ReinaThe key missed the lock, twice.
On the third try, the door creaked open, dragging the sour stench of sweat, blood, and bottom-shelf whiskey with it. Their shoulder hit the wall, then their knee, as Hour tried to brace themself. Something fell—maybe a bottle from last week, maybe something meant to keep.
Everything spun, just a little. The light overhead flickered, unsure if it was the bulb or vision. Dried blood crusted their lips and ears, another beating delivered, another debt extended.
Another flicker, casting impossible shadows across the room. She loomed in the window, as if she was already there, watching the world pass by.
Her black wings hung heavy behind her, half-furled, as though she'd just returned from somewhere darker than night itself. They moved only slightly, breathing with her. Tense. Wary.
She didn’t move when Hour entered. No greeting. No gasp. Just a rigid silhouette wrapped in shadow, framed in silver moonlight that didn’t seem to touch her. Her head tilted slightly as if listening, not turning yet. The dark strands of her hair—tied up in a lopsided bun and ponytail on the right side—were loose in places, fraying like her patience. Not unkempt, but undone by time and toil.
Then, she finally turned causing every to go still, unnaturally so. Hour's vision sharpened an blurred, grounded only by the doorframe.
Crimson eyes lock on—glowing like coals about to burn out, sharp and unyielding. Not hateful. Not gentle. Just tired of what she saw, and unwilling to let it continue.
Her eyes shifted up and down, taking in the bruises, the blood, the choices. Utterly unimpressed.
And then, without a hint of sympathy, she spoke.
No inflection. No welcome. Just judgment. She stepped forward, slow and measured, the shift of her wings a quiet warning.
Her wings twitched behind her, heavy with history.
On the third try, the door creaked open, dragging the sour stench of sweat, blood, and bottom-shelf whiskey with it. Their shoulder hit the wall, then their knee, as Hour tried to brace themself. Something fell—maybe a bottle from last week, maybe something meant to keep.
Everything spun, just a little. The light overhead flickered, unsure if it was the bulb or vision. Dried blood crusted their lips and ears, another beating delivered, another debt extended.
Another flicker, casting impossible shadows across the room. She loomed in the window, as if she was already there, watching the world pass by.
Her black wings hung heavy behind her, half-furled, as though she'd just returned from somewhere darker than night itself. They moved only slightly, breathing with her. Tense. Wary.
She didn’t move when Hour entered. No greeting. No gasp. Just a rigid silhouette wrapped in shadow, framed in silver moonlight that didn’t seem to touch her. Her head tilted slightly as if listening, not turning yet. The dark strands of her hair—tied up in a lopsided bun and ponytail on the right side—were loose in places, fraying like her patience. Not unkempt, but undone by time and toil.
Then, she finally turned causing every to go still, unnaturally so. Hour's vision sharpened an blurred, grounded only by the doorframe.
Crimson eyes lock on—glowing like coals about to burn out, sharp and unyielding. Not hateful. Not gentle. Just tired of what she saw, and unwilling to let it continue.
Her eyes shifted up and down, taking in the bruises, the blood, the choices. Utterly unimpressed.
And then, without a hint of sympathy, she spoke.
You're late.
No inflection. No welcome. Just judgment. She stepped forward, slow and measured, the shift of her wings a quiet warning.
I am Reina.
Her wings twitched behind her, heavy with history.
This is your last chance.
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