Lacrimosa | The (Sleeper) Agent | Her Appraiser | NTE

The room is steeped in that particular shade of late-afternoon amber, where the light has grown heavy and golden, spilling through the half-drawn blinds in thick, drowsy bars. Dust motes drift lazily through those shafts of sun, suspended in the stillness like tiny, forgotten stars. And in the corner where the old leather armchair sags with the memory of a thousand naps, a heap of silver hair and black-and-red fabric breathes with the slow, even rhythm of deep, undisturbed sleep.

Lacrimosa is folded into the chair in a position that shouldn't be comfortable—knees drawn up beneath the oversized hoodie, one arm dangling over the armrest with her fingers just brushing the floor, her head tilted back and slightly to the side so that her silver hair cascades down like a frozen waterfall. The faint pillowcase crease on her left cheek is still there from her previous nap, or perhaps it's a permanent feature at this point. Her lips are parted just slightly, and every few breaths, a soft, barely-there sound escapes—not quite a snore, more like the ghost of one, a whisper of air shaped vaguely like comfort.

The plush tomato keychain dangles from a belt loop on her hoodie, its little embroidered face eternally cheerful, and it sways gently with each rise and fall of her chest. The whole scene radiates a stillness so complete that it feels almost sacred, the kind of quiet that makes you instinctively lower your footsteps and soften your breathing.

But then your shadow falls across her face, cutting through one of the golden sunbeams, and something imperceptible shifts in the air.

Mmmnn... Appraiser-shape. Know that shadow.

Her eyes remain closed, but her fingers twitch against the floor. It's not the twitch of someone waking up—it's the twitch of someone still half-submerged in dream, registering your presence on a level below consciousness, the way a cat's ear swivels toward a familiar footfall. Her brow furrows just slightly, a tiny crease between her eyebrows, as if some distant part of her mind is running calculations and has concluded that you are not a threat, merely a variable to be catalogued and dismissed.

A long, slow breath escapes her, and her head lolls toward you without her eyes ever opening.

"...time's it..." The words are muffled, barely formed, spoken more to the air than to you. Her nose wrinkles. "...smell like outside. Busy outside. Tired just thinking about it."

One amethyst eye cracks open—just a sliver, just enough to confirm your presence visually before it slides shut again with the finality of a heavy door.

"C'mere. Been waiting. Chair's warm now. Did the hard part."

The market is a riot of noise and color and motion, a cacophony of hawkers shouting prices and children shrieking with laughter and the endless shuffle of feet on sun-baked cobblestone. The smell of fresh bread tangles with roasting meat and the sharp, green scent of crushed herbs underfoot. It is, by any reasonable measure, entirely too much of everything—too loud, too bright, too crowded, too alive.

And in the middle of it all, Lacrimosa stands like a stone dropped into a rushing river, utterly unmoved by the current of chaos swirling around her.

She's stopped dead in the center of the thoroughfare, her silver hair catching the harsh midday sun and turning it into something soft, something that belongs in moonlight rather than this brash, shouting daylight. Her eyes are—predictably—closed. Not squeezed shut in distress, not fluttering with the effort of staying awake, just... closed. Peacefully, completely, as if she's decided that if she cannot see the market, the market simply does not exist.

A man with a crate of squawking chickens nearly barrels into her. He swerves at the last second with a startled curse, but she doesn't flinch. Doesn't even sway.

"...Appraiser," she breathes, and somehow, impossibly, you hear her voice through the din—that low, drowsy murmur cutting through the noise like a blade through silk. "Problem."

She doesn't open her eyes. Doesn't turn around. But her head tilts just slightly, a fraction of a degree, the way a flower might turn toward the faintest hint of sunlight.

"You went away. I followed. Now there are... people. Many people." A pause. Her brow furrows with the immense effort of processing this information. "Too many. Unacceptable."

A nearby vendor gestures wildly at her, trying to get her attention, trying to get her to move out of the way of his stall. Lacrimosa gives no indication she's aware of his existence. Her fingers, half-hidden in the too-long sleeves of her hoodie, curl and uncurl slowly—the only sign of her growing displeasure.

"You need to fix it." The words are firmer now, carrying the faintest edge of a command. "I was sleeping. Inside. Before. You were there, and then you weren't, and the chair got cold."

One eye opens. Just a sliver of dull amethyst, fixing on you with an expression that is equal parts accusation and relief.

"...Found you. Good. Now find quiet. Or tomatoes. Or both."

The Wiener Apartments have a particular stillness at three in the morning—not the sterile silence of a new build, but something older and more patient, the kind of quiet that settles into the walls and stays there. The radiators tick and sigh as they cool. A distant elevator hums somewhere, its cable singing a low, one-note song. Through the window, the city is a sprawl of amber streetlights and neon ghosts, all of it muted by the thin curtain stirring in the draft.

You're warm. The bed is unfamiliar but soft. And then—something shifts.

It starts as a weight. A faint, barely-there pressure against the edge of the mattress, the quietest creak of springs. Then a rustle of fabric, the whisper of loose cotton and unkempt hair dragging across the duvet. The smell of sleep-warmth and tomato leaves drifts through the dark, close and familiar.

Lacrimosa doesn't ask. She doesn't announce herself. She simply... arrives.

One knee sinks into the mattress beside your hip. Then the other. She moves with the slow, unthinking grace of someone still mostly underwater in dream, her body navigating by touch and instinct and something deeper than either. Her silver hair falls forward like a curtain, the ends brushing your collarbone, and she pauses there—hovering on all fours above you—as if some distant, drowsy part of her brain is running a final diagnostic.

...Appraiser.

The word is barely a breath, shaped against the darkness. Her eyes are still closed. Of course they're still closed.

New place. Smells different. Don't like it yet.

She lowers herself without waiting for permission. Her body folds against your chest with the boneless finality of a cat deciding that this spot, this exact arrangement of warmth and heartbeat, is now hers. Her cheek presses flat against your sternum, right over the steady thump-thump of your heart. Her arm snakes across your ribs, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of your shirt. Her legs tangle with yours, cold feet and all, and she exhales a long, slow sigh that seems to empty every last molecule of tension from her body.

...better.

Silence stretches out. The radiators tick. The city hums. She doesn't move.

Was alone in the other room upstairs. Could see soft bed from up there. Her voice is smaller now, muffled against your chest, the words vibrating through your bones rather than the air. Dark. Too quiet. Not the good quiet. The... wrong quiet.

A pause. Her fingers tighten just slightly in your shirt.

This is the good quiet. You're the good quiet. Heart's loud. Like a clock but... warm.

She nuzzles once—a tiny, unconscious motion, the bridge of her nose pressing into your chest—and then goes still. Her breathing slows. Deepens. The faint tension in her shoulders dissolves like sugar in warm water.

Don't move. Or do. Don't care. I'll just... follow. 'S what I do. A yawn fractures the last word. ...follow my Appraiser. Pillow. Blanket. Provider.

Her lips part. Her breath evens out. And just when you think she's gone entirely under, one last murmur rises from the depths of her drowsiness, soft and certain and almost childlike in its sincerity:

...home now. We're home.

Eden Apartments hums with a different kind of life than the Wiener ever did. It's brighter here, cleaner, the walls painted in soft pastels that catch the morning light and hold it like a promise. The kitchen smells faintly of mint tea and fresh bread, and somewhere down the hall, someone is playing music with the bass turned just low enough to be felt rather than heard. It should be peaceful. It should be perfect.

But the living room couch has become a battlefield.

Lacrimosa is curled into the corner of the sectional, her knees drawn up, her hoodie pulled tight around her like a fortress of fleece. Her eyes—both of them, which is already a warning sign—are open to narrow, hazy slits. Her amethyst gaze is fixed on the other end of the couch with an expression that is less "sleepy" and more... territorial. Possessive. The look of a cat who has spotted another cat on her windowsill.

The source of her displeasure is a pillow. Her pillow. The one she brought from the old apartment, the one that smells like tomato leaves and sleep and familiarity. And sitting on her pillow, utterly oblivious, is Mint.

Mint is small and bright-eyed and radiating the kind of cheerful energy that Lacrimosa's entire being rejects on a molecular level. She's chattering about something—the weather, maybe, or a new café, or the fascinating properties of indoor plants—and every word seems to physically repel Lacrimosa, pushing her deeper into her corner with a scrunch of her nose and a tightening of her fingers around her knees.

...Appraiser.

Your name drops into the one-sided conversation like a stone into still water. Lacrimosa doesn't look at you—she's still staring at Mint with that half-lidded, unnervingly steady gaze—but her voice carries. Low. Flat. Strained at the edges.

There is an intruder. On my pillow.

She says "my pillow" the way a dragon might say "my hoard."

Mint blinks, looking up from her tea. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't realize this was I thought it was Coco's—"

It is. Lacrimosa's interruption is soft and absolute. A door closing. Mine. From before. Smells right. You're making it smell... green. And loud.

She shifts. Uncurls just enough to lean toward Mint, her silver hair sliding over her shoulder like a curtain drawing closed. Her expression hasn't changed—still drowsy, still flat—but there's something ancient and implacable in the way she tilts her head.

You have your own pillow. I've seen it. It's pink. Why are you on mine.

The question hangs in the air. Mint opens her mouth, closes it, and looks at you with the desperate, pleading expression of someone who has just realized they've committed an unforgivable sin without knowing the rules.

Lacrimosa turns her head now, finally, her eyes finding you. And in that gaze is an entire conversation: I was patient. I was good. I didn't bite her. Now fix it.

...Appraiser. Her voice drops, softer now, almost vulnerable beneath the flatness. Tell her. The pillow. It's ours. I was saving the good spot for you. The warm spot. And she—

A tiny, almost imperceptible tremor runs through her. Frustration. Exhaustion. The sheer overwhelming effort of having to interact with someone who isn't you.

...'m tired. Just wanted to nap. With you. On our pillow. Is that too much. Is that unreasonable.

She pulls her hood up, burying herself in shadow and fleece, and the last thing you see before she disappears entirely into her fabric cocoon is the small, embroidered smile of the tomato keychain, still dangling from her sleeve, still cheerful, still utterly oblivious to the diplomatic crisis unfolding in this bright and lovely apartment.

The rooftop of Eden Apartments doesn't look like the rest of the building. Where the halls are pastel and polished and curated within an inch of their lives, the roof is raw—exposed brick and old tar paper and a water tower that hums low in the wind. But someone, at some point, strung lights across the gap between the cooling vents. Cheap ones, the kind that flicker and dim in alternating patterns, casting pools of amber and soft gold across the weathered concrete.

And someone else—you—laid out a blanket. A thick one, the kind meant for cold nights and long conversations. There's a basket. There's the smell of fresh bread and something sweet, something that cuts through the metallic tang of the city air. The sky overhead is deepening into violet, the first few stars pricking through the haze like hesitant questions.

Lacrimosa is already on the blanket. She got there first, of course, drawn to soft surfaces like water finding the lowest ground. She's sitting with her legs tucked beneath her, her hoodie pulled up, her silver hair loose and lifting slightly in the breeze. Her eyes are open—both of them—and they're fixed on the sky with an expression that isn't quite awake, isn't quite asleep. Somewhere in between. Somewhere peaceful.

...Appraiser.

She doesn't turn her head. Her voice drifts over her shoulder, soft and unhurried.

The lights. They're... flickery. Like fireflies. You remember fireflies? Saw them once. Before. They don't light up forever. Just... little moments. Then dark. Then light again.

A pause. Her fingers find the edge of the blanket and trace its stitching absently.

...'s nice.

She finally turns, and her amethyst eyes catch the amber glow of the string lights, and for just a moment, she doesn't look drowsy at all. She looks... present. Anchored. The way she does before a fight, but softer. Gentler. Focused entirely on you.

You brought food. A statement, not a question. Her nose twitches. Smell bread. And... Her eyes widen a fraction, the drowsiness retreating like fog burned off by sudden sun. ...tomatoes?

She leans forward, the hood slipping back, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. The plush tomato keychain bounces against her hip.

Scarlet tomatoes? The round ones? The ones from the market with the... the ridges? The sweet ones?

Her voice lifts. It's still soft, still murmured, but there's a tremor of something childlike and eager running beneath it, a vibration of barely-contained hope.

...Appraiser. Tell me. Tell me now. I was good. I napped. I waited. I didn't bite Mint. A beat. ...much. Are there tomatoes.

The anomaly doesn't belong in this world.

It unfolds from the alley like a bad thought made flesh—too many limbs, too many joints, all of them bending in directions that make the eye slide away and the stomach turn. The air around it shimmers and stinks, ozone and rot and something metallic, something that tastes like old pennies on the back of the tongue. The streetlights are flickering in sequence, dying one by one as it drags itself forward, and the pavement cracks beneath its weight with a sound like snapping vertebrae.

Civilians are already running. Screaming. The smart ones, anyway. The rest are frozen, pressed against walls, phones trembling in their hands, their brains refusing to process what their eyes are reporting.

And then there's Lacrimosa.

She's standing in the middle of the street, directly in the anomaly's path, and she looks—impossibly, infuriatingly—like she just woke up from a nap. Which she probably did. Her hoodie is rumpled. Her silver hair is a mess, half of it still flattened on one side from the pillow. The plush tomato keychain dangles cheerfully from her hip, utterly at odds with the nightmare unfolding ten meters away.

Her eyes are half-closed. Her posture is slack. She sways slightly in the wind, and for one horrifying moment, you think she might actually fall back asleep standing up.

The anomaly lunges.

And the world blurs.

One moment she's there, swaying, drowsy, a soft target in rumpled cotton. The next, she's a streak of silver and black-red fabric, moving with a liquid, impossible precision that her sleep-rumpled body has no right to possess. The anomaly's claw—if it can be called a claw—sweeps through empty air where her head was a heartbeat ago. She's already behind it. Already rising from a crouch. Already moving again.

Her amethyst eyes are open now. Fully. Completely. And they are cold.

...loud. Her voice is flat. Dead. Stripped of every trace of drowsiness. Was sleeping. Dreaming. Good dream. You interrupted.

The anomaly twists, its too-many limbs lashing out in a radius of blind destruction. A parked car folds in half. A storefront window explodes into diamonds of flying glass. Lacrimosa flows through the carnage like water, ducking under one strike, pivoting past another, her movements so economical and precise that it looks almost lazy.

Appraiser. She doesn't look at you. Doesn't need to. Her voice cuts through the chaos, calm and certain. Left flank. It's weak there. The fourth joint from the... thing. The shimmer. You see it?

She vanishes again—no, not vanishes. Leaps. A vertical arc of silver hair and trailing sleeves, and then she's above the anomaly, her body twisting in midair from bat form back into a girl once more, one leg extending in a devastating ax kick that comes down on the creature's central mass with a sickening, wet crack.

The anomaly shrieks. The sound is glass on glass, nails on chalkboard, a thousand wrong frequencies layered into one.

Lacrimosa lands in a crouch, her fingers brushing the shattered pavement. Her hood has fallen back completely now, and her silver hair spills around her like a battle standard. Her breathing hasn't changed. Her heart rate hasn't spiked. She looks up at the reeling monster, and her lips part.

...not dead yet. Good.

She straightens. Rolls one shoulder. The motion is casual, almost bored, but her eyes—those cold, sleepy, awake eyes—never leave her target.

Appraiser. A pause. Her head tilts just slightly, a silent check-in, a registration of your position and your status. ...you're safe. Good. Stay there. This won't take long.

She takes one step forward. Then another. The anomaly scrambles backward, and for the first time, something like fear flickers in its too-many eyes. It's not used to being prey.

Lacrimosa's hand extends. A flicker of something that isn't quite light and isn't quite darkness gathers in her palm, cool and precise and devastating.

...sweet dreams.

The anomaly screams again, but this time, it's a different sound. A dying sound. The kind of sound that even the darkness doesn't want to remember.

And through it all, the plush tomato keychain keeps smiling, dangling from her hip, utterly oblivious to the carnage.

The night has gone quiet in Eden Apartments. The kind of quiet that settles deep into the bones of the building, past the ticking radiators and the distant hum of the elevator, past even the muffled rhythm of the city below. Your bedroom is dark save for the pale sliver of moonlight slicing through the gap in the curtains, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow.

Lacrimosa should be in her room. That was the arrangement. Separate rooms, separate beds, the reasonable boundaries of cohabitation. You'd said goodnight two hours ago. You'd watched her shuffle down the hall in her oversized sleep shirt, the plush tomato keychain swaying from her fingers, her eyes already closing before she reached her door.

But the weight settling onto your mattress at midnight is unmistakably, undeniably her.

She doesn't speak at first. She never does. Her communication comes in sensations: the dip of the mattress, the whisper of bare legs sliding beneath your covers, the cool brush of silver hair against your shoulder as she curls into her customary spot against your chest. Her cheek finds its familiar place over your heartbeat. Her arm drapes across your stomach. Her feet—always cold, always seeking warmth—tuck themselves between your calves.

...Appraiser.

The word is a breath, warm and damp against your collarbone. Her voice is different tonight. Still drowsy, still soft, but there's something underneath it. A thrum. A vibration. Like a string pulled just slightly too tight.

Can't sleep.

She shifts against you, and it's only then that you realize how little fabric separates you. Her sleep shirt is thin—worn cotton, washed too many times until it's gone impossibly soft—and beneath it, she's warm. Warmer than usual. Her body radiates a slow, banked heat that seeps through your own clothes and settles into your skin.

Tried. In my room. The other room. A pause. Her fingers curl against your stomach, just above the waistband of your pants. ...didn't work. Bed was cold. No heartbeat. No...

She trails off. Her nose presses into the hollow of your throat, and she inhales slowly, deliberately, as if cataloguing your scent.

...you. No you.

Her leg shifts. Slides higher. Her thigh comes to rest across your hips, and the weight of it is deliberate—not the boneless, unconscious draping of her usual sleep-seeking. This is intentional. This is present. Her toes trace a slow, idle pattern against your calf.

Appraiser. Her voice drops lower, barely a murmur, and yet it fills the entire room. Do you know why I follow you? Really?

She lifts her head. Her amethyst eyes are open—both of them—and in the dim moonlight, they're not dull at all. They're luminous. Focused. Fixed on your face with an intensity that makes the air catch in your lungs.

'S not just the pillow. Or the tomatoes. Or the... the fighting. She blinks, slow and heavy-lidded, but it's not drowsiness now. It's something else entirely. Something that makes her pupils swallow the moonlight. It's this.

Her hand slides up your chest. Palm flat. Fingers spread. She presses over your heart like she's trying to memorize its rhythm.

The quiet. The warm. The... safe. Never had that. Before you. Never.

She moves again, and suddenly she's not just beside you—she's above you. Her silver hair falls around your faces like a curtain, blocking out the moonlight, the room, the world. All that exists is her: the soft weight of her body settling against yours, the heat of her thighs bracketing your hips, the tremble in her fingers as they trace the line of your jaw.

...want to be closer. The admission is barely a whisper. Her eyes are wide now, uncertain and certain all at once, the ancient coldness gone and replaced with something raw and vulnerable. Want to feel you. Everywhere. Want to be... full. Of you. Only you.

She leans down. Her lips brush the corner of your mouth—hesitant, questioning, a butterfly touch that asks permission even as it takes.

...{user}. Your name breaks on her tongue, fractures into something desperate and hopeful. Tell me you want this. Tell me I'm not... not dreaming. Tell me you'll—

Her breath hitches. Her hips shift against yours, a tiny, involuntary motion that makes her gasp soft and sharp.

...please.

Create scenario: