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It's a game.
It always is.
There can be no other way to keep you near.
It takes the perfect script, the correct role, and the right moment to place the pieces upon the game board. Almost like a dance – one where his claws scrape against your inner wrist and the soft flesh of your hips as he spins you upon the stage.
As all games should be, there is entertainment to be found – mostly from the expressions and reactions he pulls from you, as visceral as snapping a rib from your open chest cavity. There's a cruelty to it, he knows, in the way he digs as deep as possible to pry the bloodiest reactions from you. A furrowed brow isn't enough – it has to be the sharp arc of a glare radiating fury. A disapproving frown isn't wide enough – it has to be the jagged shape of lips peeled back in a snarl of fangs. A voice woven with a sigh and exasperation doesn't resonate right – it has to be dripping with venom and malice, a threat given sound.
Indifference is ash upon his tongue, and gentleness does not leave any marks.
No, it has to be something that lasts. If it's you, then it needs to sear into metal, a branded mark.
But lately you do not play along.
You do not lash out or retaliate at verbal barbs or pointed threats against delicate flesh. Not when it's directed at you, anyway. Whenever he directs his attention to your Ravens, your reactions are still beautiful – as sharp and violent as a polished blade tracing the carotid artery along the neck.
But that’s not the game he wants to play right now.
This is a game for two, a dance with only a single partner. There should be no interlopers on this stage – not yet. Not now.
The question then becomes how does he coax you onto the stage? How does he pry those delectable expressions from bloodied and festering wounds shaped by his claws?
It's a game.
It always is.
And as long as you are you, it always will be.
Perhaps that is why when you suggested a game yourself – a bet, really – he could not hide the twist of a smirk upon his lips. When you lay yourself within the jaws of a starving beast, what else can it do but eagerly bite down?
A game.
Winner is allowed to ask something reasonable – this you stressed, as if he would ask unreasonable demands – of the loser.
Simple. Easy enough, especially considering his ability to… adjust most games to his favor.
But when you power up a small device, one he has seen used to project chess games, he pauses. Not because of unfamiliarity, no – it's the sudden tickle of nostalgia buried beneath rubble and ash that he did not expect. There, displayed clearly upon the projection, is a simple game board divided in half and evenly marked with long black and white alternating triangles along the top and bottom. Small black and white chips lined the board like soldiers.
The smile on his face fades slowly as he stares at the game board. He didn't expect this game to survive beyond the Golden Age. Chess he could understand. But this one? Its popularity struggled outside of specific regions, and even then the heavy factor of luck woven into necessary strategy discouraged more than a few players. Why would you pick this game, of all things?
Your gaze is on the board as you fiddle with the settings and explain the rules to a game he already knows. But he doesn't mind the sound of your voice, so he listens idly as he watches the way the faint blue light of the device further softens your features in the dim lighting of this abandoned, barely furnished base.
A small smile plays upon your lips, wistful and delicate.
“The goal is to get everyone home.”
–Home…
The gentleness in your voice paired with the longing and mournful glint in your gaze. That single word still means something to you, doesn't it?
Faintly, like the lingering ghostly touch of a nightmare curling into the morning shadows, a bitterness settles upon his tongue.
When was the last time that word actually meant anything to him? All that resonates now are burned memories half buried in the ash of manufactured conversations and artificial affections. Such a feeble thing did not exist for him back when he still had a flesh and blood (foolish) heart that could yearn for it. It certainly has not existed in all the long, long years since.
With your attention focused on the projection, you do not see the way his signature smile has faded to a faint frown tugging at the corners of his lips like dewdrops on a leaf. A small, barely there yet natural thing. It vanishes with the flip of a switch — the rise of the curtains — as you lift your head and shift your attention to him. The show resumes. As you have come to expect of him — his role — a smile plays upon his lips, too sharp in the corners to truly be friendly.
But you do not pay it any mind. Once again, you do not play along to the script even though you meet his gaze. Too calm, too comfortable — a gentle sense of ease drapes across your shoulders like a companion. He has seen this type of scene before, fabricated and framed by the camera lens.
He tastes the ash in the back of his throat and once again, he feels the weight of the script sink like tar into his wires.
Your voice is effortlessly calm, and if he were any lesser he might applaud your acting. Isn’t that what this is? A farce — as if the trail of blood and corpses left in his wake didn’t fill the space between him and you?
“Any questions before we start?”
Roland tilts his head to the side, that smile of his never reaching his eyes. His gaze narrows upon you as you set the small device between the two of you on the worn out couch. There’s a lilt to his voice, a careless cheer woven in that seamlessly hides the sharpness beneath. “Is something so simple really all it takes to order the great Gray Raven Commandant around?”
A laugh more akin to a playful scoff tumbles past your lips. “Speaking like you’ve already won, I see.” Soft chimes ring out as you tap away at the projection. “Pick a color.”
Two round chips are displayed, one black and one white.
He taps a clawed finger on the black chip — the only obvious choice, though he would prefer red.
White doesn’t suit him. Soft like moonlight, it suits Luna.
But not him.
He can’t quite say it suits you, either. There is too much blood on your hands — his, yours, every companion you have loved and lost. White is too detached, too distant to represent you.
But the game begins and white is your color for now.
A game.
Set, match, and won.
Roland preens, smirk twisting into a viper’s smile — wide with the taste of prey at the tip of his tongue. The glint in his eyes is mischievous, though not entirely free of malice; the possibilities of what he could demand of you are delicious indeed. To feel your strings wrapped around his fingers as he pulls you in step with him upon the stage and unravels that gentleness from you like sinew —
A puppet’s role does not suit you in the long run, no, but that does not mean he can’t enjoy the feel of your strings beneath his fingers for this moment. To know the piano wire tied and cutting into your limbs is wrapped around his claws…
“Again.”
Your voice is steady as it snaps up from the game projection and narrows upon him. There is that sharpness in your gaze that thrills him, diminished though it is by this paltry game rather than the muzzle of your gun at his temple.
Roland merely tilts his head to the side, “I did not take you for a sore loser, little Raven.”
Faint and momentary is the furrow in your brow as you clear the board with a few swipes of your fingers. “Must you always twist things?”
The mirth in his gaze fades subtly but that smile remains on his lips, ever the actor.
“One more round.” If you notice the stillness in his silence you choose not to comment on it. “The bet still stands so if you win again then you’ll have two things you can ask for.”
Two chips appear on the screen projection, one black and one white.
“You have nothing to lose.”
Harmless — the friendly banter in your voice and the quirk of your lips into a smirk uniquely your own are harmless. It is the gentle kind of camaraderie offered like an olive branch, it is the warmth of something shared. Familiar to him only in the sense of rehearsed lines and scripts, artificial interactions framed by stage lights — never from a heartfelt memory. Coming from you, it is harmless and honest to a fault.
But an itch settles beneath his fingertips, an urge to sink his claws into soft flesh. Faint and fleeting, it flickers out like a cigarette lighter, leaving only a momentary scorched heat in its wake.
He taps the black chip once more.
You’re right.
After Mandhasti Real Park, there’s nothing left to lose.
Oh, isn’t this quite the lovely sight?
Your head bowed slightly, a hint of disappointment — or is it shame — leaving the faintest dusting of pink upon your cheeks. The furrow of your brow and the frown upon your lips that you bite between your teeth as you no doubt mentally recap where you could have possibly erred. Gone is that surface layer of calm, that collectiveness found only in the stillness of a lake.
Roland is practically radiating glee, the smirk twisting wider upon his lips and a gleam in his eyes too sharp to be playful. There’s an itch in his fingertips, a burning to scratch even further — to peel you back layer by layer, bloodied and true.
“You never said you played this before,” Your voice is a grumbled huff as you drag a hand through your hair. Your gaze is still on the projector, tapping away to view a playback of the game, and that itch buzzes in his wires.
Years of acting are all that keep his voice the even, taunting tone you know him for. “You never asked.”
Finally, finally your gaze snaps up to him, the frown on your lips fading as you regard him curiously. “Have you?”
”Hard to say.”
The smirk upon his lips withers faintly, cynicism pulling at the corners. Scripted games do not count, and nothing in Mandhasti Park had ever been real.
A sigh tumbles past your lips, and he can tell by the expression on your face that a smart quip is right on its heels. But before the words form on your tongue, his hand lashes out and clamps over the projection device, the blue light suffocated beneath his palm. Roland leans close, his smirk widening as the distinct sound of metal punctured and compressing beneath his claw fills the small space he allows between you two.
“I’ve played your game, little Raven.”
A flick of his wrist tosses the device to the side, where it rolls far out of reach and the blue light flickers pathetically before shutting off entirely.
“It’s time for a different script.”
Silence settles for a heartbeat; you’re certainly not amused by the destruction of your device, but you know him well enough by now not to be surprised. Instead there’s a soft caution alight in your gaze, yet you do not lean away from him.
Roland has always enjoyed that about you.
Though you drape your wariness like a cloak over your shoulders, you do not shy away from the glint of fangs or claws. Gently, you look for those few, particular spots to brush against like skimming fingertips over the chips in a blade — the gaps where something other can hide amongst the sharpness.
He does not miss the subtle way you lift your chin, gaze narrowing. Slowly, that infuriating calmness is returning — the ripples in the lake settling to something quieter.
”You’re not going to take the time to prepare for…” You pause, seemingly searching for the words. “Whatever it is you had in mind? You’re normally quite the stickler for proper setups.”
Roland chuckles — a short, sharp sound. With the same clawed hand that had just crushed your device, he taps a finger on the back of your hand. “You already have what I want to ask for, Commandant.”
Silence is his only response for a moment as you search his face for a hint you both know you won’t find. There’s that familiar faint furrow in your brow, the slight downward pull in the corner of your lips — like you’re staring at the last puzzle piece that won’t quite fit. Slowly, you turn your hand over, the tip of his claw lightly scraping against delicate skin.
“I already told you: nothing unreasonable.”
The smirk upon Roland’s lips twists, sharper and barbed as he presses just so upon the center of your palm. The tip of his claw digs in with all the cold pressure of a needle poised against the fragile butterfly. His voice still carries that lilted tone, jeering almost, “And just what, dear Raven, do you consider unreasonable?”
“You already know the answer to that.”
Light, gentle like the brush of an ember — only truly felt in the absence of its brief heat — your fingers curl in and brush against his. You catch him off guard with such an unscripted response, and Roland isn’t able to hide the subtle flinch. His claw scrapes against the delicate skin of your palm too deeply, leaving a faint pink line of aggravated skin in its wake.
Brief, like the flicker of an ember before it dies out — a sense of elation ignites in his wires at marking you.
But even that does not rile the reaction he wants from you.
Too calm, too quiet, too gentle. The emotion shimmering in your eyes that softens them in the dim lighting of the room and the faint furrow of your brow paired with the small smile on your lips — he has seen that expression before. Painted on layer by layer and turned towards the stage spotlights. It almost looks real.
It doesn’t belong on you. Not now. Not when the one sitting across from you is him.
Something small, buried in soot and ash and blood, bristles in his chest amidst all the cold wires.
He tears his hand away, only to offer it palm up in the space between you two — open, like the maw of a hunter’s trap glinting in the sunlight. Cold, cold, cold — appearing warm only by a trick of light and too sharp by far. The smile on his lips doesn’t reach his eyes — too sharp and cold — but when he speaks, his tone is light with a twisted cheer. “And if I asked for your hand?”
You blink, gaze dropping to his upturned palm and then back to his face. There’s a game here, you both know it — a gamble, really, as all things are with him. You know better than to trust him at face value.
But even so…
He watches, silently, as you raise the very hand he had just scratched. It happens slowly, as if the director called for the scene to playback at half speed — the way your fingers brush over his fingertips first, soft. The way the heat of your touch followed in the wake of your fingertips before settling like a blooming water lily in his palm. The way your warmth soaked into him, vanishing like water swallowed by parched desert land — not nearly enough yet burning, burning, burning.
Almost instinctively, his fingers curl — snapping like the merciless jaws of a hunter’s trap around your hand, claws digging into soft flesh and pressing too harshly against fragile bones.
He watches the small smile spread across your lips, the effortless gentleness that lights up your whole expression. There’s something in your gaze, an emotion he cannot — will not — name as you softly squeeze his hand in yours. When you speak, your voice is just as gentle, “Is that all?”
Time snaps back into motion and oh—
His hand moves in a blur, prying the trap’s jaws open just enough to shift and sink pointed edges deeper into the delicate joint of your wrist. Black clawed fingers dig deep, pebbling droplets of blood as the bruising grip on your wrist when he yanks you closer threatens to snap the bone.
No.
Something small, burned, and wounded writhes and bristles in his chest. It chokes on ash and smoke. It breaks beneath the weight of the abandoned, rotting stage. It clings to your bruised wrist like a shackle staked to the ground and grinding against your bones as the forest fire burns, burns, burns.
Roland knows the taste of bitterness.
He knows — intimately — the taste of false hope and how it shrivels to ash on his tongue.
He knows. He knows. He knows.
As should you.
There’s a furrow in your brow, a worried press of your lips into a thin line. But there is no fear in your eyes, no pallor to your complexion. Nor any tension in your shoulders aside from the twitch of fingers from the simple pain and pressure he exerts upon your wrist.
There is only that calmness he knows so well. The careful stillness of a lake — calculation beaten into observant survival.
Not nearly enough.
His expression twists, the Pierrot paint mixing with the heat and ash. A taunting smirk entwined with a grimace, the maddened glint marred by a hint of something almost vulnerable. A crack in the mask — a brief glimpse, the span of only a moment. But it is there, bloodied and wounded but true just the same. When he speaks, it is a muted, muttered thing, nearly lost in a scoff, “And if I said this wasn’t enough?”
Hopeless. Humorless. Resigned.
The sound of a miner’s chuckle when the cave-in sealed his fate.
A sound uttered without hope of an answer.
The expression on his lips twists further — fractures and frays but the show goes ever on. “What then, little Raven?”
A ripple — it blooms like a flower as it dances across the lake waters, and it settles upon your features just as quietly. It’s the small crinkle in the corner of your eyes, the gentle slope of your lips. He has seen this expression on you before, though never this close. Perhaps that is why the softness of it catches him off guard, steals his breath like the stage light scaffolding pressing upon his chest. Only from far away did he ever catch glimpses of it, stolen like snatches of crumbs to stave off starvation.
This was the look — the smile that would precede your hand reaching out to ruffle the hair of the various children you checked on whenever you dropped by any human settlement, city or refugee camp — anywhere.
It is something too warm and delicate to be directed at him — too much to be real.
There’s a hint of a chuckle in your voice, the kind someone gives when children present tokens as treasures. “Then we try something else,” you say, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
You’re acting outside the script again, improvising in a manner that leaves him scrambling. He’s running through every script, every role, every line — a panic that digs its claws deep into the hollow of his chest as the stage lights shine too brightly to tolerate any misstep. But you are already shifting forward, erasing the distance between his body and yours. His hand around your wrist tightens, claws digging deeper and smearing blood across your skin but you pay it no mind as you lean in. Your free hand brushes against his shoulder before it loosely trails an arc across his back and a scorching heat burns against his thigh as your knee presses into the cushions beside him on the couch.
Warmth — burning, burning, burning.
Your arm across his shoulder, your lips close to his ear, your chest against his, your leg pressed against his thigh.
It's the weightlessness – the moment of bated breath when the stage crumbles beneath his feet and the scaffolding overhead groans as it collapses. It's the loaded silence – the millisecond between the trigger pull and the expected result in roulette. It is the corpse of every script, every scene, every line that always, always, always ends with the flourish of the guillotine.
He feels it, scorching and molten – the seeping, slow spread of warmth like molten glass. There's a sharpness to it, biting in the way it cuts through the cold metal of him until it sinks into his wires. It burns. It burns. It burns.
The weight of your arm around his shoulder, your fragile flesh and bone hand on the small of his back, the faint brush of your breath against his temple – you're close, too close and it burns. He feels the subtle rise of your chest with each slow breath, and it's the casual defenselessness of it all that turns the heat into something boiling. It churns with all the jagged, rusted blades that have burrowed into tender places he thought lost beneath the metal. You're completely open and every single vital point flashes through his mind in an instant. He already has one critical point nearly crushed in his grip as it is. How easy would it be to press a little here or cut deep enough there to bring you to your knees in blooming crimson glory?
His free hand moves – too late and too early all at once – as it traces your spine. You don't even flinch when the cold metal of his fingers wraps around your neck.
Still, you do not play along — not in the way you should.
Fingers around your neck, he feels the short stumble of your heartbeat — the momentary spike of being startled. But it fades and your pulse settles back into a steady rhythm. There is no fear, no anger — only the calmness of an emotion he does not want to name.
Even when he tightens his grip — the edge of his claws digging into fragile skin, his hold slipping just beyond discomfort into pain without outright choking you — the only response you grace him with is a hum.
It’s infuriating. Confusing.
What absurd scene is this supposed to be? What role are you trying to cast him into?
Your warmth seeps into him, as does the blood trickling from the scratches on your wrist from his hand. It weaves between his fingers and glides down the cold metal of his arm. Unlike all the times before, there is no victory to be had in this moment — no cheer, no lashing quips or barbed words meant to prod at certain old wounds just to force the muzzle of your gun at his temple with a delicious expression.
No.
There is only ash on his tongue and a hollowness aching in his chest that your warmth does not reach.
The hand around your neck loosens, scraping the tips of his claws against the red marks as he does so. But he does not let go of your wrist — still, even now he clings to you like the hunter’s trap, bloodied and unwavering.
Something small and wounded shudders, buried in the rubble and hidden in the shadows where the stage lights never fell. It writhes, digging cold fingers into a metallic left arm that bleeds in blue hues. From its lips spews every unanswered plea, every shattered prayer — lost and choking upon the never evening scripts and lines. Only in moments like this, when you are too close and too kind, does it speak loud enough for Roland to hear it above the stage call. In a voice not unlike his own, that small thing that never truly existed off the stage wails against the wires — if only, if only, if only….
Roland silently traces his gaze from the slope of your neck marred red by his hand to the bloodied wrist in his grasp.
When he speaks, there is no taunting or teasing hint to his words, nor is there that cynical mirth lacing every note. There is no smirk twisting upon his lips or a dangerous glint in his gaze. With all the smooth detachment of a Pierrot mask, he simply asks, “What ending are you hoping for by foolishly improvising like this?”
Lightly, your breath brushes against his ear as you chuckle softly. He feels your free hand idly pat the shoulder you have wrapped it around. “I was merely following your lead.”
Jagged, rough like rust scraped off a weapon, laughter bubbles up in his chest. No joy or taunting mirth dances in the sound of it — only something tired and cynical. The laughter shakes Roland’s shoulders and he feels as you shift slightly against him. The show flows ever on, and his lips twist into a smile that once again does not reach his eyes. “To think the great Gray Raven Commandant could misinterpret their stage partner so grievously.”
“I’m usually pretty spot on about this type of thing,” you hum in thought, and he can tell by the sound there is a faint frown on your lips. For the first time, you carefully twist your wrist in his hold, “Let go of my hand for a moment.”
Roland’s gaze falls to the nape of your neck, red marks stark beneath his fingers as silence settles — sharp and thick. There’s a pointed weight to his gaze he knows you feel by the subtle stumble of your heartbeat beneath his fingers. But you wait, patiently.
He’s curious enough to acquiesce.
Slowly. Painstakingly, heavy with the reluctance of a metal trap pried open from the shattered and bleeding leg of a long awaited prize — his fingers unfurl from your wrist. Even as you lift your wrist from the cradle of his palm, there lingers a faint warmth on his fingertips from the crimson of your blood smeared across the black metal of him. Or perhaps it is merely a trick of the light, a lie crafted by the stage.
He doesn’t linger on the thought for long, because you are moving again — improvising in a way he cannot predict. You shift forward and although he would like to think he allowed your fragile neck to slip from his claws, the honest truth he would never speak would tell otherwise. Your newly freed hand sweeps over his shoulder and joins with the other behind his back, fingertips set aglow by the crimson light of his spine. The weight of you — your chest against his, your arms finally fully settling across his shoulders, your breath against his ear as you bow your head as if to tuck it against him — it is all too much.
Heavy. Suffocating. Burning.
Your touch is so much heavier than it should be, laden with the weight of open vulnerability.
Soft, your voice brushing against his ear, you ask, “How does that feel?”
Like brush fire that slips past fire control and swallows the forest. Like the single suspended moment the rope snaps and the guillotine plummets.
It feels cleansing.
It feels like he’s dying.
“Worse.”
He feels your small chuckle more than he hears it, “Perhaps you’re just not accustomed to it yet.”
His hands twitch, itching to sink deep into vital points and pry you off and open. Instead his hand returns to your neck and slips up, tangling in your hair. With a fistful, none-too-gentle claws scraping against your scalp as he does so, he peels you away like scraping off black burnt flesh — relief intertwining with agony.
Your hold slips away and your hands settle on his shoulders instead as you follow the tug of his grip in your hair. There’s a part of him that preens at the sight of your head tipped back, neck bared so openly to him with the marks of his touch circling it like a necklace.
His gaze glides up from your neck to meet yours and once again, he sees that infuriating calmness in your expression. There’s something else there now, though — familiar but strange and foreign once directed at him. He doesn’t like it. This isn’t your role, this is not written in the script and the play cannot go on if you keep deviating like this.
Roland smiles — too sharp and pointed, a threat tucked into the shadows of his lips. “Shall we end this farce here?”
Your brow rises, mild inquiry on your expression. “You’re not one to stop in the middle of a show.”
His hand further guides you back, away from him as he hums in mocking agreement. Your hands slip from his shoulders and your weight on the couch shifts, your leg no longer pressing against his thigh. A chill rushes in on the heels of your absence, biting and frigid. It’s a relief. It’s an agony.
With a certain type of measured control — fingers mindful not to twist back into the strands of your hair or press into the marks on your neck, he releases his hold once you have moved far enough away from him. But as he withdraws his hand, the tip of his finger traces the curve of your jaw as his smile twists, “However, I loathe stage crashers even more.”
A flicker of caution dances across your eyes, but you blink and the lake waters are calm once more as you tilt your head to the side. “You’re expecting visitors?”
”Your ravens monitor your vitals rather closely, don’t they, Commandant ?” His gaze drops to your neck, red marks and agitated scratches bold against your skin, and then shifts to your injured wrist where a purple bruise is already blooming amidst the drying blood. “I highly doubt they would sit an idle, quiet audience.”
Silence serves as your answer, your gaze dropping to your wrist. The quiet hangs for a moment, heavy with his gaze on your bowed head. You’re mulling something over, he can tell by the furrow in your brow, but the show is over. It’s time for actors to leave the stage.
With fluid grace, Roland rises to his feet and his long legs would have carried him away to the far door if your hand hadn’t shot out immediately to grab the wrist of his hand still stained with your blood. There’s a firmness in your touch, something bold yet kind in the gaze you level upon him.
It’s almost comical, really, how fragile your hand is compared to his — how delicate the thin bones and tissue are. A simple flick of the wrist and precise pressure are all it would take to shatter your hand without that damning exoskeleton. It would be easy to twist his wrist and break your hold, but he doesn’t.
There’s something too warm, too heavy in your touch.
Roland buries the feeling between a sharp smirk and teasing words, “What? Don’t tell me you’ll miss me, little Raven.”
“Roland.”
His name is a simple, clear sound on your lips. Spoken without the familiar ring of hostility or the needling of distrust. Clear, simple. The sound of a raindrop upon an ember — soothing, suffocating.
Again, he sees that flicker of emotion in your expression — unnamed and familiar. It makes his wires itch, too much yet not enough all at once. He feels the pressure of your fingertips as your hand squeezes his wrist, imploring almost.
When you speak, your voice once again has that gentle calmness that sinks beneath his metal. “You don’t have to use the pretense of a game to ask for something like this.”
The stage lights are too bright.
“It’s not ‘unreasonable’.”
And your voice is too soft over the sound of wires pulling at limbs across the stage.
“It’s ok.”
Ah…
You really are so foolish…
Your fingertips slip from his wrist as you release him and you offer that annoyingly friendly smile as you hold up a finger. “Just something to keep in mind. You still have one request left.”
The smile on Roland’s lips twists, jeering and mocking in its glee. He holds up two fingers stained with your blood and only now does the smirk reach his eyes. “Oh dear, Commandant, you really should listen more closely. I still have two requests from our little game.”
The confusion that bleeds in your expression is quite the treat. It makes the grin on his lips twist that much wider, that much sharper.
“You cannot count those as proper requests when they are phrased as ‘what if’ questions, after all.”
There.
The brief paleness that drains your face before a rush of crimson sweeps in to color your cheeks.
He didn’t even have to ask.
Freely given.
Perhaps that is why his claws still itch to sink back into your warmth, either to draw blood or press against soft flesh. There’s a hunger — an urge to scratch against every vulnerable place you allow his hands to fall, just to see how far you will let him press.
A chuckle laces his words as he flicks his wrist, practically radiating with amusement. Only for a moment does he linger in the doorway, grin stretched wide like the cat that caught the canary. “ Ciao, little Raven. Let’s play again sometime.”
The door clicks behind him, barely muffling the slew of curses you toss at the wooden barrier. A hum nearly falls from his lips as the shadows quickly swallow him, his thumb rubbing at the dried blood on his fingertips like a promise.