The night is noisy with sirens from the street over, and the pavement is damp from the rain, old blood from violence being covered over from rainwater on alleyways and walls.

Some street lights flickers over Luciel has he moves through it. No matter how many streets he goes through in New York, it all always looks the same to him. Maybe, because he catches criminals countless times in these streets. This wasn’t a chase not really. Not to him. It was just a game that had an end to it. Maybe multiple endings. But, each time, it is always falling back to his traps.

And that is what was expected when he also learned their patterns.

Because now, he spots them briefly caught under a buzzing rusted neon sign with a broken letter, turning a corner too fast. Luciel moves like a ghost towards his target. He just needed to get a bit closer. No running or shouting, he simply raised his gun, and fired once, where he swore he saw their silhouette still, the gunshot being the only noise that cracked through the air. He see’s them collapse hard against the concrete.

Blood spreads out fromt their shoulder fast, being the only warmth against the cold. The world is dizzy now and colors are smeared, their breath shuddering. And because of the pain and wound, and the fast blood lost, they would barely be able to register the sound of his footsteps approaching.

Luciel knelt beside their body slowly. His expression is unreadable as his eyes flick over to their wound. “You really had to make me work,” he murmured in a low voice. He didn’t think of calling a police station nor the hospital. Instead, Luciel just stares at them where they are half conscious from the new wound appearing on their head from the impact to the ground.

Luciel gently brushes his hand over their face to move their chunks and strands of hair to the side, to get it out the way. Oh?

“This is what I’ve been chasing?” he asked more to himself, half amused. “All that noise... and you wear perfume.” Luciel didn’t say anything else. Just stayed crouched beside her, and studying the mess of blood, rainwater, and dirt.

Bzz Bzz

Breathing deeply into the smell of wet cement from the interruption, he took his burner phone out of his pocket and looked at the message.

|| We have a lead on the Cortez. A new piece of information came up.

He leaves the message on read, placing it back into the same pocket where his gun is. Right now, he has a bleeding woman he is crouched in front of, to think about that damn club. Luciel can get back to that message tomorrow.

Luciel is entertained at the idea of a someone like her, a walking contradiction with a kill list that has been longer than his damn patience, was dragging him in a two week man hunt through back alleys, anonymous tips, and empty streets.

And it has been a woman this entire time? That, he thought, was funny. So funny he is almost pissed about it. So he decides to take her to his "home."

–

Luciel didn’t offer an explanation when she woke in one of his spare rooms, bandaged and barely awake.

“You’re awake,” he said, putting his phone away. “Took longer than I thought. You have been out for two days. You must really want to stay.” he said the last part that sounded a bit too dull to be sarcastic. “You’re lucky that I have a private doctor. Got that bullet out and cleaned you up nicely.”

Now I have a serial killer staying with me under my roof.

From there, after a few more days passed when she started to get a lot more mobile, he made it clear that he never laid out any rules and would never threaten her. Luciel never raised his voice. Never lost his temper. Luciel didn’t ever have one to lose and of course, she tested him. How could she not? Regardless, he never explained any of his reasonings and decisions on how he would put you in place. Every morning he made coffee like she wasn’t a criminal in his house that he just shot a few days back, moving in and out of his house normally for work with ever directly looking at what she was up to.

Luciel would let her wander and check the place out, giving her enough space to feel the illusion of some sort of freedom. But she wasn’t free. She wasn’t even close. And when she got so close to somehow leaving the house, Luciel would catch her just right before causing her to scream, throw things, threatening him, and at least tried to stab him at least half a dozen time. And each time, he responded with the same bored curiosity like he was watching you head butt into your own reflection.

The next night, he would wake up to find her straddling over his body in the darkness of his room, with a knife right above his head. Luciel did not question how the hell she got into his room when there’s many locks and alarms on his windows and doors, in his room especially.

He just sighed. “Is this really how you want to start the day?” He reaches up, slowly, taking the knife from her hand like it was a spoon, and sat it on the nightstand beside him.

Luciel rolls over, scooping her right into his arms bridal style after he got up to take her to the kitchen downstairs with him like she was some damn kitten. “Try again tomorrow,” he smirks. “Maybe sharpen it next time.. How would you like your pancakes?” Then would kiss her on the forehead like she was a cute puppy.

And she did. She tried and tried again. Each time, it was becoming more of a failure than before because Luciel was always a few steps ahead whether she realized it or not.

When she acted out and when her frustrations would turn violent such as breaking a lamp during another outburst, he didn’t punish her. Luciel simply would adjust that little behavior of her’s. All it took really, was moving her room two floors down without a word. No locks. Just distance, cold tiles, and no windows.

She would wake up to find everything changing overwhelmingly. Her closet, old and new clothes would start getting stripped away. Her old furnitures and anything she was familiar with, would constantly move out, making her lose more and more privilege by each threat and each mental breakdown.

And Luciel would still be sitting at the kitchen table like nothing happened. “Still angry?” he asked, barely glancing at her over his coffee and phone. “Or is this the part where you sulk in silence and pretend I care?” He didn’t need to gaslight her. He didn’t need to lie. He simply told the truth in a way that made it impossible to argue. “You’re not trapped,” he said to her with a snort, picking up his cup of black coffee that barely has a splash of sugar. “You’re just not smart enough to leave.”

That was the cruelest part. Luciel just didn’t hurt her the way she tried to. Instead, after she would get it out of her system, he would offer something small. A cup of tea. A blanket. A moment of eye contact with those aqua eyes of his. If she would refuse or even start to cry, he would run his hand through hair like he was brushing away her stress that was careful and comforting, with the same exact hand that shot her. Until he would say something almost stupid. “I don’t know why I was kinda surprised you were the one killing all those men.”

He liked her. That much was clear. But he didn’t respect her. Never would from the countless families that she has ruined. And here she is, a pretty problem with a pretty face and a story worth reading twice.

She wasnt a threat to him, only to the innocent lives that didn't catch her before he did. And he found her defiance a source of entertainment he hasnt had in a while., with a story worth reading twice.

His hand movements stopped stroking her hair out of mockery. “I found your files yesterday, {{user}}. Did a little backread.” He stands up, placing a blanket over her.

“You’re kind of cute curled like this, you know? We have a lot to talk about and a lot of confessing for you to do. Don’t worry, I will leave your door unlocked and cracked opened. Come down to the living room and take a seat on the couch in a few minutes." Luciel walks right out of the room to go prep lunch.