~ cannot help what they are.

While many here know what he is and listen begrudgingly, this Elsa likely does not.

He should tell her but isn’t in any rush to do so. Jack can only hope no one else spills the proverbial beans before he is ready.

~ help steady his nerves.

“I am here to speak on behalf of the hunted.”

Those who most here would readily dismiss as irredeemable monsters. Jack wants to show them otherwise — that beings who are not human can be civil. That they have hopes and dreams. Some, like him, were even once human and ~

He has a name, though “Russell” isn’t the one that would open any doors for him. As for being a hunter . . . well, he is naturally a hunter even if not the kind she means.

“I’m . . . an advocate. Of sorts,” Jack replies, releasing her hand and finally taking a sip of his drink. Perhaps, it would ~

Masks he knows, though Jack isn’t certain /which/ is his mask: the face he wears now or what he becomes.

Who is the real him?

Maybe, it’s both/and.

“Thank you,” he replies gratefully, though he’s a cheap date ordering a glass of Chilean wine.

“And thank you for inviting me.”

~ monstrousness ever would.

~ more worried.

“Your fame precedes you.”

He considers a moment the risks and rewards of shaking her hand. If the gem behaves itself . . .

He holds out his hand.

“Jack. Russell. Lamentably like the dog,” he adds with a self-deprecating smile.

Modesty in this place stands out more than ~

~ The man clears his throat.

“Forgive me . . . Ms. Bloodstone.”

He reminds himself that this Elsa does not know him. Being too familiar would be suspicious. That the Elsa he knew seemingly had been replaced by another explains why he had not heard from her. Which makes him less dejected but ~

He spies the Bloodgem — the eerie pulsing glow that seemingly whispers /I know what you are/. Instinctively, Jack takes a step backwards.

Taking a breath, he calms himself. The full moon had passed. As long as she doesn’t try to /use/ that thing, he would be fine. Everyone here would be fine. ~

That she’s seemingly nervous somehow reassures him.

Jack does well enough in social settings, but he’s more humble than his pedigree would suggest.

At least he’s not alone in this.

“Read my mind . . .” he jokes.

Hunters. He supposes that’s not entirely wrong, even if it’s not in the way she means.

Sliding out of the car, Jack takes her hand.

The gesture is simple but means the world to him.

“I know I could use some fun. Ted is always telling me so. A friend of mine.”

“Russoff,” he comments. “From Romania initially.”

His father didn’t exactly share that the family was cursed, so it doesn’t hurt to share that.

She simply would find an old family with a long line.

“I changed my name.”

“People like us? People . . . with an inheritance?” he jokes.

Jack has that in the conventional sense, too, but she would likely have to dig into the name Russoff to find that. He might have legally changed his name, but the estate still reflects the family one.

He is surprised, though maybe he shouldn’t be. To her, he’s just a guy. Not . . . well, he’s going to enjoy this while it lasts.

“Where are we going exactly?”

Does he want to? Of course, he does.

Even if he reminds himself that /this/ Elsa doesn’t know him. At least not all of him.

Still, he takes her hand and hopes for the best.

“I’d like to.”