𝓜𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓷'𝓼 𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓮 ~ 𝓟𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓜𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓮𝓶

ᴏʟᴅ ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴡᴏᴜɴᴅꜱ

TW: swearing, alcohol abuse, mention of self harm, mention of sexual abuse, slightly suggestive content, hangovers, death and murder
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𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓼 𝓫𝓮𝓬𝓪𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓭

☆꧁༒꧂☆

There are different types of anger out there. There is hot, burning anger which destroys everything in its path, there is the sad quiet anger which rots away at one's soul, and then there is cold anger. The kind of anger which makes the air go still and makes the room's temperature drop by multiple degrees. The cold stare of silent menace, the gently nurtured grudge against the one they held so dear, oh so long ago...

Victor was never an angry person, he was usually calm and collected. It was a part of his mask, the mask his dark past gifted him. However as he stared into the magenta eyes of the person who he blamed for all his grievances, his heart filled with cold hatred. How dare he show up the moment his life was finally on track after what he was forced to experience? How dare he interrupt his carefully crafted present? how dare he... how dare he still be alive after what he has done?

There was a moment of silence, one could feel a pin drop in the silence of the casino office. The two stared at each other, not blinking and not breathing. Fyodor broke first by interrupting the silence.

"Victor..." Fyodor scans the mortician with a fast glance "you're... alive" Victor eyes narrow at the statement, at which he gives the raven-ette a cold smile

"Quite a pity isn't it. You couldn't even kill me well enough for me to actually die" Victor gives Fyodor a mocking smile of pity and stands up from the chair. The mortician takes a few steps forward, but still keeps at a safe distance away from the Russian.

"I see your personality hasn't changed one bit" Fyodor scoffs, eyeing the other with a bit of weariness. He is sure he has seen the other die, hell he practically died in his arms, he was there when his body was taken away, he felt his ice cold flesh after the impact, he remembers the thick crimson liquid painting the thin layer of the early  December snow.

"Oh really now? What would you know about change Dostoyevsky, not like you have been around to witness anything" Victor says in a low threatening tone as he walks past the Russian barely brushing shoulders. Fyodor just turns his head to follow the mortician's movements. Last moment he tries to grab his arm to stop the white-nette from leaving.

"Wait Vic-"

"D̴͖̓̎́o̵̢̙̞̞͓̘̼̭͋̔̊̅͆̀̃̀͒n̷̤̿̅'̶̡̰̯̯̠̤̓̎̌̓͝t̸͈̍̆̋̂̕ ̶̧̞͙͇̼͌͐͜ľ̷̠͔͙̮̥̞̏̈́̂͂̀̎̈́͝ͅę̶͉͖̣͕͔͈͗t̵͉̬̳́ ̴̺̑̌̃̅͊̄͋͋̎͠h̸̨̘̫̅̽̓ị̵̮̺̹̹̅͝m̸̩͊̽͘ ̸̨̛͈͍͉͓̼̺̜̄̀͑̎̑̕͜ṯ̵̡͚̻͚̳̳̐̓̽̚͜ͅo̷̗̲̯͙̊̌͛̓͘ư̴̘̯̼̠̣͗͌͋͛̏͐͌̍͜c̸̢̖̝̃͜h̶͎̹͈͓̱͖̹̿͆͆͗̓̋̕͠ ̷̫̥̜̜͙̘͉̙̓̿̀̊ẙ̴̧͇͈̫̺͓͆̓͑͋̍͝͠ou" Lucifer's sudden voice causes Victor to flinch and pull his hand towards his body before Fyodor could even touch him. The mortician takes a sharp step back, and if one was to look very closely, his shadow adorned the familiar shape of a pair of wings and horns. The shadows in the room shifted, letting the white-nette to take a step back into their cold safety. In a fraction of a second he was gone, disappearing into the black inky mass.