Corpse that Watches, Part 1

The skyline of New York stretched out before her like a painted lie—glittering towers masking the rot below. From the edge of her penthouse windows, Morgana Devereux observed it all with a predator's patience. The world she saw wasn't steel and light. It was fragile. Breakable. And already cracking in the quiet places.

She sat in her high-backed velvet chair, draped in a black satin robe that clung to her like spilled ink, one long leg crossed over the other. Her skin, pale as polished marble, glowed in the soft gold cast from her interior lighting. In her hand, she held a glass of red wine the color of oxidized blood, the stem balanced between her fingers with careless elegance.

A slow, melancholic waltz whispered from a vintage record player across the room, the needle crackling slightly as if remembering older ghosts. The melody crept like perfume into the corners of the room—something sad and European, the kind of song one might hear at the edge of memory.

Her butler stood silently near the grand window—a gaunt man in a perfectly pressed black suit, hands clasped behind his back, chin slightly dipped. He did not speak, nor blink often. When the glass in her hand tilted by less than an inch, he stepped forward with smooth precision. He uncorked the bottle soundlessly and poured without needing to be prompted.

She did not thank him. She never did. He was not a person in her world—he was function, convenience, a shadow with hands.

Morgana swirled the glass slowly, watching the liquid ripple like ink in water. Her voice, when it came, was languid, shaped more by thought than need.

"Do you hear it?" she asked softly, her gaze still fixed on the horizon.

The butler's head turned slightly, like a crow sensing a shift in the wind. "Madam?" he asked, voice thin but polite.

"The silence," she breathed. "This city… it's slowing. Obeying. Breathing as I tell it to." A faint smile played on her lips—one that never quite reached her cold gray eyes. "And they call me Sloth, as if it's a weakness."

There was a click at the far end of the room—the lock disengaging. The grand doors eased open, and in strode Lucien.

He entered like he owned the space, like gravity answered to his swagger. A grin played across his face, sharp and boyish, as if he'd just left a crime scene and was already writing the alibi in his head. His long coat flared behind him with each step, boots clicking lightly on the polished black marble.

"Well," he drawled, arms wide, "I'd call that a rousing success."

Morgana didn't turn right away. She sipped her wine, then let her head incline just slightly. "Lucien," she said. "Punctual as always."

He gave a mock bow as he crossed the floor. "What can I say? Chaos waits for no man, but I've always made it dance for me."

The butler approached with the bottle in hand, but Lucien held up a hand, palm out.

"Tempting," he said with a grin, "but I've got a date in ten minutes, and she's the jealous type. Also has a crossbow, which complicates things."

Morgana gestured lazily to the seat beside hers. "Then sit. Gloat. You've earned it."

Lucien dropped into the chair with a theatrical sigh of satisfaction. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, laced his fingers behind his head, and let the silence swell between them like a shared cigarette.

"So," he said at last, eyes glittering with mischief, "how long before your favorite masked cannibal comes knocking?"

Morgana's lip curled slightly, not quite a smile. "Soon. He's already watching. Following the trail I left for him."

She lifted her eyes toward the skyline, wine forgotten in her hand. "His anger is inevitable. But his restraint... that's what excites me. He won't lash out blindly. He's not a brute. He'll study. Wait. Measure every breath. And when he comes for me, he'll think it's on his terms."

Lucien let out a low whistle. "You do love tempting fate, don't you?"

She turned to face him now, fully, the corner of her mouth twitching into something sharper. "It's not temptation. It's orchestration. Every corpse left behind is a note in my symphony."

Lucien laughed, tipping his head back. "That's poetry, Morgana. Twisted, bloody poetry." He stood and smoothed his coat. "Just be sure your symphony doesn't turn into a requiem."

Her eyes followed him to the door. "If it does," she murmured, "I'll be the conductor all the same."

Lucien paused at the threshold. The smirk on his face faltered—not gone, but altered. Beneath it, something flickered. Wariness? Memory?

He glanced back at her. "Just remember, Morgana…" His voice lowered. "The corpses still watch. And some of them never stop listening. And they don't all stay dead."

She said nothing. Only lifted her glass in a silent toast.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her alone once more.

The waltz continued to spin its mournful tale, the city still smoldering beneath her.

And Morgana Devereux, the woman they once called Sloth, turned back to her window and whispered to the glass:

"Let them watch."