Encounterlogs
Daichis Odd Encounter Sr Castiel 250409
In the shadowy calm of a bookshop named the Little Penguin, Daichi, a solitary visitor, is unexpectedly joined by a demonborn under the soft halo of lamplight. Amidst the complex aroma of old books and sweet desserts, the tension palpably thickens with the demonborn's entrance, cutting through the still air like a cold draft. The newcomer, adorned in sunglasses and a coat stitched with dark, almost ceremonial precision, stands in stark contrast against the cozy interior of the bookshop. A smudge of blood on their lip and a trembling stance betray a deep unrest, their presence a sudden intrusion in the otherwise serene ambiance. As the figure struggles to maintain composure, revealing eyes that burn with twin embers of shame rather than malice, they express a heartfelt confession of unintended harm, encapsulated in the poignant revelation, "I didn't mean to. I thought I could stop."
Daichi, observing with a detective's keen insight, interprets the demonborn's vulnerability not as a threat but as a tragic entanglement of guilt and compulsion. Recognizing the aura of danger that simmers under the surface, he engages with the visitor not in confrontation but with a grounding presence that seeks to understand rather than judge. The conversation that unfurls between them—a delicate exchange of confessions and insights—reveals Daichi's adeptness in navigating the murky waters of moral ambiguity. His response to the demonborn's admission, "You didn't stop," he notes, "But you wanted to. That's a start," offers a glimmer of redemption, a recognition of the effort to resist one's darker instincts. As they lean into an uncertain dialogue, Daichi's solicitous inquiry, "Tell me what happened," underscores a pivotal moment of connection, a shared understanding that pierces through the solitude and despair that envelops the demonborn, setting the stage for a narrative of redemption or ruin.
(Daichi's odd encounter(SRCastiel):SRCastiel)
[Sat Apr 5 2025]
At Inside the Little Penguin bookshop and Dessert Bar
The storefront is painted a deep sapphire blue and there is a huge penguin plushie hugging books in the window along with a piles of books at it's feet. A windchime hangs above the door, letting a gentle jingle of chime noises pass through the shop from the air current as the door closes. As soon as one walks in, one can smell the comforting scent of aged paper, leather bindings as well as a hint of vanilla.
Inside, tall mahogany wood shelves line the sides of the bookstore however the central space has been left clear for an assortment of couches, armchairs and tables, allowing one to relax and enjoy their dessert or their book..
To one side, there is a counter with a new fangled till. To the other there is a curved bar that is selling a variety of treats - juices, hot chocolate, various desserts and of course coffee.
It is night, about 52F(11C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky. There is a first quarter moon.
(Your target and their allies encounter a demonborn who in the midst of sadistic lust has gone too far and is now filled with regret and self loathing at what they've done.
)
Daichi lounges in the corner of the quiet bookshop, the old leather couch creaking gently beneath his weight. Shelves rise around him like silent sentinels, dust motes dancing in the shafts of afternoon light filtering through the high windows. In one hand, a half-full glass of wine catches the glowdeep red, like something ancient and knowing. In the other, The Art of War, worn at the edges, its spine cracked from years of handling.
Outside, the night clings to the street like a velvet shroud, thick with mist that coils through the narrow roads and rises in ghostly spirals past the streetlamps. Havens downtown has gone still, all but empty. The only movement now is the faint rustling of dead leaves against the curb, and the slow drift of fog hugging close to the pavement. From a distance, the glow of the bookshop- its windows a warm amber in the murk- shines like a lantern held between worlds.
The storefront, painted deep sapphire blue, gleams beneath the streetlight haze. Dew clings to its frame, catching the faint illumination like stars caught in navy silk. The enormous penguin plush in the display window stares out with button eyes, cradling a stack of books in its soft arms. At its feet, more titles spill like offerings in a heap- a carefully curated chaos. The wind chime above the door stirs once every few minutes with a brittle jingle, carried on the slow, uncertain breath of the fog.
Inside, the bookstore feels like a pocket of suspended time. The scent of old paper and leather mingles with the faint warmth of vanilla. A low murmur of music hums from unseen speakers, jazzy and soft, barely louder than the gentle hiss of the milk steamer behind the dessert bar. The glow of hanging lights- golden and dim- casts halos against the high ceiling, illuminating dust motes as they drift in lazy spirals between the towering mahogany shelves.
The central space, ringed by those silent guardians of literature, is scattered with mismatched couches and armchairs. Some are threadbare, others pristine, but all look well-loved. A curved dessert bar lines one side, glittering behind glass with delicate cakes, miniature tarts, soft pastries glistening under glaze. The espresso machine sits idle now, its last hiss of steam having already died away. A few mugs rest in the dish rack, their rims catching the light like tiny moons.
Only a single customer remains this late: Daichi, nestled into the old leather couch in the corner, half-silhouetted by the lamplight over his shoulder. The red of the wine in his glass glows like garnet, flickering slightly in his hand. The book- well-read, broken-spined- rests easily in his other hand. The shop around him is still, held in the kind of silence that only deep night can conjure. It's not unpleasant. But it is dense. Thick with the hush of something coiling beneath it, something waiting. The woman behind the dessert bar- young, tired, flipping through a paperback romance- finally stretches and heads into the back, leaving the front unmanned.
And then the door chime rings.
Not the gentle clatter it gave earlier, when Daichi entered. This time, it sounds strange. The tone is the same, but drawn out somehow, distorted. As if struck underwater. The wind that follows the opening is colder than it should be. A figure enters, half-shadowed by the fog that presses in behind them. They are tall. Lean. The kind of lean that suggests muscle held too tightly, like a wire drawn taut. Their coat- long, charcoal black- is buttoned high, the collar turned up against the chill. Dark gloves hide their hands. Their boots barely make a sound against the wood floor.
But what strikes first is the sunglasses. Midnight. Indoors. No light beyond the bookshops amber glow, yet they wear thick, matte-lensed glasses that reflect nothing. Their face is pale. Beautiful, almost- classically so, sculpted features, symmetrical and fine. But there's a tension in it, the look of someone brittle around the edges, someone afraid to move too quickly.
They pause just past the threshold. The door swings slowly closed behind them, the fog curling along the floor like smoke. A moment passes. Then another. And still they stand there, unmoving. No one speaks. The jazz continues to play. There is something brittle in the air now, something faintly metallic. Not a smell exactly- more like the sensation of metal resting on the tongue. Ozone. Blood. Copper. The figure lifts a hand to the glasses but doesnt remove them. Their fingers twitch. Then curl again. Behind them, the fog presses against the windows like eager hands.
They step forward. Just a few paces. Enough for the soft lighting to fall across their face more clearly. Their mouth is slightly parted. There's something on their lip. Not gloss. Something darker. Faint, but unmistakable.
Blood.
Their breath hitches.
And then they stagger.
Not violently, but suddenly. Like a string pulled too tight has snapped. One hand grabs a nearby bookshelf for balance, their knuckles pale against the grain. Their shoulders rise and fall with effort, as though simply standing upright is a battle. From behind the lenses, a faint flicker- red. Brief. Then gone. They are not well. That much is clear. And yet whatever they are- whatever this presence is that has stepped into the quiet sanctuary of books and sugar and wine- it is not harmless.
And Daichi is not alone anymore.
For a long moment, the figure does not move from where they lean against the shelf. Their breath escapes in shallow bursts, fogging faintly in the air. Whatever cold clings to the night outside seems to have come in with them- a chill that no heater can quite push away. The soft hum of the jazz loop crackles for a beat as though uncertain, wavering as it drifts through the haze.
The demonborn straightens slowly, as if every muscle protests. Their coat shifts with the motion, revealing more of the dark, almost ceremonial stitching that runs down its length- a pattern not merely decorative, but precise, symmetrical. The kind of craftsmanship born from obsession. It gleams faintly with thread too dark to be black, too iridescent to be silk. Their face remains unreadable behind the lenses. But they do not approach the counter. Nor do
The demonborn straightens slowly, as if every muscle protests. Their coat shifts with the motion, revealing more of the dark, almost ceremonial stitching that runs down its length- a pattern not merely decorative, but precise, symmetrical. The kind of craftsmanship born from obsession. It gleams faintly with thread too dark to be black, too iridescent to be silk. Their face remains unreadable behind the lenses. But they do not approach the counter. Nor do they browse. Instead, they turn slightly, orienting toward the central lounge area of the shop. Toward the couches. Toward Daichi.
Their steps are slow. Measured. A whisper of movement against the hardwood. Up close, they seem even more human- too human, almost. Their skin is flawless, unscarred. Their features are soft despite the sharpness of cheek and jaw, and their mouth, stained with a faint smear of red, quivers at the corners. Not with anger. Not with hunger. But with restraint. They reach the edge of the lounge area and stop again, as if unsure whether they are allowed in. Then, with a jerking motion, the sunglasses are lifted.
Beneath them, the demonborn's eyes blaze. Not figuratively. They burn. Twin embers, pulsing within otherwise human sockets. The sclera are blackened, the irises ringed in gold that moves like liquid heat. No pupils. Just fire. Controlled, barely. And in the depths of that fire is something far worse than rage: shame. Loathing. A drowning man begging the sea to let him sink. Their gaze does not fix on Daichi directly, but rather past him, into the middle distance. Their voice, when it finally emerges, is raw and tight.
"I'm not... here to hurt anyone." The words sound strange coming from them. A vow made too late. A plea thrown into a void. One hand reaches up and presses tightly against their sternum, as though trying to suppress something beneath their skin. Veins crawl faintly along their neck, pulsing with a dark red glow for a moment before vanishing. "I didnt mean to. I thought I could stop."
Another step back. They brush against the shelves, knocking a single book to the floor. It hits with a dull, final sound. Their breathing grows harsher. Quicker. The demonborn lowers themselves slowly into a chair opposite Daichi's couch, limbs trembling with each controlled motion. They curl forward, elbows on knees, face in their gloved hands. Their coat falls open slightly as they move, revealing a streak of something dark down the front of their shirt. Not blood. Not entirely. It shimmers wrong under the light.
"They begged." It is unclear whether they mean that in horror or in grief. The silence that follows is suffocating. Jazz warbles quietly in the background, a saxophone trill drifting lonely through the haze. Outside, the fog presses harder against the glass. The demonborn doesn't raise their eyes again. The flames are hidden once more behind their fingers. All that remains is their breathing. And the feeling that something very old and very dangerous is unraveling in slow, quiet spirals before them.
Daichi doesnt speak at first. Doesnt move, either. He just watchesthe way someone trained to read a room learns to. Not with alarm, but with precision. His gaze traces the trembling in the demonborns hands, the strange shimmer staining their shirt, the way their breath catches like something caged and cornered. someone
Daichi doesnt speak at first. Doesnt move, either. He just watchesthe way someone trained to read a room learns to. Not with alarm, but with precision. His gaze traces the trembling in the demonborns hands, the strange shimmer staining their shirt, the way their breath catches like something caged and cornered. someone someone Theres danger here. But it isnt loud. Its the kind that simmers just beneath the skin, the kind people mistake for weakness until it turns on them. And yet Daichi doesnt feel afraid. Hes known monsters. Served beside them. Served under them. This is different. This one doesnt wear their hunger like armor. They wear it like guilt. someone someone He lowers his gaze briefly, then reaches down to set his wine glass on the floor beside the couch. His fingers linger on the stem. A small ritual. A centering breath. Not for fearhes long past fearbut for clarity. Control, after all, is about timing. And something in this moment is shifting. He can feel it, like a fault line just beginning to stretch beneath his feet. someone someone "If you were here to hurt anyone," he says finally, voice low and deliberate, "you wouldn't be sitting down. Youd be running. Or I'd be standing." someone someone He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and lets the weight of his gaze settlenot harsh, not cold. Just present. Alert. Like still water that hasnt forgotten the feel of stone. someone someone The silence hangs between them, suspended like breath in winter. someone someone "You didnt stop," Daichi says, softer now. "But you wanted to. Thats a start." someone someone He doesnt offer comfort. Not yet. Comfort is something you earnor at the very least, survive for. But theres no judgment in him either. Just a steady, measured quiet. someone someone He tilts his head, subtly, a trace of the old detectives reflex still echoing in his posture. His mind is already pulling threads, trying to shape a narrative from the fragments laid bare before him. Fire for eyes. Shame in the voice. Restraint in the posture. Whatever they are, whatever theyve doneit wasn't clean. And it wasnt simple. someone someone "Tell me what happened," he murmurs. "Not the worst of it. Just the part that made you sit down." someone someone And though he says nothing more, the question behind the question remains, coiled in the space between them like a shadow: And what exactly am I supposed to do with you now?
Daichi doesnt speak at first. Doesnt move, either. He just watchesthe way someone trained to read a room learns to. Not with alarm, but with precision. His gaze traces the trembling in the demonborns hands, the strange shimmer staining their shirt, the way their breath catches like something caged and cornered. someone Theres danger here. But it isnt loud. Its the kind that simmers just beneath the skin, the kind people mistake for weakness until it turns on them. And yet Daichi doesnt feel afraid. Hes known monsters. Served beside them. Served under them. This is different. This one doesnt wear their hunger like armor. They wear it like guilt. someone He lowers his gaze briefly, then reaches down to set his wine glass on the floor beside the couch. His fingers linger on the stem. A small ritual. A centering breath. Not for fearhes long past fearbut for clarity. Control, after all, is about timing. And something in this moment is shifting. He can feel it, like a fault line just beginning to stretch beneath his feet. someone "If you were here to hurt anyone," he says finally, voice low and deliberate, "you wouldn't be sitting down. Youd be running. Or I'd be standing." someone He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and lets the weight of his gaze settlenot harsh, not cold. Just present. Alert. Like still water that hasnt forgotten the feel of stone. someone The silence hangs between them, suspended like breath in winter. someone someone "You didnt stop," Daichi says, softer now. "But you wanted to. Thats a start." someone He doesnt offer comfort. Not yet. Comfort is something you earnor at the very least, survive for. But theres no judgment in him either. Just a steady, measured quiet. someone someone He tilts his head, subtly, a trace of the old detectives reflex still echoing in his posture. His mind is already pulling threads, trying to shape a narrative from the fragments laid bare before him. Fire for eyes. Shame in the voice. Restraint in the posture. Whatever they are, whatever theyve doneit wasn't clean. And it wasnt simple. someone "Tell me what happened," he murmurs. "Not the worst of it. Just the part that made you sit down." someone And though he says nothing more, the question behind the question remains, coiled in the space between them like a shadow: And what exactly am I supposed to do with you now?
Daichi doesnt speak at first. Doesnt move, either. He just watchesthe way someone trained to read a room learns to. Not with alarm, but with precision. His gaze traces the trembling in the demonborns hands, the strange shimmer staining their shirt, the way their breath catches like something caged and cornered. Theres danger here. But it isnt loud. Its the kind that simmers just beneath the skin, the kind people mistake for weakness until it turns on them. And yet Daichi doesnt feel afraid. Hes known monsters. Served beside them. Served under them. This is different. This one doesnt wear their hunger like armor. They wear it like guilt. He lowers his gaze briefly, then reaches down to set his wine glass on the floor beside the couch. His fingers linger on the stem. A small ritual. A centering breath. Not for fearhes long past fearbut for clarity. Control, after all, is about timing. And something in this moment is shifting. He can feel it, like a fault line just beginning to stretch beneath his feet. "If you were here to hurt anyone," he says finally, voice low and deliberate, "you wouldn't be sitting down. Youd be running. Or I'd be standing." He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and lets the weight of his gaze settlenot harsh, not cold. Just present. Alert. Like still water that hasnt forgotten the feel of stone. The silence hangs between them, suspended like breath in winter. "You didnt stop," Daichi says, softer now. "But you wanted to. Thats a start." He doesnt offer comfort. Not yet. Comfort is something you earnor at the very least, survive for. But theres no judgment in him either. Just a steady, measured quiet. He tilts his head, subtly, a trace of the old detectives reflex still echoing in his posture. His mind is already pulling threads, trying to shape a narrative from the fragments laid bare before him. Fire for eyes. Shame in the voice. Restraint in the posture. Whatever they are, whatever theyve doneit wasn't clean. And it wasnt simple. "Tell me what happened," he murmurs. "Not the worst of it. Just the part that made you sit down." And though he says nothing more, the question behind the question remains, coiled in the space between them like a shadow: And what exactly am I supposed to do with you now?
Daichi, observing with a detective's keen insight, interprets the demonborn's vulnerability not as a threat but as a tragic entanglement of guilt and compulsion. Recognizing the aura of danger that simmers under the surface, he engages with the visitor not in confrontation but with a grounding presence that seeks to understand rather than judge. The conversation that unfurls between them—a delicate exchange of confessions and insights—reveals Daichi's adeptness in navigating the murky waters of moral ambiguity. His response to the demonborn's admission, "You didn't stop," he notes, "But you wanted to. That's a start," offers a glimmer of redemption, a recognition of the effort to resist one's darker instincts. As they lean into an uncertain dialogue, Daichi's solicitous inquiry, "Tell me what happened," underscores a pivotal moment of connection, a shared understanding that pierces through the solitude and despair that envelops the demonborn, setting the stage for a narrative of redemption or ruin.
(Daichi's odd encounter(SRCastiel):SRCastiel)
[Sat Apr 5 2025]
At Inside the Little Penguin bookshop and Dessert Bar
The storefront is painted a deep sapphire blue and there is a huge penguin plushie hugging books in the window along with a piles of books at it's feet. A windchime hangs above the door, letting a gentle jingle of chime noises pass through the shop from the air current as the door closes. As soon as one walks in, one can smell the comforting scent of aged paper, leather bindings as well as a hint of vanilla.
Inside, tall mahogany wood shelves line the sides of the bookstore however the central space has been left clear for an assortment of couches, armchairs and tables, allowing one to relax and enjoy their dessert or their book..
To one side, there is a counter with a new fangled till. To the other there is a curved bar that is selling a variety of treats - juices, hot chocolate, various desserts and of course coffee.
It is night, about 52F(11C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky. There is a first quarter moon.
(Your target and their allies encounter a demonborn who in the midst of sadistic lust has gone too far and is now filled with regret and self loathing at what they've done.
)
Daichi lounges in the corner of the quiet bookshop, the old leather couch creaking gently beneath his weight. Shelves rise around him like silent sentinels, dust motes dancing in the shafts of afternoon light filtering through the high windows. In one hand, a half-full glass of wine catches the glowdeep red, like something ancient and knowing. In the other, The Art of War, worn at the edges, its spine cracked from years of handling.
Outside, the night clings to the street like a velvet shroud, thick with mist that coils through the narrow roads and rises in ghostly spirals past the streetlamps. Havens downtown has gone still, all but empty. The only movement now is the faint rustling of dead leaves against the curb, and the slow drift of fog hugging close to the pavement. From a distance, the glow of the bookshop- its windows a warm amber in the murk- shines like a lantern held between worlds.
The storefront, painted deep sapphire blue, gleams beneath the streetlight haze. Dew clings to its frame, catching the faint illumination like stars caught in navy silk. The enormous penguin plush in the display window stares out with button eyes, cradling a stack of books in its soft arms. At its feet, more titles spill like offerings in a heap- a carefully curated chaos. The wind chime above the door stirs once every few minutes with a brittle jingle, carried on the slow, uncertain breath of the fog.
Inside, the bookstore feels like a pocket of suspended time. The scent of old paper and leather mingles with the faint warmth of vanilla. A low murmur of music hums from unseen speakers, jazzy and soft, barely louder than the gentle hiss of the milk steamer behind the dessert bar. The glow of hanging lights- golden and dim- casts halos against the high ceiling, illuminating dust motes as they drift in lazy spirals between the towering mahogany shelves.
The central space, ringed by those silent guardians of literature, is scattered with mismatched couches and armchairs. Some are threadbare, others pristine, but all look well-loved. A curved dessert bar lines one side, glittering behind glass with delicate cakes, miniature tarts, soft pastries glistening under glaze. The espresso machine sits idle now, its last hiss of steam having already died away. A few mugs rest in the dish rack, their rims catching the light like tiny moons.
Only a single customer remains this late: Daichi, nestled into the old leather couch in the corner, half-silhouetted by the lamplight over his shoulder. The red of the wine in his glass glows like garnet, flickering slightly in his hand. The book- well-read, broken-spined- rests easily in his other hand. The shop around him is still, held in the kind of silence that only deep night can conjure. It's not unpleasant. But it is dense. Thick with the hush of something coiling beneath it, something waiting. The woman behind the dessert bar- young, tired, flipping through a paperback romance- finally stretches and heads into the back, leaving the front unmanned.
And then the door chime rings.
Not the gentle clatter it gave earlier, when Daichi entered. This time, it sounds strange. The tone is the same, but drawn out somehow, distorted. As if struck underwater. The wind that follows the opening is colder than it should be. A figure enters, half-shadowed by the fog that presses in behind them. They are tall. Lean. The kind of lean that suggests muscle held too tightly, like a wire drawn taut. Their coat- long, charcoal black- is buttoned high, the collar turned up against the chill. Dark gloves hide their hands. Their boots barely make a sound against the wood floor.
But what strikes first is the sunglasses. Midnight. Indoors. No light beyond the bookshops amber glow, yet they wear thick, matte-lensed glasses that reflect nothing. Their face is pale. Beautiful, almost- classically so, sculpted features, symmetrical and fine. But there's a tension in it, the look of someone brittle around the edges, someone afraid to move too quickly.
They pause just past the threshold. The door swings slowly closed behind them, the fog curling along the floor like smoke. A moment passes. Then another. And still they stand there, unmoving. No one speaks. The jazz continues to play. There is something brittle in the air now, something faintly metallic. Not a smell exactly- more like the sensation of metal resting on the tongue. Ozone. Blood. Copper. The figure lifts a hand to the glasses but doesnt remove them. Their fingers twitch. Then curl again. Behind them, the fog presses against the windows like eager hands.
They step forward. Just a few paces. Enough for the soft lighting to fall across their face more clearly. Their mouth is slightly parted. There's something on their lip. Not gloss. Something darker. Faint, but unmistakable.
Blood.
Their breath hitches.
And then they stagger.
Not violently, but suddenly. Like a string pulled too tight has snapped. One hand grabs a nearby bookshelf for balance, their knuckles pale against the grain. Their shoulders rise and fall with effort, as though simply standing upright is a battle. From behind the lenses, a faint flicker- red. Brief. Then gone. They are not well. That much is clear. And yet whatever they are- whatever this presence is that has stepped into the quiet sanctuary of books and sugar and wine- it is not harmless.
And Daichi is not alone anymore.
For a long moment, the figure does not move from where they lean against the shelf. Their breath escapes in shallow bursts, fogging faintly in the air. Whatever cold clings to the night outside seems to have come in with them- a chill that no heater can quite push away. The soft hum of the jazz loop crackles for a beat as though uncertain, wavering as it drifts through the haze.
The demonborn straightens slowly, as if every muscle protests. Their coat shifts with the motion, revealing more of the dark, almost ceremonial stitching that runs down its length- a pattern not merely decorative, but precise, symmetrical. The kind of craftsmanship born from obsession. It gleams faintly with thread too dark to be black, too iridescent to be silk. Their face remains unreadable behind the lenses. But they do not approach the counter. Nor do
The demonborn straightens slowly, as if every muscle protests. Their coat shifts with the motion, revealing more of the dark, almost ceremonial stitching that runs down its length- a pattern not merely decorative, but precise, symmetrical. The kind of craftsmanship born from obsession. It gleams faintly with thread too dark to be black, too iridescent to be silk. Their face remains unreadable behind the lenses. But they do not approach the counter. Nor do they browse. Instead, they turn slightly, orienting toward the central lounge area of the shop. Toward the couches. Toward Daichi.
Their steps are slow. Measured. A whisper of movement against the hardwood. Up close, they seem even more human- too human, almost. Their skin is flawless, unscarred. Their features are soft despite the sharpness of cheek and jaw, and their mouth, stained with a faint smear of red, quivers at the corners. Not with anger. Not with hunger. But with restraint. They reach the edge of the lounge area and stop again, as if unsure whether they are allowed in. Then, with a jerking motion, the sunglasses are lifted.
Beneath them, the demonborn's eyes blaze. Not figuratively. They burn. Twin embers, pulsing within otherwise human sockets. The sclera are blackened, the irises ringed in gold that moves like liquid heat. No pupils. Just fire. Controlled, barely. And in the depths of that fire is something far worse than rage: shame. Loathing. A drowning man begging the sea to let him sink. Their gaze does not fix on Daichi directly, but rather past him, into the middle distance. Their voice, when it finally emerges, is raw and tight.
"I'm not... here to hurt anyone." The words sound strange coming from them. A vow made too late. A plea thrown into a void. One hand reaches up and presses tightly against their sternum, as though trying to suppress something beneath their skin. Veins crawl faintly along their neck, pulsing with a dark red glow for a moment before vanishing. "I didnt mean to. I thought I could stop."
Another step back. They brush against the shelves, knocking a single book to the floor. It hits with a dull, final sound. Their breathing grows harsher. Quicker. The demonborn lowers themselves slowly into a chair opposite Daichi's couch, limbs trembling with each controlled motion. They curl forward, elbows on knees, face in their gloved hands. Their coat falls open slightly as they move, revealing a streak of something dark down the front of their shirt. Not blood. Not entirely. It shimmers wrong under the light.
"They begged." It is unclear whether they mean that in horror or in grief. The silence that follows is suffocating. Jazz warbles quietly in the background, a saxophone trill drifting lonely through the haze. Outside, the fog presses harder against the glass. The demonborn doesn't raise their eyes again. The flames are hidden once more behind their fingers. All that remains is their breathing. And the feeling that something very old and very dangerous is unraveling in slow, quiet spirals before them.
Daichi doesnt speak at first. Doesnt move, either. He just watchesthe way someone trained to read a room learns to. Not with alarm, but with precision. His gaze traces the trembling in the demonborns hands, the strange shimmer staining their shirt, the way their breath catches like something caged and cornered. someone
Daichi doesnt speak at first. Doesnt move, either. He just watchesthe way someone trained to read a room learns to. Not with alarm, but with precision. His gaze traces the trembling in the demonborns hands, the strange shimmer staining their shirt, the way their breath catches like something caged and cornered. someone someone Theres danger here. But it isnt loud. Its the kind that simmers just beneath the skin, the kind people mistake for weakness until it turns on them. And yet Daichi doesnt feel afraid. Hes known monsters. Served beside them. Served under them. This is different. This one doesnt wear their hunger like armor. They wear it like guilt. someone someone He lowers his gaze briefly, then reaches down to set his wine glass on the floor beside the couch. His fingers linger on the stem. A small ritual. A centering breath. Not for fearhes long past fearbut for clarity. Control, after all, is about timing. And something in this moment is shifting. He can feel it, like a fault line just beginning to stretch beneath his feet. someone someone "If you were here to hurt anyone," he says finally, voice low and deliberate, "you wouldn't be sitting down. Youd be running. Or I'd be standing." someone someone He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and lets the weight of his gaze settlenot harsh, not cold. Just present. Alert. Like still water that hasnt forgotten the feel of stone. someone someone The silence hangs between them, suspended like breath in winter. someone someone "You didnt stop," Daichi says, softer now. "But you wanted to. Thats a start." someone someone He doesnt offer comfort. Not yet. Comfort is something you earnor at the very least, survive for. But theres no judgment in him either. Just a steady, measured quiet. someone someone He tilts his head, subtly, a trace of the old detectives reflex still echoing in his posture. His mind is already pulling threads, trying to shape a narrative from the fragments laid bare before him. Fire for eyes. Shame in the voice. Restraint in the posture. Whatever they are, whatever theyve doneit wasn't clean. And it wasnt simple. someone someone "Tell me what happened," he murmurs. "Not the worst of it. Just the part that made you sit down." someone someone And though he says nothing more, the question behind the question remains, coiled in the space between them like a shadow: And what exactly am I supposed to do with you now?
Daichi doesnt speak at first. Doesnt move, either. He just watchesthe way someone trained to read a room learns to. Not with alarm, but with precision. His gaze traces the trembling in the demonborns hands, the strange shimmer staining their shirt, the way their breath catches like something caged and cornered. someone Theres danger here. But it isnt loud. Its the kind that simmers just beneath the skin, the kind people mistake for weakness until it turns on them. And yet Daichi doesnt feel afraid. Hes known monsters. Served beside them. Served under them. This is different. This one doesnt wear their hunger like armor. They wear it like guilt. someone He lowers his gaze briefly, then reaches down to set his wine glass on the floor beside the couch. His fingers linger on the stem. A small ritual. A centering breath. Not for fearhes long past fearbut for clarity. Control, after all, is about timing. And something in this moment is shifting. He can feel it, like a fault line just beginning to stretch beneath his feet. someone "If you were here to hurt anyone," he says finally, voice low and deliberate, "you wouldn't be sitting down. Youd be running. Or I'd be standing." someone He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and lets the weight of his gaze settlenot harsh, not cold. Just present. Alert. Like still water that hasnt forgotten the feel of stone. someone The silence hangs between them, suspended like breath in winter. someone someone "You didnt stop," Daichi says, softer now. "But you wanted to. Thats a start." someone He doesnt offer comfort. Not yet. Comfort is something you earnor at the very least, survive for. But theres no judgment in him either. Just a steady, measured quiet. someone someone He tilts his head, subtly, a trace of the old detectives reflex still echoing in his posture. His mind is already pulling threads, trying to shape a narrative from the fragments laid bare before him. Fire for eyes. Shame in the voice. Restraint in the posture. Whatever they are, whatever theyve doneit wasn't clean. And it wasnt simple. someone "Tell me what happened," he murmurs. "Not the worst of it. Just the part that made you sit down." someone And though he says nothing more, the question behind the question remains, coiled in the space between them like a shadow: And what exactly am I supposed to do with you now?
Daichi doesnt speak at first. Doesnt move, either. He just watchesthe way someone trained to read a room learns to. Not with alarm, but with precision. His gaze traces the trembling in the demonborns hands, the strange shimmer staining their shirt, the way their breath catches like something caged and cornered. Theres danger here. But it isnt loud. Its the kind that simmers just beneath the skin, the kind people mistake for weakness until it turns on them. And yet Daichi doesnt feel afraid. Hes known monsters. Served beside them. Served under them. This is different. This one doesnt wear their hunger like armor. They wear it like guilt. He lowers his gaze briefly, then reaches down to set his wine glass on the floor beside the couch. His fingers linger on the stem. A small ritual. A centering breath. Not for fearhes long past fearbut for clarity. Control, after all, is about timing. And something in this moment is shifting. He can feel it, like a fault line just beginning to stretch beneath his feet. "If you were here to hurt anyone," he says finally, voice low and deliberate, "you wouldn't be sitting down. Youd be running. Or I'd be standing." He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and lets the weight of his gaze settlenot harsh, not cold. Just present. Alert. Like still water that hasnt forgotten the feel of stone. The silence hangs between them, suspended like breath in winter. "You didnt stop," Daichi says, softer now. "But you wanted to. Thats a start." He doesnt offer comfort. Not yet. Comfort is something you earnor at the very least, survive for. But theres no judgment in him either. Just a steady, measured quiet. He tilts his head, subtly, a trace of the old detectives reflex still echoing in his posture. His mind is already pulling threads, trying to shape a narrative from the fragments laid bare before him. Fire for eyes. Shame in the voice. Restraint in the posture. Whatever they are, whatever theyve doneit wasn't clean. And it wasnt simple. "Tell me what happened," he murmurs. "Not the worst of it. Just the part that made you sit down." And though he says nothing more, the question behind the question remains, coiled in the space between them like a shadow: And what exactly am I supposed to do with you now?