Victory at The Men’s Department
Filed under: Department of Sanguine Warfare Chronicles
There’s something inherently poetic about a fight breaking out in The Men’s Department. Rows of pressed shirts, glass cases full of watches no one needs, mirrors reflecting vanity from every angle — a cathedral of masculine posturing.
And into that temple of hubris walked Angel AB Terrorstar.
She wasn’t alone. On either side of her were Kitty AB Nite, the ever-watchful course instructor with the kind of smirk that could unnerve a warlord, and Ali AB Night, quiet but ready, eyes sharp and fangs sharper. They weren’t there to shop. They were there to make sure nothing got out of hand — though with Angel, “out of hand” tends to be the fun part.
That’s when she saw him.
Niss.
He was lingering near the cologne counter, pretending to browse. But even from across the aisle, the tension crackled. Their eyes met like flint striking steel.
Neither spoke. They didn’t need to. Every predator knows when they’ve found their rival.
The first move came sudden — a blur of motion between the racks. Angel lunged; Niss slipped sideways, vanishing behind a wall of black coats. Shoppers scattered like startled pigeons, leaving behind the faint perfume of terror and aftershave.
For thirty minutes, the two danced a brutal ballet between mannequins and mirrors. Angel struck with lethal precision, while Niss moved with a cunning rhythm, evading, countering, taunting. Every strike was a test — every dodge a lesson. Kitty watched with the calm detachment of a teacher grading a favorite pupil, while Ali leaned on the counter, quietly impressed.
“Keep your center,” Kitty called once, her voice smooth and sure. “He’ll burn himself out trying to run.”
And he did.
By the twentieth minute, Niss’s evasions had slowed. Angel’s patience never wavered. Each movement became more deliberate, more serpentine — a predator reeling in her prey with quiet inevitability.
When she finally caught him, it wasn’t with rage or bloodlust. It was with grace. A single calculated bite, the mark of control — not carnage. Niss froze, realizing too late that the fight had never truly been his to win.
No blood spilled. No collapse. Just the clean, beautiful silence of victory.
Angel straightened her coat, fangs retracting, a satisfied glint in her eye. Kitty gave a small approving nod — the kind she saves for students who finally understand that power isn’t in frenzy, but in restraint.
Ali broke the silence first. “Guess that’s one way to clear a department store.”
Angel laughed, low and wicked. “Didn’t even mess up my hair.”
Later, when they left The Men’s Department, the air behind them still hummed with the echo of what had just occurred — a clash not of savagery, but of mastery.
“Strike not in hunger, but in truth. For the beast that kills without purpose is a slave, but the one who restrains the fang until revelation is a god.” (Book of Ash and Judgement, 2:14–15)
And so the lesson stands — even amid racks of fine suits and false bravado, the art of war remains sacred.
Through Discipline, Dominion.
— Department of Sanguine Warfare
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