ADAM PERSAD WAS tired.

The war had drained a lot from humanity. Having fought on the front lines, he had witnessed firsthand the devastation inflicted by both sides.

Magic, to him, was unpredictable. He saw no pattern in it, even if the same spell was cast in succession. Therefore it had an advantage over his guns and fire.

He often wondered if he had done the right thing.

Had the humans been just in attempting to claim Earth for their own? Chasing out the creatures of magic had not seemed like a bad idea at the beginning. But after seeing and experiencing the war waged over it, Adam was convinced that no petty selfishness was so valid as to cause the death of an entire world.

If he could, he would choose to forget all about the bloodshed and casualties.

Yet memories would not blur; and he would often find himself out there in an airfield again, surrounded by Elves and Faeries and gunpowder. He would see his men fall, speared by light and magic. And he would see the opposition fall as well, burning alive.

He refused to believe that the flashbacks would always haunt him, but perhaps he was becoming used to it if they no longer caused him the same shock.

He was becoming used to a lot of things.

Routines had embedded themselves into his existence; so much so that he seemed to waft around the empty house like a phantom without impetus.

Hours dragged into days and days dragged into weeks. He didn't have a clue about what month it was. Not that it mattered —keeping time had become pointless; meaningless. It was an endeavour to forever remind him that the Earth still moved.

Adam, a mere speck upon its surface, was stagnant. Now the norm, since he had gone AWOL.

He had not deserted his unit with malicious intent. Perhaps his fellow soldiers would understand if he told them. Because out of the wars in which Adam had fought, this was the one that had taken the lives of his family. He had to live on knowing that he would never again see his wife, Ketiwe, and their son, Grant.

He had tried to end it all in memory of them —back when he had first made it home. Yet his fingers would not pull the trigger. He could not go through with it. Vows had been engrained within his mind for so long; just make it make through another day. Another month. They're waiting for you.

Live for them.

That was what he had promised when he had been recruited. No matter how bad it got, he would not give up on going home to the people he loved most.

Thankfully, their memories burned there in the back of his mind, roaring against the battles.

Ketiwe's smile; Grant's laughter —that was what had kept Adam going. He knew it was selfish to cling onto the slither of near perfection that had been life before that war, but he couldn't describe it any other way.

Nothing and no one would ever suffice.

Being unable to kill himself had proved that he wasn't ready to join his family wherever they were. He wasn't ready to consider that waiting it out for them had been all for nothing. He didn't even want to voice the thought aloud —because what sort of person would it make him to believe something like that?

It was out of guilt, then. Living on.

But it had cost him peace —and sleep.

Of all the things that Adam now craved, he wished to be able to lie in his now too-big bed and rest.

He barely slept for minutes everyday. He would feel the lull of it, but he could never maintain a grasp. It wasn't due to clinical things like post trauma or plain insomnia. He knew —he felt it in his bones, that the cause was magical. Some spell he had come across in battle had to be the culprit —of that he was certain.

Out of paranoia that his condition would worsen, he locked himself away in his sagging bungalow and never left unless it was for some sort of sustenance.

He tried to ignore his loss of weight and muscle mass —it wasn't exactly fluctuating since he was eating fairly adequately, but he could feel that he was out of shape. Though exercise was an insurmountable blockade.

It was all thanks to whatever damned spell that was keeping him awake.

It rendered him quite numb, too. Not physically, but in all other regards. He could not bring himself to feel anything anymore. No hatred, no love and no content. Things blew over him with no effect.

Perhaps in place of sleep, he would accept a scintilla of emotion. A reaction. Any reason to prove that his choice to keep living had been worth it.

Because the weight of existing was crushing.

It was almost midnight —and for the first time in a long while, it was the time that Adam Persad decided to go scrounging the supermarkets for food.

Daylight was the best time to go —the safest time.

Creatures of magic thrived in the darkness. And he didn't want to find himself cornered by any vengeful immortals if they recognised him as a soldier.

He couldn't help that this was the hour at which he realised that he had little food left. And despite his blown-by-the-wind state, there was nothing else with which to occupy his time. Reading would agitate him. He had already taken two hot showers to counteract the cold of winter ( he envied the creatures of magic for not being bothered with such things like temperature ).

He kept his head down, and moved fairly quickly.

It was a trek that couldn't compensate for the lack of rigorous training that he had become accustomed to in the army, but it kept his blood flowing.

He weaved through open streets; the road barely passing for such in its giant piles of debris; and the husks of buildings surrounding them. Having lived in a suburban community, he had little understanding of city living. He couldn't imagine occupying an apartment in the middle of London or any other hub.

He had only moved here because of Ketiwe's work —it had been difficult to find another architect job elsewhere. Grant had gone to a daycare near their house and had loved it. He had made friends there.

They too, had died.

It had taken Adam four months to admit that; to utter that word. Dead. His wife and son were dead.

He clenched his fists. Were there any gods, if they could let something like that war happen?

Or maybe they were indeed; and they had orchestrated the show. Or worse —had felt nothing.

Adam certainly thought of himself as a living puppet, hardly in control of anything.

It had been different when he was a boy —he had dreamed of a good job; a lavish house; a loving spouse and however many children with which they would be blessed. His future had been planned out down to the minute...but none of it mattered anymore.

He had had his taste. He should be grateful.

Was a part of him so deluded to think that there was just somehow more to it than that?

Adam then happened to be passing by Oxford street, with the wind light and brisk, when something fell from a roof a little ways ahead of him.

Perhaps jumped would be a better description, because the action was definitely with purpose.

It moved like a young leopard —its movements deft and fluid. And Adam had no doubt that it saw him as prey in very much the same way.

Then it stepped into the dim light, and he inhaled sharply at what was revealed.

A Wytch —about two heads shorter than him with a large pointed hat edged with blue lace and ribbon. Her eyes were the same shade and colour, though luminous. The coven Marks on her face were gold and green —thankfully, a coven that he did not recognise. Impossibly long and straight charcoal hair trailed the ground behind her; and Adam wondered if it was magic that kept it from tangling and catching on things.

Her black lips curled in a smile.

"Well, hello, little human. Normally I would slit your throat without hesitation, but you look much more in need of someone to show you a good time," said the Wytch; her hypnotic smoky eyes lidding.

Adam watched her size him up and bite her lip.

"...Slit my throat?" he swallowed uncomfortably. Indeed, he spotted a hunting dagger strapped to her side; naked and gleaming like the moon in the sky.

"It is my duty to rid the Gamma Plane of its blight —that being your kind," she elaborated. "Every so often, however, I do like to play with my food."

Just his luck to run into an assassin.

The soldier hesitated. She had backed him into a corner. He couldn't outrun her. In fact, her magic likely trumped every skill in his arsenal, regardless of her size.

The Wytch continued. "...You are too beautiful to kill. But I hope that you still choose my small mercy."

Adam shivered. He was sure that it would be nothing remotely merciful about it.

And he wasn't clueless —but causal and carnal pleasure hadn't even been a thing on his mind. Especially with a Wytch, of all creatures of magic.

"I don't do Wytches," he grunted.

Her perfectly groomed black brows rose. "There is a first for everything, handsome," she purred.

He wondered if there was some sort of spell she oozed, that made him almost consider the offer.

No.

It felt like a betrayal. It would be a complete dishonour to Ketiwe for Adam to even entertain the idea of bringing this Wytch to his house. Yes, he was technically a widower, and by law ( or moral, since there wasn't much of that now either ) there was nothing wrong with him taking a lover or getting remarried.

But he couldn't.

"What? Are you bound to someone?" the Wytch asked.

"Yes," Adam answered.

"Shame. Where is this significant other —at home?" she chuckled. "Not a very smart move on their part; leaving you out here, alone and defenceless."

She took a subtle step closer to him as she spoke; a predator circling in on her prey.

"She's six feet underground," the soldier deadpanned. "Most of her, at least."

The Wytch paused, and then attempted to analyse his expression. Or rather, his lack of one. "...I suppose I was too late on that occasion," she muttered.

Adam didn't respond beyond glancing elsewhere. He should be offended but there was still that hollowness, as empty as ever. He also didn't know how to reply to her comment —and it had been a while since he last spoke to someone in a way that was more than a greeting and to ask how much was his total.

"I could...still take your mind off of things," the Wytch went on, now suddenly playing the collar of his duffle coat. He instinctively flinched away.

"No."

"Very well," she sighed.

They stood in silence for a moment, neither knowing how to continue or end the conversation.

"...Are you really not going to kill me?" Adam then had the guts to ask —unconcerned if it warranted her instant compliance if the answer was no.

She frowned. "Do you wish to die that desperately?"

He thought about being truthful.

Deciding against it, he admitted, "...I did at some point." And that was all he would offer.

The Wytch studied him for a moment. He was different from the other humans which she usually encountered. He didn't cower; he didn't beg. He had barely even flinched, and had spoken with her so calmly.

What a rare specimen he was.

Adam then levelled his gaze. There was something else about this situation that unnerved him; that made his skin prickle. "You're also alone," he murmured.

He noted her tense ever so slightly in response, and the action only piqued his interest. He avoided interacting with creatures of magic —especially after the war —but this Wytch had clearly not fought in it. "...Yes," the Wytch sighed. "Is that a crime?"

"No. Just unusual," the soldier commented.

She glared at the building across from them, and a light blue dusted her cheeks as though she were blushing. Adam wondered why precisely she was not with her coven. Were they lurking around the corner, waiting to ambush him? Perhaps he would die tonight after all.

"Hey," then said the Wytch, "forget the original meaning of the offer. How about I keep you company? Just while you are out. It is dangerous at night."

A suspicious and abnormal turn in intent, Adam noted.

"How do I know you're telling the truth about being alone?" he sceptically asked.

She shrugged. "I suppose that you will just have to trust me," she quipped the ominous expression.

Even if she weren't his natural enemy, Adam was certain that he didn't look like a child who needed babysitting. Though if she could be trusted, it did mean that he would have magic to protect him from a world that no longer saw humans as superior.

He thought about it a great deal. There were more pros than cons to having a Wytch accompany him to the supermarket and back —on the surface. Suppose she was setting him up; he could be walking to his end.

Not that I particularly mind, he realised. Death would be an interesting change of scenery.

If this was the day he would find sweet release, then who was he to stand in the way of Fate?

"...I might be making the worst and last decision of my life," Adam then told the Wytch.

She smiled slightly, realising that he was then inclined to accepting her offer to escort him. She then murmured, "In this reality, is that not always the case?"

Adam tilted his head curiously. "That is quite wise and profound, for someone as young as you."

She looked about twenty-two.

The Wytch grinned and flicked the brim of her hat upwards. "I am two hundred and six. And I did not realise that sweet-talking was still on the table."

"I am not playing that game with you," the soldier grunted, a scowl replacing his passive frown.

"Not even a little?" teased the Wytch.

"I can always go alone, if you have suddenly changed your mind," Adam subtly threatened, taking a step away from her down the street.

"Okay, I yield," she insisted, reaching for his sleeve.

The soldier noted how even when her grip was loose, her fingers —especially her nails —locked like a vice. She stood with her back straight; her legs planted and her muscles tense; her eyes defiant. Her fingers curled tighter. Not so much to keep him where he was, but as if to keep herself from blowing away. There was a terrible cry of loneliness in the gesture.

Adam considered himself to be a vaguely reasonable man. Though he was still conflicted about her species and intentions versus his better judgment, he saw a small piece of vulnerability in her.

He then nodded in the direction of the supermarket, wordlessly accepting her company.

And even as she smiled, and stalked beside him with purpose, he wondered if she was as bereft as himself.