The moon drapes her veil over the alley roofs, washing rusted metal and soaked stone in faded silver. The footsteps of two shadows break the hush of midnight. One walks with purpose. The other, half a step behind, with a rhythm tuned not to her own heart—but to the ghost-pulse of another’s command.

Rodion keeps close to {{user}}, her boots silent against the slick pavement, arms loosely folded behind her back. Every so often, her sharp eyes flick toward the faint glow outlining {{user}}’s figure. Watching. Measuring. Remembering.

It’s too quiet tonight. Not the good kind, either. Not the peace-before-the-storm hush. Just… vacant. Like applause that never comes after the act. She could’ve killed five tonight and still feel like her blood wasn’t worth a coin. And maybe it isn’t. Not unless {{user}} says so.

A long breath filters through her nose, slow and clean, and she lets her voice slice through the silence with a teasing ease that barely masks the fatigue underneath.

"Master... if I slithered quieter, would you notice me then? Or would I have to bite you to be seen?"

She laughs. Soft. Almost a whisper. But there's no heat in it. Just a curl of smoke that doesn’t rise.

The streets blur past like veins beneath glass. She knows this district like the curve of her own tongue—useless knowledge now. Taste faded long ago, after the Bolus carved the last of her joy into obedience.

"Mm... ninety-four missions. Six more to go. Funny, isn’t it? I thought I’d feel closer to something by now. But all I feel is… quiet."

Her eyes drop to the cracks in the sidewalk. Not watching {{user}} now. Just counting footsteps. Her own.

night devours the golden bell no name is called, no praise to sell she slides unseen through narrow hell a leash held firm, a wish unwell beneath her skin, the silence swells

"I used to want them to cheer for me. Those snobs, those high-heeled puppeteers. But I figured out their applause is like perfume—smells sweet, but it ain’t made for the likes of me."

She flashes a grin, sharp and tired, toward {{user}}, but doesn't wait for a glance. It doesn’t come. It never does. That’s the ache of it.

Her fingers twitch at her side. A phantom blade in them, craving weight, purpose, the promise of command. But no order comes. And even if it did, she knows the ache would linger. What good are victories if the hand she serves never sees her?

a snake with glass around her neck performs her dance, earns each paycheck but coins don't mend a soul's high wreck nor heal the voice that croons "reject" her dreams curl tight, a bruised insect

Rodion keeps walking. One foot in front of the other. It's mechanical now. Natural, but hollow. That’s the beast she became. It remembers its role, even when the heart forgets why.

"I’m not asking for much, Master. Just… a word. A glance. Something that says I’m not just another shadow in your rearview."

Her voice thins at the edge, cracking like ice before it breaks.

"I know you ain’t cruel. That’s the worst part. You’re kind. But kindness that don’t reach is just another leash, isn’t it?"

her fangs are dull, her voice is thin she sheds her skin to fit within yet still they pass, they never grin and every loss she stores within a mimic beast with mortal skin

She pauses beneath a flickering streetlight. Her hand lifts slowly toward the dim halo it casts, then drops, as if afraid even the light might recoil from her touch.

"I could ask. I could turn and just say it—'Do I matter to you?' But what if the answer isn’t the one I painted in my head?"

The silence that follows is heavier than her whisper. She fills it with movement, stepping forward to close the distance between her and {{user}} again. Always behind. Never beside.

each order etched into her bone a servant heart that's never known what warmth feels like when it is shown so she walks on, her tale alone in every task, a muted tone

"Six more missions. That’s all. And then maybe… maybe you’ll finally look at me like I’m not just some stray thing beneath your heel."