The blood dripped slowly, becoming a trickle with every squeeze of the ball in his hand. He watched it in an exhausted trance. His muscles ached, his joints faring worse, and the pain in his leg had dulled little since that morning's investigation. It wasn't bad, as far as things usually went, and if his injured leg could stop bouncing like a piston, it would be considerably more bearable. Some things never change.
It hadn't bothered him when he first sat down—it never did. At the time, he'd been filling out the Guardianship forms, keeping his mind busy. But those were long since finished. Then came the struggle to find his damned vein, bruised and abused from constant bloodlettings. The IV was flowing well now, the bag fattening greedily.
There was nothing left to distract him. No forms to fill, no veins to poke. Only the steady flow of his blood, the thrum of the pump, and the rising silence pressing against his chest.
He blinked.
The moment his eyes shut, it all came rushing back.
She had moved like a glitch in reality, a shimmer of light bent wrong. Her eyes, burning red, left a trail in the dark. He'd tried to backpedal, but his feet were lead. He reached for his Hilt, but it wasn't there. The monstrous limb struck, piercing through his collarbone, raking down his spine like a xylophone. He tried to scream, but her teeth had already found his neck. It came out as a sick, wet cough.
His eyes snapped open.
The office rushed back into focus, cold and quiet. The blood now flowed into the IV like a waterfall, his heart hammering in his chest. Ground yourself. His shaking hand clutched the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening. Breathe. In and out. Slow. His eyes searched for an anchor—settling on a picture frame, the old graduation photo of his cohort. He swallowed the bitter taste collecting in his mouth.
It didn't happen. You're alive.
He traced the faded faces in the photo with his eyes.
Emma. Dante. Paul. David.
Dead. All dead. I watched them die.
His nails dug into the wood grain of the desk as their faces flashed behind his eyelids. You're alive. You're alive. He squeezed his eyes shut, drew in a breath. Slow. Calm. Steady. You're still alive.
His leg bounced harder, rattling the desk.
The door opened.
Adrian flinched violently, his body seizing with pain. For a moment, it was happening again—until Rook stepped through. A fresh bandage circled his forehead, pink staining the gauze. The blood-matted hair had been washed, now damp and slick from a bathroom sink rinse. Without a word, Rook set a coffee down in front of him, then took the seat across from him and sipped his own.
A silence lingered as Adrian tried to settle his leg, and Rook pretended not to notice.
"Rough one," Rook said eventually.
Adrian blinked. Williams' guts spilled out onto the pavement.
"N-no, not really!" he replied too quickly. His eye twitched. "There have been worse..." He recovered. "Especially for a hot sight. Could've been a bloodbath."
Much, much worse.
"Right..." Rook grimaced, setting the coffee down and adjusting in his chair. "Littlejohn is out for blood."
Adrian gave a short laugh, gesturing to the IV bag, nearly full. "Well, I'd offer him this, but I'm afraid it's spoken for." Rook didn't laugh, and Adrian cleared his throat. "...When is the oaf not out for blood?"
"He lost six guys," Rook said quietly. "We lost six guys."
Adrian took a slow sip, his gaze sinking into the mug. He chewed on the words before finally answering. "Killing her wouldn't have changed that."
"No... won't change that," Rook echoed. "Half the branch has heard about it already. Pedester will want to see her first, after she's processed."
"We have a head start, as always." Adrian motioned to the documents spread across his desk.
Rook perked up slightly at that. "What story have you given her?"
"As it turns out, monikers can have their uses," Adrian said, his smile growing faintly. "The new girl's Profanity is insectoid in nature. I do believe she's a match for Mantis' daughter. Picking up the family trade is unfortunate, but I suppose we all have to make ends meet somehow, eh?"
Rook picked up one of the pages and gave it a quick read as he sipped his coffee. "We've never seen Mantis—just the aftermath."
"It's true," Adrian admitted, leaning back in his chair. "The appearance of our dear Mantis still eludes us. But with a name like that, and a Profanity like hers? I don't think it'll be difficult to convince poor A.S.A.C. Pedester there's a certain... family resemblance." He waved off Rook's unspoken concern.
"Mmm..." Rook muttered, still scanning the document. "What if they start asking her questions once we leave? Questions she won't know the answers to?"
"Assuming they break protocol," Adrian said, "then they'll torture her. But probably not to death. Not as long as there are consequences." He motioned across the sprawl of paperwork like he was showing off a treasure hoard. "They'll peel everything they want to hear out of her, and not half of it will be true. Half the branch will be chasing ghosts, and you and I will finally get some work done."
He smiled again, almost cheerfully, scratching at his scar. "Might even help us. A little good inquisitor, bad inquisitor?"
Rook smirked, despite himself. "And when we find Mantis, and they turn out to be a Canine or a Taurus?" He leaned over the desk, brow raised. "What happens when they sift through this massive paper trail and start connecting the dots?"
Oh, that one's easy. We're never going to find Mantis.
"It's a bit late for second thoughts now, isn't it?" Adrian said, sliding the needle from his arm and cleaning the spot with a practiced hand. "I'm sure that once we cross that bridge, the mounds of Fiend corpses piled beneath it will more than make up for a few little white lies."
Rook looked like he wanted to protest, but Adrian spoke first. "And if the corpses aren't enough—then you were only following orders. That shouldn't be too hard to sell, should it?"
"Not at all," Rook muttered. "So what are my orders, then?"
"I need time," Adrian replied, gathering the sprawl of documents into a neat stack. "Run damage control when you see Pedester. Keep him and any other prying eyes away from the interrogation chambers however you can—for as long as you can. Just enough for her to sign. Enough for us to get a story together. Enough—"
"Yeah, yeah," Rook interrupted, downing the last of his lukewarm coffee and standing. "Same old shit."
Adrian smiled faintly as he watched him leave, then stood not long after.
They parted ways, splitting down opposite ends of the corridor—Rook toward the atrium and the inevitable crowd of gossiping agents, while Adrian limped toward the old elevator. It hadn't seen much use since the branch's abrupt and horrific downsizing nearly a decade ago. The carpet was musty, the lights flickered dimly, and cobwebs hung thick in the corners. The east wing had become little more than a tomb.
As he passed door after door, he read their nameplates from memory. Most had been pried off, as if replacements might one day arrive. Wooden graves for ghosts who would never return. He passed desks that hadn't seen use in years, dust-covered relics of a better time. At the end of the hall, just before the elevator, one door remained cracked open—always open, even when he was alive.
It was a corner office. A good one. The spot where a wooden crucifix had once hung was still visible, outlined in lighter wood where the dust hadn't reached. But the cross itself was gone now, taken long ago. A bare wall in a dead room.
Adrian lingered in the doorway and felt an ache bloom in his chest. You don't belong here. It wasn't his office, never had been. Still, he half-expected to see the old veteran hunched at the desk, cursing at the antiquated computer.
If he was there, it was only in spirit.
He remembered when the entire branch would gather around Victor to hear stories. Tales passed down by generations of Fiend hunters, from Knights to Inquisitors to agents like him, who once fought with little more than faith and steel. They died by the hundreds. And still they kept fighting.
A smile crept across his face. When I was Jitters. When the world was young, and my eyes were bright and full of terror. When I was the subject of jokes and jabs, instead of conspiracies and petty office intrigues. At the time, he cursed them bitterly for it, but now he remembered them all fondly. When he managed to divorce their memory from their demise.
Everyone who knew Jitters was gone. Reassigned to distant posts, cushy branches, or peaceful retirements. Most were just dead. L.A. had never been kind to the Bureau. You come for the weather and the women, you stay because your body's entombed in a Fiend's freezer, dissolving in a Fiend's stomach, or floating through the sewer. Likely all three at once.
Only hostile faces remained.
The elevator dinged behind him, snapping him back to the present. Adrian stepped inside and descended, the gears groaning as if burdened by the weight of ghosts.
When the elevator doors opened, Adrian was greeted by the sterile rot of the containment level. He flashed his badge at one of the dead-eyed Operators flanking the airlock, and after a brief delay, the inner door hissed open. It closed behind him with a heavy finality.
Once, the containment wing had been pristine, gleaming white walls and polished black tile floors. Now, it was faded grey, peeling at the corners. The fluorescents buzzed and flickered, no longer capable of drowning out the grime. Overhead, the vaulted ceilings loomed with rusted nozzles jutting out like so many stalagmites, ready to suck every last atom of oxygen from the facility should any cell be breached. A millennia ago, it might've been a great heap of sand held up by meticulous engineering, water from a dam ready to be diverted, or a madman ready to strike a match. The methods change, but the two constants remain. Fire still burns, and monsters still breathe.
The halls were silent, the kind of silence that pressed in on the ears. The sharp click of Adrian's dress shoes echoed loudly, bouncing off the walls and back again. He followed the long corridor to a small security office enclosed behind bulletproof glass.
Inside, a sickly man sat at a terminal, hunched like a vulture. His hair was thin and patchy, his face gaunt, and the dark rings under his eyes seemed permanently tattooed into his skin. He tapped away at an old, grease-stained keyboard with rhythmic dedication.
Adrian rapped lightly on the glass, then cleared his throat.
The Warden Mr. Frye turned, his eyes sluggishly tracking toward the sound. When he saw Adrian, something like warmth flickered behind his pale gaze.
"Ahhh, Bishop," he murmured, voice as brittle as his smile. Each word stretched too long, as though savoring it.
"Mr. Frye." Adrian nodded politely.
"I was hoping you'd come by," Frye said, his teeth crooked and yellowed. "How is young Mr. Rook these days? He's been a stranger."
That's because he finds you repulsive. Adrian kept his smile in place. "Busy. I've got him talking with Pedester right now. Somebody has to be the charming face of our operation."
Frye chuckled faintly, a sound like rusted hinges. "And how's the collection? Any new specimens for me today?"
Adrian's skin crawled. "That's actually why I'm here. I came to see our new guest."
Frye's eyes gleamed. "Already? But she hasn't been processed. Far too dangerous, Adrian. You know how they get."
"I do," Adrian said, holding his tone steady. "But this case is... extremely time-sensitive."
Frye leaned in toward the glass. "Ahh. Pedester again. Pressing down on your spine, is he?"
"Unbearably so," Adrian replied. He reached into his coat and produced the necessary forms. "If we don't get her classified properly, she could slip through our fingers."
Frye examined the paperwork with unhurried pleasure. His face darkened as he read, then nodded.
"That just won't do."
"My thoughts exactly."
Frye glanced toward the reinforced door, then back at Adrian. His grin returned.
"Room Three. The big one."
"Excellent. One more thing..."
"A camera malfunction," Frye said before Adrian could finish. "I'll handle the audio, too."
Adrian exhaled and nodded. "I appreciate your discretion, Mr. Frye."
"Oh, Adrian... The pleasure is all mine." Frye called back as Adrian limped through the door, hearing a sickly little laugh before it locked shut behind him.
The interrogation room resembled a bunker more than anything else. On Adrian's side of the glass, it was relatively standard, drab drywall, acoustic ceiling tiles, buzzing fluorescent lights. A cheap table and two mismatched plastic chairs. The carpet was worn thin, revealing stained concrete beneath the legs of the furniture.
But beyond the porthole, the chamber, was something far worse.
The other side of the glass was encased in layers of concrete and metal shielding. The observation window was the thickness of a man's forearm and twisted the view with a bluish hue. The room within was filthy, grime clinging to every corner, darker where the walls met the floor. Claw marks marred the walls in every direction, some gouged so deep they had reached the rebar. Adrian's gaze drifted toward the pedestal in the centre of the cell, a pitiful block of reinforced concrete, chipped and stained from age and resistance.
It was meant to suggest civility. It rarely worked.
He adjusted the stack of documents at his side guardianship papers, interrogation notes, redacted case files, and laid the IV bag of his own blood gently atop them. To his right, the control panel awaited. Four buttons blinked softly: blue for the tray, yellow for the mic, red to open the doors, black for termination.
He pressed the envelope, blue. A narrow drawer hissed open beside him, a delivery system connected to the cell.
He leaned back and checked his watch, fighting the phantom pain still crawling up his leg. Five minutes. Plenty of time.
The hum of heavy machinery stole his attention. A hydraulic hiss, followed by the slow grind of a thick vault door retracting. A breath of white mist flowed into the cell and coalesced on the floor before dissipating into nothing. From within the antechamber, she emerged.
The girl, the Fiend, was clothed in a plain white gown, threadbare and insufficient against the cold. Two sets of restraints: ankles and wrists, linked by chain. Her long hair fell across her face, and she was curled into herself in the far corner, crouched like an animal hiding from a storm.
The door opened with a cloud of white mist, which coalesced on the ground and dissipated; within the antechamber, the Fiend was clothed in a thin white gown, two sets of heavy restraints placed on her, one around her ankles, the other around her wrists., huddled within herself in a corner, hair covering her bare legs, face resting on her knees. The very image of despair.
Adrian clicked the microphone on, "Step into the room."
Her head looked up and around the room. She shook her head, face contorting as though she were about to cry.
"Step into the room. This is an interrogation, not an execution." Adrian explained, attempting to put her at ease, but her head collapsed back into her knees, and her shoulders shook with grief. His eye twitched, and he adjusted himself in his seat. He stole a glance at his watch. We don't have all fucking day...
"If you refuse to comply, I will have to force you. It will be extremely distressing and painful." He paused, waiting for her to decide before a thought occurred. Fuck, that sounded horrifying, didn't it? "...And I don't want to hurt you." He added.
Hair still covering her face, she struggled up from the corner, bare feet padding on the cold concrete, movement constrained by the cuffs. Shivering. As she approached the pedestal, the microphone picked up her voice, soft, pathetic whimpering in between terrified sobs. She looked around the room, eyes lingering on the gashes in the walls.
"You may sit."
She looked down at the pitiful thing and sat down, her eyes scanning the walls warily.
Searching for me. Adrian's eye twitched at the thought, and he sifted through the documents, found the first guardianship form, and clicked his pen. "We'll start with your name."
She swallowed hard and shook her head. "No." Eyes still moving about the room.
"Please?"
The word seemed to catch her off guard. Her brow furrowed, and silence gripped the both of them.
"How about Nymph?" Adrian rubbed his temple as he leaned into the microphone. "How does that sound? For now, at least."
"Nymph?" she whispered. "W-why?"
"It will make sense in just a moment." Adrian slid one of the documents into the tray and closed it. "Read this over for me, please."
"What game are you playing? Just get it over with!" She threw the papers up into the air with a frustrated scream. She sat back down, the tears starting again as the papers gently cascaded around her. "I'm already dead..."
I worked hard on those, you ungrateful bitch.
"Not quite yet, my dear!" It was meant to lighten the mood, but it didn't. "It seems you need some convincing. Not to worry, I've come prepared!" Adrian stuffed the blood bag in the tray and pushed it in, coming out the other side with a metallic clank.
Another long silence before curiosity got the better of her. "What is it?"
That's it. "Nothing nefarious. Well... Depending on the definitions, I suppose, perspective and all that." Adrian grinned, "It's nothing that will bring you any harm. A gift from me to you, let's start fresh, shall we?" As she reached in and plucked it out, the tray shot back, and Adrian continued. "My name is Special Agent Bishop, I was present this morning at the motel. Do you remember? Where you killed six and injured five?"
Nymph eyed the plastic bag hungrily. "Y-yes... I-I... This is?"
"Consider it a token of friendship, of trust. It is my own blood. Unadulterated. You have my word."
Anger flashed across her pale face, and her hand squeezed the bag, nearly popping it. "What good is your word!? Why the fuck would I trust you, you filthy fucking rat! How many of my kind have you slaughtered! How many have you-!"
"If you're concerned about the blood on my hands, I assure you I've killed far more men than Fiends." He let a bitter laugh escape over the microphone. "It's actually quite standard around here. You've heard the saying about omelettes and eggs?"
Nymph flinched back at that, "I...-" She hesitated, perplexed, and thoroughly disarmed. "...What?"
Adrian pressed on, "Ms. Nymph, I would like to help you, at least within the bounds of my power."
"You... You'll free me?"
"No." The word came out harsher than he intended, and her eyes fell back down to the floor. "I'm sorry, but I must be completely honest with you, Nymph. I'm afraid that isn't in the cards."
Nymph bared her teeth and spat on the ground, "Then how the fuck can you possibly help me?" Each word soaking in venom.
Adrian let the silence hang, time enough for the blood to cool. Time enough for her to squirm in
her seat. He started when he finally saw her gaze fixed on the bag in her hands.
"The Bureau is convinced that Fiends coexist peacefully in a tight-knit underground network. A Syndicate of sorts. However, I know this to be false, half true at most. I've witnessed it firsthand. You are not all on the same side; a network such as this, approaching this level of complexity, with this many conspirators, cannot exist without strict enforcement. You have enemies, Ms. Nymph." At least, I hope you do.
Silence.
"I can't offer you your freedom. Unfortunately, this arrangement will end in your death. But I can offer you the opportunity to get your affairs in order. There are Fiends higher in the pecking order than you; no doubt there are Fiends who have abused you, cheated you, confident in the knowledge that you are without recourse. There are Fiends who have threatened you, who threaten your family, your friends, even now."
Silence.
"There exists provisions within the law for the guardianship of high-value Fiends. Fiends with information, such as yourself..." Adrian slipped the rest of the documents into the tray and closed it. "I will not ask you for the names of your family or your friends. First, I want the name of the young man from the motel. I want his family residence, everything. Then, I want your enemies, the ones who've wronged you, the ones you hate. I am determined to be your recourse."
Nymph's hand shook as she read through the documents. Her mouth opened a few times, but no words escaped.
"Give me names, locations, descriptions if you can. In return, I will extend your life and set your worldly affairs in order. I will protect you until your list is complete and my proof of accord satisfactory," Adrian watched her closely, and when she looked up from the papers, their eyes met, and a chill rolled up his spine. "W-When our business is concluded, I will ensure a swift and painless end. Nitrogen gas. You'll go to sleep and never wake up." That is, after Frye is finished with you.
"A deal with the Devil..."
Adrian smiled at that, scratching at his scar, "For a creature in your position, I'm afraid a deal with the devil is the best you're going to get."
Nymph closed her eyes and breathed. Face painted with conflict. "A-and you... You won't ask for any of mine? My friends...?"
Gotcha, "You have my word."
Nymph squeezed the bag, "A-and you want me to be... I'm this 'Mantis''' daughter? 'Nymph'? 'Miss Nymph?'"
Adrian leaned closer to the microphone, hunger in his eyes as he reeled in his prize, "Nymph will do fine unless you'd prefer something else."
"N-no... I..." she looked dejected, "I... I wouldn't really know where to start."
"Good." Adrian placed his pen into the tray and sent it on its way. "Now, agreeing to play the part is one thing; playing it convincingly is another. I need you to give me a name, an address, or somewhere they frequent, a place of work, anything. I need solid information that will lead to a Fiend, or the house of cards we're building collapses."
Nymph collected the pen, gathered the scattered sheets of paper and swallowed. "Just one?"
You poor thing. "No sense rushing things now, is there?" He forced a friendly laugh into the microphone. "I'll take as many names as you give me, no complaints here, but once that last name is written..."
Nymph's features darkened, and her face disappeared beneath her hair. It took a while, and the silence hung. The pen shifted in her hand as she deliberated. What is your soul worth, Ms. Nymph? Her hand began to scrawl across the paper.
Adrian smiled wickedly.
Before long, she had sent the tray back to him with a clank and sat back on her stone throne with a heavy sigh, wiping her hands on her thin white gown as if it might wipe away the deed. "So this is this... This is really blood?"
Adrian snatched the papers out and inspected them, "Hmm? Oh, yes, yes, by all means." He flipped through it, scanning the page. The boy's name was at the top, along with their next of kin, James Kaunus; I thank you for your brave sacrifice. Blah, blah. "I brought it for you, after all." His gaze shifted down. One name, one location. Troy, known as Jailer, a man after my own heart... "Yes, yes... This is good." When he looked back up at her, a third of the bag was already gone, and her lips were red with blood, his blood. Her eyes.
Jitters blinked, and she was on him, straddling his hips like a lover as she tore out his neck, pain, then numbness as the nerves died. He could hear the sickening squelch of his muscles being torn from the bone, her teeth scraping against it like nails on a chalkboard. The wet tear was like wringing a towel taut, the sound of her chewing in his ear, head dizzy from blood loss, he heard her throat working as she swallowed him.
Jitters screamed, his knees shaking, practically slamming into the desk, opening the wound. He held his head and slammed down on the table. Breathe, breathe. Ground yourself. He fumbled around for something to grab, but her words brought him back.
"I-is everything okay?"
Adrian blinked, and he was back. Staring at Nymph through the porthole, a worried expression plastered on her face as she enjoyed his blood as if it were nothing more than a juice box. He swallowed the lump in his throat as his shaking hands fumbled with the microphone.
"Th-thank you for your c-c-co-operation, Nymph. Y-your handler, Muh-muh-Mr. Frye knows our arrangement; he won't cuh-cuh-con-confisc-c-cate your gift."
Nymph licked her lips and swallowed. "Are you..."
"Th-the door will open for you shortly, puh-puh-p-p-please exit the interrogation chamber and breathe in deeply."
"I...-" Nymph nodded, turning to leave.
"W-Wait." He breathed, holding his head in his hands. "One m-muh-more thing..." He breathed, "I-If you don't mind." The thing that had been eating at him since the morning. He breathed.
"Yes?" she answered timidly.
The shakes worsened, as he recalled. "A-a-a-at-t-t the motel... In the room, when we were suh-suh-s-searching the place, why d-d-didn't-t-t you... Y-you..." The vision flashed across his mind, and the panic surged like an electric shock. Forcing the question out all at once. "Why didn't you kill us!?" Jitters swallowed. "Why didn't you kill us and try to run!?"
"I...-" His tone spooked her, and Nymph looked toward the open blast door, the elevator awaiting her; she held her arm anxiously. "I-I was afraid."
Afraid? Adrian's eyes refused to look away.
"I-is that all?"
"Y-yes yes, you can guh-g-go." Afraid? He leaned back in the chair, soothing his legs with his hand, slick with the fresh blood seeping into his pant leg.
When the blast door closed, and he heard the hiss of the gas, Adrian began to laugh. It started as a chuckle, the word repeating over and over: Afraid, afraid, she was afraid. As the word grew louder in his head, so too did the laugh grow more manic until he clutched his stomach and struggled to breathe.
Coward.