𝐑𝐈𝐏 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓

𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩 && 𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝘿𝙀𝙈𝙊𝙉 𝙤𝙘, 𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙤

[takedcwn]

𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐍𝐎 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄

#TAKEDCWN. an independent, highly selective, && mutuals only demon oc, influenced by dante's inferno && kpop demon hunters. primarily based in the KPDH universe as of the time of posting. ᵖᵉⁿⁿᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ᵗʰᵉᵒ

( a study of what becomes of those who abandon humanity and return to the wolves; of what immortality makes of us; of how rage rots && rebuilds from within. )

MOVED TO @maulhell

𝐈'𝐌𝐌𝐀 𝐆𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐔𝐏 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍

[maulhell]

ALRIGHT, let's get this ball rolling. what's up, it's ya boi, theo (24/he&him) back at it again with a deplorable man. meet ARSENAL, the result of a real fucked up experiment using one (1) shard of what was THOUGHT to be heaven's gate but wound up being a piece of HELL's instead + a whole lot of psychological bad times. after destroying a small michigan town the lab he was made was built under (oops), he's become the government's least favorite unstable berserker. in other words, he's a murderous asshole with a grudge against anyone who breathes in his direction, because fuck humanity, that's why. if this sounds like your type of jam, and you happen to like murderous men who say foul things to people they just met, tap the heart and i'll give you a follow. verses are also available for a whole host of fandoms, including kp.dh, pjo, demon slayer, marvel, dc, general fantasy the whole shebang.

[maulhell]

ALRIGHT, let's get this ball rolling. what's up, it's ya boi, theo (24/he&him) back at it again with a deplorable man. meet ARSENAL, the result of a real fucked up experiment using one (1) shard of what was THOUGHT to be heaven's gate but wound up being a piece of HELL's instead + a whole lot of psychological bad times. after destroying a small michigan town the lab he was made was built under (oops), he's become the government's least favorite unstable berserker. in other words, he's a murderous asshole with a grudge against anyone who breathes in his direction, because fuck humanity, that's why. if this sounds like your type of jam, and you happen to like murderous men who say foul things to people they just met, tap the heart and i'll give you a follow. verses are also available for a whole host of fandoms, including kp.dh, pjo, demon slayer, marvel, dc, general fantasy the whole shebang.

[maulhell]

ALRIGHT, let's get this ball rolling. what's up, it's ya boi, theo (24/he&him) back at it again with a deplorable man. meet ARSENAL, the result of a real fucked up experiment using one (1) shard of what was THOUGHT to be heaven's gate but wound up being a piece of HELL's instead + a whole lot of psychological bad times. after destroying a small michigan town the lab he was made was built under (oops), he's become the government's least favorite unstable berserker. in other words, he's a murderous asshole with a grudge against anyone who breathes in his direction, because fuck humanity, that's why. if this sounds like your type of jam, and you happen to like murderous men who say foul things to people they just met, tap the heart and i'll give you a follow. verses are also available for a whole host of fandoms, including kp.dh, pjo, demon slayer, marvel, dc, general fantasy the whole shebang.

[takedcwn]

FUCKING  HELL,  alright.  deep  breaths.  yes,  he’s  missing  an  arm  (it’ll  be  back  in  a  moment);  yes,  he’s  on  the  run  (a  rarity);  yes,  he’s  keenly  aware  of  the  fact  that  not  only  is  he  losing  whatever  he  has  that  counts  as  blood,  but  that  he  is  fucking  exhausted  all  the  while.  he  has  had  precious  little  to  eat  for  the  past  few  days,  his  temper  is  flaring  -  and  there’s  smoke  and  smoldering  left  in  his  wake,  flames  that  rise  up  and  chase  his  heels,  then  extinguish  themselves  in  their  shame.  they  cannot  catch  him  -  nothing  can  -  well,  maybe  nothing.  he’s  still  being  hunted. smoke  washes  over  him,  a  deep  breath  is  taken  -  and  he  reappears  a  distance  away,  stumbling  out  from  the  void  to  lean  ‘gainst  what  he  thinks  counts  as  an  air  conditioning  unit.  the  space  where  his  right  arm  ought  to  be  bubbles  and  churns  as  it  starts  to  mend  itself,  though  he  knows  it  won’t  truly  be  back.  the  wound  will  heal,  but  the  limb  won’t  come  back.  not  until  he  dies  and  finds  himself  reborn  anew,  which  is  -  for  the  most  part  -  how  these  things  always  tend  to  go. one  may  expect  him  to  scowl  and  hiss  and  throw  a  fit  at  his  injury,  but  no.  the  sound  which  comes  from  him    -  which  bounces  down  onto  the  street  below  and  scares  off  a  nearby  murder  -  is  laughter.  amused  and  manic  laughter.   he  does  not  care  for  volume.  if  his  pursuers  find  him  or  not  is,  briefly,  none  of  his  concern.  this  is  his  truth:  when  the  hunters  find  him,  he  will  kill  them,  bathe  their  bodies  in  fire,  and  eat  them  whole.  he  will  delight  in  their  taste.  to  teleport  takes  nothing  from  him,  but  to  get  up  here  may  take  plenty  from  them.

he  clicks  his  tongue,  tips  his  head  back,  and  runs  his  hand  across  the  point  wherein  his  right  arm  should  begin  and  instead  ends  in  a  sudden  lump.   man,  i  hope  whoever  gets  here  is  at  least  fun.

@96cannon // starter call

[gloomglimmer]

›       TENSION   LINER   PROMPTS     

"I   dare   you   to   try."

"Do   you   always   get   close?"

"You’re   pushing   my   limits."

"Stop   looking   at   me   like   that."

"I’m   losing   control   here."

"You   have   no   idea,   do   you?"

"I   can’t   resist   you   anymore."

"Stay   back,   or   don’t."

"I   know   what   you   want."

"This   is   getting   dangerous   now."

"You’re   too   tempting   for   me."

"I   shouldn’t   want   this,   but…"

"I   don’t   play   fair,   remember?"

"Careful,   you’re   testing   me."

"You’re   just   making   it   worse."

"You’re   too   close   for   comfort."

"Do   you   always   push   buttons?"

"Stop   before   I   kiss   you."

"You’re   making   it   too   hard."

"I   can’t   stop   thinking   about   you."

"I   want   you   too   much."

"You   know   exactly   what   you’re   doing."

"I’m   not   playing   games   here."

"You’ve   crossed   the   line   now."

"Keep   pushing,   and   you’ll   regret   it."

"This   is   dangerous,   isn’t   it?"

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"Don’t   make   me   regret   this."

"You’re   playing   with   fire."

"You   don’t   know   what’s   coming."

"I   shouldn’t   be   this   close."

"We’re   getting   dangerously   close   now."

"I   can   feel   the   heat."

"Don’t   test   me   right   now."

"I   want   you   too   badly."

"Don’t   make   me   chase   you."

"You’re   distracting   me,   you   know."

"I   won’t   fall   for   this."

"I   want   you,   but…"

"What   do   you   want   from   me?"

"I’ll   never   give   in."

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"You’re   playing   with   my   patience."

"Don’t   make   this   harder,   please."

"I   can’t   stop   this   feeling."

"I’m   already   in   too   deep."

"You   won’t   walk   away   unscathed."

"You’re   walking   a   fine   line."

"I’m   trying   to   stay   calm."

"What   are   you   doing   to   me?"

[takedcwn]

LET’S  THINK  ABOUT  murder  for  a  second.  let’s  really  think  about  it.  let’s  think  about  all  the  horrible  things  that  come  with  it  -  grief,  anger,  denial,  desperation  -  and  the  good,  too.  oh,  there’s  good  in  murder.  murder  is  good  trouble  for  him;  arsenal,  he  who  forged  an  existence  for  himself  in  the  remains  of  a  hunter  most  divine,  views  it  as  oh  so  good  trouble  to  kill  someone.  sometimes,  after  all,  people  need  to  get  got.  they  must  learn  to  reap  as  they  did  to  sew,  no  matter  how  violent  their  protests  and  complaints  on  the  matter  are.   murder  attracts  him.  there’s  an  allure  to  it.  a  want  to  see  exactly  what’s  going  to  happen  to  the  victim,  to  their  families,  to  all  those  who  were  either  fortunate  enough  to  witness  it  or  unfortunate  enough  to  hear  recounts  from  mentally  scarred  witnesses.  to  take  a  life  is  to  crash  a  car:  humanity  may  be  replaceable  on  the  whole  to  him,  but  that  does  not  detract  a  certain  entertainment  from  their  demises.   case  and  point,  it  should  be  no  surprise  that  he  comes  up  when  he  does.   he  stalks  the  streets  with  a  certain  curiosity.  death  took  him  and  he  clawed  his  way  back  up  from  hell  (again)  and  now  he’s  here  (again)  looking  for  something  to  focus  on.  a  demon  untethered  who  sees  a  shadow  walking  and  thinks,  ‘oho,  now  there’s  dinner  and  a  show’.   and  so  he  approaches.  it’s  swift  -  a  blink  of  motion  in  the  peripheral  -  and  he’s  upon  the  shadow,  walking  in  step,  dressed  in  a  shirt  and  sweat  pants  and  running  shoes.  if  only  his  eyes  weren’t  molten  pyrite,  if  only  they  weren’t  that  off-gold  shade  -  then  maybe,  just  maybe,  he  could  really  pass  as  a  human  !!  not  that  he  would  want  to,  of  course,  but  it  would  be  funny. ❝  going  somewhere  ??    ❞

@stormfated // starter call

[atealiers]

The Mountain Goats — Sax Rohmer #1

[takedcwn]

HE  LIKES  CATS.  this  is  not  something  that  arsenal  makes  apparent  -  be  it  in  behavior  or  chit-chat  with  other  foul-natured  things  -  but  he  does  have  a  bias  towards  felines  at  times.  it  is  not  a  permanent  admiration  of  them,  of  course,  this  is  something  which  comes  and  goes  like  the  tides…  but  today,  it  is  there.  today,  as  he  dredges  his  digits  between  the  soft  gashes  just  below  a  woman’s  ribs,  it  is.   to  be  fair,  this  is  not  a  woman.  this  is  not  a  human  who  was  brought  into  the  world  as  a  being  of  divine  imagery,  nor  is  it  someone  who  had  any  particular  nine-to-five  job  that  she  had  to  attend.  this  is  the  result  of  foul  possession  that  has  warped  the  body,  made  it  intolerable,  made  it  horrible  -  made  it  necessary,  then,  for  euthanasia.   many  wanted  this  one  dead:  a  temptress  who  sought  to  breed  in  more  foul  things,  who  wanted  to  make  the  world  her  own  little  melting  pot.   many  were  a  little  too  late.   so  here  he  is,  admiring  the  fallen  and  half-ashen  mess  of  her  body  like  a  cat  would  the  corpse  of  a  mouse.  he  idly  takes  a  fistfull  of  her  hair  -  once  soft,  now  the  texture  and  color  of  hay  -  and  pulls  her  head  up  with  the  lot  of  it.  her  slack  jaw  would  hang  open,  had  the  lower  one  not  been  eviscerated  by  a  bullet.  oh  yes,  he  used  a  gun  for  this  one:  the  revolver  sits  steady  on  his  hip,  made  of  fire  and  brimstone  and  carefully  loaded  with  bullets  that  sting  a  little  to  make.  

his  ears  twitch.  an  alertness  strikes  him,  though  he  doesn’t  peer  over  his  shoulder  or  pay  any  greater  mind  to  his  surroundings.  the  alleyway  is  tucked  away  enough  from  the  modern  man  that  being  seen  by  anyone  walking  by  is  not  a  large  concern.  the  moon  is  his  only  witness.   evidently,  the  moon  was  his  only  witness.   he  doesn’t  stand.  he  stays  crouched,  tilting  the  cadaver’s  head  from  one  side  to  the  other.   ❝  if  you’re  gonna  call  the  cops,  fair  warning,  ❞  arsenal  speaks,  his  voice  reverberating  with  the  low  thrum  of  laughter,  ❝  i’ve  already  put  down  one  dog,  i’ll  put  down  a  few  others.  ❞

@wantoneeds (bareum) // starter call

[xx-art-xx-xx]

Enjin 🤧💖

[takedcwn]

THE  ONLY  THING  worse  than  dying  is  coming  back  in  the  wrong place. under  most  circumstances,  you  see,  arsenal  has  a  fair  choice  of  where  he  comes  back.  it’s  never  particularly  specific  -  sometimes  he  arrives  a  mile  or  so  from  where  he  died,  or  from  where  he  wanted  to  pop  back  up  -  but  it’s  usually  somewhere  in  a  general  ballpark.  rarely  has  he  wanted  to  reappear  in  california  and  wound  up  in  tahiti,  for  example.   sometimes,  though,  the  hells  find  it  fitting  to  play  a  joke  on  him.  sometimes  they  remind  him  of  the  fact  that,  despite  his  best  efforts,  he  is  not  truly  the  one  in  control  here.  his  soul  may  be  his  own,  and  the  body  may  be  stolen,  but  he  is  not  the  one  at  the  wheel.  that  has  always  been  the  infernal  wills  of  things  greater  than  him.  the  things  that  first  stalked  the  earth  -  the  things  he  sold  everything  to,  and  the  things  he  now  eludes  and  kills  with  a  divine  loathing.   all  of  this  to  say,  he  doesn’t  care  for  the  fact  that  he  reappears  on  what  must  be  some  kind  of  college  campus.  big  buildings.  a  sweeping  blue  sky  up  above  him.  lots  of  chitter-chatter  between  people  who  have  no  idea  that  the  man  emerging  from  the  gap  between  two  buildings  is,  in  fact,  a  legionnare  of  all  things  foul.  it  helps,  he  supposes,  that  he  doesn’t  have  big  leathery  wings  or  gnarled  rams  horns.   still.  this  isn’t  the  best  place  for  him.   so  he  does  what  any  sane  man  would  do.  he  steps  out  from  the  shade,  reaches  out,  and  grabs  the  first  person  he  sees  by  the  arm.  

❝  oi.  what  country  is  this  ??  ❞

@gamenu // starter call

[takedcwn]

THE  UNFORTUNATE  FACT  of  the  matter  is  as  follows:  arsenal  is  dead.  he  is  dead  from  a  hole  in  his  chest;  dead  from  a  head-wound;  dead  from  a  drunken  bout  with  unfathomable  things  that  call  themselves  hunters.  he  is  dead  and  gone  and  reduced  to  ashes,  and  no  one  will  attend  his  funeral.  there  will  not  be  a  funeral,  really.  it  will  be  a  smattering  of  souls  who  thought  him  something  to  redeem,  and  they  will  weep  for  the  saint  that  he  could  have  been,  knowing  full  and  damn  well  that  he  could  never  be  anything  but  what  he  died  as:  a  beast  with  a  half-smoked  cigarette  held  tight  between  his  claws.   enter  him  now,  then,  into  the  underworld  anew.  he  strides  out  from  oblivion’s  cover,  all  manner  and  sign  of  injury  removed  from  his  person,  and  huffs.  like  a  frustrated  dog,  arsenal  huffs  and  paces  for  a  moment  -  then,  abruptly,  his  right  arm  spasms.  brimstone  forms  a  thin-boned  spear  which  is  then  hurled  at  the  nearest  piece  of  rubble,  piercing  through  the  stone  like  a  high  caliber  bullet.  it  strikes  the  ground  what  must  be  miles  away.   a  deep  breath  is  taken,  and  he  starts  walking.   it  takes  him  approximately  ten  minutes  to  find  the  rat  bastard  of  the  day.  he  is  not  arriving  here  for  polite  conversation,  nor  is  he  approaching  the  other  to  beat  his  ass.  he  comes  to  a  stop  before  the  other  dog  of  gwi-ma,  arms  crossed  and  chin  tipped  up  so  that  he  can  sneer  down  at  the  other.  his  voice  is  a  growl,  yet  one  accompanied  by  the  curve  of  his  lips  into  a  godforsaken  grin.  

❝  how’s  the  leg  ??  ❞

@beastm4ker // starter call

[wlfsbane-a]

𝗮 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗮𝗴𝗼𝗻𝘆. 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗻𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱? 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙙𝙤𝙢 𝙨𝙝𝙪𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢? a horror focused original character with lycanthropy as a metaphor for losing control, taking responsibility, and the guilt that follows. written in second person. \ ©

[takedcwn]

STARTER CALL. lengths will vary. gonna try to get back into the swing of things this week. apologies for the extended absence.

[takedcwn]

❝ fucking lol. lmao even. ❞ of course he knows who the favorite is. it's him. obviously.

[bloodstrings]

what would being gentle ever get you?

'nothing much,' she'd answer in response if she knew. there is no attempt to tame him, to get him on her side, even for a moment. what would she get out of it? he's a threat through and through, from a distance and up close. there is nothing gentle, soft nor kind about him ; even in his weakest moments, he is biting his lip and tensed, muscles tight even as they beg to grow limp. you don't get to relax, and neither does she, apparently.

even the taste of his blood has a tang to it — some form of a kick — but she has a mature palate, so she appreciates it. it's sweeter than furud's blood, burns even less.

his nails, however, resonate a more familiar pain directly into her abdomen, bone between bone as he navigates between her ribs. he's broken skin ( mildly, for a jackass such as him ), weirdly careful in a way that he doesn't damage her too much. her hand almost slips in a sudden rush to send him back to hell immediately, but she resists, as did he, even in such a minor way. linh moves the knife to the side of his neck, stabbing it into the tree, almost slicing him once again. it's tempting ; it's always so tempting to do anything to him. she grimaces and grins when she speaks, his blood on her lips.

" i can tell. is that what all the marking is supposed to mean? " a groan, feeling her flesh burn from his attack. she has no choice but to stay close, lest he peel her any further. " at least if anything — " her free hand returns the favor, nails dug between his ribs and through his skin, her breath smelling of copper. " you know it's mutual. "

[takedcwn]

HIS  KINDNESS  DIED  a  while  ago.  he  is  not  haunted  by  it.  a  weaker  man  would  be  on  his  knees  more  often  than  not,  in  the  temple  of  some  forgotten  god,  praying  for  salvation  that  he  is  neither  deserving  of  nor  receiving  any  time  in  the  future;  he  would  be  wandering  the  earth  with  a  desperation  for  recognition,  for  someone  to  hold  out  a  hand  and  tell  him  that  he  is  good.  these  are  the  musings  of  a  weaker  man,  the  wants  of  someone  who  has  had  the  luxury  of  anxiety  and  dread  and  rest. arsenal  has  never  afforded  himself  such  things.  he  will  not  start  now. he  holds  her  with  a  firmness  that  speaks  to  a  quiet  fear:  this,  a  decent  fight  and  encounter,  might  just  slip  away  if  he  does  not  hold  it  tightly.  if  he  does  not  keep  hold  of  her,  she  could  run,  or  send  him  back  to  hell  -  and  yet,  there's  a  trust  here  that  she  won't.  be  it  by  threat  of  bodily  harm  or  by  some  warped  fondness,  arsenal  believes  she  will  not  try  to  kill  him- and  thus,  when  her  free  hand  digs  between  his  ribs  and  skin,  the  sound  that  emerges  him  is  two-fold:  one  part  laugh,  one  part  low  groan  of  something  far  more  pleased  than  pained. he  cranes  his  head  back  'gainst  the  tree,  lolls  to  the  side  just  enough  to  let  her  knife  graze  the  skin  on  the  side  of  his  neck.  just  enough  to  let  it  draw  a  hint  of  blood. ❝    the  marking's  for  fun,  ❞  arsenal  breathes,  laughter  hanging  rich  in  his  voice.  ❝  if  you  wanna  see  how  i  want  you,  say  the  word.  not  like  god's  watching  either  of  us.  ❞  

[royalpop-deactivated20260312]

Pride or pure stubbornness, two things in Rumi's life that kept her alive. Knowing when & how to pick her battles, to put years' worth of training & effort to good use. Judgement failed her. Never failed to humble her when in too deep & over her head. Rumi thrived off the thrill of a good fight, the thought of an easy victory long lost - there was no winning. There never was when it was Arsenal.

One day, she'll learn that lesson.

Numbness took over where pain should have been, the distant throb of open wounds. Moving made the pain sing, staying still kept the steady flow, fingers barely applying the right amount of pressure to hold it all back. Sain-geom had long left her side, called home by the Honmoon when it felt useless, there was no point in keeping it when she could barely force herself back up.

A dim flash of yellow met him when he approached, but there was no threat. More like a stray cat caught in a corner, all teeth with little to show for it. Rumi half expected him to finish the job - it's what most demons would have done, to best a hunter and rid them of their misery. Why choose now to show an ounce of mercy to the wounded?

❝ I'm sure you will. ❞ A half joke, even when it was from him the disappointment & lecture irked her. It shouldn't have, she didn't need his advice nor his pity. Ever the people pleaser, Rumi needed to feel some semblance of pride - to know she had done something right at the very least. It never came, only making that sinking feeling worse. If Celine did find out - it'd only bring on the shame of letting a demon one up her, she wasn't entirely ready for that conversation in her head, the pathetic way she looked now was more than enough.

Head pressed against the brick, weighing the options. Was it more honourable to die from blood loss or allow the hands that harmed to aid? He could have left her, to bleed out where she sat, let her body be found by some passerby, but she wasn't entirely ready to die. Not yet.

Swallowing her pride, just this once. It'd be their secret, one she wasn't entirely happy about. What other choice did she really had? Not as though she could have done it herself. ❝ How good are you?❞

[takedcwn]

FLASHING  YELLOW  was  nothing.  he  had  seen  more  intimidating  threat  displays  from  pufferfish;  at  least,  when  eaten,  they  were  poisonous.  at  least  they  had  the  nerve  to  take  down  the  predator  too  !!  to  eat  her,  though,  would  be  to  eat  a  bone:  for  all  but  the  horrid,  a  waste  of  good  teeth  and  effort.  she  was  better  off  dead  and,  in  that  way,  perhaps  this  was  the  greatest  treason  he  would  ever  commit.  the  hunters  were  the  enemy,  after  all.  young  or  not,  they  were  the  fools  that  stood  against  the  inevitable.   yes,  yes,  the  honmoon  would  protect  them.  yes,  yes,  the  honmoon  would  remain.  again  and  again,  hunters  with  voices  strong  would  damn  their  endeavors.  that  was,  until  it  fell  apart.  one  way  or  another,  sooner  or  later,  demons  would  continue  breaching  to  the  world  above.  let  it  be  known  and  howled  from  the  top  of  the  tallest  tower:  hunters  had  to  win  again  and  again  and  again.   his  ilk  only  needed  a  single  victory. arsenal  clicked  his  tongue  and  decided,  it  needn’t  be  now.   ❝  at  mending  the injuries i make ??  ❞  arsenal  asked,  his  voice  carrying  with  it  a  practical  riptide  of  satisfaction.  there  was  a  certain  joy  he  got,  as  one  can  imagine,  from  seeing  someone  actually  hurt.  so  often  he  found  himself  the  butt  of  the  younger  generation’s  jokes.  having  one  like  this  was  -  to  say  the  least  -  satisfying.  he  had  half  a  mind  to  stick  a  hand  into  her  wound  and  twist.  her  ribs  would  have  made  excellent  toothpicks.   instead  he  shrugged,  resting  his  wrists  on  his  knees  in  his  crouched  position.  ❝  i'm practically a professional.  ❞  with  that,  and  all  the  ease  one  earned  from  being  as  old  as  he  was,  he  took  hold  of  the  hem  of  his  shirt  and  tore.  the  reddened  fabric  was  torn  like  strips  of  flesh  from  fruit.   ❝    how  is  your  teacher  ??  ❞  the  question  was  posed  with  a  genuine  curiosity.  ❝    not  that  i  know  the  woman  personally,  obviously.  i’m  just…  curious.  never  quite  got  her  deal.  ❞  a  pause,  another  tear  of  fabric,  eyes  flicking  to  meet  her  own  -  ❝   the  last  teacher  and  student  i  ran  into  was  a  while  ago,  and…  you’re  nothing  like  them.  ❞