Artist, realizing the threat as he was now the one in Spunk’s range, sidestepped as to expose Isaac before pushing him forward.

  "You bitch!” Isaac yelled at Artist before throwing up his hands defensively. “Spunk, I like my hair the way it is! Please!"

  But Spunk was determined, their tiny paw gripping the clippers with a confident flick. "You said you wanted to blend in!" Spunk teased, eyes glinting as they edged closer. "And what’s a new outfit without a new hairstyle?"

  Isaac looked at Artist, wide-eyed. "Do you think we can outrun them?"

  Artist smirked. "I'm not sure I want to find out."

  Then, with a playful grin, he called out, "Okay, Spunk, you win! But let’s take it easy, yeah? I still need to look like me."

  Spunk’s face lit up with a triumphant grin. "Oh, you’ll still be you—just a better version!" They winked before clicking the clippers off for the moment. "Now, who’s first?"

  Isaac and Artist exchanged nervous glances, both of them silently wondering just how “better” Spunk’s version of them would turn out to be.

  Spunk, brimming with excitement, wasted no time getting to work.

  As Artist nervously sat down, Spunk began by pulling out the clippers with a grin. After a flurry of buzzing and snipping, Artist stood up to inspect his new look.

  His once untamed hair had been transformed into an intricate style of locs, twisted up into a high bun adorned with golden cuffs with some of the locs falling loosely around the head, giving a relaxed look.

  The sides were neatly shaved into a sharp undercut, giving him a fierce yet stylish appearance that matched the intensity of his gaze.

  Artist, having been given a mirror by Spunk, stared at his reflection, stunned.

  "Well… it's definitely something new," Artist muttered, touching one of the golden cuffs on his locks. “Honestly, it looks great, but again where and why the hell do you have this stuff?”

  Spunk, flashing a victorious grin, puffed out their chest before they spoke, "Told you I'd make you beautiful!"

  Isaac, who had been watching the whole process with increasing excitement, couldn’t help but smile as Spunk turned their attention toward him.

  "Alright, let's just get this over with," he said, sitting down with a grin.

  With a gleam in their eye, Spunk flicked the clippers on once again, setting to work. After a few minutes of cutting, trimming, and styling, Isaac was left with his familiar, curly hairstyle. However, now the sides of his head were sharply undercut, featuring precise lines shaved into his temples giving him a more striking and charismatic presence.

  Isaac, taking the mirror from Artist who was still admiring his own reflection, studied himself in the mirror and raised an eyebrow.

  "I actually look... kinda awesome," he admitted, impressed by the stylish transformation.

  Spunk, clearly satisfied with their handiwork, stood back, crossing their arms. "Of course you do! Now you two are ready to take on anything."

  Artist and Isaac exchanged glances, both silently wondering how a simple disguise had turned into an unexpected fashion statement.

  As the night wore on, the lively energy from their impromptu haircut session gave way to a quiet calm. The campfire burned low, its amber glow flickering against the rocks and sand around them. The once-bustling atmosphere now felt peaceful, almost serene.

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  Spunk, now thoroughly worn out from their earlier antics, had curled up in Artist’s lap, snoring loudly for someone of their tiny frame.

  Artist sat cross-legged near the fire, his windbreaker reflecting faint flickers of the dying light. Spunk lay curled up in his lap, snoring loudly.

  Isaac, sitting nearby with his arms resting on his knees, stared into the remnants of the fire. The glow danced in his eyes as his thoughts drifted. The weight of what lay ahead pressed heavily on his shoulders, but he took comfort in the quiet moment of reprieve.

  Artist glanced down at Spunk, a rare softness in his expression. He shifted slightly, careful not to wake them, and rested his back against a nearby rock.

  “Looks like they finally wore themselves out,” Isaac murmured, his voice low so as not to disturb the quiet.

  Artist nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “They’ve got a surprising amount of energy for someone so small. Guess it finally caught up with them.”

  For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence between them wasn’t heavy; it was the kind of silence that only came after a long day, a shared understanding that no words were needed. Above them, the stars twinkled faintly, their light softened by the haze of the campfire smoke.

  Finally, Isaac shifted, drawing his gaze away from the fire and toward the horizon. “We should get some rest too. Tomorrow’s not gonna be easy.”

  Artist leaned his head back against the rock, gazing at the sky as if searching for answers among the stars. With a joking yet almost somber tone, he broke the silence. “And here I thought we were staying up for a reason.”

  Isaac glanced at Artist, his expression unreadable in the dying light of the fire. “You know, I’ve never considered myself the best judge of character, but what’s with you?” he said, his voice low but carrying a faint edge. “Nothing you’ve said or done has made any sense.”

  Artist raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “Oh? Care to elaborate?” he asked, his voice calm but laced with curiosity.

  Isaac gestured vaguely in the air, as if trying to grasp the right words. “Let’s start with the fact you're a wanted criminal for murdering some high-ranking officer in the Kraken Guild, who then gave your captor a bomb in the form of a cat plushie. Then there’s everything that happened with Verisde least we forget they were mainly after you. And on top of all that you drag me halfway across the coast to enter a dungeon raid—while sewing plushies like a madman in the middle of a cursed wasteland!”

  Artist smirked at that, leaning forward slightly as the firelight danced across his face. “I told you, I’m full of surprises.”

  Isaac didn’t return the humor, his frustration bubbling over. “It’s not just that, Artist! You don’t add up. One minute, you’re cracking jokes like nothing bothers you, and the next, there’s this... this weight about you. Like you’re running from something, or trying to prove something.”

  Artist leaned back again, his grin fading into something more contemplative. For a moment, he said nothing, the quiet stretching between them. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and Spunk’s soft snores.

  “You’re not wrong,” Artist finally said, his tone uncharacteristically subdued. He didn’t meet Isaac’s gaze, instead staring into the fire. “I am running. From a lot of things. And yeah, I’ve done things I’m not proud of. But if you’re expecting me to spill my life story, you’re gonna be disappointed.”

  Isaac sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not asking for your life story, Artist. I just want to know what I’m walking into. If we’re doing this dungeon raid—if we’re sticking together—then I need to know you’re not going to get me killed over something you’re not telling me.”

  Artist’s eyes flicked up to meet Isaac’s, his expression unreadable.

  “Fair enough,” he said softly. “But trust works both ways, Isaac. You’ve got secrets too, don’t you? You’re just as much of a criminal as me; you’re some nobody who pops up with a legendary beast soul talking about starting your own empire who decides that instead of doing so by you know making alliances with the existing head houses instead wants to destroy probably the second if not the largest house in existence—there’s more to your story than you’ve let on.”

  Isaac opened his mouth to retort but stopped himself, realizing Artist had a point. He exhaled slowly, the anger ebbing away. “Yeah, maybe I do,” he admitted. “But that’s not the same as dragging someone else into your mess. You’re here with me by your own decisions.”

  Artist shrugged, his smirk returning, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Again, fair enough. But like it or not, we’re in this mess together now.”

  The two men sat in silence once more, the tension between them settling into a fragile truce. Finally, Isaac shifted his gaze toward the horizon, his voice softer now. “We should get some rest. Tomorrow’s not gonna be easy.”

  Artist nodded, his usual bravado tempered by a flicker of sincerity. “Agreed. Just... try not to snore louder than Spunk.”

  Isaac chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. “No promises.”

  “Wouldn’t want you to go boom so probably for the best.” Artist joked.

  A silent chill ran down Isaac’s spine as he realized what Artist was referencing.

  As the fire burned lower, the two men leaned into the quiet of the night, their uneasy alliance beginning to find its footing amidst the uncertainty of what lay ahead.