It is a nice purple.
Qia
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A Little Weasel
STATUS: hmm sounds like what a sussy baka might say tho... (jk jk). 11 hrs ago
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hmm sounds like what a sussy baka might say tho... (jk jk).
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11 days ago
Why do all good things come to an end?
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15 days ago
I can't believe I binge watched this show. But damn Dark is so good.
1 mo ago
Or maybe melons>>> lemons?
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1 mo ago
God now I have Daddy Cop stuck in my head. My fault xD
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Bio
Hi, Qia here <3. I'm a gamer and RP fan just looking to have a good time.
Most Recent Posts
A
D.
The memory struck like a sledgehammer to the ribs, driving the breath from her lungs. The way D had slumped, his breaths shallow. The look in his eyes when he told them to leave him behind. The escape pod door sealing shut, cutting off any hope that he would somehow crawl his way back to them. The regret, sharp as glass, still lodged itself deep in her chest.
She forced herself to focus on the present. On VV’s hand, shaking against her arm.
A turned her head slightly, locking eyes with VV. The hardened edge in her friend’s voice was one she knew well—it mirrored the same bitterness coiled inside of her. But there was something else beneath it, something A wasn’t sure VV even realized. Fear. Not just of Vin, not just of the situation, but of losing again.
A swallowed hard. “I remember,” she murmured, the words heavy, ironclad. “I won’t forget.” Taking a breath, A lowered her voice just enough that only she could hear. “We take Vin down, but we do it smartly. No mistakes.”
Because the last time they made one, they left someone behind.
And this time, A wasn’t leaving anyone.
Then, the offer was made, tempting in its simplicity: if they stood down and abandoned the mission, they would be spared. The Wild King would extend his mercy.
But at what cost?
“We’re not actually considering this, are we?” She could already anticipate VV’s answer, but she needed to hear it aloud. She needed the confirmation that they weren’t about to make a mistake that would cost them everything.
The memory struck like a sledgehammer to the ribs, driving the breath from her lungs. The way D had slumped, his breaths shallow. The look in his eyes when he told them to leave him behind. The escape pod door sealing shut, cutting off any hope that he would somehow crawl his way back to them. The regret, sharp as glass, still lodged itself deep in her chest.
She forced herself to focus on the present. On VV’s hand, shaking against her arm.
A turned her head slightly, locking eyes with VV. The hardened edge in her friend’s voice was one she knew well—it mirrored the same bitterness coiled inside of her. But there was something else beneath it, something A wasn’t sure VV even realized. Fear. Not just of Vin, not just of the situation, but of losing again.
A swallowed hard. “I remember,” she murmured, the words heavy, ironclad. “I won’t forget.” Taking a breath, A lowered her voice just enough that only she could hear. “We take Vin down, but we do it smartly. No mistakes.”
Because the last time they made one, they left someone behind.
And this time, A wasn’t leaving anyone.
Then, the offer was made, tempting in its simplicity: if they stood down and abandoned the mission, they would be spared. The Wild King would extend his mercy.
But at what cost?
“We’re not actually considering this, are we?” She could already anticipate VV’s answer, but she needed to hear it aloud. She needed the confirmation that they weren’t about to make a mistake that would cost them everything.
Interactions: Loni (@FernStone), Elijah (@Theyra)
Elena let out a chuckle at Elijah’s remark about needing to find a different bakery, shaking her head. “Yeah, I think they’ll be changing their ‘special of the week’ to ‘closed until further notice’ after today.” The bakery’s destruction, the terror in the owner’s eyes—it all felt like yet another piece in Cloverfield’s ever-growing puzzle of chaos. And if Elijah was right about this not being a random attack? Then that puzzle just got a whole lot bigger.
But she set the thought aside as he spoke about his spear, about his past as something other than a fighter. The shift in his voice didn’t go unnoticed—the tinge of something he wasn’t quite willing to lay out for them. She understood that. People didn’t just spill their ghosts to near-strangers, not unless they were looking to drown in them.
“A scholar first, huh?” she mused, tilting her head. “Then you and I probably have more in common than I thought.”
There was no pity in her voice, only the quiet recognition of someone who understood the way fate had a habit of rearranging lives. She knew what it was to be thrust into something she never asked for. Maybe Elijah hadn’t envisioned himself gripping that spear any more than she had planned on kindling in the middle of the Cataclysm. Yet here they stood, both forged by the fire of what they had been given, rather than what they had chosen.
At Loni’s unfiltered enthusiasm toward her magic, Elena felt the ever-present tension in her shoulders ease—just a fraction, but enough. She wasn’t used to that reaction. Her magic was quiet. It wasn’t the kind of power that shattered walls or turned the tide of a battle. It was something else entirely, something overlooked—until, suddenly, it wasn’t. And yet, Loni’s interest wasn’t laced with the usual wariness or vague dismissal. It was real. Genuine. The kind of thing that made her lips curl into something dangerously close to an actual smile.
“Yeah, memories aren’t exactly easy to work with, but they’ve got a funny way of sticking around.”
She nodded at Loni’s offer, something unreadable flickering across her expression for a split second. “I haven’t really met many Adepts outside of my mom,” she admitted. “Mostly just people coming into the shop, looking for something to help them sleep or to stop them from remembering things they don’t want to.”
She glanced toward Elijah briefly before returning her gaze to Loni. “I’ll think about stopping by,” she said, voice easy, but not quite committing. “Sounds like you’ve got an interesting group.”
Then, at Loni’s teasing about her tea, Elena let out a scoff of pure mock indignation, one hand pressing dramatically to her chest as though personally wounded.
“Please,” she deadpanned, “do I look like someone who’d allow some sad, lifeless, bagged excuse for tea anywhere near my work? I have standards, Rodriguez. Loose-leaf only.”
A beat passed, and then her expression softened as she nodded. “But yeah, I’d be happy to make you some. Non-magical, of course. We’ll call it a ‘thanks for not dying’ tea.”
Finally, she turned back to Elijah as he made his move to leave.
“It was good meeting you too,” she said. “And hey, if you ever feel like putting that scholar side to use, let me know. Something tells me there’s more to this whole thing than we’re seeing.”
She didn’t try to stop him—his intent to leave was clear enough. But she left the door ajar, just in case.
But she set the thought aside as he spoke about his spear, about his past as something other than a fighter. The shift in his voice didn’t go unnoticed—the tinge of something he wasn’t quite willing to lay out for them. She understood that. People didn’t just spill their ghosts to near-strangers, not unless they were looking to drown in them.
“A scholar first, huh?” she mused, tilting her head. “Then you and I probably have more in common than I thought.”
There was no pity in her voice, only the quiet recognition of someone who understood the way fate had a habit of rearranging lives. She knew what it was to be thrust into something she never asked for. Maybe Elijah hadn’t envisioned himself gripping that spear any more than she had planned on kindling in the middle of the Cataclysm. Yet here they stood, both forged by the fire of what they had been given, rather than what they had chosen.
At Loni’s unfiltered enthusiasm toward her magic, Elena felt the ever-present tension in her shoulders ease—just a fraction, but enough. She wasn’t used to that reaction. Her magic was quiet. It wasn’t the kind of power that shattered walls or turned the tide of a battle. It was something else entirely, something overlooked—until, suddenly, it wasn’t. And yet, Loni’s interest wasn’t laced with the usual wariness or vague dismissal. It was real. Genuine. The kind of thing that made her lips curl into something dangerously close to an actual smile.
“Yeah, memories aren’t exactly easy to work with, but they’ve got a funny way of sticking around.”
She nodded at Loni’s offer, something unreadable flickering across her expression for a split second. “I haven’t really met many Adepts outside of my mom,” she admitted. “Mostly just people coming into the shop, looking for something to help them sleep or to stop them from remembering things they don’t want to.”
She glanced toward Elijah briefly before returning her gaze to Loni. “I’ll think about stopping by,” she said, voice easy, but not quite committing. “Sounds like you’ve got an interesting group.”
Then, at Loni’s teasing about her tea, Elena let out a scoff of pure mock indignation, one hand pressing dramatically to her chest as though personally wounded.
“Please,” she deadpanned, “do I look like someone who’d allow some sad, lifeless, bagged excuse for tea anywhere near my work? I have standards, Rodriguez. Loose-leaf only.”
A beat passed, and then her expression softened as she nodded. “But yeah, I’d be happy to make you some. Non-magical, of course. We’ll call it a ‘thanks for not dying’ tea.”
Finally, she turned back to Elijah as he made his move to leave.
“It was good meeting you too,” she said. “And hey, if you ever feel like putting that scholar side to use, let me know. Something tells me there’s more to this whole thing than we’re seeing.”
She didn’t try to stop him—his intent to leave was clear enough. But she left the door ajar, just in case.
Noted~
@Herald, would you like to do that off-screen?
And are there any more collabs being written?
I have a short one with Savant going atm but shouldn't be long :o
God this anime, and that pairing, kinda had me by the throat as a kid. Wtf was wrong with me?
Dang, Qia really did get sick of dice rolls eh? Gonna just kill a mofo if they look at him wrong.
Because I know I'd fail every single one lmao. Besides, Mathieu's harmless/ too much of a sweetheart to use it against someone. So...nothing to worry about.
Edit: Why is this gif so huge lmaooo
Also I'll add in the dice rolls if it's a genuine concern for Est. Willing to.
Accurate depiction of me trying to figure out Vincent's ploy that entire collab:
In collaboration with @Estylwen
Mentions: N/A Interactions: Vincent(@Estylwen)
Arakasa Tower, White Pine
It was a few hours later when a guard entered Mathieu's cell, fresh clothes on his arm. The three outfits were laid out on the bed, ”Choose what you like, the Boss'll see you in a half hour.”
Then the guard left, shutting the door behind him, leaving Mathieu with a blue and black fade dress shirt with black slacks, a deep blue dress shirt and grey slacks, and an emerald dress shirt with white slacks. After Mathieu had changed, a guard would come to remove the old clothes and rejected choices.
Mathieu barely lifted his gaze from the trio of outfits as the guard set them down, his fingers idly brushing over the fabric. An odd little courtesy for a prisoner, but one he wasn’t about to complain about. The absurdity of being given a wardrobe choice when just hours ago they’d taken his pinky wasn’t lost on him.
He chose the deep blue dress shirt and grey slacks—not because of any particular preference, but because it was the least ostentatious of the three. White slacks felt like an insult to his dignity, and the gradient pattern on the first shirt was just a little too self-indulgent for a man locked in a cage.
By the time the knock came a half hour later, he was seated on the edge of the bed, fingers laced together, posture relaxed but not slouched. A prisoner, yes. But he wouldn’t look like one.
Two individuals walked in - Vincent, dressed in dapper black with gold accents, and a smaller man behind him, standing out with his white hair and gray dress shirt.
As the door locked behind the two, Vincent gave a pleasant smile towards Mathieu. ”Hello, Mathieu. I'd like to introduce you to someone special today. His name is Kaiyo Mayazaki.”
Kaiyo gave Mathieu a nod. ”Hello.”
As the two figures entered, Mathieu’s gaze lifted, registering Vincent first. The man practically glided in, his infuriatingly pleasant smile fixed in place as if he were greeting an old friend rather than a hostage.
And then his attention shifted to the smaller man behind him.
Kaiyo Mayazaki.
Mathieu’s countenance evolved only minutely, a slight furrow stalking his brow. No introduction beyond a name? That was interesting.
He offered Kaiyo a faint nod in acknowledgment but allowed no sentiment to stain the gesture. Instead, his gaze shifted to Vincent as the man settled himself onto the bed with a languid ease that bordered on insolence.
Vincent leaned forward, eyeing Mathieu. “I have a few things I'd like to get done today. But let's get the pleasantries out of the way first.
“Do you have everything you need, Mathieu? Are my men treating you well?”
Mathieu took his time responding.
“Your men are…thorough,” he finally said, his voice neither bitter nor falsely polite. “But you didn’t come here just to check on my well-being, did you?”
Vincent nodded. ”It's true, there was something I was hoping you could help me with. A few questions. But first, there is some business to take care of.”
Vincent glanced over at Kaiyo, who took his cue, sliding over the chair and sitting opposite of Matthieu. He held a palm out. ”I'd like to see your hand, please. The injured one.”
Mathieu’s gaze drifted downward to Kaiyo’s outstretched hand, then back up, eyes searching. There was no hesitation when he extended his own, palm up, fingers relaxed despite the muted throb where his pinky had been taken. The bandages, fresh but slightly frayed at the edges, told their own story. One he wasn’t particularly interested in recounting.
He did not wince. Did not recoil. Pain had long since lost its ability to startle him. He simply... let it happen, allowing the moment to play out as it must, as though his body belonged to someone else entirely. It was an odd sort of surrender, not born of weakness, but of understanding. There was no fight to be had here, no battle worth waging.
“You don’t need to be gentle,” he said after a beat, voice calm, not inviting pity. “I imagine that’s not really the point of this, anyway.”
His tone wasn’t bitter, nor was it sarcastic—it was simply matter-of-fact, a quiet acknowledgment of the power imbalance in the room. They hadn’t taken his finger to teach him a lesson in kindness, and whatever this was, it wasn’t concern.
His gaze slid to Vincent, assessing.
“Business, you said.” A pause, measured but light. “Should I be flattered? Or is this where I find out how much worse things can get?”
Vincent's head tilted, his smile still pleasant. ”It only gets worse if you want it to.”
Kaiyo wasn't concerned, nor did he listen to Mathieu. He took the man's hand gently, undoing the bandages and slowly stripping them off, layer by layer, careful not to aggravate the wound. Eventually, Mathieu’s hand laid bare, a red wound where his pinky ought to be. Kaiyo tilted it gently, shining more of the overhead light on it, before settling Mathieu's hand in his lap.
”That looked like it hurt. This won't, though. All I need is for you to stay still.” Kaiyo said, fixing Mathieu with his red eyes, before gazing back down at his hand.
One hand hovered over the site where the pinky ought to be. Then there was a brilliant flash of orange light. Mathieu would get the sensation of something growing, or morphing back into shape, nerves coming back into focus, where his pinky would be. It only took about thirty seconds. Then, the light faded, and Kaiyo took his hand away, revealing Mathieu's hand completely whole, pinky returned.
It was at this moment Kaiyo had to lean over, shaking with coughs. If Mathieu was quick enough to catch it, he'd notice a slight spittle of blood that came away in Kaiyo’s hand. Quickly, Kaiyo procured an inhaler and put it to his lips, inhaling the medicine as he depressed once.
Vincent's voice was level. ”Go take some rest, Kaiyo.”
Kaiyo would shakily nod, moving to the door. Soon, he was out, and the door quietly shut and locked behind him.
Mathieu’s fingers curled, then unfurled, the sensation of his newly restored pinky ghostly and unfamiliar, as though it weren’t entirely his own. The warmth of Kaiyo’s power still lingered, a phantom heat beneath his skin. He should’ve felt relieved—grateful, even—but instead, he only felt... unease.
The speed of it. The cost. Nothing in this room, in this place, in the orbit of Vincent’s influence, came without a price.
His eyes flickered briefly toward the door where Kaiyo had left, his mind replaying the red spittle, the trembling, the way he’d nearly collapsed under the weight of his own ability. Power always had a price. Vincent's men weren’t in the business of charity. This was an investment.
And Mathieu had just become a more valuable asset.
That left Vincent and Mathieu alone in his room. Vincent gazed at the new pinky. ”Congratulations.”
He leaned forward a bit, hands clasped in front of him as he gazed at Mathieu. ”Removing it was necessary - your sister needed to be taught a lesson.”
His eyes were watchful, taking in Mathieu's reaction. ”I will endeavor to avoid anything more like that happening, however. You're a precious specimen, I would hate to damage you.”
A pause, before his head tilted a little. ”Tell me about your sister. What makes her tick, what she hates.”
It was almost comical, in the way cruel ironies tended to be.
Of course, Vincent wanted Bella. That had always been the pattern, the unbreakable cycle, the orbit he could never quite escape. No matter how far he tried to distance himself from the Delacroix name, to carve out something separate, something solely his, the world never saw him as anything more than an extension of her. His severed pinky had been a message—to her, not to him. And now? Now, they wanted him to be the key that unlocked her, the leverage Vincent had always been searching for.
A breath. A long, slow inhale. Then, at last, a chuckle—soft, understated. Not scornful, not rebellious. Just... amused.
“That’s the problem with people like you,” he mused, his tone mild, almost conversational, as if discussing something as trivial as a change in the weather. “You think a person is a formula. A sum of their fractures and fault lines. That if you carve away enough—reduce them to equations and variables—you’ll be able to predict them. Solve them.”
A pause. Not for effect, but for the quiet inevitability of what came next.
“But my sister is not predictable,” he continued. “You could devote a lifetime to deciphering what makes her tick—what she loathes, what she dreads, what keeps her awake at night—and still, you’d come up short. Because she is not a puzzle meant to be solved. Besides, the moment you think you’ve figured her out, she changes.”
His fingers drummed idly against his knee.
“But if you really want an answer?” A ghost of a smile, more tired than taunting. “She hates when people waste her time.”
And then, with the kind of dry, almost detached humour that made it impossible to tell if he was jesting, he added:
“Why? You looking to impress her?”
Vincent almost seemed amused at that, ”Perhaps…”
Then he looked a little more carefully at Mathieu. ”You hate being in her shadow, don't you?”
His smirk widened, just a little. ”Why is that?”
“Hate is a bit strong, don’t you think?” Mathieu murmured. “I’d say it’s more… complicated.”
He knew what the man was doing—framing this as resentment, as if Mathieu had spent his life clawing at Bella’s light, envious of the shadow she cast. A predictable angle. A crude one. But the truth had never been as simple as people wanted it to be. The truth was layered and far less palatable.
“People assume it was always hers,” he continued, his tone slipping into something thoughtful as if recounting a memory long since buried beneath dust and disuse. “The name. The responsibilities.” He exhaled—not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh, but something suspended between the two, an almost soundless acknowledgment of a past no one ever bothered to ask about.
“But it wasn’t. Not at first.”
There it was. A quiet truth laid bare, not as a weapon, but as a simple fact. The role of heir had once belonged to him and not Bella, despite her being the firstborn. He had been the one their father had set his sights on, the one meant to carry the Delacroix legacy forward.
And then—things changed.
“You’re asking the wrong question, Vincent.” He finally truly met the man’s gaze. “It’s not about whether I hate being in her shadow. It’s about why you need me to.”
He let that sit, just long enough to make an impression. Then, softer, almost like an afterthought:
“Are you hoping we’re alike? Or just looking for ways we aren’t?”
Vincent merely gazed back in response, studying Mathieu like fine art. ”You really think me so uncouth, Mr. Delacroix?”
His head tilted a bit, ”Tell me a bit about her security. How she rules her districts.”
Mathieu let the silence stretch, not out of defiance, but consideration. He had always been thoughtful with his words and careful in his choices. There was power in restraint, in leaving space for the other person to wonder what isn’t being said.
At last, he exhaled, a sound more thoughtful than tired. “I think,” he murmured, “you already know more than you’re letting on.” His tone was neutral, lacking hostility, but not servile either. “Her security isn’t the kind you can measure like that. It’s not about how many men she has or how high the walls are. It’s about the fact that she doesn’t need either of those things.” He looked down at his hands, studying the creases on his palms as though tracing something long since faded.
“People don’t cross her. Not because they’re afraid of what she’ll do, but because they know she doesn’t break easily.”
Tilting his head, he scrutinized Vincent as if unearthing the layers of the man's soul. “You don’t get that kind of power through force alone. Fear has its limits. Eventually, people stop running from the wolf and start hunting it instead.”
“She rules because people believe in her.” A pause. “Even the ones who hate her.”
There was no need to elaborate further. Vincent wasn’t a fool. He could fill in the gaps himself.
But then, with a quiet, almost absent chuckle, Mathieu added, “If you were expecting blueprints and weak spots, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask someone else.”
Vincent nodded along, like he was expecting such an answer. There was a thoughtful pause, as if this wasn't an interrogation, and more like a friendly talk.
His eyes slid over to Mathieu. ”Your gyft. Tell me about it.”
He had expected this question eventually. It was only a matter of time before Vincent turned his gaze to the one thing that made him valuable in a place like this.
His gyft.
Power, after all, was never just power—it was intention, consequence, cost. And Vincent wasn’t the type to be waylaid by evasions or misdirection. So Mathieu didn’t bother with either. Instead, he exhaled, tilting his head just slightly, as if turning the thought over in his hands. “You want to know how it works? Or why I don’t use it?” He let the question sit for a moment before continuing, his expression lacking revulsion and pride.
“It’s honestly not much of a weapon. More like an… execution.”
Vincent seemed to have found the hook he was looking for, his eyes watching the micro-movements of Mathieu’s face, his voice gentle. ”...Why don't you use it, Mathieu?”
Why don’t you use it?
The question had clung to him for years, trailing in sidelong glances and behind wary eyes.
“Because I don’t need to. I don’t want to.”
The words slipped from the young man, quietly and without effort. Vincent only stared steadily, patiently.
”What if I told you there was a way to control it. So it could be a tool, and not an execution. What would you say to that?”
Vincent was many things, but he wasn’t careless with his words. He didn’t pose hypotheticals or extend possibilities without knowing exactly how they could be made real. That meant this wasn’t just a passing remark.
It was an offer.
And therein lay the problem for Mathieu.
“ What will it cost?”
Because that was the real question, wasn’t it?
Vincent could dress it up however he liked, could frame it as an opportunity, a gift, a way to wield what had always been a curse. But at the end of the day, nothing in this world—especially in Vincent’s world—came without a trade.
And Mathieu wasn’t about to sign a contract without seeing the fine print.
Vincent nodded, expecting this. ”You're a wise man, Mathieu. I would expect nothing less.”
He gestured, palms open, suggesting he had nothing to hide as they sat there together.
”To ensure the safety of myself and my staff, I would ask that you give me access to your mind. I would only insert the command that wouldn't allow you to attack us. I would also look at your previous memories, minimize anything that might inhibit you. Then, I would implant a command that would have you come back to me in a few days for another session.”
His eyes watched Mathieu patiently. ”I'm not the type to hide things. I want you to trust me, Mathieu. This would be for your betterment.”
Mathieu studied his hand, turning it palm up, then down again, watching the movement with an almost detached curiosity. The restored pinky curled and unfurled in perfect synchronicity with the others, as though it had never been severed in the first place. But he knew better. His body might accept the lie, but his mind? That was another matter entirely.
“Trust you?”
The words left him lightly, almost idle, as though the concept itself were a foreign thing.
“Trust goes both ways, doesn’t it? And so far, I don’t see much of it coming from you.”
A glance toward the locked door, then back to Vincent. “You took my pinky. You tortured me. You tried to use my sister like some kind of…some kind of p-pawn.” The list was recited without heat, without embellishment, as if it were nothing more than a ledger of debts, a collection of things done. “And now you give me back my finger and expect me to believe this is goodwill?” A quiet exhale.
“That’s not trust, Vincent. That’s control.”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “But let’s say I entertain this offer. Let’s say I agree to your little ‘sessions.’ Then I want two things.”
His first demand came without hesitation. “You don’t touch my memories. No erasing, no rewriting, no edits. You want to help me control my gyft? Fine. But my mind stays mine.”
He let that settle before continuing, quieter this time.
“And second? If you’re as honest as you say… then Bella stays out of it.”
A beat.
“Please.”
He did his best to appear more formidable than he felt, and probably more than he looked as well. “I don’t want you to use me to get to her anymore. If you want to deal with my sister….you do it without holding me over her head.”
Vincent stared for a moment, red eyes deep in calculations.
He nodded amicably. ”I may not use you to get to your sister, but you'll still be mine to do with as I please. Everything else, I can agree with.”
And he held his hand out to shake, to solidify the deal.
It should have felt like chains tightening around his throat, a collar cinched just short of strangulation. But instead, it was… almost liberating. Because in speaking the words aloud, Vincent had revealed something vital—something Mathieu had suspected but now knew with certainty.
He was not a prisoner.
He was an investment.
And investments were not disposable. They were safeguarded, maintained, and preserved. Their worth was in their longevity, in their potential returns. That was the unspoken contract between them now—one that mattered more than threats and violence. Because the moment Vincent decided Mathieu was worth more broken than whole, that was when things would truly spiral. But until then? There was room. Space to maneuver. To wait.
And patience had always been his greatest weapon.
Mathieu exhaled before finally extending his hand, his grip firm but not aggressive.
“I suppose I should thank you for your generosity.”
A ghost of a smile.
Then, just before Vincent could release his grip, Mathieu tightened his hold ever so slightly—just enough to be felt, not enough to be considered defiance.
“Let’s hope neither of us regrets it.”
Vincent merely smiled. ”I'm a man of my word, Mr. Delacroix.”
Before tendrils of pink mist swirled around Mathieu, almost cradling him like a mother would a child. The softest pressure on his mind, like a caressing touch.
”Let me in.”
(Proof 1 Proof 2 Vincent: 5, Mathieu: 2 )
Mathieu barely had time to brace himself before it hit.
The pink mist curled tighter, wrapping around his consciousness and slipping into places Mathieu had spent years fortifying. It wasn’t violent, not a forced invasion—that would have been easier to resist. Instead, it was gentle, insidious in its patience, coaxing his mind into allowing the intrusion before he could truly stop it.
It was… effective.
Because it didn’t feel foreign.
That was the most dangerous part.
This is fine. The thought surfaced, unbidden. It’s not as bad as you thought it would be.
A sliver of wrongness prickled at the edges of his consciousness—a warning that should have shrieked but instead only murmured. The instinct to recoil, to reject, flickered weakly, like a candle guttering against the wind. He should be resisting, should be clawing against the encroachment, should be furious at the violation. Maybe even afraid.
But he wasn’t.
Mathieu's mind lay open, bare and naked. Vincent could do anything he wanted here.
But, he gave his word. So, the first thing he did was what he said he would. A command was given: Pacifist. This command would essentially declaw Mathieu if he ever tried to use his abilities on Vincent, his staff, or the Thorned Roses. If he were to even think it, the thoughts would sputter into nothing, redirect him to anything else. Confuse him and leave him blank, scraping to remember what he was doing.
Then, another command was given: Return. In a few days, Mathieu would feel the urge to see Vincent again. It would develop like a curiosity into a full-on need, one that would become harder to refuse the longer he delayed.
And, lastly, Vincent scored through Mathieu's mind, skimming any memories that stood out emotionally.
Blood on the marble floor, soaking into the cracks.
His uncle’s voice, cold and final. “This is the price of betrayal.”
His father’s wide, desperate eyes. “I was doing this for us, for the family—”
A gunshot.
Bella standing still, watching. Not stopping it.
Her eyes meeting Mathieu’s across the room.
Not grief. Not rage. Just acceptance.
A long table. A meeting. Bella across from him, her expression a cipher.
Her gaze peeling him apart layer by layer. The realization clicking into place.
She’s wondering if I’m useful enough to keep. She must be.
The sickening twist in his gut.
A blade glinting in the light. Its edge kissing flesh.
The wet snap of bone. The searing pain.
A voice—Vincent’s? “Consider this a lesson.”
The ground tilting, nausea rising.
The knowledge: This is only the beginning.
A scent—jasmine and something metallic.
Soft lips pressing against his forehead. A farewell.
The rustle of fabric as she turns away.
A door closing.
And then—
Nothing. Just absence.
His bed no longer a place of rest.
The indentation of her body already smoothing away
as if she had never been there at all.
Vincent was the observer of these memories. He didn't touch them. Instead, he withdrew. Pink wisps fell away from Mathieu's mind, replacing them with neurons that practically sang with the amount of serotonin his mind was drenched in. Mathieu would feel light as a feather as if his mind had been washed in rose water and misk.
It was only then that Vincent let go of Mathieu's hand. ”There, that wasn't so bad, now was it?”
Vincent stood, glancing at Mathieu before gesturing for him to follow as he opened the cell door. His smile remained pleasant. ”Let's get started, then.”
Mathieu's body felt like it was floating—like his mind had been plucked from the confines of his skull and bathed in something warm. It did not feel like surrender. No, surrender suggested struggle and this? This was effortless. This was pleasant.
His fingers flexed, testing the space around him. Everything was clearer and crisper but in a way that felt... manufactured. As if he were wearing his own skin but hadn't quite settled back into it yet.
Still, he smiled.
“No,” he murmured, voice light. “No, it wasn’t so bad at all.”
He stood as Vincent did, stretching languidly, like a man waking from a particularly indulgent sleep. Taking a step forward, Mathieu fell into step beside Vincent with an easy grace that hadn’t been there before.
It should have concerned him.
It didn’t.
Vincent led Mathieu out into a gray hallway, guards waiting a beat before following in step behind Mathieu. Unhurried, patient. They made it to the end of the hallway where an elevator was called, stepped in, and Vincent tapped a card on the scanner within.
”...Now arriving at floor 48.” Said a speaker within the elevator. If Mathieu was curious enough to look, floor 48 didn't show up as a button to press like all the other floors. There were 47 and 49, but 48? Absent.
And the doors opened.
The warm fluorescent lights of the 48th floor greeted them, polished floors reflecting back with perfect poise as they stepped down the hallway.
About halfway down the hallway, Vincent gave a two-resounding clap. The frosted glass on either side suddenly became transparent, revealing their contents within. Luxurious rooms filled with all manner of decor and entertainment. But, what was most beautiful of these rooms were their singular occupants. Some rested in pools, revealing scales and mermaid tails. Some had hair of living fire. Others seemed to be made of gold. But when they saw who had turned off the frosting, the occupants rushed to the front of the glass.
”The boss is back!”
”Ooh, who's that with him?”
Vincent gave the occupants a warm smile, still leading Mathieu down the hall. He didn't stop until they reached the doors at the end, which he opened into a polished, gray laboratory. Men and women in white coats flited here and there, heads turning as Vincent, Mathieu and the guards came in. Immediately, they began setting up a device in the center of the room, stringing what looked to be a large bag of blood, doused in electrodes, light, and with all manner of devices watching it.
Vincent stopped in front of the hanging blood bag and turned back to Mathieu. He had an encouraging smile. ”Let's take a baseline of your gyft, Mr. Delacroix. Feel free to demonstrate on this bag. Don't be shy.”
Mathieu's gaze was riveted to the blood bag, a morbid magnetism drawing him in like a moth to a candle's flame.
His gyft had never been delicate, never meant for finesse. It did not answer to the steady hand of control. Instead, it was devastation incarnate, a force that did not bend or barter but consumed. Finality.
And worse?
It had always belonged to his emotions.
The only times he had ever used it—really used it—were when he had been pushed past the point of control. Fear, fury, grief—each a spark that had flared too fast, too violently, until the only thing left was ruin. He had never known the true mastery of his ability like Bella.
He did not sculpt. He did not mend.
He’d only ever ended.
But now?
There was no fear. There was no panic.
Only that strange, pleasant calm.
Mathieu found himself reaching out. Not with fingers, but with the part of himself that had always lingered at the edge of restraint, prowling like a beast with breath hot against its own chain. The blood inside the bag shifted, sluggish at first, then eager, as though it had always been waiting for him to call. The bag began to bulge grotesquely, stretching outward in an unnatural distortion, straining under invisible pressure.
For one breathless moment, it almost gave. The plastic strained, veins of dark liquid thickening, pressing outward, seeking release.
Heat pulsed behind his skull, a familiar warning that never arrived early enough. His breath caught-
Stop.
The tension snapped like a pulled wire. The bag sagged back into shape, but not quite the same. The plastic was stretched, warped, the blood within still trembling like it wanted to burst.
Mathieu’s breathing was even, his expression composed. But something inside him felt frayed.
Because it had been so easy.
And it had taken too much effort to stop.
And because, deep down, something was missing.
It should have rattled him. Should have made his stomach churn.
But it didn’t.
Instead, there was only the lingering warmth of Vincent’s influence—a quiet hum in his veins, a serene detachment that made it all feel… fine.
Meanwhile, medical equipment beeped, graphs began printing, data being recorded. Every single facet, like where in the blood Mathieu's influence began, was noted down for further analysis.
Vincent couldn't be happier. ”Well done. I'll have my staff analyze the data. It will take time to synthesize a custom protein to address your gyft, perhaps a day or two. Meanwhile,” Vincent gestured to the door. ”I'll show you to your room.”
Back out in the hallway, the glass walls were once again frosted over. Vincent moved to one door in the hallway and opened it up, allowing Mathieu to be the first to step in.
The lounge was warm, rustic, bringing up feelings of an approachable home in Highfair or Ivory Tower. The fireplace was gas-powered, giving off heat to warm the bones. There was a bar and a kitchenette behind the sofas, fully stocked. And beyond that, two doors. One led to a cozy bedroom with a sofabed and a bookshelf filled with material. The other led to a bathroom.
On the table in the lounge, there was a covered meal, steamy hot. Vincent nodded to it. ”I've had a meal prepared for you. Your door will be locked, but if you need anything the guards can be called by a simple button near the door. Take some rest; is there anything you wish to ask of me before I go?”
Mathieu’s fingers hesitated over the meal’s cover, hovering in a moment of indecision before he finally peeled it back.
The scent hit him first. Warm, rich, familiar.
Cassoulet.
A slow-cooked stew, thick with white beans, duck confit, and sausage. A meal designed to cling to the ribs, to stave off the kind of cold that settled not just in the body but in the soul. It was not the sort of thing one simply threw together—it had been greatly considered. It belonged to long nights and easy conversation, to a home that no longer fit him, a past he had spent years dissecting until all that remained was a collection of pieces that refused to resemble the whole.
His gaze shifted to Vincent, searching. Did he know?
No. Vincent was careful, but he wasn’t omniscient. Someone else had chosen this. Someone who had studied him not just as a subject but as a person—either through painstaking observation or an unsettling level of intuition. That was the part that twisted something deep in his gut, the part that felt like a hook had been slipped between his ribs and pulled, gently, inexorably.
It was too easy. Too thoughtful.
Worst of all, some part of him—the part still drugged on the warmth of Vincent’s influence—wanted to sit down and eat.
His gaze lingered on Vincent’s face, searching for something he couldn’t quite name.
“How long?”
A pause. Then, quieter.
“How long do you plan to keep me here?”
Vincent merely smiled. ”When you have gained more control over your gyft, it will be you who decides when you want to leave.”
After that, the door was softly shut, and Mathieu was left to take in his surroundings and enjoy his meal.
Then the guard left, shutting the door behind him, leaving Mathieu with a blue and black fade dress shirt with black slacks, a deep blue dress shirt and grey slacks, and an emerald dress shirt with white slacks. After Mathieu had changed, a guard would come to remove the old clothes and rejected choices.
Mathieu barely lifted his gaze from the trio of outfits as the guard set them down, his fingers idly brushing over the fabric. An odd little courtesy for a prisoner, but one he wasn’t about to complain about. The absurdity of being given a wardrobe choice when just hours ago they’d taken his pinky wasn’t lost on him.
He chose the deep blue dress shirt and grey slacks—not because of any particular preference, but because it was the least ostentatious of the three. White slacks felt like an insult to his dignity, and the gradient pattern on the first shirt was just a little too self-indulgent for a man locked in a cage.
By the time the knock came a half hour later, he was seated on the edge of the bed, fingers laced together, posture relaxed but not slouched. A prisoner, yes. But he wouldn’t look like one.
Two individuals walked in - Vincent, dressed in dapper black with gold accents, and a smaller man behind him, standing out with his white hair and gray dress shirt.
As the door locked behind the two, Vincent gave a pleasant smile towards Mathieu. ”Hello, Mathieu. I'd like to introduce you to someone special today. His name is Kaiyo Mayazaki.”
Kaiyo gave Mathieu a nod. ”Hello.”
As the two figures entered, Mathieu’s gaze lifted, registering Vincent first. The man practically glided in, his infuriatingly pleasant smile fixed in place as if he were greeting an old friend rather than a hostage.
And then his attention shifted to the smaller man behind him.
Kaiyo Mayazaki.
Mathieu’s countenance evolved only minutely, a slight furrow stalking his brow. No introduction beyond a name? That was interesting.
He offered Kaiyo a faint nod in acknowledgment but allowed no sentiment to stain the gesture. Instead, his gaze shifted to Vincent as the man settled himself onto the bed with a languid ease that bordered on insolence.
Vincent leaned forward, eyeing Mathieu. “I have a few things I'd like to get done today. But let's get the pleasantries out of the way first.
“Do you have everything you need, Mathieu? Are my men treating you well?”
Mathieu took his time responding.
“Your men are…thorough,” he finally said, his voice neither bitter nor falsely polite. “But you didn’t come here just to check on my well-being, did you?”
Vincent nodded. ”It's true, there was something I was hoping you could help me with. A few questions. But first, there is some business to take care of.”
Vincent glanced over at Kaiyo, who took his cue, sliding over the chair and sitting opposite of Matthieu. He held a palm out. ”I'd like to see your hand, please. The injured one.”
Mathieu’s gaze drifted downward to Kaiyo’s outstretched hand, then back up, eyes searching. There was no hesitation when he extended his own, palm up, fingers relaxed despite the muted throb where his pinky had been taken. The bandages, fresh but slightly frayed at the edges, told their own story. One he wasn’t particularly interested in recounting.
He did not wince. Did not recoil. Pain had long since lost its ability to startle him. He simply... let it happen, allowing the moment to play out as it must, as though his body belonged to someone else entirely. It was an odd sort of surrender, not born of weakness, but of understanding. There was no fight to be had here, no battle worth waging.
“You don’t need to be gentle,” he said after a beat, voice calm, not inviting pity. “I imagine that’s not really the point of this, anyway.”
His tone wasn’t bitter, nor was it sarcastic—it was simply matter-of-fact, a quiet acknowledgment of the power imbalance in the room. They hadn’t taken his finger to teach him a lesson in kindness, and whatever this was, it wasn’t concern.
His gaze slid to Vincent, assessing.
“Business, you said.” A pause, measured but light. “Should I be flattered? Or is this where I find out how much worse things can get?”
Vincent's head tilted, his smile still pleasant. ”It only gets worse if you want it to.”
Kaiyo wasn't concerned, nor did he listen to Mathieu. He took the man's hand gently, undoing the bandages and slowly stripping them off, layer by layer, careful not to aggravate the wound. Eventually, Mathieu’s hand laid bare, a red wound where his pinky ought to be. Kaiyo tilted it gently, shining more of the overhead light on it, before settling Mathieu's hand in his lap.
”That looked like it hurt. This won't, though. All I need is for you to stay still.” Kaiyo said, fixing Mathieu with his red eyes, before gazing back down at his hand.
One hand hovered over the site where the pinky ought to be. Then there was a brilliant flash of orange light. Mathieu would get the sensation of something growing, or morphing back into shape, nerves coming back into focus, where his pinky would be. It only took about thirty seconds. Then, the light faded, and Kaiyo took his hand away, revealing Mathieu's hand completely whole, pinky returned.
It was at this moment Kaiyo had to lean over, shaking with coughs. If Mathieu was quick enough to catch it, he'd notice a slight spittle of blood that came away in Kaiyo’s hand. Quickly, Kaiyo procured an inhaler and put it to his lips, inhaling the medicine as he depressed once.
Vincent's voice was level. ”Go take some rest, Kaiyo.”
Kaiyo would shakily nod, moving to the door. Soon, he was out, and the door quietly shut and locked behind him.
Mathieu’s fingers curled, then unfurled, the sensation of his newly restored pinky ghostly and unfamiliar, as though it weren’t entirely his own. The warmth of Kaiyo’s power still lingered, a phantom heat beneath his skin. He should’ve felt relieved—grateful, even—but instead, he only felt... unease.
The speed of it. The cost. Nothing in this room, in this place, in the orbit of Vincent’s influence, came without a price.
His eyes flickered briefly toward the door where Kaiyo had left, his mind replaying the red spittle, the trembling, the way he’d nearly collapsed under the weight of his own ability. Power always had a price. Vincent's men weren’t in the business of charity. This was an investment.
And Mathieu had just become a more valuable asset.
That left Vincent and Mathieu alone in his room. Vincent gazed at the new pinky. ”Congratulations.”
He leaned forward a bit, hands clasped in front of him as he gazed at Mathieu. ”Removing it was necessary - your sister needed to be taught a lesson.”
His eyes were watchful, taking in Mathieu's reaction. ”I will endeavor to avoid anything more like that happening, however. You're a precious specimen, I would hate to damage you.”
A pause, before his head tilted a little. ”Tell me about your sister. What makes her tick, what she hates.”
It was almost comical, in the way cruel ironies tended to be.
Of course, Vincent wanted Bella. That had always been the pattern, the unbreakable cycle, the orbit he could never quite escape. No matter how far he tried to distance himself from the Delacroix name, to carve out something separate, something solely his, the world never saw him as anything more than an extension of her. His severed pinky had been a message—to her, not to him. And now? Now, they wanted him to be the key that unlocked her, the leverage Vincent had always been searching for.
A breath. A long, slow inhale. Then, at last, a chuckle—soft, understated. Not scornful, not rebellious. Just... amused.
“That’s the problem with people like you,” he mused, his tone mild, almost conversational, as if discussing something as trivial as a change in the weather. “You think a person is a formula. A sum of their fractures and fault lines. That if you carve away enough—reduce them to equations and variables—you’ll be able to predict them. Solve them.”
A pause. Not for effect, but for the quiet inevitability of what came next.
“But my sister is not predictable,” he continued. “You could devote a lifetime to deciphering what makes her tick—what she loathes, what she dreads, what keeps her awake at night—and still, you’d come up short. Because she is not a puzzle meant to be solved. Besides, the moment you think you’ve figured her out, she changes.”
His fingers drummed idly against his knee.
“But if you really want an answer?” A ghost of a smile, more tired than taunting. “She hates when people waste her time.”
And then, with the kind of dry, almost detached humour that made it impossible to tell if he was jesting, he added:
“Why? You looking to impress her?”
Vincent almost seemed amused at that, ”Perhaps…”
Then he looked a little more carefully at Mathieu. ”You hate being in her shadow, don't you?”
His smirk widened, just a little. ”Why is that?”
“Hate is a bit strong, don’t you think?” Mathieu murmured. “I’d say it’s more… complicated.”
He knew what the man was doing—framing this as resentment, as if Mathieu had spent his life clawing at Bella’s light, envious of the shadow she cast. A predictable angle. A crude one. But the truth had never been as simple as people wanted it to be. The truth was layered and far less palatable.
“People assume it was always hers,” he continued, his tone slipping into something thoughtful as if recounting a memory long since buried beneath dust and disuse. “The name. The responsibilities.” He exhaled—not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh, but something suspended between the two, an almost soundless acknowledgment of a past no one ever bothered to ask about.
“But it wasn’t. Not at first.”
There it was. A quiet truth laid bare, not as a weapon, but as a simple fact. The role of heir had once belonged to him and not Bella, despite her being the firstborn. He had been the one their father had set his sights on, the one meant to carry the Delacroix legacy forward.
And then—things changed.
“You’re asking the wrong question, Vincent.” He finally truly met the man’s gaze. “It’s not about whether I hate being in her shadow. It’s about why you need me to.”
He let that sit, just long enough to make an impression. Then, softer, almost like an afterthought:
“Are you hoping we’re alike? Or just looking for ways we aren’t?”
Vincent merely gazed back in response, studying Mathieu like fine art. ”You really think me so uncouth, Mr. Delacroix?”
His head tilted a bit, ”Tell me a bit about her security. How she rules her districts.”
Mathieu let the silence stretch, not out of defiance, but consideration. He had always been thoughtful with his words and careful in his choices. There was power in restraint, in leaving space for the other person to wonder what isn’t being said.
At last, he exhaled, a sound more thoughtful than tired. “I think,” he murmured, “you already know more than you’re letting on.” His tone was neutral, lacking hostility, but not servile either. “Her security isn’t the kind you can measure like that. It’s not about how many men she has or how high the walls are. It’s about the fact that she doesn’t need either of those things.” He looked down at his hands, studying the creases on his palms as though tracing something long since faded.
“People don’t cross her. Not because they’re afraid of what she’ll do, but because they know she doesn’t break easily.”
Tilting his head, he scrutinized Vincent as if unearthing the layers of the man's soul. “You don’t get that kind of power through force alone. Fear has its limits. Eventually, people stop running from the wolf and start hunting it instead.”
“She rules because people believe in her.” A pause. “Even the ones who hate her.”
There was no need to elaborate further. Vincent wasn’t a fool. He could fill in the gaps himself.
But then, with a quiet, almost absent chuckle, Mathieu added, “If you were expecting blueprints and weak spots, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask someone else.”
Vincent nodded along, like he was expecting such an answer. There was a thoughtful pause, as if this wasn't an interrogation, and more like a friendly talk.
His eyes slid over to Mathieu. ”Your gyft. Tell me about it.”
He had expected this question eventually. It was only a matter of time before Vincent turned his gaze to the one thing that made him valuable in a place like this.
His gyft.
Power, after all, was never just power—it was intention, consequence, cost. And Vincent wasn’t the type to be waylaid by evasions or misdirection. So Mathieu didn’t bother with either. Instead, he exhaled, tilting his head just slightly, as if turning the thought over in his hands. “You want to know how it works? Or why I don’t use it?” He let the question sit for a moment before continuing, his expression lacking revulsion and pride.
“It’s honestly not much of a weapon. More like an… execution.”
Vincent seemed to have found the hook he was looking for, his eyes watching the micro-movements of Mathieu’s face, his voice gentle. ”...Why don't you use it, Mathieu?”
Why don’t you use it?
The question had clung to him for years, trailing in sidelong glances and behind wary eyes.
“Because I don’t need to. I don’t want to.”
The words slipped from the young man, quietly and without effort. Vincent only stared steadily, patiently.
”What if I told you there was a way to control it. So it could be a tool, and not an execution. What would you say to that?”
Vincent was many things, but he wasn’t careless with his words. He didn’t pose hypotheticals or extend possibilities without knowing exactly how they could be made real. That meant this wasn’t just a passing remark.
It was an offer.
And therein lay the problem for Mathieu.
“ What will it cost?”
Because that was the real question, wasn’t it?
Vincent could dress it up however he liked, could frame it as an opportunity, a gift, a way to wield what had always been a curse. But at the end of the day, nothing in this world—especially in Vincent’s world—came without a trade.
And Mathieu wasn’t about to sign a contract without seeing the fine print.
Vincent nodded, expecting this. ”You're a wise man, Mathieu. I would expect nothing less.”
He gestured, palms open, suggesting he had nothing to hide as they sat there together.
”To ensure the safety of myself and my staff, I would ask that you give me access to your mind. I would only insert the command that wouldn't allow you to attack us. I would also look at your previous memories, minimize anything that might inhibit you. Then, I would implant a command that would have you come back to me in a few days for another session.”
His eyes watched Mathieu patiently. ”I'm not the type to hide things. I want you to trust me, Mathieu. This would be for your betterment.”
Mathieu studied his hand, turning it palm up, then down again, watching the movement with an almost detached curiosity. The restored pinky curled and unfurled in perfect synchronicity with the others, as though it had never been severed in the first place. But he knew better. His body might accept the lie, but his mind? That was another matter entirely.
“Trust you?”
The words left him lightly, almost idle, as though the concept itself were a foreign thing.
“Trust goes both ways, doesn’t it? And so far, I don’t see much of it coming from you.”
A glance toward the locked door, then back to Vincent. “You took my pinky. You tortured me. You tried to use my sister like some kind of…some kind of p-pawn.” The list was recited without heat, without embellishment, as if it were nothing more than a ledger of debts, a collection of things done. “And now you give me back my finger and expect me to believe this is goodwill?” A quiet exhale.
“That’s not trust, Vincent. That’s control.”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “But let’s say I entertain this offer. Let’s say I agree to your little ‘sessions.’ Then I want two things.”
His first demand came without hesitation. “You don’t touch my memories. No erasing, no rewriting, no edits. You want to help me control my gyft? Fine. But my mind stays mine.”
He let that settle before continuing, quieter this time.
“And second? If you’re as honest as you say… then Bella stays out of it.”
A beat.
“Please.”
He did his best to appear more formidable than he felt, and probably more than he looked as well. “I don’t want you to use me to get to her anymore. If you want to deal with my sister….you do it without holding me over her head.”
Vincent stared for a moment, red eyes deep in calculations.
He nodded amicably. ”I may not use you to get to your sister, but you'll still be mine to do with as I please. Everything else, I can agree with.”
And he held his hand out to shake, to solidify the deal.
It should have felt like chains tightening around his throat, a collar cinched just short of strangulation. But instead, it was… almost liberating. Because in speaking the words aloud, Vincent had revealed something vital—something Mathieu had suspected but now knew with certainty.
He was not a prisoner.
He was an investment.
And investments were not disposable. They were safeguarded, maintained, and preserved. Their worth was in their longevity, in their potential returns. That was the unspoken contract between them now—one that mattered more than threats and violence. Because the moment Vincent decided Mathieu was worth more broken than whole, that was when things would truly spiral. But until then? There was room. Space to maneuver. To wait.
And patience had always been his greatest weapon.
Mathieu exhaled before finally extending his hand, his grip firm but not aggressive.
“I suppose I should thank you for your generosity.”
A ghost of a smile.
Then, just before Vincent could release his grip, Mathieu tightened his hold ever so slightly—just enough to be felt, not enough to be considered defiance.
“Let’s hope neither of us regrets it.”
Vincent merely smiled. ”I'm a man of my word, Mr. Delacroix.”
Before tendrils of pink mist swirled around Mathieu, almost cradling him like a mother would a child. The softest pressure on his mind, like a caressing touch.
”Let me in.”
(Proof 1 Proof 2 Vincent: 5, Mathieu: 2 )
Mathieu barely had time to brace himself before it hit.
The pink mist curled tighter, wrapping around his consciousness and slipping into places Mathieu had spent years fortifying. It wasn’t violent, not a forced invasion—that would have been easier to resist. Instead, it was gentle, insidious in its patience, coaxing his mind into allowing the intrusion before he could truly stop it.
It was… effective.
Because it didn’t feel foreign.
That was the most dangerous part.
This is fine. The thought surfaced, unbidden. It’s not as bad as you thought it would be.
A sliver of wrongness prickled at the edges of his consciousness—a warning that should have shrieked but instead only murmured. The instinct to recoil, to reject, flickered weakly, like a candle guttering against the wind. He should be resisting, should be clawing against the encroachment, should be furious at the violation. Maybe even afraid.
But he wasn’t.
Mathieu's mind lay open, bare and naked. Vincent could do anything he wanted here.
But, he gave his word. So, the first thing he did was what he said he would. A command was given: Pacifist. This command would essentially declaw Mathieu if he ever tried to use his abilities on Vincent, his staff, or the Thorned Roses. If he were to even think it, the thoughts would sputter into nothing, redirect him to anything else. Confuse him and leave him blank, scraping to remember what he was doing.
Then, another command was given: Return. In a few days, Mathieu would feel the urge to see Vincent again. It would develop like a curiosity into a full-on need, one that would become harder to refuse the longer he delayed.
And, lastly, Vincent scored through Mathieu's mind, skimming any memories that stood out emotionally.
Blood on the marble floor, soaking into the cracks.
His uncle’s voice, cold and final. “This is the price of betrayal.”
His father’s wide, desperate eyes. “I was doing this for us, for the family—”
A gunshot.
Bella standing still, watching. Not stopping it.
Her eyes meeting Mathieu’s across the room.
Not grief. Not rage. Just acceptance.
A long table. A meeting. Bella across from him, her expression a cipher.
Her gaze peeling him apart layer by layer. The realization clicking into place.
She’s wondering if I’m useful enough to keep. She must be.
The sickening twist in his gut.
A blade glinting in the light. Its edge kissing flesh.
The wet snap of bone. The searing pain.
A voice—Vincent’s? “Consider this a lesson.”
The ground tilting, nausea rising.
The knowledge: This is only the beginning.
A scent—jasmine and something metallic.
Soft lips pressing against his forehead. A farewell.
The rustle of fabric as she turns away.
A door closing.
And then—
Nothing. Just absence.
His bed no longer a place of rest.
The indentation of her body already smoothing away
as if she had never been there at all.
Vincent was the observer of these memories. He didn't touch them. Instead, he withdrew. Pink wisps fell away from Mathieu's mind, replacing them with neurons that practically sang with the amount of serotonin his mind was drenched in. Mathieu would feel light as a feather as if his mind had been washed in rose water and misk.
It was only then that Vincent let go of Mathieu's hand. ”There, that wasn't so bad, now was it?”
Vincent stood, glancing at Mathieu before gesturing for him to follow as he opened the cell door. His smile remained pleasant. ”Let's get started, then.”
Mathieu's body felt like it was floating—like his mind had been plucked from the confines of his skull and bathed in something warm. It did not feel like surrender. No, surrender suggested struggle and this? This was effortless. This was pleasant.
His fingers flexed, testing the space around him. Everything was clearer and crisper but in a way that felt... manufactured. As if he were wearing his own skin but hadn't quite settled back into it yet.
Still, he smiled.
“No,” he murmured, voice light. “No, it wasn’t so bad at all.”
He stood as Vincent did, stretching languidly, like a man waking from a particularly indulgent sleep. Taking a step forward, Mathieu fell into step beside Vincent with an easy grace that hadn’t been there before.
It should have concerned him.
It didn’t.
Vincent led Mathieu out into a gray hallway, guards waiting a beat before following in step behind Mathieu. Unhurried, patient. They made it to the end of the hallway where an elevator was called, stepped in, and Vincent tapped a card on the scanner within.
”...Now arriving at floor 48.” Said a speaker within the elevator. If Mathieu was curious enough to look, floor 48 didn't show up as a button to press like all the other floors. There were 47 and 49, but 48? Absent.
And the doors opened.
The warm fluorescent lights of the 48th floor greeted them, polished floors reflecting back with perfect poise as they stepped down the hallway.
About halfway down the hallway, Vincent gave a two-resounding clap. The frosted glass on either side suddenly became transparent, revealing their contents within. Luxurious rooms filled with all manner of decor and entertainment. But, what was most beautiful of these rooms were their singular occupants. Some rested in pools, revealing scales and mermaid tails. Some had hair of living fire. Others seemed to be made of gold. But when they saw who had turned off the frosting, the occupants rushed to the front of the glass.
”The boss is back!”
”Ooh, who's that with him?”
Vincent gave the occupants a warm smile, still leading Mathieu down the hall. He didn't stop until they reached the doors at the end, which he opened into a polished, gray laboratory. Men and women in white coats flited here and there, heads turning as Vincent, Mathieu and the guards came in. Immediately, they began setting up a device in the center of the room, stringing what looked to be a large bag of blood, doused in electrodes, light, and with all manner of devices watching it.
Vincent stopped in front of the hanging blood bag and turned back to Mathieu. He had an encouraging smile. ”Let's take a baseline of your gyft, Mr. Delacroix. Feel free to demonstrate on this bag. Don't be shy.”
Mathieu's gaze was riveted to the blood bag, a morbid magnetism drawing him in like a moth to a candle's flame.
His gyft had never been delicate, never meant for finesse. It did not answer to the steady hand of control. Instead, it was devastation incarnate, a force that did not bend or barter but consumed. Finality.
And worse?
It had always belonged to his emotions.
The only times he had ever used it—really used it—were when he had been pushed past the point of control. Fear, fury, grief—each a spark that had flared too fast, too violently, until the only thing left was ruin. He had never known the true mastery of his ability like Bella.
He did not sculpt. He did not mend.
He’d only ever ended.
But now?
There was no fear. There was no panic.
Only that strange, pleasant calm.
Mathieu found himself reaching out. Not with fingers, but with the part of himself that had always lingered at the edge of restraint, prowling like a beast with breath hot against its own chain. The blood inside the bag shifted, sluggish at first, then eager, as though it had always been waiting for him to call. The bag began to bulge grotesquely, stretching outward in an unnatural distortion, straining under invisible pressure.
For one breathless moment, it almost gave. The plastic strained, veins of dark liquid thickening, pressing outward, seeking release.
Heat pulsed behind his skull, a familiar warning that never arrived early enough. His breath caught-
Stop.
The tension snapped like a pulled wire. The bag sagged back into shape, but not quite the same. The plastic was stretched, warped, the blood within still trembling like it wanted to burst.
Mathieu’s breathing was even, his expression composed. But something inside him felt frayed.
Because it had been so easy.
And it had taken too much effort to stop.
And because, deep down, something was missing.
It should have rattled him. Should have made his stomach churn.
But it didn’t.
Instead, there was only the lingering warmth of Vincent’s influence—a quiet hum in his veins, a serene detachment that made it all feel… fine.
Meanwhile, medical equipment beeped, graphs began printing, data being recorded. Every single facet, like where in the blood Mathieu's influence began, was noted down for further analysis.
Vincent couldn't be happier. ”Well done. I'll have my staff analyze the data. It will take time to synthesize a custom protein to address your gyft, perhaps a day or two. Meanwhile,” Vincent gestured to the door. ”I'll show you to your room.”
Back out in the hallway, the glass walls were once again frosted over. Vincent moved to one door in the hallway and opened it up, allowing Mathieu to be the first to step in.
The lounge was warm, rustic, bringing up feelings of an approachable home in Highfair or Ivory Tower. The fireplace was gas-powered, giving off heat to warm the bones. There was a bar and a kitchenette behind the sofas, fully stocked. And beyond that, two doors. One led to a cozy bedroom with a sofabed and a bookshelf filled with material. The other led to a bathroom.
On the table in the lounge, there was a covered meal, steamy hot. Vincent nodded to it. ”I've had a meal prepared for you. Your door will be locked, but if you need anything the guards can be called by a simple button near the door. Take some rest; is there anything you wish to ask of me before I go?”
Mathieu’s fingers hesitated over the meal’s cover, hovering in a moment of indecision before he finally peeled it back.
The scent hit him first. Warm, rich, familiar.
Cassoulet.
A slow-cooked stew, thick with white beans, duck confit, and sausage. A meal designed to cling to the ribs, to stave off the kind of cold that settled not just in the body but in the soul. It was not the sort of thing one simply threw together—it had been greatly considered. It belonged to long nights and easy conversation, to a home that no longer fit him, a past he had spent years dissecting until all that remained was a collection of pieces that refused to resemble the whole.
His gaze shifted to Vincent, searching. Did he know?
No. Vincent was careful, but he wasn’t omniscient. Someone else had chosen this. Someone who had studied him not just as a subject but as a person—either through painstaking observation or an unsettling level of intuition. That was the part that twisted something deep in his gut, the part that felt like a hook had been slipped between his ribs and pulled, gently, inexorably.
It was too easy. Too thoughtful.
Worst of all, some part of him—the part still drugged on the warmth of Vincent’s influence—wanted to sit down and eat.
His gaze lingered on Vincent’s face, searching for something he couldn’t quite name.
“How long?”
A pause. Then, quieter.
“How long do you plan to keep me here?”
Vincent merely smiled. ”When you have gained more control over your gyft, it will be you who decides when you want to leave.”
After that, the door was softly shut, and Mathieu was left to take in his surroundings and enjoy his meal.
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