Joseph his fangs were out, hoping to bite the sunlight away from his face, his instinct taking control too, his whole mind blank except for one thought, one utterly gruesome and horrendous thought: survive. Survive, onothers, becauseof others, and forothers.

Rafe's black pupils had grown so small they were almost invisible, trying to absorb the light that shone in his face, though not burning his skin as bad as it did Joseph's. His pointy ears looked like those of a dog, ready to attack whoever came to close, his sharp teeth obviously noticeable.

She was searching for the shadowhunter with concerned, dark orbs which shone as traitorous as the night, hidden somewhere, afraid that if it stayed a bit longer, the whole Downworld would run on the streets and cause and earthquake, as it drowned itself behind the light, knowing those demons could not follow her there.

"Are you okay?" she heard a voice say, the two hands turning her around. Her red cheek was now even redder with shame than it was with blood, her black eyes staring into the face of a scared man who had saved her, now repaying the favour as his worried stare scanned her for any obvious bruises.

"Make sure NONE of that sunlight comes in anymore!" he screamed to his people, while already two shadowhunters ran to the curtains to see what happened, causing a show, his loud voice booming through the small room, almost frightening Dèlia if she hadn't been as old as she was.

"Dèlia?" he asked her again, she looked up, a guilty monstrous glance coming his way.

"Your eyes," was all the young man could utter, before his hand held a tight grip on the dagger strapped to his side, and he sat a step back, never looking away from what he thought was a potential threat, a target, another Downworlder to kill.

She could see in his face that he wasn't aware of the weapon he held, ready to strike, or the feared glance in his eyes, though his hands weren't trembling. Why are they always like this? Every single human being, every angel, every half-blooded creature or god is afraid if the unknown.

Not the new. No, mankind had already shackled that beast safely in their dungeon, his beheaded body lying to rot on the crimson stone, his head hung up like a trophy so they could say: "we beat the unknown." But the unknown was so much more than just the new.

It was something so alive, so loud and active, yet dead all the same. Because if it made one wrong step, just one, it would be thrown away like garbage. So, the unknown waited for time to pass by and for the humans to be forced to come their way. And even then, even then, so many things were lost, so many souls on their side, shattered, deemed unworthy of the very world they helped to create.

She couldn't help but feel guilty, once his crystal eyes weren't as calm as the sky anymore, but venomous as the sea, ready to collide on the beach and make waves high enough to swallow whole cities just because he could, because the unknown had turned his head and stood up. Come and get me, if you hate me so much it would say.

"Lightwood, your dagger," Rafe finally spoke, while she looked with pleading eyes at the weapon designed to kill the best of her kind, the most wicked warlocks, the most dreadful demons and bloodsucking Downworlders. They were frightened because they knew they would lose a battle against the partly demon blood owning creatures.

And that fear, a fear which had lead the shadowhunters to do what they do centuries ago, had become so normal, none of the other Nephilims even turned around when Dèlia had a dagger pointed towards her. Even though Alec hadn't put it above her shoulder height, it was unleashed, pointing towards the ground. That was more than enough to show her they never changed.

His blue glaze found its way to his hand, and with a look painted with terror of his own doing, he let go of the weapon, which fell to the floor and clattered loudly, breaking the silence which, his action had caused. No one knew what to say.

Rafe's guards had their weapons ready to slice the young man to pieces, Joseph's fangs were still not gone, concerned as he was that this man turned out to be the same as all the others, and Rafe's purple eyes never left those pale, trained hands of the killer.

"I'm sorry. I didn't-"

I'm sorry. Why do they always say that? It is the word with the least meaning, nowadays, though the one with the most emotion too. It is said like saying a stupid remark or a sarcastic sentence one throws at the person he is forced to apologize to, but also a word so heavy that it could crush relationships and tear people apart.

Such a weird word.

Sorry.

Sorry for taking my dagger, sorry for being afraid, sorry for stepping back, sorry for being trained to kill, sorry for wanting to protect myself when the time comes, sorry for making thatmistake, sorry for showing you that I'm not different. Sorry for being a Nephilim. Sorry.

She tugged the strays of hair behind her ear, clutched her hand into a fist, silently counting to three, though that had never worked on her. And once she closed her black eyes, she could feel the tension in the room, she could hear the rapid heartbeats, the breaths not taking, because everyone was anxious for what were to happen next.

She rubbed her wound, her fingers returning to her, red and bloody. With emerald eyes, now almost emotionless, and with a voice as calm as the eye of the storm in which the oldest Lightwood was now in, she spoke: "No problem, I shouldn't have expect you to be different than the others. It's my fault," before she walked past him.

She knew his eyes were following him, that he had no idea what just happened. She knew he wanted to follow her, say that he was sorry, but Joseph took his wrist, his fangs gone, his brown eyes filled with somewhat pity, holding him back.

And so, she walked away, into the institute, careful not to walk anywhere sacred, covered in runes. She didn't care about the sunlight anymore, it wouldn't hurt her. Not once she was already burned. Thus, she headed further into the lion's hole.