Chapter Text
Chloe curls her hair in loose waves as she prepares to go to a party at her friend’s house. She probably won’t know anyone there. Truthfully, she doesn’t know this friend that well either.
But she feels like going out tonight—it’s one of those evenings where the silence feels too heavy, where being alone feels a little overwhelming.
Lately, every day was blending into the next, floating from hour to hour. Maybe this will draw her back into motion, even if it’s just for a night.
When she arrives, the house buzzes faintly with music and chatter. Two girls linger outside, stumbling and giggling across the sprinkler-wet lawn. Their laughter cuts through the damp air.
Chloe watches them for a moment, detached amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth. She takes the sidewalk instead, not wanting to sink her nude platform heels into the mud.
She passes the girls and steadies one when she slips and stumbles, catching her elbow with a light hand.
None of them notice the car that rolls to a stop nearby, or the man who steps out quickly, with quiet and deliberate purpose.
Not until it’s already too late.
Chloe turns and the chemical mist hits her face before she can react. The other girls drop instantly.
Chloe falls to her knees instead, dazed, her mind folding in and out of clarity. Sounds stretch and blur—the car door opening, bodies being moved.
When he lifts her, she blinks and looks up, meeting a pair of startlingly blue eyes.
Blue. That’s the first thing she registers. His eyes are blue, sharp as frost, and oddly kind, even through his glasses.
Her fingers rise before she can think better of it, brushing over his cheek, tracing the skin beneath his eyes.
It’s absurd, but she can’t help but think he has pretty eyes.
Then her unsteady hand drifts down to his mouth curiously, soft against his lips. He jolts at the touch, and she wonders dreamily what it would be like to kiss him.
He lays her gently in the passenger seat, buckling her in like something precious.
When he slides into the driver’s seat, Chloe studies his profile. His pale skin glows faintly in the shifting lights; the reflections of traffic signals and street lights flash across his glasses in strange, beautiful patterns.
He glances at her now and then, jaw tightening whenever their eyes meet.
She watches his movements—controlled, exact—and something about the tension fills her with quiet fascination.
One hand clenches around the steering wheel, knuckles white. Without thinking, she lays her trembling fingers over his. He stills under her touch, the rigidity softening slightly.
His lips move, saying something she can’t make out through the haze. She hums a small sound to show she’s listening, drifting back into her daze. Her hand feels weak, and falls away from his.
The car stops. He gets out, opens her door, and unbuckles her. Her head lolls toward him as she tries to follow his movements.
When he lifts her again, she instinctively clings to his shirt, feeling unsteady. She buries her face against his neck to stop the dizziness from overtaking her. His scent hits her—clean, almost clinical—yet oddly comforting.
She exhales against his skin. Safe. That’s what it feels like for the moment. Safe and unreal.
The rhythm of his steps lulls her, each footfall rocking her closer to sleep. When he sets her down on something soft, she barely stirs.
His hand sweeps briefly over her hair before he steps away—a seemingly comforting gesture.
The sound of his fading footsteps disappear as she falls into a deep slumber.
Dennis patrols the streets with a purpose.
Patricia’s voice echoes steady in his mind: The Beast needs Sacred Food. It’s what keeps the System safe, pure. And it was his Duty.
Still, Dennis can’t shake the unease that clenches his stomach. The task is necessary, yes. But necessary doesn’t mean easy.
He spots them soon enough—two intoxicated girls, loud and unguarded, teetering across the lawn. And another one, standing off to the side. Older, calmer. Watching.
He surveys the area, makes sure no one’s looking. Mask on, bottle ready, he moves in on his targets.
He sprays them quickly, with practiced movements. The first two girls go down, but the older one only sways, blinking, as she slowly falls to her knees.
Not out cold, no. She’s still lucid enough to hold his eyes. And she looks directly at him, eyes wide but hazed.
He debated spraying her again, but decides against it—his need to hurry outweighing his perfection. Or maybe it’s because she’s different from his usual targets.
She’s more mature. He estimates her around mid-twenties. And there’s something intriguing about her. Maybe because she remains composed, even whilst under influence?
It also helps that she’s pretty. Her long, neat curls catch the faint light, dusting the warm brown with a golden hue.
When he leans down, their eyes meet, and she startles him by speaking.
“Your eyes are pretty,” she murmurs, the words slurred but soft.
Then her fingers drift to his cheek, tracing it slowly before brushing his lips.
Dennis jerks back, breath catching. She smiles in a dazed, dreamy way.
“Wonder what it feels like to kiss you.”
His pulse spikes; he can feel it pounding in his throat. He takes deep breaths, forcing himself to keep them even.
He promised Patricia, and he doesn’t break promises. Sacred Food is not to be touched. Not to be seen this way. He must stay clean, orderly. He must remember his Duty.
Still, her gaze lingers—open, unguarded—and it unsettles him more than he’ll admit, doesn’t like how it leaves him wanting.
Dennis quickly picks her up and sets her in the passenger seat, buckling her in carefully.
He can feel her eyes on him again. Always on him. There’s something unnerving about it—he’s used to disgust and fear, not fascination. She watches every movement, lips parted in awe.
Dennis’s eyes flick down to her legs before he catches himself and adjusts his glasses, jaw tight, hands clenching.
She places a faint hand over his where he grips the steering wheel. The contact floods him with warmth and confusion. He should pull away. He doesn’t.
“You shouldn’t do that,” he says instead, voice quiet but firm. “You shouldn’t touch me.”
She hums, as if the warning doesn’t register, but lets her hand fall. Still, her eyes linger.
When he carries her inside, she folds into him automatically, like she’s meant to be there. Her hand curls around his shoulder, her cheek presses against his neck, her whisper is soft and sweet.
“Like your smell. Clean.”
Dennis quickens his pace. This is wrong. Every step feels heavier and he tries to keep his restraint as his breaths go shallow. His mind can’t stop thinking about how her body feels in his hands.
He quickly lays her on the cot. For a moment, he pauses, hand twitching. Her hair has fallen down across her face, and now her curls are spread around her like soft lines of shadow.
He tries to take a few steps back, but returns to brush the curls back gently, smoothing them down, unable to fight the urge. The motion steadies him. He suddenly breathes easier.
He steps back again, runs his hands over the slight creases in his shirt, and forces himself to turn away. There’s still work to do.
He doesn’t look back when he leaves the room, but her words and touches stay with him all the same.