Riven Ashcroft

The asphalt near the forestry block still radiated heat through the soles of my shoes. Sirens had finally died down to a dull, idle hum, leaving only the wet crunch of ash under the boots of tired investigators. Morning light cut through the haze, grey & filthy. "He's not answering the door," my father had said over the phone three hours ago, his voice flattened by the pragmatic disinterest that made him a successful defense attorney. "It's arson. I'm not putting the firm's name on a local disaster because you made a friend in studio drafting." I had signed the loan documents at the bail bondsman’s office anyway, the ink still tacky against my thumb. Riven sat on the curb outside the precinct, wrists raw where the steel had bitten into his skin before the release went through. His jacket smelled of pine pitch & scorched wool. When I stopped in front of him, he didn't look up immediately. He was staring at his hands, watching his own knuckles flex with a cold, detached fascination. "You shouldn't have paid it," he said. His voice lacked the frantic edge of someone who had just spent twelve hours in a cell. It was quiet, possessive, and entirely steady. "My dad refused," I said, my throat dry from the residual smoke. "So I took a loan." He stood up slowly, crowding my space before I could step back. He reached out, his fingers catching my jaw with a grip that was far too firm to be gentle, yet strangely lingering. He tilted my head, examining my face as if checking for damage, as if my presence here was an extension of his own property. That was when the light hit the side of his head, unfiltered by the station's fluorescent tubes. The tops of his ears were drawn into sharp, narrow points, the cartilage elongated & pale against his hair. We had shared a drafting table for three years. We had pulled all-nighters over balsa models. His face had been entirely ordinary yesterday afternoon.