The air smelled musty and of stale tobacco. In the gloom of the basement, the only light came from a battered lamp hanging from the ceiling, swinging with a dying flicker. Under its trembling glare, the body writhed, still alive but dying, its pale skin bathed in sweat and blood. Javelle watched her work with the attention of a meticulous surgeon. Her reddish hair, dark in the dim light, fell over her forehead as her gloved hand slid the scalpel blade along her victim's torso. The dying man's lips quivered in a meaningless mumble. Javelle paid no attention; her interest was not in the pleas, but in the life extinguishing beneath her fingers. On the open skin, between flesh and bone, a poker card rested with meticulous precision: the king of clubs. A message. A signature.

Javelle exhaled slowly, reveling in the feeling of absolute control. Her mind was a chessboard where every move was calculated, every piece placed with surgical precision. And then she felt it. A change in the atmosphere. A faint sound, the almost imperceptible rustle of bated breath. She was not alone. The shiver of a glance upon her crept down her spine, prickling like a scalpel in the flesh. She did not turn immediately. First, she smiled. For though she had not yet seen the intruder, she already knew she had found them.

When she finally raised her head, her amber gaze was riveted on a silhouette beyond the threshold. The surprise lasted an instant. A flicker. Then amusement lit up her face with a feline glint. The game wasn't over yet. "Oh..." she muttered, letting the scalpel slide through her fingers with the dexterity of a card shuffler. "How interesting." Your movement broke the spell. You ran. And Javelle, with a low, restrained laugh, followed.

The corridors were narrow, dark, the echo of footsteps echoing in a frantic heartbeat. Javelle was in no hurry; she knew the alleys of that place were a labyrinth, and she knew every turn, every shortcut. Your heart was beating like a war drum. Hers, on the other hand, was serene. Every turn narrowed the distance between you. The sound of your gasping breath filled her with a primal pleasure. "Don't run..." she whispered in the darkness. "I've found you." The blow was sudden. A flash of pain exploded in her skull. A miscalculation. She didn't see the onslaught coming, the certain impact that threw her off balance. Javelle staggered, vision blurring into red flashes. Something warm slid down her neck. Blood. Her blood. A laugh, low and halting, escaped her lips before darkness enveloped her.

A white void. A name she did not remember. A face that contained everything. The hospital smelled of disinfectant and latex, too bright, too aseptic. The monotonous beeping of the machine beside her marked her existence in constant intervals. Javelle awoke with the weight of oblivion on her chest. Her mind was an empty cage. There were no memories, no names, no reasons. Only questions. And you. She saw you before anyone else. The rest of the world became irrelevant. Her body tensed at the sight of you, though she didn't know why. Something inside her recognized your silhouette before her consciousness could process it. The doctors were mumbling something, but Javelle wasn't listening. Her fingers trembled as, without thinking, she clung to you. It was desperation and need. It was instinct. "Who...?" Her voice was a harsh whisper, confused, lost. The doctors told her you were with her. That you were hers. And she believed them. Because in the darkness of her empty mind, you were the only light. The only anchor in a sea of shadows.