Chapter 10:
Chapter 9: Black Was Never a Phase
another perfectly spooky day in the life for the bloodbriars
People like to believe that becoming something requires a moment.A turning point. A rebellion. A declaration.
They imagine transformation as loud. Dramatic. Defiant.
They are, as usual, incorrect.
I did not become anything.
I simply… refined what was already there.
Even as a child, I preferred quiet.
Not loneliness—never that.
But distance. Space. Control over my own presence.
While others chased attention, I observed.
While they filled silence, I studied it.
Color, too, had always felt… excessive.
Bright things demand acknowledgment.
They insist on being seen.
I had no interest in that.
Black, however—
Black is honest.
It does not beg for attention.It absorbs it.
The first time I chose it deliberately, no one noticed.
The second time, they hesitated.
By the third—
It was simply… me.
There was no rebellion.
No argument.
No dramatic rejection of anything.
Just consistency.
“You’re wearing a lot of black lately,” my mother had said once, watching me from across
the room.
Her tone wasn’t disapproving.
Merely… curious.
“It is efficient,” I replied.
“It suits everything.”
She considered that.
Then smiled faintly.“As long as it suits you.”
That was the end of it.
My father, predictably, said even less.
He looked once.
Nodded.
And returned to whatever occupied his thoughts at the time.
Acceptance, in our household, was not loud.
It was simply… there.
Which, in hindsight, made perfect sense.
Our family history is not… delicate.
Merchants, yes.
Bankers, certainly.
But also—
Other things.
Less easily categorized.
Aesthetic choices were hardly the most concerning detail.If anything, my preferences aligned rather well with the tone of it all.
It was not long before the influence spread.
Not intentionally.
Just… inevitably.
Annalise was the first.
She had always admired structure. Detail. Elegance.
Where I preferred restraint, she embraced expression.
“Can I try this?” she asked one afternoon, holding up a carefully constructed dress—layers
of black lace, ribbons, symmetry in every fold.
Gothic lolita.
I looked at her.
Considered.
Then nodded.
“If you are going to do it,” I said, “do it properly.”
That was all she needed.Within weeks, she had refined it into something entirely her own—
Precise. Intricate. Intentional.
She did not imitate me.
She evolved alongside me.
Malcolm was slower.
Quieter about it.
He didn’t change everything.
Just… details.
A chain here.
A darker palette there.
Accessories that hinted rather than declared.
“You don’t have to commit fully,” I told him once.
He shook his head.
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m just… adjusting.”
That was acceptable.He never lost his softness.
His gentleness.
If anything, the contrast suited him.
Between the three of us, there was no discussion of identity.
No need to label anything.
We simply… aligned.
And through it all, our parents remained exactly as they always were.
Present. Observant.
Unbothered.
“You all look very cohesive,” my mother remarked once, glancing between us.
There was a hint of amusement in her voice.
My father added, almost absently—
“At least it’s consistent.”
That was, for him, high praise.Years passed.
Refinement followed.
At school, the aesthetic became sharper.
More controlled.
Black blazer black dress shirt. Structured lines. Leather skirt. Heeled boots.
Makeup—intentional, precise always the same style which of course is dark red lipstick
dark pink blush black eyeshadow black eyeliner and thick mascara per outfit except my
black band shirt black bathrobe and black track pants at home.
Not excessive. Never careless.
Corporate.
Professional.
Unapproachable.
The rumors followed naturally.
Vampire. Witch. Something else entirely.
I did not correct them.
Why would I?
At home, however—The edges softened.
Not weakened—never that.
Just… different.
Sheer fabrics in this case sheer black blouse same leather skirt and boots and more
earrings on top of my regular dangling spider ones and same style of glasses too on and off
the clock. Looser silhouettes.
Hints of romance woven into the structure.
Something quieter.
Something more… intimate.
Beckett noticed, of course.
He notices everything that matters.
“You look erm... more darker,” he said once, watching me adjust a sleeve.
“Not entirely,” I replied.
“Just enough.”
He nodded.
Understanding, as always.
“…It suits you,” he added.That, too, was correct.
I stepped closer, adjusting his scarf slightly—unnecessary, but precise.
“And you,” I said softly, “remain consistent.”
His mask hid most of his expression.
Not all of it.
“…I prefer it,” he said.
“So do I.”
Outside, trends shifted.
Styles changed.
People reinvented themselves repeatedly in search of something they could not define.
Inside—
Nothing needed to be reinvented.
Only refined.Black was never a phase.
It was never a statement.
It was never a rebellion.
It was simply… correct.
And it always would be.
They imagine transformation as loud. Dramatic. Defiant.
They are, as usual, incorrect.
I did not become anything.
I simply… refined what was already there.
Even as a child, I preferred quiet.
Not loneliness—never that.
But distance. Space. Control over my own presence.
While others chased attention, I observed.
While they filled silence, I studied it.
Color, too, had always felt… excessive.
Bright things demand acknowledgment.
They insist on being seen.
I had no interest in that.
Black, however—
Black is honest.
It does not beg for attention.It absorbs it.
The first time I chose it deliberately, no one noticed.
The second time, they hesitated.
By the third—
It was simply… me.
There was no rebellion.
No argument.
No dramatic rejection of anything.
Just consistency.
“You’re wearing a lot of black lately,” my mother had said once, watching me from across
the room.
Her tone wasn’t disapproving.
Merely… curious.
“It is efficient,” I replied.
“It suits everything.”
She considered that.
Then smiled faintly.“As long as it suits you.”
That was the end of it.
My father, predictably, said even less.
He looked once.
Nodded.
And returned to whatever occupied his thoughts at the time.
Acceptance, in our household, was not loud.
It was simply… there.
Which, in hindsight, made perfect sense.
Our family history is not… delicate.
Merchants, yes.
Bankers, certainly.
But also—
Other things.
Less easily categorized.
Aesthetic choices were hardly the most concerning detail.If anything, my preferences aligned rather well with the tone of it all.
It was not long before the influence spread.
Not intentionally.
Just… inevitably.
Annalise was the first.
She had always admired structure. Detail. Elegance.
Where I preferred restraint, she embraced expression.
“Can I try this?” she asked one afternoon, holding up a carefully constructed dress—layers
of black lace, ribbons, symmetry in every fold.
Gothic lolita.
I looked at her.
Considered.
Then nodded.
“If you are going to do it,” I said, “do it properly.”
That was all she needed.Within weeks, she had refined it into something entirely her own—
Precise. Intricate. Intentional.
She did not imitate me.
She evolved alongside me.
Malcolm was slower.
Quieter about it.
He didn’t change everything.
Just… details.
A chain here.
A darker palette there.
Accessories that hinted rather than declared.
“You don’t have to commit fully,” I told him once.
He shook his head.
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m just… adjusting.”
That was acceptable.He never lost his softness.
His gentleness.
If anything, the contrast suited him.
Between the three of us, there was no discussion of identity.
No need to label anything.
We simply… aligned.
And through it all, our parents remained exactly as they always were.
Present. Observant.
Unbothered.
“You all look very cohesive,” my mother remarked once, glancing between us.
There was a hint of amusement in her voice.
My father added, almost absently—
“At least it’s consistent.”
That was, for him, high praise.Years passed.
Refinement followed.
At school, the aesthetic became sharper.
More controlled.
Black blazer black dress shirt. Structured lines. Leather skirt. Heeled boots.
Makeup—intentional, precise always the same style which of course is dark red lipstick
dark pink blush black eyeshadow black eyeliner and thick mascara per outfit except my
black band shirt black bathrobe and black track pants at home.
Not excessive. Never careless.
Corporate.
Professional.
Unapproachable.
The rumors followed naturally.
Vampire. Witch. Something else entirely.
I did not correct them.
Why would I?
At home, however—The edges softened.
Not weakened—never that.
Just… different.
Sheer fabrics in this case sheer black blouse same leather skirt and boots and more
earrings on top of my regular dangling spider ones and same style of glasses too on and off
the clock. Looser silhouettes.
Hints of romance woven into the structure.
Something quieter.
Something more… intimate.
Beckett noticed, of course.
He notices everything that matters.
“You look erm... more darker,” he said once, watching me adjust a sleeve.
“Not entirely,” I replied.
“Just enough.”
He nodded.
Understanding, as always.
“…It suits you,” he added.That, too, was correct.
I stepped closer, adjusting his scarf slightly—unnecessary, but precise.
“And you,” I said softly, “remain consistent.”
His mask hid most of his expression.
Not all of it.
“…I prefer it,” he said.
“So do I.”
Outside, trends shifted.
Styles changed.
People reinvented themselves repeatedly in search of something they could not define.
Inside—
Nothing needed to be reinvented.
Only refined.Black was never a phase.
It was never a statement.
It was never a rebellion.
It was simply… correct.
And it always would be.
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