Hybrid!141; Hybrid!Reader
The 141 as a pack- not in the found family kind of way, but in the hunting kind of way.
They spot you by accident.
Price is the first to clock you, mostly because heâs the sort who notices exits, shadows, people sitting alone. Youâre on a stool near the end of the bar, tucked under a blown out neon sign that flickers uselessly overhead. The rest of the place is a mess of dim bulbs and TV glow, but somehow the shadows around you are softer, edged in a kind of warm sheen.
Itâs probably just the jewelry.
Tiny pieces, nothing flashy on their own: delicate chain at your throat, a charm on a bracelet, thin hoops catching the light when you tuck your hair behind your ear. But every time you move, something glints. Not bright. Not gaudy. Just enough to pull the eye.
Soap follows the first flash of gold the way a cat chases a laser pointer.
âAch, look at that,â he mutters around the lip of his beer bottle, elbow nudging Gazâs. âSittinâ all by herself. Cute as a button. Like a wee rabbit waitinâ for a fox.â
Gaz leans just enough to see past him. Youâre nursing a drink, straw between your fingers, eyes on the shelves of cheap liquor like youâre reading the labels to avoid looking at anyone else.
âBeen here a while,â he says. âCame in just after we did. No oneâs come up to her twice.â His brow creases. âKeeps looking at the door, though.â
Ghost says nothing, but heâs watching too, tracking the pattern: every time the door opens, your head lifts and your bracelet catches the dark, giving a quick, soft flash. When you realize whoever walked in isnât who you were hoping for, your shoulders fall. You go back to tracing the rim of your glass.
Nobody comes to sit with you. Nobody stays near you for long.
Too alone. Too pretty. Too jumpy.
Price takes it in, slow and steady.
Pack instinct kicks in before any of them say the word. They donât need to say anything to align on the same thought. Itâs in the way their focus narrows, the way their chairs angle subconsciously toward you. A hunting posture, dressed in civilian clothes and half finished drinks.
Theyâre not the soft, found family kind of pack people romanticize. Theyâre the other kind; the kind that closes around a target without thinking.
âCould just be waitinâ on her boyfriend,â Gaz offers, because heâs the one who says that sort of thing, even if he doesnât quite believe it.
âShe wouldnât still be here if he was worth a damn,â Soap replies. âLook at her. Fellaâs either stupid or blind.â
Ghost watches your fingers. Youâre not fidgeting like a practiced flirt; youâre rolling the straw wrapper tight, tight, tight until the paper is an over wound thread. The kind of nervous habit you donât perform for attention; it just happens.
âDoesnât matter,â Price says, deciding for them. âPlace like this, someoneâll try their luck eventually. Might as well be us.â
Price drains his glass and stands. âCâmon,â he says. âBefore some drunk fucker with worse intentions gets there first.â
Soap grins. Gaz pushes off the bar. Ghost follows.
The four of them rise together, scatter of chairs on sticky floor, their approach casual enough not to spook you, coordinated enough to close off any direction that isnât toward them.
You feel them before you see them. The bar is loud- music, clinking glass, too many overlapping conversations- but when they move, the noise tilts. You feel a shadow fall across your little island of dim light.
You look up- and up- and up.
âEveninâ, love,â Price says, taking the middle, anchoring your attention. His voice is warm, edged with something rough. âThis seat taken?â
You look at him, eyes wide, and for a heartbeat he can see the thought stutter through your head: I should say yes. I should lie.
Then your gaze skips over his shoulder, across Ghost, over Soapâs grin, to Gazâs more cautious face. Four of them. All big. All dangerous, in the way that sets off every alarm bell youâve ever had.
Your fingers tighten around your glass. Up close, theyâre even more intimidating. Big men, all of them. Broad shoulders. Scarred knuckles. The casual alertness that says theyâre dangerous even when theyâre pretending not to be.
Your throat works around a swallow.
âN-No,â you say, barely loud enough to be heard over the music. âUm. No, itâs not.â
You donât move away when he takes the stool beside you, though. Thatâs the first little surrender.
Up close, he can see the jewelry looks even smaller. A fine chain resting in the dip of your collarbone, charm nestled where his eyes keep dropping. A tiny stud in your ear that catches the barâs dim light and winks at him whenever you turn your head.
âGood,â Soap says, dropping onto your other side like youâre the natural center of their group. âBe a shame to leave such a lovely lass sittinâ on her own.â
Ghost leans against the bar behind you, silent. Gaz drifts just off your shoulder, close enough that if you tried to slip down from the stool, youâd have to brush past him.
You donât realize youâre boxed in. Not yet.
âQuiet night for a girl like you,â Soap says lightly, accent softening the words. âYou waitinâ on someone?â
You pick at the napkin under your glass. âI was. My friend bailed, though, soâŚâ You give a little shrug, embarrassed. âJustâŚfinishing this before I head home.â
âThat right?â Price nudges your drink with a knuckle. âLet us get your last one, then. Call it a good deed.â
Your instinct is to refuse. You start to shake your head. âOh, no, thatâs okay, I donât wanna- â
âWe insist,â Soap cuts in, already nodding at the bartender. âSame again for the lady.â
You fluster. Youâre not used to this kind of attention. Your necklace glints when you duck your head, catching the dim light in a quick flash at your throat.
âThank you,â you murmur when the fresh drink appears. âYouâŚyou donât have to.â
âWhat if we want to?â Price asks, lips tipping. âBit rough, a girl like you alone in a place like this.â
You huff a nervous laugh and twist the straw wrapper tighter. âC-could say the same thing.â
Gaz huffs a small breath. âWeâve got each other.â
âPack of us,â Soap adds, grin widening.
âOh.â You glance at all of them again, as if that just made them more intimidating. âThatâsâŚnice.â
Price watches the way your shoulders hunch, the way you angle your knees toward the bar, as if youâre half expecting someone to bump you. âThank you again.â
âSâokay lass,â Soap grins, leaning in. âWeâre not that scary once you get to know us.â
You look at the mask, the beard, the scars at Soapâs throat, the quiet calculation in Gazâs eyes.
âYouâre a little scary,â you admit, voice trembling around the edge of a nervous laugh.
Something pleased curls through Ghostâs chest at that, dark and satisfied. Good. You should be.
âGood instincts,â he says. âMost people donât have âem.â
You fluster, ducking your head, and when the bartender sets down the fresh glass, the cube of ice inside catches just enough of the overhead light to bounce it up, up, directly into the small crystal at your wrist. It flashes once, sharp, a pinpoint of brightness in all the gloom.
They ask easy questions- about your job, about living near the river, about why you stayed when your friend left. You answer in fits and starts, words tripping, always circling back to sorry and I donât usually and this is weird, right?
Every time you move your hands, the charm at your wrist gives a soft, quick gleam. Every time you turn your head, the little studs in your ears catch the barâs failing lights.
They like how nervous you are. How your voice trembles when Soap leans in to tease you. How you canât quite hold Ghostâs gaze for long. How you keep saying you should go home but never quite stand up.
Youâre not sure how to extricate yourself now that four strangers with war in their posture have decided youâre interesting.
âYou got far to walk?â Price asks, casually, after a while. âWeâre headed out soon.â
You hesitate. Lie on the tip of your tongue: I drove or Iâm just around the corner or My boyfriendâs coming.
You donât say any of it.
âI live a few blocks away,â you admit. âDown by the river.â
At that, four pairs of eyes sharpen. Enough distance to get you alone. Enough darkness. Not so far that youâll get suspicious if they offer to walk you.
âNot safe on your own at this hour,â Soap says immediately.
Gaz gives a low, almost gentle snort. âYou seen the lot that hangs around near the bridge at night? Nah. Weâll walk you.â
You start to protest, shoulders curling, fingers twisting in the strap of your bag, but he cuts you off with a small, easy smile.
âLet us be gallant, yeah? Last good deed of the night. Then weâre gone.â
You donât have a good reason to argue with that, and they can see the moment your resistance folds.
âO-Okay,â you say. âIfâŚif you want to.â
Price drops some notes on the bar, more than enough to cover their tab and yours. You slide off the stool, nearly bumping into his chest as you steady yourself. His hands go to your hips without thinking, big palms warm and firm, catching you before you can stumble.
âThere you go,â he murmurs. âGot you.â
You look up at him from under your lashes, throat working around a small, flustered sound. He feels you tremble, just a little, like a skittish animal not used to being held.
He squeezes, once, possessive.
Then they take you out into the night
The city is wet from some half hearted rain earlier, pavement slick, puddles glimmering in the bruise colored light of far off streetlamps. You walk in the middle of them without being told to, instinct or training or simple common sense putting you where youâre most boxed in.
Price on one side, Ghost on the other, Soap just ahead, Gaz at your back.
You keep your bag strap clutched tight, thumbs stroking the worn fabric. Every now and then your knuckles bump Priceâs hand, and every time, he has to stop himself from catching your fingers and not letting go.
âWe do this for everyone, you know,â Soap jokes lightly, shoving his hands in his pockets. âItâs a community service. âWalks For Strays.ââ
You huff a startled laugh. âIs that what I am? A stray?â
He glances over his shoulder, eyes raking down your body in a way thatâs anything but subtle. âAye. You wandered right into our path, didnât you?â
âCouldâve been anyone,â you say.
Price knows thatâs not true.
He remembers the way his gaze kept snagging on you all night, how hard it was to keep his eyes from drifting back whenever you lifted your drink and the light slipped over your rings. How Ghost, normally content to sit with his back to the room and watch every corner, kept glancing in your direction.
âWasnât,â Ghost says quietly. âWas you.â
You donât seem to know what to do with that. Silence falls for a few steps, your shoes splashing through a shallow puddle that sends a little fan of water up your calves. The reflection shivers there, ripples of light from the lamp above breaking apart and reforming, broken stars at your feet.
When you step up onto the drier pavement again, one of those broken stars lingers, caught on the thin chain at your ankle until it fades.
âHere,â you say softly after a while, nodding toward a side street. âThis way.â
The road narrows, buildings rising up on either side. Fewer lights. Fewer people. The riverâs smell rides the air, damp and metallic.
Price feels that familiar shift in his chest: the one that comes at the end of a hunt, when the world narrows down to the target and the terrain and what comes next.
You donât notice. Youâre too busy watching your footing, stepping around a cracked bit of pavement, apologizing when you bump Soap with your shoulder.
You stop in front of an old brick building with a cracked stoop and a single tired bulb over the door.
âThis is me,â you say, turning to them with that same small, uncertain smile. âUm. Really. Thank you. For walking me.â
âBe rude to leave it here,â Soap says, tongue in his cheek. âYou could at least offer us a cuppa, hen.â
Your eyes widen. âOh! I, um. I mean, my place is a mess, I wasnât- â
âWe donât mind mess,â Gaz says.
Price takes a half step closer, not touching you, but close enough that you have to tip your head back to look at him.
You donât meet his eyes. âI donât know,â you say honestly. âIâve neverâŚâ
You bite your lip. Nervous. Thinking. You look at each of them, one by one, like youâre weighing something heavy.
You trail off, skin heating, shame and something else crawling up your neck.
Price files that away like itâs intel. Never. Never taken strangers home. Never done something like this.
But sheâs out here, with four men twice her size, letting them walk her into the dark.
You could fumble the lock and slip inside alone, door closing in their faces. You could make up a boyfriend, a roommate, a brother.
You donât do any of those things.
ââŚOkay,â you whisper. âFor a little while.â
The satisfaction that rolls through them is dark and mutual.
âGood girl,â Price murmurs before he can stop himself.
You flush all the way to your ears and fumble the key in the lock. When the door finally gives, you laugh, flustered. âSorry. My hands areâŚâ
Sheâs shaking, he thinks, pleased.
The hallway is dim and narrow, the overhead light bare and buzzing.
âSorry,â you say, starting up the stairs. âThe landlord keeps saying heâs going to fix the lights on the second floor and then never does.â
âTypical,â Gaz mutters.
On the landing, the bulbs are all dead. The only light seeps up from the stained glass window in the stairwell, painting everything in a murky, underwater wash. It brushes your face when you glance back at them.
For a second, your eyes seem to catch it and hold it, pupils blown wide, irises gleaming oddly in the blue green.
Then you blink, and itâs gone.
âThis is me,â you say again, stopping at the first door on the left. You unlock it and push it open into darkness. âIâll get the- oh. Right. Sorry. The hall light doesnât reach in here. One second, the lamp isâŚâ
You reach inside, patting the wall, fingers feeling for a switch that isnât there. The four of them stack behind you, big silhouettes in the narrow hall.
âHere,â Price says, hand settling at the small of your back, guiding you in. âWeâre not afraid of the dark.â
You give a breathy little laugh. âI kinda am,â you admit. âJustâŚdonât leave me standing in it, okay?â
The words make something low in Ghostâs chest twist in a way he doesnât examine.
âThatâs not on the agenda,â he says.
You step fully into the apartment. The dim hall light dies as the door swings almost shut behind them. Shadows swallow everything; the noise of the city outside muffles.
âLampâs by the sofa,â you mumble. âJust- hang onâŚâ
They hear you move. The soft thump of your bag dropped on some surface. The scrape of your shoes toed off. Your voice, closer to the center of the room now.
Something inside them unwinds. This is familiar: dark rooms, unknown layouts, a targetâs breathing somewhere just ahead. They relax into the predatory rhythm without even meaning to.
Soapâs hand finds the back of the sofa in the dark. Gazâs foot bumps into the edge of a low table. Ghostâs fingers twitch once, reminding themselves thereâs no weapon in them tonight.
âYou sure you paid your electric bill?â Soap asks, laughing under his breath when the first lamp you try doesnât click on.
You huff. âFunny. It worked this morning. I think the bulb just-â
The silence that follows is sudden and heavy.
âLove?â Price says. âYou all right there?â
You donât answer immediately.
Then, from deeper in the room: âYeah. Yeah, IâmâŚhere. Just- donât move for a second, okay? Itâll be easier if you let your eyes adjust.â
Thereâs a new note in your voice. Not exactly different- still soft, still gentle- but smoother. Calmer. Like something let go.
They stand still, obedient without thinking about it.
Slowly, shapes begin to tease themselves out- the paler rectangle of a window, the looming outline of a bookshelf, the shadowed bulk of the sofa.
Youâre standing a few feet away, turned toward them. The faint light from the street outside brushes your outline but doesnât quite touch your face. For a breath, you look exactly like you did at the bar- small, bare armed, hair falling around your shoulders, the delicate chain at your throat a dim line in the gloom.
The glint of your jewelry answers the glow- your necklace, your bracelet, your rings all picking up that strange, pale color and tossing it back in miniature. It slides over your features, revealing them in slices: the curve of your mouth, the bridge of your nose, the line of your cheek.
Itâs too wide. Not grotesque, not cartoonish; just a fraction beyond human, the corners of your lips pulled back enough to show teeth that look a shade too long, too thin. Not blunt little herbivore teeth, but fine, needled things that catch the strange light the way deep water catches moonshine.
Priceâs hand, half lifted, stills.
âTurn the lamp on,â Ghost says, voice low. A command, not a request.
âNo,â you say, almost apologetically. âI donât need it.â
The room seems to shift around that answer. The air grows heavier, cooler. The smell of the river outside seeps in under the window frame, only itâs stronger now, richer, like true seawater. Salt and depth and something briny underneath.
The moonlight bleeds in through the window slightly and the faint glow it throws off reveals more details now: the way your pupils have narrowed to vertical slits in eyes that gleam with their own internal shine; the faint, opalescent pattern under your skin along your throat and collarbones, like scales lying just beneath the surface; the way the chain at your ankle has gone almost luminescent, the bones of your bare feet pale as the bellies of deep fish.
Priceâs mouth goes dry.
âWhat are you?â he asks, very softly.
You tilt your head again, studying him.
âYou know those fish,â you say, âwith the little lanterns? Way down where itâs too dark for anything else to shine?â You give the necklace a small, idle flick, and it swings, hypnotic. âThey sit there for hours, justâŚwaiting. Letting the hungry things come to them.â
Soapâs pulse roars in his ears. Gaz swallows. Ghost takes a single, measured step forward like heâs testing how real this is, how dangerous.
You watch him do it. The glow stretched over your face makes your smile seem sharper.
âI didnât want you to think I was anything but innocent,â you go on conversationally, as if explaining something simple. âThatâs important. If the prey knows the hook is there, it wonât bite.â Your gaze roams over them, four big men in a strangerâs dark living room, shoulders tense, instincts finally whispering wrong, wrong, wrong far too late. âDo you know how many things in the deep are drawn to light that wonât harm them? To something that looks small, harmless, soft? They canât help it. Their brains arenât built to resist.â
The last word curls like smoke, amused.
âYou made yourself pretty,â Ghost rasps, fingers digging into his palms as he fights the instinct to step closer. âSo weâdâŚcome to you.â
You tilt your head, pleased. Brilliant boy. Youâve always liked the wary ones. They make the best meals. The most satisfying captures.
âOf course I did,â you say. âThe abyss doesnât chase. It waits. It shines.â You tap your chest lightly with the tips of your fingers. âI just had to sit in the right bar long enough. Predators always think theyâre the only ones hunting.â
Your own teeth catch the glow when you smile wider.
âAnglerfish donât chase,â you say, almost gently. âWe wait. We shine.â
The little necklace hangs there, bright and terrible in the pitch black of your living room, and Task Force 141 realizes far, far too late that they never chose you at all.
And by then, the hook is already in.
