word out, another voice broke in, smooth and cold as steel.

“She’s with me.”

The guard stiffened and stepped back as Patch emerged from the crowd, his white suit pristine, his expression as calm and dangerous as before. He didn’t even spare the guard a glance as he brushed past him, catching your arm with a firm grip and steering you away.

The guard hesitated, clearly unsure whether to question Patch’s authority, but in the end, he simply nodded and stepped aside, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer before he turned away.

Patch’s fingers tightened slightly on your arm as he guided you through the casino, weaving between the slot machines and roulette tables until the noise faded into a low hum behind you. He led you down a narrow hallway lined with plush crimson carpeting, the lights dimmer here, the atmosphere more intimate, as if you were walking deeper into the belly of the beast.

Finally, he steered you into a small, secluded alcove near a back exit. The muffled sounds of the casino were barely a whisper now, and the only light came from a single wall sconce casting long shadows across Patch’s face. He released your arm and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded you with that unblinking, solitary gaze.

"Well?” he said, arching a brow. “Did you get anything, or did I just save you from getting thrown out for nothing?”

You took a breath, steadying yourself as the adrenaline still coursed through your veins. “The guy I talked to,” you began, your voice stronger than you expected, “he said something about the docks. A shipment coming in. Girls, and… it didn’t sound like they were there by choice.” The words tasted bitter as they left your mouth, and you could feel the knot of dread tightening in your stomach. “He mentioned dealers. Low-level guys, but he didn’t have any names.”

Patch’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in his eye—something hardening as if your words had confirmed something he already suspected. “The docks,” he echoed, his voice low. “That’s a rough place to start, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Does that mean you’ll help me?” The question escaped before you could stop it, and you hated the raw edge of hope that colored your voice. “You said I had to prove myself.”

Patch’s gaze locked onto yours, sharp and measuring. He didn’t speak for a long moment, and you wondered if he was about to tell you to walk away, that this was as far as your desperation would carry you. But then he gave a slow nod, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Alright, kid,” he said, his tone carrying both a promise and a threat. “I’ll help you. But you gotta follow my lead. No questions, no hesitation.”

You nodded quickly, the relief rushing through you like a wave. “I understand. I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said, your voice firm despite the uncertainty gnawing at your gut.

“Good,” he replied, his gaze flicking toward the dimly lit hallway you’d come from. “We start at the docks tonight. If this lead turns out to be a dead end, then you better start praying your sister’s got a hell of a lot more luck than you.”

Patch turned, already heading for the back exit, and you hurried after him, determination burning in your chest. For the first time since you’d woken up in that hospital bed, you felt like you were finally moving forward. Toward answers, toward your sister, and deeper into a darkness you didn’t understand yet.

“You should probably get some fresh clothes,” Patch muttered, not bothering to look back as he strode ahead. His long strides ate up the distance, and you had to hurry to keep pace, your sneakers slapping against the tile. 

“Yeah, well,” you quipped, a touch of dry humor creeping into your voice as you picked up the pace, “I don’t exactly have a lot of money lying around, and my apartment’s in Lowtown, so unless you know a cheap boutique nearby…”

Patch slowed just enough to glance over his shoulder, his eye narrowing. “Watch the attitude, kid,” he growled, his voice low and edged with a warning. “I’m already going out of my way for you. Don’t push it.”

You huffed, struggling to keep up as he picked up the pace again, his white suit cutting a path through the dim casino lighting like a shark through water. “I’m just saying,” you muttered, “it’s not like I have a lot of options. I did just wake up in a hospital bed.”

Patch stopped abruptly, turning to face you with a look that was half annoyance, half something else—curiosity, maybe. “You don’t have any options,” he said flatly, “which is exactly why you’re stuck with me.” He ran a hand through his dark hair as if trying to brush away the frustration clinging to his voice. “Come on,” he added, a resigned sigh escaping his lips. “I know a place.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “A place?”

“Yeah,” he replied, already moving again. “My place.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and you couldn’t help the flicker of surprise that crossed your face. Patch had struck you as the type to drop you off at some dingy motel, toss a few bucks your way, and call it a night. But his place? You weren’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

“Wow,” you said, with a hint of a smirk you didn’t quite feel. “Didn’t know you were so generous.”

Patch shot you a sidelong glance as he pushed open a back door, leading you out into a narrow alley where the neon lights from the casino cast strange shadows on the wet pavement. “Don’t get used to it,” he said. “I’m not running a charity. I just don’t want you drawing attention while we’re out there.” He paused, then gave you a once-over, his gaze lingering on the bruises darkening your skin. “Besides,” he added dryly, “you look like you crawled out of a dumpster.”

You snorted despite yourself, falling in step beside him as he led you down the alley. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”

He grunted in response, guiding you toward a sleek, black motorcycle parked near the mouth of the alley. “You think you can hold on without falling off?” he asked, tossing you a helmet.

You caught the helmet awkwardly, feeling a little thrill of apprehension run through you. “Guess we’re about to find out,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. You climbed onto the back of the bike, wrapping your arms around Patch’s waist a little too tightly.

“Relax,” he muttered as he revved the engine. “You’re gonna crush my ribs.”

“Just making sure I don’t fall off,” you shot back, loosening your grip a fraction.

The motorcycle roared to life, and Patch sped off, weaving through the city streets with practiced ease. The wind tore at your hair, and the city blurred around you in streaks of neon and shadows. The ride didn’t last long—ten minutes, maybe fifteen—but it felt longer with the weight of everything pressing down on you. The docks. The men you were about to face. Your sister’s terrified eyes. You shoved it all down, focusing on the feel of the road beneath you and the solid presence of Patch in front of you.

He pulled into an underground parking garage beneath a sleek high-rise on the edge of Hightown, the kind of place that whispered money and power. Definitely not the kind of place you would’ve pictured Patch calling home. You dismounted and handed him the helmet, your eyes drifting up to the polished glass and steel above you.

“Seriously?” you asked, a brow arched. “This is where you live?”

Patch shot you a look that bordered on amused irritation. “I like my privacy,” he said simply, leading the way to an elevator tucked into the corner of the garage. He punched in a code, and the doors slid open, revealing a mirrored interior that seemed too pristine for someone like him.

You stepped inside, feeling out of place amid the gleaming metal and polished surfaces. “This definitely beats Lowtown,” you muttered under your breath.

Patch gave a noncommittal grunt as the elevator ascended, his eye fixed on the glowing numbers. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he said as the doors slid open on the top floor. “You’re here to change, not to move in.”

The elevator opened directly into his apartment, a spacious loft with an open layout and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of the city stretching out below like a sea of lights. It was surprisingly clean—minimalist, with a few leather couches, a glass coffee table, and a sleek kitchen in the corner. It didn’t seem like a place anyone actually lived in. More like a picture in a magazine, or a safehouse for someone who moved around a lot.

“Bedrooms down the hall,” he said, jerking his head toward a narrow corridor. “There should be some clothes in the closet that’ll fit you.”

You hesitated, glancing around. “You just… keep women’s clothes lying around?”

Patch’s expression remained impassive, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve had company before,” he said dryly, then turned away to rummage through a cabinet near the kitchen. “Go get dressed. We’re burning time.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You hurried down the hall and found the bedroom—spare and uncluttered like the rest of the place. There was a walk-in closet filled mostly with men’s clothing, but you found a few items that looked like they might fit—a pair of black jeans, a faded gray t-shirt, and a leather jacket that was slightly too big. You changed quickly, tossing your clothes onto the bed and taking a moment to look at yourself in the mirror. You still looked a little rough around the edges, but at least you didn’t feel like a walking mess anymore.

When you emerged, Patch was leaning against the kitchen counter, a half-empty glass of whiskey sitting on it. He gave you a quick once-over, then nodded. “Better,” he said, pushing off the counter. “Now let’s go.”

You fell in step beside him as he led you back toward the elevator, the weight of the night settling back onto your shoulders. You were dressed, you were ready, but the uncertainty still gnawed at you. The stakes hadn’t changed. Your sister was still out there, and you were about to walk straight into the kind of trouble most people wouldn’t even dare to think about.

Patch glanced at you as the elevator doors closed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Try not to get yourself killed, kid,” he said, his tone laced with a mixture of sarcasm and something almost resembling concern.

You shot him a sideways look. “I’ll try my best,” you replied, your voice steady with a resolve you hadn’t felt in a long time. “Just make sure you don’t get in my way.”

His smirk deepened as the elevator descended, the faintest hint of approval in his gaze. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving the docks shrouded in a deep, restless darkness. As Patch’s motorcycle rumbled to a halt, you slid off the back, the chill of the night seeping into your bones. The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea, mixed with diesel fumes and the faint, distant clatter of metal on metal. Every shadow seemed to twist and stretch, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched from all sides.

Patch cut the engine and swung a leg over the bike, his movements fluid and controlled. “Could you calm down?” he muttered, shooting you a sideways glare. “I can’t hear a damn thing with your heartbeat pounding like a drum.”

You stared at him, your brows knitting together. “You can hear my—”

He just gave a curt nod, already turning away as if the matter was of no consequence. “Here’s the plan, kid,” he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You stay here. I go in, see what I can find out. If things get ugly, you get the hell out of here. Got it?”

Your jaw tightened at the implication. “Then why am I here? What am I supposed to do? Just sit here while you play hero?”

Patch’s eye flicked back to you, a glint of annoyance—or was it amusement?—in that sharp gaze. “You can either stay here and let me handle this, or you can come in and get yourself killed. Your call.” Without waiting for your response, he started toward the darkened warehouses at the edge of the docks, his steps silent on the cracked asphalt.

You stood there for a moment, anger flaring in your chest. There was no way you were just going to sit back while he did all the dirty work. He might’ve been right about you being out of your depth, but that didn’t mean you weren’t willing to dive in. You glanced around, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, then quietly trailed after him, keeping a safe distance. If he noticed, he didn’t let on.

Patch moved like a predator, his silhouette blending into the night as he slipped between shipping containers and rusted machinery. You followed as quietly as you could, your breath catching in your throat each time a loose pebble crunched underfoot or a metal chain swayed in the wind.

Up ahead, Patch stopped near a cluster of abandoned crates. You crept closer, just in time to see him crouch beside the door of a warehouse, his body tensed like a spring. He pressed an ear to the corrugated metal, listening. For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of distant waves lapping against the docks. Then, with a sudden SNIKT, three gleaming blades sprang from his knuckles, each one catching the faint glint of moonlight.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight but it was short-lived.

Before you could fully process it, the warehouse door burst open, slamming against the wall with a metallic clang. Three men spilled out, their footsteps heavy, voices raised in harsh, hurried whispers that cut through the still night air. 

Patch moved before they even noticed him—a blur of muscle and precision, springing forward like a coiled viper. His fist shot out, striking the first man square in the throat. There was a sickening crunch, a dark spray of blood, and the man staggered back, eyes bulging as he choked on a gurgled gasp. He collapsed in a heap, his body going limp on the cold concrete.

The other two froze, their faces draining of color, eyes widening as they processed what had just happened. You pressed yourself against the steel container, the chill seeping through your clothes as you struggled to stay hidden. Your heart pounded so loudly you could almost feel it in your throat, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the scene unfolding before you.

Patch didn’t give them a chance to recover. He spun, fluid and lethal, his focus shifting to the man who’d just drawn a knife. The man lunged, but Patch sidestepped effortlessly, his movements smooth and economical. In a flash, he caught the man’s wrist, twisting it with brutal efficiency. The sickening snap of bone echoed through the night, followed by a strangled scream that sent a shiver down your spine. Patch barely hesitated, driving his fist into the man’s temple with a fierce, controlled strike. The man crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around him.

The third man, panic etched into every line of his face, fumbled for a gun at his waistband, his fingers clumsy in his desperation. You saw his hand close around the weapon, saw him raise it, aiming squarely at Patch’s unguarded back.

Before you could even think, instinct took over. You darted out from behind the container, your hand grasping a rusted metal pipe lying discarded on the ground. Without hesitation, you swung it with every ounce of strength you had. The pipe connected with a dull, sickening crack against the gunman’s shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. The gun slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground.

Patch reacted instantly. He pivoted, claws slicing through the air. In one swift motion, he drove them into the man’s chest, his strike precise and merciless. The man’s eyes went wide, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as his body jerked, then fell slack. Patch withdrew his claws, letting the man crumple to the ground in a lifeless heap.

For a moment, the silence was absolute. You stood there, breathless, the weight of the pipe still in your hands as you stared at the bodies sprawled on the ground. Your pulse was a thunderstorm in your ears, your hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline that coursed through you.

Patch turned toward you, his eye narrowing, the tension between you crackling like static. “You were supposed to stay put,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

“And you have knives coming out of your hands,” you shot back, your voice trembling with adrenaline and disbelief. “I wasn’t about to let you get shot.”

He stared at you for a long beat, his gaze sharp and unyielding, as if he were assessing whether you were brave, reckless, or just plain stupid. Maybe a bit of all three. “Don’t make a habit of saving my life, kid,” he said finally, his tone edged with a reluctant sort of approval. “I’m not in the business of owing favors.”

Before you could think of a response, he jerked his head toward the warehouse. “Come on,” he said, his voice losing some of its sharpness but not its urgency. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

You followed him inside, the metal pipe still gripped tightly in your hand like a talisman against the darkness. The warehouse was cold and dimly lit by a few flickering overhead lights. As your eyes adjusted, you saw rows of metal cages lining the walls, each one filled with frightened girls. Some were sobbing quietly, others stared blankly into the distance, their faces pale and hollow. Your stomach twisted at the sight, and you had to swallow back the bile rising in your throat.

Patch was already moving down the line, his gaze hard as he scanned each cage. “Look for your sister,” he said, his voice flat and steady. “Quickly.”

You moved down the line, your eyes scanning each girl’s face, desperation clawing at your chest. But as you reached the last cage, a sick realization settled in. She wasn’t here. None of these girls were Emily.

Patch came up beside you, his gaze shifting from the empty cages to your face, reading the despair etched there. “She’s not here, is she?” he asked quietly, though there was a certainty in his tone as if he’d already known the answer.

You shook your head, dropping the pipe, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “No,” you whispered, the word tasting bitter and hollow. “She’s not.”

Patch let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening. “Then this was only the start,” he said, his tone hardening again, as though he was steeling himself for the battles still ahead. “The guy at the casino gave us a lead, but it’s not the end of the line. We’re going to have to dig deeper.”

Your gaze drifted back to the girls still trapped in the cages, their hollow eyes pleading silently for rescue. “What about them?” you asked, your voice cracking. “We can’t just leave them here.”

For a moment, Patch’s expression softened—just a flicker of something almost human in the harsh lines of his face. “Stand back,” he said, his tone gruff as if trying to mask that brief flash of empathy.

You obeyed, retreating a few steps as Patch’s claws slid out with that familiar, metallic SNIKT. He moved down the row of cages in one swift motion, slashing through the padlocks like they were made of paper. The harsh sound of metal being cleaved filled the warehouse, and then the doors swung open one by one. The girls hesitated, their limbs trembling, but as the realization that they were free sank in, they began to stumble out, some leaning on each other for support.

Patch pulled a cell phone from his pocket, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said gruffly as if the person on the other end was already expecting his call. “Got a situation down at the docks. Girls in cages—trafficking operation. Send someone to clean it up.” He paused, glancing over at you before adding, “And make it quick. We’re not sticking around.”

He hung up and turned back to you, his expression returning to its usual gruffness. “We’ve done all we can here. Let’s move.” He gestured toward the exit, already heading for the door.

You hesitated for a moment, watching as the girls huddled together, some whispering frantic prayers of relief. You wanted to stay, to make sure they were alright. But you knew that finding your sister meant pushing forward, following Patch down whatever dark road lay ahead.

You followed him out into the night, stealing a glance at his profile—the way his jaw was set, the hard lines etched into his face. He wasn’t just a man with claws. There was something else there, simmering beneath the surface—something raw and wounded like he understood exactly what it was like to lose someone.

Patch glanced back at you, his lone eye narrowing slightly as if he could read the turmoil simmering just beneath your surface. “They’ll be alright,” he said, his voice gruff but softer than before, almost as if he was trying to reassure you. But there was also a distance behind his tone that suggested he was more used to dealing with facts than offering comfort.

You shrugged, quickening your pace to fall in step beside him, the frustration bubbling up and out before you could bite it back. “How can you be so sure?” you snapped, your voice cracking from a mix of exhaustion and desperation. “We didn’t even do anything but cut them loose. What if someone else shows up before your people get here? What if they just get taken again?” The questions spilled out of you, each one sharper than the last. “And my sister—” You said, sucking in a breath. “How are we going to find her with no leads?”

Patch stopped walking, and you nearly collided with him. He turned to face you fully, his expression hard, but not unsympathetic. For a moment, you thought he was going to snap at you for doubting him. Instead, he took a slow breath and looked at you in a way that made you feel like he was seeing past your words, straight into your doubts and fears.

“You don’t think I ask myself the same thing every day?” His voice was low, gravelly, but there was a crack in the armor, a flicker of something almost vulnerable in the way he spoke. “How many people I’ve helped just end up right back where they started?” He shook his head, a bitter smirk twisting his lips. “The difference is, I don’t let it stop me from trying.” He let out a breath, his gaze flicking briefly to the dark waters of the bay. “Sometimes, you just do what you can and hope it’s enough.”

The words landed heavily, and you found yourself searching his face for some deeper understanding. The hard lines, the unshaven jaw, the haunted look in that lone eye—all of it told you this wasn’t the first time he’d been up against impossible odds. He looked like a man who had seen the worst the world had to offer and was still fighting against it, even if he didn’t believe in winning anymore. There was a kind of comfort in that, knowing you weren’t the only one feeling helpless.

You took a breath, your voice quieter now. “But we still don’t know where she is,” you said, hating the desperation that crept into your tone. “And if we don’t have any leads, then—”

“We do have a lead,” Patch interrupted, his tone firm but not dismissive. He started walking again. “It’s just a small one.”

You frowned, hurrying to keep up with him. “What lead?” you asked, trying not to sound too skeptical.

“The convenience store,” he said, casting a sidelong glance at you. “Where you and your sister were before she was taken. I assume this wasn’t the first time there’s been trouble there. Lowtown’s full of secrets—it doesn’t take much for a place like that to hear things, see things. Somebody might’ve seen something, or maybe the owner knows more than he’s letting on.”

Your stomach tightened at the thought of going back there. The memory of that night was still raw—your sister’s terrified scream, the flash of the gun, the feeling of helplessness that had wrapped around your throat like a noose. “You think he’ll talk?” you asked, your voice coming out smaller than you’d intended. “The owner… he didn’t exactly seem like the helpful type.”

Patch’s mouth curved into a sardonic half-smile. “People talk when they have a reason to,” he said. “And if he doesn’t want to…” He tapped his knuckles against the claws sheathed inside his hand, the faintest snikt sound slipping through. “Well, let’s just say I have ways of encouraging them.”

You rolled your eyes at the display, though you felt a small spark of relief. “So your plan is to scare him into talking?” you asked, forcing some of your earlier skepticism back into your voice. “What if that just makes him clam up more?”

Patch gave a short, dry chuckle. “Then we improvise,” he said simply as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Most people can’t handle pressure the way you might think.” He glanced down at you, his expression softening for a moment. “Besides, you might be surprised what they’ll say if they think they’re helping you.”

There was a beat of silence, and then you shook your head. “Why would you care if someone helps me or not?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could fully think it through. “You don’t even know me.”

Patch looked away, his gaze settling on the lights shimmering on the bay. “Maybe I see something familiar,” he said quietly, his voice rough around the edges. “Someone who doesn’t know when to back down, who’s got too much fire for her own good.” He shrugged, the motion almost dismissive. “Or maybe I’m just a sucker for a lost cause. Take your pick.”

Something about the way he said it—the hint of a confession buried in his gruff tone—made your throat tighten. You didn’t know if you believed him, but you could tell he meant it, at least on some level.

You fell into step beside him, a new determination building in your chest. “Alright,” you said, your voice steadier than before. “Let’s go back to the store. But if we don’t find anything there…” You trailed off, the unspoken fear still lingering between you.

Patch glanced at you, his eye glinting in the dim light. “If we don’t find anything,” he said, his voice low and steady, “then we keep looking. We dig until there’s nothing left to dig.” He paused, his gaze locking onto yours with a kind of fierce intensity. “And I won't stop, sweetheart. Not until we find her.”

​​You felt a tiny flicker of hope catch in your chest. It was a fragile thing, barely more than a spark. But it was enough to keep you moving, enough to help you push back the darkness that seemed to cling to the edges of everything. There were still shadows, countless unknowns waiting for you in the dark. But now, you had someone walking with you who understood the weight of desperation and the need to fight, even when the odds seemed impossible.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The early morning sky had just begun to soften to a pale, grayish-blue creeping over Lowtown like a faded bruise. The convenience store loomed ahead, its cracked neon sign buzzing faintly, casting an uneven glow over the peeling paint and grimy windows. As you climbed off Patch’s motorcycle, the knot in your stomach twisted tighter, a dull ache spreading through your chest. You hadn’t slept, and the weariness settled over you like a heavy fog, making every step feel like wading through quicksand.

Patch swung his leg off the bike and glanced at you, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can go in alone,” he said, his tone more a suggestion than an order, though his eyes flicked warily toward the store.

“No, it’s fine.” The words came out harsher than you intended, and you pushed past him, crossing the street before he could respond. The truth was, you didn’t want to sit back and let him do all the talking. This was your fight, and you needed to feel like you were doing something—anything—to get closer to finding your sister.

The bell above the door jangled as you stepped inside, the familiar scent of stale coffee and cheap cleaning products hitting you all at once. The store looked the same as it had the night your sister was taken—dimly lit, cluttered shelves, a few bored customers milling about, and behind the counter, the same old man with his scowling expression and deep-set eyes. 

He glanced up as you approached, his gaze flicking briefly to Patch before settling on you. Recognition flashed in his eyes, and he immediately stiffened, his scowl deepening.

“Back again?” he grunted, his tone dripping with irritation. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you so soon. Look, if this is about that night, I already talked to the cops—”

“This isn’t about the cops,” you interrupted, your voice cold. “This is about my sister.”

The store owner’s mouth tightened into a thin line, his fingers drumming against the counter. “I already told the police everything I know,” he said with a shrug. “Not that they cared much. It’s Lowtown. Crime happens.”

“Yeah, well,” Patch cut in, his voice a low growl, “you’re going to have to do better than that.” He leaned in, letting just a hint of menace creep into his posture. “You’re going to tell us exactly what you saw that night, old man.”

The owner bristled, his eyes darting nervously to the gleaming claws sheathed inside Patch’s fists as if sensing their presence even though they hadn’t made an appearance. “Look, I don’t want any trouble,” he muttered, his gaze shifting away. “I’m just trying to run a business here. I didn’t see anything more than I already told the cops.”

A wave of frustration surged through you, hot and sharp. You didn’t have time for this—didn’t have time for vague answers and excuses. Before you could think, you stepped forward and grabbed the front of the old man’s shirt, yanking him toward you across the counter. “Stop lying!” you snapped, your voice trembling with a raw edge. “This isn’t just some robbery we’re talking about—my sister was taken! If you know anything, you better tell us now.”

The owner’s eyes widened, shock flickering across his face as he took in the desperation in your expression. “Hey, hey—calm down,” he stammered, his hands coming up defensively. “I don’t know anything, I swear!” His gaze darted nervously to Patch, who stood back with a raised brow, clearly surprised but not intervening. “The guy that night—he’s just some lowlife who’s robbed me a few times. That’s it! The police don’t even bother arresting him anymore—they say he’s small-time. He usually hangs out at this old abandoned building a few blocks from here.”

You tightened your grip on his collar, leaning in closer. “Where?” you demanded, your voice a low, dangerous whisper.

The owner swallowed hard, his face pale under the flickering fluorescent lights. “It’s an old warehouse on Canal Street,” he said quickly. “Just a few blocks west. The place has been falling apart for years—nobody else goes near it. That’s all I know, I swear.”

You released him, letting out a shaky breath as you stepped back. The owner stumbled slightly, his hand flying up to straighten his collar, his eyes still wide and wary. “You better not be lying,” you said, your tone cold. “Because if you are—”

“He’s not,” Patch interrupted, his voice calm but edged with finality. He gave the old man a hard look before turning to you. “Let’s go.”

You nodded, your pulse still racing from the adrenaline, the anger. As you turned to leave, the store owner’s voice trembled after you, “Good luck, kid,” he said, almost reluctantly. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. That guy… he’s trouble.”

Outside, you took a deep breath, trying to shake off the intensity of the moment. You hadn’t even realized how tightly wound you were until now. Patch glanced at you, his expression unreadable as he pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it. He took a long drag, the smoke curling around him as he studied you.

“Didn’t know you had that in you, sweetheart,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of approval. “You might just make it out of this alive after all.”

You shot him a look, not quite sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. “I’m not doing this for your approval,” you said, still feeling the heat of anger simmering in your veins. “I’m doing it for her.”

Patch blew out a cloud of smoke, a half-smirk curling on his lips. “I know,” he said simply, then nodded toward the street. “Come on. We’ve got a warehouse to check out.”

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The roar of the motorcycle faded as Patch brought it to a stop near the crumbling entrance of the old warehouse on Canal Street. The place looked like it hadn’t seen upkeep in decades—rusted metal siding, cracked windows covered in grime, and a faded sign that had long since lost any meaning. Despite the early morning light breaking over the horizon, the shadows clung to the corners, refusing to let go.

Patch scanned the building, his keen gaze narrowing, his head tilting slightly as if tuning into a frequency only he could hear. He took a slow breath, nostrils flaring, and you knew he was using that heightened sense of his to pick up anything unusual—sounds, scents, even the faintest movement.

After a moment, he exhaled, frustration curling his lips into a scowl. “It’s quiet,” he said, his tone flat. “Too quiet. I don’t hear a damn thing in there. If anyone’s here, they’re either dead or—.”

“Or maybe they’re hiding,” you argued, your voice trembling slightly despite your effort to sound resolute. “Or maybe Emily’s in there—” You cut yourself off, refusing to say the rest. You didn’t want to give voice to your fears, the idea that if she was here, she could already be—no. You weren’t going to think like that.

Patch gave you a hard look, the concern in his gaze surfacing just enough for you to catch it. “You need to stay out here,” he said, his voice low and firm. “If something goes down, you’ll be in the way.”

But you were already moving, your feet carrying you toward the warehouse entrance before you could give yourself time to hesitate. “I’m not staying out here,” you snapped. “I didn’t come this far to wait around while you do all the work.”

Patch reached for your arm, his fingers closing around your wrist in a firm grip. “You think you’re ready for whatever’s in there?” His voice was almost a growl, frustration lacing every word. “You’re running on fumes, kid. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You yanked your arm free, anger sparking hot in your chest. “I don’t care what you hear or don’t hear Patch,” you shot back, your voice rising. “I’m going in there. Whether you like it or not.” You turned and pushed through the door, the rusted metal creaking as it swung open.

The air inside was musty, thick with dust and the lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke. Rows of abandoned crates and broken-down machinery loomed in the gloom. You took a cautious step forward, your senses on high alert. The silence pressed in around you, heavy and suffocating, but it did little to quell the desperate hope burning in your chest. Emily could be here, you told yourself. She has to be.

As you ventured deeper into the warehouse, you heard a faint shuffle, the quiet scrape of a shoe against the concrete floor. You froze, squinting through the dim light until your eyes locked on a figure crouched behind a stack of crates. It was a man, the same one you remembered from the convenience store—greasy hair, ratty clothes, and a face you’d never forget. 

Rage flared white-hot inside you, burning away the exhaustion and fear. Before you knew it, you were moving—your feet pounding the ground, the world narrowing to just you and him. “Where is she?” you shouted, your voice echoing off the warehouse walls as you closed the distance. “Where’s my sister?!”

The man scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with recognition and panic as you lunged at him. He tried to swing a fist at you, but you ducked and slammed your shoulder into his chest, knocking him backward. You grabbed him by the collar, slamming him against a nearby metal beam. The impact sent a hollow clang reverberating through the building.

“Where is she?!” you screamed again, your grip tightening as you pulled back a fist and drove it into his jaw. The pain in your knuckles barely registered over the adrenaline surging through your veins. “Tell me where you took her!”

The man grunted, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he tried to shove you off. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he spat, his voice trembling. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!” You struck him again, your fist connecting with his ribs this time. He let out a choked groan, his knees buckling as he struggled to stay upright. “I saw you! You took her from the store! What did you do with her?!”

You were about to hit him again when a strong hand grabbed your wrist, pulling you back. “Enough,” Patch’s voice rumbled behind you, deep and commanding. He yanked you away from the man, spinning you around to face him. “You’re not going to get anything out of him like this,” he said, his tone calmer but edged with warning. “Let me handle it.”

You shook your head, the rage still burning hot in your chest. “No!” You struggled against Patch’s grip. “I was handling it just fine. He knows something—I know he does!”

The man coughed, wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. “Alright, alright!” he croaked, his eyes darting between you and Patch, desperation etched into every line of his face. “I took her, okay? But I swear I don’t know where she is now!”

Patch let go of you and took a step toward the man, his expression darkening. “Start talking,” he growled, the claws sliding out of his knuckles with a menacing SNIKT.

The guy’s face went pale as he eyed the claws, swallowing hard. “Okay, okay!” he stammered, raising his hands in surrender. “I sold her! That’s what we do—grab girls and sell them off to whoever’s buying! She was taken to some place up north—private buyer, big money!” His breath hitched as he glanced nervously at you, then back at Patch. “That’s all I know, I swear! They don’t tell us where they take the girls after the sale, just that it’s out of town, upstate!”

Your heart sank, the anger in your chest twisting into something darker, colder. “You sold her,” you whispered, the words tasting like bile. “You sold my sister.”

The man opened his mouth to speak, but Patch stepped forward, the glint of his claws catching the dim light. “You’re going to give me the name of the buyer,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Or you won’t be leaving this place in one piece.”

The man’s eyes darted frantically around the room as if searching for an escape that didn’t exist. “I—I don’t know his real name!” he cried. “They just called him ‘The Collector.’ That’s it! I swear! He deals in... special requests. High-profile stuff. If you want more than that, you’re gonna have to talk to someone higher up the chain.”

Patch held the man’s gaze for a moment longer, then retracted the claws with a snikt and turned to you. “Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “We’ve got what we need.”

You hesitated, a storm of anger and helplessness roiling inside you. A part of you wanted to drag every last bit of information out of the man, to beat the truth out of him until he confessed something useful—anything that would bring you closer to finding Emily. “We can’t just let him go,” you said, your voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “He’s a criminal. He sold my sister.”

You took a step closer to the guy, your hands curling into fists at your sides. The man flinched, shrinking back against the metal beam, his eyes darting toward the door as if planning an escape. But you were ready to lunge if he even tried.

Patch stepped in front of you, blocking your path to the man. “What do you want me to do, kid?” he said, his tone flat and calm, but with an edge that hinted at something darker. “Kill him? Beat him to a pulp?” He glanced over his shoulder at the man, who was trembling now, his eyes wide and pleading. “Or maybe you think turning him in will make the cops give a damn?”

The truth in his words hit you like a slap. You knew how things worked in Lowtown. The police wouldn’t waste their time on some street-level thug, even if he had been part of something bigger. People like him slip through the cracks all the time. That was just the way it was. But the thought of letting him walk away, after everything he’d done, twisted your insides into a knot.

You swallowed hard, taking a step back. “I just don’t want him to get away with it,” you whispered, the fire in your voice fading to something more fragile. “He deserves to pay.”

Patch held your gaze for a moment, then turned back to the man. “Yeah, he does,” he agreed, his voice cold as ice. Before the guy could even react, Patch’s fist lashed out, striking him squarely across the jaw. There was a sharp crack, and the man slumped to the ground, unconscious, his body hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Patch flexed his fingers, the claws sliding out then back into place with a faint snikt as he turned to you. “There,” he said. “He’s not going anywhere now.” He nudged the man’s limp form with the toe of his boot, then glanced up at you, his expression unreadable. “But we’re not sticking around, either.”

You took a shaky breath, staring down at the unconscious man. It wasn’t enough—it would never be enough—but it would have to do for now. “What now?” you asked, the adrenaline ebbing and leaving you feeling drained, almost hollow.

Patch rubbed a hand across his jaw, then lit up a cigar, taking a long drag before speaking. “Now,” he said, exhaling a plume of smoke, “we regroup. We’ve got a name—The Collector—and we know he’s the kind of scumbag who deals in ‘special requests.’ That’s more than we had before.” He glanced over at you, his gaze lingering on the bruise forming on your knuckles, the scrapes on your face. “But you’re running on empty. You need to rest and clean yourself up. We’ll go back to my place.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him that you didn’t need rest, that there wasn’t time. But the exhaustion hit you all at once, like a weight settling on your shoulders. Your hands were still trembling from the adrenaline, your head spinning slightly from the lack of sleep. You hated to admit it, but he was right. You weren’t going to be any help if you collapsed before you even found another lead.

“Fine,” you muttered, the word tasting like defeat. “But just for a little while. Then we’re going after this Collector.”

Patch gave a small nod, his mouth curling into something that was almost a smirk. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not planning on sitting around,” he said as he started toward the exit, the early morning light spilling into the warehouse. “I’ll reach out to some contacts, and see what I can dig up while you get cleaned up. We’re just getting started.”

As you followed him out, you couldn’t help but glance back at the man sprawled on the floor, his breathing shallow and uneven. You still felt a simmering rage in your chest, but at least now you were moving forward. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The motorcycle ride back to Patch’s place felt longer than before, every bump and turn jarring your already frayed nerves. When you finally arrived, you climbed off the bike, wincing as your muscles protested. Patch led you back up to the sleek high-rise apartment. 

Inside, he gestured toward the bathroom down the hall. “There’s a first aid kit under the sink,” he said. “Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll be making some calls.” He pulled out his phone, already scrolling through contacts as he lit another cigar.

You nodded and headed to the bathroom, pausing when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You looked like hell—hair tangled, dirt smudged across your face, dried blood on your knuckles. You almost didn’t recognize the person staring back at you. You didn’t feel like the same person you’d been yesterday. 

As you scrubbed the grime from your skin, letting the hot water beat against your sore muscles, you could hear Patch’s voice rumbling down the hall. His tone was low and gravelly, clipped in a way that spoke of urgency and frustration. 

“Yeah, The Collector,” he was saying. “He’s back in the market. Upstate, from what I hear. Need you to dig up any recent sightings, transactions… anything that’ll give me a trail.” There was a brief pause, and you could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose as he listened. “Yeah, I owe you one. Just get it done.”

The water scalded, but you welcomed the sting—it was better than feeling numb. You wrapped a towel around yourself and padded softly into the bedroom. You noticed Patch by his closet, rifling through a stack of clothes. He must have heard you, because he glanced over his shoulder, his gaze trailing over you sending a shiver down your spine.

“Anything?” you asked, your voice husky from fatigue, though there was a thread of hope laced in the question.

He pulled out a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, handing them to you. “Got a few leads,” he said, watching you with that sharp, assessing eye. “The Collector’s keeping a low profile, but he’s been spotted at a private estate upstate—real exclusive, where the rich and dirty go to do business no one else should see.”

You took the clothes from his grasp, your fingers brushing against his. His skin was warm and rough like he was someone who had been through hell and dragged himself back. “I don’t think I’ve said this yet,” you murmured, averting your gaze as you pulled the shirt over your head. “But… thank you.”

Patch arched an eyebrow, a slow smirk curving his lips as he leaned casually against the wall, arms crossing over his chest. “Don’t get all soft on me now, sweetheart,” he drawled, his tone edged with amusement. “You’re making me blush.”

You shot him a glare, though it lacked any real bite. “I’m serious, Patch. You didn’t have to help me. Most people would’ve just told me to get lost.”

His gaze softened, just a fraction, and for a heartbeat, you thought you saw something flicker in his eye. “You’re not most people,” he said quietly, then his mouth twitched into a half-smirk again. “Besides, I’ve got a soft spot for troublemakers.”

“Must be why you’re helping me,” you shot back, tossing the jeans and towel on the nightstand. “You just can’t resist a little chaos.” You meant for it to sound teasing, but there was an unspoken tension humming between the two of you, thickening the air. It lingered there, a spark that could easily ignite, but Patch was already turning away, the moment slipping back into the shadows.

“Get some rest,” he said, his tone gruff again as he nodded toward his bed in the center of the room. “I’ve still got a few calls to make. I’ll wake you when I’ve got something solid.” He glanced back at you, his gaze briefly dipping to where the hem of the shirt you wore brushed against your thighs. 

You settled onto his bed reluctantly, exhaustion tugging at your limbs. As much as you wanted to stay awake, to keep pushing forward, the weight of the day was catching up with you. The pillows were firm and smelled faintly of leather and cigar smoke, and despite the situation, it was surprisingly comforting. You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The nightmare hit you like a punch to the gut. One moment, you were sinking into sleep, and the next, you were back in that convenience store—hearing Emily’s screams, seeing her being dragged away. The scene replayed in sharp, agonizing detail, but this time, you weren’t paralyzed. You fought, struggled, reached for her, but every time you got close, she slipped away, her face twisted in terror as the darkness swallowed her whole.

You woke with a gasp, your heart pounding violently against your ribcage, your skin slick with sweat. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights filtering in through the window. You struggled to catch your breath, your fingers digging into the sheets beneath you as you tried to shake off the remnants of the dream.

“Bad one?” Patch’s voice was low, coming from the other side of the room. You hadn’t noticed him there, sitting in an armchair, one leg propped up on the coffee table. His gaze was steady, and even in the dim light, you could see the concern etched in the hard lines of his face.

You nodded, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. “Just… couldn’t stop seeing her,” you whispered, hating the vulnerability that crept into your voice. “I keep thinking, what if we’re too late? What if she’s already—”

“Don’t go there,” Patch interrupted, his tone firm. He got up from the chair and crossed the room in a few strides, crouching down beside you. “Fear’s a poison, kid. It’ll eat you alive if you let it.” His hand rested on your shoulder, a steadying weight, and when you looked into his eye, you saw something raw, something familiar—a shared understanding of pain.

“Is that how you deal with it?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Just… shut it down? Pretend you’re not scared?”

Patch’s jaw tightened slightly, and he looked away for a moment as if considering how much to reveal. “I’m not afraid of dying,” he said quietly. “Been through that more times than I can count.” He hesitated, then continued, his voice rough. “But losing people… watching them slip away and not being able to do a damn thing about it—that’s a different kind of fear.”

His words settled over you, heavy and cold. “How do you deal with it?” you asked, unable to keep the desperation from leaking into your tone.

Patch’s gaze flicked back to you, his hand still resting on your shoulder. “You don’t,” he said simply. “Not completely. But you keep moving, keep fighting. Because giving up isn’t an option. Not if you’ve got something worth fighting for.” His grip tightened just slightly, the roughness of his skin grounding you in the present. 

The air between you seemed to crackle, the unspoken understanding deepening the tension that had been building since you’d met. His touch lingered, warmer than you’d expected, the lines on his face softer, as if he’d let you see a glimpse of the man behind the mask.

You found yourself leaning just a little closer, your breath mingling with his. “I’m not used to someone sticking around,” you admitted, your voice hushed.

Patch’s mouth twitched, that smirk returning, but his eye remained steady, serious. “Well, don’t get used to it,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “I’m just here to see you don’t get yourself killed before we find your sister.”

“Is that all?” you murmured, the corner of your mouth curling up as you felt the familiar spark of challenge in your chest.

His gaze held yours for a long moment, something unspoken passing between you that felt like the edge of a blade, sharp and dangerous. “For now,” he replied, standing up and stepping back, the distance between you stretching out once more. “Get some more sleep. You’re going to need it.”

You nodded, lying back down, but this time, it was different. The darkness wasn’t as suffocating, the fear not as overwhelming. You weren’t sure if it was because of Patch’s words or the warmth of his touch that still lingered on your shoulder. Nonetheless, you drifted off again. 

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

“Wake up, kid.” Patch’s voice rumbled above you, and his hand shook your shoulder with just enough force to rattle you out of sleep.

You groaned, the heaviness of exhaustion clinging to your limbs as you blinked against the dim light of the apartment. “Five more minutes…” you muttered, your voice thick with sleep.

“Sorry, sweetheart. We don’t have five more minutes,” he said dryly, stepping back and crossing his arms as he waited for you to sit up. “The Collector’s making a move. Got word he’s doing a deal in Hightown tonight. We’re running out of time.”

The mention of The Collector jolted you awake, your pulse quickening. You rubbed a hand over your face, forcing yourself to focus. “Tonight?” you echoed, pushing yourself up off the bed. “How’d you find that out?”

Patch’s smirk was a little too smug for your liking. “I’ve got my ways,” he replied, the hint of a chuckle in his voice. “Turns out, a lot of people are willing to talk when you give them the right incentive.” He leaned back against the wall, his gaze trailing over you as if assessing whether you were ready for what was coming next. “Or when you’ve got claws that can slice through steel.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching for the jeans on the nightstand. “Guess you didn’t need my help for that, then.”

His smirk deepened, the corner of his mouth curling up. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m just not big on watching you sleep while I do all the work.”

You shot him a glare as you pulled on your jacket. “Don’t act like I’ve been sitting around doing nothing. I’m the one who got us that lead on Canal Street, remember?”

He gave a casual shrug, but his expression softened—just a touch. “Fair point,” he conceded. “But if you’re coming with me tonight, you’d better be ready for things to get ugly.” He tilted his head, eyeing you up and down like he was measuring whether you could handle whatever lay ahead. “The Collector’s not your average street thug. He’s a heavy hitter with connections. If he’s making a deal, it’s gonna be big and dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid of a little danger.” There was a challenge in your voice, a fire that hadn’t been there before. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or sheer desperation, but it felt like the only thing keeping you upright.

Patch’s gaze held yours, a glint of approval flashing in his eye. “You’ve really got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said. “Just try not to let them spill out tonight.” He turned and headed toward the door, his voice drifting back to you. “The deal’s happening in one of the private clubs in Hightown. Real swanky place where the rich get their hands dirty without staining their clothes.”

You followed him, your pulse quickening with each step. “And what’s our plan? We’re just gonna walk in and ask politely where my sister is?” you asked, trying to match his casual tone, though there was a sharp edge beneath it.

Patch’s chuckle was low and rough, almost a growl. “Not exactly. We’ll blend in as much as we can,” he said, glancing over at you with a faint smirk. “I can pass for someone with money to burn. You, on the other hand, might need a bit of work.” He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking over your current attire.

You scoffed, narrowing your eyes at him. “What, you’re saying I don’t look the part?” you shot back, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “I think I can fake a little high-class attitude.”

Patch tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “You’ve got plenty of attitude, that’s for sure,” he remarked, his tone dripping with teasing. “But attitude’s not gonna get you past the doorman. You need to look like you belong there. Right now, you look more like you belong in a street fight than in a place with crystal chandeliers.”

You crossed your arms, your brow lifting in defiance. “Then I guess you’d better help me, Patch,” you said, your voice laced with sarcasm. “You seem to know a lot about dressing up.”

He shook his head, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Fine, kid. I’ll see what I can dig up.” He gestured for you to follow him back down the hallway. “But if anyone asks, you’re my date for the night. Try not to embarrass me.”

Your laughter was sharp, filled with tension. “Oh, don’t worry,” you replied as you walked behind him. “I’d hate to ruin your reputation.”

Half an hour later, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror in Patch’s apartment, barely recognizing the person staring back at you. The dress he’d found was sleek and black which hugged your figure in a way that made you feel both exposed and powerful. Your hair was pulled back in a loose twist, a few tendrils framing your face to help hide the bruises. You hadn’t worn anything this fancy in… well, maybe ever. You couldn’t decide if you liked it or if it made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

“Not bad,” Patch said, leaning casually in the doorway, his arms crossed as he looked you over. “You clean up pretty well, kid.”

You turned to face him, a slow smirk curling on your lips. “You almost sound impressed,” you said, lifting an eyebrow. “Didn’t think I could pull off the high-class look?”

He shrugged, but the gleam in his eye betrayed his amusement. “Just wasn’t sure you knew how to wear anything that didn’t involve bloodstains.”

You took a step closer, your gaze locked on his. “Guess I like to keep you on your toes,” you replied, your voice low.

He didn’t move away, his expression unreadable as he stared back at you. For a moment, the air thickened between you, and you found yourself acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, the way his jaw tightened just slightly as if resisting the urge to say something. But then, just as quickly, he turned and gestured toward the door.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, his voice back to its usual gruffness. “We’ve got a date with The Collector.”

You followed him out of the apartment, your nerves buzzing beneath your skin. The thought of walking into a club filled with dangerous people didn’t exactly thrill you, but if it got you one step closer to Emily, then it was a risk you had to take.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The club in Hightown was an entirely different world. It oozed luxury—plush velvet drapes, glittering chandeliers, and people dressed in expensive clothes that screamed wealth and power. The low thrum of jazz music hung in the air, mingling with the scent of perfume and cigar smoke. As you and Patch approached the entrance, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself,” he murmured near your ear. “We’re supposed to blend in, remember?”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Is this where I swoon and cling to your arm?” you whispered back, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“If you want to sell it, yeah,” he replied, his tone half-teasing, half-serious. “And if anyone asks, I’m taking you on a private tour of the club. Just follow my lead.”

You took a deep breath, letting the warmth of his touch steady you as you stepped inside. Your gaze swept over the room, searching for anything or anyone that looked out of place. But everyone here seemed to belong—except you.

Patch’s grip on your waist tightened slightly as you entered, his body tensing ever so subtly. “The deal’s happening in one of the private rooms upstairs,” he murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “We need to get up there without drawing attention.”

Your heart hammered in your chest as you took in the sight of the staircase leading to the upper levels. The plush carpet, the gold-trimmed railings, the way the lights seemed dimmer up there—it all felt like a line you weren’t sure you could cross. A rush of panic tightened your chest. This was a different kind of danger than what you’d faced so far. Up until now, you’d been chasing shadows, following vague leads, but here… here you’d be walking straight into the heart of it.

“How are we going to get up there?” you asked, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. Your eyes flicked to the hulking security guard posted at the base of the stairs, his arms folded over a chest that looked like it could stop a freight train. “I don’t think saying you’re giving a private tour is going to cut it.”

Patch’s mouth quirked into a half-smile, his gaze sliding over to the guard and then back to you. “Good thing I just came up with a better plan than that,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. He pulled you snugly against his side. “Just follow my lead, sweetheart,” he added, his breath warm against your ear. “And try not to blush.”

You barely had time to react before he steered you toward the staircase, his grip on you firm but gentle. You glanced up at him, narrowing your eyes. “So what’s the plan?” you whispered through gritted teeth, trying not to stiffen at the way his hand rested against your hip. “Charm our way past him?”

“Something like that,” Patch replied, his voice laced with amusement. “Just play along, act like you can’t get enough of me.”

“I’ll try to contain myself,” you shot back, matching his smirk.

As you approached the guard, you plastered a flirtatious smile on your face, leaning a little closer to Patch as if you were hanging on his every word. The guard’s gaze flicked to you, then to Patch, his expression shifting to one of suspicion.

“Upstairs is off-limits,” the guard said, his voice a low rumble. “Private event.”

Patch didn’t miss a beat, flashing a grin that was somehow both casual and threatening. “Come on, big guy,” he said, his tone smooth. “I’m just showing my girl here a good time. She’s never been to a place like this before.” He tightened his hold on your waist, his fingers brushing the exposed skin just above your hip. “Figured I’d give her a taste of the finer things.”

You caught the guard’s gaze, widening your eyes just a bit, adding a hint of breathlessness to your tone. “He’s right,” you said, forcing a giggle that felt foreign coming from your lips. “I’ve heard about the view from upstairs… I’d hate to miss out.” You leaned into Patch as though seeking his warmth, hoping the performance was convincing enough.

The guard’s eyes narrowed, flicking over you with a mix of skepticism and something darker. He seemed to hesitate, his gaze drifting to Patch as if weighing the consequences of letting you through.

“Look,” Patch said, his voice dropping an octave, adding a dangerous edge. “I’d hate to cause a scene, but if you’re going to make this difficult, I can always take my business elsewhere.” His hand shifted to your lower back, his thumb brushing in a way that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

The guard grunted, his jaw tightening. “Fine,” he said reluctantly, stepping aside. “But if anyone asks, you didn’t come up this way. Got it?”

“Crystal clear,” Patch replied, giving the guard a curt nod. As soon as you started up the stairs, his grip on you relaxed slightly, though his arm remained draped around you.

When you reached the first landing, you pulled away, shooting him a glare. “You enjoyed that way too much,” you whispered, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

Patch’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Maybe I just like seeing you squirm,” he teased, his gaze flicking down to your flushed cheeks. “You played the part well, though. Almost had me convinced.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your skin still buzzed where his hand had been. “I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve had to sweet-talk your way into someplace you’re not supposed to be.”

His smirk widened. “You’d be surprised.”

Before you could come up with a retort, the distant sound of raised voices drifted down the hallway to your left. You stiffened, instinctively reaching for Patch’s arm. He noticed the change in your posture, his expression hardening in an instant.

“That’s coming from one of the private rooms,” he murmured, his gaze darting down the corridor. “Could be our guy.” Without waiting for your response, he took your hand and guided you forward, moving quietly toward the source of the commotion.

The closer you got, the more you could make out—a gruff voice barking orders, someone else protesting in a panicked tone. As you reached the door, which was slightly ajar, you caught a glimpse of a man in an expensive suit, gesturing animatedly while another figure, partially obscured by shadows, sat calmly at a table, watching with an air of detached amusement.

Patch glanced at you, his eye gleaming with intensity. “Stay behind me,” he whispered. “And if things get ugly, don’t try to play the hero.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, Patch had already nudged the door open with his shoulder, striding into the room as if he owned the place. You followed a step behind, your pulse racing as the room fell silent and all eyes turned toward you.

The man at the table—a thin, elegant figure with cold eyes—raised an eyebrow, a slow, serpentine smile spreading across his face. “Well, well,” he drawled, his voice as smooth as silk. “What do we have here? I wasn’t expecting company.”

Patch’s smirk was all teeth, dangerous and casual. “Just thought I’d drop by,” he said, his tone deceptively light. “Heard you were doing a little business tonight. Figured I’d see if you had something I might be interested in.”

The Collector’s gaze flicked from Patch to you, lingering just a bit too long for your comfort. “And who’s this lovely creature?” he asked, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. “I wasn’t aware you brought dates to negotiations.”

Patch’s grip on your waist tightened slightly. “She’s not for sale if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, his voice low and edged with a warning. “But you might have something—or someone—I’m looking for.”

The Collector’s smile faltered, and for a moment, his gaze turned calculating. “I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for,” he said slowly. “And how much you’re willing to pay.”

The air in the room seemed to thicken, the tension vibrating like a live wire. You could feel the Collector’s eyes boring into you, as though he was trying to peel away your façade and see what you were really after.

You swallowed hard, keeping your expression composed as you glanced up at Patch, hoping he had a plan. There was a moment of hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze that made your stomach twist.

“I heard you have girls for sale,” Patch said, his voice calm but edged with danger. He made sure to keep a measured distance between himself and the Collector, his tone deceptively casual. “And I’m looking to buy one. Willing to pay quite a lot.”

The Collector's lips curved into a slow, mocking smile as he shook his head. “I don’t know where you heard that,” he replied, his voice a smooth purr. Rising from his chair, he placed his ringed fingers on the table and leaned forward. “But that’s not the kind of business I’m in.”

His gaze found yours, his eyes cold and piercing. You felt a shiver wash over your entire body like an icy hand sliding down your spine. The way he looked at you was invasive, stripping away your bravado layer by layer. Patch’s hand on your waist tightened ever so slightly, a warning to stay calm.

“I guess I misheard, then,” Patch said, his tone even, but you could sense the tension beneath it, like a taut wire ready to snap.

The Collector’s smirk widened as he straightened, folding his hands behind his back. “Is that why you brought her here?” he asked, raising a brow as his eyes raked slowly over your figure. “To distract me? She’s a pretty little thing, I’ll give you that. But you must think me a fool, Patch.” He chuckled a low, contemptuous sound. “You think I don’t know who you are?”

Patch’s jaw clenched, but before he could respond, you felt a surge of anger rise in your chest, hot and raw. You weren’t about to stand there and let this bastard talk circles around you, not when Emily could be here—could be just behind one of those doors.

You stepped forward, pulling away from Patch’s grasp, and leveled your gaze at the Collector. “Stop pretending you don’t know,” you said, your voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Where’s my sister?” You took another step, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “I know you’re the one who took her. Just tell me where she is!”

The Collector's smile didn’t falter, but a glint of amusement danced in his eyes as if he found your outburst entertaining. “Your sister?” he repeated, his tone dripping with false innocence. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. You see, I conduct legitimate business here. But I suppose if you were willing to make it worth my while, I could—”

The door to the private room swung open, cutting off his words. Two of the Collector’s men strode in, dragging a small group of girls with them. Your breath caught in your throat, the world narrowing to a pinpoint as you scanned their faces.

And then you saw her.

Emily.

She was hunched over, her hair tangled and her clothes dirty, but there was no mistaking the familiar curve of her cheek, the frightened wideness of her eyes. She looked up, her gaze finding yours, and her expression crumpled into a mix of relief and terror. “Sis?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“Emily!” you cried, starting to move toward her, but one of the men stepped in front of you, blocking your path.

Patch's claws shot out with a sharp snikt, his voice turning into a low growl. “Move,” he said to the guard, his tone like gravel grinding together. “Or I start decorating this room with your blood.”

The guard hesitated, glancing back at the Collector, who simply raised a hand, signaling him to stand down. “Ah, there she is,” the Collector said with a sigh as if he were showing off a piece of fine art. “You know, Patch, I really didn’t want this to get messy. But since you’ve found what you’re looking for, I’m afraid we have a little problem.”

Patch stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of you. “The only problem here,” he said, his voice low and deadly, “is how many pieces I’m going to leave you in.”

The Collector’s smile faded, and he took a step back. “You think you can just walk out of here with her?” he said, gesturing to his men. “I don’t think so.” His tone sharpened. “Get them.”

Before you could blink, the room erupted into chaos. The guards lunged forward, and Patch was already in motion, his claws slashing through the air in a deadly arc. The first guard barely had time to react before Patch’s fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. The second guard swung a baton, aiming for Patch’s head, but Patch ducked, his claws slicing across the man’s chest in one swift motion.

You ran to Emily, pulling her behind you as you backed toward the door. “We’re getting out of here,” you whispered fiercely, your hands trembling as you gripped her arm. “Just stay close.”

As you turned, one of the guards grabbed you by the shoulder, yanking you back. You lashed out instinctively, throwing an elbow into his ribs, but his grip didn’t loosen. Emily screamed, and in that split second, you saw Patch’s eyes flash with a wild, feral rage as he barreled toward the guard, knocking him away from you with a force that sent the man crashing into the wall.

“Go!” Patch shouted, shoving you and Emily toward the door as he whirled around to face the Collector. “Get her out of here!”

You hesitated for a heartbeat, your gaze flicking between Patch and the exit. There was something in his eyes—a promise, or maybe a threat—that made it clear he wasn’t leaving until this was finished.

“Come on, Em,” you said, pulling your sister toward the exit. “We have to go. Now.”

As you stumbled into the hallway, you glanced back one last time. Patch was still there, standing between you and the Collector, his claws gleaming in the dim light, a snarl on his lips. Whatever happened next, you knew he wouldn’t let anyone get to you or Emily without going through him first.

You ran, Emily’s hand clutched tightly in yours, your heart pounding with a mixture of relief and fear. You had her—you finally had her. But you also knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You hurtled down the stairs, pulling Emily along behind you, weaving through the throng of well-dressed patrons who barely glanced your way. Panic thrummed in your veins, making each step feel like a jolt of electricity. Your grip on Emily’s wrist was tight, almost desperate, as you fought to keep her on her feet. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and every few steps she stumbled, but you didn’t slow down. You couldn’t.

The club's entrance loomed ahead, and you shoved past the last of the guests, bursting through the doors and out onto the street. The night air hit you like a slap, a mix of humid heat and the lingering scent of car exhaust. You glanced wildly around, searching for anything that looked like an escape. 

There was no doubt in your mind that he had eyes all over Hightown. Staying in one place too long was as good as signing your own death warrant.

Emily stumbled, nearly dragging you down with her. “Em, we have to go,” you urged, your voice strained as you pulled her back to her feet. “I know you’re hurt, but we can’t stop now.”

She looked up at you through the tangled mess of her hair, her face pale and drawn, dark circles underlining her wide, fearful eyes. “I know,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I’m trying.” You could see the exhaustion settling over her, her limbs heavy and sluggish from whatever she had endured.

You spotted a taxi at the curb and practically hauled Emily toward it, banging on the window. “Please, we need a ride!” you shouted, your voice pitched with desperation.

The driver’s eyes flicked over you and Emily—her dirty clothes, your frantic expression. He shook his head quickly, his gaze hardening. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said, his voice muffled behind the glass. “Go find someone else.”

“Please!” you begged, yanking open the door, only for the driver to slam it shut again. “Just drive us out of here! I can pay—”

“I said no!” the driver barked, throwing the car into gear and peeling away from the curb, leaving you standing there with Emily slumped against your side.

“Damn it,” you muttered under your breath, your eyes scanning the streets for another option. This was Hightown though, and here, you and Emily stuck out like a sore thumb—two bedraggled figures in a sea of polished suits and cocktail dresses. Even now, people were starting to notice you, their curious stares prickling the back of your neck. 

You wrapped an arm around Emily’s waist and started moving, half-dragging her along as you navigated through the winding streets. “Come on, Em,” you whispered, forcing strength into your voice. “Just a little further.”

Your pace was frantic, your steps uneven as you guided Emily down narrow alleys and across cobblestone squares. More than once, you heard voices behind you—shouts, the click of heels on the pavement, the low rumble of an engine as a black car turned a corner. Each time, you forced yourself to keep moving, ignoring the burn in your legs and the way Emily’s weight seemed to grow heavier with each step.

You turned another corner and spotted a familiar building in the distance, the sleek high-rise where Patch’s apartment was located. It wasn’t much, but it was somewhere safe, somewhere out of sight. “We’ll go to Patch’s,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Just… we just need to get there.”

Emily nodded weakly, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she clung to you. “Okay… okay,” she mumbled, though you weren’t sure how much longer she could hold out.

When you finally stumbled into the underground parking garage of the high-rise, you were both out of breath, your dress sticking to your skin with sweat. You dragged Emily toward the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly as if that would make it arrive faster. The doors finally slid open, and you hurried inside, practically collapsing against the wall as you hit the button for the top floor.

The elevator ascended with a dull hum, the minutes stretching out painfully, each one feeling like a lifetime. When the doors opened to Patch’s apartment, you half-carried Emily down the hallway, her head lolling against your shoulder until you set her down on the couch. Her eyes were already closing as exhaustion overtook her. 

“Just rest for a minute,” you whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I’ll get you some water, and then get you cleaned up.”

You turned toward the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers for anything you could use to clean up Emily—cloths, bandages, a bottle of antiseptic. By the time you returned to the couch, Emily had already passed out, her breaths coming slow and even, her small body curled into itself like she was trying to disappear. You dipped the cloth in warm water and gently wiped the dirt and sweat from her face, your heart aching at how fragile she looked.

The elevator doors slowly open, and you jumped to your feet, the cloth slipping from your hand. Patch strode in, his white suit spattered with blood—some of it fresh and still glistening in the overhead light. He moved with a noticeable limp, his jaw set in a grim line, but there was a wild energy about him, a rawness that hadn’t yet settled. It was like he’d just walked off a battlefield and wasn’t entirely convinced he’d left it behind.

“Patch?” you breathed, your pulse quickening as the elevator doors shut behind him. “Are you… okay?”

He glanced at you, then at Emily on the couch, and for a fleeting moment, his expression softened, a quiet tenderness flashing in his eyes. But it disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual gruffness. “I’ve had worse,” he replied, his voice rough around the edges. He rolled his shoulder, testing for injuries, and you watched in awe as the faint cuts and bruises on his skin began to fade, healing right before your eyes.

You stepped around the couch, taking a hesitant step closer to him, your gaze locked on the bloodstain spreading across his pant leg. “How…?” you began your voice barely above a whisper, your breath catching in your throat. “Apparently, there’s more to you than I thought.”

Patch met your gaze, a flicker of something raw and unguarded passing across his face. “I don’t go spilling all my secrets, sweetheart,” he said, his tone casual, though there was a faint vulnerability beneath it. “Healing factor. Fast one. Comes in handy.” His lips curled into a sardonic half-smile like he was letting you in on a joke only he understood.

You blinked, trying to process what he’d just said. “And here I was willing to risk my life for you,” you teased, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “All this time, you could just… heal?”

Patch took a step toward you, wincing slightly as his weight shifted onto his injured leg. “Healing’s not instant,” he muttered, his tone dropping lower. “And the son of a bitch got me pretty good.” He paused, his gaze flicking to Emily. “Enough about me. Is the kid okay?”

“She’ll be fine,” you replied, but your eyes were still on his leg. The blood was soaking through the fabric, a dark, spreading stain that told you he wasn’t healing as quickly as he usually did. “Sit down,” you said, your voice firmer than before. “Let me take a look at that.”

Patch started to protest, shaking his head. “I told you, I’ll be fine. It’s already healing—”

“Yeah, but it’s being slow about it,” you cut him off, your gaze hardening with a determination that left no room for argument. “You said it yourself—he got you good. Now, sit down and let me help.”

For a moment, he looked like he was going to argue, his jaw tightening, but then he relented with a resigned sigh, limping over to the armchair and lowering himself into it. “Fine, but don’t get any ideas about playing nurse, sweetheart,” he grumbled, but there was a hint of a smile in his eyes as he watched you kneel beside him.

“Just shut up and let me help you,” you shot back, grabbing the first aid kit you’d set aside for Emily and popping it open. “Take off your pants.”

Patch arched a brow, his smirk deepening. “Usually, I get dinner first.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the faint flush that crept up your neck. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, as Patch stood. He slid down his pants revealing a deep cut in his leg. The skin was jagged and raw, already knitting itself back together but slower than you’d expected.

You worked in silence for a moment, cleaning the gash and wrapping a bandage around his leg with steady hands. Patch watched you, his expression unreadable, but his gaze was heavy, almost curious. You could feel the intensity of it, and it made the air seem thicker, more intimate.

“Why is it taking so long?” you asked quietly, your fingers brushing against his skin as you secured the bandage.

He let out a breath, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it before. “Healing takes time,” he said, leaning back in the chair as he studied your face. “Some wounds are deeper than others.” There was a weight to his words that felt like more than just the injury itself.

You glanced up, meeting his gaze, and before you could stop yourself, you reached for the eye patch he always wore. “And this?” you asked, your fingers hesitating just an inch away from the black fabric. “Is it just for show?”

Patch’s expression tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then, with a sigh that seemed to carry years of weariness, he reached up and removed the eye patch himself. Underneath, his eye was perfectly normal—sharp, hazel, and very much intact.

You blinked in surprise, your breath catching. “Why…?”

“Disguise,” he said simply, his voice rougher than usual. “Keeps people guessing, like I told you. Besides…” He gave a wry smile. “Makes it easier to be someone else when you don’t look like yourself.”

“Someone else?” you echoed, your voice softer now. The way he looked at you, so unguarded, made your chest tighten.

“Undercover,” he explained, leaning a little closer. “Madripoor’s a cesspool of crime and corruption, and someone’s got to keep the worst of it from spreading. Not everyone needs to know who I really am.” There was a pause, then his voice dropped to a murmur, “Until now.”

The honesty in his eyes, that raw vulnerability he rarely showed, made the space between you feel impossibly small. You could see the weariness etched into the lines of his face, the scars that healing couldn’t erase. For the first time, you realized that his roughness wasn’t just armor—it was a way of surviving, of keeping the world at arm’s length.

Without thinking, you reached up and cupped his cheek, your thumb grazing the stubble along his jaw. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you said softly, your voice steady even as your pulse quickened. “You’ve done enough for me, for Emily. Let me help you for once.”

Patch’s gaze flickered, a mix of surprise and warmth. His hand came up to cover yours, his touch rough but careful. “I don’t let a lot of people in, kid,” he murmured, his voice like gravel. “But… maybe you’re an exception.”

The words hung in the air between you, thickening the tension until it felt almost suffocating. He leaned in, just a fraction, his breath brushing against your lips. “If I didn’t know any better,” he said, his voice low and rough, “I’d say you’re trying to get me to stick around.”

You smiled, your heart racing as you met his gaze. “Guess I like the idea of you keeping an eye on me.”

Patch chuckled softly, the sound vibrating between you. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he whispered, his lips just inches from yours.

“Guess that’s why you like me,” you replied, closing the distance just a little more.

Before the moment could tip over into something deeper, Patch’s expression shifted, and he pulled back slightly, his tone turning serious. “You can’t stay here,” he said, his voice low and steady. “They’ll come looking, and you need to be gone before that happens.”

“You want me to leave Madripoor?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “Where would we even go?”

Patch rose to his feet, his gaze steady on yours. “Somewhere they won’t think to look,” he replied, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips as though trying to lighten the weight of his words. “Somewhere you and your sister can actually get a fresh start. Away from all this.”

You followed him into the kitchen, the silence stretching between you, filled with things you didn’t know how to say. “I don’t have money or... anywhere to stay,” you murmured, your fingers curling into fists as you tried to keep the fear from creeping into your voice.

“I’ll take care of it,” Patch replied, his tone matter-of-fact, as if he’d already made up his mind. He stopped in front of you, taking a step closer, closing the distance between you until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. His presence was overwhelming, filling up the space between you until there was nothing else. You could feel his breath on your skin, the intensity of his gaze boring into yours, like he was searching for something you hadn’t yet offered him.

You swallowed hard, the tension thickening like a slow, bittersweet ache in your chest. “And what about you?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Are you… coming with us?”

His gaze softened, a mixture of regret and something unspoken passing across his face. “I can’t,” he murmured, his hand lifting to brush lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. His touch was careful and tender, as though he was committing the feel of you to memory. 

“There’s still work to be done here. I killed most of the Collector’s men, but he got away. Even if I did manage to track him down, someone else would just take his place. It’s a never-ending cycle.” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “And I can’t just walk away knowing he’s still out there.”

“But it’s safer if you come with us,” you insisted, leaning into his touch, your pulse racing beneath your skin. “It’s safer if we stick together.”

Patch shook his head slowly, a faint, rueful smile touching his lips. “It’s safer for you and your sister if I’m not around,” he said. “You don’t need me making things more dangerous than they already are.” His thumb continued to trace gentle circles against your cheek, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. “You can handle yourself, sweetheart. You’ve proven that.”

The words, meant to be reassuring, only made your chest tighten with something that felt like a loss. You reached up and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, keeping his hand against your skin for a moment longer. “What if I don’t want to handle it alone?” you whispered, the honesty slipping out before you could catch it.

He looked at you then, his hazel eyes searching yours with a depth that made your breath hitch. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said softly. “And you’ll be even stronger for her.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the couch where Emily lay sleeping, and the tenderness in his eyes was almost painful.

You leaned up and pressed a light kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the rough stubble. “Thank you, Patch,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”

He closed his eyes briefly, as though savoring the touch, and then pulled back, his expression hardening slightly as he took a step away. “Get some rest,” he said, his tone rougher now, as though putting a barrier back up between you. “You’ll need it for the flight.”

You ended up sharing his bed, the mattress firm beneath you and the covers smelling faintly of leather and cigar smoke. You lay beside Patch, the silence settling over you like a weight. It was strange, being so close to him, feeling the warmth of his body beside you but knowing that this was temporary—just a moment stolen from the chaos of everything else.

You turned slightly to face him, your hand resting on the space between you. “You’re sure you won’t come with us?” you asked quietly, the darkness making it easier to admit how much you wanted him to say yes.

His gaze shifted to meet yours, his expression unreadable. “You know I can’t,” he murmured, his voice strained as if it hurt him to say the words. “This life… it’s not for you. It’s not for her.” He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face, the touch lingering. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t be watching out for you. From a distance.”

You managed a small, bittersweet smile, your chest aching at the thought of leaving him behind. “You’d better,” you whispered, turning your face into the pillow to hide the sting of tears. “Or I’ll come back here and drag you out of Madripoor myself.”

His chuckle was soft, almost tender, as he reached over and squeezed your hand. “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart,” he said, but there was a quiet sadness in his tone that told you he wished things could be different.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

A few hours later, Patch drove the three of you to the airport in the dead of night. The roads were mostly empty, the city still and quiet, as though it was holding its breath. Emily dozed in the back seat, exhausted from everything she’d been through, while you stared out the window at the passing lights, your heart heavy.

When he pulled up to the curb outside the terminal, Patch cut the engine and turned to you, his face partially shadowed in the dim light. “I’ve already arranged for your tickets,” he said. “The flight will take you far enough away from here that the Collector won’t be able to reach you. You’ll be safe.”

You nodded, struggling to find the right words, knowing that nothing you said would be enough. “Thank you,” you managed, your voice breaking slightly. “For saving her. For… everything.”

Patch reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped free. “You’re tougher than you look, kid,” he murmured. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

You leaned into his hand, the warmth of his touch grounding you. “And what about you?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Will you be okay?”

His mouth twitched into a small, sad smile. “I’ve been through worse,” he said, though his eyes betrayed a loneliness that ran deeper than words could express. “And I’ve survived. So will you.”

You nodded, and then before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned forward and kissed him—a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of goodbyes and promises left unspoken. He didn’t pull away, but when you finally did, there was a look in his eyes that told you he’d carry the memory of this moment with him, wherever he went.

“Go,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Before I change my mind and drag you back with me.”

You gave him one last, bittersweet smile, then turned and helped Emily out of the car. As you walked toward the terminal, you glanced back over your shoulder, half-expecting him to follow.

Yet, Patch stayed in the car, watching you go, a lone figure against the darkness of Madripoor. Even though you knew you were doing the right thing, it felt like leaving a piece of yourself behind.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

“You’ll be fine!” you called out, laughter bubbling up in your voice as you watched Emily wave to you from the passenger seat of her friend’s car.

“I’ll text you when I get there!” she yelled back, her voice bright and carefree in a way that still felt fragile to you. You smiled and nodded, giving her one last wave as the car pulled away, the taillights disappearing down the street.

As soon as she was out of sight, you let out a long sigh, the tension easing from your shoulders just a bit. Even after nearly two years of being away from Madripoor, that gnawing feeling of worry hadn’t left you. It was a constant presence, a shadow that followed you around no matter how much time had passed. You still slept with one eye open, double-checked every lock, and scanned the street whenever you stepped outside.

Letting Emily live a normal life again had taken everything in you. She deserved to go to college, to have friends, to be young and reckless without always looking over her shoulder. You’d even taken up martial arts classes just to convince yourself that you could protect her if the past ever tried to catch up. But every time she left your sight, that familiar knot of fear tightened in your chest.

“Surprised you let her go,” a familiar, gruff voice rumbled from behind you.

You spun around, already feeling the sting of tears prickling at your eyes as if your body knew before your mind did. 

There he was—standing just a few feet away, his broad figure unmistakable even after all this time. He was different from the last time you’d seen him. Gone was the bloodstained white suit and eye patch. Instead, he wore a plain white shirt and jeans with a leather jacket slung casually over his shoulders, his hazel eyes, both of them, piercing and clear.

“Patch?” you whispered, your breath catching in your throat as disbelief crashed over you. For a moment, you wondered if you were hallucinating, if your constant vigilance had finally taken its toll and made you see things that weren’t there.

He nodded, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his lips, that familiar hint of mischief in his gaze. “Told you that was just a disguise, sweetheart,” he said, his voice softer than you remembered. “Call me Logan.”

A strangled laugh escaped you, and before you knew it, you were moving, closing the distance between you in a few hurried steps. You threw your arms around him, the leather of his jacket cool against your cheek as you buried your face in his chest. He stiffened for a moment, as if surprised, then wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly. It was like something inside you finally unclenched, a pressure you hadn’t even realized was there releasing all at once.

“You’re real,” you breathed against his chest, your voice trembling. “You’re actually here.”

“Last time I checked,” he murmured, his tone carrying that familiar edge of sarcasm. But there was a warmth in the way he spoke, a tenderness in the way his hand rested on the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. “Figured it was about time I came to see you. Make sure you’re not getting into too much trouble.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, blinking away the tears that blurred your vision. “I thought… I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly.

His smile softened, and he reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “You know me, kid. I don’t stay away forever,” he said, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that made your heart twist. “Besides, I made a promise, didn’t I? To keep an eye on you.”

You let out a shaky breath, your hands still resting against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. “Two years is a long time,” you whispered. “I didn’t know if… if you made it.”

“Had a few close calls,” he admitted, a shadow passing over his features before he pushed it away. “But I’m here now.” His gaze grew more intense, his hand still warm against your cheek. “And so are you. Stronger than when I left. I can see it.”

You managed a small, bittersweet smile, remembering all the nights you’d spent wondering where he was, if he was alive if he ever thought about you. “I tried to be,” you said. “For her. For myself.”

“And you did good,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “Better than good.”

The words settled over you like a balm, soothing old wounds. You reached up and placed your hand over his, leaning into his touch. “Why now?” you asked quietly. “What made you come here?”

Logan’s gaze flickered, and he let out a breath that seemed to carry years of unspoken thoughts. “I finished what I started in Madripoor…and because I couldn’t stay away any longer,” he confessed, his thumb tracing slow, tender circles on your skin. “I thought… maybe I owed you more than just disappearing.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the honesty in his tone. “So… you’re staying?” you asked, hope threading through your voice despite yourself.

Logan hesitated, a faint smile touching his lips. “We’ll see,” he said. “For now, I’m here. And if you’ll have me… maybe I’ll stick around.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded, a soft laugh escaping you as more tears finally spilled over. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” you whispered, reaching up to swipe at your damp cheeks.

His grin widened the familiar glint in his eyes making him look younger, almost carefree. “Yeah, well… I guess that’s why you like me,” he teased.

You laughed and leaned your forehead against his, feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin. “Maybe,” you whispered. 

For the first time in a long while, that gnawing feeling of fear seemed to ebb, replaced by something softer. You stood there in his arms, the world feeling a little less dangerous and you let yourself believe that maybe the future didn’t seem so bleak anymore.

[verecunda]

I personally see that "torture" conversation again as gaslighting from Annatars side, to be honest. Because (I double checked again to make sure i am not mistaken) "Never in Tolkien's lore does Morgoth torture Sauron. Some moments could imply such an act, such as in The Silmarillion where it is mentioned that Morgoth would have, if victorious, destroyed even the beings that followed him" - So to me it has that even ... Crueler twist of Annatar just trying to gaslight Celebrimbor again. Maybe that is just me though! And maybe in the series Morgoth really did unimaginable to Mairon. WHO KNOWS

Hi, Anon! This got long-winded, so bear with me here. XD

That is certainly a viable reading of the scene, and I definitely think we should never take Sauron at his word because, well, he’s Sauron. But honestly, I think it’s much more interesting, much more horrifying, if he is being honest here.

First, to get the lore stuff out of the way: agreed, nowhere in the books are we told Morgoth ever tortured him. But at the same time, we’re never told he didn’t. Sauron was obviously his most valuable and trusted servant, but he still was that - a servant, an underling, subject to his master’s caprices. And we don’t have any scenes of them interacting directly that allow us to gauge their relationship; we just have a handful of references that can be extrapolated in multiple ways. (For full disclosure: I’m an enthusiastic Angbang shipper, and I tend to view their relationship as more or less positive, one of the only good things they have going for them, but I try to keep an open mind on what canon does/doesn’t tell me.)

Most notably, take the scene where Sauron is defeated by Lúthien and Huan. She tells him she’ll send his spirit back to Angband : “There everlastingly thy naked self shall endure the torment of his scorn, pierced by his eyes.” Whereupon Sauron flees, and we hear nothing more of him till after the War of Wrath. We don’t know anything that he does in the meantime; we don’t even know if he returns to Morgoth’s service (the Lay of Leithian does suggest it, but the published Silmarillion gives us nothing either way). Whether or not Morgoth would actually punish him for his failure is probably beside the point: the point is that Sauron clearly believes punishment is a likely outcome. There are other ways you could parse this bit (and I do have Feelings about it!!) but the most obvious reading is that it’s terror of his master’s likely response that sends Sauron into hiding. So overall, it’s an ambiguous scenario, but there is certainly room to interpret a darker take on their relationship, and even allowing for deliberate ambiguity, it does seem to me that the show creators have chosen to explore that darker take.

To return to this particular scene, I don’t think he’s trying to deceive Celebrimbor any more - now that his true identity is revealed, outright deception is no longer going to work, because why would Celebrimbor believe anything else he says? Better to reel him back in with the truth. In that scene, I think Sauron is actually trying to make him understand his grand vision for the “healing” of Middle-earth. We already know he believes that's what he's doing. I don’t think he views Celebrimbor as an equal, no way, but I think he does consider that Celebrimbor’s ambitions chime with his own.

But crucially, his failure here is that in baring his soul and talking about the genuine suffering he’s gone through, he inadvertently reveals just how warped and ultimately irredeemable his own mindset has become. We actually saw this first with Galadriel at the end of s1: Sauron reveals his relief at Morgoth’s defeat, his feeling that a “great, clenched fist” had been released from about his neck - yet just a couple of minutes after that, he repels her because he admits that he sees saving Middle-earth and ruling it as the same thing.

It’s the same in the tower scene. Revealing his torture by Morgoth does engage Celebrimbor’s sympathy, but he loses it almost at once when he starts talking about his pain being a triumph of his own willpower, then especially when he breaks out all the textbook abuser lines about how Celebrimbor has “forced” him to hurt and deceive him. I don't think he would have said all that if he was just lying. All that self-justification strikes me as the response of someone who has suffered, but has never found a healthy way to process any of it, and who has ultimately gone on to continue the cycle of abuse. And when Celebrimbor demolishes all these self-justifications - “You can deceive even yourself” - I think Sauron's expression there speaks volumes. That’s the look of a Maia who has just been hit where it hurts, because rather than being taken in, Celebrimbor has just confronted him with exactly how damaged and fucked up he really is.

[mswyrr]

more on michelin stars

I genuinely think it's going to be an important plot point in s3 re: why exactly Sydney wants a star and why *one* specifically. I went and researched and discovered something I used in my fic, which is that one Michelin star restaurants are excellent cuisine that normal people can still afford. And that connected, for me, to what Sydney had told Marcus about how going out was so special when she was a kid and she wanted to share that kind of amazing thing with people:

We didn't really like eat out a lot growing up, so when we did, it felt special even if it wasn't.... I wanna cook for people and make them happy and give them the best bacon on Earth (1x08)

I'm so hopeful/convinced that the research they have with, like, Matty (the chef who plays Fak) right there on set, means the writers know that about what one star places can be like. And that it's meant to be part of this - more humane vision of excellence for Sydney, where their spot is AMAZING, but it's not a cruel kitchen culture, it's not only for the rich.

For her, it’s *part* of her vision, where she says: 

“I think this place could be so different from all the other places we've been at. But, in order for that to be true, we need to run things different.“ (1x03)

But Carmy sees a star and all it means (all he’s ever known it to mean) as a repudiation of that kind of humanity. You say the word "star" and immediately Carmy goes "fuck stars" (2x01) as pure self-defense - because stars are just pain and suffering to him. They're NYC chef and everything that mess became.

He's so traumatized by the whole thing he doesn't think to ask the right questions: why do you want one? What is your vision for it? Why do you specifically want *one* instead of two or three? What timeline do you have in mind for getting there and how can we strategize on this together?

Instead, because he wants so desperately to please her, despite that instinctive, self-defensive "fuck stars" he relents and asks - okay, are you sure? Are you positive this is what you want? Really?? It's terrible. It's just dread and fear and throwing up every day before work. You really want me to give you this?

(I’ll give you anything you want)

He never asks the right questions. Just assuming the level of pain which is his only experience of this is what the thing IS--playing into that theme about how people only know what they're taught, only know what they are given, and if we are given pain and patterns of it it is so hard to even imagine things can be different and, when you can imagine it, still so hard to actually get there.

(It’s not a coincidence that the ASL sign is one of the few positive, healthy examples of kitchen culture Carmy witnessed - we only know what we’re taught, and it can be hard work to even figure out what “not shitty” IS let alone doing it)

So he's assuming all of that and it's like - if she's his CDC, does she want him to push her as hard as he was pushed? Push himself that hard again? He doesn't want to do either of those things. But that's all he knows. And she keeps saying this is what she wants. And he wants to give her everything she wants.

(In the same conversation she kept saying yes, this is what I want, she expressed admiration for the designer chef outfit he later buys her as a gift - he wants to give her everything she wants, even when it seems like a terrible idea he’s torn about)

I think this misunderstanding is intentional and it’s going to come out in S3. A one star restaurant fits so perfectly with what we know of Sydney’s goals and love for her work! And Carmy not able to even conceive of something better because of the patterns he’s stuck in and finding his way to her vision makes sense for him.

I think Carmy figuring out how this work can be joyful and humane is going to be a huge part of S3. Sydney not becoming lost in the high stress environment, not following in younger!Carmy's footsteps living a life of pure drive and dread, and Carmy finding that for the first time.

I do think that, given where they both end in 2x10, there’s going to be a period of conflict and a real bunch of issues for both of them - but with themes and ideas like this seeded into the story there’s so many ways to make s3 start out in a bad way and then really end in joy in a beautiful way?

[cak31ssuperi04]

fun fact: Them

[francesderwent]

but you should’ve seen him when he first got me…

dive bar on the east side, where you at? phone lights up my nightstand in the black. come here you can meet me in the back —> wait for the signal and I’ll meet you after dark, show me the places that the others gave you scars

I’m perfectly fine, I live on my own, I made up my mind I’m better off being alone. we met a few weeks ago, now you try on calling me ‘baby’ like trying on clothes —> oh, I’m falling in love, I thought the plane was going down. how’d you turn it right around?

I got a boyfriend, he’s older than us, he’s in the club doing I don’t know what. you’re so cool, it makes me hate you so much. whiskey on ice, sunset and vine, you’ve ruined my life by not being mine —> maybe I’ll see you out some weekend depending on what kind of mood and situationship I’m in and what’s in my system. I think there’s been a glitch.

our secret moments in a crowded room, they got no idea about me and you —> romance is not dead if you keep it just yours

and I snuck in through the garden gate every night that summer just to seal my fate —> head on the pillow, I could feel you sneaking in, as if you were a mythical thing, like you were a trophy or a champion ring and there was one prize I'd cheat to win

I scream, “for whatever it’s worth, I love you ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard?” he looks up grinning like the devil —> the first night that you saw me, nothing was gonna stop me, I laid the groundwork and then saw a wide smirk on your face: you knew the entire time! you knew that I’m a mastermind, and now you’re mine. yeah, all you did was smile.

back when we were card sharks playing games, I thought you were leading me on. I packed my bags, left Cornelia Street before you even knew I was gone. then you called, showed your hand, turned around before I hit the tunnel —> got a sense I’d been betrayed, your finger on my hairpin trigger. soldier down on that icy ground looked up at me with honor and truth, broken and blue, so I called off the troops. that was the night I nearly lost you

and he’s passing by rare as the glimmer of a comet in the sky —> one night a few moons ago I saw flecks of what could have been lights but it might just have been you passing by unbeknownst to me

[avirxy]

beauty and beast au but Claire’s the one cursed because she’s the only one I can see literally pissing a sorceress off enough to get cursed. (If we’re going off the original movie Jim would probably offer them a hot meal and a room for the night, knowing him he’d make everything super accommodating)

[itspileofgoodthings]

ended up telling my mom “she’s a billionaire pop star … she’s also a songwriter I’ve loved for a long time. both of those things are true.”

[pulchrasilva]

Nobody fucking talk to me i just finished rewatching arcane and it was DEVASTATING I need to KILL

[psy-ay-ay]

they haven't even told me the rukia renji past story and i am already getting sucked in

[tsunael]

WoL Think Thonkers

#1 Where is your Warrior of Light from? What was their home like growing up and what set them out on their journey?

Tsuna was born sometime in 1545, 7 years before the fall of Doma. Once she was old enough, she often helped her mother in the shop due to her father being away on sea voyages more often than not.

Her mother was kind but strict-- guilty of imparting onto her child the ideals of her people who shunned the outside world, and avoided conflict at all cost. Tsuna grew up on her bedtime stories of the world beneath the waves, and of the Ruby Prince-- a half-Au Ra man who was born without scales. Their village in Yanxia was fond of her mother, and helped her raise her only child.

When Doma fell, and the Court was dissolved, its servants and the surrounding villagers were displaced or taken as conscripts.

Left without a mother, and her father missing, Tsuna was smuggled into Kugane by a family friend where she would be taken in by an Okiya inside the Sanjo Hanamachi as a perceived orphan. For thirteen years she trained as a maiko, and graduated at twenty.

She threw it all away after being asked to entertain a couple of Garlean soldiers from the embassy. Sometime during the evening, she received her first Echo-- flashing back to the day her mother was taken away. The same soldier who broke into their village home was sitting next to her.

She killed him in a crime of passion. The second life she took was self-defense. The crime forced her to flee or face persecution, (not to mention the political implications of a citizen of the neutral facing Kugane committing a crime against the embassy) and so she fled onto the first boat that would take her-- to Eorzea.

[themyscirah]

Started thinking about the Amanda Waller + Ben Turner relationship again.... fuck, I'm gonna need a minute

[chorus-communities]

wowwww this is amazing writing. no guys she's not mentally ill she has Nothing insteresting to her shes a pure uwu baby with Magical psychosis that strips her of all agency instead of still just being a Person with Psychosis because that'd just be too hard to write. shit a brick.