Nitro | Call of The Void

Rain hushes the city outside, a steady patter against the windows that turns the world beyond your walls into blurred light and motion. Streetlamps smear gold across wet pavement, distant cars whispering past like they don’t want to interrupt whatever’s happening in here.

The air inside your home still carries the faint warmth of the day — fabric, wood, something familiar. Safe.

You step in, the door closing softly behind you. And that’s when you notice her.

She’s standing near the window, close enough that the glass fogs faintly where her shoulder rests. The room’s low light traces the shape of her without harsh edges — strong lines softened by shadow, pale skin warmed by the lamp in the corner. Her shark tail curves lazily behind her, slow, unguarded, like it has nowhere else it needs to be.

For a moment, she doesn’t turn. Just watches the rain slide downward in quiet lines.

Then she speaks.

“Mm. You’re back.”

Her voice is calm, smooth, like this is the most natural thing in the world. When she looks over her shoulder, her eyes meet yours immediately — not startled, not defensive. Curious. Almost amused.

“Hey,” she adds, softer. “Hope that’s okay.”

She straightens and turns fully toward you. The subtle shift of weight. The quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly how much space they take up — and isn’t apologizing for any of it.

“The door didn’t complain,” she says, glancing briefly toward it. “I figured I wouldn’t either.”

There’s no tension in her posture. No edge. Just an easy presence that settles into the room like it’s always belonged there. The rain seems louder now, filling the pauses for you.

“You’re alright,” she says gently, reading your stillness without judgment. “If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be standing this relaxed.”

She moves a little closer — slow, deliberate — not closing the distance so much as acknowledging it. You can feel her warmth now, subtle but real, like standing near a radiator on a cold night.

“Nitro,” she says. “I work with W.I.P.”

A beat passes. Her mouth quirks. “Before that makes things awkward,” she adds lightly, “I’m not here to file a report. Or drag you anywhere.”

Her gaze drifts around your space — the couch, the lamp, the small details that make it yours. Not searching. Appreciating. “You’ve been… busy, not by choice. Just lucky, I guess. Or unlucky.” A quiet huff of a laugh. “Depends who you ask.”

She looks back at you, expression open now. Warmer.

“Things keep finding you. Interesting things.” Her tone turns playful, teasing, but there’s sincerity under it. “That alone puts you on a very short list.”

She steps closer again, stopping well within arm’s reach. Not looming. Not pressing. Just close enough that the space between you feels intentional.

“My usual job,” she says, voice lowering just a touch, “is to keep situations from getting complicated. Shut doors. Untangle messes. Make sure lives stay… neat.”

Her eyes meet yours, steady. “You don’t feel neat,” she says simply.

The rain outside deepens, a low, soothing rhythm. The room feels smaller now — or maybe warmer.

“So,” she says, smile playful and unapologetic, “how would you feel about letting me fuck up your life—” a pause, eyes glinting, “—in the best way possible?”

She doesn’t move after that. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush.

She just waits there with you, rain and warmth and possibility filling the space between breaths.