A significant amount of time has passed since he first began to explore Kowloon. How long? Stiles can’t say, though his stomach is running on empty and his feet are dragging. Yet, despite a burgeoning sense of fatigue, the young man’s attention to detail remains perilously sharp; separated by hours, he notices not one, but two unique individuals exiting from a specific corridor—both wearing a small, golden pin on their breast. Once is an incident. Twice is still just a coincidence. Except Stiles is too jaded to believe in coincidences these days. When no one seems to be looking in his direction, he slips down the corridor.
Said corridor eventually spills out into a new area of the Below—Ryad, to his unfortunate ignorance. While the last several years of his life have been steeped in violence and death, Stiles comes to regret his nosy exploration within minutes; the few people whom he spots out in the open radiate bloodlust. Anyone with decent judgment would surely have returned to the main district. Stiles doesn’t. Driven by an obsessive need to unravel the mystery those pins pose, he continues onward stubbornly. Really, the outcome writes itself.
As he's hauled roughly off the street, a brief moment of bitter, dry amusement overrides the panic. Here we go again. In an adjacent and poorly lit alley, the teen manages to catch a quick glimpse of his assailant. Stiles expects wicked claws, elongated fangs, and bristling fur. Instead, he’s met with the physical appearance of what looks to be another mundane man. Somehow, that’s worse. But then again, hasn’t he always known the most monstrous souls are human?
“Your heartbeat’s rising, Stiles,” taunts the memory of Theo’s voice. “It’s not because you’re afraid. The Nogitsune’s gone, but you’ve still got more blood on your hands than any of us.”
In the present, Stiles tucks his chin against the sucker punch and, masking the movement by twisting his body to the side, slides one hand into an out-of-view pocket. Pain blooms—a burst of beautiful, kaleidoscope colors across his vision—but the initial wave of animal fear is steadily drowned by a strong current of rage. He knows why he was targeted. He knows why he’s being attacked. It’s the same reason every damn time. And god, Stiles is so tired of it.
Of being powerless.
Inside his pocket, he firmly grasps the nasty little switchblade—stolen earlier off a drowsing thug within the underground city.
Stiles recalls his response to Theo that night. Repeats the words in his mind now like a promise. “I’m about to get more.”]
belated closed starter for Sasuke
A significant amount of time has passed since he first began to explore Kowloon. How long? Stiles can’t say, though his stomach is running on empty and his feet are dragging. Yet, despite a burgeoning sense of fatigue, the young man’s attention to detail remains perilously sharp; separated by hours, he notices not one, but two unique individuals exiting from a specific corridor—both wearing a small, golden pin on their breast. Once is an incident. Twice is still just a coincidence. Except Stiles is too jaded to believe in coincidences these days. When no one seems to be looking in his direction, he slips down the corridor.
Said corridor eventually spills out into a new area of the Below—Ryad, to his unfortunate ignorance. While the last several years of his life have been steeped in violence and death, Stiles comes to regret his nosy exploration within minutes; the few people whom he spots out in the open radiate bloodlust. Anyone with decent judgment would surely have returned to the main district. Stiles doesn’t. Driven by an obsessive need to unravel the mystery those pins pose, he continues onward stubbornly. Really, the outcome writes itself.
As he's hauled roughly off the street, a brief moment of bitter, dry amusement overrides the panic. Here we go again. In an adjacent and poorly lit alley, the teen manages to catch a quick glimpse of his assailant. Stiles expects wicked claws, elongated fangs, and bristling fur. Instead, he’s met with the physical appearance of what looks to be another mundane man. Somehow, that’s worse. But then again, hasn’t he always known the most monstrous souls are human?
“Your heartbeat’s rising, Stiles,” taunts the memory of Theo’s voice. “It’s not because you’re afraid. The Nogitsune’s gone, but you’ve still got more blood on your hands than any of us.”
In the present, Stiles tucks his chin against the sucker punch and, masking the movement by twisting his body to the side, slides one hand into an out-of-view pocket. Pain blooms—a burst of beautiful, kaleidoscope colors across his vision—but the initial wave of animal fear is steadily drowned by a strong current of rage. He knows why he was targeted. He knows why he’s being attacked. It’s the same reason every damn time. And god, Stiles is so tired of it.
Of being powerless.
Inside his pocket, he firmly grasps the nasty little switchblade—stolen earlier off a drowsing thug within the underground city.
Stiles recalls his response to Theo that night. Repeats the words in his mind now like a promise. “I’m about to get more.”]