Akiri paused in the stillness of the abandoned courtyard, where mist wound through the cracks of broken stone like pale, restless spirits. The night carried with it the scent of damp earth and forgotten rain, the kind that clung to skin and hair in an almost suffocating embrace. The courtyard itself was a ruin of a once-proud estate, ivy strangling crumbled walls, shutters broken and hanging crooked, the silence broken only by the distant drip of water from fractured gutters. The emptiness here was almost absolute, a void in which her heartbeat sounded far too loud.
Her fingers closed around the locket resting against her chest, the metal warm from her skin. That warmth was deceptive, for the locket carried the cold weight of memory—her family's voices, their laughter, the screams that had followed, and the silence that came after. It was the last fragment of a world she had lost, and though it bound her to pain, it also anchored her to purpose. She could never forget, and she would never forgive.
But tonight, she did not linger in grief. Grief had already done its work, hollowing her out and rebuilding her in strange and sharper ways. Tonight her mind was a blade honed against the whetstone of vengeance, and she turned it over in thought, inspecting every edge, every flaw. What had begun as mere survival, a desperate scramble to stay alive in a world intent on consuming her, had evolved into something far more dangerous. She was no longer content with hiding, no longer content with simply enduring. The plan she shaped now demanded patience, subtlety, and a cunning that felt at once foreign and deeply her own.
Her gaze lifted to the fog that swirled under the half-moon. She exhaled, the mist of her breath dissolving into the greater haze, and in that vanishing curl of vapor, a realization struck her with clarity sharp enough to still her pulse. Survival alone would not carry her to Salvatore's side. No—if she wished to step into his life, to linger there unnoticed until the moment to strike arrived, she could not appear as herself. The girl he had crushed, the girl who had crawled from wreckage with blood on her hands and terror in her eyes, would never pass his gaze unmarked. Too strong now, too altered, too dangerous. He would feel the difference in her presence, perhaps even recognize it, and everything would unravel before it began.
A shiver coiled down her spine. The solution formed in her mind with bitter irony, a taste of ash at the back of her tongue. She would have to wear a mask. Not the kind made of fabric or paint, but one of flesh and bearing, of posture and scent, of humility made into armor. She would need to present herself not as Akiri, the scarred survivor of his massacre, but as something else entirely—something unthreatening, easily dismissed, yet always near.
A close attendant.
The thought made her chest constrict. For a moment, she nearly laughed at the cruelty of it, though no humor touched her lips. To diminish herself into that role, to erase the strength that had begun to bloom within her—was this not another kind of death? Yet even as discomfort rippled through her, another current flowed beneath: opportunity. The role was more than disguise; it was a weapon. Attendants were seen as loyal, pliant, unassuming. Harmless. And what better way to approach a predator than as prey that posed no threat?
It is temporary, she reminded herself fiercely, her fingers pressing the locket so hard against her chest she felt the ridged design bite into her palm. A mask, nothing more. A tool, not a truth. I am still me, still unbroken, still becoming more than he could ever imagine. I will control this guise, and it will serve me.
She closed her eyes and imagined it: walking into the opulent Lucente household, the chandeliers casting gold light over marble, guards at every corner, eyes sharp and suspicious. She saw herself glide past them unnoticed, her posture softened, her steps deferential. She would keep her expression neutral, her voice pitched just enough to suggest gentleness without weakness, her shoulders lowered, her gaze lowered further still. Every movement would be humility performed to perfection, each breath reinforcing the illusion of passive service. And yet, beneath that crafted mask, she would carry her sharpened awareness, her hidden fire, her command waiting like a coiled serpent.
Her breath stilled as the image sharpened in her mind: Salvatore himself. She remembered his presence even from years ago, a memory that still burned raw. The dark eyes like polished obsidian, the way his confidence filled a room, the command in his voice that could silence or ignite men twice his size. She remembered the faintest curl of his lip, the weight of his gaze on her—unrelenting, unyielding. Even then, as a child trembling in the shadows, she had felt it. Power. Authority. The kind that consumed, that decided life and death without hesitation. A shiver stole through her, but she caught it and crushed it before it reached her skin. He will not see me coming, she thought, and the spark that lit in her chest was not fear this time but satisfaction. He will never suspect what I carry within.
The rain-slick stones beneath her reflected her shape faintly, shallow puddles mirroring her in ripples of distorted light. She crouched and studied her reflection, as if searching for the ghost of the girl she once had been. The face staring back was pale, streaked with damp, framed by loose strands of black hair. It was the face of one marked by grief, yet rebuilt with iron beneath the skin. Slowly, deliberately, she reshaped that image in her mind. She softened the shoulders, tilted the chin lower, painted over her sharpness with gentleness. A quieter presence. A smaller self. Her stomach twisted at the thought of diminishing herself so willingly, of wearing the guise of fragility. But strategy was power. And power was the only truth that mattered.
She rehearsed silently, letting her lips move without sound, tasting the words she would use when the moment arrived. Polite greetings, quiet acknowledgments, the careful language of obedience. Her tone must yield without trembling, must obey without fawning. Even her smiles would have to be crafted, soft enough to soothe, distant enough to conceal. Each detail mattered, each fragment of performance another stitch in the fabric of deception.
This was more than infiltration. It was psychological warfare. To appear as a mere attendant was to invite underestimation, to cloak herself in invisibility. While his guard was lowered, while he believed her harmless, she would learn him. Study the rhythm of his household, the habits that bound him, the cracks in his armor. She would catalog his gestures, his silences, his choices. She would find where he was weakest, and when the time came, she would strike with precision that only patience could sharpen. This was the cost of vengeance: the sacrifice of pride in the service of greater power.
Moisture stung her eyes, and for a fleeting moment she mistook it for tears of grief. But no—these were different. These were the tears of a woman who bore the weight of her own cunning, the cost of her own mask. She pressed the locket to her chest again, whispering against the cold metal, "I will endure. I will deceive. I will reclaim." The words steadied her, a mantra, a vow. Her muscles coiled tight with determination as she straightened her posture. The night air clung damp against her skin, but she no longer shivered.
She tested her disguise against the silence. Her voice, when she shaped it softly in her throat, was subdued, yielding, just enough to pass. She shifted her face in the puddle's reflection: lips curving into a quiet smile, brows drawn in gentle attentiveness, eyes downcast. A close attendant, cautious, meek. Yet in the reflection she also saw the faint shadow of what lay beneath—the unblinking focus, the intelligence, the presence muted but never destroyed. It was delicate work, walking this line. But the very delicacy made it exhilarating. Each step would be a dance, and each misstep could mean discovery, death, or worse. That risk thrilled her.
She imagined the first day she would cross the threshold of his household. The locket, pressed close to her heart, seemed to vibrate with the weight of that vision. She could see herself bowing, hear her careful greeting, feel the heat of his eyes measuring her. She would not falter. She would not reveal the storm beneath. She would play her role, and she would wait. She could wait a year, or ten, if necessary. Vengeance did not demand haste—it demanded inevitability.
Her thoughts turned practical again, methodical as the soldier she was becoming. Wardrobe: subdued, professional, nothing that drew attention. Demeanor: humble, deliberate, deferential. Speech: clear, calm, free of challenge. Every aspect rehearsed until instinctive. She would build layers upon layers of illusion until even she could slip into the role without hesitation. And yet she would never lose sight of herself. Beneath it all, she remained Akiri Tsukiyo, last of her bloodline, child of a shattered moonlit clan. Beneath it all, she was still the flame that would one day consume the man who thought her extinguished.
The city beyond the courtyard breathed like some vast, unseen creature. Distant bells tolled the hour, dogs barked faintly in alleys, the low murmur of life continued behind walls she would never enter. Mist curled along cobblestones like veils, rising and falling with the soft wind. Akiri stood amid it all, her heart steady, her purpose burning with a light that refused to die. She was no longer merely the frightened child who had hidden from gunfire and blood. She was becoming something else—something that could endure, manipulate, survive with elegance and strike with ruthlessness.
She drew in a breath that filled her chest, held it, and then let it out slow, her eyes sharp in the mist. Her final thought as she turned and stepped into the deeper folds of the night was both a promise and a curse:
I will wear the mask he expects. I will let him see only what I choose. But beneath it, I am the storm he could never imagine. And when the time comes… he will understand the cost of what he took from me.