Unrepentant

The Director slipped through the splintered doorway of the dilapidated building, the air thick with decay, every breath laced with rot.

A flickering candle struggled against the dark, casting erratic shadows that danced across the crumbling walls. He scanned the room, the tip of his cane tapping out a steady, unyielding beat on the worn floorboards. Before him, a group of slum dwellers stood clustered, caught surprised by his appearance, their eyes blank, bodies slack, limbs jerking in subtle, unnatural twitches.

He advanced, and the shadows seemed to close in tighter, drawn by the rhythm of his movements. His lips curled into a serene smile, mustache twitching in time with the quiet, hypnotic tune playing in his head. “Good evening,” he said, his voice carrying a warmth that felt unsettling in the heavy silence. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

The slum dwellers remained frozen, their eyes unfocused, gazes drifting as if seeing nothing. The Director’s cane clicked twice, the sound sharp, almost mocking in its clarity. “I’m here for answers, one of my lads was killed by a monster here” he said, smile widening, his eyes glinting with a touch of madness. “And I’d hate to think you’d make me waste my time.”

One of the slum dwellers—a gaunt, wiry man—twitched, head snapping up. His mouth gaped, stretching far wider than it should, a wet, choking gurgle rising from his throat. The Director’s eyes lit up, his smile broadening as if he’d just heard a delightful note.

“Ah, there we go,” he murmured, watching the man’s skin ripple and bulge, something moving beneath like a creature trapped under thin ice.

He took another step, his cane tracing a lazy arc. “Enough with the meatbags, yes?” he said, his voice rising, taunting. “Why bother with this charade? I see you for what you are. Step into the spotlight, my friends!”

The slum dwellers convulsed at his words, bodies snapping taut as if electrified. Their faces twisted grotesquely, jaws creaking open, and then, with a wet, tearing sound, the room was filled with the grotesque spectacle of transformation. The wiry man’s mouth split wide, a bristling creature clawing its way out, spines glistening like black needles. The Director’s eyes gleamed, his smile softening, becoming tender. “Don't be shy now~” he whispered, head tilting as though welcoming a new partner to the dance floor.

The creature lunged, spines bristling, but the Director was already in motion. His cane slashed through the air, cutting the beast’s attack short, and it crumpled, folding like a discarded puppet with the contents of it's head decorating the rundown wall to the side.

The cane twirled back, resting against his shoulder, the movement fluid, unbroken—a flourish that spoke of a well-rehearsed performance.

He stepped forward, eyes sweeping over the other slum dwellers, their faces slack, expressions vacuous, yet their bodies jerked and twitched, struggling against something deep within. “Just one show off?” he said, a playful tone threading through his words. “I was hoping for more.”

The room grew colder, the shadows pooling thick around him, slithering along the walls. The Director brought his cane down sharply, the crack echoing through the space, and the slum dwellers buckled, their forms distorting as more twisted creatures tore their way free—spines bristling, claws clicking, eyes dark and hollow, filled with a faint, flickering hunger.

His smile never faltered. He moved with a grace that seemed at odds with the carnage around him, cane in hand like a conductor’s baton, each swing a part of a dark, violent dance.

The room was his stage, and he commanded it, every flick of the wrist, every pivot, a brutal, elegant step in a dance of destruction. The creatures fell, one after the other, their movements stuttering as if they’d been caught mid-step, destined to collapse.

One of the beasts, a slick, sinewy creature, sprang toward him, jaws snapping wide. The Director spun, his cane whirling in a sharp arc, the sound of impact loud and final. The beast crumpled, and he stepped over it without pause, his eyes bright. “Pathetic,” he said, a note of cheerful contempt in his voice. “All that rage, and nothing behind it! Try again!”

He glanced at another slum dweller—a woman, her gaunt face slack, eyes wide but devoid of life, like a poorly crafted doll.

The Director’s smile sharpened, and he approached, cane tapping out a soft, irregular rhythm as he moved closer. “Why not tell me your secret little monster lady?” he said, his tone smooth, coaxing. “It could let you off the hook~.”

The woman’s skin pulsed, her jaw snapping open with a sickening crunch as another creature forced its way out, its form writhing, mouth frothing, eyes wild. The Director’s cane lashed out before the thing could even find its footing, sending it crashing across the room, its shattered corpse embedding in the wall with a dull, wet thud.

The Director straightened, eyes gliding over the aftermath, taking in the scene with a prideful, jovial satisfaction. Bodies lay crumpled, half-formed monstrosities twitching, limbs contorted in unnatural angles. The remaining creatures circled him, their hollow eyes tracking his movements, hesitant, sensing the danger in the calm he exuded.

He exhaled, shadows gathering around him, pulsing to the rhythm of his breath. “None of you shall have an encoure,” he said, voice low, steady, each word like a blade. “A warm up like you lot… definitely cannot count as an opening act!”

He raised his cane, ready to end his 'warm up', but froze, head tilting as he caught a distant rumble, low and rolling, vibrating through the walls. His smile wavered, eyes narrowing as he listened, the sound cutting through the rhythm in his head.

The melody twisted, a discordant note weaving into it, but his smile returned, curious, eager. “Well, well,” he murmured, stepping back, his eyes gleaming with a strange light. “The night has found a new tune.” The cane came down and the living joined the dead.

He turned, stepping over the lifeless, twitching forms, leaving the room behind, the echoes of his unfinished dance lingering in the silence. The Director's attention was grabbed, he noted to himself that he must return to finish his performance after seeing this 'sideshow'.

Nyx perched on the crumbling edge of a wall, feathers blending seamlessly with the night. He had been trailing the Director through the slums, slipping from ledge to gutter, always out of sight, yet close enough to catch every detail.

Now, through the cracks in the dilapidated building’s walls, he could see everything—the brutal, twisted dance unfolding within.

The Director’s voice drifted up to him, smooth and unsettling, as he coaxed the monsters out of their human shells. Nyx listened, head tilted, his beady eyes filled with a cold interest.

From his perch, he could see the slum dwellers’ vacant faces, the way their bodies jerked and spasmed as the creatures beneath them struggled to emerge. It was a grotesque transformation, all the more chilling for how quiet and matter-of-fact the Director made it seem.

As the first beast tore its way free, Nyx’s gaze followed the Director’s movements, tracking each graceful arc of the cane, every fluid step. The man moved like he was on stage, his strikes crisp, his posture composed, the violence around him was nothing more than a carefully choreographed performance.

Nyx’s beak clicked softly, a sign of appreciation, as he watched the Director weave through the chaos, each swing of the cane cutting down the creatures with effortless precision.

From his vantage point, Nyx could hear everything—the wet, tearing sounds of flesh splitting, the sharp crack of bone, the hiss of the creatures as they lunged and snapped. But what stood out was the Director’s calm, gentle tone, the way he spoke to the monsters, inviting them to dance with him.

It was a rather comedic contrast to the carnage he was inflicting, and it made the whole scene feel even more surreal.

Nyx shifted, edging closer, his talons gripping the edge of a broken window frame.

He had seen enough to know that the Director was dangerous, more than just a madman as is usually the case with those in the third-step of deviant cultivations.

However, there was a method to his madness, a sense of control that intrigued Nyx. The Director wasn’t here to make idle threats, his 'interrogation' was a sham, he was here to have fun… no—he was here to assert dominance, to rip away the masks the slum dwellers wore and expose the truth beneath.

Nyx could appreciate that kind of brutal honesty, even if it was delivered with an idiotic smile.

As another monster burst forth, a sinewy, scaled thing with needle-sharp teeth, Nyx’s eyes flicked to the Director. The man moved like a leaf drifting downstream, spinning to avoid the creature’s attack, then bringing his cane down with a sharp, decisive motion. The beast crumpled, its skull shattered, and the Director stepped over it without a second glance, his smile as serene as ever.

Nyx’s feathers ruffled slightly, a ripple of approval running through him. The Director was good—better than he’d expected. There was truly something artful about the way he moved, a grace that belied the savagery of his actions.

It was rare to see someone so composed in the midst of such chaos, and it made Nyx wonder what drove him, what could have created such a performer?

But as he watched, a distant sound reached him, faint at first, then growing—a low, thunderous boom that rolled through the slums, rattling the loose window panes. Nyx’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he strained to catch the direction. The explosion was unmistakable, a flash of light reflecting off the clouds above, followed by the echoing roar that seemed to shake the entire district.

“Fuck,” Nyx thought, a curse slipping in as realization dawned. His gaze flicked to the distant plume of smoke, rising from the area where the Siren’s Rest Inn stood. There was no mistaking it—that blast had come from the inn, and whatever was happening there had just become far more urgent than whatever mystery the Director was unraveling here.

Nyx's decision was swift, instinctual. His talons released their grip on the window frame, and he pushed off, wings spreading wide as he took flight. The shadows clung to him for a moment, then fell away, leaving him a dark blur against the night sky.

He glanced back once, catching a final glimpse of the Director moving through the wreckage, his cane cutting down another creature with the same eerie grace. Nyx clicked his beak again, a quiet acknowledgment of a job well done, before turning away, his wings beating steadily as he angled toward the rising smoke.

He needed to get to the inn, to see what had happened, and to make sure that whatever problem had just erupted, it didn’t negatively involve Silas.

The night air whipped past him as he soared, the distant glow of the blast flickering in his dark eyes. Nyx knew there would be answers waiting at the inn, and he wasn’t about to let them slip through his claws. ''This better not be him throwing a tantrum and forgetting to tell me about it…'' Nyx thought to himself.

Zinnia stood with Robbi outside the brothel he worked at, watching him tug at the new shirt she’d bought him, still creased from where it had been folded. “You know, Zin,” he said, a grin spreading across his face, “I think I’m going to have to destroy more shirts if it means getting replacements this nice. You’ve got great taste.”

She rolled her eyes, stifling a smirk. “Don’t get used to it. I’m not your personal tailor.”

Robbi clasped his hands together dramatically, as if pleading. “But what if I mess it up again tomorrow? What if there is another lovely lady I must save tomorrow!? What if I lose more than just a shirt?! You’d just leave me to face my boss in tatters? Heartless!”

“Keep pushing your luck, and you might end up with no clothes or legs at all right now,” she shot back, her voice dry but amused. “Just make sure you show up for work, and I’ll see about clearing your name tomorrow. Maybe.”

Robbi brightened, saluting her with a mock seriousness. “That’s all I need to hear. You’re a good one, Zin.”

“Don’t make me regret showing up,” she muttered, shaking her head as she turned away. She had already spent longer than she’d planned with him, and the thought of Silas finding fault with that made her uneasy. She could almost picture him doing something twisted, like hanging her outside a window to teach her a lesson about wasting his time. Zinnia shuddered at the idea and quickened her pace, heading toward the Siren’s Rest.

Just as she rounded the corner, a thunderous explosion rocked the night, the force of it sending her stumbling. She caught herself against a wall, her heart leaping into her throat as she looked up, eyes wide with panic. A column of smoke was rising, dark and ominous, from the direction of the inn.

“Damn it, crazy fucker…” she hissed, her mind racing. What or rather who else could it be? Whatever had just happened, she was certain Silas was responsible. Without another thought, she broke into a run, feet pounding the pavement as she sprinted toward the source of the blast, desperate to find out what he had unleashed.