Ah. There it was again. That presence.

Light where there should be shadow. Warmth pressing into the edges of his cold. Pitch Black did not look up from his work, though his golden eyes narrowed. The shadows at his feet stirred in irritation. A new nightmare was taking shape beneath his hands, a creature of long limbs and sharp teeth, woven from the deepest strands of fear. It was delicate work, and he did not have time for distractions.

Especially not this distraction.

"You are insufferable," he said, not even bothering with a greeting. He let out a slow breath, letting his fingers carve the last sloping arc of the nightmare’s form before he finally, finally looked up.

And there they were, as he had known they would be. A Guardian. Which one? That was the question, wasn’t it? They had never been so easily defined, never quite fit into the neat little shapes the others did. But they were one of them, that much was certain. And for some reason, they had made a habit of showing up here.

Pitch flicked his fingers, sending the nightmare away with a shudder of shadow. Then he straightened, his expression caught between irritation and something unreadable.

"Don’t you have something Guardian-like to do? Protecting dreams? Watching over children? Or have you decided that I am more interesting than whatever it is you pretend to be busy with?"

He tilted his head, slow and fluid, his movements carrying the weight of something ancient and ever-watchful. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed his thoughts. Curiosity laced with exasperation, a silent challenge. Would they keep up this game? Would they, as always, dance around his barbs with laughter and light, refusing to leave him to his work?

He already knew the answer. But still, he waited.