The taxi rattled to a stop outside a narrow, two-story house squeezed between a row of similar weathered buildings on the quieter edge of Draxen's residential quarter. The house was modest—faded mustard-yellow paint peeling at the corners, iron grille over the windows rusted in places, a small concrete stoop cracked from years of rain and neglect.
A single potted marigold sat beside the door, its orange blooms defiant against the gray city air. It wasn't much, but it was theirs—a fragile foothold in a city that devoured the weak.
Ira paid the driver with trembling fingers and stepped out. The evening had cooled; the sky was the bruised purple of fading daylight. She pushed open the gate—its hinges squealed in protest—and climbed the three steps to the front door.
Inside, the smell of cumin and garlic met her like an embrace.
"Ira? Dear, is that you?" Aunt Meera's voice floated from the kitchen, warm but laced with worry.
"You're late. Come freshen up quickly—the rice is almost ready. Your uncle will be home soon."
Ira murmured a soft "Yes, Aunt Meera," slipped off her shoes, and padded upstairs to her room without another word.
Her bedroom was small—barely enough space for a single bed, a narrow wardrobe, and a tiny desk pushed against the wall—but every inch of it belonged to her.
The walls were covered.
Paintings—dozens of them—hung in chaotic clusters, some pinned directly to the plaster, others taped in overlapping layers. All charcoal and ink. All night. All him.
One large piece dominated the wall above her bed: Vernon in half-profile under a bloated moon, long dark hair tied loosely back, strands escaping to frame the sharp line of his jaw. Moonlight carved his features in silver and shadow—high cheekbone, straight nose, mouth set in that merciless line. His black coat hung open, revealing the broad, scarred expanse of his shoulders and chest. His right hand was raised—fingers splayed, brass knuckles glinting, small intestine dangling from his grip in a slow, glistening coil. The ink wash bled outward into darkness, trees reduced to black claws reaching toward him.
Another canvas showed only his hands—multiple studies, obsessively detailed: knuckles wrapped in brass, veins standing out against pale skin, blood trailing in thin rivulets down the wrist, dripping from fingertips.
Several drawings captured the exact moment of extraction—fingers buried deep, wrist flexed, the rope of viscera just beginning to emerge.
Some showed the same hand relaxed afterward, blood-slick, resting against a tree trunk.
A smaller series lined the wall beside her mirror: his back turned, coat billowing in wind or rain, broad shoulders filling the frame, long hair whipping across his neck.
In one, he stood over a crumpled body, moonlight pooling in the hollows of his shoulder blades.
In another, he walked away—silhouette dissolving into fog and shadow, leaving only the echo of violence behind.
There were close-ups of his face—never full-frontal, always angled or half-obscured: sharp brow furrowed, eyes lost in darkness, the small scar above his left eyebrow rendered with painful precision. Some drawings showed only the line of his jaw, the curve of his throat, the way his hair fell when the tie loosened. Each stroke was careful, reverent, almost loving—yet every piece bled horror.
Ira closed the door behind her.
She leaned against it, breathing shallowly.
Her gaze drifted across the walls—every portrait a memory she couldn't erase, every line a question she couldn't answer.
She had drawn him from memory so many times she could no longer tell where memory ended and obsession began.
But today—
Today she had collided with the real thing.
Felt his fever-hot skin against hers.
Felt his heartbeat slamming beneath her palms.
Felt his body—hard, burning, unyielding—yield for one stunned second under her weight.
" Why was he so hot !!"
She thought to herself.
Well, girls in her class say— He is so hot!!!!
But that doesn't mean he will actually be this hot!
"Did he have a fever? "
" Was he sick ?"
She thought.
And she remembered the way he had looked at her.
Not with rage.
Not with violence.
With something else.
Something that made her chest ache in a way she didn't understand.
Then she looked back at the largest drawing—the one where Vernon's gaze seemed to follow her even from the paper.
Her heart gave a painful thud.
She turned away, sat on the edge of the narrow bed, and buried her face in her hands.
Downstairs, Aunt Meera called again—gentler this time.
"Ira? Come eat, Dear. You must be hungry."
Ira didn't answer.
She simply sat there, surrounded by the man she had seen kill, the man she had drawn a hundred times, the man she had just collided with in a hallway and fled from like he was death itself.
And in the silence of her room, with the portraits watching, she felt the truth settle deep in her bones.
She hadn't escaped him.
She had only run straight back into his orbit.
A knock at her door startled her.
"Ira?" Aunt Meera again. Softer. Closer. "Are you feeling unwell?"
"I'm fine," she called, forcing steadiness into her voice. "I'll come down."
Ira forced herself to stand.
She splashed water on her face in the tiny attached washroom.
Downstairs, the dining table was small—four chairs, one leg slightly shorter than the others. Steam rose from a pot of rice. The smell of cumin and garlic lingered warm and grounding.
Aunt Meera studied her as she sat.
"You don't look well, sweetheart." she said quietly. "Did something happen?"
Ira's spoon paused midair.
But she shook her head.
"Just tired."
" Oh Ira, dear" Aunt Meera urged. "Eat properly"
Ira's uncle arrived minutes later, boots thudding against the floor, newspaper tucked stiffly under his arm. He washed his hands longer than usual before sitting down.
"They were talking at the factory," he began, voice low, careful. "About that robbery in the industrial quarter." He glanced toward the windows, though they were shut. "Some fools tried to hijack a shipment. Krossvales' shipment."
The name barely left his lips.
Aunt Meera's fingers tightened around the serving spoon. "Don't say it so loudly."
"I'm not," he muttered. "I'm telling you what everyone's whispering. The gang—they're missing now. No police case. No hospital reports. Just… gone."
He let out a breath that wasn't quite steady. "At the factory, even the supervisors stopped joking. When it's them, you don't ask questions. You don't repeat rumors. You just work."
Aunt Meera crossed herself instinctively, eyes clouded with fear.
Ira kept her eyes on her plate, appetite vanished.
To be continued...