Before I could even begin slipping into my usual routine—half teasing, half scheming, all carefully weaponized charm, Willow—somehow sensing my presence through whatever supernatural awareness succubi possessed—spun around with such force her hair whipped through the air in dark, cascading ribbons.
Her eyes blew wide at the sight of me, green irises expanding until her pupils nearly vanished, her entire face transforming into an expression of pure, unfiltered delight that carried no sophistication or calculated seduction.
It was disarmingly pure, almost childlike in its enthusiasm, as if my presence alone had flipped some internal switch from idle to radiant.
She began bouncing lightly on her feet, energy spilling out of her in small, irrepressible motions, waving at me with cheerful urgency while her tail swished behind her in quick, eager arcs that betrayed her excitement far more honestly than words ever could.
Her playful smile warmed something in my chest despite the exhaustion weighing down my limbs, despite the blood still drying on my skin from Priscilla’s violent demonstration, despite the fact that Willow remained completely naked in public view without any apparent concern for propriety or the scandalized looks from passing workers.
With a long-suffering sigh that carried more fondness than actual exasperation, I threaded my way toward her through the orchestrated chaos outside the theater. The space buzzed with purposeful motion—workers crossing paths, tools changing hands, voices calling measurements and requests—but it wasn’t disorder so much as momentum, the kind that emerged when everyone knew their role without needing to be told twice.
I dodged attendants hauling supplies with practiced efficiency, their arms laden with lumber, nails, and paint cans, their movements coordinated through some unspoken system that prevented collisions despite the crowded conditions.
I ducked just in time to avoid a broad plank borne by four workers moving in perfect lockstep, the wood gliding inches above my head as they passed, their coordination so seamless it might’ve been rehearsed.
At last I reached Willow near the theater’s front entrance, where she stood watching the renovations with bright, attentive curiosity, as if the entire operation were a performance staged solely for her amusement.
I planted my hands on my hips with deliberate theatricality before giving her my most smug little smirk—the one I reserved for moments when I wanted to project confidence while secretly feeling like my brain had been thoroughly scrambled by recent events.
"Well," I began with mock severity, "look who finally decided to return from her extended stay at the Spire. I was beginning to think Iskanda had claimed you permanently, locked you in some gilded cage to serve as her personal plaything until the end of time. Tell me, how was your visit?"
Willow’s smile widened, transforming her already striking features into something dangerously luminous.
"Loona~!" she sang, my name spilling from her lips with a musical lilt that somehow managed to sound like a greeting, a promise, and a dare all at once. "I missed you so much! The Spire was—" She paused, her expression shifting through several emotions in rapid succession. "—educational
"Noted for future reference," I replied, matching her mischief. "Though given recent events, I’m not sure my body can handle additional stimulation without shutting down completely. I’ve had quite the evening involving assassination attempts and cosmic chess games. You know, standard activities in this absolute nightmare of a city."
Willow giggled—the sound bright and genuine, lacking any trace of the performative sexuality succubi often employed when interacting with potential clients.
I raised an eyebrow with exaggerated interest, leaning forward conspiratorially. "I’m honestly impressed you survived with your sanity intact—I’d assume most people who spend extended time with Iskanda come back either traumatized or converted into devoted worshippers of her particular brand of chaos." My gaze tracked over her naked form with clinical assessment disguised as appreciation. "You look relatively unscathed, all things considered. No visible bruises, no thousand-yard stare suggesting psychological breakdown, still capable of coherent speech. That’s actually remarkable given her reputation for intensity."
Willow’s lips curved into a wicked smirk, her tail swishing behind her with lazy satisfaction. "Oh, I wouldn’t say entirely unscathed. There are marks in places you can’t see from this angle, and I’m fairly certain I won’t be able to sit comfortably for another day or two. But yes, I survived. My dignity is negotiable, my composure slightly dented, but my sanity remains largely intact, which I consider a triumph under the circumstances."
Her eyes suddenly flicked downward then, the playful brightness in them faltering as she noticed the faint speckling of dried blood along my collarbone and shoulder. Her expression shifted in an instant, concern flooding in so fast it made something in my chest tighten at the sight.
"Are you hurt? Do you need healing? I can—" She reached toward me with both hands, fingers already glowing with faint demonic energy ready to probe, mend, or unravel whatever damage she thought she saw.
I waved her off with my right hand. "I’m fine, physically at least. Mentally I’m still questioning how my life got to this point, but that’s becoming my baseline state of existence." I tilted my head, letting the faintest hint of dry amusement curl through my voice as I shifted smoothly back to the matter at hand. "But existential spirals aside—what did you do with the documents?"
Willow’s expression brightened immediately, her tail swishing with renewed vigor. "Oh! I already handed them off to Julius inside. He was organizing something with Brutus when I arrived, some kind of cataloging system for the money in the basement." She gestured toward the theater’s entrance. "I came out here to admire the renovations afterward. It’s remarkable how much progress they’ve made in such a short time."
I paused then, turning to get a full glimpse of the theater’s exterior for the first time since returning, my enhanced vision cataloging details I’d missed in my rush to reach Willow.
Where cracked stone and structural fatigue had dominated the facade only days ago, fresh mortar now traced every former fracture with clean, confident lines, each seam filled so precisely it looked less repaired than rewritten.
The once-threatening splits in the masonry had been sealed with a craftsman’s patience, the texture matched so carefully that only someone actively searching for flaws would notice where damage had ever existed.
Scaffolding framed the front of the theater in orderly tiers, sturdy platforms lashed into place with ease, giving workers safe access to higher sections without the precarious balancing acts that usually accompanied rushed repairs.
The attendants moved with quiet, practiced efficiency, the kind that made complicated labor look almost effortless. They didn’t rush, didn’t bark orders, didn’t trip over one another’s tasks; they simply worked.
Whether it came from formal training or just the natural competence of people accustomed to adapting quickly, the result was the same—steady progress without chaos, each motion purposeful and unhurried.
They’d focused on basic maintenance and structural stabilization—replacing rotted wooden supports, reinforcing weakened walls, cleaning decades of accumulated grime from decorative elements that had been obscured beneath layers of neglect.
The more intricate details would wait for Lloyd’s specialized crew to arrive with their theatrical expertise, but the foundation they were establishing would make that advanced renovation significantly easier to execute.
The building looked stable for the first time since I’d arrived, no longer appearing on the verge of imminent collapse, the kind of structure that might actually survive occupation by multiple people conducting regular business activities without killing everyone inside through catastrophic failure.
Willow’s voice tugged my attention back with gentle insistence, her gaze dropping to my left hand as her expression shifted from casual observation to something far more intent—concern edged with clinical curiosity.
"Your hand," she said, tone sharpening slightly. "You still haven’t had it healed? We need to fix that immediately."
I lifted the bandaged stump with a slight self-deprecating laugh that carried far more genuine amusement than the situation warranted.
Willow’s face transformed into something akin to determination, her emerald eyes going wide before narrowing with a focus that made her entire being radiate with purpose. She grabbed my good hand with both of hers, her grip firm enough to prevent escape but gentle enough not to cause pain, yanking me along with a strength that belied her slender frame.
I stumbled after her with a surprised yelp, my boots struggling to find purchase on uneven ground as she dragged me through the theater’s entrance, past the lobby’s warm glow, up stairs that creaked under our combined weight, and down the second floor’s familiar corridor until we arrived at her room.
The space enveloped us in darkness softened by that strange, sourceless crimson glow, the light drifting lazily through the room as though it had nowhere better to be. Shadows stretched and shifted across walls dressed in gothic decorations that turned the chamber into something between boudoir and crypt.
At the center, the plush bed reigned with unchallenged authority, its velvet covering drinking in the red light and returning it in muted gleams. It looked impossibly soft, the kind of softness that didn’t simply invite rest but expected it, and my exhausted body responded with immediate, traitorous longing.
Every muscle seemed to sigh at the sight of it, fatigue loosening its grip just enough to remind me how thoroughly it had settled in.
Willow gestured toward it with a calm command, the motion precise and unambiguous. Whatever playfulness she’d worn earlier had folded neatly away, replaced by the focused composure of someone who’d shifted into a role she took seriously. There was no room for debate in that gesture—only quiet insistence and the unmistakable promise of competence.
I sat cross-legged on the velvet surface, the fabric conforming to my weight with a luxurious give that made me want to sink into it and never emerge. Willow moved to the bed’s head, reaching under the pillows, before withdrawing the small box I’d given her before we’d separated—the one containing my severed fingers.
She opened the box and glanced inside, satisfied, like everything was exactly where she’d left it.
I straightened slightly on the bed, fatigue still tugging at my limbs but curiosity cutting clean through it, my attention fixed entirely on her hands and whatever she was about to do.
Something told me the night wasn’t quite finished with me yet—and for once, I was actually looking forward to what came next.