𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋, 𝙃.𝘽, 𝙃.𝙃

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝟯𝟴

As dawn's tender fingers unfurled the curtains of the night, Y/N wearily shuffled back to the hotel suite, her breath fogging the chilly air of the early morning. The ache in her wing, a stark reminder of the previous evening's encounter, throbbed in rhythm with her racing heart. Each step she took was a silent battle between enduring the pain and succumbing to the exhaustion that clung to her like a stubborn cobweb. Upon her entry, the grandiose room, with its velvety drapes and gleaming chandeliers, seemed to whisper secrets of the night's escapades, secrets that only the crimson stain on her feathers could reveal.

With trembling hands, she approached the ornate vanity mirror, the soft light casting a warm glow on her ethereal reflection. The sight of her damaged wing, the once majestic expanse of midnight plumage now marred by a jagged crimson line, brought a well of anguish bubbling to the surface. She gently peeled back the makeshift bandage to reveal the wound beneath, a raw, gaping insult to the beauty of her natural form. The edges of the lesion were swollen and fiery, a stark contrast to the porcelain skin of her wing, and the scent of copper and antiseptic wafted through the air, a bittersweet bouquet of pain and healing.

It was in this moment of vulnerability that Alastor chose to make his grand entrance, his sudden apparition a stark intrusion into the sanctuary of her solitude. His customary smile was as radiant as ever, though it bore an underlying tension that even his usual theatrical flair couldn't completely conceal. He swept into the room, twirling his cane with the finesse of a maestro conducting an invisible orchestra, the tip of the cane leaving a trail of shimmering purple dust in its wake.

"Ah, my dear, you've finally graced us with your presence," he exclaimed, his voice a symphony of velvet and steel. "Where on Earth—or perhaps I should say, where in the many realms—have you been gallivanting?"

The question hung in the air, a silent accusation wrapped in the guise of genuine concern. He reached out, his hand a gentle, almost paternal touch on her uninjured shoulder. However, his gaze was drawn to the macabre tableau reflected in the mirror, the crimson wound demanding his attention like a siren's call. His smile wavered, the corners of his mouth pulling downwards as he took in the sight.

"Y/N," he said, his voice a low murmur of disbelief, "who could have been so brazen, so barbaric, as to lay a hand on you?"

The concern in his eyes was palpable, but she offered no solace, no words of comfort. Instead, she continued her meticulous ministrations, her eyes never leaving the mirror. Her movements were precise, a ballet of survival learned during her tenure as the Nightwing Queen's emissary. The gauze, pilfered from the medical bay of a distant planet under her sovereign's protection, was applied with a deft touch, each layer whispering a promise of relief against the angry flesh.

Alastor's eyes narrowed, his gaze flitting from the wound to her stoic face and back again. He could feel the tension coiling around her, a serpent waiting to strike. Recognizing the unspoken boundary, he sighed, his breath a soft hiss that echoed his frustration. He retreated, his hand dropping away from her shoulder like a forgotten embrace.

"I'll be outside," he murmured, his voice a fading echo as he disappeared with a pop, the air shivering in his wake.

The room was once again filled with silence, the only sound the rustle of gauze and the quiet determination of her breath as she tended to the gaping testament of her valor. The mirror reflected not just her image but the unspoken narrative of her struggle, a silent conversation between her reflection and the shadows that danced around the edges of her consciousness.

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As the evening deepened, the soft glow of the pendant lights above the grand wooden staircase cast a warm embrace over the opulent Hotel Inferno lobby. You found yourself nestled in the plush velvet chair, nursing a crystal goblet of Merlot, the crimson liquid a stark contrast to the paleness of your skin. It was a wine of exquisite taste, a vintage Husk had procured from the shadowy cellars of the underworld, a token of his concern. The cat demon's emerald eyes were fixed upon you, filled with a silent question that mirrored the unspoken tension in the air. The usual light-hearted banter had given way to an oppressive silence, a stark reminder of the turmoil that had gripped the hotel since your unexpected return.