ADDOXS Corner

I write things that live somewhere between fanfiction and original worlds. Please enjoy your stay.

[addoxs]

The Things We Buried (Interview with the Vampire (2022) x Reader)

Chapter Two: Portraits Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 In 2022 Dubai, Louis de Pointe du Lac finally reveals the name he spent decades omitting from his story: (Y/n).

In 1913 New Orleans, Louis encounters a mysterious woman in Storyville who pays off the debts of prostitutes and asks for nothing in return. Suspicious of her kindness, he follows her, convinced there must be a hidden motive.

Instead, he finds someone who challenges everything he believes about humanity, morality, and monsters.

A story about guilt, mercy, and the person who taught Louis that remembering is not a punishment, it is responsibility.

Author's Note: This chapter contains themes of historical exploitation, violence against women, racism, and discussions of murder. It explores trauma, guilt, and the weight of remembering the lives lost. Please read with care. The following will be discussed and covered as series progresses:

- Sexual Content / Discussions - Sexual exploitation / sex work themes - Prostitution (historical depiction) - Debt bondage / financial exploitation - Sexual harassment - Attempted sexual assault - Threats of sexual violence - Misogyny / gender-based violence - Racism and historical racial discrimination (1913 New Orleans) - Xenophobia / anti-immigrant prejudice - Alcohol/Drug abuse - Physical assault (Towards Men and Women) - Graphic violence - Blood / vampiric violence - Murder and discussions of murder - Death Trauma and grief - Survivor’s guilt Immortality and existential themes - Moral injury / guilt over past actions - Discussions of past violence and victims

Dubai 2022, 3rd POV

“Thank you, Damek,” Louis said, patting the broad shouldered Russian twice on the chest before turning his attention back to Daniel across the table. “As I was saying, I no longer kill.”

Daniel's gaze lingered on Damek. The man's footing faltered, one hand catching the edge of the doorway as his knees threatened to buckle.

“You might have a drinking problem,” Daniel observed flatly.

“Rashid,” Louis called without so much as glancing over.

Damek managed another unsteady step before his legs finally gave out, collapsing heavily onto the polished floor.  Louis simply unfolded his napkin, as though nothing of consequence had happened.

Daniel watched until the doorway as Rashid picked up the man’s arms and began dragging him from the room with practiced efficiency, the only sound the scrape of boots across the floor. It was only after both left the room did he return his attention to Louis.

“You've mastered your instincts,” he said “Did she?”

Louis didn't answer.

Daniel's eyes narrowed.

 "No." he admitted.  "She kills."

The words hung between them without excuse or apology.

"But she has never taken pleasure in it. There is no sport, no cruelty, no indulgence. Most never realize death has come for them until it already has." His eyes lowered to the untouched wine before him. "To her, it is not gratification. It is a necessity. Our survival sometimes demands terrible things." He looked back at Daniel. "She was never a slave to the blood."

"Interesting," Daniel said, leaning back in his chair. "That a woman you revere for her humanity and kindness still manages to leave a trail of bodies behind her."

Louis neither flinched nor looked away.

"You speak of necessity as though it absolves her."

"It does not," Louis replied quietly.

"No?"

"No." His fingers traced the stem of the untouched wineglass. "There is nothing to absolve. She has never asked for forgiveness."

Daniel regarded him carefully. "Then why defend her?"

"I'm not."

A silence settled between them.

"I am telling you who she is."

Daniel's brow furrowed.

"She has carried every death with her," Louis continued. "Every name. Every face. She remembers them all. She does not celebrate survival, nor does she pretend her hands are clean."

“Yes,” Daniel said, his eyes drifting to the notebook resting beside his plate. He tapped a finger lightly against its worn cover. “The names. Every year, on the anniversary of their deaths.” He looked back at Louis. “And yet, she keeps killing.”

Louis's expression hardened for a flicker of a moment. 

The household staff entered in practiced silence, each movement so precisely rehearsed it bordered on choreography. Crystal glasses were refilled. Fresh cutlery appeared as if by magic. The aroma arrived before the plates did, butter, rosemary, roasted garlic, and the richness of slow-braised lamb resting beside dauphinoise potatoes and glazed root vegetables.

Neither Louis nor Daniel acknowledged the performance.

They disappeared as quietly as they had arrived, the heavy doors closing with a muted click that returned the room to its suffocating stillness.

Daniel picked up his fork but made no move to eat.

"Did Lestat know?"

A faint, melancholy smile crossed Louis's face, exhaled softly.

"He always knew."

New Orleans 1915, Louis POV

I arrived home much later than I had intended.

The first pale hints of dawn were beginning to stain the eastern sky, washing the narrow streets beyond the townhouse windows in shades of blue and silver. The city rested in that peculiar stillness between night and morning, when even the carriages seemed reluctant to disturb the silence.

Our townhouse was awake. Soft candlelight spilled from beneath the parlor doors, stretching across the polished hardwood like liquid gold. Somewhere beyond them, the slow, deliberate notes of a piano drifted through the house.

The melody wandered without urgency, repeating familiar phrases before abandoning them altogether, as though his hands required something to occupy them while his thoughts lingered elsewhere.

I shrugged off my coat in the foyer, hanging it before lingered for a moment outside the parlor, resting myself against the carved oak doorframe.

"You're late," Lestat said, never once looking away from the keys.

"I met someone."

Lestat began to halt the melody, keeping the rhythm of a single note as he looked up towards me 

“A friend.” I offered

"Do you often meet friends who keep you out until dawn?"

I stepped further into the room, the faint scent of smoke and old wood surrounding me. The fire in the hearth had burned low, leaving only glowing embers beneath the ash. The room looked exactly as it always did at this hour preserved in time.

"You make it sound as though I have committed some great offense," I replied.

Lestat turned back to the piano, his fingers moving across the keys again, though the melody had changed. It was slower now. More deliberate.

"I said no such thing."

"No. You simply implied it."

He smiled faintly.

"I implied nothing, Louis."

I watched him carefully.

That was the danger with Lestat. He rarely needed to accuse. He had mastered the art of making silence speak for him, of allowing a single glance or a carefully chosen pause to carry more weight than any argument ever could. He could make you confess without asking a question, make you explain yourself before he had ever demanded an explanation.

And yet, for all his restraint, Lestat had always possessed a love for theatrics.

He understood the power of a moment, the placement of a word, the timing of a look, the slow reveal of a truth he had known long before anyone else was ready to admit it. He was a performer even in private moments.

Even now, with all his patience, I knew there was something deliberate in his silence. He wanted me to tell him. Not because he did not know. Because he wanted to hear me say it.

"You knew I was gone," I said.

His fingers paused briefly.

"I knew you were not here."

"That is not the same thing."

The quiet stretched between us.

I moved closer, resting my hand against the back of one of the chairs. "You followed me?" violation stirring. 

"You've met (Y/n)."

I felt myself grow cold. "You know her."

Lestat smiled.

"Oh, Louis.” He stopped playing, finally turning to face me. "I know everyone worth knowing."

“Yet, you didn’t think to mention her to me once.”

Lestat considered that.

"Because I preferred you not to meet."

For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood him. Then he laughed. Not the bright, charming laugh he offered to strangers. Not the theatrical amusement he used when entertaining a room. This was sharper. Crueler. A laugh that told me he had already seen the path ahead and was waiting for me to catch up.

"Because I know you."

My expression hardened.

"You don't know what I'm thinking."

Lestat's smile widened slightly. "I know exactly what you're thinking."

He rose from the piano bench with effortless grace, adjusting the cuffs of his coat as though preparing for a performance. And perhaps he was. With Lestat, there was always a performance.

He walked a few steps toward me, then stopped. As his posture changed and expression shifted.

"'She’s kind,'" he said, mimicking my voice. "'She’s different.'"

He tilted his head slightly, the way I often did when trying to understand another person.

"'She sees the good in everything. She believes that we are capable of something more.'"

My jaw tightened.

"Lestat—"

But he continued, enjoying the familiarity of it.

"'Perhaps there is another way.'"

He dropped the imitation, returning to himself with a faint, knowing smile.

"And then you would wonder why you never told me about her."

"And what if there is another way?" I asked.

Lestat rolled his eyes, letting out a quiet scoff.

"She has this way about her," I continued, my voice quieter now. "She makes you question things you thought were already decided. We tell ourselves it is inevitable. That violence is simply part of what we are now. But is it?" My gaze dropped briefly. “What if we are the ones who decided there had to be a line between what we were and what we are now?...What if the mistake we make is believing we had to choose? That we had to abandon our humanity in order to accept what we are?”

Lestat turned back toward me, expression unreadable.

“You've spent a couple of evenings with her." 

“It’s been two years.”

“A drop in an ocean of eternity." waving his hand in dismissal, before pausing. “I have spent considerably more time with her. Kindness does not erase what we are."

He looked toward the window, toward the faint light beginning to creep across the sky.

"Compassion does not change hunger. Belief does not change nature."

Dubai 2022, 3rd POV

"So he was jealous?"

Louis looked at Daniel.

"No."

Daniel's brow lifted slightly.

"Lestat did not dislike her." An amusement smile touched Louis’s lips. “You assume he would have seen her as a rival."

“Didn’t he?"

"He was fascinated by her." I continued “He had known her for over a century before I ever met her. Longer than I had even known him in some ways. She wasn’t some stranger who appeared and was going to take me away. She was someone Lestat had already spent decades observing, arguing with, and trying to understand.”

"She was everything he claimed did not exist."

Louis nodded “How could you deny the existence of someone who was your antithesis?” 

"So what was she to him?"

“Impossible.” Louis chuckled “In every sense of that word. To him, she was naive, irritating, infuriating. She had this unbearable habit of looking at him as though she could see past every performance he gave. She would tell him when he was being arrogant. When he was being cruel. Lying to himself."

"And he tolerated that?"

"He did more than tolerate it."

Daniel didn’t push the question. He had his answer. 

“So why the lurking? Why watch from a distance? Why choose to confront you after two years?”  Daniel's eyes narrowed slightly. "In your own words, she was not some stranger who appeared in your life. She was someone he had known for over a century. So why now?"

“They weren’t on the best of terms.” The words felt strange for Louis to say aloud. "Before me, before any of this... she and Lestat had their own history. Their own disagreements."

"Disagreements?"

A faint, humorless graced Louis.

"That is a very gentle word for it."

New Orleans 1915, Louis POV

“Not surprising to hear.” The charcoal moved steadily across the page, capturing details with the same patience she applied to everything else. The curve of a face, the fall of fabric, the smallest imperfections most people would overlook. "God forbid anyone focus their attention on someone other than Lestat."

I couldn't help it, I laughed.

She glanced up at me, one eyebrow raised. "What?"

"Nothing."

"No, please," she said, returning her attention to the page. "I'm certain you have prepared a very insightful defense of him."

I smiled. "You make him sound unbearable."

She looked at me, as though she was asking me to be serious. 

"He is unbearable."

The certainty in her voice almost made me laugh again.

“Saying it as though you weren’t also lovers.” I teased. 

Her hand stopped. The charcoal rested against the paper, unmoving. “We weren’t anything.” The words came quietly. “Just two people looking for company.”

A slight shift in her expression. The careful distance she placed between herself and the memory. The way she had answered too quickly, as though she had rehearsed the words long before I ever asked. She continued sketching, but the movement had lost its ease.

"What happened between you two?" I asked.

Her eyes remained on the page.

"Whenever I ask about you, he changes the subject. At first, I thought he simply didn't want to talk about it. Lestat has always been particular about what he shares and when he shares it." I adjusted myself, sitting next to her on the rim of the fountain. “It’s difficult not to notice.”

She took a breath. Setting aside her sketchbook and charcoal beside her. It was like she weighted the words before speaking them. 

"I hurt him." Finally, looking at me. There was no defensiveness in her voice. No attempt to excuse herself. "We agreed that we had needs that needed to be fulfilled. That it was something to keep the boredom away. The loneliness." Her gaze lowered. "He had someone at the time."

A pause.

"Nicolas."

The name carried a weight that I would not understand yet. 

"I didn't know." Her voice became quieter. "Not until the damage had already been done which would be just one of a series of events that led to his death." She looked away. The admission settled heavily between us. "Lestat was torn. He was in pain. And I..."

She stopped. For the first time, I saw hesitation.

"I left."

The words were barely above a whisper.

"I left him when he needed someone to stay."

Her fingers curled tightly against her palm. 

The same woman who teased, who smiled easily, who could make even the darkest conversations feel lighter. The same woman who carried herself with such confidence that I sometimes forgot she, too, carried centuries behind her.

I had seen her kindness. Her patience. Her almost impossible ability to find something worth holding onto. But I had never seen her regret.

She did not search for some reason that would make her actions easier to accept. She simply sat there, staring at the fountain as the water continued to fall in endless repetition.

For a moment, I wondered how long she had been carrying this silence. How many times she had replayed this moment. How many times she had asked herself the same question.

I moved closer. Slowly. Giving her every opportunity to refuse. I wrapped an arm around her, pulling her gently against me. For a moment, she went completely still. I felt the tension run through her, not fear, exactly, but surprise. 

I wondered if she would pull away. If she would retreat behind that familiar certainty of hers and pretend she was untouched by it all. But she didn't. A minute passed. Then another. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tension left her body. She softened against me. And she stayed. Neither of us spoke.

The fountain continued its quiet rhythm beside us, filling the silence.

I do not remember how long we remained there. At that moment, I was not thinking about time. I was only aware of the quiet. The warmth of her against me. The rare absence of tension in her shoulders. The fact that she had allowed herself, even briefly, to be comforted. Neither of us spoke. We did not need to.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

My body went still before my mind fully understood why.

The sound carried across the empty space, sharp against the quiet night. Whoever it belonged to wanted us to hear it. Wanted us to know they had been there long enough to witness everything. Neither of us had heard him arrive. And that, more than anything, told me who it was.

Lestat stepped from the shadows. Elegant. Every detail intentional. His coat sat flawlessly against him. His hair was untouched by the night air. His expression carried that familiar confidence of someone who had never once doubted he belonged wherever he stood. He looked exactly as he always did. 

Beautiful.

Untouchable.

In control.

In rage.

I felt (Y/n) shift beside me, moving away. Body heighten in awareness. The calmness she had found moments before disappeared, not completely, but enough. As Lestat's gaze moved between us. The smile never reached his eyes. 

"How charming."

"Lestat." (Y/n) slowly closed her sketchbook. "Good evening."

"Good evening," he echoed, looking almost amused. "How wonderfully polite of you."

He stepped closer, his smile sharpening. "Is that what we are now?" His gaze lingered on her. "Strangers exchanging pleasantries in the street? Should I begin talking about this weather we are having?"

“Lestat-” I was cut off.

“Truly amazing, the same woman who can spend an evening lecturing me about compassion, morality, and the importance of honesty..." His eyes flickered briefly toward me. "...seems to only follow them when convenient."

“Lestat-" 

He appeared beside her within a blink, Lestat picked up the sketchbook from the bench before either of them could stop him. He flipped through its pages. Portrait after portrait.

Children.

Old women.

Musicians.

Dock workers.

Me.

Again.

And again?

And again?

My breath caught slightly. Not because I was unfamiliar with her drawing. But because of how many there were. Different expressions. Different moments. Different versions of myself I had not realized she had noticed. Lestat's fingers stopped.

For the first time since he arrived, the performance faltered. Only slightly.

“Lestat-” He held up a finger, silencing me without even looking away from the pages.

"No, no. Please. I am appreciating the artistry."

His eyes scanned the sketches. "The attention to detail. The dedication. The obvious devotion." He looked up at me. "How flattering." The sarcasm dripped from every word.

“Tell me, Louis. When you are inside her, what expressions do you make?”

“You’re being cruel, Lestat.” Her voice cut through the air. “Nothing happened.” The words were calm, but firm. She stepped closer, her eyes fixed on him. “Nothing happened.”

Lestat stared at her. And somehow, that seemed to make it worse.  His jaw tightened for the briefest moment before his expression smoothed over again. “How reassuring.”

“Lestat.”

He tossed the sketchbook onto the cobblestone path. "I've always admired your little performance."

"My performance?"

"The saint."

(Y/n) remained quiet.

"Praying, charity, and endless forgiveness." He circled her slowly. "You've had centuries to perfect it."

"I wasn't aware I was performing."

He laughed. "Then perhaps you've finally convinced yourself."

"Lestat, enough!" My frustration building, placing myself between them. 

“DO NOT INTERRUPT ME!” He screamed in my face “Do not stand there and pretend you do not understand what you have walked into!” His shoulders squared slightly, his entire posture tightening as though he were physically restraining himself. The careful elegance he always wore like armor shattered. His hands curled at his sides, fingers flexing once before he forced them still.

"I've tolerated this fantasy long enough." The words came through clenched restraint. His eyes seething in anger.

(Y/n) lowered her gaze. "I'm sorry."

Lestat's laugh was sharp. A sound that carried too much familiarity.

"There it is." His expression shifted as though he had just been proven right. He lifted a hand, pointing, not aggressively, but with the certainty of someone presenting evidence.

"You hear that, Louis?" His eyes moved toward me, almost challenging me to deny what was happening right in front of us. "Apologizing for everything."

He turned back toward her, deliberately. As though he wanted her to see that he noticed. That he had always noticed. His hand lowered, but his posture remained tense. His shoulders were drawn tight, his head tilted slightly as he studied her with an expression that was impossible to read. Frustration. Recognition.

"Always."

"If my presence has upset you-"

"It has."

"...then I'm sorry."

"You think that's humility?" His voice rose. "It's vanity."

She said nothing.

"You enjoy this."

"No, I don't."

"You enjoy making everyone else feel monstrous."

"I've never wanted that."

His words came faster now. "You walk into a room with those mournful eyes and those little prayers, and suddenly everyone else is measured against your impossible standards."

"I have no standards for anyone but myself."

"LIAR!" He screamed at her. 

His breathing had become uneven, his chest rising and falling with an anger that seemed almost too large for him to contain. For a moment, he looked less like the immortal creature who could command a room with a glance and more like someone caught in the middle of an argument he had been having with himself for decades.

His hands moved restlessly at his sides, fingers flexing as though he wanted to reach for something and did not know whether he wanted to pull her closer or push her away.

And (Y/n)...

She did not move.

"Lestat, I am sorry." She hesitated. "For leaving you, hurting you."

His expression flickered. Almost confused. "You've done nothing to me."

"I did." She looked at him with heartbreaking sincerity.

I stared at her, as she took one careful step forward. Then another. Until she stood within arm's reach.

"...Don't." I breathed

She gently wrapped her arms around Lestat. Just enough, as though comforting someone after terrible news.

The warning left me before I could stop it. The tension between them. The fragile, impossible moment. She reached for him anyway, gently wrapped her arms around Lestat. Just enough, as though comforting someone after terrible news. The way one holds someone who has been carrying something too heavy for too long.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I never wished to become another burden you carried."

For a heartbeat...

Lestat froze.

His entire body trembled. His hands clenched. His entire body went still. The kind of stillness that did not come from calm. It came from shock. His eyes remained open, unfocused. His hands hung at his sides, as though he had forgotten what they were meant to do.

And then I saw it. The smallest tremor. A fracture in someone who had always seemed impossible to break. His fingers curled slowly. His hands clenched. His entire body tightened as if he were fighting against something inside himself.

A sound tore from him. A violent, anguished cry that seemed to come from somewhere much deeper than fury. Before either of us could react, his hands moved. She struck the nearby bench and crumpled to the ground. Lestat was there in an instant, fury eclipsing thought. His fangs dropped as he lunged at her, clawing at her.

"Lestat!" I screamed, I ran at him. I grabbed him and pulled with everything I had. For a moment, it felt impossible. Like trying to move something carved from stone. He barely seemed to register me. His entire focus was on her. On the person in front of him. On the person he had spent years trying to forget.

"Lestat, stop!" 

I wrapped my arms around him, dragging him backward, placing myself between them. He fought me. His movements were frantic, uneven. His breath came harshly. He threw me to the other side of the empty square as my lungs fought against my chest for air. I fought, trying to will the air into my body, fighting to ignore the pain that pushed against me. If not, for my current incapacitated state, I don’t believe I would have heard her voice. 

"No…Don't make him choose more violence.” she reached within my mind.

My vision swam as I rolled onto my side, forcing myself upright despite the pain screaming through me. She was still on the ground. And he was standing over her. My vision blurred. But I could still see her. 

The left side of her face had already begun to darken, a deep bruise spreading beneath her skin. Small cuts scattered across her cheek and temple, catching the faint light of the square. Her hair had fallen loose around her face, no longer the careful, composed image she always presented. Her eyes remained closed as she relied on everything except her sight. The blood had begun to blur her vision, trailing down from a cut near her brow and slipping across her cheek. She did not wipe it away. Did not move. Did not run. She simply remained there, breathing slowly, focusing on the sound of him.

“He's hurting you.” Tears slipping down. 

A sad, almost apologetic smile touched her lips.

“Let this end here.”

Dubai 2022, 3rd POV

Daniel had forgotten to write.

They had moved from the dining room into the living room. Floor to ceiling windows stretched from polished marble to impossibly high ceilings, revealing Dubai glittering beneath them. Thousands of lights shimmered against the darkness of the desert, highways threading through the city like rivers of gold. The Burj Khalifa pierced the night beyond the glass, its reflection fractured across the windows until it seemed the city existed both outside and within the room.

He looked from Louis directly across from him to the laptop in front of him. A silent Rashid, sitting on the other end of the room, occupying him with a tablet in his hand. If either man had been within view, they would have seen the black display and the absorbed focus he held to the tale. 

“Jesus.” Daniel breathed. 

He honestly didn’t know what to think, maybe it was better not too. She was a contradiction. A saint. A monster. Disciplined to an almost unhealthy degree, yet reckless enough to throw herself into danger without hesitation if it meant sparing someone else. She felt, to Daniel, like a self-made martyr.

The sort of person he should have despised. Someone so consumed by guilt and responsibility that they made suffering into a vocation. Ordinarily, he would have. People like that irritated him. They wrapped themselves in self-sacrifice until everyone around them was expected to admire it. So why didn’t he?

“She believed that if answering violence with violence would only leave all three of us more broken. Then someone had to choose not to strike back.” Louis breaking the silence. “Lestat kept her alive. Carried the both of us back to the townhouse, set her up in the guest room where it would take a week for her to regain consciousness and longer for her body to heal. He wouldn’t visit her during this time.” His eyes remained fixed on nothing, somewhere decades away.

Daniel had seen him pause before. This was different. There was no performance left. Only memory.

After nearly a minute, Louis rose from his chair.

 "My apologies." His voice was quiet. "I require a moment." Without waiting for permission, he walked toward the balcony overlooking Dubai. The doors whispered shut behind him.

The room felt strangely smaller without him as Daniel finally decided to lean back into the sofa. He rubbed his forehead and eyes.

"Jesus..."

Silence answered him.

Daniel glanced across the room to Rashid. "So..." Daniel began.

Rashid looked up.

"Yes, Mr. Molloy?"

Daniel studied him for a second. "You've been sitting in this room listening to all of this." gesturing the air around him. "And you haven't reacted once."

"My reactions are not why you are here."

Daniel chuckled. "Fair."

A beat.

"But indulge me."

Rashid set down the tablet next to him. Before getting up, crossing the room. His hands folded behind his back once he was closer to Daniel. "If I am able."

"Have you ever met her?"

There was the slightest pause.

"So many people have passed through Mr.Du Lac’s life."

"That wasn't my question."

"No."

Daniel leaned back. "I'm asking if you met her."

Rashid's expression remained serene. "I hear her. Only once."

Daniel caught it immediately. Interesting.

"And?"

Another pause.

"She was..." He seemed to consider the word. "...unusual."

Daniel laughed softly. "That's the understatement of the century."

"It may be." For the briefest moment, the corner of Rashid's mouth lifted into a restrained smile. It vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

“As Mr.Du Lac explained, there has been quite a considerable amount of time since they spoke much less seen each other. She called in March 2020, when governments began issuing mandates and international borders were closing.” His voice remained even, almost clinical.

“She telephoned the residence. Another member of staff answered. She did not ask where Mr. du Lac was. She did not ask to speak with him.”

Daniel frowned. "What did she ask?"

"Whether he was well."

A pause.

"Whether he was safe." Rashid's eyes drifted toward Louis for only a moment. Louis focused solely on the city skyline. “She instructed the staff to care for him as the initial outbreak had passed.” His eyes returned back to Daniel. 

Daniel blinked. "That's it?"

Rashid's voice remained perfectly level. "She wished him good health. She thanked the staff for looking after him, and then… ended the call."

“How did you know it was her?”

"We record all incoming calls." The answer came matter-of-factly. "The member of staff who answered recognized neither person nor the significance of the call and informed me afterward."

"You listened to the recording?"

"I did."

"And you recognized her voice?"

“Mr.Du Lac recognized her voice.” His eyes drifted toward Louis once more. "He had been in the library when I informed him of the call. I played the recording for him. He knew before she finished the first sentence."

"And then?"

"He listened." Regarding Daniel again. "He said nothing for several minutes."

Daniel looked across the room.

Louis hadn't reacted. Not outwardly. He was still gazing through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawling beneath him in glittering silence.Though Daniel couldn’t see it, only the slight tightening of his grip around rail betrayed that he had been listening all along.

For the first time all evening...Rashid hesitated. Only briefly.

"I admired her discipline."

Daniel looked up from his laptop. "Discipline?"

"Compassion is not an emotion."

Daniel frowned. "No?"

"No." Rashid's voice remained calm.

"It is a practice. Many mistake kindness for temperament."

The soft clicking of the keys filled the room as he typed out his response. Another thought struck him. "Louis says she remembered everyone she'd ever killed."

"He did."

"Do you believe that?"

“I do.”

There wasn't the slightest hesitation. Daniel leaned back. He looked down at the dozens of pages of notes spread across the coffee table. Pages filled with contradictions. Mercy. Violence. Faith. Regret. Duty. Love.

He exhaled through his nose. "She sounds exhausting."

Rashid almost smiled. "It does."

"There."

"What?"

"A criticism."

"I did not criticize her."

"You called her exhausting."

"I called the practice exhausting." Rashid inclined his head. "The constant effort, restraint, choice. To live that way…would exhaust anyone."

Daniel followed his gaze towards the balcony  before looking back down at his notes.. "You know what I can't figure out?"

"What is that?"

"If she's everything Louis says..." He flipped through his notes. "...gentle, brilliant, patient, forgiving..." He looked back at Rashid. "Why does she feel..." He searched for the word. "Lonely?"

Something flickered across Rashid's face. Gone just before Daniel saw it. "Because," Rashid answered quietly, "people often confuse being needed with being known."

Daniel stared. "You think nobody actually knew her."

"I think..." Rashid corrected himself with characteristic precision. "...very few asked."His gaze drifted somewhere beyond "Some wounds remain closed because they are still keeping the person alive."

Daniel blinked. "That's a hell of a sentence."

"It belongs to her."

Daniel's eyebrows rose. "She said that?"

"Once."

The balcony door slid open, The warm desert air followed him for only a moment before the glass sealed shut again. Louis returned, his composure had returned with him, though his eyes were faintly red.

Daniel noticed, chose not to mention it.

Louis returned to his seat. "I apologize."

Daniel shook his head. "No need." Author's Note:

If you'd like to be notified whenever a new chapter is posted, leave a comment below and I'll add you to the taglist.

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts and questions on the chapter. Your comments mean a lot and help keep me motivated to write.

--------------- Taglist: @temperaynse @cytronp @sylviecalder

[addoxs]

The Things We Buried (Interview with the Vampire (2022) x Reader)

Chapter One: …After Phantoms of Your Former Self

In 2022 Dubai, Louis de Pointe du Lac finally reveals the name he spent decades omitting from his story: (Y/n).

In 1913 New Orleans, Louis encounters a mysterious woman in Storyville who pays off the debts of prostitutes and asks for nothing in return. Suspicious of her kindness, he follows her, convinced there must be a hidden motive.

Instead, he finds someone who challenges everything he believes about humanity, morality, and monsters.

A story about guilt, mercy, and the person who taught Louis that remembering is not a punishment, it is responsibility. Author's Note: This chapter contains themes of historical exploitation, violence against women, racism, and discussions of murder. It explores trauma, guilt, and the weight of remembering the lives lost. Please read with care. The following will be discussed and covered as series progresses: - Sexual exploitation / sex work themes - Prostitution (historical depiction) - Debt bondage / financial exploitation - Sexual harassment - Attempted sexual assault - Threats of sexual violence - Misogyny / gender-based violence - Racism and historical racial discrimination (1913 New Orleans) - Xenophobia / anti-immigrant prejudice - Alcohol abuse - Physical assault - Graphic violence - Blood / vampiric violence - Murder and discussions of murder - Death Trauma and grief - Survivor’s guilt Immortality and existential themes - Moral injury / guilt over past actions - Discussions of past violence and victims

Dubai 2022, 3rd POV

“From 1912 to 1917, I made a mountain of money, enough to retire and be

buried like a pharaoh. But in the essential duties of the executor in charge,

I had been the most delinquent.” 

The room settled into one of its familiar silences.

The tape recorder continued its patient whir.

Daniel glanced over the rim of his reading glasses. Louis hadn't moved in nearly a minute, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the room.

"...Louis?"

Louis blinked.

"My apologies. I have gotten ahead of myself."

His voice was softer than before.

"There are memories one rehearses for decades before speaking them aloud." A faint smile, absent of humor. "And there are others that refuse rehearsal altogether."

Daniel leaned back in his chair.

"So this is one of those."

Louis gave a small nod.

Rashid appeared soundlessly beside them, placing a fresh cup of coffee in front of Daniel. Their eyes met for only a fraction of a second.

"Thanks," Daniel muttered.

Rashid inclined his head and disappeared once more into the apartment's shadows.

Louis watched him leave before returning his attention to Daniel.

"There is someone I've neglected to mention."

Daniel flipped to a blank page.

"Someone important?"

"...More than important."

Louis inhaled unnecessarily. 

"Her name was..." His lips barely formed it. "(Y/n)."

Daniel’s face twisted in a moment, as he reviewed his notes. He flipped through the pages and his own faded memories, searching for the name. Both absent.

“You won’t find her.” Louis explained, Daniel couldn’t decide at that moment if he seemed ashamed or saddened. Looking back, it was both. “During our first interview in 1973, it seemed irrelevant to discuss her. It was only years later that I recognized my error.”

“Why now?”

Louis was quiet for a long while.

"Because omission has its own cruelty."

His gaze drifted toward the city beyond the glass, where Dubai shimmered beneath the evening haze.

"I have spoken at great length of Lestat... of Claudia... of Armand. I have dissected my own failures until they became almost academic." A faint, bitter smile touched his mouth. "Yet the person whose absence shaped all that followed remained... absent."

Daniel lowered his pen but did not interrupt.

"I told myself I was protecting her memory." Louis let out a soft breath. "That some things deserved to remain untouched by confession."

He shook his head.

"It was not protection. It was cowardice."

Another silence settled between them.

Daniel studied him.

"You think telling me about her changes anything?"

Louis considered the question with characteristic care.

"No."

The answer came without hesitation.

"Nothing I say can alter what became of her. Nothing can return what was lost. This is not an act of atonement, Daniel. I have lived long enough to know that some debts cannot be paid."

His expression softened into something fragile.

"But wounds do not close because we refuse to look at them. They merely learn to ache in silence."

He looked at Daniel then, truly looked at him.

"For over a century I have carried her as one carries a phantom… always present, never acknowledged. Every story I have told has bent itself around the shape she left behind."

His voice dropped almost to a whisper.

"If I am to tell you the truth of my life... then I must finally tell you hers."

New Orleans 1913, Louis POV

During winter, when the rain had left the streets glistening beneath the gas lamps. Storyville was beginning to wake. Music spilled from brothels, laughter from open windows, horses pulling carriages through puddles that reflected amber light. 

The women talked.

They always had.

They traded gossip as readily as cigarettes and perfume, each story growing grander with every retelling. Usually it was politicians, gamblers, businessmen, or men with appetites too expensive to confess in daylight.

But that winter, they spoke of someone else.

A woman.

No one seemed to know where she'd come from.

“You hear about the Spanish girl?" 

"The pretty one?"

"Nah..."

"The rich one."

I stopped, focusing my gaze a block away to a group of four women just outside one of the saloons speaking in hushed whispers as they played blackjack under a leaking roof. Some of the water, dipping down on the center deck. 

"There ain't no rich Spanish girl." The oldest of them said as she played her card down, taking a drag of her cigarette and passing it across to the youngest with wide eyes.

"It’s true, Clara! They say she's been paying girls' debts." Stopping to take a small puff “Just walks in, asks what they owe, pays it and leaves.”

“Wait, just paying and leaving? I don’t believe that for a second.” The girl to her left said as her face pinched looking at her cards before folding. “Has to be a catch.”

"No catch, Ethel," came the quiet reply from the youngest.

"It happened to Pearl, you know, the one from the Golden Parlor. She said this woman came in one night, asked the owner who owed the most. He told her it was Pearl. She asked how much, counted it out right there, and walked away."

The girl smiled to herself.

"The owner nearly fell over when she laid the money on the table."

She shook her head, almost laughing.

"I ain't seen Pearl smile like that in years."

Storyville was built upon transactions. Everything had its price.

Affection. Company. Protection. Forgiveness.

Even kindness was usually a bargain struck in advance. 

Yet, for the better part of two weeks, I continued hearing the same story from different mouths.

The names of the women changed. The houses changed. The sums grew larger or smaller depending upon the teller.

But one detail never did.

She never stayed.

I began to notice a pattern. Every Thursday, just after sunset. She always arrived alone.

A cream-colored dress, modestly cut. A dark shawl framing her face. She walked with neither haste nor hesitation, acknowledging no one, as though the city parted for her of its own accord.

She spoke softly. Never haggled. Never lingered. She'd quietly settle a woman's account, smile, and disappear into the night. It was during one of these nights of me watching her I would realize she was looking back. 

She visited three establishments before turning into a narrow alley between a tailor's shop and an apothecary. The sounds of Storyville dulled behind the brick walls, leaving only the steady drip of rainwater from rusted gutters.

I remained in the shadows.

She came to a stop.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

“You’re late. You usually arrive before I settle my accounts” She said softly, her back to me. 

I said nothing.

For the first time in many months, I found myself at a loss for words.

She turned then. Slowly. 

There was no fear in her face. No startled gasp or hurried retreat. She regarded me with the same quiet composure she had shown every Thursday evening, as though she'd expected this meeting all along.

She was younger than I'd imagined.

"You've been following me," she observed.

It wasn't an accusation. Merely a fact.

"I have."

"And?"

"And I wanted to know why."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Most men wish to know my name first."

"I already know what they call you."

"The Spanish girl?"

She laughed quietly. "I've been French, Cuban, Italian..." She tilted her head. "Spanish is a new one."

"You let them believe it."

"I let people believe many things."

The answer lingered between us. Finally, she looked past me toward the street we'd left behind.

"You needn't worry."

"I wasn't worried."

"No?"

"No." She said with certainty. Her eyes returned to mine.

"I have."

"Why?"

"Because debt is its own prison."

I blinked. "That's your reason?"

She looked back at me, almost confused by the question.

"It seemed worthy enough."

Most people, when questioned about their kindness, rushed to explain it. They offered reasons that made them appear noble. They wanted their generosity witnessed, catalogued, remembered.

She did none of those things. She simply stood there, as though the answer required no further defense.

"You know they'll only fall into debt again."

"I know." Certainty again in her tone. 

"So what have you accomplished?" feeling the confusion morph into my features. 

For the first time, her expression changed. Not offended. Not defensive.

Only thoughtful.

Her gaze drifted beyond, toward the boarding house across the street. Through one of the open windows, the sound of laughter carried into the alley. A young woman sat among friends, smiling freely, untouched for the moment by the weight that usually followed her.

"To have one less impossible evening."

 Dubai 2022, 3rd POV

The tape recorder continued to hum.

Daniel stared at the page in front of him, pen hovering but unmoving.

"One less impossible evening."

Louis looked at him.

"What?"

Daniel glanced up.

"That's what she said?"

"Yes."

Daniel leaned back slightly. Looking at his notes, tapping his pen against his notebook. 

"So a woman walks into Storyville, pays off debts she knows will return, refuses thanks, refuses repayment, and when you question the purpose of it, her answer is that she gave someone one good night."

"Yes."

"And that changed something for you?"

Louis was quiet.

For several seconds, Daniel thought he might not answer.

"It confused me."

Daniel raised an eyebrow.

"You?"

A faint smile crossed Louis's face.

"I was a vampire, Daniel. I had spent over 2 years being taught that compassion was a weakness. That attachment was a liability. That humanity was something to be outgrown."

His gaze lowered.

"And then I encountered someone who seemed to possess more humanity than anyone I had known."

Daniel looked back at his notes.

"You were suspicious of her."

"Of course."

"Because you thought there had to be a catch."

Louis's silence was answer enough.

Daniel nodded slowly.

"You couldn't understand someone doing something without wanting something back."

"No."

"Because everyone before her had wanted something from you."

Louis looked away. The silence stretched.

"Yes."

Daniel softened slightly.

"And she didn't?"

Louis's expression changed…not sadness exactly. Something older.

"No."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

Daniel looked at the recorder. The question that bore repeating in his mind, hanging at the tip of his tongue. 

"So why didn't you tell me about her in 1973?"

Louis's eyes moved toward the center of the dining table.

"Because I had spent years trying to convince myself that what happened between us was insignificant."

Daniel frowned.

"And now?"

Louis looked down.

"Just another lie."

New Orleans 1913, Louis POV

Thursdays began to become sacred to me.

I spent the better part of that wet winter seeking her. What began as nights watching from afar slowly transformed into quiet companionship, first through questions, then through conversation.

I told myself I was studying her. Understanding her. Trying to uncover the reason behind a kindness that seemed, to me then, impossible. It wouldn't take more than 10 years to know it was real.

But curiosity does not explain why I began arriving earlier. Why I found myself listening for the sound of her footsteps among the streets of Storyville. Why I noticed when she was absent.

I had spent my existence as a vampire learning how to take.

Blood. Secrets. Lives.

Yet she moved through the same city and did nothing but give.

“Why?” 

She laughed as we alongside the river bank, the city and its occupants muffled and away. Only the soft sounds of the river bank followed us in the night.

“You ask that too often.”

"Because I have yet to receive an answer that satisfies me."

A small smile touched her lips.

"Perhaps your mistake is believing there is one."

"There must be."

"Why?" she teased as turned walking backwards to face me, the smile still imprinted on her cheeks. 

"Because people do not act without reason."

She tilted her head.

The certainty in her answer bothered me more than disagreement would have.

"People are selfish," I continued. "They survive on what they can gain. Sex. Money. Power. Influence. Even affection is often nothing more than another form of possession. They give because they expect something in return. They protect because they fear losing something. They love because they want to be loved."

My voice grew sharper.

"Even kindness has a price. Perhaps not one spoken aloud, but a price nonetheless."

She did not interrupt, just silently studying me. That almost irritated me more than being unable to read her.

"Men donate to be remembered. They rescue to be praised. They forgive because they wish to appear merciful. Every good deed carries the shadow of a desire behind it."

I looked toward the street ahead, where the lights of Storyville flickered against the rain.

"I have spent enough time among people to know this…Enough time to know that no one gives without wanting."

Her gaze never broke me, just studying me. At that moment, it was hard to read her. Perhaps she would judge me. Perhaps she would pity me. Perhaps she would simply decide I was too far gone and allow the conversation to fade before sunrise.

I expected many things.

Understanding was not one of them. It would be years before I recognized that expression for what it truly was. Recognition.

She understood.

Not because she shared my belief, but because she knew the world that had created it. A world where generosity was often conditional. Where kindness was frequently offered only to those considered worthy of receiving it. Where people like us were taught, in countless quiet ways, that everything had to be earned.

A black man walking through a city that had never been designed to offer him grace. An immigrant woman navigating a country that had never promised her acceptance.

We occupied different corners of the world, but we understood the same lesson. That people were often willing to see what they wanted from you before they saw you.

She never said any of this aloud. She did not need to.That was perhaps what surprised me most. She did not look at me and see a man who needed correcting. Simply looked at me and understood why I had become this way.

“Do you think it's meaningless because it ends?” She said softly 

A voice interrupted.

"There she is."

Three men stumbled over the bridge into the area we occupied at the shore, their movements unsteady from drink. Their laughter came too loudly, too carelessly, carrying the confidence of men who had never been taught to fear the consequences of their actions.

The scent of alcohol reached me before they did.

"There you are," the tallest repeated, his eyes fixed on her. "Been looking all over for you, Miss (L/n)"

She did not move. She did not retreat. That was the first thing I noticed.

Not fear. Not surprise. Only patience. As though she had encountered this exact kind of man a thousand times before.

"Have you?" she asked

“Aye, I have.” Now within arms reach from her. “Imagine my luck.” 

The man I would later know as Harrison Ryder, the owner of the Golden Parlor, had for a lack of a better word was enamoured with her. Though it is too gentle a word.

Plainly, it was hunger. The kind possessed by men who see something beautiful and immediately wonder how it might belong to them. What length, as animalistic as you can imagine, they would travel to seek possession. 

“Imagine mine.” She said

The man laughed. "You think you're funny?"

"No." Her answer seemed to confuse him. "I think you're drunk."

His companions laughed. Stepping closer, circling us. 

“Thought I told you not to be buying up our girls. Not good for business as you can imagine."

She remained perfectly still, tracking the other two using the corners of her eyes. "I remember."

“I imagine you also remember” now within inches of her face “there are other forms of payment that I am willing to accept. You know, to further the cause.” Looking at the other two men before returning his gaze to her again. “A benefit to the community so to speak.”

"You're confusing generosity with permission, Mr. Ryder."

The smile on his face faltered. Only slightly.

But I noticed. Men like him were accustomed to fear. Anger. Pleading. They knew what to do with those things.

Calm was different.

"You know," he said, tilting his head, "for someone who spends so much time helping women, you seem awfully comfortable making enemies."

"I have never considered you an enemy."

That seemed to amuse him.

"No?"

"No."

"What would you consider me?"

She regarded him for a moment. "A man who mistakes obedience for respect."

The silence that followed was immediate and dark as Ryder's expression changed.

"Is that so?"

Then his hand moved. Fast.

His fingers closed around her jaw, forcing her face upward.

The action was not violent in appearance. Not to someone who did not understand men like him.

But I did. It was a reminder. A message: Remember your place. A demonstration that he believed he could place his hands on her whenever he wished.

And for the first time that evening, something inside me broke. Not slowly. Not gradually. Instantly. The world narrowed.

I caught the man's arm. As though stopping a falling object. The difference was meaningless to him. The moment my fingers closed around his wrist, his expression changed. Confusion first. Then fear. A small, satisfying flicker of realization.

He finally understood that he was not the most dangerous thing standing among us that night.

I twisted. The sound was immediate. A sickening crack beneath my hand. His scream tore through and echoed against the river bank.

The bones beneath his skin gave way far too easily. Human bodies were fragile things. I had known that since my first night I turned, yet I still found myself surprised by how little strength was required to break one.

The other two men reacted instinctively. One reached for me. I struck him, the force of it sent him backward, his body colliding with the tree behind him hard enough to shake loose, splinter and then bow. He crumpled to the ground, gasping, the confidence gone from his face.

The last man froze. For a brief moment, he stared at me. Instinct taking him, hand moving beneath his coat. The revolver appeared.

I crossed the distance before he could raise it.

One moment he stood several feet away. The next, my hand was around his throat. His back struck the wall of the bridge. The weapon fell from his fingers and into the mud below.

I could hear everything. The frantic beating of his heart. The shallow breaths he struggled to draw. The blood moving beneath his skin. Every part of me knew exactly how easy it would be.

One more second.

One more movement.

And his life would end.

My fangs descended. I hated how natural it felt. How effortless. How familiar. The same hunger that had terrified me in myself now whispered that this was justified.

That this was different.

That he deserved it.

And perhaps that was the most dangerous lie of all.

Because monsters rarely believe they are monsters while they are doing what they do.

"Louis." A quiet voice. Barely louder than the rain.

My grip tightened.

Not because I had not heard of her. Because I had.

And for one terrible moment… I did not want to stop.

“Louis.” She repeated, gently touching my forearm.  "Please."

"He deserves it." My grip remaining

"Perhaps."

"He put his hands on you. Threaten you."

"I know."

"I'm ending this."

The words came with certainty. With the same certainty Ryder had carried when he believed he was entitled to her. The realization would come later. Not then.

"No."

I paused, finally moving my gaze to her. "No?"

She slowly shook her head. Not angrily. Not fearfully. Just firmly. For a moment, almost tired. 

"I would rather leave."

"He'll do it again."

"He may."

"Then why stop me?"

She moved her gaze from me, to the man. Meeting his furious eyes, taking fast and heavy short breaths that allowed in that moment. 

The rain fell between us.

And for the first time that night, I saw something in her expression I had not expected.

Sadness.

"Because tonight...I am trying to save two people."

I wanted to tell her she was wrong. That there would be no salvation that night. That mercy would not be granted this night or any other night. And although my mind screamed there would be consequences, that I would be scaled to set balance again, his executioner.

I wanted the finality of it. The silence after. The certainty. 

However, Violence did not always arrive as rage. Sometimes it arrived disguised as righteousness. And standing there in the rain, with my hand still around his throat, the line was thin. 

Justice and vengeance.

Protection and possession.

Man and Monster. 

The man collapsed onto the ground, choking and gasping as life returned to him in painful breaths. He scrambled backward, dragging himself through the mud before reaching for his companions.

None of them looked back. They fled into the rain. Leaving only silence behind.

"You should've let me." Feeling the sensation of the rain soaking my clothes. 

"I know." She said watching their figures in the distance blend and finally fade into the city.

"You don't sound convinced."

She did not respond immediately. Her hair had become dark with water, strands sticking against her face and shoulders. The careful composure she carried every Thursday night had softened. 

"I'm grateful you intervened."

"Doesn't seem like it."

Her brow furrowed slightly. "It does not?"

"You stopped me."

A pause.

"I stopped murder."

The words landed with more weight than I expected.

"He deserved it."

She tilted her head. Not dismissing me. Considering me.

"I have known many people who deserved death." The certainty in her voice surprised me. "And I have regretted giving it to several."

I noticed. Not the woman who walked into brothels with money in her hands. Not the woman who spoke gently to those everyone else ignored. Not the mystery that had captured my curiosity for weeks.

I noticed the exhaustion beneath her kindness. The practiced restraint. The weight of someone who had already made impossible choices and carried the consequences afterward.

No heartbeat. No breath. No scent of life.

"...You're one of us."

A brief, shameful expression crossed her face before disappearing just as quickly. Regret. Almost as though the words themselves carried a weight she had spent years trying not to feel.

"So I've been told."

 Dubai 2022, 3rd POV

"Wait."

Louis looked at Daniel.

"She stopped you from killing a man who assaulted her?"

"She did."

Daniel frowned. "And she just... let him go?"

"Yes."

"That's insane."

"So Lestat said."

Daniel leaned back. "No offense, Louis, but I am inclined to believe you. That she was putting on an act."

Louis chuckled quietly.

Daniel gestured vaguely. "I mean, come on. A vampire walking around Storyville, paying off debts, refusing anything in return, then stopping another vampire from killing a man who attacked her?" He shook his head. "It sounds almost too perfect."

Louis listened quietly.

Daniel studied him.

"How long did it take you to believe? If ever"

Louis looked toward the windows.

The city stretched endlessly beneath them, bright and alive in a way that New Orleans had not been that night.

"I wavered after ten years."

Daniel blinked. "Ten years?"

"I questioned it."

"Perhaps I misunderstood her. Perhaps I had romanticized what I saw. Perhaps I had mistaken her restraint for something greater than it was." A faint smile touched his face. "Humans are not the only ones capable of creating illusions, Daniel."

"And after?"

"I believed it after a century."

"That's a long time to wait before deciding someone is genuine."

Louis looked back at him. "Not when you have eternity to consider the evidence."

Daniel smiled slightly. "And she never changed?"

Louis shook his head. "That was the most remarkable part." His expression softened. "She never wavered."

Daniel was quiet for a moment.  "You said she remembered everyone she'd ever killed."

Louis nodded. "Every anniversary, she spoke their names."

Daniel's brows lifted. "Out loud?"

"Yes."

"How many names?"

Louis closed his eyes. The memory seemed to pull him somewhere far away. "I stopped counting after six thousand."

Daniel stared at him.

"Jesus."

Louis opened his eyes.

"No."

Daniel looked confused.

Louis's expression held a quiet sadness.

"Not Jesus."

A pause.

"Just a woman who refused to forget."

The room became quiet.

Daniel glanced down at his notes.

"How you describe vampires, Lestat, for example, It's about the thrill, the power, at times theatrics."

Louis nodded. "They remember what it gave them."

"The excitement. Freedom. The feeling of being above everything."

"Yes."

"And she remembered what it took."

Louis looked at the recorder. "Exactly."

Daniel tapped his pen against the page. "Did she tell you why?"

Louis was silent for a moment.

"She said forgetting was the first step toward believing it never mattered."

Daniel frowned slightly. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that time has a way of making terrible things feel distant."

He looked down at his hands. "At first, you remember every detail. The face. The voice. The moment." A pause. "Then years pass, Then decades." eyes growing distance in memory. 

"And eventually?"

"Eventually, the details begin to fade. She believed there was a difference between healing and erasing."

Daniel stopped writing. Unknowingly leaning in, listening to Louis. 

Louis continued. "She did not believe we were meant to spend eternity drowning in what we had done. Only that we should never become comfortable enough to forget the weight of it."

Daniel studied him. "That's a difficult way to live."

Louis gave a faint smile. "Yes, yes it is."

"Did she?"

"Did she what?"

"Live that way?"

Louis looked away. "Every day."

Daniel glanced at the recorder.

"Even after centuries?"

"Especially after centuries."

The answer came immediately. Daniel sat back. "Why especially?"

Louis was quiet. "Because immortality makes everything easier to justify."

The statement sat between them.

"You have endless time to convince yourself that something no longer matters."

His gaze lowered.

"Endless time to rewrite yourself as the victim."

Daniel's expression softened.

"And she wouldn't let herself do that."

"No."

Louis's voice was almost a whisper. "She was kinder to herself than I was."

A pause. "But she was never dishonest with herself."

Daniel looked at the notes.

"That sounds exhausting."

Louis smiled faintly, distant again as he turned away. "It was."

A beat.

"But perhaps that was the point."

Daniel looked up. "What do you mean?"

Louis glanced toward the recorder. "She once told me that the moment we stop being disturbed by what we have done..."

He paused.

"...is the moment we should be most afraid.”

Author's Note:

School has been absolutely insane, and was in need of a much needed break. Blame the fact that I decided to pursue STEM and am currently experiencing my own enemies to lovers arc with my major.

Emphasis on the enemies part for now.

That being said, I couldn’t let this moment pass without celebrating the incredible work that went into The Vampire Lestat from the phenomenal actors, the production team, the writers, and everyone else who brought this story to life.

It has been amazing watching this world continue to expand, and it has reignited my love for these characters, their stories, and the beautiful complexity that makes them so unforgettable.

So, after a long absence, I’m finally returning with something I’ve been quietly working on, along with my love for writing.

(And listen… if anyone at AMC happens to read my work and is looking for someone for the writers’ room… I’m just saying, I’m available. I know y’all are lurking.)

Jokes aside, thank you for your patience, and thank you for sticking around.

Now… let’s talk about vampires.

[addoxs]

Still Here, Don't Worry!

Hi Everyone! Just wanted to let you know that I am still here and writing out the next few chapters for weightless. I've just been busy because my finals are coming up (your favorite author is a little scared) and I've been locked in to finish the semester on a good note hence the delay. Next post is currently scheduled for the second week of December! Again thank you everyone for your incredible support and patience!! I wish you all happy holidays 🫶🏼 - Addoxs 💫

[addoxs]

Weightless (Dispatch x Reader) Chapter 2: Fast Forward

Author’s Note: ⚠️ Trigger Warnings: body modification, chronic pain, medical treatment, scars, sensory distortion, exhaustion, and cursing.

Titania , once Y/n L/n, is a hero whose power to alter her size and mass comes at a brutal cost. Beneath the strength and size is someone still learning to balance power with humanity, a protector who’s forgotten what it means to simply live. Ch.1 |

Location: SDN, Torrance Branch — 03:47 a.m. Status: Active Operations — (Y/n L/n) on Dispatch Duty.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Reaper, I swear to God -  we do not have time for this bullshit. The caller reported a possible gas leak on the 13th floor. Take the fucking elevator.” I said over comms as I pinched my nose in annoyance, looking back at the screen. Static crackles faintly in my headset. “Yeah, great idea! Let’s cram into a metal coffin hanging by four cables rated for half our gear weight. What could go wrong?"

“For fuck’s sake, Reaper—” “Elevator malfunction rates go up twenty percent during building fires. Twenty. Percent. You wanna gamble on that, be my guest” “There isn’t a fire this is a possible gas leak” “Elevator cables fail in 0.01% of rides, right? That’s one in ten thousand. Odds get worse under stress.” “Talking about your stress?” There was a pause as I heard faint huffing in the background and the rhythmic thud of boots on metal steps. “I...am…on...thirteen” I heard Reaper trying to catch his breath over the mic. “See? Here in time.”

I rolled my eyes, redirecting my focus to Spectra as she traced a possible cybersecurity breach downtown.

“Next time,” I muttered, “You’re taking the damn elevator.” Spectra snickered over the comms, the faint static crackling between bursts of laughter. “I was gonna take bets on whether you’d actually get on an elevator before lunchtime. Looks like I lose again.”

Torque’s voice boomed through the channel, reverberating like he was leaning back in his chair. “Remember last month? That stairwell in the warehouse district? You climbed three flights just to avoid one elevator ride! I put fifty on you taking the lift that day—wasted!”

Cinder’s chuckle came next, smooth and teasing. “Don’t forget the cargo lift incident. Dude stayed on the loading dock for twenty minutes because the metal box ‘looked unsafe.’ Then he carried a full supply crate up six flights just to prove a point.”

Oh, for fucks sake I began slamming my forehead into the desk. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered briefly, and the faint hum of the air conditioning made the room feel warmer than it should. All of B-Team was on the channel.

Whisper’s voice cut in, dry as ever over the comms. “Statistically, Reaper has spent more time running stairs than we have on actual missions. That’s… dedication, I guess.”

Reaper huffed audibly, irritation threading through the static. “I… prefer control… over gravity and cables.”

Sharp cackle from Spectra. “Control, right. Sure. Whatever keeps you from hugging the elevator shaft, buddy.”

Torque chimed in mock-serious, the edge of laughter barely restrained. “Next time, we should just carry him in a backpack. Cheaper than letting him walk the entire building.”

Cinder rattled lightly in the channel. “I vote we get betting slips for every mission. ‘Reaper elevator gamble’ highest odds, guaranteed payout.”

I was done. My repeated forehead slams had stopped partly out of concern for the coworkers in the cubicles next to me, the dull clatter of keys was lessened and a low murmur of voices made it clear some were already staring. Forehead red, I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling the slight thrum of tension in my shoulders, then snapped over comms, sharply and calmly. “Knock it the fuck off, everyone, and focus on finishing your tasks before the end of day.”

Comms went dead immediately.

Spectra finally muttered, a grudging note of respect in her tone. “Fine… but only because the cardio’s already done.”

After wrapping up with B-Team, it was already creeping past 5 a.m. The office was quiet now as most of the night shift was leaving and the day shift was starting to filter in.  My watch vibrated softly against my wrist as I stepped into the break room, its sterile glow cast over the tiled floor.

I yanked open the fridge, wincing as a sharp burn crawled from my arm up into my shoulder blade. The cold air bit against my skin. Breakfast, if you could call it that, was just whatever leftovers I’d shoved in from the night before.

I took a seat and pulled out the small orange bottle from my back pocket. Twisting the cap off and shook four white tablets into my palm before swallowing them dry.

I looked up to see Chase shuffling in, leaning slightly against the open doorway. How the hell had I not heard him?

I smiled faintly. “Hey, old man.”

He glared. “Watch it. I’m only thirty-nine.”

“Funny… didn't you qualify for early bird specials last week at Mario’s? Didn’t hear any complaints.”

“Ha! Stop evading the question. You’re not due in the med bay for another hour.”

I paused, setting my fork down, feeling the burn of fatigue in my shoulders. “Picked up another dispatch shift last night. Someone called out, figured SDN could use the help.”

Chase raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “And here I thought you were trying to catch up on sleep instead of burning yourself out before sunrise.”

“Please… don’t tell Blazer,” I muttered, glancing down at my untouched breakfast.

“Too late. Already knows. Also knows you’ve been skipping your physical therapy.”

I froze mid-forkful, the burn in my shoulder suddenly sharper traveling down my arm. “She… what?”

Chase smirked, leaning casually against the doorway. “Relax. She just reminded me she’s keeping tabs. Figure you’d like to know someone’s watching out for you. Whether you like it or not.”

I rubbed at my shoulder, feigning irritation. “Great. Just what I needed, an audience for my suffering.”

“Hey,” Chase said with a mock-serious tone, “someone’s gotta keep you honest.” taking a seat next to me. He leaned back slightly, giving me a look that brooked no nonsense. “Come on, kid. Talk to me. What’s going on? Haven’t seen you this down since you were ten, refusing to tell me where you’d hidden my shoes so I wouldn’t leave. Took me an hour to track down where you were holding them hostage.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at my lips remembering how I hid them behind the dryer. 

Chase didn’t push, just waited, arms crossed, eyes sharp but patient. I looked down, sleeves pulled up, and caught sight of my arms. The scars stretched across my skin like fault lines, ranging in width and color, hues of silvers, deep reds, bruised purples tracing a map from my neck down to my feet. Light glinted off them unevenly, highlighting every ridge and crease. “You ever… stop feeling like yourself?” 

Chase raised an eyebrow and snorted. “Kid, I haven’t felt like myself since the first time I hit Mach 2.”

I felt my throat tighten. “They keep saying I’ll recover. That my cells just need to ‘recalibrate.’ But what if this—” I gestured to my arms, the scars, “what if this is as good as it gets?” I paused before continuing. 

“I used to be a force,” I whispered, the words slipping out like something fragile. “I was the first one in, ready and unbreakable. Now I can’t even look at my reflection without feeling like I’m staring at someone else. Yamada says it’s progress, but I don’t feel whole. Every scar hums like it’s waiting for me to change again, and I don’t even know if I’ll survive the next one.” I leaned back, staring at the ceiling tiles. The hum of the vents filled the silence  steady, mechanical, almost like breathing. Four months into SDN and I was still pretending it all felt normal. Pretending the world hadn’t shifted underneath my feet when my body stopped listening to me. “I miss it,” I admitted, barely more than a breath. “Not just the size, the strength. The way everything felt smaller when I was her. Like I could hold the whole damn city together if I had to.” I let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Now I can’t even carry a file box without my fucking body lighting up like a live wire.” My fingers brushed over one of the faint scars, tracing the uneven lines. “They say this is the new beginning. Stability. Safety. But it doesn’t feel like living, Chase. It feels like I’m playing house in someone else’s skin.” I paused, eyes unfocused, watching the thin blue light from the break room’s vending machine flicker across my arm. “I tell myself I’m lucky... But there’s this quiet part of me that keeps wondering if the world will even forgive me.”

Chase leaned back, taking in what I had to say before looking at me straight and leaning in.

“You think you’re the only one who’s broken?”

I looked up, surprised at the edge in his voice.

“I used to run across continents,” he said, staring into distance, I could feel the nostalgia dipping off. “Could circle the globe in minutes. Just like that." He emphasized, snapping his fingers. "But every sprint took months off my life. Didn’t realize it ‘til it was too damn late. Now, I get winded climbing the stairs.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I used to think speed was what made me untouchable. Turns out, it just made me burn out faster.” He paused “We all lose pieces of what made us feel invincible, kid. The trick isn’t getting them back. It’s figuring out what’s left… and making that count.”

I stayed quiet, the words hanging there like smoke. He wasn’t trying to comfort me. He wasn’t trying to fix it. He was just… telling the truth.

His voice dropped low, steady. “You think dispatch is a retirement home? It’s the second chance nobody else gets. You and me…we may not be out there in capes anymore, but we still save lives every damn day.”

I felt my eyes glisten, blinking hard to steady myself. “It’s not the same.”

“No,” he said softly. “It’s realer. Out there, people cheered. In here, nobody sees us and we still do it anyway. That’s the part that makes you a hero.”

Silence fell again, but it was gentler this time.

I exhaled slowly. “Do you think I’ll ever get better?”

Chase looked at me for a long moment. “I think,” he said finally, “you’ll stop needing to be who you were. And start becoming who you’re supposed to be.”

I sat with that for a while. The hum of the vending machine. The faint buzz of the overhead light. All of it settling into a strange kind of peace.

When Chase finally stood to leave, he gave my shoulder a reassuring pat. “Get some rest before your shift,” he said over his shoulder. “And get me something from the vending machine while you’re at it. I’m fucking starving.”

I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head as he walked out of the break room. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Location: SDN, Torrance Branch — 9:04 a.m. Status: Med Bay — (Y/n L/n) on Medical Duty. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flambae was already fussing over a small mirror, looking at the burn off area that had singed his eyebrows.

“I don’t see how this qualifies as an emergency,” I muttered, setting my medical kit down.

“That’s because you don’t care about appearance,” he shot back, voice sharp. “All you do is wear baggy clothes, and I’m pretty sure you’re just rotating the same three outfits.”

I looked down at my blue SDN shirt layered under a compression long sleeve that hung far past my wrists and jeans that were three sizes too big. The medical belt cinched around my waist was barely helping keep my pants up. “Keep it up and I won’t help.”

I raised an eyebrow, careful not to touch too roughly as I examined the area along his brow and hairline, checking to see if burns were present. “I feel bad… for that guy, having to put up with you.”

He shot me a glare that could’ve set off a fire alarm. “Excuse you. Feel bad for me.”

I leaned back slightly, studying the pattern of the singed hairs and seeing it was slightly inflamed. I already knew that Flambae was possibly wasting my time knowing he was fireproof but I decided to help him anyway “Knowing you,” I said, voice low, as I stayed focused “Kinda hard to, Matchstick.”

He scowled, but the corner of his mouth twitched. The faint smell of antiseptic and charred hair hung in the air as I dabbed at the area with a sterile pad, careful to soothe without stinging.

“Stop fucking calli—OW! The fuck kind of nurse are you?” Flambae yelped, jerking his head back as the antiseptic stung against the raw skin.

I didn’t flinch. “Medic and no,” I corrected dryly, holding the pad steady as I dabbed at the burn with deliberate precision. The tang of alcohol still clung to his singed hair, mixing with the sterile scent of the Med Bay.

I leaned back slightly, letting him flinch under the sting, and continued. “Look, your eyebrows will grow back. And since I can’t medically cure you from being a douche, here’s my professional recommendation: quit picking fights. That being said…” I paused, meeting his glare with an unflinching stare. “…as myself? Yeah, you definitely deserved this. And the other guy? He was definitely holding back.”

Flambae groaned, leaning back further. “Wow. Thanks for the moral support, doc.” A soft knock at the door drew both of our attention. Blonde Blazer.

“Hey—oh, sorry, didn’t expect you to be with a patient,” she said, stepping inside.

“It’s fine,” I replied, tossing a container of minoxidil towards a scowling Flambae. “He was just leaving.”

“Whatever,” he muttered, flipping me off as he hopped off the bed, the faint squeak of his boots fading down the hall.

I turned back to Mandy, letting a small, tired smile play on my lips. “Just a difficult patient. Anyway, what’s up?”

She closed the door behind her with a soft click, and I felt that familiar spike of tension

Fuck. 

The hum of the Med Bay seemed louder suddenly, the faint antiseptic scent mixing with the lingering burnt hair.

“Been hearing about the extra shifts you’ve been taking… and skipping your physical therapy,” she said, stepping fully into the room, her gaze steady and unflinching.

“Look—” I started, already bracing myself. She raised a hand to pause me, her movements calm but deliberate, “I’m not reprimanding you. I’m not judging you. I understand that you have to deal with this in your own way. This… It's a major life adjustment.” She paused, letting the weight of her words hang in the air. “So I want to offer a deal of sorts.”

I shifted on the edge of the chair, the medical belt digging slightly into my waist, and waited. She smiled “We have a new dispatcher for the Z-team and I want you to train him, you know show him the ropes that kind of thing”

“Mark quit? Damn… I thought this one would actually stick this time,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair and feeling the lingering burn crawling down my back.

“Well…” Mandy began, her tone careful, like she was trying to soften the blow, “…let’s just say he didn’t exactly make it past the probation period.”

I leaned back slightly, letting out a low whistle. “Figures. And having your car totaled would also play a role.”

Mandy gave a nervous smile. “Yeah… that probably didn’t help morale.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, rubbing at my shoulder again. “But then again, we aren’t your typical company. If things went smoothly around here, I’d probably start worrying.”

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “True. You definitely have a knack for keeping it interesting.”

I smirked, remembering the chaos. How I’d had to put the fear of God into Punch-Up and Golem just to get them to apologize properly, Golem sulking like a toddler while Punch-Up muttered under his breath, arms crossed and scowling the entire time. Sparks from the demolished car still danced in my memory, the sharp tang of burnt metal lingering in my nose. Somehow, amidst all the yelling, the fire, and the wreckage, I’d managed to drag some semblance of accountability out of them.

“Exhausting,” I muttered, more to myself than to Mandy, shaking my head. “My monkeys, my circus”

Mandy crossed her arms, giving me that look, the one that meant she’d been waiting for the perfect moment to ruin my morning. “Speaking of which, you’ll be helping him get on board with the new protocols. So you can stop volunteering for extra dispatch shifts.”

“Why do I feel a but coming on?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“But,” she said with that too-sweet smile, “you do need to start showing up to your physical therapy appointments. Or you’re on suspension.”

I blinked “I thought this wasn’t a reprimand!”

“It’s not,” Mandy replied, entirely too calm. “It’s a friendly reminder from someone who’s tired of filling out your overtime forms and covering for you with Dr. Yamada.”

I groaned, dropping my forehead into my hands. “Friendly reminder, my ass. Also, Yamada can go suck it.”

Mandy didn’t miss a beat. “He’d write that in your chart too, you know.”

I shot her a sideways glare. “Good. Maybe then he’ll finally stop calling it ‘muscle re-acclimation therapy.’ It’s just torture with nicer lighting.” Mandy smirked, crossing her arms. “You know, most people would kill for the chance to recover their abilities at all.”

“Yeah, well,” I muttered, “most people haven’t experienced their body practically tear itself apart from the inside out.”

Her expression softened, but just for a moment. “You could make this easier on yourself, you know. Show up, do the therapy, stop acting like every medical order is a personal insult.”

“I am showing up,” I said defensively.

Mandy arched an eyebrow, arms crossing. “Sitting in the waiting room for five minutes and then ghosting because ‘Dispatch needed you’ doesn’t count.” She even threw in the finger quotes for good measure.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “You know, I miss when everyone just listened to me.”

Mandy laughed under her breath, shaking her head as she moved toward the door. “Tell that to Yamada. He’s still convinced you’re gonna start a fight in his lab one of these days.”

I gave a humorless smile. “If he decides to try that thing with my shoulder blades again, I might.”

That earned me a genuine laugh this time, quick, bright, and gone too fast. She sobered after a second, leaning against the counter beside me. “Seriously though, Y/n. We both know this place runs because you refuse to quit. But there’s a difference between holding the line and burning out.”

She turned toward the door, her shoes clicking softly against the linoleum, then paused halfway through. “Don’t forget to swing by my office at 10:30. That’s when our new dispatcher will be clocking in today.”

“So what’s this guy’s name, anyway?” I called after her.

She glanced over her shoulder with the faintest smirk. “Robert Robertson. Remember, 10:30.”

And just like that, she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft hiss.

I blinked, staring at the empty space she’d left.

“…What kind of fucking name is Robert Robertson?” I muttered, rubbing my temples. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Taglist: @ilovebtsstuff @levisungjingwoo2099 @luluxx118 @gutterwitch10v3 @napptimee29 @liv1246 @yingking13

[addoxs]

Broski idc I just need you to continue the fic whenever you can, it's so good like oml

--🐦‍🔥

The amount of support for my writing as been overwhelming, I can not thank you all enough! New chapter will drop tonight, please don't forget to comment if you would like to be tagged. Thank you everyone! - Addoxs 💫

[addoxs]

Weightless (Dispatch x Reader) Chapter 1: After the Impact 

Author’s Note: ⚠️ Trigger Warnings: body modification, chronic pain, medical treatment, scars, sensory distortion, and exhaustion.

Titania , once Y/n L/n, is a hero whose power to alter her size and mass comes at a brutal cost. Beneath the strength and size is someone still learning to balance power with humanity, a protector who’s forgotten what it means to simply live.

“Good evening. Our top story tonight: it has been twenty-three days since the disappearance of Titania — the world-famous protector once hailed as the ‘The Silver Sentinel.’ Her absence follows the Category Six Kaju event that devastated downtown Los Angeles.” 

A wide shot of the studio: clean glass desk, the SDN skyline glowing behind it through a storm haze. On every monitor behind the anchor, there’s the same looping image,  a towering silhouette framed in smoke, silver light searing through the darkness.

“Here’s superhero correspondent Julian Collier for more.”

The shot then cut to aerial footage: entire blocks cratered and cordoned off. Cranes moving like slow insects over twisted steel as the camera pans across a line of displaced civilians and the news correspondent himself.

“Thank you, Alex. City engineers estimate property damage at one-point-four billion dollars. Lives saved: nearly seventy thousand. Yet public debate rages… was the cost too high?”

______________________________________________________________ [ARCHIVE FOOTAGE – TITANIA INTERVIEW, YEAR 1]

Studio lighting blooms across a younger Titania,  eyes bright, posture regal even as she sat across the interviewer on the talk-show couch built far too small for her. Her silver-lined suit gleams like liquid mercury.

HOST: “Something, that's been on everyone’s mind, why the name Titania?” TITANIA (laughing): “Because it sounds heavier. No, I’m kidding—it just felt… right. You hear that name and you expect something strong, maybe even a little scary. I figured if people were going to look up at a giant woman tearing through clouds, they might as well know I mean business.” (audience laughter) HOST: “So you wanted something that carries weight.” TITANIA: “Exactly. It’s not about sounding graceful; it’s about reminding myself I can carry the heavy stuff and still walk away standing.”

The screen splits: the smiling host on one side, a banner reading “Titania: Humanity’s Heavyweight Hope.” ______________________________________________________________

[ARCHIVE – PRESS CONFERENCE AFTER THE MOUNT PALOMA QUAKE, YEAR 3]

She stands before reporters, shoulders streaked with ash, rips across her suit. Flashbulbs strobe against soot on her cheek.

REPORTER: “You’ve been working without rest for thirty-six hours. What drives you to keep going?” TITANIA: “Every time the ground stops shaking, someone starts crying. I stay until the crying stops. That’s the job.”

Applause; camera shutters; her expression somewhere between pride and exhaustion. ______________________________________________________________

[ARCHIVE – LATE-NIGHT INTERVIEW, YEAR 4]

Dim studio lights, intimate setting. She’s wearing a soft jacket sporting the SDN logo over her suit base layer. A steaming mug sits between her and the interviewer.

INTERVIEWER: “People call you unstoppable. Does that ever scare you?” TITANIA (smiles faintly): “It should. Power without fear is just momentum. And momentum breaks things.” INTERVIEWER: “What keeps you grounded?” TITANIA: “Coffee. And guilt. One keeps me awake, the other keeps me careful.”

The crowd laughs; she doesn’t. She just sips the mug, eyes heavy.

______________________________________________________________ Julian’s voice cuts through the montage.

“Titania has long been seen as a pillar of strength across the globe — a symbol of resolve in uncertain times ... but three weeks ago, that image was shaken.”

[MONTAGE – THE Kaju ATTACK, 3 WEEKS AGO]

Phone footage: a massive shape of flesh and armor rising from the harbor. Sirens. Titania’s voice over comms, calm, firm. Then blinding light, impact, a shockwave that wipes the camera feed to static.

“Titania has not been seen since that day. SDN officials decline to comment. What remains is a divided city: grateful, grieving, and angry.”

______________________________________________________________ [VOX POP INTERVIEWS – STREETS OF LOS ANGELES]

The business man hanging on a thread appears on screen. His once-crisp suit is smeared with dust and ash, the tie hanging loose and crooked. A streak of dried blood cuts across his temple, and his hair, matted with sweat and grit, gives him a disheveled, hollow-eyed look.

“One person shouldn’t wield that much power. Where’s the oversight? Who pays for the cleanup? Us — the American taxpayer. Let’s be honest, that’s billions in damage, insurance fraud, infrastructure collapse, and you think the city’s gonna cover it? No. We will. And for what? So she can decide what’s worth saving and what isn’t? That’s not heroism, that’s a monopoly on power.”

He adjusts his tie, voice rising as the camera lingers.

“People act like she’s some kind of god. But gods don’t answer to anyone. That’s the problem — who’s gonna stop her if she ever decides she doesn’t want to save us anymore? We don’t have anyone on that level. Not even the government does. We cheer now, but we should be afraid.”

He stares at the camera, jaw tight.

“If she can crush a monster, she can crush a city. And all it takes is one bad day.”

The image faded back to the superhero correspondent.

“With the city divided, questions grow louder: Was Titania a savior… or a storm? Until we know her fate, the world will keep replaying the final hour— a woman against a monster, and the silence that followed.”

Julian looks at the camera, saddened. 

“Tonight, candles burn across the city, some in gratitude, some in anger, all in remembrance. Wherever she is, one truth remains: the world is smaller without her… back to you, Alex in the studio”

______________________________________________________________ I didn’t realize I’d been gripping my glass so tightly until I heard the faint crack,  the sound of stress spreading through cheap crystal and the last thing holding steady in my hand. It was already past midnight. I tore my eyes away from the flickering blue glow of the television behind the bar, the anchor’s voice still echoing in my head.

The place was small, unremarkable, the kind of bar that stayed open out of habit more than business. I didn’t come here often. Maybe that was why I’d chosen it tonight. The rain outside had turned the streets into mirrors, the neon signs bleeding across the windows in streaks of red and white. I watched the drops gather, run, and disappear into the black below.

“One bad day” I murmured, barely loud enough to hear myself.

My hood was pulled back, sleeves dragged down over my bandaged hands. From the neck down I was a patchwork of compression wraps and gauze, soft gray fabric hiding the shimmer of fresh bruises and scarring. A faint black eye bloomed beneath the hood’s shadow. I didn’t look like the woman in the news clips. I was just a shell.

Mandy sitting beside me. Her brown hair hung loose, her mask gone. She wore a simple jacket instead of her uniform, the heroism stripped away like armor after a long battle. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the hum of the old refrigerator behind the counter and the steady tap of rain against glass.

Mandy glances sideways. “You shouldn’t watch that.”

I didn’t look at her, just took a swing of my drink before pushing it forward. 

“Feels weird,” I murmured. “Seeing yourself talked about in past tense.”

Mandy leans on one elbow. “They’ll move on to the next story by morning. They always do.”

“Yeah.” I let out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “But I won’t.”

The TV flashes Titania’s symbol, a silver outline fractured down the middle. I just stared. Mandy reached for the remote between us, clicking the TV off. The sudden silence feels heavier than the thunder outside.

“I stopped by the med wing yesterday. They said you’re on rest…indefinitely.”

“Yeah. Until my metabolism stabilizes. Apparently, I ‘overclocked’ my cells. I didn’t even know that was a thing humans could do.”

“You’re not exactly a standard-issue human,” Mandy says, half-smiling.

“Been seeing more of the inside of a hospital than the sky lately. It’s funny, right? I used to be able to pick up buildings. Now I can’t even lift a coffee pot without my pulse spiking.”

Mandy just kept her gaze on me before finally speaking again “You scared us.”

“I scare everyone eventually.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

Mandy reaches across the counter, resting her hand over my bandaged wrist. “You don’t have to keep pretending you’re fine. You’ve been through hell, Y/n. It’s okay to admit you’re tired.”

I felt my shoulders sag a little, the armor slipping for just a moment. “I’m not tired,” I said “I’m just… lost.”

Mandy nods, her expression soft. “Then let yourself be lost for a while. The world can survive without Titania. It needs you to.”

“What do you suggest I do, Mandy? I don’t exactly have real-world experience or any reputable references.” feeling my frustration building.

Mandy didn’t pull her hand away. “I want you to be a dispatcher and medic for SDN. We’ve got plenty of retired or on-hiatus heroes working the desks now. You’d fit right in.”

I blinked at her. 

“You want me to… sit behind a console and tell other people what to do? That’s your idea of therapy?”

She smiled, small but real. “My idea of recovery. You can still save people, just without breaking yourself in half to do it.”

I laughed under my breath. “I don’t even know the system anymore. Half the tech they use now didn’t exist when I—”

“When you were breaking the sound barrier? I know.” She squeezed my wrist gently. “You’ll learn fast. You always did.”

I looked down at the scars peeking through the bandages. “Dispatch, huh. Trading rubble for radio chatter.”

“Trading pain for perspective,” she said. “You’d be good at it, Y/n. You already know what it feels like on the other end of the call.”

I sat back, staring at the condensation on my glass. The rain outside softened into a steady drizzle. “Do I get to think about it?”

“Of course.” Mandy slid off the stool, dropping a few bills on the counter for both of us. “But don’t take too long. We could use someone who still remembers why we started doing this.”

She started toward the door, then turned. “And, for what it’s worth? I think Titania deserves a little peace. Let Y/n have the job for once.”