WHO: @cutthroat-service WHERE: thera's place
The tower was quiet this late —just the hum of stillness and the weight of too many hours folded into the dark. Irene hadn’t said much when she arrived. She never really did. Thera had opened the door without a word, like she’d been expecting her. Maybe she had. Irene hadn’t asked how.
Now it was just her, the steady rise and fall of Shiv’s breathing, and the thrum of something still clinging to them—like a wire pulled too tight and left humming in the wind.
She moved slowly, boots soundless on the floor as she crossed to the bed, pulling the chair closer. Her coat was still damp from the walk. A long shift, a longer night, and now this—whatever this was going to be.
Irene sat, eyes soft but tired, and let her hand hover for a second over Shiv’s face. Cold fingers, colder than usual. She touched their forehead lightly, thumb brushing against damp skin.
“Hey,” she murmured, low enough it didn’t have to be answered. “I’m gonna try something.”
She didn’t know if they could hear her. Didn’t know if they’d recognize her even if they did. The file had been thin. The fear, thicker.
Her eyes closed. Her body stayed behind.
But her mind slipped forward—past breath, past waking—toward the quiet edges of a dream she hadn’t built yet.
Toward Shiv. Wherever they were. Whatever they were seeing. She was going to find them.
