Chapter Two-Hunter Thirty-Three: Butterfly's Wings

Chapter 233

Butterfly’s Wings

The living room was bathed in the warm, golden glow of a late-night talk show, the volume turned low enough that it served only as ambient background noise. A thick, hazy plume of smoke curled upward from the cigarette held loosely in Fabien’s hand, drifting toward the ceiling before dissipating into the shadows. Beside him, a half-empty bottle of beer sat sweating on the coaster, a small ring of condensation already forming on the wood.

Fabien sat in the corner of the sofa, his posture loose and relaxed, his bare feet propped on the coffee table. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, his eyes tracking the moving images on the screen with a glazed, mellow focus. He looked entirely at ease, the kind of stillness that only comes after a long, demanding day.

Celeste was pressed firmly against his side. She wore a black bustier, a leopard print skirt, and a spiked collar. She had one leg thrown over his lap, her head resting securely on his chest, right over his heart. She was idly tracing patterns on his forearm with her thumb, her movements slow and rhythmic.

Fabien: “So I told Jordi about how Jiro treated you and his stupid comment about what he wanted for dinner.”

Fabien let out a low, soft chuckle that vibrated through his chest, directly against her ear.

Celeste: “What did he say?”

She looked up at him. He flicked the ash into a small glass tray on the table, then shifted his arm to better accommodate her weight, his fingers coming to rest on her waist.

Fabien: “He doesn’t want Lena around him. Yeah, I did it to get back at him, but also because I want to mend the bridge with Jordi.”

He admitted. He took another sip of his beer, the glass clinking lightly against his teeth, before leaning his head back against the cushion. He looked down at her, his expression softening into a gaze that was entirely focused on her, completely ignoring the TV.

Fabien: “Are you upset I told him?”

He said, his voice dropping into that smooth, low register he saved just for her. Celeste shook his head.

Celeste: “No, I’m not. I don’t care. I am more upset with myself.”

Fabien gazed down at her.

Fabien: “Why, babe? What’s wrong?”

He asked her softly.

Celeste: “I dunno, Fab… Why didn’t I see this sooner? Why did I just shrug it off?”

Fabien brushed his knuckles on her cheek and ran his forefinger over her lips. Her violet eyes gazed into his green eyes.

Fabien: “Same reason I did when Craig did this bullshit to me. I thought I could improve him, and he would get better. Then I realized how miserable I was with him. All he did was sit around watching shitty shows in his underwear. He contributed jack fucking shit to the household and prohibited me from doing anything.”

He paused.

Fabien: “I was lonelier with him than without him.”

Celeste’s eyelids dipped.

Celeste: “...I hear you.”

She sighed, closing her eyes and breathing in the familiar scent of him—fresh citrus with a warm, masculine woody base. She felt him exhale a long, steady breath, his hand rubbing comforting circles against her side. He lowered himself to her, and the two shared a kiss.

~

Tristan’s bedroom was dim, lit only by the two moons filtering through the curtains and the intermittent, cherry-red ember of the cigarette pinched between his fingers. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, navy pants, and black sheer socks. He sat on the edge of the bed, the heavy silence of the château punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic sound of his own breathing and the distant sounds of frogs mating.

He exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it dance in the sliver of light before dissipating into the shadows. His mind was a turbulent sea of thoughts, all centered on Deimos. He thought about what drove him to Deimos’ arms—or rather, his foot in Deimos’ mouth. He thought about whether he had developed feelings for Lena or if this was about his ego. It has to be that, he wondered.

Tristan rose and looked at his own reflection in the vanity mirror. He looked composed, as always—white hair neatly framing his face, his posture disciplined even in solitude. Yet, inside, he felt unmoored. Having Deimos fall all over him, telling him he’s flawless, set something off in Tristan. He craved for Deimos to worship him, but on the other hand, he loved being dominated and put in his place. Tristan’s mind was a chaotic mess of confusion, not unlike Deimos’ bedroom.

Being away from him felt like a famine, he thought.

Tristan turned. Deimos was already there. He stood in the doorframe, his silhouette broad and imposing, blocking the hallway’s soft glow. There was a restlessness in his stance, a tension in his broad shoulders that hadn’t quite uncoiled.

Tristan didn’t move. He held his breath, his mind momentarily silenced by the sheer, undeniable reality of the man standing before him. Deimos didn’t say anything at first; he just leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, his eyes scanning Tristan’s face with that familiar, intense hunger—looking for an opening, looking for a sign.

Tristan: “Deimos?”

He murmured, his tone softening.

Deimos: “I didn’t know if you were awake.”

He mumbled.

Tristan: “You know I have insomnia.”

He folded his arms over and drew a long breath.

Tristan: “Come inside.”

He said quietly, pulling the door closed behind them.

Deimos didn’t need to be told twice. He stepped fully into the room, the scent of Tristan filling the space around them. As the door clicked shut, the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the pressurized, electric intimacy of the bedroom.

Deimos reached out, his hand—rough, calloused, and firm—finding Tristan’s soft hand.

Deimos: “I missed this.”

Tristan said nothing. He wanted to tell him he missed it, too, but he didn’t want to let his guard down.

Tristan: “I know.”

He finally said.

Deimos: “Tristan, I—”

He began.

Deimos: “I’m sorry for everything. I love you so much, and I am sorry I let my insecurities and Jaxon’s bullshit ruin what we had. If you don’t believe me, go on Fabien’s server to see what he posted.”

He blurted. Tristan gaped at Deimos and blinked. He recalled Jordi sending him a message on Bungle, asking for confirmation of what Fabien said. Tristan laughed softly.

Tristan: “You are forgiven.”

He said genuinely. Deimos felt a wave of relief build up inside of him and a tightness in his jeans that burned hot.

Deimos kissed him then—not with the tentative grace Tristan usually preferred, but with the raw, bruising honesty that defined Deimos. It was a kiss that tasted of apologies, of late-night realization, and of a hunger that went deeper than words. Tristan’s hands traveled over the solid, heated muscles of Deimos’ back, tracing the familiar lines of his tattoo, feeling the steady, thumping rhythm of his man’s heart beneath the thin cotton of his tank top.

The tension that had kept Tristan rigid for hours finally shattered. He wrapped his arms around Deimos’ neck, anchoring himself to the only person who could make him forget he was a flawed human being.

They sank together onto the bed, the mattress shifting under their combined weight. As they settled into the tangled comfort of one another, the silence of the room was no longer cold or heavy; it was a sanctuary. The arguments, the pride, and the distance had been incinerated, leaving behind only the simple, undeniable gravity of their connection.

~

The air in the chamber was thick with the dust of centuries and the copper tang of old blood. Once, this had been a place of laughter, a vibrant, multi-level “Dream Puppies” nursery designed for a world that had forgotten how to smile. Now, it was a museum of madness.

Peeling walls of sickly lavender and magenta rose toward a checkerboard ceiling, where a hanging wooden biplane, its propeller long broken, suspended a single, eyeless dog-child mannequin above a shattered crib. A rotting staircase, guarded by a row of severed dog-puppy busts mounted like trophies on the railing, spiraled upward to a collapsed mezzanine. The floor was a carpet of debris: toppled toy chests, a forgotten globe, and fragmented blocks from a set that now only spelled “D-I-E.”

And in the center of the rot, dominating the room, sat the throne where Narcisse sat with Lena bound on his lap.

It was a monstrosity of weathered wood and tarnished metal, its plush velvet cushion now stained a bruised purple and coated in gray rot. Carved into its high back were leering, grotesque faces, their mouths stretched in frozen screams. At the apex, embedded in the wood, a large, cracked porcelain doll face with empty black sockets stared down with an unblinking, horrifying gaze. Smaller, similarly vacant doll heads were affixed along the arms and crown, like a jury of lost souls. Every line and detail of the room converged on the throne, which waited, patient and silent, in the heart of the decay.

Lena was stripped down to her bra and panties. The bra and panty set was baby-pink and lacy, adorned with a small ribbon at the front. On her neck, she wore a power-suppressing collar. Narcisse smiled down at her, his hand cupping her waist.

Narcisse: “My goodness, my dear, you are as beautiful as ever. Do you know how many times I masturbated to you?”

He grinned. Lena sobbed.

Lena: “Let me go…”

Narcisse: “Ever since you crushed on my naughty little nephew, I took to you… Watched you undress and pose in your mirror. It was a delight.”

He crooned.

He bit his bottom lip as his hand slid up to cup her breast. Lena sobbed and tried to writhe away.

Lena: “S-Stop!”

Narcisse: “Tell me, my Butterfly Princess: is that reserved for Jiro or my nephew, Tristan?”

He smirked. Lena broke down crying.

Lena: “What do you want with me?”

Narcisse smiled and pressed his lips to the top of her head.

Narcisse: “I want to see who can make my dreams come true… My God, you are so beautiful, my dear…”

He cupped her breasts and squeezed them. Dread filled Lena as this man touched where only the person she loved was allowed to touch. She sobbed and squirmed in his grasp. Suddenly, a bolt of electricity shocked her as she tried to use her powers to put him to sleep. She screamed and fell back.

Narcisse’s hand cradled the small of her back.

Narcisse: “Naughty, naughty little butterfly princess!”

He clicked his tongue and shook his forefinger.

His finger moved in small, rhythmic circles, just above the gold heart necklace. His fingertip trailed down her breasts and down to her tummy.

He increased the pressure slightly, still light, still precise. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. Lena’s breath hitched, and a small, involuntary gasp escaped her lips. Narcisse observed her reaction with clinical detachment.

Narcisse: “Ah. I see. A point of vulnerability.”

He began to move his finger more quickly, alternating between circles and light, rapid strokes, and dug his finger in her belly button.

Lena: “HeheheheehahHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

A high-pitched giggle bubbled up from Lena's throat, completely at odds with her fierce defiance. Her body twitched, her midsection arching as she tried to escape the sensation.

Lena: “STOHOHOHOHOP!”

She managed to sputter, the giggle growing into full-blown laughter.

Narcisse: “Now why would I do that, my Butterfly Princess?”

He said, his smile widening slightly, the only outward sign of enjoyment. He continued the relentless, rhythmic stimulation, his finger precise and unwavering.

Lena: “EEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

Lena was laughing hysterically now, tears leaking from her eyes. The laughter was physically draining, making it hard to breathe. Narcisse stopped. Just as suddenly as it had begun. He removed his hand and straightened his suit, the picture of composure once again.

Lena slumped back in his arms, her chest heaving, a flush coloring her cheeks. The sudden absence of the intense sensation left her lightheaded and weak.

He lifted her legs, his fingers finding the arch of her foot. He didn't hesitate. He began with a slow, feather-light stroke that traced the sensitive curve of her sole. The reaction was instantaneous; Lena’s legs gave a violent, uncontrollable jerk.

Lena: “AHHHHHHHHHHH!! HAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!”

Narcisse: “Such a fascinating response.”

He remarked, his smile sharpening just a fraction. He shifted his touch, his fingers dancing rapidly across her soles in a relentless, rhythmic pattern. He knew exactly how to find the most sensitive spots, moving from the arches to the heels with agonizing precision.

Lena: “AIYEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!”

Another sharp, high-pitched peal of laughter burst from Lena’s lips, shattering the quiet of the chamber.

She squirmed, her shoulders hunching and her head falling back as she tried to pull her feet away, but she was trapped. The sensation was electric, a frantic ticklish pressure that made her toes curl and her body twist in desperate, helpless agitation.

Lena: “PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE!! WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHEHEHEHEHEHAHAHA!!”

She gasped, her face flushing a deep, vibrant pink that nearly matched her hair clip. Every time she tried to catch her breath, he would change the tempo, his fingers digging in just enough to send another wave of hysterical laughter tearing through her.

He watched her with that same clinical, analytical intensity.

Narcisse: “This is so, so much fun! I am chipping away and clipping the Butterfly Princess’s wings!”

He pressed firmly into the center of her sole, his thumb kneading in small, cruel circles. Lena let out a strangled, breathless sound, her body trembling with the intensity of the laughter she couldn’t suppress. Tears of pure, involuntary mirth streamed down her face, and her earlier defiance had completely dissolved into a state of breathless, giggling surrender.

Lena: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!! STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!”

~

The tires of the Celica shrieked as Jaxon pulled a sharp, drifting turn into the gravel parking lot of The Grand Pavilion of Wonders. The engine ticked as it cooled, a metallic heartbeat contrasting with the unnatural silence of the massive, rotunda-style structure.

The building, a relic of a once beloved amusement park, loomed like a ghostly ribcage against the night sky. The abandoned fairground sat under a shroud of absolute darkness, a graveyard of childhood wonder reclaimed by silence and decay. The only light came from a sliver of the waning moons, casting long, skeletal shadows across the overgrown path that led toward the centerpiece of the rot.

There, the entrance to “The Grand Pavilion of Wonders” still stood—a colossal, flaking cat mask, its mouth a gaping, obsidian abyss that seemed to swallow the very air. Its oversized, predatory eyes were now hollowed out, staring blankly into the night, stripped of the vibrant paint that once masked their menace. A few stray, dying bulbs flickered along the archway, casting erratic, sickly yellow pools of light that danced on the dead weeds like dying embers.

To the side, the remains of a carousel lay in a mangled heap of rusted iron and splintered wood. The skeletal frame of a painted clown car, once a vessel for joy, sat half-submerged in the tall, brittle grass. Its face, frozen in a jagged, peeling grin of cracked yellow enamel, looked up at the night sky with empty, abyssal sockets. Here, the air felt heavy and cold, thick with the scent of damp earth and the suffocating realization that the laughter which once defined this place had long ago surrendered to the encroaching dark.

Jaxon shoved the driver’s side door open and vaulted out, his pulse thundering in his ears. The rollercoaster did not merely loom over the fairgrounds; it dominated the skyline like a monument to a forgotten mania. Its rusted, skeletal tracks snaked upward, punctuated by a string of lonely, flickering bulbs that looked like dying embers against the bruising purple of the twilight sky.

But the true terror was the sentinel at the apex. A monumental clown’s head, cast in peeling, weathered resin, towered over the entire structure. Its face was an intricate map of fine, dark cracks, webbed like aged porcelain, while a grotesque, painted grin stretched impossibly wide, revealing rows of jagged, imitation teeth.

Most unsettling were the eyes. They were not merely painted; they were set deep within the sockets, glowing with a soft, pulsing, unnatural luminescence that cut through the encroaching gloom. The clown stared downward with a frantic, unwavering gaze, its spiraled, pointed cap piercing the clouds like a jester’s horn. It seemed to survey the decaying park below not as a relic of joy, but as a predator waiting for the silence to be broken by a scream.

The confetti-strewn pavement was like a shattered kaleidoscope. Pale, sickly light bled from the rusted carousel booths, casting long, jittery shadows that crawled across the cracked asphalt. In the distance, the skeletal wheel stood frozen against the charcoal clouds, its dormant frame a silent monument to a joy that had long since rotted away, leaving only the biting chill of the dark.

Jaxon ventured further into the park’s ruins. He stopped in his tracks and turned his head when he heard a faint sound.

From a distance, he saw the structure rise from the edge of the dark water like a fever dream carved in stone and rusted iron—a fairy-tale castle warped by the slow, grinding passage of time. Under the vast, star-pricked expanse of a midnight sky, it stood in defiant, unsettling animation.

The bridge, slick with leaves, stretched forward like a tongue leading toward the yawning mouth of the main archway. The ground was painted in a deep, bruised crimson, reflecting the erratic, pulsing glow of string lights that clung to the facade. Those lights—some shattered, some stubbornly bright—cast long, frantic shadows that danced against the turquoise plaster, which was mapped with the spiderwebs of aggressive, choking vines.

The castle’s turrets, crowned in chipped, peeling red, loomed into the gloom, their silhouette jagged against the celestial void. He ran toward it.

Jaxon’s hand was inches from the rusted, wrought-iron gate. Filtering out from the yawning, golden-lit archway, carried on the damp night breeze, came a sequence of high, melodic trills. It was Lena’s laugh. But it wasn't the easy, genuine laughter of their time spent together; this was high-pitched, frantic, and teetering on the edge of hysteria.

Lena: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!! PLEEHEEHEHEHEHEEASE!”

The words were breathless, punctuated by a wet, gasping sound that made Jaxon’s skin crawl. The laughter spiked again—a shrill, desperate thing—clearly provoked by something cruel.

Jaxon’s anger soared. He leaped over the wrought iron gate and rushed inside to where the laughter came from.

When he saw Lena stripped down to her bra and panties, and Narcisse was tickling her feet, his fury skyrocketed.

Jaxon: “LET HER GO!”

He thundered and charged after him. In seconds, a purple bubble swallowed him up. Jaxon’s face smushed against the surface of the bubble.

When Narcisse ceased tickling Lena, he gently placed her down as Lena panted rapidly, catching her breath. Narcisse rose and folded his arms behind his back. Jaxon bared his teeth and pounded against the bubble.

Jaxon: “WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH ME?!”

He bellowed.

Narcisse: “Welcome to my humble little alcove, Jiro.”

He spread his arms out, smiling. Jaxon sneered at him.

Jaxon: “Bullshit! What are you doing with her?!”

Narcisse cupped his mouth and grinned.

Narcisse: “The little butterfly needed her little wings clipped and she was nothing more than bait to lure you here.”

He chuckled.

Narcisse smiled tightly.

Narcisse: “Without further ado…”

He snapped his fingers.

Narcisse: “I present to you Piledriver Prankster, the most formidable clown-themed wrestler! This gargantuan gladiator is a terrifying fusion of high-flying circus chaos and brutal mat grappling!”

A clown wearing a vibrant, mismatched wrestling suit adorned with chaotic, sparkling clown patterns, spiked elbow and knee pads, huge, spiky, bright red hair, and a grotesque, theatrical clown face that is both funny and unsettling landed in front of Jaxon, causing the ground to tremor. Jaxon looked up at him and the clown punched him so hard he flew across the room.

Lena: “JAXON!”

She cried. Jaxon staggered to rise, blood pouring out of his nose. A red glow surrounded him as he healed himself.

Narcisse sat, his legs crossed with effortless, cruel grace. Lena sat on his lap, her expression pure terror, her hands trembling as Narcisse’s arm held her firmly against him.

Jaxon was struggling. He had lunged for Narcisse, but he had been cut off by a mountain of neon-colored spandex and malice.

Piledriver Prankster stood over him, his towering frame casting a long, jagged shadow. The wrestler’s face was a masterpiece of grotesquerie—greasepaint smeared into a permanent, blood-red grin that stretched far too wide. He tilted his head, his spiky red hair twitching with electric static.

Piledriver Prankster: “Oh, look, Boss! The rock star wants an encore!”

He boomed, his voice a distorted, grating cackle.

Before Jaxon could find his footing, the clown lunged with impossible speed. With a grunt of effort that shook the floorboards, Piledriver Prankster snatched Jaxon up, his massive, gloved hands closing like vices. With a quick, practiced motion, he blew a colossal bubble from a hidden apparatus on his wrist.

Jaxon was shoved inside, the bubble’s membrane shimmering with an iridescent, oily sheen. As it floated upward, Jaxon slammed his fists against the surface, but the material was elastic and reinforced with pressurized force. Inside, he was already beginning to cough as a faint, sweet-smelling mist—the laughing gas—began to seep through the vents.

Lena: “Get him out of there!”

She cried. Narcisse merely tightened his grip on her waist, his eyes fixed on the spectacle.

Narcisse: “Patience, my butterfly princess. The crescendo is the best part.”

He whispered, his tone as smooth as polished marble.

Piledriver Prankster began to pace around the floating, gas-filled sphere, clapping his oversized boots against the floor with rhythmic, heavy thuds. He performed a sickeningly fluid cartwheel, his spiky hair whipping around like a crimson flame, before lunging.

Piledriver Prankster: “Whoopee Cushion Drop!”

He roared, launching his gargantuan body into the air.

Jaxon, eyes watering from the gas, looked up just in time to see the colossal, smiling wrestler descending like a meteor. He knew the impact wouldn’t just be physical—it would be a total annihilation of his defenses. As the Prankster collided with the sphere, sending Jaxon spiraling toward the concrete, the air was filled with the deafening pop of a balloon, punctuated by the shrill, mocking crack of a confetti cannon. Jaxon crashed into the concrete, breaking his arms and legs. Blood spilling out of his nose and mouth.

Lena screamed and turned her head away, not to look.

The room plunged into silence, save for the faint, echoing sound of Piledriver Prankster’s wheezing laughter.

As the confetti settled on the blood-stained concrete, the air around Jaxon began to hum with a rhythmic, pulsing energy. A fierce, crimson glow erupted from him, knitting together his bruised ribs and sealing his lacerations in a flicker of warm, restorative light.

Piledriver Prankster, mid-victory strut, froze. His oversized, painted eyes narrowed, and his grotesque grin twitched, losing its jovial veneer as genuine irritation set in.

Piledriver Prankster: “Oh, ho-ho! A party pooper, eh? You want to play with the lights? Let’s see how you handle a power outage!”

The clown screeched, his voice distorting into a low, bestial growl.

He didn’t wait for Jaxon to fully stand. With a thunderous stomp, the giant lunged, his massive frame a blur of neon spandex. He swung a Laughter Lariat—a clothesline powered by the sheer momentum of a man his size. The air whistled as his arm swept across the ring, aiming to decapitate Jaxon.

Jaxon ducked under the swing. The force of the failed strike sent the Prankster spinning, his momentum carrying him into the turnbuckle.

Jaxon: “Is that all you’ve got?”

He gasped, his voice raspy but steady.

Narcisse, watching from his chair, didn’t look worried. He merely adjusted his spectacles, his expression shifting from amusement to cold, clinical curiosity. He leaned forward, Lena still held firmly in his grasp and sobbing, and tapped his fingers against the armrest.

Piledriver Prankster’s reaction was instantaneous. He slammed his heels into the mat, sending the ground beneath Jaxon vibrating violently, and began a series of rapid-fire, acrobatic flips toward him, his massive hands reaching out to deliver a crushing bear hug. He was closing the distance, turning the area into a claustrophobic cage of muscle and mania.

Jaxon choked, and blood bubbled from his lips as Piledriver Prankster started to crush his ribs.

~

Tristan, Celeste, Deimos, and Fabien entered the Grand Pavillion of Wonders. Fabien hooked his thumbs into his jeans.

Fabien: “Your uncle bought this place, did he?”

Tristan nodded.

Fabien: “My father said he killed his parents or your grandparents. That true?”

Tristan looked away.

Tristan: “I wouldn’t be surprised if it were. I never met my maternal grandparents.”

He said tersely.

Celeste: “So he bought this place for his torture playground?”

Tristan nodded.

Deimos: “He sent some DashDish delivery boy to give us a message… Why isn’t Jordi here?”

He asked as he floated while following them.

Tristan: “I contacted him on our communication device. He isn’t answering.”

He replied.

Celeste: “Think Narcisse got him?”

Tristan: “No.”

Celeste: “He’s going to be super upset if he’s not here to rescue Lena.”

She twisted her mouth.

Fabien: “Don’t worry about it, babe. We’re here to save his kid sister.”

He smirked.

Deimos: “Yes, Fabien, you need to pull your weight and spend less time trolling losers.”

He huffed. Fabien snorted.

With a nod from the team, the group converged on the Funhouse. Celeste didn’t bother with the gate; she drew back a fist, the air around her hand shimmering with the raw pressure of her strength, and prepared to tear the entrance wide open.

As she swung, the sound of their arrival—a massive, metallic CRUNCH—drowned out the distorted music, signaling to everyone inside that the rescue had begun.