Adrian huffed, letting out a low, frustrated sigh. The nerve of Shirou. Or maybe he was just overreacting—either way, the irritation simmered beneath his skin. "Fuck it," he muttered, rolling his eyes before stomping back to the Evergreen Manor, his footsteps echoing through the empty street like a petulant kid denied his PS5.
As he reached the manor, he threw open the heavy wooden door with a force that sent a resonant slam through the halls. Vermi, already sensing Adrian's mood, darted past him and scampered upstairs, his tiny paws disappearing down the corridor that led to Adrian's room. Adrian watched the cat's retreat with a half-smile, though the weight of his own frustration quickly pulled it back into a scowl.
"All of this crap piling on me, and I have school in, what, seven hours?" he muttered to himself, dragging a hand down his face. "Yeah, screw my life."
He trudged upstairs, every step feeling heavier than the last as he navigated the labyrinthine halls of the manor, a relic of days past that somehow felt suffocatingly alive at night. In his room, Adrian stripped off his damp clothes, tossing them haphazardly over the back of a chair. The cold air prickled his skin, but the tension rolling through his body had him craving nothing more than the scalding relief of a hot shower.
Turning on the water, he leaned against the cool tiles as steam filled the small space, letting the heat wash away the chill that had seeped into his bones since he'd met Elena. He couldn't shake the feeling that things had started spiraling out of control ever since that encounter. The strange robed figure in the snow, the tattooed vine wrapping around his wrist like it owned him, his mind constantly flickering between reality and some twisted fever dream—it all came rushing back, hitting him like a punch to the gut.
As the water cascaded over him, Adrian glanced down at his wrist. The tattoo looked almost alive, the dark green of the vine seeming to pulse faintly under his skin, as if it were feeding off his very frustration. "What are you, really?" he whispered, tracing the intricate, almost delicate pattern with a fingertip. The tattoo felt like a brand, something invasive that bound him to a fate he didn't sign up for.
With a scoff, he turned off the water and toweled off, pulling on a worn T-shirt and some loose sweats before collapsing onto his bed. Vermi, as if on cue, leapt onto the bed and curled up by his side, his soft purring the only sound in the otherwise silent room.
"You're lucky, you know that?" Adrian muttered, scratching behind Vermi's ears. "No worries, no school, no mysterious ghostly assholes trying to wreck your life. Just eat, sleep, and… well, probably annoy me." Vermi responded with a soft meow, flicking his tail and burying his face in Adrian's side.
Adrian lay back, staring at the ceiling, trying to shake the nagging thoughts swirling in his head. But sleep wouldn't come easily tonight. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see that robed figure again—the one who'd held Vermi so casually, like the cat was some kind of pawn in a game Adrian didn't know he was playing.
"Damn it," he whispered, shifting in his bed as his fingers unconsciously traced the vine on his wrist once more. He could still feel the weight of the figure's gaze, cold and unfeeling, piercing through the snow-laden air. It was as if they had left a part of themselves inside him, a silent watcher waiting for the right moment to make itself known.
But what did it want? And why him?
Adrian sighed, rolling over and burying his face in his pillow. "Tomorrow. I'll think about it tomorrow." His voice was muffled, tinged with weariness. School, classes, the usual mundane routine—that was the only thing he'd let himself care about in a few hours. Not figures in mirrors, not vine tattoos that pulsed under his skin, and definitely not Elena.
As sleep finally started to claim him, he felt Vermi shift closer, his purring a soft lullaby that finally drew Adrian into a restless slumber. But even in his dreams, he couldn't escape it—the snow, the dark figure, the pulsing of the vine on his wrist, wrapping tighter, like it was trying to take root in his very soul.