We weren't always good at the routine.
Flashback: it was an old gas station stage back in '68 — all heat lamps and crooked floorboards. I had my pink bouffant wig piled high — teased, pinned, and lacquered into something that would've made Diana Ross proud. Kaito wore loose red silks that shimmered with every step, his hair slicked back like he'd stepped out of a dream or a David Bowie fever vision. We'd been arguing for an hour about the drop-spin catch — the part where I fall backwards and he's supposed to catch me by the waist before I hit the ground.
"You dropped me last time," I hissed, exhaling a slow stream of fairy dust smoke from between my teeth. The glittery tendrils curled in the low stage lights, softening the edge of my glare even as I narrowed my eyes at him.
"No, I guided you into the stage," he fired back, rolling his eyes.
"Guided me?! My elbow still clicks when I stretch." I threw my arms up with a dramatic flourish, flapping them like a marionette in distress. "I'm telling you, Kaito, it sounded like a xylophone solo every time I rolled over for a week!""
"That wasn't me — that was physics." Katio holds his hands up in his defense.
Back in the present, I yelled again — this time with a lot more reason.
"You lied to me!"
Owls swarmed above us, razor-feathered shadows diving and shrieking like the sky had cracked open. He ducked under a swing and caught the next hit mid-air with his forearm, jaw tense, his feet already turning the dodge into a spin. Years of dance rehearsals had wired this into him — the timing, the footwork, the flow. I was suddenly struck with the realization: he hadn't just trained me to perform. He'd trained me to fight. And the choreography? That was always a map for surviving monsters in pretty lighting.
"I didn't lie."
Before I could spit another accusation, Kaito caught my hand and spun me like we were back under stage lights. One fluid motion. His foot hooked behind mine, and with a whispered phrase — something old and guttural, not meant for casual ears — he lifted me with both hands and launched me into a spin. A sharp pull, a pivot, and I was twirling through the air like a battle-hardened top. The axe glinted as I moved — slicing feathers and shadows as the owl swarm closed in. It was beautiful. Terrifying. And entirely choreographed.
I landed with a hard thud and wide eyes. The straw beneath me settled. The air didn't. The owls — or whatever those twisted things were — didn't come again right away. It was like they were regrouping, circling back into the rafters like a sentient breath pulling itself together.
"You're not human. Not just human. You're like... like a Sonter. You are a special bounty hunter."
His eyes flicked toward me, and for a moment, he looked almost sad. "No. I'm not a Sonter. Well, I am — but not in the way you think."
"Then what the hell are you?"
I started pacing in a tight little circle, my boots crunching straw beneath me as the owl cries faded into a tense hush. My chest was tight with adrenaline, rage, and a strange kind of heartbreak. I needed air. Answers. Something to punch.
Kaito watched me with that unreadable look — the one he always wore when he knew more than he could say. Calm and dangerous. Mysterious and irritating.
He reached into his coat and pulled out my smoke tin — the one I stuffed with fairy dust blends. No words. Just handed it over with that same old tenderness like we weren't standing in the middle of a nightmare.
I lit one, hands still shaking. Glitter curled in the air, catching the light like a spell trying to hold."
He backed off just far enough to speak clearly through the ringing of owl cries.
"Independent contractor. I don't work for The Guest, or the sisters or any of them. I work alone. That's why I didn't tell you cause we don't usual get an good rep at times. When Sonters are working without some group"
That made me pause. Just long enough to see the next shape drop from the rafters.
It wasn't just another owl.
The body was heavier. Soggy, almost. It hit the dirt with a muffled thud and rolled like it had too many joints in the wrong places.
Then another.
A floral apron. A gingham dress. A wide hand, still twitching with the echo of translation.
It was the wife.
And next, slumped and crooked, was the husband. His hands still slightly curled from silent speech.
Whatever this was — it wasn't part of the show.
This was the second act. And the curtain had just fallen on the opening number.