break the anchors — adam. & beryl.

A hurricane seemed to have drifted past the Nox mansion; everything was in disarray and chaos, like a song without lyrics or cohesion that was beginning to dissolve into mere static noise.

Things creaked and doors flung open, the darkness grew and the light receded. Wind rippled through the walls, as did a sense of panic. Malcolm Nox was dead, murdered in cold, and so was their prize, so was their reward. As of right now, Adam wanted nothing more than to pack his things and set a course back to his shoebox of a house in the district’s slums. He could scavenge power and wealth later in time but he couldn’t let himself be painted as the culprit and rot in jail. And, knowing the other interns, a few of them would gladly do it just for the cruel sake of it.

But, there was still one thing that continued to keep him anchored to this mansion: chains wound about his heart, a weight on the ankles. “Where the fuck are you, Beryl?” He muttered lowly to himself as he rushed down the forlorn and dark halls, his footsteps resonant and feverish. 

He hadn’t permitted himself to fall this hard; it was unintentional, unrehearsed. There was a script that had brought him and Beryl together but the events that unfolded afterwards were mere improvisations of their hearts. Loving Beryl Fillis was akin to loving a snake: you lived with the constant fear of being poisoned, of being bitten. He had sharp fangs, the marks littered recklessly along Adam’s neck were substantial proof, and a sinuous body that could coil around its prey easily.

But, Adam Taupe was a beast of his own, with a weathered hide that had been bleached bone-white over time. A serpent’s fangs would not kill him.

He found the other near a window, his features washed out by grey light. “Beryl,” Adam rasped, sprinting until they were close, until he could lace his fingers with the other’s cool, elegantly-shaped ones, until his one arm could wind around the other’s hip. They fit akin to the pieces of an enigmatic puzzle, a strange pair coming together as something complete and whole, a satisfying click.

“I was worried sick,” he said, levelling their gazes; a finger rose to tuck a stray strand of his hair back into place. “If I am not there then wait for me, god dammit—don’t go running around a house that’s literally an active crime scene. I am getting us the hell out of here, right now.”