Red dress who fed on despair

The deafening silence in the Audi was a poor substitute for the peace he had so briefly tasted. That peace had been a gift, a quiet clearing in a haunted forest. This silence was the forest itself, vast and dark and full of unseen things. Elena drove with unnerving stillness, her gaze fixed on the road, her face a perfect, professional mask. She had seen him at his most vulnerable, a drunken, desperate mess, and had revealed nothing. She was a vault, and for that, in some small, detached way, he was grateful.

He stumbled out of the car and into his house, the half-empty bottle of wine still clutched in his hand like a talisman. The front door clicked shut behind him, the sound unnaturally loud in the tomblike quiet of his home. The paintings on the walls, his own creations of contained chaos, seemed to mock him now. There was no containment. The chaos was loose. It was in his head, in his blood, in the very air he breathed.

He didn't turn on the lights. He navigated the stark, modern space by the ambient, sickly orange glow of the city at night filtering through the large glass windows. He collapsed onto the expensive gray sofa, the wine bottle sloshing precariously. The questions began their assault, a relentless, frantic barrage against the crumbling walls of his sanity.

_What are you, Ada?_ A businesswoman? A sorceress? A demon in a red dress who fed on despair? He could still feel the phantom sensation of her touch, a cold, invasive presence that had left a stain on his soul.

_What happened to Bonnie?_ The image of her eyes, pupils dilated to black, vacant pools, was burned into his memory. The guttural, ancient language that had poured from her lips… had he done that to her? Had his desperate need for answers broken her? He pulled out his phone, his thumb swiping clumsily across the screen. He navigated to his recent calls and pressed Bonnie's name. It rang, each tone an eternity, before clicking over to her voicemail. _"Hey, you've reached Bonnie. Leave a message, and I'll get back to you."_ Her voice was cheerful, normal, a ghost from a world that no longer existed. He'd called her a dozen times since the cafe. She hadn't picked up once. _Is she okay? Why the fuck isn't she picking up?_

The guilt was a physical thing, a heavy, suffocating weight in his chest. He had pushed her, cornered her, and unleashed something terrible. And for what? A few cryptic words in a dead language and a warning that felt more like a death sentence. _Everything will start with you, and everything will end with you._

He was the key. He was the lock. He was the beginning and the end. It was a prophecy, and he was its unwilling, terrified vessel.

A wave of impotent fury surged through him. He was a pawn in a game he couldn't comprehend, his life no longer his own. He was being manipulated by his father, haunted by a woman of terrifying power, and he had just grievously harmed the one person who seemed to have a glimpse of the truth. It was too much. The frustration, the fear, the grief—it all coalesced into a single, white-hot point of rage.

With a guttural roar, he launched himself off the sofa. He drew his arm back and hurled the heavy wine bottle. It spun end over end, a dark projectile in the dim light, and shattered against the massive flat-screen television on the opposite wall. The sound was explosive, a sharp, violent crack followed by the musical, cascading tinkle of shattering glass and the fizz of dark red wine bleeding down the now-dead screen. The violence of the act shocked him, a brief, cathartic explosion that left a vacuum in its wake. He stood there, breathing heavily, his chest heaving, staring at the destruction. The jagged, spiderwebbed cracks in the screen looked like a constellation of wounds. His own.

And then, the doorbell rang.

It wasn't the controlled, three-part chime of Elena. It was a frantic, irregular series of stabs at the button. _Ding-dong. Ding-ding-ding-dong._ A panicked, desperate rhythm that spoke of urgency and fear.

Ice flooded Lucas's veins. It wasn't his father. It wasn't Elena. No one else knew this address. No one except… _Ada_. The thought hit him with the force of a physical blow. She had found him. She had come to finish what she started. He backed away from the door, his heart hammering against his ribs, every nerve ending screaming at him to run, to hide. The ringing continued, more insistent now, accompanied by a frantic pounding on the door.

"Lucas! Lucas, open this damn door! I know you're in there!"

The voice was muffled, but it was unmistakably female. And it wasn't Ada's low, velvet purr. It was a voice he knew better than his own. A voice that was currently laced with pure, unadulterated fury. _Carla._

He stood frozen for a moment, his mind struggling to process it. How did she find him? His father must have given her the address. He stumbled toward the door, his mind a whirlwind of dread and a desperate, aching relief. He fumbled with the lock, his hands shaking, and pulled the heavy door open.

She stood on his doorstep, illuminated by the porch light, and she was a vision of beautiful, righteous anger. Her hair was a mess, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes—her beautiful, vibrant eyes—were blazing with a mixture of terror and rage.

"I have been calling you for hours," she seethed, her voice trembling with emotion. "I was going out of my mind with worry. I called your father, Lucas! Do you have any idea how humiliating that was? He told me you were… unwell."

Before he could form a word, before he could even process the sight of her, her arm shot out. Her closed fist connected with his jaw in a sharp, stinging blow. It wasn't a powerful punch, but it was delivered with all the force of her fear and frustration. His head snapped to the side, the shock of the impact momentarily silencing the chaos in his mind.

He turned back to look at her, his hand cradling his jaw, and the sight of her worried, furious face was the thing that finally broke him. The last of his defenses, the final crumbling wall of his composure, disintegrated into dust.

A sound tore itself from his throat, a raw, ragged sob that was wrenched from the deepest, most broken part of his soul. His face crumpled, the mask of the stoic son, the capable student, the confident man, shattering into a million pieces. Tears, hot and shameful, streamed down his face, the tears he hadn't shed at his mother's grave, at his father's diagnosis, at the news of his own impending death in another timeline. It was all there, all the grief, all the terror, all the confusion of the past few days, and it poured out of him in a flood of gut-wrenching, uncontrollable sobs.

He cried like a baby, like a lost child who had finally been found. He sagged against the doorframe, his body shaking with the force of his weeping, his legs threatening to give out from under him.

Carla's anger vanished in an instant, replaced by a wave of shock and overwhelming concern. "Lucas?" she whispered, her voice soft now, horrified. "Oh my god, Lucas, what's wrong?"

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her, and wrapped her arms around him. He collapsed into her embrace, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his tears soaking the collar of her jacket. He clung to her like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood, his entire body trembling.

"Shhh, it's okay," she murmured, her own voice thick with emotion as she held him tight, her hand stroking the back of his head. "I'm here. I've got you. Whatever it is, it's okay."

She guided him away from the door and toward the sofa, easing him down onto the cushions. He curled into himself, his sobs quieting into ragged, hitching breaths, but the tears still flowed. She sat beside him, never letting him go, her presence a warm, solid anchor in his swirling vortex of despair. She didn't ask what was wrong. She could see that he was in no state to answer, that the source of his pain was too vast, too complex to be put into words. She just held him, letting her quiet strength be a shield for his brokenness.

After a long time, his breathing began to even out. He pulled back slightly, his face tear-stained and exhausted, and looked at her. He saw no judgment in her eyes, no fear, only a deep, unwavering love and a fierce, protective concern.

"Carla," he whispered, his voice raw. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't you dare apologize," she said softly but firmly, her thumb gently wiping a tear from his cheek. "You don't ever have to apologize to me for being in pain." She took his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Listen to me, Lucas. I don't know what's happened. I don't know what you've gotten yourself into, and right now, I don't care. But I know that you're not alone in it. Do you hear me? Whatever this is, whatever darkness you're fighting, you are not fighting it by yourself. I'm right here. And I am not going anywhere. Ever."

Her words were a vow, a sacred promise delivered with an intensity that cut through his haze of fear. For the first time in days, he felt a flicker of something other than terror. He felt seen. He felt anchored.

The space between them, charged with raw emotion and shared history, shifted. The comfort of her embrace, the desperation in his soul, the primal need to feel something other than fear—it all coalesced into a different kind of energy. He looked at her lips, then back to her eyes, and in their depths, he saw the same need reflected back at him.

He leaned in, and she met him halfway. The kiss was not gentle. It was desperate, hungry, a collision of two people seeking refuge in one another. It was salty with his tears and fierce with her devotion. It was a kiss that said, _I'm here, you're real, we're alive._

His hands moved from her face to her waist, pulling her closer, until there was no space left between them. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her touch both a comfort and a spark. The kiss deepened, becoming a frantic, passionate exploration, a silent conversation of need and reassurance.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing heavily. "Carla," he breathed, the name a prayer.

She didn't answer with words. She answered by leading him by the hand, away from the wreckage of the living room, up the cold, concrete stairs, and into the sanctuary of his bedroom. The world outside, with its shadows and its secrets, ceased to exist. There was only this room, this moment, this desperate, all-consuming need to reaffirm their connection, to create a moment of light so bright it could hold the darkness at bay, if only for a single night.

Their clothes came off in a tangle of limbs and hurried movements, discarded on the floor like the worries of the outside world. In the dim light, he saw her, truly saw her, and the sight was a balm to his wounded soul. Her body was familiar and yet new, a landscape he wanted to lose himself in.

Their lovemaking was a raw, emotional storm. It was a frantic, desperate act of claiming and being claimed, of finding solace in the most intimate way possible. Every touch, every kiss, every shared breath was a defiance against the forces that sought to tear him apart. He poured all of his fear, his gratitude, his overwhelming love for her into his touch, and she met him with a fierce, grounding passion of her own, her body a warm, safe harbor. It was not just about pleasure; it was about survival. It was about two souls clinging to each other in the dark, creating their own small, defiant constellation against the encroaching night.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, their bodies slick with sweat, their breathing slowly returning to normal. He held her close, her head resting on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns over his skin. The silence returned, but this time, it was not empty. It was filled with the steady, reassuring beat of her heart against his. The storm had passed, for now. And in the quiet aftermath, wrapped in the arms of the one person who made the world make sense, Lucas allowed himself to believe, if only for a moment, that he might just survive the dawn.