Two days had passed since Harry had saved Daphne and brought her over. They had been waiting, checking in every few hours, and Celeste constantly monitored her, reassuring them that yes, everything was progressing as expected.
Now, finally, they were gathered in the room where Daphne lay. Her breathing had gradually grown stronger over the past forty-eight hours, and some pinkness had returned to her skin.
Celeste stood beside the bed, one hand hovering over Daphne's forehead. Her eyes were closed, that familiar crimson glow emanating from her palm as she conducted what had become a routine check. Harry leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while Hermione sat on a chair she'd pulled up beside the bed.
"Well?" Harry asked when Celeste's hand finally dropped.
Celeste opened her eyes, and a satisfied smile curved her lips. "She's stable. Completely stable, actually. The internal injuries have healed properly. No complications, no residual damage that I can detect. Her magic feels strong again. All the major wounds have closed, and the minor ones are well on their way."
"So she's going to be alright?" Hermione asked.
"Better than alright. She should wake up anytime now." Celeste stepped back from the bed. "Her body's been recovering really well. That kind of resilience isn't common. Most people would still be bedridden for another week at least after what she went through."
"How long until—"
Harry's question was interrupted by a sharp intake of breath from the bed. Daphne's fingers twitched against the sheets, curling into fists. Her eyelids fluttered once, twice, before opening slowly.
For a moment, she simply stared at the ceiling, her expression blank with confusion. Then her eyes widened, and she tried to sit up with a gasp that turned into a wince.
"Easy," Celeste said, moving forward. "Don't try to move too quickly. Your body's still healing."
Daphne's head whipped toward the voice, and for a long moment, she stared at the voluptuous woman who was wearing the most revealing attire she'd ever seen. Slowly, she turned to regard Hermione, and finally, she turned to him.
"You," she breathed, her voice rough. "In the forest. I thought… I wasn't sure if I'd imagined it."
"You didn't imagine it," Harry said, keeping his tone calm. He pushed off from the wall. "I was there."
"Where am I?" Daphne's hand moved to her shoulder instinctively, her fingers finding the bandage there. Her breathing quickened, and Harry could see the beginnings of panic creeping into her expression. "How did I—what happened? The snatchers, they were—"
"They're dead," Harry interrupted. "All of them. You're safe here."
"Safe." Daphne repeated the word like it was foreign to her. Her eyes swept the room again, taking in the elegant furnishings, the warm sunlight, and the three people watching her. "Where's here? This isn't—this isn't St. Mungo's."
"No," Hermione said gently. "It's not. You're at a private residence. Harry brought you here after he found you in that clearing. You were dying, and there wasn't time to take you anywhere else."
Daphne's jaw tightened. She pushed herself up properly this time, ignoring the obvious discomfort the movement caused. Her back found the headboard, and she leaned against it. "How long have I been unconscious?"
"Two days," Celeste supplied. "You needed that time. Your injuries were quite something."
"Two days." The words came out flat. Daphne's hands clenched in the sheets, her knuckles going white. "Two bloody days wasted while they're still out there—"
"You would've been dead if you'd stayed out there another five minutes," Harry cut in. "So I wouldn't call it wasted."
Daphne's eyes snapped to his face, and for the first time, Harry got a proper look at her. Without the blood and dirt, and without the pallor of near-death, she was striking. Sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, porcelain skin, and eyes the color of ice that were currently staring at him intensely.
"Potter," she said finally. "You're supposed to be dead. Or at least that's what I've heard around. That you're gone. Ran away or died somewhere."
"So are you, apparently." Harry moved closer. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got tortured and stabbed and bled out in a forest." Daphne said dryly. "But better than I should be, considering. Much better." She looked at Celeste. "You healed me?"
"I did." Celeste inclined her head slightly. "You're welcome."
"Thank you." She said, a bit awkwardly. Her gaze moved back to Harry. "And thank you. For..." She trailed off, her throat bobbing. "For what you did. In the clearing. To those men."
"You were hunting them too," Harry replied with a small smile. "Those cutting curses you threw? They were good. Really good."
Her expression shifted to one of satisfaction, maybe, or vindication. "Not good enough, obviously. One of them got me with the Cruciatus before I could finish the job."
"You took out two of them before that happened," Harry pointed out. "That's impressive, especially given the state you were already in."
Daphne sighed, turning to Hermione. "Granger. You're here too. Not surprising."
"Yes, I imagined it wouldn't be," Hermione said neutrally.
"Not seeing Weasley is a surprise though."
They couldn't hide their frowns at that, and Daphne sighed.
"War, huh? Brings out surprising sides in people," she said with a rueful smile. "Like you out there, hunting snatchers with spells many would consider dark magic. Didn't expect that from you, Potter."
"Things change," Harry said simply. "War has a way of doing that."
Daphne stared at him for a long moment, and her eyes softened. "Yeah," she said softly. "I guess it does."
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Daphne's fingers kept moving to her shoulder, tracing the edge of the bandage like she couldn't quite believe the wound beneath had healed. She seemed to be thinking deeply. About what? They didn't know.
"You should drink something," Celeste said, breaking the silence. With a wave of her hand, a glass of water appeared on the bedside table. "You've been unconscious for two days. Your body needs fluids."
Daphne reached for the glass, and Harry noticed the slight tremor in her hand. She drank deeply, draining the entire glass, asking for more, draining another three, before finally setting it down.
Her voice was steadier when she spoke again. "You want to know what I was doing out there. Why I was hunting them."
"Only if you want to tell us," Harry said. "But yeah, I'm curious."
"We're all curious," Hermione added. "But we're not going to force you to explain yourself. You don't owe us anything."
"Don't I?" Daphne gazed at her sharply, a bitter chuckle escaping her. "Potter saved my life, and the lady here healed me. Pretty sure that creates some kind of obligation."
"Saving someone's life isn't a transaction," Harry said firmly. "I didn't do it expecting anything in return."
Daphne looked at him like he'd said something incredibly naive. "That's very Gryffindor of you."
"Maybe." Harry shrugged. "But it's also the truth."
Another silence settled over them, longer this time. Daphne's jaw worked, and Harry could see her warring with herself. Part of her wanted to shut down, to keep whatever secrets she was holding close. But another part, the part that had watched him kill three men to save her, seemed to be winning.
"Alright," she said finally. "You want the story? Fine. You've earned it."
She drank some more water and set the glass down with care, her fingers lingering on the rim for a moment before she pulled them back into her lap. When she looked up, her eyes were hard.
"Three weeks ago, they came to my family home. Middle of the night. We had wards, of course—good ones, expensive ones—but they didn't matter. Whoever was leading the attack, they knew how to break through them like they were made of tissue paper."
Her voice was steady and controlled, but Harry could hear the tension beneath it. Her eyes grew distant, as if she was reliving the memory.
The sound of shattering glass jerked Daphne awake.
For a moment, she lay frozen in her bed, her heart hammering, trying to convince herself it had been part of a dream. Then she heard it—her mother's scream, high-pitched and cut short instantly.
She was moving before conscious thought kicked in, throwing off her covers and reaching for her wand on the nightstand.
The hallway outside her room was chaos. Green light flashed from downstairs, accompanied by impacts, crashes, and maniacal laughter. The portraits on the walls were screaming, their painted figures fleeing from frame to frame in terror.
"I heard the fighting," Daphne continued. "My parents, trying to defend the house. My sister Astoria—she was only fourteen—crying in her room. I ran downstairs because I was a bloody idiot who thought I could help."
The entrance hall was a nightmare.
Her father stood at the base of the grand staircase, his wand moving desperately as he tried to hold back three attackers at once. Blood ran from a cut above his eye, and his dress robes were torn and smoking in places. Behind him, Daphne's mother was crouched over something—someone—and it took Daphne a moment to realize it was Astoria, her little sister, pale and unconscious.
"Run!" her father bellowed when he caught sight of her on the stairs. "Daphne, run! Get out of—"
The killing curse hit him square in the chest.
He didn't even have time to look surprised. His eyes went wide, his mouth opened in an "O" of shock, and then he was falling, tumbling backward to land in a heap at her mother's feet.
Daphne's voice was emotionless, like she was reciting facts from a textbook rather than describing the worst night of her life. "My father died first. He was a good duelist—trained at the Ministry, top of his year—but there were too many of them. The curse came from the left while he was defending against attacks from the right. He never saw it coming."
Hermione's hand had moved to her mouth. Harry remained still, his expression carefully neutral, but his fists had clenched at his sides.
"My mother tried to shield Astoria. Threw herself over my sister's body, like that would somehow protect her from those bastards." Daphne's laugh was hollow. "It didn't, obviously. They just hit them both at once. Two curses, two bodies. Done in a second."
Daphne's scream tore from her throat before she could stop it.
She raised her wand, magic surging through her in a wave of pure rage and grief, and fired every curse she knew at the attackers. Anything and everything her panicked mind could summon.
One of them went down—a thick-set man who'd been standing too close to the others. Her cutting curse took him in the throat, and he collapsed with a wet gurgle. But there were others. So many others.
Then she saw her.
A woman stepped through the shattered remains of the front door, and Daphne's blood turned to ice.
Bellatrix Lestrange.
There was no mistaking that face, that wild tangle of dark hair and that insane grin that split her features like a wound. She looked around the entrance hall—at the bodies, the destruction, the blood—and laughed with genuine delight.
"Oh, this is lovely!" Bellatrix's voice was high-pitched and giddy. "Just lovely! Like a little art installation. Death and Despair, I'll call it. Very avant-garde."
"Bellatrix Lestrange," Daphne growled, and the name came out like a curse. "She was the one leading them. I don't know how many were with her—six, maybe seven. But she was in charge, and the others... they followed her orders like trained dogs."
Harry's expression had gone very still. "Bellatrix."
"You know her, obviously." Daphne's eyes flicked to the scar on his forehead. "Everyone knows about her connection to the Dark Lord. What most people don't know is that she's a bloody sadist who gets off on torturing people. I found that out firsthand."
"Well, well, well." Bellatrix's eyes landed on Daphne, and her grin widened. "What have we here? A little lioness trying to protect her den? How adorable. How utterly, pathetically adorable."
She raised her wand almost lazily.
"Crucio."
The pain was indescribable.
Every nerve in Daphne's body ignited at once. It felt like her bones were splintering, her muscles tearing themselves apart, and her blood boiling in her veins. She was screaming—she knew she was screaming—but she couldn't hear it over the roaring in her ears.
When the curse lifted, she was on the floor. She didn't remember falling. Her wand had rolled away, out of reach, and when she tried to crawl toward it, her limbs wouldn't cooperate properly.
"Oh, she's a fighter," Bellatrix cooed, crouching down beside her. "I like fighters. They're so much more fun to break."
"She tortured me," Daphne said emotionlessly. "For hours. I don't know how long exactly—time stops meaning anything after the first twenty Cruciatus curses. But it was a long time. Long enough for me to understand exactly what real pain feels like. Long enough for me to beg her to stop, to offer her anything, everything, if she'd just make it end."
She paused, swallowing hard. "Long enough to realize she wasn't going to stop. That this was entertainment for her. That my suffering was the point, not a means to an end."
"Tell me," Bellatrix said, her face inches from Daphne's. Her breath smelled like rot and copper. "What did your family do to piss off the Dark Lord? What terrible crime did you commit to warrant my personal attention?"
Daphne tried to answer, tried to say anything, but her throat was too raw from screaming. She could only shake her head, tears and sweat and blood mixing on her face.
"No idea?" Bellatrix's expression was mockingly sympathetic. "Oh, that's the worst, isn't it? Dying without even knowing why. Seems so unfair."
She stood up, looking around the ruined entrance hall with satisfaction. "You know what? I think I'll let you watch. Yes. That's much better than just killing you outright. You can watch while we finish the job properly."
She turned to the others. "Bind her. Make sure she's got a good view. And then burn it. Burn the whole bloody thing to the ground."
"They tied me to what was left of the grand staircase's railing," Daphne said quietly. "Made me watch while they systematically destroyed everything. Set fire to the library first—hundreds of years of family history, rare books, irreplaceable records. Then the rest of the house. Room by room, floor by floor. They were thorough."
The flames spread with impossible speed, climbing walls and consuming furniture hungrily. Smoke filled the air, and Daphne coughed, her lungs burning, but she couldn't look away.
Bellatrix stood in the center of the chaos, her arms spread wide like a conductor before an orchestra, her face illuminated by the orange glow. She was laughing again, that high-pitched, unhinged sound.
"Beautiful!" she crowed. "Absolutely beautiful! This is art, you know. Real art. The kind that requires vision and commitment and a willingness to watch the world burn."
She looked back at Daphne, her eyes glittering with malicious glee. "Remember this, little girl. Remember it well. This is what happens to people who displease the Dark Lord. This is the price of failure. And you… you're a fighter, aren't you? Well, I'll give you a gift. I hope you like it."
And then they were gone.
They disapparated in a series of sharp cracks, leaving Daphne alone with the fire and the bodies and the ashes of everything she'd ever known.
"I don't know how long I was there," Daphne said. "The ropes they'd used were cursed. I couldn't break them no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't even loosen them. The fire kept spreading, kept getting closer. I thought I was going to burn to death, tied to that railing like some kind of medieval witch. Maybe that's what that woman meant by gift. The gift of experiencing what a witch hunt must've felt like."
She reached for the water glass again. Her hands were steadier now, her voice still controlled, but Harry could see the tension around her eyes.
"But the bindings must have had some kind of timer on them. Or maybe the curse just wore off. Either way, they released maybe ten minutes before the flames would have reached me. I ran. Didn't even think about it, just ran straight out of the burning house and kept running until I couldn't anymore."
"Your family," Hermione said softly. "Did anyone else survive?"
Daphne's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. "No. My father, my mother, my sister. All dead. The house is gone. Everything is gone. The Greengrass family line ends with me."
A painful silence settled over the room.
"I'm sorry," Harry said softly. "I'm so sorry, Daphne."
She looked at him, and for a moment, her carefully maintained control wavered. Their eyes locked, and she saw the understanding and compassion in his emerald orbs.
Her jaw trembled, and her eyes glistened with tears she refused to let fall. But then she shook her head, the moment between them passing, and the walls slammed back into place.
"Don't be sorry," she said roughly. "Be useful. Tell me you know where Bellatrix Lestrange is. Tell me you've got information, contacts, anything that can help me find her."
"Is that why you were hunting snatchers?" Hermione asked. "Looking for information about her?"
"Some of them were there that night. Not all of them. I'd need a pensieve to be completely sure about faces, but I recognized voices. Laughter." Daphne's hands clenched into fists. "I've killed four so far. The ones I was sure about. Each time, I made them tell me everything they knew about Bellatrix's whereabouts, her plans, who else was with her that night."
"And?" Harry prompted.
"And I've got a list." Daphne growled with a predatory smile. "Seven names. Seven people who were definitely there, who definitely participated in murdering my family. Four are dead. Three are still breathing. Once I deal with them, I go after Bellatrix herself."
"That's suicide," Harry said bluntly. "Bellatrix Lestrange is one of the most dangerous witches alive. She's a master duelist, she's completely insane which makes her unpredictable, and she's the highest ranking Death Eater. You can't just—"
"Don't tell me what I can't do." Daphne's voice went cold. "You don't know me, Potter. You don't know what I'm capable of."
"I know you almost died three days ago taking on a group of third-rate snatchers," Harry shot back. "I know that despite everything you've been through, despite your skill, you made mistakes. Got too close, let them spot you, let one of them hit you with Cruciatus. And if I hadn't been there, you'd be dead or worse."
Daphne's eyes flashed. "If you'd been there earlier, maybe I wouldn't have needed saving at all."
"That's not fair, and you know it."
"Fair?" Daphne laughed bitterly. "Nothing about this is fair. My family didn't do anything to deserve what happened to them. My fourteen-year-old sister didn't deserve to die screaming while that psychotic bitch laughed about it. So don't talk to me about fair, Potter."
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Hermione cut in. "Greengrass. We're not trying to minimize what happened to you. What you've been through is horrific. But Harry's right. Going after Bellatrix in your current state, driven by rage and grief, that's not revenge. That's just getting yourself killed."
"Maybe I don't care," Daphne said quietly. "Maybe I'd rather die trying than live with the knowledge that the people who murdered my family are still out there, still breathing, still enjoying their lives while mine is destroyed."
"That's grief talking," Harry said. "I know. I've been there. I've felt exactly what you're feeling right now. The rage, the need for revenge, the belief that nothing matters except making them pay. But acting on those feelings without thinking, without planning? That gets you killed. And then they win. Because not only did they take your family, they took you too."
Daphne stared at him, and Harry could see the war playing out behind her eyes. The part of her that knew he was right fighting against the part that didn't care, that just wanted blood and fire and revenge.
Finally, she looked away. "What would you have me do, then? Sit here in your comfortable room and heal while they're still out there? While Bellatrix is probably torturing some other family, burning some other house to the ground? Every day I wait is another day she could—"
"I get it," Harry interrupted. "Trust me, I understand the urgency. But running off half-cocked and getting yourself killed doesn't help anyone. It doesn't stop Bellatrix. It doesn't save the people she might hurt next. It just makes you another corpse and proves she was right to dismiss you as irrelevant."
"So what, then?" Daphne's voice rose. "I should just wait? Plan? Strategize? While people are dying?"
"You should think," Harry said firmly. "Use your brain instead of your impulses. Be smart about this instead of rushing in like an idiot."
Daphne's eyes narrowed. "That's rich, coming from you. How many times have you charged into situations without thinking? How many times have you relied on luck and Gryffindor bravado instead of actual planning? Everyone knows the stories, Potter. You're not exactly the poster child for careful consideration."
"Maybe not," Harry admitted. "But I've learned. And right now, you're the one acting like an idiotic Gryffindor while I'm talking about pragmatism. Which means, ironically, I'm more Slytherin than you are at the moment."
Daphne opened her mouth, then closed it. A flush crept up her neck, whether from anger or embarrassment Harry couldn't tell. "You're insufferable."
"And you're reckless."
"I'm a survivor."
"You're a survivor who nearly became a victim," Harry countered. "There's a difference."
The tension between them was palpable. Daphne glared at Harry who met her gaze evenly. Neither seemed interested in backing down.
Hermione looked between them with growing concern.
However, Celeste laughed.
All three of them turned to look at her. She was leaning against the wall near the window, her arms crossed under her breasts and a smile playing at her lips.
"Oh, this is delicious," she purred. "All this passion, this fire. The way you two are circling each other." Her smile widened. "Tell me, Daphne. Have you ever been fucked before?"
Daphne's mouth fell open. Her eyes went wide, wider than they'd been at any point during her entire story, wider even than when she'd woken up to find herself in a strange room with Harry Potter standing over her. She gaped at Celeste like the woman had just spoken in gobbledygook.
"I—what—excuse me?" The words came out as a strangled squeak.
Harry dropped his face into his hands. "Celeste. For fuck's sake."
"What?" Celeste's expression was pure innocence. "It's a legitimate question."
"No," Hermione hissed. "It's really, really not. What are you doing?"
Celeste shrugged, the movement drawing attention to curves, and by now, both Harry and Hermione knew her well enough to realize it was intentional. "I'm simply observing that our young friend here looks incredibly pent up. All that tension, all that rage with nowhere to go. It's not healthy. Sometimes what a person needs after trauma isn't revenge or planning or strategy. Sometimes they just need to let loose a bit."
Daphne was still staring, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. No sounds were coming out. Her face had gone from pale to flushed in record time, and she looked like she couldn't decide whether to be mortified, furious, or possibly both at once.
"Celeste," Harry groaned, his voice muffled by his hands. "Please stop talking."
"I'm being helpful," Celeste protested. "Look at her, Master. She's wound tighter than a bowstring. That's not helpful to clear thinking or effective planning. A bit of physical release might do wonders for her mental state. Studies show that—"
"Studies show nothing of the sort in this context, and you know it," Hermione snapped. "Apologize to her right now."
Celeste's smile turned wicked. "Why would I apologize for offering perfectly sound advice?" She turned her attention fully to Daphne, who had finally managed to close her mouth. "I'm serious, darling. You've been through hell. You're angry, grieving, traumatized, and clearly haven't had a proper moment to yourself in weeks. Maybe what you need isn't to immediately run off chasing revenge. Maybe you need to breathe. To feel something other than rage and pain. To remember that you're alive and that life can involve pleasure as well as suffering."
"I..." Daphne's voice cracked. She cleared her throat, and tried again. "I don't... this isn't..."
"She's trying to influence you," Harry said flatly, still not uncovering his face. "In case that wasn't clear. She does this. Often. I apologize on her behalf."
"I'm not influencing her, Master," Celeste corrected. "I'm just giving her a suggestion. That's not to say I would say no if she was interested. But I'm suggesting that maybe after everything she's been through, after all the pain and loss and horror, she deserves to experience something good. Something that reminds her she's more than just a vessel for revenge. And if that something good happens to involve pleasure, preferably naked pleasure, well, so much the better."
Daphne had finally found her voice again. "You're insane."
"I'm pragmatic," Celeste smiled. "And I'm right. You can feel it, can't you? All that tension in your shoulders, the knots in your stomach, the way your magic is practically vibrating beneath your skin because you've got nowhere to channel it. That's not just grief, sweetheart. That's your body screaming for release. For something, anything, that isn't pain and rage and death."
"This is the worst possible time for this conversation," Hermione muttered. "Daphne just woke up. She's told us about her family being murdered. This is possibly the least appropriate moment in history for—"
"On the contrary," Celeste interrupted smoothly. "This is exactly the right time. She's at a crossroads. She can either continue down the path she's been on—the one that nearly got her killed, the one that's fueled by trauma and rage and a death wish she won't admit to having—or she can take a moment. Pause. Let herself feel something other than pain. And then, once she's remembered what it means to be alive, to be human, to have wants and needs beyond revenge, we can help her plan properly. Help her get what she wants without throwing her life away in the process."
Daphne was shaking her head slowly. "This is the most bizarre conversation I've ever had. And I've had conversations with ghosts and portraits and once with a particularly philosophical garden gnome."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Celeste said brightly. "So what do you say? Interested in letting yourself feel good for once? I promise my Master is very skilled. I can vouch for that. So can Hermione."
"Oh my god," Hermione breathed. "I'm going to die of embarrassment. This is how I die. Not in battle, not fighting Death Eaters, but from sheer mortification in a guest room."
Harry finally uncovered his face. "Celeste. Stand down. That's an order."
Celeste pouted. "You're no fun, Master."
"I'm lots of fun. I'm just not going to let you harass someone who woke up from a near-death experience less than ten minutes ago." He turned to Daphne, who looked like she was caught between horror and hysterical laughter. "I'm sorry. She's... she's like this. All the time. We've mostly learned to live with it."
"Speak for yourself," Hermione muttered. "I'll never get used to it."
Daphne stared at all three of them for a long moment. Then, to everyone's surprise, she started laughing. She laughed until tears streamed down her face, until she had to clutch her ribs, until the tension that had been coiled in her frame for the entire conversation finally released.
"Merlin's saggy left ball sack," she gasped when she could finally speak again. "You people are absolutely mental. All of you. Completely, certifiably insane."
"We prefer 'eccentric,'" Harry offered, and despite himself, he was smiling.
"No, you don't get to use euphemisms." Daphne wiped her eyes, still grinning. "That was..." She gestured vaguely at Celeste. "That was the most inappropriate, tactless, absurd thing anyone's ever said to me. And my family used to host parties with Lucius Malfoy, so that's saying something."
"So is that a yes or a no?" Celeste asked hopefully.
"You're insane if you think I'm going to answer that question, you absolutely mad woman," Daphne said. She looked at Harry, her face flushing a bit as she recalled what Celeste had just proposed. "But she's not entirely wrong about one thing. I am pent up. And you're right. I do need to think clearly if I'm going to do this right. If I'm going to make sure Bellatrix pays for what she did without getting myself killed in the process."
"Finally came to your senses, eh?" Harry smiled.
"No need to look so smug about it," Daphne retorted. "Thank you, Potter. For… everything."
"Don't mention it," Harry smiled.
"So does that mean you're going to stay?" Hermione asked. "Until you're fully healed and we've worked out a proper plan?"
Daphne hesitated, weighing her options. Her eyes darted around the room, lingering on them. At last, she nodded slowly. "I'll stay. For now. But I'm not making any promises beyond that. And if I get a solid lead on Bellatrix's location, all bets are off."
"Fair enough," Harry said. "We'll take what we can get."
Celeste smiled in satisfaction. "Excellent. Your stay here is going to be very interesting. I guarantee it."
"Please stop talking," all three of them said in unison as Celeste laughed.
Head over to patreon.com/KyleVirex to read more of my works. The username is KyleVirex on all other sites where I post, so you can find me anywhere else using the same.
Follow my twitter: KyleVirex to keep up with the updates and more.
Thanks for reading!