QuillMind Lives Here

I write stuff. Specializing in reader inserts, here you'll find smutty and/or fluffy headcanons, drabbles, and whatever else catches my interest. Contains NSFW content! AO3 Instagram Store

[gjdraws]

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS

WHO IS USING THIS

AN APP??? THEY HAVE A FUNCTIONING WEBSITE

THE LAST FUNCTIONING WEBSITE

[iguanodonwildman]

Reminder that ao3 does not have an app. Any apps you see are third party and are making money off of the writers without their consent. They’re also probably harvesting your data. Do not support this garbage.

[misterpseudonym]

hey. HEY. artists. writers.

take your TIME

[misterpseudonym]

saying it again for myself. there is no ticking clock. there is nobody breathing down your neck. this passion project is going to come out how YOU want it, in a way that makes YOU satisfied

take your time

[rehfan]

Seriously needed this today.

[maedaeme]

god that adhd struggle where you are so motivated to do something but there is just like. A Blockage In Your Body that stops the motivation from turning into anything. so you just like. vibrate. sitting there like yeah, man, i totally want to do that right now. (doesn’t)

[maedaeme]

i posted this image on twitter like actual ages ago but it just keeps getting more relevant

[spellthief]

If I’m able to, then perhaps I’ll be closer to portraying a true expression of love.

         -Hayao Miyazaki (x)

[fashion-runways]

LWENX Couture Dress 2026 if you want to support this blog consider donating to: ko-fi.com/fashionrunways

[quillmind]

What Blood Demands - OC x John (John Wick series) Chapter 4: True Name

Notes: More brother/sister-esque bonding!

The Boboli Gardens were less than ten minutes away on foot, but once they entered, Sabine felt the change immediately. The air was no longer stuffy, the noise was mainly limited to footsteps on the gravel path, and though there were tourists around, the place was so big that it never felt crowded. They ended up sitting on a bench in front of the Neptune Fountain. The titular god stood high on a rock in the center of the pond, wielding his trident, poised to strike.

John waited a minute before speaking. "Do you want to meet them? The Bellincionis?"

Sabine stared at her signet ring, turning it on her finger. "I'm… I don't know. I kinda do. But I..." She took a long, shuddering breath. "I'm also scared to."

"We don't have to if you don't want to."

She turned to look at him, startled that he would offer that option. "I don't?"

"No. Like I said, this trip is for you. I'm here for you. If this isn't something you want to keep digging into, then we won't. It's as simple as that."

There was no lie or exaggeration in his words. Sabine chewed her lip and shuffled her feet over the gravel. "You won't be mad?"

John shook his head once. "No."

"So… if I want to just go home?"

"We'll do that."

"And if I want to stay and meet the Bellincionis?"

"I'll do what I can to make it happen."

Grey eyes searched John's, wary but wanting to believe. "What about… if I don't know what I want to do?"

"Then we can stay here for a while so you can decide. What you've been through over the past few days would be overwhelming to anyone, regardless of their age. It's a difficult time to make big decisions."

"So… we can stay here for another day?"

"Yeah."

"What about two days?"

"Yeah."

"What about a month?"

John smirked and raised an eyebrow. "Don't push it."

Sabine giggled, then sniffled, then surprised them both by leaning her head against his shoulder. It was a tiny gesture, but of great significance, done out of fatigue, relief, and gratitude.

John stiffened at first, having been trained to be leery of contact and particularly unused to it coming from a child. But it quickly passed, replaced by a sense of trust and duty.

"If I decide to meet them, will you be there with me?" she asked in a near-whisper, as if she was suggesting something treasonous.

"I will."

Sabine pressed into John's shoulder. "What if they're dangerous? If they try to hurt me like what happened with Mom?"

John hadn't seen the autopsy photos of Sabine's mother firsthand, but Winston had the incident well enough. Bleeding out, terrified, in pain and alone… There was no way he was letting Sabine meet a similar fate.

"You have me. I'll protect you. I promise."

Sabine's breathing hitched, at a loss for words from hearing such vows. As if in slow motion, she curled her arms around his and snuggled closer.

She believed him.

Read the rest on AO3 here!

[epiphany-jones]

Leaving a comment on a stranger's fic: your use of language is sublime, your character voice so clear! I'm so happy to be reading this, thank you so much for writing 🙏🏻💙

Leaving a comment on a mutual's fic: I am going to make sure you never know a day's peace again you motherfucker. I'm outside of your house right now. You better START RUNNING (I can't wait for next chapter I'm going to die in real life)

[quillmind]

What Blood Demands - OC x John (John Wick series) Chapter 3: Pater Familias

Notes: No John or Sabine in this chapter, but still important!

The doctor and nurse left immediately without question, closing the door behind them.

"What are you doing here?" Domenico asked, his words slower than they should have been due to the drugs.

Niccolò smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. There was a flash of gold at his wrist when he moved—a brand new Patek Philippe watch. The last time he was here, it was a Piaget, and before that, a Philippe Dufour.

"You know, if you hadn't been so difficult, we wouldn't have had to remove everything. You could've kept the photos, that lamp wouldn't have been destroyed, there wouldn't be locks on the windows and the door…"

"I'm the difficult one," Domenico sneered, shaking his head at the absurdity. "When you're keeping me prisoner in my own house."

"It's for your own safety," Niccolò said patiently. "The doctor and nurse are here to help you." He eyed the medical trolley near the bed, stocked with thermometers, a blood pressure cuff, and other supplies. The white plastic and steel clashed horribly with the hand-carved mahogany bed that was decades older.

"I don't need them. We have Elio and Giulia and the others." Domenico pointed to where the doctor and nurse were, beyond the wall and hissed with venom, "They are not from this house."

The pasted smile vanished from Niccolò's face. "That's the point."

Domenico's chest heaved, but the air he actually got was far less, scraping his voice thin and dry. "I'm not an invalid—"

Niccolò stepped closer. "You're old and ill. That's why you're here, and I'm running things instead."

Domenico snorted. "All you've done is prove I was right. You don't know how to run things; you only know how to indulge. "

The features of Niccolò's face twitched, and for a split second, there was something aged and ugly there, like a blemish that began tiny but gradually festered into a purulent wound. The confident, arrogant man receded, superseded by a younger, smaller version of himself who was torn between love and hate.

"You still believe she'll come back," he said, sounding hollow.

"She will," Domenico said, his conviction and intonation as strong as steel. "She will come back. Because she loves this place. She loves her family—even you."

With a flick of the wrist, Niccolò tossed the mailer onto Domenico's lap.

"What is this."

Niccolò remained silent.

Domenico sighed and turned the mailer over; it was warm where Niccolò had been holding it. There were Canadian postage stamps and a sticker that said "DO NOT BEND" on the front. BC Coroners Service was listed as the sender. The mailer had already been opened. Domenico pulled out the contents.

First and foremost was a death certificate—or rather, a notarized photocopy. The name read "SARAH BELL."

Domenico felt dread creeping into his heart.

Niccolò took a gold cigarette case out of his pocket.

The next page was an autopsy report. Domenico saw a familiar birthdate and a combination of hair and eye colour listed.

Coincidence. A terrible joke. A careless mistake. Let it be any of those things…

The next was an autopsy photograph.

A face with closed eyes and light hair. Even in black and white, even as a grainy photocopy, Domenico knew. The truth had latched onto him, but belief lagged far behind. He leafed through the other pages in search of answers and halted as he read the coroner's report. "Gunshot wounds? What…"

The cigarette case slapped shut and went back into Niccolò's pocket, replaced by a matching gold lighter. He put on a decent show of restrained sorrow as he lit his cigarette. "Apparently, it was an attempted robbery. She was killed in her own home—some shabby hovel in a low-income area of the city." He took a slow drag.

A strangled sound was torn out of Domenico's throat. His fingers trembled, making the pages quiver. No, no, no. To think that after everything that happened, she would die like this, in such a mundane, pointless, and cruel way…

"It's not true," he croaked. "It's not her. This… this is a lie."

Niccolò took a long drag that made the end of his cigarette glow brightly like a sniper's laser sight. "It's not. The certificate's notarized, legitimate. The body will be sent to us in a few days."

Domenico shook his head. His breathing was uneven, but it wasn't because of the smoke. "She shouldn't… she shouldn't have left. If only she stayed." He glared at Niccolò. "If only you hadn't helped her."

Niccolò scoffed in exasperation, smoke puffing from his mouth like a dragon. "She would've gone with or without my help. She wouldn't have left if it weren't for you. You were going to cage her. I helped free her."

The fury that had been burning in Domenico fizzled out. He suddenly appeared so weak that Niccolò barely recognized him.

He let the pain of that fully land before delivering the killing blow, slowly leaning in close and jabbing his finger at the autopsy photo.

"This… is all on you."

Read the rest of AO3 here!

[seleneelune-deactivated20251014]

You don't understand. Otherwise, we writers get flagged for 'historical inaccuracy'.

[quillmind]

What Blood Demands - OC x John (John Wick series) Chapter 2: The City She was Meant to See

Notes: Just FYI, this one's a pretty food/travel-heavy chapter. Also, please forgive/let me know of any Italian inaccuracies!

Florence, Italy

New York had been jarring to Sabine, but Florence was fascinating.  

The stone buildings were never over six storeys tall, and their windows were dotted with wooden shutters.  Streets split into narrow cobblestone alleys that existed before they even had any names.  The mountains were lower, and there was no screeching of seagulls or the glass skyscrapers that she'd seen in Vancouver.  Nor were there the neon signs, Art Deco towers, or roaring subways that were in New York, either.  The red-orange terracotta roof tiles and tan and cream walls evoked warmth and sun, not clouds and rain.  

She stared out of the car window as they drove by, just as she had when she got to New York, but if New York had been a giant beast, Florence felt like an aged creature of myth.  

"Is it intimidating?" John asked.  

Sabine considered the question.  "Kind of, but not the way New York is."  

There was a serene symmetry to the Florence Continental's design, the buttery sandstone walls balanced by the black wrought iron fences, ground-floor window grilles, and balcony railings.  The moment Sabine stepped inside, however, she realized how deceptively plain the exterior was by comparison.  Inside was marble floors, stone columns, intricate pilasters, frescoes on the ceilings, and oil paintings and tapestries on the walls.  Furniture was made of dark walnut and tufted velvet in jewel tones, and any flat surface had at least one fresh floral arrangement and bronze statuette.  Areas without natural light had crystal chandeliers.  

But Sabine recognized the atmosphere the guests and staff brought in.  Everyone took notice of her and John as they walked in, because it was part of their livelihood.  The looks weren't hostile, but not particularly friendly, either.  

She hesitated, then asked the question that had been forming in her mind since they arrived. “Are they all… like you?”

“No.”

She waited, expecting more.  

“Some are trackers.  Some are couriers, transporters.  Some are muscle for people higher up the ladder, and some just keep things running.”

“Like my father?”  

“Yeah,” he said.  

Her brow knitted slightly.  “So not everyone here kills people.”  

"Not by trade."

At the front desk, they were greeted by the concierge, a man with black, curly hair and blue eyes bracketed by deep laugh lines.  "Benvenuta, Signor Wick," he said with an angled nod of his head, then to Sabine, an equal nod and "Signorina."  

Sabine squared her shoulders and answered without thinking.  "Grazie."  

The concierge's expression softened, almost in recognition.  "You speak Italian, signorina?"  

"Yes.  My mother taught me," she said in the language.  

"I see.  Your mother is Italian?"  

"She was."  

Edgardo heard it in the cadence and ease with which Sabine spoke that she didn't just scrape it together from a travel guide.  But her words also had a regional sound.  "From Tuscany?"

Sabine hesitated.  "I… I'm not sure."  

Edgardo switched back to English.  "Well, either way, we are happy to have you with us, signorina."  He turned his attention to John, who had been silently watching this exchange.  "Signor Scott contacted us to make a reservation for you two, Signor Wick.  Your room has already been prepared."  

He slid two sets of keys across the counter.  Sabine noticed that the keys were solid brass and much larger than the ones she was used to, reminding her of the kind depicted in fairy tales.  

"Grazie, Edgardo," John said, putting down a gold coin.  "Is there anything going on that I should be aware of?"  

"There's some construction on Via de' Cerretani, but aside from that, nothing to worry about."  

"Is the Jeweller open today?"  

"Unfortunately, no, not on Sundays.  They will be open tomorrow from 9:00 am."  

"All right."  

The room was a suite in a corner of the building, overlooking a garden with well-manicured hedges and poplar trees.  Sabine's shoes tapped on the polished terracotta floor, muting when she walked over the occasional Persian rug.  The sitting room had a brocade sofa with several cushions, and next to it was a rollaway bed.  

"I'll be sleeping in here," John said, setting his bag down.  "The bedroom's yours."  

Sabine looked back and forth between the bedroom and John.  "But that has the big bed."  She stepped into the bedroom—and stopped short.  The space felt noticeably different. Quieter and softer, but also grander.  Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the room with light.  The half-tester bed was enormous, with a curtain draped over the massive tufted headboard, which looked like something out of a museum.  It was a room meant for someone important.  

“This is…”  She trailed off, uncomfortable.  “This is a lot.”  She pivoted to face John.  "This should be yours.  You're bigger than me."  

"I don't need much space."  

"But I do?  You're the adult."  

He shook his head.  “We’re here because of you.  I’m just tagging along as your bodyguard."  He could see she still wasn't convinced, so he added, "But… just try it, and if you don't like it, we can switch.  Okay?”

Something in that—knowing she had the option, that she wasn’t being forced—made the knot in her chest loosen.  Sabine nodded slowly.  “Okay."  

The matter settled, John checked his watch.  It was still early in the afternoon.  

"Did you want to see the city?"  

She widened her eyes.  "We can go out?"  

"Like I said, we're here for you.  We can do whatever you want."  

The idea and John's statement had excited Sabine, though she tried to suppress it.  "Yeah, I want to see."  

While Sabine went to use the bathroom and change, John opened his bag and took out a plain case.  Inside was a Glock 19—efficient and reliable, nothing fancy.  He checked it quickly but carefully before tucking it into a shoulder holster that could be hidden under his leather jacket.  

Florence was a safe city by most standards; the most common crimes were pickpocketing and petty theft.  But standards had a tendency to fail when you least expected them, so John wasn't taking any chances.  

Hope for the best, plan for the worst.  

Read the rest on AO3 here!

[furiosa-femininst]

Unproblematic male actors don’t exi-

[fxlthyangxl-deactivated20240122]

website

[hesbythecampfire]

StopNCII.org is operated by the Revenge Porn Helpline which is part of SWGfL, a charity that believes that everyone should benefit from technology, free from harm. Founded in 2000, SWGfL works with a number of partners and stakeholders around the world to protect everyone online

Sounds legit

[songue85]

StopNCII.org is operated by the Revenge Porn Helpline which is part of SWGfL, a charity that believes that all should benefit from technolog

[jumpdriveproject]

Visit Original Link

[yellonolang]

never forget your roots

fanfiction.net before they removed the NC-17 stories

going to fanfiction.net at all

going to adultfanfiction.net in the fallout of the great “purge”

figuring out that ain’t nobody actually monitoring NC-17 stories there anyway so just rate it “M”

“please R&R! concrit appreciated!”

warning: lemon

though it may be more on the limey side of lemon

“summary sux just read it”

replying to reviews in the author’s notes

author’s notes in which the characters talk to each other and the author

[angelinthefire]

#DOES ANYONE REMEMBER SONG FICS #FICS WITH SONG LYRICS INTERSPERSED THRUOUT PARAGRAPHS FOR THE WHOLE THING

[florial]

[chaoticum]

I believe in free education, one that’s available to everyone; no matter their race, gender, age, wealth, etc… This masterpost was created for every knowledge hungry individual out there. I hope it will serve you well. Enjoy!

FREE ONLINE COURSES (here are listed websites that provide huge variety of courses)

Alison 

Coursera

FutureLearn

open2study

Khan Academy

edX

P2P U

Academic Earth

iversity

Stanford Online

MIT Open Courseware

Open Yale Courses

BBC Learning

OpenLearn

Carnegie Mellon University OLI

University of Reddit

Saylor

IDEAS, INSPIRATION & NEWS (websites which deliver educational content meant to entertain you and stimulate your brain)

TED

FORA

Big Think 

99u

BBC Future

Seriously Amazing

How Stuff Works

Discovery News

National Geographic

Science News

Popular Science

IFLScience

YouTube Edu

NewScientist

DIY & HOW-TO’S (Don’t know how to do that? Want to learn how to do it yourself? Here are some great websites.)

wikiHow

Wonder How To

instructables

eHow

Howcast

MAKE

Do it yourself

FREE TEXTBOOKS & E-BOOKS

OpenStax CNX

Open Textbooks

Bookboon

Textbook Revolution

E-books Directory

FullBooks

Books Should Be Free

Classic Reader

Read Print

Project Gutenberg

AudioBooks For Free

LibriVox

Poem Hunter

Bartleby

MIT Classics

Many Books

Open Textbooks BCcampus

Open Textbook Library

WikiBooks

SCIENTIFIC ARTICLES & JOURNALS

Directory of Open Access Journals

Scitable

PLOS

Wiley Open Access

Springer Open

Oxford Open

Elsevier Open Access

ArXiv

Open Access Library

LEARN:

1. LANGUAGES

Duolingo

BBC Languages

Learn A Language

101languages

Memrise

Livemocha

Foreign Services Institute

My Languages

Surface Languages

Lingualia

OmniGlot

OpenCulture’s Language links

2. COMPUTER SCIENCE & PROGRAMMING

Codecademy

Programmr

GA Dash

CodeHS

w3schools

Code Avengers

Codelearn

The Code Player

Code School

Code.org

Programming Motherf*?$%#

Bento

Bucky’s room

WiBit

Learn Code the Hard Way

Mozilla Developer Network

Microsoft Virtual Academy

3. YOGA & MEDITATION

Learning Yoga

Learn Meditation

Yome

Free Meditation

Online Meditation

Do Yoga With Me

Yoga Learning Center

4. PHOTOGRAPHY & FILMMAKING

Exposure Guide

The Bastards Book of Photography

Cambridge in Color

Best Photo Lessons

Photography Course

Production Now

nyvs

Learn About Film

Film School Online

5. DRAWING & PAINTING

Enliighten

Ctrl+Paint

ArtGraphica

Google Cultural Institute

Drawspace

DragoArt

WetCanvas

6. INSTRUMENTS & MUSIC THEORY

Music Theory

Teoria

Music Theory Videos

Furmanczyk Academy of Music

Dave Conservatoire

Petrucci Music Library

Justin Guitar

Guitar Lessons

Piano Lessons

Zebra Keys

Play Bass Now

7. OTHER UNCATEGORIZED SKILLS

Investopedia

The Chess Website

Chesscademy

Chess.com

Spreeder

ReadSpeeder

First Aid for Free

First Aid Web

NHS Choices

Wolfram Demonstrations Project

Please feel free to add more learning focused websites. 

*There are a lot more learning websites out there, but I picked the ones that are, as far as I’m aware, completely free and in my opinion the best/ most useful.

[quillmind]

What Blood Demands - OC x John (John Wick series) Chapter 1: The Girl and the Marker

Content warnings: Blood, violence, murder, child trauma

Summary: In 1992, A woman has been murdered in her home, and her daughter, Sabine, is the lone witness and survivor. Following her mother's instructions, she contacts her father, Winston Scott. A marker binds him to look after Sabine and make sure she's happy, and the accomplish the latter, he knows he has to find and kill her mother's murderer.

When circumstances require Sabine to go to Florence, Italy, Winston arranges for John Wick to go with her as her guardian. What should have been a straightforward trip becomes a journey that includes the discovery of family secrets, a bloody conspiracy, and a vast fortune that makes Sabine and John targets.

Notes: This is the start of a really long, ambitious project, so fingers crossed I actually finish it! 😅

1992

Vancouver, Canada

The rain had only worsened by the time the police cruiser pulled up to the curb.

In the front was a constable named Lau. He had been the one to volunteer to drive when the destination was given—along with a gold coin. Lau wasn’t officially, fully immersed in this other world that existed beneath the surface, but he knew of it and knew enough to respect it.

He turned to look in the backseat where his passenger was.

“We’re here.”

The girl looked up at him, but did not meet his eyes. Her head turned slowly to face the building beyond the window, streaked with water droplets.

“Okay.” She undid her seatbelt while Lau came around to open the car door. She pulled her backpack onto her shoulders and set her feet on the water-darkened sidewalk.

In front of the girl, a sharply dressed doorman had already appeared with a large umbrella, shielding her from the rain. She didn’t know how to respond to that.

This time, she met Lau’s eyes when she looked at him, taking a gold coin out of her pocket and handing it to him. “Thank you,” she said. Lau nodded and took the coin, knowing the girl had said it more out of courtesy rather than gratitude. Given her current circumstances, that was understandable.

The doorman gestured to the entrance, and the girl followed him. Lau watched them until the girl disappeared into the building, then got into his car and drove away.

Eyes of guests and staff alike flickered at the girl, a natural reaction given that she was far from the expected sort of clientele. There was a mild surprise in the concierge's eyes when the girl approached the counter, but it was quickly wiped away, replaced by pristine courtesy and professionalism.

“Welcome to the Vancouver Continental,” the concierge said pleasantly. “How may I help you this evening?”

The girl looked at her for a moment, then took out a gold coin and slid it across the marble counter.

“Could you please call Winston Scott at the New York Continental, please?” she said, her words steady but betraying the frailty underneath. “I need to get a message to him.”

Once again, the concierge’s immaculate demeanour was challenged, but she held firm. “It’s quite late in New York at the moment—is it an emergency?”

The girl paused to find her answer. “I think so. Yes.”

“May I ask for the message?”

The girl’s eyes looked far away, to something no one else could see, before she came back to the concierge. “The message is that Sarah Bell is dead, and he has a debt to pay.”

The concierge nodded. “May I have your name so that I can tell him who the message is from?”

“Sabine.” She didn’t offer more, and the concierge didn’t press.

“It may take a while to get a response. Would you like to wait in the lounge?” The concierge gestured to a separate area with cushioned armchairs and sofas huddled around low tables.

“Is that okay?”

“It is.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

****

Winston Scott was used to being woken up at odd hours. Work never stopped in hotels, especially those of the Continental variety. Suffice it to say, he didn’t appreciate having his sleep disturbed. However, when he heard the message over the phone, he quickly dressed and headed to the airport.

The sun had just risen when the plane arrived in Vancouver. Winston looked out of the window at the city below. So very different from New York, he thought to himself. It was smaller with fewer skyscrapers, though they were starting to grow, the glass towers resembling quartz crystal clusters. A city still in its adolescence, figuring itself out.

Was this what she was looking for? A place that reflected her desire to start over, to begin anew?

The Vancouver Continental was a picturesque, chateau-style hotel of grey stone and a copper roof, turned green with age. It evoked a bygone era that Winston was more accustomed to seeing, and particularly stood out amidst the modern glass towers—yet it didn’t appear as an imperfection or oddity. It somehow served as a contrast between the old and the new. Exiting the car, Winston headed to the entrance and was greeted by a doorman as he passed through the revolving doors.

Inside was more familiar—polished brass fixtures, marble floors, warm, modest lighting, and high ceilings with large chandeliers. Winston saw a few familiar faces among the clientele, as well as many new ones. The staff were quick to notice and greet him; impeccable attention to detail was a common trait across all Continental hotels worldwide.

The concierge was a trim Chinese woman with sharp eyes, wine-coloured lips, and ramrod-straight posture.

“Hello, Mr. Scott,” she said. “Welcome to the Vancouver Continental.”

He was not surprised she recognized him. The concierge and other front desk staff had the names and faces of each Continental hotel’s manager drilled into their memory.

“Thank you,” he returned.

“As you requested, we set the girl up in one of our rooms, and we told her she is welcome to order anything she wishes from room service.”

“And did she?”

The concierge tapped on her keyboard and focused on the screen. “She ordered a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato soup and hot chocolate.”

Comfort foods, Winston assumed. “How did she seem?”

The concierge’s smile flattened. “She arrived after midnight, but appeared more numb than tired. She assured us she did not have any injuries and refused to see a doctor.”

“I see.” He took out a gold coin and placed it on the counter.

The concierge took the coin and handed him a keycard. “She’s in room 1103.”

“Thank you.” He headed toward the elevators.

****

Winston stopped outside the room, turning the keycard in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he knocked firmly twice on the door.

“Sabine? My name is Winston Scott. I’m the manager of the New York Continental Hotel.”

Nothing came back. He tried again, with everything quieter and softer, including the knocks.

“I received your message. I… knew your mother a long time ago. May I come in?”

It was silent again. Then, the faintest of movement, and the sound of the chain lock sliding off—but that was it.

Winston slipped the keycard through the slot, and the light blipped green. He opened the door as a pair of skinny legs and long hair rushed to stand behind the far side of the bed.

He stayed where he was to show her he was not a threat and quickly took stock of the room. A worn, red backpack was slouched on a chair. On the desk in front of it was a silver tray with a crumb-covered plate, a ramekin and spoon, and a ceramic mug. Scuffed, dirty sneakers sat on the floor beside the bed. A pink and white windbreaker was splayed across the plush armchair. And finally, there was a twelve-year-old girl staring at Winston, tightly clutching a pen as a makeshift weapon.

She was trying to glare, to appear tough, but she was trembling, pushing the fear down as it kept seeping through. The very image of a wounded animal. Honey-brown hair, messy from sleep, fell past her shoulders. A heart-shaped face held grey eyes, strong, arched brows, and bow-shaped lips. She was like Sarah, but in miniature form.

But she wasn’t the only person he saw.

He held up his hands to show they were empty. “May I come in?”

Sabine’s eyes flickered around him, searching for justification to attack with the pen. Eventually, she gave a small nod.

Winston let the door close softly and stood aside to let her see he didn’t lock it. He took off his hat.

“Sabine—it is Sabine, isn’t it? I understand that you’ve gone through quite the ordeal, and this may be hard to believe, but I will say it anyway—as long as you are under this roof, you are safe. No one will hurt you.”

Sabine’s features slackened ever so slightly. She was tired, he could see, and wanted something, someone, to believe in. A large ring glinted on her right hand.

“My name is Winston Scott,” he continued, giving a small incline of his head. “Sarah Bell… your mother… I loved her once.”

The mention of her mother’s name further chipped away at Sabine’s tough facade, but she was still mistrustful. Winston appreciated her instincts. Or perhaps it was closer to pride.

“I received your message." He kept his voice gentle, but steady. "Is it true that Sarah Bell is dead?”

“Yes.” The word landed hard.

“I see.”

She hesitated, then asked, “Are you really Winston Scott?”

“I am.”

She still held onto the pen. “Then you’re my father.”

Winston’s eyes didn’t leave her face, though he felt the subtle shock tighten his chest. He had suspected the truth the moment he saw her—the same eyes, the same shape of the face—but hearing it confirmed, from her own lips, still caught him off guard. Life-or-death experiences weren't new to him, but something like this? He was just as lost as she was on what to do next.

“Did your mother tell you that?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sabine said, her grip on the pen loosening a bit more. “She… she didn’t talk about you often. It made her sad. She said she loved you, but she couldn’t stay, so she came here.”

Winston studied her, letting the impact of her words settle.

She loved you.

“I love you.”

If you love me, please don’t look for me.

He had to break eye contact for a moment. Few things could make him do that. Well, a secret daughter would certainly work.

A child—just twelve years old—had found her way to a Continental hotel. He kept his voice even. “How did you get here?” he asked.

Sabine pulled a gold coin from her pocket. “She told me if anything ever happened to her, I should come here, show this and ask for Winston Scott.”

She chewed her lip, then slowly set the pen down on the desk. From her backpack, she retrieved a burgundy leather box with gold embossed trim. Its surface was worn, the edges softened by age, but it was well-maintained. Winston recognized it as Sarah’s.

Sabine opened the box and, with a quiet reverence, pushed it toward him across the bed.

Inside lay a couple of old photographs. The first depicted a newborn swaddled in a pink blanket and wearing a hospital bracelet. The next one showed Sarah and Winston, younger and smiling together. Below that were three gold coins, some small, simple jewelry, a permanent residency card, and an envelope addressed to him.

There was a single sheet of paper inside. The handwriting was unmistakably Sarah’s—neat, deliberate, with tiny flourishes in the loops of certain letters. Winston’s eyes scanned the first lines, and he felt the weight of her absence settle like a stone in his chest.

Dear Winston,

If you are reading this, then I am gone. How strange it is to write that… but it is what it is. And you are looking at Sabine. Our daughter.

You can see it, can’t you? She has your nose, the shape of your face, your eyebrows. If you get to know her, you’ll see she’s like you in other ways, too. She might be aloof when you first meet, but don’t be fooled; she has always been smart and curious, especially about her daddy.

I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you. When I found I was pregnant, I was happy and terrified and devastated. If it were just you and me, there would be no problem, but I couldn’t imagine raising a child in that world. And you could not, and would not, leave your position. I’m not blaming you. I understand that the Continental is where you belong. So I made the choice, and I stand by it—though I will confess that every day I’ve wondered what it would be like if I had stayed.

And now, I must ask something of you. On the marker you gave me, I call in your debt. Take care of Sabine for me. Keep her safe so that she can live a free and happy life. Let ownership of the marker be transferred to her, so that she can judge if you have fulfilled this request.

I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me. Maybe you hate me still. But for what it’s worth, I never stopped loving you. And our daughter deserves all of your love.

With all my heart,

Sarah

Winston heard the letter read in Sarah’s voice. When it was finished, he looked it over again, as if he could find her hiding within the ink and paper.

He exhaled slowly and picked up the marker. He had given it to Sarah well over a decade ago. He remembered her look of distress when she saw him pierce his thumb and press the print to one side of the marker.

“Don’t bleed for me,” she admonished him, quickly bandaging his thumb after he pressed the print to the right side of the marker.

“If not for you, then who?” he asked with a smile. “Just hang on to it and know that I’ll always be there to help you.”

Then the day came when her room was empty, the bed perfectly made with only a few of her things remaining, and the note on her pillow that said,

I’m sorry, Winston, I have to go. If you love me, please don’t look for me. —Sarah.

He had looked for her at first, but soon stopped, and left it at that. Time went on, and the world kept turning. He did not expect to see or even hear from her again. Sarah was not impulsive, but when she made a decision, she would not budge.

“How did she die?” Winston asked.

He already knew. The splotches of dried blood on Sabine’s clothes told him the moment he’d entered the room.

Sabine—his daughter—looked up at him with her mother’s eyes. “She was murdered.”

Read the rest on AO3 here!