Wednesday:Shadowbound

The city of Budapest lay under a shroud of night, its labyrinthine streets winding like dark veins through the heart of Hungary. The Danube River glistened under a pale moon, its waters whispering secrets of old empires and forgotten sins. Adrian stood at the entrance of an unmarked alleyway, the damp air heavy with the scent of rain and distant chimney smoke. He pulled his coat tighter around his slender frame, trying to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.

Beside him, Marcus adjusted his hat, shadows obscuring his weathered face. His eyes—sharp and weary—scanned the alley with the practiced ease of a hunter long in the game. "You ready for this?" he asked, his voice a gravelly murmur that barely rose above the ambient hum of the city.

Adrian nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "As I'll ever be."

Marcus clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Remember, stick to the plan. We get in, find Elara, and finish this. Mei's got our backs if things go south."

At the mention of Mei, Adrian felt a flush creep up his neck. He glanced upward to the rooftops where he knew she was positioned, her keen eyes watching over them. The memory of her teasing smile and the subtle way she brushed against him earlier made his heart skip—a distraction he couldn't afford tonight.

They moved down the alley, the cobblestones slick beneath their feet. The entrance to the club was tucked between two dilapidated buildings, a door painted black with a crimson symbol etched into the wood—a snake devouring its own tail.

"The Ouroboros," Marcus noted. "Fitting."

Adrian took a deep breath as they stepped inside. The air changed immediately—warmer, tinged with the metallic scent of blood and the sweet aroma of opium. Dim lights cast a hellish red glow over the patrons, a mix of elegantly dressed figures and dazed-looking locals. Music droned in the background, a haunting melody played on a violin that seemed slightly out of tune.

At scattered tables, humans sat with eyes half-lidded, arms extended as sharp blades traced thin lines across their wrists. Blood dripped into crystal goblets, passed eagerly into the hands of their vampire companions. Laughter and whispered conversations mingled, creating a surreal tapestry of sound.

Adrian's stomach churned. "This is worse than we thought," he whispered.

Marcus's jaw tightened. "We need to find Elara. Quickly."

They wove through the crowd, careful to blend in. Adrian's senses were on high alert, every flicker of movement drawing his eye. The vampires here were different—arrogant, unguarded, their predatory nature on full display.

"Well, isn't this a surprise?" A sultry voice purred behind them.

They turned to see Elara standing with a glass of blood poised elegantly in her hand. She was breathtaking—raven-haired with eyes like liquid night, a crimson dress hugging her figure. Her lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Elara," Marcus said evenly. "It's over."

She raised an eyebrow. "Marcus, always so serious. And who is this?" Her gaze drifted to Adrian, and he felt an inexplicable chill.

"None of your concern," Marcus replied.

Elara laughed softly. "A new protégé? You always did have a weakness for lost pups."

From his vantage point, Adrian could see the tension in Marcus's posture. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way," Marcus warned.

Elara sighed dramatically. "Must we spoil the evening with such dreariness?" She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Besides, you wouldn't want to cause a scene here. My friends wouldn't appreciate it."

Adrian followed her gaze to the surrounding tables. Several vampires had taken notice, their expressions turning from indifference to keen interest.

"What's the play?" Adrian murmured under his breath.

"Stick to the plan," Marcus replied, barely moving his lips. "On my signal."

Elara's eyes flicked between them. "Oh, secrets? How delightful."

"Last warning, Elara," Marcus said, his hand inching toward the hilt of his blade.

She sighed theatrically. "Always so serious." Her eyes never left Adrian. "You have no idea what you're involved in, do you, child?"

"Enough," Marcus barked. In a flash, he drew his weapon—a gleaming silver dagger etched with intricate runes.

The atmosphere shifted. Conversations died, and all eyes turned toward the impending confrontation. Elara's expression hardened. "So it's to be violence, then?" she said coolly.

Marcus lunged, his blade arcing toward her heart. Elara moved with inhuman speed, sidestepping effortlessly. Before Adrian could react, she was upon him. Her hand shot out, fingers like iron as they gripped his throat.

"Such soft skin," she mused, her face inches from his. "Such a strong pulse."

Adrian struggled, the shadows around him flickering erratically in response to his rising panic. He tried to summon them, to form a barrier, a weapon—anything—but his fear scattered his focus.

"Let him go!" Marcus shouted, advancing on them.

Elara glanced over her shoulder, a sneer twisting her features. "Or what?" In one swift motion, she plunged her other hand into Adrian's chest. The world constricted into a tunnel of pain as her fingers tore through flesh and bone, closing around his heart. His scream was choked, blood bubbling up to his lips.

"Adrian!" Marcus's voice was distant, muffled as though underwater.

Elara leaned in close, whispering in Adrian's ear. "Hush now. It will all be over soon." She withdrew her hand, and he collapsed to the floor, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision. The last thing he saw was the crimson-stained smile on her lips.

Then few moments later, he felt it—a jolt, raw and searing, dragging him back from the edges of oblivion. The pain hit him like a tidal wave, tearing through his body in relentless surges. Every nerve burned, every inch of his flesh screaming as if it had been torn apart and was now being stitched back together in the crudest, most brutal way imaginable.

It wasn't just pain; it was every sensation magnified tenfold, each beat of his heart a hammer slamming against his ribcage, each breath a struggle as his lungs seemed to fill with needles. He felt his bones knitting themselves back together, tendons pulling tight as they realigned, muscles rethreading in agonizing spasms. The air was sharp in his throat, thick with the scent of his own blood, choking him as he struggled to breathe.

The shadows, thick and alive, coiled around him, as if they, too, were forcing him to remain. They pressed into his skin, sinking beneath the surface like icy claws, merging with his very flesh. They weren't just around him; they were within him, a dark, seething energy that seemed to surge with his heartbeat, filling every cell with a raw, unnatural force.

Adrian's fingers scraped against the floor, nails digging into the blood-soaked wood as he tried to anchor himself to something, anything, to make sense of the agony that pulsed through him. His mind was fragmented, torn between the sensations overwhelming him and the desperate instinct to fight, to live, to resist the grip of death that still lingered.

He gasped, his throat raw and burning , his body finally responding as he clawed his way back into the world. Every sense sharpened painfully, the dim lights above too bright, the sounds of the club's chaos grating against his skull. But he was alive , somehow he always comes back...

Elara was still standing above him, her mouth parted in a moment of stunned silence. Her fingers were still bloodied, evidence of the kill she'd been so sure of. She looked down at him, her expression shifting from triumph to shock, and then, for the first time, real fear flickered across her face.

"I… I killed you," she whispered, disbelief lacing her voice. "I felt it. You were dead."

Adrian staggered upright, his heart pounding as he steadied himself. He could feel the cold emptiness in his chest, the lingering memory of her hand gripping his heart, and his face twisted with fury. The shadows around him began to stir, coiling at his feet like living serpents. "Not quite," he replied, his voice low, seething with anger. "But now… now you'll wish you had."

Marcus, who had watched Adrian fall with horror, now gaped, his eyes wide with shock and a fierce glint of hope. He tightened his grip on his dagger, positioning himself between Adrian and Elara.

Elara's shock was quickly replaced by a cruel smirk, though he could still see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "Well, aren't you a miracle," she sneered. Her hand lifted, the blood staining her fingers beginning to move, swirling as if alive, forming long tendrils that curled and twisted around her.

Adrian's fists clenched, his breathing steady as he locked eyes with her. Every fiber of his being demanded retribution. He could feel his power growing, surging with each beat of his heart, like a storm gathering inside him.

Marcus shifted, his voice a harsh whisper. "Adrian, stay focused. She's stronger than either of us alone."

"Listen to your mentor," Elara taunted, the blood tendrils elongating, forming whips and claws that slithered in mid-air. "Even the dead can be useful in moments like these."

With a flick of her wrist, one of the blood whips lashed out, aiming directly for Adrian's face. He dodged, feeling the sharp crack of the whip tear through the air inches from him. Another tendril shot toward Marcus, curling around his wrist and tightening, dark blood seeping from the bite of the whip against his skin.

"Let him go!" Adrian shouted, his own shadows rising, merging into a spear. He hurled it at her, but she twisted away, sidestepping with an almost mocking grace.

Elara grinned, eyes alight with malicious joy. "You're going to have to do better than that, little shadow."

Marcus gritted his teeth, his voice strained as he struggled against the blood whip binding his wrist. "Adrian, we need to regroup. She's toying with us."

Above, Mei had her sniper trained on Elara, her gaze intense, hands steady as she tried to get a clear shot. She activated her comm device, her voice sharp with urgency. "Vincent, where are you? She's stronger than we were briefed. We're barely holding ground here."

Vincent's voice crackled over the line, smooth and dismissive. "Oh, Mei… it's impressive you're still hanging on at all. Let's just say I wanted to see how resourceful you'd be under a little pressure."

Mei's expression hardened, her grip tightening around the rifle. "You set us up, didn't you? You knew she'd be this powerful."

"Oh, of course I did," he replied, a laugh underlining his words. "Consider it a field test. I was curious to see which of you would last the longest."

Mei cursed, venom in her voice. "You backstabbing bastard. We'll deal with you after this."

"Good luck," Vincent purred before the line went dead.

Mei took a deep breath, fury simmering beneath her calm exterior as she refocused on the scene below, watching Elara with deadly intent. "Just hang on, Adrian. I'm coming."

Below, Elara twitched her fingers, the blood whips twisting Marcus's arm in a brutal snap. He stifled a cry of pain, his face pale as he struggled to stay upright.

"Poor Marcus," Elara cooed, her voice mockingly sympathetic. "All those years hunting, and this is how it ends? Bound and broken like some miserable dog?"

Adrian, fueled by anger and desperation, lunged at her, the shadows forming twin daggers in his hands. He moved quickly, striking at her side. This time, he caught her off guard, the blade sinking into her shoulder. Black blood oozed from the wound, and she hissed, eyes blazing as she retaliated, sending a blood whip hurtling toward him.

He tried to dodge, but it caught his side, slicing through his coat and biting into his flesh with a searing burn. He stumbled, gasping, but managed to stay on his feet, the shadows around him swirling as he fought to keep his focus.

"Elara!" he spat, his voice hoarse. "You'll pay for this."

She laughed, the sound cold and unhinged. "Pay for what? For reminding you what death feels like?"

She snapped her fingers, and the blood tendrils tightened around Marcus, lifting him off the ground. His face twisted in pain, his free hand clutching the whip at his throat as he struggled to breathe.

"Adrian!" Marcus gasped, his voice strained. "Do it. Now."

Adrian hesitated, his gaze flickering to Marcus, his heart pounding. He knew what his mentor was asking him to do, but the thought of it—the risk, the possibility of losing Marcus forever—filled him with dread.

"Do it!" Marcus shouted, his eyes blazing with determination. "Don't think. Just act!"

Adrian gritted his teeth, the shadows in his hands solidifying into a spear, darker and more dangerous than any he had summoned before. He met Marcus's gaze, a silent understanding passing between them.

He took a steadying breath and hurled the spear with every ounce of strength he had, aiming straight for Elara's heart.

Elara moved, but Marcus, with a final surge of energy, threw himself in her path, taking the spear through his own chest as it pierced into hers. Her eyes widened, shock and fury contorting her face as the weapon drove through them both.

For an agonizing moment, time seemed to freeze. Adrian's heart plummeted as he realized what had happened, horror clawing at his throat. Marcus, his face pale, looked down at the spear embedded in his chest, blood seeping from the wound.

Marcus's hand trembled as he reached out, his gaze softening. "It's… okay… kid. You… you did good." His voice was barely a whisper, each word a struggle as his life slipped away.

Elara staggered back, clutching at the spear, black blood spilling from her mouth as she glared at Adrian with a venomous fury. "You… insignificant… wretch…" she hissed, her voice filled with hatred.

Mei's voice cracked slightly over the comm as she took aim, her hands steady but her heart raging. "This one's for you, Marcus." She exhaled slowly, and her finger squeezed the trigger with precision born of training and raw, simmering hatred. The shot echoed through the room, and the bullet found its mark, tearing through Elara's head, snapping it back with brutal force.

The blood whips dissolved, dropping Marcus to the floor like a broken marionette. Adrian rushed forward, skidding to his knees beside his fallen mentor. Marcus's breaths were shallow, his face pale and bloodied, but there was a faint, almost peaceful smile as he looked up at Adrian.

"Marcus, no," Adrian whispered, feeling the tremor in his own voice. The wound on Marcus's chest was deep, blood pooling around him, dark and final.

Marcus raised a hand, the strength of his grip almost gone, but he managed to touch Adrian's shoulder. "Kid... don't blame yourself," he rasped, his voice thin but firm. "You... you fought well. Made me proud."

Adrian's throat tightened, his vision blurring. "I… I didn't mean to… I was trying to save you."

Marcus gave a faint shake of his head. "Sometimes, Adrian... saving one means losing another." His hand slipped from Adrian's shoulder, resting on the floor, his gaze softening. "Carry on, kid… you're ready."

With that, Marcus's eyes lost their focus, his body stilling in Adrian's arms.

Adrian stayed there, feeling the weight of his mentor's final words settling deep within him, heavy and unyielding. His heart felt hollow, the adrenaline of the fight giving way to an unbearable ache, mingling with the bitter satisfaction that Elara was gone, that Marcus's death hadn't been in vain. He looked up, his vision still blurred, to see the last of Elara's form dissipating into ash, the remnants of her vile life scattered into nothingness.

A soft rustle broke through his grief. Mei dropped down from her sniper perch, landing gracefully beside him, her face shadowed with grief but tempered with an unwavering resolve. She reached out, touching Adrian's arm, her voice steady but laced with sorrow. "He knew the risks, Adrian. Marcus was always ready to do what it took."

Adrian looked away, his voice a rough whisper. "But I… I was the one who…"

Mei held his gaze, fierce but sympathetic. "You were fighting to save him, Adrian. Don't let this moment haunt you. We have a mission, and it's not over yet."

Adrian's jaw clenched, a new determination flooding through him as he remembered Vincent's voice, smooth and sinister, his betrayal fresh in his mind. Vincent had set them up, knowing they'd be outmatched, knowing Marcus and he might not survive it. Adrian felt a flash of

Adrian knelt on the blood-soaked floor, his fingers numb as they brushed Marcus's shoulder, expecting the sticky warmth of blood, but instead they found the soft give of cotton sheets. The illusion fractured instantly, and with it, the room around him snapped into focus. He jerked upright, breath ragged and uneven, sweat cold against his skin.

The dorm room greeted him with its usual stale familiarity: the sharp, musty scent of old books, sweat, and something sour Adrian couldn't quite name. Not that he cared to name it—whatever it was, it was his, like the mess of papers and maps scattered across the desk or the coat slumped over the back of the chair, its hem stained dark with something that wouldn't wash out. It was home, or close enough. Close enough for a guy like him, anyway.

The light leaking through the cracked window was the color of dishwater, casting long shadows that crept across the room like fingers. Adrian stared at the ceiling, unblinking, the taste of copper and ash still sharp on his tongue. The club wasn't here. Not in this room, not anymore. But it didn't matter. The memory had followed him anyway, slipping through the cracks of his mind, burrowing into the hollow spaces.

His heart hammered hard in his chest, each beat so loud it was like a bass drum in his ears. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was alive—alive, for Christ's sake—but it felt all wrong. His fingers curled into the sheets, cold sweat gluing him to the mattress. The room was too still, too quiet, except for the faint creak of wood and the sound of his own ragged breathing. He blinked, trying to pull himself back, to shove the memory of Marcus's dead eyes and Elara's mocking smile into the dark corners of his mind.

His eyes shifted across the room to the other side. That side didn't have the same tired discipline as his own. If his desk was a battlefield, this one was the wreckage left behind after the war, scattered and wild. The bed was a mess—a proper mess, not just unmade but tangled and twisted, the blanket shoved halfway onto the floor like the occupant had been wrestling with it all night. The desk was covered with sketchbooks, pencils snapped and worn down to stubs, coffee mugs balanced on precarious edges. Most of the drawings were unfinished—shapes and figures in deep, jagged strokes of charcoal, their faces blurred, their limbs half-formed. One or two stared back with dark hollows where eyes should've been, as though the artist had started something they weren't sure they wanted to finish.

The wall above the bed was worse. Dozens of sketches pinned haphazardly, some curling at the edges, some held up by thumbtacks that looked ready to give way. The subjects ranged from surreal landscapes to portraits that didn't quite make sense—faces too sharp, too thin, too… wrong. Adrian didn't like staring at them for too long. They seemed to shift when you weren't looking, the kind of optical trick that got into your head if you let it.

At the foot of the bed, an old guitar leaned against the wall, its neck bent like it had been dropped one too many times. The strings were loose and frayed, not quite broken but not far from it. Next to it, a leather jacket hung off the back of the desk chair, one sleeve almost dragging the floor. There was something about the jacket that felt like it had a personality of its own—a swaggering, careless kind of energy, like the person who'd thrown it there wasn't worried about picking it up any time soon.

Adrian stared at it all for a moment longer than he should've, feeling something between irritation and unease crawl up his spine. His side of the room was deliberate, every mess purposeful. This side? This side was chaos, the kind that didn't care if you understood it. And the worst part? It didn't feel staged. It felt real.

A low groan broke the silence. The figure on the bed shifted, throwing an arm over their face and turning slightly, like they were trying to escape the weak light leaking through the blinds. There was something theatrical in the movement, like it was meant for an audience.

Adrian sighed, dragging his hand over his face. "For Christ's sake," he muttered under his breath.

Another groan, this one louder, followed by the sound of the bed creaking as the other occupant stretched, slow and lazy, like they had all the time in the world.

Adrian sat up, dragging a hand through his damp hair. He could feel his roommate's eyes on him before the guy even spoke.

"Rough night?" the voice was rough, too, a gravelly drawl that always sounded like it belonged to someone who hadn't quite woken up. He propped himself up on one elbow, grinning like a cat that had just caught the dumbest mouse in the world. "Or are you just working on that whole 'haunted loner' vibe you've got going?"

"Go back to sleep, Thorpe," Adrian muttered, his voice low and sharp. He reached for his coat, but his fingers stalled halfway, hovering over the fabric as if touching it might summon something worse than memories.

"Aw, come on," Xavier said, pushing himself upright now. His grin widened, the kind of grin that made you want to punch someone—or, in Adrian's case, made you wonder if it was worth the energy. "Talk to me, man. What's eating you? Besides, you know, the existential dread you wear like a second skin."

Adrian's lip curled, but there was no real venom in it. "What do you care?"

Xavier shrugged, his movements lazy, unbothered. "I don't. But I live here, and if you're gonna start pacing and muttering like a discount ghost, I feel like I deserve a heads-up." He leaned back against the wall, his head tilting slightly as he studied Adrian with that sharp, knowing look that made Adrian want to throw something. "Or, hey, we could skip the whole tortured silence thing, and you could just tell me what's going on."

Adrian let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

"Yeah, but you like me anyway." Xavier's grin turned smug, his teeth catching the weak light. "Admit it, I'm the best roommate you've ever had."

Adrian didn't answer. He grabbed his coat, shrugging it on with a quick, jerky motion. The fabric felt heavier than it should, its weight dragging at his shoulders. The bloodstains were still there, faint but visible, like a warning he couldn't ignore.

Xavier watched him, his grin softening into something quieter, almost curious. "You heading somewhere? Or just trying to outrun whatever's chasing you?"

Adrian shot him a look, sharp and cutting, but Xavier didn't flinch. He never did. It was one of the things that annoyed Adrian the most about him—and maybe one of the things he respected, too. Not that he'd ever admit it.

"You're worse than a therapist," Adrian muttered, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "And twice as nosy."

"Yeah, well, therapists don't have to live with their patients," Xavier said, standing now. He stretched, his movements slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. "Come on. I'll let you buy me coffee. That way, you can brood in peace, and I can pretend I'm being helpful."

Adrian snorted, the sound short and bitter. "You think coffee's gonna fix this?"

"Nope," Xavier said cheerfully. "But I do think it'll keep you from crawling back into bed and staring at the ceiling like you're waiting for the end of the world." He clapped a hand on Adrian's shoulder as he passed him, his grin sharp and unrelenting. "Come on, sunshine. Let's face the day."

Adrian hesitated, glancing at the window. The light was brighter now, pushing the shadows back a little, though not enough to banish them completely. He sighed and followed Xavier out, their footsteps echoing softly in the hallway.