Here we are, one year later.

There are still questions that will, maybe one day, be answered. But this update should give a bit of a hint to what's happened to Soul, as well as Maka's perspective as the ambiguous villain (if she can be called that), as this covers the events before, during, and after ball as well.

Enjoy.

Same warnings apply.

She stares at the mirror, willing. Willing .But her reflection doesn't change; black and red stares back, veins scoring her face as they pulsate, once, then twice, stretching her ivory skin, stinging helpless tears of frustration along the ridges of her cheeks.

She raises the back of her hand to her mouth, desperately rubbing, trying to rid herself of the acrid tang of blood that still danced along the edges of her tongue. She wishes it's as simple as bad people tasting equally as bad, but the juices - the lifeforce - of the man she'd gorged on tastes wonderful. Amazing.

Maka scrubs her lips until they're raw.

She hears a knock on the door. She knows it's Marie beyond the wooden frame. She shakes her head, as if it would stop the woman from barging in, and it takes her more than a few seconds to find her voice. "I'm okay," she manages, and it takes all her effort to focus her mind on her hands, to stop herself from crushing the marble in her grip. Like grains of sand.

There's something vaguely along the lines of costume fitting. and in a moment, in a brief moment that - in retrospect - feels a lot more like herself, something along the lines of contempt flashes along her brain. She doesn't know if her Papa is foolish, horny, or brave; throwing a Halloween Gala - on the said night - was possibly the worst idea he's ever had. Her hands briefly toy with her mask, tossed aside on top of the lowered toilet seat. Would going as the famed Fallen Angelbe rude? Being linked to the head of the CCG means she had access to all the information files regarding the notable SS rated ghouls in the city. The Fallen Angel is aptly named; despite her track record, the ghoul's victims have all been criminals. The Fallen Angel was a ghoul through and through, but if there are any humans dressed as ghouls tonight, the Fallen Angel is perhaps the most respectable one to impersonate.

Besides, she already has the same colour hair, she thinks bitterly.

Instead, she carefully wraps her mask and places it in her messenger bag. With careful detail, she raises her hair into her signature pigtails, each firm pull of her hair elastics thankfully grounding her, dulling the raw ache and need for blood, calming her quickened breath and soothing her haphazard heartbeat. She looks into the mirror once more, and concentrates;she watches the black pull back from her irises in tendrils, slithering away and leaving pristine white. She takes one more, long, soothing breath, and her irises pulsate once more, shrinking from red to green.

She's okay, Maka thinks, she's okay.

—

The smell of her own burning hair is, at the very least, something she could focus on. The high, reverberating notes of Marie's voice is a welcome distraction, and though she's going on about the music, the arrangements, and surely the decor for the upcoming party, Maka pays no mind. Instead, she focuses on being perfectly still, lest the hair curler slip and fall against her skin - where it surely wouldn't leave a mark. Her hair falls into perfect ringlets around her, bouncing at the weight of gravity as Marie lets each section of hair free from the iron.

"Your Papa didn't tell me what you're dressing as," Marie continues. Maka can feel the kind smile on the woman's lips. Even if a ghoul had managed to take possession of her eye, it didn't stop the woman from being radiant - that is, when she wasn't out on a mission with the other ghouls. Out in the field, Marie is perhaps one of the top Investigators, but even she couldn't return what was lost. Perhaps it's a blessing to be so closely acquainted with the Chief; it means that Marie wouldn't be on the streets tonight.

The attachment Maka felt for this woman would certainly lead to her downfall.

The silence catches up to her and she realizes Marie is patiently waiting for a response. Maka shrugs, careful not to disrupt the woman's work. "I'm not sure yet. Papa bought me all these gowns, I'd have to wear one."

Her sarcasm reaches Marie's well-toned ears, and the woman lets a well-intentioned chuckle burst through her lips. "I think they're lovely. I'm sure you'll think of something." Maka says nothing as the curling iron continues to pull through her hair. An idea sparks, but it is so ridiculous that she nearly curls her lips in response. But her hesitation is quickly caught by Marie, so fast - so accurately.

Maka swallows. "It's a dumb idea."

"I'm sure it isn't," Marie soothes, and a gentle hand kneads against her forearm.

"… a one-eyed ghoul."

The silence is strong, now, and at least Marie has the foresight to remove the curler before it burns clean through her ashen locks. Maka turns as she feels her hair release, catching the woman's surprise before she has a chance to hide it. She can see the thoughts running through Marie's head, and she quickly realizes her mistake: while ghouls may not be a secret to society, the fact that there may be a one-eyed ghoul isn't exactly common knowledge. Certainly not common knowledge from the daughter of an over-protective head of the CCG; but it's exactly the fact that she is,and given her thirst for knowledge, that it - in retrospect - isn't such a weird piece of trivia that she knows.

Marie seems to be thinking along the same lines, for her expression softens. Maka can feel the lecture bubbling on her caregiver's tongue. "I told you it's a dumb idea," she says quickly, but the damage is done.

Marie hums thoughtfully. "I actually don't think it's that bad." She clears her throat and reiterates. "Maybe it's a good thing. People dress as fables and myths all the time." Maka can hear how delicately Marie chooses her words, and she can't help the small smile of affection that spreads on her lips.

God, she's flirting with death every day.

"It wouldn't be a bad idea at all," Marie decides, and then the woman mirrors her smile, warm, maternal. "It would certainly mean you can wear one of your father's dresses. And I know Stein could fix you with a contact."

The fact that Maka already had a connection toa costumer dies on her tongue, instead she nods once graciously. Marie offers another smile and taps her on the thigh with one, battle-worn finger. "The party does begin in a few hours - but now you don't need to panic, right?"

"We'll see if the corset fits," Maka adds half-heartedly, but she's rewarded with a tinkling laugh before the woman presses a fleeting kiss on the crown of her head. And then she's sashaying out the door, and Maka's eyes follow her retreating figure. Part of her desperately wants to warn her not to go out; but she knows Marie can handle herself, better than almost anyone.

Maka sours.

This Gala will surely give her a headache.

—

Maka nearly snorts as she surveys the crowd below the banister.

A Halloween Gala, and yet everyone is dressed in the same lush gowns as she is. Masks upon masks litter the ground, as if somehow the invitations had forgone the theme of the party and had said "masquerade" instead. She doesn't quite understand human aristocracy, but for a second her mind lingers to the mask she has, hidden carefully under the seam of her bag upstairs in her room. She shakes the thoughts from her mind, crossing the top balcony before descending down the cascades of stairs.

She can see Marie off to the side by her husband, talking in low voices. For a moment, Maka's very aware of the contact in her eye, handcrafted by the man opposite to her caregiver. The woman lapses momentarily to give her a thumbs up, nudging her partner. He raises his head and she can feel his eyes rake over her body; a familiar chill runs through her spine - she never quite liked the uncanny ability of Stein's to sniff out a ghoul - but if anything the corner of his lip twitches upward and he gives her a low nod.

Safe. For now.

Maka's eyes scan the crowd, looking, looking. She recognizes other members of the CCG, as well as several other members that she's talked to at least once. Her father had certainly introduced her to many before, but the names were all lost as she tries to recall who they are. And then a woman with the same, ashy hair strides forward, an arm already extended outwards in greeting.

"Anya," Maka says firmly. The woman stops and gives a faint curtsy. Only the small, faint tips of two triangles atop her head give away her costume; a regal black dress is familiar on her body, the mask as well - save for the upward curls on the corners of her eyes.

"Maka," she says pleasantly. "I wasn't going to come, but I had to for you."

"I know you hate parties," Maka says amicably, and the woman laughs into the back of her hand.

"Well, no one I know will be here from school. Why not?" And then her eyes travel to Maka's face, almost quizzically. "And you're dressed as a one-eyed ghoul?"

Maka nods once more, and she trills another laugh. "How cheeky of you."

"I'm glad you think so," Maka replies, and the truth in her words seem to touch the woman a bit.

"The food too is simply exquisite," the other blonde continues. Maka can't help but to marvel at human aristocracies' ability to keep talking about nothing. The woman steps aside, the crinolined bulb of her skirt brushing along with her. "You must try some."

Maka lifts her eyes, following the space that Anya graciously provided. She's long since trained herself from wincing at the sight of food, but nothing about the lavishly decorated table appeals to her. She's made a smart decision to eat earlier; coughing up food is always easier if she's already digested beforehand.

And then, a mass of white hair catches her eye.

"An Evans?" She can't help but to say, but mostly to herself.

Anya follows her gaze, her blue eyes crinkling in thought. "Not any Evans. I believe that's Soul."

The name reverberates through her core. Soul Evans. She can remember the proposal meeting, when the two of them were sat down in squashed chairs as her Papa and his Mama began to discuss. She remembers his uncomfortable figure, the way he glared at her when their eyes caught. And then, four years later, he'd separated from his family.

Were they technically engaged? Are they still? Something about the thought amuses her, and she gives Anya a polite pat on the arm. She can see from her peripherals that her blue eyes widen, her mouth falling open. "Are you going to talk to him? I saw him turning away conversation earlier."

"I am," Maka responds, refusing to lift her gaze as he strides down the table, evidently searching for something that wasn't as obnoxious as fois gras and pate. "I must attend to my guests." She can tell Anya isn't buying it - and for a moment, something akin to relief washes over her; as cognizant as Anya is, at least she herself has always been overlooked. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"I hope you mean tonight, and not at school," Anya says with a faint grin on her face, but she releases her grip on Maka's hand. She gives a polite curtsy that Anya mirrors, and Maka's careful not to brush too closely against her friend as she strides past her.

He's standing by the table, and for a moment her heart leaps into her throat. Red eyes. Piercing. She'd forgotten the colour of his irises - but the rest of them isn't as telltale as hers could be. And then she notices the makeshift fangs, affixed to his teeth in a way that probably wasn't comfortable. His hands reach to his nose - in another, surprisingly comforting gesture, for Maka wants nothing more but to imitate him, to prevent the terrible stench of rotting flesh and paint emanating from the 'food' before her from reaching her nostrils entirely.

The wry smile that fixes itself on her face, she realizes, isn't entirely a charade afterall.

"These things not to your tastes, either?"

—

Maka Albarn knows she isn't capable of love.

How could she be? With who she was, she doesn't even know who her own parents are. But something compels her to tell him to leave, something tells her that he'd be in danger. From who? Maybe from her.

She's never felt this kind of attachment - beyond familiarity - before, and she wonders if it's because they actually might still be engaged that drives her to make him leave.

She allows a bit of her predatory instinct to colour her voice. She lets her eyes darken just a smidge as she speaks. She can see his eyes widen in response, as the false fangs shift just enough to no longer be aligned with his teeth. She hopes she inspires a bit of fear inside of him, the prey knowing it's being hunted - if it makes him swifter on his heels, then all the better.

For the first time, she's a little happy that she's the head of the CCG's daughter. Maybe it'll make people actually listento her.

But she isn't beside him right now.

Suddenly, irrationally, fear takes over. He's a soft, squishy human - it doesn't take a particularly strong ghoul to break someone who's untrained. She's heard of his guard before, but he was nowhere in sight, and she believed that a man like Mifune would never allow his protege to go free. He could be in danger, she realizes, and before she knows what she's doing, she's fleeing up the steps of the ballroom, quickly towards her room.

The door flies open with more force than she expects, her bag still left off to the side where she'd laid it down. A lone stool sits in the middle of the room, the curling iron still draped around the seat - thankfully unplugged.

Maka strings her messenger bag back over her shoulder, uncaring that it pulls on Marie's perfect curls and that her dress dislodges awkwardly. Without a second thought, she carefully peels the contact from her eye, blinking furiously to wash away the protesting tears at the intrusion. She flings the worn item into the bin and flees down the stairs once more, a few heads turning at the sight of the clashing dress and bag, but it's only one wrist that snakes around her wrist.

"Maka," Marie's voice was low. "Where are you going?"

For a brief moment, resentment flashes through her. Not because Marie stopped her, but because her Papa didn't. He's nowhere in sight, even as her eyes wildly dance from one end of the room to the other. But she pushes the misplaced anger, because the woman beside her is wholly concerned. Like her Mama.

"Soul Evans," she breathes back. "He left and," she sucks in a breath. "I'm worried."

Marie's grip tightens. "No."

"I have to," Maka responds. She tries not to bounce on her heels and she focuses all her strength on not ripping her arm out of the woman's grasp. "He's in danger - it's tonight-"

"So are you," Marie says adamantly, and for the first time, Maka understands just why her tame caregiver was a squad leader for the CCG. Her one eye is blazing, her lips are pulled tight, and for a moment Maka swears she can see the skin around Marie's eyepatch wrinkle, a reminder of the same consequence the woman had, on this night, several years ago.

"I can take care of myself, Marie." Maka lowers her voice to be as bracing, as soothing as possible. "My Papa is the Head." And then, even quieter, "I need to know he's okay."

The woman softens her grip, and for a moment her expression twists into one of remorse. But then a hand falls on the woman's shoulder, and another one extends towards Maka. "She'll be alright," is the low, raspy voice of Stein. "Don't forget, they're technically betrothed."

Maka can feel the heat score across her cheeks.

Her eyes fall to the object in Stein's hand - a small, compact rod. "A quinque?"

Stein's soul-piercing stare aligns with hers. "It's not the best one, but it should help you get away."

Good, a case may have given her away. She holds Stein's stare once more, and a part of her actually recoils a little. His eyes lack the dulling fog that had previously made them at least approachable - now he was the predator. And she just understood how dangerous the couple is to her, when they'd always appeared as friendly family friends and coworkers before.

Maka tries hard not to bristle as she grasps the item in his hand, stowing it in her bag.

"I love you, Maka," Marie says, and her voice is so warm, so soothing, only bolstered when in contrast to Stein's hardness. She can see that the woman is genuinely worried, and for a brief second, her hand goes to her handiwork that is Maka's hair. "Come back quickly, okay?"

For a moment, all Maka wants to do is settle into the woman's arms - even though they've ended several lives of her kind.

"I will," she murmurs, and she tries her hardest to meet her eyes.

—

He's on the floor, and he's bleeding, and he's crumpled, and he's not moving.

Terror surges through her body, before she settles back up. The ghoul is perched on top of a banister, one arm gripping the other where her kagune had torn through his flesh. He's seething, scarlet red dripping in the waning moonlight, and she doesn't have to hear his voice to know who it is.

"Black Star."

She turns to the bloodied, unmoving mess behind him. "I can't let you do this."

"Why not?"

Because he's your friend. Because he's an Evans. Because they'll know he's gone missing. Because he's my fiance.

His voice isn't driven by hunger, that much is for sure. Maka can't begin to think about who else he's fed on tonight - for she knew that no other ghoul took as much pleasure as he did when it came to terrorizing civilians during Halloween.

She doesn't stop her kagune from manifesting - two large iridescent wings that beat once as she flexes. They stretch from her back, quivering with effort, and she lunges forward. The spikes form and shoot like bullets at him, each release feeding to her bloodlust, her anger,as she watches with grim satisfaction as Black Star falters back, curses spewing from his mouth.

Maka straightens as the ghoul before her curls forward, inky tendrils unfurling from his kakahou lodged deep into his back. They thrash once, a loud crash echoing in the alleyway. "Pigtails,"he snarls, and the familiar insult is easy to brush off. After all, the ghoul always loved gloating to her how well he's hiding from the CCG - how he's so close to the Evans that got away. How he's doing a better time under pressure than she was, under the nose of her father.

This time, the nickname means much more.

She doesn't try to disguise the manner in which her wings flex, beating once. A dull part of her acknowledges her wings stretching backward, the familiar pinpricks of heat dotting her spine as they form bullets once more. She rolls her shoulders back, trying to keep her voice cool and aloof. "You've already fed once tonight, you should leave."

He doesn't back off, though, and he only sinks lower into his haunches. The rinkaku kagune tenses, quivering, as if assessing where to strike, where to most effectively pierce to reach her ukaku. Maka breathes and leans forward - a fresh surge of power bursting from the tips of her shoulder blades. The refuelling had a purpose, then. She let her kagune spread, the corners of her peripherals glowing in shades of red and yellow and green, the body of each wing spiked.

She inhales once, and layers her voice as thickly as she can. After all, regardless if Soul is compromised tonight or not, she can't let this go unreported to her father.

"And if you don't want to die, then I suggest you pack your bags and start running."

The realization dawns on his face, so fast it's nearly comical, but then he pulls his lips back and lets another snarl burst from his teeth. And then Black Star turns on his heels, bounding away with the aid of his kagune - and then it was still, save for the spluttering and fading gasps of breaths behind her.

Maka turns before she can even think - she takes two long strides and kneels beside the fading man. "What did I tell you?" Her whisper isn't intentional, but she can hardly stop her voice from cracking. Just as involuntarily, her fingers stretch and skim across the side of his jacket, the black disguising the colour but the wetness of the fabric a giveaway to his injury. She does her best to ignore the smell of his blood - enticing, especially since she'd used her kagune. He shifts a little under her touch, and she realizes his eyes are raising upward.

Before she realizes, she recoils slightly, hoping the messy and unruly mess that were her ringlets could at least obscure her face. And then, with surprising vigour, his grip secures around her chin - with just enough strength to surprise her, but the weakness of it otherwise enough to make her heart drop.

He pulls her towards him, and in a way, she lets him. She lets her head turn - she almost wills her head to turn - because she's not safe. She's not human and he can't be here. He's her prey, and as much as it pained her to admit it, the smell of his flesh is enticing, enough to know kakugan is still active, to know that her eyes still seared black back into him.

He registers that first. Maka can tell as a wheeze bursts from his lips and what should have been a yelp only gurgled in his throat. With sudden effort - with sudden instinct -his hands grapple backwards, nails scratching against the rough surface of cobblestone as he lurches backwards. And then he curls inwards protectively, shaking, and if he had control of his voice, he'd probably be whispering to himself deliriously, too.

She'd seen that reaction far too often for her liking.

She steps forward - she wants to touch him, to tell him that he's safe. She wants to do something. But he moves back another step, staggering, nearly falling over.

His name dies on her lips.

If anything, the one thing she knew only reaffirms itself in her mind: she is a monster.

"Soul," she tries again, and he jumps, his once-confident red eyes reduced to nothing but tears and fright. "Nothing I said tonight was a lie."

Briefly, her mind wonders what her life would've been like, if he'd accepted the proposal. Would they be wed already? Would he have known anyways?

She doesn't let the thoughts leave her mind as she extends a hand. And then she steels it, raises it back, and strikes it hard against his neck.

He crumples before her.

—

She can't stay, she can't stay, she can't stay.

Her hand shakes as she reaches for his phone. Without hesitating, she smashes it against the wall before her, shattering it into several tiny pieces, and she grinds the remnants in her palm, reducing the rest to rubble in her fingertips.

Maka reaches down to her gown and rips, the bulbous skirt coming apart as simply as if she'd been tearing paper. She pauses, before pressing the scraps of her dress against his blood, staining the white to a deep, dark red.

She tears off a sleeve for good measure.

Scattering the fabric around the scene, she pauses - and then reaches to her where her kagune had struck, wrapping her hands around each spike and wincing as the material scores into her flesh. she watches as the appendage disintegrates in her hands, scattering into the crisp, night air.

Her quinque.

She pulls the rod from her backpack. She sees it then, just a small bug, rigged along the ridge of the weapon. A tracker. She grimaces and activates the quinque, a long pole extended forward, the ends supple and mobile - made from a rinkaku, as well. Maka whips it once lashing it at the side, and the quinque unfurls, like a whip, cracking against the ground.

She strikes the buildings around her for good measure, watching rubble fall before her like rain, before laying the weapon upright.

With one, heavy sigh, her kagune flexes, and then pierces it, into one, then two, then a dozen pieces.

Maka leaves the bug intact, just in case.

There was one last thing to do.

Her hand hesitates on her own phone - and for a moment, she wants to send a message - to Anya, to Marie, to her Papa.

She steels her will and dials another number, instead. It rings twice, before the sound of loud music, the deep reverberating bass a complete contrast to the serene classical ballads from the party, answers her.

"Hello?"

"It's me," she says lowly.

"Are you alright?"

"No," she answers truthfully. She eyes the mass of white hair and red blood before her. He's still breathing - that's a good sign. "Soul Evans is here. We're at the corner of Jack and Ripper street, in the alleyway. I need you to take him home. Home-home."

The voice on the other side hesitates. "Maka, if you-"

"I didn't," she responds as patiently as she can. "Look, he's in shock, and he's dying, and if you don't get here nowhe willdie."

The voice pauses once more. "… Okay. And you?"

It's her turn to pause now. "I don't know. But he can't look for me." She can hear the other side take a sharp inhale, but she interrupts before she could. "I'll try to keep in touch, okay? Thanks. I really owe you one, Liz."

And then she hangs up.

Maka lets another shaky breath loose. Her bag is still perched on the side, contents askew. Good. She tucks a hand inside her bag, groping around the bottom of the seam. Her hand curls around the object. With a slow, deliberate drag, she pulls out her mask - the Fallen Angel.

With one, long sigh, she drags the mask over her face.

She pulls her phone up once more, thumbing in a number she's memorized.

The call is answered, but no voice is on the other side.

"Kid, I've been compromised."

….

"We'll meet you at 13th street."

And with that, Maka crushes her phone into dust, it too scattering into the breeze.