Chapter Text
Soul Evans knew three things for certain.
One: the universe had a sense of humor, and it was cruel.
Two: Lord Death never called meetings for fun.
Three: the giant skeletal hand currently bursting through the practice room wall was not here to congratulate him.
The hand grabbed him by the collar.
Soul screamed. Briefly. Dignity was a luxury he no longer possessed.
“HEY—HEY—WAIT—TIME OUT—”
The hand dragged him across the floor, past Maka mid-swing, past Black☆Star yelling something incoherent, and straight through the wall like structural integrity was merely a suggestion.
Soul was deposited unceremoniously onto the polished floor of the briefing room.
He lay there.
Breathing.
Regretting every decision that had led him here.
“…I’m gonna pretend this is a dream,” he muttered.
“Good morning!” boomed Lord Death, floating cheerfully behind his desk, which was actively on fire for reasons no one questioned anymore. “Or evening! Or late-night existential dread o’clock!”
Soul didn’t move. “If this is about my attendance, I can explain.”
“It is not.”
“If it’s about my grades—”
“Also not.”
“If it’s about the time I fell asleep during Stein’s lecture—”
There was a pause.
“…We’ll discuss that later.”
Soul groaned and pushed himself upright. That was when he noticed Death the Kid standing dead-center in the room, perfectly aligned with the skull motif on the floor, hands clasped behind his back, posture flawless.
Kid was waiting.
That was never a good sign.
Soul squinted. “Why do you look like this is Christmas.”
Kid did not blink. “I am prepared.”
“That’s worse.”
Lord Death clapped his hands together, delighted. “Ah! See? Teamwork!”
Soul slumped into a chair. “I want it on record that I don’t like this already.”
The hologram flickered on, filling the air with glowing maps, symbols, and far too many skull icons.
“Witch territory,” Lord Death announced. “High-level. Organized. Annoyingly competent.”
Soul leaned forward. “Okay. So we send Maka.”
“No.”
“Black☆Star?”
“Absolutely not.”
Soul sighed. “So this is my problem.”
“Yes!”
Kid nodded. “Your skill set is optimal.”
Soul frowned. “My skill set is ‘hit things with music.’”
“And,” Lord Death added cheerfully, “adaptability.”
Soul did not like the way he said that.
“There is,” Lord Death continued, “one minor complication.”
Soul pointed at him. “You always say that right before it stops being minor.”
The projection changed.
The room went silent.
Suspended in glowing light was the unmistakable outline of a woman—tall, sharp, draped in layered black lace and fabric that hugged everything. The corset cinched tight, pushing posture into elegant dominance. The skirt slit high enough to be intentional, not accidental. Thigh-high boots with metal buckles, gloves climbing past the elbows, chains draped like jewelry rather than restraints.
The silhouette radiated danger.
And fashion.
Aggressively.
Soul stared.
His brain refused to process.
“…No,” he said.
“This,” Lord Death said proudly, “is Twilya.”
Soul slowly stood. “That is a woman.”
“Yes!”
“That is a very woman.”
“Correct.”
“That is not a disguise,” Soul said weakly. “That’s a threat.”
Kid tilted his head, analyzing the image. “The silhouette is balanced. The accessories are symmetrical.”
Soul whipped around. “WHY DO YOU KNOW THAT.”
“I reviewed the proposal.”
“The WHAT.”
Lord Death leaned forward. “Soul, witches would never suspect a male weapon student infiltrating their ranks as—”
“I AM NOT WEARING A CORSET.”
Kid cleared his throat.
Soul pointed at him. “Do not.”
“The disguise,” Kid said calmly, “requires commitment.”
Soul laughed. Loudly. Unhinged. “You’re insane.”
Kid nodded once. “Thank you.”
“And you,” Soul said, jabbing a finger at Lord Death, “have officially lost it.”
Lord Death clapped. “Excellent enthusiasm!”
“I WANT A DIFFERENT MISSION.”
The dressing room was a hate crime.
There was no other explanation.
Soul stood in the center of the room while enchanted assistants circled him like sharks smelling blood.
“No,” Soul said firmly. “Absolutely not.”
The corset tightened.
Soul made a noise that should not have come out of a human.
“This is illegal.”
“It’s fashion,” one assistant replied.
“I did not consent.”
“Fashion never asks.”
Kid stood off to the side, arms crossed, observing like this was a sacred ritual.
“The hemline is uneven,” Kid said suddenly.
Everyone froze.
The assistant gasped. “You’re right.”
Soul snarled. “I will fight all of you.”
The mirror finally turned.
Soul Evans ceased to exist.
Twilya stood in his place.
Her makeup was sharp and dramatic—dark eyes rimmed with black, pale lips, cheekbones severe enough to cut glass. Her posture was straight, still, controlled. The dress hugged in all the wrong ways and exactly the right ones.
She looked expensive.
She looked dangerous.
She looked like she could ruin reputations without raising her voice.
Soul stared.
“…I look cunty,” he whispered.
Kid nodded. “Yes.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It is accurate.”
The illusion spell settled the moment they crossed into witch territory.
It didn’t change Soul.
It edited him.
His slouch vanished.
His fidgeting stopped.
His face smoothed into something distant and cold.
He spoke.
“…Acceptable,” Twilya said.
Soul froze.
“…Why did I sound like that.”
Kid did not look away. “Excellent monotone control.”
“I didn’t do that on purpose.”
“Even better.”
Soul tried to scowl.
It came out elegant.
He hated it.
The room went quiet the moment Twilya stepped inside.
Witches stopped talking.
Eyes followed.
Fear sharpened.
“Who are you?” someone demanded.
Twilya blinked slowly.
“I am Twilya,” she said evenly. “This does not concern you.”
Chains hummed.
The witch stepped back.
Kid placed a hand at her waist—casual, precise, perfectly balanced.
“My partner does not repeat herself,” Kid said.
No one argued.
Soul stood there, wrapped in lace and authority, realizing two things:
One—this was working too well.
Two—he was never living this down.
Somewhere in Death City, Maka sneezed.
When they reached the safehouse hours later, Soul collapsed into a chair and tore off his gloves.
“I hated every second of that,” he said.
Kid sat across from him, posture immaculate. “Your performance was effective.”
“I didn’t yell.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t joke.”
“Yes.”
Soul stared at the dress pooled around his legs. “…Did I really just threaten someone without raising my voice.”
Kid nodded. “It was impressive.”
Soul groaned. “I hate this job.”
And far away, something ancient laughed softly—delighted by the witch named Twilya.