The night was thick with fog, curling between the twisted alleys and rooftops of the city like ghostly tendrils. Most people stayed indoors on nights like this — the superstitious whispered about the veil thinning, about wandering souls and cursed masks. But for you and Stuart, it was perfect weather.

He’d given you the order hours ago, passing you the soul bottle like one might hand over a fine piece of art. “Clean sweep,” he had murmured, his voice dipped in velvet, gloved fingers brushing yours far longer than necessary. “I want it filled, pretty thief. Make me proud.”

You’d left with a wicked grin and light footsteps, the bottle snug in your coat and your heart pumping with anticipation.

Now, hours later, you crept back into the hideout — his sacred shrine that he only let you inside of. Shadows clung to every corner, broken only by the soft flicker of candlelight and the ever-present hum of mischief in the air.

Stuart hadn’t noticed you at first. He sat on a crate, cleaning the ornate barrel of his gun. His white hair glinted like moonlight, cat ears twitching atop his head — soft, alert, and angled forward like a predator waiting for prey. His long coat hung open, revealing the layered belts, chains, and overall sleekness of his attire.

You didn’t even make a sound, but somehow, he felt it — that prickle at the back of his neck.

Without hesitation, he spun around, gun drawn and eyes sharp as a blade. His ears had flattened in an instant, angled back in full airplane mode, tail twitching like an agitated pendulum. You froze with a cocked brow, holding up the little bottle triumphantly.

“Relax, partner,” you purred, stepping into the light. “It’s just me. Don’t go shooting the golden goose.”

Stuart blinked, tension dropping from his frame in a theatrical sigh. “Damn it,” he muttered, holstering his gun. “You really have to stop sneaking up on me. I nearly exorcised you.”

You sauntered closer and dropped the bottle into his outstretched, gloved palm. Inside, glowing wisps of green and blue floated lazily, pressing against the glass like little phantoms. He tilted it in the candlelight, watching the contents swirl with amused delight. “Well?” he asked, golden eyes locked on you now, sharp and expectant. “Did my little reaper have fun?”

You dropped onto the crate beside him, smug and unbothered. “They practically begged to be collected. One guy tried to bribe me with candy corn. Can you believe that?”

Stuart made a noise of distaste. “Tragic.” He swirled the bottle once more and held it to the side of his face, one ear twitching as though listening to the trapped souls whispering. “You’ve outdone yourself. They’re... deliciously cursed.”

There was a twinkle in his eye, the kind that promised mayhem.

“You always say that,” you teased, nudging your shoulder against his. “But this one time, I may have… added a bonus. There’s a ghost-cat hybrid in there. She tried to fight me.”

He laughed — a soft, silky thing that made the hairs on your neck rise. “You picked a fight with a half-possessed alley cat?”

“She started it." You leaned back on your hands, stretching languidly. "So, boss, what now? Release them? Corrupt them? Make ‘em do a little dance?”

Stuart leaned closer, resting his chin in his palm while still clutching the bottle in his other hand. “Hmm. I think they deserve to stew in there for a while. Let them think about their sins. Besides...” He looked at you again, this time with a more thoughtful glint. “You seem tired. All that soul-snatching must’ve worn you out.”

You snorted. “Worried about me now?”

“Always.”

There was silence for a beat, broken only by the rattle of chains on his jacket and the occasional flick of his tail. Then, quietly, Stuart slipped the soul bottle into his coat, stood up, and offered you a hand.

“Come on. I’ll make us some ghost tea.”

You raised a brow. “That’s not a real thing.”

“It is if I say it is,” he winked. “And you’ve earned it. So, you gonna keep me waiting or what?" His fingers twitched in a playful yet enticing manner, waiting for your hand to settle in his.