The station floor was cold. Still.
But not dead anymore.
I could tell the difference now. Between silence and stasis. Between stillness and submission.
The place hadn't changed. Still cracked tile. Still mildew creeping in the corners. Still that same flickering light that made everything look like a crime scene—but something had shifted.
Or maybe that was just her.
Kiss-shot was watching me again.
Which, to be fair, was better than her draining me like a Capri-Sun.
She was curled against the far wall, same small form, same too-big eyes for such a child-sized frame. But now?
She looked less like she was surviving and more like she was thinking again.
That was dangerous.
People who think tend to act. And immortals who act tend to kill someone in the process.
Still.
I stayed where I was—half-sitting, half-slung across an overturned bench. Hands behind my head. Legs stretched out like I didn't care. Like I wasn't very aware that she could blink and take mine out of their sockets if she felt like it.
She hadn't said anything in a while.
Not since the whole Mystic Eyes of Charm thing.
Which was fine.
The silence wasn't awkward.
It was loaded.
Like a gun resting on a table between us. Polished. Loaded. Not fired.
Yet.
Finally, she spoke.
"You're not afraid of me."
Her voice wasn't questioning.
It was closer to annoyed. Like I'd broken some unspoken rule of post-pact etiquette. Like she expected at least a little fear. A shiver. A stammer. A "Y-You're a monster!" kind of deal.
I looked at her.
Tilted my head.
"You don't exactly look scary right now."
Her expression didn't change, but I saw it. That twitch behind her eyes.
Wounded pride.
I leaned in, just slightly.
"That's not an insult. It's a reminder."
"A reminder of what?"
"That if you want people to fear you," I said, "you'll need more than a good track record and a dramatic nickname."
Silence.
And then—
She laughed.
Soft. Thin. But real.
"You speak like you've faced monsters before."
I thought of every Reddit thread I'd scrolled past. Every anime villain monologue I'd memorized. Every god complex I'd studied like it was a manual for surviving the apocalypse.
"I've been watching them my whole life," I said.
"That's not the same."
"It's close enough."
She gave me a look.
That classic what are you hiding look.
I let it sit.
I was good at that—letting people wonder. The best lies don't need words. They just need gaps in the story that are too satisfying to question.
"You're strange," she said again, echoing her earlier phrasing like it bothered her more now.
"You're immortal. Pot, meet kettle."
She didn't smile this time.
But she didn't look away either.
Her gaze lingered. Unblinking. Studying.
I let it.
Because that was another trick: the longer someone looks, the more they reveal—not the other way around.
"You're planning something," she said.
Now that got a smile out of me.
"Always."
"And it involves me."
"Obviously."
"You're not even pretending to deny it."
I shrugged.
"You're the one who said curiosity ends greater men."
"I was being dramatic."
"I noticed."
Another pause.
She shifted—her legs drawing up under her tighter. Her knees pressing together. Her back barely brushing the tile.
And she spoke again. Quieter this time.
"I don't remember the last time someone tried to manipulate me without begging for their life first."
I leaned my head back.
Closed my eyes.
"Then I guess I'm a pioneer."
She didn't answer.
Not for a full minute.
When I opened my eyes again, she was still staring.
"Why haven't you left yet?"
"Why would I?"
"There's no safety here."
"There's no safety anywhere."
"Is this a death wish?"
"No," I said. "It's an opportunity."
Now that made her pause.
I could see it.
That barely perceptible narrowing of the eyes.
Like a chess player who suddenly realizes the board they thought they were winning on was tilted the whole time.
"You're trying to earn my trust," she said.
"That too."
"And what do you want from me, exactly?"
"Something you haven't given anyone in a long time."
Her eyes flashed gold—brighter than before.
"Obedience?"
I grinned.
"Of course not."
I leaned forward, voice just above a whisper.
"I want you to listen."
The words didn't echo. Not physically. But I watched them sink in like stone tossed into still water. Not loud. Not sudden. But irreversible.
Kiss-shot blinked once.
Just once.
Not confusion.
Not offense.
Just… recalibration.
She leaned her head slightly to the side—like she was checking to make sure I hadn't grown another head.
"You're aware I'm the one who drank your blood, not the other way around?"
"You keep bringing that up," I said. "Is that a kink thing or—?"
She cut me a look. Cold. Regal.
But not amused.
...Okay. A little amused.
"You think I'm going to take advice from someone who can't even walk in sunlight?"
"That's exactly why you should."
She folded her legs beneath her.
Deliberately.
The air in the station shifted again—like it had taken a breath for her.
"Explain."
"You're cornered," I said. "Missing limbs. No heart. Reduced to a child-sized backup form."
She didn't respond.
Didn't argue.
Didn't deny it.
"I know where the next move comes from," I said. "You're waiting for someone to act. Or for someone else to show up. I'm just suggesting we don't sit here waiting for your inevitable assassination like a pair of tragic theater kids."
"You think running will stop them?"
"I think moving will change the script."
That caught her.
Just for a second.
The line wasn't elegant.
But it was sharp.
And she knew it.
"You believe in fate?" she asked.
"Only when it's someone else's problem."
"And you think you can rewrite mine?"
"I think your original editor was lazy."
Another long pause.
And then—for the first time since I met her—she didn't posture.
She considered.
Really considered.
And when she finally answered, it was with a softness that didn't belong in the mouth of a god.
"Where would we even go?"
Now that?
That was the pivot.
That was her asking.
Not commanding. Not mocking.
Asking.
I sat up straighter.
There it was again—the shift.
Like a coin rolling across the edge of a table, and no one knew yet which side it would land on.
"You had a fallback spot," I said. "Right? A place to go if things got nuclear?"
She was quiet for a beat. Then two.
Then: "The cram school."
Bingo.
I almost smiled. But didn't.
"Empty, abandoned, off-grid," I said. "Enough square footage for dramatic monologues and vampire brooding. Sounds perfect."
"I have not been there in decades."
"You still remember how to find it?"
"I don't forget."
"Good," I said. "Because we're leaving tonight."
She didn't argue.
She should've.
But she didn't.
And that silence?
That was the sound of a queen realizing her throne wasn't in the shape she left it in.
I stood, brushing imaginary dust from my jacket.
"Sleep. Rest. Regain what strength you can."
She didn't move.
Just watched me with those ancient, too-sharp eyes.
"And when we go?" she asked.
I met her gaze.
Cool. Calm. Unflinching.
"We make sure they regret letting you live this long."
-------------------------------------------------------------
"Monsters don't flirt. But they do… attach."
—
The stairwell felt different on the way down.
Not heavier.
Not darker.
Just… watched.
Not by her.
By the story.
The world itself was starting to realize I didn't belong here.
And it was paying attention.
The tiles squeaked under my shoes. I didn't bother to quiet my steps.
I wanted her to hear me coming.
I needed her to know I chose to come back.
She was awake.
Sitting this time—upright, somehow. Her little legs tucked neatly underneath her like she was sitting through a funeral she wasn't sure she liked.
The station light framed her like a still shot from a black-and-white film. All harsh angles and soft shadow. Her face unreadable.
But her eyes?
Her eyes tracked me the second I hit the last step.
"You returned."
"Wow," I said. "Look who's practicing full sentences."
Her lips twitched. Maybe a smile. Maybe not.
"I half expected you to disappear."
"You half expected me to die."
"I did say half."
I crossed the space between us slowly.
Not cautiously—deliberately.
She followed every step.
"You've been watching," I said.
"I never stopped."
"Good."
I sat down again—same distance as before.
Familiar, but not too familiar.
She adjusted slightly.
Not away.
Toward.
Subtle.
But I noticed.
"Did you find anything out there?"
"Found a hundred reasons to stay gone," I said. "And still came back."
She tilted her head.
"You enjoy sounding clever."
"I don't enjoy it. I am clever."
This time, she did smile.
Thin.
Sharp.
Real.
She didn't ask where I went.
Didn't ask what I did.
Just watched me with that quiet kind of attention that didn't feel like surveillance.
More like…
Curiosity.
Hunger of a different kind.
"Tell me," she said, "why do you keep looking at me like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're cataloging me."
I shrugged.
"Maybe I am."
"And what do you see?"
"A girl in a god's body."
"Or a god in a girl's?"
"Either way," I said. "It's a lonely shape."
That struck something.
I didn't know what.
But she looked away.
Just for a breath.
Not long.
But enough.
That's how you know the mask slipped.
Not with words.
With silence.
"You could've lied," she said finally.
"I still might."
"Why come back?"
"Because I want something," I said. "Still figuring out what."
"You're not being vague to hide anything."
"No," I said. "I'm being vague because it's the truth."
Another pause.
Then her voice—quieter now. Not dramatic. Not ancient.
Just tired.
"I dreamt," she said.
"Oh?"
"That I was whole again. Just for a moment."
"You miss it?"
She didn't answer.
But she didn't need to.
There's a kind of silence that only comes from longing.
I leaned forward slightly.
"I could hide you."
She blinked.
"What?"
"I can cloak you," I said. "Hide your presence. Make it harder for them to track you."
She studied me.
"You're serious."
"I'm useful," I said. "You'll get used to it."
She looked down at her lap.
Then, softer: "Why would you help me?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
A long, long silence.
Then:
"Apply it."
I reached out. Slowly. Casually. Like it was no big deal.
Like it wasn't the first time she'd asked for touch without needing blood.
My hand rested on the top of her head and I saw her squirm for a fraction of a second.
The air shimmered for a moment.
And then the weight of her presence dropped.
Muted.
Masked.
Veiled.
Her head lifted. Eyes widening slightly.
"You really…"
"Told you."
"You shouldn't be able to do this."
"I do a lot of things I shouldn't."
She looked at me like I was a painting that hadn't finished drying.
And for once?
She didn't ask another question.
She just sat there.
With me.
Like maybe that was enough.
---------------------------------------------------
"All intimacy begins with the illusion of safety."
The veil still lingered in the air, a light buzz I could feel under my fingertips. Faint. Barely there. But it pressed around her like a second skin—one I had given her.
She didn't speak for a while.
Just sat with it.
Testing it, maybe. Letting the stillness wrap around her. Her eyes, those sharp gold rings, softened slightly—like even they were surprised by the calm.
I didn't break it. Not yet.
Let her live in it. Let her start to associate that silence with me.
The silence wasn't empty. It was mine now.
And eventually, she spoke again. Slowly. Not looking at me.
"There was a time when people came to me with poems."
She didn't wait for me to interrupt. Just kept going.
"Poems. Flowers. Speeches about fate. Blood oaths. I used to think it was romantic. To be worshipped. To be feared. To be… needed."
I shifted, just enough to lean one elbow on my knee.
"And?"
Her eyes drifted my way, but not sharply.
"I got bored."
That made me smile. A small one.
She noticed.
"I don't like being predictable," she added, quieter.
"You're not."
"I used to be."
"Then maybe I showed up at the right time."
The way her eyes settled on me then—it wasn't suspicion. Wasn't distrust. It was something more… curious. Like she was wondering how I'd gotten past the first line of defense without ever stepping on the battlefield.
She pulled her knees in tighter, voice quieter now, but steady.
"They came to me like I was a statue," she said. "Like loving me was a performance. Something to be seen doing."
"Let me guess. They all died?"
She tilted her head just slightly. "Eventually."
"Tragic."
"No," she said, more firmly. "Boring."
I let the pause hang before I answered. Soft. Honest.
"You deserve better stories."
She blinked.
And this time, I saw it—the shift. Barely a ripple. But it was there.
Not lust.
Not trust.
But want.
Of something different.
Something that looked at her and didn't flinch, but didn't grovel either. Something that made her feel seen, not mythologized.
Her voice was different when she finally replied.
"You talk to me like I'm not a monster."
"I talk to you like I'm not afraid of the word."
She looked at me for a long time after that.
No questions.
No accusations.
Just that weight again—settling in her chest, maybe.
I could see it.
The edges of affection beginning to take shape around her caution. Thin outlines, blurry still, but forming.
"You're strange," she whispered again. Not like before. Not as a statement.
As a confession.
I leaned in, voice low.
"You like strange."
She didn't argue.
Didn't look away.
And in that moment, I saw the next move on the board—clear as day.
I didn't take it.
Not yet.
But I made sure she knew I saw it.
That I could.
We sat like that for a while. Not quite friends. Not yet lovers. But something binding us quietly in between.
No grand declarations.
Just the hum of the station. The press of supernatural weight held at bay. The understanding that something had started here—something deeper than blood and older than fear.
By the time she finally laid her head back against the wall and closed her eyes again, she didn't say "goodnight."
She didn't have to.
I was still there.
That was enough.
For now.
—
"If you want someone to want you, let them think it was their idea."
—
She didn't stay asleep.
Didn't really sleep at all, I realized.
Just rested with her eyes shut—like a queen sitting with her crown off, but still within reach. Not vulnerable. Just... pausing.
I stayed seated nearby, legs stretched out, jacket draped loosely over my shoulders like I didn't have centuries of blood and myth sitting five feet away from me.
Eventually, she spoke again. Eyes still closed.
"If I asked you to kill someone... would you?"
I didn't answer right away.
That would've made it too easy.
Instead, I shifted slightly. Leaned one arm over my knee. Let the pause stretch just long enough to feel like I'd actually thought about it.
"That depends," I said at last.
"On what?"
"On who," I said. "And whether they deserved it."
"And if they didn't?"
I looked at her.
At the faint curve of her mouth.
The way her hands—still missing—remained folded neatly in her lap like she didn't need them to be dangerous.
"Then I'd ask for something in return."
Her eyes opened.
Gold. Calm. Calculating.
"You barter with murder."
"I barter with everything."
She let that sit for a while.
Not disgusted.
Not surprised.
Just... amused.
"Interesting," she murmured.
"You sound disappointed."
"I'm not. I'm wondering if I should feel relieved."
I cocked my head.
"You're not used to being told no, are you?"
"People don't usually get the chance."
"Well," I said, "I'm not people."
"No," she said, almost wistfully. "You're not."
She shifted her weight again, scooting a little closer under the guise of readjusting. The veil held. Still cloaking her completely.
I didn't react.
Didn't flinch.
Let her test my stillness.
She liked that.
"You're calm," she said.
"I'm practiced."
"At what?"
"Keeping myself together."
"Even around monsters?"
I smiled.
"Especially around monsters."
That hit something again.
Her eyes narrowed—not angrily, but like she was picking through my face for more details.
"You are a liar," she said.
"Absolutely."
"And you wear it like armor."
I nodded.
"Then let me ask you something else."
She was closer now. Not touching. But close.
Close enough that I could see the specks of red behind her gold irises. Close enough to feel the temperature shift as her breath brushed the air between us.
"If I told you I was lonely," she said softly, "what would you do with that information?"
I let that question hang like a noose.
Then, without blinking:
"I'd make sure you never had to say it out loud again."
Her breath caught.
Subtle.
But I noticed.
She didn't move.
Didn't pull back.
Didn't speak.
So I leaned in, just a little more. Just enough to close the space between words and meaning.
"I don't need you to trust me," I said. "I just need you to notice when I don't leave."
That silence?
That was the sound of something deeper settling in her chest.
Not affection.
Not yet.
But maybe the absence of resistance.
We stayed like that a while.
Two broken things pretending the cracks didn't matter.
And maybe—for a moment—they didn't.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
The longer we stayed in the dark, the easier it became to pretend we weren't underground. That the world above wasn't moving on. That no one was hunting her, and I hadn't buried a piece of my soul in her teeth.
Still, there was weight here. Not oppressive. Not suffocating.
Just old.
Ancient.
A graveyard of conversations no one had the stomach to finish.
And now, she wanted to add one more.
She spoke suddenly, but not loudly. Like she'd just now remembered how to use her voice for something other than pride.
"Do you know what I miss?"
I didn't answer.
Didn't nod.
Just gave her that stillness again—the one she was learning to trust.
She continued.
"Warmth."
I let her say it.
Let her choose what kind.
She didn't.
"Not blood," she said, after a pause. "Not fire. Not even the sun. I mean… warmth. Like the kind that seeps in through conversation. Laughter. Human stupidity."
"You don't get that anymore?"
"I don't invite it anymore."
I leaned back slightly.
"Because it makes you weak?"
"No," she said. "Because it reminds me that I was."
She didn't look at me.
Her voice didn't shake.
But the air changed again—like the station wanted to pull a blanket around her and didn't know how.
She was telling me something she hadn't said in a century.
And she didn't need a reply.
She just needed it to be heard.
"I met someone once," she said. "A samurai. Not famous. Not clever. But honest."
I didn't interrupt.
Didn't roll my eyes.
Didn't even shift.
"He offered me a rice cake in winter," she said. "Nothing more. No poems. No worship. Just a rice cake and a joke about frostbite. I stayed with him for seven weeks. Watched him grow old. Watched him forget I didn't."
Another long breath.
"Do you know what I hated the most?"
I spoke for the first time in minutes.
"No."
She smiled, but not kindly.
"I hated that when he died, I didn't feel anything."
That wasn't a wound.
That was scar tissue she'd started peeling off again for the first time.
I kept my voice soft.
"But you remembered him."
"Because he made me laugh," she said. "And because he never asked for anything."
I leaned forward slightly.
Let my words come slow.
Precise.
"So is that what you're waiting for?"
She looked up at me.
Eyes unreadable.
"Someone who won't ask?"
"No," she said. "Someone who knows how to take without pretending it's selfless."
I held her gaze.
And didn't blink.
That was the moment.
The pivot point.
Where she decided I wasn't just a servant.
Wasn't just blood on legs.
Where she started to wonder what kind of person doesn't flinch in the presence of gods—and what kind of god might want to be seen like that.
She settled back again.
Closed her eyes.
Not to rest.
Just to think.
Maybe about him. The samurai. The frostbite. The rice cake.
Maybe about me.
And what it meant that I hadn't run.
I sat in the dark with her.
No ticking clock.
No plot pushing us forward.
Just the slow drip of history bleeding through mythology into something that looked suspiciously like connection.
And for now?
That was enough.
Because the best traps are the ones they walk into willingly.
Especially when you're the only warmth left in the room.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
She didn't say anything after that.
Didn't move.
Didn't try to reclaim the space she'd opened between us.
She just went still.
The kind of stillness you only learn after centuries.
Her breathing slowed. Not because she needed rest.
Because she finally could.
And I stayed.
Not because I didn't have anywhere to be.
But because she needed someone to be here, and she hadn't figured that out yet.
So I gave her silence.
A different kind than before.
Not weighted. Not strategic.
Just… quiet.
After a while, her head tilted. Chin tucked to her chest. Eyelids soft.
Sleep—not the fake kind, not the predator's kind.
Actual rest.
It was new.
Raw.
Real.
Like something she'd forgotten how to do and was just now remembering again.
Maybe I should've looked away.
But I didn't.
I watched.
Watched her body relax in slow increments, like each muscle had to be negotiated with.
Watched her chest rise and fall like it had learned rhythm secondhand.
Watched her fangs peek slightly beneath parted lips—still dangerous, even now.
She didn't look like a vampire.
Didn't look like a god.
She looked like someone who had survived herself.
And that's when I heard it.
Not footsteps.
Not voices.
Just a sound in the walls.
A wrongness.
Like the station had exhaled without permission.
I stood up slowly, my limbs loose but alert.
Not panic. Not fear.
Just readiness.
Something old.
Something I hadn't known I had until now.
The hunter's reflex.
The thrall's instinct.
Whatever it was, it made my teeth itch.
I scanned the corners.
Nothing.
No shadows moved.
No whispers crawled up from the cracks.
But something had noticed her.
Something had felt her power vanish under my veil.
And now?
It wanted to know why.
I didn't move toward it.
Didn't speak.
Didn't reach for anything.
I just let it know, silently, that I was here too.
And I was awake.
Kiss-shot didn't stir.
Not yet.
I wouldn't wake her.
Not until I had to.
For now, this peace?
It was mine to hold.
And theirs to regret.