Carlos sighs and rubs his forehead. “Fine…” He mutters, looking stressed. After a while of silence, he looks at Mikhail. “Look…I feel bad for yelling and for treating you like shit. I should’ve done that…I just…was stressed…and I know you’re doing this since its your job or whatever but…I just-“ he sighs heavily.
"…but you didn't ask for this—for me. And having a stranger barge into your personal life is unwelcome," Mikhail finished, flashing him an upturned smile. "For what it's worth, I accept your apology. Thank you for humoring me—again."
The bodyguard's eyes flicked to the nearest window as he tried to gauge the position of the sun in the sky. "What will you do now? I can stay here if you would like to get some more sleep. Just don't forget that I still owe you that favor," he added, resting his cheek on his palm and watching Carlos expectantly.
Carlos scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You don’t owe me anything. I snapped at you. Remember? And besides, I don’t need any favors. Now more sleep, that’s what I’m needing.” He huffs a soft laugh, leaning against the wall.
"You apologized and I forgave you. We are even, on that account. At least think about using it," Mikhail argued, the tilt of his head creating the illusion that he was pouting. Or maybe he was pouting… "As long as it's an interesting favor. I don't want to grant any boring ones." Then he yawned, lifting his head if only to cover his mouth. A wave of sleepiness seemed to sweep through him all at once, and Mikhail directed his bleary eyes at Carlos.
"I could go for a cat nap, myself," he declared, amusement in his eyes. His brows furrowed, an exaggeratedly grim expression spreading over his face. "I do not think I should drink any more caffeine. Pretty sure the recommended amount is somewhere around three cups of coffee ago," he mused, a thoughtful note to his tone.
“Why drink so much? The only caffeine I get is from sodas-“ Carlos snickers, grinning slightly. He then sighs. “Go get some rest…I’ll try to get some too.” He smiles ever so slightly, then walks back into his room, sighing heavily.
"It's called," Mikhail raised his hands and wiggled them dramatically, "An addiction." He gave a sideways smile to match Carlos' grin, then nodded in acknowledgment as the younger boy disappeared into his room.
Mikhail slumped back into his chair, letting his arms fall over his chest as he frowned. One problem had been solved, but the weight of his promise remained. Carlos had to eat soon, or else he would be obligated to alert his father. 'Another problem for another time,' he reminded himself with another yawn. For now, sleep.
With tired movements, Mikhail packed up his books and various papers, set them on the office chair, and dragged them all back to his room next door. The only thing he kept on him was a sheet full of notes, which he delicately folded and slipped into his pocket.
He didn't even change before flopping into bed, too exhausted to consider the prospect. In retrospect, talking to the kid had really lifted the oppressive weight on his shoulders—that, and the caffeine had definitely worn off.
In the end, he managed to unbutton most of his shirt and toe his shoes off. The rest, he would deal with when he woke up.
-
He woke to gunshots.
Mikhail was halfway to the door in an instant, hooking his fingers through the heels of his shoes and skidding out of the room. As soon as he was in the hallway he threw himself back against the wall, scanning the corridor with eyes blown wide with surprise. The sound was coming from the floor below them, echoing up the stairs along with shouts, and Mikhail knew it wouldn't be long before the violence extended to their floor.
He felt his way along the wall until his hand caught on Carlos' door knob, then he threw himself inside and forced the door shut as quietly as he could. Making eye contact with Carlos, he threw his shoes on the floor, then stepped towards the wardrobe and dragged it front of the door. "We need to go now," he said, urgency clear in his tone. "Where is your ladder?"
From a quick glance at the bedside table, he confirmed it had been three hours since he'd fallen asleep. Enough time for night to fall, and he cursed at the confirmation that this was a full-blown attack.
Mikhail hunched over and made quick work of lacing up his shoes, then glanced up in time to say, "Don't walk in front of the window. Not yet." And with that, he edged over to the glass pane and parted the curtains enough to view the grounds below. "…Clear."
Carlos had been woken up to gunshots. He hated the sound…he was panicking, but only inside. On the outside, he looked like he was ready to fight someone. He was loading a gun when Mikhail slipped into his room. His gaze shot up and he almost shot Mikhail, but sighed in relief.
“I need to help dad.” He rushes to the door. “Ladders under the bed. Go.” He cocks his gun and starts trying to move the dresser. His heart was racing, but he had to help his father…he couldn’t just leave him. He…he was terrified.
He needed his dad…he had already lost mom…he couldn’t lose dad too…
He looks over to Mikhail. Carlos had already gotten dressed in all black. He fit inside the shadows perfectly. He had also grabbed a bag of ammunition, a pocket knife, and brass knuckles. He was ready. It was like this had happened before.
“Hurry up. Run as fast as you can. I’m not coming with you.”
"Carlos," Mikhail hissed—and it was a hiss, air squeezing out of his lungs with the sheer force of his frustration. He stalked past Carlos to the dresser and slammed his body weight against it, pushing it flush against the door again with only a small 'thud' to speak of. Keeping his hand pressed flat against the top of the dresser, he towered over the younger boy.
"You will not help your father like this," he growled, trying to bleed every ounce of common sense into his voice in an effort to convince the stubborn boy—the same one currently holding a loaded gun—to listen to him. "He hired me to protect you, and that does not entail letting you into an active gunfight. Mr. Ortiz will be fine. He has his own bodyguards." Holding his free hand out in front of him, his tone shifted into something pleading.
"Escape with me."
Carlos scowls at Mikhail. “I will not leave my father behind.” He lets out a deep growl. “I never leave family behind. I won’t do it now. Now get out of my goddamn way before I shoot a hole in your leg.” He threatens. Even though he looked well put together, there was a strong glint of fear in his eyes. His hands shook ever so slightly as well, showing just how terrified he was.
“I’m not going anywhere with you. And there will be no argument. Either run, or fight with me.”
"You—" Mikhail cut himself off with a gnash of his teeth, falling silent for a few precarious seconds. He was halfway ready to disarm the boy and take the gun for himself. It wouldn't be hard—especially with his trembling grip—but the terror in Carlos' eyes stopped him short.
The bodyguard's jaw flexed, then he let out a long breath through his nose. "I'm hardly going to leave you now. That would make me a shit bodyguard," he responded grimly, relinquishing his grip on the dresser and crouching to snag a stray jacket off of the floor.
"Do not take any unnecessary risks. We will find your father and leave with him," he declared, throwing the jacket over his shoulder and lightly gripping Carlos' forearm until he acknowledged him.
The knowledge that they were willingly walking into a gunfight left a pit in his stomach, but his amber eyes gleamed with determination. He would keep Carlos safe.
With his vow still echoing in his head, he gripped the edge of the dresser and pulled it away from the door, throwing an arm in front of Carlos to hold him back long enough for Mikhail to take the lead. "Tell me where your father's room is."
Carlos huffs at him, “I’m leading. I know a shortcut. It’s downstairs all the way at the end of the hall.” He pushes past the door, staying in the shadows as he moved. He was incredibly good at it as well. His small frame and silent footsteps made him almost disappear if you weren’t watching closely.
Carlos lead Mikhail down the hall to a spot where there was a bookshelf on top of a cozy looking rug. The rug was bolted to the floor and been slightly lifted up in one area. He shoves the bookshelf away and lifts the rug up, revealing a hatch. He then opened it. It dropped down right to his fathers room. He looks at Mikhail, then drops down into the room.
Mikhail let the boy barge in front of him, though he was quick to follow in his steps. While Carlos blended into the shadows in a manner that quite frankly impressed the older boy, Mikhail took every opportunity to make himself more visible in areas where his ward was likely to be spotted otherwise.
Blessedly, it seemed the fighting continued to remain contained downstairs because they had no trouble reaching Carlos' secret hatch.
Mikhail opened his mouth to say something, but Carlos was already slipping through the open space. Cursing, Mikhail lowered himself down and then released his grip on the sides, landing in a low crouch at Carlos' back.
The room exploded into activity. Mikhail barely had time to yank Carlos to the floor beside him before a bullet went zinging over his head. In a flash, he dropped the boy's head to the ground, cushioning the impact with the jacket to avoid a seizure, then launched into a handspring that knocked the nearest attacker into another bullet aimed at him.
The first assailant's gun clattered to the ground. Mikhail threw his foot over it and dragged it into his waiting hands, then ducked so that Carlos had a clear shot at the remaining attacker.
Carlos gasped and shot two attackers in the process, then shot the attacker closest to Mikhail. He then looked over at his father who was huddled in a corner, a dead body already at his feet. Carlos nodded to the window. “Greenhouse. Trapdoor. Run.”
Ortiz nodded and gave Carlos a quick hug before rushing out the window, firing shots at a few more attackers before sprinting away. He trusted his son…more than anyone. And he knew his boy would be following soon enough.
Carlos slowly backed up to the window as the place slowly but surely went quiet. Most of the staff and everyone else must have escaped. Only a few more shots could be heard from other parts of the mansion. Carlos looks at Mikhail, then nods to the window. “Follow father. Now. I’ll be right behind you.”
"What did I just say? No unnecessary risks," Mikhail snarled behind gritted teeth, kicking one of the bodies to ensure they were well and truly dead before backing himself against the door frame with his gun raised.
He checked to be sure he still had bullets in the chamber, then peered around the corner. He immediately ducked back inside the room, grimacing at the spray of wood beside his head as a bullet buried itself in the doorframe. Dropping to his knee, he exhaled and then fired two quick shots back at the assailant. One hit the target in the stomach, the other in his throat.
With the immediate threat gone, he whirled around to glare daggers at Carlos. "Your father is out of the building. Why are you trying to go farther in?" he demanded, aware he was once again standing between Carlos and the door.
Carlos growls at him. “I’m not. I’m trying to save as many people as I can!” He snarls.
He then gasps and shoves Mikhail away from the door as another shot is fired. He then pushes Mikhail to the window and shoves him outside. “Go! Get outta here! Hurry I’m coming with you!” He looks behind him and fires more shots at the door.
After he finally manages to get Mikhail out, he jumps from the window and pushes him to the greenhouse. After they both rush inside, he pushes a large plant out of the way and opens a hatch, pushing Mikhail in and jumping in with him.
Ortiz hugs Carlos, shuddering. “My boy…”
Most of the house was gathered under a huge bunker underneath the garden. It was an emergency bunker just in case something bad like this were to happen. Everyone had been instructed to go here. Kids first, then everyone else.
Ortiz frowns as he looks at his son. He then notices Carlos grimace and clutch his side.
"What—" Mikhail stumbled as Carlos pushed him, caught off guard by his supposed ally in this mess rejecting any and all of his help. Rather than go willingly out of the window, Mikhail clung onto the still and propped his nondominant arm enough to take aim at the remaining intruders that seemed to be flocking towards them all at once.
"I am not leaving you," he growled, dropping the gun when it ran out of ammunition and beginning to haul himself back into the room to physically drag his ward away.
Only when Carlos rushed towards the window did Mikhail drop out of his way, cursing fruitlessly at the boy for taking so long. His hands hovered around Carlos, but did not touch him, as they both broke into a sprint towards the greenhouse.
"You fucking," Mikhail exploded at him, the rest of his sentence dissolving into a deluge of Russain that was probably better left untranslated. He grabbed Carlos by the shoulders, a wild light in his eyes, and might've continued his tirade forever had he not caught the boy's grimace. Following his movements, Mikhail batted his hand away from his side to see the wound, dread already pooling in his stomach at the thought that he'd failed so easily.
So high on adrenaline and dread was he, that he hardly even noticed Mr. Ortiz's presence.
Carlos looks down at a red stain growing on his shirt. He hissed softly and slumped against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. He could hear his father now panicking and felt his shirt be lifted up to expose a terrible looking bullet wound. Blood stained his and his fathers hands as he felt Ortiz and a few other people start tending to him.
He kept his eyes sealed shut as this happened, pain starting to flood into him as his adrenaline quickly wore off. In short words, it hurt like a bitch.
He cussed loudly in Italian as he felt a medic gently attempt to pry the bullet from his side, but it didn’t work.
He then took the courage to look down at the wound, and nearly fainted in the process. Blood was slowly dripping down his side, down his pant leg. He honestly felt sick at the sight. He then looks up at Mikhail, before promptly collapsing into a heap in his fathers arms, shaking slightly. His fathers reaction was typical, freak out and try to comfort his hurt son, while also making sure to not hurt him in the process.
"Shit, fuck, FUCK," Mikhail hissed, swiping a hand through his hair in an effort to regain his composure. He froze mid-action, tense with thought. "Supplies," he mumbled, hardly audible in the commotion as more and more people realized Carlos was injured. He turned his eyes, glinting in the dim light of the bunker, to Mr. Ortiz. "He needs more supplies." The bunker, though a good temporary hiding spot, lacked the medical equipment necessary to treat Carlos' wound.
Before anyone could react, Mikhail fumbled with the rest of the buttons and tore the shirt off, wadding it up and pressing it against Carlos with little mercy. The bleeding needed to be staunched. Trusting Mr. Ortiz to handle Carlos for the time being, he said, "I'll be back."
The bodyguard staggered to his feet, his movements rigid as opposed to his natural grace. He stepped into the slat of moonlight below the gap of the hatch, pale light illuminating his bare skin.
And all along his forearms, washed silver by the moon above, were irregular dark spots.
Mikhail jerked his head to the side, taking one last glance at the downed Carlos—and his slitted eyes gleamed. Then he was gone; out through the hatch before anyone could try and stop him.
At the back of the manor, facing the path to the greenhouse, were ceiling-high windows showcasing a large entryway and one of the multiple staircases inside. Anyone who dared peek out of the bunker would have beheld the bodyguard's path of destruction as he fought his way to the first floor with a bag in his grasp.
Inside, Mikhail snarled and snapped his teeth at anyone who stood in his way. Coming across an entire squad of people Mikhail skidded across the ground, then launched himself down the stairs and landed perched on the shoulders of an attacker. The man crumbled beneath his weight instantly and Mikhail slipped to the floor in time to use him as a shield from the assailant above.
There was a pause as the attacker reloaded his gun, but Mikhail was faster. In a blur of movement, the bodyguard's feet touched parallel to the wall opposite the man, then his body twisted and he springboarded off of the wall to soar over the banister. A moment later, the assailant's body joined the first on the landing and a spray of bullets eliminated the remaining two attackers.
His endeavor to transport the supplies continued in much the same way until blood soaked his exposed skin.
Clear of the manor now, Mikhail once again sprinted for the greenhouse, only to let slip another, fiercer snarl when he stumbled across an enemy that had wandered all the way to the doors of the sanctuary. There was no thought, no time for the attacker to react before the straps of the bag slipped from pale fingers and black spots wriggled over the remainder of Mikhail's exposed skin. In between one breath and the next, a
fully
adult
snow leopard
pounced on the man and ripped his throat out.
The leopard shook its massive head and blood sprayed from its mouth. It stood, sides heaving, and then slowly turned to retrieve the bag. In stages, beneath every passing shadow where details were impossible to make out, the leopard regained humanlike aspects. The eyes, first. Then the spotted fur began to recede. By the next patch of moonlight, the creature walked on two legs, a silver tail trailing in its wake.
Emerging from the final shadow before the bunker hatch, was Mikhail. Blood stained the lower half of his face and his sullen amber eyes were downcast as he dropped through the hatch and thrust his bloody hand, still clutching the bag, towards Mr. Ortiz.
The moment the canvas strap left his fingers, Mikhail shuddered and sank to the floor before Carlos, despondent. Remnants of his transformation haunted his haggard appearance, none more obvious than the long tail curled in his lap and round ears lying flat against the top of his head.
The silence that had fallen over the escapees when he dropped through the hatch turned to fearful whispering, and still, Mikhail said nothing.
Ortiz looked shocked, but quickly disregarded this. At least for now as he took care of his hurt and seizing son. He looked terrified of losing his only child.
Eventually, with the help of a few medics, Carlos was stitched up and bearing a bandage wrapping around his torso to keep the medical patch in place. Carlos had also stopped shaking after this, and after a few more moments, he was opening his eyes.
The boy looked to be in so much pain…but he also couldn’t express how much he hurt. He looked around, confused on where exactly he was. First, he looked up at a face he hardly recognized. “Dad…?” He mutters. Relief could be heard from Ortiz as he sighed and held his son close. “I’m here…shh…”
By this time, Mikhail was offered a wet cloth to aid in cleaning himself. Unfortunately, Carlos was already staring to Mikhail, a dazed and confused look on his face. “Wh-“
On autopilot, Mikhail reached out to take the wet cloth. He stared at it for a long moment, a distant look in his eyes as if just now realizing the source of weight in his hand. At Carlos' voice, Mikhail's eyes lifted to watch him.
There was something apathetic about the gesture, made more evident by the low slope of his shoulders and blank expression. Yet, despite his apparent indifference, the older boy could not hold eye contact for long.
Silver bangs shifted to obscure his eyes as he lowered his head, bringing the matching silver-and-black ears into clearer view. With harsh swipes of the cloth, Mikhail began to scrub the blood off his face.
By that time, most of the voices had fallen into an uneasy silence, save for a few who began to get louder. Bolder.
"Monster," someone hissed. "He's an animal!" called another. Mikhail gave no indication that he heard, continuing to wipe away the blood without a word.
A man, several years older than himself and wearing the uniform of an estate guard, stomped towards the bodyguard and grabbed his forearm in a vice-like grip. At that, Mikhail did stop. He slowly raised his head, the curtain of bangs parting enough for one of his slitted eyes to make an appearance, and the guard promptly struck him across the face.
Mikhail inhaled sharply but made no other noise. Even if he had, it would've been lost in the man's sudden incredulous laugh. "Look at this!" He had an accent, Mikhail distantly noted. Eastern European, he was sure, but he could not pinpoint the exact origin.
"This is what you've hired to protect your son, Boss? It's no wonder he's in such bad shape," the guard declared, pulling Mikhail's arm hard enough to force him to scramble to his knees in order to avoid falling on his own tail. The man's free hand rooted itself in his hair, making Mikhail's ears twitch with discomfort and flatten even closer to his skull.
"Shit, how do we know he's not the one responsible for all of this? That he didn't stage all this after gaining your trust?"
Mikhail remained silent, hunching over as if trying to make himself smaller.
The guard didn't seem to like that. "Nothing to say?" he spat, wrenching Mikhail's hair hard enough to look him in the eye. "Admit it—you saved the Boss' son that night to get on his good side. Then, when you were good and familiar with our hideout, you informed your little work buddies from Astros so they could attack us all at once. And now you're trying to save your own sorry ass by playing the loyal bodyguard and taking out your own men! I'm right, aren't I?" The guard was so close to Mikhail's face now that he could make out the blood vessels in his eyes. "Say something, you freak!"
The guard tightened his grip on Mikhail's hair and, in the process, pinched his ear between his fingers. Realizing this, the guard began to twist—then let out a surprised oof as the world shifted and he found himself pinned against the wall.
Mikhail's tail lashed behind him as a low growl reverberated in his throat, spilling through parted teeth stained with the blood from his previous kill. Several people aimed guns at him, and after a few tense moments, Mikhail dropped the guard to the floor.
He scrambled to his feet and retreated into the armed crowd for protection, but Mikhail only lowered himself to the ground again, indifferent to the weapons aimed at him. Uncertainty caused many to lower their guns, all eyes turning to Mr. Ortiz for direction.
Ortiz did not seem pleased, but he also didn’t seem to be mad at Mikhail. He scowled at everyone pointing the gun. “Unless you all want me to fire you…put down the damn guns.” He growled.
“He saved my son. I’ll interrogate him later…but for now…I did not tell all of you to harass my sons body guard! So put those god damned guns away before I make you all!” He snaps at them. Once all weapons were away, he looked to check on Mikhail, then held his son tighter as the boy leaned into his father. He still looked dazed and extremely confused.
Ortiz sucks in a breath, “If I hear another insult out of you…people are gettin shot.”
He looked over the crowd, then snarls and calls the name of the man who had just assaulted Mikhail. “Get your ass over here now.” He snapped.
Silence descended on the crowd at once. Then, one by one, the remaining personnel lowered their guns.
The guard, Savin, straightened at the sound of his name. "…Boss?" he responded, shoulders tense with apprehension. His eyes flickered to Mikhail, who was sullenly staring at the wall. Only a twitch of his ear betrayed his unease.
With a nervous swallow, Savin stepped over to Mr. Ortiz and bowed his head. "Apologies, Boss. I did not mean to offend you," he promised, dutifully clasping his hands in front of him. "Or to decide that you made a mistake. It's just…" Savin shifted his weight, eyeing Mikhail suspiciously. "I don't see how this could have happened, had it not been the work of a rat. Or in this case…a cat."
Mikhail's gaze darted to him at that, and he was pleased to see Sivan flinch at the challenging glint in his amber eyes.
The bodyguard swallowed a few times, then licked his teeth. One of the braver staff, a nurse, judging by her earlier assistance with Carlos, dropped a black shirt over his lap. When Mikhail's eyes landed on her, she held his gaze and whispered, "Silver Reaper."
Mikhail recoiled, hunching further into himself until she'd retreated to another corner. He pulled the shirt over his head and wrapped his tail around his waist, using the hem of the shirt to hide it from view. Then he retrieved the cloth from the floor and dropped it over his head, slumping against the wall and refusing further eye contact with anyone.
"Sir," the nurse spoke, stepping up behind Savin and resting a hand on the guard's shoulder. "Please don't be angry with Savin. He has reason to be suspicious. This man," she said, gesturing to the curled-up Mikhail, "Is dangerous. Not because of his association with Astros, but because…he belongs to the Venatici."
Like a whip, Mikhail twisted around and snapped, "No." His voice was rough as if it hadn't been used in months, but the meaning was clear.
The nurse regarded him warily, but Savin was the first to ask. "…What is the Venatici?" There were a few mutters from the crowd, but no one seemed to have an answer. The nurse looked to Mr. Ortiz for permission to keep speaking, while Mikhail watched with a mix of muted panic and anger in his eyes.
Ortiz frowns at these words, listening closely. He looks to Mikhail, then back to the nurse. “Go ahead.” He says softly, holding his still dazed son close. Protectively.
Carlos on the other hand, frowns and reaches for Mikhail. It seemed like he had just woken up from anesthetics. Woozy, dazed and mostly just out of it entirely. The poor boy had no idea what was going on, other than people were arguing and he didn’t like it. He looks at Mikhail’s ears, then reaches both arms out like a toddler wanting to be picked up. He does little grabby hands as he keeps reaching for the bodyguard, pouting slightly. He just wanted to be away from the noise. It was hurting his head.
Mikhail shrunk under the crime lord's curiosity, averting his eyes to the floor. His arms were tucked closely to his sides, fingernails jabbing into his skin so hard it left pale crescent indents, but he did not protest again as the nurse continued to speak.
"I wouldn't be surprised if you haven't heard of them," she was saying to Mr. Ortiz. "Until recently, the Venatici had no business in your city."
Carlos' movement caught his eye and he shifted to look at him. Instinctively, he began to reach for the younger boy's extended hands—then hesitated as a quiet 'click' reached his ears. They twitched, alert, and Mikhail scanned the crowd for whoever had just armed their gun. Instead, he saw only a mix of angry, curious, and fearful faces. The bodyguard's expression hardened with stubbornness as he reached forward and clasped one of Carlos' hands in an attempt at silent comfort, ready to defend if anyone dared fire a weapon in their direction.
"Most of their influence lies outside of the country," the nurse explained. "With origins in Russia." A few eyes that weren't already pinned to the bodyguard moved to him at the remark. His accent wasn't exactly hard to pinpoint, after all.
"But they're a subdivision of the same organized crime group that those at Astros belong to. Venatici—it's a play on the constellation, 'Canus Venatici': The hunting dogs. Their division is more…notorious, only because of their excessive cruelty. They're the scapegoats of the organization, responsible for enforcement and punishment." The nurse paused, taking a deep breath, then added in a smaller voice, "They're also rumored to belong to a coven."
Whispers broke out once again, this time not so easily silenced. It wasn't surprising, given the existence of witches had been debated for years. Some believed they never existed, while others believed they died out. While magic itself was not uncommon, and supernatural beings had been proven to exist in some capacity, the idea of an entire coven in existence—and one in a position of power—was disconcerting, to say the least.
"How do you know all of this, Pike?" another medic asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. Pike turned to him with a grim expression. "I haven't always been a nurse for Mr. Ortiz, nor have I always lived in this country. I've had to treat people torn apart by that…man before," she returned, casting her disdainful gaze towards Mikhail, who flinched at the words. Only the contact of his hand in Carlos' seemed to keep him grounded.
"I did not want to hurt them," came a rasp. It was the most human Mikhail had sounded since he'd returned to the manor to find supplies for Carlos, though his voice remained rough as if from disuse.
If Pike heard, she ignored him. "From what I've been told, the coven takes the most promising recruits and performs some kind of a ritual to enhance their strength, turning them more animal than human." She held Mikhail's pained gaze for a long moment. "You were the most promising, weren't you?" It was phrased as a statement, as if she was confident in the answer. "You…are a skinwalker."
When he didn't answer right away, she scoffed and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, turning to Mr. Ortiz once more. "There aren't many you can find with the same form this one has, and his reaction to the title leaves no doubt. He is the Silver Reaper of the Venatici, responsible for hundreds of deaths on behalf of the main branch of the organization that targeted your son."
Ortiz’s brows furrow with mixed emotions. Anger, betrayal, sadness, hurt…and somehow…compassion. He sighs heavily, looking down at his son, who was only looking at Mikhail. Carlos seemed to be acting more and more what seemed to be a 5 year old. He reached for Mikhail’s ears, doing grabby hands. He looked to be completely uninterested in the conversation. And somehow…Ortiz let the boy do whatever he wanted.
Ortiz looked at Mikhail, then in a stern father like tone said, “Why did you protect my son?” The words echoed as the room went quiet. Everyone seemed to want that answer. Well…everyone except Carlos, who had now somehow escaped his fathers arms, and was now hugging (more like clinging onto) Mikhail. The only distinct look that lingered on the boys face, was pure trust.
(how are you so good at writing- like wtf- slay?)