Happy Halloween!

Trigger Warning: Gore, blood, violence.

"Nah man, I really wouldn't go – if I were you."

"Come on, it'll be fun."

"Nah," Blake, who'd somehow managed to occupy the entire couch, and ottoman, kicks up his feet and takes a swig of soda.

Soul, of course, is used to this behavior. Blake would stop by - on good days, with some form of notice – and they'd crash, play videogames, eat pizza, the routine. Today would've been no different, had Soul not received the invitation beforehand. "It's a costume party, who has time to dress up anyway? Oh right, rich folk," he scoffs, cutting off Soul's protest faster than he could process.

Rich folk. The tone in which Blake says those words is menacing, incredulous. Rich folk. "I'm as much a rich folk as you are, Blake," Soul counters. And he means every word.

His best friend merely shrugs.

Well, it wasn't like he could stop the outside invitations. For what it was worth, though, he'd cut all ties with his family.

Soul Evans.

The estranged youngest brother, who'd stormed out of his house at the tender age of thirteen and hadn't had contact with his family since.

Blake is a different story. He wasn't born into nobility or class; he was just a teen trying to get by. Honestly, Soul envies him. It means freedom. It means being able to do things without being an Evans – and one that ran away, no less. Maybe that's why they hang around each other – they both didn't have anywhere else to go.

Normally, Soul would've ignored these invitations. But the host family was one he couldn't ignore. Albarn. Once, before he'd decided enough was enough, his mother had tried to introduce him to the Albarn heiress. She's a real beauty, he was told, and from one of the strongest families, too.

His mother had meant that literally.

Regardless of running away or not, he'd known the name. How could he not? The current heir was famous – for whatever reason or the other, everyone knew Spirit Albarn. Thus, from association, everyone knew Maka Albarn, too. It was almost as if she shied away from the limelight around the same time he did – for the only glimpses he'd seen of this exclusive heiress were on TV, when they were interviewing Spirit.

There she'd be, in the shadows. A kindred spirit – one who didn't want the fame, the fortune that came with being of the higher class. Especially in this day and age, when the killings only grew more frequent.

But the Albarns were always ruthless. Consistently the head of the CCG, though Spirit may be a womanizer, no one ever denied the Albarn family's strength. His record – when it came to fighting ghouls, anyways- was spotless.

"It'll be fine, Blake, you should come."

It's honestly strange for Soul to be the one trying to get Blake to go out – it was his best friend who'd insist they'd hit the night life, go to the strip clubs, get black out drunk, because that's what common folk do. It was a costume party – normally Blake couldn't resist those! But his best friend only shrugged and flipped through another channel, the sound of dizzying static ringing loudly in his ears.

"You rich folk are always protected. I'm going to hide in here." His friend scrambles up from the couch, catching Soul's eye. "Ghouls crawl around at night - not all of us can have round-the-clock protection."

Soul could easily distinguish the teasing tone in Blake's voice, so he merely scoffs and waves him away.

"Have fun, though. And send my regards to the pigtails."

"She only wears her hair like that to look inconspicuous," Soul sighs as he fixes the fangs into his teeth. He could pull off vampire, with his naturally red eyes and white hair. Another mark of being an Evans that isn't so easily disguised. He honestly envies Miss Albarn, too, for she could definitely pull off incognito if she so desired.

It was something the he and his best friend did often; when Spirit was being interviewed, they'd watch in amusement as he tried to hit on the interviewer. Here and there she'd appear in the same frame, and the two of them would call her out – and her father – for being who they were. It was fun, it made him feel included, when all his upbringing, he felt as if he never belonged.

But he had to remember it was all an act, for he was rich too, despite the disassociation. And he couldn't help but to wonder if Blake, behind his back, made fun of him, too.

But he pushes the thoughts out of his brain and he picks up the invitation. Address clearly marked, he cracks open the door.

"By the way, Soul." He pauses, turning to Blake once more. His best friend's grin is wide and sincere, though the lighting made it seem less so; sinister.

"Happy Halloween."

Soul rolls his eyes and closes the door behind him. He pauses a moment, letting out a sigh he didn't know he was holding in, before he looks up at the flickering apartment light. "You can come out now, Mifune."

And at his words, the lithe man steps out from around the corner. He's tall, stoic, a briefcase in his hand that makes him appear as any other businessman in the busy district. He gives the smallest of bows.

"Forgive me, Master Evans. Blake isn't coming with you…?"

Soul sighs and wiggles his jaw, the false teeth rubbing against his cheeks. "No – so I want you to stay here tonight."

Mifune's eyes, normally cold and calm, widens a touch at his words. "Master Evans, I cannot do that. I am under strict orders from your family to keep an eye on you at all times –"

"- And I'm telling you, make sure Blake is alright, okay?" Soul lowers his voice, though making sure to keep his authority true. "He's not coming, so it means he can be in danger. When he's with me, I know you'll protect him too."

He sees the look in his bodyguard's eyes, a conflicted understanding colouring his irises, though concern still alight in his gaze. Soul puts a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Look, I'm going to the Albarns – no doubt they're going to have round the clock protection. Blake is here, alone. Ghouls will be on the prowl, and I can only trust you to keep him safe."

Conflict grows in the man's gaze, but he finally sighs, gently removing his hand from his shoulder. "I understand, Master Evans. But I then have one selfish request; please return home immediately after the party. Save me the heart attack."

"You have my word, Mifune," Soul responds coolly as his bodyguard dips into another deep bow. The man then repositions himself in the blind spot of his apartment door and Soul retreats down the stairs to the awaiting taxi.

The Albarn estate is as impressive in person as it was on TV. Yet, as he looks at it, something about it is particularly eerie. Perhaps it reminds him of days past, but the activity milling around the house is enough to snap him out of it.

He strides past the crowds, ignoring the head turns and the whispers of his name. He ignores the hushed chatter, the muted discussions about how he's an Evans and that they haven't seen him in five years. This was precisely why he stays incognito; he hates the unwanted attention.

He mills around the h'ordeuvres – some amuse bouches that he hadn't tasted since he were a kid. Having lived off a consistent diet of pizza and pop and anything that wasn't fancy, he isn't so sure his stomach would agree with the thick flavours.

So he pinches his nose and looks around for something that looks more inviting, past the caviar and the pate.

"These things not to your tastes, either?"

Her voice is quiet, yet crystal clear, and he looks up to meet a brilliant emerald gaze. Well, half emerald – as one eye is black, decorated with red irises. He can't resist the smirk that almost creeps onto his lips.

"Isn't dressing as a one-eyed ghoul pushing it?"

Maka Albarn laughs – and it's a bell of a sound. With one gloved hand, she covers her lips in a dainty fashion. She then shrugs. "It's called a lazy costume, seeing as ghouls don't look any different from the real world. Am I right, mister vampire?"

He can't help but to touch his teeth and she laughs again. He shrugs past the charm and holds out a hand. "I'm Soul-"

"- Evans. I know." She grasps him with a gloved hand, smiling. "I'll never forget the boy I was supposed to meet three years ago."

His own smile falters, and for a moment he forgets all these rich people parties were all about formality – pretenses, for he senses a slight bit of maliciousness behind her otherwise disarmingly sincere tone. She holds out one glass flute, filled halfway with sparkling champagne. He accepts the glass graciously as she picks one up herself. "And to address your earlier concerns, don't be silly, one eyed ghouls are a myth. I should know, after all," she says, a hint of pride evident in her tone.

Of course she knows, he can't help but to think, as she sniffs and picks up some cornet-shaped pastry and places it on a plate. If she takes it, he assumes it couldn't be too offensive, so he mirrors her actions and finds himself following her.

She leads him to the back and onto a balcony, where she sighs and stretches out along the railings. He slides his hand into his pocket, carefully balancing his own pathetically empty plate beside her. Miss Albarn's eyes follow him as he takes a spot beside her, and her question may have seemed innocent, but the intent behind it betrays her. "So, you drop off the radar after I'm told I'm supposed to meet you by my Papa, why is that?"

Soul sighs, his brain struggling to put it into words. "I never wanted a famed life, honestly. Public scrutiny is nothing I ever desired."

"But you came here."

"I couldn't ignore your invitation," he says, and though his tone is light, he catches her eye and holds it. She sighs, something in the sound is sympathetic, understanding. But he decides to change the subject, because dwelling on the past wasn't why he came here. "So where's your father, anyways?"

"My papa?" her face suddenly sours, her tone turning dark. "He's upstairs. With two women." Her voice drips with resentment, but it's only a momentary lapse of concentration, for the unpleasantries disappear with a polite cough into her fist. "I wish he didn't make it so obvious. Of course no one will remember him as a womanizing swine, and only as the head of the CCG - as he should be remembered."

Her words remind him how, once again, he's dealing with the heiress of the Commission Counter Ghoul, and though maybe she was intended to be his fiancée, the matter is that he ran away from that commitment before he'd even met her. But seeing her now, with flowing platinum hair, light yellow dress, warm green eyes (save one) – she was absolutely stunning, and charming in her own right. Even if she's dressed as a one-eyed ghoul.

"So you dressed as a ghoul because..."

"It's easy," she shrugs. "I know a guy – he made me the contact. And besides," her voice turns a little serious. "I'd think the best place for anyone to hide, is right under their biggest enemy's nose, isn't that right?"

He doesn't know if he agrees with that, but he shrugs anyway and takes a sip of champagne thoughtfully.

She watches him, her face betraying no emotion as he swallows before placing his glass down. "I.. don't understand ghouls," Soul continues, if only to keep the conversation going. "They all seem senseless to me, and the sudden attack on the higher class – it's partially why I dissociated myself from it all."

"And yet, you're here," she comments, though her tone is thoughtful.

He shrugs. "I could use a break."

Miss Albarn laughs then, as she swirls her own glass. "Ghouls. I've been surrounded by them my whole life – and I think not all of them just want to eat eat kill kill. It's a generalization."

He listens intently but the sudden turn in conversation sours him. Is Maka Albarn a… sympathizer? Impossible, he thinks, because she's next to become a full-fledged investigator, and judging by her lineage, she should be the last person who would sympathize.

She seems to sense his discomfort, for she plunges on, "I do think some ghouls try to coexist."

"They shouldn't," Soul says firmly. He's seen the reports, watched people die because of ghouls. They were all monsters – they'd all kill on the spot. There is no rhyme or reason, their only instinct is to kill. To charm, befriend, and then stab in the back, like some sadistic freak.

But he doesn't voice those thoughts, as she only regards him thoughtfully. She shrugs. "I want to try to make a difference. Regardless of what that is."

She's really something, he can't help but to think, and he knows if he'd met her all those years ago, his past self would've lucked out. To be betrothed to a woman of such class, of knowledge – it would've been an honour.

He loses track of the time, spending almost the entire night exclusively talking to her. Her laugh is infectious and her smile even more so, and he can't help but to realize that maybe, just maybe, he'd made a mistake. He wants to know her more, and to understand her thoughts, to truly realize how compatible they are, aside from polite conversations and small gestures.

But time wears on, regardless of his intent, and soon he knew it was time to leave. They both get up from where they were sitting, and she gives him a little curtsy. "We should talk again soon, Mister Evans."

"Soul is honestly fine," he responds, as she gives him another dazzling grin.

"Then by all means, call me Maka – hearing Miss Albarn makes me think of my mama." Her voice thickens, as if that's all she has to say about it, and he merely nods, takes her hand, and plants a light kiss. A faint blush colours her cheeks despite her attempt to swallow it.

"I should see you home," she says, her voice suddenly lower. He's not sure what she's implying, but he shakes his head politely.

"That's quite alright, I'll be fine."

Her one, visible eye darkens. "Are you sure?"

Soul allows a smile to cross his features once more. "Yes, but thank you."

He turns and begins to duck around the leaving people, but her gloved fingers catch his hand mid-step. He pauses and turns, facing her faintly blushing cheeks. Her voice is a little abashed, and her voice is careful. "You know, if you were to be wed to me, that day five years ago… I would've said yes."

He doesn't quite understand why but his heart thuds once, and he can't help but to smile in response. She looks conflicted, as if she truly wanted to see him off, but instead, her voice suddenly turns serious. "Hurry home. It's Halloween, the ghouls will be out tonight."

The words echo in his head, even as he says his goodbyes and rushes out the doors, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

It's only when he's halfway down the alleyway does he have a sudden realization.

She never touched that cornet she had on her plate.

The glowing phone screen tells him that Maka Albarn is adopted.

Granted, it was tabloid news, but she was never born into the Albarn family.

And then he realizes: realizes that the pounding of his heart isn't due to his excitement - his attraction. It was his instincts, telling him to run.

So he began to pick up the pace.

And somehow, unsurprisingly, he heard a smattering of footsteps behind him.

Shit, shit shit shit shit shit shit!

He weaves through the people, trying his hardest to get away, but suddenly something grabs him by the arm and pulls him aside – a tentacle – a glowing limb – a kagune.

This strange organ, pulsing, faintly warm, and yet sharp – deadly, is connected to something. Someone. A figure. A ghoul.

His heart pounds in his brain and panic settles in. Why me? How? What did I do? At his attempts to pry off the organ from his arm, it suddenly retracts – but he knows it's not because of him.

Instead, the figure approaches him.

He stares, because something about the physique is oddly familiar. From the dim rays of moonlight, he can make out a black mask – the shape of a star, exposing the mouth. It grins suddenly, and from behind the slits of the mask, he can make two, very black eyes staring hungrily back.

And then it clicks.

"Black Star… Blake?"

The silhouette takes a step forward.

He couldn't breathe. No. No. Not his best friend, the man he'd known since birth, not his brother. It couldn't be – it was impossible! He knew Blake better than anyone, and if he – if he… "Since when?"

"Always."

And then, out of nowhere, a thick black tentacle emerges from the ghoul's back, the same one that had pulled him here. It grabs his leg and pulls him toward the ghoul. And he's helpless, helpless, to stop himself from being dragged, even as he scratches and tears at the pavement, nothing slows his body as Blake mercilessly grabs him.

"Do you have any idea how infuriating it is, to wait around for you?" His voice is a deadly calm, a stark contrast from the loud obnoxiousness he was used to. "Do you know how many pizza slices I've had to vomit? How many other dirt scum I had to eat, while waiting for your stupid guard to stop following us?"

He bares his teeth then, and from the haze of his vision, Soul can see saliva dripping down his mouth. "Every time I think I have you drunk enough, you always slip away – who the fuck knows what you do, but fuck I have to kill someone else."

He tries to fight for words, but instead, blood gurgles and falls out of his mouth. "My.. friend – Blake, you were my friend -!"

"Do you know how annoying you are?" Black Star responds, and the first time, Soul realizes just how little he knows about him. "Pretending to be boisterous, pretending to love pizza, having to get you black out drunk so I could go out and hunt – if not because fucking Mifune is always keeping tabs on you?"

He's dangling and Blake's cackling, but the laughter suddenly edges with insanity. "I just want one – one - taste. One taste! It would make up for all that shit you call food, for all that tar you call drinks, it would be fine!" His voice teeters on the verge of madness, and the teen flips his head back – and the black wig falls off his head.

His hair, even in the waning moonlight, has always been a shocking blue.

He gives one more grin, red from his most recent victim glinting against his teeth.

"Did I mention? Mifune tastes quite delicious."

And that's when he loses it, a scream comes hurling from his throat. This was it. He is going to die. He is going to die as the outcast of the Evans family, devoured by Black Star, whose identity no one knows. His best friend, Blake, would go on living, would express lament at his funeral, who would say that they can't find his body –that he would've died, too, if he'd gone with Soul that night.

He'd deliver the words, one of the last people to see him, and he'd stand there, as his killer.

Pain explodes from his body as Black Star flings him to the side, each collision against empty barrels searing through his back like fire. He feels the wind blow out of his lungs, and it fucking kills but he says nothing, only clenches his teeth as he feels warmth begin to spill from his back.

And then he's being dragged, again, maniacal laughter filling his ears. He feels his side rip open against the splinters of wood, each piece piercing into his flesh. Blake – no, Black Star – reels him toward his ready mouth, saliva dripping, ready to take a bite –

His howl of the pain suddenly disrupts the cackling, and Soul knows it's not his. Instead, he falls to the ground, what feels like every bone cracking against the impact. He can't understand, he can't discern, what had just happened, but he only finds himself on the floor, with his vision blurring and a new silhouette in his eyes.

She has pigtails.

Of course Maka would be here, Maka – an Albarn, a powerful CCG member.

How could he have doubted her? She was still an Albarn, she was still perhaps the second-strongest person to fight a ghoul. Relief washes through him as she glares at his attacker, her stance deadly and commanding despite the torn dress she wore.

"Oy, pigtails," Black Star hisses, the ghoul holding his shoulder as it oozes blood. "You're getting in my way, again."

"Black Star," she says, her voice deadly, no longer holding any warmth that he'd detected while in the party. "I can't let you do this."

"Why not?"

He realizes then, that Blake had always regarded Maka with an air of familiarity. Everything starts to fall into place – of course he'd know her. How could he not? She was the daughter of his biggest enemy.

He can't see much, beyond the tears and his failing vision, but she draws herself to full height. She brandishes her Quinque, two structures that looks like wings, and he swears she's an angel. An angel who's come to save him, as he can do nothing but drool as blood oozes from his shoulder.

His personal angel - who could've been his.

She poises forward, and he doesn't quite tell what happens but something does – suddenly he can see Black Star's form fly backwards, a feral hiss ripping through his ears. He bares his teeth in a show of blatant defiance; she merely regards him coolly as those wings of hers flex once, reflexively, ready to strike.

"Pigtails," he snarls through clenched teeth, and if it weren't for the fact the nickname was so ridiculous Soul might've been more intimidated. Once again, she doesn't react beyond a roll of her shoulder.

"You've fed once tonight, you should leave," she commands. And then her voice dips several octaves. "And if you don't want to die, I suggest you pack your bags and start running."

Their exchange doesn't make much sense to him, but his side hurts. He honestly doesn't care anymore. He just wants the pain to end, he just wants to forget the hollowness of betrayal, the shock that still coursed through his limbs. He can hear it then: his labored breathing, the way his breaths changed to pants and, slowly, to heaving inhales.

He hears an audible tch before he hears someone running, and as he fights to remain conscious and to not go into shock, he can see her wings – his angel's wings, vibrant with hues of red and gold and orange.

She whirls on her heel, taking two strides forward to where he lay, vision blurring, on the ground. With a metallic keening, Maka leans down, though her face is obscured by her face.

"What did I tell you?" She says, her voice no longer icy, but just a tinge warm.

Soul can't do much but pant, the pain in his side throbbing and his head is a mess. He can feel slim digits skim his injured side, and something about it is bracing, comforting – as if he'd known her his whole life. He tries to adjust, to see her face, to stammer out heartfelt thank yous because she fucking saved his life.

From his best friend.

But she shies away from his touch. It's only when he realizes she's trying to hide her face, does he muster the strength to grab her cheeks in her palms. He wrenches her face toward him, and she willingly, stubbornly, lets him.

Her eyes are black.

Blacker than the contact she'd worn earlier - deadlier than he could've imagined. it oss no quinque, no fake kagune that she'd harvested from a ghoul she'd killed. No, it is her own kagune - for Maka Albarn is a ghoul.

He drops his hands and he can feel the gurgle of a scream bubble in his throat. Her very black eyes widen as he tries to scramble backwards, and as he let go of the wound on his side he can feel spilled blood splashing on the floor. She only regards him sadly as he curls himself inward protectively, shaking and shivering, words failing him.

She stands up and takes a step toward him; he takes one more back.

"Soul," she says softly, but his name is like poison on her lips and he recoils. "Nothing I said tonight was a lie."

And before he can react – before he can accuse, scream, run – her hand strikes his neck.

He blacks out.