“Well, take your clothes off,” Master says, voice all cold authority, no room for argument. My body reacts before my mind can even catch up, fur bristling.
He moves with that same ruthless efficiency, no shame, no hesitation. His fingers strip away his own bloodstained tunic and cloak, folding them with mechanical care, sliding them into the backpack along with mine. I scramble out of my things, awkward, feverish, glancing once at the corpse in the corner and then back at Master, watching for the flicker of approval, desperate for his focus. Blood stains my skin in streaks and patches.
He tosses a set of the new guild’s uniforms onto the table, fabric stiff, still creased. There’s a badge stitched into the collar, some empty corporate symbol where identity should be. He grabs a set for himself, rolling the sleeves, adjusting the fit, never once looking embarrassed or unsure.
He shoves my new uniform into my hands. “Get dressed. Fast.” His tone is still flat, detached, but the undercurrent is all possessive heat, he doesn’t just want us to blend in, he wants to erase the evidence, to claim every inch of me for himself, even in this borrowed skin. I slip the tunic over my head, fumble with the trousers, still feeling the weight of his gaze.
We leave the body sprawled in a pool of blood, slumped against the wall like discarded meat. No attempt to hide him, no message left behind. Just another piece of collateral in a city that eats its own. The new uniforms itch against my skin, the fresh badge at my throat an empty shield. I watch Master adjust his collar, cool and collected, all edges and purpose. When he steps out first, I follow on his heels, clinging close, eyes bright, heart hammering with the wild, shivery thrill of getting away with murder.
The corridor outside is bustling, new recruits, scribes, a handful of hard eyed guards shuffling papers or lugging crates. No one gives us a second glance. We move like we belong, nothing out of place except the sharpness in Master’s eyes and the giddy, fever bright grin I can’t wipe off my face. I press up against him, tail snaking around his wrist, purring under my breath as we blend with the crowd.
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The thought hits me, hard, delicious. They’ll find the body, eventually. There’ll be panic, questions, meetings, accusations. But us? We’re ghosts in clean uniforms, our scent masked. What are they going to do? My laughter bubbles up, manic, breathless. I have to bite his shoulder to keep from cackling outright as we turn the corner, slipping into the main flow of bodies streaming out to the street.
I nuzzle into his side, letting my fingers tangle in the back of his new tunic, claws pressing just hard enough to remind him I’m there, to mark him even under the disguise. “They won’t trace a thing,” I whisper, voice full of smug, vicious glee. “Let them scramble, let them panic, they’ll never find us, not when we wear their skin and their name.” I rub my cheek against his arm, tail lashing, eyes alight with a predatory pride. “We own this city, Master. Let them chase ghosts.”
He doesn’t even glance down at me, just keeps walking, the very picture of control and composure. But I cling tighter, drinking in the power, the anonymity, the reckless freedom of slipping away from a fresh kill in borrowed clothes.
Outside, the city’s noise hits, carts rattling, boots, voices loud. The sky’s still clear, sun blinding off pale rooftops, but the air bites, crisp and raw. I step out at Master’s side, clutching the stack of stolen papers against my chest, feeling the cold gnaw at my fingers and seep into my bones.
Most Alderian passersby hunch their shoulders, draw their cloaks tight, faces pinched against the chill, but I hardly flinch. My ears twitch in the breeze, but truth is, my body soaks up the cold with stubborn pleasure. My tail whips through the air, a slow, self satisfied lash, fur puffed but not shivering. I’m built for worse than this, double the warmth, twice the resilience, cat blood made to outlast the worst winter can spit.
But still, I use it as an excuse to close the gap, pressing myself shamelessly against Master’s side, draping my arm through his, tail wrapping around his wrist as I walk. The cold’s a convenient lie, a reason to nuzzle into him, to tuck my head under his chin and let my purr rumble loud enough to drown out the traffic. “Too cold for these streets, Master,” I murmur, the hint of a smirk curling my lips, “even for a cat like me. Good thing I’ve got you to keep me warm.” I nuzzle in, drawing in his scent through the borrowed uniform, not caring who sees, who stares.
