#leth's words

[divine--intervention]

NEW OC, THIS IS ERIAN

[lethepsyche]

qeued up a post like 3 weeks ago but i think it got eaten so here it is again

aac / emotion emojis

sad wordmoji - 3 vers

excited wordmoji - 4 versions

angry wordmoji - 2 less eyestrain-ey versions

4 more eyestrainey versions under the cut

not enough energy currently to make alt text-might add later might not, feel free to add ur own

[crossdressingdeath]

I have thoughts about Nico's sword. Seriously, where the fuck did he get a three foot long Stygian iron sword at the age of ten or eleven? Was it a gift from Hades? Possible, but he has that sword while he's hanging around Minos and I can't see Hades tolerating his kid getting used that way by a mere ghost, and certainly not a son of Zeus; if nothing else I feel like it would hurt his pride. Did Nico make it himself? Also possible, but it would display a level of control over metal that he doesn't show at any other point. He might have been able to find the raw metal on his own even though Stygian iron seems to be the rarest of the three godly metals, since as a child of the Underworld he might be able to sense it even if precious metals aren't his specialty, but how would he get a sword out of it? He's not a swordsmith I don't think, and he definitely wasn't at that age. It'd be cool if he just willed it into shape, but a) I don't think Stygian iron works that way and b) see previous point about how he never shows that level of control over metal at any other point. Stygian iron has to be cooled in the Styx, too, so if he made it... uh, how. I don't think it would be safe for him to get that close to the river.

Also according to the wiki Stygian iron can harm mortals as well as immortals, demigods and monsters, and it is absolutely wild to me that this passes without mention after what a big deal and terrible sign Luke acquiring a sword that can harm mortals is. ...Actually all the information about Stygian iron on the wiki is wild (WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT MIGHT BE ABLE TO KILL MONSTERS PERMANENTLY. WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT MIGHT DESTROY SOULS. WHAT DO YOU MEAN AMONG DEMIGODS ONLY CHILDREN OF THE UNDERWORLD CAN WIELD IT SAFELY BECAUSE IT WAS COOLED IN THE STYX. WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S AS FAR AS WE KNOW INDESTRUCTIBLE AND IF IT CAN BE BROKEN MIGHT ONLY BE ABLE TO BE BROKEN BY CHILDREN OF THE UNDERWORLD), Rick can we please have a whole book about how Stygian iron works. Also can the wiki please list its sources, I suspect a lot of the Stygian iron info comes from Read Riordan but that site is such a bitch to search.

Also the fact that Nico is the only demigod we've seen so far who uses Stygian iron is so much to me (*squints in Zagreus!Nico*). Oh, and according to the wiki Nico's sword is a falcata, which... okay, I don't know where they're pulling that information from—I think it's Read Riordan? The picture they've got from Read Riordan definitely looks falcata-ish—but if true that's interesting because as far as I'm aware that would make Nico the only main character in the Greco-Roman series who uses a weapon that isn't Greco-Roman (the falcata is from pre-Roman Iberia). Nico's sword is just so interesting to me and I desperately want to know more about it, Rick can we have a flashback or a short story or something about how he got it at least.

[get-your-fuckin-star-bitch]

Love how they’re the “guy you call in Situations™️” now. Sorry gang, your dedicated I.T. guy is currently passed tf out on their little alcove-couch cause of a deal he made to get rid of a book…

[eliot-eclipse]

Alfie Solomons art cause I love that man so much.

[kingbeeleth]

prev post was supposed to be a vololeth image because i like volo and my son beeleth a normal amount but i got bored and started drawing a bunch of beelethless volos off to the side. sigh

[darkenforcer]

alternative allegory event info!

Ace Attorney AU

Defense Attorney.

BACKSTORY

attended law school to become a prosecutor with his childhood friend, vowing to punish the corrupt, side-by-side. fair and square, as it should be (and rarely is).

...but the system's a dumpster fire, actually! none of his mentors cared if a defendant was innocent-- all that mattered was adding another win to their record. he'd never make a difference in a place like that. hell, he couldn't even stomach being near them!

so he left, quit altogether until circumstances had him taking up a different badge, this time gunning to defend. he's been going at it ever since.

with a strong sense of justice, ofc! he fights for the underdogs in society, even if it means pushing the law to its limits.

yes, his fancifully-named firm, Brave Vesperia(TM), was run by a preteen in this AU, too. to be fair, yuri was the only attorney there; the others employees just did... whatever.

gained notoriety after exposing some high-profile criminals (through questionably-legal means, mayhaps), but the fame drove him up the wall. 'sides, it was his childhood-friend-turned-rival that put them behind bars in the end, without the need for dirty tactics...

still knows how to swing a sword, just at a hobbyist's level! can and WILL throw hands, though, so don't try him. or do it, baby, he knows the law.

repede was training to be a K-9 unit before yuri left the prosecutor's office. don't worry-- they keep him in the defendant's lobby during trials (99% of the time; he may have been on the witness stand once or twice).

unaware of his own AU shenanigans, but he has a gut feeling. the lawyer senses are tingling...

SPRITE ANIMATIONS

idle/speaking - there's a hint of an easy smirk, a hand at his hip. with the amount of nonchalance on display, you'd think he has this case in the bag (as if...).

thinking - fingers brought to his chin, eyes shut. he never tries to think too hard if he can help it, so there's only the slightest of forehead wrinkles.

exasperated - get on his nerves and earn a show of crossed arms, a huff, and an unimpressed eyeroll. a look that reads: "waste any more of our time and i'll show you a real penalty."

taunting - oop, he's propped against his desk, chin resting on his palm amidst a wolfish, verbal onslaught. to some, the flippancy is an insult all its own.

sweating - though cool under pressure, yuri can't hide the slight jolt backwards, his brow furrowed with a squiggly frown to match. but when things get really bad...

angry - slam! his fist hits the desk, grit teeth restraining a nasty retort on the tip of his tongue (too bad he can't afford the penalty).

objection! - he does this a lot, if only to get under the prosecution's skin-- flinging fingers and all. it's the closest he'll ever get to unsheathing a sword in battle!

[thebroombroom]

I KNOW BEING RECKLESS AND YOUNG IS NOT HOW THE DAMAGE GETS DONE!!

[lupines-slash-recs]

Rec: Spring Parties and Mistletoe by Lethe

Title: Spring Parties and Mistletoe Author: Lethe Canon: xxxHolic Pairing: Shizuko Doumeki/Kimihiro Watanuki Rating: Not Rated Word Count: 2,319 Summary: Yuuko throws a party to invite spring. Mistletoe helps Doumeki take a chance. Continue reading...

[del-phi-nium]

7.27.23

i have never felt at home & i am so lonesome for that feeling lonelier still is when i tape my mouth shut before admitting this sober & before 10pm i fear this confession to be a wound that bleeds from both ends: will i learn everyone else is like me, strung along, drifting, hung out to dry & jostle in the wind every once & a while to remind us life on the clothesline is never guaranteed? or. is it only me? the anomaly? give me a home & i will tear it in two looking for the pieces of insulation that you touched do i have to say it plainly: that i never wanted the art, just the artist? i am down: low, low, low waiting in the cool mud off Lethe for a slow, easy ride something to float in forever, my fingers dragging through the muck just below the column, provided you sit across from me and i can remember, forever & ever, again & again, the first moment i see you. there. that is where i will be at home.

[venerers]

kay only really gets to mature and move on in ANY canon at all once they move past their insane attachment to clarence. in asphodel helix this takes place in a "postcanon" setting i've been musing on from time to time where both of them split ways after they mutually realize that they're not the people that they used to be and there's no point "projecting" that idealized image they have of each other onto their current selves. in lethe's twist kostya has to kill clair. in venery kay has to kill clarence. there's no negotiating it -- the constant in kay's life is that kay Has To cut ties with clarence in order to let themselves grow up. their fatal flaw is their loyalty and they have to learn to live for themselves and clarence is like, the living embodiment of so much fucking baggage that kay refuses -- until it's a life-or-death situation -- to let go of.

[lethepsyche]

one of us was messin with some stuff while making some wordmojis and i ended up finishing them and really liked how they turned out :3 will probably do more like this in the future (ironically we worked on this while also having a migrain from light)

tried to make them as easy to read as possible but they might not be and might be a little eye strain-ish on one (ill put it at the very end) and some colors are bright so be warned

list:

light sensitive wordmoji

sensitive eyes wordmoji

sensitive wordmoji

alt vers sensitive wormoji

sensitivity wordmoji

alt vers sensitivity wordmoji

[somewhereincairparavel]

my favourite character exchange of all time between the hoo gang will always be this particular line from jason to nico in house of hades.

“Nico, you do choose how to live your life. You want to trust somebody? Maybe take a risk that I'm really your friend and I'll accept you. It's better than hiding”

jason doesn't say something like 'i'll make sure to prove myself to you' or 'i'll do everything I can to make sure I earn your trust' because they are empty words. especially considering that this was before jason knew about nico's past, he can't exactly do anything to make nico trust him, apart from offering support, because in the end, it was nico's choice whether to trust him or not.

yeah, some people might think jason was being 'cold' and 'shallow' for saying this, but jason genuinely MEANT well. he told nico that he's WILLING to be his friend even before he knew nico's past. this was before jason knew an OUNCE of nico's backstory. he gave some slightly harsh but brotherly advice to him.

jason didn't deliver any false promise to nico that everyone will love him no matter what and that everyone will always be kind to him in camp half blood (this strangely parallels w percy deliberately choosing to NOT promise nico that he'll keep bianca safe because percy knew that death is a possibility and didn't want to make any fake promises just because nico is a kid, percy tried his hardest to be honest with nico, that certainly caused problems of course, but we can see the pattern between how percy and jason both hated fake promises.)

also, in boo, will says “Oh, please. Nobody at Camp Half-Blood ever pushed you away. You have friends or at least, people who would like to be your friend. You pushed yourself away. If you'd get your head out of that brooding cloud of yours for once”

i know I've seen alot of people use this excerpt as consensus of saying that will is super 'tone deaf' and 'insensitive'. but can you guys see the pattern here? will came off a lot more agressive bc of his romantic feelings, but we can see how will, jason and percy were sort of 'reality checks' that nico NEEDED. he had an inferiority and victim complex (which is very justifiable and valid considering how much trauma he faced, on the contrary i thought nico was being considerably calm with everything he's been through and deserved to yell way more. I quite related to nico a lot when it comes to the personality sometimes so jason's words definitely struck a nerve for me) but nico was always drawn to honesty.

nico had some of his earlier memories washed away by the river lethe to 'protect' him from more trauma, and nico was so attached to bianca that the thought of her leaving for the hunters of artemis felt like a personal betrayal. he was made to beleive that he and his sister were safe in camp half blood, and combining that w the whole lethe thing and hades generally trying to protect the di angelo family from the gods, you can see how much nico needed honesty and not coddling. because coddling and sheltering ruined his life and took away his light.

jason saying that nico needed to take risks as it comes with the package of love and friendship, and overall giving him authenticity, telling him that heartbreak and family can coexist, causes nico to be drawn to him and genuinely have him an eye opener.

jason knew what it was like to be held with fake promises his whole life, and even mentions it as a reason as to why he made sure he kept the promises he made. because he would never turn out to be like his two faces mother beryl.

I'll always believe that jason played a huge part in nico's overall character, and his death even more so.

[raphael-angele]

If Hades raised Nico and Bianca Part 41

Zagreus, coming back from an adventure: Hi, Dad.

Hades: Zagre- GOOD GODS!

Bianca and Nico: *dirty from Underworld adventures* Hi, Papa! :D

Hades:

Zagreus: In my defense, I didn't know they were following me until I was already in Asphodel.

Hades:

---

Zagreus: Heeey, Achilles

Achilles: Oh, hello, lad. *sees the two* Hello, little ones. My, you are very dirty.

Zagreus: That's the thing. My dad wants to have a word with me about being more aware of them. And they need a bath. And my mom isn't here right now so...

Achilles:

Zagreus: ...please?

Achilles:

---

Nico: Patty!!! *runs over to him*

Patroclus: Hello, child. Oh, my, you're filthy. *sees Achilles and Bianca* Hello. What is this?

Bianca: Hi, Mr. Patroclus. We went on a quest with Zagreus!

Achilles: And they need a bath.

Patroclus: My darling, please do not tell me you intend to give them a bath here. In the River Lethe. Where it erases memory.

Achilles: ...no?

Patroclus: *sigh, carrying Nico* They need a proper bath.

---

Odysseus: PATROCLUS! ACHILLES! MY FELLOW WARRIORS! HAHA! Welcome, welcome.

Patroclus: Hello, Odysseus.

Achilles: Mm ( ≖_≖)

Patroclus: Achilles.

Achilles: ...hello, Odysseus ( ≖_≖)

Odysseus: Welcome to the Hot Springs. Should I prepare you your baths? Or should I say, bath?

Patroclus: Maybe another time, Odysseus. For now...*shows Nico and Bianca*

Odysseus: My, my! How filthy

Achilles: What did you say?!

Patroclus: Achilles.

Achilles ( ≖_≖)

Patroclus: Nico, Bianca, this is Odysseus. He's an old friend of ours. He looks after the hot springs and he can give the two of you a bath. Odysseus, these are Nico and Bianca, they are Lord Hades' children.

Odysseus: Well, we can't have Lord Hades' children all dirty, now can we? How about I take you to the hot springs where you can swim around and get clean?

Nico: Yeaaah!!! *runs around*

Bianca: *stays close to Achilles*

Achilles: Bianca, what's wrong?

Bianca: *whispers*

Achilles: Mm. I agree. This man is creepy.

Patroclus: Achilles.

Achilles: ಠ╭╮ಠ

Patroclus: Bianca, it's nothing to be scared of. Your sister Melinoë goes here all the time

Bianca: ...mkay...*goes to Odysseus*

Achilles:

Patroclus: Don't kill him

Achilles: I said nothing.

Patroclus: You had that look.

[leth-writes]

Some thoughts about Tim and the Batfam

SUMMARY: just thinking about Tim and the batfam

WARNINGS: 18+ as always on my blog, though the work is safe for work. Typical yandere shenanigans. HEAVY discussion of drugging and taking away of autonomy.

MASTERLIST: https://www.tumblr.com/leth-writes/757800060720496640/requests-open?source=share 

Requests are open!

Tim is a really interesting person, in general. I’m just obsessed with the idea of him drugging a darling, just keeping them all pliant and sleepy and curled up in his bed, even if he’s platonic. 

He spends a lot of time just…watching you, whether that be through cameras or in real life.

You never find the cameras, even though you know they’re there. If you asked him, he wouldn’t deny it. Why would he? There’s nothing you could do about it, and he honestly doesn’t trust your opinions on your own safety. Tim views you as quite innocent and naive, and that’s part of why he spends so much time building a little cocoon in the bed for you to curl up in, your soft snuffles just barely moving the light sheet he’s laid around you.

Just. UGH. I think at first he’d drug your food.

But you start noticing, and you start avoiding food. This sets the rest of the batfam off; is TIm not taking care of you properly?!

(They sometimes talk about you like a pet. It’s weird. You’ve learned not to mention it.)

In response, you’re tied down with soft satin straps and drugged out of your mind through an IV. You’re on an all-liquid diet, practically seeing stars. Tim doesn’t need you conscious or coherent, just safe from harm, after all.

I could even see him putting you in a temporary coma, at least until the heat from your kidnapping dies down. 

I can’t get  over the idea of you just. Trusting him so much, so naively, and he’s just. Fucking drugging your hot chocolate to get you to the manor, he knows if he doesn’t then Jason will and Jason won’t be as gentle about it.

UGH just imagine him doing those exercises every day with you to keep your muscles from atrophying AGHHHH

You wake up afterwards, it’s dark and your mouth is dry. You try to sit up- and you can’t. You’re too weak, too tired from the still-present drugs coursing through your veins. It’s then you see a bright flash, illuminating the corner and it’s FUCKING TIM JUST STANDING THERE

He uses his best camera, just dedicates it to pictures of you, creates an album.

He shows it to everyone else, they’re all cooing and aweing and you’re just sitting there like HELLO PLEASE LET ME LEAVE 🙁

Eventually he might even give you a bit of a choice. You can eat the food, or you can get an injection. When you take the injection you lose an entire day of time, and who knows what the FUCK happened? (nothing, Tim just. Spent most of the day working, occasionally taking the time to brush a hand over your face, just gently tracing your features.)

The others start to get annoyed Tim’s hogging you, and he gets you a wheelchair. You’re too weak, too drugged to be able to move yourself around, and he somehow manages to put some sort of thing on the wheels that lock if you try to go out the door. Like the fucking Grocery Carts.

He starts wheeling you around, letting you see the garden and the birds and Batcow. You spend a lot of time in the library with Alfred the cat curled in your lap, purring as you try to follow the plot of a simple book, your eyes too blurry to see the words properly.

Jason’ll read to you, he likes the bonding time. Plus, your eyes can’t really focus on anyone’s face too long, so he doesn’t have to worry about you being scared by the scars ripped into his skin by his death.

Cass’ll roll you into her studio, prop you against the wall, and just do a stunning routine. Unfortunately you can’t see it very well, and you clap really slowly because your hands feel like they’re filled with lead. She appreciates the effort.

Dick eventually takes over your stretches, though he does sometimes have to fight Bruce for the right. Both love helping you gently stretch out your limbs, admiring the shaking that only comes from intense effort. You’re cute, like a newborn lamb.

It’s infuriating watching Dick do all these complicated moves, while you can barely lift your head, but oh well, they’re so happy you’re here!!

Damian treats you like a younger sibling, even though you’re significantly older than him. He adores having this position of power over you, and abuses it to spend most of his time with you just. Showing you his animals. Titus is practically your emotional support dog at this point, and he trains Ace to be your guard dog.

Bruce loves having you curled up in the office, snoring slightly on the couch, as he slowly wades his way through work. He’ll throw a blanket over you, even as you whimper and shy away from the food he’s hand-feeding you. You aren’t allowed to feed yourself anymore, hell you can barely lift your hand to your mouth.

You eventually get used to spending all your time just. Hanging around, sleeping and letting everyone else do everything for you.

[rika-mmendmethings]

Lethe Récords l Sylus

Summary: In the forgotten shadows of N109, Lethe, a humble record shop, becomes a sanctuary for secrets and records. Amid its vinyl aisles, a quiet connection forms between the shopkeeper, you, and Sylus over choice of vinyl and trade of thoughts. But it had been just your delusion, for the woman beside him was just the proof of that.

Warning(s): one-shot, partially canon (?), reader is implied to be female, reader is the owner of a record shop which is also kinda an intel hub, angst with (little?) no comfort, no happy ending (let's cry together), unrequited love, Sylus and mc are in a relationship

Word count: 3.6k

Now playing: Fine by Taeyeon

Notes: We all know Sylus is a record collector from his bond and the gift on his desk (Chaconne in G minor Vitali and a track of The Beatles). So I wanted a fic with a record shop owner reader and a collector Sylus with a little bit of fun twists. So here it is, except it's heart-shattering angst (whoops). Consider this early release of my appreciation for all those who support me. Anyways, Idk shit about classical music, but my boyfriend is into it, so he taught me, but I might've messed up his teachings a bit (or did I? idk). Hopefully, you enjoy this ♥ {Also, do you remember Chang from Risqué Sketches? He's about to make lots of appearances in my fics lol}

The N109 zone was a place where shadows whispered secrets, and the air was thick with the smell of damp asphalt, rusting steel, and things unsaid. It was a place where the law had all but forgotten its existence, a cityscape of hidden alleyways and dimly lit bars, where even the sunlight seemed hesitant to break through the layers of grime. But there, in the midst of it all, was a small oasis of refuge — a record store, no bigger than a mediocre apartment, nestled humbly between a pawnshop and a closed-up diner. Its name was Lethe, the place where the forgotten could be remembered, and where the living could lose themselves in the embrace of music that belonged to a different era.

The shop itself, a modest thing by the standards of the world outside, had lived for six years in quiet rebellion against the noise of the city — and it wore its age like a badge of honor. Its creaky wooden floors groaned with history, each board telling a story of moments, of hands that had come and gone, flipping through the endless rows of vinyl. 

The front window, where the evening light would filter in soft and golden, was always a little fogged, as if the outside world couldn’t quite reach inside. It framed a wooden sign that hung with quiet dignity, its curves and loops spelling out the name ‘Lethe’ in graceful cursive, a promise in every swish of the inked letters. The name itself seemed to hum softly, as though it carried a secret — a gentle invitation to forget, to step into another world. Beneath the sign, a poster tacked up crookedly on the door read: ‘From the worldly shackles and bounds you could leave, if you dare to embrace the music of Lethe.’  

The air inside was always laced with a heady mix of old paper, polished wood, and something more elusive. It clung to the walls and to the worn leather of the armchair in the corner, where many would sink into the embrace of a record’s melody, just to breathe in the atmosphere that Lethe breathed out. And then, there were the fairy lights, strung haphazardly across the ceiling, twinkling softly like distant stars in a sky that had forgotten the sun.

The records themselves lined the shelves like an old friend waiting to be discovered anew. Vinyl of every size and shape, from the dustiest blues and jazz to the most obscure classical works, gleamed under the soft glow of the lights. There were endless racks of albums, some well-worn, others pristine, each one a story in itself. 

Beyond the records, displayed with quiet pride, were the instruments — delicate pieces of craftsmanship, few in number but rich in history. A violin with a body carved so finely it seemed to hum with its own resonance, a guitar with strings that had never been plucked but still held the promise of music, a flute that glimmered with silver edges, its tone a silent call to the weary-hearted. They were art as much as they were function, set up carefully in their display cases like treasures too precious to be touched.

The walls, covered with a scattered array of posters, felt like a gallery of past artists and long-forgotten musicians. Each poster was more than just a picture; it was a moment frozen in time, a testament to the golden eras of music that whispered through the very walls of Lethe. Names like Coltrane, Chopin, and Fitzgerald hung side by side with the obscure and the unknown, faces frozen in mid-song, lost to the ages, yet alive within these walls. 

But the shop wasn’t just a haven for vinyl collectors; it was a hub for everyone who was involved in the crime and gore of the area. During the day, fewer people came and went, but it was never the same when the sun sank behind the horizon. At night, the record store became something else. It transformed into a marketplace of whispers, of people looking for connections, for someone to share a secret with. And in the midst of it all, there was you, always behind the counter, always listening, always willing to trade what you knew for a few hundred dollars, a few hundred dollars that would let you scrape by for another month. Because after all, survival amid a criminal filled city required knowledge of valuable information and not dusty records.

You were only twenty-four-something, but life had already etched a certain tiredness in your bones. The dark circles under your eyes weren’t from sleepless nights spent worrying over a future you couldn’t quite see. They were the result of endless days in a shop that sold more than music. She peddled information too. And in this world, information was currency — dangerous currency, but currency all the same. The deals were made in whispers, promises sealed with thin lips and even thinner smiles, and no one ever seemed to care about the weight of the things they traded for their little piece of safety. 

It was one of those rare, sun-drenched afternoons in the N109 zone when the dust in the air caught the light, and the streets seemed a little quieter, as if the world was holding its breath. Lethe, as always, stood in the shadow of the chaos that thrived outside, its small wooden sign swaying gently in the breeze. The shop was still, save for the occasional rustle of vinyl, the murmur of the turntable spinning quietly in the corner, and the soft click of your fingers tapping against the counter.  You were lost in your own thoughts, letting the hum of the day wash over you.

Then, the bell over the door jingled.

It was a sound that barely broke the silence, but the instant it did, something in the atmosphere shifted. A weight descended, and you looked up, your breath catching in your throat as your eyes met him.

Sylus.

The moment he stepped inside, the shop seemed to go still. Sylus was the leader of Onychinus, undisputed king of the N109 zone, a figure whose name was spoken in hushed tones, whose reputation preceded him like a dark cloud that rained fear. With a bounty on his head worth billions, he was both a criminal mastermind and a myth — one that most were too terrified to approach. Yet here he was, strolling into Lethe like he owned the place. 

He was tall, impeccably dressed in all-black dress shirt with slacks, and there was a certain elegance to the way he carried himself. His eyes, a burning ruby red, seemed to see everything at once, and yet, nothing at all. There was something in that gaze — cold, calculating — as if the entire shop were just another piece on a chessboard, one he was already strategizing his next move on.

You thought he had been here for just business so you were mildly surprised when you saw him make no move toward the counter and rather stay planted in front of the shelves. His presence filled the room, his height towering over the rows of vinyl, his sharp eyes scanning the shop with an air of quiet condescension. His gaze briefly flicked to you before settling on the rows of records in front of him. 

His fingertips trailed over the surface, gently exploring the textured artwork, feeling the grooves and edges of the cover. His movements were slow, deliberate, like a man who was never in a rush, never worried that time might slip through his fingers. You noticed him picking out something from the corner of your eye and instantly buried your face in the magazine you had been holding after you saw him approach the counter. 

You had been doing your best to appear nonchalant when, without warning, the magazine was plucked from your hands. Before you could even process what had happened, it was placed back between your outstretched palms, but this time, something was different. The letters now seemed suddenly clearer, more legible. And with a surge of mortifying realization, you understood — you had been holding the magazine upside down. The worst part? He had right away corrected it, without a single word, and that quiet action made you want nothing more than to crawl into a hole and disappear. 

“Good afternoon,” his voice was smooth, like velvet, but with an undercurrent of something sharp. 

“What can I help you with today?” you asked, trying to shake off the former awkwardness.

“I’m looking for information. About Chang. You know who he is, don’t you?”

You could almost feel the weight of his expectations pressing down on you. He wasn’t here to waste time. He had no need to make small talk. You swallowed hard, “I know of him,” you replied carefully. “What do you want to know?”

Sylus didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a slow step closer to the counter, leaning slightly, his eyes still on her, still calculating, as if the conversation itself was part of some grand scheme. "Chang is dealing with uncut diamonds, isn't he?" Sylus continued, his tone still so smooth, so assured, as though this wasn’t a conversation, but an order. “I need to know what he plans to do with them. The man is cleaning after himself.”

He picks up a small hourglass from your table, playing around with it as he continues, “He’s a rat in my meticulously arranged system. I plan to have him gone.” He flips the hourglass, putting it back down on your table and shifts his ruby gaze to you as he starts, “And time is a very valuable factor of mine so I’d suggest you start now.” 

The sand falls from the upper chamber, it trickles down in a continuous, delicate cascade, each grain slipping past the narrow constriction of the hourglass’s neck. You were aware that the information that you might be handing might be the reason for multiple deaths but you had stopped caring a while ago in this kind of business.  You feel like a bomb ticking above you and usher to tell him whatever you know about Chang the businessman. 

“Chang is arranging the delivery of those diamonds through ocean freight. He already has everything ready on the docks and is just waiting for the cargo ship to arrive. The estimated time of shipment should be around 7 in the evening today.”

Sylus hummed, rubbing his chin in thought. You thought that that was it and he’d be paying you and going off on his way. Sylus, to your surprise, seemed to care less for the information. He fetched out his card and even placed the record he had picked on the table, intending to pay for both the information and the vinyl. 

Huh. You never expected him to be someone who was interested in record collecting.

You sneaked a glance at the cover of the record he was purchasing. It was a one-sided vinyl featuring the track “Yesterday” by The Beatles. You had heard the track before and had concluded it to be a pretty sentimental track. Surprises after surprises for you, he was a melancholic person as well. You handed him his black card back, along with the bill and the now wrapped-up record. You watched him walk away, something in you telling that this won’t be your last meeting.

Weeks passed, and the steady rhythm of Lethe continued — the low hum of vinyl spinning, the soft murmur of conversation, the quiet rustling of records as they were flipped through. But something had changed in the air of the shop, something subtle, a shift that you couldn’t quite place at first. Sylus came in more frequently, not just to inquire about shady deals or exchange whispered secrets for a few hundred dollars, but for no reason at all — or so it seemed. The lines between business and something else blurred with each visit. 

At first, it was still the same. Sylus would walk in with that knowing, calculated air, his ruby eyes scanning the room with a hunger that went beyond the information he sought. He’d ask about Sherman, about the mafiosos, about anyone who held a thread of power he could pull — and in exchange of a few thousand dollars, you would give him the answers he craved. Each transaction was sharp and direct, devoid of warmth. But soon enough, those visits began to change.

At first, it was small things — casual remarks, little moments of lightness. Sylus would comment on the weather, his words almost a challenge as if he were testing the waters. He’d ask if she had heard a certain piece of music lately, or inquire about a specific artist he hadn’t seen in the shop before. The questions were simple, almost innocent, and yet, there was an edge to them, an underlying curiosity that didn’t feel quite like the cold precision of their first meeting.

You noticed it one afternoon, when Sylus wandered through the aisles, running his fingers across the records, almost idly. You had unknowingly trained your eyes on him, not even bothering to act busy. He caught your gaze a few times and each time you apologized profusely but didn’t stop your blatant gawking. 

“You know… for someone who seems so apologetic for staring,” he started with that characteristic half-smile, the one that was always so difficult to read. “You do seem to be doing a lot of it.” His crimson gaze met yours as he finished and you felt yourself grow warm at that. 

His words were teasing, but they didn’t hold the same edge they once had. They were softer, more casual, as if he didn’t need to guard every word with the same razor-sharp caution. He had become a regular — not just for business, but for the quiet company that Lethe and its records and you offered, even if it was laced with a few words and comfortable silences.

Each time though, without fail, he’d slip a record onto the counter. Not always a new purchase, sometimes the same album again, as though each listen brought him closer to understanding something. You began to notice the pattern — the records he bought were always melancholic, always steeped in the kind of sadness that you found hard to ignore. Bach, Chopin, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff. Composers who spoke of love, loss, and longing. 

By the time another boring Sunday night rolled around, you were used to the silence of the shop. It was an uneventful evening, the rain tapping lightly against the windows, a soft rhythm accompanying the quiet. You moved with the routine of someone who had long since learned how to close up without haste, the motions automatic as you arranged your desk. You were just about to switch off the lights  when the bell above the shop chimed, cutting through the tranquility like a knife.

You froze.

The rain had picked up outside, the sky darker now, and through the window, she saw him — Sylus, drenched, standing in the doorway, his usual air of command slightly softened by the water dripping from his coat. His eyes met yours with an intensity that took your breath away, as though there was something unsaid hanging between them, something that neither of them had dared to acknowledge before.

He stepped inside without a word, shaking the water from his coat, and made his way toward the counter. As he approached, he placed a vinyl gently on the surface, his fingers lingering on the edge of the sleeve as if the act itself were a delicate ritual.

Bach. Chaconne in D minor.

Your breath hitched. You recognized the piece immediately — a work so raw, so filled with longing and pain, it was almost impossible to listen to without feeling the weight of its emotion. The D minor Chaconne was a masterpiece of reflection and transformation, a piece about loss and the quiet acceptance of it, a song that carried the weight of a thousand broken hearts, yet somehow held a grace within its sorrow. It was a piece that was both deeply personal and universal, speaking to something buried within every soul.

For a long moment, Sylus stood silently, his eyes watching you with that same calculating gaze, but now there was something more in them. A flicker, almost imperceptible, but undeniable. It was vulnerability — or maybe it was the hint of something softer that you had never seen before. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by his lips set in a firm line.

"I’d like to buy this." he almost pleaded, his voice carrying some guilt when he saw that you were about to close the shop.

You nodded slowly, swallowing the lump that had suddenly lodged in your throat. You spoke, attempting to break the silence, “It’s one of my favorites.”

Sylus’s gaze held the weight of a profound realization as he stared at the record. Then, without breaking eye contact with it, he reached for his wallet. He didn’t speak as you made the bill, but his presence filled the room, as heavy as the rain pouring outside.

You carefully wrapped the vinyl in paper, fingers trembling slightly. Your mind raced, the significance of his choice not lost on you. The Chaconne wasn’t just music; it was a message. 

As you handed the record back to him, your heart pounded in your chest, a traitorous whisper creeping into your thoughts. Was this a hint? A suggestion? A gesture? Something in the way he was looking at you, something that made you wonder if — just maybe — he saw you the way she had started to see him. 

Perhaps, at that moment, he wasn’t just buying a record. 

“Good night,” he said quietly. And with that, he turned and left, disappearing into the rain, leaving you standing there, breathless and delusional. 

You had played that record for weeks since then, drowning in the music, its meaning and thoughts that rose from it. It was a classical piece, but it wasn’t just any piece. It was a song about realization — a song about a man who finally understood his own heart, his own feelings. You felt her heart flutter as you listened to the record time and time again, the faint hope in your chest blooming into something fragile, something delicate. Could he… could he be feeling what you felt? The idea seemed impossible, yet that song, that beautiful, aching song, seemed to speak directly to you. 

But hope, you knew, was a dangerous thing. And three weeks passed without a word from Sylus.

When he finally returned, he wasn’t alone. The woman who stood beside him was everything you were not, yet everything that he deserved. And that train of thought made your chest heavy. 

Where you were worn, tired, and sharp-edged from too many years of surviving, this woman was light. She radiated warmth, a gentle, sunlit glow that softened the shadows of the shop. Her laughter seemed to lift the very air, like the sound of spring after a long, harsh winter. 

Her hair was a golden cascade, caught in soft waves that caught the light in a way that your darker, untamed strands never could. Her skin was smooth, untouched by the world’s grime, glowing with a purity that made you feel invisible in comparison. She was the kind of woman who walked into a room and made everything seem more beautiful, more alive. Her eyes were wide, sparkling, full of kindness, and when she smiled, it was as though she were opening a door to a better world, a world you would never be invited into.

And then there was the way Sylus looked at her.

You had always been aware of Sylus’s gaze — how it lingered with a quiet intensity, how it never seemed to reach you with the same depth as it did with the woman beside him. There was a tenderness in the way he looked at her as she excitedly picked out vinyl, a softness that you had once imagined might be meant for you, but now you saw it clearly for what it was. It was a love, a real one, blooming in front of your eyes, and you could do nothing but stand in its shadow and watch it grow.

And it hurt. Oh, how it hurt. 

They selected a couple of records and she greeted you with a genuine smile, placing her picks on the counter. You wordlessly made the bill, afraid that you’d break if you even uttered a word. You watched her admire the vintage instruments with awe when a nudge to your fingers brought your gaze back to the counter. He had secretly placed a vinyl on the counter with a smile, his eyes not on you but on the woman beside him. And then, as you turned to gather the rest of their purchases, you caught a glimpse of the cover of the vinyl he had chosen without the woman’s knowledge. 

Your heart plummeted.

It was “Bridal Chorus" by Wagner. A song used in proposals, weddings.

He was going to propose to her.

Your hands trembled as you rang up their purchase, your mind reeling with the gravity of the moment. You could hear their soft laughter as you handed them the bag, could see the way Sylus looked at you, but his eyes didn’t hold the same warmth they once had. They had shifted, replaced with something else. 

Hope died slowly in your chest, like the last note of a song fading into silence. You watched as Sylus and his soon-to-be fiancée walked out of the shop, their hands still intertwined, their smiles still bright.

And in the empty silence that followed, you put on “La Traviata” by Giuseppe Verdi on your record player, sinking in the music of a love unreturned.

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