Encounterlogs
Daichis Odd Encounter Sr Ruprecht 250419
In the quiescent ambiance of the Lodge, Daichi found his evening peace disturbed by an unsettling presence at the bar's end. A figure, afflicted and ghostly, clawed desperately at his own skin, manifesting a scene of sorrow more than terror. This individual, clad in the mundane attire of a blue collar, bore the marks of an existence fraught with torment—his body emaciated, his demeanor enveloped in the silent screams of a soul lost to despondence. Despite the bar's patrons' deliberate ignorance towards this ghoulish figure, Daichi, moved by a compassionate curiosity, approached. He discovered a man wrestled away from humanity's grasp by vampiric subjugation, now teetering on the edge of reality and the abyss that is un-death.
Daichi's interaction with the stricken soul unraveled a narrative of profound melancholy and enslavement. The man, a former thrall to a vampire's will, struggled with the semblances of his past life and the haunting emptiness of his current existence. His body bore the scars of self-inflicted wounds, an endeavor to feel or perhaps to reclaim autonomy over the flesh now governed by a parasitic master. With poignant lucidity, the man conveyed his yearning for freedom, a sentiment encapsulated in the aimless hope of one day reclaiming the life that was usurped by his captor—a creature of night whose beauty was as entrancing as its heart was devoid of mercy. Daichi, offering a semblance of solace, left the man with words of encouragement towards self-liberation, though the vampire's appearance signaled the unyielding grip she held over her thrall. As the ghoul departed with the vampire, Daichi's encounter underscored the haunting realization that within the shadows of the mundane, tormented souls wage silent battles for their emancipation.
(Daichi's odd encounter(SRRuprecht):SRRuprecht)
[Fri Apr 18 2025]
At the bar
This well lit area is home to a long, polished bar that stretches from
west to east along the centermost portion of the northern wall. A number of
refrigerators and shelves within have been filled with various drinks and
town memorabilia for display, but the large head of a black bear mounted
higher on the wall attracts more attention. Food for the bar is prepared on
a cast iron cooking surface behind the bar, but well within sight of
patrons. It's so large that several different meals can all be cooked at
the same time.
Starting to the side of the Lodge's entrance to the north, several booths
follow the old hardwood walls and wrap around the pool tables to the east.
Their sequence is only interrupted there by the exit to the courtyard in the
distance.
A small HD flatscreen television hangs in the southwestern corner, open to
sight for all of those at the bar.
It is after dusk, about 59F(15C) degrees, There is a last quarter moon.
Daichi takesa last sip from his glass before placing it down on the bar, along with money and rising to his feet and surveying the bar.
(Your target and their allies encounter the former thrall of a vampire who has run away from their previous master. Probably at least slightly mind controlled they're likely confused and struggling with their decision. The characters need to either help them found a new life, or send them back to their owner.
)
The Lodge. Home of many, particularly the transients and the everyday men. A coffee house at heart, one with dusty sandwiches that many complain about, no less stale than the pool hall hidden behind that threshold, where some few would know they keep the liquor stashed away. Daichi finds himself at a slow hour, he's one of maybe four individuals besides the waitstaff that seem to never tire. It's a peaceful aura, nothing truly terrible ever seems to befall this place. For that exact reason, many would fall in line to the lodge at the first sign of danger, trouble, or impending doom. It was here that the first prophecies of the end came to pass, and here, likely, would be the gathering point of Haven's end, should the twelve year prophecy come in due time.
Due to the scant crowd, Daichi would no doubt notice the lingering retch at the far end of the same bar he peers down. Pallid, looking sick. Ghoulish, really, green skin in some places, yellowing with jaundice. There's a shake to him, the sort you'd spy on an individual completely corrupted by delusion. It almost looks like he's playing with himself at first, come to find that he's actually digging at his wrists with long, sharp, fingernails, bleeding into his own lap. Daichi wouldn't notice any off-center smells, but others might've. He's wearing blue collar clothes, literally. A polo shirt, khaki pants, a pair of loafers. All seem as though they've been stale for weeks, never cleaned, never removed.
Other than the frantic scraping at that unseen itch, there's not a single part of his body that moves. Not the slack jaw, not the droopy, sleepless eyes. Not the curved, unpostured back. Not the feet propped up on a barstool's ridge. He's still. Lifeless. Looks truly hopeless. Lost, but not looking to be found. Why he's here, why he's being so dramatic, left unspoken, and unsightly. He's a sick puppy, though, that's for sure. He's wasting away with some form of hunger, perhaps illness, or even feeding sickness. Gaunt flesh. Sunken cheeks. Pronounced bones. You've seen people like this in Haven before, no doubt, but rarely so public. Most would be smarter than to expose Venice so unfortunately.
What makes it worse is that no one says a thing. Nobody walks over. Not even a glance for more than a few seconds. It's like he's a ghost, or worse, like people are scared that acknowledging him would bring whatever curse he carries too close for comfort. He twitches sometimes, not just the fingers at his wrists, but his eyes will roll like he's dreaming while awake. Every now and then, a rattling breath leaves his chest, dry like a wind scraping across a grave. But still, nobody stirs. Even the old jukebox in the corner's gone quiet, as if the room knows not to compete with the noise he's making in silence. There's something wrong with him, way wrong, and it sits like lead in the stomach if you look too long.
Still, he's there. Not saying a word. Not asking for help. Not making a scene. Just unraveling in full view of anyone willing to see. He seems like he wants to be left alone, but something in Daichi suggests otherwise.
Daichi doesn't move right away. He lets the silence settle over him like dust, the kind that clings to boots after too many miles walked with no destination in mind. His gaze drifts, not directly toward the man, but near enough to keep him framed in the corner of his awareness. Theres something wrong in that corner of the roomsomething deeper than illness. It scratches at the back of his neck like a memory trying to crawl free. He exhales through his nose, slow and steady, before pushing back from his seat with the soft scrape of chair legs on aged floorboards. He crosses the space between them without hurry, the clink of his boots the only sound bold enough to challenge the stillness. He doesnt sit beside the man. Nohe stops just short, leaning one arm on the bar like hes been there a thousand times before, like this isnt the first time hes seen someone slipping between the cracks. He glances toward the mans lap, just briefly, then up again, eyes half-lidded, voice low enough that it feels like a shared secret. "Long night? Or just been a while since your last... meal?" He lets the word settle, soft but deliberate, like a coin dropped in water. A beat passes, then he adds with the ghost of a smirk, "I hear the sandwiches arent worth dying for."
Drip. Drop. Drop. Plunk. A stray bit've flesh lands on the floor. The man in blue doesn't even look up, but he flinches hard. As soon as those boots hit the floor, his own loafers slide off the stoolbar and impact with a more impotent thumpfh. Like he'd split at a moment's notice. Flight of plight, off into the deadening night. But he doesn't move. Not yet. His jaw tenses. His fingers dig deeper. Down to the first knuckle, Daichi might notice, now that he's closer. This man's still dying. Trying to find himself. Figure out what exactly's left behind, if anything's left at all of who he once was.
"Food..." Comes a whisper, barely even audible, spoken forward straight at the bartop. "Food has no meaning, it feels like. Maybe nothing does. Where... am I?" Asks the dissociated voice, begging for answers straight from the soul. No, he really has no idea. He's been here for hours, and hours, maybe days, really. Unnoticed. Unwanted. Unseen, as if truly abandoned by everything and everyone that once seemed so close. A man like this probably had a family once, he's about that age. Just arriving at the critical period of a flourishing life, and nothing of it still seems the same. He might even have had a child or two. About thirty years old, if the features can be trusted.
Finally, he looks up, at Daichi. "Have we met before?" Comes an odd question, not too uncommon of amnesiacs intruded upon by curious bystanders. "Haven. Haven Township. Why I never..." Never wanted to come here. Never wanted it to be like this. A chill runs down his spine, and the bleeding stops at once. He withdraws all three fingers, looking them over with a clear concern. The wounds begin to seal at once, like hundreds before now. "Nothing's worth dying for, is it? Not really. I was to retire by sixty. To see them flourish," He doesn't keep rambling for a minute or two. Hell, he's basically talking to himself, muttering like a madman. Daichi just happens to be receptive to the audio loop. "I don't. Understand. What's happening to me. They didn't... they didn't... they... they... they..."
His voice stutters out, caught in a swirl of something between dread and disbelief, like he?s only now realizing how long he?s been lost. Not just in place, but in purpose. One of those souls caught in between pages, left out of the chapter they were supposed to belong to. A cold tremble takes his shoulders. His whole frame looks ready to collapse. ?There was a bell,? he says, voice cracking mid-sentence, ?A bell they rang before feeding. Loud. Echoed in your ribs. You?d feel it before you heard it. Like thunder from inside. I still hear it sometimes. I think? I think it?s still ringing.?
He wipes the blood across the bar unconsciously, like he doesn?t even know it?s his, smearing it into the wood with wide, deliberate circles, over and over. He watches it like it?s telling him something, like a scripture only he?s meant to read. ?She was beautiful,? he says suddenly. ?The one that kept me. Eyes like polished stone. Like they didn?t need to blink. Like they were past blinking. She knew your name before you did. You understand that? You?d forget your own reflection before she?d forget your face.?
His laugh is sudden, but not from joy. There?s nothing joyous here. Just the kind of bitter chuckle a man makes when he realizes a joke?s been played on him so long he forgot the punchline. ?Ran so far I stopped feeling the ground. Thought if I made it out, I?d feel the sun again. That?s all. Just the sun. Warmth. But now I?m here. And it?s all stale. I don?t even think I made it out. I think I?m just dying somewhere, and this is the bleed-off. The nothing between the now and the end.?
He slumps further, forehead nearly brushing the bar. ?I didn't want this. I didn?t sign up for this. I was told I'd be kept. Protected. I didn?t know I was giving it all away. That every day would be her day. Every night, her hour. That my dreams wouldn?t be mine. That my mouth wouldn?t speak my thoughts. And now?now I don?t even know if this voice is mine anymore. If I?m just mouthing the last thing she said.?
He turns his head, sluggishly, until his bloodshot eyes meet Daichi?s again. ?So tell me, stranger. You got that look. That look like you've seen something like this before. You know where the road ends for things like me? Do I get to walk free? Or do I go crawling back to the teeth??
He doesn?t wait for the answer. Not right away. He just stares. Waiting. Wishing for one truth to take root in his head. One thing to hang on to. One thing to make the humming in his skull stop.
fucked that up in the word doc edit. curses.
(Re requested) Drip. Drop. Drop. Plunk. A stray bit've flesh lands on the floor. The man in blue doesn't even look up, but he flinches hard. As soon as those boots hit the floor, his own loafers slide off the stoolbar and impact with a more impotent thumpfh. Like he'd split at a moment's notice. Flight of plight, off into the deadening night. But he doesn't move. Not yet. His jaw tenses. His fingers dig deeper. Down to the first knuckle, Daichi might notice, now that he's closer. This man's still dying. Trying to find himself. Figure out what exactly's left behind, if anything's left at all of who he once was.
"Food..." Comes a whisper, barely even audible, spoken forward straight at the bartop. "Food has no meaning, it feels like. Maybe nothing does. Where... am I?" Asks the dissociated voice, begging for answers straight from the soul. No, he really has no idea. He's been here for hours, and hours, maybe days, really. Unnoticed. Unwanted. Unseen, as if truly abandoned by everything and everyone that once seemed so close. A man like this probably had a family once, he's about that age. Just arriving at the critical period of a flourishing life, and nothing of it still seems the same. He might even have had a child or two. About thirty years old, if the features can be trusted.
Finally, he looks up, at Daichi. "Have we met before?" Comes an odd question, not too uncommon of amnesiacs intruded upon by curious bystanders. "Haven. Haven Township. Why I never..." Never wanted to come here. Never wanted it to be like this. A chill runs down his spine, and the bleeding stops at once. He withdraws all three fingers, looking them over with a clear concern. The wounds begin to seal at once, like hundreds before now. "Nothing's worth dying for, is it? Not really. I was to retire by sixty. To see them flourish," He doesn't keep rambling for a minute or two. Hell, he's basically talking to himself, muttering like a madman. Daichi just happens to be receptive to the audio loop. "I don't. Understand. What's happening to me. They didn't... they didn't... they... they... they..."
His voice stutters out, caught in a swirl of something between dread and disbelief, like he's only now realizing how long he's been lost. Not just in place, but in purpose. One of those souls caught in between pages, left out of the chapter they were supposed to belong to. A cold tremble takes his shoulders. His whole frame looks ready to collapse. "There was a bell," he says, voice cracking mid-sentence, "A bell they rang before feeding. Loud. Echoed in your ribs. You'd feel it before you heard it. Like thunder from inside. I still hear it sometimes. I think? I think it's still ringing. Church bells?"
He wipes the blood across the bar unconsciously, like he doesn't even know it's his, smearing it into the wood with wide, deliberate circles, over and over. He watches it like it's telling him something, like a scripture only he's meant to read. "She was beautiful," He says suddenly. "The one that kept me. Eyes like polished stone. Like they didn't need to blink. Like they were past blinking. She knew your name before you did. You understand that? You'd forget your own reflection before she'd forget your face."
His laugh is sudden, but not from joy. There's nothing joyous here. Just the kind of bitter chuckle a man makes when he realizes a joke's been played on him so long he forgot the punchline. "Ran so far I stopped feeling the ground. Thought if I made it out, I'd feel the sun again. That's all. Just the sun. Warmth. But now I'm here. And it's all stale. I don't even think I made it out. I think I'm just dying somewhere, and this is the bleed-off. The nothing between the now and the end."
He slumps further, forehead nearly brushing the bar. "I didn't want this. I didn't sign up for this. I was told I'd be kept. Protected. I didn't know I was giving it all away. That every day would be her day. Every night, her hour. That my dreams wouldn't be mine. That my mouth wouldn't speak my thoughts. And now?now I don't even know if this voice is mine anymore. If I?m just mouthing the last thing she said."
He turns his head, sluggishly, until his bloodshot eyes meet Daichi?s again. "So tell me, stranger. You got that look. That look like you've seen something like this before. You know where the road ends for things like me? Do I get to walk free? Or do I go crawling back to the teeth?"
He doesn?t wait for the answer. Not right away. He just stares. Waiting. Wishing for one truth to take root in his head. One thing to hang on to. One thing to make the humming in his skull stop.
Daichi doesnt interrupt. He just stands there, the slow rise and fall of his chest the only sign that hes more than part of the lodges shadow-soaked furniture. One hand curls around his mug again, but he doesnt lift itjust holds it like a charm warding off something unseen. The other rests on the bar, steady, close enough to the blood to feel the smear cooling against the wood. When the man looks up, when those eyes finally meet his, something in Daichi shiftsjust slightly. A narrowing of his gaze. Not alarm. Not pity. Recognition, maybe. Like a piece of a puzzle snapping into place that he never asked to build. He tilts his head, letting the silence linger long enough to be uncomfortable, and when he finally speaks, his voice is soft. Like hes not afraid of spooking the manlike he knows the mans already been spooked into something far worse. "The road doesnt end," Daichi says. "It just folds. Twists back in on itself. You think youre walking out, but its still under her shadow. Still got her scent in your lungs. Truth is..." he lets out a low breath, like the words cost something, "most dont get free. They get... unnoticed. Quietly. Like you." He reaches into his coatslow, deliberate, never breaking eye contactand pulls out a small object. Nondescript. Could be a coin. Could be a charm. Could be a memory wrapped in metal. He places it gently on the bar between them. "But maybe not you. Maybe you already did something different. Ran a little farther. Bit a little deeper. Maybe the bells still ringing 'cause you're still in her teeth... or maybe you're just close enough to hear the echo and still run." He pauses, then adds, quieter still, "You remember your name?" The way he asks, its not a test. It's a lifeline. A spark in the dark. A whispered dare to wake up. Because Daichis not sure if this mans a vampire, a ghost, or something worse. But he is sure of one thingsomething is watching through him. And Daichis not done watching back.
The man shudders. Shakes his head again. Looks up at Daichi in a forlorn way, like he might if he'd seen his master in the flesh. The wounds are completely sealed over by now, already forgotten. The blood on the floor rots into a solid form faster than it should, merely a stain leftover from the momentary gesture of hatred. "I wish it would. That the bus would fall off the cliff. I can't look at them. I can't even bring myself to go see them." His womanly maker, or his wife? Which one, he doesn't say. "All I want is to be my own man again. To sneak out on Saturdays when she's sleeping. To meet myself in the mirror with a smile. To know I'm Him." He looks at the coin. Pauses. For two minutes, at minimum. Then he reaches out. Tries to take it. To observe. To chew on the metal, for whatever reason. Perhaps to see if it tastes of iron. "My name... my name. No, I don't think so. But she, she gave me one. Alex." He chews on that for a moment. "Alexander," He corrects, watching loathesomely as a patron orders a coffee he knows would do him no good. He's tried before. Tried, and tried. No spark. No memory. All he has is the overlay. The reprint. The blueprint he was handed on un-death. "What's yours?" He wonders, following up with, "What, would you do, if you were me?" His voice begins to even out. To make more audio. To choke less.
Daichi watches as the manAlexanderreaches for the coin, and for a second, his breath catches in the space behind his ribs. Not from fear. From recognition. The kind that lives in the bones of men whove brushed too close to things with teeth. He doesnt stop the bite on the metal. Doesnt flinch at the chew. Just watches with the tired patience of someone whos had long talks with worse. Maybe not in bars, maybe not with blood on the floor, but worse all the same. When Alexander finally speaks his name aloud, Daichi gives a nodnot of approval, but of confirmation. Like a witness signing a paper. "Good," he says quietly, then pauses, long enough for the lodges low hum to slide back in. The buzz of distant machines. The shuffle of staff pretending nothings wrong. Only when the man asks for Daichis name does he speak again, his voice dry, but not unkind. "Daichi. No second name. I left it where it belongs." He shrugs one shoulder, slow. The weight behind it could be a lifetime or just last week. Then he leans forward slightly, hands resting on the edge of the bar like they could press back time itself. "What would I do, if I were you?" He lets out a breath that carries more weight than it should, like he's sifting through memories that still have claws. "Id stop chewing on what she gave me and start biting back. Start finding the bits that still belong to you. Maybe you dont need to be the man you were. Maybe hes dead, and maybe thats fine. But you can still be someone. Someone new. Someone she didnt script." He nods to the coin. "You took that. Thats a start." Then, after a beat, "She took your name. Gave you one in return. Dont let her take the question too." A pause. A longer silence. Then, almost offhanded, but not really: "The bells still ringing, you said. So run toward it. Or make it stop. But dont just sit here and rot with the coffee grounds." His voice softens at the end, but theres something under itsteel braided through silk. Hes not giving orders. Hes giving permission.
Daichi glances at Loralia out of the corner of his eye as she enters
"Huh..." He nods a few times, that ghoulish face never shifting for but a moment. "Start... biting back," Comes a wonder from the ghoul, he can't seem to quite figure it out. Looks down at his wrist. Opens his jaw slow... and tears himself open with a full row of too-sharp teeth. Whoever turned him? They came from some serious stuff, they did. Most only get the canines. He stands up. The khakis ruffle. The loafers cry. That's when he notices Loralia, following Daichi's glance. He can't do anything in here, and he realizes it. Still sucking at his own wound, he takes ten steps toward her. Blink. Blink. Squint. Prying his arm from his mouth, he wonders sloppily with a slur, "Whaat's yoooour name?" Some pickup.
"Heyy, Deputy." Loralia calls out to Daichi, fluttering her fingers as she saunters in accompanied by a gust of wind. At a glance, she takes in the ghoul. panic, if any is kept well off her features, and there's almost curiosity as she glances over it. "Name's Lora." she offers easily. "What's with the self-mutilation?"
Daichi Doesnt turn when she speaksjust lets the corners of his mouth twitch, like her voice confirmed something he already knew. His eyes stay on Alexander as the man shuffles closer, dragging the air with him like a stormcloud trying to remember how to rain. He shifts his boot into place, calm as breath, cutting off the last step before it crosses whatever invisible line the Lodge still honors. He doesnt shove. Doesnt posture. Just plants himself there like a fact too old to argue with. "Easy, Alex," he says, voice low, almost tired. "She said her name, not her blood type." His eyes flick to Loralia for a beatno warning in it, no concern. Just a silent confirmation that shes clocked it all. Then, with a glance back to the ghoul, he adds, "Told him to start biting back. Guess I shouldve specified not on himself." A breath slips through his teethdry, sardonic. "Next time Ill draw him a diagram." His hand lingers near his coat pocket, idle, like its waiting for the night to decide if its going to get serious. "Still, he remembered his name. Thats something." Then quieter, like a truth meant only for the space between them: "Most dont."
The whacko goes as far as to try to drape an arm over Loralia's shoulder, and with the way he's half catatonic, she'd probably do well to step out've the way altogether and watch him stumble stupidly. It's the bloody arm, too, no regard spent. He swallows with a gurgling noise, widening those eyes as if trying to wake up. "Easy, he said... easy? Easy... does it." He sounds like he's recalling a lyric from a song, long gone. He moves to jump, but something stops him. The lodge. He curdles up like milk, then, ending up on his arse, in a fetal sort've a position. "So... so... tired..." Comes a weak cry, one he'd hope nobody would hear. But they do, of course. They do. It's then that the sirens blare loud, outside, barely cutting through the storm winds. "Biting... back. Where is she?"
"Where is she?!"
The officers come in storm. Two troopers of the HSD, both with cuffs. That poor, poor, little ghoul. They hone in on him with hi-vis spotlights, ready to stomp a curb into him as soon as they figure out how they're gonna get him outside. This is clearly a breach of exposure, just one step too far. He should've stayed at the bar, playing with his own skin. It would've been safer. Would've been smarter.
as the person makes to drape an arm over her shoulder, Loralia darts out of reach, attempting a strike in the same motion. it's an elbow, aimed for the center of mass. her fingers twitch towards the kattar hidden in her clothing, but she does not draw, yet.
Loralia's blow probably contributed to his crumpling like a pansy. She'd have trouble starting anything in here, but she didn't start it. He did. She's just protecting herself. Everyone's pretty sure they heard a few bones crack.
Loralia there's no simpathy in her eyes at the sound of bones cracking as she stands there, hands easily held at her sides.
Daichi Doesnt flinch when the ghoul stumbles toward Loraliahe sees it coming a breath before it happens, like a beat in a song hes memorized long ago. The second Alexanders blood-slick arm begins to rise, Daichi shifts one boot half an inchnot to intercept, but to brace. Hes seen her move before. He doesnt have to intervene. Not unless she asks. Not unless it gets real. The elbow lands sharp and clean, and Daichi watches the man crumple like paper left out in the rain. He breathes out through his nose, slowly, the exhale calm even as the first howl of sirens cuts through the storm like a blade through gut string. His gaze doesnt leave Alexander. Not even when the door bursts open and the HSD troopers flood in, all steel and spotlights and bad timing. The kind of entrance made by people whove never walked into a room slow enough to understand it first.
Daichi Doesnt flinch when the ghoul stumbles toward Loraliahe sees it coming a breath before it happens, like a beat in a song hes memorized long ago. The second Alexanders blood-slick arm begins to rise, Daichi shifts one boot half an inchnot to intercept, but to brace. Hes seen her move before. He doesnt have to intervene. Not unless she asks. Not unless it gets real. The elbow lands sharp and clean, and Daichi watches the man crumple like paper left out in the rain. He breathes out through his nose, slowly, the exhale calm even as the first howl of sirens cuts through the storm like a blade through gut string. His gaze doesnt leave Alexander. Not even when the door bursts open and the HSD troopers flood in, all steel and spotlights and bad timing. The kind of entrance made by people whove never walked into a room slow enough to understand it first. Daichi doesnt move. Doesnt shout. Just lifts one hand, palm-out, a silent gesture to wait, like stilling a nervous horse. His voice cuts through the chaosnot loud, but clear. "Hes down. Not a threat. Dont make him one." His eyes dont plead. They weigh. Every word says: Im not asking. Im letting you walk out of here with less mess. Then, to Alexander, softerlike hes speaking through fog: "You asked where she is. But maybe it aint her ringing the bell anymore. Maybe its you." A beat. "And if it is, then bite harder."
"...Huuh..." One meathead mutters, looking down at the poor bastard on the floor. "We got an exposure call," Comes with a nod at the counter, as if to suggest the waitstaff phoned one home like it was an everyday shoplifting incident. "Ssoooo..." The other officer looks at the first, clearly the man in charge. "Coffee?" They both nod in unison. "Coffee." They agree, turning back to leave. The vampire, meanwhile, rocks back and forth until he falls over. He might just lie there for the next century, if they continue to allow it. That's when a stereotypical busty blond makes her appearance. Makes a mere beckoning motion of two fingers. As if a possessed marionette, Alex is back on two feet. Slumping to the door like a low-grade Wight. The kind of thing that some see every day, but most hope not to experience in any lifetime. He's on her mental leash, through and through.
Loralia joins Daichi at the bar, taking in the scene as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. "How'd you find him?" she asks of the deputy.
Daichi doesnt blink as the officers make their world-class decision to nope the hell out of the situation. He watches them nod like synchronized swimmers in denial, then turn with the grace of men allergic to paperwork. "Enjoy the brew," Daichi murmurs to no one in particular, voice dry enough to peel paint. The door swings again, this time heralding something colder. Daichi doesnt need to see the womans face to feel the pullthat kind of magic sinks its hooks into the room before her heels touch the floorboards. When Alexander rises like something stitched from memory and regret, Daichis eyes narrow, just slightly. Not fear. Not awe. Just recognition. He doesnt move to stop itbecause he knows he cant. Not that. But his fingers drift just a little closer to his coat pocket again, brushing the handle of his knife He glances toward Loralia, voice low and even. "That leash was never off. Just slack." Then, as the ghoul stumbles toward the door like a bad thought dragged into daylight, Daichi leans against the bar again, exhaling a breath that feels older than his bones. "Guess the bell wasnt for him after all." A pause. "Shame. He almost heard it."
Loralia gives Daichi a searching look, but she isn't the one to pry at secrets with a hammer. "Seems that's that." the woman notes, lips twitching, there's no humor in that smile, just matter-of-fact.
(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
The lights buzz softly above as Daichi steps into the recreation room, his boots a muted thump against the too-clean tile. He rolls his shoulders once, as if trying to shrug off the weight of the day, and scans the space with a glance that catches everything but lingers on nothing.
Bright colors splash across the walls like someone tried to paint joy back into sterile air. The music is light, something synthetic and cheerful, like its been looping for weeks without anyone noticing.
Daichi wanders toward the edge of the room and drops into one of the softer chairs with a low grunt. It sinks just enough to feel like a trap. His coats already folded over one arm, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and the radio clipped to his belt clicks faintly with idle chatter from dispatchhe reaches down, shuts it off, and lets the silence breathe.
"Bright enough in here to bake bread," he mutters, running a hand through his hair.
One leg crosses over the other, a can of vending machine soda balanced on his knee, unopened. He doesnt drink it. Just lets it sit there like its earning its keep by not being coffee.
Outside, the moons cut clean in half. Daichi leans his head back, eyes closing for just a moment.
"Ten bucks says Im here five minutes before someone needs a bandage, a smoke break, or a body bag."
But he doesnt move. Hes off-duty, dammit. Let the world wait its turn.
for long moments, it is quiet, enough so for Daichi to actually get comfortable in relishing his well earned break. On the surface, nothing seems out of the ordinary. The icy, whistling wind outside as the hurricane rages on, the thump of debris as some arrent pieces impact the window, and the chatter of college students, staff, and visitors passing through. The change in atmosphere, when it occurs isn't as noticeable as it slowly creeps up on Daichi. The temperature lowers, the lights flicker, and the ever present background hum of college activity retreats, as if coming through underwater. Shadows flicker at the corner of Daichi's vision, are they even real? Or the flicker of the dimming lights. "Daddy?" the voice is soft, barely a whisper on the wind, but it surrounds Daichi.
Daichi breathes in deep, arms folded across his chest, the weight of the day finally giving in to the gentle pull of rest. The distant soundsthe murmur of conversation, the scrape of chairs, the beat of wind outsideform a background so familiar he stops hearing them altogether.
Daichi breathes in deep, arms folded across his chest, the weight of the day finally giving in to the gentle pull of rest. The distant sounds the murmur of conversation, the scrape of chairs, the beat of wind outside form a background so familiar he stops hearing them altogether.
His eyelids lower. Not fully closed. Just enough to coast the edge of sleep without falling in.
Then comes the cold. Not sudden. Just the sort that seeps in like moisture through the walls. He shifts. Not from discomfort, but from instinct. A slow, subconscious scan.
The lights stutter. The hum drops low, almost like its been drowned in syrup. Daichi opens his eyes, focus sharpening even as the world around him seems to blur.
Shadows tease the edges of his sight. He doesnt look straight at them. Hes learned not to. Learned what tricks light can play when the veil gets thin.
He doesnt reach for a weapon. Not yet. Just leans forward slowly, one elbow on his knee, the unopened soda can forgotten as his hand slides down toward his boot.
Then the voice. Small. Fragile. Too close. Too deliberate.
"Daddy?"
Daichi doesnt move. Doesnt breathe for a second too long. His expression doesnt change, but something sharpens behind his eyes.
"Wrong number," he says quietly, voice like gravel stirred in whiskey. "Try someone else." His hand drifts lowernot rushed, just a quiet reach. Fingertips brush the grip of the handgun tucked beneath the hem of his shirt. The bone knife rests at his ankle, cold and familiar. Either one would answer, if this whisper turns into something real. Something that needs silencing.
For now, he waits. Still as a shadow. Eyes fixed on a world he knows just shifted and not in his favor.
Daddy? the voice is repeated again, high, thin, terrified. Whatever it is, does not seem intent on getting someone message, as the lights flicker more erratically, before finally, the room plunges into pitch black, the cold enough to cut bone deep. Daddy, it hurts. Please, dont. please The shadows solidify, gaining just enough definition to allow Daichi to decipher a faded dress in muted pastel hues, its cut reminiscent of Victorian finery. Perhaps, it is a trick of someone mind, yet trails of red as if living ropes of sanguine writhe beneath the dress, forming runes that result in a migraine if looked at for too long. Daddy, stop! this time, the begging gives way to an infernal shriek that echoes around the room in a long, uninterrupted wail.
Daddy? the voice is repeated again, high, thin, terrified. Whatever it is, does not seem intent on getting someone message, as the lights flicker more erratically, before finally, the room plunges into pitch black, the cold enough to cut bone deep. Daddy, it hurts. Please, dont. please The shadows solidify, gaining just enough definition to allow Daichi to decipher a faded dress in muted pastel hues, its cut reminiscent of Victorian finery. Perhaps, it is a trick of someone mind, yet trails of red as if living ropes of sanguine writhe beneath the dress, forming runes that result in a migraine if looked at for too long. Daddy, stop! this time, the begging gives way to an infernal shriek that echoes around the room in a long, uninterrupted wail.
Daddy? the voice is repeated again, high, thin, terrified. Whatever it is, does not seem intent on getting someone message, as the lights flicker more erratically, before finally, the room plunges into pitch black, the cold enough to cut bone deep. Daddy, it hurts. Please, dont. please The shadows solidify, gaining just enough definition to allow Daichi to decipher a faded dress in muted pastel hues, its cut reminiscent of Victorian finery. Perhaps, it is a trick of someone mind, yet trails of red as if living ropes of sanguine writhe beneath the dress, forming runes that result in a migraine if looked at for too long. Daddy, stop! this time, the begging gives way to an infernal shriek that echoes around the room in a long, uninterrupted wail.
Daddy? the voice is repeated again, high, thin, terrified. Whatever it is, does not seem intent on getting Daichi's message, as the lights flicker more erratically, before finally, the room plunges into pitch black, the cold enough to cut bone deep. Daddy, it hurts. Please, dont. please The shadows solidify, gaining just enough definition to allow Daichi to decipher a faded dress in muted pastel hues, its cut reminiscent of Victorian finery. Perhaps, it is a trick of Daichi's mind, yet trails of red as if living ropes of sanguine writhe beneath the dress, forming runes that result in a migraine if looked at for too long. Daddy, stop! this time, the begging gives way to an infernal shriek that echoes around the room in a long, uninterrupted wail.
Daichi doesnt speak. Doesnt move. The cold wraps around him like its trying to get inside, not just under his skin but beneath the ribs, behind the eyesinto places only regret usually knows the way to. It doesnt feel like temperature anymore. It feels like presence. Like something breathing through the walls.
The lights die with a shiver, not a pop. One last flicker, like a heartbeat giving out, and then the world falls to ink. No static, no echo. Just silence and black. The kind that isnt emptyjust waiting.
The voice comes again. That same word, but wrong. Daddy. High, thin, desperate. It scrapes along the inside of his skull like fingernails over old bone.
Ive never had a kid. The thought flashes through Daichis mind with clarity, sharp and simple. But the body doesnt care. Some part of himthe quiet animal partstill wants to flinch, to feel guilt that doesnt belong to him. Its weaponized innocence, bent into something cold and broken, wearing someone elses grief like a mask.
He doesnt answer it. Not yet. He listens. Watches.
Something movesno, shapesgaining texture in the dark. At first, theyre just smudges. Then cloth. Then a dress. Victorian, maybe, or something older pretending. Muted pastels. Washed-out colors that the eye tries to soften but never quite trusts.
And under itGods. Those tendrils. Ropes, maybe. No. Not ropes. Veins. Runes. Living ink. They writhe like theyre spelling something he was never meant to read. Looking at them is like trying to stare through a migraine. His stomach turns once. Just once.
Daichi doesnt let it show. His face stays still, carved from stone. But his fingers curl tighter around the bone knife, the way a man might hold a rosary if he thought it still worked.
"Not your daddy," he says quietly, the words dragged from somewhere behind grit and gunpowder. "And if someone was, theyre not here anymore."
The thing shrieks. No breath behind itjust sound. The kind that splits glass and unearths things you buried under years of silence. It lasts too long. Long enough to stretch belief. Like its not screaming from a throat, but from a place. A depth.
Daichi plants one foot behind him, weight shifting into his heels like hes stepping into a storm surge. The air feels thinner now, heavy with something ancient. Not evil. Just wrong. Like it doesn't know it's trespassing. Like it believes it belongs.
What the hell are you? The question doesn't leave his lips. Not yet. He's not sure he wants the answer. But the things trying to make him feel somethingfear, maybe. Or guilt. Or connection.
"You want someone to blame?" he says, quieter now. Not from fearfocus. His tone is sharp as the edge in his boot. "Pick better."
He doesnt move. Not yet. But in the dark, the lines been drawn. And if this thing wants to cross it, it better be ready to bleed.
the cacophony does not abate in the slightest. Yet that wail, it dredges up things, grief as sharp as broken glass, regrets left buried returning with a vengeance. Screaming, writhing, tendrils reach out for Daichi as if a lifeline for someone drowning. "Daddy, Please, please!" the last wavers between fear and rage gone feral, like a cornered fox that would chew off its own foot rather than face capture. In the same vein, that cold grips Daichi's insides, as if aiming to sustain itself on the warmth and vitality of his life. For the briefest moments, Daichi recalls a bespectacled man in his early thirties, a faded face framed by kind blue eyes. Yet what stands out is a bone handled knife that he grips, his blade wreathed in red. The recollection of those kindly blue eyes juxtaposed against the bite of the knife cutting, tearing, carving into flesh is so vivid that, Daichi, never having experienced such an incident feels the memory like is it his own. Yet, a burning, clawing desire overshadows it all. To be the one to hold the knife, to hear the tormenter scream. It does not matter who it is, whether they are innocent, the only manner in which piece would be found would be through a protracted execution.
Daichi doesnt speak. Doesnt move. The cold wraps around him like its trying to get inside, not just under his skin but beneath the ribs, behind the eyesinto places only regret usually knows the way to. It doesnt feel like temperature anymore. It feels like presence. Like something breathing through the walls.
The lights die with a shiver, not a pop. One last flicker, like a heartbeat giving out, and then the world falls to ink. No static, no echo. Just silence and black. The kind that isnt emptyjust waiting.
The voice comes again. That same word, but wrong. Daddy. High, thin, desperate. It scrapes along the inside of his skull like fingernails over old bone.
Ive never had a kid. The thought flashes through Daichis mind with clarity, sharp and simple. But the body doesnt care. Some part of himthe quiet animal partstill wants to flinch, to feel guilt that doesnt belong to him. Its weaponized innocence, bent into something cold and broken, wearing someone elses grief like a mask.
He doesnt answer it. Not yet. He listens. Watches.
Something movesno, shapesgaining texture in the dark. At first, theyre just smudges. Then cloth. Then a dress. Victorian, maybe, or something older pretending. Muted pastels. Washed-out colors that the eye tries to soften but never quite trusts.
And under itGods. Those tendrils. Ropes, maybe. No. Not ropes. Veins. Runes. Living ink. They writhe like theyre spelling something he was never meant to read. Looking at them is like trying to stare through a migraine. His stomach turns once. Just once.
Daichi doesnt let it show. His face stays still, carved from stone. But his fingers curl tighter around the bone knife, the way a man might hold a rosary if he thought it still worked.
"Not your daddy," he says quietly, the words dragged from somewhere behind grit and gunpowder. "And if someone was, theyre not here anymore."
The thing shrieks. No breath behind itjust sound. The kind that splits glass and unearths things you buried under years of silence. It lasts too long. Long enough to stretch belief. Like its not screaming from a throat, but from a place. A depth.
Daichi plants one foot behind him, weight shifting into his heels like hes stepping into a storm surge. The air feels thinner now, heavy with something ancient. Not evil. Just wrong. Like it doesn't know it's trespassing. Like it believes it belongs.
What the hell are you? The question doesn't leave his lips. Not yet. He's not sure he wants the answer. But the things trying to make him feel somethingfear, maybe. Or guilt. Or connection.
"You want someone to blame?" he says, quieter now. Not from fearfocus. His tone is sharp as the edge in his boot. "Pick better."
He doesnt move. Not yet. But in the dark, the lines been drawn. And if this thing wants to cross it, it better be ready to bleed.l
Daichi's interaction with the stricken soul unraveled a narrative of profound melancholy and enslavement. The man, a former thrall to a vampire's will, struggled with the semblances of his past life and the haunting emptiness of his current existence. His body bore the scars of self-inflicted wounds, an endeavor to feel or perhaps to reclaim autonomy over the flesh now governed by a parasitic master. With poignant lucidity, the man conveyed his yearning for freedom, a sentiment encapsulated in the aimless hope of one day reclaiming the life that was usurped by his captor—a creature of night whose beauty was as entrancing as its heart was devoid of mercy. Daichi, offering a semblance of solace, left the man with words of encouragement towards self-liberation, though the vampire's appearance signaled the unyielding grip she held over her thrall. As the ghoul departed with the vampire, Daichi's encounter underscored the haunting realization that within the shadows of the mundane, tormented souls wage silent battles for their emancipation.
(Daichi's odd encounter(SRRuprecht):SRRuprecht)
[Fri Apr 18 2025]
At the bar
This well lit area is home to a long, polished bar that stretches from
west to east along the centermost portion of the northern wall. A number of
refrigerators and shelves within have been filled with various drinks and
town memorabilia for display, but the large head of a black bear mounted
higher on the wall attracts more attention. Food for the bar is prepared on
a cast iron cooking surface behind the bar, but well within sight of
patrons. It's so large that several different meals can all be cooked at
the same time.
Starting to the side of the Lodge's entrance to the north, several booths
follow the old hardwood walls and wrap around the pool tables to the east.
Their sequence is only interrupted there by the exit to the courtyard in the
distance.
A small HD flatscreen television hangs in the southwestern corner, open to
sight for all of those at the bar.
It is after dusk, about 59F(15C) degrees, There is a last quarter moon.
Daichi takesa last sip from his glass before placing it down on the bar, along with money and rising to his feet and surveying the bar.
(Your target and their allies encounter the former thrall of a vampire who has run away from their previous master. Probably at least slightly mind controlled they're likely confused and struggling with their decision. The characters need to either help them found a new life, or send them back to their owner.
)
The Lodge. Home of many, particularly the transients and the everyday men. A coffee house at heart, one with dusty sandwiches that many complain about, no less stale than the pool hall hidden behind that threshold, where some few would know they keep the liquor stashed away. Daichi finds himself at a slow hour, he's one of maybe four individuals besides the waitstaff that seem to never tire. It's a peaceful aura, nothing truly terrible ever seems to befall this place. For that exact reason, many would fall in line to the lodge at the first sign of danger, trouble, or impending doom. It was here that the first prophecies of the end came to pass, and here, likely, would be the gathering point of Haven's end, should the twelve year prophecy come in due time.
Due to the scant crowd, Daichi would no doubt notice the lingering retch at the far end of the same bar he peers down. Pallid, looking sick. Ghoulish, really, green skin in some places, yellowing with jaundice. There's a shake to him, the sort you'd spy on an individual completely corrupted by delusion. It almost looks like he's playing with himself at first, come to find that he's actually digging at his wrists with long, sharp, fingernails, bleeding into his own lap. Daichi wouldn't notice any off-center smells, but others might've. He's wearing blue collar clothes, literally. A polo shirt, khaki pants, a pair of loafers. All seem as though they've been stale for weeks, never cleaned, never removed.
Other than the frantic scraping at that unseen itch, there's not a single part of his body that moves. Not the slack jaw, not the droopy, sleepless eyes. Not the curved, unpostured back. Not the feet propped up on a barstool's ridge. He's still. Lifeless. Looks truly hopeless. Lost, but not looking to be found. Why he's here, why he's being so dramatic, left unspoken, and unsightly. He's a sick puppy, though, that's for sure. He's wasting away with some form of hunger, perhaps illness, or even feeding sickness. Gaunt flesh. Sunken cheeks. Pronounced bones. You've seen people like this in Haven before, no doubt, but rarely so public. Most would be smarter than to expose Venice so unfortunately.
What makes it worse is that no one says a thing. Nobody walks over. Not even a glance for more than a few seconds. It's like he's a ghost, or worse, like people are scared that acknowledging him would bring whatever curse he carries too close for comfort. He twitches sometimes, not just the fingers at his wrists, but his eyes will roll like he's dreaming while awake. Every now and then, a rattling breath leaves his chest, dry like a wind scraping across a grave. But still, nobody stirs. Even the old jukebox in the corner's gone quiet, as if the room knows not to compete with the noise he's making in silence. There's something wrong with him, way wrong, and it sits like lead in the stomach if you look too long.
Still, he's there. Not saying a word. Not asking for help. Not making a scene. Just unraveling in full view of anyone willing to see. He seems like he wants to be left alone, but something in Daichi suggests otherwise.
Daichi doesn't move right away. He lets the silence settle over him like dust, the kind that clings to boots after too many miles walked with no destination in mind. His gaze drifts, not directly toward the man, but near enough to keep him framed in the corner of his awareness. Theres something wrong in that corner of the roomsomething deeper than illness. It scratches at the back of his neck like a memory trying to crawl free. He exhales through his nose, slow and steady, before pushing back from his seat with the soft scrape of chair legs on aged floorboards. He crosses the space between them without hurry, the clink of his boots the only sound bold enough to challenge the stillness. He doesnt sit beside the man. Nohe stops just short, leaning one arm on the bar like hes been there a thousand times before, like this isnt the first time hes seen someone slipping between the cracks. He glances toward the mans lap, just briefly, then up again, eyes half-lidded, voice low enough that it feels like a shared secret. "Long night? Or just been a while since your last... meal?" He lets the word settle, soft but deliberate, like a coin dropped in water. A beat passes, then he adds with the ghost of a smirk, "I hear the sandwiches arent worth dying for."
Drip. Drop. Drop. Plunk. A stray bit've flesh lands on the floor. The man in blue doesn't even look up, but he flinches hard. As soon as those boots hit the floor, his own loafers slide off the stoolbar and impact with a more impotent thumpfh. Like he'd split at a moment's notice. Flight of plight, off into the deadening night. But he doesn't move. Not yet. His jaw tenses. His fingers dig deeper. Down to the first knuckle, Daichi might notice, now that he's closer. This man's still dying. Trying to find himself. Figure out what exactly's left behind, if anything's left at all of who he once was.
"Food..." Comes a whisper, barely even audible, spoken forward straight at the bartop. "Food has no meaning, it feels like. Maybe nothing does. Where... am I?" Asks the dissociated voice, begging for answers straight from the soul. No, he really has no idea. He's been here for hours, and hours, maybe days, really. Unnoticed. Unwanted. Unseen, as if truly abandoned by everything and everyone that once seemed so close. A man like this probably had a family once, he's about that age. Just arriving at the critical period of a flourishing life, and nothing of it still seems the same. He might even have had a child or two. About thirty years old, if the features can be trusted.
Finally, he looks up, at Daichi. "Have we met before?" Comes an odd question, not too uncommon of amnesiacs intruded upon by curious bystanders. "Haven. Haven Township. Why I never..." Never wanted to come here. Never wanted it to be like this. A chill runs down his spine, and the bleeding stops at once. He withdraws all three fingers, looking them over with a clear concern. The wounds begin to seal at once, like hundreds before now. "Nothing's worth dying for, is it? Not really. I was to retire by sixty. To see them flourish," He doesn't keep rambling for a minute or two. Hell, he's basically talking to himself, muttering like a madman. Daichi just happens to be receptive to the audio loop. "I don't. Understand. What's happening to me. They didn't... they didn't... they... they... they..."
His voice stutters out, caught in a swirl of something between dread and disbelief, like he?s only now realizing how long he?s been lost. Not just in place, but in purpose. One of those souls caught in between pages, left out of the chapter they were supposed to belong to. A cold tremble takes his shoulders. His whole frame looks ready to collapse. ?There was a bell,? he says, voice cracking mid-sentence, ?A bell they rang before feeding. Loud. Echoed in your ribs. You?d feel it before you heard it. Like thunder from inside. I still hear it sometimes. I think? I think it?s still ringing.?
He wipes the blood across the bar unconsciously, like he doesn?t even know it?s his, smearing it into the wood with wide, deliberate circles, over and over. He watches it like it?s telling him something, like a scripture only he?s meant to read. ?She was beautiful,? he says suddenly. ?The one that kept me. Eyes like polished stone. Like they didn?t need to blink. Like they were past blinking. She knew your name before you did. You understand that? You?d forget your own reflection before she?d forget your face.?
His laugh is sudden, but not from joy. There?s nothing joyous here. Just the kind of bitter chuckle a man makes when he realizes a joke?s been played on him so long he forgot the punchline. ?Ran so far I stopped feeling the ground. Thought if I made it out, I?d feel the sun again. That?s all. Just the sun. Warmth. But now I?m here. And it?s all stale. I don?t even think I made it out. I think I?m just dying somewhere, and this is the bleed-off. The nothing between the now and the end.?
He slumps further, forehead nearly brushing the bar. ?I didn't want this. I didn?t sign up for this. I was told I'd be kept. Protected. I didn?t know I was giving it all away. That every day would be her day. Every night, her hour. That my dreams wouldn?t be mine. That my mouth wouldn?t speak my thoughts. And now?now I don?t even know if this voice is mine anymore. If I?m just mouthing the last thing she said.?
He turns his head, sluggishly, until his bloodshot eyes meet Daichi?s again. ?So tell me, stranger. You got that look. That look like you've seen something like this before. You know where the road ends for things like me? Do I get to walk free? Or do I go crawling back to the teeth??
He doesn?t wait for the answer. Not right away. He just stares. Waiting. Wishing for one truth to take root in his head. One thing to hang on to. One thing to make the humming in his skull stop.
fucked that up in the word doc edit. curses.
(Re requested) Drip. Drop. Drop. Plunk. A stray bit've flesh lands on the floor. The man in blue doesn't even look up, but he flinches hard. As soon as those boots hit the floor, his own loafers slide off the stoolbar and impact with a more impotent thumpfh. Like he'd split at a moment's notice. Flight of plight, off into the deadening night. But he doesn't move. Not yet. His jaw tenses. His fingers dig deeper. Down to the first knuckle, Daichi might notice, now that he's closer. This man's still dying. Trying to find himself. Figure out what exactly's left behind, if anything's left at all of who he once was.
"Food..." Comes a whisper, barely even audible, spoken forward straight at the bartop. "Food has no meaning, it feels like. Maybe nothing does. Where... am I?" Asks the dissociated voice, begging for answers straight from the soul. No, he really has no idea. He's been here for hours, and hours, maybe days, really. Unnoticed. Unwanted. Unseen, as if truly abandoned by everything and everyone that once seemed so close. A man like this probably had a family once, he's about that age. Just arriving at the critical period of a flourishing life, and nothing of it still seems the same. He might even have had a child or two. About thirty years old, if the features can be trusted.
Finally, he looks up, at Daichi. "Have we met before?" Comes an odd question, not too uncommon of amnesiacs intruded upon by curious bystanders. "Haven. Haven Township. Why I never..." Never wanted to come here. Never wanted it to be like this. A chill runs down his spine, and the bleeding stops at once. He withdraws all three fingers, looking them over with a clear concern. The wounds begin to seal at once, like hundreds before now. "Nothing's worth dying for, is it? Not really. I was to retire by sixty. To see them flourish," He doesn't keep rambling for a minute or two. Hell, he's basically talking to himself, muttering like a madman. Daichi just happens to be receptive to the audio loop. "I don't. Understand. What's happening to me. They didn't... they didn't... they... they... they..."
His voice stutters out, caught in a swirl of something between dread and disbelief, like he's only now realizing how long he's been lost. Not just in place, but in purpose. One of those souls caught in between pages, left out of the chapter they were supposed to belong to. A cold tremble takes his shoulders. His whole frame looks ready to collapse. "There was a bell," he says, voice cracking mid-sentence, "A bell they rang before feeding. Loud. Echoed in your ribs. You'd feel it before you heard it. Like thunder from inside. I still hear it sometimes. I think? I think it's still ringing. Church bells?"
He wipes the blood across the bar unconsciously, like he doesn't even know it's his, smearing it into the wood with wide, deliberate circles, over and over. He watches it like it's telling him something, like a scripture only he's meant to read. "She was beautiful," He says suddenly. "The one that kept me. Eyes like polished stone. Like they didn't need to blink. Like they were past blinking. She knew your name before you did. You understand that? You'd forget your own reflection before she'd forget your face."
His laugh is sudden, but not from joy. There's nothing joyous here. Just the kind of bitter chuckle a man makes when he realizes a joke's been played on him so long he forgot the punchline. "Ran so far I stopped feeling the ground. Thought if I made it out, I'd feel the sun again. That's all. Just the sun. Warmth. But now I'm here. And it's all stale. I don't even think I made it out. I think I'm just dying somewhere, and this is the bleed-off. The nothing between the now and the end."
He slumps further, forehead nearly brushing the bar. "I didn't want this. I didn't sign up for this. I was told I'd be kept. Protected. I didn't know I was giving it all away. That every day would be her day. Every night, her hour. That my dreams wouldn't be mine. That my mouth wouldn't speak my thoughts. And now?now I don't even know if this voice is mine anymore. If I?m just mouthing the last thing she said."
He turns his head, sluggishly, until his bloodshot eyes meet Daichi?s again. "So tell me, stranger. You got that look. That look like you've seen something like this before. You know where the road ends for things like me? Do I get to walk free? Or do I go crawling back to the teeth?"
He doesn?t wait for the answer. Not right away. He just stares. Waiting. Wishing for one truth to take root in his head. One thing to hang on to. One thing to make the humming in his skull stop.
Daichi doesnt interrupt. He just stands there, the slow rise and fall of his chest the only sign that hes more than part of the lodges shadow-soaked furniture. One hand curls around his mug again, but he doesnt lift itjust holds it like a charm warding off something unseen. The other rests on the bar, steady, close enough to the blood to feel the smear cooling against the wood. When the man looks up, when those eyes finally meet his, something in Daichi shiftsjust slightly. A narrowing of his gaze. Not alarm. Not pity. Recognition, maybe. Like a piece of a puzzle snapping into place that he never asked to build. He tilts his head, letting the silence linger long enough to be uncomfortable, and when he finally speaks, his voice is soft. Like hes not afraid of spooking the manlike he knows the mans already been spooked into something far worse. "The road doesnt end," Daichi says. "It just folds. Twists back in on itself. You think youre walking out, but its still under her shadow. Still got her scent in your lungs. Truth is..." he lets out a low breath, like the words cost something, "most dont get free. They get... unnoticed. Quietly. Like you." He reaches into his coatslow, deliberate, never breaking eye contactand pulls out a small object. Nondescript. Could be a coin. Could be a charm. Could be a memory wrapped in metal. He places it gently on the bar between them. "But maybe not you. Maybe you already did something different. Ran a little farther. Bit a little deeper. Maybe the bells still ringing 'cause you're still in her teeth... or maybe you're just close enough to hear the echo and still run." He pauses, then adds, quieter still, "You remember your name?" The way he asks, its not a test. It's a lifeline. A spark in the dark. A whispered dare to wake up. Because Daichis not sure if this mans a vampire, a ghost, or something worse. But he is sure of one thingsomething is watching through him. And Daichis not done watching back.
The man shudders. Shakes his head again. Looks up at Daichi in a forlorn way, like he might if he'd seen his master in the flesh. The wounds are completely sealed over by now, already forgotten. The blood on the floor rots into a solid form faster than it should, merely a stain leftover from the momentary gesture of hatred. "I wish it would. That the bus would fall off the cliff. I can't look at them. I can't even bring myself to go see them." His womanly maker, or his wife? Which one, he doesn't say. "All I want is to be my own man again. To sneak out on Saturdays when she's sleeping. To meet myself in the mirror with a smile. To know I'm Him." He looks at the coin. Pauses. For two minutes, at minimum. Then he reaches out. Tries to take it. To observe. To chew on the metal, for whatever reason. Perhaps to see if it tastes of iron. "My name... my name. No, I don't think so. But she, she gave me one. Alex." He chews on that for a moment. "Alexander," He corrects, watching loathesomely as a patron orders a coffee he knows would do him no good. He's tried before. Tried, and tried. No spark. No memory. All he has is the overlay. The reprint. The blueprint he was handed on un-death. "What's yours?" He wonders, following up with, "What, would you do, if you were me?" His voice begins to even out. To make more audio. To choke less.
Daichi watches as the manAlexanderreaches for the coin, and for a second, his breath catches in the space behind his ribs. Not from fear. From recognition. The kind that lives in the bones of men whove brushed too close to things with teeth. He doesnt stop the bite on the metal. Doesnt flinch at the chew. Just watches with the tired patience of someone whos had long talks with worse. Maybe not in bars, maybe not with blood on the floor, but worse all the same. When Alexander finally speaks his name aloud, Daichi gives a nodnot of approval, but of confirmation. Like a witness signing a paper. "Good," he says quietly, then pauses, long enough for the lodges low hum to slide back in. The buzz of distant machines. The shuffle of staff pretending nothings wrong. Only when the man asks for Daichis name does he speak again, his voice dry, but not unkind. "Daichi. No second name. I left it where it belongs." He shrugs one shoulder, slow. The weight behind it could be a lifetime or just last week. Then he leans forward slightly, hands resting on the edge of the bar like they could press back time itself. "What would I do, if I were you?" He lets out a breath that carries more weight than it should, like he's sifting through memories that still have claws. "Id stop chewing on what she gave me and start biting back. Start finding the bits that still belong to you. Maybe you dont need to be the man you were. Maybe hes dead, and maybe thats fine. But you can still be someone. Someone new. Someone she didnt script." He nods to the coin. "You took that. Thats a start." Then, after a beat, "She took your name. Gave you one in return. Dont let her take the question too." A pause. A longer silence. Then, almost offhanded, but not really: "The bells still ringing, you said. So run toward it. Or make it stop. But dont just sit here and rot with the coffee grounds." His voice softens at the end, but theres something under itsteel braided through silk. Hes not giving orders. Hes giving permission.
Daichi glances at Loralia out of the corner of his eye as she enters
"Huh..." He nods a few times, that ghoulish face never shifting for but a moment. "Start... biting back," Comes a wonder from the ghoul, he can't seem to quite figure it out. Looks down at his wrist. Opens his jaw slow... and tears himself open with a full row of too-sharp teeth. Whoever turned him? They came from some serious stuff, they did. Most only get the canines. He stands up. The khakis ruffle. The loafers cry. That's when he notices Loralia, following Daichi's glance. He can't do anything in here, and he realizes it. Still sucking at his own wound, he takes ten steps toward her. Blink. Blink. Squint. Prying his arm from his mouth, he wonders sloppily with a slur, "Whaat's yoooour name?" Some pickup.
"Heyy, Deputy." Loralia calls out to Daichi, fluttering her fingers as she saunters in accompanied by a gust of wind. At a glance, she takes in the ghoul. panic, if any is kept well off her features, and there's almost curiosity as she glances over it. "Name's Lora." she offers easily. "What's with the self-mutilation?"
Daichi Doesnt turn when she speaksjust lets the corners of his mouth twitch, like her voice confirmed something he already knew. His eyes stay on Alexander as the man shuffles closer, dragging the air with him like a stormcloud trying to remember how to rain. He shifts his boot into place, calm as breath, cutting off the last step before it crosses whatever invisible line the Lodge still honors. He doesnt shove. Doesnt posture. Just plants himself there like a fact too old to argue with. "Easy, Alex," he says, voice low, almost tired. "She said her name, not her blood type." His eyes flick to Loralia for a beatno warning in it, no concern. Just a silent confirmation that shes clocked it all. Then, with a glance back to the ghoul, he adds, "Told him to start biting back. Guess I shouldve specified not on himself." A breath slips through his teethdry, sardonic. "Next time Ill draw him a diagram." His hand lingers near his coat pocket, idle, like its waiting for the night to decide if its going to get serious. "Still, he remembered his name. Thats something." Then quieter, like a truth meant only for the space between them: "Most dont."
The whacko goes as far as to try to drape an arm over Loralia's shoulder, and with the way he's half catatonic, she'd probably do well to step out've the way altogether and watch him stumble stupidly. It's the bloody arm, too, no regard spent. He swallows with a gurgling noise, widening those eyes as if trying to wake up. "Easy, he said... easy? Easy... does it." He sounds like he's recalling a lyric from a song, long gone. He moves to jump, but something stops him. The lodge. He curdles up like milk, then, ending up on his arse, in a fetal sort've a position. "So... so... tired..." Comes a weak cry, one he'd hope nobody would hear. But they do, of course. They do. It's then that the sirens blare loud, outside, barely cutting through the storm winds. "Biting... back. Where is she?"
"Where is she?!"
The officers come in storm. Two troopers of the HSD, both with cuffs. That poor, poor, little ghoul. They hone in on him with hi-vis spotlights, ready to stomp a curb into him as soon as they figure out how they're gonna get him outside. This is clearly a breach of exposure, just one step too far. He should've stayed at the bar, playing with his own skin. It would've been safer. Would've been smarter.
as the person makes to drape an arm over her shoulder, Loralia darts out of reach, attempting a strike in the same motion. it's an elbow, aimed for the center of mass. her fingers twitch towards the kattar hidden in her clothing, but she does not draw, yet.
Loralia's blow probably contributed to his crumpling like a pansy. She'd have trouble starting anything in here, but she didn't start it. He did. She's just protecting herself. Everyone's pretty sure they heard a few bones crack.
Loralia there's no simpathy in her eyes at the sound of bones cracking as she stands there, hands easily held at her sides.
Daichi Doesnt flinch when the ghoul stumbles toward Loraliahe sees it coming a breath before it happens, like a beat in a song hes memorized long ago. The second Alexanders blood-slick arm begins to rise, Daichi shifts one boot half an inchnot to intercept, but to brace. Hes seen her move before. He doesnt have to intervene. Not unless she asks. Not unless it gets real. The elbow lands sharp and clean, and Daichi watches the man crumple like paper left out in the rain. He breathes out through his nose, slowly, the exhale calm even as the first howl of sirens cuts through the storm like a blade through gut string. His gaze doesnt leave Alexander. Not even when the door bursts open and the HSD troopers flood in, all steel and spotlights and bad timing. The kind of entrance made by people whove never walked into a room slow enough to understand it first.
Daichi Doesnt flinch when the ghoul stumbles toward Loraliahe sees it coming a breath before it happens, like a beat in a song hes memorized long ago. The second Alexanders blood-slick arm begins to rise, Daichi shifts one boot half an inchnot to intercept, but to brace. Hes seen her move before. He doesnt have to intervene. Not unless she asks. Not unless it gets real. The elbow lands sharp and clean, and Daichi watches the man crumple like paper left out in the rain. He breathes out through his nose, slowly, the exhale calm even as the first howl of sirens cuts through the storm like a blade through gut string. His gaze doesnt leave Alexander. Not even when the door bursts open and the HSD troopers flood in, all steel and spotlights and bad timing. The kind of entrance made by people whove never walked into a room slow enough to understand it first. Daichi doesnt move. Doesnt shout. Just lifts one hand, palm-out, a silent gesture to wait, like stilling a nervous horse. His voice cuts through the chaosnot loud, but clear. "Hes down. Not a threat. Dont make him one." His eyes dont plead. They weigh. Every word says: Im not asking. Im letting you walk out of here with less mess. Then, to Alexander, softerlike hes speaking through fog: "You asked where she is. But maybe it aint her ringing the bell anymore. Maybe its you." A beat. "And if it is, then bite harder."
"...Huuh..." One meathead mutters, looking down at the poor bastard on the floor. "We got an exposure call," Comes with a nod at the counter, as if to suggest the waitstaff phoned one home like it was an everyday shoplifting incident. "Ssoooo..." The other officer looks at the first, clearly the man in charge. "Coffee?" They both nod in unison. "Coffee." They agree, turning back to leave. The vampire, meanwhile, rocks back and forth until he falls over. He might just lie there for the next century, if they continue to allow it. That's when a stereotypical busty blond makes her appearance. Makes a mere beckoning motion of two fingers. As if a possessed marionette, Alex is back on two feet. Slumping to the door like a low-grade Wight. The kind of thing that some see every day, but most hope not to experience in any lifetime. He's on her mental leash, through and through.
Loralia joins Daichi at the bar, taking in the scene as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. "How'd you find him?" she asks of the deputy.
Daichi doesnt blink as the officers make their world-class decision to nope the hell out of the situation. He watches them nod like synchronized swimmers in denial, then turn with the grace of men allergic to paperwork. "Enjoy the brew," Daichi murmurs to no one in particular, voice dry enough to peel paint. The door swings again, this time heralding something colder. Daichi doesnt need to see the womans face to feel the pullthat kind of magic sinks its hooks into the room before her heels touch the floorboards. When Alexander rises like something stitched from memory and regret, Daichis eyes narrow, just slightly. Not fear. Not awe. Just recognition. He doesnt move to stop itbecause he knows he cant. Not that. But his fingers drift just a little closer to his coat pocket again, brushing the handle of his knife He glances toward Loralia, voice low and even. "That leash was never off. Just slack." Then, as the ghoul stumbles toward the door like a bad thought dragged into daylight, Daichi leans against the bar again, exhaling a breath that feels older than his bones. "Guess the bell wasnt for him after all." A pause. "Shame. He almost heard it."
Loralia gives Daichi a searching look, but she isn't the one to pry at secrets with a hammer. "Seems that's that." the woman notes, lips twitching, there's no humor in that smile, just matter-of-fact.
(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
The lights buzz softly above as Daichi steps into the recreation room, his boots a muted thump against the too-clean tile. He rolls his shoulders once, as if trying to shrug off the weight of the day, and scans the space with a glance that catches everything but lingers on nothing.
Bright colors splash across the walls like someone tried to paint joy back into sterile air. The music is light, something synthetic and cheerful, like its been looping for weeks without anyone noticing.
Daichi wanders toward the edge of the room and drops into one of the softer chairs with a low grunt. It sinks just enough to feel like a trap. His coats already folded over one arm, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and the radio clipped to his belt clicks faintly with idle chatter from dispatchhe reaches down, shuts it off, and lets the silence breathe.
"Bright enough in here to bake bread," he mutters, running a hand through his hair.
One leg crosses over the other, a can of vending machine soda balanced on his knee, unopened. He doesnt drink it. Just lets it sit there like its earning its keep by not being coffee.
Outside, the moons cut clean in half. Daichi leans his head back, eyes closing for just a moment.
"Ten bucks says Im here five minutes before someone needs a bandage, a smoke break, or a body bag."
But he doesnt move. Hes off-duty, dammit. Let the world wait its turn.
for long moments, it is quiet, enough so for Daichi to actually get comfortable in relishing his well earned break. On the surface, nothing seems out of the ordinary. The icy, whistling wind outside as the hurricane rages on, the thump of debris as some arrent pieces impact the window, and the chatter of college students, staff, and visitors passing through. The change in atmosphere, when it occurs isn't as noticeable as it slowly creeps up on Daichi. The temperature lowers, the lights flicker, and the ever present background hum of college activity retreats, as if coming through underwater. Shadows flicker at the corner of Daichi's vision, are they even real? Or the flicker of the dimming lights. "Daddy?" the voice is soft, barely a whisper on the wind, but it surrounds Daichi.
Daichi breathes in deep, arms folded across his chest, the weight of the day finally giving in to the gentle pull of rest. The distant soundsthe murmur of conversation, the scrape of chairs, the beat of wind outsideform a background so familiar he stops hearing them altogether.
Daichi breathes in deep, arms folded across his chest, the weight of the day finally giving in to the gentle pull of rest. The distant sounds the murmur of conversation, the scrape of chairs, the beat of wind outside form a background so familiar he stops hearing them altogether.
His eyelids lower. Not fully closed. Just enough to coast the edge of sleep without falling in.
Then comes the cold. Not sudden. Just the sort that seeps in like moisture through the walls. He shifts. Not from discomfort, but from instinct. A slow, subconscious scan.
The lights stutter. The hum drops low, almost like its been drowned in syrup. Daichi opens his eyes, focus sharpening even as the world around him seems to blur.
Shadows tease the edges of his sight. He doesnt look straight at them. Hes learned not to. Learned what tricks light can play when the veil gets thin.
He doesnt reach for a weapon. Not yet. Just leans forward slowly, one elbow on his knee, the unopened soda can forgotten as his hand slides down toward his boot.
Then the voice. Small. Fragile. Too close. Too deliberate.
"Daddy?"
Daichi doesnt move. Doesnt breathe for a second too long. His expression doesnt change, but something sharpens behind his eyes.
"Wrong number," he says quietly, voice like gravel stirred in whiskey. "Try someone else." His hand drifts lowernot rushed, just a quiet reach. Fingertips brush the grip of the handgun tucked beneath the hem of his shirt. The bone knife rests at his ankle, cold and familiar. Either one would answer, if this whisper turns into something real. Something that needs silencing.
For now, he waits. Still as a shadow. Eyes fixed on a world he knows just shifted and not in his favor.
Daddy? the voice is repeated again, high, thin, terrified. Whatever it is, does not seem intent on getting someone message, as the lights flicker more erratically, before finally, the room plunges into pitch black, the cold enough to cut bone deep. Daddy, it hurts. Please, dont. please The shadows solidify, gaining just enough definition to allow Daichi to decipher a faded dress in muted pastel hues, its cut reminiscent of Victorian finery. Perhaps, it is a trick of someone mind, yet trails of red as if living ropes of sanguine writhe beneath the dress, forming runes that result in a migraine if looked at for too long. Daddy, stop! this time, the begging gives way to an infernal shriek that echoes around the room in a long, uninterrupted wail.
Daddy? the voice is repeated again, high, thin, terrified. Whatever it is, does not seem intent on getting someone message, as the lights flicker more erratically, before finally, the room plunges into pitch black, the cold enough to cut bone deep. Daddy, it hurts. Please, dont. please The shadows solidify, gaining just enough definition to allow Daichi to decipher a faded dress in muted pastel hues, its cut reminiscent of Victorian finery. Perhaps, it is a trick of someone mind, yet trails of red as if living ropes of sanguine writhe beneath the dress, forming runes that result in a migraine if looked at for too long. Daddy, stop! this time, the begging gives way to an infernal shriek that echoes around the room in a long, uninterrupted wail.
Daddy? the voice is repeated again, high, thin, terrified. Whatever it is, does not seem intent on getting someone message, as the lights flicker more erratically, before finally, the room plunges into pitch black, the cold enough to cut bone deep. Daddy, it hurts. Please, dont. please The shadows solidify, gaining just enough definition to allow Daichi to decipher a faded dress in muted pastel hues, its cut reminiscent of Victorian finery. Perhaps, it is a trick of someone mind, yet trails of red as if living ropes of sanguine writhe beneath the dress, forming runes that result in a migraine if looked at for too long. Daddy, stop! this time, the begging gives way to an infernal shriek that echoes around the room in a long, uninterrupted wail.
Daddy? the voice is repeated again, high, thin, terrified. Whatever it is, does not seem intent on getting Daichi's message, as the lights flicker more erratically, before finally, the room plunges into pitch black, the cold enough to cut bone deep. Daddy, it hurts. Please, dont. please The shadows solidify, gaining just enough definition to allow Daichi to decipher a faded dress in muted pastel hues, its cut reminiscent of Victorian finery. Perhaps, it is a trick of Daichi's mind, yet trails of red as if living ropes of sanguine writhe beneath the dress, forming runes that result in a migraine if looked at for too long. Daddy, stop! this time, the begging gives way to an infernal shriek that echoes around the room in a long, uninterrupted wail.
Daichi doesnt speak. Doesnt move. The cold wraps around him like its trying to get inside, not just under his skin but beneath the ribs, behind the eyesinto places only regret usually knows the way to. It doesnt feel like temperature anymore. It feels like presence. Like something breathing through the walls.
The lights die with a shiver, not a pop. One last flicker, like a heartbeat giving out, and then the world falls to ink. No static, no echo. Just silence and black. The kind that isnt emptyjust waiting.
The voice comes again. That same word, but wrong. Daddy. High, thin, desperate. It scrapes along the inside of his skull like fingernails over old bone.
Ive never had a kid. The thought flashes through Daichis mind with clarity, sharp and simple. But the body doesnt care. Some part of himthe quiet animal partstill wants to flinch, to feel guilt that doesnt belong to him. Its weaponized innocence, bent into something cold and broken, wearing someone elses grief like a mask.
He doesnt answer it. Not yet. He listens. Watches.
Something movesno, shapesgaining texture in the dark. At first, theyre just smudges. Then cloth. Then a dress. Victorian, maybe, or something older pretending. Muted pastels. Washed-out colors that the eye tries to soften but never quite trusts.
And under itGods. Those tendrils. Ropes, maybe. No. Not ropes. Veins. Runes. Living ink. They writhe like theyre spelling something he was never meant to read. Looking at them is like trying to stare through a migraine. His stomach turns once. Just once.
Daichi doesnt let it show. His face stays still, carved from stone. But his fingers curl tighter around the bone knife, the way a man might hold a rosary if he thought it still worked.
"Not your daddy," he says quietly, the words dragged from somewhere behind grit and gunpowder. "And if someone was, theyre not here anymore."
The thing shrieks. No breath behind itjust sound. The kind that splits glass and unearths things you buried under years of silence. It lasts too long. Long enough to stretch belief. Like its not screaming from a throat, but from a place. A depth.
Daichi plants one foot behind him, weight shifting into his heels like hes stepping into a storm surge. The air feels thinner now, heavy with something ancient. Not evil. Just wrong. Like it doesn't know it's trespassing. Like it believes it belongs.
What the hell are you? The question doesn't leave his lips. Not yet. He's not sure he wants the answer. But the things trying to make him feel somethingfear, maybe. Or guilt. Or connection.
"You want someone to blame?" he says, quieter now. Not from fearfocus. His tone is sharp as the edge in his boot. "Pick better."
He doesnt move. Not yet. But in the dark, the lines been drawn. And if this thing wants to cross it, it better be ready to bleed.
the cacophony does not abate in the slightest. Yet that wail, it dredges up things, grief as sharp as broken glass, regrets left buried returning with a vengeance. Screaming, writhing, tendrils reach out for Daichi as if a lifeline for someone drowning. "Daddy, Please, please!" the last wavers between fear and rage gone feral, like a cornered fox that would chew off its own foot rather than face capture. In the same vein, that cold grips Daichi's insides, as if aiming to sustain itself on the warmth and vitality of his life. For the briefest moments, Daichi recalls a bespectacled man in his early thirties, a faded face framed by kind blue eyes. Yet what stands out is a bone handled knife that he grips, his blade wreathed in red. The recollection of those kindly blue eyes juxtaposed against the bite of the knife cutting, tearing, carving into flesh is so vivid that, Daichi, never having experienced such an incident feels the memory like is it his own. Yet, a burning, clawing desire overshadows it all. To be the one to hold the knife, to hear the tormenter scream. It does not matter who it is, whether they are innocent, the only manner in which piece would be found would be through a protracted execution.
Daichi doesnt speak. Doesnt move. The cold wraps around him like its trying to get inside, not just under his skin but beneath the ribs, behind the eyesinto places only regret usually knows the way to. It doesnt feel like temperature anymore. It feels like presence. Like something breathing through the walls.
The lights die with a shiver, not a pop. One last flicker, like a heartbeat giving out, and then the world falls to ink. No static, no echo. Just silence and black. The kind that isnt emptyjust waiting.
The voice comes again. That same word, but wrong. Daddy. High, thin, desperate. It scrapes along the inside of his skull like fingernails over old bone.
Ive never had a kid. The thought flashes through Daichis mind with clarity, sharp and simple. But the body doesnt care. Some part of himthe quiet animal partstill wants to flinch, to feel guilt that doesnt belong to him. Its weaponized innocence, bent into something cold and broken, wearing someone elses grief like a mask.
He doesnt answer it. Not yet. He listens. Watches.
Something movesno, shapesgaining texture in the dark. At first, theyre just smudges. Then cloth. Then a dress. Victorian, maybe, or something older pretending. Muted pastels. Washed-out colors that the eye tries to soften but never quite trusts.
And under itGods. Those tendrils. Ropes, maybe. No. Not ropes. Veins. Runes. Living ink. They writhe like theyre spelling something he was never meant to read. Looking at them is like trying to stare through a migraine. His stomach turns once. Just once.
Daichi doesnt let it show. His face stays still, carved from stone. But his fingers curl tighter around the bone knife, the way a man might hold a rosary if he thought it still worked.
"Not your daddy," he says quietly, the words dragged from somewhere behind grit and gunpowder. "And if someone was, theyre not here anymore."
The thing shrieks. No breath behind itjust sound. The kind that splits glass and unearths things you buried under years of silence. It lasts too long. Long enough to stretch belief. Like its not screaming from a throat, but from a place. A depth.
Daichi plants one foot behind him, weight shifting into his heels like hes stepping into a storm surge. The air feels thinner now, heavy with something ancient. Not evil. Just wrong. Like it doesn't know it's trespassing. Like it believes it belongs.
What the hell are you? The question doesn't leave his lips. Not yet. He's not sure he wants the answer. But the things trying to make him feel somethingfear, maybe. Or guilt. Or connection.
"You want someone to blame?" he says, quieter now. Not from fearfocus. His tone is sharp as the edge in his boot. "Pick better."
He doesnt move. Not yet. But in the dark, the lines been drawn. And if this thing wants to cross it, it better be ready to bleed.l