BLOODCAPE

The stairwell room had once been a janitorial checkpoint — or maybe a guard post, long since forgotten. Now it was just four cracked walls, a half-dead ceiling lamp buzzing like a tired insect, and a warped window looking out across Sector Nine. A place where dust gathered on purpose. The kind of place the city had long since given up trying to clean.

Rain tapped at the cracked glass — not pounding, just scraping. The kind of rain that smeared rather than soaked. A thick cable snaked through the ceiling, humming faintly with borrowed power, making the whole room feel like it was breathing wrong.

Aya sat on an overturned crate by the window, gloves off, fingers curled as though they’d been holding something and forgot what. Her hair hung damp around her face. She looked like someone who’d stopped shivering a while ago, not because the cold left — but because she’d decided it didn’t matter.

Across from her, Hernan stood at the wall, his back to everything. The kind of posture reserved for people who had nowhere left to aim. His coat still dripped, the blade at his side long since sheathed. His hands were clean. But his breathing — clipped, shallow — still hadn’t come back to human.

Aya spoke, voice barely enough to break static.

"You didn’t blink."

He didn’t turn. "You’ll have to be more specific."

"When you killed the courier. You didn’t flinch. Not even at the end."

Hernan didn’t move, but something in his shoulders twitched — like the words hit deeper than he’d let show.

Aya stood. Walked to the window. Their reflections met, two ghosts suspended in flickering neon. Her voice stayed soft, even as it cut.

"It wasn’t like watching you. It felt like... something wearing your skin. Like if I called your name, whatever was in your body wouldn’t turn around."