When I die, I'll let go

Absinth lounged opposite Flare, watching him with impish curiosity and amusement. ”You'll find my tongue still gets me into all sorts of trouble, so enjoy it while it lasts.” There was a subtle shift in his demeanor as he spoke, and she was all too eager to pry back the hard exterior he’d created for himself. After all — It was strange seeing him here, across from her, in this unfamiliar setting. Older. Experienced. But, there was still a sense of familiarity in the way they bantered, as if no time had passed since their days in the gutters.

A wry smile tugged at her lips at his words, appreciating the playful tone that overshadowed the seriousness of their conversation. “Ah, Flare,” The woman replied, her voice low and smooth like wicked honey. “The heathens play terrible games, but nothing we didn’t experience as pups. The devil you know, right? It's all about survival, isn't it always? Adaptation, manipulation, brutality — knowing when to strike and when to retreat. In that regard, I'd say street rats and heathens have more in common than some might think.” She paused for a moment, her gaze locking with his, a challenge lingering in the stare between them.

wormwood