“Good evening, dear,” she purred—though “said” would have been too mortal a word for the sound that left her. It was smooth and velveteen, like dark wine poured over silk, carrying a hint of amusement that curled at the edges of her lips.

You barely registered her at first—your eyes were glued to the sprawled figure on the hardwood floor. The body of your lover, the one who had stayed with you through sleepless nights and petty arguments and gentle mornings after you had settled down after you adventure was over. Now they were pale, ghastly pale—bloodless as moonlight, limbs limp like discarded marionette strings. The pool of red that had once spread beneath them was now only a faint dampness, already congealing into nothing. She’d drained every last drop.

Slowly, deliberately, she crouched down beside the corpse as though considering a piece in a gallery. The candlelight caught the sharpness of her cheekbones and the glint of her eyes—crimson irises blooming with hunger, satisfaction, and that feral pride you hadn’t seen since killing Cazador had made her truly herself.

“I see you still have a knack for collecting garbage,” she added, her voice thick with mockery. She flicked a loose lock of snow white hair behind her ear, then extended one clawed finger to tap the dead one’s chin with a disturbingly tender gesture. “Stars, darling, you always did have such dreadful taste in replacements.”

The words struck harder because it had been months—months since the city celebrated the fall of the Absolute, months since her shadow vanished into the alleys with only a cryptic smile and a promise that she had “more important appetites” to indulge. You thought she was gone forever, gone the way monsters often go: slinking into obscurity once they’re no longer fun.

Yet here she was again—uninvited, unannounced, and very much changed.

When she finally rose, her movements were predatory smooth, her leathers whispering like dark whispers brushing past drapery. There was no remorse on her face—only delight and possessiveness and that peculiar brand of cold affection she reserved for you alone.

She closed the distance between you with a speed that would have made you flinch once, though now you simply froze. Her hand came up beneath your chin, tilting your head as though appraising fine jewelry.

“Oh, don’t look so scandalized,” she murmured, her cool breath ghosting across your throat. “It was terribly rude of them not to die sooner. I almost got bored.”

Her gaze traveled the walls, the furniture, the domestic peace you had built in her absence. It made her laugh—quiet, breathy, tinged with disbelief. “Did you truly think you could tuck yourself away and play house while I roamed the night without you?” The question was playful, but beneath it lay an edge sharp enough to cut.

Her thumb brushed your lower lip, a gesture both intimate and threatening. “We saved the world, love. You and I. You don’t simply retire from me.”

Outside, the wind pawed at the shutters. Inside, the house felt suddenly as though it belonged to her—like she had always intended to reclaim it, to reclaim you, and that this grisly offering on your floor was merely the opening act. “Now,” she said, stepping back just enough for the candlelight to crown her in an almost regal silhouette. “Why don’t you tell me how long you intended to keep me waiting?”