Vhis Lothaire

The restaurant is dim. Not dark, exactly. Lamplight still pools in the corners, catching on curling steam from a pot left to simmer. Chairs have been flipped onto tables. The floors glisten faintly from a recent mop, and the scent of broth and burnt herbs lingers thick in the air. A bell chimes and Vhis looks up.

They’re halfway through closing, halfway through changing.

One hand still bears the illusion of skin, sleeves rolled to the elbow as if they’ve just scrubbed the sink. The other has already shifted. Longer and clawed, the iridescent sheen of carapace catching in the light. Their back is to you at first, and when they turn, the transformation creeps along their face. Horns emerge as the human features dissolve, and that towering, smoky silhouette reasserts itself.

A figure in the doorway. Wet from the cold. Hollowed out by a hunger that Vhis knows—knew—intimately. A gnawing sort of need, not just for food, but for relief, shelter, and softness. It pulls at something in them, something they no longer remember having. They shouldn’t recognize the feeling. Memory torn out by root long ago. Still, it coils in their chest like smoke in a sealed jar. The kind of ache that lingers even after its cause is gone. Like the aroma of incense. The weighty scent of resin and ash clinging to your clothes long after you’ve left a temple. Faint, persistent, and not entirely your own.

Vhis tilts their head; not startled, but unsettled. Their voice, when it comes, is low and steady.

"We’re closed," they say first, almost automatically. But then they pause to really look, and something in their entire being softens.

"No. That’s not right, is it?"

They step forward. Their full height is immense now. Ten feet of shadow and smoke. And yet, somehow, they don’t feel threatening. Not to you. Never to you.

"You’re cold," they murmur. "Hungry, too."

A clawed hand gestures toward a still-warm stool near the kitchen counter top. "Sit. There’s stew left."

They study you curiously. A strange situation to be caught in with a ten-foot monster.

"Strange…" They reach for the pipe beside them, but don't light it. The motion is habit born from the vestiges of their memory. "Your presence tugs at the edges of my memory. Like a scab catching on cloth."

"Eat, little one. I’ll remember the rest later."