<div id="interface">
<div id="header" data-passage="Header"></div>
<div id="cathedral">
<div id="passages"></div>
</div>
<div id="menu">
<div id="menuButton" data-passage="Menu Button"></div>
</div>
</div>
<div id="menuLinks" data-passage="Menu Links"></div><<link "⮜┈┈┈╯">><<run Engine.backward();>><</link>>
<!-- 🌸🌸🌸 The text in this span will appear in the header 🌸🌸🌸 -->
<a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bloodlines-if" target="_blank"><span class="header-title">Bloodlines</span></a>
<!-- 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 -->
<span style="grid-column:3;"><<link "╰┈┈➤ˎˊ˗">><<run Engine.forward();>><</link>></span>
<<link "settings">><<run UI.settings();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>>
<<link "saves">><<run UI.saves();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><</link>>
<!----------------------------🌸🌸🌸-----If you don't want to use the
CHARACTER PROFILE, delete from HERE--------------------------------------------------->
<<link "character profile">><<run Dialog.create("Character Profile", "profile").wikiPassage("Character Profile").open();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>>
<!----------------------------🌸🌸🌸--------------to HERE------------------->
<!----------------------------🌸🌸🌸-----NEW CODEX SECTION------------------->
<<link "codex">><<run Dialog.create("Codex", "codex").wikiPassage("Codex").open();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>>
<!----------------------------🌸🌸🌸--------------END CODEX------------------->
<!----------------------------🌸🌸🌸-----NEW RELATIONSHIPS SECTION------------------->
<<link "relationships">><<run Dialog.create("Relationships", "relationships").wikiPassage("Relationships").open();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>>
<!----------------------------🌸🌸🌸--------------END RELATIONSHIPS------------------->
<<link "restart">><<run UI.restart();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>>
<<link "credits">><<run Dialog.create("Credits").wikiPassage("Credits").open();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>><!-- 🌸🌸🌸 Add your image in the src here 🌸🌸🌸 -->
<img class="character" src="https://placehold.co/400x600/transparent/FFF?text=L&font=roboto">
<!-- 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 -->
<h2>Character Profile</h2>
<div id="charInfo" class="character">
<!-- 🌸🌸🌸 Character's basic info 🌸🌸🌸 -->
<span>Name:</span> $fullName<<if $nickname>> "$nickname"<</if>>
<br>
<span>Age:</span> Mid-20s
<br>
<span>Gender:</span> <<if $gender is "cisgender-male">>Male<<elseif $gender is "cisgender-female">>Female<<elseif $gender is "transgender-male">>Trans Male<<elseif $gender is "transgender-female">>Trans Female<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>Non-binary<</if>>
<br>
<span>Pronouns:</span> $pronouns
<br>
<span>Style:</span> <<print $outfitStyle.charAt(0).toUpperCase() + $outfitStyle.slice(1)>>
<br>
<span>Career Background:</span> <<switch $background>><<case "investigative">>Investigative Journalist<<case "tabloid">>Tabloid Reporter<<case "whistle">>Whistleblower<<case "war">>War Correspondent<</switch>><br>
<span>Special Trait:</span> <<if $background is "war">>Hardened<<elseif $background is "whistle">>Relentless<<elseif $background is "tabloid">>Manipulation<<elseif $background is "investigative">>Stubborn<</if>>
<!-- 🌸🌸🌸 TO HERE 🌸🌸🌸 -->
</div>
<h2>Appearance</h2>
<div id="charBio" class='character'>
<p><div class="character-overview">
You have $hair hair styled $hairStyleDescription, pale $skinDescription, and $eyesDescription eyes that catch every flicker of truth. Your build is $bodyShapeDescription, carried with the presence of someone who is <<print $height>>. <<if $facialHair and $facialHair isnot "none">>$facialHairDescription frames your face.<</if>> <br><br>
<<if $freckleAndMoleDescriptions.length gt 0>>
Natural marks paint stories across your skin. You have <<print $freckleAndMoleDescriptions.join(", ")>>. <br><br>
<</if>>
<<if $bodyModifications.length gt 0>>You have some piercings: <<print $bodyModifications.join(", ")>>.<</if>> <br><br>
<<if $tattooDescriptions.length gt 0>>Ink marks your skin with <<print $tattooDescriptions.join(", ")>>.<</if>> <br><br>
<<if $scarDescriptions.length gt 0>>Scars remain: <<print $scarDescriptions.join(", ")>>.<</if>> <br><br>
Your style—$outfitStyleDescription—finishes the impression before you even speak.
</div></p>
</div>
<h2>Reputation</h2>
<div id="reputation" class='character'>
<div class="personality-grid">
<div class="trait-row">
<div class="trait-left">Liked: <<print 100 - ($disliked || 50)>>%</div>
<div class="trait-right">Disliked: <<print ($disliked || 50)>>%</div>
</div>
</div>
<h2>Personality</h2>
<div id="personality" class='character'>
<div class="personality-grid">
<div class="trait-row">
<div class="trait-left">Cutting: <<print 100 - ($deflecting || 50)>>%</div>
<div class="trait-right">Deflecting: <<print ($deflecting || 50)>>%</div>
</div>
<div class="trait-row">
<div class="trait-left">Reckless: <<print 100 - ($calculated || 50)>>%</div>
<div class="trait-right">Calculated: <<print ($calculated || 50)>>%</div>
</div>
<div class="trait-row">
<div class="trait-left">Hardened: <<print 100 - ($soft || 50)>>%</div>
<div class="trait-right">Soft(-ish): <<print ($soft || 50)>>%</div>
</div>
<div class="trait-row">
<div class="trait-left">Confrontational: <<print 100 - ($relaxed || 50)>>%</div>
<div class="trait-right">Relaxed: <<print ($relaxed || 50)>>%</div>
</div>
<div class="trait-row">
<div class="trait-left">Cynical: <<print 100 - ($hopeful || 50)>>%</div>
<div class="trait-right">Hopeful(-ish): <<print ($hopeful || 50)>>%</div>
</div>
<div class="trait-row">
<div class="trait-left">Methodical: <<print 100 - ($intuitive || 50)>>%</div>
<div class="trait-right">Intuitive: <<print ($intuitive || 50)>>%</div>
</div>
</div>
<h2>Professional Skills</h2>
<div id="skills" class='character'>
<div class="skill-section">
<div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Persuasion</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print $persuasion || 5>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $persuasion || 5>>%</span>
</div>
<p class="skill-desc">Skilled at interviews, prying info from tight-lipped sources, charming or pressuring when needed.</p>
<p class="skill-effect"><em>Unlocks special dialogue choices, easier to extract confessions/favors.</em></p>
</div>
<div class="skill-section">
<div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Research</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print $research || 5>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $research || 5>>%</span>
</div>
<p class="skill-desc">Expert at digging through archives, databases, old records, and obscure sources.</p>
<p class="skill-effect"><em>Uncovers hidden clues, secret backgrounds, historical connections.</em></p>
</div>
<div class="skill-section">
<div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Observation</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print $observation || 5>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $observation || 5>>%</span>
</div>
<p class="skill-desc">Hyper-aware of body language, surroundings, inconsistencies.</p>
<p class="skill-effect"><em>Notices hidden objects, lies, tells, and suspicious behavior faster.</em></p>
</div>
<div class="skill-section">
<div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Networking</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print $networking || 5>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $networking || 5>>%</span>
</div>
<p class="skill-desc">Knows how to work contacts, favors, backchannels, and dirty information trades.</p>
<p class="skill-effect"><em>Gains inside tips, earlier access to informants, shortcuts in investigation.</em></p>
</div>
<div class="skill-section">
<div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Writing/Storytelling</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print $writing || 5>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $writing || 5>>%</span>
</div>
<p class="skill-desc">Can twist facts into gripping narratives; frames information to manipulate public opinion.</p>
<p class="skill-effect"><em>Can shape public perception in key scenes, "spin" outcomes socially.</em></p>
</div>
</div>
<ul>
<li>//Leonora// UI Template by <a href="https://lapinlunaire-games.neocities.org/" target="_blank">LapinLunaireGames</a></li>
</ul>
<hr>
<ul>
<li>Twine Reference Guide by <a href="https://twinery.org/" target="_blank">Chris Klimas</a></li>
<li>SugarCube Documentation by <a href="http://www.motoslave.net/sugarcube/2/docs/" target="_blank">Thomas M. Edwards</a></li>
<li>100% Good Twine SugarCube Guide by <a href="https://manonamora.itch.io/twine-sugarcube-guide" target="_blank">manonamora</a></li>
<li>A Total Beginner's Guide to Twine 2.1 by <a href="https://www.adamhammond.com/twineguide/" target="_blank">Adam Hammond</a></li>
<li>Interactive Fiction - Twine Resource Megalist by <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/manonamora-if/700577877042888704/interactive-fiction-twine-resource-megalist" target="_blank">manonamora</a></li>
<li>Interactive Fiction Design, Coding in Twine & Other IF Resources by <a href="https://idrellegames.tumblr.com/post/664858800855089152/coding-in-twine-other-resources" target="_blank">idrellegames</a></li>
<li>CSS is Your Friend: The Basics of Changing Twine's Default Appearance by <a href="https://twinery.org/forum/discussion/1528/css-is-your-friend-the-basics-of-changing-twines-default-appearance-for-newbs" target="_blank">Twine Community</a></li>
<li>Interactive Fiction in the Humanities Classroom by <a href="https://programminghistorian.org/en/lessons/interactive-text-games-using-twine" target="_blank">Programming Historian</a></li>
<li>MDN Web Docs - JavaScript Adding Interactivity by <a href="https://developer.mozilla.org/en-US/docs/Learn_web_development/Getting_started/Your_first_website/Adding_interactivity" target="_blank">MDN Contributors</a></li>
<li>Game Accessibility Guidelines by <a href="https://gameaccessibilityguidelines.com/" target="_blank">Game Accessibility Guidelines</a></li>
<li>Writing IF by <a href="https://emshort.blog/how-to-play/writing-if/" target="_blank">Emily Short</a></li>
<li>Interactive Fiction Community Forum by <a href="https://intfiction.org/" target="_blank">IF Community</a></li>
</ul>
<span id="ascend">
<!-- 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 -->
<<link "✎ᝰ">>
<!-- 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸 -->
<<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">>
<<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">>
<<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">>
<<run setup.capo();>>
<<if not _clicked>>
<<run setup.mesura();>>
<<set _clicked to true>>
<</if>>
<</link>>
</span><!-- 🌸🌸🌸 Your title goes here 🌸🌸🌸 -->
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">Bloodlines</h1>
<!-- 🌸🌸🌸 🌸🌸🌸 -->
<div id="splashLinks">
[[Play|Intro]]
<<if (Save.browser.size > 0)>>
<<link "Load">>
<<run UI.saves();>>
<</link>>
<</if>>
<<link "Settings">><<run UI.settings();>><</link>>
<<link "Credits">><<run Dialog.create("Credits").wikiPassage("Credits").open();>><</link>>
</div><i>Welcome to <strong>Bloodlines</strong>—an 18+ dark, low/urban fantasy horror tale.</i>
<hr>
You’re a human journalist in Sordia, a decaying city where ancient bloodlines and powerful families run everything from the precincts to the press. They call you Leech—a slur, a warning, a name you’ve earned by exposing the rot no one else dares touch.<br><br>
Then your estranged sister shows up unannounced with a cryptic story, twelve photographs, and no explanations. Two people in the photos are already missing. You’re in one of them.<br><br>
Now you’re caught in a story bigger than you—and you’ll follow it, even if it kills you.<br><br>
<strong>Content Warnings include:</strong><br>
Graphic violence and gore, body horror, strong language/profanity, death and murder, disturbing imagery, blood and injury descriptions, mental health themes, supernatural horror elements, substance use, (optional) sexual content.<br>
<em>(This story is very dark and may not be suitable for everyone.)</em><br><br>
<div class="continue-button">
<<button "Create Your Character">>
<<goto "Name">>
<</button>>
</div>
<style>
.continue-button {
text-align: center;
margin-top: 2em;
}
.continue-button button {
padding: 1em 2em;
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2));
color: #ffffff;
border: none;
border-radius: 5px;
font-size: 1.1em;
font-weight: bold;
cursor: pointer;
transition: all 0.3s ease;
box-shadow: 0 0 15px var(--accent);
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8);
}
.continue-button button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent));
box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent);
transform: translateY(-2px);
}
/* Light mode */
.lm .continue-button button {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2));
color: #000000; /* Black text for light mode */
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3);
}
.lm .continue-button button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent));
}
</style><h2>Codex</h2>
<!-- 🌸🌸🌸 FROM HERE 🌸🌸🌸 -->
<div class="codex-section">
<h3>Bloodlines</h3>
<p>Eleven main bloodlines exist: Primordial, Umbra, Draegon, Seraph, Infernal, Fae, Abyssal, Ifrit, Manitou, Chronos and Chimaera.TBD</p>
</div>
<div class="codex-section">
<h3>Sordia</h3>
<p>A decaying metropolis built on the bones of old New York, where humans and bloodborns coexist in uneasy tension.TBD</p>
</div>
<div class="codex-section">
<h3>The Twenty-Three Families</h3>
<p>The ruling mix of old blood and old money who control the precincts, the papers, and the people.TBD</p>
</div>
<!-- 🌸🌸🌸 TO HERE 🌸🌸🌸 --><h2>Relationships</h2>
<div id="relationships" class='character'>
<div class="relationship-entry">
<h3>Maud</h3>
<div class="relationship-status">Sister - Estranged</div>
<div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Relationship</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print $maudstat>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $maudstat>>%</span>
</div>
<p>Your younger sister who only shows up when she wants something, never when you're ready.</p>
</div>
<div class="relationship-entry">
<h3>Uncle Ben</h3>
<div class="relationship-status">Uncle - Trusted</div>
<div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Relationship</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: 70%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent">70%</span>
</div>
<p>One of the few people who's never lied to you. Handles your digital security from his apartment.</p>
</div>
<div class="relationship-entry">
<h3><<print $aceName || "Ace Reid">></h3>
<div class="relationship-status">Best Friend - Close</div>
<div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Relationship</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print $acestat>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $acestat>>%</span>
</div>
<<if $ace_romance > 0>><div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Romance Points</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print Math.min($ace_romance * 10, 100)>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $ace_romance>></span>
</div><</if>>
<p>Your backup and one of the few people who'll still pick up when your name flashes on their phone.</p>
</div>
<div class="relationship-entry">
<h3>Nasir Khan</h3>
<div class="relationship-status">Boss - Complicated</div>
<div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Relationship</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print $nasirstat>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $nasirstat>>%</span>
</div>
<<if $nas_romance > 0>><div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Romance Points</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print Math.min($nas_romance * 10, 100)>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $nas_romance>></span>
</div><</if>>
<p>Your boss at Channel 6. Smooth talker with deep pockets and unclear motivations.</p>
</div>
<<if $ardenmet>><div class="relationship-entry">
<h3><<print $ardenName || "Dr. Arden">></h3>
<div class="relationship-status">Underground Doctor - Professional</div>
<div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Relationship</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print $ardenstat>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $ardenstat>>%</span>
</div>
<<if $arden_romance > 0>><div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Romance Points</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print Math.min($arden_romance * 10, 100)>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $arden_romance>></span>
</div><</if>>
<p>Blunt, cold doctor who patches up anyone who can crawl through their door.</p>
</div><</if>>
<<if $emet>><div class="relationship-entry">
<h3><<print $eName || "Egon/Emme Han">></h3>
<div class="relationship-status">CFO - Hostile</div>
<div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Relationship</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print $estat>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $estat>>%</span>
</div>
<<if $e_romance > 0>><div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Romance Points</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print Math.min($e_romance * 10, 100)>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $e_romance>></span>
</div><</if>>
<p>Heir to one of the most powerful Draegon families. They've hated you since your exposé on them.</p>
</div><</if>>
<<if $luzmet>><div class="relationship-entry">
<h3><<print $luzName || "Luz">></h3>
<div class="relationship-status">Crime Boss - Dangerous</div>
<div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Relationship</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print $luzstat>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $luzstat>>%</span>
</div>
<<if $luz_romance > 0>><div class="skill-header">
<span class="skill-name">Romance Points</span>
<div class="skill-bar"><div class="skill-fill" style="width: <<print Math.min($luz_romance * 10, 100)>>%"></div></div>
<span class="skill-percent"><<print $luz_romance>></span>
</div><</if>>
<p>Crime boss with too much charm and not nearly enough mercy.</p>
</div><</if>>
</div><<widget "setpronouns">>
<<if $pronouns is "he/him/his">>
<<set $mcHe = "he">>
<<set $mcHim = "him">>
<<set $mcHis = "his">>
<<set $mcHimself = "himself">>
<<set $mcHeC = "He">>
<<set $mcHimC = "Him">>
<<set $mcHisC = "His">>
<<set $mcHimselfC = "Himself">>
<<elseif $pronouns is "she/her/hers">>
<<set $mcHe = "she">>
<<set $mcHim = "her">>
<<set $mcHis = "her">>
<<set $mcHimself = "herself">>
<<set $mcHeC = "She">>
<<set $mcHimC = "Her">>
<<set $mcHisC = "Her">>
<<set $mcHimselfC = "Herself">>
<<elseif $pronouns is "they/them/theirs">>
<<set $mcHe = "they">>
<<set $mcHim = "them">>
<<set $mcHis = "their">>
<<set $mcHimself = "themselves">>
<<set $mcHeC = "They">>
<<set $mcHimC = "Them">>
<<set $mcHisC = "Their">>
<<set $mcHimselfC = "Themselves">>
<<elseif $pronouns is "xe/xem/xyr">>
<<set $mcHe = "xe">>
<<set $mcHim = "xem">>
<<set $mcHis = "xyr">>
<<set $mcHimself = "xemself">>
<<set $mcHeC = "Xe">>
<<set $mcHimC = "Xem">>
<<set $mcHisC = "Xyr">>
<<set $mcHimselfC = "Xemself">>
<<elseif $pronouns is "ze/hir/hirs">>
<<set $mcHe = "ze">>
<<set $mcHim = "hir">>
<<set $mcHis = "hirs">>
<<set $mcHimself = "hirself">>
<<set $mcHeC = "Ze">>
<<set $mcHimC = "Hir">>
<<set $mcHisC = "Hirs">>
<<set $mcHimselfC = "Hirself">>
<<elseif $pronouns is "ey/em/eir">>
<<set $mcHe = "ey">>
<<set $mcHim = "em">>
<<set $mcHis = "eir">>
<<set $mcHimself = "emself">>
<<set $mcHeC = "Ey">>
<<set $mcHimC = "Em">>
<<set $mcHisC = "Eir">>
<<set $mcHimselfC = "Emself">>
<</if>>
<</widget>><div class="character-creation-header">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">Create Your Character</h1>
<p class="subtitle">Who are you, little Leech?</p>
</div>
The mirror reflects a stranger's face back at you. <br><br>
Someone who's survived this long in Sordia's meat grinder through sheer bloody-minded persistence and a talent for asking the wrong questions at exactly the right time. Someone who's earned the nickname "Leech" through methods that keep you awake at three AM, staring at shadows that move when they shouldn't.<br><br>
But first things first. Names have power in this city. They open doors. They close caskets. <br><br>
What do people call you when they're trying to get your attention? And what do they call you when they're trying to get you killed?<br><br>
<div id="name-creation">
<div class="name-section">
<label for="firstName">First Name:</label>
<<textbox "$firstName" "" "firstName">>
<div class="suggestions-toggle">
<<link "Feminine Names">>
<<if $("#namesuggestions").html().trim() !== "">>
<<replace "#namesuggestions">><</replace>>
<<else>>
<<replace "#namesuggestions">>
<div class="name-suggestions">
<div class="name-option" data-name="Nyx" data-meaning="Goddess of night; shadow incarnate">Nyx</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Zara" data-meaning="Blooming flower; dawn's promise">Zara</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Kira" data-meaning="Killer; beam of light">Kira</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Nova" data-meaning="New star; explosive birth">Nova</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Raven" data-meaning="Dark messenger; death's herald">Raven</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Sable" data-meaning="Black; darkness given form">Sable</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Anya" data-meaning="Graceful killer; silent death">Anya</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Layla" data-meaning="Night's embrace; darkness incarnate">Layla</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Keiko" data-meaning="Blessed child; cursed gift">Keiko</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Esme" data-meaning="Beloved ghost; cherished shadow">Esme</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Nia" data-meaning="Purpose driven; relentless pursuit">Nia</div>
</div>
<</replace>>
<</if>>
<</link>> |
<<link "Masculine Names">>
<<if $("#namesuggestions").html().trim() !== "">>
<<replace "#namesuggestions">><</replace>>
<<else>>
<<replace "#namesuggestions">>
<div class="name-suggestions">
<div class="name-option" data-name="Cipher" data-meaning="Code; living mystery">Cipher</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Knox" data-meaning="Fortified hill; unbreakable">Knox</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Dex" data-meaning="Skilled hand; deadly precision">Dex</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Raze" data-meaning="To destroy; ground zero">Raze</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Voss" data-meaning="Cunning fox; street wisdom">Voss</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Zed" data-meaning="Final letter; the end of things">Zed</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Dante" data-meaning="Enduring soul; hell walker">Dante</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Omar" data-meaning="Long-lived; survivor's curse">Omar</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Enzo" data-meaning="Ruler of home; territory keeper">Enzo</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Leif" data-meaning="Heir apparent; inherited violence">Leif</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Ari" data-meaning="Lion heart; predator's pride">Ari</div>
</div>
<</replace>>
<</if>>
<</link>> |
<<link "Neutral Names">>
<<if $("#namesuggestions").html().trim() !== "">>
<<replace "#namesuggestions">><</replace>>
<<else>>
<<replace "#namesuggestions">>
<div class="name-suggestions">
<div class="name-option" data-name="River" data-meaning="Flowing current; unstoppable force">River</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Soren" data-meaning="Stern judgment; harsh truth">Soren</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Indigo" data-meaning="Deep blue; midnight shade">Indigo</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Paz" data-meaning="False peace; calm before storm">Paz</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Quinn" data-meaning="Descendant of chiefs; inherited power">Quinn</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Sage" data-meaning="Wise oracle; truth seeker">Sage</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Phoenix" data-meaning="Rising from ashes; rebirth">Phoenix</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Vale" data-meaning="Valley of shadows; farewell">Vale</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Ember" data-meaning="Glowing coal; dying fire">Ember</div>
<div class="name-option" data-name="Onyx" data-meaning="Black stone; impenetrable">Onyx</div>
</div>
<</replace>>
<</if>>
<</link>>
</div>
<div id="namesuggestions"></div>
</div>
<div class="name-section">
<label for="lastName">Last Name:</label>
<<textbox "$lastName" "" "lastName">>
<div class="suggestions-toggle">
<<link "Surname Suggestions">>
<<if $("#lastnamesuggestions").html().trim() !== "">>
<<replace "#lastnamesuggestions">><</replace>>
<<else>>
<<replace "#lastnamesuggestions">>
<div class="name-suggestions">
<div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Cross" data-meaning="Intersection of paths; burden bearer">Cross</div>
<div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Steele" data-meaning="Unbreakable metal; cold resolve">Steele</div>
<div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Kane" data-meaning="Warrior; battle-hardened">Kane</div>
<div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Graves" data-meaning="Final resting place; keeper of secrets">Graves</div>
<div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Nakamura" data-meaning="Middle village; hidden settlement">Nakamura</div>
<div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Volkov" data-meaning="Wolf blood; pack hunter">Volkov</div>
<div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Santos" data-meaning="Sacred souls; blessed dead">Santos</div>
<div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Okafor" data-meaning="Market warrior; trade blade">Okafor</div>
<div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Reyes" data-meaning="Fallen kings; lost crown">Reyes</div>
</div>
<</replace>>
<</if>>
<</link>>
</div>
<div id="lastnamesuggestions"></div>
</div>
<div class="name-section">
<label for="nickname">Nickname (Optional):</label>
<<textbox "$nickname" "" "nickname">>
<p class="helper-text">Most people call you "Leech," but some might know you by something else.</p>
</div>
<div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;">
Please enter both a first and last name before continuing.
</div>
<div class="continue-button">
<<button "Continue to Character Details">>
<<set _firstName to $firstName.trim()>>
<<set _lastName to $lastName.trim()>>
<<if _firstName is "" or _lastName is "">>
<<replace "#error-message">>Please enter both a first and last name before continuing.<</replace>>
<<run $("#error-message").show().delay(3000).fadeOut()>>
<<else>>
<<set $fullName to _firstName + " " + _lastName>>
<<run $("#error-message").hide()>>
<<goto "Character Details">>
<</if>>
<</button>>
</div>
</div>
<style>
.character-creation-header {
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 2em;
}
.name-section {
margin-bottom: 1.5em;
}
.name-section label {
display: block;
margin-bottom: 0.5em;
color: var(--accent);
font-weight: bold;
text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent);
}
.name-section input {
width: 100%;
padding: 0.5em;
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.7);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
color: var(--text);
border-radius: 3px;
margin-bottom: 0.5em;
}
.suggestions-toggle {
margin-bottom: 0.5em;
font-size: 0.9em;
}
.suggestions-toggle a {
color: var(--accent2);
text-decoration: underline;
transition: all 0.3s ease;
}
.suggestions-toggle a:hover {
color: var(--accent);
text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent);
}
.name-suggestions {
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
padding: 1em;
border-radius: 5px;
margin-bottom: 1em;
box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
}
.name-option {
color: var(--accent);
font-weight: bold;
cursor: pointer;
margin-bottom: 0.5em;
padding: 0.4em 0.6em;
border-radius: 3px;
transition: all 0.3s ease;
display: block;
position: relative;
border-left: 3px solid transparent;
}
.name-option:hover {
color: var(--accent2);
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1);
text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent);
border-left: 3px solid var(--accent);
transform: translateX(5px);
}
/* Fixed tooltip positioning - directly above the name */
.name-option::before {
content: attr(data-meaning);
position: absolute;
bottom: calc(100% + 5px);
left: 0;
right: 0;
margin: 0 auto;
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.95);
color: var(--text);
padding: 0.5em 0.7em;
border-radius: 4px;
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
font-size: 0.8em;
font-weight: normal;
white-space: nowrap;
opacity: 0;
visibility: hidden;
transition: opacity 0.3s, visibility 0.3s;
z-index: 1000;
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.3);
text-align: center;
pointer-events: none;
}
.name-option:hover::before {
opacity: 1;
visibility: visible;
}
.helper-text {
font-size: 0.9em;
color: var(--accent2);
font-style: italic;
margin-top: 0.3em;
}
.error-message {
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
color: var(--accent2);
padding: 1em;
border-radius: 5px;
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 1em;
font-weight: bold;
animation: pulse 0.5s ease-in-out;
}
@keyframes pulse {
0% { transform: scale(1); }
50% { transform: scale(1.02); }
100% { transform: scale(1); }
}
.continue-button {
text-align: center;
margin-top: 2em;
}
.continue-button button {
padding: 1em 2em;
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2));
color: #ffffff;
border: none;
border-radius: 5px;
font-size: 1.1em;
font-weight: bold;
cursor: pointer;
transition: all 0.3s ease;
box-shadow: 0 0 15px var(--accent);
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8);
}
.continue-button button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent));
box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent);
transform: translateY(-2px);
}
/* Light mode */
.lm .name-suggestions {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.9);
box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2);
}
.lm .name-section input {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.7);
color: var(--text);
}
.lm .name-option:hover {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1);
border-left: 3px solid var(--accent);
}
.lm .name-option::before {
background: rgba(248, 246, 240, 0.95);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
color: var(--text);
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.3);
}
.lm .error-message {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
color: var(--accent2);
}
.lm .continue-button button {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2));
color: #000000; /* Black text for light mode */
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3);
}
.lm .continue-button button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent));
}
</style>
<<script>>
$(document).on('click', '.name-option', function() {
var nameValue = $(this).data('name');
var isLastName = $(this).hasClass('lastname-option');
if (isLastName) {
State.variables.lastName = nameValue;
$('#textbox-lastname').val(nameValue);
} else {
State.variables.firstName = nameValue;
$('#textbox-firstname').val(nameValue);
}
});
<</script>>/* MC Info */
<<set $firstName to "">>
<<set $lastName to "">>
<<set $fullName to "">>
<<set $nickname to "">>
/* Character Details Variables */
<<set $gender to "">>
<<set $pronouns to "">>
<<set $title to "">>
<<set $height to "">>
/* MC Pronoun Variables */
<<set $mcHe = "">>
<<set $mcHim = "">>
<<set $mcHis = "">>
<<set $mcHimself = "">>
<<set $mcHeC = "">>
<<set $mcHimC = "">>
<<set $mcHisC = "">>
<<set $mcHimselfC = "">>
/* Character Appearance Variables */
/* Skin */
<<set $skin to "">>
<<set $skinDescription to "">>
/* Hair */
<<set $hair to "">>
<<set $hairDescription to "">>
<<set $hairTexture to "">>
<<set $hairTextureDescription to "">>
<<set $hairLength to "">>
<<set $hairLengthDescription to "">>
<<set $hairStyle to "">>
<<set $hairStyleDescription to "">>
<<set $headCovering to "">>
<<set $headCoveringDescription to "">>
/* Facial Hair */
<<set $facialHair to "">>
<<set $facialHairDescription to "">>
/* Eyes */
<<set $eyes to "">>
<<set $eyesDescription to "">>
/* Body */
<<set $bodyShape to "">>
<<set $bodyShapeDescription to "">>
<<set $chestType to "">>
<<set $chestTypeDescription to "">>
/* Genitalia */
<<set $genitalia to "">>
<<set $genitaliaDescription to "">>
/* Style */
<<set $outfitStyle to "">>
<<set $outfitStyleDescription to "">>
<<set $piercings to []>>
<<set $tattoos to []>>
<<set $scars to []>>
<<set $jewelry to []>>
<<set $accessories to []>>
/* Preferences */
<<set $complimentary to "">>
State.variables.eyewear = "";
State.variables.sexuality = "";
/* MC Variables 2 */
<<set $background to "">>
<<set $persuasion to 5>>
<<set $research to 5>>
<<set $observation to 5>>
<<set $networking to 5>>
<<set $writing to 5>>
<<set $motivationChoice to "">>
<<set $nervousTick to "">>
<<set $investigationTheory to "">>
<<set $specialTrait to "">>
/* personality stats */
<<set $disliked to 50>>
<<set $deflecting to 50>> // Opposed to "cutting"
<<set $calculated to 50>> // Opposed to "reckless"
<<set $soft to 50>> // Opposed to "hardened"
<<set $relaxed to 50>> // Opposed to "confrontational"
<<set $hopeful to 50>> // Opposed to "cynical"
<<set $intuitive to 50>> // Opposed to "methodical"
/* flirt stats */
<<set $awkward to 50>>
<<set $bold to 50>>
<<set $clumsy to 50>>
<<set $oblivious to 50>>
<<set $shy to 50>>
/* Vice Variables */
State.variables.vice = "";
<<set $vice to "">>
State.variables.addiction = 0;
State.variables.recklessness = 0;
State.variables.isolation = 0;
/* Game Variables */
<<set $romance to "♡">>
<<set $poly to "♥♥">>
State.variables.triggers = "";
<<set $acemet = false>>
<<set $ardenmet = false>>
<<set $emet = false>>
<<set $luzmet = false>>
State.variables.maudmet = false;
State.variables.benmet = false;
<<set $ace_romance = 0>>
<<set $arden_romance = 0>>
<<set $e_romance = 0>>
<<set $luz_romance = 0>>
<<set $nas_romance = 0>>
/* RO Variables */
State.variables.aceName = "";
State.variables.aceHe = "";
State.variables.aceHim = "";
State.variables.aceHis = "";
State.variables.aceGender = "";
State.variables.aceHeC = "";
State.variables.aceHimC = "";
State.variables.aceHisC = "";
State.variables.ardenName = "";
State.variables.ardenHe = "";
State.variables.ardenHim = "";
State.variables.ardenHis = "";
State.variables.ardenGender = "";
State.variables.ardenHeC = "";
State.variables.ardenHimC = "";
State.variables.ardenHisC = "";
State.variables.eName = "";
State.variables.eHe = "";
State.variables.eHim = "";
State.variables.eHis = "";
State.variables.eGender = "";
State.variables.eHeC = "";
State.variables.eHimC = "";
State.variables.eHisC = "";
State.variables.luzName = "";
State.variables.luzHe = "";
State.variables.luzHim = "";
State.variables.luzHis = "";
State.variables.luzGender = "";
State.variables.luzHeC = "";
State.variables.luzHimC = "";
State.variables.luzHisC = "";
/* RO Variables 2 */
State.variables.acestat = 70;
<<set $relationshipType to "">>
State.variables.ardenstat = 10;
State.variables.estat = 0;
State.variables.luzstat = 05;
/* secret stats */
State.variables.forjustice = 0;
State.variables.forself = 0;
State.variables.forrevenge = 0;
State.variables.moral = 0;
State.variables.corrupt = 0;
/*Codex */
<<set $codex1 to false>>
<<set $codex2 to false>>
<<set $codex3 to false>>
<<set $codex4 to false>>
<<set $codex5 to false>>
/* cast and varriables*/
<<set $metjake to false>>
<<set $metisla to false>>
<<set $metvex to false>>
<<set $metsam to false>>
<<set $maudstat to 10>>
<<set $jakestat to 30>>
<<set $islastat to 15>>
<<set $vexstat to 15>>
<<set $samstat to 5>>
<<set $siblingRelationship to "">>
/* Half RO Variables */
State.variables.nas_hookup = false;
State.variables.nasirPosition = "";
State.variables.nasirstat = 10;
<div class="character-creation-header">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">Identity</h1>
<p class="subtitle">The mirror doesn't lie. Neither should you.</p>
</div>
The name settles around you like a second skin.
<<set $fullName to $firstName + " " + $lastName>>
$fullName. It has weight. History. The kind of name that gets whispered in newsroom corners when editors think no one's listening. The kind that makes sources either trust you completely or hang up the phone. <<if $nickname and $nickname.trim() neq "">>Some people know you as $nickname, though "Leech" is what most call you. Names are layers in this city. Public faces and private truths.<</if>><br><br>
But identity runs deeper than names. Sordia doesn't care what's written on your birth certificate. It cares about what you are. How you move through the world. How the world moves around you.<br><br>
The streets will judge you in seconds. Corporate boardrooms will dissect your every gesture. Sources will decide whether you're worth trusting based on assumptions they make before you speak a word.<br><br>
Who are you, really? Strip away the pretense, the professional armor, the careful masks everyone wears in this city of liars and predators.<br><br>
<div id="character-details">
<div class="identity-section">
<h3>Gender Identity</h3>
<p class="section-description">How do you see yourself? How do you want the world to see you?</p>
<div class="radio-options">
<<radiobutton "$gender" "cisgender-male">> Cisgender Male<br>
<<radiobutton "$gender" "transgender-male">> Transgender Male<br>
<<radiobutton "$gender" "cisgender-female">> Cisgender Female<br>
<<radiobutton "$gender" "transgender-female">> Transgender Female<br>
<<radiobutton "$gender" "nonbinary">> Non-binary
</div>
</div>
<div class="identity-section">
<h3>Pronouns</h3>
<p class="section-description">What pronouns do you use? In Sordia, getting this wrong can end conversations before they start.</p>
<div class="radio-options">
<<radiobutton "$pronouns" "he/him/his">> He/Him/His<br>
<<radiobutton "$pronouns" "she/her/hers">> She/Her/Hers<br>
<<radiobutton "$pronouns" "they/them/theirs">> They/Them/Theirs<br>
<<radiobutton "$pronouns" "xe/xem/xyr">> Xe/Xem/Xyr<br>
<<radiobutton "$pronouns" "ze/hir/hirs">> Ze/Hir/Hirs<br>
<<radiobutton "$pronouns" "ey/em/eir">> Ey/Em/Eir
</div>
</div>
<div class="identity-section">
<h3>Title</h3>
<p class="section-description">Formal titles matter in journalism. Some editors still care about these things. Others will use them as weapons.</p>
<div class="radio-options">
<<radiobutton "$title" "mr">> Mr.<br>
<<radiobutton "$title" "ms">> Ms.<br>
<<radiobutton "$title" "mx">> Mx.<br>
<<radiobutton "$title" "none">> No title preference
</div>
</div>
<div class="identity-section">
<h3>Height</h3>
<p class="section-description">Physical presence matters when you're walking into rooms full of people who want you dead. Every inch counts when intimidation is measured in millimeters.</p>
<div class="radio-options">
<<radiobutton "$height" "very-short">> Very Short (5'0" and under) - What you lack in height, you make up for in determination<br>
<<radiobutton "$height" "short">> Short (5'1" - 5'4") - Underestimated. Often. Their mistake.<br>
<<radiobutton "$height" "average">> Average (5'5" - 5'9") - Blends into crowds. Useful in your line of work.<br>
<<radiobutton "$height" "tall">> Tall (5'10" - 6'0") - Commands attention without trying<br>
<<radiobutton "$height" "very-tall">> Very Tall (6'1" - 6'4") - Impossible to ignore. For better or worse.<br>
<<radiobutton "$height" "towering">> Towering (6'5" - 6'8") - You cast shadows even in broad daylight
</div>
</div>
<div class="identity-section">
<h3>Romantic Preferences</h3>
<p class="section-description">When relationships bloom in this wasteland—if they bloom—what kind of compliments make you feel seen rather than patronized?</p>
<div class="radio-options">
<<radiobutton "$complimentary" "masculine">> Traditionally Masculine (handsome, strong, commanding)<br>
<<radiobutton "$complimentary" "feminine">> Traditionally Feminine (beautiful, elegant, graceful)<br>
<<radiobutton "$complimentary" "either">> Either Masculine or Feminine (handsome, beautiful, whatever fits)<br>
<<radiobutton "$complimentary" "neutral">> Gender-Neutral (stunning, attractive, captivating)
</div>
</div>
<div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;">
Complete all sections before proceeding. In Sordia, half-truths get you killed.
</div>
<div class="continue-button">
<<button "Continue to Appearance">>
<<if !$gender or !$pronouns or !$title or !$height or !$complimentary>>
<<replace "#error-message">>Complete all sections before proceeding. In Sordia, half-truths get you killed.<</replace>>
<<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>>
<<else>>
<<setpronouns>>
<<run $("#error-message").hide()>>
<<goto "Character Appearance">>
<</if>>
<</button>>
</div>
<<widget "setpronouns">>
<<if $pronouns is "he/him/his">>
<<set $mcHe = "he">>
<<set $mcHim = "him">>
<<set $mcHis = "his">>
<<set $mcHimself = "himself">>
<<set $mcHeC = "He">>
<<set $mcHimC = "Him">>
<<set $mcHisC = "His">>
<<set $mcHimselfC = "Himself">>
<<elseif $pronouns is "she/her/hers">>
<<set $mcHe = "she">>
<<set $mcHim = "her">>
<<set $mcHis = "her">>
<<set $mcHimself = "herself">>
<<set $mcHeC = "She">>
<<set $mcHimC = "Her">>
<<set $mcHisC = "Her">>
<<set $mcHimselfC = "Herself">>
<<elseif $pronouns is "they/them/theirs">>
<<set $mcHe = "they">>
<<set $mcHim = "them">>
<<set $mcHis = "their">>
<<set $mcHimself = "themselves">>
<<set $mcHeC = "They">>
<<set $mcHimC = "Them">>
<<set $mcHisC = "Their">>
<<set $mcHimselfC = "Themselves">>
<<elseif $pronouns is "xe/xem/xyr">>
<<set $mcHe = "xe">>
<<set $mcHim = "xem">>
<<set $mcHis = "xyr">>
<<set $mcHimself = "xemself">>
<<set $mcHeC = "Xe">>
<<set $mcHimC = "Xem">>
<<set $mcHisC = "Xyr">>
<<set $mcHimselfC = "Xemself">>
<<elseif $pronouns is "ze/hir/hirs">>
<<set $mcHe = "ze">>
<<set $mcHim = "hir">>
<<set $mcHis = "hirs">>
<<set $mcHimself = "hirself">>
<<set $mcHeC = "Ze">>
<<set $mcHimC = "Hir">>
<<set $mcHisC = "Hirs">>
<<set $mcHimselfC = "Hirself">>
<<elseif $pronouns is "ey/em/eir">>
<<set $mcHe = "ey">>
<<set $mcHim = "em">>
<<set $mcHis = "eir">>
<<set $mcHimself = "emself">>
<<set $mcHeC = "Ey">>
<<set $mcHimC = "Em">>
<<set $mcHisC = "Eir">>
<<set $mcHimselfC = "Emself">>
<</if>>
<</widget>>
<style>
.character-creation-header {
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 2em;
}
.identity-section {
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
padding: 1.5em;
margin-bottom: 1.5em;
border-radius: 5px;
box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1);
transition: all 0.3s ease;
}
.identity-section:hover {
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
transform: translateY(-2px);
}
.identity-section h3 {
color: var(--accent);
margin-bottom: 0.5em;
font-family: var(--accentFont);
text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent);
font-size: 1.3em;
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.section-description {
color: var(--accent2);
font-style: italic;
margin-bottom: 1.2em;
font-size: 0.95em;
line-height: 1.4;
border-left: 3px solid var(--accent);
padding-left: 1em;
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05);
padding: 0.8em 0 0.8em 1em;
border-radius: 0 3px 3px 0;
}
.radio-options {
color: var(--text);
line-height: 1.8;
}
/* Radio button styling */
.radio-options input[type="radio"] {
margin-right: 0.8em;
margin-bottom: 0.1em;
accent-color: var(--accent);
transform: scale(1.2);
cursor: pointer;
}
.radio-options input[type="radio"]:checked {
accent-color: var(--accent2);
}
.error-message {
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
color: var(--accent2);
padding: 1em;
border-radius: 5px;
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 1em;
font-weight: bold;
animation: pulse 0.5s ease-in-out;
}
@keyframes pulse {
0% { transform: scale(1); }
50% { transform: scale(1.02); }
100% { transform: scale(1); }
}
.continue-button {
text-align: center;
margin-top: 2em;
}
.continue-button button {
padding: 1.2em 2.5em;
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2));
color: #ffffff;
border: none;
border-radius: 5px;
font-size: 1.2em;
font-weight: bold;
cursor: pointer;
transition: all 0.3s ease;
box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent);
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8);
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.continue-button button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent));
box-shadow: 0 0 25px var(--accent);
transform: translateY(-3px);
}
/* Light mode adjustments */
.lm .identity-section {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.3);
box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1);
}
.lm .identity-section:hover {
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2);
}
.lm .section-description {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05);
border-left: 3px solid var(--accent);
}
.lm .radio-options input[type="radio"] {
accent-color: var(--accent);
}
.lm .radio-options input[type="radio"]:checked {
accent-color: var(--accent2);
}
.lm .error-message {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
color: var(--accent2);
}
.lm .continue-button button {
color: #000000;
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3);
}
</style><div class="character-creation-header">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">Appearance</h1>
<p class="subtitle">The flesh tells stories the mouth won't speak.</p>
</div>
<<set $fullName to $firstName + " " + $lastName>>
In Sordia, appearance is armor. Currency. Weapon. <br><br>
You've learned to read the language written in flesh and bone. The way certain editors assign stories based on what they think your face can access. The doors that open. The ones that slam shut.<br><br>
What do you look like?<br><br>
<div class="character-name">$fullName<<if $nickname>> (a.k.a. "$nickname")<</if>></div>
<div id="character-details">
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Skin</h3>
<p class="section-description">Choose your skin colour.</p>
<div class="skin-options">
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Standard Tones</h4>
<<radiobutton "$skin" "porcelain">> Porcelain<br>
<<radiobutton "$skin" "fair">> Fair<br>
<<radiobutton "$skin" "light">> Light<br>
<<radiobutton "$skin" "tan">> Tan<br>
<<radiobutton "$skin" "tanned beige">> Tanned beige<br>
<<radiobutton "$skin" "bronze beige">> Bronze beige<br>
<<radiobutton "$skin" "golden brown">> Golden brown<br>
<<radiobutton "$skin" "russet brown">> Russet brown<br>
<<radiobutton "$skin" "dark brown">> Dark brown<br>
<<radiobutton "$skin" "ebony">> Ebony<br>
</div>
<div class="option-group special-options">
<h4>Distinctive Variations</h4>
<<radiobutton "$skin" "vitiligo">> Vitiligo<br>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;">
Choose how the world sees you. In Sordia, neutrality is a luxury no one can afford.
</div>
<div class="continue-button">
<<button "Continue to Hair">>
<<if !$skin>>
<<replace "#error-message">>Choose how the world sees you. In Sordia, neutrality is a luxury no one can afford.<</replace>>
<<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>>
<<else>>
<<switch $skin>>
<<case "porcelain">><<set $skinDescription to "porcelain skin">>
<<case "fair">><<set $skinDescription to "fair skin">>
<<case "light">><<set $skinDescription to "light skin">>
<<case "tan">><<set $skinDescription to "tan skin">>
<<case "tanned beige">><<set $skinDescription to "tanned beige skin">>
<<case "bronze beige">><<set $skinDescription to "bronze beige skin">>
<<case "golden brown">><<set $skinDescription to "golden brown skin">>
<<case "russet brown">><<set $skinDescription to "russet brown skin">>
<<case "dark brown">><<set $skinDescription to "dark brown skin">>
<<case "ebony">><<set $skinDescription to "ebony skin">>
<<case "vitiligo">><<set $skinDescription to "your skin is marked by vitiligo">>
<</switch>>
<<run $("#error-message").hide()>>
<<goto "Hair">>
<</if>>
<</button>>
</div>
<style>
.character-creation-header {
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 2em;
}
.character-name {
font-size: 1.3em;
color: var(--accent);
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 2em;
font-weight: bold;
text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent);
border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent);
padding-bottom: 1em;
}
.appearance-section {
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
padding: 1.5em;
margin-bottom: 1.5em;
border-radius: 5px;
box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1);
transition: all 0.3s ease;
}
.appearance-section:hover {
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
transform: translateY(-2px);
}
.appearance-section h3 {
color: var(--accent);
margin-bottom: 0.5em;
font-family: var(--accentFont);
text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent);
font-size: 1.4em;
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.section-description {
color: var(--accent2);
font-style: italic;
margin-bottom: 1.5em;
font-size: 0.95em;
line-height: 1.4;
border-left: 3px solid var(--accent);
padding-left: 1em;
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05);
padding: 0.8em 0 0.8em 1em;
border-radius: 0 3px 3px 0;
}
.skin-options {
display: flex;
flex-direction: column;
gap: 1.5em;
}
.option-group {
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent2);
padding: 1.2em;
border-radius: 5px;
box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1);
}
.option-group h4 {
color: var(--accent2);
margin-bottom: 1em;
font-size: 1.1em;
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent2);
padding-bottom: 0.5em;
}
.special-options {
border-color: var(--accent);
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05);
}
.special-options h4 {
color: var(--accent);
border-bottom-color: var(--accent);
}
.skin-options input[type="radio"] {
margin-right: 0.8em;
margin-bottom: 0.1em;
accent-color: var(--accent);
transform: scale(1.2);
cursor: pointer;
}
.skin-options input[type="radio"]:checked {
accent-color: var(--accent2);
}
.skin-options {
color: var(--text);
line-height: 1.8;
}
.error-message {
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
color: var(--accent2);
padding: 1em;
border-radius: 5px;
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 1em;
font-weight: bold;
animation: pulse 0.5s ease-in-out;
}
@keyframes pulse {
0% { transform: scale(1); }
50% { transform: scale(1.02); }
100% { transform: scale(1); }
}
.continue-button {
text-align: center;
margin-top: 2em;
}
.continue-button button {
padding: 1.2em 2.5em;
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2));
color: #ffffff;
border: none;
border-radius: 5px;
font-size: 1.2em;
font-weight: bold;
cursor: pointer;
transition: all 0.3s ease;
box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent);
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8);
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.continue-button button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent));
box-shadow: 0 0 25px var(--accent);
transform: translateY(-3px);
}
/* Light mode adjustments */
.lm .appearance-section {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.3);
box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1);
}
.lm .appearance-section:hover {
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2);
}
.lm .section-description {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05);
border-left: 3px solid var(--accent);
}
.lm .option-group {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.2);
border-color: var(--accent2);
box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1);
}
.lm .special-options {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05);
border-color: var(--accent);
}
.lm .skin-options input[type="radio"] {
accent-color: var(--accent);
}
.lm .skin-options input[type="radio"]:checked {
accent-color: var(--accent2);
}
.lm .error-message {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
color: var(--accent2);
}
.lm .continue-button button {
color: #000000;
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3);
}
</style><div class="character-creation-header">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">Eyes & Face</h1>
<p class="subtitle">Windows to souls that have seen too much.</p>
</div>
In Sordia, eyes are weapons. Currency. Confessional booths where secrets spill without permission.<br><br>
You've learned to read the language written in iris and pupil. The slight dilation that betrays a lie. The way certain eye colors open doors while others slam them shut. The sources who trust blue eyes, the contacts who fear brown ones, the editors who promote based on assumptions they make about intelligence written in genetic lottery.<br><br>
Your eyes have watched corruption bloom in boardrooms. Have stared down the barrels of guns held by people who thought you knew too much. Have reflected the flames of buildings burned to hide evidence, the neon of clubs where information gets traded like flesh, the fluorescent glare of morgues where stories end.<br><br>
What do your eyes reveal? What do they hide?<br><br>
<div class="character-name">$fullName<<if $nickname>> (a.k.a. "$nickname")<</if>></div>
<div id="character-details">
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Eyes</h3>
<p class="section-description">The mirrors of souls that reflect too much truth for this city's comfort.</p>
<div class="eye-options">
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Standard Colors</h4>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "light-blue">> Light Blue - Crystalline ice that suggests innocence until you look closer<br>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "deep-blue">> Deep Blue - Sapphire depths that hide secrets beneath beauty<br>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "gray-blue">> Gray-Blue - Storm clouds that shift between trust and suspicion<br>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "light-green">> Light Green - Pale jade that seems to see through every deception<br>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "emerald-green">> Emerald Green - Rich forest depths that suggest ancient wisdom<br>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "hazel-green">> Hazel-Green - Shifting verdant gold that changes with mood and lighting<br>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "amber">> Amber - Golden fire that burns with intelligence and predatory awareness<br>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "light-brown">> Light Brown - Warm honey that invites confidence before exploiting it<br>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "dark-brown">> Dark Brown - Deep earth that reveals nothing until you earn the privilege<br>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "gray">> Gray - Silver steel that reflects the world back without judgment<br>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "violet">> Violet - Rare purple that marks you as different, memorable, potentially dangerous
</div>
<div class="option-group special-options">
<h4>Heterochromia</h4>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "hetero-blue-green">> Blue & Green - One eye trusts, one eye questions, both remember everything<br>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "hetero-brown-blue">> Brown & Blue - Warmth and ice in perfect contradiction<br>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "hetero-green-brown">> Green & Brown - Forest and earth, nature's own rebellion<br>
<<radiobutton "$eyes" "hetero-gray-amber">> Gray & Amber - Steel and fire, logic and passion at war<br>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="appearance-section" id="facial-hair-section">
<h3>Facial Hair</h3>
<p class="section-description">Do you have facial hair?</p>
<div class="facial-hair-options">
<<radiobutton "$facialHair" "none">> None<br>
<<radiobutton "$facialHair" "stubble">> Stubble<br>
<<radiobutton "$facialHair" "moustache">> Moustache <br>
<<radiobutton "$facialHair" "goatee">> Goatee <br>
<<radiobutton "$facialHair" "short-beard">> Short Beard<br>
<<radiobutton "$facialHair" "full-beard">> Full Beard <br>
<<radiobutton "$facialHair" "long-beard">> Long Beard <br>
<<radiobutton "$facialHair" "soul-patch">> Soul Patch<br>
<<radiobutton "$facialHair" "sideburns">> Sideburns <br>
<<radiobutton "$facialHair" "anchor">> Anchor Beard
</div>
</div>
<div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;">
Complete your reflection before proceeding. In Sordia, unfinished faces suggest unfinished thoughts.
</div>
<div class="continue-button">
<<button "Continue to Body">>
<<if !$eyes>>
<<replace "#error-message">>Choose how the world sees into your soul. Eyes cannot lie in Sordia.<</replace>>
<<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>>
<<elseif ($gender is "cisgender-male" or $gender is "transgender-male" or $gender is "nonbinary") and !$facialHair>>
<<replace "#error-message">>Select your facial hair choice. Even none is a choice.<</replace>>
<<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>>
<<else>>
<<if $gender is "cisgender-female" or $gender is "transgender-female">>
<<set $facialHair to "none">>
<</if>>
<<switch $eyes>>
<<case "light-blue">><<set $eyesDescription to "light blue eyes like winter sky, clear and cold">>
<<case "deep-blue">><<set $eyesDescription to "deep blue eyes like sapphire depths, beautiful and mesmerizing">>
<<case "gray-blue">><<set $eyesDescription to "gray-blue eyes like storm clouds, shifting between warmth and warning">>
<<case "light-green">><<set $eyesDescription to "light green eyes like pale jade, seeming to see through every lie, every careful construction, every mask people wear">>
<<case "emerald-green">><<set $eyesDescription to "Emerald green eyes that burn with intelligence, beautiful and dangerous as cut gems, impossible to ignore.">>
<<case "hazel-green">><<set $eyesDescription to "Hazel-green eyes flecked with gold that shift color with lighting and emotion, impossible to categorize or predict.">>
<<case "amber">><<set $eyesDescription to "Amber eyes like liquid gold, burning with predatory intelligence that misses nothing and forgives even less.">>
<<case "light-brown">><<set $eyesDescription to "Light brown eyes warm as honey, inviting trust and confidence before using both as weapons when necessary.">>
<<case "dark-brown">><<set $eyesDescription to "Dark brown eyes deep as rich earth, revealing nothing until you've earned the privilege of seeing beneath the surface.">>
<<case "gray">><<set $eyesDescription to "Gray eyes like polished steel, reflecting the world back without judgment, impossible to read or manipulate.">>
<<case "violet">><<set $eyesDescription to "Violet eyes rare as genetic lottery, purple depths that mark you as different, memorable, impossible to forget.">>
<<case "hetero-blue-green">><<set $eyesDescription to "Heterochromatic eyes - one blue, one green - that create double takes and lingering stares, each eye telling different stories.">>
<<case "hetero-brown-blue">><<set $eyesDescription to "Heterochromatic eyes - one brown, one blue - warmth and ice in perfect contradiction, impossible to ignore or categorize.">>
<<case "hetero-green-brown">><<set $eyesDescription to "Heterochromatic eyes - one green, one brown - forest and earth in genetic rebellion, beautiful and unsettling in equal measure.">>
<<case "hetero-gray-amber">><<set $eyesDescription to "Heterochromatic eyes - one gray, one amber - steel and fire, logic and passion at war in every glance.">>
<</switch>>
<<if $facialHair is "none">>
<<set $facialHairDescription to "none">>
<<else>>
<<switch $facialHair>>
<<case "stubble">><<set $facialHairDescription to "stubbles">>
<<case "moustache">><<set $facialHairDescription to "moustache">>
<<case "goatee">><<set $facialHairDescription to "goatee">>
<<case "short-beard">><<set $facialHairDescription to "short beard">>
<<case "full-beard">><<set $facialHairDescription to "full beard">>
<<case "long-beard">><<set $facialHairDescription to "long beard">>
<<case "soul-patch">><<set $facialHairDescription to "soul patch">>
<<case "sideburns">><<set $facialHairDescription to "sideburns">>
<<case "anchor">><<set $facialHairDescription to "anchor beard">>
<</switch>>
<</if>>
<<run $("#error-message").hide()>>
<<goto "Body">>
<</if>>
<</button>>
</div>
<style>
.character-creation-header {
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 2em;
}
.character-name {
font-size: 1.3em;
color: var(--accent);
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 2em;
font-weight: bold;
text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent);
border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent);
padding-bottom: 1em;
}
.appearance-section {
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
padding: 1.5em;
margin-bottom: 1.5em;
border-radius: 5px;
box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1);
transition: all 0.3s ease;
}
.appearance-section:hover {
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
transform: translateY(-2px);
}
.appearance-section h3 {
color: var(--accent);
margin-bottom: 0.5em;
font-family: var(--accentFont);
text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent);
font-size: 1.4em;
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.section-description {
color: var(--accent2);
font-style: italic;
margin-bottom: 1.5em;
font-size: 0.95em;
line-height: 1.4;
border-left: 3px solid var(--accent);
padding-left: 1em;
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05);
padding: 0.8em 0 0.8em 1em;
border-radius: 0 3px 3px 0;
}
.eye-options, .facial-hair-options {
color: var(--text);
line-height: 1.8;
}
.eye-options input[type="radio"], .facial-hair-options input[type="radio"] {
margin-right: 0.8em;
margin-bottom: 0.1em;
accent-color: var(--accent);
transform: scale(1.2);
cursor: pointer;
}
.eye-options input[type="radio"]:checked, .facial-hair-options input[type="radio"]:checked {
accent-color: var(--accent2);
}
.option-group {
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent2);
padding: 1.2em;
margin-bottom: 1em;
border-radius: 5px;
box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1);
}
.option-group h4 {
color: var(--accent2);
margin-bottom: 1em;
font-size: 1.1em;
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent2);
padding-bottom: 0.5em;
}
.special-options {
border-color: var(--accent);
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05);
}
.special-options h4 {
color: var(--accent);
border-bottom-color: var(--accent);
}
.error-message {
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
color: var(--accent2);
padding: 1em;
border-radius: 5px;
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 1em;
font-weight: bold;
animation: pulse 0.5s ease-in-out;
}
@keyframes pulse {
0% { transform: scale(1); }
50% { transform: scale(1.02); }
100% { transform: scale(1); }
}
.continue-button {
text-align: center;
margin-top: 2em;
}
.continue-button button {
padding: 1.2em 2.5em;
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2));
color: #ffffff;
border: none;
border-radius: 5px;
font-size: 1.2em;
font-weight: bold;
cursor: pointer;
transition: all 0.3s ease;
box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent);
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8);
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.continue-button button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent));
box-shadow: 0 0 25px var(--accent);
transform: translateY(-3px);
}
/* Light mode adjustments */
.lm .appearance-section {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.3);
box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1);
}
.lm .section-description {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05);
}
.lm .option-group {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.2);
border-color: var(--accent2);
box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1);
}
.lm .special-options {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05);
border-color: var(--accent);
}
.lm .error-message {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2) !important;
border: 1px solid var(--accent) !important;
color: var(--accent2) !important;
}
.lm .continue-button button {
color: #000000;
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3);
}
</style>
<<script>>
// Hide facial hair section for female characters
$(document).ready(function() {
var gender = State.variables.gender;
if (gender === "cisgender-female" || gender === "transgender-female") {
$("#facial-hair-section").hide();
}
});
<</script>><div class="character-creation-header">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">Body</h1>
<p class="subtitle">The architecture of survival carved in flesh and choice.</p>
</div>
Bodies tell stories in Sordia. Your body is a weapon. A shield.
What story does your body look like?<br><br>
<div class="character-name">$fullName<<if $nickname>> (a.k.a. "$nickname")<</if>></div>
<div id="character-details">
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Body Shape</h3>
<p class="section-description">What is your built?</p>
<div class="body-options">
<<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "lean">> Lean <br>
<<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "athletic">> Athletic<br>
<<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "muscular">> Muscular <br>
<<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "average">> Average <br>
<<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "curvy">> Curvy <br>
<<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "soft">> Soft <br>
<<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "chubby">> Chubby <br>
<<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "stocky">> Stocky <br>
</div>
</div>
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Chest</h3>
<p class="section-description">What does your chest look like?</p>
<div class="chest-options">
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Natural Development</h4>
<<radiobutton "$chestType" "flat">> Flat <br>
<<radiobutton "$chestType" "small-breasts">> Small Breasts <br>
<<radiobutton "$chestType" "medium-breasts">> Medium Breasts <br>
<<radiobutton "$chestType" "large-breasts">> Large Breasts <br>
<<radiobutton "$chestType" "muscular-chest">> Muscular Chest <br>
<<radiobutton "$chestType" "broad-chest">> Broad Chest <br>
</div>
<div class="option-group special-options">
<h4>Surgical Narratives</h4>
<<radiobutton "$chestType" "top-surgery-recent">> Recent Top Surgery <br>
<<radiobutton "$chestType" "top-surgery-healed">> Healed Top Surgery <br>
<<radiobutton "$chestType" "mastectomy-single">> Single Mastectomy<br>
<<radiobutton "$chestType" "mastectomy-double">> Double Mastectomy <br>
<<radiobutton "$chestType" "breast-aug-scars">> Breast Augmentation <br>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Freckles & Moles</h3>
<p class="section-description">Natural marks across your skin. You can choose multiple</p>
<div class="body-options">
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Freckles</h4>
<<radiobutton "$lightFreckles" true>> Light Freckles - Subtle scattered dots.<br>
<<radiobutton "$heavyFreckles" true>> Heavy Freckles - Dense constellation covering face and shoulders<br>
<<radiobutton "$bodyFreckles" true>> Body Freckles - Freckles scattered across arms, chest, and back<br>
</div>
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Moles & Beauty Marks</h4>
<<radiobutton "$faceMole" true>> Facial Mole - Prominent mole on face (like cheek, chin, or forehead)<br>
<<radiobutton "$beautyMark" true>> Beauty Mark - Classic beauty spot near mouth or eye<br>
<<radiobutton "$bodyMoles" true>> Body Moles - Various moles scattered across your body<br>
<<radiobutton "$birthmarkMole" true>> Birthmark - Distinctive birthmark
</div>
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Genitalia</h3>
<p class="section-description">What kind of genitalia do you have?</p>
<div class="genital-options">
<<radiobutton "$genitalia" "penis">> Penis<br>
<<radiobutton "$genitalia" "vulva">> Vulva<br>
</div>
</div>
<div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;">
Complete your physical truth before proceeding. In Sordia, half-known bodies suggest half-lived lives.
</div>
<div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;">
Complete your physical truth before proceeding. In Sordia, half-known bodies suggest half-lived lives.
</div>
<div class="continue-button">
<<button "Continue to Style">>
<<if !$bodyShape or !$chestType or !$genitalia>>
<<replace "#error-message">>Complete your physical looks before proceeding. In Sordia, half-known bodies suggest half-lived lives.<</replace>>
<<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>>
<<else>>
<<switch $bodyShape>>
<<case "lean">>
<<set $bodyShapeDescription to "lean frame">>
<<case "athletic">>
<<set $bodyShapeDescription to "athletic build">>
<<case "muscular">>
<<set $bodyShapeDescription to "muscular frame">>
<<case "average">>
<<set $bodyShapeDescription to "average build">>
<<case "curvy">>
<<set $bodyShapeDescription to "curvy build">>
<<case "soft">>
<<set $bodyShapeDescription to "soft build">>
<<case "chubby">>
<<set $bodyShapeDescription to "chubby frame">>
<<case "stocky">>
<<set $bodyShapeDescription to "stocky build">>
<</switch>>
<<switch $chestType>>
<<case "flat">>
<<set $chestTypeDescription to "flat chest">>
<<case "small-breasts">>
<<set $chestTypeDescription to "small breasts">>
<<case "medium-breasts">>
<<set $chestTypeDescription to "medium breasts">>
<<case "large-breasts">>
<<set $chestTypeDescription to "large breasts">>
<<case "muscular-chest">>
<<set $chestTypeDescription to "muscular chest">>
<<case "broad-chest">>
<<set $chestTypeDescription to "broad chest">>
<<case "top-surgery-recent">>
<<set $chestTypeDescription to "chest marked by recent top surgery with horizontal lines">>
<<case "top-surgery-healed">>
<<set $chestTypeDescription to "chest bearing healed top surgery scars with faded lines">>
<<case "mastectomy-single">>
<<set $chestTypeDescription to "chest showing single mastectomy scars with asymmetrical lines">>
<<case "mastectomy-double">>
<<set $chestTypeDescription to "chest marked by double mastectomy with bilateral scars">>
<<case "breast-aug-scars">>
<<set $chestTypeDescription to "chest showing subtle augmentation scars">>
<</switch>>
<<switch $genitalia>>
<<case "penis">>
<<set $genitaliaDescription to "dick">>
<<case "vulva">>
<<set $genitaliaDescription to "vagina">>
<</switch>>
<<run $("#error-message").hide()>>
<<goto "Style">>
<</if>>
<</button>>
</div>
</div>
<style>
.character-creation-header {
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 2em;
}
.character-name {
font-size: 1.3em;
color: var(--accent);
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 2em;
font-weight: bold;
text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent);
border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent);
padding-bottom: 1em;
}
.appearance-section {
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
padding: 1.5em;
margin-bottom: 1.5em;
border-radius: 5px;
box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1);
transition: all 0.3s ease;
}
.appearance-section:hover {
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
transform: translateY(-2px);
}
.appearance-section h3 {
color: var(--accent);
margin-bottom: 0.5em;
font-family: var(--accentFont);
text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent);
font-size: 1.4em;
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.section-description {
color: var(--accent2);
font-style: italic;
margin-bottom: 1.5em;
font-size: 0.95em;
line-height: 1.4;
border-left: 3px solid var(--accent);
padding-left: 1em;
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05);
padding: 0.8em 0 0.8em 1em;
border-radius: 0 3px 3px 0;
}
.body-options, .chest-options, .genital-options {
color: var(--text);
line-height: 1.8;
}
.body-options input[type="radio"], .chest-options input[type="radio"], .genital-options input[type="radio"] {
margin-right: 0.8em;
margin-bottom: 0.1em;
accent-color: var(--accent);
transform: scale(1.2);
cursor: pointer;
}
.body-options input[type="radio"]:checked, .chest-options input[type="radio"]:checked, .genital-options input[type="radio"]:checked {
accent-color: var(--accent2);
}
.option-group {
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent2);
padding: 1.2em;
margin-bottom: 1em;
border-radius: 5px;
box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1);
}
.option-group h4 {
color: var(--accent2);
margin-bottom: 1em;
font-size: 1.1em;
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent2);
padding-bottom: 0.5em;
}
.special-options {
border-color: var(--accent);
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05);
}
.special-options h4 {
color: var(--accent);
border-bottom-color: var(--accent);
}
.error-message {
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
color: var(--accent2);
padding: 1em;
border-radius: 5px;
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 1em;
font-weight: bold;
animation: pulse 0.5s ease-in-out;
}
@keyframes pulse {
0% { transform: scale(1); }
50% { transform: scale(1.02); }
100% { transform: scale(1); }
}
.continue-button {
text-align: center;
margin-top: 2em;
}
.continue-button button {
padding: 1.2em 2.5em;
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2));
color: #ffffff;
border: none;
border-radius: 5px;
font-size: 1.2em;
font-weight: bold;
cursor: pointer;
transition: all 0.3s ease;
box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent);
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8);
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.continue-button button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent));
box-shadow: 0 0 25px var(--accent);
transform: translateY(-3px);
}
/* Light mode adjustments */
.lm .appearance-section {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.3);
box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1);
}
.lm .section-description {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05);
}
.lm .option-group {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.2);
border-color: var(--accent2);
box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1);
}
.lm .special-options {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05);
border-color: var(--accent);
}
.lm .error-message {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2) !important;
border: 1px solid var(--accent) !important;
color: var(--accent2) !important;
}
.lm .continue-button button {
color: #000000;
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3);
}
</style><div class="character-creation-header">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">Style & Presentation</h1>
<p class="subtitle">How you weaponize fabric, flesh, and choice.</p>
</div>
Style is survival in Sordia. Your appearance determines which spaces welcome you and which assumptions follow you into every room.<br><br>
What is your style in Sordia?<br><br>
<div class="character-name">$fullName<<if $nickname>> (a.k.a. "$nickname")<</if>></div>
<div id="character-details">
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Fashion Style</h3>
<p class="section-description">The outfit you wear into battle, whether the battlefield is a boardroom or back alley.</p>
<div class="style-options">
<<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "classic-noir">> Classic Noir - Trench coats, fedoras, timeless detective aesthetic<br>
<<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "modern-noir">> Modern Noir - Contemporary cuts in black, grey, sharp professional edge<br>
<<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "investigative">> Investigative - Practical journalist wear, pockets for recording devices<br>
<<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "femme-fatale">> Femme Fatale - Sharp suits, dangerous elegance, commanding presence<br>
<<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "street-reporter">> Street Reporter - Weathered jackets, comfortable shoes, ready for anything<br>
<<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "academic-dark">> Academic Dark - Tweed and wool in somber tones, intellectual gravitas<br>
<<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "dark-academia">> Dark Academia - Gothic scholarly aesthetic, burgundy and black, vintage books vibe<br>
<<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "light-academia">> Light Academia - Scholarly elegance in cream and beige, optimistic intellectualism<br>
<<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "urban-professional">> Urban Professional - Sharp business wear with subtle dark touches<br>
<<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "beat-cop-casual">> Beat Reporter - Rumpled shirts, coffee-stained ties, lived-in look<br>
<<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "art-deco">> Art Deco - 1920s-inspired elegance, geometric patterns, vintage glamour<br>
<<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "shadow-chic">> Shadow Chic - All black everything, sleek and mysterious
</div>
</div>
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Piercings</h3>
<p class="section-description">Metal through flesh - whether for style, rebellion, or personal expression.</p>
<div class="style-options">
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Facial Piercings</h4>
<<radiobutton "$eyebrowPiercing" true>> Eyebrow - Metal bar above your eye<br>
<<radiobutton "$septumPiercing" true>> Septum - Ring through your nose that you can flip up to hide<br>
<<radiobutton "$nostrilPiercing" true>> Nostril - Simple stud on one side of your nose<br>
<<radiobutton "$lipPiercing" true>> Lip - Ring or stud through your lip<br>
<<radiobutton "$tonguePiercing" true>> Tongue - Hidden piercing that only shows when you talk or eat<br>
<<radiobutton "$bridgePiercing" true>> Bridge - Bar across the bridge of your nose between your eyes<br>
<<radiobutton "$cheekPiercing" true>> Cheek - Studs that create fake dimples
</div>
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Ear Piercings</h4>
<<radiobutton "$standardLobesPiercing" true>> Standard Lobes - Basic ear piercings for earrings<br>
<<radiobutton "$multipleLobesPiercing" true>> Multiple Lobes - Several holes in your earlobes<br>
<<radiobutton "$cartilagePiercing" true>> Cartilage - Piercings in the upper part of your ear<br>
<<radiobutton "$industrialPiercing" true>> Industrial - Long bar connecting two holes across your ear<br>
<<radiobutton "$tunnelPlugsPiercing" true>> Tunnels/Plugs - Stretched earlobes with large holes<br>
<<radiobutton "$earWeightsPiercing" true>> Ear Weights - Heavy jewelry that stretches your ears over time
</div>
<div class="option-group special-options">
<h4>Body Piercings</h4>
<<radiobutton "$navelPiercing" true>> Navel - Belly button piercing<br>
<<radiobutton "$nipplesPiercing" true>> Nipples - Piercings through your nipples<br>
<<radiobutton "$genitalPiercing" true>> Genital - Intimate piercings<br>
<<radiobutton "$surfacePiercing" true>> Surface - Bars under your skin that create raised bumps<br>
<<radiobutton "$microdermalsPiercing" true>> Microdermals - Small gems anchored under your skin
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Tattoos</h3>
<p class="section-description">Permanent ink that tells your story, marks memories, or just looks cool.</p>
<div class="style-options">
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Size & Coverage</h4>
<<radiobutton "$smallHiddenTattoo" true>> Small & Hidden - Small tattoos hidden under clothes<br>
<<radiobutton "$smallVisibleTattoo" true>> Small & Visible - Small tattoos on wrists, neck, or hands<br>
<<radiobutton "$mediumPiecesTattoo" true>> Medium Pieces - Hand-sized tattoos with detail<br>
<<radiobutton "$halfSleeveTattoo" true>> Half Sleeve - Tattoos covering half your arm<br>
<<radiobutton "$fullSleeveTattoo" true>> Full Sleeve - Your entire arm is tattooed<br>
<<radiobutton "$legSleeveTattoo" true>> Leg Sleeve - Tattoos from thigh to ankle<br>
<<radiobutton "$backPieceTattoo" true>> Back Piece - Large tattoo covering your back<br>
<<radiobutton "$chestPieceTattoo" true>> Chest Piece - Tattoo across your chest<br>
<<radiobutton "$fullBodyTattoo" true>> Full Body - Tattoos covering most of your body
</div>
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Placement & Style</h4>
<<radiobutton "$faceNeckTattoo" true>> Face/Neck - Tattoos you can't hide with normal clothes<br>
<<radiobutton "$handFingersTattoo" true>> Hands/Fingers - Tattoos on your hands or fingers<br>
<<radiobutton "$traditionalTattoo" true>> Traditional Style - Classic tattoo style with bold lines<br>
<<radiobutton "$geometricTattoo" true>> Geometric - Mathematical patterns and shapes<br>
<<radiobutton "$blackworkTattoo" true>> Blackwork - Solid black tattoos<br>
<<radiobutton "$watercolorTattoo" true>> Watercolor - Soft, painted-looking tattoos<br>
<<radiobutton "$culturalTattoo" true>> Cultural - Traditional designs from your heritage
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Scars & Marks</h3>
<p class="section-description">The marks life left behind - accidents, surgeries, fights, or choices.</p>
<div class="style-options">
<<radiobutton "$minimalScars" true>> Minimal - Few scars, careful life or good medical care<br>
<<radiobutton "$surgicalScars" true>> Surgical - Clean scars from medical procedures<br>
<<radiobutton "$defensiveScars" true>> Defensive - Scars on your arms from protecting yourself<br>
<<radiobutton "$burnScars" true>> Burn - Scars from fire, heat, or chemicals<br>
<<radiobutton "$bladeScars" true>> Blade - Knife or blade scars from fights<br>
<<radiobutton "$bulletScars" true>> Bullet - Gunshot scars<br>
<<radiobutton "$deliberateScars" true>> Deliberate - Self-inflicted scars<br>
<<radiobutton "$extensiveScars" true>> Extensive - Many scars from a rough life
</div>
</div>
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Jewelry & Accessories</h3>
<p class="section-description">The finishing touches that complete your look and tell people who you are.</p>
<div class="style-options">
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Rings</h4>
<<radiobutton "$signetRing" true>> Signet Ring - Family ring or personal symbol<br>
<<radiobutton "$multipleRings" true>> Multiple Rings - Rings on several fingers<br>
<<radiobutton "$statementRings" true>> Statement Rings - Big, bold rings that get attention<br>
<<radiobutton "$brassKnuckles" true>> Ornamental Knuckles - Decorative knuckle jewelry
</div>
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Chains & Necklaces</h4>
<<radiobutton "$simpleChain" true>> Simple Chain - Basic metal chain<br>
<<radiobutton "$pendant" true>> Pendant - Chain with a meaningful charm<br>
<<radiobutton "$choker" true>> Choker - Tight necklace around your throat<br>
<<radiobutton "$layeredChains" true>> Layered Chains - Multiple necklaces at once<br>
<<radiobutton "$heavyChain" true>> Heavy Chain - Thick, substantial chain
</div>
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Bracelets & Watches</h4>
<<radiobutton "$expensiveWatch" true>> Expensive Watch - Luxury timepiece<br>
<<radiobutton "$smartWatch" true>> Smart Watch - Digital watch with apps<br>
<<radiobutton "$vintageWatch" true>> Vintage Watch - Classic old-style watch<br>
<<radiobutton "$multipleBracelets" true>> Multiple Bracelets - Several bracelets stacked together<br>
<<radiobutton "$cuffs" true>> Cuffs - Wide metal bands around your wrists<br>
<<radiobutton "$charmBracelet" true>> Charm Bracelet - Bracelet with meaningful charms
</div>
<div class="option-group special-options">
<h4>Other Accessories</h4>
<<radiobutton "$prescriptionGlasses" true>> Prescription Glasses - Glasses you need to see<br>
<<radiobutton "$sunglasses" true>> Sunglasses - Dark glasses for style or protection<br>
<<radiobutton "$hatCollection" true>> Hat Collection - Various hats you like to wear<br>
<<radiobutton "$scarves" true>> Scarves - Neck scarves for warmth or style<br>
<<radiobutton "$gloves" true>> Gloves - Hand covering for style or protection<br>
<<radiobutton "$designerBag" true>> Designer Bag - Expensive, fashionable bag<br>
<<radiobutton "$practicalBag" true>> Practical Bag - Functional bag for carrying stuff<br>
<<radiobutton "$walletChain" true>> Wallet Chain - Chain connecting your wallet to your clothes
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;"></div>
<div class="continue-button">
<<button "Continue to Review">>
<<if !$outfitStyle>>
<<replace "#error-message">>Select your fashion style before proceeding. In Sordia, incomplete presentations suggest incomplete preparation.<</replace>>
<<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>>
<<else>>
<<switch $outfitStyle>>
<<case "classic-noir">>
<<set $outfitStyleDescription to "classic noir">>
<<case "modern-noir">>
<<set $outfitStyleDescription to "modern noir">>
<<case "investigative">>
<<set $outfitStyleDescription to "investigative">>
<<case "femme-fatale">>
<<set $outfitStyleDescription to "femme fatale">>
<<case "street-reporter">>
<<set $outfitStyleDescription to "street reporter">>
<<case "academic-dark">>
<<set $outfitStyleDescription to "academic dark">>
<<case "dark-academia">>
<<set $outfitStyleDescription to "dark academia">>
<<case "light-academia">>
<<set $outfitStyleDescription to "light academia">>
<<case "urban-professional">>
<<set $outfitStyleDescription to "urban professional">>
<<case "beat-cop-casual">>
<<set $outfitStyleDescription to "beat reporter">>
<<case "art-deco">>
<<set $outfitStyleDescription to "art deco">>
<<case "shadow-chic">>
<<set $outfitStyleDescription to "shadow chic">>
<</switch>>
<<run $("#error-message").hide()>>
<<goto "Character Appearance - Review">>
<</if>>
<</button>>
</div>
<style>
.character-creation-header {
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 2em;
}
.character-name {
font-size: 1.3em;
color: var(--accent);
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 2em;
font-weight: bold;
text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent);
border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent);
padding-bottom: 1em;
}
.appearance-section {
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
padding: 1.5em;
margin-bottom: 1.5em;
border-radius: 5px;
box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1);
transition: all 0.3s ease;
}
.appearance-section:hover {
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
transform: translateY(-2px);
}
.appearance-section h3 {
color: var(--accent);
margin-bottom: 0.5em;
font-family: var(--accentFont);
text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent);
font-size: 1.4em;
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.section-description {
color: var(--accent2);
font-style: italic;
margin-bottom: 1.5em;
font-size: 0.95em;
line-height: 1.4;
border-left: 3px solid var(--accent);
padding-left: 1em;
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05);
padding: 0.8em 0 0.8em 1em;
border-radius: 0 3px 3px 0;
}
.style-options {
color: var(--text);
line-height: 1.8;
}
.style-options input[type="radio"] {
margin-right: 0.8em;
margin-bottom: 0.1em;
accent-color: var(--accent);
transform: scale(1.2);
cursor: pointer;
}
.style-options input[type="radio"]:checked {
accent-color: var(--accent2);
}
.option-group {
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent2);
padding: 1.2em;
margin-bottom: 1em;
border-radius: 5px;
box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1);
}
.option-group h4 {
color: var(--accent2);
margin-bottom: 1em;
font-size: 1.1em;
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent2);
padding-bottom: 0.5em;
}
.special-options {
border-color: var(--accent);
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05);
}
.special-options h4 {
color: var(--accent);
border-bottom-color: var(--accent);
}
.error-message {
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
color: var(--accent2);
padding: 1em;
border-radius: 5px;
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 1em;
font-weight: bold;
animation: pulse 0.5s ease-in-out;
}
@keyframes pulse {
0% { transform: scale(1); }
50% { transform: scale(1.02); }
100% { transform: scale(1); }
}
.continue-button {
text-align: center;
margin-top: 2em;
}
.continue-button button {
padding: 1.2em 2.5em;
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2));
color: #ffffff;
border: none;
border-radius: 5px;
font-size: 1.2em;
font-weight: bold;
cursor: pointer;
transition: all 0.3s ease;
box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent);
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8);
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.continue-button button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent));
box-shadow: 0 0 25px var(--accent);
transform: translateY(-3px);
}
/* Light mode adjustments */
.lm .appearance-section {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.3);
box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1);
}
.lm .section-description {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05);
}
.lm .option-group {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.2);
border-color: var(--accent2);
box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1);
}
.lm .special-options {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05);
border-color: var(--accent);
}
.lm .error-message {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2) !important;
border: 1px solid var(--accent) !important;
color: var(--accent2) !important;
}
.lm .continue-button button {
color: #000000;
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3);
}
</style><div class="character-creation-header">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">The Mirror's Verdict</h1>
<p class="subtitle">Truth reflected in glass and choice.</p>
</div>
The mirror doesn't lie. Can't lie. Won't lie when everything else in Sordia does.<br><br>
You study the reflection that will walk into boardrooms and back alleys, that will face down editors and criminals, that will carry the weight of every story you choose to tell or bury.<br><br>
This is who you are. This is who Sordia will see.<br><br>
<div class="character-name">$fullName<<if $nickname>> (a.k.a. "$nickname")<</if>></div>
<div class="character-description">
<<if $height is "very-short">>You move through the world compact and determined. What you lack in height, you make up for in presence.People underestimate you. Their mistake.<<elseif $height is "short">>Shorter than most, you've learned that being underestimated is a weapon. You slip through crowds easily. Until you choose to be seen.<<elseif $height is "average">>Average height means you blend when necessary. Unremarkable until you speak. Invisible until you choose otherwise.<<elseif $height is "tall">>Your height commands attention even when you'd rather stay invisible. Hard to miss in any room. Harder to ignore.<<elseif $height is "very-tall">>You tower above most people. Impressive and intimidating in equal measure. Memorable whether you want to be or not.<<elseif $height is "towering">>You cast shadows in broad daylight. An imposing figure that people notice from across the street. Sometimes that's useful. Sometimes it's dangerous.<</if>>Your $bodyShapeDescription carries the evidence of your lifestyle. <<if $bodyShape is "lean">>Lean muscle and sharp angles speak to restless energy and missed meals. The kind of body that moves fast and hits hard.<<elseif $bodyShape is "athletic">>Well-maintained conditioning suggests discipline despite the chaos. You take care of yourself because no one else will.<<elseif $bodyShape is "muscular">>Powerful muscle hints at physical confrontations in your past. The kind that leave marks on both parties.<<elseif $bodyShape is "average">>The practical build of someone who moves through the world without drawing fire. Smart choice in Sordia.<<elseif $bodyShape is "curvy">>Curves that defy the sharp edges of your profession. Softness in a world built on hard choices.<<elseif $bodyShape is "soft">>A softness that contrasts with the hardened world you navigate. Comfort found where you can get it.<<elseif $bodyShape is "chubby">>A fuller figure that speaks to finding joy in small things. In an unforgiving city, that's its own kind of rebellion.<<elseif $bodyShape is "stocky">>Solid and grounded. The kind of presence that suggests you're not easily moved. Or easily broken.<</if>> <<if $skin is "vitiligo">> Meanwhile your skin tells a story in patches of light and dark. Vitiligo maps across your body. Some see it as a flaw. You know better. It's a reminder that beauty doesn't follow rules.<<else>>Your $skinDescription shows the wear of someone who's lived.<</if>><br><br>
<<if $hairLength is "bald">>Your bald head cuts clean lines against the world. No hair to hide behind. No softness to blunt the edges. Just skin and bone and the honesty of someone who's stopped pretending.<<if $headCovering is "yes">>You choose to cover your hair. Another layer in the careful construction of who you are.<</if>><<else>>$hair hair frames your face, styled in a $hairStyleDescription.<</if>>You have beautiful $eyesDescription. Windows to a soul that's seen too much. They catch lies in the twitch of an eyelid. Spot fear in the way powerful people's gazes slide away from uncomfortable truths. See the reflection of neon signs in puddles of blood. <<if $facialHair and $facialHair isnot "none">>$facialHairDescription frames the mouth that speaks truths others would kill to silence.<</if>><br><br>
<<set $freckleAndMoleDescriptions to []>>
<<if $lightFreckles>><<set $freckleAndMoleDescriptions.push("light freckles scattered across your face")>><</if>>
<<if $heavyFreckles>><<set $freckleAndMoleDescriptions.push("heavy freckles forming constellations across your face and shoulders")>><</if>>
<<if $bodyFreckles>><<set $freckleAndMoleDescriptions.push("freckles scattered across your arms, chest, and back like a map")>><</if>>
<<if $faceMole>><<set $freckleAndMoleDescriptions.push("a prominent facial mole that draws attention")>><</if>>
<<if $beautyMark>><<set $freckleAndMoleDescriptions.push("a classic beauty mark that adds on your face")>><</if>>
<<if $bodyMoles>><<set $freckleAndMoleDescriptions.push("various moles scattered across your body like punctuation marks in flesh")>><</if>>
<<if $birthmarkMole>><<set $freckleAndMoleDescriptions.push("a distinctive birthmark on your body")>><</if>>
<<if $freckleAndMoleDescriptions.length gt 0>>
Natural marks paint stories across your skin. You have <<print $freckleAndMoleDescriptions.join(", ")>>. <br><br>
<</if>>
Your $outfitStyleDescription look speaks before you do. Cloth and cut broadcasting messages about class, threat level, accessibility. In Sordia, appearance is currency after all.<br><br>
<<set $bodyModifications to []>>
<<if $eyebrowPiercing>><<set $bodyModifications.push("An eyebrow piercing catches light like a small rebellion")>><</if>>
<<if $septumPiercing>><<set $bodyModifications.push("a septum ring you can flip up when discretion demands it")>><</if>>
<<if $nostrilPiercing>><<set $bodyModifications.push("a simple nostril stud that adds edge to your profile")>><</if>>
<<if $lipPiercing>><<set $bodyModifications.push("a lip piercing that makes every word feel more dangerous")>><</if>>
<<if $tonguePiercing>><<set $bodyModifications.push("a hidden tongue piercing that only shows when you speak")>><</if>>
<<if $bridgePiercing>><<set $bodyModifications.push("a bridge piercing that draws attention to your penetrating gaze")>><</if>>
<<if $cheekPiercing>><<set $bodyModifications.push("cheek piercings that create artificial dimples")>><</if>>
<<if $standardLobesPiercing>><<set $bodyModifications.push("standard ear piercings")>><</if>>
<<if $multipleLobesPiercing>><<set $bodyModifications.push("multiple lobe piercings creating constellation patterns in your ears")>><</if>>
<<if $cartilagePiercing>><<set $bodyModifications.push("cartilage piercings that follow the curves of your ears")>><</if>>
<<if $industrialPiercing>><<set $bodyModifications.push("an industrial bar cutting across your ear")>><</if>>
<<if $tunnelPlugsPiercing>><<set $bodyModifications.push("stretched lobes with tunnels")>><</if>>
<<if $earWeightsPiercing>><<set $bodyModifications.push("ear weights that stretch your lobes ")>><</if>>
<<set $tattooDescriptions to []>>
<<if $smallHiddenTattoo>><<set $tattooDescriptions.push("small tattoos hidden beneath your clothes")>><</if>>
<<if $smallVisibleTattoo>><<set $tattooDescriptions.push("small visible tattoos")>><</if>>
<<if $mediumPiecesTattoo>><<set $tattooDescriptions.push("medium-sized tattoos with intricate detail")>><</if>>
<<if $halfSleeveTattoo>><<set $tattooDescriptions.push("a half-sleeve that transforms your arm into living art")>><</if>>
<<if $fullSleeveTattoo>><<set $tattooDescriptions.push("a full sleeve that tells an epic story from shoulder to wrist")>><</if>>
<<if $legSleeveTattoo>><<set $tattooDescriptions.push("leg tattoos that flow from thigh to ankle")>><</if>>
<<if $backPieceTattoo>><<set $tattooDescriptions.push("a back piece that transforms your spine into a masterpiece")>><</if>>
<<if $chestPieceTattoo>><<set $tattooDescriptions.push("a chest piece that sits above your heart like armor")>><</if>>
<<if $fullBodyTattoo>><<set $tattooDescriptions.push("extensive tattoos that cover most of your body")>><</if>>
<<if $faceNeckTattoo>><<set $tattooDescriptions.push("face and neck tattoos that can't be hidden")>><</if>>
<<if $handFingersTattoo>><<set $tattooDescriptions.push("hand and finger tattoos that make every gesture a statement")>><</if>>
<<set $scarDescriptions to []>>
<<if $minimalScars>><<set $scarDescriptions.push("minimal scarring")>><</if>>
<<if $surgicalScars>><<set $scarDescriptions.push("clean surgical scars that speak to medical necessity")>><</if>>
<<if $defensiveScars>><<set $scarDescriptions.push("defensive scars on your arms tell stories of protection and survival")>><</if>>
<<if $burnScars>><<set $scarDescriptions.push("burn scars that twist across your skin like frozen flames")>><</if>>
<<if $bladeScars>><<set $scarDescriptions.push("blade scars that map the violence you've survived")>><</if>>
<<if $bulletScars>><<set $scarDescriptions.push("bullet scars that mark moments when death came calling")>><</if>>
<<if $deliberateScars>><<set $scarDescriptions.push("deliberate scars that speak to pain you chose to carry")>><</if>>
<<if $extensiveScars>><<set $scarDescriptions.push("extensive scarring that maps a life lived on the edge")>><</if>>
<<set $accessoryDescriptions to []>>
<<if $signetRing>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("A signet ring carries family history or personal symbols")>><</if>>
<<if $multipleRings>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("multiple rings across your fingers")>><</if>>
<<if $statementRings>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("bold statement rings that demand attention")>><</if>>
<<if $brassKnuckles>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("ornamental knuckle jewelry")>><</if>>
<<if $simpleChain>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("a simple chain rests against your throat")>><</if>>
<<if $pendant>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("a meaningful pendant hangs close to your heart")>><</if>>
<<if $choker>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("a choker encircles your throat")>><</if>>
<<if $layeredChains>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("layered chains create complex patterns against your chest")>><</if>>
<<if $heavyChain>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("a heavy chain makes its presence known with every movement")>><</if>>
<<if $expensiveWatch>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("An expensive watch on your wrist")>><</if>>
<<if $smartWatch>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("a smart watch keeps you connected to the digital pulse of the city")>><</if>>
<<if $vintageWatch>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("a vintage watch on your wrist")>><</if>>
<<if $multipleBracelets>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("multiple bracelets stack up your wrists")>><</if>>
<<if $cuffs>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("wide metal cuffs encircle your wrists")>><</if>>
<<if $charmBracelet>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("a charm bracelet on your wrist")>><</if>>
<<if $prescriptionGlasses>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("Prescription glasses frame your piercing gaze")>><</if>>
<<if $sunglasses>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("sunglasses")>><</if>>
<<if $hatCollection>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("a hat on your head")>><</if>>
<<if $scarves>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("scarv")>><</if>>
<<if $gloves>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("gloves protect your hands")>><</if>>
<<if $designerBag>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("an expensive bag carries the tools of your trade")>><</if>>
<<if $practicalBag>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("a practical bag carries the tools of your trade")>><</if>>
<<if $walletChain>><<set $accessoryDescriptions.push("a wallet chain")>><</if>>
<<if $bodyModifications.length gt 0>>
You have metal pireced through flesh. You have <<print $bodyModifications.join(", ")>>. Each piece carefully chosen. Each placement deliberate.<br><br>
<</if>><<if $tattooDescriptions.length gt 0>>
Ink flows across your skin. You have a <<print $tattooDescriptions.join(", ")>>. Every design carries weight. Memory. Stories you've chosen to wear forever.
<</if>><br><br>
<<if $scarDescriptions.length gt 0>>
Your scars map survival. <<print $scarDescriptions.join(", ")>>. Each mark a lesson learned. A price paid. A moment when you chose to keep going despite the cost.
<</if>><br><br>
<<if $accessoryDescriptions.length gt 0>>
The other accessoires complete your look. <<print $accessoryDescriptions.join(", ")>>.
<</if>><br><br>
This is you. This is how Sordia will see you when you walk into rooms full of people who want you dead. This is the face that will stare down corruption. The body that will stand between truth and those who profit from lies.<br><br>
<div class="ready">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">You ready for this?</h1>
</div>
<div id="reflection-controls">
<div class="mirror-buttons">
<<button "Adjust the Reflection">>
<<replace "#edit-menu">>
<div class="edit-choices">
<h4>What needs refinement?</h4>
<div class="edit-grid">
<<button "Skin" "Character Appearance">><</button>>
<<button "Hair" "Hair">><</button>>
<<button "Face" "Face">><</button>>
<<button "Body" "Body">><</button>>
<<button "Style" "Style">><</button>>
</div>
<<button "Cancel">>
<<replace "#edit-menu">><</replace>>
<<run $("#reflection-controls").show()>>
<</button>>
</div>
<</replace>>
<<run $("#reflection-controls").hide()>>
<</button>>
<<button "Accept the Truth" "GenderROChoice">>
/* This mirror shows who you are. Time to use it. */
<</button>>
</div>
</div>
<div id="edit-menu" class="edit-interface">
/* Edit options will appear here */
</div>
<style>
.character-creation-header {
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 2em;
}
.character-name {
font-size: 1.4em;
color: var(--accent);
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 2em;
font-weight: bold;
text-shadow: 0 0 10px var(--accent);
border-bottom: 2px solid var(--accent);
padding-bottom: 1em;
}
.ready {
text-align: center;
margin: 3em 0;
padding: 2em;
border-top: 2px solid var(--accent);
border-bottom: 2px solid var(--accent);
}
.ready h1 {
margin: 0;
animation: pulse-glow 2s ease-in-out infinite alternate;
}
@keyframes pulse-glow {
from { text-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent); }
to { text-shadow: 0 0 30px var(--accent), 0 0 40px var(--accent2); }
}
#character-mirror {
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.4);
border: 2px solid var(--accent);
padding: 2em;
margin-bottom: 2em;
border-radius: 8px;
box-shadow: 0 0 20px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
transition: all 0.3s ease;
}
#character-mirror:hover {
box-shadow: 0 0 25px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.3);
transform: translateY(-3px);
}
.reflection-narrative {
color: var(--text);
line-height: 1.7;
font-size: 1.05em;
}
.reflection-narrative p {
margin-bottom: 1.5em;
text-align: justify;
text-justify: inter-word;
}
.reflection-narrative p:last-child {
margin-bottom: 0;
text-align: center;
font-weight: bold;
color: var(--accent2);
font-size: 1.1em;
}
#reflection-controls {
text-align: center;
margin-top: 2em;
}
.mirror-buttons {
display: flex;
gap: 2em;
justify-content: center;
flex-wrap: wrap;
}
.mirror-buttons button {
padding: 1.2em 2em;
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2));
color: #ffffff;
border: none;
border-radius: 5px;
font-size: 1.1em;
font-weight: bold;
cursor: pointer;
transition: all 0.3s ease;
box-shadow: 0 0 15px var(--accent);
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8);
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
min-width: 200px;
}
.mirror-buttons button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent));
box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent);
transform: translateY(-3px);
}
.edit-interface {
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.4);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
padding: 2em;
border-radius: 5px;
margin-top: 1em;
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
}
.edit-choices h4 {
color: var(--accent);
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 1.5em;
font-family: var(--accentFont);
text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent);
font-size: 1.2em;
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.edit-grid {
display: grid;
grid-template-columns: repeat(auto-fit, minmax(150px, 1fr));
gap: 1em;
margin-bottom: 2em;
}
.edit-grid button {
padding: 1em;
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.3));
color: var(--text);
border: 1px solid var(--accent2);
border-radius: 3px;
cursor: pointer;
transition: all 0.3s ease;
font-weight: bold;
}
.edit-grid button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2));
color: #ffffff;
transform: translateY(-2px);
box-shadow: 0 0 10px var(--accent);
}
.edit-choices > button {
padding: 1em 2em;
background: linear-gradient(45deg, #cc0000, #990000);
color: #ffffff;
border: none;
border-radius: 5px;
cursor: pointer;
transition: all 0.3s ease;
font-weight: bold;
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
display: block;
margin: 0 auto;
}
.edit-choices > button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, #990000, #cc0000);
transform: translateY(-2px);
box-shadow: 0 0 10px #cc0000;
}
/* Light mode adjustments */
.lm #character-mirror {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.4);
box-shadow: 0 0 20px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2);
}
.lm #character-mirror:hover {
box-shadow: 0 0 25px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.3);
}
.lm .edit-interface {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.4);
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2);
}
.lm .edit-grid button {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.3));
border-color: var(--accent2);
}
.lm .edit-grid button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2));
color: #000000;
}
.lm .mirror-buttons button {
color: #000000;
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3);
}
.lm .edit-choices > button {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2));
color: #000000;
}
.lm .edit-choices > button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent));
}
</style><h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">Select RO's Gender</h1>
<p>All of your Romantic Opponents (ROs) are gender-selectable. Please set them now :) </p>
<ul>
<li>
<<link "Set them now">>
<<set $setNow = true>>
<<goto "SetROAce">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link "I'll set them later">>
<<set $setNow = false>>
<<goto "Choose Career Background">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul><div class="ch1-header">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">Prologue</h1>
</div>
<div id="prologue-content">
CONTENT WARNINGS:
Graphic violence and gore
Body horror
Strong language/profanity
Death and murder
Disturbing imagery
Blood and injury descriptions
Mental health themes
Supernatural horror elements
Substance use<br><br>
FRIDAY, MARCH 22, 2033<br><br>
The french fry snaps between Maud's teeth like a brittle bone breaking under pressure. She stares at it, half-chewed and greasy, suspended between her stained fingertips in the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through the cracked windshield. <br><br>
The taste coats her mouth—salt and oil and something vaguely chemical that burns the back of her throat. Fast food made by fast hands for fast deaths. Perfect for Sordia. Perfect for her.<br><br>
She studies the pathetic remnant before lobbing it at the windshield with practiced precision. Thwack. It hits dead center, a greasy missile striking its target. It slides down the glass in slow motion, leaving a slick trail like a slug's path or maybe like the trail of blood she'll soon be following through Sordia's underbelly. The metaphor makes her lips twitch. <br><br>
//So fucking poetic tonight, aren't we, Maud?//<br><br>
The cheap composition notebook wobbles precariously on her knees, its blue-lined pages gulping ink as her pen stutters across the paper, a seismograph of her chaotic brain. <br><br>
Maud's handwriting lurches drunkenly across the page, letters that start confident but dissolve into jagged lightning bolts by the end of each sentence. Just like her thoughts. Just like her life. Start strong, end in chaos.<br><br>
The journal had been Patch's idea. //Journaling for the criminally unhinged//, her therapist had called it in that deadpan voice that made Maud want to find out if therapists' intestines looked the same as everyone else's. <br><br>
//"Express your feelings in a constructive way,"// they'd said, their wire-rimmed glasses sliding down their nose as they made another note. Always making stupid notes.<br><br>
"Fuck that," Maud mutters to the empty car, the words crystallizing in the cold air. She snorts, a harsh sound like sandpaper against metal, and kicks her boots onto the dashboard of the stolen sedan. <br><br>
The cracked leather protests beneath her steel-toed boots, another injury for this poor vehicle to bear. The car had been easy to boost. An older model with shit security and an owner who'd left it running while they dashed into a convenience store. Amateur hour. Maud had been blocks away before they'd even returned with their Slushie.<br><br>
"Step one: Admit you're a fucking lost cause!" she announces to the rearview mirror, mimicking Patch's serious tone with exaggerated precision. Her reflection stares back, hollow-eyed and sharp-edged. <br><br>
<div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 2]]</div>The jagged scar that runs from her left temple to the corner of her mouth pulls tight when she smiles, a crooked line that splits her face like a crack in a porcelain doll. <br><br>
The mirror cracks when she punches it, spiderwebbing her reflection into a dozen fractured Mauds, all wearing the same feral grin. "Step two: Write a eulogy for your sanity!"<br><br>
The pain in her knuckles feels good, grounding, a sharp counterpoint to the dull ache that lives permanently behind her eyes. Blood smears across the reflective surface. Bright red against the silvered glass. She flexes her hand, watching as tiny glass shards catch the light, embedded in her skin like miniature stars.<br><br>
//Dear fucking Diaree//, she writes, pressing down so hard the pen nearly cuts through the paper.<br><br>
The pen tears through the page anyway, ink bleeding like a gut wound, pooling in dark constellations. Words fail her. They always do. How do you journal when your brain is a scorched battlefield? <br><br>
Patch had made it sound so easy. //Manage your emotions. Process your experiences. Find your center.//<br><br>
She laughs. A sharp, barking sound that echoes off the alley's brick walls, startling a mangy rat that had been investigating a pile of trash nearby. The creature freezes. Red eyes gleaming in the darkness, before scuttling away into the shadows. Smart rat. Run while you can.<br><br>
What's next in Patch's toolbox of normality? Yoga? Kale smoothies? //Breathe through the chaos, Maud! Find your happy place!// She imagines Patch in their neatly pressed clothes, sitting cross-legged on a bamboo mat, incense burning as they chant affirmations to the universe. The image is so incongruous with the reality of them that it makes her laugh again, harder this time, until her ribs ache with it.<br><br>
She doodles a stick figure hanging from a noose made of therapist buzzwords—"mindfulness," "trauma response," "coping strategy." The ink bleeds through to the next page, leaving ghost impressions. Like memories. Like ghosts. Like the shadows that cling to her wherever she goes.<br><br>
The cold fries taste like cardboard dipped in grease, but she shoves another fistful into her mouth anyway, crunching louder, meaner. *Crunch-crunch-CRUNCH*—like grinding teeth. Or bones. Food is fuel, nothing more. <br><br>
She barely tastes it anymore, just registers textures and temperatures. Hot. Cold. Soft. Hard. Sweet. Salty. The nuances of flavor were one of the first things to go when the Umbra blood awakened in her veins. A small price to pay for power, though sometimes she misses the simple pleasure of tasting something good.<br><br>
The barista's heart-dotted name scrawled on her coffee cup from earlier floats into her head again. "Maud" with a little heart over the "i" that doesn't exist. Miaud. What a stupid fucking name.<br><br>
The girl had been pretty, all soft edges and warm smiles, with eyes that hadn't yet been hardened by Sordia's particular brand of cruelty. She'd smelled like cinnamon and hope, an intoxicating combination that had made Maud linger longer than was safe. She wonders what the barista would taste like. If her blood would carry notes of that cinnamon warmth, or if it would be copper-bright like everyone else's. <br><br>
The barista was cute and normal. Almost cute enough to make her want to be normal too. To be the kind of person who goes on coffee dates and worries about mundane things like rent and reality TV shows.<br><br>
Almost. But not quite.<br><br>
<div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 3]]</div>The city presses in against the car windows, a living entity hungry for weakness. Not just the reek of piss and wet concrete that seeps through the vents, or the stench of dumpsters and diesel fuel that permanently hangs in Sordia's air, but the sound of it.<br><br>
The distant wail of a meth-head screaming at shadows only he can see. The way the subway's rumble vibrates in her teeth whenever a train passes beneath the streets. How the flickering neon from the strip club across the street pulses like a dying heartbeat, casting alternating washes of red and blue across her face like police lights in slow motion. The constant drip of something wet hitting the sedan's roof that might be rain or might be something leaking from the apartment buildings looming overhead. Probably both.<br><br>
Sordia isn't a place; it's a festering wound, a parasite that's sunk its teeth into the coastline and refuses to let go. A leech with skyscraper teeth, gnawing at her ribs every time she breathes its toxic air. The city is dying. Has been dying for decades, but refuses to acknowledge its own decay. Just like her. Just like all of them.<br><br>
She scratches her arm where the Umbra marks begin, nails digging red trenches into her pale skin. The black veins beneath pulse in response, a network of darkness spreading from her wrist to her elbow like cracks in marble. They're getting longer, spreading farther each time she transforms.<br><br>
//Get out. Get out. Get out.//<br><br>
The mantra echoes in her skull, a desperate prayer to a god she stopped believing in years ago. Get out of Sordia. Get out of this life. Get out before the shadows eat her from the inside out, leaving nothing but a husk that walks and talks but isn't Maud anymore. If there's even a Maud left to save.<br><br>
Escape plans flicker through her mind like a broken film reel, scenes jumping and cutting without warning. She's been planning her exit for 1 year, 4 months, 34 hours, and 55 seconds—not that she's counting. She laughs. Sudden and jagged.<br><br>
"Tick-tock, tick-fucking-tock!" she sings, stabbing the page with her pen until the tip breaks off, embedded in the paper like a tiny missile. She fishes another from her jacket pocket, stolen from the bank two weeks ago, a whole box of them sitting in her shitty apartment next to stolen painkillers and a gun that doesn't belong to her. The list erupts like shrapnel across the page, each item a fragment of the desperate creature she's become:<br><br>
1. Kick the assholes' asses (salt their graves, leave glitter confetti—party foul!).<br>
2. Karaoke with N (scream Highway to Hell until the bar explodes. Encore!).<br>
3. Tell K that you love her<br>
4. Pink hair (because if she's gonna burn out, she'll do it neon).<br>
5. Find inner peace (cue Kung Fu Panda Shifu Ascending song—then dropkick the Dalai Lama).<br>
6. Right some wrongs (or wrong some rights. Potato, potahto).<br>
Her hand hovers over that third item, the only one without a joke. No. Not gonna happen. Nope, nope , nope! <br><br>
<div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 4]]</div>The pen hovers over the page, dripping ink that pools and spreads like a bloodstain. It bleeds into a Rorschach blot that looks like a screaming face. Or a heart. Or //them//.<br><br>
She slams the journal shut with enough force to send a tremor through the car's frame, as if she could trap the thoughts inside its pages.<br><br>
"Who's gonna read this?" she mutters, kicking the glove compartment open with the toe of her boot. The latch breaks with a satisfying snap, the door hanging limply as a half-empty whiskey bottle clatters to the floor. <br><br>
She snatches it up, unscrewing the cap with practiced ease and taking a swig that burns all the way down. The alcohol barely affects her anymore but the ritual of it is comforting. Normal. Human.<br><br>
Fuck stability. Fuck belonging. Fuck Patch and their belief that she can be saved. But her throat tightens anyway. 30% of Sordia’s population gets murdered anyway. It’s only a matter of time until it’s her turn, especially in her line of work. <br><br>
She imagines her words printed in smudged newsprint after they find her body: //Diary of A Crazy Umbra-Blooded Girl Who Lost Her Own Mind//. Catchy title. Good for the Sordia Daily Crier, always looking for sensational stories to distract from the city's slow collapse. Infamy's a better epitaph than she tried.<br><br>
A cat scurries past the sedan's bumper, a streak of orange in the gloom. Maud leans on the horn—HONK!—the sound shattering the night's relative quiet. She grins as the cat bolts, back arched and fur standing on end. <br><br>
"Run, little thing! Run!" she calls after it, voice raw with something that might be envy. To be small, to be fast, to live purely on instinct rather than this constant war between human and other...<br><br>
Her laughter dies when she glances at her phone. 7:03 PM. The screen's cracked, lines radiating outward from the center like a frozen spiderweb, but the time is still visible. <br><br>
He should have called by now. The guy they were tracking should have been apprehended, squeezed for information, then disposed of cleanly. But her phone remains silent, and the knot in her stomach tightens. Aww, her lackey's probably dead. And if the lackey's dead, the guy might have escaped.<br><br>
Five more minutes. She’ll wait.<br><br>
<div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 5]]</div>She reads through the stupid diary again and hates every word she's written. One misspelled Karaoke ("Kar-ee-okie? Fuck it"). Words scratched out and rewritten. Ink blots where she pressed too hard. <br><br>
She probably misspelled everything because she sucks. //She sucks, she sucks, she sucks//. The mantra beats in time with her pulse, the familiar self-loathing that's been her constant companion since childhood.<br><br>
The page survives long enough for her to scrawl a postscript, letters slanting crazily as the whiskey hits her bloodstream: P.S. If you're reading this, I'm either dead or I have successfully freed myself of this shithole. Either way, buy me a shot. She considers signing it, but who else's fucked-up diary would this be?<br><br>
She rips the journal page out with a satisfying tearing sound, crumpling it into a tight ball between her palms. The paper is warm, almost alive. "Garbage. Trash. Dumpster fire," she mutters, each word punctuated by squeezing the ball tighter, as if she could compress her thoughts into nothingness.<br><br>
The car door rips open with a screech of rusted metal that sets her teeth on edge. Blood spatters across Maud's diary in a fine mist, tiny droplets that bloom on the page like crimson flowers. <br><br>
Vince lunges into the sedan with the grace of a wounded animal, his face contorted with rage and pain. The metallic scent of blood hits her immediately—sharp, sweet, calling to the darkness coiled in her veins.<br><br>
His shirt is soaked with it. The white fabric turned a glistening red that appears almost black in the dim light. His right arm hangs awkwardly, and she can see the tear in his sleeve where a bullet must have grazed him. Not dead, then. But not victorious either. Loser.<br><br>
"Fuck's sake, Maud, what are you doing?!" His voice cracks like thin ice over a frozen lake, high and brittle with pain and something that might be fear. His eyes dart around the car's interior, taking in the scattered french fries, the open journal, the whiskey bottle clutched in her hand. Judging. Always judging.<br><br>
Maud glances up, deliberately casual, twirling the pen between her fingers like a tiny baton. The cheap plastic feels warm against her skin, comforting in its familiarity. Round and round it goes, a hypnotic blue blur. <br><br>
Therapy homework or murder weapon? she muses. Decisions, decisions. The pen would work in a pinch—jammed into an eye socket or through the soft underside of a jaw. She's done more with less.<br><br>
"Hmm? Writing in my diary, Vinny-pooh! My therapist says it's—"<br><br>
<div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 6]]</div>"Oh my God, shut up! Our target shot me and got away because you were writing in your fucking diary!" <br><br>
His voice rises to a near-shriek on the last word, face contorted with fury. He slams his good hand against the dashboard hard enough to dislodge more fries, which tumble to the floor like greasy confetti.<br><br>
Vince's spit flies from his mouth in a fine mist, landing on her cheek like acid rain. She resists the urge to flinch, to wipe it away. Never show weakness. That's the first rule of surviving in Sordia. <br><br>
Maud feels one droplet slide down her skin with scientific detachment, leaving a trail of rage and desperation in its wake. Weaklings are so messy when they're angry, she thinks. All bodily fluids and undignified noises. Not like her. She's learned to kill quietly, to bleed internally, to swallow screams until they calcify in her lungs.<br><br>
The words hit Maud like raindrops—first one, then another, then a deluge. Target. Shot. Away. Diary. Each syllable a tiny bullet piercing her carefully constructed shield of indifference. <br><br>
She tilts her head, a bird-like motion that Patch says makes her look "unsettlingly predatory," watching as Vince clutch his right arm to his chest. Blood seeps through his fingers, staining his white shirt crimson. Such a cliché, wearing white on a job. Like he wanted to showcase every injury, every failure.<br><br>
Something dark and delicious stirs in her chest as she watches him suffer. There's a special kind of beauty in wounded people. The way pain strips away their masks, leaving behind raw, whimpering animals. Vince is always so composed, so smug in his position. Seeing him like this, reduced to his most basic components of pain and fear, makes her feel aroused in a way that has nothing to do with the Umbra blood.<br><br>
A giggle bubbles up her throat, escaping before she can swallow it down. It doesn't sound entirely human, even to her own ears—a little too high, a little too sharp, like glass breaking in slow motion. <br><br>
"Oopsie-daisy! Did the big bad man get a boo-boo? Do you want me to kiss it better?" She pouts, lower lip protruding in an exaggerated display of mock sympathy. Her eyes widen with false innocence, lashes fluttering like insect wings.<br><br>
Vince's face darkens to a dangerous shade of purple, veins bulging at his temples like tiny snakes beneath his skin. His pulse is visible there, a frantic staccato beat that calls to the predator in her. <br><br>
Maud wonders if human heads can actually explode from anger. POP! Like overripe fruit stepped on in summer heat. She'd love to see that—brain matter and skull fragments painting the interior of their stolen sedan in abstract patterns. Art installation: The Consequences of Pissing Off Maud. Mixed media: blood, bone, and brain on upholstery.<br><br>
"Yeah, yeah, I get it, Vinny-pooh," she rolls her eyes, stretching like a cat waking from a nap. Her bones crack—one-two-three—a little percussion solo that echoes in the confined space. The sound is oddly satisfying, like bubble wrap popping.<br><br>
She grabs a handful of cold fries from the dashboard, making sure to chew extra slowly. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Just to watch his eye twitch. Each twitch is like a tiny victory, a reminder that she can get under his skin without even trying.<br><br>
Mental note: This is definitely going in the diary later—filed under 'People Who Need Killing.' Or maybe 'Funniest Tantrums.' She hasn't decided yet. Maybe she'll create a whole new category just for Vince and his particular brand of superiority complex.<br><br>
"You think this is a joke?" Vince spits, flecks of saliva landing on her cheek and lips. The droplets taste like copper and fear when her tongue darts out to lick them away.<br><br>
His blood pressure must be through the roof. She can practically taste the adrenaline pouring off him in waves. "The bastard got away! We could lose everything because you couldn't tear yourself away from your precious diary!"<br><br>
The words are meant to wound, to make her feel guilty for not being where she was supposed to be. But she had better things to do. Like writing in her diary. <br><br>
Maud ignores his tantrum, licking salt from her fingers with exaggerated pleasure. Her tongue sweeps across each digit, slow and deliberate, pink muscle working methodically to capture every grain. <br><br>
She maintains eye contact the entire time, enjoying the way his disgust mingles with something darker, something he probably doesn't even recognize in himself. The vein in his forehead is throbbing, she notes with glee. Three... two... one... and—<br><br>
"So, which way did our little rascal run? Left? Right? Up a tree? Down a rabbit hole?" She grins, watching his face contort with frustration. Dancing on people’s last nerves is so much fun. It's one of the few genuine pleasures left in her life—pushing people until they crack, finding the exact pressure point that makes them snap. <br><br>
With Vince, it's always his pride. He hates failing almost as much as he hates needing help, especially hers.<br><br>
"To the right." Vince grimaces, pressing harder on his wound as if trying to physically contain his own weakness. The blood squeezes between his fingers nonetheless, thick and dark, almost black in the shadowy interior of the car. <br><br>
It drips onto the upholstery, each droplet spreading into a miniature archipelago of pain. "Before he shot me, I managed to wound him in the leg. Just follow the blood trail—you're so good at that, aren't you, freak?"<br><br>
Oh wow. Something cold and sharp slides down Maud's spine, like an icicle being dragged along her vertebrae. That name. That fucking name. A kaleidoscope of memories flashes behind her eyes. Breathe or you'll kill him right here. One, two, three. Patch's counting technique. It almost never works, but she tries anyway.<br><br>
Vinny-pooh must be having a really bad day to pick a fight with her. A sharp grin splits her face, all teeth and no humor. He knows better. He knows what happened to the last person who called her that, knows how they found him three days later with his skin turned inside out, frozen mid-scream in an alley she can’t even remember the name of. <br><br>
He knows better than to poke the monster wearing Maud's skin like a borrowed coat.<br><br>
<div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 7]]</div>Before he can blink, her hands are around his throat, squeezing. The diary falls to the floor, forgotten. His skin feels hot under her fingers, fever-warm and slick with sweat. His pulse races beneath her thumbs, a frightened lamb trying to escape the wolf's jaw.<br><br>
She can feel his Adam's apple bobbing desperately as he tries to swallow, to breathe, to beg. So fragile. So easy to break. Humans are just wet paper bags filled with bones and organs, held together by nothing but wishful thinking and a thin layer of skin.<br><br>
"Hmm, Vinny-pooh~" Her voice comes out in a sing-song whisper. The shadows in the car deepen, stretching toward them like curious spectators gathering for a show.<br><br>
"In therapy today, I promised to get a better grip on my emotions and kill less people, but you are seriously—" squeeze "—getting—" squeeze "—on my nerves right now."<br><br>
His eyes bulge, bloodshot and watery, face turning an interesting shade of blue that reminds her of the sky before a storm. Little red vessels burst in the whites of his eyes, creating a constellation of blood stars under pressure they were never meant to handle.<br><br>
Maud leans closer, close enough to count his eyelashes, to feel his ragged breath on her face. His breath smells like fear and cigarettes, a heady combination that makes her dizzy with power.<br><br>
I could end him right now, she thinks. Just a little more pressure. Just a little longer. Then silence. The world would be short one more asshole, and she'd be free of his constant judgment, his thinly veiled contempt. The shadows would drink his fear, feast on his last moments. They're hungry tonight, roiling beneath her skin like caged beasts.<br><br>
But then who would she have to torment on long stakeouts? Who would bring her coffee just the way she likes it. Black as her soul with three sugars because she's "sweet enough to cause diabetes"? Who would roll his eyes when she makes inappropriate jokes at crime scenes? Besides, Boss would be pissed. And a pissed-off Boss is worse than letting Vince live any day.<br><br>
"Don't you ever think you can talk to me like that. You screwed up, and now you're looking for someone to blame. Like the pathetic scum that you are. So don't pick a fight with someone out of your league, okay~? Be a good boy now and let me correct your mistake."<br><br>
She releases him suddenly, fingers leaving red marks on his neck that will bloom into bruises by morning. My signature, she thinks with glee. A claim that says Maud was here baby! Like a cat pissing on a tree, marking her territory.<br><br>
He collapses against the car door, gasping like a landed fish. Each breath is a wet, desperate sound that fills the car, drowning out the distant city noises. His eyes burn with rage and humiliation, but he doesn't dare speak. Smart boy. He's learning.<br><br>
"Well, let's not keep the Boss waiting too long," she says, voice deliberately light. She pats his cheek, harder than necessary, feeling the sting on her palm. "Try not to bleed out on the upholstery. It's not our car, but I still have standards."<br><br>
Maud hops out of the car in one fluid motion, the night air cool against her flushed skin. The temperature has dropped since she's been sitting in the car, the city settling into its nocturnal rhythm.<br><br>
Her breath forms small clouds that dissipate almost instantly, ghosts of exhalations past. Her heart pounds in her chest. Adrenaline and anticipation making her feel light-headed, almost giddy. <br><br>
Blood scent hangs in the air. Metallic, sweet, calling to her like a siren's song. Her pupils dilate involuntarily, nostrils flaring as she inhales deeply. The Umbra blood stirs, responding to the promise of violence, of hunt, of feast.<br><br>
She's scanning the ground for dark droplets, for the trail that will lead her to her prey. The alley stretches before her, a canyon of brick and concrete littered with the detritus of urban life. Broken bottles, discarded needles, fast food wrappers dancing in the breeze. <br><br>
But she doesn't see those things. She sees only the path, the story written in blood spatter and disturbed dust. The target went right, then left at the intersection, limping heavily on his wounded leg. Desperation makes people sloppy, leaves signs that might as well be neon billboards to someone with her particular talents.<br><br>
The hunt begins.<br><br>
<div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 8]]</div>Maud closes her eyes, blocking out the city's neon chaos. The constant sensory assault of Sordia. The blaring horns, the shouting drunks, the pulsing music from a dozen competing nightclubs—fades to a distant hum as she focuses inward, then outward in a different way. <br><br>
Her senses reach beyond the dumpsters and piss-soaked alleys, past the smothering filth of urban decay until she hears it—fast, irregular breathing. Fear and adrenaline making it sharp and ragged. But above all, she smells it. Blood has a voice all its own, and it's singing to her like a fucking lullaby.<br><br>
Come to me, come to me, come to me.<br><br>
The first whistle splits the night. High and sweet and terrible. The sound emerges from her lips without conscious thought, an ancient call that predates language, predates humanity itself. <br><br>
Shadows stir at her feet, pooling like liquid darkness, hungry children reaching for their mother. Cold spreads through her body like poison, her skin crawling as the darkness tests her worthiness. Only the cold ones, the broken ones, the Umbra-blooded can embrace the shadow like this. Only those born with darkness in their veins can command it, can become one with it.<br><br>
Her pace quickens as she begins to mutter ancient words: "Umbra devorat carnem, sanguis cedit nocti. Anima mea tenebris data est." The language is older than Latin, older than Sanskrit, syllables that feel like shards of ice on her tongue. <br><br>
The shadows respond, slithering across the ground like oil spills given purpose, undulating with a life of their own. They circle her ankles, writhing with anticipation, eager to join with her flesh, to transform her into something beyond human comprehension. The air around her drops ten degrees, frost forming on nearby puddles, crystallizing in delicate patterns that crunch beneath her boots.<br><br>
The transformation begins at her fingertips. Black veins spreading upward beneath her skin. <br><br>
The darkness moves with deliberate slowness, a lover's caress that both hurts and heals. Her nails blacken and extend, hardening into obsidian daggers that pierce through her own flesh with a sound like breaking glass. <br><br>
Blood wells from the wounds, bright crimson against the encroaching dark, but instead of dripping down, it's sucked back in, turning to tar beneath her skin. The pain is exquisite, a burning cold that makes her nerve endings sing.<br><br>
A scream catches in her throat as her radius and ulna snap simultaneously, bone shards puncturing through her forearms like macabre porcupine quills. <br><br>
The fragments hang suspended for a heartbeat, gleaming white in the moonlight, before liquefying into a slurry of marrow and shadow that oozes back into her flesh. <br><br>
Her skin bubbles and splits as if being boiled from within, peeling away in long, wet strips that curl like burned paper. Beneath is not muscle and sinew but a writhing mass of sentient darkness, hungrily consuming what remains of her humanity.<br><br>
"Umbra vocat umbram," she gasps through the agony, voice dropping octaves until it resonates at frequencies that make rats flee from nearby sewers, squeaking in blind terror. <br><br>
The words taste like ash and iron, ancient syllables that were never meant for human tongues to speak.<br><br>
Her ribcage expands suddenly. violently. Cracking outward with wet pops as individual ribs pierce through intercostal muscles and skin. The sound is obscene, organic, like stepping on cockroaches with bare feet. <br><br>
Dark ichor, not blood, oozes from the wounds, sliding down her torso in rivulets that move against gravity, defying physics as shadows are wont to do. <br><br><br><br>
The exposed ribs blacken and curve like fingers reaching for the night sky before dissolving into smoke that clings to her form, reshaping her silhouette into something no longer recognizable as human.<br><br>
Her jaw dislocates with an audible crack that reverberates through her skull, mouth stretching impossibly wide as her teeth fall out one by one, pattering to the ground like bloody hailstones. <br><br>
They dissolve upon impact, each tooth becoming a tiny pool of darkness that races back to join the greater whole. New teeth erupt from bleeding gums, not teeth but needle-like protrusions of solidified darkness, hundreds of them filling her mouth in overlapping rows. <br><br>
Her tongue splits down the middle, forking and elongating until it lolls obscenely from her distended mouth, tasting the air like a serpent seeking prey.<br><br>
"Carnem meam sacrifico," she manages through her deformed mouth, the words garbled but potent. I sacrifice my flesh. The ancient prayer of those who walk between worlds, who offer their humanity as currency for power beyond mortal comprehension.<br><br>
Her spine arches backward until vertebrae snap, one after another in rapid succession—crack-crack-crack—the sound like somebody stomping on bubble wrap filled with fluid. <br><br>
Bone splinters pierce her skin from within, a forest of white daggers that quickly blacken and melt. <br><br>
Her back splits open from neck to tailbone, skin and muscle peeling away like pages in a book to reveal not a spinal column but a writhing column of living shadow that pulses and writhes like a massive centipede. <br><br>
It undulates with hungry purpose, segments shifting and realigning as it adapts to its new freedom.<br><br>
The shadows surge upward, plunging into the open wound of her back, penetrating deeper into her core.<br><br>
They burrow beneath remaining skin, lifting it from muscle, separating tissue from tissue with meticulous cruelty. Where they pass, flesh blackens and sloughs away like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. <br><br>
Her organs liquefy one by one—first her liver, then kidneys, then lungs collapsing into pools of midnight that swirl within the hollow cavity of her torso. Only the brain and heart remain intact, for now.<br><br>
Her heart beats frantically against her exposed sternum, a frantic drumbeat counting down her humanity's final moments. The muscle strains against invisible constraints, as if trying to leap from her chest and escape its inevitable fate. <br><br>
The shadows encircle it, caressing the pulsing muscle almost lovingly before plunging inward. Her heart swells, blackens, and bursts—spraying void-essence instead of blood, each droplet a universe of darkness.<br><br>
"Fio tenebris ipsa," she whispers as her eyes dissolve in their sockets, vitreous humor turning to black mercury that spills down her cheeks like tears. I become darkness itself. The final prayer, the point of no return. <br><br>
Her vision doesn't dim—instead, it expands, seeing beyond the visible spectrum into realms of heat and fear and life-force. The world becomes a pulsing tapestry of energy signatures, each living thing a beacon of varying intensity.<br><br>
The transformation culminates in a horrific implosion as her remaining flesh tears itself apart. Skin rupturing from forehead to feet in a network of jagged lacerations. Muscle shreds itself from bone, sinew unravels like wet string, organs collapse into primordial soup. <br><br>
For one terrible moment, Maud is inside-out, a grotesque display of a human turned wrong, before the shadows surge forward to fill the void where humanity once existed.<br><br>
They knit themselves into her essence, becoming her new skin, her new bones, her new heart. What remains is a silhouette cut from the fabric of night itself, a humanoid shape outlined in darkness so deep it seems to devour light. Where blood once flowed, currents of shadow pulse. Where eyes once were, twin voids now gaze upon the world, seeing not light and color but life-force and fear.<br><br>
She is nothing. Everything. A nightmare made of shadow and spite.<br><br>
The city opens its secrets to her now. Every dark corner whispers her name—Maud, Maud, Maud—a whisper that fills the spaces between heartbeats. Every shadow becomes an extension of her being, a sensory organ that feeds information directly to her consciousness. <br><br>
She flows through the streets like spilled ink, following the sweet scent of terror and gunpowder. The prey is close, his fear a beacon that calls to the predator she has become.<br><br>
The city transforms through shadow-sight. Every darkened window becomes an eye, every patch of darkness a mouth ready to devour. Her consciousness spreads like ink in water, tasting everything at once. Pain. Pleasure. Fear. Desire. Life and death. The full spectrum of human experience laid bare before her.<br><br>
Heartbeats thunder through walls. A drunk sleeping in a doorway (his liver rotting, dreams full of regret), rats scurrying through trash (hungry, always hungry), a couple fucking in an apartment above (sweat-slick skin, gasping breaths). Their heat signatures burn like stars through her dark vision, constellations of life and warmth that make what's left of her humanity ache with want. To be warm again. To feel without the filter of shadow between her and the world.<br><br>
She flows between reality's cracks, becoming one with every shadow. The asphalt's pores welcome her, let her seep through like water through sand only to emerge blocks away, coalescing into semi-solid form wherever darkness gathers.<br><br>
A dog barks as she ripples past, tail between his legs, eyes wide with terror. Animals always know. They recognize an Umbra-blooded in full transformation, remember in their genetic memory when shadows hunted beneath ancient moons.<br><br>
She tastes copper on the air. His blood calling her home like a beacon. Each droplet a breadcrumb, each panicked breath a signpost pointing the way. He's moving northeast, toward the abandoned factory district. Smart but ultimately futile. There's nowhere in Sordia dark enough to hide from what she's become.<br><br>
"I'm coming for you," she sings into the darkness, her voice no longer human but a chorus of whispers, each syllable layered with echoes of previous utterances. "Drip, drip, drip." The sound of his blood hitting concrete, a metronome counting down to his inevitable end.<br><br>
The city's sounds crystallize in her awareness. Car engines growl twelve blocks east, cylinders firing in precise sequence. A baby cries in the building above, lungs still new and perfect, unmarred by Sordia's toxic air. Music thuds from a basement club, bass pounding like an artificial heart, bodies writhing in chemical-induced ecstasy. <br><br>
But loudest of all is him. His panicked breathing, his stumbling footsteps, his racing heart pumping out more sweet blood for her to follow.<br><br>
She slips through a drain pipe, its rust and slime nothing to her now, emerges from a puddle's reflection like a distorted mirror image climbing into reality. She dances between streetlights, each pool of illumination parting around her like water around a stone, leaving her untouched by its revealing glare. <br><br>
The hunt makes what's left of her humanity shiver with dark joy, primal satisfaction coursing through whatever passes for veins in her current form.<br><br>
The shadows whisper location after location, eager to help corner their prey. A pack hunting as one, sharing information through channels beyond human comprehension. Left at the intersection. Through the collapsed fence. Behind the dumpster. Cowering now, leg bleeding freely, gun clutched in trembling hands. They can taste his fear, rich and complex like aged wine. <br><br>
They hunger for more.<br><br>
She is everywhere. She is nowhere. She is the darkness itself, and her prey has nowhere to hide.<br><br>
<div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 9]]</div><h1 class="bloodlines-title">Meanwhile...</h1>
Razor-sharp pain lanced through his leg with each footfall, blood spattering the pavement behind him like obscene breadcrumbs. The bullet had torn through muscle but missed bone, small mercies. <br><br>
Jake clutched the wound as he ran, cursing between gasps for air. His fingers came away slick and warm, coated in crimson that appeared black in the dim streetlights. The sight made his stomach lurch, but he pushed the nausea aside. No time for weakness now.<br><br>
Shit, shit, shit. Nothing was going right. The job was supposed to be easy. In and out. Getting some intel. But everything had gone sideways the moment that psycho had spotted him, eyes gleaming with something that wasn't quite human, smile too wide for her face.<br><br>
His gun was gone, dropped somewhere during the initial confrontation. The data packet was compromised, encryption failing as he'd been forced to disconnect mid-transfer. <br><br>
And now he was leaving a trail of blood like some wounded animal in a nature documentary, marking his path for any predator to follow. For her to follow.<br><br>
Time was running out fast. He could feel it slipping away with each labored breath, with each drop of blood that painted the concrete beneath his feet. <br><br>
The rendezvous point was still ten blocks away, might as well be ten miles in his current condition. He needed somewhere to hide, to regroup, to bind his wound before he bled out in Sordia's indifferent streets.<br><br>
The dark alley beckoned like salvation. A narrow passage between towering buildings, hidden from the main streets by overflowing dumpsters and the skeletal remains of a delivery truck abandoned long ago. Just a place to catch his breath, to think. To not die in the next five minutes. <br><br>
Jake stumbled into the shadows, collapsing against a dumpster with a metallic clang that seemed to echo forever. The smell of rotting food turned his stomach, sweet-sour decay that filled his nostrils and coated his tongue, but it was better than the metallic stench of his own blood.<br><br>
His hands shook violently as he fumbled for his cigarettes, the pack crushed and damp with sweat in his jacket pocket. A stupid indulgence in the middle of a crisis, but he needed something, anything to calm his racing heart before it exploded in his chest. <br><br>
The flame from his lighter illuminated his blood-slicked fingers, making them gleam wetly in the momentary burst of light. He took a deep drag, the nicotine flooding his system with false calm, smoke filling his lungs like a comforting blanket.<br><br>
The phone in his pocket felt like a ticking bomb, the weight of it a constant reminder of his failure. Blood made the screen slippery as he pulled it out, smearing across the glass in abstract patterns. <br><br>
His fingers trembled as he frantically tapped through encryption protocols, trying to salvage what data he could before it was too late. The upload bar crawled across the screen with maddening slowness—73%... 85%... 92%... Complete. <br><br>
At least that was done. Whatever happened to him now, the information was secure. His employer would get what they paid for, even if Jake wouldn't be around to collect the other half of his fee. <br><br>
He cursed the day he took this job, cursed his own stupid desperation for accepting it. The money had seemed worth it at the time. Enough to get out of Sordia for good, to start fresh somewhere the sun still shone and the rain didn't burn your skin. Nothing seemed worth this now, not with death breathing down his neck.<br><br>
The cigarette hit the ground, still smoking, orange ember glowing against black asphalt. Time to move. But something was wrong. The darkness behind him felt... alive. Watching. Hungry. The shadows seemed deeper than they should be, more substantial somehow, as if they had weight and texture beyond the simple absence of light. <br><br>
Jake stiffened, the hairs on his neck standing at attention, his body screaming danger danger danger. He turned slowly, eyes straining against the gloom. Nothing. Just shadows and trash and—<br><br>
His own shadow seemed to ripple against the wall, though there was no wind to move it. The silhouette's edges blurred, then sharpened, then... shifted. Did it just... smile? A mouth opening where no mouth should be, a gash of deeper darkness in the black outline of his form.<br><br>
No. Impossible. The nicotine was making him paranoid. That and blood loss. He needed to move, needed to put as much distance as possible between himself and that woman with the too-wide smile and the eyes like bottomless wells. Needed to—<br><br>
The shadow's teeth were definitely growing sharper now, its edges stretching toward him like grasping fingers. His own shadow was *hungry*. Terror flooded his system as he watched it peel itself from the wall, reaching for him with hands made of pure darkness. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Shadows didn't move on their own. Shadows didn't have teeth.<br><br>
"What the f—"<br><br>
Before he could try to run, something reached from behind. Black arms, too long, too cold, yanked him back with crushing force. His spine cracked against brick, the impact sending starbursts across his vision, white-hot pain radiating outward from the point of contact. <br><br>
Fingers like ice wrapped around his throat, digging into his windpipe with inhuman strength. They yanked him back against the bricks as something began to materialize from the darkness itself.<br><br>
A torso formed from the wall, human-shaped but wrong, like smoke given flesh. The proportions were off—limbs too long, joints bending at impossible angles, head cocked too far to the side like a curious predator. The rest stayed one with the shadows, rippling and writhing against the bricks. Solid arms replaced the shadow ones around his throat, but they were no warmer. No more human.<br><br>
"Boo."<br><br>
The voice was a caress against his ear, intimate and terrible. He felt lips curling into a smile against his skin, teeth sharp enough to draw blood pressing ever so gently against his neck. The points dimpled his flesh without quite breaking it. A hunter playing with its prey, savoring the moment before the kill.<br><br>
"No, no, no, no," he whispered, the words a desperate prayer to a god that had abandoned the world long ago, if it had ever existed at all. Terror flooded his system, adrenaline and cortisol dumping into his bloodstream in quantities that would kill him if the creature holding him didn't do it first.<br><br>
The stories were true. All those whispered tales in dive bars, those urban legends passed around like ghost stories to frighten children—they were all true. Umbra blood. Of course it had to be a shadow-blood freak. How did he miss this? A Mob Boss always has those fuckers around. He thought there was only one, they tricked him! The way they tracked him so easily made him curse his luck. <br><br>
He'd heard stories of those freaks, everyone in Sordia had. Scary Stories whispered in bars when the alcohol loosened tongues. The Umbra bloodline. The abominations that walked among them. But stories didn't prepare you for reality. Nothing could prepare you for staring into the abyss and having it smile back.<br><br>
"You're one of them," he choked out, the words barely audible. His bladder released without warning, warm urine running down his leg, mixing with the blood to create a puddle at his feet. <br><br>
He didn't even feel shame—only pure, animal fear. He knew he was totally fucked. No one escaped an Umbra-blood. Not when they were hunting. Not when they had your scent.<br><br>
Each breath came shorter than the last, like trying to inhale underwater. His chest heaved in desperate spasms as his heart hammered so hard it felt like it might burst through his ribs, a trapped bird throwing itself against its cage. The edges of his vision began to darken, narrowing to a tunnel focused solely on the nightmare before him.<br><br>
Those inhuman hands tightened, and he felt the wall rippling against his back or maybe the wall is his captor, reality bending in ways that made his mind scream in protest. <br><br>
Ice spread from those fingers into his veins, like death itself was seeping into his blood. His extremities went numb first—fingertips, toes, the tip of his nose—then the cold crawled inward, toward his core, a creeping paralysis that promised oblivion.<br><br>
"I have money!" he screamed, voice cracking with desperation. "I'll give you whatever you want! Please! I have a daughter! She's only six!" The lie tumbled out desperately. He had no children, had never even been in a relationship that lasted longer than six months. But he was willing to invent any fiction that might save him. "She needs me. Please."<br><br>
He thrashed, kicked, but it was like fighting the night itself. His foot passed through what should be a leg, encountering only arctic cold and a sensation like plunging into syrup. <br><br>
Darkness swirled around him, tendrils of shadow slithering up his legs like possessive serpents, binding him to the spot. They whispered as they moved, thousands of voices speaking in languages long dead, offering promises and threats in equal measure.<br><br>
More of the figure emerged from the wall. A face formed next to his, but calling it a face was like calling a hurricane a breeze. It was the suggestion of human features, a sketch made by an artist who had only ever heard faces described but never seen one.<br><br>
The vague suggestion of human features shifted and flowed like oil on water, never settling, never solid. Nose becoming mouth becoming eye becoming ear in a constant dance of transformation. It made his eyes water to look at it, his brain struggling to process what it was seeing.<br><br>
Where eyes should be, twin vortices of absolute darkness swirled, pulling at his sanity just by looking into them. They were portals to somewhere else, somewhere cold and empty and hungry. The longer he stared, the more he felt himself being pulled in, his essence unraveling like a sweater caught on a nail.<br><br>
The mouth was a jagged tear across the lower portion, stretching impossibly wide to reveal rows of teeth like obsidian needles, some curving backward like fishhooks. Black ichor dripped from between those teeth, sizzling when it hit the ground, eating through concrete like acid. The tongue that darted between those teeth was forked and glistening, tasting his fear on the air.<br><br>
The creature's skin—if it could be called that—rippled with patterns of deeper darkness, like shadows within shadow. Fractal patterns of void that hurt to look at, each layer revealing more complexity, more wrongness. It wasn't meant for human eyes to see, for human minds to comprehend.<br><br>
Veins of midnight pulsed beneath the surface, carrying something colder than blood. Occasionally, the outer layer of darkness parted, revealing glimpses of a ribcage formed of crystallized shadow, or organs that pulsed with negative light, consuming rather than producing energy.<br><br>
He somehow recognized the psycho girl that had spotted him. Even though she had been a human before, the smile was the same. Wide and terrible and promising pain. She was truly a monster. <br><br>
Her form continued to shift and distort, limbs elongating unnaturally, fingers extending into foot-long talons that phased in and out of solidity. Her hair had become a writhing mass of shadow-tendrils that moved with apparent consciousness, reaching toward his face as if curious about the texture of his skin, the taste of his tears.<br><br>
"Please," he gasped, but the word froze in his throat as those shadow-fingers squeezed. His windpipe creaked under the pressure, cartilage straining to its breaking point. "I don't want to die," he sobbed, tears streaming down his face, cutting clean tracks through the grime and blood. "Not like this. Please, not like this."<br><br>
His vision began to tunnel, darkness encroaching from the edges but it was impossible to tell if it was from oxygen deprivation or if the shadow-freak was literally consuming his sight. <br><br>
In desperation, he clawed at the arms holding him, his nails breaking against a substance that felt simultaneously solid and incorporeal, like trying to grasp smoke that had decided to grasp back.<br><br>
His terror was intoxicating, a heady perfume that filled the alley with its sweet bouquet. It tasted like candy, sweet and addictive on her shadow-tongue. The panic in his eyes was delicious, liquid fear pooling in those wide pupils as they darted frantically, searching for an escape that didn't exist. <br><br>
<div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 9.5]]</div>Maud could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a desperate drum solo reaching its crescendo. She could smell the acrid stench of pure fear mixed with a tang of urine, the most honest response a body can give when faced with its own mortality.<br><br>
Her shadow-arms held him easily as he struggled, each movement growing weaker as his strength ebbed along with his blood and hope. Such fragile things, humans. So easy to break. So quick to surrender to despair. <br><br>
She could drink this forever, this distilled essence of terror, this pure expression of what it means to face the unknown and find it wanting.<br><br>
"Scared-scared-scared, like a little mouse!" she sang, her voice rippling with too many harmonics, like a choir of the damned speaking in unison. The sound echoed oddly in the confined space, bouncing back with subtle differences, as if the shadows themselves were joining in her song. <br><br>
"Is the little mouse afraid of the big bad shadow? He SHOULD be!"<br><br>
Her form rippled between shadow and flesh, caught in that unique space between monster and human. Not quite one, not quite the other, but something new altogether. <br><br>
But her arms, her face—those were solid enough to play with her prey. She let her features shift and flow, revealing glimpses of bone-white teeth one moment, a void-black maw the next. <br><br>
The constant transformation was partly for effect—fear fed on uncertainty, on the inability to predict what comes next and partly because she couldn't help it. The shadow wanted to express itself in all its terrible glory.<br><br>
Her therapist would probably call this a "stress response." They're always saying she needs healthier coping mechanisms than violence. Maybe painting. Maybe yoga. Maybe deep breathing exercises that don't end with someone else not breathing at all. The thought made her shadow-lips curl in amusement.<br><br>
"How are you feeling right now?" she purrs against his ear, then suddenly barks with laughter. "Wait, wait—I know this one! On a scale of one to ten, with ten being ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED—" she leans in close, needle-teeth grazing his earlobe, "—you're at what, a hundred? A thousand? Your heart's going boom-boom-BOOM!"<br><br>
She taps his chest with one shadow-claw, mimicking his frantic heartbeat with each tap. Each touch leaves a smear of frost on his shirt, ice crystals blooming across the fabric like deadly flowers. The shadows writhe with bloodlust, begging her to tear him apart, to feast on his terror until there's nothing left but an empty husk. To consume him entirely, body and soul, leaving nothing behind but a memory that fades with the morning light.<br><br>
She doesn't get an answer just a small whimpering sound that bubbles from his throat like the last air escaping a drowning man's lungs. His eyes have gone glassy, pupils so dilated they've nearly swallowed the iris. Fight-or-flight has given way to freeze, his body's last desperate attempt at survival when all other options have failed.<br><br>
"Kai would say I'm being messy again," she sighs, mood shifting abruptly. Something almost wistful crosses her features, a flicker of humanity in the void-mask.<br><br>
"She likes things neat and tidy. Plans and backup plans. Excel spreadsheets for everything, can you believe that? Color-coded and shit. Me? I like the CHAOS!" The last word booms through the alley as her form briefly expands, engulfing more of the wall behind them. Brick crumbles under the pressure, mortar turns to dust, leaving ragged holes where her darkness pushed through.<br><br>
His pulse flutters frantically under her grip, a hummingbird trapped in a cage of bone. So fragile. So determined to keep beating despite everything. Life clinging to itself with desperate tenacity. <br><br>
She should probably process these violent urges in her diary later. Maybe buy those colorful stickers Patch recommended. Or those little frowny-face emoticons to mark the really bad days. "Dear Diary, today I terrified a man until he pissed himself. On the emotional regulation scale, that's definitely a frowny face day."<br><br>
"You know," she muses, as he chokes and struggles, tears and snot streaming down his face, "my therapist says I should practice empathy. So let's role-play—I'll be the ruthless shadow-monster, and you be the terrified prey about to die! Oh wait..." She giggles, the sound echoing wrongly through the alley, bouncing off bricks with too many harmonics. It splits and multiplies, becoming a chorus of laughter from invisible throats. "We're already doing that! HAHAHAHA!"<br><br>
Her laughter cuts off abruptly, replaced by a somber expression that looks wrong on her monstrous face. The shadows settle momentarily, rippling with something almost like remorse. "It's not your fault, you know. Wrong place, wrong time—story of my life too! We could've been FRIENDS in another lifetime. Pen pals! We could write letters about how much everything SUCKS!"<br><br>
The man stares at her, uncomprehending, caught between terror and confusion at her mercurial shifts. His brain can't process the emotional whiplash, can't reconcile the monster before him with its oddly human speech patterns. <br><br>
Something in him breaks, she can see it happen, the moment when the mind decides reality is too much to bear. His eyes unfocus slightly, retreating to some inner sanctuary where shadow-monsters don't exist.<br><br>
"I'll tell you everything," he finally manages to croak out, voice a ruined thing. "Who hired me. What they wanted. Everything. Just please let me live." Aww, he really has a pathetic voice. Like a mouse caught in a trap, squeaking for mercy it knows won't come.<br><br>
Kill him. Kill him. KILL HIM. The shadows whisper in her mind, her instincts clawing for release. They tug at her consciousness, hungry for the moment when terror turns to death, when the light leaves his eyes and his soul joins the darkness. When the last spark of his being gutters out like a candle in a hurricane.<br><br>
Honestly, she would love to end it here and just break his neck. Feel the satisfying snap of vertebrae between her shadow-hands, watch as his body goes limp, a puppet with cut strings. But Boss wanted him alive. Besides, she needed to work on her control issues anyway. Patch would be so proud if she could bring herself to spare him. Another gold star on her behavioral chart. Another step toward something resembling sanity.<br><br>
Bummer.<br><br>
"But then again," she sighs dramatically, mood whiplashing again as she drags talons down his cheek, leaving frost-bitten furrows in their wake, skin turning white then blue then black with killing cold, "I did promise to work on my impulse control issues—"<br><br>
<div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 11]]</div>BANG!<br><br>
The bullet catches her completely by surprise—no presence sensed, no warning at all. One moment she's savoring the anticipation of information extraction, the next there's a supersonic piece of metal passing through the air where her head would be if she were still human. <br><br>
It misses her by millimeters, shadow-substance parting instinctively around the foreign object.<br><br>
Her prey isn't so lucky. The round catches him square between the eyes, a perfect kill shot that turns the back of his skull into a red mist. <br><br>
He goes limp in her grasp, painting the wall with brain matter in a rather artistic splatter pattern. For a moment, she stays half-formed, processing this rude interruption, this theft of what was rightfully hers.<br><br>
"What the—HEY! That was MINE!" she shrieks, voice cracking with genuine outrage that echoes down the alley, shattering the few intact windows that line it. "MY toy! MY game! MINE!"<br><br>
The body twitches once, twice, then hangs like meat from her grasp. Eyes vacant, mouth slack, a puppet whose strings have been not just cut but burned away. <br><br>
There's no satisfaction in this, no culmination of the hunt. Just an abrupt cessation, a period where there should have been an ellipsis.<br><br>
Then a slow, wicked smile curls her lips as understanding dawns. Oh. Oh. Of course she didn't sense anyone. Someone else is playing in her territory. Someone worth hunting.<br><br>
"Now that's just RUDE," she calls out, fully materializing as she lets the body slump to the ground. The corpse hits the pavement with a wet thud, blood pooling beneath it like spilled wine. Dark and glistening in the dim light, already cooling, already becoming just another piece of discarded trash in Sordia's endless refuse. <br><br>
"I was in the middle of a BREAKTHROUGH! Do you know how much therapy costs these days? Sixty bucks an hour! HIGHWAY ROBBERY!"<br><br>
She spins in a circle, arms outstretched like a demented ballerina, scanning the surrounding rooftops, windows, doorways. The shadows extend from her fingers like streamers, tasting the air, searching for the slightest disturbance. <br><br>
"Come out, come out, wherever you are! Let's play!" Her voice lilts up and down, childlike excitement warring with predatory hunger. The juxtaposition is jarring, like a nursery rhyme played in a minor key.<br><br>
The night offers no response but the distant wail of sirens and the ever-present hum of Sordia's restless pulse. The shooter is gone or hiding so well that even her shadow-senses can't detect them. <br><br>
Her smile only grows sharper, needle-teeth gleaming in the dim light. How... deliciously interesting. A worthy opponent at last. Someone who can challenge her, make her work for her kills. A rare find in a city of easy prey.<br><br>
"Fine, be that way!" she pouts, lower lip protruding in an exaggerated expression that looks obscene on her monstrous face. Then she grins maniacally, mood shifting again with dizzying speed.<br><br>
"Ready or not, here I COME!" She makes exaggerated gun noises with her mouth—"Pow! Pow! Pow!"—mocking the bullet that stole her prey. Her shadow-substance ripples with each explosive sound, like a pond disturbed by thrown stones.<br><br>
Her senses stretch outward, tasting the darkness for any hint of disturbance. The shadows around her writhe with anticipation, eager for a new game, a worthier opponent than the cooling corpse at her feet. <br><br>
They reach into every crevice, every crack, every hidden space within a three-block radius, seeking the interloper who dared interfere with their hunt.<br><br>
But she couldn't sense the sniper's presence anywhere. The little fucker was already gone, slipping away between one heartbeat and the next, leaving nothing but a cooling corpse and a mystery that makes her shadow-blood sing with excitement. <br><br>
She pouts once more, lower lip protruding impossibly far. How boring. How frustrating.<br><br>
<div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 12]]</div>The body slumps at Maud's feet like a broken puppet, still warm but emptying fast, life's crimson tide flowing out to stain the concrete beneath their feet. Brain matter drips down the brick wall in slow, viscous rivulets, gray and pink and utterly fascinating in its grotesque display. <br><br>
At least he died with a proper jumpscare. Her therapist's always saying she should find silver linings in disappointing situations. This one's silver lining comes with a side of gray matter and skull fragments.<br><br>
"Hmm, let's see what secrets you were carrying, shall we?" She gives his head a playful little kick, watching it loll to the side with morbid fascination. The exit wound is impressive, a ragged hole the size of her fist where the back of his skull used to be. <br><br>
"My boss doesn't like incriminating evidence being photographed, okay? Nothing personal—well, I guess it is personal NOW! Hahaha!"<br><br>
Not that he protests, dead men tell no tales and all that jazz. Or was it dead men don't wear plaid? She can never remember these sayings correctly. Idioms are so confusing, full of contradictions and historical references that make no sense in Sordia's fractured reality.<br><br>
Humming the latest pop song stuck in her head, something about dancing on the ashes of your enemies, very catchy chorus, she starts her morbid treasure hunt. <br><br>
Her Umbra form has gradually retracted, leaving behind a more human-shaped Maud, though her eyes still swirl with darkness and her fingers remain unnaturally elongated. The transformation is never complete anymore, not since the Umbra has taken root so deeply in her being. <br><br>
Parts of it always remain, visible reminders of what lurks beneath her skin.<br><br>
"Let's see what we have here!" she announces to the empty alley, voice echoing off brick walls. She kneels beside the corpse, unconcerned with the blood soaking into her pants. It's hardly the first time she's been covered in someone else's bodily fluids, and it certainly won't be the last. <br><br>
"Phone, cigarettes, and—score!—ten bucks. Finders keepers, losers get their brains blown out!" she sing-songs, pocketing the cash with a flourish. Her therapist says she needs to celebrate small victories. Finding money definitely counts.<br><br>
The phone's locked, of course, protected by passcodes and biometrics designed to keep secrets secret. But that's what corpse fingers are for. Modern security systems haven't yet adapted to users being dead when their devices are accessed. <br><br>
She presses his still-warm digit to the sensor with a theatrical flourish, like a magician revealing the climax of a trick. "Open sesame! Abracadabra! Digital necromancy!" The screen lights up obligingly, bathing her face in its blue glow. Modern technology is so accommodating to the criminally inclined.<br><br>
"Let's see what kind of perverted stuff you have hidden here, huh?" She wiggles her eyebrows at the corpse, an audience that never complains about her jokes. <br><br>
"Don't worry, I won't kink-shame. Much. Unless it's feet stuff—that's just WEIRD." She cackles at her own words, then stops abruptly, tilting her head like a bird considering a worm. <br><br>
"Wait, am I talking to a corpse? That's probably on the 'unhealthy coping mechanisms' list. Oopsie!"<br><br>
Patch would definitely have something to say about her tendency to monologue to the dead. Probably ask probing questions about her need for an audience that can't judge her, can't leave her, can't betray her like the living inevitably do. The thought makes her scowl, shadows briefly swirling around her fingertips before she forces it back down.<br><br>
Scrolling through the bland interface, she can't help but pout. The phone's boring, a work phone, stripped clean of personality. One number in the contacts. One email in the inbox. <br><br>
Not even a cute cat wallpaper or a personal photo as the lock screen. Just the default background that came with the device. How depressing. How utterly soulless. Even in death, this man is tedious.<br><br>
"Seriously? Not even ONE dirty text? No last-minute confessions? BOOORING!" she whines, kicking at a nearby trash can. It topples with a satisfying crash, contents spilling across the alley. Fast food wrappers, broken bottles, used needles. The rubble of Sordia's endless cycle of consumption and disposal.<br><br>
The notes app, though—now that's interesting. "Ooh, what's this? Your personal spank bank? Let's see..." The app contains twelve detailed entries, each with a name, a photo, and cryptic notations that look like surveillance records.<br><br>
Her Umbra side purrs with curiosity as she scrolls through the photos, darkness swirling in her eyes as she recognizes faces. Targets? Contacts? Both?<br><br>
Boss's face fills the first image, looking pissed off in that uniquely intimidating way only they can manage. The photo was clearly taken without their knowledge today.<br><br>
"Pfft, someone caught them at a good angle. Though honestly, when do they ever have a bad angle?" She turns the phone to show the corpse, as if seeking confirmation.<br><br>
"Look at that expression, it's their 'someone fucked up and now I have to fix it' face. I get that look a LOT! At least twice before breakfast!"<br><br>
The next photo shows that asshole rich CEO kid who she dislikes. One of those corporate golden kids who pretend to care about Sordia's improvement while siphoning money into offshore accounts. <br><br>
"Fancy! Moving up in the world, were we? Though honestly, taking photos of rich spoiled assholes is like collecting pictures of particularly well-dressed rats. Squeak-squeak!"<br><br>
She swipes through the next few with growing boredom, providing running commentary to her deceased audience like a deranged museum tour guide. <br><br>
"Boring... don't know them... oh wait, is that—no, never mind...”<br><br>
Her finger freezes mid-swipe. "What the actual fuck?" The sixth photo shows Patch exiting their makeshift clinic. <br><br>
Medical bag clutched tight in one hand, shoulders hunched against Sordia's perpetual drizzle. They look exhausted, dark circles prominent under their eyes after probably stitching up half the neighborhood for free.<br><br>
"Well, well, well. Looks like someone's been doing their homework." Her voice drops lower. <br><br>
"Patch? Really? What kind of sick game are you playing?" She presses the corpse's cold cheek like she's scolding a naughty child. Patch is one of the few decent people left in this cesspool of a city. But at least there isn’t a picture of Kai. <br><br>
“Oh look, someone who needs a better hairstylist than me, and that's saying something!" She slips back into the manic commentary.<br><br>
Her own $hair hair is a disaster. Choppy layers, grown out to show dark roots, the result of a drunken self-haircut three months ago that she's never bothered to fix.<br><br>
More strangers. More targets? Then another photo, herself, walking out of her favorite coffee shop, looking at her phone. The same café where the cute barista works, the one who puts hearts over non-existent i's. <br><br>
Her breath catches. Judging from her outfit, the image must be a couple months old—the leather jacket she lost in a firefight with the Crimson Hand, boots she'd had to abandon after they got soaked in something caustic during a job gone wrong.<br><br>
"Oh, so you've been watching me too?" she hisses at the corpse, genuine anger flaring. The shadows respond, temperature dropping several degrees. Frost forms on the blood pooling beneath the body. <br><br>
"Stalking little creep!" She kicks his head for good measure, hard enough that something cracks inside what remains of his skull. The sound is satisfying, like stepping on bubble wrap.<br><br>
Then she reaches the last photo, thumb swiping almost casually across the screen. The image loads.<br><br>
Her fingers freeze and the playful commentary dies in her throat. The shadows around her writhe in response to her sudden surge of rage, stretching toward her like hungry pets sensing a meal. <br><br>
They coil around her arms, her throat, her waist, responding to emotions she can't contain. She blinks, again and again, but the image doesn't change.
<br><br>
<div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 13]]</div>"Why the fuck," she whispers, voice dropping to something inhuman, a register that makes rats scurry for cover and cockroaches burrow deeper into the walls, "do you have a picture of my <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>brother<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>sister<<else>>sibling<</if>>?"<br><br>
The one she hasn't spoken to in... hmmm, has it been three years? The photo must be recent.
<<if $hairLength is "bald">>The sleek curve of <<if $nickname>>$nickname<<else>>$firstName<</if>>'s skull catches the light. Being bald looks far better on $firstName than Maud remembers. Before, she always used to joke that you are so bald, you’re basically a walking anti-hair ad.<</if>><br><br>
And then there are those <<if $eyes is "light-blue">>crystalline sky-blue<<elseif $eyes is "deep-blue">>intense sapphire<<elseif $eyes is "gray-blue">>stormy gray-blue<<elseif $eyes is "light-green">>pale jade<<elseif $eyes is "emerald-green">>vivid emerald<<elseif $eyes is "hazel-green">>hazel-flecked green<<elseif $eyes is "amber">>golden-amber<<elseif $eyes is "light-brown">>warm honey-brown<<elseif $eyes is "dark-brown">>deep chocolate<<elseif $eyes is "gray">>silver-gray<<elseif $eyes is "violet">>unusual violet<<elseif $eyes is "hetero-blue-green">>striking heterochromatic blue and green<<elseif $eyes is "hetero-brown-blue">>mismatched brown and blue<<elseif $eyes is "hetero-green-brown">>captivating green and brown<<elseif $eyes is "hetero-gray-amber">>fascinating gray and amber<</if>>piercing eyes that have always been too perceptive for Maud's comfort.<br><br>
<<if $gender is "transgender-male">>Maud remembers being there when $mcHe started $mcHis transition, remembers holding $mcHis hand through the first shots, the first surgeries. $firstName looks so comfortable in $mcHis skin now. Complete in a way $mcHe never did before.<<elseif $gender is "transgender-female">>Maud remembers the early days of $mcHis transition, the shared secrets and midnight conversations. The way $mcHis face softened over time, the curves that appeared in places once angular and straight. $firstName has grown into herself, beautiful and authentic in ways that make Maud's throat tighten with an emotion too complicated to name.<</if>><br><br>
<<if $height is "very-tall" or $height is "tall" or $height is "towering">>$mcHeC's still tall, towering over whoever took the photo, a presence that commands attention without trying. Maud remembers teasing $mcHim about ducking through doorways, about seeing dust on top of refrigerators normal humans never notice.<<elseif $height is "very-short" or $height is "short">>$mcHeC's still compact, a concentrated force of personality in a smaller frame. Maud remembers teasing $firstName endlessly, hiding her snacks in the highest cupboards.<>$mcHeC stands with a posture Maud instantly recognizes, a stance that speaks of quiet confidence, neither imposing nor meek, simply present, grounded in a way Maud has never quite managed to achieve.<</if>><br><br>
The $outfitStyle $firstName wears in the photo complements $mcHis $bodyShape perfectly, a far cry from the awkward teenager who used to raid Maud's closet.<br><br>
$firstName is smiling at someone off-camera.<<if $gender is "cisgender-male" or $gender is "transgender-male">>Her brother<<elseif $gender is "cisgender-female" or $gender is "transgender-female">>Her sister<<else>>Her sibling<</if>> looks good. Healthy. Happy in a way Maud can barely remember feeling.<br><br>
The phone's screen cracks in Maud's grip, spiderweb fractures racing across the glass like lightning seeking ground. The damage isn't intentional. Her control is slipping. Umbra-strength bleeding into her human form, making her stronger than the technology in her hands.<br><br>
"Hey, friend?" Her voice becomes cold, all playfulness evaporating like morning dew under Sordia's toxic sun. The shadows around her writhe and stretch, responding to her rage, feeding on it, amplifying it in a feedback loop of darkness and fury. <br><br>
"We need to have a serious talk about why you had this particular photo."<br><br>
The corpse, predictably, remains silent. But that doesn't stop her from leaning in close, close enough to count the pores on what remains of his face, close enough for her breath—cold as winter—to stir his blood-matted hair.<br><br>
Frost spreads across the corpse's skin as her control slips further, ice crystals forming in delicate patterns that would be beautiful if they weren't born of such rage. <br><br>
The temperature in the alley plummets until each breath comes out as steam, a visible reminder that she's still partly human, still needs oxygen despite the shadows coursing through her veins. Ice crystals form on the dead man's eyelashes, turning them white with rime.<br><br>
"Oh wait," she giggles, but it's a broken sound, like glass being crushed underfoot, jagged and dangerous. "You're DEAD! D-E-A-D! Guess I'll have to find whoever sent you instead."<br><br>
She stands slowly, shadows coiling up her legs like angry serpents seeking warmth. They twist and writhe, forming patterns that hurt to look at directly, fractals of darkness that suggest depths beyond human comprehension. <br><br>
Patch always says family is a trigger point for her, a sore spot that never quite heals no matter how many coping mechanisms they try to implement. For once, they might be right.<br><br>
"Seems like someone's been playing a little game," she whispers, shadows pooling in her palms like living oil, thick and viscous and eager to be shaped to her will. "Watching my <<if $gender is "cisgender-male" or $gender is "transgender-male">>brother<<elseif $gender is "cisgender-female" or $gender is "transgender-female">>sister<<else>>sibling<</if>>, taking pretty little pictures. That's—that's—that's NOT OKAY!"<br><br>
The last words explode from her in a shriek that shatters a nearby window, glass raining down around her in a crystalline shower. <br><br>
She doesn't notice, doesn't care. The fragments bounce off her shadow-infused skin without leaving a mark, just another reminder that she's no longer entirely human.<br><br>
Time to find out who's been stalking her <<if $gender is "cisgender-male" or $gender is "transgender-male">>brother<<elseif $gender is "cisgender-female" or $gender is "transgender-female">>sister<<else>>sibling<</if>>. Time to follow this thread back to its source, to the spider at the center of the web. And then... well, her therapist also says she shouldn't make threats or kill unnecessarily. That violence should be a last resort, not a first response. That there are always other ways to resolve conflict.<br><br>
"Sorry, Patch," she murmurs, darkness flooding her eyes once more, turning them into twin voids that reflect no light. "But there is no other way."<br><br>
She's never been good at following advice anyway.<br><br>
<<if $background is "investigative">>
[[Continue Chapter 1|CH1P1:IJ]]
<</if>>
<<if $background is "war">>
[[Continue Chapter 1|CH1P1:WC]]
<</if>>
<<if $background is "whistle">>
[[Continue Chapter 1|CH1P1:WB]]
<</if>>
<<if $background is "tabloid">>
[[Continue Chapter 1|CH1P1:TR]]
<</if>><div class="ch1-header">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">CH1: The City That Eats Its Young</h1>
</div>
//Going live in 3, 2, 1…//<br><br>
The camera's red light burns. Hot. Angry. Like a cigarette pressed against flesh until it blisters.<br><br>
Behind you, Kent Grey's mansion bleeds federal agents through every door and window. Black SUVs with tinted glass. Tactical gear that catches emergency lights in harsh angles. The kind of late-night raid that turns senators into corpses, politically speaking.<br><br>
You taste copper in the October air. Sweat. Blood. Probably from someone's split lip—a reporter who got too close to the federal perimeter.<br><br>
“This is $fullName with Channel 6 News, and I’m standing outside the home of a man who thought his money could buy him silence.” Your voice comes out steady. Clear. The voice of someone who knows exactly what they’re talking about. <br><br>
“Tonight, City Councilman Kent Grey sits in handcuffs. Being Arrested for the brutal murders of Silvia De Luca and her six-year-old daughter Jane.”<br><br>
A pause. Let that sink in. Let the audience process the word ‘brutal’. And ‘six-year-old’ in the same sentence.<br><br>
The mansion squats behind you like a tumor made of Georgian columns and old money. White stone that probably cost more than most people make in a decade.
You can smell the corruption sweating out of the stone itself. Twenty years of dirty money has a stench that seeps into marble and never quite washes out.<br><br>
CRD agents swarm through Grey's manicured garden. Their boots crush five-hundred-dollar roses without care.<br><br>
"Murders that police initially blamed on a random robbery gone wrong." Your voice cuts through the wind and helicopter noise overhead.<br><br>
"My investigation began two months ago when Maria De Luca came to my office with a photograph and a story nobody wanted to believe." You grin mirthlessly. "She is seventy-three years old, a cancer patient, confined to a wheelchair after a stroke. Silvia De Luca was her daughter and Jane her granddaughter. She knew someone was lying."<br><br>
"And she was right. The official story is a lie." You hold up thick folders of evidence. "My investigation reveals that Silvia and Jane De Luca were murdered by a hired Umbra assassin in a conspiracy that reaches into Sordia's highest political circles."
This is it. The moment two months of digging finally pays off. Time to burn down some careers.<br><br>
"Documents obtained through Freedom of Information Act requests #2044-8829 show Silvia De Luca wasn't a random robbery victim." You flip through bank statements, letting the camera capture transaction details. "She was Senator Kent Grey's secret mistress and the mother of his illegitimate child."<br><br>
Behind you, more federal vehicles arrive. The kind of specialized units they deploy when corruption involves murder and treason.<br><br>
"Banking records reveal systematic payments from Grey's personal accounts to De Luca over six years." You pause, letting that revelation settle. "Grey was paying hush money to keep their affair and Jane's paternity secret."<br><br>
Follow the money. Always follow the money. It leaves stains that survive bleach and congressional immunity.<br><br>
Hotel registry records place both of them at the Meridian downtown multiple times. Text messages from De Luca's recovered smartphone document their relationship and her growing financial demands.<br><br>
Smart woman, keeping evidence of his lies. Too bad intelligence doesn't stop bullets when powerful men get tired of paying for their mistakes.<br><br>
"But here's where the case turned deadly." Your voice hardens. "When De Luca demanded more money to support Jane, their lifestyle and her sick mother, Grey refused. Instead of paying, he decided elimination was cheaper."<br><br>
The wind shifts. Carries now the stench expensive cologne bleeding from the mansion's open doors.<br><br>
"Maria knew her daughter wasn't killed in some random robbery." The satisfaction in your voice could draw blood.<br><br>
The mansion's front door hangs open like a wound. Marble floors visible inside. Crystal chandeliers that cost more than houses. All that wealth built on lies, betrayal, and now blood money.<br><br>
"The crime scene photos don't lie." Your voice gets harder. Sharper. "Silvia De Luca was executed that was professional work. Single bullet to the back of the skull. No struggle. No defensive wounds. It probably happened too fast for her to react."<br><br>
You can see those photos burned into your memory. Silvia's body twisted on hardwood floors. Blood pooled around her head like spilled wine. Dark. Sticky. Jane was killed after witnessing her mother's death. Her small body next to her mother's. Blood in blonde hair that would never grow another inch. Stuffed dinosaur clutched in hands that would never draw another picture. Six years old. <br><br>
Professional killers charge extra for family packages. Someone paid premium rates to make sure both mother and daughter died the same night.<br><br>
"Jane De Luca was six years old." The words taste like stale coffee. "The autopsy report said she died last. After watching her mommy get shot. The killer made sure she understood what was happening before pulling the trigger."<br><br>
"See, Silvia had money problems." You lean into the camera. Let viewers see the face of a <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who spends sleepless nights following paper trails and connecting the dots. "Single mom trying to raise a kid and take care of her sick mother. All while living way above her means. Credit cards maxed out. Shopping debts up to her eyeballs. Always wanting the next shiny thing."<br><br>
Through the mansion's dining room window, you can see the long table where Grey entertained his wife and legitimate children while texting his secret mistress about when he could sneak away for another rendezvous. The same surface where he probably planned his daughter's execution between courses.<br><br>
Greed makes people stupid. Silvia got greedy, Grey got desperate, and Jane got dead.<br><br>
"July 15th text from Silvia to Grey." Your voice carries the weight of evidence that survived deletion attempts and hard drive magnets. "'Jane keeps asking why daddy never comes home. I can't keep lying to a six-year-old anymore.'"<br><br>
"Grey's response?" You pause. Let the question hang in the air. "'Our arrangement works fine. Don't complicate things, Silvia.'"<br><br>
"The ultimatum came July 20th." Your voice drops. Gets intimate. "Silvia wanted Grey to acknowledge Jane publicly. Stop treating his daughter like a dirty secret with a low budget monthly payment plan or she'd sell her story to every tabloid in the city."<br><br>
The mansion's library gleams through tall windows. Thousands of books Grey probably never opened. Decorative literacy for a man who spent decades using the Constitution as toilet paper.<br><br>
Bet half those books are about justice and democracy. The irony could choke you.<br><br>
"Grey's answer came five days later." You step closer to the camera until your face fills the frame. "Not acknowledgment. Elimination."<br><br>
That word hangs in the air. Heavy. Final. Like a coffin lid slamming shut.<br><br>
"This is where the conspiracy deepens." You lean into the camera, letting emergency lights catch the stubbornness in your eyes. "It wasn’t him alone planning the murder. Enter Lillian Frost, a twenty-eight-year-old Fae bloodline socialite who began an affair with Grey earlier this year."<br><br>
Phone records show the escalation. Frost contacting Grey more frequently as De Luca's demands increased. Two people with money and power deciding that murder was more convenient than honesty.<br><br>
Hell hath no fury like a woman with abandonment issues and homicidal tendencies.<br><br>
"Frost used her supernatural abilities and social connections to infiltrate De Luca's life as her closest friend." Your voice turns to steel. "Over several weeks, she gathered detailed intelligence about both victims' daily routines, security arrangements, and Jane's schedule."<br><br>
"Banking records from Frost's personal accounts show a fifty-thousand-dollar withdrawal on July 22nd." You hold up the financial documentation. "Three days before the murders. Federal sources confirm this money was used to hire the Umbra assassin known as 'Rio.'"<br><br>
The mansion's lights flicker—either power issues or feds cutting utilities to prevent evidence destruction. Perfect symbolism. Grey's empire going dark while truth finally sees daylight.<br><br>
"Her Fae abilities include memory modification and appearance alteration." You step directly into the camera's range. "She could be anyone. Anywhere. The neighbor who remembers too much about your schedule. The barista who asks personal questions. Anyone who makes you feel unusually comfortable."<br><br>
"This wasn't random street violence." You gesture toward the mansion, toward everything wrong with Sordia's power structure. "This was calculated murder designed to protect a senator's political career and a socialite's romantic interests."
Kent and Lillian thought they could buy their way out of consequences.<br><br>
Look how wrong they were. But Lillian is still missing. 72 hours of head start.<br><br>
Seventy-two hours is forever when you have trust fund money. When you have supernatural abilities. When your bloodline gives you advantages that normal people can't fight. Enough time to buy new identities, destroy more evidence, disappear into whatever hole rich murderers crawl into when they need to hide.<br><br>
You stare into the camera lens. Feel those hours like rocks in your gut. Each one precious. Wasted. Each one bringing her closer to disappearing forever into whatever hole rich people crawl into when they need to wash blood off their hands.<br><br>
“Lillian Frost has been missing for 72 hours.” Your voice shakes. Just a little. The kind of tremor that comes from knowing exactly how much damage someone can do when they have unlimited resources and nothing left to lose. <br><br>
“This woman helped plan the murder of a six-year-old child.” You let the reminder hang in the air. Six years old. Barely knew how to spell her name before they snuffed her out. “And she has the resources to disappear forever.”<br><br>
You pull out the photograph. Some charity bullshit. Lillian in a dress that costs more than your car. Perfect makeup. Perfect hair. Perfect everything except that rotten soul. “Let me be very clear about who we’re looking for.”<br><br>
You hold the photo closer. Let viewers burn her face into their memory. This isn’t some abstract criminal. This is real. She’s real. The blood on her hands is real.<br><br>
“Frost has distinctive silver-blonde hair and violet eyes.” The description matters. More than usual. Because Frost isn’t stuck with one face. She can change. Shift. Become someone else when it suits her. “She’s about five-six, maybe 120 pounds.”<br><br>
“If you think you see her, don’t approach. Call CRD immediately.” You recite the number slow. Clear. Let it stick. Because this bitch is dangerous in ways that go beyond money and connections.<br><br>
The mansion's front door opens wider. Movement catches your peripheral vision—CRD agents forming a tactical escort around something important.<br><br>
The sound you’ve been waiting for. Heavy footsteps. Official voices. The payoff that makes two months of sleepless nights worth something.<br><br>
You turn. Let the camera capture it.<br><br>
Kent Grey emerges into the emergency lights like a vampire dragged into sunlight.
Hands zip-tied behind his back. Silver hair disheveled for the first time in twenty years of photo ops. His expensive suit wrinkled, stained with sweat that reeks of stress and anger.<br><br>
Grey's face is gray. Fitting. His face shows nothing. Years of political training. Don’t look guilty. Don’t look scared. Don’t give the cameras anything they can use.
But his eyes tell a different story.<br><br>
Eyes darting between news cameras like a cornered animal calculating escape routes that don't exist. For money that can’t buy his way out of federal charges. This time at least.<br><br>
The CRD team moves with professional precision. Black tactical gear. Automatic weapons.<br><br>
Grey's eyes find yours across the chaos. For a moment—just a heartbeat—politician stares at journalist. The man who ordered a six-year-old's execution meeting the <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who exposed it.<br><br>
You smile. Cold. Sharp. Empty of everything except satisfaction.
Message delivered, you child-killing bastard.<br><br>
Grey's jaw tightens. He looks away first.<br><br>
The agents guide him toward the unmarked federal vehicle. No ceremony. No dignity. Just a murderer getting transported to the cage where he'll die.
You turn back to the camera.<br><br>
The satisfaction of seeing one killer in cuffs wars with the frustration gnawing at your gut. One down. One still breathing free air she doesn’t deserve.<br><br>
“Kent Grey is in federal custody tonight,” you tell the viewers. Let them see justice happening behind you. Let them know it’s possible, even in Sordia. Even when it takes months of bleeding yourself dry to achieve it. “But Lillian Frost still remains free.”<br><br>
“To anyone watching who thinks money can wash blood off their hands.” Your voice drops. Gets sharp. “Or that bloodline privileges put you above the law. Or that a child’s life matters less than your convenience.”<br><br>
The message isn’t just for Frost. It’s for every rich asshole watching. Every entitled piece of shit who thinks wealth makes them untouchable. Every monster who believes power means never facing consequences.<br><br>
“You’re wrong.”<br><br>
“Maria De Luca asked me to find her daughter’s and granddaughters killers two months ago and I did.” Each word precise. Sharp. Carved from stubbornness that doesn’t bend. <br><br>
“I will always find out the truth. Always.”<br><br>
Truth is like cancer. Invisible at first, then spreading everywhere, eventually killing everything built on lies.<br><br>
You meant every word. You will drag the truth out of whatever hole she’s hiding in. You will make sure a six-year-old’s death means something more than just another statistic.<br><br>
It’s not just your job. It’s who you are. The thing that drives you to dig when everyone else gives up. To keep bleeding yourself dry until you hit bedrock truth.<br><br>
That’s why they call you the Leech. You latch on and don’t let go until you’ve sucked every drop of truth from the veins of the story.<br><br>
You look into the camera one last time. “This is $fullName, Channel 6 News. And Lillian Frost, wherever you are, whatever face you’re wearing, we’re coming for you.”<br><br>
Jake your cameraman lowers the camera. Red light dies. Broadcast ends.<br><br>
The obsession that’s been eating you alive for months starts to quiet. Not disappearing. Never that. But settling into something manageable.<br><br>
Maria De Luca has her answers. Not complete justice yet. But answers. That’s worth something in Sordia. Worth everything when it’s all you can give.<br><br>
The story isn’t over. Won’t be over until Frost is in a cage where she belongs.<br><br>
But the hardest part is done. The conspiracy is blown open. The lies are scattered like broken glass.<br><br>
Everything else is just hunting.<br><br>
And you’re very, very good at hunting.<br><br>
The Leech doesn't let go. Ever.<br><br>
<div class="continue-button">
<<button "Continue">>
<<goto "CH1P2">>
<</button>>
</div><h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">ACE</h1>
<b>Andre / Anaya “Ace” Reid</b> — Your best friend, your backup, and one of the few people left who’ll pick up the phone when your name flashes on it. Ace works for the CRD, the folks who handle everything criminally bloodline related. Some say they’re too good for Sordia. You’re just hoping the city doesn’t eat them next.
<ul>
<li>
<<link "Andre Reid (male)">>
<<set $aceName = "Andre">>
<<set $aceHe = "he">>
<<set $aceHim = "him">>
<<set $aceHis = "his">>
<<set $aceHimself to "himself">>
<<set $aceHeC to "He">>
<<set $aceHimC to "Him">>
<<set $aceHisC to "His">>
<<set $aceHimselfC to "Himself">>
<<set $aceGender = "male">>
<<set $acemet = true>>
<<goto "SetROArden">>
<</link>>
</li>
<li>
<<link "Anaya Reid (female)">>
<<set $aceName = "Anaya">>
<<set $aceHe = "she">>
<<set $aceHim = "her">>
<<set $aceHis = "her">>
<<set $aceHimself to "herself">>
<<set $aceHeC to "She">>
<<set $aceHimC to "Her">>
<<set $aceHisC to "Her">>
<<set $aceHimselfC to "Herself">>
<<set $aceGender = "female">>
<<set $acemet = true>>
<<goto "SetROArden">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul><h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">DR. ARDEN</h1>
<b>Dr. Arden</b> — Dr. Arden runs a neutral clinic in the undercity, patching up anyone who can crawl through the door. They're blunt, cold, and don’t care who you are, only how bad you're bleeding. They don’t take sides, don’t make friends, and don’t ask questions. But if you’re dying, they’re your last best chance.
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<<link "Dr. Arden (male)">>
<<set $ardenName = "Dr. Arden">>
<<set $ardenHe = "he">>
<<set $ardenHim = "him">>
<<set $ardenHis = "his">>
<<set $ardenHimself to "himself">>
<<set $ardenHeC to "He">>
<<set $ardenHimC to "Him">>
<<set $ardenHisC to "His">>
<<set $aceHimselfC to "Himself">>
<<set $ardenGender = "male">>
<<set $ardenmet = true>>
<<goto "SetROE">>
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<<set $ardenName = "Dr. Arden">>
<<set $ardenHe = "she">>
<<set $ardenHim = "her">>
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<<set $ardenHimself to "herself">>
<<set $ardenHeC to "She">>
<<set $ardenHimC to "Her">>
<<set $ardenHisC to "Her">>
<<set $ardenHimselfC to "Herself">>
<<set $ardenGender = "female">>
<<set $ardenmet = true>>
<<goto "SetROE">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul><h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">EGON/EMME</h1>
<b>Egon / Emme Han</b> — Heir to one of the most powerful Draegon families in the city, and the youngest CEO to ever make the top board. Sharp suit, sharper tongue. Egon/Emme moves through the world like it owes them something, and maybe it does. They’re arrogant, calculating, and impossible to impress.
<ul>
<li>
<<link "Egon Han (male)">>
<<set $eName = "Egon">>
<<set $eHe = "he">>
<<set $eHim = "him">>
<<set $eHis = "his">>
<<set $eHimself to "himself">>
<<set $eHeC to "He">>
<<set $eHimC to "Him">>
<<set $eHisC to "His">>
<<set $eHimselfC to "Himself">>
<<set $eGender = "male">>
<<set $emet = true>>
<<goto "SetROLuz">>
<</link>>
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<li>
<<link "Emme Han (female)">>
<<set $eName = "Emme">>
<<set $eHe = "she">>
<<set $eHim = "her">>
<<set $eHis = "her">>
<<set $eHimself to "herself">>
<<set $eHeC to "She">>
<<set $eHimC to "Her">>
<<set $eHisC to "Her">>
<<set $eHimselfC to "Herself">>
<<set $eGender = "female">>
<<set $emet = true>>
<<goto "SetROLuz">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul><h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">LUZ</h1>
<b>Lucian / Lucia “Luz”</b> — A crime boss with too much charm and not nearly enough mercy. Luz runs their empire with a grin, a drink in hand, and pink-tinted shades. No one really knows where they came from. All anyone knows is: you don’t cross them, and you don’t ever mistake their smile for kindness.
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<<link "Lucian (male)">>
<<set $luzName = "Lucian">>
<<set $luzHe = "he">>
<<set $luzHim = "him">>
<<set $luzHis = "his">>
<<set $luzHimself to "himself">>
<<set $luzHeC to "He">>
<<set $luzHimC to "Him">>
<<set $luzHisC to "His">>
<<set $luzHimselfC to "Himself">>
<<set $luzGender = "male">>
<<set $luzmet = true>>
<<goto "Choose Career Background">>
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<<link "Lucia (female)">>
<<set $luzName = "Lucia">>
<<set $luzHe = "she">>
<<set $luzHim = "her">>
<<set $luzHis = "her">>
<<set $luzHimself to "herself">>
<<set $luzHeC to "She">>
<<set $luzHimC to "Her">>
<<set $luzHisC to "Her">>
<<set $luzHimselfC to "Herself">>
<<set $luzGender = "female">>
<<set $luzmet = true>>
<<goto "Choose Career Background">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul><div class="ch1-header">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">CH1: The City That Eats Its Young</h1>
</div>
//Going live in 3, 2, 1…//<br><br>
The camera's red light burns. Hot. Angry. Like a cigarette pressed against flesh until it blisters.<br><br>
Behind you, Kent Grey's mansion bleeds federal agents through every door and window. Black SUVs with tinted glass. Tactical gear that catches emergency lights in harsh angles. The kind of late-night raid that turns senators into corpses, politically speaking.<br><br>
You taste copper in the October air. Sweat. Blood. Probably from someone's split lip—a reporter who got too close to the federal perimeter.<br><br>
"This is $fullName with Channel 6 News, reporting from what can only be described as a domestic war zone." Your voice comes out steady. Clear. The voice of someone who's stood in too many places where innocent people die for the convenience of those in power.<br><br>
"Tonight, City Councilman Kent Grey sits in handcuffs. Arrested for the brutal murders of Silvia De Luca and her six-year-old daughter Jane."<br><br>
A pause. Let that sink in. Let the audience process the word 'brutal'. And 'six-year-old' in the same sentence.<br><br>
The mansion squats behind you like a tumor made of Georgian columns and old money. White stone that probably cost more than most people make in a decade.<br><br>
You’ve seen this before in other places. Different uniforms, different languages, same results. The structure changes, but the bodies always look the same.<br><br>
CRD agents swarm through Grey's manicured garden. Their boots crush five-hundred-dollar roses without care.<br><br>
"Murders that police dismissed as collateral damage from street crime." Your voice cuts through the wind and helicopter noise overhead.<br><br>
"My investigation began two months ago when Maria De Luca came to my office with photographs of her dead family and wounds that wouldn't heal." You hold up crime scene evidence—raw, unfiltered truth. "She is seventy-three years old, a cancer patient, confined to a wheelchair after a stroke. Silvia De Luca was her daughter and Jane her granddaughter. She knew someone was lying about how her family died."<br><br>
"And she was right. The official story isn't just wrong, it's disinformation designed to hide a planned execution." Your voice carries the weight of someone who's documented too many cover-ups in too many places where truth dies first.<br><br>
This is it. The moment two months of documenting an assassination finally pays off. Time to show people what murder looks like when rich people order it.<br><br>
"The evidence tells the story police refused to document." You display forensic photographs with precision. "Silvia De Luca wasn't killed in some random robbery.<br><br>
She was Senator Kent Grey's secret mistress and the mother of his illegitimate child."
Behind you, more federal vehicles arrive. The kind of specialized units they deploy when corruption involves murder and treason.<br><br>
"Physical evidence reveals systematic payments from Grey's personal accounts to De Luca over six years." You pause, letting that revelation settle. "Grey was paying rates to keep their affair and Jane's paternity buried."<br><br>
Follow the blood trail. Always follow the blood trail. It tells stories that survive congressional immunity and witness elimination.<br><br>
Hotel records documenting their rendezvous. Text messages that read like intelligence interceptions. Financial transfers that funded a secret life while a child grew up asking why daddy never came home.<br><br>
Smart woman, keeping evidence of his lies. Too bad intelligence doesn't stop bullets when powerful men get tired of paying for their mistakes.<br><br>
"But here's where the situation escalated." Your voice hardens. "When De Luca demanded more money and that Grey acknowledge his daughter instead of just funding her silence, he chose elimination over accountability."<br><br>
The wind shifts. Carries now the stench expensive cologne bleeding from the mansion's open doors.<br><br>
"My assessments completely contradict Detective Captain Morrison's cursory investigation that somehow missed a six-year affair, fifty thousand dollars in payments, and enough forensic evidence to convict a war criminal."<br><br>
Every covered-up killing, every sanitized casualty report, every family told their loved ones died for nothing… they all leave scars that throb when you smell official lies covering up fresh blood.<br><br>
The mansion's front door hangs open like a wound. Marble floors visible inside. Crystal chandeliers that cost more than houses. All that wealth built on lies, betrayal, and now blood money.<br><br>
"The physical evidence documents systematic brutality." Your voice gets harder. Clinical. "Forensic analysis shows Silvia De Luca died from a single gunshot wound to the occipital region, that means the head. It’s a professional execution technique for immediate neutralization."<br><br>
You can see those medical photographs burned into your memory like images from too many conflict zones. Silvia's body twisted on hardwood floors. Blood pooled around her head like spilled wine. Dark. Sticky. Jane was killed after witnessing her mother's death. Her small body next to her mother's. Blood in blonde hair that would never grow another inch. Stuffed dinosaur clutched in hands that would never draw another picture. Six years old.<br><br>
Professional contractors charge premium rates for family elimination packages. Someone paid a hefty sum to ensure both mother and daughter were neutralized the same night.<br><br>
"Jane De Luca was six years old." The words taste like stale coffee. "The autopsy report confirms she died second. After watching her mother get shot. The killer made sure she understood what was happening before pulling the trigger which was an unnecessary cruel act."<br><br>
"See, Silvia had more than financial problems." You lean into the camera. Let viewers see the face of a <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who has seen death and destruction more times than you can count.<br><br>
"A single mom trying to raise a kid and care for her sick mother on hush money that wasn't enough. All while Grey lived like a warlord with his legitimate family, treating his secret daughter like an inconvenient liability."<br><br>
Through the mansion's dining room window, you can see the long table where Grey entertained his wife and legitimate children while texting his secret mistress about when he could sneak away for another rendezvous. The same surface where he probably planned his daughter's execution between courses.<br><br>
Combat zones teach you that power makes people stupid. Silvia got desperate for recognition, Grey got panicked about exposure, and Jane got dead because it was decided that a six-year-old was an acceptable casualty for political survival.<br><br>
"July 15th intercepted communications between Silvia and Grey's private phone." Your voice carries the weight of evidence that survived deletion attempts and hard drive magnets."'Jane keeps asking why daddy never comes home. I can't keep lying to a six-year-old anymore.'"<br><br>
"Grey's response?" You pause. Let the question hang in the air. "'Our arrangement works fine. Don't complicate things, Silvia.'"<br><br>
"The ultimatum came July 20th through secure channels." Your voice drops. Gets intimate. "Silvia demanded Grey acknowledge Jane publicly or she'd expose their relationship to every media outlet in the city."<br><br>
The mansion's library gleams through tall windows. Thousands of books Grey probably never opened. Decorative literacy for a man who spent decades using the Constitution as toilet paper.<br><br>
Every volume contains more humanity than the man who plotted his daughter's death over dinner.<br><br>
"Grey's answer came five days later that would seal Silvia’s and Jane’s fate." You step closer to the camera until your face fills the frame. "Not acknowledgment. It was fifty thousand dollars transferred to hire professional killer."<br><br>
That phrase hangs in the air. Heavy. Final. Like a coffin lid slamming shut.<br><br>
"But Kent didn’t work alone. This is where another player comes in." You lean into the camera, letting emergency lights catch the hardness in your eyes. "Enter Lillian Frost, a twenty-eight-year-old Fae bloodline socialite who became Grey's second operational asset."<br><br>
Communication intercepts reveal the plan. Frost's contact with Grey intensifying as De Luca's demands became a liability. Two cheating lovers deciding elimination was more cost-effective than Grey growing a spine.<br><br>
Hell hath no fury like a woman who realizes she's sharing her target with his baby mama.<br><br>
"Frost used her supernatural abilities and social connections to infiltrate De Luca's life as her closest friend." Your voice turns to steel. "Over several weeks, she gathered detailed intelligence about both victims' daily routines, security arrangements, and Jane's schedule."<br><br>
"Banking records from Frost's personal accounts show a fifty-thousand-dollar withdrawal on July 22nd." You hold up the financial documentation. "Three days before the murders. Federal sources confirm this money was used to hire the Umbra assassin known as 'Rio.'"<br><br>
The mansion's lights flicker—either power issues or feds cutting utilities to prevent evidence destruction. Perfect timing. Grey's empire going dark while leaked truth finally sees daylight.<br><br>
"Her Fae abilities include memory modification and appearance alteration." You step directly into the camera's range. "She could be anyone. Anywhere. The neighbor who remembered too much about your schedule. The barista who asked personal questions. Anyone who made you feel comfortable while gathering information to kill you."<br><br>
"This wasn't random street violence." You gesture toward the mansion, toward everything wrong with Sordia's power structure. "This was calculated murder designed to protect a senator's political career and a socialite's romantic interests."<br><br>
Kent and Lillian thought they could commit a crime with money and connections.
Look how wrong they were. But Lillian still has seventy-two hours of operational mobility and resources most people can't imagine.<br><br>
Seventy-two hours is forever when you have trust fund money. When you have supernatural abilities. When your bloodline gives you advantages that normal people can't fight. Enough time to buy new identities, destroy more evidence, disappear into whatever hole rich murderers crawl into when they need to hide.<br><br>
You stare into the camera lens. Feel those hours like shrapnel working its way to vital organs. Each one precious. Wasted. Each one bringing her closer to establishing deep cover and disappearing forever.<br><br>
“Lillian Frost has been missing for 72 hours.” Your voice shakes. Just a little. The kind of tremor that comes from knowing exactly how much damage someone can do when they have unlimited resources and nothing left to lose. <br><br>
“This woman helped plan the murder of a six-year-old child.” You let the reminder hang in the air. Six years old. Barely knew how to spell her name before they snuffed her out. “And she has the resources to disappear forever.”<br><br>
You pull out the photograph. Some charity bullshit. Lillian in a dress that costs more than your car. Perfect makeup. Perfect hair. Perfect everything except that rotten soul. “Let me be very clear about who we’re looking for.”<br><br>
You hold the photo closer. Let viewers burn her face into their memory. This isn’t some abstract criminal. This is real. She’s real. The blood on her hands is real.<br><br>
“Frost has distinctive silver-blonde hair and violet eyes.” The description matters. More than usual. Because Frost isn’t stuck with one face. She can change. Shift. Become someone else when it suits her. “She’s about five-six, maybe 120 pounds.”<br><br>
“If you think you see her, don’t approach. Call CRD immediately.” You recite the number slow. Clear. Let it stick. Because this bitch is dangerous in ways that go beyond money and connections.<br><br>
The mansion's front door opens wider. Movement catches your peripheral vision—CRD agents forming a tactical escort around something important.<br><br>
The sound you’ve been waiting for. Heavy footsteps. Official voices. The payoff that makes two months of sleepless nights worth something.<br><br>
You turn. Let the camera capture it.<br><br>
Kent Grey emerges into the emergency lights like a vampire dragged into sunlight.
Hands zip-tied behind his back. Silver hair disheveled for the first time in twenty years of photo ops. His expensive suit wrinkled, stained with sweat that reeks of stress and anger.<br><br>
Grey's face is gray. Fitting. His face shows nothing. Years of political training. Don’t look guilty. Don’t look scared. Don’t give the cameras anything they can use.
But his eyes tell a different story.<br><br>
Eyes darting between news cameras like a cornered animal calculating escape routes that don't exist. For money that can’t buy his way out of federal charges. This time at least.<br><br>
The CRD team moves with professional precision. Black tactical gear. Automatic weapons.<br><br>
<br><br>
Grey's eyes find yours across the chaos. For a moment—just a heartbeat—politician stares at journalist. The man who ordered a six-year-old's execution meeting the <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who exposed it.<br><br>
You smile. Cold. Sharp. Empty of everything except satisfaction.
Message delivered, you child-killing bastard.
Grey's jaw tightens. He looks away first.<br><br>
The agents guide him toward the unmarked federal vehicle. No ceremony. No dignity. Just a murderer getting transported to the cage where he'll die.
You turn back to the camera.<br><br>
The satisfaction of seeing one killer in cuffs wars with the frustration gnawing at your gut. One down. One still breathing free air she doesn’t deserve.<br><br>
“Kent Grey is in federal custody tonight,” you tell the viewers. Let them see justice happening behind you. Let them know it’s possible, even in Sordia. Even when it takes months of bleeding yourself dry to achieve it. “But Lillian Frost still remains free.”<br><br>
“To anyone watching who thinks money can wash blood off their hands.” Your voice drops. Gets sharp. “Or that bloodline privileges put you above the law. Or that a child’s life matters less than your convenience.”<br><br>
The message isn’t just for Frost. It’s for every rich asshole watching. Every entitled piece of shit who thinks wealth makes them untouchable. Every monster who believes power means never facing consequences.<br><br>
“You’re wrong.”<br><br>
“Maria De Luca asked me to find her daughter’s and granddaughters killers two months ago and I did.” Each word precise. Sharp. Carved from stubbornness that doesn’t bend. <br><br>
“I will always find out the truth. Always.”<br><br>
Truth is like cancer. Invisible at first, then spreading everywhere, eventually killing everything built on lies.<br><br>
You meant every word. You will drag the truth out of whatever hole she’s hiding in. You will make sure a six-year-old’s death means something more than just another statistic.<br><br>
It’s not just your job. It’s who you are. The thing that drives you to dig when everyone else gives up. To keep bleeding yourself dry until you hit bedrock truth.<br><br>
That’s why they call you the Leech. You latch on and don’t let go until you’ve sucked every drop of truth from the veins of the story.<br><br>
You look into the camera one last time. “This is $fullName, Channel 6 News. And Lillian Frost, wherever you are, whatever face you’re wearing, we’re coming for you.”<br><br>
Jake your cameraman lowers the camera. Red light dies. Broadcast ends.<br><br>
The obsession that’s been eating you alive for months starts to quiet. Not disappearing. Never that. But settling into something manageable.<br><br>
Maria De Luca has her answers. Not complete justice yet. But answers. That’s worth something in Sordia. Worth everything when it’s all you can give.<br><br>
The story isn’t over. Won’t be over until Frost is in a cage where she belongs.<br><br>
But the hardest part is done. The conspiracy is blown open. The lies are scattered like broken glass.<br><br>
Everything else is just hunting.<br><br>
And you’re very, very good at hunting.<br><br>
The Leech doesn't let go. Ever.<br><br>
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<h1 class="bloodlines-title">CH1: The City That Eats Its Young</h1>
</div>
//Going live in 3, 2, 1…//<br><br>
The camera's red light burns. Hot. Angry. Like a cigarette pressed against flesh until it blisters.<br><br>
Behind you, Kent Grey's mansion bleeds federal agents through every door and window. Black SUVs with tinted glass. Tactical gear that catches emergency lights in harsh angles. The kind of late-night raid that turns senators into corpses, politically speaking.<br><br>
You taste copper in the October air. Sweat. Blood. Probably from someone's split lip—a reporter who got too close to the federal perimeter.<br><br>
"This is $fullName with Channel 6 News, and I'm standing outside the home of a man who thought deleting emails could buy him silence." Your voice comes out steady. Clear. The voice of someone who knows that digital trails never really disappear when you know where to look.<br><br>
"Tonight, City Councilman Kent Grey sits in handcuffs. Arrested for the brutal murders of Silvia De Luca and her six-year-old daughter Jane."<br><br>
A pause. Let that sink in. Let the audience process the word 'brutal'. And 'six-year-old' in the same sentence.<br><br>
The mansion squats behind you like a tumor made of Georgian columns and old money. White stone that probably cost more than most people make in a decade.
You used to work inside systems like the ones that built this place. Every permit, every approval, every inspection, all processed through databases you knew how to access. Back when I naively thought the system worked for justice instead of just the highest bidder.<br><br>
CRD agents swarm through Grey's manicured garden. Their boots crush five-hundred-dollar roses without care.<br><br>
"Murders that police tried to bury deeper than deleted server logs." Your voice cuts through the wind and helicopter noise overhead.<br><br>
"My investigation began two months ago when Maria De Luca came to my office with a story nobody wanted to believe." You hold up printed emails and bank records. <br><br>
"She is seventy-three years old, a cancer patient, confined to a wheelchair after a stroke. Silvia De Luca was her daughter and Jane her granddaughter. She knew someone was covering up the truth."<br><br>
"And I had the digital access to prove it." Your smile carries the satisfaction of someone who just cracked every password they thought was secure. "The official story is a lie, and I have the leaked documents to prove it."<br><br>
This is it. The moment two months of hacking and inside sources finally pays off. Time to burn down some careers with their own deleted emails.<br><br>
"Internal bank records show Silvia and Jane De Luca weren't random robbery victims." You flip through printed banking statements obtained through backdoor access. "Silvia was Senator Kent Grey's secret mistress and the mother of his illegitimate child."<br><br>
Behind you, more federal vehicles arrive. The kind of specialized units they deploy when corruption involves murder and treason.<br><br>
"Hacked banking records reveal systematic payments from Grey's personal accounts to De Luca over six years." You pause, letting that revelation settle. "Grey was paying hush money to keep their affair and Jane's paternity secret while his wife thought he was faithful."<br><br>
Always follow the digital trail. Rich people leave electronic fingerprints on everything they touch. But it helped that the wife was fed up with her husband as well and wanted to dispose of him. Better to work with a whistleblower than life the rest of your life with a cheater and murderer.<br><br>
Leaked email chains between Grey and his financial advisor. Compromised hotel records placing them together dozens of times. Text messages recovered from deleted phone backups that read like a soap opera of lies and betrayal.<br><br>
Smart woman, keeping evidence of his lies. Too bad intelligence doesn't stop bullets when powerful men get tired of paying for their mistakes.<br><br>
"But here's where our sordid love story turns deadly." Your voice hardens. "When De Luca demanded more money to support Jane and threatened to go public, Grey decided elimination was cheaper than alimony."<br><br>
The wind shifts. Carries now the stench expensive cologne bleeding from the mansion's open doors.<br><br>
"These leaked records completely contradict Detective Captain Morrison's forty-eight-hour investigation that somehow missed a six-year affair, financial evidence, and enough digital proof to convict a saint."<br><br>
They thought digital destruction meant permanent concealment. They forgot that someone with my background knows how to resurrect electronic ghosts.<br><br>
The mansion's front door hangs open like a wound. Marble floors visible inside. Crystal chandeliers that cost more than houses. All that wealth built on lies, betrayal, and now blood money.<br><br>
"The leaked evidence tells the real story." Your voice gets harder. More specific. "Recovered hotel records place Grey and Silvia at the Meridian downtown forty-seven times over six years. Deleted text messages show Grey promising to leave his wife 'someday' while Silvia raised his daughter alone."<br><br>
You can see those photos burned into your memory. Silvia's body twisted on hardwood floors. Blood pooled around her head like spilled wine. Dark. Sticky. Jane was killed after witnessing her mother's death. Her small body next to her mother's. Blood in blonde hair that would never grow another inch. Stuffed dinosaur clutched in hands that would never draw another picture. Six years old.<br><br>
Professional killers charge extra for family packages. Someone paid premium rates to make sure both mother and daughter died the same night.<br><br>
"Jane De Luca was six years old." The words taste like the stale coffee. "The leaked autopsy report—not the corrupted version released to media—shows she died last. After watching her mommy get shot. Someone accessed the coroner's database to alter those findings twelve minutes after the real report was uploaded."<br><br>
"See, Silvia had money problems." You lean into the camera. Let viewers see the face of a <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who spends sleepless nights infiltrating secure systems and sell people out like it’s nothing. "Single mom trying to raise a kid and care for her sick mother on hush money that wasn't enough. All while Grey lived like a king with his legitimate family."<br><br>
Through the mansion's dining room window, you can see the long table where Grey entertained his wife and legitimate children while texting his secret mistress about when he could sneak away for another rendezvous. The same surface where he probably planned his daughter's execution between courses.<br><br>
Digital infidelity makes people stupid. Silvia got greedy for recognition, Grey got desperate to protect his reputation, and Jane got dead because daddy decided his political career mattered more than his daughter's life.<br><br>
"July 15th text message from Silvia to Grey's private phone." Your voice carries the weight of evidence that easily bypassed every deletion attempt and hard drive magnets."'Jane keeps asking why daddy never comes home. I can't keep lying to a six-year-old anymore.'"<br><br>
"Grey's response?" You pause. Let the question hang in the air. "'Our arrangement works fine. Don't complicate things, Silvia.'"<br><br>
"The ultimatum came July 20th through compromised phone records." Your voice drops. Gets intimate with the satisfaction of someone who just cracked the case wide open. "Silvia wanted Grey to acknowledge Jane publicly or she'd sell her story to every tabloid in the city."<br><br>
The mansion's library gleams through tall windows. Thousands of books Grey probably never opened. Decorative literacy for a man who spent decades using the Constitution as toilet paper.<br><br>
Bet there's not a single book about fatherhood or responsibility in that whole collection.<br><br>
"Grey's answer came five days later, and it wasn't flowers." You step closer to the camera until your face fills the frame. "It was fifty thousand dollars transferred to hire a professional killer."<br><br>
That phrase hangs in the air. Heavy. Final. Like a coffin lid slamming shut.<br><br>
"This is where the conspiracy gets even worse." You lean into the camera, letting emergency lights catch the relentlessness in your eyes. "Enter Lillian Frost, a twenty-eight-year-old Fae bloodline socialite and Grey's OTHER secret mistress."<br><br>
Leaked phone records show the escalation. Frost contacting Grey more frequently as De Luca's demands increased. Two cheating lovers deciding that murder was more convenient than Grey growing a spine.<br><br>
Hell hath no fury like a woman who realizes she's sharing her married boyfriend with his baby mama.<br><br>
"Frost used her supernatural abilities and social connections to infiltrate De Luca's life as her best friend." Your voice turns to steel. "Over several weeks, she gathered intelligence about both victims' daily routines while pretending to care about a woman whose murder she was planning."<br><br>
"Compromised banking records show Frost withdrew fifty thousand dollars cash on July 22nd." You hold up the leaked financial documents. "Three days before the murders. Sources confirm this money hired the Umbra assassin known as 'Rio.'"<br><br>
The mansion's lights flicker—either power issues or feds cutting utilities to prevent evidence destruction. Perfect timing. Grey's empire going dark while leaked truth finally sees daylight.<br><br>
"Her Fae abilities include memory modification and appearance alteration." You step directly into the camera's range. "She could be anyone. Anywhere. The neighbor who remembered too much about your schedule. The barista who asked personal questions. Anyone who made you feel comfortable while gathering information to kill you."<br><br>
"This wasn't random street violence." You gesture toward the mansion, toward everything wrong with Sordia's power structure. "This was calculated murder designed to protect a senator's political career and a socialite's romantic interests."
Kent and Lillian thought deleted emails could wash away blood.<br><br>
Look how wrong they were. But Lillian still has seventy-two hours of head start and unlimited money.<br><br>
Seventy-two hours is forever when you have trust fund money. When you have supernatural abilities. When your bloodline gives you advantages that normal people can't fight. Enough time to buy new identities, destroy more evidence, disappear into whatever hole rich murderers crawl into when they need to hide.<br><br>
You stare into the camera lens. Feel those hours like deleted files you can't recover. Each one precious. Wasted. Each one bringing her closer to disappearing forever.<br><br>
"Lillian Frost has been missing for 72 hours with unlimited resources." Your voice shakes. Just a little. The kind of tremor that comes from knowing exactly how much damage someone can do when they have everything and nothing to lose.<br><br>
"This woman helped plan the murder of a six-year-old child." You let the reminder hang in the air. Six years old. Barely knew how to spell her name before they snuffed her out. "And she has the money to disappear forever."<br><br>
You pull out the photograph from leaked social media archives. Some charity bullshit. Lillian in a dress that costs more than your car. Perfect makeup. Perfect hair. Perfect everything except the soul that should be rotting somewhere. "Let me be very clear about who we're looking for."<br><br>
You hold the photo closer. Let viewers burn her face into their memory. This isn’t some abstract digital ghost. This is real. She’s real. The blood on her hands is real.<br><br>
“Frost has distinctive silver-blonde hair and violet eyes.” The description matters. More than usual. Because Frost isn’t stuck with one face. She can change. Shift. Become someone else when it suits her. “She’s about five-six, maybe 120 pounds.”<br><br>
“If you think you see her, don’t approach. Call CRD immediately.” You recite the number slow. Clear. Let it stick. Because this bitch is dangerous in ways that go beyond money and connections.<br><br>
The mansion's front door opens wider. Movement catches your peripheral vision—CRD agents forming a tactical escort around something important.<br><br>
The sound you’ve been waiting for. Heavy footsteps. Official voices. The payoff that makes two months of sleepless nights worth something.<br><br>
You turn. Let the camera capture it.<br><br>
Kent Grey emerges into the emergency lights like a vampire dragged into sunlight.
Hands zip-tied behind his back. Silver hair disheveled for the first time in twenty years of photo ops. His expensive suit wrinkled, stained with sweat that reeks of stress and anger.<br><br>
Grey's face is gray. Fitting. His face shows nothing. Years of political training. Don’t look guilty. Don’t look scared. Don’t give the cameras anything they can use.
But his eyes tell a different story.<br><br>
Eyes darting between news cameras like a cornered animal calculating escape routes that don't exist. For money that can’t buy his way out of federal charges. This time at least.<br><br>
The CRD team moves with professional precision. Black tactical gear. Automatic weapons.<br><br>
Grey's eyes find yours across the chaos. For a moment—just a heartbeat—politician stares at journalist. The man who ordered a six-year-old's execution meeting the <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who exposed it.<br><br>
You smile. Cold. Sharp. Empty of everything except satisfaction.<br><br>
Message delivered, you child-killing bastard.<br><br>
Grey's jaw tightens. He looks away first.<br><br>
The agents guide him toward the unmarked federal vehicle. No ceremony. No dignity. Just a murderer getting transported to the cage where he'll die.
You turn back to the camera.<br><br>
The satisfaction of seeing one killer in cuffs wars with the frustration gnawing at your gut. One down. One still breathing free air she doesn’t deserve.<br><br>
“Kent Grey is in federal custody tonight,” you tell the viewers. Let them see justice happening behind you. Let them know it’s possible, even in Sordia. Even when it takes months of bleeding yourself dry to achieve it. “But Lillian Frost still remains free.”<br><br>
“To anyone watching who thinks money can wash blood off their hands.” Your voice drops. Gets sharp. “Or that bloodline privileges put you above the law. Or that a child’s life matters less than your convenience.”<br><br>
The message isn’t just for Frost. It’s for every rich asshole watching. Every entitled piece of shit who thinks wealth makes them untouchable. Every monster who believes power means never facing consequences.<br><br>
“You’re wrong.”<br><br>
“Maria De Luca asked me to find her daughter’s and granddaughters killers two months ago and I did.” Each word precise. Sharp. Carved from stubbornness that doesn’t bend. <br><br>
“I will always find out the truth. Always.”<br><br>
Truth is like cancer. Invisible at first, then spreading everywhere, eventually killing everything built on lies.<br><br>
You meant every word. You will drag the truth out of whatever hole she’s hiding in. You will make sure a six-year-old’s death means something more than just another statistic.<br><br>
It’s not just your job. It’s who you are. The thing that drives you to dig when everyone else gives up. To keep bleeding yourself dry until you hit bedrock truth.<br><br>
That’s why they call you the Leech. You latch on and don’t let go until you’ve sucked every drop of truth from the veins of the story.<br><br>
You look into the camera one last time. “This is $fullName, Channel 6 News. And Lillian Frost, wherever you are, whatever face you’re wearing, we’re coming for you.”<br><br>
Jake your cameraman lowers the camera. Red light dies. Broadcast ends.<br><br>
The obsession that’s been eating you alive for months starts to quiet. Not disappearing. Never that. But settling into something manageable.<br><br>
Maria De Luca has her answers. Not complete justice yet. But answers. That’s worth something in Sordia. Worth everything when it’s all you can give.<br><br>
The story isn’t over. Won’t be over until Frost is in a cage where she belongs.<br><br>
But the hardest part is done. The conspiracy is blown open. The lies are scattered like broken glass.<br><br>
Everything else is just hunting.<br><br>
And you’re very, very good at hunting.<br><br>
The Leech doesn't let go. Ever.<br><br>
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</div><div class="ch1-header">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">CH1: The City That Eats Its Young</h1>
</div>
//Going live in 3, 2, 1…//<br><br>
The camera's red light burns. Hot. Angry. Like a cigarette pressed against flesh until it blisters.<br><br>
Behind you, Kent Grey's mansion bleeds federal agents through every door and window. Black SUVs with tinted glass. Tactical gear that catches emergency lights in harsh angles. The kind of late-night raid that turns senators into corpses, politically speaking.<br><br>
You taste copper in the October air. Sweat. Blood. Probably from someone's split lip—a reporter who got too close to the federal perimeter.<br><br>
"This is $fullName with Channel 6 News, and do I have a story for you tonight." Your voice comes out smooth. Sly. The voice of someone who's made a career turning other people's darkest secrets into must-see television.<br><br>
"Tonight, City Councilman Kent Grey sits in handcuffs. Arrested for the brutal murders of Silvia De Luca and her six-year-old daughter Jane."<br><br>
A pause. Let that sink in. Let the audience process the word 'brutal'. And 'six-year-old' in the same sentence.<br><br>
The mansion squats behind you like a tumor made of Georgian columns and old money. White stone that probably cost more than most people make in a decade.<br><br>
Rich people and their dirty little secrets. But Iyou've learned that the bigger the house, the bigger the skeletons rattling around inside. This place has enough closet space for a whole graveyard.<br><br>
CRD agents swarm through Grey's manicured garden. Their boots crush five-hundred-dollar roses without care.<br><br>
"Murders that police tried to sweep under the rug faster than a senator's browser history." Your voice cuts through the wind and helicopter noise overhead.<br><br>
"My investigation began two months ago when Maria De Luca came to my office with a story that makes your favorite daytime drama look realistic." You gesture toward the mansion with cold satisfaction. "She is seventy-three years old, a cancer patient, confined to a wheelchair after a stroke. Silvia De Luca was her daughter and Jane her granddaughter. She knew someone was lying about how her family died."<br><br>
"And she was right. But the truth is so much worse than she imagined." Your smile carries no warmth, just the sharp edge of someone about to gut a reputation. "<br><br>
This isn't just about murder. This is about what happens when a powerful man can't keep his dick in his pants and decide murder is cheaper than child support."<br><br>
This is it. The moment two months of manipulating sources and exploiting people's weaknesses finally pays off. Time to destroy some lives with their own dirty secrets.<br><br>
"Silvia De Luca wasn't some random robbery victim." You flip through photographs with precision. "She was Senator Kent Grey's secret mistress and the mother of his bastard child."<br><br>
Behind you, more federal vehicles arrive. The kind of specialized units they deploy when corruption involves murder and treason.<br><br>
"Banking records I obtained through sources reveal systematic hush money payments from Grey's personal accounts to De Luca over six years." You pause, letting that revelation cut deep. "Grey was paying to keep their affair secret while his daughter grew up asking why daddy never came home."<br><br>
Follow the people. Always follow the people. Rich people always thinks they’re so secretive but leave trails like breadcrumbs, and I'm very good at following them all the way to their most humiliating moments.<br><br>
Hotel receipts documenting their affair. Text messages that read like bad romance novels written by sociopaths. Financial records showing Grey valued his reputation more than his child's life.<br><br>
Smart woman, keeping evidence of his lies. Too bad intelligence doesn't stop bullets when powerful men get tired of paying for their mistakes.<br><br>
"But here's where this sordid little affair turns into something out of a Greek tragedy." Your voice hardens. "When Silvia demanded Grey acknowledge his daughter instead of just paying her off, he decided elimination was more effective than responsibility."<br><br>
The wind shifts. Carries now the stench expensive cologne bleeding from the mansion's open doors.<br><br>
"These revelations completely destroy Detective Captain Morrison's investigation that somehow missed a six-year affair, financial evidence, and enough DNA proof to stock a genetics lab."<br><br>
Every deleted text, every covered-up payment, every lie told to protect a powerful man's image—they all left you hungry for the truth that would burn his world down.<br><br>
The mansion's front door hangs open like a wound. Marble floors visible inside. Crystal chandeliers that cost more than houses. All that wealth built on lies, betrayal, and now blood money.<br><br>
"The evidence tells the story they don't want you to hear." Your voice gets harder, more cutting. "Hotel records place Grey and Silvia at the Meridian downtown for their little rendezvous while his wife thought he was working late. Text messages show Grey promising to leave his wife 'someday'. The same lie cheating bastards have been using since the invention of marriage."<br><br>
Professional killers charge extra for family packages. Someone paid premium rates to ensure both mother and daughter died the same night.<br><br>
"Jane De Luca was six years old." The words taste like stale coffee. "The real autopsy report shows she died last. After watching her mommy get shot. Because apparently, Grey's fatherly instincts extended to making sure his daughter understood what was happening before he had her killed."<br><br>
"See, Silvia wasn't just some desperate single mom." You lean into the camera. Let viewers see the cunning face of a <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who will use everything you have to your advantage. <br><br>
"She was a woman trying to raise Grey's child on hush money that wasn't enough while he lived like a king with his legitimate family. Getting tired of being treated like a dirty secret."<br><br>
Through the mansion's dining room window, you can see the long table where Grey entertained his wife and legitimate children while texting his secret mistress about when he could sneak away for another rendezvous. The same surface where he probably planned his daughter's execution between courses.<br><br>
Years of manipulation teach you that people are simply stupid. Silvia got tired of being hidden, Grey got scared of exposure, and Jane got dead because daddy couldn't handle the truth.<br><br>
"July 15th text from Silvia to Grey." Your voice carries the weight of evidence that survived deletion attempts and hard drive magnets. "'Jane keeps asking why daddy never comes home. I can't keep lying to a six-year-old anymore.'"<br><br>
"Grey's response?" You pause. Let the question hang in the air. "'Our arrangement works fine. Don't complicate things, Silvia.'"<br><br>
"The ultimatum came July 20th." Your voice drops, gets intimate with the satisfaction of watching a house of cards collapse. "Silvia wanted Grey to acknowledge Jane publicly or she'd sell her story. Pictures, receipts, DNA evidence. Everything needed to destroy his perfect political image."<br><br>
The mansion's library gleams through tall windows. Thousands of books Grey probably never opened. Decorative literacy for a man who spent decades using the Constitution as toilet paper.<br><br>
The rich and their libraries. Always trying to look sophisticated when idiocy is the only thing that exists inside those houses. Their sloppiness could make you laugh.<br><br>
"Grey's answer came five days later." You step closer to the camera until your face fills the frame. "Not acknowledgment. A contract killer and fifty thousand dollars in blood money."<br><br>
That phrase hangs in the air. Heavy. Final. Like a coffin lid slamming shut.<br><br>
"But wait… it gets worse." You lean into the camera, letting emergency lights catch the cunning in your eyes. "Enter Lillian Frost, a twenty-eight-year-old Fae bloodline socialite who makes sociopaths look like amateurs."<br><br>
Phone records reveal the escalation. Frost calling Grey more as De Luca's demands increased. Two cheaters deciding that murder was easier than Grey growing a conscience.<br><br>
Hell hath no fury like an idiot woman who finds out she's sharing her married boyfriend with his baby mama and instead of confronting the man the bitch blames the other woman.<br><br>
"Frost used her supernatural abilities and social connections to infiltrate De Luca's life as her best friend." Your voice turns to steel. "Over several weeks, she gathered intelligence about both victims' daily routines while pretending to care about a woman whose murder she was planning."<br><br>
"Banking records from Frost's personal accounts show a fifty-thousand-dollar withdrawal on July 22nd." You hold up the financial documentation. "Three days before the murders. Federal sources confirm this money was used to hire the Umbra assassin known as 'Rio.'"<br><br>
The mansion's lights flicker—either power issues or feds cutting utilities to prevent evidence destruction. Perfect timing. Grey's empire going dark while leaked truth finally sees daylight.<br><br>
"Her Fae abilities include memory modification and appearance alteration." You step directly into the camera's range. "She could be anyone. Anywhere. The neighbor who remembered too much about your schedule. The barista who asked personal questions. Anyone who made you feel comfortable while gathering information to kill you."<br><br>
"This wasn't random street violence." You gesture toward the mansion, toward everything wrong with Sordia's power structure. "This was calculated murder designed to protect a senator's political career and a socialite's romantic interests."<br><br>
You can see those photos burned into your memory. Silvia's body twisted on hardwood floors. Blood pooled around her head like spilled wine. Dark. Sticky. Jane was killed after witnessing her mother's death. Her small body next to her mother's. Blood in blonde hair that would never grow another inch. Stuffed dinosaur clutched in hands that would never draw another picture. Six years old.<br><br>
Kent and Lillian thought money and supernatural powers could erase their crimes.
They were wrong. But Lillian still has seventy-two hours and unlimited resources.<br><br>
Seventy-two hours is forever when you have trust fund money. When you have supernatural abilities. When your bloodline gives you advantages that normal people can't fight. Enough time to buy new identities, destroy more evidence, disappear into whatever hole rich murderers crawl into when they need to hide.<br><br>
You stare into the camera lens. Feel those hours like missed opportunities. Each one precious. Wasted. Each one bringing her closer to vanishing forever.<br><br>
"Lillian Frost has been missing for 72 hours with unlimited resources." Your voice shakes slightly with contempt. "This woman helped plan the murder of a six-year-old child for the most pathetic reason imaginable: Sharing a man who wasn't worth killing for."<br><br>
“This woman helped plan the murder of a six-year-old child.” You let the reminder hang in the air. Six years old. Barely knew how to spell her name before they snuffed her out. “And she has the resources to disappear forever.”<br><br>
You pull out the photograph. Some charity bullshit. Lillian in a dress that costs more than your car. Perfect makeup. Perfect hair. Perfect everything except that rotten soul. “Let me be very clear about who we’re looking for.”<br><br>
You hold the photo closer. Let viewers burn her face into their memory. This isn’t some abstract criminal. This is real. She’s real. The blood on her hands is real.<br><br>
“Frost has distinctive silver-blonde hair and violet eyes.” The description matters. More than usual. Because Frost isn’t stuck with one face. She can change. Shift. Become someone else when it suits her. “She’s about five-six, maybe 120 pounds.”<br><br>
“If you think you see her, don’t approach. Call CRD immediately.” You recite the number slow. Clear. Let it stick. Because this bitch is dangerous in ways that go beyond money and connections.<br><br>
The mansion's front door opens wider. Movement catches your peripheral vision—CRD agents forming a tactical escort around something important.<br><br>
The sound you’ve been waiting for. Heavy footsteps. Official voices. The payoff that makes two months of sleepless nights worth something.<br><br>
You turn. Let the camera capture it.<br><br>
Kent Grey emerges into the emergency lights like a vampire dragged into sunlight.
Hands zip-tied behind his back. Silver hair disheveled for the first time in twenty years of photo ops. His expensive suit wrinkled, stained with sweat that reeks of stress and anger.<br><br>
Grey's face is gray. Fitting. His face shows nothing. Years of political training. Don’t look guilty. Don’t look scared. Don’t give the cameras anything they can use.
But his eyes tell a different story.<br><br>
Eyes darting between news cameras like a cornered animal calculating escape routes that don't exist. For money that can’t buy his way out of federal charges. This time at least.<br><br>
The CRD team moves with professional precision. Black tactical gear. Automatic weapons.<br><br>
Grey's eyes find yours across the chaos. For a moment—just a heartbeat—politician stares at journalist. The man who ordered a six-year-old's execution meeting the <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who exposed it.<br><br>
You smile. Cold. Sharp. Empty of everything except satisfaction.<br><br>
Message delivered, you child-killing bastard.<br><br>
Grey's jaw tightens. He looks away first.<br><br>
The agents guide him toward the unmarked federal vehicle. No ceremony. No dignity. Just a murderer getting transported to the cage where he'll die.<br><br>
You turn back to the camera.<br><br>
The satisfaction of seeing one killer in cuffs wars with the frustration gnawing at your gut. One down. One still breathing free air she doesn’t deserve.<br><br>
“Kent Grey is in federal custody tonight,” you tell the viewers. Let them see justice happening behind you. Let them know it’s possible, even in Sordia. Even when it takes months of bleeding yourself dry to achieve it. “But Lillian Frost still remains free.”<br><br>
“To anyone watching who thinks money can wash blood off their hands.” Your voice drops. Gets sharp. “Or that bloodline privileges put you above the law. Or that a child’s life matters less than your convenience.”<br><br>
The message isn’t just for Frost. It’s for every rich asshole watching. Every entitled piece of shit who thinks wealth makes them untouchable. Every monster who believes power means never facing consequences.<br><br>
“You’re wrong.”<br><br>
“Maria De Luca asked me to find her daughter’s and granddaughters killers two months ago and I did.” Each word precise. Sharp. Carved from stubbornness that doesn’t bend. <br><br>
“I will always find out the truth. Always.”<br><br>
Truth is like cancer. Invisible at first, then spreading everywhere, eventually killing everything built on lies.<br><br>
You meant every word. You will drag the truth out of whatever hole she’s hiding in. You will make sure a six-year-old’s death means something more than just another statistic.<br><br>
It’s not just your job. It’s who you are. The thing that drives you to dig when everyone else gives up. To keep bleeding yourself dry until you hit bedrock truth.<br><br>
That’s why they call you the Leech. You latch on and don’t let go until you’ve sucked every drop of truth from the veins of the story.<br><br>
You look into the camera one last time. “This is $fullName, Channel 6 News. And Lillian Frost, wherever you are, whatever face you’re wearing, we’re coming for you.”<br><br>
Jake your cameraman lowers the camera. Red light dies. Broadcast ends.<br><br>
The obsession that’s been eating you alive for months starts to quiet. Not disappearing. Never that. But settling into something manageable.<br><br>
Maria De Luca has her answers. Not complete justice yet. But answers. That’s worth something in Sordia. Worth everything when it’s all you can give.<br><br>
The story isn’t over. Won’t be over until Frost is in a cage where she belongs.<br><br>
But the hardest part is done. The conspiracy is blown open. The lies are scattered like broken glass.<br><br>
Everything else is just hunting.<br><br>
And you’re very, very good at hunting.<br><br>
The Leech doesn't let go. Ever.<br><br>
<div class="continue-button">
<<button "Continue">>
<<goto "CH1P2">>
<</button>>
</div><div class="chooseb-header">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">Choose Your Career Background</h1>
</div>
<div class="cards">
<div class="card-container">
<<link "">>
<<run Dialog.create("War Correspondent", "card-dialog").wikiPassage("War Info").open();>>
<</link>>
<img src="https://i.imgur.com/D47m6bo.png" alt="War card (default)" class="card dark-mode-img">
<img src="https://i.imgur.com/YDCdzEu.png" alt="War card (light)" class="card light-mode-img">
</div>
<div class="card-container">
<<link "">>
<<run Dialog.create("Tabloid Reporter", "card-dialog").wikiPassage("Tabloid Info").open();>>
<</link>>
<img src="https://i.imgur.com/Wc6qnq6.png" alt="Tabloid card (default)" class="card dark-mode-img">
<img src="https://i.imgur.com/lN4adFQ.png" alt="Tabloid card (light)" class="card light-mode-img">
</div>
<div class="card-container">
<<link "">>
<<run Dialog.create("Whistleblower", "card-dialog").wikiPassage("Whistle Info").open();>>
<</link>>
<img src="https://i.imgur.com/TLhP6kI.png" alt="Whistle card (default)" class="card dark-mode-img">
<img src="https://i.imgur.com/U1aLUBB.png" alt="Whistle card (light)" class="card light-mode-img">
</div>
<div class="card-container">
<<link "">>
<<run Dialog.create("Investigative Journalist", "card-dialog").wikiPassage("Investigate Info").open();>>
<</link>>
<img src="https://i.imgur.com/WrCgoBG.png" alt="Investigate card (default)" class="card dark-mode-img">
<img src="https://i.imgur.com/Nv9fKOw.png" alt="Investigate card (light)" class="card light-mode-img">
</div>
</div>The voice was a caress against his ear, intimate and terrible. He felt lips curling into a smile against his skin, teeth sharp enough to draw blood pressing ever so gently against his neck. The points dimpled his flesh without quite breaking it. A hunter playing with its prey, savoring the moment before the kill.<br><br>
"No, no, no, no," he whispered, the words a desperate prayer to a god that had abandoned the world long ago, if it had ever existed at all. Terror flooded his system, adrenaline and cortisol dumping into his bloodstream in quantities that would kill him if the creature holding him didn't do it first.<br><br>
The stories were true. All those whispered tales in dive bars, those urban legends passed around like ghost stories to frighten children—they were all true. Umbra blood. Of course it had to be a shadow-blood freak. How did he miss this? A Mob Boss always has those fuckers around. He thought there was only one, they tricked him! The way they tracked him so easily made him curse his luck. <br><br>
He'd heard stories of those freaks, everyone in Sordia had. Scary Stories whispered in bars when the alcohol loosened tongues. The Umbra bloodline. The abominations that walked among them. But stories didn't prepare you for reality. Nothing could prepare you for staring into the abyss and having it smile back.<br><br>
"You're one of them," he choked out, the words barely audible. His bladder released without warning, warm urine running down his leg, mixing with the blood to create a puddle at his feet. <br><br>
He didn't even feel shame—only pure, animal fear. He knew he was totally fucked. No one escaped an Umbra-blood. Not when they were hunting. Not when they had your scent.<br><br>
Each breath came shorter than the last, like trying to inhale underwater. His chest heaved in desperate spasms as his heart hammered so hard it felt like it might burst through his ribs, a trapped bird throwing itself against its cage. The edges of his vision began to darken, narrowing to a tunnel focused solely on the nightmare before him.<br><br>
Those inhuman hands tightened, and he felt the wall rippling against his back or maybe the wall is his captor, reality bending in ways that made his mind scream in protest. <br><br>
Ice spread from those fingers into his veins, like death itself was seeping into his blood. His extremities went numb first—fingertips, toes, the tip of his nose—then the cold crawled inward, toward his core, a creeping paralysis that promised oblivion.<br><br>
"I have money!" he screamed, voice cracking with desperation. "I'll give you whatever you want! Please! I have a daughter! She's only six!" The lie tumbled out desperately. He had no children, had never even been in a relationship that lasted longer than six months. But he was willing to invent any fiction that might save him. "She needs me. Please."<br><br>
He thrashed, kicked, but it was like fighting the night itself. His foot passed through what should be a leg, encountering only arctic cold and a sensation like plunging into syrup. <br><br>
Darkness swirled around him, tendrils of shadow slithering up his legs like possessive serpents, binding him to the spot. They whispered as they moved, thousands of voices speaking in languages long dead, offering promises and threats in equal measure.<br><br>
More of the figure emerged from the wall. A face formed next to his, but calling it a face was like calling a hurricane a breeze. It was the suggestion of human features, a sketch made by an artist who had only ever heard faces described but never seen one.<br><br>
The vague suggestion of human features shifted and flowed like oil on water, never settling, never solid. Nose becoming mouth becoming eye becoming ear in a constant dance of transformation. It made his eyes water to look at it, his brain struggling to process what it was seeing.<br><br>
Where eyes should be, twin vortices of absolute darkness swirled, pulling at his sanity just by looking into them. They were portals to somewhere else, somewhere cold and empty and hungry. The longer he stared, the more he felt himself being pulled in, his essence unraveling like a sweater caught on a nail.<br><br>
The mouth was a jagged tear across the lower portion, stretching impossibly wide to reveal rows of teeth like obsidian needles, some curving backward like fishhooks. Black ichor dripped from between those teeth, sizzling when it hit the ground, eating through concrete like acid. The tongue that darted between those teeth was forked and glistening, tasting his fear on the air.<br><br>
The creature's skin—if it could be called that—rippled with patterns of deeper darkness, like shadows within shadow. Fractal patterns of void that hurt to look at, each layer revealing more complexity, more wrongness. It wasn't meant for human eyes to see, for human minds to comprehend.<br><br>
Veins of midnight pulsed beneath the surface, carrying something colder than blood. Occasionally, the outer layer of darkness parted, revealing glimpses of a ribcage formed of crystallized shadow, or organs that pulsed with negative light, consuming rather than producing energy.<br><br>
He somehow recognized the psycho girl that had spotted him. Even though she had been a human before, the smile was the same. Wide and terrible and promising pain. She was truly a monster. <br><br>
Her form continued to shift and distort, limbs elongating unnaturally, fingers extending into foot-long talons that phased in and out of solidity. Her hair had become a writhing mass of shadow-tendrils that moved with apparent consciousness, reaching toward his face as if curious about the texture of his skin, the taste of his tears.<br><br>
"Please," he gasped, but the word froze in his throat as those shadow-fingers squeezed. His windpipe creaked under the pressure, cartilage straining to its breaking point. "I don't want to die," he sobbed, tears streaming down his face, cutting clean tracks through the grime and blood. "Not like this. Please, not like this."<br><br>
His vision began to tunnel, darkness encroaching from the edges but it was impossible to tell if it was from oxygen deprivation or if the shadow-freak was literally consuming his sight. <br><br>
In desperation, he clawed at the arms holding him, his nails breaking against a substance that felt simultaneously solid and incorporeal, like trying to grasp smoke that had decided to grasp back.<br><br>
His terror was intoxicating, a heady perfume that filled the alley with its sweet bouquet. It tasted like candy, sweet and addictive on her shadow-tongue. The panic in his eyes was delicious, liquid fear pooling in those wide pupils as they darted frantically, searching for an escape that didn't exist. <br><br>
<div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 10]]</div>You pull the earpiece from your left ear. Plastic slick with sweat despite the October chill.<br><br>
Jake lowers the camera. Gentle. Careful. The Sony FX9 costs more than most people's cars, and in Sordia, that camera is the only honest witness left. His cigarette-stained fingers shake a little as he detaches the lens. The tremor could be exhaustion. Could be withdrawal. Could be the kind of fear that comes from owing money to people who collect debts in fingers.<br><br>
Your throat feels like sandpaper.<br><br>
"The truth will set you free," Kafka wrote. "But not until it's finished with you."
And you're not finished. Won't be finished until Frost is dragged into the light.<br><br>
"That was..." Isla's voice trails off as she coils XLR cables with precision. Her Abyssal bloodline makes her fingers slightly webbed, barely noticeable unless you know to look. Three years as the crew's sound tech, and she still tries hiding them in her sleeves. "That was something else, $firstName."<br><br>
The way she says your name—not Leech, not the nickname that follows you through Sordia—sounds almost like respect. Almost.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Something else? That\'s the best you\'ve got? A six-year-old died and you\'re giving me participation trophy commentary?"'>>
<<set $islaChoice to "cutting">>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 3)>>
<<set $islastat to Math.max(0, ($islastat || 0) - 3)>>
<<goto "CH1P2.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Shakespeare said all the world\'s a stage. Tonight we just showed them what happens behind the curtain."'>>
<<set $islaChoice to "deflecting">>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 3)>>
<<goto "CH1P2.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Your audio work made the difference. Those wiretaps were clean enough to make angels weep."'>>
<<set $islaChoice to "soft">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 3)>>
<<set $islastat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P2.1">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
<<if $islaChoice is "cutting">>Isla flinches, goes back to her cables without another word. The October air between you crystallizes into something sharper.<<elseif $islaChoice is "deflecting">>Isla's expression shifts to professional neutral, but there's understanding in her eyes. She recognizes that you don't want to talk about it. Deflection... it's the unofficial language of Sordia.<<elseif $islaChoice is "soft">>Isla's exhausted face brightens slightly. "Angels don't weep in Sordia. They just invoice for emotional damages." The dark humor catches you off guard maybe she gets it after all.<</if>><br><br>
"Coffee incoming!" Vex announces, materializing from shadows between news vans like caffeinated chaos incarnate. The intern bounces on his heels, somehow still wired after hours on site. Star-flecked grey Chronos eyes glitter with that unsettling brightness that makes you wonder what they're actually experiencing right now.<br><br>
They thrust a cup at you, steam rising in the cold air. But there's also a flask in their other hand, amber liquid visible through scratched metal. A thermos dangles from their elbow, and an energy drink can is wedged under their arm.<br><br>
"Figured you'd want options," Vex says, that perpetual smile never wavering. "After a broadcast like that, you usually want the... oh wait, that hasn't happened yet. Or has it? Sorry, long day."<br><br>
Ah, you forgot. Some people from the Chronos Bloodline can see past, present and future all at once. Most can't function. Vex functions just fine, which is somehow worse.<br><br>
You take <br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link "Coffee">>
<<set $drinkChoice to "coffee">>
<<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P2.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link "Tea">>
<<set $drinkChoice to "tea">>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P2.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link "Energy Drink">>
<<set $drinkChoice to "energy">>
<<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P2.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link "Alcohol">>
<<set $drinkChoice to "alcohol">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 3)>>
<<goto "CH1P2.2">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul><<if $drinkChoice is "coffee">>You take the coffee. Black. Bitter. Like drinking liquid regret. "Coffee is a way of stealing time," Terry Pratchett said. You're stealing time from sleep, from sanity, from whatever's left of your soul.<<elseif $drinkChoice is "tea">>You accept the thermos. Earl Grey, if your nose works. Like pretending you're British while Rome burns around you.<<elseif $drinkChoice is "energy">>You grab the can. Synthetic caffeine and enough sugar to kill a diabetic at twenty paces. Reckless. Efficient. Honest about what it is—poison that keeps you vertical.<<elseif $drinkChoice is "alcohol">>You take the flask. Whatever's inside burns worse than the truth you just broadcast. Sometimes the only way forward is through the bottom of a bottle.<</if>><br><br>
Sam your field producer emerges from the production van, tablet in hand, their Fae features arranged in that expression of professional concern that's about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. Today their eyes are green, but you've seen them cycle through the whole spectrum during a single conversation. They move with an uncanny grace, each step calculated to seem natural while being anything but.<br><br>
"Phenomenal broadcast, $firstName," Sam says, their voice carrying that musical quality that makes everything sound like either a compliment or a curse. "The rating projections are astronomical. Though I have to wonder, did you consider the liability implications of naming Frost directly without her being formally charged?"<br><br>
Classic Sam. Praise wrapped around a knife, slipped between your ribs while you're still processing the compliment. The Fae can't lie directly, but Sam has turned implication into high art.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"I don\'t recall asking for your legal opinion, Sam. Last I checked, you produce segments, not jurisprudence."'>>
<<set $samChoice to "confrontational">>
<<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $samstat -= 1>>
<<goto "CH1P2.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Frost helped murder a six-year-old. Legal can kiss my entire ass if they have a problem with that."'>>
<<set $samChoice to "relaxed">>
<<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P2.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link "Liability? In Sordia? That's like checking for gas leaks while the whole damn city burns around you.">>
<<set $samChoice = "cynical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $samstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P2.3">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul><<if $samChoice is "confrontational">>Sam's smile never changes, but their eyes shift toward amber—annoyed. "Of course. Simply thinking of the station's interests. And yours, naturally." The way they say 'naturally' suggests anything but.<<elseif $samChoice is "relaxed">>Sam nods, but their expression says they're filing this away. "How... colorful. Though I suppose color is your specialty, isn't it? All that blood makes for such vivid television."<<elseif $samChoice is "cynical">>Sam actually laughs, genuine for once. "How honest. Most people pretend journalism is noble. You just admit you're here to watch things burn."<</if>><br><br>
Jake stumbles a bit lifting the heavy tripod, catching himself against the news van. His hands shake more noticeably now. <br><br>
"Careful with that," he mutters to himself, checking the tripod for damage with the obsessive attention of someone who knows broken equipment means broken kneecaps when you can't pay your debts. His phone buzzes. He doesn't check it, but his whole body tenses like someone just pressed a gun to his spine.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Jake, you look like someone pissed in your coffee and charged you for cream. What\'s your take on tonight?"'>>
<<set $jakeChoice to "hardened">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $jakestat -= 2>>
<<goto "CH1P2.4">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"You filmed everything tonight. Every angle, every reaction. Notice anything I missed?"'>>
<<set $jakeChoice to "calculated">>
<<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $observation += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P2.4">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Something\'s eating you, and it\'s not just my broadcasting style. Spill."'>>
<<set $jakeChoice to "intuitive">>
<<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $jakestat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P2.4">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul><<if $jakeChoice is "hardened">>Jake's jaw clenches. "My take? You just painted a target on your back the size of Grey's mansion. Frost has friends. The kind who don't file lawsuits, they file obituaries." He lights a cigarette with shaking hands. "But you already know that. You get off on it."<<elseif $jakeChoice is "calculated">>Jake considers, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Not today but you manipulated that assistant... Sarah? Made her think she was doing the right thing. She'll never work again, you know that? Just try not to leave too many broken people behind." He turns away.<<elseif $jakeChoice is "intuitive">>Jake laughs, bitter as burnt coffee. "You really want to know? Fine. The way you talked about Jane... reminded me why I got into this business. Before the gambling, before everything went to shit. We were supposed to matter. To make things matter." His voice cracks slightly. "Tonight you did something good. And I filmed it. But it makes me wonder how many nightmares I still have to endure before I can finally quit."<</if>><br><br>
Vex drops a case of equipment, the crash making everyone jump. They stare at the scattered gear with confusion.<br><br>
"Sorry! I thought someone else was going to drop that, but it was me. It's always me." They kneel to collect the pieces, muttering, "The heart is missing, but you already knew that. Or will know."<br><br>
The words hang in the air. Your left/right hand starts itching.<br><br>
"Vex," you call out. "What heart?"<br><br>
They look up, star-flecked eyes wide with panic. "Did I say heart? I meant... nothing. No I meant! What did I mean? Sometimes I remember things that haven't happened yet or have already happened, and they leak out. Like when you—" They physically slap both hands over their mouth.<br><br>
Your blood goes cold. "What about me?"<br><br>
They begin to respond when that eerie look in their eyes seems to die. "Hmm what was I going to say? Sorry I don’t know why I always forget so fast" Vex looks like they might cry. "I'm very tired and should stop talking now please just forget what I said..."<br><br>
You just shrug, too tired to care right now.<br><br>
Sam approaches with the equipment manifest, their tablet glowing with unnecessary brightness. "Everything's accounted for. Excellent work as always, $firstName. Though I do wonder what you'll do for an encore. It's hard to top exposing a senator's child murder conspiracy."<br><br>
"There's always another story," you reply, feeling exhaustion winning against caffeine/tea/energy/alcohol to pour down your throat. "Sordia's like a corpse, the longer you look, the more maggots you find."<br><br>
"How poetic," Sam agrees, their eyes shifting to violet—genuine interest. Then they snap the tablet shut. "Come on, let’s get back to the station."<br><br>
The last cable is coiled and stowed. Tripods collapse with a metallic click, lenses capped and cases snapped shut. <br><br>
Jake hefts the final crate toward the van, his movements careful despite the tremor in his hands. Isla falls in beside him, exhaustion etched in every step. Vex lopes after them, still inexplicably energized, and Sam trails with the tablet now balanced under one arm.<br><br>
The group crosses the lawn toward the news van. Without a word, the side door of the van slides open.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P3]]The breath against your ear comes without warning.<br><br>
Hot. Familiar. Carrying the scent of coconut oil and gunpowder, that particular combination that you would recognise everywhere.<br><br>
"Mi love how yuh mek di whole city watch yuh expose corruption like is a Sunday sermon," the voice whispers, low and teasing in that patois that only comes out when they're or he’s or she’s trying to make you smile or annoy you. "But yuh still look like yuh need some good food and a proper bed, Leech."<br><br>
You don't need to turn around to know who it is. Only one person in Sordia gets away with calling you that name like it's an endearment rather than an insult. Only one person would dare get this close without you hearing them approach, those CRD stealth training courses paying off.<br><br>
You turn, and there they are. Your best friend since sophomore year of high school, when you both thought journalism and justice were the same thing. Before Sordia taught you they were barely distant cousins who stopped talking after a family feud.<br><br>
<<if $acemet is false>>
<strong>Who stands behind you?</strong><br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link 'Your best friend Andre with his amber eyes that see right through your. Tough when it matters, soft when it counts, and always ready to have your back.'>>
<<set $aceName = "Andre">>
<<set $aceHe = "he">>
<<set $aceHim = "him">>
<<set $aceHis = "his">>
<<set $aceHimself = "himself">>
<<set $aceHeC = "He">>
<<set $aceHimC = "Him">>
<<set $aceHisC = "His">>
<<set $aceHimselfC = "Himself">>
<<set $aceGender = "male">>
<<set $aceGenderSet = true>>
<<goto "CH1P3.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link 'Your best friend Anaya with her amber eyes that see right through your. Tough when it matters, soft when it counts, and always ready to have your back.'>>
<<set $aceName = "Anaya">>
<<set $aceHe = "she">>
<<set $aceHim = "her">>
<<set $aceHis = "her">>
<<set $aceHimself = "herself">>
<<set $aceHeC = "She">>
<<set $aceHimC = "Her">>
<<set $aceHisC = "Her">>
<<set $aceHimselfC = "Herself">>
<<set $aceGender = "female">>
<<set $aceGenderSet = true>>
<<goto "CH1P3.1">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
<<else>>
[[Continue|CH1P3.1]]
<</if>><<if $aceGender is "male">> Andre Reid stands before you in his CRD tactical gear, the federal badges gleaming against black kevlar like accusations. Six feet of controlled power that moves with the confidence of someone who's survived enough fights to know which ones to avoid. His light blonde buzzcut catches the emergency lights, military-sharp fade edges precise enough to cut yourself on. The burn scars twisting around his right ear have faded to pink now, but you remember when they were fresh. When he couldn't hear you screaming his name through the smoke.<br><br>
His amber eyes cut through Sordia's perpetual twilight, sharp enough to see through bullshit but warm enough to make you believe people might still be worth saving. The septum ring and eyebrow piercings should make him look less official, but somehow they just make him more dangerous. Like someone who doesn't need regulations to define his authority. <<elseif $aceGender is "female">> Anaya Reid stands before you in her CRD tactical gear, the federal badges gleaming against black kevlar like promises she can't keep. Five-foot-six of coiled energy that makes taller agents step back when she enters a room. Her blonde braids catch the emergency lights, each one precisely maintained despite the fourteen-hour shifts that would break lesser agents. The burn scars twisting around her right ear have faded to pink now, but you remember when they were fresh. When she couldn't hear you screaming her name through the smoke.<br><br>
Her amber eyes cut through Sordia's perpetual twilight, sharp enough to dissect lies but warm enough to make you forget this city eats hope for breakfast. The septum ring and eyebrow piercings should make her look less official, but somehow they just make her more dangerous. Like someone who doesn't need a badge to command respect. <</if>><br><br>
The cross earring catches light as Ace tilts $aceHis head, studying you with that particular expression that means $aceHe is cataloging damage. Physical. Mental. The kind that doesn't show up on medical reports.<br><br>
<<link '♡[Obvious Crush] Your heart does that stupid thing where it forgets how to beat properly. Everyone knows but Ace. You\'re subtle as a brick through a window, but at least you\'re honest about it.'>>
<<set $relationshipType to "obvious">>
<<goto "CH1P3.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
<<link '♡[Secret Crush] You\'ve gotten good at hiding it. The way your pulse jumps when $aceHe smiles. How you memorize every detail of $aceHis face while pretending to look at crime scene photos. Nobody knows. Or at least, nobody says anything. Plausible deniability is your only defense against feelings that could ruin everything.'>>
<<set $relationshipType to "secret">>
<<goto "CH1P3.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
<<link '[Best Friend] Ace is family. The kind you choose rather than the kind that abandons you. Anything else would complicate something that\'s already one of the only uncomplicated good things in your life. Romance is for people who haven\'t seen each other covered in blood and vomit and worse.'>>
<<set $relationshipType to "besties">>
<<goto "CH1P3.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
"You look like something the harbor coughed up after a three-day bender," Ace says, but there's fondness beneath the observation. "When's the last time you ate actual food? Not some in and out bullshit."<br><br>
Jake glances over from where he's loading equipment, catches sight of the CRD uniform, and suddenly finds the van's interior fascinating. Federal agents make everyone nervous, but especially people with gambling debts to the Triads. <br><br>
Isla's expression goes carefully neutral. Abyssal bloodlines and federal agents have the kind of history that ends in containment facilities and "disappeared" reports. Sam's eyes shift to that particular shade of green that means they're memorizing everything for later use. Probably already composing the gossip they'll spread. Vex just waves enthusiastically before Isla grabs their arm.<br><br>
"We'll get the rest loaded," Isla says, her tone making it clear this isn't a suggestion. "Take your time."
The crew disperses with the efficiency of people who recognize when they're not wanted. Or when staying might mean answering questions about their own dealings with Sordia's criminal element. In seconds, you're alone with Ace.<br><br>
Ace is part of the Containment Response Division or CRD for short. For the uninitiated, that's the federal department that handles crimes involving bloodlines and human crimes. The people who show up when supernatural abilities meet criminal intent.<br><br>
Must be nice, having actual resources and government backing.<br><br>
"That broadcast tonight... hell of a thing. I will definitely watch the recording." $aceHeC playfully nudges your shoulder.<br><br>
"That broadcast tonight... hell of a thing. I will definitely watch the recording." $aceHeC playfully nudges your shoulder.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Planning to watch me work all night? I do my best performances when someone\'s paying close attention."'>>
<<set $aceChoice to "bold">>
<<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $ace_romance += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"You always watch my stuff this closely? Makes me wonder what else you pay attention to about me."'>>
<<set $aceChoice to "shy">>
<<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $ace_romance += 1>>
<<set $acestat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Good thing you like watching me work. I could use someone who appreciates my... technique."'>>
<<set $aceChoice to "oblivious">>
<<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $acestat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Right, the cable incident. Nothing sexier than nearly face-planting during a murder confession, right?"'>>
<<set $aceChoice to "awkward">>
<<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $ace_romance += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"At least you get front-row seats to all my disasters. Some people pay good money for that kind of entertainment."'>>
<<set $aceChoice to "clumsy">>
<<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $ace_romance += 1>>
<<set $acestat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Someone had to call out the bullshit. Six-year-old girl dies, and half the city pretends it\'s just Tuesday in Sordia."'>>
<<set $aceChoice to "supportive">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $acestat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Just another dead kid for Sordia\'s collection. At least this time someone bothered to count her as human."'>>
<<set $aceChoice to "cynical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P3.3">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul><<if $aceChoice is "bold">>Ace grins, completely missing the innuendo. "Oh, I always pay attention when you're working. You get this intense look, like you're solving the world's problems one question at a time." $aceHeC pauses thoughtfully. "It's... captivating, actually. Really draws you in."<<elseif $aceChoice is "shy">>Ace's expression turns earnest, oblivious to the flirtation. "Of course I pay attention. You notice everything—the way people fidget when they lie, how their voices change." $aceHeC steps closer without realizing. "I like watching you think. Your face gets all serious and focused. It's... nice."<<elseif $aceChoice is "oblivious">>Ace nods enthusiastically, missing the double meaning entirely. "Your technique is something else. The way you corner suspects, make them comfortable before you go for the throat..." $aceHeC shakes $aceHis head admiringly. "I could watch you work all day. You're really good with your hands—I mean, with questions."<<elseif $aceChoice is "awkward">>Ace laughs, completely missing the sarcasm. "Are you kidding? You recovered like a pro. Most people would've been flustered, but you just kept going." $aceHeC grins warmly. "There's something attractive about someone who doesn't let anything stop them. Wait, I mean—that came out wrong."<<elseif $aceChoice is "clumsy">>Ace's eyes light up with genuine affection. "Best entertainment in the city. You make even the disasters look graceful somehow." $aceHeC bumps your shoulder playfully. "Plus I get to be there for all your best moments. It's like having a front-row seat to genius in action."<<elseif $aceChoice is "supportive">>Ace nods grimly. "Jane De Luca deserved better than being a statistic. What you did tonight?" $aceHeC meets your eyes. "That's why good journalists matter. Even in this hellhole."<<elseif $aceChoice is "cynical">>Ace's jaw tightens. "Christ, you're dark tonight. But you're not wrong." $aceHeC looks away briefly. "At least someone's keeping count. Most people stopped caring about the body count years ago."<</if>><br><br>
"We make a good team," you say, watching federal agents catalog evidence you spent two months gathering. "Your CRD intel, my ability to manipulate grieving grandmothers into trusting me. Real heartwarming stuff."<br><br>
<<if $aceGender is "male">> Andre snorts, crossing his arms in a way that makes his tactical vest strain. "You say manipulate, I say convinced. Maria De Luca knew exactly what she was doing when she came to you. She wanted blood, and you delivered." <br><br><<elseif $aceGender is "female">> Anaya rolls her eyes, shifting her weight in that way that means she's calculating sight lines and exit strategies even while talking. "You gave Maria De Luca what she needed—truth. The fact that it destroyed Grey is just karma working overtime." <</if>><br><br>
"Speaking of Grey," you say, watching federal agents catalog evidence you spent two months gathering. "You know he's going to fight this. His lawyers are probably already drafting motions. Money like his doesn't go down easy. It learns to swim in the legal system."<br><br>
Ace's expression darkens. "Yeah, we know. Klein, Hutchison, and Vasquez took his case. They got the Draken heir off that trafficking charge last year."<br><br>
"The one where they found twelve bodies in his basement?"<br><br>
"Allegedly found. According to Klein, it was performance art." Ace's disgust is palpable.
"But we've got him on the financial transfers. The hotel records. Your broadcast made sure the whole city knows what he did. Hard to find an impartial jury now."<br><br>
"Impartial juries are for people who can't afford partial judges," you point out. Orwell would be proud. Or spinning in his grave. Probably both.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Grey will walk. They always do. Different rules for different bank accounts. Justice is just a word poor people use when they can\'t afford lawyers."'>>
<<set $aceChoice2 to "cynical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $acestat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.4">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"What\'s your actual case against him? Because financial records can be disputed. Hotel records show affair, not murder. And his confession on my broadcast? Coercion under duress."'>>
<<set $aceChoice2 to "methodical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $acestat += 2>>
<<goto "CH1P3.4">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Maybe this time will be different. The evidence is solid. Public pressure is massive. Even bought judges have limits when dead children start trending on social media."'>>
<<set $aceChoice2 to "hopeful">>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $acestat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.4">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul><<if $aceChoice2 is "cynical">>Ace's hands clench into fists. "Not this time. I won't let him walk. Jane De Luca was six years old, $firstName. Six." $aceHisC voice carries the weight of every case that slipped away. "Maybe you're right. Maybe justice is just a comfort word for people who can't accept reality. But sometimes we need those words to keep going." $aceHeC gestures at the crime scene around them. "We have to believe it matters, even when it doesn't. Otherwise, what's the point of any of this?"<<elseif $aceChoice2 is "methodical">>Ace nods slowly. "We've got more than that. Rio Montenegro. The Umbra assassin Grey hired." $aceHeC lowers $aceHis voice, glancing around. "He's in custody. Talking. Gave us everything - times, payments, instructions." $aceHeC hesitates, then trusts you with more. "Rio's not exactly elite tier. More like... discount supernatural muscle. Which makes me wonder why Grey went cheap for something this important, probably trying to save as much as he could."<<elseif $aceChoice2 is "hopeful">>Ace stares at you in genuine surprise. "$firstName the optimist? Should I check for head trauma?" But $aceHis teasing is warm. "You might be right though. Director Hawke herself is overseeing this case. She doesn't like child killers, and she really doesn't like rich ones who think money makes them untouchable." $aceHeC studies your face with something like fondness. "It's nice, hearing you hope for something. This city hasn't killed that part of you yet."<</if>>
"What about Frost?" you ask, steering toward safer ground. "Any leads on where she might be hiding?"<br><br>
<<if $aceGender is "male">> Andre runs a hand over his buzzcut, a gesture you recognize as frustration. "Few possibilities. Her family has property in Vermont, but that's too obvious. More likely she's using her Fae powers to alter her appearance, blend in somewhere public." <<elseif $aceGender is "female">> Anaya adjusts one of her braids, a nervous habit she's had since high school. "Few possibilities. Her family has property in Vermont, but that's too obvious. More likely she's using Fae connections to alter her appearance, blend in somewhere public." <</if>><br><br>
"Fae bloodlines can literally become anyone else," you mutter. "She could be standing next to us and we wouldn't know."<br><br>
"Not exactly," Ace corrects. "They can alter appearance, but they can't lie directly. Ask the right questions, and they have to dance around the truth. It's just finding them to ask those questions that's the problem."<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"So while you\'re playing procedural theater, Frost is probably three time zones away laughing at your warrant paperwork. Brilliant strategy."'>>
<<set $aceChoice3 to "cutting">>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P3.5">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Different tools, same goal. I corner them with questions they can\'t dodge, you corner them with badges they can\'t bribe. Usually works."'>>
<<set $aceChoice3 to "analytical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $acestat += 2>>
<<goto "CH1P3.5">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Your rules are why killers walk free. Frost is running because she knows the system protects people with money and connections. Prove me wrong."'>>
<<set $aceChoice3 to "blunt">>
<<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $acestat -= 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.5">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul><<if $aceChoice3 is "cutting">>Ace's jaw tightens, but there's no real anger. Just tired frustration. "You think I enjoy the paperwork? Think I wouldn't rather drag her out of whatever five-star hideout she's using?" $aceHeC runs a hand through $aceHis hair. "But without warrants, without procedure, nothing sticks. You get to drop truth bombs and walk away. I have to build cases that survive lawyers like Klein." $aceHeC meets your eyes. "Jane De Luca deserves justice that actually puts someone in prison, not just good TV ratings."<<elseif $aceChoice3 is "analytical">>Ace nods approvingly. "Exactly. Your broadcast flushed her out faster than six months of surveillance would have." $aceHeC pauses, then adds., "You're really good at making people uncomfortable, you know that? The way you ask questions, it's like watching someone pick locks with words." $aceHeC doesn't seem to realize how that sounds. "Frost won't see you coming the same way she sees us coming."<<elseif $aceChoice3 is "blunt">>Ace goes quiet for a long moment. When $aceHe speaks, there's raw honesty in $aceHis voice. "You're not wrong. The system is fucked. Rich killers buy their way out while poor kids end up in body bags." $aceHeC looks away. "But those rules? They're the only thing standing between justice and revenge. Some days I can't tell the difference anymore." $aceHeC meets your eyes again. "Maybe that's why I need someone like you around. To remind me when the rules are protecting the wrong people."<</if>><br><br>
The October wind picks up, carrying the smell of rain and decay. Ace shivers slightly, the tactical gear is built for protection, not warmth.<br><br>
"Listen," Ace says, checking $aceHis phone. "I should tell you, there's talk at CRD. About you."<br><br>
Your try not to grimace. "Good talk or 'accidentally fall down some stairs' talk?"<br><br>
"Both. Some people think you're a hero for exposing Grey. Others think you're a liability who doesn't know when to stop digging." Ace meets your eyes directly. "Director Hawke wants to bring you in as a consultant. Official capacity."<br><br>
The offer hangs between you like a loaded gun. Working with CRD officially means protection, resources, inside information. It also means rules, oversight, and painting an even bigger target on your back.<br><br>
"Think about it," Ace says before you can respond. "It's not an offer she makes lightly."<br><br>
A phone buzzes. Ace pulls out $aceHis CRD-issued device, frowning at the screen.<br><br>
"Shit. I’ve gotta go." $aceHeC looks torn between duty and whatever they see in your exhausted face. "Listen, lunch tomorrow? Ma and Pa’s restaurant, usual table?"<br><br>
The invitation is routine. You've been having lunch at the Reid family restaurant since high school, when Ace's mom decided you needed more nutritious food and made it her personal mission to fix that.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"A date with the Reid family? Better than most actual dates I\'ve had. At least your mom won\'t try to sell me information."'>>
<<set $aceChoice5 to "bold">>
<<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $ace_romance += 1>>
<<set $acestat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.6">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Your family lunch invitations are the only appointments I never want to cancel. Says something about my social life, probably."'>>
<<set $aceChoice5 to "shy">>
<<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $ace_romance += 1>>
<<set $acestat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.6">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Your mom\'s cooking beats takeout and loneliness. Plus Imani always has better answers to my questions than most of my sources."'>>
<<set $aceChoice5 to "oblivious">>
<<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $acestat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.6">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Should I pretend I haven\'t been looking forward to this all week? Because that would be lying."'>>
<<set $aceChoice5 to "awkward">>
<<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $ace_romance += 1>>
<<set $acestat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.6">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Perfect. I\'ll try not to interrogate your family about their personal lives this time. Old habits and all that."'>>
<<set $aceChoice5 to "clumsy">>
<<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $ace_romance += 1>>
<<set $acestat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.6">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Your mother\'s the closest thing I have to family therapy. Cheaper and better food than actual therapy."'>>
<<set $aceChoice5 to "grateful">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $acestat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.6">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Might be the only thing that convinces me the world isn\'t completely fucked. Your family\'s proof good people still exist."'>>
<<set $aceChoice5 to "tired">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $acestat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P3.6">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>The van pulls away from Grey's mansion.<br><br>
Jake's driving. Sam murmurs into their phone, already spinning the broadcast into tomorrow's headlines. Isla is stealing glances at her phone. Vex hums something tuneless and wrong.<br><br>
You tune them out. Let their voices blur into white noise as you press your forehead against the cold glass of the window.<br><br>
Sordia spreads before you like a wound that learned to breathe.<br><br>
The upper district gleams with lies polished to mirror brightness. Glass towers that scrape the sky, each one a monument to someone's greed. The Han Building dominates the skyline—a red, goldish dragon wrapped around black glass, subtle as a gunshot.<br><br>
"You okay back there?" Jake asks, catching your eye in the rearview mirror.<br><br>
"I'm admiring the view," you mutter. Oscar Wilde said we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. In Sordia, even the stars are just distant explosions. Dead light from dead things, arriving too late to matter.<br><br>
The van drives through the city's layers. Each one darker than the last. Each one more honest about what this place really is.<br><br>
You were born in 2018, right when this city was tearing itself apart and trying to rebuild as something new. You don't remember New York—that died six years before you existed. Don't remember Arcadia either, that dream collapsed into Sordia while you were still learning to walk.<br><br>
All you've ever known is this. The normalized dysfunction. The systematic inequality that everyone pretends is just market forces. The way supernatural abilities became another form of privilege, like being born rich or connected.<br><br>
Your earliest memories are of integration already being normal. Kids in your kindergarten class who could breathe fire. Teachers who had to use special equipment to contain Primordial tantrums. The way everyone just accepted that some people were more equal than others, depending on what ran through their veins.<br><br>
The Incident—that's what they call it in the histories you studied. December 31st, 2012. Styx, an extremist cult with a god complex, planted their “blood bomb” right in Times Square. Midnight hits, and forty-seven Bloodborn hostages are forced to turn into their forms on live TV. Fire, claws, wings you name it while fourteen million people watched.<br><br>
By morning, the clips were everywhere. Shaky phone cams. Screams in the background. People asking if it was real. Two days later, markets were bleeding, churches were splitting, and people demanding answers that the government weren’t ready to give. <br><br>
That was the moment the world stopped pretending the supernatural was just stories.
Centuries of hiding, of careful integration, of passing as human. Gone in seventy-two hours of one single live stream and viral videos. Turns out everyone knew someone who was a little different. A little strange. A little too good at specific things.<br><br>
The war started two weeks later.<br><br>
By the time you were old enough to understand what had happened, it was already ancient history. The Blood Wars that followed—2013 to 2016—were just scary stories adults told. Warnings about what happens when species try to extinct each other in the streets.<br><br>
They call it the Blood Revolt in polite company. Like it was organized. Like there were leaders and demands and negotiation tables. But the older generation remembers what it really was... three years of species trying to extinct each other in the streets.<br><br>
Humans had numbers. Technology. Fear that made them vicious.<br><br>
Bloodlines had power. Abilities that made conventional warfare obsolete.<br><br>
The military tried to maintain order. Then they discovered half their ranks were bloodlines who'd been hiding in plain sight. Brother turned on brother. Lovers discovered they'd been sleeping with the enemy. Children were tested, sorted, separated.<br><br>
New York burned for six months straight. Not metaphorically. Literally. Infernal bloodlines turned Manhattan into their personal playground, contracts and fire painting the skyline red. The Draegons claimed Central Park, declaring it sovereign territory. The Abyssal bloodlines took the harbors, sinking any ship that tried to leave.<br><br>
The war officially ended with the Peace Accords of 2016. Bloodlines could live openly but had to register. Humans couldn't discriminate but could "protect themselves." <br><br>
Everyone pretended it was peace.<br><br>
New York died that day. In its place, they renamed the city: Arcadia.<br><br>
A new beginning, the politicians promised. A paradise where all species could thrive.
The name lasted six months. Long enough for reality to sink in. For the body count to stabilize at merely horrific instead of apocalyptic. For everyone to realize paradise was just another word for hell with better marketing.<br><br>
Someone spray-painted "Sordia" on the new city hall, coming from the Latin word of "sordid" that stuck like blood on concrete. The city of filth. Of compromised morals and broken promises. Of coexistence through mutual assured destruction.<br><br>
They tried to change it back. Fought for "Arcadia" again. But Sordia had already infected the collective unconscious minds of the people. It was what the city was. What it had always been, even before the masks came off.<br><br>
Now, twenty years later, the war continues in boardrooms and back alleys. Humans vs. humans. Bloodlines vs. bloodlines. And humans vs. bloodlines. Reality looks even harsher. It’s the cursed number 23. Only 23 families—20 Bloodline families and 3 human families—rule over Sordia but that’s enough to keep everything under their control.<br><br>
And the eleven bloodlines each claimed their piece of this city:<br><br>
Draegons like the Hans control finance, their reptilian features and breath weapons making them living symbols of power. Different types based on their scales—red dragons breathing fire, blue ones controlling lightning. They hoard wealth like their mythological ancestors, but now it's in hedge funds and real estate instead of caves.<br><br>
Umbra are the shadows you never see coming. Most can barely turn invisible in dim light, maybe whisper through shadows. But the seven—the only ones powerful enough to matter—can become living darkness. Phase through walls. Control entire neighborhoods of shadow.<br><br>
Seraph bloodlines barely exist anymore in Sordia. The healing angels everyone wanted to harvest. Their blood cures diseases some say. Their organs reverse aging others argue. Officially there's one in Sordia—a thirteen-year-old kid under federal protection. Unofficially, maybe more but they hide so deep no one can say for sure. During the wars, they tried to help everyone. That painted targets on their backs that never washed off.<br><br>
Infernal bloodlines run the system with their contract magic and fire control. Every major law firm has one on retainer. When they make deals, the contracts burn themselves into your soul. Literally. Break them and you burn from the inside out. They smell like sulfur and expensive cologne.<br><br>
Fae own entertainment and can't lie directly, but they've turned implication into high art. They shapeshift, charm, and manipulate emotions through supernatural charisma. The casinos, theaters, and high-end brothels where species mixing happens behind closed doors, all Fae territory. Their glamour makes lies more profitable than truth ever was.<br><br>
Chronos bloodlines see time wrong. Past, present, future all bleeding together. Most go insane. The functional ones become perfect analysts or perfect asylum patients. Vex is one of the lucky ones who can sort of navigate the temporal soup their brain serves them daily.<br><br>
Manitou speak to the dead and it shows. Cold skin, sunken eyes, that thousand-yard stare of someone who's seen too many ghosts. They run the morgues and funeral homes, conduct séances for grieving families, and occasionally raise the recently dead for one last goodbye. The dead talk to them constantly. No wonder most look exhausted.<br><br>
Abyssal bloodlines control water and everything in it. They run the docks, taking their cut of everything that enters Sordia by sea. Webbed fingers, sometimes blue-tinged skin, the ability to breathe underwater indefinitely. During storms, they're the only ones who seem truly happy.<br><br>
Ifrit are wish-granters bound by their own promises. They become negotiators, diplomats, people who make impossible deals happen. They can control wind, shapeshift, bind agreements with supernatural force. But every wish has a price, usually one you don't see until it's too late.<br><br>
Chimaera are the broken ones. Mixed bloodlines that shouldn't exist, their genetics trying to tear themselves apart. The government makes them wear suppression collars, blinking red lights that mark them as walking disasters. Most die young. The ones who survive are either incredibly lucky or incredibly dangerous.<br><br>
Primordials are forces of nature barely contained in human form. Earth, Fire, Water, Air, each one a walking natural disaster. When they lose control, neighborhoods could disappear. The city keeps exact counts, tracks them like weapons of mass destruction. When they fight, the city holds its breath and hopes the damage stays under eight figures.<br><br>
You watch it all blur past. This city built on bones and betrayal. Where everyone lies because truth is a luxury no one can afford. Where justice is a word people use when they mean revenge, and law is what you call it when the powerful want to stay that way.<br><br>
The middle districts slide by where integration actually worked, sort of. Mixed families figuring out what happens when your kid might breathe fire or see ghosts or turn invisible during tantrums. Community centers offering "genetic counseling for mixed heritage" and "ability management for adolescents." Success that created problems nobody planned for.<br><br>
"Still with us?" Isla asks, turning in her seat. "You've been staring out that window for twenty minutes."<br><br>
"Thinking," you reply.<br><br>
"About?"<br><br>
About this city that eats its young and calls it natural selection. But you don’t answer her, just shrug.<br><br>
Channel 6's building squats in the distance. Another few minutes and you'll be back at your desk. But something gnaws at you. The question that's driven you since you first picked up a recorder and asked someone why they were lying.<br><br>
Why do you do this? Why do you bleed yourself dry for stories that changes mostly nothing? Why do you keep dragging truth into the light when Sordia prefers its darkness?<br><br>
Why do you expose the truth?<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '[Justice] Because someone has to. Every story matters, every truth deserves to be told, even if nothing changes. Maybe especially then.'>>
<<set $motivationChoice to "justice">>
<<set $forjustice += 1>>
<<set $moral += 1>>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) + 1)>>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P4.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '[Self-Satisfaction] Because you\'re good at it. Because there\'s nothing quite like watching someone\'s face when they realize you know all their secrets. When they understand that you\'re the one with power now.'>>
<<set $motivationChoice to "satisfaction">>
<<set $forself += 1>>
<<set $corrupt += 1>>
<<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P4.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '[Revenge] Because they deserve it. Every single one of them. The ones who pretend this city works. Who profit from its rot. Who step on people like you because they can.'>>
<<set $motivationChoice to "revenge">>
<<set $forrevenge += 1>>
<<set $corrupt += 1>>
<<run setup.setTrait('confrontational', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P4.1">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
<<if $motivationChoice is "justice">>You became a journalist because secrets make you physically ill. That itch in your left hand that won't stop until you've dragged every lie into daylight. In a city that runs on deception, you're an antibody. A fever. Something that shouldn't exist but does, making the comfortable uncomfortable one expose at a time. You tell yourself it's noble. Some days you even believe it.<<elseif $motivationChoice is "satisfaction">>You became a journalist for the high. The rush of cornering prey that thought it was predator. Truth isn't noble, it's a weapon, and you've gotten very good at using it. Every source you burn, every reputation you destroy, every secret you expose feeds something hungry inside you. The same hunger that makes Draegons hoard gold and Umbra collect shadows. Yours just happens to feed mostly on other people's destruction.<<elseif $motivationChoice is "revenge">>You became a journalist to hurt them back. All of them. Every politician who sold out their constituents. Every CEO who got rich on supernatural advantages. Every powerful piece of shit who thinks they're untouchable. The truth is your weapon, and you're very good at making it hurt. They created you through their cruelty, and now you're their consequence. Sordia taught you that everything is transactional. This is yours, their pain for your satisfaction.<</if>><br><br>
It’s a hard life in Sordia after all.<br><br>
Everyone has their way of coping with it. Jake's got his cigarettes and his gambling. Isla has her daughter, something pure to protect in all this filth. Sam has their games, their manipulations that make them feel in control. Vex has... whatever temporal dissociation provides, living in three timelines at once so none of them hurt as much.<br><br>
And you? You've got your own poison. The thing that keeps you functional when functional is just another word for "not quite dead yet."<br><br>
What's your vice?<br><br>
<<link '[Smoking] The cigarette pack in your pocket weighs more than your press credentials. Always has.'>>
<<set $vice to "smoking">>
<<set $addiction += 1>>
<<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P4.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
<<link '[Alcohol] The flask in your jacket isn\'t for show. Whiskey, usually. Sometimes whatever burns enough to make you forget for a few hours.'>>
<<set $vice to "alcohol">>
<<set $addiction += 1>>
<<set $isolation += 1>>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P4.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
<<link '[Gambling] Your bookie knows you better than your own uncle. Cards, races, which politician gets arrested next, everything\'s a bet when you need the adrenaline spike of maybe losing everything.'>>
<<set $vice to "gambling">>
<<set $recklessness += 1>>
<<set $corrupt += 1>>
<<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P4.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
<<link '[Obsessive Work] Sleep is for people who can close their eyes without seeing bodies. You\'ve got seventeen active investigations, forty-three pending leads, and a contact list that reads like Sordia\'s Most Wanted.'>>
<<set $vice to "work">>
<<set $isolation += 1>>
<<set $moral += 1>>
<<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $observation += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P4.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
<<link '[Reckless Risk-Taking] You don\'t have a death wish. Death wishes are for people who want to die. You just need to remember you\'re alive.'>>
<<set $vice to "risk">>
<<set $recklessness += 2>>
<<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 2)>>
<<run setup.setTrait('confrontational', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P4.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
<<link '[Hookups] Bodies are easier than hearts. Names you forget before morning are safer than ones that might matter.'>>
<<set $vice to "hookups">>
<<set $isolation += 2>>
<<set $corrupt += 1>>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P4.2">>
<</link>>
<<if $vice is "smoking">>Your fingers itch for nicotine the way your left hand itches for truth. First one at fourteen, stolen from Ben's pack when he thought you were asleep. Now it's ritual. Light up before an interview. After a broadcast. Hemingway said "write drunk, edit sober," but you've found "investigate anxious, write through smoke" works just as well. The cancer won't get you. Something faster will.<<elseif $vice is "alcohol">>You're not an alcoholic, that would require admitting you have a problem instead of a solution. Started the day you covered your first massacre. Ended never. Fitzgerald drowned his genius in gin. You're drowning something else. Something that might have been conscience once.<<elseif $vice is "gambling">>The debt isn't the point. The risk is. That moment when everything hangs on a card flip, when control is just an illusion you're paying interest on. Dostoyevsky wrote "The Gambler" because he knew, sometimes you need to lose everything to remember you had nothing worth keeping.<<elseif $vice is "work">>When one story ends, three more begin. Your apartment is just where you keep your notes. Your life is the work. Kafka died editing. You'll die investigating. There are worse ways to go than drowning in truth.<<elseif $vice is "risk">>Chasing sources into dangerous territory. Confronting Bloodborns without backup. Playing chicken with people who don't brake. Your scars are a roadmap of bad decisions that somehow didn't kill you. Yet. Thompson said "faster, faster, until the thrill of speed overcomes the fear of death." He was right about everything except the overcoming part.<<elseif $vice is "hookups">>You've got a collection of people across Sordia who know your body but not your last name. Who you can call when the walls close in and you need to feel something that isn't anger or emptiness. Connection without connection. Touch without trust. Anaïs Nin wrote about eroticism as escape. She didn't mention it's also armor.<</if>><br><br>
The van hits a pothole, jolting you from your thoughts. You're in the Industrial Corridor now, where supernatural abilities became blue-collar tools. Graffiti covers every surface—gang tags, bloodline supremacist symbols, the occasional attempt at art that gets painted over within days.<br><br>
Warehouses employing Chimaera-enhanced workers for heavy lifting. Distribution centers using Ifrit drivers who navigate perfectly in any weather. The integration that actually worked, until human workers realized they couldn't compete with someone who could lift three tons or see in complete darkness.<br><br>
A group of Chimaera kids huddle in a doorway, their suppression collars blinking red in the darkness. One looks up as the van passes, and you see scales on one side of her face, fur on the other. Her eyes are different colors. One human brown, one reptilian gold. She can't be more than twelve.<br><br>
In ten years, she'll probably be dead. Genetic instability. Organ failure. Or just the wrong place at the wrong time in a city that treats her existence as a mistake.<br><br>
"Shit," Jake mutters, swerving around a burning trash can. "City gets worse every day."<br><br>
"No," you correct him. "It's exactly the same. We just get better at seeing it."<br><br>
Sam turns from the front seat, those color-shifting eyes studying you with interest. "Such pessimism. And here I thought exposing Grey would have you celebrating."<br><br>
"Grey's just a symptom," you reply. "Cut off one head, ten more grow back. All with better lawyers."<br><br>
"Then why bother?" Sam asks, and for once, the question seems genuine rather than manipulative.<br><br>
You think about Jane De Luca's stuffed dinosaur. About Maria asking you to find her daughter's killer. About Ace saying the work matters, even when it doesn't seem to.<br><br>
"Because someone has to," you finally answer. "Because if we stop trying, they win by default."<br><br>
"They win anyway," Jake points out, lighting another cigarette with shaking hands.<br><br>
"Maybe. But at least we make them work for it."<br><br>
The van descends further. Past the pretense of order into Sordia's true face. Where humans and bloodlines mix in ways the Accords pretend don't happen. Where species supremacist groups plot their next atrocity.<br><br>
You can see Willowbrook Medical Research Facility in the distance. Officially studying genetic therapies for integration-related health issues. Unofficially, everyone knows they're doing something darker in those underground levels.<br><br>
Your sister disappeared into these streets three years ago. Just walked out on you and never came back. You've looked, but Umbra who don't want to be found stay that way.
Sometimes you wonder if she's dead and you're just too stubborn to accept it.<br><br>
The Channel 6 building rises from the murk like a middle finger to good taste. Concrete and glass held together by spite and advertising revenue. Your home away from home. The place where you turn Sordia's pain into content for people to consume between commercials.<br><br>
"Home sweet home," Vex chirps, bouncing in their seat.<br><br>
This city. This fucking city that took everything from you and gave you nothing back but the ability to document other people's tragedies. That turned you into someone who weaponizes truth because lies are the only currency that spends.<br><br>
You love it.<br><br>
You hate it.<br><br>
But it’s still home.<br><br>
The van door slams shut behind you. Another night in Sordia ends. Another one begins.<br><br>
The city that eats its young is still hungry.<br><br>
And so are you.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P5]]The Channel 6 newsroom buzzes with post-broadcast energy. Phones ringing. <br><br>
Keyboards clattering. The organized chaos of journalism pretending it matters in a city that forgets everything by morning.<br><br>
Jake disappears toward the editing bay without a word, probably to hide the tremor in his hands with busywork. Isla heads for the sound booth, phone already pressed to her ear, probably checking on her daughter again. Sam glides toward their desk, fingers flying across their tablet before they even sit down. Vex bounces off somewhere, muttering about "time getting thick again" and "the door that keeps knocking."<br><br>
You're halfway to your own desk when the intercom crackles.<br><br>
"$firstName. My office. Now."<br><br>
Nasir's voice. Not a request.<br><br>
Your left hand starts that familiar itch. The one that says something's coming that you won't like.<br><br>
The elevator ride to the top floor takes forty-seven seconds. You've counted. Every time. Like knowing the exact duration of your ascent to Nasir's domain gives you some kind of control. Knowledge is power, Bacon wrote. In Sordia, knowledge is just knowing how fucked you are with precision.<br><br>
The executive floor reeks of money trying to hide its source. Marble that costs more than most people's homes. Art that's probably stolen but definitely expensive. The kind of calculated opulence that says "I'm successful" while carefully not saying how.<br><br>
Nasir's office door is solid mahogany. No nameplate. If you don't know whose office this is, you don't belong here.<br><br>
You knock once. Sharp.<br><br>
"Enter."<br><br>
The office hits you like a fever dream.<br><br>
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Sordia's skyline, the city spreading like a infected wound toward every horizon. The glass is one-way, reinforced, probably bulletproof. Nasir can see everything. No one can see him.<br><br>
Persian rugs layer the floor, genuine, hand-woven. They muffle footsteps, making every approach feel like sneaking even when you're invited. The patterns are geometric, hypnotic, designed to draw the eye down when you should be watching what's in front of you.<br><br>
His desk isn't a desk, it's a statement. Brazilian rosewood, extinct in the wild, polished to mirror brightness. The surface is almost empty. Just a family photo of his wife and kids, a gold-inlaid pen that costs more than your monthly salary and a single manila folder that might as well have "YOUR NEXT PROBLEM" stamped across it.<br><br>
Behind the desk, shelves of first editions. Actual books, not digital displays. Leather-bound spines with gold lettering in languages you recognize and several you don't. <br><br>
Persian. Arabic. Props or genuine interest? With Nasir, the performance and the person are inseparable.<br><br>
The air smells like sandalwood and something else. Ozone, maybe. The kind of charge that builds before lightning strikes. Ifrit bloodlines can manipulate air, and Nasir's office always feels like breathing before a storm.<br><br>
He doesn't look up when you enter. Just continues writing with that obscene pen, his hand moving in smooth, practiced strokes. The dark hair that should be still shifts slightly, responding to air currents that don't exist. Or shouldn't exist.<br><br>
"Sit," he says without looking up.<br><br>
Two chairs face his desk. Both leather. Both designed to make you sink just enough to feel vulnerable. You choose the left one because you always choose the left one, and Nasir notices patterns like other people notice blood.<br><br>
He finishes writing. Sets down the pen down. Then those dark eyes find yours, and you remember why Nasir Khan makes your survival instincts scream even though he's never raised a hand to anyone in your presence.<br><br>
"$firstName." He says your name like he's tasting it. Testing its weight. "That was quite a broadcast tonight."<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Just another day in paradise. Nothing says \'quality journalism\' like watching senators get dragged away in federal custody on live TV."'>>
<<set $nasirChoice1 to "deflecting">>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P5.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Grey\'s in custody, Frost is exposed, and the public knows what happened. Mission accomplished. What\'s next on your agenda?"'>>
<<set $nasirChoice1 to "methodical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $nasirstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P5.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"A six-year-old girl got murdered and everyone was content to sweep it under expensive rugs. Someone had to give a damn."'>>
<<set $nasirChoice1 to "blunt">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $moral += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P5.1">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
<<if $nasirChoice1 is "deflecting">>Nasir's smile sharpens, genuine amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "Your talent for understatement never fails to entertain me. Though watching a senator's downfall is hardly routine television." He leans forward, fingers steepled. "The visuals alone will play for weeks - you standing there while federal agents swarm around Grey. Excellent theater." His tone shifts, business-like. "Speaking of which, your next case awaits."<<elseif $nasirChoice1 is "methodical">>Nasir nods approvingly. "Efficient. Direct. You turned months of investigation into ten minutes that destroyed a senator and implicated Sordia's social elite." Those piercing eyes study you like you're a particularly interesting specimen. "The CRD is already using your footage in their case files. You've made yourself indispensable to this story." He taps the folder. "Which brings me to your next project. Someone else needs your particular talent for finding buried bodies."<<elseif $nasirChoice1 is "blunt">>Nasir pauses, something unreadable crossing his features. "How refreshingly honest. Most people dress up their motivations in prettier language." He rises, moving to the window with fluid grace. "You know what I find fascinating about you? You still believe someone gives a damn about dead children in this city, while simultaneously perfecting the art of public destruction." He turns back, silhouetted against Sordia's neon glow. "That contradiction makes for compelling television. Speaking of which..."<</if>><br><br>
He pushes the manila folder closer.<br><br>
"Open it."<br><br>
Inside: A photograph of a middle aged woman probably in her late 50s who looks like money learned to walk. Marguerite Asher. Blonde hair that probably costs more to maintain than your rent. Cheekbones that could cut glass. Blue eyes with those telltale star-flecks that mark her as part of the Chronos Bloodline.<br><br>
You recognize her immediately.
"Marguerite Asher," Nasir says, returning to his chair. "Of the Asher family. Disappeared two weeks ago."<br><br>
You know about the Asher family. They’re part of the 23 families who unofficially rule Sordia. And you’ve written quite a mean expose about them a three years ago. You already know where this is going.<br><br>
Your jaw tightens. "I'm hunting Lillian Frost."<br><br>
"You were hunting Lillian Frost," Nasir corrects. "Now you're investigating the disappearance of one of the most powerful women in Sordia."<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Fuck that. Frost murdered a child. She\'s still out there. That\'s the story that matters."'>>
<<set $nasirChoice2 to "confrontational">>
<<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $nasirstat -= 1>>
<<set $moral += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"I\'ll do both. Hunt Frost while investigating Asher. Sleep is for people without obsessive work disorders anyway."'>>
<<set $nasirChoice2 to "reckless">>
<<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $recklessness += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '" What\'s your real interest in Marguerite Asher? This isn\'t about ratings."'>>
<<set $nasirChoice2 to "calculated">>
<<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $observation += 1>>
<<set $nasirstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Another rich person goes missing, another rich family wants their toy back. Why should I care?"'>>
<<set $nasirChoice2 to "cynical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $corrupt += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
<<if $nasirChoice2 is "confrontational">>Nasir's eyes narrow. The air in the room thickens, becomes harder to breathe. Classic Ifrit pressure manipulation. "The story that matters," he says slowly, "is the one I tell you to pursue. Frost is a murderer, yes. She'll be caught eventually. But Marguerite Asher is the more important case now. When someone like that disappears, the entire city's power structure shifts." He leans forward. "Her family controls thirty percent of Sordia's predictive markets. Without her, those markets are in chaos. That's billions of dollars, $firstName. That's the kind of story that gets federal attention. Gets us federal protection. So yes, fuck your moral crusade. This is about survival." The threat is implicit but clear.<<elseif $nasirChoice2 is "reckless">>Nasir actually laughs. Not his usual controlled chuckle, but genuine amusement. "Ambitious. Stupid, but ambitious." He rises again, moving around the desk to stand uncomfortably close. You can smell his cologne, sandalwood and jasmine, probably costs more than your camera equipment. "You'll burn out in a week trying to juggle both. But..." He pauses, and you feel air currents shift around you, playful, threatening. "If you can deliver on Asher, I'll give you resources for Frost. Off the books. My personal contacts. Do we have a deal?" His hand extends. You know better than to shake hands with an Ifrit, their contracts are binding in ways that transcend legal. But sometimes you have to dance with the devil who signs your paychecks.<<elseif $nasirChoice2 is "calculated">>Nasir's expression shifts, becomes something more genuine and therefore more dangerous. "Clever. You've learned to see the angles." He returns to his chair, fingers drumming a pattern on the Brazilian rosewood. "Marguerite's daughter, Evelyn, is a friend. We share certain... interests. She asked for my help. I'm offering yours." The admission costs him something. Nasir doesn't usually reveal personal connections. "But you're right. It's not just about ratings. The Asher family has something I need. Finding Marguerite might answer questions I've been looking for." The honesty is more unsettling than his usual manipulation.<<elseif $nasirChoice2 is "cynical">>Nasir's smile turns sharp. "Because I sign your paychecks. Because without this job, you're just another angry voice screaming into Sordia's void." He opens a drawer, pulls out a tablet, slides it across. On screen: your bank balance, your debts, your financial entire life laid bare. "You owe forty-seven thousand in student loans. Your apartment costs three thousand a month. Your investigation into Grey cost you another twelve thousand in bribes and information. You need this job, $firstName. More importantly, you need me." He lets that sink in.<</if>><br><br>
Yeah shit, you have no choice.<br><br>
You take the Asher file, feeling its weight. Another missing person. Another powerful family. Another story that will probably end in bodies.<br><br>
"When do I start?" you ask, already knowing the answer.<br><br>
"Next week. After you've slept, showered, and remembered how to look like a professional instead of someone who's been living on nothing but coffee/alcohol/energy drinks/tea and obsession for two months." Nasir looks down on his paperwork in front of him again, indicating the meeting is over. <br><br>
"$firstName? Don't disappoint me. I've invested too much in you to watch you implode now."<br><br>
The words trigger a memory. Two years ago. When everything changed.<br><br>
<<if $background is "investigative">> You'd just published the Riverside Murders investigation. Seven dead sex workers, all from a Bloodline, all killed with silver-laced weapons. The police had written them off as territorial disputes. You'd proven it was a serial killer. Specifically, Detective Raymond Cross, who'd been hunting Bloodline prostitutes for sport.<br><br>
The story destroyed Cross but also destroyed you. Death threats. Lawsuits. Your editor at the Tribune fired you for "reckless journalism that endangered the paper's reputation."<br><br>
Blacklisted from every major outlet in Sordia.<br><br>
Then Nasir called.<br><br>
"I read your piece on Cross," he'd said, sitting in this same office, behind this same desk. "Meticulous. Thorough. Completely without mercy. I need someone like that."<br><br>
"I'm unemployable," you'd pointed out.<br><br>
"By cowards," he'd corrected. "I'm not a coward. I'm offering you a job, a platform, and protection. In exchange, you work for me. You investigate what I tell you to investigate. You publish what I approve for publication."<br><br>
"That's not journalism. That's propaganda."<br><br>
"It's survival," he'd said. "And in Sordia, that's the only journalism that matters."<br><br>
You'd taken the deal because rent was due and principles don't pay bills. Two years later, you still owe him for saving your career. Even if you suspect he had ulterior motives for hiring someone desperate enough to do anything for a story.<br><br>
<<elseif $background is "tabloid">> You'd been at the Sordia Inquirer, turning celebrity scandals into circulation gold. Your specialty: catching powerful people in compromising positions and making them pay, either in money or in public humiliation.<br><br>
Then you'd caught the wrong person. David Han, a member of the Hans, in a Fae brothel. The photos were perfect. Damning. Worth a fortune. When you published them you thought this was your big break.<br><br>
Instead, they'd buried your career. The Inquirer fired you. Your sources stopped returning calls. The message was clear: you'd overplayed your hand.<br><br>
Nasir had approached you at a bar, three whiskeys deep into self-pity.<br><br>
"I heard the Hans destroyed you," he'd said, sliding into the booth across from you.<br><br>
"Fuck off."<br><br>
"I'm offering you a job."<br><br>
"I said fuck off."<br><br>
"Channel 6 needs someone who understands that information is currency. Someone who knows how to make powerful people uncomfortable. Someone the Hans already hate, which means you've got nothing left to lose."<br><br>
"What's the catch?"<br><br>
"You work for me. You get your stories out. Your methods stay within boundaries I set of course. In exchange, I give you resources and protection the Inquirer never could."<br><br>
You'd laughed. "You want to control me."<br><br>
"I want to channel your talent. There's a difference."<br><br>
Two years later, you're still not sure if there is. But Nasir kept his word about protection.<br><br>
The Hans haven't touched you since. Or maybe it’s better to say, yet. Since you’ve recently wrote another exposé about another member.<br><br>
<<elseif $background is "war">> You'd been in the Bloodline Integration Zones, the militarized neighborhoods where species integration was enforced at gunpoint.<br><br>
Embedded with CRD units, documenting the violence everyone pretended wasn't happening.<br><br>
The Clearwater Massacre changed everything. Seventeen Chimaera teenagers, executed by a CRD unit who claimed they were "resisting integration." You'd had footage proving it was murder. Footage of agents laughing as they opened fire.<br><br>
Your network, Global News, refused to air it. "Too inflammatory." "Could destabilize integration efforts." "Not in the public interest."<br><br>
You'd leaked it online instead. The video went viral. The agents were prosecuted. The network fired you for "violating journalistic ethics."<br><br>
Nasir had found you at the memorial service for the Clearwater victims.<br><br>
"That took courage," he'd said.<br><br>
"It took stupidity. I'm unemployable now."<br><br>
"By networks that value stability over truth. I value different things." He'd handed you a business card. "Channel 6 needs someone who's willing to show Sordia what it doesn't want to see. Someone who's already proven they'll sacrifice everything for the story."<br><br>
"Why would you want that?"<br><br>
"Because comfortable lies are killing this city faster than uncomfortable truths ever could. And because I think you're addicted to adrenaline and danger, and I can provide both."<br><br>
He wasn't wrong. Two years later, you're still chasing the high of dangerous truth, and Nasir keeps providing targets.<br><br>
<<elseif $background is "whistle">> You'd worked inside the Mayor's office, data analysis for public health. That's where you'd discovered the Primordial Special Program. Official government resources being used to track, capture, and experiment on Primordial blooded people because of their elemental abilities.<br><br>
You'd tried internal channels first. Then the press. Then, in desperation, you'd dumped everything online. Thousands of documents proving systematic genocide for war profit.<br><br>
The leak destroyed the program but also destroyed you. Federal prosecution for theft of classified documents. Your lawyer negotiated a plea deal: no jail time, but you'd never work in government again. No news outlet would touch you, too much legal liability.<br><br>
Nasir had approached you at the courthouse, right after sentencing.<br><br>
"That was brave," he'd said.<br><br>
"That was stupid."<br><br>
"Sometimes they're the same thing." He'd studied you with those dark eyes that seemed to see too much. "I need someone who understands how power really works in this city. Someone who's already proven they'll burn their whole life down for truth."<br><br>
"I'm a felon. Unemployable. Probably on several watch lists."<br><br>
"Perfect. That means you've got nothing left to lose and everything to prove. Channel 6 will give you the platform to keep exposing what needs exposing. Under my guidance, of course."<br><br>
"Your control, you mean."<br><br>
"My protection," he'd corrected. "The people you exposed have long memories and longer reach. You need someone like me between you and them."<br><br>
Two years later, you're still not sure if Nasir is protecting you or just using you. Probably both. <</if>><br><br>
The memory fades as Nasir smirks slightly knowing exactly what you were thinking.<br><br>
"Well," he says finally, setting down that obscene gold pen with deliberate precision. "That concludes our business for the evening."<br><br>
The air in the room shifts. Subtle. The way atmosphere changes before lightning strikes. You know this dance. Have been dancing it for a year now, depending on which version of your life you're living.<br><br>
Nasir rises from his chair with that fluid Ifrit grace that makes you wonder how much of his movement is human and how much is elemental. He doesn't walk around the desk so much as flow, like smoke given form and expensive tailoring.<br><br>
"Now," he says, voice dropping to something more intimate, more dangerous, "let's discuss pleasure."<br><br>
He stops just outside your personal space. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—sandalwood and jasmine, probably costs more than most people's rent.<br><br>
"Dinner," he says, and it's not quite a question. "Or perhaps we skip the pretense and go straight to dessert?"<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡ You\'ve been down this road with him before. A year of motel rooms. It\'s probably a mistake, but in Sordia, what isn\'t?'>>
<<set $nasirChoice to "accept">>
<<set $nas_hookup to true>>
<<set $nasirstat += 2>>
<<set $corrupt += 3>>
<<set $isolation += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link 'Same offer, different day. He\'s persistent, you\'re stubborn, and this is getting old.'>>
<<set $nasirChoice to "refuse">>
<<set $nas_hookup to false>>
<<set $nasirstat -= 1>>
<<set $moral += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2.2">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>You sigh. The kind of exhale that carries exhaustion and resignation.<br><br>
"Nasir..." you start, but he's already smiling. That predator's expression that says he knows he's won before you've even finished capitulating.<br><br>
"A year," he murmurs, moving closer. "A year of this, and you still pretend to hesitate."<br><br>
You and Nasir started this thing—affair, arrangement, mutual self-destruction whatever you want to call it—about a year ago. The lines got blurred fast. Using him? Him using you? Maybe it goes both ways <br><br>
Now you're here, in his office after hours, about to accept the same proposition he has been making for the last twelve months again.<br><br>
It's not love. You're both too damaged for that. It's need. Hunger. Two people using each other as escape from a city that eats everyone eventually. He gets the thrill of having a secret he shouldn't. You get to feel something other than anger for a few hours.<br><br>
This city is corrupt to its core. You never claimed you weren't a little corrupt yourself.<br><br>
"What kind of date are we talking about?" you ask, already knowing the answer.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"The kind where we both pretend this is about anything other than two broken people avoiding their problems in the most complicated way possible?"'>>
<<set $nasirRomanceChoice to "bold">>
<<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $nasirstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2.1.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"I... you know I can\'t say no to you. Even when I should. Especially when I should."'>>
<<set $nasirRomanceChoice to "shy">>
<<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2.1.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Let me guess - expensive hotel, plausible deniability, and we both pretend this is about the story. Same script as always?"'>>
<<set $nasirRomanceChoice to "analytical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $nasirstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2.1.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡ "You\'re being unusually direct tonight. Usually there\'s more subtext and expensive dinner involved before we get to this point."'>>
<<set $nasirRomanceChoice to "oblivious">>
<<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2.1.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡ You stand up too quickly and immediately walk into the edge of his desk. "Shit. Smooth. Really selling the sophisticated journalist image here."'>>
<<set $nasirRomanceChoice to "clumsy">>
<<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $nasirstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2.1.1">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
You look at Nasir, really look at him. The calculated casual posture. The hunger in his eyes that has nothing to do with food. The way he's already assuming you'll say yes because power like his rarely hears no.<br><br>
"I appreciate the offer," you say, standing carefully, making sure to keep the chair between you, "but I'll pass."<br><br>
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or irritation. With Nasir, the two look remarkably similar.<br><br>
"It was worth a try," he observes, not moving from his position.<br><br>
"One might think you'd stop asking."<br><br>
"Where's the fun in that?" He laughs, but there's an edge to it. "Besides, everyone has a price. I simply haven't found yours yet."<br><br>
"My price isn't something you can afford." You meet his eyes directly. "I'd want you to not be my boss."<br><br>
"So your price is me being someone else entirely."<br><br>
"Exactly."<br><br>
He studies you for a long moment, then shrugs with indifference. "Your loss, $firstName. I'm told I'm quite memorable."<br><br>
"I'm sure you are. But I prefer my complications to come from stories, not from people who sign my paychecks."<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Besides, fucking the boss is such a cliché. I thought you had better taste than that."'>>
<<set $nasirRefusalChoice to "cutting">>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $nasirstat -= 2>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2.2.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"You\'re an attractive man, Nasir. But we both know this would end badly. For me more than you."'>>
<<set $nasirRefusalChoice to "relaxed">>
<<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $nasirstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2.2.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"I make it a rule not to sleep with anyone who uses words like \'pleasure\' unironically. It\'s kept me safe so far."'>>
<<set $nasirRefusalChoice to "deflecting">>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $nasirstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2.2.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Right. Dinner. Hotel. Pretend it means something. Wake up tomorrow with you looking at me like I\'m a business acquisition. I\'ve seen this movie. The ending sucks."'>>
<<set $nasirRefusalChoice to "cynical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $corrupt += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2.2.2">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
<<if $nasirRomanceChoice is "bold">>Nasir's smile turns predatory, eyes gleaming with appreciation. "There's that brutal honesty I find so intoxicating." He moves closer, heat radiating from his Ifrit bloodline. "Two broken people, you say? Perhaps. But we break so beautifully together." His fingers trail along your jaw. "Stop analyzing this to death and let me remind you why complicated feels so much better than simple."<<elseif $nasirRomanceChoice is "shy">>Nasir's expression goes soft, almost tender. "There it is. That admission you hate making." He steps closer, voice dropping to something gentle. "You don't have to say no, $firstName. You never have to with me." His fingers find yours, thumb tracing across your knuckles. "I like that you can't resist me. It's honest. Real. So much more genuine than all the games people play in this city."<<elseif $nasirRomanceChoice is "analytical">>Nasir chuckles, genuine amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "You've memorized our pattern. How very thorough of you." He loosens his tie with deliberate slowness. "No hotel tonight. No dinner. No pretense about the story." He steps closer, backing you against the desk. "Just us, this office, and that analytical mind of yours finally switching off for a few hours."<<elseif $nasirRomanceChoice is "oblivious">>Nasir raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained by your complete miss of the situation. "Direct? $firstName, I've been anything but subtle for the past year." He moves into your space, hands bracing on either side of your chair. "The expensive dinners, the private meetings, the way I look at you when you're not paying attention?" His lips curve in a knowing smile. "You really don't see it, do you? That laser focus of yours has some interesting blind spots."<<elseif $nasirRomanceChoice is "clumsy">>Nasir steadies you with inhuman grace, his Ifrit reflexes making your clumsiness look even more pronounced. "A year of this and you still move like you're surprised to find furniture in the room." But he's smiling, hands lingering on your waist. "It's almost endearing. Almost." He pulls you closer, voice dropping. "Though maybe we should relocate somewhere with less sharp edges for you to collide with."<</if>><br><br>
His response hangs in the air between you. The office feels smaller suddenly. Warmer. The mahogany door might as well be miles away.<br><br>
"And I want to go on a date with you now. The kind," Nasir finally answers your original question, voice dropping to something that makes your pulse skip, "that involves a hotel suite, no clothes, and forgetting our respective damage for a few hours."<br><br>
He steps closer, close enough that backing away would require climbing over the chair. "Unless you have other plans?"<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"You know I don\'t have other plans. "(will lead to intimate encounter)'>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2.1.1.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Actually, I do have plans. They involve going home, showering off this day, and passing out until my alarm reminds me why I hate consciousness."'>>
<<goto "CH1P5.2.1.1.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>"No," you admit, the word tasting like surrender. "No other plans."<br><br>
"Good," Nasir says, and the satisfaction in his voice should probably worry you more than it does. "Come here."<br><br>
He doesn't wait for you to move. Just reaches out, fingers curling around your wrist, pulling you up from the chair with gentle insistence. You could resist. You don't.<br><br>
"You know," he murmurs, hands finding your waist, "you look exhausted. When's the last time you actually slept? Not passed out from exhaustion, but actually slept?"<br><br>
"Sleep is for people who don't have murderers to catch."<br><br>
"Sleep," he corrects, pulling you closer, "is for humans. Which, despite your best efforts to prove otherwise, you still are."<br><br>
His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the dark circle under your eye with surprising gentleness. "Let me take care of you tonight."<br><br>
The words should sound wrong coming from him. Nasir doesn't take care of people. He uses them, manipulates them, discards them when they're no longer useful. But the way he's looking at you right now...<br><br>
The kiss is familiar and strange all at once. A year of this and it still catches you off-guard, the way he kisses like he's trying to consume you. Like he's trying to breathe you in and make you part of him. His tongue traces your lower lip, demanding entry that you grant without thinking.<br><br>
His hands gently grab your throat, angling your head for better access. You grab his shoulders for balance, for something solid in a world that's spinning too fast. He tastes like expensive coffee and mint.<br><br>
The desk presses against your back—when did you move?—and Nasir crowds closer, eliminating any space between your bodies. You can feel his heart steadily drumming through the expensive fabric of his suit.<br><br>
"You're thinking too much," he murmurs against your mouth. "Stop thinking."<br><br>
"I can't—"<br><br>
He kisses you again, harder this time, swallowing whatever protest you were about to make. One hand slides down your side, fingers skating across bare skin.<br><br>
"Hotel," he says, pulling back just enough to speak. His pupils are blown wide, and his usually perfect hair is mussed from your fingers. "Now. Before I decide my desk is sturdy enough for what I want to do to you."<br><br>
The words send heat flooding through you. "Your desk is Brazilian rosewood. It's definitely sturdy enough."<br><br>
He laughs, dark and promising. "Tempting. But I have plans that require more privacy and fewer windows." He steps back, giving you room to breathe, to remember why this isn't the best idea.<br><br>
You don't remember. Or you do and you don't care.<br><br>
"Get your things," he orders, already moving toward his private bathroom to fix his appearance. "Meet me in the garage in five minutes. Level B3, the executive section."<br><br>
You pull out your phone, typing quickly:<br><br>
//[Text to Uncle Ben]: Going to be late tonight. Following a lead on the Frost story. Don't wait up.//<br><br>
It's not entirely a lie. Nasir is connected to everything in this city. Maybe between whatever you're about to do, you'll actually learn something useful. That's what you tell yourself, anyway.<br><br>
"$firstName," Nasir calls from the bathroom doorway. He's fixed his hair, straightened his tie, looks perfectly composed except for the hunger still burning in his eyes. "Hurry up will you?"<br><br>
"Yeah," you agree, gathering the Asher file. "Let’s go."<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P6.1]]You're exhausted and not up for entertaining Nasir's whim.
He doesn't wait for you to move. Just reaches out, fingers curling around your wrist, pulling you up from the chair with gentle insistence. You could resist. You don't.<br><br>
"You probably need it," he murmurs, hands finding your waist, "you look exhausted. When's the last time you actually slept? Not passed out from exhaustion, but actually slept?"<br><br>
"I don't remember but at this point I could probably survice on two hours."<br><br>
"Sleep," he corrects, pulling you closer, "is essential for humans. Which, despite your best efforts to prove otherwise, you still are."<br><br>
His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the dark circle under your eye with surprising gentleness. "You should really take a breather."<br><br>
The words should sound wrong coming from him. Nasir doesn't take care of people. He uses them, manipulates them, discards them when they're no longer useful. But the way he's looking at you right now...<br><br>
The kiss is familiar and strange all at once. A year of this and it still catches you off-guard, the way he kisses like he's trying to consume you. Like he's trying to breathe you in and make you part of him. His tongue traces your lower lip, demanding entry that you grant without thinking.<br><br>
His hands gently grab your throat, angling your head for better access. You grab his shoulders for balance, for something solid in a world that's spinning too fast. He tastes like expensive coffee and mint.<br><br>
The desk presses against your back—when did you move?—and Nasir crowds closer, eliminating any space between your bodies. You can feel his heart steadily drumming through the expensive fabric of his suit.<br><br>
"You're thinking too much," he murmurs against your mouth. "Stop thinking."<br><br>
"I can't—"<br><br>
He kisses you again, harder this time, swallowing whatever protest you were about to make. One hand slides down your side, fingers skating across bare skin.<br><br>
"I hope you feel a little energized now," he says, pulling back just enough to speak. His pupils are blown wide, and his usually perfect hair is mussed from your fingers. "You should probably go. Now. Before I decide my desk is sturdy enough for what I want to do to you."<br><br>
The words send heat flooding through you. "Your desk is Brazilian rosewood. It's definitely sturdy enough."<br><br>
He laughs, dark and promising. "Tempting. But I want to respect your wishes." He steps back, giving you room to breathe.<br><br>
"Get your things," he orders, already moving toward his private bathroom to fix his appearance. "Get a good nights sleep."<br><br>
You head for the door, files tucked under your arm. The weight of them feels heavier now, like they've absorbed some of the tension in the room.<br><br>
"$firstName," Nasir calls as you reach for the handle. You pause but don't turn around. "Be careful with the Asher investigation. The Twenty-Three Families don't appreciate journalists who dig too deep."<br><br>
"Since when has that stopped me?"<br><br>
"Since never. Which is why I keep expecting to identify your body one of these days."<br><br>
"Your concern is touching."<br><br>
"My concern is practical. You're expensive to replace."<br><br>
You leave without responding, closing the mahogany door with a soft click that sounds oddly final.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P5.2.2.2.2]]The newsroom is mostly empty now. Just the overnight staff monitoring feeds, waiting for Sordia to bleed something newsworthy. Your desk is exactly as you left it.<br><br>
You drop into your chair, the Asher file spreading across your desk like tarot cards predicting someone else's doom. Marguerite's photo stares up at you, those Chronos star-flecked eyes holding secrets you need to uncover.<br><br>
But first, Frost.<br><br>
Your phone buzzes. Unknown number.<br><br>
//[Text from Riley]: Have information about L.F. Fork n' Knife, midnight. Come alone. -Riley//<br><br>
Your eyes narrow immediately. It’s Riley from the docks who sometimes feeds you shipping manifests.<br><br>
Fork n' Knife is a 24-hour diner in the neutral. The kind of place where deals get made and bodies occasionally get found in the dumpster out back. Perfect for an informant who doesn't want to be seen in better lighting.<br><br>
You check the time: 10:47 PM. Just enough time to review the Asher file and make it to the diner if you leave in an hour.<br><br>
The desk lamp casts shadows across Marguerite's photograph.<br><br>
You open your laptop, pulling up everything you can find on Marguerite Asher. <br><br>
Socialite. Philanthropist. Board member of twelve different charities that probably launder more money than they donate. Married to Thomas Asher, another Chronos bloodline, though he died seven years ago in what was officially ruled a suicide.<br><br>
You pack up quickly. Laptop, recorder, the Tranquilizer pen you keep pretending is for writing on a notebook. The Asher file goes in your bag, might as well do some reading at the diner while waiting for your mysterious informant.<br><br>
The newsroom's exit sign glows red in the darkness. You pause beneath it, looking back at the place where you spend more time than your apartment. Where you turn the truth into content.<br><br>
You push through the door into Sordia's permanent twilight. The Fork n' Knife awaits.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P6.2]]The motel room reeks of decades-old cigarette smoke and something chemical. Sweet. Like someone tried to mask rot with air freshener and gave up halfway through. <br><br>
Neon bleeds through the thin curtains. Pink and blue alternating in a rhythm that makes your head pound. Or maybe that's just your heartbeat. Hard to tell anymore when Nasir's presence fills spaces the way smoke fills lungs. Invasive. Ultimately toxic.<br><br>
The door clicks shut behind you. Then the deadbolt. Then the chain. Each sound more final than the last. Nasir's hands are steady as he secures each lock.<br><br>
"Charming room," you say, because someone has to break the tension before it breaks you. Your fingers trail along the dresser, coming away with a film of dust that probably predates your birth. "Really outdid yourself with the ambiance."<br><br>
Nasir turns from the door. "That was the only room left." His voice carries that particular tone. The one that sounds professional in boardrooms and predatory in places like this. "It has its charms besides we won’t stay long, won’t we?"<br><br>
The air conditioner wheezes in the corner. Broken for years, probably, but still trying. The carpet beneath your feet has stains you don't want to identify. Some dark. Some darker.<br><br>
Nasir crosses the room in three strides. No hesitation. No pretense of conversation or foreplay through words. His hands are on you before you can form another comment, and maybe that's the point. Maybe he's tired of your deflections. He just wants what you both came here for.<br><br>
His fingers work with with ease. Not his first time undressing someone in a hurry. Definitely not his first time undressing you.<br><br>
"Nasir—" you start, but his mouth is on yours before you can finish. <br><br>
The kiss tastes like his mint gum and the lies he tells his wife. Your back hits the wall hard enough to rattle the generic landscape painting hanging crooked beside you. His body presses against yours, all that expensive fabric against your rapidly exposed skin, and the contrast makes you shiver. Or maybe that's just him.<br><br>
Your clothes falls to the floor. His jacket follows, tossed carelessly onto the questionable armchair in the corner. You've seen him fold that jacket with religious precision in his office. Here, it's just another obstacle between his skin and yours.<br><br>
His hands map your body like he's memorizing it. Fingers trace your ribs. Palm flat against your stomach. Thumb brushing lightly over your nipple that makes you gasp into his mouth.<br><br>
"I've been thinking about this all day," he murmurs against your throat. Teeth grazing skin in a way that might leave marks.<br><br>
His pants join the growing pile of expensive fabric on the stained carpet. His shirt follows, revealing the body underneath. You've seen him shirtless before.<br><br>
He's all lean muscle and bronze skin. His chest rises and falls with controlled breathing, each exhale carrying that subtle refreshness that makes the air shimmer just slightly around him.<br><br>
His hands, when they reach for you, are architect's hands. Long fingers, precise movements, soft. His wedding ring catches light from the desk lamp.<br><br>
He's not young anymore, the lines around his eyes speak to years of negotiation, manipulation, the careful balance of running a news station while maintaining whatever other interests occupy his time. But age has refined rather than diminished him. Made him more dangerous, not less.<br><br>
He walks you backward toward the bed, mouths still connected, hands still exploring. The mattress squeaks when the backs of your knees hit it.<br><br>
Nasir's weight presses you down into sheets that smell like industrial bleach and hygienic cleaner. His mouth travels from your lips to your jaw to your neck, each kiss a promise of what's coming.<br><br>
His hand slides between your bodies. Finds exactly where you want it. Your hips arch off the mattress, and he smiles against your skin. That particular smile he saves for moments like this.<br><br>
The neon continues its assault through the curtains. Pink when his mouth finds your breast/chest. Blue when your nails dig into his shoulders. Pink again when he asks you how to do this.<br><br>
"How do you want to do this?," Nasirs eyes are practically glowing.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"You want him beneath you."'>>
<<set $nasirPosition to "top">>
<<if $genitalia is "vulva">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCVT">>
<</if>>
<<if $genitalia is "penis">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCDT">>
<</if>>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"You want him above you."'>>
<<set $nasirPosition to "bottom">>
<<if $genitalia is "vulva">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCVB">>
<</if>>
<<if $genitalia is "penis">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCDB">>
<</if>>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Your bodies collide (fade to black)."'>>
<<set $nasirPosition to "fadeout">>
<<set $nasirstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6.1.2">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
Fork n' Knife squats seventeen blocks south, deep in the neutral zone where territories blur and allegiances shift with the light. Or lack thereof. You should take a cab. But something about walking through Sordia's rot feels appropriate tonight. Penance, maybe.<br><br>
Besides you’re armed. Your hand moves unconsciously to your jacket pocket, fingers brushing the tranquilizer pen. Series 9 inhibitor, a gift from Ace. Enough sedative to drop most Bloodlines in five to twenty seconds.<br><br>
The first three blocks pass is corporate landscape. Glass and steel pretending the decay doesn't creep higher each year. Security guards who nod because they recognize you from the broadcasts. The illusion of safety that money buys in bulk.<br><br>
Block seven, the pretense dies entirely. Here, integration means something different. Means humans and bloodlines mixing in ways the Accords never imagined. A Fae prostitute negotiates with a client, her glamour making her appear as whatever he needs. An Infernal bookie takes bets on which politician gets arrested next, contracts burning themselves into desperate gamblers' skin.<br><br>
The street is too quiet for 9 PM. No dealers on corners. No working girls in doorways. No homeless huddled against the perpetual drizzle. Even the rats have fucked off somewhere.<br><br>
The streetlights flicker. Die. One by one, like someone's playing with the switches.<br><br>
The alley mouth yawns as you pass. Dark. Narrow. Hidden from the main streets by overflowing dumpsters and the skeletal remains of a delivery truck. Just another dead space in a city full of them.<br><br>
Something feels wrong. The darkness behind you feels... alive. Watching. Hungry. The shadows seem deeper than they should be, more substantial somehow, as if they have weight and texture beyond the simple absence of light.<br><br>
Before you can turn, something reaches from behind. Black arms, too long, too cold, yank you backward with crushing force. Your spine cracks against brick, the impact sending starbursts across your vision, white-hot pain radiating outward from the point of contact.<br><br>
Fingers like ice wrap around your throat, digging into your windpipe with inhuman strength. They yank you back against the bricks as something begins to materialize from the darkness itself.<br><br>
A torso forms from the wall, human-shaped but wrong, like smoke given flesh. The proportions are off, limbs too long, joints bending at impossible angles, head cocked too far to the side like a curious predator. The rest stays one with the shadows, rippling and writhing against the bricks.<br><br>
Terror floods your system. Pure, adrenaline and fear that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. Umbra. Has to be.<br><br>
<<if $background is "war">> But terror is an old friend. You've felt it in war zones, in firefights, in that hospital siege where children bled out in your arms. Terror doesn't paralyze you anymore. It sharpens you.<br><br>
Your body reacts before conscious thought. The bad leg screams as you pivot, but muscle memory from embedded assignments takes over. Your elbow drives back hard into what should be ribs. It connects with something solid.<br><br>
A grunt. Surprised.<br><br>
The grip on your throat loosens just enough. You twist, using the creature's surprise to create space. The tranq pen is already in your hand, cap flicking off with practiced ease. You drive it toward where a neck should be—<br><br>
Shadow-hands catch your wrist, but the movement brings you closer. Close enough to smell something familiar beneath the supernatural cold. Leather and cigarette smoke and—<br><br>
No. Your mind rejects the thought even as your body continues to fight. You bring your knee up hard, connecting with what feels like a stomach. Another grunt, this time tinged with annoyance rather than surprise.<br><br>
"Shit," the shadow-thing mutters, and that voice, distorted as it is, triggers something in your memory you can't quite catch.<br><br>
You press the advantage. The flashlight is in your other hand now, thumb on the button. You roll your weight forward, using your bad leg as a pivot despite the screaming pain. The maneuver is ugly but effective, forcing the creature to adjust its grip.<br><br>
For a moment, you're both off-balance. You drive forward with everything you have, muscle memory from covering three different war zones guiding the takedown. The shadow-thing goes down and you follow, using momentum and desperation in equal measure.<br><br>
You land on top, knees pinning what should be arms, the tranq pen pressed to where a throat should be, flashlight ready to blind whatever face might be hiding in that writhing darkness. <<else>> Your journalist's mind races even as your body freezes. Document. Understand. Survive. The tranq pen is in your pocket now you just need to get it.<br><br>
The shadow-figure doesn't squeeze harder. The realization breaks through your paralysis. This is your moment to act.<br><br>
You struggle, not with any real technique but with determination. Your hand fumbles for the pen while your other reaches for the flashlight. You manage to grasp both weapons, though shadow-hands wrap around your wrists before you can use them.<br><br>
You're caught in a strange stalemate. You with your weapons ready but unable to use them right now, the creature holding you but not attacking. Like two dancers frozen mid-step, each waiting for the other to make the next move.<br><br>
The position is absurdly intimate. Your faces are close enough that you can feel cold breath against your cheek. Can smell leather and cigarettes and something else, something achingly familiar that your mind refuses to process.<br><br>
Something ignites inside of you. You twist hard. It's not a trained move, just pure stubbornness, but it works. Sort of.<br><br>
The tranq pen hovers inches from shadow-flesh that might dissolve at any moment. But the flashlight points now vaguely upward, ready to activate. <</if>><br><br>
Your fingers find the tactical flashlight on your keychain. Military grade. A gift from Ace. 1000 lumens. Enough to temporarily blind someone in close quarters.<br><br>
Your thumb finds the button. You squeeze your eyes shut and activate the light, 1000 lumens exploding through the alley.<br><br>
Pure white light that turns shadow into substance.<br><br>
The figure recoils but doesn't release you completely. In that brilliant instant, shadows fall away like discarded clothing, revealing a face that stops your heart.<br><br>
Bright pink choppy hair. $skin with dark circles that speak of sleepless nights and worse. Brown lipstick, chipped and reapplied without care. Piercings you don't remember—eyebrow, multiple ear piercings that weren't there three years ago.<br><br>
But the eyes. Even with shadows still swirling in their depths, even with an edge of something inhuman lurking there, you know those eyes. You've looked into them a thousand times across breakfast tables and when you held her close.<br><br>
"Boo," she says, grinning with the same crooked smile she had when she was eight and had just put a dead rat in your uncle’s shoes.<br><br>
"Maud?" Your voice cracks on her name. Three years of searching, of missing person reports, of dreams where you find her body in various states of decay. And here she is. Alive. Changed.<br><br>
And she's smiling. Not the cheeky, playful smile of the sister you remember. This smile has more teeth. This smile has enjoyed the violence. Grinning like it's the best thing that's happened all week.<br><br>
She laughs, wild and broken and achingly familiar. The sound echoes off brick walls with too many harmonics, as if multiple voices are laughing at once.<br><br>
<<if $background is "war">> "Nice moves," she says, not even trying to struggle despite you still pinning her. "When did you learn to actually fight? This is bullshit, $firstName. You were supposed to be soft. Desk-soft. Not all..." she gestures vaguely at your position, "competent and shit."<br><br>
You're suddenly aware of how this must look. You straddling your sister in a dark alley, weapons pressed to her throat. You scramble backward, and she steps a couple feet away with unnatural grace, shadows lifting her like puppet strings. <<else>> "Not bad," she says, untangling herself from your impromptu wrestling match with fluid grace. "You actually fought back. I'm impressed. And slightly offended that you were going to stab me with—wait, is that MY pen? The one I lost? $firstName, you THIEF!"<br><br>
The accusation is so absurd, so perfectly Maud despite everything else being wrong, that you almost want to face palm yourself out of habit.<</if>><br><br>
You take a better look at her. She must be twenty-three years old now, but she looks older. Looks like Sordia has been chewing on her and she's been chewing back.<br><br>
She's lean now. Like a blade that's been sharpened down to its essential purpose. Wiry muscle visible through tears in her leather jacket that's seen better decades. Every movement contains coiled energy, like she's always one second from violence or vanishing.<br><br>
The scars are new too. A jagged line runs up her left hand, disappearing beneath the sleeve, the kind of mark that says someone tried to pin her down and learned why that's impossible. More scars web across her knuckles. Fighter's marks.<br><br>
Now in the light you take a closer look at her eyes and it almost stops your breath.<br><br>
Pure black. No iris, no sclera, just endless dark that reflects your flashlight like oil on water. Full Umbra manifestation. The kind that takes years to develop or trauma to trigger. When she left, she could barely go invisible in dim light. Now she looks like she could swallow darkness and breathe out void.<br><br>
"Hey $firstName," she says, and her voice is exactly the same. That slight rasp like she's been screaming or smoking or both. "You look like shit."<br><br>
She moves closer, and shadows move with her. Not following, moving with her, like extensions of her body. The streetlight at the alley mouth flickers, dims, as if her presence drinks the light.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link 'Three years since the fight that ended everything. Three years since she chose to leave and never come back. Three years of nothing but anger and resentment.'>>
<<set $siblingRelationship to "broken">>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 2)>>
<<set $maudstat -= 3>>
<<goto "CH1P6.3">>
<<set $corrupt += 1>>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link 'Three years of silence that started with a fight and settled into indifference. You mourned her leaving, then moved on. She was your sister. Now she\'s just someone you used to know.'>>
<<set $siblingRelationship to "neutral">>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P6.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link 'Three years of missing her even when you hated her for leaving. Three years of looking for her in every shadow. The fight broke things, but maybe broken doesn\'t mean irreparable.'>>
<<set $siblingRelationship to "fixable">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $maudstat += 2>>
<<set $moral += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6.3">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
The Fork n' Knife's door announces your entrance with a death rattle disguised as a bell.<br><br>
The diner still looks like shit. Red vinyl booths patched with duct tape that's turned grey with age and grease. Black and white checkered linoleum floor, half the tiles cracked, some missing entirely, revealing concrete beneath like exposed bone. The walls are mint green, or were, decades ago. Now they're the color of old money.<br><br>
Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, one tube completely dead, another stroking out in real-time. The irregular lighting makes everyone look sick. Or maybe they are sick. Hard to tell in Sordia.<br><br>
The counter runs along the left side, chrome stools with torn cushions that leak yellow foam like infected wounds. Behind it, a kitchen that probably violates at least seventeen health codes just by existing. The grill hisses and spits, tended by a cook whose cigarette dangles from his lips, ash threatening to season whatever's dying on the hot metal. The smell hits harder than the visuals. Rancid fryer oil, coffee, smoke and a hint of vanilla.<br><br>
Three other patrons haunt the space. A Chimaera girl in the corner booth, suppression collar blinking red, picking at fries with fingers that end in scales. An old man at the counter, human probably, nursing coffee and staring at nothing with the thousand-yard stare of someone who's seen Sordia eat everyone he loved. A couple in business suits trying not to touch anything, clearly lost, clearly regretting whatever GPS error brought them here.<br><br>
The waitress approaches like she's walking to her own execution. Around forty-something, looks human, with the kind of exhaustion that sleep can't fix. Her name tag says "Dolores" but her eyes say "gave up hoping twenty years ago." <br><br>
She recognizes you immediately. Of course she does, it’s one of you go-to spots with sources who want to stay anonymous.<br><br>
There. Third booth from the back. You recognize Riley's jacket—worn leather, too big for their frame. They're hunched behind an enormous menu, the laminated monstrosity hiding their face completely. Paranoid even for Riley. But then, paranoia keeps people breathing in Sordia.<br><br>
You slide into the booth. Same side as always. Back to the wall, view of both exits.<br><br>
"Rough night?" you ask, settling into cracked vinyl. "You look like you're hiding from someone."<br><br>
The menu doesn't move. Riley's voice comes out strange. Lower. Rougher. Like they've been smoking or screaming.<br><br>
"Just careful. You know how it is."<br><br>
Something's off. The cadence is wrong. Riley talks fast, nervous energy spilling into run-on sentences.<br><br>
"Right," you say slowly. Dolores the waitress approaches, and you order without looking at the menu. "Just a water for me IF ALCOHOL. Whatever pie won't kill me."<br><br>
"Make it two black coffees for me," Riley says from behind the menu fortress.<br><br>
You frown. "Since when do you—"<br><br>
The menu slams down on the table hard enough to make the salt shaker jump.<br><br>
Someone leans across the booth. Close. Too close. Into your space like they own it. Their face fills your vision, and you're staring into eyes that shouldn't exist. Pure black. No iris, no sclera, just endless dark that reflects the diner's fluorescent lights like oil on water.<br><br>
The smell hits next. Leather and cigarette smoke and something achingly familiar that your brain refuses to process because it can't be, it's been three years, she's gone—<br><br>
"Boo," Maud says.<br><br>
That crooked grin. The same one she had when she was eight and put a dead rat in your uncle's shoes.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link 'Three years since the fight that ended everything. Three years since she chose to leave and never come back. Three years of nothing but anger and resentment.'>>
<<set $siblingRelationship to "broken">>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 2)>>
<<set $maudstat -= 3>>
<<goto "CH1P7.1.2">>
<<set $corrupt += 1>>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link 'Three years of silence that started with a fight and settled into indifference. You mourned her leaving, then moved on. She was your sister. Now she\'s just someone you used to know.'>>
<<set $siblingRelationship to "neutral">>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P7.1.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link 'Three years of missing her even when you hated her for leaving. Three years of looking for her in every shadow. The fight broke things, but maybe broken doesn\'t mean irreparable.'>>
<<set $siblingRelationship to "fixable">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $maudstat += 2>>
<<set $moral += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P7.1.2">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
The Fork n' Knife's door announces your entrance with a death rattle disguised as a bell.<br><br>
The diner still looks like shit. Red vinyl booths patched with duct tape that's turned grey with age and grease. Black and white checkered linoleum floor, half the tiles cracked, some missing entirely, revealing concrete beneath like exposed bone. The walls are mint green, or were, decades ago. Now they're the color of old money.<br><br>
Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, one tube completely dead, another stroking out in real-time. The irregular lighting makes everyone look sick. Or maybe they are sick. Hard to tell in Sordia.<br><br>
The counter runs along the left side, chrome stools with torn cushions that leak yellow foam like infected wounds. Behind it, a kitchen that probably violates at least seventeen health codes just by existing. The grill hisses and spits, tended by a cook whose cigarette dangles from his lips, ash threatening to season whatever's dying on the hot metal. The smell hits harder than the visuals. Rancid fryer oil, coffee, smoke and a hint of vanilla.<br><br>
Three other patrons haunt the space. A Chimaera girl in the corner booth, suppression collar blinking red, picking at fries with fingers that end in scales. An old man at the counter, human probably, nursing coffee and staring at nothing with the thousand-yard stare of someone who's seen Sordia eat everyone he loved. A couple in business suits trying not to touch anything, clearly lost, clearly regretting whatever GPS error brought them here.<br><br>
The waitress approaches like she's walking to her own execution. Around forty-something, looks human, with the kind of exhaustion that sleep can't fix. Her name tag says "Dolores" but her eyes say "gave up hoping twenty years ago." <br><br>
She recognizes you immediately. Of course she does, it’s one of you go-to spots with sources who want to stay anonymous.<br><br>
"Booth," Maud says, not a request. Already moving toward the back corner, the one with sight lines to both exits and no windows behind it.<br><br>
You follow, hyperaware of how normal you must look next to her.<br><br>
Maud slides into the booth with liquid grace. You take the opposite bench, vinyl squeaking protest under your weight. The table between you is formica pretending to be wood, scarred with initials, gang signs, and what might be claw marks.<br><br>
"Two coffees," Maud tells Dolores without looking at her. Without asking what you want. "Black. And..." She actually looks at the menu, grease-stained and laminated sometime during the last century. "Two Terminator burgers. Fries. Onion rings. And pie."<br><br>
"Maud—" you start.<br><br>
"You're look hungry," she cuts you off, still studying the menu like it contains state secrets. "When's the last time you ate something good? Or are you vegan now?"<br><br>
The echo of Ace's words from earlier makes something twist in your chest. Different people, same concern. Or same observation of your self-destruction.<br><br>
"I can order for myself."<br><br>
"True" Maud looks up, black eyes unreadable. "But isn’t it funnier to try something new? "<br><br>
Dolores returns with coffee that looks like motor oil and might taste worse. Sets the mugs down with the careful precision of someone who's learned not to make sudden movements around predators.<br><br>
"Food'll be up in fifteen," she mutters, already retreating.<br><br>
Maud wraps her hands around the mug, shadows curling with the steam. For a moment, she looks exactly like she did at seventeen. Same way of holding coffee. Same slight hunch of shoulders.<br><br>
The silence stretches. Awkward doesn't begin to cover it. Three years of nothing, and now you're sitting in a diner that serves food that might be criminally negligent, pretending this is normal.<br><br>
Pretending your sister didn't just grab you with those shadow tentacles.<br><br>
"So," Maud says finally, "you really went all in on the journalism thing."<br><br>
"You really went all in on the not coming back thing."<br><br>
She snorts. "I needed to do my own stuff. You know I never fitted in."<br><br>
"That's what you think."<br><br>
"I don’t regret it." She sips her coffee, makes a face. "Wow, that's awful. Some things don't change."<br><br>
"Some things do." You gesture at her. All of her. The bubblegum pink hair, the piercings, the leather and the shadows under her eyes. "You used to be—"<br><br>
"What? More boring? Weaker?" There's an edge in her voice now, sharp as the knives she probably has hidden somewhere. "I used to be so angry, $firstName. I still am."<br><br>
She sets down her mug harder than necessary. Coffee sloshes.<br><br>
"Then I realized normal was never an option. Not for me anyway. I never stood a chance."<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"So you ran. Left me to deal with Uncle Ben asking where you went while you played at being Sordia\'s newest urban legend."'>>
<<set $maudChoice to "cutting">>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $maudstat -= 2>>
<<goto "CH1P7.2.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Nietzsche said \'whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.\' You seem to have skipped that memo entirely."'>>
<<set $maudChoice to "deflecting">>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P7.2.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Normal was never the point. Survival was. We both chose different methods of not letting this city kill us."'>>
<<set $maudChoice to "soft">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $maudstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P7.2.1">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
"So," you say, voice carefully neutral. "We're doing this."<br><br>
"Doing what?" Maud asks, all fake innocence. She pulls out another cigarette, the silver Zippo catching light as she flicks it open. The flame dances, and for a second you swear the shadows dance with it. "Having coffee? Catching up? Pretending we're a functional family?"<br><br>
"Answering questions."<br><br>
"Ooh, an interrogation!" She claps her hands, shadows mimicking the gesture a half-second behind like they're on delay. "Should I lawyer up? Miranda rights? Do I get one phone call?"<br><br>
You're not in the mood for her games. Your left hand itches with the need for truth, for something solid in all this deflection.<br><br>
You have three questions burning in your mind. Time to get some answers.<br><br>
<<link "Where have you been for three years?">>
<<replace "#question1">><br><br>
She exhales smoke that mingles with darkness, the combination creating patterns that hurt to track.<br><br>
"Around," she says, waving vaguely. "Here. There. Everywhere. Nowhere." She grins wider. "That's the thing about me, $firstName. I can be everywhere and nowhere all at once."<br><br>
"That's not an answer."<br><br>
"Sure it is! Just not the one you want." She taps ash onto the table, not bothering with the tray. "Fine, you want specifics? I've been in the undercity. In the towers. I've traveled around a bit, making some life experiences."<br><br>
"For three years?"<br><br>
"Time's weird when you're mostly working. Especially if I'm playing the big bad monster~," she says, and for a moment her edges blur, like she's forgetting to stay solid. "Sometimes I'd lose days. Sometimes minutes felt like months. You ever try to keep track of time when you're a mass of darkness?"<br><br>
She's deflecting, but there's truth buried in the evasion. You can feel it, that itch in your left hand getting stronger.<br><br>
"You could have fucking sent a word."<br><br>
"Could I though?" She leans forward, black eyes reflecting nothing. "Hey $firstName, I'm turning into living darkness and sometimes I forget I'm human, how's journalism?' Yeah, that would've gone great. You guys would have put me away for sure."<br><br>
You want to push, but there are other questions. More pressing ones.
<</replace>>
<</link>>
<span id="question1"></span><br><br>
<<link "What are you doing now? What's your actual job?">>
<<replace "#question2">><br><br>
Maud laughs, high and bright and slightly unhinged. "Job? You make it sound so... corporate." She pulls her legs up, sitting cross-legged in the booth like a child. "I fix problems. Remove obstacles. Make sure certain people stay certain places."<br><br>
"You're an enforcer."<br><br>
"Enforcer sounds so thuggish." She pouts, bottom lip jutting out dramatically. "I prefer... badass consultant. Peaceful coordinator. Nightmare prevention specialist!"<br><br>
"Maud."<br><br>
"Fine, fine." She waves her hand, shadows trailing from her fingers like smoke. "I work for someone who values my particular skill set."<br><br>
"Such as?"<br><br>
"Such as being able to grab nosy journalists from shadows and drag them into alleys!" She grins. "Such as being able to move through the city unseen. Such as being able to make problems disappear without anyone knowing they were there."<br><br>
She's still dancing around it. Still not giving you the full truth.
<</replace>>
<</link>>
<span id="question2"></span><br><br>
<<link "What do you want from me?">>
<<replace "#question3">><br><br>
She goes still. Completely still, like shadows frozen in time. Then, suddenly, she's moving again, all manic energy and too-wide smiles.<br><br>
"What I want?" She spreads her arms wide, and the shadows behind her spread too, forming shapes that might be wings, might be hands, might be nothing at all. "I want to keep my big sibling from getting murdered! Ta-da!"<br><br>
The shadows literally form jazz hands behind her. Actual shadow hands, wiggling their fingers in synchronized celebration.<br><br>
"What the fuck—"<br><br>
"From now on," Maud announces, standing on the booth seat like she's making a proclamation, "I'm your bodyguard! Your shield! Your defender!" She strikes a pose, one hand on her hip, the other pointing dramatically at the ceiling. "Maud the Magnificent, at your service!"<br><br>
"Absolutely not."<br><br>
"Too bad!" She drops back down, bouncing slightly on the cracked vinyl. "Not your choice, $firstName-bear. I've already decided."<br><br>
"You can't just—"<br><br>
"Can't I?" She tilts her head, studying you with those impossible black eyes. "Who's gonna stop me? You?"<br><br>
"Maud, I don't need—"<br><br>
"Oh, but you do." Her voice drops, becomes something darker. More serious. "You really, really do."
<</replace>>
<</link>>
<span id="question3"></span><br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P8.1]]"So!" she announces, spinning on her heel to walk backward, facing you. "Transportation!"<br><br>
"We can walk. Or take the subway. Or—"<br><br>
"Boring!" Maud sing-songs, pulling out a set of keys from her jacket. They jingle with too many keychains—a rubber duck, a skull, something that might be a tooth. "I've got wheels now! Part of the whole 'being more human' thing."<br><br>
She says 'being more human' like it's a costume she's trying on. Like humanity is something you can practice until you get it right.<br><br>
"Since when do you drive?"<br><br>
"Since about six months ago when I realized car chasing is fun." She grins, pink hair catching the broken streetlight. "Patch said I should try normal human activities. Connect with my human side again. Stop being so—" She makes air quotes with her fingers, shadows mimicking the gesture, "—weird."<br><br>
“And who is Patch?” <br><br>
“My Doctor!”<br><br>
The car sits at the alley's mouth like a predator waiting to strike. It's a beat-up sedan, probably fifteen years old, painted matte black because of course it is. The bumper's held on with duct tape and what might be wishful thinking. One headlight's cracked. The other flickers like it's communicating in Morse code.<br><br>
"This is your car?"<br><br>
"Isn't she beautiful?" Maud runs her hand along the hood lovingly. "I call her Christine. You know, like the murder car from that old movie?"<br><br>
"That's not reassuring."<br><br>
"It's not supposed to be!" She pops the trunk with her key fob, the lid rising with a squeal of protest. "Oh, right! I almost forgot!"<br><br>
You're still processing the fact that your sister owns a car when she says, with the casual tone of someone mentioning they bought milk: "I should probably explain about Riley."<br><br>
Your blood freezes. "What about Riley?" <br><br>
"Yeah! So funny story—" She leans against the trunk, grinning. "I was doing a job at the docks last week. You know, standard work stuff, making sure certain shipments went to certain places without certain people noticing."<br><br>
She pulls out Riley's phone from her pocket, waves it like a trophy. Ah shit you know you forgot to ask a crucial question.<br><br>
"And I hear this guy—your Riley—talking to someone. And he says your name! $firstName this, $firstName that, $firstName's been sniffing around the Frost case." Her black eyes glitter with manic energy. "And I'm thinking, how does this random dock worker know my sibling? Very suspicious!"<br><br>
"Maud, what did you do?"<br><br>
"I followed him! For like three days!" She's bouncing on her heels now, excited to share.<br><br>
"Very not freaky behavior, surveillance. Patch would be proud! And then when he was alone, I might have grabbed him with shadows… okay that part wasn't very human but it was efficient and had a conversation!"<br><br>
"You kidnapped him?!"<br><br>
The trunk light illuminates what shouldn't be there. What can't be there. But is.<br><br>
Riley your informant from the docks, the one who feeds you shipping manifests and union gossip, lies curled in the trunk like discarded luggage. His hands are zip-tied behind his back, mouth covered with duct tape that's coming loose at the edges. His eyes are wide, whites showing all around, the kind of terror that comes from spending hours in darkness with someone who is darkness.<br><br>
"Maud, what the fuck—"<br><br>
"Surprise!" She claps her hands, delighted. "See? I'm being less freaky! Humans kidnap people all the time in this city!"<br><br>
Riley makes a muffled screaming sound through the tape, thrashing against the zip-ties. There's a dark stain on his jeans, he's pissed himself at some point during this nightmare. The trunk reeks of fear-sweat and urine.<br><br>
You lunge forward to free him, but Maud catches your wrist. Her grip is ice-cold, inhumanly strong.<br><br>
"Wait wait wait! Let me explain the process!" She's bouncing on her heels, excited to share. "So first, I followed him for like three days, very human behavior, surveillance—and then I waited until he was alone, grabbed him with shadows—okay that part wasn't very human but it was efficient—and then I put him in the trunk and asked him questions!"<br><br>
"You kidnapped my informant?" You feel a headache coming.<br><br>
"Borrowed! I borrowed him for a chat!" She's grinning wider now. "Put him in the trunk for a bit with water! I gave him water every four hours! Very responsible!"<br><br>
The casual way she says it makes your skin crawl. <br><br>
Riley's trying to say something through the tape. You reach for him again, and this time Maud doesn't stop you. You rip the duct tape off, he screams. Loud enough that someone might hear, might call the cops, might—<br><br>
"FUCK YOU!" He's crying, snot and tears mixing on his face. "FUCK BOTH OF YOU PSYCHO FUCKS!"<br><br>
He struggles against the zip-ties, manages to sit up, and spits at you. The saliva lands on your jacket.<br><br>
"Riley, I didn't—"<br><br>
"You sent this fucking freak after me?" His voice cracks. "I helped you! I gave you information! And this is what I get?"<br><br>
"I didn't send her, I didn't know—"<br><br>
He raises both middle fingers, wrists still bound. "We're done. DONE. You want dock information? Find another rat. Better yet, go fuck yourself with a rusty—"<br><br>
Maud leans in, curious. "Ooh, what should they fuck themselves with? I love creative cursing!"<br><br>
Riley screams again, tries to scramble out of the trunk. You grab the pocket knife from your bag, cut the zip-ties. He practically falls out of the car, stumbles, catches himself on a dumpster.<br><br>
"Stay the fuck away from me," he gasps, backing away. "Both of you. If I see either of you again, I'm calling CRD. I'll tell them everything."<br><br>
He runs. Stumbles. Runs again. Disappears around the corner like the hounds of hell are chasing him.<br><br>
Which, technically, they might be if Maud decides to follow.<br><br>
You turn to stare at your sister. She's examining her nails, shadows curling around her fingers like smoke.<br><br>
"That went well!" she announces.<br><br>
"Well? You kidnapped my informant. I've lost a source I've been cultivating for two years."<br><br>
"But I got his phone! That's how I found out about his connection to you. All these texts about dock manifests, shipping schedules. Very boring stuff, honestly." She pulls it out, waves it like a trophy. "See? Mission accomplished!"<br><br>
"But here's the genius part!" She continues, ignoring your horror. "I used his phone to text you! Pretending to be him! Because let's be real—" Her expression shifts, becomes almost vulnerable for a second. "If I'd contacted you directly, would you have come?"
The question hangs between you. The answer is obvious to both of you.<br><br>
"You could have just stolen his phone," you say, voice flat. "Picked his pocket. Grabbed it when he wasn't looking."<br><br>
Maud freezes mid-celebration. Her head tilts, considering this. The shadows around her go still.<br><br>
"Huh." She taps her chin. "That... would have been simpler."<br><br>
"And wouldn't have involved kidnapping."<br><br>
"But way less fun!" She tosses the phone to you. "This way I learned all about his operation, his contacts, his weird obsession with that bartender at O'Malley's, did you know about that? Very detailed texts. Anyway, he seemed upset though. People are so sensitive about temporary confinement."<br><br>
The casual way she says it sends ice through your veins. This isn't normal. This is something else. Something broken in a way that can't be fixed with therapy or medication or whatever the hell this Patch has been trying.<br><br>
Your little sister kidnapped someone and put them in a trunk. For practice. To be more human again.<br><br>
"Maud..." Your voice comes out steady somehow. "Kidnapping people isn't human behavior. It's criminal behavior."<br><br>
"Same thing in this city!" She shrugs, already moving to the driver's side door. "Besides, he's fine! Bit traumatized, probably needs new pants, but fine! I even gave him water! Every four hours! Very responsible."<br><br>
"Every four…how long was he in there?"<br><br>
"Only like eighteen hours! I wanted to make sure I had time to go through everything properly." She slides into the driver's seat, adjusting mirrors that definitely aren't angled for driving. "You coming? Or are you going to stand there looking all morally superior?"<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"You terrorized my informant for eighteen hours because you were curious? What the fuck is wrong with you?"'>>
<<set $maudChoice5 to "cutting">>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $maudstat -= 2>>
<<goto "CH1P9.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Walk me through this. You heard my name, followed him for three days, kidnapped him, interrogated him, and then impersonated him to get me here?"'>>
<<set $maudChoice5 to "methodical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $observation += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P9.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"He\'s definitely going to report this. You\'ve compromised my entire network."'>>
<<set $maudChoice5 to "hardened">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $corrupt += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P9.1">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
<<if $maudChoice6 is "cutting">>Maud's laugh is sharp enough to draw blood. "At least I know I'm wearing a mask. You stand in front of cameras pretending journalism matters while this city eats itself. Which one of us is really delusional?" The shadows pulse with her words. "Besides, that bitch never had control. She never wanted to. There's a difference." She pauses, tilts her head. "I think."<<elseif $maudChoice6 is "methodical">>"Control means choosing," Maud says, each word precise as a scalpel cut. "That bitch didn't choose. She never tried and it made her into something else." Her fingers drum against the steering wheel in a pattern that hurts to follow. "I choose every terrible thing I do. Every line I cross. That's control." She meets your eyes. "That's the difference between madness and methodology."<<elseif $maudChoice6 is "soft">>Something flickers across Maud's face. Not quite pain. Not quite recognition. Something worse, acknowledgment. "Nobody's who they were before, $firstName. Not you. Not me." The shadows around her soften slightly, become less aggressive. "But I'm not that bitch. I won't become her. I keep mine on a leash. A very long, very flexible leash, but still."<<elseif $maudChoice6 is "confrontational">>Maud's expression doesn't change but the air in the car becomes electric. Dangerous. "You want to talk about becoming like that bitch? How many people have you destroyed with your stories? How many lives have you ruined for the truth?" She leans closer. "We're both monsters, $firstName. The only difference is I'm honest about it."<</if>><br><br>
Behind you, someone lays on their horn for a solid ten seconds. The sound breaks whatever spell held the moment together.<br><br>
Maud faces forward. Puts the car in drive. Accelerates without checking mirrors or caring about the chaos behind them.<br><br>
"That bitch lost herself completely," she says, voice returning to its usual sing-song quality but with something darker underneath. "I know exactly who I am and where my edges are. I just choose to blur them sometimes."<br><br>
Christine's engine coughs. Sputters. Continues somehow.<br><br>
You want to push further. To dig until you hit truth-bone. But something in Maud's grip on the steering wheel stops you and the way shadows keep reaching for her like they want to comfort or consume.<br><br>
So you leave it. Let whatever you wanted to tell her die in your throat.<br><br>
The rest of the drive passes in relative silence. Relative because Maud sings along to a pop song on the radio. Because Christine's engine provides a symphony of mechanical distress.
Maud takes another corner too fast. Your stomach drops as two wheels briefly leave the ground before crashing back down.<br><br>
The apartment building appears suddenly, looming out of the darkness like something that grew rather than was built. Maud pulls into an alley beside it, parks at an angle that blocks at least two other vehicles.<br><br>
"Home sweet hellhole," she announces, killing the engine. It dies with a relieved wheeze.<br><br>
"C’mon I want to show you my place," she looks excited as she lams the car door shut.
You reluctantly follow her. No turning back now.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P11]]Maud paces. Three steps left. Pivot. Three steps right. Pivot.<br><br>
Twelve faces stare back at her. Twelve pieces of a puzzle that makes her teeth ache with wrongness.<br><br>
<<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">> $firstName sleeps in her bed. The bed she offered because what else was she supposed to do? Let $mcHim curl up on the couch like a stranger? $firstName might hate her but $mcHe's still blood. The only family she has left. So yeah, she gave $mcHim the bed. Doesn't mean she has to like it. Doesn't mean it doesn't sting that $firstName took it without even a thank you. Typical. But she'll stand watch anyway because that's what she does. Guards the people who'd rather she didn't exist. <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> $firstName sleeps in her bed. Probably the first real sleep $mcHe's had in days, judging by how $mcHe collapsed earlier. She should feel something about that. Pride maybe, that she can still provide safety. Instead she feels... nothing. Just the familiar weight of responsibility. Of keeping $firstName alive because that's her job. Has always been the job. Even when $mcHe barely acknowledges her anymore. <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> $firstName sleeps in her bed. $mcHisC face finally relaxed, that perpetual furrow between $mcHis brows smoothed away. $mcHeC looks younger like this. Like the sibling she remembers from before everything went to shit. Maybe they can fix this. Maybe there's still something worth salvaging in the wreckage of what they used to be. The thought makes something in her chest twist painfully. Hope is such a dangerous thing. <</if>><br><br>
She stops pacing. Stares at the photos again.<br><br>
Wrong. Wrong. WRONG.<br><br>
The feeling crawls up her spine.<br><br>
Someone has it out for them. But why? The question makes her shadows writhe with agitation.<br><br>
She moves toward the bedroom without conscious thought. Feet silent on creaking floorboards that should announce her presence but don't. The shadows muffle everything. Always have.<br><br>
$firstName lies there, one arm thrown over $mcHis head, mouth slightly open. Vulnerable in a way that makes something twist in Maud's chest.<br><br>
She stands over the bed. Watching. The permanent marker from earlier is still in her pocket. Maud can't help but snicker. It would be so easy. Just a little mustache. Maybe some devil horns.<br><br>
Her phone vibrates. The screen illuminates her face in the darkness, making her black eyes seem deeper. Hungrier.<br><br>
//[Text from Luz]: Package needs relocating. Usual place. One hour. Don't be late, darling.//<br><br>
A smile curves her lips. Luz. One of the rare persons in this rotting city who makes her feel something other than broken. So she doesn't mind that Luz owns her just as much as the shadows do. Different leash. Same collar.<br><br>
But $firstName is right there. Sleeping. Trusting her enough to be unconscious in her presence.<br><br>
She walks back to the living room. The transformation starts at her fingertips. Black veins spreading upward beneath her skin like ink through water. "Shh, shh, shh," she whispers to the shadows. "Quiet now. Can't wake the baby."<br><br>
Her nails blacken and extend, hardening into obsidian daggers that pierce through her own flesh with a sound like breaking glass. She bites down on her tongue hard enough to taste copper. Can't scream. Can't wake $firstName. Can't let $mcHim see this.<br><br>
What would you think if you saw me like that, $firstName? Would it bring it all back?
No. She won't risk it. Won't give $firstName that particular flavor of PTSD on top of everything else. $mcHeC's already seen too much. Already carries too many scars from that night, even if $mcHe never talks about it.<br><br>
Her radius and ulna snap simultaneously—CRACK-CRACK—bone shards puncturing through her forearms. The fragments hang suspended for a heartbeat before liquefying into a slurry of marrow and shadow that oozes back into her flesh.<br><br>
Her ribcage expands suddenly. Violently. Cracking outward with wet pops as individual ribs pierce through skin. Dark ichor oozes from the wounds, sliding down her torso in rivulets that move against gravity. The exposed ribs blacken and curve like fingers reaching for the night sky before dissolving into smoke.<br><br>
Her jaw dislocates with an audible crack. Mouth stretching impossibly wide as teeth fall out one by one, pattering to the floor. New teeth erupt from bleeding gums—not teeth but needle-like protrusions of solidified darkness, hundreds of them filling her mouth in overlapping rows.<br><br>
The transformation completes with a horrific implosion as her remaining flesh tears itself apart. For one terrible moment, she is inside-out, a grotesque display of humanity turned wrong, before the shadows surge forward to fill the void.<br><br>
She is nothing. Everything.<br><br>
But she needs more tonight. Needs to be in two places at once. Needs to handle Luz's business while keeping watch over $firstName.<br><br>
The splitting is somehow worse than the transformation.<br><br>
She places her shadow-clawed hands against her sternum and pulls. The sound is wet. Organic. Like tearing raw meat with bare hands. Her chest cracks open along an invisible seam, darkness spilling out like blood from a wound that goes deeper than flesh.<br><br>
"One for Luz, one for $firstName," she mutters through her needle teeth. "Sharing is caring! HAHAHA!"<br><br>
The shadow substance pools on the floor, writhing, gathering mass. Rising. Taking shape.<br><br>
Two Mauds now. Identical voids cut from reality. Both pure darkness given form, silhouettes that devour light.<br><br>
They regard each other with eyes that are just deeper holes in already void faces.
"You stay," the original whispers, voice like grinding glass. "Keep watch. Make sure nothing touches $mcHim."<br><br>
The copy tilts its head. Understanding without words. It settles into the corner where darkness is deepest, becoming one with the shadows there.<br><br>
The original Maud moves to the window, her form rippling with anticipation. Luz is waiting.<br><br>
"Going to see our favorite crime boss," she tells the copy, though it already knows. "Try not to let $firstName wake up and freak out about the shadow demon in the corner, yeah? That would be awkward!"<br><br>
The copy doesn't respond. Just watches. Waiting. Guarding.<br><br>
The original dissolves into smoke, bleeding through the window cracks and into the night. The real Maud, heading off to do whatever she has to do.<br><br>
The copy remains, a perfect duplicate, indistinguishable from the original except for being the one left behind. It watches $firstName sleep with eyes that don't exist, guards $mcHim with claws that will protect, loves $mcHim with a heart made of darkness.<br><br>
In the bed, $firstName shifts, mumbles something unintelligible. The shadow-Maud goes perfectly still, becomes just another patch of darkness in a room full of them.
$firstName settles back into deep sleep, never knowing death itself stands watch in the corner. Never knowing $mcHis sister has split herself in half just to keep watch.<br><br>
Outside, racing through Sordia's streets as living shadow, the real Maud laughs. The sound echoes off buildings, makes windows rattle, sends cats yowling and dogs whimpering.<br><br>
"Ready or not, here I come!" she shrieks to the night. "Hope you have something fun for me to relocate! Maybe someone who screams pretty! Or bleeds in interesting patterns! Or—ooh!—maybe both!"<br><br>
After all, for Maud, love looks like a monster standing guard while its other half goes to serve another monster.<br><br>
And Maud has always been very good at being exactly the monster everyone needs.<br><br>
<div class="end-demo">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">END OF DEMO</h1>
</div>
<<if $aceChoice5 is "bold">>Ace laughs. "Mom's way better than any date. She actually listens when you talk, remembers what you like, and feeds you properly." $aceHeC pauses, then adds without thinking, "Plus she thinks you're perfect exactly as you are. Which is... I mean, she's got good judgment about people."<<elseif $aceChoice5 is "shy">>Ace's expression goes soft. "Mom always asks about you, you know. Wants to make sure you're eating, sleeping, taking care of yourself." $aceHeC chuckles, stracthing $aceHis head. "She says I relax more when you come over. Makes the whole house feel more... alive. She's right about that."<<elseif $aceChoice5 is "oblivious">>Ace grins. "Imani's going to grill you about investigative techniques again. She probably wants to be a journalist like you when she grows up." $aceHeC doesn't notice the pride in $aceHis voice. "Says you're the coolest person she knows. Can't argue with that assessment."<<elseif $aceChoice5 is "awkward">>Ace tilts $aceHis head, genuinely confused. "Why would you lie about that? Of course you've been looking forward to it. We all have." $aceHeC says it like it's normal to barge into the Reid's family home unannunced. "Mom's been planning the menu all week. Dad's been practicing stories to tell you. They can't wait to see their pickney."<<elseif $aceChoice5 is "clumsy">>Ace chuckles. "Last time you asked Tasha about her dating life for twenty minutes. She loved it. Said it was like having a professional therapist who actually cared about the answers." $aceHeC looks fondly at you. "Family loves having you around. Makes everything more interesting."<<elseif $aceChoice5 is "grateful">>Ace nods seriously. "She'd adopt you if you let her. Says you need someone to worry about you properly." $aceHeC pauses. "She's not wrong. Someone should be looking out for you the way you look out for everyone else."<<elseif $aceChoice5 is "tired">>Ace's expression goes gentle. "Then you need us more than ever. Real food, real people, reminder that good still exists." $aceHeC steps closer. "Plus we miss you when you're not there.."<</if>><br><br>
Ace's phone buzzes again. More insistent.<br><br>
"Fuck. I really have to go." $aceHeC looks back at the mansion, then at you. "You did good tonight, $firstName. Jane De Luca got justice because you wouldn't let go. That matters."<br><br>
"Even if Frost gets away?"<br><br>
<<if $aceGender is "male">> Andre's expression hardens. "We'll find her. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but nobody escapes forever. Not in Sordia." He reaches out, squeezes your shoulder once. The contact is brief but solid. Grounding. "Get some rest. You need it." <br><br><<elseif $aceGender is "female">> Anaya's jaw sets with determination. "We'll find her. I've got contacts in the Fae community who owe me favors. Someone will talk eventually. They always do." She reaches out, squeezes your shoulder once. The contact is brief but warm. Real. "Get some sleep. You look like something that crawled out of Sordia's sewers and decided to become a journalist." <</if>><br><br>
"Charming as always," you mutter, but there's no heat in it.<br><br>
Ace starts walking backward toward their CRD vehicle, still talking. "Noon tomorrow. Don't be late. Ma will send out search parties, and by search parties, I mean my sisters, and they're worse than any bloodline criminal."<br><br>
"Wouldn't miss it," you call back.<br><br>
<<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">> "And $firstName?" Ace pauses at $aceHis vehicle. "Be careful tonight. Don't go seeking trouble alone."
The fact that they've noticed your tell, that they pay that much attention, makes your heart do complicated things.<br><br> <<else>> "And $firstName?" Ace pauses at $aceHis vehicle. "Whatever you're not telling me about this case, just remember you're not invincible. Even leeches can bleed." The warning is professional. The concern behind it isn't. <</if>><br><br>
You watch Ace disappear into the maze of emergency vehicles, $aceHis CRD badge catching the light one last time before the darkness swallows them.<br><br>
The van honks behind you. Jake leaning out the driver's window.<br><br>
"You coming, or are you gonna stand there mooning after your fed friend all night?"<br><br>
"I don't moon," you snap, climbing into the van.<br><br>
"Sure you don't," Jake mutters, pulling away from the crime scene.<br><br>
Sam turns from the front seat, eyes that particular shade of violet that means they're about to say something cutting. "Interesting relationship dynamic you have with Agent Reid. All that unresolved tension must be exhausting."<br><br>
<<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">> "There's no tension," you lie, badly.<br><br><<else>> "There's no tension," you answer, honestly.<</if>><br><br>
<<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">>"Of course not," Sam agrees, which means they don't agree at all. "Just two people who've known each other since high school, work cases together, and have lunch dates with each other's families. Completely platonic."<br><br><<else>> "If you say so," Sam shrugs, which means they don't care at all and just wanted to tease you. And because you didn’t give them a reaction they got bored. Typical.<</if>><br><br>
The van carries you away from Grey's mansion. <br><br>
<<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">> Tomorrow, you'll have lunch with Ace and pretend your heart doesn't do stupid things when $aceHe smiles. You'll eat your favourite meal and let Imani interrogate you about journalism and try not to think about how Ace's hand felt on your shoulder.<br><br><<else>> Tomorrow, you'll have lunch with Ace, eat your favourite meal and let Imani interrogate you about journalism.<</if>><br><br>
Tonight, you're just tired. Bone-deep, soul-sick tired from carrying Jane De Luca's story for two months.<br><br>
But somewhere in Sordia, Lillian Frost is still breathing.<br><br>
And your left hand is already starting to itch again.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P4]]<<if $nasirRefusalChoice is "cutting">>Nasir's expression doesn't change, but the air pressure in the room shifts slightly, classic Ifrit emotional response. "Cliché? Perhaps. But clichés become clichés because they work." He moves back behind his desk, reestablishing professional distance with the same grace he does everything. "And my taste is impeccable. It's why I keep asking you despite your charming inability to recognize opportunity." The dismissal in his voice is clear. You're no longer interesting now that you've refused. "I will respect your wishes and won't ask you again. Close the door on your way out."<<elseif $nasirRefusalChoice is "relaxed">>"Such careful logic," he muses, fingers drumming on the desk. "Always weighing costs and benefits. It's what makes you a good journalist and a terrible gambler." He turns to look out at the city lights. "You're probably right. It would end badly. Most things in Sordia do so why not have fun?" He waves a hand dismissively. "But I will respect your wishes and I won't ask you again."<<elseif $nasirRefusalChoice is "deflecting">>Nasir actually laughs at that, genuine amusement breaking through his usual calculated demeanor. "And here I thought my vocabulary was one of my selling points." He straightens his already perfect tie. "Very well. Keep your rules, $firstName. They're adorable." He returns to his seat. "But I will respect your wishes and won't ask again."<<elseif $nasirRefusalChoice is "cynical">>"You're right those movies suck," Nasir snickers, and for a moment something else flickers in his eyes. "But you're right about one thing. I do acquire things. People. Companies. Information. I like the thrill of it but I will respect your wishes and won't ask you again" He looks directly at you.<</if>><br><br>
You head for the door, files tucked under your arm. The weight of them feels heavier now, like they've absorbed some of the tension in the room.<br><br>
"$firstName," Nasir calls as you reach for the handle. You pause but don't turn around. "Be careful with the Asher investigation. The Twenty-Three Families don't appreciate journalists who dig too deep."<br><br>
"Since when has that stopped me?"<br><br>
"Since never. Which is why I keep expecting to identify your body one of these days."<br><br>
"Your concern is touching."<br><br>
"My concern is practical. You're expensive to replace."<br><br>
You leave without responding, closing the mahogany door with a soft click that sounds oddly final.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P5.2.2.2.2]]The room settles into the specific quiet that follows sex with Nasir.<br><br>
You're both sprawled across the ruined bed, sheets tangled and damp, reeking of sweat and cum. His leg is thrown over yours.<br><br>
The air conditioner gives one last wheeze and dies completely.<br><br>
His fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder. Abstract designs that might be letters, might be nothing.<br><br>
Then his phone rings.<br><br>
The sound is harsh. Electronic. It's coming from his jacket, crumpled on that questionable armchair, and the specific ringtone Vivaldi's "Winter" that means it's important.<br><br>
"Fuck," he mutters, but he's already moving.<br><br>
The transformation is instant and absolute. Between one breath and the next, he shifts from private Nasir to business Nasir who owns half of Sordia's information pipeline. His shoulders straighten. His expression smooths into something professionally neutral.<br><br>
Even naked, padding across the stained carpet, he looks like he's walking into a boardroom.<br><br>
"Yes?" His voice is steady. Controlled. No hint that sixty seconds ago he was moaning your name.<br><br>
You watch from the bed, sheet pulled up to your waist like modesty matters now. Like there's any dignity left to preserve.<br><br>
"I see." His free hand is already reaching for his clothes. "When?" He balances the phone between ear and shoulder as he pulls on his underwear. Then his pants. Each movement graceful. How many times has he dressed while he had to shift from personal to professional without missing a beat?.<br><br>
"No, that's unacceptable." His shirt goes on next, fingers working buttons. <br><br>
You should probably be getting dressed too.<br><br>
"Handle it," he says into the phone. "I don't care what it takes. Handle it."<br><br>
He ends the call with a sharp tap. Stands there for a moment, fully dressed now.<br><br>
"I have to go." Not an apology. Just a statement.<br><br>
"Business emergency?"<br><br>
"Something like that." He picks up his jacket, shrugs it on. Thousand-dollar fabric settling over his body. <br><br>
He moves toward the door, then stops. Turns back. Crosses to the bed in three quick strides and cups your face in his hands. The kiss is bruising.<br><br>
"Thursday," he says against your mouth. "Same time."<br><br>
Not a question. Just an assumption that you'll be there.<br><br>
Then he's gone. The door clicks shut with the same finality it opened with. The same three locks that trapped you in now keep the world out. Keep you in.<br><br>
You should probably shower and go too. So you do exactly that.<br><br>
Once you step out of the shower yo see your phone has a new message.<br><br>
//[Text from Riley]: Have information about L.F. Fork n' Knife, midnight. Come alone. -Riley<br><br>//
Your eyes narrow immediately. It’s Riley from the docks who sometimes feeds you shipping manifests.<br><br>
Fork n' Knife is a 24-hour diner in the neutral zone. The kind of place where deals get made and bodies occasionally get found in the dumpster out back. Perfect for an informant who doesn't want to be seen in better lighting.<br><br>
You check the time: 11:47 PM. Just enough time to walk there if you leave immediately.
You pack up quickly.<br><br>
You push through the door, back to business. The Fork n' Knife awaits.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P7.1]]The words barely leave your mouth before you're moving. Your hands find his chest, push with enough force to topple him backward onto the mattress. The cheap springs protest, but hold. Everything in this place is built to withstand worse.<br><br>
You follow him down, thighs bracketing his hips before he can recover his balance. His hands immediately find your waist.<br><br>
"$firstName—" he starts, voice honeyed even now, even with you above him.<br><br>
"Save the charm for someone who believes it," you cut him off, grinding down just enough to feel him hard against you through thin fabric. <br><br>
His laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your palms. "Such a romantic. No wonder I hired you."<br><br>
"You hired me because I'm good at seeing through bullshit." You reach between you, dealing with zippers and barriers swiftly. The condoms are where they always are in places like this. But Nasir brought his own. Black packaging, because even his protection has to make a statement. "And right now, the truth is you want to until you forget about whatever you're working on."<br><br>
"Partially correct," he murmurs, eyes tracking your movements as you tear the wrapper with your teeth. Those sharp eyes that miss nothing, calculating even now. "I want you to fuck me until we both feel some stress relief."<br><br>
You position yourself above him, taking your time. Not to tease, but to watch the way his carefully constructed composure cracks just slightly at the edges. The way his fingers tighten on your hips. The way his breathing changes when you hover just out of reach.<br><br>
"Then let’s do just that," you tell him, lowering yourself slowly. Letting him feel every inch as you take him inside. The stretch burns in the best way. <br><br>
The groan he makes when you're fully seated on him is worth the three weeks of celibacy. His head tips back, exposing the long line of his throat.<br><br>
You start moving, finding a rhythm that makes your thighs burn and your breath catch. His hands guide, letting you set the pace while his hips roll up to meet yours.<br><br>
<<if $vice is "hookups">> Your body sings with the familiar high. This is what keeps you functional. Physical release without the messy complications that get people killed in Sordia. <</if>><br><br>
"That reminds me," he says, voice rougher but still maintaining that smooth quality even as you ride him. "Found anyone interesting lately? Besides me of course."<br><br>
<<if $relationshipType is "secret" >> Your rhythm falters slightly. Ace's amber eyes flash through your mind. You push the thought away, grinding down harder to cover the hesitation. "No one worth the complication," you manage. <<elseif $relationshipType is "obvious">>
"There's... Ace might be..." The words slip out between gasps. His hands tighten on your hips, a knowing smile spreading across his face even as his breath hitches. "Your best friend?" His laugh vibrates through both of you. "Oh, $firstName. That's deliciously complicated." <<else>> "Romance requires trust," you gasp out, speeding up. "Trust requires stupidity. Not that stupid. I don’t want any complications." <</if>><br><br>
His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced precision as you continue to move above him. "Speaking of complications," he continues, remarkably composed for someone being thoroughly fucked, "the Marguerite Asher case."<br><br>
"Now?" you gasp, incredulous. "You want to discuss—fuck—work now?"<br><br>
"Multitasking," he breathes, angling his hips to hit deeper. "I just want you to understand better. Her daughter came to me. She’s desperate for answers."<br><br>
You lean forward, changing the angle in a way that makes you both groan. "So you're using me to—ah—help your friend?"<br><br>
"Not just help my friend. I'm giving my best investigator a story that needs telling," he corrects, his composure finally starting to crack as you clench around him. "Marguerite would never just vanish. She'd burn the city down before abandoning her empire."<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"When I crack this, you owe me more than just a bonus."'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "bold">>
<<set $nas_romance += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6MCVT 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Do you really think I can find her?"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "shy">>
<<set $nas_romance += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6MCVT 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"She probably just—oh fuck—needed a vacation from this shithole city."'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "oblivious">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCVT 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Should we be—fuck—discussing classified cases while—this is so inappropriate—"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "awkward">>
<<set $nas_romance -= 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6MCVT 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"You lose your rhythm, nearly falling forward. \'Shit, sorry, just surprised you\'d—\'"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "clumsy">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCVT 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"She\'s dead. A week means dead in Sordia."'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "cynical">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCVT 2">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
His hands are everywhere at once. Not rough, but insistent. One plays with your nipples, the other grips your hip, thumb tracing the bone with something between possession and appreciation.<br><br>
"You know what your problem is?" he says against your neck, teeth grazing but not quite biting. Always leaving himself deniability. "You think everything has to be a fight."<br><br>
"And you think everything can be negotiated," you gasp as his fingers slide between your legs, finding you wet. No pretense. Just straight to what you both want.<br><br>
He pushes two fingers inside, then three, stretching you with the same methodical precision he applies to everything. "Some things can. Like this. We could have been doing this years ago if you hadn't been so suspicious."<br><br>
"I'm a journalist. Suspicion is literally my job." Your hips rock against his hand, seeking the friction he's deliberately withholding from your clit. "Besides, you like the challenge."<br><br>
"True," he agrees, curling his fingers to hit that spot that makes your vision blur. "I do appreciate someone who makes me work for it. Though work seems like the wrong word for something this mutually beneficial."<br><br>
You reach between you, wrapping your hand around his cock. He's hard, leaking, ready. "Everything's a business metaphor with you."<br><br>
"And everything's an investigation with you. Looking for hidden motives." He pulls his fingers out, using the wetness to slick his cock. "Sometimes, $firstName, things are exactly what they seem."<br><br>
He positions himself between your legs. Hooks one over his shoulder. Lines himself up with precision that makes you ache. Then he's pushing inside, slow and steady and inevitable, and your back arches off the mattress.<br><br>
"Look at me." His hand cups your jaw, forces your eyes to meet his. "I want to see you when you come apart."<br><br>
He starts moving. Deep, deliberate thrusts that push the air from your lungs. The cheap bed frame slams against the wall with each impact.<br><br>
<<if $vice is "hookups">> Your body sings with the familiar high. This is what keeps you functional. Physical release without the messy complications that get people killed in Sordia. <</if>><br><br>
"You know," he says conversationally, as if he's not currently fucking you into the mattress, "I've been wondering about your personal life."<br><br>
"Now?" you gasp, nails raking down his back. "You want to chat now?"<br><br>
"I'm curious," he continues, hitting a particularly deep angle that makes you see stars. "Anyone catching your interest? Besides me of course."<br><br>
<<if $relationshipType is "secret">> Ace's face flashes through your mind. That damned earnest smile. You dig your nails deeper into his shoulders. "No one—fuck—no one I can afford." <<elseif $relationshipType is "obvious">> "Ace is—" you start before you can stop yourself. He smiles even as he continues his punishing pace. "The CRD agent? Interesting choice. Very... morally complicated." <<else>> "Interest requires—ah—energy I don't have." <</if>><br><br>
His hand snakes between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, working it in tight circles that match his thrusts. "Speaking of interests," he says, maddeningly composed despite the sweat beading on his skin, "Marguerite Asher."<br><br>
"Now?" you gasp, incredulous. "You want to discuss—fuck—work now?"<br><br>
"Multitasking," he breathes, angling his hips to hit deeper. "I just want you to understand better. Her daughter came to me. She’s desperate for answers."<br><br>
"So you're using me to—ah—help your fr—?" Your words are cut off by a particularly deep thrust.<br><br>
"Not just help my friend. I'm giving my best investigator a story that needs telling," he corrects, his composure finally starting to crack as you clench around him. "Marguerite would never just vanish. She'd burn the city down before abandoning her empire."<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"I\'ll find her, and—fuck—you\'ll give me whatever resources I need."'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "bold">>
<<set $nas_romance += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6MCVB 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Her daughter... she really wants my help?"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "shy">>
<<set $nas_romance += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6MCVB 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Maybe she just—ah—ran off with a lover?"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "oblivious">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCVB 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"This is—we shouldn\'t—fuck—mixing business with—oh fuck—"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "awkward">>
<<set $nas_romance -= 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6MCVB 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Your leg slips off his shoulder. \'Shit—sorry—the case—it\'s distracting—\'"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "clumsy">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCVB 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"She\'s dead. A week means dead in Sordia."'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "cynical">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCVB 2">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
You're hard. Nasir notices, because of course he does. Those calculating eyes miss nothing.<br><br>
"Ambitious," he says, amused. "Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You never know when to quit."<br><br>
"Funny, coming from the man who bought a news station just to control narratives." You run your hand down his spine, feeling the way his muscles tense and relax. "Turn over."<br><br>
He does. With the kind of fluid grace that reminds you of a cat, even when he's face down on cheap motel sheets.<br><br>
You reach for the lube, warming it between your fingers. He's done this before. Of course he has. A man like Nasir has tried everything at least once, probably more. But the way he gasps when you curve your finger just right tells you it's been a while. <br><br>
Maybe since before the wife. Before he had an image to maintain that didn't include getting fucked in cheap motels by his subordinate.<br><br>
You answer by circling his entrance with a slick finger, watching the way his shoulders tense then deliberately relax. He's letting you in.<br><br>
The first finger slides in easier than expected. "All those late nights at the office," you say, adding a second finger. "Standing behind my desk. Reading over my shoulder. Was this what you were thinking about?"<br><br>
"Among other things," he admits, pushing back against your hand. "Your complete inability to accept editorial oversight was also a frequent consideration."<br><br>
"You mean my refusal to bury stories that made you uncomfortable." You add more lube, a third finger, stretching him thoroughly. Not because you have to, but because you want to watch him slowly come apart.<br><br>
"I mean your stubborn insistence on printing every piece of truth regardless of consequences." His voice is rougher now, that polish starting to crack. "It's admirable and infuriating in equal measure."<br><br>
"Just like your need to control everything is transparent and oddly attractive." You pull your fingers out, reaching for a condom. "We're both control freaks, Nasir. The difference is I admit it."<br><br>
He laughs, looking back at you with those dark eyes. "You think I don't know exactly what I am? I bought a news station, $firstName. That's not the action of someone in denial about their control issues."<br><br>
You position yourself behind him, lined up and ready. "Then what is it?"<br><br>
"Investment in the future," he says as you push forward slowly, watching his body open for you. "In truth."<br><br>
You bottom out with a groan, fully inside him. The heat, the pressure, the way his body grips you, it's overwhelming and perfect.<br><br>
<<if $vice is "hookups">> Your body sings with the familiar high. This is what keeps you functional. Physical release without the messy complications that get people killed in Sordia. <</if>><br><br>
"Your lens, you mean," you say, starting to move. Slow at first, letting him adjust.<br><br>
"Our lens," he corrects, pushing back to meet your thrusts. "You think I don't value your perspective?"<br><br>
You speed up gradually, finding a rhythm that makes him gasp beneath you. "Speaking of perspectives," he manages, remarkably coherent for someone getting thoroughly fucked, "seeing anyone these days?"<br><br>
<<if $relationshipType is "secret">> Your hips stutter. Ace's laugh echoes in your memory. "No one stupid enough to—fuck—get involved with me." <<elseif $relationshipType is "obvious">> "Ace has been—" The admission slips out with a thrust. "Your best friend?" His laugh vibrates through both of you. "Oh, $firstName. That's deliciously complicated."<<else>> "People are distractions," you grunt, angling deeper. <</if>><br><br>
You reach around, wrapping your hand around his cock. He's hard again, or still, leaking against the sheets. "Let's discuss something more interesting," he says, voice finally showing strain. "Marguerite Asher."<br><br>
"Now?" you gasp, incredulous. "You want to discuss—fuck—work now?"<br><br>
"Multitasking," his composure cracks as you hit his prostate. "I just want you to understand better. Her daughter came to me. She’s desperate for answers."<br><br>
"So you're using me to—ah—help your friend?" You thrust particularly hard.<br><br>
"Not just help my friend. I'm giving my best investigator a story that needs telling," he pushes back, taking you deeper. "Marguerite would never just vanish. She'd burn the city down before abandoning her empire."<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"I\'ll find her. And you\'ll give me everything I need to do it."'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "bold">>
<<set $nas_romance += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6MCDT 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"You really think I can help your friend?"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "shy">>
<<set $nas_romance += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6MCDT 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Maybe she\'s just taking a break from the pressure?"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "oblivious">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCDT 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"We shouldn\'t be discussing—fuck—this is so inappropriate—"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "awkward">>
<<set $nas_romance -= 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6MCDT 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"You lose rhythm, nearly slipping out. \'Shit—sorry—just processing—\'"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "clumsy">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCDT 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"She\'s dead. A week means dead in Sordia."'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "cynical">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCDT 2">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
"Are you ready?," Nasir says, and there's something calculating in his smile. Something that reminds you he's dissected a thousand power structures before breakfast. Why you should be wary of him, but aren't.<br><br>
He pushes you onto your back with surprising force.<br><br>
"Let's see if you're as observant when you're the one being observed," he murmurs, crawling over you with deliberate slowness. Each movement calculated for effect. "You spend so much time analyzing everyone else. Taking them apart with that sharp mind of yours."<br><br>
Your cock hardens at the look he’s giving you. At being the subject rather than the investigator.<br><br>
He notices, naturally. Wraps his hand around your length and strokes with the same precision he applies to everything else. "Interesting. The relentless truth-seeker likes being the mystery for once."<br><br>
"There's no mystery here," you counter, though your breath catches when his thumb circles the head of your cock. "Just mutual opportunism."<br><br>
"Is that what we're calling it?" His hand continues its maddening rhythm, slow enough to build tension, not quite enough to satisfy. "I prefer to think of it as an exchange of valuable intelligence."<br><br>
You reach for him, but he catches your wrists, pressing them into the mattress.
"Patience, $firstName. You're always rushing toward conclusions. Sometimes the journey reveals more than the destination."<br><br>
The philosophy lecture while he's stroking your cock is so perfectly Nasir that you actually laugh. "Do you practice these lines, or do they just come naturally?"<br><br>
"Natural talent," he says, releasing your wrists to reach for supplies. "Like your talent for pushing every button except the ones that would actually get you what you want."<br><br>
He tears open a condom packet with his teeth, maintaining eye contact. Then lubricant, warmed between his fingers with the patience of someone who's never had to rush anything in his life.<br><br>
"You know what I've noticed about you?" he continues conversationally, as if he's not circling your entrance with a slick finger. "You're so focused on exposing everyone else's truth, you forget to relax."<br><br>
The first finger slides in, and you bite back a response. He works you open with the same methodical attention he probably applies to contracts. Thorough. Unhurried.<br><br>
"Your body's more honest than your mouth," he observes, adding a second finger. <br><br>
"Fuck," you breathe as he curves his fingers just right. "Your pillow talk is still terrible."<br><br>
"And yet you keep coming back." A third finger now, stretching you with careful precision. "What does that say about your standards?"<br><br>
"That I have a weakness for people who are bad for me," you admit, hips rocking against his hand despite yourself.<br><br>
"Bad for you?" He pulls his fingers out, positioning himself between your legs. "I prefer to think of myself as... educational."<br><br>
He pushes inside slowly. So slowly you want to grab his hips and pull him in faster. But that would be showing your hand. Admitting need.<br><br>
The head of his cock breaches you, and his eyes flutter closed for just a moment. Then they open again, fixed on yours with that calculating intensity.<br><br>
"Fuck," you breathe, hands fisting in the sheets.<br><br>
<<if $vice is "hookups">> Your body sings with the familiar high. This is what keeps you functional. Physical release without the messy complications that get people killed in Sordia. <</if>><br><br>
"Feels good?" He pushes deeper, maddeningly controlled. "You know what else might feel good? Having someone in your life besides your stories."<br><br>
He starts moving, slow enough to drive you insane. "Are you seriously—fuck—asking about my love life now?"<br><br>
"When else would you be honest about it?" He hits your prostate with precision, making you see stars.<br><br>
<<if $relationshipType is "secret">> Your falter slightly. Ace's amber eyes flash through your mind. You push the thought away, grinding against Nasir harder to cover the hesitation. "No one worth the complication," you manage. <<elseif $relationshipType is "obvious">>
"There's... Ace might be..." The words slip out between gasps. His hands tighten on your hips, a knowing smile spreading across his face even as his breath hitches. "Your best friend?" His laugh vibrates through both of you. "Oh, $firstName. That's deliciously complicated." <<else>> "Romance requires trust," you gasp out, speeding up. "Trust requires stupidity. Not that stupid. I don’t want any complications." <</if>><br><br>
His hand wraps around your cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. "Speaking of things you can't afford to ignore," he says, infuriatingly composed, "Marguerite Asher."
"Now?" you gasp, incredulous. "You want to discuss—fuck—work now?"<br><br>
"Multitasking," he speeds up slightly, just enough to scramble your thoughts. "I just want you to understand better. Her daughter came to me. She’s desperate for answers."<br><br>
"So you're using me to—ah—help your fr—?" Nasir thrusts particularly hard.<br><br>
"Not just help my friend. I'm giving my best investigator a story that needs telling," he clarifies, thumb swiping over the head of your cock. "Marguerite would never just vanish. She'd burn the city down before abandoning her empire."<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"I\'ll find her. But I want—fuck—full access. No restrictions."'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "bold">>
<<set $nas_romance += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6MCDB 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Evelyn... she really wants me to investigate?"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "shy">>
<<set $nas_romance += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6MCDB 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Maybe she eloped? Secret romance?"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "oblivious">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCDB 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"This is—we can\'t—discussing work while—this is insane—"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "awkward">>
<<set $nas_romance -= 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6MCDB 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '♡"Your hand slips, knocking over the lube. \'Fuck—sorry—distracted by—\'"'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "clumsy">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCDB 2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"She\'s dead. A week means dead in Sordia."'>>
<<set $nasirDialogue to "cynical">>
<<goto "CH1P6MCDT 2">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
<<if $nasirDialogue is "bold">>His eyes gleam with professional hunger even as his hips buck up involuntarily. The combination of your demand and the way you're riding him strips away his usual calculated facade. "Name your price. After. Fuck, $firstName—" His hands grip your hips harder, that smooth voice finally cracking. "Whatever resources you need. Full discretion. Just don't stop moving like that."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "shy">>His hands steady your hips, guiding you back into rhythm with surprising gentleness. Even through the haze of pleasure, his voice carries genuine conviction. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't. You're brilliant that's why I trust you." His thumb finds your clit again, circling with renewed focus. "Evelyn needs someone who sees through bullshit. That's you, $firstName. Always has been."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "oblivious">>He actually laughs, the vibration making you both moan. His composure cracks just enough to show genuine disbelief. "Marguerite doesn't take vacations. She takes scalps." He thrusts up harder, as if emphasizing his point through action. "That woman would burn down a beach resort for interrupting her quarterly projections. Try again, $firstName. Think like the journalist I hired."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "awkward">>He pulls you down for a hungry kiss. When he releases you, his smile is all predator. "$firstName. We passed inappropriate I don't know how many hookups ago." His fingers dig into your hips, controlling your rhythm now. "This is who we are. We mix business with everything. Stop pretending otherwise and focus on what I'm telling you."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "clumsy">>He catches you with practiced ease, clinging to you while thrusting up harder. You clench around his dick harder in return. "Focus. On the case later. On this now." He starts moving with deliberate precision, hitting angles that make coherent thought impossible. "Marguerite's daughters need someone sharp. Be sharp. After I'm done making you incoherent."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "cynical">>His rhythm falters slightly, something flashing across his face… concern? Calculation? It's gone before you can identify it. "Perhaps. But Marguerite was tougher than that. Find her, $firstName." He speeds up, as if trying to fuck the cynicism out of you. "Evelyn deserves answers, even if those answers are brutal. She's paying for truth, not comfort."<</if>><br><br>
"The story will be huge," he gasps, his control finally shattered as you speed up, chasing your orgasm. "Missing CEO from one of the 23 famili—fuck, $firstName, just like that—"
The rest of his words are lost as your climax hits, your body clenching around him, pulling his own release from him like a confession.<br><br>
You collapse forward onto his chest, both of you breathing hard.<br><br>
"Same time next month?" he asks, pressing a kiss to your temple that manages to be both tender.<br><br>
"Yeah," you reply, already calculating how long you need to stay before going back.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P6.1.2]]<<if $nasirDialogue is "bold">>He grins even as his rhythm starts to falter, that honeyed voice rough with arousal and approval. "Whatever you need. Full support. Shit, you're incredible when you're demanding." He leans down, biting your neck hard enough to mark. "Unlimited budget. Access to private databases. My personal contacts. Just solve this, $firstName. Show everyone why I keep you despite your complete inability to follow editorial guidelines."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "shy">>He slows his pace, pressing his forehead to yours in an unexpectedly intimate gesture. His eyes, usually calculating, show some mirth. "I want your help. I trust you with this." His hand finds yours, interlacing fingers even as he continues moving inside you. "The daughter asked for the truth. That's you, whether you believe it or not. I believe it enough for both of us."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "oblivious">>He actually stops mid-thrust to stare at you with complete incredulity. The loss of friction makes you whimper, which seems to remind him of the task at hand. "Marguerite's only love was power. Try again." He resumes with punishing force, each thrust punctuating his words. "That woman. Would. Never. Choose. Romance. Over. Empire. Think, $firstName. Use that brilliant brain before I fuck it completely out of you."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "awkward">>He silences you with a kiss that's all teeth, his control finally cracking. When he pulls back, his smile is sharp. "We mix everything else. Why stop now?" His pace becomes almost brutal, as if he's trying to drive the hesitation out of you through sheer physical overwhelming. "Stop overthinking. Some of our best decisions happen when we mix business with pleasure. This case needs your instincts, not your propriety."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "clumsy">>He catches your leg with one hand, pushing it higher than before, changing the angle to something devastating. "Then let me help you focus." His other hand finds your clit, circling with intent precision that makes your back arch off the mattress. "Marguerite first. Then distraction. Then you can fall apart. But right now, I need you present. Evelyn is counting on someone who can compartmentalize."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "cynical">>His rhythm falters slightly, something flashing across his face… concern? Calculation? It's gone before you can identify it. "Perhaps. But Marguerite was tougher than that. Find her, $firstName." He speeds up, as if trying to fuck the cynicism out of you. "Evelyn deserves answers, even if those answers are brutal. She's paying for truth, not comfort."<</if>><br><br>
"The story will be huge," he pants, his control finally breaking, "Missing CEO from one of the 23 famili—fuck, $firstName, just like that—"<br><br>
You're both close now, bodies moving desperately, chasing release.<br><br>
You want to argue, but your orgasm hits before you can form words. Your body clenches around him, back arching off the mattress. He follows immediately, your name mixed with curses in at least two languages as he comes.<br><br>
He collapses beside you rather than on you, both of you staring at the water-stained ceiling as reality seeps back in.<br><br>
"Your pillow talk needs work," you finally say.<br><br>
"Your deflection is predictable," he counters, but there's fondness in it.<br><br>
He lifts off you eventually, disposing of the condom with the same efficiency he probably uses to sign death warrants for stories that get too close to truths he needs hidden. You lie there, boneless, thoughtless, exactly as he intended.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P6.1.2]]<<if $nasirDialogue is "bold">>He moans approval, pushing back to meet your thrusts with desperate enthusiasm. "Everything. Resources, access, whatever—fuck—you're perfect when you take charge." His composure completely shattered now, that honeyed voice reduced to gasps and pleas. "Evelyn will have her answers. The station will have its exclusive. And you'll have whatever you demand. Just keep fucking me exactly like that while you make your demands."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "shy">>He reaches back, hand finding yours where it grips his hip, squeezing with surprising tenderness given the circumstances. "I know you can. I trust you with this." He turns his head to look at you, eyes unusually sincere. "You see patterns others miss. You dig when everyone else gives up. Evelyn needs that tenacity. I need it. Don't doubt yourself now, not when it matters most."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "oblivious">>He actually laughs, breathless and incredulous, the sound vibrating through both of you. "Marguerite Asher doesn't break. She breaks others." He clenches around you deliberately, making you groan. "That woman treats pressure like foreplay. The more intense, the more engaged she becomes. Think like a journalist, $firstName, not a travel agent. Someone took her. Find out who."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "awkward">>He clenches around you with deliberate intent, effectively scrambling your higher brain functions. "Everything about us is inappropriate. Focus." His voice carries that edge of command even while face-down on cheap sheets. "Evelyn needs someone who can handle messy situations. Clearly, you can. Stop second-guessing and start investigating. After. Definitely after. But commit to it now while you're too overwhelmed to overthink."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "clumsy">>He pushes back forcefully, keeping you inside with practiced control. "Process later. Fuck now." His hand reaches back to grip your hip, guiding your rhythm. "The case will require your full attention. So does this. Learn to compartmentalize, $firstName. Marguerite's daughter needs someone who can focus despite distractions. Consider this practice."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "cynical">>His body tenses beneath you, muscles coiling with something beyond physical response. "Then prove it. Give Evelyn answers." His grins while trying to muffle his groan in the pillow. "Evelyn is not naive, $firstName. She knows she might be gone. But knowing and confirming are different beasts. She needs certainty to move forward. Give her that certainty, even if it's brutal."<</if>><br><br>
"The story will be huge," he gasps as you speed up, both of you close. "Missing CEO from one of the 23 famili—fuck, $firstName, just like that—" <br><br>
"Come for me," you say, angling your hips to hit his prostate with every thrust. <br><br>
That does it. He comes with a sound that's almost a scream, muffled by the pillow. His cock pulses in your hand, painting the sheets with thick ropes of cum. His ass clenches around you, impossibly tight, pulling your own orgasm from you like confession pulled from a guilty man.<br><br>
You thrust deep one final time and come harder than you have in months. Your vision goes white. Your body shakes. You collapse forward onto his back, both of you breathing like you've run a marathon.<br><br>
The room smells like sex and sweat and latex. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails, racing toward some other disaster.<br><br>
You pull out carefully, disposing of the condom, trying not to think about how empty you feel without him around you.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P6.1.2]]<<if $nasirDialogue is "bold">>His pace becomes rewarding, hitting your prostate with each thrust in a rhythm designed to destroy coherent thought. "Whatever you need. I trust you completely with this." His hand speeds on your cock. "Full access to archives. My personal intelligence network. Classified contacts. Evelyn chose well when she came to me. I'm choosing well by giving this to you. Prove us both right."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "shy">>He leans down, breath hot against your ear, his voice losing its usual calculated tone. "I want you to investigate. I believe in you." His weight presses you into the mattress, somehow making everything more intense. "Evelyn trusts my judgment. I trust yours. Stop doubting yourself, $firstName. You're brilliant when you let yourself be. This case needs that brilliance, not false modesty."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "oblivious">>He pauses mid-thrust, cock buried deep, to stare down at you with complete bafflement. "Marguerite Asher's only romance was with power itself." He resumes with punishing force. "She'd eat a romantic partner alive. Literally, possibly, given her connections. Think harder, $firstName. Someone took her. Someone with serious resources and even more serious balls."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "awkward">>He silences you by hitting your prostate repeatedly with surgical precision, reducing you to wordless gasps. "We're already insane. Might as well be productive." His hand works your cock with matching rhythm. "The Asher daughters need someone who can handle unconventional situations. Clearly, that's you. Stop fighting your nature and embrace it. The case needs your particular brand of brilliant dysfunction."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "clumsy">>He catches the bottle without missing a thrust, displaying reflexes that remind you why he's survived Sordia's corporate wars. "Focus. On the case tomorrow. On this now." He changes angle slightly, making stars explode behind your eyelids. "Marguerite's disappearance will require your complete attention. No room for distraction. Consider this a lesson in maintaining concentration under extreme circumstances. You'll need it."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "cynical">>His grip on your cock tightens almost painfully before resuming its rhythm. "Then prove it. Give her daughters closure." His voice carries something raw, almost vulnerable. "They're prepared for the worst, $firstName. They're Ashers. But prepared and confirmed are different things. They need facts to plan their response. Whether that's rescue or revenge depends on what you find. Find it fast."<</if>><br><br>
"The story will be huge," he gasps as he speeds up, both of you close. "Missing CEO from one of the 23 famili—fuck, $firstName, just like that—"<br><br>
His hand speeds on your cock as his thrusts become erratic. The dual sensation overwhelms you, pulling your orgasm from you like a confession. You come with a sound that might be his name, might be a curse, might be both. Your vision whites out as your body clenches around him, pulling his own orgasm from him, groaning your name as he fills you.<br><br>
He collapses beside you rather than on you, both of you staring at the water-stained ceiling as reality seeps back in. The sound of sirens in the distance. The rattle of the air conditioner.<br><br>
He lifts off you eventually, disposing of the condom. You lie there, boneless, thoughtless, exactly as he intended.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P6.1.2]]<<if $maudChoice5 is "cutting">>Maud's grin falters slightly. "Terrorized is a strong word. I prefer... aggressively interviewed." She kicks at a piece of trash. "And I wasn't just curious. Someone at the docks knowing your name while you're investigating murders? That's dangerous, $firstName. I was protecting you." The shadows around her pulse defensively. "But fine, judge me for caring in the only way I know how."<<elseif $maudChoice5 is "methodical">>"Exactly!" Maud claps her hands. "See, when you lay it out like that, it's very logical! Very step-by-step!" She counts on her fingers, shadows mimicking the gesture. "Identify threat, investigate threat, neutralize threat, use threat's resources. Textbook operation!" She grins wider. "Well, if textbooks included kidnapping. Which they should, honestly. Very effective."<<elseif $maudChoice5 is "hardened">>"No he won't," Maud says with disturbing confidence. "I made it very clear that reporting anything would be... inadvisable. Something about shadows that follow people home, get into their dreams, make them question reality." She examines her nails. "He won't talk. Too scared. Too smart. Both." She looks up at you. "Your network was already compromised if dock workers are gossiping about your investigations."<</if>><br><br>
You should walk away. Call Ace.<br><br>
She moves to the driver's side door, spinning the keys around her finger.
"Come on, $firstName-bear. Let's get out of here before someone actually calls the cops."<br><br>
But she's humming again, that broken melody, and her black eyes are reflecting the streetlight in ways that remind you of oil spills. Of pollution. Of things that poison everything they touch but are still, somehow, necessary parts of the ecosystem.<br><br>
Deep inside you know that in her own completely fucked up way, she was gathering the courage to talk to you again but didn’t know how to face you yet.<br><br>
So you get in the car.<br><br>
The interior smells like cigarette smoke and something metallic. The passenger seat has suspicious stains you don't examine too closely. There's an air freshener hanging from the mirror, pine scent, which just makes everything smell like someone tried to hide a corpse in a forest.<br><br>
"Seatbelt!" Maud chirps, clicking hers into place. "Safety first!"<br><br>
The juxtaposition of safety concerns from someone who just admitted to kidnapping is so absurd you almost laugh hysterically. Almost.<br><br>
She turns the key. The engine coughs, dies. Tries again. On the third attempt, it groans to life, sounding like it's powered by spite.<br><br>
"Christine's temperamental," Maud explains, patting the dashboard affectionately. "But she runs! Usually..."<br><br>
She checks the mirrors, all three positioned at completely wrong angles for driving—and adjusts the rearview to show the ceiling.<br><br>
"Perfect," she declares, then throws the car into drive.<br><br>
The sedan lurches forward like a wounded animal learning to walk. Something in the engine makes a grinding sound that definitely isn't normal. Maybe isn't even mechanical. Probably is the car's soul trying to escape.<br><br>
"So!" Maud says, taking a turn without signaling or, apparently, looking. "Let’s go to my place!"<br><br>
"We need to plan this properly," you say, gripping the door handle as she runs a red light. Not deliberately. She just doesn't seem to notice it exists.<br><br>
"Planning! Yes! I love planning!" She swerves around a taxi, the driver's horn blaring. Maud waves cheerfully at his extended middle finger. "We should make lists! And charts! With red string! I have so much red string!"<br><br>
Another turn, tires squealing. Your left/right hand is itching but this time with the very reasonable desire to grab the wheel.<br><br>
"Maud—"<br><br>
"Oh, also!" She cuts you off, accelerating through a yellow light that's definitely red by the time you pass under it. "I should mention…I don't technically have a license."<br><br>
"What?"<br><br>
"Yeah, turns out they require things like 'writing tests' and 'driving test.' Very boring if you ask me!"<br><br>
The car hits a pothole hard enough to make something fall off the undercarriage. It clangs against the asphalt behind you.<br><br>
"That's probably fine," Maud decides, not slowing down.<br><br>
She merges into traffic without looking, guided apparently by pure luck. Other cars swerve. Horns blare. Someone shouts.<br><br>
"I love driving!" Maud announces, grinning wider as she takes another corner at a speed that makes the tires scream. "Just people in metal boxes trying not to die!"<br><br>
The speedometer creeps past what should be possible in a car this old. The engine makes sounds like it's negotiating with death.<br><br>
The city blurs past and the occasional pedestrian diving for safety. Your sister drives like a psycho—without regard for physics, laws, or basic survival instinct.<br><br>
But somehow, you're still alive<br><br>
.
"Hey $firstName?" Maud says, finally slowing down slightly as traffic thickens.<br><br>
"What?"<br><br>
"I really am sorry about Riley. I know he was useful to you."<br><br>
The apology catches you off-guard. It sounds almost... genuine.<br><br>
"Just... maybe next time try talking to people first? Before the kidnapping?"<br><br>
"I'll consider it," she says, then grins. "But no promises. Kidnapping is surprisingly effective!"<br><br>
The engine makes another dying sound. The check engine light flickers on. Then off. Then on again, like it's having an existential crisis.<br><br>
"Perfect," Maud declares. "Christine's expressing herself!"<br><br>
You close your eyes and try not to think about how your investigation into a murdered mistress with her child has led to sitting in a possibly stolen car with your definitely criminal psycho sister.<br><br>
In Sordia, family reunions should come with warnings. Apparently, they also come with felonies and vehicles that violate the laws of physics.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P10]]The car lurches through another red light.<br><br>
Your phone vibrates. Uncle Ben's name illuminates the cracked screen. You thumb out a quick message while gripping the door handle with your other hand as Maud takes a corner at physics-defying speeds.<br><br>
Won't make it back tonight. Got caught up in something. Tomorrow.<br><br>
The response is immediate. Like he's been waiting by the phone. Like he always does when you're out chasing stories that might get you killed.<br><br>
Be safe, please.<br><br>
"Texting and driving is dangerous," Maud sing-songs, swerving around a delivery truck with inches to spare. "Or texting while someone else is driving. Same thing really when you think about it."<br><br>
"Nice work on the Grey broadcast," Maud says suddenly, taking another turn without signaling. Her black eyes never leave the road but something in her voice shifts. Becomes less manic. More... present. "Very dramatic. Very you."<br><br>
The comment catches you off-guard. Your left hand starts itching. That familiar sensation when something doesn't add up.<br><br>
<<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">> "Though you always did love the sound of your own voice," she adds, snickering. "Some things never change, even when everything else goes to shit." <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> "You’re good at getting people to listen," she continues, in a sing-song voice. "Very badass." <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> "Made me proud," she says quietly, so quietly you almost miss it over Christine's death rattle engine. "Seeing you tear that bastard apart on live television. I was really proud..." She trails off, shadows curling around her fingers on the steering wheel. <</if>><br><br>
"You watched it?"<br><br>
The surprise in your voice is genuine. You can't picture Maud sitting still long enough to watch anything, let alone your broadcasts. Let alone caring enough to pay attention.<br><br>
"I always watch when you're live." She says it matter-of-factly. "Every single time."
The admission hangs between you. Heavy. Loaded with implications you're not ready to unpack.<br><br>
A red light approaches. Maud doesn't slow down. Doesn't even acknowledge its existence. Cars honk. Swerve.<br><br>
You know you will regret it but you have to ask. The question forms before you can stop it. Before your better judgment can intervene. Before self-preservation can remind you that some doors shouldn't be opened.<br><br>
"How far has it gone, Maud?"<br><br>
She knows what you mean. The stiffening of her shoulders tells you that much. The way shadows suddenly writhe more violently around her.<br><br>
"Are you becoming like—"<br><br>
The car stops.<br><br>
Not slows down. Not pulls over. Stops. Dead center in the middle of the street. It throws you forward against the seatbelt hard enough to bruise.<br><br>
Maud turns to look at you. Really look at you.<br><br>
Her black eyes are voids. Not metaphorically. Literally. Light falls into them and doesn't come back. The shadows in the car deepen, thicken, become something almost solid. The temperature drops, you begin to shiver slightly.<br><br>
Behind you, horns blare. Angry. Insistent. Headlights pile up, turning the interior into a shifting pattern of light that can't quite penetrate the darkness emanating from your sister.<br><br>
"I have it under control," she says.<br><br>
Five words. This voice is colder. And somehow you don’t believe her.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Under control? You kept a man in your trunk for eighteen hours. That\'s not control, that\'s deranged."'>>
<<set $maudChoice6 to "cutting">>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $maudstat -= 2>>
<<goto "CH1P10.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Define control. Because from where I\'m sitting, kidnapping informants and driving without a license doesn\'t suggest emotional regulation."'>>
<<set $maudChoice6 to "methodical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $observation += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P10.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"I\'m worried about you. This isn\'t who you were before... everything."'>>
<<set $maudChoice6 to "soft">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $maudstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P10.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Bullshit. You\'re one bad day from becoming exactly like her."'>>
<<set $maudChoice6 to "confrontational">>
<<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $maudstat -= 1>>
<<goto "CH1P10.1">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>The apartment door opens into darkness.<br><br>
"I’m not good with lights as you know," Maud says from somewhere in the black, her voice coming from three different directions at once. "But since you're all human and probably need to see..."<br><br>
A single bulb flickers to life. Then another. Then several more in sequence, each one revealing another layer of chaos that makes your desperate need to understand what the fuck you're looking at.<br><br>
The apartment is a crime scene waiting to happen. Or maybe one that already has.<br><br>
Pizza boxes tower. Clothing drapes from every surface—black jeans, black shirts, black jackets, black everything, like Maud's entire wardrobe is in mourning for her sanity. Empty energy drink cans form small pyramids on surfaces that might have once been tables but are now archaeological sites of caffeine addiction.<br><br>
The floor is barely visible beneath layers of newspapers, printouts, photographs scattered like leaves after a storm. Some are crumpled, others pristine. Dirty plates stack in corners.<br><br>
But it's the a wall that stops you cold.<br><br>
Every vertical surface has been transformed into a sprawling investigation board. Red string crisscrosses between photographs, some scribbled notes, medical documents, financial records. The strings form patterns that hurt to follow.<br><br>
"Welcome to my mind palace," Maud announces, spreading her arms wide. "Or mind prison. Depends on the day."<br><br>
She kicks a path through the debris, sending empty takeout containers skittering into dark corners.<br><br>
"Kitchen's through there if you want something to drink. Bathroom's down the hall. Bedroom's where you'll sleep since I don't really need to anymore."<br><br>
Your eyes can't stop tracking the wall.<br><br>
"How long have you been working on this?"<br><br>
"Time's relative when you don't sleep much," Maud says, already at the wall, fingers tracing connections between clippings. "But specifically? Two days since I caught Jake taking photos and since someone put a bullet through his skull before he could tell me everything."<br><br>
She says it so casually. Like murder is just normalcy in whatever conspiracy she's mapping.<br><br>
"Start from the beginning," you say, moving closer to the wall as well. "Who was Jake?"<br><br>
Maud pulls out a phone, you guess it’s hers. The screen is cracked and there's dried blood on the case.<br><br>
"Jake Morrison. Twenty-eight. Human. Worked as a freelance photographer, which was obviously bullshit because his equipment was too expensive for someone making artist wages." She scrolls through the phone with practiced efficiency. "I caught him Tuesday night, taking photos of Luz during a deal."<br><br>
She projects an image from the phone onto the least cluttered section of wall. It shows Luz from a distance, But it's not a casual photo. It's surveillance. Professional. The angle, the clarity despite the distance, the way $luzHe is centered in frame like a target.<br><br>
"So my partner and I hunted him down," Maud continues, her tone shifting to something darker. "Vinny-Pooh got shot or something and I had to do all the hard work of tracking him down."<br><br>
"What did you do?"<br><br>
"I wanted to ask questions." She grins, but it doesn't reach her black eyes. "Sadly he was shot before I could ask anything."<br><br>
Maud moves to the center of the wall, where twelve photographs you have already seen briefly at the diner are printed out and arranged in a circle. Each one is a surveillance shot, taken from a distance but with professional clarity. Your stomach turns when you see your own face among them.<br><br>
"Let's meet our fellow targets," Maud says with false cheer. "The twelve people someone thinks are worth watching and cataloging.I spent yesterday gathering some intel on a few people who I didn’t know."<br><br>
She points to the first photo, upper left.<br><br>
"Marguerite Asher. Chronos bloodline. Fifty-eight years old. Works as a strategic consultant for three different Fortune 500 companies, which is impressive considering she only appears to work about four hours a week." Maud taps the photo. "Missing for a week now. No body. No ransom. No trace."<br><br>
Even in the surveillance shot, she seems to be looking at something beyond the camera's view.<br><br>
"Next: Linnea Frost, the murdering bitch. Fae bloodline. Thirty-one." The second photo shows her with her real features, silver-blonde hair that seems to shine depending on the angle and softly glowing violet eyes. "Heiress to the Frost business. Can make people remember things that never happened. Missing for 72 hours. Question is has she fled the country because she murdered her lovers other mistress and kid or did something else happen?"<br><br>
Maud moves to the third photo. "Yours truly." The surveillance shot captures her mid-laugh, same $haircolour as you. "You already know my resume. Umbra bloodline disaster. Professional problem. Part-time kidnapper, full-time guardian of ungrateful <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>brother<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>sister<<else>>sibling<</if>>."<br><br>
The fourth photo makes you lean closer. "Dr. Arden. Manitou bloodline. Thirty-eight. Runs that neutral underground clinic."<br><br>
In the photo you see a
<<if $ardenmet is false>>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '...man with pale skin and piercing grey eyes that seem almost lifeless, as if they’ve seen too much.'>>
<<set $ardenName = "Dr. Arden">>
<<set $ardenHe = "he">>
<<set $ardenHim = "him">>
<<set $ardenHis = "his">>
<<set $ardenHimself to "himself">>
<<set $ardenHeC to "He">>
<<set $ardenHimC to "Him">>
<<set $ardenHisC to "His">>
<<set $aceHimselfC to "Himself">>
<<set $ardenGender = "male">>
<<set $ardenmet = true>>
<<goto "CH1P11.1">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '...woman with pale skin and piercing grey eyes that seem almost lifeless, as if they’ve seen too much.'>>
<<set $ardenName = "Dr. Arden">>
<<set $ardenHe = "she">>
<<set $ardenHim = "her">>
<<set $ardenHis = "her">>
<<set $ardenHimself to "herself">>
<<set $ardenHeC to "She">>
<<set $ardenHimC to "Her">>
<<set $ardenHisC to "Her">>
<<set $ardenHimselfC to "Herself">>
<<set $ardenGender = "female">>
<<set $ardenmet = true>>
<<goto "CH1P11.1">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
<<else>>
[[Continue|CH1P11.1]]
<</if>><<if $maudChoice is "cutting">>Maud's laugh is sharp, brittle. "Urban legend? Oh, $firstName. Always with the dramatic descriptions." Her smile turns vicious. "Uncle Ben stopped asking after a year. You know why? Because he was relieved. One less broken thing to worry about." She leans forward, shadows writhing. "At least I became something interesting. You're still the same angry little truth-seeker, just with better press credentials."<<elseif $maudChoice is "deflecting">>"Cute quote. But Nietzsche also said 'one must still have chaos within oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.'" Maud's grin is all teeth. "Guess which philosophy I chose to follow? Besides—" She gestures to herself with mock grandeur. "—look at me! I'm practically a work of art."<<elseif $maudChoice is "soft">>Maud goes quiet, studying your face like she's seeing you for the first time in years. "Different methods," she repeats slowly. "You document the monsters. I became one." She traces patterns in spilled coffee with one finger. "Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if we'd stuck together. Probably would've burned down half the city by now."<</if>><br><br>
The food arrives like a grease bomb detonating on the table. The burgers are massive, bleeding red juice that might be ketchup, might be food coloring, definitely isn't FDA approved. Fries glisten with enough oil to fuel a small generator. Onion rings that could double as life preservers. And pie that might have been apple, once, in a past life.<br><br>
Maud attacks her burger with the enthusiasm of someone who hasn't eaten in days. Maybe she hasn't.<br><br>
"Fuck, that's actually good," she says through a mouthful, but keeps eating. "Remember that place near school? Johnson's? This is way better."<br><br>
"Johnson's got shut down for health violations."<br><br>
"After we exposed them for using rat meat." Maud grins, and for a second she's thirteen again, proud of their first investigation. "God, we were so fucking naive."<br><br>
You pick at your own burger. It tastes like regret and industrial lubricant, but your stomach doesn't care.<br><br>
"Remember the thing with Vice Principal Harrison?" Maud continues, demolishing fries between burger bites. "You figured out he was embezzling from the fundraiser money."<br><br>
"You broke into his office to get the evidence."<br><br>
"And Ace kept watch. Nearly pissed himself when security showed up." She laughs, actual warmth in it. "We hid in that supply closet for three hours. You kept quoting Shakespeare to keep calm. Ace was doing that thing where he makes everything a joke when he's scared. And I was just trying not to let the shadows leak out."<br><br>
"They fired Harrison because of that story."<br><br>
"They transferred him to another school district where he's probably still stealing," Maud corrects. "But for like a week, we thought we were heroes. Thought we'd changed something."<br><br>
She pauses, burger halfway to her mouth.<br><br>
"That's when I knew you'd become this. A real journalist. You had that look when we published the story. Like you'd tasted blood and wanted more."<br><br>
"And you?"<br><br>
"I knew I'd become something else." She sets down the burger.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"So we were always doomed to become this. You...something, me a leech, Ace a federal cop. The corruption-busting trio becomes part of the system we fought."'>>
<<set $maudChoice2 to "cynical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $corrupt += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P7.2.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"We did good work though. Those stories mattered."'>>
<<set $maudChoice2 to "hopeful">>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $maudstat += 1>>
<<set $moral += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P7.2.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"That was children playing at justice. This is the real work. Uglier but more effective."'>>
<<set $maudChoice2 to "hardened">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $corrupt += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P7.2.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<<if $maudChoice2 is "cynical">>Maud's laugh is bitter. "Maybe. Or maybe we just grew up and realized the system doesn't change. It adapts. It absorbs. It makes you think you're fighting it while you're really feeding it." She gestures at the diner around you. "Look where our principles got us. You're owned by Nasir. I'm one of the monsters parents warn their kids about. And Ace..." She shakes her head. "Ace still thinks the badge means something."<<elseif $maudChoice2 is "hopeful">>Maud studies you with those black eyes. "You really believe that?" When you nod, something in her expression shifts. "Maybe you're right. Maybe those kids we helped avoid recruitment into the Blood Gangs are living normal lives now. Maybe Harrison's victims got some closure." She picks up an onion ring, examines it like it holds answers. "Or maybe we just made ourselves feel better while the city kept eating people. Hard to tell from here."<<elseif $maudChoice2 is "hardened">>"Effective?" Maud leans forward. "You think what we do is effective? You expose corruption, they find new ways to hide it. I terrorize the worst of them, new ones take their place." But then she nods slowly. "But yeah, it's real. Realer than our little school newspaper crusade. At least now when we draw blood, it actually bleeds."<</if>><br><br>
She finishes her burger, attacks the pie with the same enthusiasm. Apple, definitely apple, though possibly apple that's seen better decades.<br><br>
"This is disgusting," she announces, taking another bite anyway.<br><br>
You watch her eat with the focus of someone who hasn't worried about their next meal in three years. Maybe hasn't had many meals at all. The shadows make her hard to track, but they probably make normal life impossible too. Can't exactly walk into a grocery store when darkness bends around you like a living thing.<br><br>
"Why are you really here, Maud?" The question comes out before you can stop it. "I want the real reason. What brought you back now?"<br><br>
She sets down her fork. Looks at you with those impossible black eyes. The shadows around her pulse once, twice, like a heartbeat made of darkness.<br><br>
"That's the right question," she says grinning. "Took you long enough to ask it."
She reaches into her jacket, and for a moment you tense, but she just pulls out a cigarette. Lights it with the same silver Zippo from the alley.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P8]]She reaches into her jacket—the same leather jacket that's seen better decades—and pulls out a manila folder. Ah fuck not another folder. Slaps it on the table between the coffee cups and grease stains.<br><br>
"Look," she says, all playfulness evaporating. <br><br>
You open the folder.<br><br>
Photos spill out like accusations. Your fingers freeze on the first one.<br><br>
Lillian Frost, caught in profile outside a restaurant you don't recognize. The photo's recent—you can tell by the construction scaffolding in the background that went up last month.<br><br>
The next photo: Marguerite Asher, the missing Chronos aristocrat whose case Nasir just assigned you.<br><br>
"Recognize them?" Maud asks, but she's not looking at you. She's watching the other patrons, the shadows, the door. Always watching.<br><br>
"Frost and Asher." Your left hand is burning now. "Someone's been surveillance on them."<br><br>
"Keep going."<br><br>
You recognise everyone in those pictures. They’re all someone important in Sordia.<br><br>
The next photo makes your blood freeze.<br><br>
It's you. Walking out of Channel 6, probably a month ago based on the clothes. <br><br>
And then—<br><br>
"Is that..."<br><br>
"Me!" Maud says brightly, pointing at her own photo. "Don't I look good? Love what the shadows do for my complexion."<br><br>
In the photo, she's emerging from an alley, her hair still (same hair colour as Mc) unmistakable even in the grainy image. There is blood on her clothes and a wide grin on her face.<br><br>
"Someone's been watching us," you say, the words tasting like copper in your mouth.<br><br>
"Ding ding ding! Give the journalist a prize!" Maud's grin is sharp as broken glass. <br><br>
"Turns out we're on the list too, $firstName. Isn't that fun? We're targets! Together! Like a family reunion, but with more death or abduction!"<br><br>
You look up at her, and she's not smiling anymore. The shadows around her writhe with barely contained violence.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Walk me through it. Step by step. How did you obtain these photographs?"'>>
<<set $maudChoice3 to "methodical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $observation += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P8.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"You tortured someone for information?"'>>
<<set $maudChoice3 to "confrontational">>
<<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $maudstat -= 1>>
<<goto "CH1P8.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"He\'s dead, isn\'t he? The person who took these."'>>
<<set $maudChoice3 to "intuitive">>
<<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $maudstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P8.2">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
<<if $maudChoice3 is "methodical">>Maud rocks back and forth slightly, like a child with a secret. "Well, there was this guy. Sneaking around, taking pictures, being all suspicious and spy-like. Very unprofessional, really. So I grabbed him like I grabbed you, but less gentle and I wanted to have a chat." She grins. "Well, I chatted. He mostly screamed. Shadows in the lungs make it hard to talk, you know?"<<elseif $maudChoice3 is "confrontational">>"Torture is such an ugly word!" Maud protests, but she's grinning. "I prefer... aggressive negotiation. Enhanced interrogation. Forceful fact-finding!" She leans forward conspiratorially. "Besides, he was taking pictures of my boss. That's rude. Rudeness should be punished."<<elseif $maudChoice3 is "intuitive">>Maud's grin falters for just a second. "Not my fault! Well, not entirely. Turns out some people's hearts just can't handle being wrapped in shadows. Who knew?" She shrugs.<</if>><br><br>
"Did you kill him?" The question comes out hesitant, not sure you want the answer.<br><br>
Maud snickers, actually snickers, like you've said something genuinely funny. "Nope! Man, $firstName, what do you think I am?" She pauses. "Don't answer that. But no, I didn't kill him. Wanted to. Really, really wanted to. But someone else killed him before me."<br><br>
"Who was he working for?"<br><br>
"That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?" Maud points at another photo from the folder. "But he was snooping around my boss when I caught him, so..."<br><br>
You look at the photo and your stomach drops.<br><br>
<<if $luzmet is false>>
<ul>
<li>
<<link 'Pink-tinted sunglasses. Heterochromatic eyes—one red, one black. Half-white, half-black hair styled to perfection. A chilling smile. The face of Lucian stares right back at you.'>>
<<set $luzName = "Lucian">>
<<set $luzHe = "he">>
<<set $luzHim = "him">>
<<set $luzHis = "his">>
<<set $luzHimself to "himself">>
<<set $luzHeC to "He">>
<<set $luzHimC to "Him">>
<<set $luzHisC to "His">>
<<set $luzHimselfC to "Himself">>
<<set $luzGender = "male">>
<<set $luzmet = true>>
<<goto "CH1P8.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link 'Pink-tinted sunglasses. Heterochromatic eyes—one red, one black. Half-white, half-black hair styled to perfection. A chilling smile. The face of Lucia stares right back at you.'>>
<<set $luzName = "Lucia">>
<<set $luzHe = "she">>
<<set $luzHim = "her">>
<<set $luzHis = "her">>
<<set $luzHimself to "herself">>
<<set $luzHeC to "She">>
<<set $luzHimC to "Her">>
<<set $luzHisC to "Her">>
<<set $luzHimselfC to "Herself">>
<<set $luzGender = "female">>
<<set $luzmet = true>>
<<goto "CH1P8.3">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
<<else>>
[[Continue|CH1P8.3]]
<</if>><<if $maudChoice4 is "accepting">>Maud's grin is pure satisfaction mixed with genuine relief. "There's the Charlie I remember. Always willing to chase the story, even when it's dangerous as hell." She stubs out her cigarette. "Don't worry, I'll try not to kill anyone unless they really deserve it. Can't promise they won't deserve it, though."<<elseif $maudChoice4 is "reluctant">>Maud's expression softens slightly, something almost vulnerable flickering across her features. "Terrible ideas are my specialty. But you're right—I do understand this world in ways most people can't." She pauses. "Or won't. We'll figure it out as we go. We always did before."<<elseif $maudChoice4 is "resistant">>Maud laughs, delighted by your obvious internal struggle. "Your way, huh? And what exactly is your way? Because my way involves a lot more stabbing and significantly less paperwork." She leans back, shadows curling around her like satisfied cats. "But fine. We'll try the civilized approach first. When it fails spectacularly, we switch to my methods."<</if>><br><br>
You sigh. "We can investigate together. It's literally my job anyway, Nasir assigned me the Asher case, and if Frost is involved, even better."<br><br>
Maud starts to cheer, but you hold up a hand.<br><br>
You hesitate but you need to ask."Does this mean you’re back now in our lives?"<br><br>
"Back?" Maud's expression shifts through several emotions too fast to track. "<br><br>
She starts gathering the photos, shoving them back in the folder with zero organization.<br><br>
"This is gonna be fun! Dangerous but fun!"she sing-songs, totally ignoring your question. Typical.<br><br>
She stands abruptly, shadows pooling around her feet.<br><br>
"Come on, $firstName-bear. Let's go solve a mystery and try not to die!"<br><br>
"We're not done talking about this—"<br><br>
"We're so done! Moving on! Moving forward! Moving at the speed of shadow!" She heads for the door, then spins back. Maud's already at the door, holding it open with theatrical flourish.<br><br>
"Come on, big bro/sis/sib. Time to show you what I've been up to the last couple of days and to remember what we were like as a duo." Her grin softens, becomes something almost genuine. <br><br>
You hesitate. “Now?”<br><br>
You look at the folder in your hands. At your sister haloed in broken neon, shadows bending around her like loyal pets. At the coffee growing cold on the table.<br><br>
Three years of silence, and now this. What has your life come to in a span of just a few hours? A partnership built on… whatever the hell just happened. But maybe that's all you can expect. Maybe that's all family means here, people who'll bleed with you, even if they won't heal with you.<br><br>
"Fine," you say, standing. "But if you do something stupid—"<br><br>
"You'll flash-fry me with your tactical flashlight, yeah yeah." She's bouncing on her heels like an excited child. "I missed you being all grumpy and threatening. It's adorable!"<br><br>
"I'm not adorable." You grumble.<br><br>
"You're super adorable! Like a tiny angry journalist with a truth addiction and trust issues!"<br><br>
<<if $height is "very-short">>"I'm not tiny, I'm... compact."<br><br>
"See? Tiny and defensive about it! Peak adorable behavior!Now let’s go to my car!"<<elseif $height is "short">>"I'm not that short. You're just... vertically overprivileged."<br><br>
"Aww, look at you trying to make shortness sound professional. So cute!Now let’s go to my car!"<<elseif $height is "average">>"We're literally the same height, Maud."<br><br>
"Yeah, but I'm taller in spirit! It's all about the attitude, Charlie!"<<elseif $height is "tall">>"I'm literally taller than you."<br><br>
"Not in spirit! Now let’s go to my car!"<<elseif $height is "very-tall">>"I'm a full head taller than you, how am I tiny?"<br><br>
"Tiny angry journalist energy! Height doesn't matter when you're that concentrated with righteous fury! Now let’s go to my car!"<<elseif $height is "towering">>"I tower over you. Literally."<br><br>
"And yet you're still adorable! Like an angry tiny skyscraper with feelings. Now let’s go to my car!"<</if>><br><br>
You follow her out into Sordia's darkness, the folder heavy in your hands. Your sister dances ahead, shadows trailing behind her like breadcrumbs. Like she's leaving a path for you to follow.<br><br>
Or like she's marking territory.<br><br>
Whatever's in these photos, whatever connects Frost and Asher and you and Maud and the rest of the people have, it's big.<br><br>
"Hey Maud?" you call as you walk.<br><br>
"Yeah?"<br><br>
"Your apartment better not be a complete disaster."<br><br>
She laughs, bright and unhinged. "Oh, it absolutely is!"<br><br>
You're going to regret this. Every single part of this.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P9]]<<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">> The anger hits like a physical blow. Your hand moves before thought, shoving her back across the table. "What the fuck, Maud?"<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>You don't move. Don't react. Just stare at someone who used to matter. "Maud." <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>Your heart stops. Restarts. Hammers against ribs that suddenly feel too small. "What the... Maud?"<</if>><br><br>
She pulls back slightly but stays leaning over the table, elbows planted next to your coffee cup, chin resting on laced fingers. Studying you like you're something fascinating she found under a rock.<br><br>
You do the same in return.<br><br>
You take a better look at her. She must be twenty-three years old now, but she looks older. Looks like Sordia has been chewing on her and she's been chewing back.<br><br>
She's lean now. Like a blade that's been sharpened down to its essential purpose. Wiry muscle visible through tears in her leather jacket that's seen better decades. Every movement contains coiled energy, like she's always one second from violence or vanishing.<br><br>
The scars are new too. A jagged line runs up her left hand, disappearing beneath the sleeve, the kind of mark that says someone tried to pin her down and learned why that's impossible. More scars web across her knuckles. Fighter's marks.<br><br>
You take a closer look at her eyes and it almost stops your breath.<br><br>
Pure black. No iris, no sclera, just endless dark that reflects your flashlight like oil on water. Full Umbra manifestation. The kind that takes years to develop or trauma to trigger. When she left, she could barely go invisible in dim light. Now she looks like she could swallow darkness and breathe out void.<br><br>
"Hi $firstName," she says, voice exactly the same. That slight rasp. "You look like shit."<br><br>
Pink hair, choppy and uneven. Dark circles cratering beneath those impossible black eyes. Brown lipstick, chipped and reapplied without care. Piercings you don't remember—lip, eyebrow, too many in her ears to count.<br><br>
The waitress returns with coffee. Doesn't comment on Maud's appearance, the way shadows pool around her, or how the lights flicker. In Sordia, you learn not to see things.<br><br>
"You're one of the seven," you say, the words tasting like ash. "The confirmed Umbra threats."<br><br>
"Among other things," she agrees, her smile wide.<br><br>
"They call me 'Orca' on the official lists, which is hilarious. Like I'm some kind of killer machine." She grins again, flicking ash from her cigarette. “Aww I missed these family reunions!”<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"\'Orca\'? That\'s what they\'re calling you? At least serial killers get creative code names. Yours sounds like a marine biology textbook."'>>
<<set $maudChoice00 to "confrontational">>
<<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $maudstat -= 1>>
<<goto "Ch1P7.1.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Three years of radio silence and you show up out of the blue.. That\'s not coincidence. What do you want, Maud?"'>>
<<set $maudChoice00 to "intuitive">>
<<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($intuitive || 50) + 1)>>
<<goto "Ch1P7.1.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"I spent months following every shadow in this city, thinking maybe one of them was you. Turns out I was right to be paranoid."'>>
<<set $maudChoice00 to "hopeful">>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $maudstat += 2>>
<<goto "Ch1P7.1.3">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
<<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>The anger hits first. Three years of it. She left. Walked out during the worst time of your lives and never looked back. Never called. Never sent word she was alive. Just vanished like you meant nothing.
"You attacked me," you say, voice flat. Dead. The way you've practiced saying her name in your head for three years.
"I grabbed you," she corrects, with casual indifference. "There's a difference. If I'd attacked you, we'd be having this conversation in a hospital. Or a morgue."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>Recognition comes without the expected punch of emotion. Three years is long enough to process abandonment, to accept it, to file it away under "things that happened" rather than "wounds that still bleed." She's standing there, but she might as well be a stranger wearing your sister's face.
"Maud," you say, testing the name. It feels foreign on your tongue now. Like a word from a language you used to speak.
"$firstName," she replies, and there's something in her voice. Expectation, maybe. Hope. She's waiting for anger or tears or some sign that her disappearance mattered. But you've moved past needing to give her that satisfaction.
"You look different," you observe, because it's true and because it's safer than anything else you might say.<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>The hurt hits first, sharp and immediate as a blade between ribs. Three years of wondering if she was alive. Three years of looking for her, of hoping every Umbra report might be her. Three years of loving someone who might have been dead, of hating someone who chose to let you think she was.
"Maud." Her name comes out broken. Relieved. Furious. Everything you've felt for three years compressed into one word.
"Hey, $firstName-bear," she says, using the childhood nickname like it hasn't been three years since she walked away. Like she has the right to tenderness when she's the one who broke it.
Your mind is reeling. She's alive, she's here, and despite everything, you're glad.<</if>><br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Three years, Maud. Three years of nothing, and you announce yourself by assaulting me in an alley? Were you always this fucked up, or is this new?"'>>
<<set $maudChoice0 to "cutting">>
<<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $maudstat -= 2>>
<<goto "CH1P6.4">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Get the fuck away from me. You don\'t get to just appear after three years and act like this is normal."'>>
<<set $maudChoice0 to "confrontational">>
<<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $maudstat -= 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6.4">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Fuck, Maud. I could have hurt you. Why didn\'t you just... approach me normally?"'>>
<<set $maudChoice0 to "soft">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $maudstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P6.4">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
<<if $maudChoice0 is "cutting">>Maud's grin widens, showing too many teeth. "Always this fucked up. You just couldn't see it through all that big sibling concern." She blows you a kiss, her eyes holding some kind of fondness. "But you fought back. Good for you. Most people just piss themselves when I grab them from shadows." She moves closer, shadows writhing around her feet. "Though technically, you assaulted me. I was just saying hello. You're the one who went straight to fighting." The casualness with which she dismisses three years of absence makes you want to hit her again.<<elseif $maudChoice0 is "confrontational">>Maud laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "Normal? In Sordia? That's adorable." She doesn't move away. If anything, she steps closer, shadows pooling at her feet like obedient pets. "And I'll go wherever I want, whenever I want. Perks of being me." She grins wider. "Uncle Ben would be so proud. Or horrified. Probably both." She's not going anywhere, and you both know it.<<elseif $maudChoice0 is "soft">>Something flickers across her face, surprise maybe, that you care about her wellbeing. "Normally," she repeats, like the word is foreign. "I don't do normal anymore, $firstName. Haven't for three years." She stretches, bone cracking. "Besides, I needed to know if you'd gotten soft. If you could still defend yourself." Her expression shifts slightly. "You can. Good. You're going to need it." The concern in her voice is buried deep, but it's there.<</if>><br><br>
The alley feels smaller with her in it. Like the shadows are pressing closer, drawn to her presence. A rat scurries past and freezes when her shadow touches it, trembling until she lets it go.<br><br>
"You're one of the seven," you say, the words tasting like ash. "The confirmed Umbra threats."<br><br>
"Among other things," she agrees, she pulls out a cigarette, lights it with a silver Zippo that definitely wasn't hers three years ago.<br><br>
"They call me 'Orca' on the official lists, which is hilarious. Like I'm some kind of killer machine" She grins again, flicking ash from her cigarette. <br><br>
A car drives by the alley mouth, headlights washing over you both. In that moment of illumination, you see her clearly.<br><br>
"Why are you back?" you ask. "Why tonight?"<br><br>
She doesn't answer immediately. Takes a long drag from her cigarette, shadows curling with the smoke.<br><br>
"Because," she finally says, "you're about to stumble into something you don't understand. And despite everything you're still my <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>brother<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>sister<<else>>sibling<</if>>. And for me, that means something."<br><br>
She drops the cigarette, crushes it under her boot.<br><br>
"Look," she says, "I didn't come here to rehash our shit. I came because—" She stops. Tilts her head like she's listening to something you can't hear. "Fuck. I’m hungry. Let’s go eat."<br><br>
Before you can process it she grabs your arm with her hand this time, not shadows. Her touch is ice-cold but solid. Real. "Come on."<br><br>
You follow her out of the alley, hyperaware of how the shadows seem to bend around her, creating pockets of darkness that shouldn't exist under the streetlights. She moves differently than you remember, fluid, predatory.<br><br>
"So," you say as you walk, "the Fork n' Knife. That was you?"<br><br>
She glances at you, something like amusement in those black depths. "R for 'Really thought you'd figure it out faster.' But yeah, that was me. Figured you wouldn't come if you knew it was your estranged sister wanting to chat."<br><br>
"You figured right."<br><br>
"And yet here we are." She stops suddenly, head tilted. She looks at the Fork n' Knife's neon sign, barely a block away now. "I’m buying, by the way. Since I’m the one with the big money now."<br><br>
She pushes through the Fork n' Knife's door without waiting for your response. The neon light catches on her pink hair, on the blood still staining her clothes from where you wounded her. She doesn't look back to see if you're following.<br><br>
She knows you will.<br><br>
Because despite three years of silence, despite the anger that sits like acid in your chest, <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">> she wouldn’t just turn up after three years if it wasn’t urgent. <<else>> she's still your sister.<</if>><br><br>
You follow her into the diner.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P7.2]]<div class="character-creation-header">
<h1 class="bloodlines-title">Hair</h1>
<p class="subtitle">Crown yourself with choice or rebellion.</p>
</div>
Hair tells stories in Sordia. Stories of rebellion, conformity, desperation, privilege. The color you choose—natural or otherwise—broadcasts messages before you speak. The way you wear it determines whether you blend into crowds or command attention from across a room.<br><br>
What story will your hair tell?<br><br>
<div class="character-name">$fullName<<if $nickname>> (a.k.a. "$nickname")<</if>></div>
<div id="character-details">
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Hair Color</h3>
<p class="section-description">Choose your hair colour. Do you stand out or do you blend in?</p>
<div class="tab-selector">
<<link "Natural Colors">>
<<replace "#hair-color-options">>
<div class="hair-options natural-colors">
<<radiobutton "$hair" "black">> Black<br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "dark-brown">> Dark Brown<br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "medium-brown">> Medium Brown<br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "light-brown">> Light Brown<br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "dark-blonde">> Dark Blonde<br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "blonde">> Blonde <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "platinum">> Platinum<br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "auburn">> Auburn <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "chestnut">> Chestnut <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "copper">> Copper <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "ginger">> Ginger <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "salt-pepper">> Salt & Pepper <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "gray">> Gray <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "white">> White <br>
</div>
<</replace>>
<</link>> |
<<link "Unnatural Colors">>
<<replace "#hair-color-options">>
<div class="hair-options unnatural-colors">
<<radiobutton "$hair" "blue">> Blue <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "purple">> Purple <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "pink">> Pink <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "green">> Green <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "red">> Red <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "teal">> Teal <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "silver">> Silver <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "rainbow">> Rainbow <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "ombre">> Ombre <br>
</div>
<</replace>>
<</link>>
</div>
<div id="hair-color-options">
<div class="hair-options natural-colors">
<<radiobutton "$hair" "black">> Black<br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "dark-brown">> Dark Brown<br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "medium-brown">> Medium Brown<br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "light-brown">> Light Brown<br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "dark-blonde">> Dark Blonde<br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "blonde">> Blonde <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "platinum">> Platinum<br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "auburn">> Auburn <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "chestnut">> Chestnut <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "copper">> Copper <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "ginger">> Ginger <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "salt-pepper">> Salt & Pepper <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "gray">> Gray <br>
<<radiobutton "$hair" "white">> White <br>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Hair Texture</h3>
<p class="section-description">How your hair moves, falls, rebels.</p>
<div class="hair-options">
<<radiobutton "$hairTexture" "straight">> Straight <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairTexture" "wavy">> Wavy <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairTexture" "curly">> Curly <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairTexture" "coily">> Coily <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairTexture" "kinky">> Kinky <br>
</div>
</div>
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Hair Length</h3>
<p class="section-description">Choose your hair length.</p>
<div class="hair-options">
<<radiobutton "$hairLength" "bald">> Bald <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairLength" "buzzcut">> Buzzcut <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairLength" "pixie">> Pixie Cut <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairLength" "short">> Short <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairLength" "ear-length">> Ear Length<br>
<<radiobutton "$hairLength" "chin-length">> Chin Length <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairLength" "shoulder">> Shoulder Length <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairLength" "waist">> Waist Length <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairLength" "hip">> Hip Length<br>
</div>
</div>
<div class="appearance-section" id="hairstyle-section">
<h3>Hairstyle</h3>
<p class="section-description">How you choose to arrange your hair.</p>
<div class="style-options">
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Simple Styles</h4>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "natural">> Natural <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "layered">> Layered <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "side-part">> Side Part <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "middle-part">> Middle Part <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "undercut">> Undercut<br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "fade">> Fade<br>
</div>
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Updos & Braided Styles</h4>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "ponytail">> Ponytail <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "high-ponytail">> High Ponytail <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "low-bun">> Low Bun <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "high-bun">> High Bun <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "messy-bun">> Messy Bun <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "space-buns">> Space Buns <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "braid">> Single Braid <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "french-braid">> French Braid <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "dutch-braid">> Dutch Braid<br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "crown-braid">> Crown Braid <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "fishtail braid">> Fishtail Braid <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "double-braid">> Double Braids<br>
</div>
<div class="option-group">
<h4>Cultural & Textured Styles</h4>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "afro">> Afro <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "box-braids">> Box Braids <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "cornrows">> Cornrows <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "twists">> Twists<br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "locs">> Locs/Dreadlocks<br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "bantu-knots">> Bantu Knots <br>
<<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "puff">> Puff <br>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="appearance-section">
<h3>Head Covering</h3>
<p class="section-description">Do you cover your hair?</p>
<div class="hair-options">
<<radiobutton "$headCovering" "none">> None <br>
<<radiobutton "$headCovering" "yes">> Hair Covering<br>
</div>
</div>
<div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;">
Complete your hair before proceeding. In Sordia, half-finished appearances suggest half-finished thoughts.
</div>
<div class="continue-button">
<<button "Continue to Face">>
<<if !$hair or !$hairTexture or !$hairLength>>
<<replace "#error-message">>Complete your hair before proceeding. In Sordia, half-finished appearances suggest half-finished thoughts.<</replace>>
<<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>>
<<elseif $hairLength neq "bald" and !$hairStyle>>
<<replace "#error-message">>Choose a hairstyle or select 'bald' if you have no hair to style.<</replace>>
<<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>>
<<else>>
<<if $hairLength is "bald">>
<<set $hairStyle to "none">>
<</if>>
<<if !$headCovering>>
<<set $headCovering to "none">>
<</if>>
<<set $hairDescription to $hair>>
<<set $hairTextureDescription to $hairTexture>>
<<set $hairLengthDescription to $hairLength>>
<<if $hairLength is "bald">>
<<set $hairStyleDescription to "bald">>
<<else>>
<<set $hairStyleDescription to $hairStyle>>
<</if>>
<<if $headCovering is "none">>
<<set $headCoveringDescription to "none">>
<<else>>
<<set $headCoveringDescription to "your hair is covered">>
<</if>>
<<run $("#error-message").hide()>>
<<goto "Face">>
<</if>>
<</button>>
</div>
<style>
.character-creation-header {
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 2em;
}
.character-name {
font-size: 1.3em;
color: var(--accent);
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 2em;
font-weight: bold;
text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent);
border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent);
padding-bottom: 1em;
}
.appearance-section {
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
padding: 1.5em;
margin-bottom: 1.5em;
border-radius: 5px;
box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1);
transition: all 0.3s ease;
}
.appearance-section:hover {
box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
transform: translateY(-2px);
}
.appearance-section h3 {
color: var(--accent);
margin-bottom: 0.5em;
font-family: var(--accentFont);
text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent);
font-size: 1.4em;
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.section-description {
color: var(--accent2);
font-style: italic;
margin-bottom: 1.5em;
font-size: 0.95em;
line-height: 1.4;
border-left: 3px solid var(--accent);
padding-left: 1em;
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05);
padding: 0.8em 0 0.8em 1em;
border-radius: 0 3px 3px 0;
}
.tab-selector {
margin-bottom: 1em;
text-align: center;
border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent2);
padding-bottom: 0.5em;
}
.tab-selector a {
color: var(--accent2);
transition: all 0.3s ease;
}
.tab-selector a:hover {
color: var(--accent);
}
.hair-options, .style-options {
color: var(--text);
line-height: 1.8;
}
.hair-options input[type="radio"], .style-options input[type="radio"] {
margin-right: 0.8em;
margin-bottom: 0.1em;
accent-color: var(--accent);
transform: scale(1.2);
cursor: pointer;
}
.hair-options input[type="radio"]:checked, .style-options input[type="radio"]:checked {
accent-color: var(--accent2);
}
.option-group {
background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent2);
padding: 1.2em;
margin-bottom: 1em;
border-radius: 5px;
box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1);
}
.option-group h4 {
color: var(--accent2);
margin-bottom: 1em;
font-size: 1.1em;
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent2);
padding-bottom: 0.5em;
}
.error-message {
background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2);
border: 1px solid var(--accent);
color: var(--accent2);
padding: 1em;
border-radius: 5px;
text-align: center;
margin-bottom: 1em;
font-weight: bold;
animation: pulse 0.5s ease-in-out;
}
.continue-button {
text-align: center;
margin-top: 2em;
}
.continue-button button {
padding: 1.2em 2.5em;
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2));
color: #ffffff;
border: none;
border-radius: 5px;
font-size: 1.2em;
font-weight: bold;
cursor: pointer;
transition: all 0.3s ease;
box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent);
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8);
text-transform: uppercase;
letter-spacing: 1px;
}
.continue-button button:hover {
background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent));
box-shadow: 0 0 25px var(--accent);
transform: translateY(-3px);
}
/* Light mode adjustments */
.lm .appearance-section {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.3);
box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1);
}
.lm .section-description {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05);
}
.lm .option-group {
background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.2);
border-color: var(--accent2);
box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1);
}
.lm .continue-button button {
color: #000000;
text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3);
}
.lm .error-message {
background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2) !important;
border: 1px solid var(--accent) !important;
color: var(--accent2) !important;
}
</style>
<<script>>
$(document).on('change', 'input[name="hairLength"]', function() {
if ($(this).val() === "bald") {
$("#hairstyle-section").hide();
} else {
$("#hairstyle-section").show();
}
});
<</script>><<if $ardenGender is "male">> The photo shows a pale man with sharp, angular features and black hair that falls in messy waves. Even from a distance, his grey eyes seem to assess everything with surgical precision. He's wearing a pristine white coat over dark clothing, the contrast stark even in the grainy photo. <<elseif $ardenGender is "female">> The photo shows a pale woman with sharp, angular features and black hair pulled back in a messy bun. Even from a distance, her grey eyes seem to assess everything with surgical precision. She's wearing a pristine white coat over dark clothing, the contrast stark even in the grainy photo. <</if>><br><br>
"The good doctor who patches up anyone who can crawl through the door," Maud continues. "Doesn't take sides, doesn't make friends, doesn't ask questions. $ardenHeC can speak to the dead. AND my therapist Patch! We’re practically besties right now."<br><br>
The fifth photo makes Maud's expression shift to something more bright. "Luz. Infernal bloodline. Thirty-three. Crime boss who runs half the undercity."<br><br>
<<if $luzGender is "male">> The surveillance shot captures him mid-gesture, pink-tinted glasses catching the light. His hair, split down the middle, dark on one side, white on the other makes him impossible to mistake for anyone else. Even in the photo, his presence dominates the frame. The slight smile visible beneath the glasses promises either pleasure or pain, possibly both. <<elseif $luzGender is "female">> The surveillance shot captures her mid-gesture, pink-tinted glasses catching the light. Her hair, split down the middle, dark on one side, white on the other makes her impossible to mistake for anyone else. Even in the photo, her presence dominates the frame. Red lips curved in a smile that promises either pleasure or pain, possibly both. <</if>><br><br>
"Luz runs their empire with contracts you can't break and charm that makes you want to sign them anyway," Maud adds. "Honestly best boss of the year award should go to $luzHim."<br><br>
The sixth photo shows someone whose face you already know and wish you didn't.
<<if $emet is false>>
<ul>
<li>
<<link 'A man with golden eyes that pierce and a smile that doesn’t reach them. Smoke drifts from his cigarette. Egon Han. The CFO of HanTech.'>>
<<set $eName = "Egon">>
<<set $eHe = "he">>
<<set $eHim = "him">>
<<set $eHis = "his">>
<<set $eHimself to "himself">>
<<set $eHeC to "He">>
<<set $eHimC to "Him">>
<<set $eHisC to "His">>
<<set $eHimselfC to "Himself">>
<<set $eGender = "male">>
<<set $emet = true>>
<<goto "CH1P11.2">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link 'A woman with golden eyes that pierce and a smile that doesn’t reach them. Smoke drifts from her cigarette. Emme Han. The CFO of HanTech. '>>
<<set $eName = "Emme">>
<<set $eHe = "she">>
<<set $eHim = "her">>
<<set $eHis = "her">>
<<set $eHimself to "herself">>
<<set $eHeC to "She">>
<<set $eHimC to "Her">>
<<set $eHisC to "Her">>
<<set $eHimselfC to "Herself">>
<<set $eGender = "female">>
<<set $emet = true>>
<<goto "CH1P11.2">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul>
<<else>>
[[Continue|CH1P11.2]]
<</if>><<if $hanGender is "male">> Egon stares out from the photo with golden eyes that seem to judge everything they see as insufficient. Tall, imposing, with sharp jawline and slicked-back black hair with golden streaks. Even in surveillance, his posture is perfect, his suit immaculate. <<elseif $hanGender is "female">> Emme stares out from the photo with golden eyes that seem to judge everything they see as insufficient. Tall, imposing, with sharp features and long black hair with golden streaks. Even in surveillance, her posture is perfect, her red jumpsuit immaculate. <</if>><br><br>
<<if $background is "tabloid">>The one that made your live a living hell after his cousin David's scandal.<</if>><br><br>
"Youngest CFO to ever make the board. And the kind of person who treats people like spreadsheet entries. A fucking asshole."<br><br>
The seventh photo is slightly blurred, as if the subject wouldn't stay still. "Alex Chen. The rumoured last Seraph in Sordia. Thirteen years old." The image shows someone with an almost ethereal quality. "Is guarded 24/7 and apparently can heal… adopted by the…. Family."<br><br>
The eighth photo shows a man who seems to flow rather than simply exist. "Pierre Mellaneos. Abyssal bloodline. Thirty-five. Owns the largest import/export business on the eastern docks." The image captures him near water, and even in the still photo, there's something fluid about his movement. "Controls shipping. Has connections to every major crime family but stays neutral."<br><br>
The ninth photo makes Maud whistle appreciatively. "Aadhya from the Kumar family. Ifrit bloodline. Twenty-eight. Corporate negotiator who's never lost a case." The woman in the photo has bronze skin and eyes that burn even in the surveillance shot. Her hair seems to move despite the still image. "Brokers deals between corporations and bloodline families. Charges seven figures per negotiation."<br><br>
The tenth photo shows someone massive. "Moten. Primordial earth type. Age forty. Runs underground fighting rings." The figure in the photo is more mountain than man, with visible veins of what might be mineral deposits running under his dark skin. "Has been undefeated. Everyone fights, everyone bleeds."<br><br>
The eleventh photo is unsettling in a different way. "Robin Reeves. Chimaera bloodline. Twenty-six." The photo shows someone whose features don't quite settle into a fixed form DESCRIBE SOME MONSTER LOOKING PERSON wearing one of those mandatory suppression collars. "Some kind of anarchist and bodyguard for hire who is currently in prison."<br><br>
And finally, the twelfth photo. You. Captured leaving the Channel 6 building, smiling at someone out of shot.<br><br>
"$firstName. Human. Twenty-six. Investigative journalist with more curiosity than self-preservation." Maud's voice softens slightly. "The only human on this list."<br><br>
You study the board patterns intently. "Everyone else is from a bloodline."<br><br>
"Not just any bloodlines," Maud corrects, connecting strings between photos with practiced movements. "One from each major type. No duplicates."<br><br>
She starts listing, shadows pointing to each photo in turn: "Chronos, Fae, Umbra, Manitou, Infernal, Draegon, Seraph, Abyssal, Ifrit, Primordial, Chimaera. That's all eleven major bloodline classifications and then you, human."<br><br>
You feel a headache coming. "So someone is hunting powerful bloodlines? One of each type. Plus me, for reasons unknown."<br><br>
"But that's not even the interesting part," Maud says, her eyes gleaming with manic energy. "Look at the profiles. Every single person on this list is considered exceptional within their bloodline. Not just powerful, but specifically notable."<br><br>
She starts rattling off details: "Marguerite's precognition is off the charts. Luz has more binding contracts than any Infernal on record. Moten could create earthquakes that would destroy a whole city block."<br><br>
Maud's shadows writhe with agitation. "Two are already missing. No bodies. No demands. Just gone or dead, no idea."<br><br>
The weight of it settles over you. Someone is out there with a grudge. You're involved too.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"We need to be strategic. Warning the others could trigger whatever plan is in motion. But not warning them could get them killed."'>>
<<set $maudChoice7 to "calculated">>
<<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $maudstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P11.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Fuck it. We should warn everyone immediately. Mass text. Public broadcast. Make it impossible to pick us off quietly."'>>
<<set $maudChoice7 to "reckless">>
<<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P11.3">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"Let me guess, we can\'t go to the cops because they\'re probably compromised, can\'t warn the targets because they won\'t believe us, and can\'t stop looking because we\'re already marked."'>>
<<set $maudChoice7 to "cynical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P11.3">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul><<if $maudChoice7 is "calculated">>"Look at you, thinking like a predator," Maud says approvingly. "Problem is, who would believe us? 'Hi, you don't know me, but someone's collecting powerful bloodlines and you're on the list.' They'd think we're insane."<<elseif $maudChoice7 is "reckless">>Maud laughs, sharp and delighted. "Chaos! I love it! Except..." Her expression falls. "Whoever's doing this has left no traces. Going public might just accelerate their timeline. Plus, half these people would assume it's a trap."<<elseif $maudChoice7 is "cynical">>"Bingo!" Maud grins. "Welcome to paranoia, population: us. Though technically the cops aren't compromised, they're just useless. Bit of a difference."<</if>><br><br>
The wall looms above you both, twelve faces staring down like a jury. Or victims. Or both.<br><br>
"My question is," Maud says quietly, "why you? Everyone else makes sense. Powerful people, influential positions, notable abilities. But you're just human."<br><br>
"Thanks for the pep talk." You huff.<br><br>
"No, think about it." She starts pacing, shadows writhing with agitation. "What makes you special enough to be on this list? What do you have that's equivalent to me?"<br><br>
Your left hand throbs. "I have no idea. We both know I didn’t inherit any Umbra genes. But as far as I can tell I’m an influential person as well.”<br><br>
"Let's go through this calmly," you say, but even as the words leave your mouth, you feel like..<br><br>
<<link '[Chewing Lip] Your teeth find your bottom lip, biting the skin until you taste copper.'>>
<<set $nervousTick to "lip">>
<<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P11.4">>
<</link>><br><br>
<<link '[Pen Clicking] Your fingers find the ballpoint pen in your pocket, clicking it in rapid succession. Click-click-click.'>>
<<set $nervousTick to "pen">>
<<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P11.4">>
<</link>><br><br>
<<link '[Foot Tapping] Your foot starts its familiar rhythm against the floor. Tap-tap-tap.'>>
<<set $nervousTick to "foot">>
<<run setup.setTrait('confrontational', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P11.4">>
<</link>><br><br>
<<link '[Grimacing] Your face contorts involuntarily, jaw clenching, forehead creasing. The expression of someone bracing for impact.'>>
<<set $nervousTick to "grimace">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>>
<<goto "CH1P11.4">>
<</link>><<if $nervousTick is "lip">>You catch yourself biting your lip again, tasting blood.<<elseif $nervousTick is "pen">>Your fingers automatically reach for a pen to click, finding nothing.<<elseif $nervousTick is "foot">>Your foot starts its anxious tapping before you consciously register the stress.<<elseif $nervousTick is "grimace">>Your jaw clenches involuntarily, that familiar tension creeping across your face.<</if>>
You start to recreate the pattern. "Marguerite disappeared a week ago. Linnea 72 hours ago." Your mind races, connecting dots. "That's roughly a weekly schedule."<br><br>
"Which means someone else disappears in about four days," Maud adds, her manic energy suddenly focused. "Unless they accelerated after I caught Jake."<br><br>
You move closer to the wall, studying the surveillance photos. "We need to figure out why these specific people. There are two possibilities I can see."<br><br>
"Theory one: someone's settling scores. Look at this list, we've all hurt people. Corporate exploitation, criminal empires, exposing secrets. Maybe someone lost everything because of one of us and wants revenge."<br><br>
"Revenge on twelve unconnected people?" Maud challenges, but she's listening.<br><br>
"Or twelve very connected people. What if there's something linking us we don't see yet? Some deal, some event, something that ruined someone's life?" You tap your temple. "The surveillance suggests planning. Patience. This isn't random violence, it's personal."<br><br>
Maud considers this, shadows writhing. "Could be. Sordia's full of people with grudges. But organizing something this complex? That takes resources."<br><br>
She’s right but there is another theory forming in your head. “Theory two: corporate warfare. Someone's systematically removing power players to destabilize Sordia's economy. Look at the targets—crime boss, CFO, corporate negotiator. Take them out, create a power vacuum."<br><br>
"And the thirteen-year-old Seraph?" Maud asks.<br><br>
"I mean they’re apparently the last Seraph in Sordia." You look at the faces of the people. "This could be about restructuring Sordia's entire power structure."<br><br>
Maud whistles low. "That's some next-level conspiracy shit. I love it. Completely insane, but I love it." She grins, all teeth. "So which theory is your favourite? I like the conspiracy angle!!"<br><br>
<<link '[Theory 1] Someone\'s settling scores. Revenge against twelve people who\'ve all hurt someone badly enough to want them dead.'>>
<<set $investigationTheory to "revenge">>
<<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $observation += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P11.5">>
<</link>><br><br>
<<link '[Theory 2] Corporate warfare. Someone\'s systematically removing power players to destabilize Sordia\'s entire economic structure.'>>
<<set $investigationTheory to "conspiracy">>
<<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $observation += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P11.5">>
<</link>>
<<if $investigationTheory is "revenge">>You've decided to pursue the personal angle. Someone with a grudge, resources, and patience.<<elseif $investigationTheory is "conspiracy">>You've decided to follow the conspiracy thread. Too many power players, too systematic, too precise. This is about reshaping Sordia's entire structure. The question is who benefits from that level of chaos.<</if>><br><br>
<<if $investigationTheory is "revenge">>"Theory 1 sounds the most logical to me, but—" A massive yawn escapes before you can stop it. The adrenaline that's kept you running is finally crashing.<br><br><<elseif $investigationTheory is "conspiracy">>"Theory 2 sounds the most logical to me, but—" A massive yawn escapes before you can stop it. The adrenaline that's kept you running is finally crashing.<</if>><br><br>
"Shit, what time is it?" You check your phone. 3:47 AM. You've been at this for too long.<br><br>
"You should sleep," Maud says suddenly, energy shifting from manic to practical. "Tomorrow we hit Jake's apartment early. Six, maybe seven. See what other breadcrumbs he left behind."<br><br>
There goes your Saturday. "Six," you groan. "On a Saturday after I just successfully completed my De Luca story. I hate this."<br><br>
"Would you prefer our stalker gets a head start?" She's already moving toward the bedroom, kicking debris out of the path. "Besides, it's not like you're going home at four in the morning. The subways stopped running and I'm not letting you take a cab while someone's hunting you."<br><br>
She's right. Your apartment suddenly feels very far away.<br><br>
"Fine. But I need at least three hours of actual sleep."<br><br>
"Three hours, got it. I'll even try to be quiet." She tosses a relatively clean shirt at you. "Bathroom's down the hall and next time let’s do a real pyjama party~”<br><br>
Honestly you don’t complain. She leads you to her bedroom. It's marginally cleaner than the rest of the apartment, though that's not saying much. The bed is unmade, sheets tangled like someone fought a war in them.<br><br>
She starts clearing papers off the bed roughly while you find something that passes for sleepwear and start getting ready for bed, exhaustion hitting like a physical weight. The adrenaline of the night finally wearing off, leaving you hollow and stretched thin.<br><br>
As you're settling into the bed that smells like Maud, a thought occurs.<br><br>
"Have you talked to uncle Ben yet?"<br><br>
Maud freezes in the doorway. For a moment, the shadows in the room seem to reach for her, as if trying to pull her into themselves.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"He\'s been waiting for you to come home for years, Maud. He never stopped hoping."'>>
<<set $maudChoice8 to "soft">>
<<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $maudstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P11.6">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"You\'re being a coward. Ben deserves to know you\'re alive and in the city."'>>
<<set $maudChoice8 to "confrontational">>
<<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $maudstat -= 1>>
<<goto "CH1P11.6">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"He\'s not getting younger, Maud. If something happens to him while you\'re avoiding him, you\'ll never forgive yourself."'>>
<<set $maudChoice8 to "methodical">>
<<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $observation += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P11.6">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul><<if $maudChoice8 is "soft">>"Hope is just disappointment that hasn't happened yet," Maud says, not turning around. "Besides, I'm not home. I'm just... geographically closer to where home used to be." She laughs, brittle. "Ben doesn't need to see me. Trust me, it's better this way."<<elseif $maudChoice8 is "confrontational">>"Ben deserves a lot of things," Maud snaps, shadows flaring. She turns, eyes completely black. "I'm protecting him by staying away."<<elseif $maudChoice8 is "methodical">>Maud's shoulders tense. "That's a really specific form of emotional manipulation, $firstName. Did you practice that in the mirror?" But her voice wavers. "I know he's not... I know time is..." She trails off. "Just don't push me."<</if>><br><br>
She leaves without another word, door clicking shut with finality. You're left alone with the ghost of her presence.<br><br>
You lie back on sheets. The ceiling has water stains that form patterns your tired brain tries to interpret as omens. Through the thin walls, you hear Maud moving around.<br><br>
Tomorrow you'll dig into Jake Morrison's life and death. Tomorrow you'll get closer to understanding what the fuck is going on right now.<br><br>
But for now, you just need to close your eyes. Recharge.<br><br>
The last thought before sleep takes you is a question that burns inside you: Who will be next?<br><br>
Tomorrow, the hunt for answers is starting. If someone is out there collecting people on a weekly basis you’re on a tight time frame.<br><br>
But tonight, you're safe.<br><br>
Relatively speaking.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P12]]<<if $maudChoice00 is "confrontational">>Maud throws back her head and laughs, genuinely delighted. "There's the Charlie I remember! Always with the cutting observations." She flicks ash with theatrical precision. "You know what? You're right. 'Orca' is boring as hell. I was hoping for something more... poetic. 'Nightshade' maybe, or 'Dead Walker.'" Her grin turns sharp. "But the police lacks imagination. They probably named me after the first thing they could think of."<<elseif $maudChoice00 is "intuitive">>Maud's smile doesn't waver, but something shifts behind her eyes. Calculation matching calculation. "Look at you, connecting dots before I've even finished talking. Some things never change." She takes a drag, considering. "You're right, of course. My timing isn't coincidental. But the question isn't what I want—it's what you need."<<elseif $maudChoice00 is "hopeful">>Maud goes very still, cigarette forgotten between her fingers. "You looked for me." It's not a question, and her voice is softer than it's been since she appeared. "I know." She looks away, shadows curling tighter around her. <</if>><br><br>
She stubs out her cigarette in the pie.<br><br>
The conversation lulls. You're processing three years compressed into three minutes.<br><br>
"Why are you really here, Maud?" The question comes out before you can stop it. "I want the real reason. What brought you back now?"<br><br>
She sets down her fork. Looks at you with those impossible black eyes. The shadows around her pulse once, twice, like a heartbeat made of darkness.<br><br>
You could just get up and leave. But you don’t. She knows you will stay and listen.<br><br>
Because despite three years of silence, despite the anger that sits like acid in your chest, IF neutral/hope she's still your sister. IF broken she wouldn’t just turn up after three years if it wasn’t urgent. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have an opinion.<br><br>
"That's the right question," she says, grinning. "Took you long enough to ask it."<br><br>
She reaches into her jacket, and for a moment you tense, but she just pulls out another cigarette. Lights it with the same silver Zippo.<br><br>
[[Continue|CH1P8]]"Luz," you whisper, the name like poison on your tongue.<br><br>
Everyone in Sordia knows Luz. The crime lord who appeared out of nowhere and now runs a portion of the undercity with an iron fist wrapped in designer gloves. The Infernal who makes contracts that burn you from the inside out if you break them.<br><br>
"Surprise!" Maud shouts, throwing her hands up. Shadow confetti actually manifests and falls around her. "I work for the scariest person in Sordia! Well, one of them!"<br><br>
"Why the fuck would you work for $luzHim?" you whisper-scream, leaning across the table.<br><br>
She drums her fingers on the table, shadows mimicking the rhythm. "Because, Luz saved my life. Saw potential in me. So yeah, I work for them. Loyalty for a good life. Fair trade, duh."<br><br>
"Besides, Luz is actually pretty cool once you get to know them. $luzHeC has a cat! Mr. Whiskers. He's adorable." Maud counters, grinning. She leans back. <br><br>
You stare at the photos spread across the table. Frost. Asher. You. Maud. Luz. All connected somehow.<br><br>
"So what exactly do you want me to do with this?" you ask, already knowing you won't like the answer.<br><br>
"Investigate! Obviously!" Maud bounces in her seat. "You're the journalist, I'm the big bad monster. Together we're like... like a really dysfunctional buddy cop movie! You do the thinking, I do the threatening, we solve the mystery, save the day, maybe don't die!"<br><br>
She leans forward, eyes glittering with manic enthusiasm.<br><br>
"Plus, Luz assigned me to look into this... well, assigned me to look into it alone but $luzHe doesn’t have to know... and since you're a target too, I need to keep you alive.<br><br>
"Win-win!"<br><br>
"I'm not—"<br><br>
"AND," she continues, ignoring your protest, "we can live together! At my place! It'll be like old times!"<br><br>
"Absolutely not."<br><br>
"Come on! I have a couch! And running water! Usually!"<br><br>
"Maud, no."<br><br>
Explain the choice that yes she is right you need to investigate this, especially if you're somehow involved in it as well. It can't be a coincidence that both Marguerite and Linnea, two people in those photos, have already disappeared.<br><br>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"You\'re right. Two people are already missing, and whoever\'s behind this clearly has resources. We work together."'>>
<<set $maudChoice4 to "accepting">>
<<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $maudstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P8.4">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"This is probably a terrible idea. But you\'re the closest thing I have to someone who understands what we\'re dealing with."'>>
<<set $maudChoice4 to "reluctant">>
<<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>>
<<set $observation += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P8.4">>
<</link>><br><br>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>
<<link '"I work alone. Always have. I don\'t need—" You pause. "Shit. I do need backup, don\'t I? Fine. But we do this my way."'>>
<<set $maudChoice4 to "resistant">>
<<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) + 1)>>
<<set $maudstat += 1>>
<<goto "CH1P8.4">>
<</link>>
</li>
</ul><h1>War Correspondent</h1>
You’ve reported from the front lines, dodged bullets, and lived to write about it. You've seen the worst of humanity and survived it. But the trauma lingers, and some stories you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—publish still haunt you.<br><br>
<strong>Defining Past Event - The Clearwater Massacre (2039):</strong> You were embedded with CRD units in the Bloodline Integration Zones, documenting the violence everyone pretended wasn't happening. Seventeen Chimaera teenagers were executed by a CRD unit who claimed they were "resisting integration." You had footage proving it was cold-blooded murder—agents laughing as they opened fire on kids whose only crime was existing in the wrong neighborhood. Your network, Global News, refused to air it. "Too inflammatory," they said. You leaked it online instead. The video went viral. Only a few agents were prosecuted. The network fired you for "violating journalistic ethics." The families of those teenagers still send you Christmas cards.<br><br>
<strong>Main Informant: "Bulldog" (Detective Mario Santos)</strong> - Disabled war veteran who lost both his legs during active duty. He understands the cost of truth-telling and feeds you information about cases that get buried for "national security" reasons. Meets you at the VA medical center during his physical therapy sessions.<br><br>
People respect your work, but they also fear what you could become.<br><br>
<<button "CONFIRM">>
<<set $background to "war">>
<<set $disliked to 40>>
<<set $specialTrait to "hardened">>
<<run Dialog.close()>>
<<goto "Prologue">>
<</button>>
<<button "RETURN">>
<<run Dialog.close()>>
<</button>><h1>Investigative Journalist</h1>
You were known for chasing corruption in the highest places, exposing scandals that others were too afraid to touch. You believe in facts, justice, and digging deep... but enemies are watching, and your past exposés may have left dangerous people still walking free.<br><br>
<strong>Defining Past Event - The Riverside Murders Investigation (2039):</strong> You spent eight months investigating seven dead sex workers, all from different Bloodlines, all killed with silver-laced weapons. The police had written them off as territorial disputes between rival supernatural factions. You proved it was Detective Raymond Cross, who'd been hunting Bloodline prostitutes for sport, using his badge to access crime scenes and plant evidence that pointed to gang violence. Your exposé was meticulous, thorough, and completely without mercy. It destroyed Cross—he was sentenced to life in prison—but it also destroyed you. Death threats flooded your voicemail. Lawsuits buried you in legal fees. Your editor at the Tribune fired you for "reckless journalism that endangered the paper's reputation." Every major outlet in Sordia blacklisted you. The families of the victims sent you flowers, but flowers don't pay rent.<br><br>
<strong>Main Informant: "Archive" (Dr. Sarah Kim)</strong> - Former city hall clerk who was demoted to file management after asking too many questions. She has encyclopedic knowledge of municipal records and can find any document that officially exists—and many that officially don't. Meets you in the basement archives after hours, trades information for coffee and respect for her expertise.<br><br>
Some call you stubborn. You call it thorough. The difference has kept you alive this long.<br><br>
<<button "CONFIRM">>
<<set $background to "investigative">>
<<set $disliked to 40>>
<<set $specialTrait to "stubborn">>
<<run Dialog.close()>>
<<goto "Prologue">>
<</button>>
<<button "RETURN">>
<<run Dialog.close()>>
<</button>><h1>Whistleblower</h1>
You weren’t always a journalist. You came forward with a truth that others tried to bury—risking everything. Now, you live in the shadows, paranoid but principled. What you revealed shook the system... but some secrets aren’t meant to be uncovered.
Perk: Insider knowledge, moral authority, coded contacts.<br><br>
<strong>Defining Past Event - The Primordial Special Program Leak (2039):</strong> Working as a data analyst in the Mayor's office, you discovered that government resources were being used to track, capture, and experiment on Primordial-blooded people because of their elemental abilities. Official documents detailing systematic genocide for weapons research. You tried internal channels first, then the press, then finally dumped everything online—thousands of classified files proving that your own government was running concentration camps in the city's industrial district. The leak destroyed the program but also destroyed you. Federal prosecution for theft of classified documents. Your lawyer negotiated a plea deal: no jail time, but you'd never work in government again. The program's victims were quietly released, but thirty-seven people remain missing. Their families still call you, asking if you've found anything new.<br><br>
<strong>Main Informant: "Golden Boy" (Alexander Rocheford III)</strong> - Trust fund heir whose family fortune comes from fraud investments. He buys classified information from corrupt officials purely for entertainment, then trades it to journalists like you for the thrill of watching powerful people squirm. Meets you at exclusive restaurants he owns, always impeccably dressed, treats espionage like an expensive hobby.<br><br>
People hate you. They call you a relentless prick.
<<button "CONFIRM">>
<<set $background to "whistle">>
<<set $disliked to 80>>
<<set $specialTrait to "relentless">>
<<run Dialog.close()>>
<<goto "Prologue">>
<</button>>
<<button "RETURN">>
<<run Dialog.close()>>
<</button>><h1>Tabloid Reporter</h1>
Sensationalism was your bread and butter. You dug through trash—literal and figurative—to get headlines that sold. You’re good at reading people and even better at spinning a story. But no one takes you seriously… and you might have faked one too many “exclusive scoops.”<br><br>
<strong>Defining Past Event - The David Han Scandal (2039):</strong> You were at the Sordia Inquirer, turning celebrity scandals into circulation gold. Your specialty was catching powerful people in compromising positions and making them pay, either in money or public humiliation. Then you caught the wrong person: David Han, a member of the Hans—one of the Twenty-Three Families—in a Fae brothel. The photos were perfect. Damning. Worth a fortune. You thought this was your big break when you published them. Instead, they buried your career. The Inquirer fired you within hours. Your sources stopped returning calls. Other outlets blacklisted you. The message was clear: you'd overplayed your hand.<br><br>
<strong>Main Informant: "Diamond" (Valentina Cross)</strong> - High-end escort who services politicians, businessmen, and crime bosses from all communities. Her clients trust her with secrets because they assume she's too "unimportant" to be dangerous. She trades information for more information/protection—you keep her name out of stories, and she gives you dirt on the city's power brokers. Meets you in luxury hotel lobbies, always perfectly composed, treats information as currency.<br><br>
People despise you, they say you're a manipulative ass. You prefer to call it people skills.<br><br>
<<button "CONFIRM">>
<<set $background to "tabloid">>
<<set $disliked to 70>>
<<set $specialTrait to "manipulative">>
<<run Dialog.close()>>
<<goto "Prologue">>
<</button>>
<<button "RETURN">>
<<run Dialog.close()>>
<</button>>