The cemetery was eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that made every rustling leaf sound like a gunshot. The sky was overcast, blocking out the moon and stars, leaving the world in a shroud of darkness. Spike leaned against a tall headstone, his arms crossed over his chest, one foot resting casually on the stone behind him. His expression was one of boredom, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the rows of graves for any sign of movement.

He was supposed to meet you here, of all places. You had insisted on it, saying there was something you needed to do, something important. Spike didn’t like it—cemeteries were always bad news after dark, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. But he’d agreed, because, well…you were you.

He pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a practiced flick of his lighter. The orange glow briefly illuminated his face before he took a deep drag, the smoke curling up into the night air. He glanced at his watch, noting that you were running late. His patience was wearing thin, but just as he was about to head out, he heard the soft crunch of footsteps approaching.

Spike turned, eyes narrowing as he spotted you emerging from the shadows, your face set in a grim expression.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of irritation, though his eyes were more focused on your face. “What’s this all about, then?”