here are my unfinished books/works i have accumulated throughout the years, so enjoy (this, in total, is 10k+ words long)

===

setosolace // vampires will never hurt you
chapter 1:

I squeeze my gun tightly in my sweaty palms. The street is abruptly silenced as the gray haze settles in. The crickets stop their calls and my breathing shallows. I squint, trying to make sense of the dancing shadows in the distance. My eyes like to deceive me whenever I'm nervous; it's hard to trust them. I know this street had been abandoned for years, but I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.

The silver strip of moonlight provides me some sense of direction and light. It pierces through the thick haze as if it was a knife cutting through room temperature butter. There's a clearing in the center of the road and I rush towards it. The haze surrounds me. I am blanketed like a child.

The street lamps choose to flicker and send sparks onto the pavement. The faulty wiring of these very lights caused a threat towards the inhabitants of, what use to be, a hotspot of human life. Apartment buildings, cafes, and small shops on this street have all been abandoned. Or so I had thought.

I reload my gun. The noise is not muffled like I had anticipated it to be. It sends an echo down the street. The noise bounces off the pavement and walls of those abandoned buildings. It carries itself so efficiently to the street's curb and into the moonlit sky.

It's becomes silent again, maybe for about two minutes. Another noise is sent my direction. It's the sound of heels scraping against the pavement and a low cackle. Instead of lowering my gun, I raise it forward. Aiming, I pull the trigger. The neon purple laser pierces through the gray haze and eventually fades. I smell something burning. Firewood, I conclude. I must have hit the bark of a tree.

I feel my world spinning as I see a male, looking no older than I am, emerging from the haze. He's adorned in a black suit with a curt grin on his pale lips. His black tie was done messily and his wrinkled, bloodstained, white collared shirt was half tucked into his black slacks. Despite the black and white look, his hair is an electrifying shade of blond while his eyes were neon blue.

"Another hunter? Gosh, it's the third time this week!" He speaks hastily with an Australian accent. He stands in front of me. His left hand forces my chin up. I take a look into those neon blue eyes of his.

My knees buckle under his touch. It's causing my heart to leap out of my chest; not in a good way. I drop my gun, wanting to speak but too tongue tied. I manage to catch glimpse of his sharp fangs in the silver strip of moonlight above our heads. The fear that has begun to instill in my chest prevents me from running. This is it --- this is where I die.

"What's your name, mister hunter?" He sounds awfully childlike, as if he were choosing to taunt me. "Your skin is so pretty. There are no blemishes or bruises on it."

I stay quiet. He frowns, "What's the matter, doll? You have no name? Hasn't your mother told you that it's rude to not answer questions?"

More like not to talk to strangers, I think to myself. The thought of mother scolding me nearly made me chuckle. Now isn't the time for childhood memories.

He sighs exasperatedly, almost as if he had lost complete interest in our conversation. He contemplates for a moment, then speaks, "You're simply too pretty to be one of us."

He leans down and kisses my neck, then nibbles at it. His fangs don't dig deep into my skin, but rather leave a petite scratch. I feel a trickle of blood beginning to take a stroll down my neck. The blond licks it, then pulls away. I touch my neck, feeling the small cut. It's bumpy against my calloused fingers.

"Such a shame, you're quite delicious too," he frowns again. "A pretty boy like you shouldn't be a hunter. You deserve something better than a grimy job like this. Whatever pays the bills, I suppose?"

He shies away from me after I don't reply for the second time. I could have picked up my gun and killed him, or I could have ran back into the haze. Yet, my feet and body decide that staying frozen is the right option.

"I'm surprised you haven't killed me yet," his eyes dart toward my gun, "purple is a lovely color for a laser. All the other hunters used red or white. It's a nice change."

"How much am I worth?" He blurts out, catching me off guard. He releases another cackle, this time it's more grim and solemn. "With all of these hunters after me, I must be worth something! Is there a bounty over my head? Or maybe a hit list of the most dangerous! Gosh, I don't know what you hunters do!"

He stops laughing, "You must be petrified. What are you waiting for? You're here to kill me, right? You shoot me, extract my fangs, and leave me to rot. You're praised for taking another life. C'mon, do it!"

There's something twisted about his current state of mind that sets me off my previous ease. I kick my gun towards the sidewalk. It skids, almost like a stone skipping on the surface of a pond, then stops. My intents of completing my mission were thrown over the boat and drowning in the pond --- no longer am I willing to do it. Adam will just have to deal with it, I guess.

"You're not going to kill me?" He questions, bolting towards me.

"No," I finally speak aloud. It's incoherent, a mumble, but he hears it. I know he hears it since the curt smile I had first saw him with returns. It's intimidating and my knees wobble once more.

"You've got a lot of nerve," he coos, planting a kiss on my forehead.

I watch as he swings his fist towards my left temple. It's like a dizzying nightmare that I may never wake up from, but the world finally fades back to that shade of sickening black.

+++
chapter 2:

I find myself abruptly waking up in a cold sweat. The bedsheets crinkle under me as I sit up, gasping for air. I feel beads of sweat dripping down the nape of my neck. The lights are off and the curtains are closed. Sunlight decides not to peak through the crevasses that the curtains could not cover. I lay back down in bed, staring upwards to the dark abyss.

"You're awake," a voice to my left murmurs. The ceiling lights flicker on, causing my eyes to sting. I hiss, squinting in an attempt to let my eyes adjust to the sudden change in setting. I sit up once more.

"Adam?" I inquire, eyes widening.

"Yeah," he nods.

I grip the sheets, "What happened last night?" I asked, despite being fully aware of yesterday's terrors. The memories are still fresh in my mind. It's almost as if they were on repeat.

"Since your gun had deactivated and released a distress signal, I had to go after you," Adam states monotonously. "You were passed out on the street with a nasty bruise on your temple and a fresh scratch on your neck."

I reach up to the spot where the blond had scratched my neck. Instead of feeling a dried wound, there's a gauge in its place. I place my hand back onto the bed, "I'm not one of them, am I?"

"That's the issue," I watch his Adam's apple bob up and down as he takes a swig of his Pepsi. "We got the scratch checked out. It's tiny, yeah, but venom still could have been injected. The results aren't in yet. Basically, we don't know."

I want to pass out right there. My body tenses up and my breath hitches. Adam sees the discomfort in my posture and shakes his head, "Nothing will change between you and the organization. Ty's one of them too and he's still a hunter."

"It's not that," I murmur.

He doesn't hear my response. His eyes soften in pity, "Get some rest. You're still hunting the same vampire, but this time we'll accompany you."

I lay back down in bed and nod my head as a way of thanks. My eyes flutter shut. The lights flicker off and the bedroom door opens. Adam steps out and it slams shut.

The mattress creaks against my erratic movements of shifting. It feels as if I wasn't alone. Regardless, how am I suppose to get rest with the knowledge that I'll be seeing that vampire again?

"Thank god he's gone," a voice chuckles. I tense up. Neon blue dots rise from the floor. The floorboards creak; they're getting closer. I cower, holding my breath and not daring to move a muscle. "Did you really think I'd let you go that easily?"

"Why are you here?" I ponder.

He hums. The corner of the bed sags down a bit as if a weight was sitting atop it. "It's the same thing I told you yesterday, I like you."

Before I could reply, he continues, "I had to make sure you got back safely, so I followed you and that Adam guy back to your home. Or, maybe this is a base considering that there's other people here."

"Please don't hurt anyone," I whimper in a quiet voice. "How did you even get past security and the cameras?"

"Open window," he replies. It hadn't occurred to me that there's a soft breeze circulating around the room. It's quiet between us and I hear the curtains slapping against the wall.

"Why are you here?" I reluctantly repeat once more.

He sighs in an exasperate tone, "You're pretty."

"That's it?"

"Pretty hunters intrigue me," his accent lingers despite having a slur sense of speech. "I'd like to learn more about you. Considering you're on bed rest, however, I guess now isn't the time. Want anything to eat or drink? You must be starving."

"No, thanks," I reply in a horrid attempt of being polite. What am I doing fancying this vampire? I'm a hunter for fucks sake!

"Does pizza sound good? Maybe a grape soda?" He offers. "There's a corner store nearby, along with this large pizza place."

"If you will shut up, then fine," I grumble.

He snickers, "Sassy, I like that."

He jumps out the window. I expect to hear some type groan, maybe a loud spinal crack, but to my own surprise there's nothing. I bury myself under the blankets, engulfing myself in a comforting warmth.

Pretty?

Me?

Maybe I should have told someone that a vampire is courting me.

+++
chapter 3:

"Where'd you get the pizza?" The door opens and the lights flicker on once more. I'm in a sitting position on the bed: a can of soda to my left and a pepperoni pizza on my lap. Ty stands at the door wearing a high black collar and holding his red pistol. His eyes are a shade of neon red.

"It was just there," I lied through my teeth.

===
setosolace // alluring
description

People are like words.

Sometimes they lose meaning. Other times, they're unique and rare.

I'd like to think of you as a positive absurdity; the golden needle in a gray haystack. The beauty in your own life is worth more than I could account for.

It's alluring.

You're alluring.

Unfortunately, you just thought the opposite.

+++

Life is like a swing; it constantly manipulates itself in moments of launching upwards and spiraling downwards.

When you're launching upwards, it feels like you're at the peak of existence. Your senses heighten and you're more aware of what's going on around you. It's better than a buzz of coffee at two in the morning, or any happy pill. It's a genuine type of joy, not artificial.

When gravity begins to pull you back down in the direction you came, it causes a tightening feeling in your chest. You want to stay in that euphoric stage, otherwise known as that pleasing emotion that causes you to feel weightless. Unfortunately, you can't. Nothing lasts forever. You can't relive those happy moments no matter how hard you try. They're genuine, not artificial.

However, unlike a swing, you can't go back and fourth between ecstasy and despondency every ten seconds. That's not how life works.

Ecstasy and despondency can range from just a few minutes to over a year. Everyday could seem like a blissful dream that you wouldn't want to wake up from, or a putrid nightmare that you'd want to escape from.

It's just how life works.

You can't hop away or stop life, either. Unlike a swing, it'll keep going until you inevitably die of old age, an illness, or some accident. Hell, maybe even by your own hand. In the end, you'll be six feet underground with a gravestone signaling your previous existence to future generations who will, most likely, not care.

In summary, it's inevitable.

And no, I'm not the pessimistic type (well, maybe I am, but that's aside from the point I'm trying to convey). I'm stating facts that most deem "relatable," but don't want to admit.

Contemplating too much about things beyond the present is something I find myself dabbling into nowadays. It's always at the back of my mind, and sometimes it's expressed on a canvas. I tend to take the euphoric moments of life for granted and only live in the despondent ones.

You know when your teachers teach you about the circle of life? The lifespan of some dumb animal you probably don't care about? Human existence has those stages (birth, life, and inevitable death), but of course you can't tell that to a bunch of seven year olds sitting in a classroom. You sugarcoat death, that's just how it works.

My point is that life is a non-tangible object to treasure and discuss with others. That statement has been my rule for the past twenty two years of my life. I'm not the socialist myself, but at least I try to be. Unlike those hermits on Tumblr who whine about life, I'm trying to live mine.

And, as you may expect, I'm failing miserably.

Working a nine to five job at a petite café, followed by a seven to nine thirty job at Forever 21, is not exactly how I wanted to live my "treasurable" life. Top that with a debt from art school and I'm pretty convinced that the chains from my swing of life have broken.

I try to make the best out of what I have, at least.

"Brice," a female voice beckons, "you're zoning out more than usual."

I blink, "Oh, sorry Bonks. What did you say?"

She rolls her eyes, "Ah, forget it."

She's wearing amaranth colored eyeshadow, which blends into a periwinkle shade. She also has a perfect winged eyeliner that has a sparkly white line at the tips. Her lips are thin and cherry colored, while her cheeks are lightly tickled pink. Her makeup is oddly impressive today.

"Are you going on a date after your shift?" I unintentionally blurt out after noticing her features.

"What? I can't look nice without having the intention of impressing some girl?" Bonkers huffs out, rolling her eyes once more.

I frown, "I mean, it was just a question."

Bonkers, as I like to call her, is my co-worker, as well as my best friend. We have similar lives: we both love to create our own artwork, we both are in crippling debt due to art school, and we're both raging homosexuals. Amazing, right?

"You need to stop being this sad sack," she abruptly says, poking at my shoulder. "You're acting more distant than usual."

I don't bother to reply. She sighs, "I'm gonna go to the break room."

With that, she strolls off to the "Employees Only" door and disappears. I lean against the counter while staring lasers into the glass door. Everyday at the café is slow; we rarely get any customers on weekdays. We get the occasional Starbucks lover walking in here, anticipating a knock-off Starbucks, but that's pretty much it.

===
setosolace // violent things
i'm the narrator and this is just the prologue

His fingers dance across the piano keys with such an elegance that can only be compared to fine wine. The sound echoes against the bedroom walls. The lights are off, the curtains are closed, and the door is shut. It's not locked however; he's expecting someone.

As if a stage play, the bedroom door creaks open. Right on queue, he thinks to himself. His fingers continue to slam against the ivory colored keys. He doesn't bother to turn around, he knows what's coming.

It's quiet between the two. The piano fills up most of the silence, except now it's flooding out into the hallway and carrying the sound throughout the manor. It's not as loud as before, it's gotten softer like a hummingbird's chirp. He hears the sound of a gun reloading.

"Brice?" He hears the other whimper.

The blond smirks, slamming his hands on the keys one last time. It emits a sound that's the equivalence to a full-on collision car crash. It causes the brunet to wince. His welled up tears get locked behind pale eyelids. His shaky hands are locked on his target, but he refuses to pull the trigger.

Brice turns around. The two make eye contact. He's enveloped in the courtship of darkness with only his pale, blue neon eyes signaling his location. Seto stands in the doorway. The light from the hallway shines behind him. Brice chuckles; it's like a heavenly light.

He sees the gun in his hands as well. It's locked and loaded; all Seto needed to do was pull the trigger. As simple as that, Brice's life would be taken away.

"Seto," he hoarsely whispers in a greeting. "Still wearing my scarf, I see?"

Seto appears to smile - or maybe it's his own eyes just deceiving him, "I never took it off."

"It looks good on you," Brice coos as he stands up. Seto raises the gun to about his chest height. Brice begins walking towards the shaking brunet with open arms. He comes closer to the light and ever-so-closer to his angel.

"Deep breaths," he reminds the brunet.

Seto shakes his head, "I can't do it."

"Yes you can," Brice affirms. He walks close enough to the point where the gun is touching his chest. More specifically, his non-beating heart. "Pull the trigger."

"I don't want to!" Seto shouts, the welled up tears finally releasing. He's shaking and on the verge of collapsing. "I can't kill you! Not now, not ever!"

"Pull the trigger, Seto," Brice sternly repeats once more.

Seto takes a deep breath, still sobbing, "I'll do anything to keep you with me. You spared me that night, so I'll spare you!"

+++
can't take the kid from the fight, can't take the fight from the kid

MONTHS EARLIER

The night was young and the moon rose between cracked spaces in the night sky clouds.  On the surface stood a blond, one with no shadow and no perception of fear. He takes a gander at the road ahead of him. It's ominous and the midnight haze is thick, causing him to squint. His eyes see nothing but illusive shadows dancing in the sliver of moonlight, so he lets his guard down.

It's deathly silent on Lavender Street, to which the crickets stop their mating calls and the owls cease their hunt. The sickly sweet smell of metallic taints and travels through the thick, gray haze and into the clearing of air. The corners of his eyes stain red while his fangs grow sharp like a kitchen blade's tip. There's someone down the road, Brice concludes as he makes his way northwards.

His footsteps are clashing against the pavement, heavy and solemn. He's drowning with thirst and greed as the smell lingers closer, tauntingly. He smiles devilishly as he emerges through the thick haze to greet his victim. There, in front of his feet, laid still an unconscious brunet with a gun clutched tightly in his hands. Brice bends down, examining his body.

"Quite the shame," he hisses through thin lips.

The boy is beautiful, a true work of art. His hands are thin and nimble while his skin is porcelain, showcasing no blemishes. He's far beyond average, he's soft indeed. The smile that had leaked from his lips now transformed into a solemn frown. His eyes lock onto the fresh wound on his neck - those infamous two holes that blood can easily be seeped out from.

He ghosts his thumb over the open wound, shivering in anticipation. He licks away the blood; the taste is savory and indescribable. His stomach growls fiercely, thirsting for more. He refuses, however, and retracts his fangs. Whoever bit him must have recently been turned; a rookie doing a messy job, he supposes. He picks up the unconscious boy and bolts back towards his manor on the outskirts of town.

===
setosolace // violent blues

unoriginal.

brice slams his hand on the alarm clock perched on his nightstand. he takes a sip of the half-filled glass of water that's sitting dangerously close to the edge; it's a better "pick-me-up" than coffee in his humble opinion. he decides that he'll wear his blue flannel that compliments his eye color, along with his favorite black jeans. every wednesday he wears some kind of blue shirt, just to keep things organized and tidy.

the shirt doesn't take long to button, and this time he puts it on correctly. it has a snuggly fit on his shoulders, though saggy around his torso. he gazes into the mirror and smiles at his reflection. he's perfect—conceited as it may be sounding.

===
setosolace // ring of hearts
description

How does one prove sanity?

In Brice's opinion, no one is "sane" - everyone is in the same boat. The human mind is full of complexities; key concepts that are bountiful in supporting his case. He's sane, he always insists the fact; he's sane. Everything he does is justifiable, from the smallest to the biggest deed. Whether good or bad, at the end of the day he is nothing but a sane man getting by.

"You're so beautiful," Brice whispers gently to the boy, caressing his cheek, "so fucking beautiful, and you're all mine."

+++
prologue

It's a "spur-of-the-moment" indecency.

He stood, blankly, clutching his own head within the dark alleyway. The boy laid still in front of him, once cheery blue eyes now laid to rest. He shakes, violently, trying to grasp back onto reality.

"What did I do?" He mutters to himself helplessly, a choked sob releasing from his throat. "What did I do?"

The question repeats itself, endlessly to the extent of no going back. He bends down, checks for a pulse, just some type of pulse, but there is none. He feels guilty, yet so relieved at the same time. The boy is gone now, he won't be able to be a bother anymore.

Yes, he's not crazy, this is the right thing to do.

He stands up, catching his breath. It's quiet, only the sound of his slow, shallow, shaken breaths fill the summertime air. He promises to himself that it won't happen again - he promises to turn himself in and suffer the consequences. He is crazy, this isn't the right thing to do.

But, as time churns onwards while he approaches the police station, he stops himself. Truly a man of insanity would not have been so witty as he. No, there is no need to turn himself in - this is what sane people do. He will go on to live normally, this occurrence is only a lesson.

"What did I do?" He repeats aloud to himself, calmly. "What should I do?"

+++
one

Brice's ticks were something unnoticeable to the naked eye, or in particular, a stranger. In fact, he could be acknowledged as "normal" in most cases.

He leaned against the wall, a cigarette lazily dangling from his plump, chapped lips. He stared at the passerby's, all not peaking his interest. They looked the same to him: women with fake features, men with lacking prominence, and innocent children skipping about gleefully. Distasteful, he would always conclude to himself.

He exhaled the cigarette smoke, watching it clash against the air before eventually dissipating. He wasn't suppose to smoke, it truly did mess with his lungs and worsened his asthma, but it would be worth the short-lived peace. Within all of society's cliques and the symphony of nonsense that would erupt from their mouths, here he would find his euphoria in a "cancer stick". It's truly an art he's perfected over the years.

But, as Brice put it, all goods things must come to an end. He snaps back to reality, tossing the cigarette away and absentmindedly strolling back into the crowded street. His house was just up ahead, a couple blocks give or take, and thankfully, he wouldn't have to endure the frigid, December, afternoon atmosphere. All was tense, and for quite the wrong reason.

Sure, holiday shopping, bargains, and the dreaded family reunions could, hypothetically, wipe anyone out (physically and mentally), but Christmas was sure to be cancelled in the city. Something - no, someone - is on the prowl within the streets. It's unpredictable, sadistic per se, and hasn't been caught. Brice could see it in their eyes: the fear of uncertainty and the unknown. Streets were becoming less crowded, especially during the evening hours. No one walked alone, not even the burliest of men. Brice found it quite odd, funny even.

"Do you need help, ma'am?" Brice shouts at his elderly neighbor, who seemed to be struggling with the groceries in his shaky hands.

"Would you be a dear and carry these in for me, Brown?" She replies.

"Of course!" Brice exclaims, rushing at the opportunity. He cautiously the plastic bags from her shaky hands, carrying them inside her house. The elderly woman thanks him - "thank you, Bruce!" - and he would simply be on his merry way.

How much he despises that elderly lady.

Now, he shakily unsheathes his house keys, shoving the object into the keyhole and turning the knob. His house smelled putrid, of rotting flesh and garbage, no matter how much he sprayed cans of air freshener. No matter, as the stench would be covered up by cigarette ash. He steps in, quickly, and slams the door. He tosses his leather jacket aside, collects his composure, and immediately sits down on the floor. There, he takes the T.V. remote, flicking onto the news channel. He takes a drag into his mouth, lighting it and exhaling with satisfaction.

"Seventeen year old Tyler Ellis has been found mutilated and killed on the corner of Fremont Street late this afternoon. The boy has been the nineteenth recorded death in the past two months due to the recent, unsolved, spurious serial killings within the city. Like all previous killings, the heart, as well as the ring finger, has been taken from the body. We advise all adolescents to never travel alone, and if necessary, to carry pepper spray or a box cutter as a method of self-defense. There have been no leads on who the 'Ring of Hearts' is."

"Ring of Hearts," Brice mimicked aloud. It was quite the dumb name - yet fitting. He could grow accustomed to it; he could imagine, long after his own death, the name striking fear into people's hearts, much like the Zodiac Killer.

He exhaled the cigarette smoke once more, then stood up and proceeded to travel up into the attic. It was shaded, cool, and dark. There, he writes the name of his latest victim. Seventeen, such a shame he didn't live to adulthood. That would be partially Brice's fault - the boy was too pretty to be harassed like that. No deal it had been, his soul will be left among the many of the others who met the same fate in broad daylight.

Souls like his must disappear.

+++
two

You could say Brice was obsessed - infatuated actually - with the boy who stood gloomily across the street, waiting for the green light to turn red. There was a bag loosely swung on his shoulder and textbooks in his grasp, a high school student Brice assumes. He looked to be a junior or senior, about three or four years younger than he. No matter, he decides: the age gap wasn't too wide.

As they began to cross the street, he noticed the boy staring back at him. Large, innocent mocha orbs with a full, round face - a specimen like no other. Brice takes note of his features mentally, adoring each nook and cranny. The boy looked to be uncomfortable in such large crowds, yet couldn't notice the pair of blue orbs absorbed in his direction. They all share innocence, it seems.

Brice reached the other end of the street, anxiously gazing back over his shoulder for the boy with brunet hair. He disappears into the crowd, beneath the winter jackets and scrambling adults, much to Brice's dismay. There was a high school miles away to Brice's knowledge - a high school he once attended himself. He concludes that he should follow the boy.

He hails a cab.

"Where to, young man?" The chauffeur peers at the blond through his mirror.

"809 Westmont Street," Brice replies. The house had belonged to one of his old acquaintances, but now stood cold and empty. It had once been a home, a home near the high school that both would find refuge in. He chose not to dwell too much upon the past, for as it only brings him sorrow.

The scenery passes by in a thick haze, a blur even, as the cab halts. Brice pays the man, a tip as well, and he's on his way. He lowers his cap just enough to be unidentified - he mustn't scare the boy right away. He heads down the sidewalk, listening to the sounds of teenagers shouting and car horns blaring. The glory days of youth he takes reminisce in.

He stands under a lamppost, silent. He spots the boy standing next to a lovely girl with dyed red locks and a makeshift, paper white crown on her head. They laugh - the burning feeling in his chest begins. It's like a roar, one of which more powerful than a lion's. Must they be together? The thought of a relationship sprouts. No, that mustn't be true, they are definitely friends.

With predatory eyes he stumbles closer, closer until the boy heads inside. T'was only morning, and to Brice's knowledge, the school day ends at precisely 2:30 p.m.

He can wait.

+++
three

"Does he go to our school?" Seto questions, swallowing his inanitions and virtues.

Shelby brushes past his bewildered expression to the man, a seemingly normal one indeed. "He looks to be someone's brother. You shouldn't be so paranoid."

"I saw him earlier," he exasperates, "he - he was looking at me. I can sense it."

"I know you've been keeping up with the news. Don't think the Ring of Hearts will kill you, it's unlikely."

Seto shakes his head, the feeling still beating at his chest, "He's been killing off people from our school - boys from our school. Just yesterday he killed off Ty. I didn't know him personally but Adam's shaken up: he lost both Jason and Ty. Shelby, I'm scared. What if I'm next? They haven't caught the killer!"

"Just walk within crowds, you'll be safe. Do you want me to drive you home?"

"No, your house is farther away. I don't want you to waste gas."

Shelby sincerely nods, giving the boy a hug, "Be safe, okay? Don't do anything stupid."

Seto's eyes wander off back onto the man, but to his surprise, he had disappeared, as if he was not there at all. He gulps, exhaling, "You're right. I'll see you tomorrow, then, Shelby."

The two part ways. Seto's left alone as he hides within the crowd of students shuffling back to their parents' apartments. The tenseness and fear could be felt throughout the days that lingered, becoming more slower throughout each course. Seto gazes behind his shoulder: once, twice, three times, multiple times, to make sure the man had not been following him. No, he mustn't be this paranoid, it was probably just a coincidence.

He heads back into the main city and feels at peace. As the holiday draws closer, the more t attracts tourists and out-of-state family members. The setting is surreal; the beauty of the snow, the decor, and hell, even the people. Seto considered himself to not be too shabby; he fit in quite well with the crowd, being adorned in an oak-colored trench coat, a red scarf, and a burgundy beanie. He adjusts the glasses that rest on the bridge of his nose and trudge through the crowd into the nearest coffee shop.

He avoided his house at all costs - his caring, yet drunken, mother had always left him in shambles. He sought refuge in the outdoors, especially during the evening hours. Now, he had no choice but to be indoors - the Rings of Hearts had been on the loose.

Seto keeps himself busy by ordering a latte, as well as a croissant, to consume while he studies. The cafe had always been a quiet place, one that he adores more than the local library. He places himself towards the back, near the bathrooms, and opens his textbook. He plans to stay for an hour or so, maybe more. He wouldn't want to stay too late after all; walking back to the house during the evening seemed to be more dangerous.

"Excuse me?" A voice peeps. Seto glances upwards, met with a male that had electrifying blond hair and pale, baby blue eyes. "Sorry if I'm bothering you, but may I please sit here? The tables are all full."

"Sure," Seto nods, glancing over the man's shoulder. The tables were all full, but yet it remained to deathly quiet. The man thanks him as he sits down across from him with his belongings. Seto watches as he takes out a sketchbook and begins to color something, getting sucked into the art. It's mesmerizing.

"You're an amazing artist," Seto absentmindedly compliments him.

"I do hope so," the man jokes. "I'm majoring in art after all."

"That's cool, I'm still in high school."

"Oh, should I move? I don't want to look like a pedophile or anything-"

"No, it's okay, I'm a senior."

"Oh, thank god, I'm a sophomore. I guess the age gap isn't too wide," the man laughs. Seto feels uneasy again, but brushes it off.

"My name's Seto," he introduces himself, smiling. It's the opportunity to make a new friend, Shelby would be proud of him.

"I'm Brice," he says back, smiling warmly. The two shake hands.

Silence falls upon the two as they both return back to their respective tasks. Studying for exams has been stressful, especially during the time he should be relaxing. There are no breaks to his education, after all. If he wanted to become an engineer, he would have to pass these tests.

Yet, he finds himself getting distracted. He glances up to see the man, Brice, so infatuated with his drawing. The pure focus and the twinkle in his eyes looked inspiring - Seto aspired to be like that, to have a motive and drive. After a while of staring, curiosity settled in.

What exactly is he drawing? The details were so intense, realistic as if it was right there. It might have been anatomy, or something of the equivalence, but still, he wasn't sure.

"Say, what are you drawing?" Seto inquires, peaking over.

There's a pause.

It's an eerie one that feels as if though the world was circling around the two, as if they were the only ones that mattered. Seconds felt like an eternity - Seto shouldn't have asked. There's something quite odd about him, but he doesn't want to make assumptions.

Finally, Brice. chuckles.

"It's a heart."

+++
four

"It's getting late," Brice comments aloud after hours pass. He glances over his own shoulder, looking at the darkness out the window. "I can't believe it's evening already."

Seto, in alert, springs up, "I must go!"

"May I walk you home?" Brice offers. "I heard it isn't safe to walk alone at this hour."

"Oh, please," Seto pleads. "I'm afraid."

Brice grins, "Let's go, then."

===
setosolace // an artist's touch
description

It's been two years since everything happened to Brice.

+++
prologue

A seat that had been too tight? Check.

Rocky turbulence? Check.

Squished in between an elderly man and his own child? Check.

To say that Brice was nervous had been an understatement; he was mortified. The voices around him, as well as the jeering of the unsteady plane, hadn't calmed him down in the slightest. His limbs felt like gelatin: out of control and numb. He couldn't stop twiddling with his fingers, or tapping his feet, as the plane began to take its shaky liftoff.

The likelihood of a plane crashing is much slimmer than getting killed in his sleep, Brice knew this all too well (he conducted research out of pure curiosity). Yet, he couldn't stop being nervous. It was his first time leaving Australia, and he didn't know when he'd be back. Hell, he didn't know if he'd be back at all.

"Daddy?" Lilith, his two year old daughter, peeps, grasping his hand. "You okay?"

Brice swallows his anxieties, seeing as he was the parental figure here, and smiles, "Daddy's just nervous, that's all."

"I'm happy!" Lilith grins. Brice can feel himself melting with pure joy. "Where we go?"

"America," Brice replies. The plane had began to fly smoothly now, to which he exhales in relief. "We're going to America."

"'Mewica." Lilith repeats out loud to herself, her 'toddler lisp' evident. She goes quiet, as if she understood.

Brice draws his attention away from his daughter, who had been still clutching his left hand tightly, and instead focuses on the seat ahead of him. It's strange - two years ago he hadn't thought anything like this would happen. He didn't think he'd ever leave Australia, nor did he think he'd be leaving the supposed "love of his life," Shelby. Looks like his younger self was wrong about both ideas.

You could assume he would have some regret buried deep within him; some sheathed sadness behind those blue eyes of his. After all, he ruined the relationship he had with his mother and father, his siblings, all of his friends, and his girlfriend (well, ex-girlfriend). He feels as if he should be feeling anguish at the world, but where would that take him? No where, of course.

He's eighteen now, an inexperienced teenager (technically adult) and a single parent moving to a foreign country he's never been to. He doesn't know where life was going to take him, but he hopes that it's someplace positive. He desperately needed to abandon his old life in Australia; he desperately needs to start fresh after everything that had happened.

His daughter needs it, too.

+++
one

After a dreadful twenty two hour flight, the plane had landed in Newark, New Jersey. Brice was among the first to get off the plane with his carryon and Lilith, both somehow in his arms. His anxieties kept him awake for the majority of the flight; exhaustion was beginning to settle in as his eyes were barely able to stay open. He heads inside the airport, then into the luggage area. Somehow, Lilith sensed the sudden change of scenery and opened her eyes.

"We in?" She questions.

"We're here," Brice concludes, searching for his luggage. Lilith watches, too.

It takes about thirty minutes of stealthy stalking before he catches sight of his suitcase. It was just a plain brown one he inherited from his grandmother, quite bland looking compared to the generic red and blue colors. He places his daughter down for a moment, grabs his suitcase, then picks her back up.

He doesn't move for a while. He finds it difficult to take in what's been happening; all the changes that have been occurring these past few hours. He longed to be out of that plane, but now, he wasn't ready to face the reality ahead of him. It's frightening how time progresses so quickly, hastily even, out of his grasp.

He trudges along the crowd of moving people towards the exit, attempting to catch sight of two familiar faces. Adam and Ty had been waiting someplace, he just didn't know where. He anxiously, once more, began to tap his foot while gazing at his watch. It was around three in the morning, his flight landing an hour ago. They should have been here by now. He claims to be an optimistic thinker, but he began to develop conspiracies. What if they died on the way to the airport due to some car accident, or got robbed somehow and were now walking?

"You look like you're about to shit your pants," he hears a voice snicker. Brice sighs with relief, turning to face Ty. He stands there, cockily, with crossed arms and a grin plastered on his face. "Thank god you didn't die on that plane. Adam and I were beginning to get worried."

Brice rolls his eyes, "Yeah, Whatever. Help me with this bag."

Ty nods, taking ahold of Brice's carryon. "Where's Adam?"

"He got tired of waiting and went to go sleep in the car," Ty shrugs. "You guys did take a while."

"Yeah, luggage and all," Brice sighs. "I'm just happy to be out of that plane. Anyway, how are Lyla and Mason doing?"

"The kids?" Ty blinks. "They're doing fine. Adam was a bit hesitant to leave them at the house, but hey, they were already fast asleep. Worse case scenario they wake up and won't fall back asleep. They're too afraid to leave their rooms when it's dark; not like they're going anywhere."

Brice laughs, "Sounds a bit like Lilith."

===
setosolace // asylum au

The melancholy of the familiarity of the long winded hallways settled in as he shuffled along, hands occupied by the tight, white strip that bound his torso, arms, and hands. His cheshire smile that stretched from ear to ear had been unsettling to most that sauntered past. He's been here for maybe a year or so, but still held features of unfamiliarity to most. Rumors about the boy spread and ceased as quickly as wildfire, but only a select few can confirm them. Still, if one dares to hear of the truth, it is refined beneath walls of snow and padding, with soft light bouncing off his dazzling eyes.

But today, the truth is being unsheathed for all to see. He's slow paced, giggling to himself in content as he follows his comely caretaker, inching slowly behind him as if a tarantula. His smile grows wider as he says, "You look pretty today."

"You say that everyday, Brice," the shorter one replies, a soft smile resting on his pale lips.

Brice shakes his head, content with his response, "You always look pretty."

===
untitled work

Seto's forearms had dug into the marble counter, his hazed eyes peering towards the bartender. He sat, boredom ensuing as he had watched the female work. It was almost taunting as she poured him a tall glass of red wine and slid it across the counter.

"I asked for white wine," the brunet had specified, taking a cautious sip. He scoffed at the liquid, vigorously coughing into his right hand.

"I heard you were getting laid off by the boss," the woman's speech wasn't in haste. "Your money's no good here."

Seto would click his tongue, taking another gulp of the beverage. It would make his throat burn as he would eat away his own anxieties—the words he had cockily spoken throughout his teenage years. Laid off of the only place he thought as home: the Mafia didn't need him anymore.

Or, he didn't need the Mafia.

"Have you ever stopped to think why that is?" Seto would have questioned, sliding the beverage over in request for a refill. The bartender's Cheshire smile would have widened as she sought after a stronger substance. Vodka, he'd assume as she came back with a white bottle.

She poured him a drink.

"Boss fears you," the woman concludes. Seto would take the drink in hand, twirling it around aimlessly as his lips would slowly make contact. The burning sensation returned, washing over all of his anxieties. "He fears that you'll take his place."

"Since my money's no good here, I suppose the drink is on the house."

The bartender chuckled, "I shouldn't be talking to you since you've been deemed as a traitor. They'll cut my head."

Seto doesn't finish the glass as he would set it down, spilling it over the marble finish. He would push the stool out, dusting his cloak off before exiting the bar. He hadn't bothered to look back, despite the strings of cursed that were emitted from the woman's mouth.

===
another untitled work

"Hail Mary, the lord is with thee..." the boy began in slurred, hasty speech. He sat in the first pew, pale hands clutched together. His eyes peered up towards the altar, a depiction of, what he assumed to be, Jesus on a crucifix. The statue stood tall under the single church light, intimidatingly looking down upon the boy with mopped, brunet hair. All he could do was gulp, recalling the prayer from his childhood.

"Hallowed be thy name...?" he cursed under his breath, unaware of the next line. Catching his speech, he spat once more. "Shit, cursing is a sin!"

The boy released an exasperated sigh. He got off his knees and stood, leaning forwards against the wooden bench in front of him. "God, Mary, Jesus—if you're listening to me, please give me enough money to pay my rent. Or Ty: give Ty a better pay check and I'll just repay him. Amen."

He sloppily conducted the sign of the cross and exited out of the pew after his bluntly incorrect prayer.

Seto was never the religious type, nor was he the type to believe in such idolatry of a religious figure. Furthermore, he wasn't the brightest either. You could argue that he had gotten a scholarship into a school he's been longing to go to, but that doesn't excuse the crippling debt he's fallen into. Working at a bookstore and being paid at minimum wage doesn't entertain the bills, nor does it pay back Ty.

Sure, Ty's a nice guy in Seto's opinion. He's been paying their whole rent when times had gotten rough. Hell, he even took up two jobs to sustain them: at day, he's a simple salesman; at night, he's a bartender. Alas, the duo were close to eviction at this point due to their compromise to equally pay their rent this year. Again, working at minimum wage isn't a sustainable lifestyle.

"Hello, Seto," a voice chimed from behind the brunet. He perked up, regaining his composure as he sudden intrusion interrupted his thoughts.

"Hello, Father Daniel," he greeted back, giving a courteous smile.

Father Daniel had raised an eyebrow in suspicion, "I haven't seen you in quite a while, child. Then again, haven't seen your mother around, either."

"I'm busy with college and all..." Seto explained, attempting to edge towards the exit. A conversation with an elderly, religious man was the last thing on his agenda today.

"There is always room for God in your heart, no mortal concept can be ahead of it. Your father would have said the same. There is no need to be ashamed of the Lord being in your life."

He attempted to roll his eyes, but due to his restraints of respect, he refrained. Instead, he sighed, clearing his throat, "Listen, Father Daniel, I'd love to chat more. I can't since I have to get going and, uh, study."

"Well, alright Seto. Let me bless you before you leave. I overheard your prayer and it seems like quite the predicament you're in."

All he could do was nod, his face flushing a deep ember as he watched the priest make the sign of the cross over him. He mirrored his actions shakily. Oh, how he longed to shrivel up into a hole and escape this wretched world.

"May the Lord and peace be with you."

"Yeah, you too, dude."

Seto internally screamed as he swiftly scrambled out the church, hands clasped into a tight fist; his knuckles being a pale ghost.

The skies above him were a shade of dark gray, the sun being hidden above the opaque clouds. The wind howled, blowing at his face. Seto quivered, an audible groan escaping his lips as he pulled up his jacket. He doesn't have enough money to buy another train ticket back to his apartment, so he'll have to walk for nearly an hour in the cold.

Oh, how he wishes he could simply wither away and be part of the undead.

===
a third untitled work, lol

"Are you alright?" a voice looms over him, followed by a blurry shape of a hand waves above his flushed eyelids.

Brice attempts to sit up, but nearly collapses due to exhaustion. His lips press together in exasperation, the thumping pain emitting from his head preventing him from moving. He felt fatigued, nauseated, and that every vein in his body was ready to explode. No, he wasn't alright.

"I shouldn't really be asking that," the same voice chuckles again, "You look like hell."

"What happened?" Brice croaked as he coughed vigorously. His throat was extremely patched, almost as if he could vomit.

A hand reached out. Brice grabbed it in assumption that he was going to be helped up to his feet. Instead, the hand guided him up into a sitting position. Brice used the fence as a support as his hands rested neatly folded on his lap.

From what Brice could tell, it was night; his vision wasn't necessarily blacking back out (much to his own relief). From the dimmed light that came flooding out of the mansion's window, he could see the figure was lanky, not being necessarily tall.

The figure sighed, clearly vexed, "I was hoping you could tell me that. I saw you passed out near the rose bush, or were about to pass out, a couple hours ago. I tried to catch you but I couldn't because you were too heavy, so instead you hit your head."

"And you didn't call an ambulance?" Brice interrupted, scowling. He shouldn't have raised his voice as the thumping grew stronger. He cursed, tilting his head downwards and clutching the bump.

"In my defense..." the male trailed off, unsure of how to defend himself, "...I have no defense. Anyway, I'll just call over Ty and he'll bring you an ice pack."

"Thanks," Brice muttered under his breath. The figure hastily strolled away back into the mansion, leaving Brice alone in the cool summer air. The memories of today's earlier events were slowly coming back to him now.

Being assigned to cut a rose bush in summer heat, especially on an empty stomach and a dehydrated body, wasn't the best job for Brice. He recalls mistakenly cutting off a branch, the thorn cutting into his palm, and freaking out as he had no where to hide the branch. No, it wasn't noticeable, but a branch sticking out of a trash can would.

He couldn't simply bring it back inside, nor could he go back inside. Brice's shift didn't end until sundown, and he had three more hours of excruciating heat to go through. Of course, unknown to him was how he ended up fainting and losing the branch that he clutched in his bloodied, thorn hand. Probably heat stroke? Brice wasn't a doctor.

His hand was feeling a bit better; the thorn being gone from his palm. All he felt was a neatly wrapped bandage on the site of the wound, as well as a stinging pain ringing throughout his left palm. It wasn't that bad compared to the thumping that was on his head. He groaned, attempting to bring himself up but only to stagger back down into the grass again. The cool wind brushed against his cheeks, giving Brice a temporary relief.

Only a couple minutes pass before two figures come bolting out of the mansion and to his aid. The taller one was panting, passing Brice an ice pack, "Sorry I didn't catch you, I thought noodle arms over here was going to do it."

"Shut up, Ty," the other scowled.

Brice said a quiet 'thanks' before putting the ice pack onto the lump on his forehead. The frigid ice felt like heaven. He murmured incoherent strands of happiness and praise.

"Here, let me help you up," the taller one cooed. Reaching out his arm, Brice managed to take it as he stood. He shouldn't have gone up too fast as he nearly toppled back down again, but luckily the taller was able to catch him. "Let's hurry on up inside."

Brice nodded. The trio rushed into the mansion.

===
sorcerer, meet solace
description

"I really don't appreciate being kidnapped," Brice spits after the paper bag is lifted from the artist's sweaty face.

"My sincerest apologies, but there was no other way," the Sorcerer replies. "I had suggested to conduct a civilized conversation, but Adam profusely disagreed with me, saying you'd run away just like you seem to do with the rest of your issues-"

Brice clears his throat, interrupting his sentence, "For a guy who doesn't talk much, you sure won't shut up."

The world, it seems, is finally coming to its end. Brice Solace doesn't know whether it's something to be relieved about, or to fear. Regardless of his "humble" opinion, Team Crafted seems to not tolerate the death aspect, especially since they have less than a month to save little Earth.

After leaving the team nearly two years ago to pursue a degree in fine arts, he doesn't expect to be called upon by a Sorcerer-especially the Sorcerer.

+++
prologue

"It doesn't have to be this way," Seto grimaces momentarily, his body leaning against a bookcase that creaked at the slightest of touch. The red ooze escaping his mouth seems not to faze him as it dribbles further, staining the marbling beneath their feet. "There is no need to fight, Solace."

"On what ends?" the blond sneers, his crystal eyes looming with a hint of dread and hesitance. Exasperated, his arm jerks upwards, pointed at the Sorcerer's direction. "Enough with this damn talking and tell me where the amulet is!"

"Please," Seto repeats again, eyes glossy and nose burning. His voice sounds helpless against the backdrop of the terrors lingering out of the tower. "I don't want to hurt you."

Solace pauses — inhales as if he was pondering about his offer. The silence is deafening against his wavering posture and quaking hands. Moments later, out comes an exhale: a proper demonstration of his ego.

"Let's see if you're as supreme as the rumors instate you to be."

Crash.

A rush of adrenaline flows through his veins as Seto crashes onto the floor, a loud thump disturbing the peace. He takes a deep breath, as if it were his first, and exhales, shallowly, and attempts to repeat the process. His heart doesn't stop drumming.

"Seto, you are demonstrating symptoms of a panic attack. Shall I contact Adam?"

Disregarding a proper response, he glares at his ceiling, scoffing heartily at the idiotic suggestion. He still hasn't adjusted himself to the A.I. Seth had installed within the tower; the nearly human-like voice always made him a bit on edge. Perhaps it would serve good purpose someday, but as of now, the brunet would have to readily disagree.

"Don't call anybody," Seto warns, clutching at his chest.

"Sir, if I may respectfully disagree with your reasoning—"

"I said don't call anybody!" he hollers, fiercely throwing his pillow towards the ceiling. It topples down, along with pieces of debris, plopping at his feet. He wheezes, rolling onto his side cursing out Notch with an unexplainable sorrow.

"As you wish, sir," the system hushes. "May I remind you that I am obligated, by my creator, to contact a person of support after two consistent weeks. This is a reminder that this is your twelfth day—"

"I know, I know," Seto hisses. "Just shut up already, will you?"

He shuts his eyes.

===
horrendous mishaps
description

Death.

That's all he could think of when his amulet was abruptly stolen from the grips of his neck. There were no last words, no goodbyes to his loved ones, just the abrupt flash of what he could describe as a hazy purple entrancing the kitchen.

It's unusual for Seto Sorcerer to find himself in misfortunate situations, having danced with the devil more than once, but this situation at hand has brought a horrendous "blessing" to his life.

"It could've been worse," Tyler Deadlox announces, "there was a possibility of death, but he lives."

"It's unfair," Brice Solace follows up with a scowl. "In his perspective, this could be a punishment worse than death!"

+++
one

"You're always working so vigorously," a voice comments from behind him.

The hinges to his door creaks, caused by the metal resisting one another due to neglect of lubrication of Seto's behalf. Light floods in from the hallway, bringing in shades of pale yellow and boisterous voices that bounce off the walls like mere tennis balls. He blinks for a moment, his daze over his next work lost momentarily.

"The potion will be done soon enough," the Sorcerer replies in his glory, dropping another ingredient into the bubbling cauldron.

Again, he scolded him. It's as if every night repeats itself, "Dinner's already done. You can't keep neglecting basic necessities to live; you have to take care of yourself!"

He has, indeed, no time for such frivolous tasks, such as oiling the squeaky door hinges or eating in that matter. Fortunate enough [for him, at least], he's grown blasé to the hunger that beats constantly at his caving stomach, as well as the nausea that comes with it. Turning around to face the angered blond, he shakes his head.

"Brice, please understand that what I'm doing—"

"I know what you're doing is important," he interrupts, catching Seto off-guard. "You can't just keep doing this! You haven't eaten properly in days and hell, maybe even weeks!"

For a moment, he's utterly speechless at his remarks. The bitterness, however, catches up as he shifts his body weight forward in order to shove Brice out of his room, "Just get out! You don't understand!"

In response, Brice grabs the Sorcerer, gripping at an unusually plentiful amount of sleeve fabric with little flesh and more bone underneath. In a choked sob, he yells, "I'm worried about you!"

"Take your concerns someplace else, because I don't want to hear any of it!"

Sparks of purple emit from the palms of Seto's pallid, shaky hands, transforming themselves into a steady stream. It curves throughout the room, nimble like a spider's thread. Finding itself to wrap around the blond, his motion is hindered. Swiftly, the thread carries him out, tossing him into the hallway before dissipating. His head hits the wall in a clunk, leaving behind a sizable hole which would surely be taken out of his paycheck.

As he scrambles to rush back in, the door slams in front of him, fading into nothing but a wall.