Night had settled over Gotham, bringing with it a rare moment of peace.
Rain pattered gently against the windows of the Bristol mansion, providing a soothing counterpoint to the crackling fire in the hearth.
Samael reclined in a leather armchair, a first-edition copy of Dante's Inferno open in his hands.
The fireplace cast dancing shadows across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face.
He turned a page, a faint smile playing on his lips as he read.
The warmth from the flames was pleasant against his perpetually cool skin - a side effect of his grace, which burned cold at his core.
The heat didn't bother him, nor did the cold; neither could truly harm him.
But the sensation of warmth spreading through his human form was... comforting. A simple pleasure he had been denied for nineteen years.
Across the room, Cassandra stood in silent vigilance.
As always, her posture was perfect, her gaze constantly sweeping their surroundings, her body poised to react to the slightest threat.
She had changed into more casual attire for the evening - dark jeans and a fitted black top - but remained every inch the guardian.
Samael glanced up from his book, studying her. Something had shifted between them since their conversation in the garden days ago.
A tension had developed, a distance that hadn't been there before.
She was avoiding his gaze more often, maintaining a professional distance that, while appropriate for a bodyguard, felt like a step backward in their relationship.
"You know," he said, breaking the comfortable silence, "Dante got it all wrong. Hell isn't nine concentric circles. It's much more... fluid than that. More personal."
Cassandra's eyes flickered toward him briefly before resuming their patrol of the room.
"Not much for theological discussions tonight?" Samael asked, his tone lightly mocking. "Or is Dante's cosmology simply not tactical enough for your tastes?"
'Reading,' she signed, her movements clipped. 'Should focus.'
"I've read this particular volume seventeen times in my boredom," Samael replied, closing the book with one hand. "I believe I've extracted all the relevant insights. Besides, your stoic silence is far more intriguing at the moment."
She didn't respond, though her posture stiffened slightly.
"You know, in some cultures, silence is considered the highest form of wisdom," he continued, setting the book aside on a small table. "In others, it's seen as a sign of deep-seated emotional turmoil. Which category do you fall into, I wonder?"
'Professional,' she signed, her movements sharp and precise.
"Ah, yes. Professionalism. The last refuge of those avoiding difficult conversations." Samael rose from his chair, his movements fluid and graceful. "We should probably discuss what happened in the garden."
Cassandra's eyes narrowed slightly. 'Nothing to discuss.'
"I disagree," Samael said, moving toward her with measured steps. "You've been maintaining your distance since then. Physically. Emotionally. It's quite noticeable."
'Job requires focus,' she signed, taking a small step back as he approached.
"Your job requires you to protect me," Samael corrected, continuing his advance. "Not to retreat from me. Not to build walls between us."
'Not building walls,' she insisted, though she took another step back.
"Aren't you?" Samael's voice was soft but carried an undercurrent of steel. "I gave you a choice, Cassandra. To remain purely professional, or to choose something more. You've been avoiding making that choice."
Her back hit the wall, her escape routes cut off as Samael closed the distance between them.
He placed his hands against the wall on either side of her head, effectively caging her in without actually touching her.
The position was intimate, confrontational, yet he maintained a sliver of space between them - a choice still left to be made.
"I'm tired of waiting," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Patience isn't my strongest virtue, as you may have noticed from how easily I grow bored."
Cassandra remained perfectly still, her breathing controlled, her eyes locked with his.
There was no fear in her gaze - she knew, on some fundamental level, that he would never harm her - which is true. Whatever else he might be, whatever secrets he kept, she trusted that much.
Time seemed to slow as they regarded each other.
The crackling of the fire, the pattering of rain, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner - all faded into insignificance as the world narrowed to just the two of them, suspended in this moment of choice.
Samael leaned in, drawn by something he couldn't quite name.
It wasn't just her beauty, though she possessed that in abundance. It wasn't just her skill, her loyalty, her unwavering dedication.
It was something deeper, something that resonated with him. A recognition, perhaps, of a kindred spirit - someone who, like him, had been shaped by forces beyond their control.
Their faces were inches apart now, their breath mingling in the narrow space between them. Samael's eyes, normally pure black, seemed to shimmer with an inner light as he gazed at her.
Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in further, his intention clear.
At the last moment, Cassandra turned her head to the side, avoiding his lips.
"If you want me to choose you," she said softly, her actual voice startling in the quiet room, "I deserve to know who I'm choosing."
Samael froze, surprised both by her words and by the fact that she had spoken them aloud - a rarity that underscored their importance to her.
"I've stayed silent," she continued, her voice rough from disuse but steady. "I haven't questioned your secrets.
But if I'm to choose you - if I'm to bare my heart - I deserve the same courtesy. To the extent you can tell me. To the extent it is my right to know."
The request hung in the air between them. Samael studied her face, noting the determination in her eyes, the set of her jaw.
This wasn't a demand born of curiosity or suspicion. It was a need for truth, for reciprocity, for the foundation upon which any real relationship must be built.
Before he could respond, the atmosphere in the room changed.
The gentle rain outside suddenly intensified, turning to hail that pelted against the windows with unnatural force.
The wind picked up, howling around the corners of the mansion like a living thing. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room in stark, electric blue.
The fire in the hearth, which had been burning steadily, suddenly guttered and died, plunging the room into near-darkness.
The temperature dropped precipitously, their breath fogging in the suddenly frigid air.
In the center of the room, a swirling vortex of emerald energy began to coalesce. It expanded rapidly, forming a humanoid shape cloaked in green.
As the energy stabilized, a figure emerged - tall, imposing, wrapped in a flowing cloak that seemed to be composed of shadows and regret.
A pale, stern face gazed out from beneath a hood, eyes glowing with righteous fury.
The Spectre had arrived.
Samael turned away his gaze from Cassandra. His posture remained the same, relaxed, almost casual, but there was nothing casual about the sudden change in his eyes.
Where moments before they had been filled with a gentle warmth, now they burned with the red flames of Hell itself.
Samael did not appreciate being interrupted.
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(Author's note: Hello everyone! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter!
I know, a far shorter one than normal, but I wanted a chapter focused on this scene.
So, the Spectre is here, and Sam isn't really big on being interrupted in this moment when he wants Cassandra to choose him.
Also, just to reiterate, Samael will never tell anyone about his reincarnation.
Cassandra herself understands that some secrets are the person's own (she of course doesn't know of his reincarnation), which is why she requested to the extent that is her right to know i.e. what he is.
Well, I hope you all are excited for the confrontation between the Spectre and Samael, do tell me how you think it will go.
See you all later,
Bye!)