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terriblesoup · 1 day ago

Text

Bad egg

Part six of Rinse, repeat

A/N: I owe a new respect for all fanfic writers that write fics with 20k words because what in God's name was that, I am never writing something this long in my life unless I'm getting paid yall tf.

Summary: Sylus keeps finding himself meeting her in both his temp jobs. She is there, she is mesmerizing, and she is definitely shady.

Content: Sylus POV, Rich MC, Poor Sylus, SFW, cute, romance, Sylus works two jobs. non-cannon character for Sylus. swapped personalities

Chapter mentions: Angst, mentions of child trafficking, gunshots, Guilt thoughts, heavy thoughts. DEATH, blood, cussing, kids crying.

Word count: 10K

Part 5

4 AM — 20 Hours left.

The air in the room carried the weight of too many hours without rest, thick with smoke that clung to the walls and maps spread across the table. Knives, glasses, and stray pencils pinned down the corners, as if the paper itself might try to escape the pressure of so many eyes. No one spoke. No one shifted. The silence was louder than any command barked in the field.

Mephisto twitched on his perch near the far wall, his wing wrapped in a careful bandage, his low caw cutting through the hush. It wasn’t enough to break the tension, only to remind everyone that even the bird could sense the unease. The men pretended to study the lines and marks scrawled over the maps, but their eyes weren’t really moving. They weren’t calculating routes or choke points anymore. They were listening. Waiting.

The countdown pressed at the back of every mind. Twenty hours left. Not a measure of time, but a tightening rope. The lines on the maps no longer looked like solutions, they looked like traps, proof of how badly this could go wrong.

But worse than Riv, worse than the shrinking hours, was the air between the two figures at the head of the table. The men felt it, sharp as steel. This wasn’t strategy anymore, not really. It was the undercurrent of something personal, dangerous, bleeding through into command. Everyone knew it, though no one would dare say it aloud: the tension in the room wasn’t about Riv. It was about their leaders.

The weight of their silence pressed down on the men like a hand to the throat. They sat stiff-backed, eyes lowered, careful not to shift or draw attention, waiting for the inevitable break. They all knew it was coming; the storm, the words sharp enough to cut. The only question was which voice would strike first, and how hard the blow would land.

Sylus’ voice struck the room like a blade against stone. “We move nothing. She stays hidden. I’ll deal with Riv myself. That’s how it was meant to be.”

Her reply came sharp, unwavering, each word landing like iron against his chest. “You’ll do no such thing. If you fall, we lose everything. I will not sit idle while you throw yourself at him. The twins are his aim so if we wait, he’ll strike first.”

Sylus turned on her, his gaze blazing with fury. “Do you hear yourself? You’d march them straight to him? That’s not a plan, that’s handing them into his grasp.”

Her jaw set, her eyes narrowing with cutting precision. “Do not call me reckless. I’ve carried this kind of business longer than you’ve breathed inside it. You want Riv dead, I want Riv dead, but do not think you hold the final word.” Her voice dropped, edged. “This fight is mine as much as yours, and my decision stands.”

The air in the room thickened, heavy as storm clouds before the break. The men shifted uneasily, leather creaking, boots scraping against the floor. No one dared speak, though the silence itself seemed to beg release.

Sylus’ teeth clenched, his pride bleeding through every word. “ You think this stubbornness makes you untouchable? You risk the children’s lives to prove yourself.”

Her voice dropped lower, cold and final, leaving no space for challenge. “Better that I act than watch you falter. My word is final, Sylus. The twins are brought here. We prepare the defenses.”

The words fell like iron bars locking into place. Around them, the men bowed their heads, subdued, unwilling to lift their gaze.

Sylus said nothing more. His silence was heavier than rage, his hands tight around the maps until the edges tore. She stood unflinching, her verdict closing the meeting as if it were law itself.

When the men dispersed, the air still carried the taste of conflict. They did not miss the way Sylus’ shoulders shook with unspent fury, nor how her voice lingered in their ears, the last word belonging only to her.

9:00 AM. — 15 hours left.

The truck groaned along the cracked road, its tires grinding against gravel and broken glass, headlights cutting narrow tunnels of light through the dark. Inside, the air was tight, thick with diesel and the faint tang of gun oil. Sylus sat in the passenger seat, shoulders rigid, fingers pressed against the window frame as if the steel itself could steady the storm moving under his skin.

He said nothing, but the silence around him was edged, sharp enough that the driver didn’t dare fill it with words. Every shift of his jaw, every twitch in the set of his hand spoke of restlessness, fury contained but not softened. His gaze never stayed still—sweeping the tree line, flicking back to the rearview to count the silhouettes of the convoy behind them, searching for what he already felt was out there.

The rhythm of the engine only magnified the pulse in his chest. He could hear her voice from the meeting still echoing in his head, cold and final, her will pressed over his like a weight. He hated that it lingered, that he carried it with him even here, miles away. The leather of the seat creaked beneath his grip as he leaned forward, jaw set, eyes locked on the road as though he could will it to show its teeth.

Sylus was a man on edge, caught between silence and eruption, the night pressing in around the truck as if it, too, was waiting for him to break.

The road bent away from the crumbling walls of the old church, its stones bathed in the faint glow of the moon. They had left the church only minutes ago. Its silhouette still lingered in the rearview mirror, the spire shrinking into shadow until it became nothing more than another shape in the night. Sylus couldn’t stop watching it fade, even as the distance grew. The sight pressed on him like a weight. He remembered it not as it was now but as it had been when he was younger. The echo of prayers, the warmth of hands that had steadied him when no one else had bothered, the rare kindness given to a boy who had no right to expect it.

How had it come to this? How had he walked so far from that quiet grace into the pit he now sat in, bruised with choices he could not undo? Was he truly so blind, so foolish, to think he could steer his life alone? He wanted to believe he had been clever once, that he had chosen with reason. Yet now, on this road, with war circling closer, he could not escape the thought: was guidance all he had ever lacked? Had the absence of it been enough to twist every decision into failure?

The twins flickered across his mind, the fragile hope he had given them. A hope he was certain he had already betrayed. He had told himself he would save them, yet every step felt like a misstep, every choice another wrong turn. Even now, even in rescue, he managed only to fail them. It was as though the future slipped through his hands no matter how tightly he held it, no matter how fiercely she fought for it beside him.

He wished, in that moment, that someone, anyone, might forgive him. Forgive the boy who had once been carried in gentle hands, the man who had stumbled so far from that path, a father figure he wished to be who could not promise his children safety. His throat burned with words he would never say aloud. The church faded in the rearview, swallowed by distance, but its weight lingered like stone upon his chest.

The church was behind them now, its spire shrinking into the night, but its shadow clung to him. For a moment, the silence almost felt safe.

Then the world tore open.

A thunderous bang split the night, a violent roar that shook the truck’s frame. The air behind them bloomed with fire and smoke, black plumes swallowing the sky where the church had stood. The driver slammed the brakes, tires screaming, and Sylus’ chest heaved with a sharp, breathless shock. But instinct came quicker than fear.

“Don’t stop!” Sylus barked, voice cracking as his hand slammed against the dashboard. His breath came hard, his body already coiled. “Keep driving!”

The driver barely had time to press the accelerator before the sharp crack of a single shotgun echoed from the distance. One sound, clean and deliberate. The bullet tore through the night, whistling like fate itself, and then the truck lurched violently as the rear tire exploded under the blast.

Metal screamed. The truck swerved. Gravity buckled. Sylus barely managed a curse before the world turned upside down. The truck rolled, glass shattering into a storm of razors, the road and sky flipping until there was no difference between them. His body wrenched against the belt, the world a blur of steel and dirt and violence.

When it slammed to a stop, the road was gone, carved off into silence and wreckage. Smoke curled in the air, mingling with the distant echoes of fire, and the night was no longer still.

The trap had closed, and the last thing he saw before the black closed in was the flare of Riv’s headlights cutting across the wreckage, a pack of wolves circling the kill.

The warehouse was a hollow place, its stone walls sweating with damp, its rafters heavy with cobweb and dust. A single lamp swung above the table, its glow a harsh and meager crown of light, throwing long, crooked shadows that made the corners seem deeper than they were. The silence was thick, broken only by the faint groan of timber and the restless shifting of men who had known war, but not this.

She entered with no hurry. The kind of calm that unnerves soldiers more than steel. A leather bag in hand, its weight audible in the way it thudded softly against the table. She did not speak at first. She only reached in, drawing out thick folders that looked plain enough until they touched the wood and the sound of them landing seemed louder than it should have.

The first she pushed across the table. The man who took it opened with a smirk meant to mock, a smirk that died quick. His eyes crawled down the page, and his breath caught. His own handwriting stared back at him, accounts of shipments, of bribes tucked into coffins, of children lost between borders. All his ghosts, bound neatly in paper.

He looked up, lips parting for a protest that never came. She silenced him with the smallest of gestures — two fingers raised, almost tender. “Keep reading.”

The next folder slid across to the gaunt man with the nervous twitch. His fingers quivered even before he touched it. The first page was a transcript of his voice, a telephone call he had made in confidence. The second was an account ledger that bared every hidden coin. By the third, his chest rose and fell unevenly, as though air had grown scarce.

“You think you’re ghosts,” she said then, her tone low, calm, unyielding. “But you all had shadows and I followed every single one.”

The woman with the golden rings received hers next. Her chin tilted high, lips curved in disdain as she broke the seal. But the arrogance drained quick when her eyes fell upon the photographs. Lovers in forbidden beds. A child tucked away in secrecy. And worse, the debt collector she had thought buried in obscurity, his broken body staring back at her in grainy capture. Her hand trembled above the page, unable to turn it.

“Our privacy,” she rasped, though her voice was weak.

her smile was slight, almost kind. “You lost that the moment you put blood on your hands.”

The man with the scar across his temple was slower to open his. He stared at the folder long, jaw set as though bracing for a blow. And when he looked within, he found one. Bodies, lined up in riverside mud. Names he had long since forgotten. He clenched his fist, veins taut, but the voice that cut him was soft, almost pitying. “I remember for you.”

Two brothers sat side by side, folders dropped before them together. They hesitated, exchanged a look, and opened as one. The younger closed his shut almost instantly, face white, sweat damp at his brow. The elder lingered, reading line after line, until his lips moved soundlessly, a prayer or curse, none could tell.

Now the air was leaden, the weight of it pressing down with every turned page. What had been a gathering of lords in shadowed trade was reduced to a room of men and women clutching their own undoing. Pages whispered as they turned, the sound brittle, like dry leaves crushed underfoot.

“Do you understand now?” she asked, her voice threading through the silence. “I don’t need your loyalty. I already own it. I’ve carved your respect out of you with every page you’re holding.”

The man with the scar slammed his hand upon the table, the sound brittle, desperate. “This… this is war. You think you can scare us into—”

Her gaze cut to him, cold and certain, the way winter breaks the harvest. “Not war. Judgment.”

The younger brother shut his folder almost, face pale, his eyes refusing to linger on what stared back at him. The elder, though, turned the pages slow, lips parting, his jaw stiff as though it pained him to read. When at last he raised his head, his voice was hoarse, stripped of the swagger he once carried.

“So, what do you want?”

The question broke the silence like glass underfoot. The others shifted, glancing toward her, waiting. She did not answer right away. Instead, she tilted her head, regarding him with something close to approval. A faint nod, almost gracious, as if she were commending a student who had finally asked the right question.

“I want Riv,” she said at last, her tone measured, unhurried, a calm blade sliding between ribs. “Every deal made with him, every secret you whispered, every decision, every breath you shared with him, every laughter. All of it.”

She leaned forward, the light catching her eyes, hard and unwavering. “Because if not, then this—” she gestured to the folders spread open before them, their lives carved bare in ink and paper—“would be a waste. And it would be such a shame for all your sins to simply be dropped at the cops doors like a neatly wrapped gift.”

The words fell on them like a hammer in a tomb.

Silence followed, thick, absolute. The folders lay open before them like coffins awaiting their dead. None dared close them. None dared speak. She tapped her finger against the wood, slow, deliberate, a rhythm that was neither hurried nor restless. It was the sound of someone who already owned the room, who had no need to raise her voice. Across from her, every one of them stared back in silence, each wearing the same expression: defeated, tired, exposed. Men who had built empires of blood and steel reduced to brittle shells by a stack of paper, by her hand.

And yet, even as she drank in their unraveling, her mind drifted.

Was Sylus all right? She could still see the look on his face that morning, the way anger had carved lines in his features, the way her own words had struck him harder than any blade could. Their fight had been too sharp, too brutal. He had walked out carrying more than fury—he carried doubt, and doubt was poison. She had meant to protect him, to shield him, and somehow she had done the opposite.

Her thoughts pulled further, to the twins. To two boys who bore no blame and yet were tangled in all of it. They didn’t even know her—didn’t know her face, her voice, her scent. They had no reason to forgive her, and yet she prayed they would. Forgive her tardiness, forgive the time wasted while Riv grew stronger, forgive her selfish way of moving pieces across a board while pretending it had all been quick, precise, simple. Forgive her for being late. For always being late.

And Sylus, he had given her more than she had deserved, stood by her when she had shown him nothing but walls and a criminal facade. Would he forgive her, when this was over? For the way she had made him feel powerless in front of her men? For the way she kept choosing steel and blood over gentleness? She called herself ruthless, necessary, but in truth, she had been useless for too long. She only hoped he would see her not as the sum of her sins but as someone trying, however clumsily, to carve a future for them both.

Her gaze slipped back to the men at the table. Their faces were lined with unease, their pride flaking away under the weight of their exposed secrets. They looked small now, though their names had once carried thunder across territories. She studied each pair of eyes until they looked away. And then, almost absentmindedly, she smiled, soft, entertained and dangerous.

3 PM — 10 Hours left.

When Sylus opened his eyes, the first thing he registered was pain. Not sharp, not fleeting, but a steady, suffocating ache that lived everywhere in his body. His jaw was swollen, pulsing like a second heartbeat, his ribs burned every time he tried to draw breath, and his wrists screamed raw against the ropes that held him bound behind his back. The floor beneath him was concrete, rough and cold, sucking the heat from his body as though even the ground wanted to bleed him dry. He sat on his knees, spine bowed forward, breath coming shallow and thin. The taste of copper coated his tongue, sticky and bitter, and the dull fog in his skull made it impossible to tell how long he had been unconscious. Minutes. Hours. Maybe longer. Time didn’t matter anymore. Only the pain did.

His thoughts stumbled as he tried to gather them, but they fell apart as quickly as they came. The twins. The church. The truck. The explosion. The sound of the wheel bursting and the world flipping sideways. He remembered being thrown against the iron frame, ribs cracking like old wood. He remembered the air being crushed out of him, the world tilting and spinning, and then nothing but black. And now—this. Here. Alone. Tied like an animal in a den full of wolves.

The scrape of boots echoed through the hollow chamber, low and slow, deliberate. Sylus forced his head up, his neck screaming against the effort, and the fog in his vision cleared just enough to see him. Riv.

He stepped from the shadow like he’d been waiting for this moment all his life, his smile wide, cruel, not just a man entering a room but a master returning to what belonged to him. His coat swung open, his hands empty, but there was no mistaking the weight he carried. The men flanking the walls leaned forward, rifles slung, their laughter low and eager, waiting for permission to do more. Riv had no need to raise his voice; the silence bent for him, heavy and suffocating.

“So,” Riv drawled, circling Sylus like a predator circling a wounded beast. “They sent you. The great Sylus, the noble protector, the man who thinks himself built of stone.” He crouched low, bringing his face close, the stench of smoke and rot heavy on his breath. “Tell me, how did that feel? Driving toward hope, toward salvation, only to have it burn to ash right behind you?” His lips curved, satisfaction dripping from every word. “Did you hear it? The explosion tearing through their sanctuary? That was your doing. Your choices.”

Sylus clenched his jaw, though the pressure sent lightning through the bone. He refused to give him the sound of pain, refused to let him taste it. His silence was the only shield he had left, and even that felt brittle.

Riv chuckled and stood, pacing, each bootstep ringing sharp. “But don’t worry. I’ll ease your suffering with the truth. You see—while you were scrambling like a desperate fool with your little convoy, my men were patient. Clever. They knew to wait for the right road, the right truck.” He paused, savoring the tension, and when he spoke again his voice was velvet wrapped around a knife. “And there they were. The twins. Not in yours, no, but in another, a pitiful attempt to deceive me. You thought you were clever, Sylus. You thought you could trick me.” He laughed, a hollow, triumphant sound that bounced off the steel walls. “But they’re mine now. Mine. Finally, the game ends.”

Sylus’ stomach turned, a twisting coil of sickness and rage. He wanted to deny it, to spit the lie back in Riv’s face, but the ropes cut deeper every time he shifted, and his chest felt too tight to breathe. The thought of the innocent boys sliced through him sharper than any blade could. He wanted to scream, to throw himself forward, to tear Riv apart with his teeth if his hands could not, but his body was too broken, too heavy, too weak.

Riv saw it. He savored it. He knelt again, his grin close enough for Sylus to see the cracks in his teeth, his voice dropping to a whisper, intimate and poisonous. “Now we can settle this, you and I. You have fought, resisted, played at being a savior. But in the end, I hold the children, I hold the leverage, and I hold your life in my hands. What’s left for you but to beg?”

Sylus’ throat burned with swallowed blood and silence. His pride was nothing, his body wrecked, his hope splintered. He could think of nothing but her—her voice, her eyes, the fight they had left unfinished that morning. If she were here, would she still look at him the same, broken and humiliated, his failure stamped so clear? Would she forgive him, even now, when everything was being torn away? The thought was unbearable.

And yet, through the haze of pain, something in him remained. A stubbornness carved from years of surviving when he should have been buried. A refusal to break, even as Riv demanded it. He lowered his head, breathing ragged, and whispered the only weapon he had left. Silence.

The blows had already left Sylus half-broken, his ribs sharp with every shallow breath, his cheek ground against the coarse concrete where the dust and blood mingled beneath him, and though he tried to gather his strength enough to lift his head, it was as though his body had turned against him, heavy, paralyzed, a husk that only shook with each rasp of breath.

Somewhere above him, Riv’s voice cut through the haze, harsh and commanding, demanding one of his men to place a call, his tone carrying that sharp edge of a man who had always expected obedience and swift results.

There was static, a voice that tried to form but never reached completion, the sound breaking off as though strangled mid-syllable, and then silence—an absence far too loud for men who had lived their lives by the certainty of orders and responses.

“Again,” Riv ordered, and though Sylus could barely keep his mind tethered to the moment, the repetition struck him like a dull echo. Again, again, again—each attempt summoned more silence, more absence, more proof that something outside these walls was slipping from Riv’s control.

Another man hurried forward, calling out to a different post, his voice rising louder, betraying his unease. Again came nothing. The air grew heavier with each failed call, a tension pressing down on them all like a storm rolling in, unseen but felt in the bones.

Riv’s fist slammed onto the table, the crack of wood splintering beneath his strength echoing through the room, and his command rang out with a fury that bordered on panic. “Another post. Another line. Now!”

Sylus could barely see, blood stinging his eyes, but he could feel it—feel the shift in the air, the way Riv’s control, once unshakable, began to fray at the edges. One by one the lines fell silent: men gone without explanation, channels dead, voices snatched away as though erased in mid-breath. Riv demanded answers, and each answerless silence carved something rawer into his voice.

When he turned on Sylus, it was no longer with the authority of a leader holding his empire together but with the wild, grasping anger of a man watching his kingdom rot beneath his feet. The kick to Sylus’ gut tore a gasp from his chest, leaving him writhing in pain, and before he could recover, Riv’s hand clamped into his white hair, jerking his head up so violently it felt as though his scalp would tear away.

Riv leaned close, his breath hot, spittle flecking Sylus’ face, and his words came not as questions but accusations, each one spat with venom. “This is her, isn’t it? Her little game—your bitch carving me open, taking my men, bit by bit, while you lie here playing the bait. Tell me, is this her doing?”

Sylus could not answer, his body too far gone in its torment, his mind fogged with pain that drowned even the meaning of Riv’s rage. His silence, unwilling or not, only deepened Riv’s unraveling, feeding the fire of a man who was used to holding the world in his grip but now found the world slipping through his fingers faster than he could seize it back.

While Riv was still clutching Sylus by the hair, one of his men stormed in, breathless, eyes darting with the kind of fear soldiers try to mask but never quite manage. He bent to Riv’s ear, muttering something low. Riv froze, his grip on Sylus tightening until pain flared sharp across his scalp.

“What do you mean the shipment didn’t arrive?” Riv’s voice was sharp enough to cut stone. The man stammered, explaining that the crates never reached the warehouse, that the drivers disappeared somewhere along the northern pass. Riv shoved him back with such force the man nearly toppled, then roared for another to check. His fury echoed across the concrete walls, but beneath it, Sylus caught the first note of something else: panic.

Minutes later, another runner entered. This one spoke of missing files—ledgers gone from Riv’s private archive, documents he used to keep every dealer on a leash. Riv’s jaw locked, his nostrils flared. “Impossible,” he snapped, but even as he denied it, his face betrayed him, the cracks spiderwebbing through his composure. He barked orders to search again, to tear the place apart if they had to, yet the way his voice caught at the edges told Sylus more than the words did.

And then, as though the gods themselves conspired, a third interruption: a call from one of his so-called loyal allies. Riv snatched the receiver, snarling, but the voice on the other end was firm, almost mocking. They weren’t sending men. They weren’t sending guns. They demanded more money, more power, before they even thought of lifting a finger. Riv cursed them, threatened them, but the line went dead anyway, leaving him with nothing but silence ringing in his ears.

Sylus, broken on the floor, tasted iron as he swallowed blood and forced a thin, hollow breath past his lips. He almost wanted to laugh, but the pain made it impossible. Riv was unraveling right before him—an empire rotting from the inside, brick by brick falling away until all that remained was Riv’s rage clawing at shadows.

Riv lashed out again, driving his boot into Sylus’ side, screaming that this was her doing, that she was gutting him from afar with nothing but whispers and knives in the dark. He bent low, dragging Sylus’ head up so their eyes met. His gaze was wild, his teeth bared. “Do you hear it, Sylus? Everything I built, falling piece by piece because of her—and because of you.”

Riv’s breath came harsh, ragged, his chest heaving from the weight of his own fury. His empire was slipping like sand through his fists, but still he refused to admit defeat. Gripping Sylus by the collar and yanking him up just enough that their faces nearly touched. The stench of smoke and iron hung between them, the taste of blood heavy in Sylus’ mouth.

“Don’t look so broken,” Riv hissed, his words a serpent’s coil in the silence that followed the chaos of failed reports. “Even if you strip me bare, even if you tear every last coin, every crate, every soldier from my hands, you and that whore of yours will not win.” His eyes gleamed with a savage light, more beast than man. “Do you know why? Because power isn’t in the guns or the ledgers, it’s in the fear I plant, in the scars I carve.”

He snapped his fingers, sharp, commanding. One of his men scrambled to the door at once, vanishing down the corridor. Riv’s lips curled into a crooked grin as he turned back to Sylus. “You’ll see. They’ll see. The whole world will see what becomes of those who think they can unmake me.”

Sylus forced a shallow breath past his swollen ribs, the ache in his chest flaring. He wanted to speak, to spit defiance into Riv’s face, but the weight of exhaustion and pain chained him silent.

Riv leaned closer, whispering, his voice dipped in venom. “I’ll make you watch as I break them—your precious twins. I’ll spill their blood in front of you, let their screams claw at your ears until you beg me for silence.” His hand tightened on Sylus’ collar, knuckles white with the promise of violence. “And when I’m done, I’ll send the tape to her. To your little queen.”

He laughed then, a hollow, cracked sound that echoed too loud against the walls. “Imagine it—her face when she sees that all her weapons, all her clever little tricks, all her alliances… were wasted on nothing but dead people. Just like her brother. All that power spent, and still nothing left but corpses.”

The room seemed to tilt, shadows pulling long as Sylus’ vision wavered. The mention of her brother cut like a jagged blade, deeper than the blows to his body. Riv knew exactly where to press, where the wounds festered. Sylus’ fingers twitched weakly against the cold floor, every instinct screaming to rise, to fight, to tear the monster apart, but his body betrayed him.

Riv released him at last, letting him crumple back to the ground like discarded cloth. He stood, shoulders squared, as though claiming victory over the crumbling of his own kingdom. His eyes burned with the madness of a man determined to drag the world down with him. “If I lose, Sylus, you all lose. That’s the truth no army, no dealer, no priest, no lover can erase.”

The sound of boots echoed down the corridor of his man returning, dragging behind him two small, trembling figures.

Riv’s fingers finally loosened from Sylus, letting his head fall forward like dead weight, the strands clinging to Riv’s blood-stained glove before slipping free. His breath hissed through his teeth as he rose, tugging at his coat, straightening it like a man about to address his court, about to display his prize. His boots clicked sharply against the stone floor as he strode toward the children, his every step heavy with the cruel anticipation that had carried him through sleepless nights and restless hours. He was ready to drink in their terror, to carve his dominion into their trembling bodies, to show them what it meant to be born prey when he was the hunter.

But then the lamplight touched their faces.

And everything inside him stopped.

The two children looked up at him with tear-bright eyes, dirt streaked across their cheeks, their small frames shaking under the weight of fear. But there was no recognition, no echo of the faces he had hunted through alleyways and sewers, no hint of the bloodline he had sworn to snuff out. They were strangers. Utterly. Completely.

And then worse—so much worse—his mind caught on a detail, a memory, a whispered warning he had ignored. He knew the boy’s eyes, not because they belonged to his quarry, but because they belonged to someone else. Someone untouchable. Someone with power that spilled far beyond Riv’s little kingdom of shadows. These were no nameless urchins dragged from a gutter. These were the children of a minister. A man whose voice could bring soldiers pounding down every door in the city, whose gold could buy ten thousand eyes to scour every corner of the earth, whose wrath would not rest until the thieves who dared lay a hand on his bloodline were dragged into the open and burned alive.

The realization struck Riv like a knife between the ribs, sharp and merciless. His chest hollowed, his throat seized. He could already feel it—the net tightening, the walls closing, the inevitable ruin pressing closer with every heartbeat.

And in that hollow silence, before panic could take root, he turned on instinct. His arm swung up with a speed that startled even himself. The pistol roared, a violent crack that shook the air.

The man who had dragged the children in crumpled before the smoke cleared, blood splattering across the floor in a wide, blooming stain. No time for explanations, no plea for mercy, just a body collapsing in the silence of its own failure. Riv stood over him, shoulders heaving, eyes wide and wild, the barrel of the gun trembling faintly though his grip was iron. The smell of gunpowder hung heavy, mingling with the copper tang of blood.

The others flinched back, not daring to move, not daring to speak.

Riv drew in a breath, sharp and ragged, a sound closer to a snarl than anything human. His mind spun fast, too fast, calculations unraveling, strategies collapsing one after another. He had built his kingdom on fear, on the image of his control, and now it threatened to rot in his hands because of one mistake, one misstep, one failure he hadn’t accounted for. He needed a solution. He needed control back. And then his gaze slid, as though pulled by some invisible thread, back to Sylus.

He expected to see brokenness, hatred, maybe even fear in the man he had beaten down. He expected to see anything but what he did.

Because Sylus was smiling.

Not a sharp grin, not a sneer. A smile that was gentle, quiet, unnervingly soft, curving slowly across his face as though he had all the time in the world. His lip was split, blood still fresh on his chin, his eye swollen near-shut, and still he smiled. It was creeping, patient, the kind of smile that did not need words because it said everything without them.

It was a smile that belonged not to a victim, but to a man who knew.Knew that Riv’s power had cracked. Knew that Riv’s empire was bleeding out on the floor with that agent’s body. Knew that this mistake would fester, would spread, would grow into a ruin Riv couldn’t outrun.

And Riv felt it then, felt the weight of inevitability pressing down on him, felt the room tilt as though the ground itself had turned against him, felt the breath claw up his throat until it burned.

The smile followed him into that hollow, merciless silence, and Riv realized with a clarity that stripped him raw that the true spectacle tonight was not his to command.

It belonged to Sylus. and all Sylus said was “Oops”.

It was two in the morning, the kind of hour where silence became heavier than noise. The room they had taken for the night smelled of damp stone and rust, the cold seeping up through the floor until it settled in their bones. A single bulb swayed above, its light faint and yellow, stretching their shadows long against the walls.

They sat on the ground facing each other, backs curved, too tired to keep their bodies upright with dignity anymore. The ropes around Mephidto’s wing lay slack where he was bound and placed aside in the corner, his faint caws ignored. The real weight in the room was not him, but them—the stillness, the questions unsaid, the pressure of time counting down second by second toward an end neither wanted to imagine.

Sylus had his knees drawn up, his forearms resting against them. His eyes were rimmed red from lack of sleep, bruised from blows earlier, but sharper still with thought. She sat opposite, her fingers locked around his, her thumb running absently along the bones of his hand as if afraid he would vanish if she let go.

When she spoke, her voice was hoarse, cracked by fatigue, but steady. “There’s a mole,” she whispered, her words as deliberate as knives. “One of mine. Feeding him, giving him everything. That’s how Riv keeps moving before we do.”

Sylus let the silence stretch after that, his face unreadable, but the faint flicker in his eyes betrayed recognition, he had suspected the same. His jaw flexed once, then his head dipped forward as though the weight of it was too much. “Then we draw him out,” he murmured.

Her grip on his hand tightened. “We fake it,” she said. “A fight. Something loud, something ugly, enough to convince whoever’s listening that we’re falling apart.”

Sylus leaned his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes. He looked like a man who could sleep for a week but was cursed never to close his eyes fully again. “And then what?”

“Then you get caught.” The words left her mouth like stone breaking glass. She held his gaze, though it made her chest hurt to even say it.

His eyes opened again, bloodshot and furious in their silence. For a long second, he only stared at her, until the corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, but something close to disbelief. “You want me to walk into his hands.”

“Not walk,” she answered quickly. “Fall. Make it look like we’ve failed. Make it easy for him.”

Sylus exhaled a sharp, bitter laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “a bait.”

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice trembling now. “Because he’ll take you. Because he can’t resist it.”

Her words cracked something in the air, but Sylus said nothing. His silence was worse than anger.

She pressed on, her desperation bleeding through. “And while he has you, I tear everything else apart. His guns, his routes, his men. He’ll be too busy watching you bleed to realize his empire is already gone.”

At that, Sylus finally spoke, his voice breaking low. “And the twins?” He shifted forward, his hand tightening painfully around hers. “He wants them more than he wants me. How do we fake what doesn’t exist? The nuns took them out of the city hours after I left them alongside the rest of the orphans there. They’re already gone.” His voice caught, raw with guilt. “I couldn’t keep them safe like I had to.”

Her chest tightened at the way his voice fractured. She had known he would ask. She had rehearsed her answer. And yet, when it came to speaking it aloud, her throat went dry. She hesitated—too long, long enough for him to see the fear flicker across her face.

“There’s… a minister,” she said at last, the words cutting through her like a confession. “One who owes me more than he can ever repay. He has children.”

Sylus didn’t react—not in anger, not in shock, not even in judgment. He only looked at her, eyes flat, unreadable. No curse, no protest, no disgust. Nothing.

The silence grew unbearable.

Her stomach twisted, shame seeping in like poison. Was he too desperate to care? Or had he grown numb to her cruelty, so used to the weight of her sins that one more didn’t even touch him anymore? She had expected him to lash out, to call her monstrous, to tell her no—but this calm, this nothing, was far worse. It felt like she was already losing him, inch by inch, to her own shadow.

She leaned forward, her words spilling in a whisper meant only for him. “It’s for a day. A day at most. Long enough to distract him, to make him think he’s won. Long enough to let us move. And then they’re returned. Untouched. I swear it.”

Still nothing. His silence pressed on her chest until she thought she might break under it. She wanted to shake him, to demand that he scream, that he fight her, that he give her something. Anything.

Instead, his hand tightened suddenly around hers, the strength of it shocking against her trembling. His eyes glistened with something raw, something more painful than anger. “Then we make it count,” he said, voice ragged.

For the next two hours, they mapped it out on the cold floor, lines traced in dust, plans spoken in low voices that cracked with fatigue. Every step mattered. Every lie had to be perfect. Every minute bought with blood had to be used with precision. She outlined how the men would hear their fight, how the rescue plan would look flawed enough to be believable, how Riv would leap at the chance to seize Sylus and the “twins.” He filled in the rest, sharper, harder, building her outline into something solid, something possible, though the weight of it pressed heavier with each word.

When it was done, neither of them could move. They sat in silence, trembling, their hearts pounding with the same dread. She squeezed his hand again, harder, grounding herself in him. Her tears had dried into salt tracks down her face, but her eyes still burned. She leaned forward until their foreheads met, and in that moment the world was small enough for just the two of them.

When their lips met, it was nothing like hunger. It was fear. It was surrender. It was the ache of knowing they might not survive this, that their time together could already be borrowed.

Both of them were tired. Both of them were shaking. Both of them were broken in ways words could never reach.

But in that fragile kiss, on the cold floor at 2 a.m., they found the strength to keep walking into hell—together.

The cold press of steel rested against Sylus’ forehead, the click of the chamber loading echoing louder than the pounding in his ears. Riv loomed over him, breathing ragged, his grin stretched too wide, too eager.

“This is it,” Riv whispered, his finger curling against the trigger. “End of your story.”

The world around Sylus fractured into noise and blur. He had been in pain for hours, bound, beaten, his body sluggish with exhaustion and blood loss, and yet when the shots ripped through the warehouse it was as if the universe itself had cracked open.

The sound was unbearable—an endless storm of gunfire, so loud it rattled through his ribs and split against the walls. He flinched at every burst, but his body was too weak to do more than twitch. His ears rang, his head pounded. The dried blood across his face tightened his skin, sticky and crusted at his temple where a gash had long since sealed into a burning ache. His eyes stung. He could barely keep them open, and what little he saw was a kaleidoscope of motion: flashes of muzzle fire, shadows crumpling, the twins’ terrified little bodies pressed flat against the floor, screams breaking against the thunder of bullets.

Everything happened too quickly. He could not even tell where the shots came from—one window, then another, then the roof itself. The men who had surrounded him, who had jeered and sneered at his suffering, dropped one by one like puppets with their strings cut. There was no time to register faces or count casualties, no chance to prepare for what was coming. One heartbeat they stood, guns raised, the next they were gone, swallowed by the chaos.

Sylus’s body wanted stillness. His muscles begged him to fold, to give in, to let the ground take him. But his mind, fractured as it was, clung to a single sharp truth: he needed to move. Now.

The air stank of gunpowder and blood, metallic and sharp enough to burn his throat. His vision pulsed with black spots as he tried to focus, the dim light of the warehouse spinning like a wheel. He fought for control of his breath, dragging in gulps of foul air even as nausea rolled through his chest.

Somewhere, through the haze, he saw Riv’s outline darting for cover—head ducked, arms raised against the onslaught, retreating deeper into the warehouse, deeper underground. The coward always had another layer to vanish into, another room behind another door.

And Sylus, trembling, half-blind, half-deaf, could only watch him go. His thoughts screamed that this was his chance, that he had to rise, had to follow, had to end it—but his body did not respond quickly enough. His limbs shook as though every tendon had been burned. The noise made it impossible to think straight, to gather a single thread of clarity.

For a moment, it was too much. Too fast, too violent. He felt like a man caught in the center of a collapsing world. All he could do was cling to the knowledge that somewhere beyond this chaos, the plan was still alive, that the hands which had pressed his only hours ago in the cold still floor were working their way toward him.

But oh God, it was hard to hold onto that when every sound was a gunshot, every shadow a corpse, and every breath scraped his lungs raw.

The silence that followed was almost cruel.

One moment the warehouse was an inferno of gunfire, the next it was emptied into ringing echoes and a suffocating stillness. The smell of smoke and iron clung heavy in the air, sharp and choking. Bodies lay in broken heaps, Riv’s men cut down where they stood. Only the twins remained untouched, their small forms pressed against each other on the filthy floor, whimpering, their cries thin and terrified. Their voices pierced through the quiet, fragile in the wake of such violence.

Sylus swayed where he sat, every nerve in his body buzzing from the sudden stop, as if the noise hadn’t left but burrowed itself inside him. His ears rang, drowning out thought. His head hung heavy, chin damp with dried blood, vision swimming. He blinked, hard, trying to force clarity back into his eyes, but the world stayed blurred, shadows without edges, colors without meaning.

Then the warehouse doors creaked open and light spilled in, not bright but enough to shift the air, to announce the new presence. Boots hit the ground in a steady rhythm, dozens of them. He tried to lift his head, and through the haze, he saw them: a line of men, weapons drawn, faces sharp with purpose.

And at the front—her.

He almost didn’t believe it at first. He thought it might be another trick of his battered mind, another illusion painted by exhaustion. But then he heard it, her voice. Faint, muffled through the fog in his ears, but there. Familiar, grounding. She was calling his name.

Her footsteps broke into a run.

He felt her before he truly saw her—warmth against his skin, the press of hands softer than anything he had felt in days. They fumbled at his bindings, tugging, loosening, setting him free from the ropes that had burned raw lines into his wrists. The sudden absence of restraint was disorienting. He let his arms fall slack, too weak to move them yet, but the relief nearly made him sob.

“Stay put,” she whispered, her voice low, urgent. Her breath ghosted against his ear, her touch lingering for the briefest moment on his shoulder as if she wanted to say more, to promise more, but couldn’t.

And then she was gone, darting toward the shadows, toward the door Riv had vanished through. Her figure blurred again as his head lolled, his eyes struggling to follow. He tried to call after her, but only a hoarse sound broke from his throat, too thin to carry.

All he could do was sit there, trembling in the blood-soaked silence, the twins’ muffled sobs filling the corners of the ruined warehouse, while she disappeared into the dark where Riv waited.

The air in the underground corridors was damp and heavy, carrying the stench of mold, rust, and old smoke. Every step echoed in the silence, a haunting sound that trailed her as she pushed through door after door, hallway after hallway, each one stretching endlessly into shadow. It felt less like a warehouse now and more like some twisted labyrinth designed to test her will, to sap her strength with repetition. But she kept moving, faster with each step, her hand brushing the cold wall every so often to keep her bearings. Riv was somewhere in this maze. Whether he was lurking in the shadows, waiting to ambush her, or cowering in the dark like a rat, it made no difference. The outcome waiting for him was the same—she would find him, she would make him pay.

Her mind burned with purpose, but beneath the fire was a steady ache, a gnawing grief that pressed against her chest like a weight. Images of Sylus clung to her, raw and unbearable. His face; bloodied, beaten, half-swallowed in bruises that painted him in cruel shades of blue and red. His white hair tangled and ashy, falling over swollen eyes that still held their unbreakable fire despite everything Riv had done to him. The dirt ground into his skin, the blood dried against his lips, the way his body had looked so heavy when she freed him, as if every bone was made of stone.

Her heart tightened, a sharp, twisting pain. Her poor, divine, beautiful man. He did not deserve any of this. Not Riv’s boots crushing him into the floor, not Riv’s fists breaking him down piece by piece, not Riv’s filthy hands staining what was hers alone to hold.

No, Sylus’s body was not made for chains and blows. It was meant to be touched only with reverence, to be kissed, to be held with the softness he so rarely allowed himself to need. He was hers—her bloodstained king, her firebrand, her impossible storm of a man—and she would not allow the memory of Riv’s touch to linger on him.

When she pushed open the final door, it did not creak so much as groan, as though even the hinges understood the weight of what waited on the other side. The air inside was thick, stale with dust and ink, a choking mixture of sweat and paper that clung to the lungs. Riv stood there, hunched but rigid, his back first to her, shoulders squared as if he could still pretend to command the room. But when he turned, slowly, almost unwillingly, his face was not the one she had come to know, a smirk carved deep, a mask of mockery and control.

No. For once, there was no performance. His eyes were sharp, wide, and there was something in them she had not expected—fear. Not the childish terror of men caught unprepared, but a deeper thing, the kind of dread born from understanding that the end had finally arrived and there would be no bargaining with it. Perhaps this was the first time Riv had ever truly felt it. Or perhaps he had felt it before and buried it so deep beneath cruelty that he had almost forgotten. Either way, it didn’t matter. He was afraid now.

His hands were curled tight around a bundle of files, fingers trembling slightly against the edges of the paper. Around him, the room was chaos—hundreds of files stacked and scattered across the floor and tables, papers spilling like entrails from cabinets ripped open in desperation. This was his nest, his hideout, his great secret archive of leverage and control. And here he was, clutching scraps like a man drowning clutches at driftwood.

She stepped inside with a calm that was more dangerous than rage, her presence cutting through the stale air like a blade. Slowly, deliberately, she closed the door behind her. The click of the latch was soft, final.

“This is it, Riv,” she said, her voice steady, almost gentle, but edged with iron. “There’s no one waiting for you outside.” Her gaze swept across the files, then back to him, unyielding. “I killed half your men myself. The others are no longer yours. They’ve changed their loyalties.”

Her words hung heavy in the dim room, the only sound the faint rustle of paper as Riv’s grip tightened and loosened on the files he held.

His back struck the cold stone wall, the files still clutched against his chest as if they could shield him. She didn’t hurry; every step she took echoed deliberate, measured, the steps of a predator who knew her prey had nowhere left to run.

“You put your hands on Sylus,” she said, almost in a whisper, the softness of her tone only making the words cut deeper. “My Sylus. You think you’ve broken him, but no—you’ve only broken yourself. He’ll wear those scars like armor, Riv. And you—” she let her eyes drift across his trembling fingers, the pale grip on his papers “—you’ll be remembered only as the man who died clutching useless secrets.”

“You thought the twins would be your victory. You thought killing them would be the blade you pressed to Sylus’ throat, the leash around my neck.” She tilted her head, her eyes dark, voice steady. “But you couldn’t even manage that. Do you know what you brought me instead? Two children who weren’t yours to touch. A minister’s blood. You’ve invited every hound in the state to your door, and still—you think this is power?” He moved her hands around the papers on the table beside her.

Riv’s breath grew ragged. “They were supposed to be there. I was told—”

She laughed then, low, without joy. “Told? By who? A mole you planted to bite on like a starving dog? You think you were clever enough to outplay me?” She took another step closer; his back pressed harder to the wall.

He tried to raise his voice, but it cracked. “Where is your brother then, hm? If you’re so untouchable, so clever, where is he? I was told he rots like a dog, like Sylus will—”

Her eyes narrowed, but her tone did not rise. It grew colder, steadier, each word a needle. “My brother breathes in a place you will never know, under walls you will never touch. And unlike you, he is worth every drop of blood I’ve spilled. Every sin. You think mocking his name can hurt me? No, Riv. What should terrify you is that I have not yet decided whether you will die quickly or whether I will peel the answers from your throat until you choke on them.”

Riv pressed harder against the wall, the files in his hands rattling like dry leaves. His mouth twitched, a last attempt at defiance, though his eyes betrayed the truth, fear was swallowing him whole.

“You think you’ve already won,” he spat, though the words came out hoarse. “You don’t see it, do you? When Sylus dies, when I put a bullet through those precious twins, you’ll—”

She silenced him with nothing more than a tilt of her head, her voice lowering until it was almost tender.

“Sylus lives. The twins live. They live because I’ve chosen for them to live, and because you are nothing but a rat scurrying in borrowed shadows. You brag of bullets, of power, of victories, but all you have left are scraps. And even those, Riv, I will strip from your bones.”

His jaw clenched, the files slipping slightly in his grip. “You… Don’t know what I’ve built here. You can’t tear it down—”

She stepped closer still, her finger rising to tap the papers pressed to his chest. “This? This pile of ink and lies? I’ve already torn it down. Your men are gone. Your walls are mine. The only thing left standing here is your fear.”

His breath faltered.

She leaned in, her lips near his ear, her tone a dagger wrapped in silk.

“And you will not die a martyr, Riv. You will die forgotten. Alone. Buried under the weight of every mistake you made the moment you thought you could touch what was mine.”

Riv’s chest heaved, the last of his bravado crumbling into silence. His eyes darted to the door, then back to her, as if weighing flight against certain death. But there was nowhere to go.

Her words still lingered in the stale air of the underground chamber when Riv’s desperation ignited into something wild. Perhaps it was fear, perhaps madness, perhaps the last ounce of defiance clinging to him like filth—but suddenly, with a strangled roar, he surged forward. The files burst from his grip and scattered across the floor like frightened birds. His hands shoved against her shoulders, rough and reckless, enough to break the measured calm of the moment.

She stumbled back a pace, her palm catching the wall to steady herself, the shock in her eyes flaring for only an instant before melting into sharp rage. Riv’s chest heaved, his own pulse screaming through his veins, but the triumph was short-lived.

A single shot cracked through the chamber.

Sharp, merciless, echoing off the concrete walls like thunder.

Riv froze where he stood, his body jolting as though the world itself had betrayed him. His mouth opened as if to curse her, but no sound came, only a wet, choking gurgle as the bullet tore through the side of his neck. Blood fountained in a crimson spray, thick and violent, painting the scattered papers and dripping down his chest. His hand shot up to press against the wound, futile, his eyes wide in animal panic.

Her gaze shifted past him, drawn to the door.

Sylus stood there, leaning heavily against the frame, his face pale, battered, his body trembling from pain and exhaustion. Yet his arm was steady, the gun still raised, smoke curling faintly from its barrel. His eyes were locked on Riv, cold and unblinking, like death itself had borrowed them for a single moment.

Riv stumbled, his knees buckling. He collapsed forward, crumpling onto the ground at her feet, his blood bubbling and spilling out with every failing gasp. The sound was grotesque, wet gurgles, pitiful wheezing, the desperate rasp of a man choking on his own life.

She looked down at him with contempt as his body bowed before her, kneeling in an involuntary grotesque parody of submission. With the faintest push of her leg, she shoved him backward. His body toppled onto the cold floor, convulsing violently, his limbs twitching, his heels scraping against the concrete in the frantic spasms of a dying beast.

Sylus’ hand slipped from the gun, the metal clattering against the floor with a sound far too small for the enormity of what had just happened. His chest heaved, each breath ragged, as though every rib were cracked and refusing to let air through. The pain in his body was relentless—bruises, cuts, the dull fire in his gut—but none of it compared to the storm tearing inside his mind.

He had killed.

The thought sat in him like a shard of glass, sharp and jagged, cutting deeper the longer he let it stay. His vision blurred, not only from exhaustion, not only from the dried blood sticking to his lashes, but from the weight of what he had just done. Riv lay there, twitching out the last seconds of his life like a gutted animal, and Sylus had been the one to end him. His finger had pulled the trigger. His aim had been true.

And yet, instead of triumph, a hollow ache spread through him. This was no victory. There was no glory in watching a man bleed out, no satisfaction in seeing the last breath shudder free of a broken chest. He felt empty. Stripped raw. The kind of emptiness that left nothing but silence and guilt behind.

But then his eyes found her.

She stood across the room, her face calm but her eyes searching him, worried, furious, relieved all at once. She had promised Riv’s downfall, had crafted every step of this plan with sharp calculation, but in the end, it had been Sylus who fired the final shot. He wondered if she saw him differently now, if the man she had trusted, leaned on, kissed in those quiet hours was gone, replaced by someone with blood on his hands.

He had told himself he would better, that he would not stain himself with the same sins that had carved his past. And now? He had killed. For them. For her. For himself.

His body shook, though he fought to steady it. He dragged himself from the doorway, each step a weight, his legs trembling beneath him. He stopped only a pace from her, his breath shallow, his eyes dark and uncertain. His lips parted, words threatening to come but failing. What could he even say? That he was sorry? That he wasn’t sure if he had saved them—or doomed himself?

The silence pressed tighter, and then, finally, he whispered, voice raw and broken:

“It’s done.”

The words weren’t victory. They weren’t pride. They were resignation, confession, and plea all tangled together.

And for the first time since the countdown began, his strength wavered, and he looked at her as though she were the only tether keeping him from collapsing under the weight of what he had just become.

Taglist: @glitterykingdomangel @blessdunrest @thechaoticarchivist @seventeen-x @cyubiedoo

Blue divider by @hyuneskkami

35 notes · View notes

dollgxtz · 2 months ago

Text

At Your Service Pt. 2

⟡ Word Count: 17.8k words

⟡ Tags: boss!Sylus x housekeeper!reader, fem reader, corruption kink, possessiveness, dubcon, mentions of baby trapping, breeding, unprotected sex, fingering, bullying, teasing, nicknames like kitten, sweetie, good girl

⟡ Summary: You return to work for Sylus, tension simmering beneath the surface after that night. Determined to save enough to finally escape your shitty apartment, you try to lay low and keep your distance. But it’s clear Sylus has no intention of letting you slip away from him that easily…

"No...I honestly just want a fresh start. Somewhere that I’m not dragged down by my past. Somewhere I can breathe. I just want to save enough to get a car and never come back." Sylus’s breath caught, just for a second. He couldn't let this happen. He couldn't. The very thought of you leaving clawed at something deep and primal inside him, burrowing into a place so dark and unrelenting that it almost scared him. He’d do everything in his power to keep you here. Anything. Buy you an entire mansion just a few blocks from his penthouse. One with many, many rooms. He could stock it with everything you liked. Make sure you never had to lift a finger again. Shower you with more money than you could spend in a lifetime. Change your world completely. Strip away every obstacle, every excuse, until there was simply no reason left for you to leave. Until staying was the only option that made sense. He could also... His gaze drifted downward, settling on your belly. The thought came out of nowhere, reckless and wild, but it rooted itself in his mind like a seed cracking through dry soil.

ao3

Read Part 1 here!

⟡ AN: I can't believe a dream I had is this popular with you guys!! Thank you so much for the support and this time Im kissing the brick before I throw it xDD. If you did not make it onto the taglist its because I could not find an age in your bio. Pt.3 is going to be the final part so if you wanna be tagged for that one be sure to add ur age to ur bio and fill out my form!

Enjoy my lovelies!! (づ> v <)づ♡

@leiaglamela @shia247 @hyphensei @hummingbirdoooo @beaconsxd @zoezhive @syluslover1 @mmeerraa @webmvie @calebsbabyapple @mysterios-hoe @ymrai @sinstae @sylvieisoffline @blcknebula @wooasecret @chososlvrr @deathlycrow @joshazraelian @mcdepressed290 @sylusqt @harbingers-lullaby @dummiebunny @rachelaishi @dilf-destroyer-04 @rjreins @thelittlebutton @rie-star @blcknebula @zoezhive @theplaid-wearingmoose @chaotictsumu @ni3rdem1se @certainduckanchor @suicidollz @shi-thats-kiera @marliisastarfrfr @ikesimpleton @chososlvrr @seventeen-x @maiznamai @sabage101 @xanhnax @uchihabucketlist @rubylescent @joshazraelian @teary-eyed-egg @writteninlunarlight-years @sylusgirlie7

You’re jolted awake by a sharp pounding at the door.

Your heart rockets into your throat as you jolt upright, sweat dampening the back of your neck. The air in your apartment feels too thin, like you woke up underwater. The pounding comes again, harder this time.

You throw the blanket off, legs tangling as you stumble to your feet. The apartment is steeped in shadows, lit only by the flickering orange hue of a broken streetlight bleeding in through the blinds. You squint at the red digital numbers glowing on your nightstand.

9:02 PM. Too late for anything good.

You hesitate at the door, instincts screaming. Slowly, you inch toward the peephole.

Robert? Your landlord?

Even distorted through the fish-eye lens, his face is unmistakable. Pale, puffy, jowls hanging like melted wax. His greasy comb-over clings to his scalp like seaweed after a storm. He’s too close to the door, breathing heavily. Your skin prickles.

You exhale sharply and unlock the bolt, cracking the door an inch. "Hey, Robert…it’s kinda late. What’s going on?"

He flashes that familiar grin, wide and crooked. Teeth too white for a man who smells like sour sweat and mildew. His eyes are predatory, scanning you, then trying to peer past you into the dim apartment.

"Just checking in on my favorite tenant," he says, voice syrupy and smug. He leans ever so slightly to the side, neck craning like he might spot something worth noting inside.

You shift, planting yourself squarely in the doorway to block his view. His grin falters, his lips twitching with barely restrained annoyance.

"And?" Your tone is soft, clipped. You keep your expression neutral, even as every nerve screams.

He cracks his knuckles slowly, theatrically. One finger at a time. "Noticed you paid your rent on time for once. That’s…new. You working again?"

Your gut twists. This isn’t a courtesy call. He smells something has changed with you financially and he wants in.

You summon a tight smile, masking the tension in your jaw. You can’t let him know. Can’t let him sense what’s shifted beneath your feet.

"Something like that," you reply.

But your thoughts betray you.

Sylus.

His name slips through your head like smoke. His voice, low and lethal, curling in your memory. The press of his palm on your leg. The weight of his eyes. The sound of hushed panting and moaning.

You feel the pull of that world, even here. Especially here. The divide between who you were and who you’ve become is thinning.

"Just a taste."

And now you're tasting the consequences...

Robert’s gaze crawls over your face, your posture, your silence. His stare settles like oil on your skin. You fight the urge to shrink back.

You tighten your grip on the door’s edge. Suddenly, it feels too thin. The lock too fragile. The apartment behind you too exposed.

He doesn’t look away. "Well, that’s good," he says eventually, his voice coated in something too slick to be kindness. "Glad to see you’re finally getting your life together."

Every word drips condescension. He’s testing boundaries. Measuring you.

"Thanks," you say flatly. "Was there anything else, Robert?"

His smile slinks back, oily and smug. "Nah. Just being neighborly. Sleep tight."

He turns with a casual saunter, the kind that screams entitlement. Like this building (and everyone in it) belongs to him. You watch until he disappears around the corner, then shut the door and throw the lock with a loud click. You hold it there, fingers clenched around the knob.

The silence that follows is heavier than before.

The apartment feels colder. Like something had entered just by knocking.

You slide your back against the door and sink to the floor. Your heart still hasn’t slowed.

You just needed to hold out a little longer.

Several more months and you could finally claw your way out of this godforsaken place. The weight that had pressed on your chest for years, the debt that had dragged behind you like chains through mud, was finally gone. You’d wiped it out faster than you ever imagined possible. It almost didn’t feel real. Now, each day brought you closer to something you hadn’t dared to want before: choice. Escape. Your own car. Your own space.

Freedom was starting to feel tangible. You could already picture it. The hum of the engine under your hands, the wind roaring in your ears, the city blurring in the rearview mirror until it was just lights and ghosts behind you.

But you weren’t there yet.

The penthouse still loomed, pristine and cavernous, its silence thick with unspoken things. You walked its halls like a shadow, no longer a person but a role: the help. A pair of hands. A closed mouth.

Your throat tightened every time you heard footsteps echo behind you, every time you thought you saw him out of the corner of your eye.

Sylus.

You’d been avoiding him. You dodged his presence with the precision of someone threading a minefield. Kept your head down, eyes averted. Only spoke when directly addressed, and even then, your answers were clipped and careful. You moved through the penthouse with mechanical efficiency, making no noise, leaving no trace. Cleaning everything twice, sometimes three times, just to keep your hands busy.

And he hadn’t called you out. Hadn’t stopped you. But he noticed. You knew he did.

You could feel it when he watched you.

Not overtly. But every once in a while, you’d glance up and find his eyes already on you—sharp, inscrutable. Watching like he was trying to read something you didn’t know you were showing. He never said anything in those moments.

And then, like mist pulling back into the shadows, he’d vanish into his office, or behind one of the penthouses endless doors. It was like he evaporated into the building itself, leaving you shaken without knowing exactly why.

Neither of you had said a single word about that night. Not once. The silence had become its own language—a heavy, persistent presence that followed you through the halls, coiling tighter with every passing day. It hovered in the spaces between eye contact, in the abrupt way conversations ended, in the way your skin prickled when he walked past without a sound.

It hurt.

It sat between you like an exposed nerve, raw and throbbing, impossible to ignore but too dangerous to touch. Because what could you possibly say? What words existed for something that never should’ve happened, yet keeps replaying behind your eyes like a fever dream?

Thanks for the best orgasm of my life? As if it hadn’t cracked something wide open inside you. As if it hadn’t scattered what little sense of emotional distance you’d ever managed to maintain.

Why did you kiss me like you meant it? And then ignore me like it was nothing? As if that wasn’t the most dangerous question of all.

You told yourself it was better this way. Simpler. That pretending it never happened was the safest choice. He had used you. Plain and simple. The faster you got your work done, the sooner you could leave work. The sooner your heart would stop clenching when he walked into your view. It didn't matter why he ignored you, you tried to tell yourself. You got the money. He got what he wanted.

It had been almost a month since then. But your hands still trembled sometimes when you scrubbed the dishes in the kitchen.

And your dreams were full of things you couldn’t name.

But it didn't matter.

You were just his housekeeper after all.

Annoyed that you’d missed your last precious thirty minutes of sleep, you lay in bed, the weight of exhaustion still dragging at your limbs. The cheap ceiling fan clicked softly above you, spinning in lazy circles, offering no comfort.

With a sigh, you reached for the sleek phone on your nightstand, the one Sylus had bought you. The screen glowed to life, flooding your tired eyes with blue light. You tapped through a few notifications out of habit, thumb idly scrolling through the interface.

You still didn’t have Wi-Fi. Not that it mattered. When you tried to register for a plan, you learned that the phone’s data was already covered. Sylus was paying for it. Just one of the many many things still tying you to him in a way.

You remembered standing in the corner of the shop, phone pressed to your ear, frozen as the employee explained it to you like it was no big deal. But it was. It was huge.

Eventually, you’d managed to thank him.

He hadn’t said much. Just raised an eyebrow, then nodded once. “You’re welcome,” he’d said, like he’d held the door for you instead of dropping another tether around your ankle.

You still hadn’t worked up the courage to ask him why he’d done it. Why he kept giving you things. Why he made you feel indebted in ways you couldn’t name.

But maybe it was safer not to ask. Safer to just accept the strange blessings as they came and not look too closely at the possible strings attached.

You scrolled through Moments forums, skimming posts you barely absorbed, trying to keep your thoughts from circling back to him. Trying to stay numb. Just until it was time.

Then your alarm buzzed quietly.

Work.

The word hit you like a stone dropping in your stomach. Your thumb paused mid-scroll. The moment stretched thin, heavy with the realization.

It was time to go back to the penthouse.

Back to him.

You dressed quickly, moving on autopilot, your limbs still heavy with sleep and your thoughts fuzzy from being ripped out of rest. You had the routine down to muscle memory now—shirt, pants, tie your hair back, brush your teeth—but this night felt especially brittle, like your nerves were strung too tight beneath your skin.

Something was off.

You paused in the middle of the room, disoriented for a second. Then it hit you.

Where the hell was your other shoe?

You spun in a frantic circle, eyes scanning the cluttered apartment. It wasn’t by the front door where you usually kicked them off. Not by the dresser. Not under the rickety table with the chipped coffee mug still sitting from two days ago.

Your pulse picked up. Every wasted second screamed louder in your skull. You look everywhere, it could possibly be. Nightstand, closet, even behind the fridge at one point.

You finally dropped to your knees and flung the edge of your blanket aside, peering under the bed. There it was. Wedged against the wall, half-hidden in shadows like it had intentionally rolled out of reach just to spite you.

You cursed, grabbing for it, fingers scraping against dust bunnies and god knows what else. Finally, you snatched it out and yanked it on with shaking hands, nearly falling over in the process.

You were late.

Not just late, dangerously late.

You should’ve left ages ago. You should’ve been halfway to the penthouse already. The realization hit you like a wave of nausea. Your stomach turned over itself as you threw your bag over your shoulder and bolted for the door, slamming it behind you without even checking to make sure it locked. Who cared? You didn’t own anything worth stealing.

The street felt longer than usual as you sprinted down it, shoes slapping the ground in a clumsy rhythm. Outside, the street buzzed with low evening noise—cars honking, someone yelling from an alley, the faint buzz of signage flickering overhead. Your breath came in short bursts as you took off toward work, legs aching from the pace.

Halfway there, your phone pinged.

A single chime made you freeze mid-step. Nobody ever texted you. Nobody. Your fingers trembled as you fumbled the phone from your pocket, the screen lighting up your face with a cold glow in the dimness of the street.

Sylus: "Are you feeling unwell today? You’re late."

Your breath caught instantly. Your pulse went sharp and tight in your throat, like something invisible had gripped it. The world seemed to narrow down to just that glowing text.

Your stomach bottomed out. Cold dread settled in your chest, rooting there. You hadn’t even made it to the building yet and he’d already clocked your absence.

You stared at the screen like it might erase itself if you waited long enough. But it didn’t. It just sat there, pulsing silently.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Despite everything—the tension, the confusion, the mess of emotions you hadn’t dared name, he was still your boss. That fact never changed. You still worked for him. You were still expected to show up on time.

You inwardly cursed at yourself. Amazing. You picked a great day to get fired. You hurriedly texted back, fingers aching from the cold.

"I'll be there soon!"

The first time you both had ever exchanged even a single text, and it was because you were late.

Your heart pounded as you finally reached the building, lungs burning, legs shaking from the full sprint. You stumbled inside, barely managing not to trip over the threshold. The cool air in the lobby did little to soothe your anxiety. You made a beeline for the elevator, jabbing the call button with shaky fingers.

It felt like hours before the doors finally opened with a sluggish ding. You stepped inside and leaned back against the mirrored wall, catching your reflection in a quick, accidental glance—messy hair, eyes wide and frantic, collar askew, the faint outline of pillow creases still etched into your cheek. You looked exactly how you felt: unprepared and unraveling.

As the elevator ascended, your mind spiraled.

A million excuses ricocheted around in your skull, none of them sounding remotely believable. Would he even ask? Even care? You were probably just going to get fired on the spot if anything...

The elevator doors opened with a soft hiss and you darted out the second there was space. You barely took in the gleaming floors, the sharp scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air, or the perfect placement of furniture that never looked lived-in.

"Sylus! I’m here—ow!"

You slammed directly into something—or rather, someone. Solid. Warm. And unmistakably bare.

You stumbled back with a startled gasp, breath knocked from your lungs. You barely processed what had happened before a strong hand gripped your arm, halting your fall just in time. His grip was firm, fingers wrapping around your forearm like a cuff.

You froze, the world shrinking to the point of contact.

Slowly, like watching the sun crest over a horizon you didn't want to see, your gaze lifted.

Sylus stood in front of you, drenched in quiet power and still glistening from the shower. Water dripped from the ends of his hair, curling slightly at his temples. Droplets traced down his temples, along the sharp line of his jaw, before cascading down his bare chest in slow, deliberate drops. His skin was slightly flushed from the heat, muscles taut and glistening under the soft lighting.

A white towel hung low around his hips, clinging to him in a way that felt both intimate and reckless. One corner had begun to slip, revealing the deep indent of his hip bone, dangerously close to revealing more than you should see. The sight struck you like a slap.

Your breath hitched. A jolt of heat raced up your spine. Your heart, already overworked, began to race faster, pounding against your ribcage like it was trying to escape. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if the darkness would shield you from how exposed you felt.

"I-" you whispered, voice cracking at the edges. "I didn’t mean to—"

“Don’t. It’s alright,” Sylus sighed, cutting you off before you could stammer out a single excuse. He let go of your forearm, fingers unclenching with a deliberate slowness, and your hand moved on instinct, rubbing the spot where his touch lingered like a phantom. A flicker of warmth still radiated from your skin, chased quickly by the burn of embarrassment crawling up your neck and flooding your face.

Of all moments, why now? Why did he have to be half-naked right now? After weeks of getting used to him not touching or talking much to you, this was really making your head spin.

You really tried not to look. You focused on the wall behind him, the pattern of the tiles, anything but him. But it was too late. The image had already seared itself into your brain: beads of water sliding down his chest, tracing each defined line of muscle; his abs sharp under the overhead light; that towel, loose and far too low on his hips, somehow holding on by sheer, stubborn gravity. The sight flared in your memory like a brand, and you had to close your eyes for a second just to will the heat in your cheeks to fade.

“I lost track of time trying to find my shoe,” you said quickly. Your voice came out thinner than you intended, higher too. You cringed inwardly. “It won’t happen again.”

A beat of silence followed. It stretched across the space between you like a live wire. Your nerves went tight, your chest tight. You stared at the floor, silently begging the moment to pass, praying he’d say nothing more, that he’d just let you go and do your work like he always did.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

Instead, you felt his fingers, warm and steady, slide under your chin. The contact was unexpected, and it tilted your head up before you could think to resist. Your breath caught in your throat.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he said. His voice was firm and deep, steady in a way that made you freeze. It carried the same quiet authority he always had.

Your eyes met his, and the air shifted, thickened. A pulse of tension beat between you, sharp and immediate. Something in your chest flipped hard, like a coin mid-toss, suspended in the air with no promise of how it would land. His red eyes didn’t just burn—they searched, pinned, unrelenting.

They seemed to see straight through you, past every shield you thought you had, digging into the parts you kept hidden even from yourself. You couldn’t look away, couldn’t move. It was like standing on the edge of something dangerous, and wanting to fall anyway.

It was almost the same way he looked at you that night.

"Much better," he said, giving a nod. There was a glint in his eyes, not quite amusement, but something close to it. "Besides, this isn't the first time you've seen me without a shirt. Why act this way now?"

Your throat tightened. You struggled to keep eye contact, it was like staring into the sun. You looked away, eyes flicking to the floor, then inadvertently back to the towel at his waist, and then back to him.

The damp fabric clung stubbornly to his hips, the water still glistening across his skin. It only made things worse. Every attempt to find neutral ground in your gaze failed. Your thoughts, once neatly compartmentalized, were now a scattered mess.

You searched for something to say, anything, but your mind was a blank slate. Words danced on the edge of your tongue and evaporated before they reached your lips.

You just wanted to get to work. Keep things simple. Stick to your job. That had been your rule from day one anyways. And yet here you were, cornered by the same intensity you’d spent so long trying to avoid.

"I...don't know," you murmured finally. The words felt hollow, but they were all you had. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either. How could you admit to the way your stomach flipped every time he looked at you like that?

The tension was sharp, almost visible. It hung in the space like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap. You wondered if he felt it too, or if you were just imagining it, drowning in your own nerves and spiraling assumptions.

He was always hard to read, but in this moment, he was completely opaque.

He exhaled, long and slow, a sound that felt heavier than it should have. Not annoyed or angry. Just...something else. Like he had expected something more from you and was quietly disappointed.

Or were you imagining that too?

"I need you to dust the shelves in my office at some point, today" he said, tone shifting with mechanical precision. The emotion was gone from his voice, replaced with professional indifference.

"Glad you're feeling alright."

Detached. Business as usual. As if the last few moments hadn’t just happened.

He was already turning away, his back to you before you could think of a response. His steps were measured, echoing faintly against the hallway tiles.

"Office...?" you said, confused. The words slipped out, weak and uncertain, but you couldn’t stop them.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t turn around to address you. Just kept walking. The muscles in his shoulders stayed tense as he disappeared around the corner, leaving you standing in the middle of the hall, holding the awkward silence he'd left behind.

You stood there for a moment longer, blinking as if that might help make sense of what just happened. Your thoughts swirled in a slow cyclone—disbelief, irritation, guilt. Was he in a bad mood? Had you missed something?

You hadn’t done anything wrong...or at least, you didn’t think you had. But with him, things were never clear. He wasn’t the kind to explain himself. You had to piece it together from fragments...his tone, his posture, the way he avoided or maintained eye contact.

And right now, you were working with very little.

Still, no use thinking about it now. You had work to do. He wanted you to do his office later? He'd given strict instructions before not to even look in the direction of the door. What was the sudden change?

You took a breath, squared your shoulders, and turned away from the hallway. The faint scent of clean linens lingered in the air, grounding you. No point in dwelling.

Just keep your head down. Do what he says. Get through the night and let the distance grow between you both once more.

Sylus had tried. Really, genuinely tried to give you your space.

That night after everything happened, he’d woken up with the weight of regret pressing heavy on his chest like a cinderblock. It wasn’t just guilt, but a twisting ache in his gut that told him he’d crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. He knew he had overstepped that night. Knew that his own hunger, his own selfish, overwhelming need had gotten the better of him. He hadn’t meant to blur the line between you. But in the moment, it had felt so natural. So easy. Like gravity itself had pulled you both together, and there was no use fighting it.

He had just needed to taste you, desperate for the memory of your skin against his tongue, the way your breath hitched when he found that spot that made you tremble. To feel you, every curve and tremor under his hands, to bury himself in your warmth until he forgot the rest of the world. And to hear you—God, the sounds you made, raw and unguarded, still echoed in his ears like a song he couldn’t stop replaying. It hadn’t just been lust. It had been craving in its purest form, need sharpened by weeks of restraint, of stolen glances and silent questions.

But the fallout had been nothing like he’d imagined.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t confront him. You just shut down. Shut him out, one careful wall at a time, until the warmth in your eyes had been replaced with something colder than anger. Indifference. Silence.

That cut deeper than any accusation.

He wasn’t clueless. He knew exactly what it must have looked like when you saw him with that other woman. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Less than twenty-four hours after he'd had his head between your thighs, he’d been spotted in the company of someone else. Laughing. Touching. It was reckless. It was cruel. And it made it seem like you meant nothing. Like it had just been physical for him.

But that wasn’t true. Not even close.

The truth was, that woman hadn’t been a choice made from desire. It had been strategic.

Her name was Lira. The daughter of Adan Marrin, once one of Sylus’s most valuable and elusive informants. Adan had held intel that could tip the balance in an ongoing hunt for a high-priority target: the location of a lost protocore, buried knowledge tied to dormant tech from the time the N109 Zone was a thriving tech hub. They’d had a deal. Adan would hand over the location in exchange for an undiscussed amount of money. But something had shifted. Cold feet, maybe. Or a better offer. Either way, the man had vanished. No trace, no message.

Sylus didn’t have time for ghosts.

So he’d sent Luke and Kieran to dig. Find a thread, any thread, and pull it. What they uncovered was gold. Adan had a daughter. Lira. Young, educated, social. And now, suddenly, appearing in elite circles, her face popping up in event photos, her name whispering through the right channels. It was too perfect.

Getting close to her wasn’t about desire. It was leverage. Sylus knew without question that Lira likely knew where her father was hiding. She had to. Adan wasn’t the kind of man to disappear without a failsafe, and family was always his weakness. If she knew anything about the location of the protocore or her father then time was running out. He had no doubt Adan had gotten cold feet, pulled back from the deal, and gone dark to protect whatever he’d found. But his daughter was his tether. His vulnerability. And Sylus was counting on that. If Adan was watching, he’d see exactly what Sylus was doing. He’d feel the message beneath every touch, every word. Come out, or watch what happens to the only person you still care about.

It was never supposed to mean anything beyond that.

He told himself it was just part of the job. That seducing her, earning her trust, manipulating her for information, was justified. And maybe it would’ve been, if it hadn’t collided headfirst with what happened between the two of you. If it hadn’t made him feel like a bastard when your eyes turned to glass the moment you saw them together.

You hadn’t known the context. Why would you? All you saw was him, lips close to another woman’s ear, hand resting on her thigh, laughing like nothing had changed. Like you had never happened. Like you didn’t still haunt every corner of his mind. And its not like he could tell you. Getting you directly involved with his life would put you at risk. He had to act cold to you in that moment not only for your own good, but for the sake of the operation he was doing.

When you stopped looking at him with that cautious but hopeful spark—when the nervous flicker in your lashes when he stepped close disappeared, when that tiny, bashful smile you used to give him faded—he realized just how much it cost him to play the part. You used to seem almost happy to see him, like each interaction was an unexpected gift.

Even in your shyness, there had been warmth. A subtle shift in your shoulders, the way you’d tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and pretend not to glance his way. It wasn’t much, but he noticed. And now, stripped of even that fragile softness, all he saw in your eyes was distance. That absence hit harder than any slap.

Now? All he got was clipped replies. Job-related updates. Your voice had turned flat, like you were reciting lines from a script. The way you moved through the halls, the way you avoided looking at him too long.

And that was what killed him most.

At first, he’d wondered if he had scared you. If maybe the intensity of that night had been too much, too fast. But you weren’t acting scared. You were more mechanical. Depressed. Like a machine set to autopilot.

It drove him insane. He’d tried to respect your distance. Tried to leave you alone. But the silence was unbearable, and your indifference gnawed at him.

So today, he broke the pattern.

He let the water run longer than it needed to, steam billowing around him as he leaned against the cool tile, trying to collect himself. He could’ve gotten dressed. Could’ve pretended like he didn’t care. But he did. He cared too much.

So he timed it. You had been a bit late today. So much so he felt the need to text you to see if you were still coming to work. He'd actually felt relieved when he received your frantic reply.

If you hadn't answered, he would've sent Mephisto directly to your door.

He finally heard your footsteps down the hallway, rushed and hurried, and stepped out just in time. Towel low on his hips. Droplets of water still clinging to his skin.

He wasn’t trying to seduce you. Not exactly. But he wanted a reaction. Anything to prove that you weren’t as numb to him as you pretended to be.

Because the truth was, he missed you.

Not just the closeness or the heat of your body, but you. That sweet little huff you'd do when flustered, or the way your mouth twitched when trying to suppress a laugh from a joke Luke or Kieran told. Your gaze always lingered a little too long, and then darted away like you’d been caught. He noticed every detail, every little expression you tried to hide.

When he saw your eyes flick to his chest, then lower, then away again. When he caught the flush creeping up your neck, the way you fought to keep your composure, he felt a flicker of relief.

You were so damn cute when flustered, it undid him. That soft heat in your cheeks, the way your eyes flicked away like you didn’t know what to do with the tension humming between you. It made his blood stir, made restraint feel like a punishment.

So when you looked away from him, it wasn’t acceptable. He'd gone too long without gazing into your eyes. He needed to see you—really see you. To meet your eyes again, to catch that vulnerable flicker in them that always made him feel something dangerously close to human.

He’d tilted your chin up, and there it was—God, that nervous, wide-eyed stare. It hit him like a drug. The way you blinked, lips parted like you might say something, or breathe too fast. He’d missed that.

In that moment, he wanted you more than he wanted clarity or control. He wanted to pull you in, crush your body to his, kiss you until you forgot how to stand. He wanted to carry you to his room, lay you out on his bed and rip off those clothes he'd bought you. To taste you again. Sink every inch of himself into your tight cunt, hear your voice unravel beneath him as he caged you with each and every thrust.

He imagined your hands clinging to his shoulders, your breath catching against his neck. Maybe you’d let out a few cute whines, maybe push him away a little. But you wouldn't be able to stop him. No, you'd just have to melt into it, accept everything he did to you.

Let him make you his.

And God help him, if you asked him to stop…he wasn’t sure he could.

He loosened his grip, dropped his gaze, and slipped back into indifference like a well-worn coat. Pretended you didn’t shake something in him just by standing there, looking the way you did—soft, flustered, unreachable.

But he still wanted you close.

The distance between you had become unbearable. The silence, the careful avoidance, the way you moved through the space like you weren’t really there, it was maddening. He needed something to pull you back in. A reason.

So he gave you one.

His office. Normally off-limits. No one entered that space unless allowed. It was his sanctuary, his command center. But today, he told you to clean it. No explanation. Just a command delivered with casual finality.

Because he wanted you there. Enclosed. Alone. With him.

He wanted to feel your presence again, to see how you fidgeted when he got too close, how your hands nervously adjusted the hem of your shirt when you felt his eyes on you. He wanted you where he could watch you until maybe, just maybe, that guarded wall in your gaze cracked again.

He wanted the charged air, the tension that buzzed like a wire between you. He wanted to strip away the calm and make you look at him again like you used to, even if it meant forcing the moment.

And you couldn’t say no.

Well…you could. You always could. But he knew you wouldn’t. He didn’t question the quiet control he held. He knew the way his words carried weight with you, how his presence shifted the air in a room. And he liked it, liked that it drew you near, even when you tried to pull away. You always came when he called. You always listened, even if you didn’t speak. There was power in that closeness, in the space you shared, and he welcomed it more than he’d admit aloud.

Because you were still under his roof. Still technically his employee.

Sylus’s phone buzzed on the table, slicing through the quiet like a blade.

He sighed before he even looked, tension already pinched between his brows. He didn’t need to check, he already knew. And sure enough, there she was. Lira. Her contact photo flashed up on the screen: a polished, over-filtered selfie with that same smug little pout she always wore like a mask. Posing as if the world existed to orbit her. His jaw clenched.

Still, he answered.

“Yes?” he said, masking the annoyance in his voice with a lacquered coat of charm. Casual. Affectionate.

“Hi Sylusss” she cooed through the speaker, dragging his name out like she wanted it to drip honey into his ear. He could almost hear the practiced flutter of her lashes, could imagine the slow twirl of her finger through her hair. “One of your men won’t let me in the elevator…could you take care of that for me, please?”

He grit his teeth, slow and tight, molars grinding behind a smile that never reached his eyes.

“Of course, honey,” he said smoothly, injecting a false note of warmth into the words. The word honey burned on his tongue. “One moment.”

The moment he hung up, his entire demeanor shifted. His eyes narrowed, and his hand flew to the intercom with practiced force. He buzzed down to the first floor, each movement sharp and clipped, his tone now cold as steel.

“If she’s not upstairs in sixty seconds, I’m coming down there myself. And if I have to get involved, you’re not going to like how that ends.”

There was a pause, followed by a cascade of panicked affirmatives—scrambling voices, clattering static—but Sylus had already cut the line. He didn’t wait for a reply. He didn’t need one.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back as he leaned into the quiet again, though the calm didn’t return with it. His fingers drummed against the edge of the table as he stared ahead, calculating. Annoyance simmered beneath the surface of his skin, but it wasn’t just about Lira. It was everything. The delicate house of cards he was holding up was starting to shift, and the last thing he needed was her sauntering in like she owned the place.

And yet, that was exactly what she did.

He watched from his office, eyes locked on the security monitors as Lira stepped into the elevator. She was dressed to be noticed—tight skirt, designer heels, and a blouse that shimmered ever so slightly under the lighting.

Sylus didn’t blink. He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting under his chin as the other tapped idly at the desk. He watched her movements with the same kind of detachment he used during an interrogation—every flick of her hair, every glance in the elevator mirror, all part of her performance.

On the other camera, you were busy fluffing and straightening the couch pillows, absorbed in the quiet rhythm of your task. You moved with care, lining them up perfectly, checking angles as if order could offer protection. Then the elevator dinged.

The sound broke the silence like a slap. You flinched, not visibly to most, but Sylus caught it. The slight stiffening of your shoulders, the pause in your hands. He narrowed his eyes.

"Oh...hello," you said softly, almost automatically. You didn’t look at her. You kept your focus on your hands, on the fabric beneath your fingers. But your voice carried tension. Thin and tight.

Lira smirked. A curl of satisfaction crept across her lips as she assessed you from head to toe. She didn’t say anything at first, just let the silence stretch. Then, with surgical precision, she turned, brushed past the side table, and "accidentally" knocked over a vase.

It wobbled. Teetered. Crashed.

The sound echoed across the room. Ceramic shards fanned out across the floor.

Sylus exhaled slowly through his nose. He scoffed. The act was so forced it was practically comedy. What was she messing with you for? Did she see all women as innate competition, or did she just enjoy picking on the quiet ones, the ones too meek to push back?

"Ah! I'm so sorry, dear," Lira chirped with practiced sweetness. Her voice hit a higher pitch, like she was speaking to a child. "Could you get that for me? Thanks!"

And then she walked away, like nothing had happened. Like you were meant to clean up after her by design.

You hesitated. Your hands hovered midair before dropping to your sides. You looked down at the broken vase, then turned your body, shoulders curling inward just slightly. A gesture of resignation. Of defeat.

Sylus saw your face shift—just enough to gut him. The way your lips pressed tight, the effort it took to hold back whatever was rising up inside. His fingers curled into a fist on his desk.

You didn’t deserve that. You weren’t built for games like this. And Lira knew it. He wanted to get up, to shut down all the bullshit. Put a bullet in Lira's head and be done with it. But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Just a little while longer. Just until she gave him what he needed.

Because Lira held a thread that could lead to everything, the location of the protocore, her father’s whereabouts, the buried intel that could turn the tide. If he moved too soon, she’d vanish. And so would the leverage.

As much as he wanted to protect you, to step in and make it stop, he couldn’t. Not without risking everything. If he compromised now, if he showed his hand too early, the entire operation could crumble. And the last thread of control he had over the situation would snap.

The door to his office burst open without warning.

"Sylus!! It’s been ages! Thanks for inviting me over, I’ve missed you," Lira sang, sweeping into the room like she owned it. She didn’t knock, of course. She never did. Her heels struck the marble with theatrical rhythm, her arms outstretched like the star of a show returning to the stage. She moved with practiced confidence, every exaggerated word, every unnecessary sway of her hips, designed to demand attention. Before he could utter a word, she dropped herself into his lap, legs folding delicately, her arm slinking around his shoulders like she belonged there.

Inwardly, Sylus recoiled. The contact made his skin crawl, but he kept his expression perfectly composed. Blank, smooth, unreadable.

He was a good actor.

He offered her a smile—refined and charming—then lifted her manicured hand to his lips with just the right amount of flair.

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder, after all," he said, his tone cool and effortless. A lie wrapped in silk.

She giggled, shrill and artificial, the sound grating in his ears. Then, with the air of someone pulling a rabbit from a hat, she reached into her bra and drew out a cigarette. Her smile widened, daring, suggestive.

"Got a lighter? I dropped mine," she said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sylus didn’t hesitate. He opened the drawer in his desk and retrieved a sleek silver lighter. He flicked it open with a practiced gesture and held it out. Lira leaned in close, her perfume blooming around him—sweet and suffocating. The cigarette caught flame, and she inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering closed like she was savoring something far more intimate.

She exhaled slowly, deliberately, her lips forming a perfect circle as she blew the smoke upward. Then she turned to him, cocking her head with mock curiosity.

"That housekeeper out there is kinda cute, don't you think?"

Sylus’s smile tightened. He arched a brow. "Cute?"

Was this some kind of test? A jab? A trap?

Lira smirked, her voice curling with amusement. "Yeah. But in like...a kicked puppy kind of way. It kinda pisses me off."

Her tone was light, dismissive, but there was venom in it. Sylus recognized it immediately, the cruelty masked in humor, the subtle twist of power games she liked to play when she sensed a potential threat. She knew how to weaponize insecurity. And she enjoyed it.

His fingers flexed around the lighter. He said nothing.

But inside, his thoughts were anything but still.

He thought of you—how you startled slightly at the sound of the elevator earlier. How you had shrunk under Lira’s gaze. The way your eyes had dropped to the floor, your posture stiffening like you were bracing for something. That flicker of pain on your face when Lira had made you clean up the vase she'd so obviously knocked over.

And now this.

Admittedly she was right in some way. You did have that sorrowful look to you. But it only made you more endearing to him. Some people were just born weaker than others. At least in the ways the world chose to measure strength. That was reality. Not everyone had sharp elbows or loud voices. Some people simply endured. Survived. Carried their weight differently. But that wasn't a flaw for you. It drew him to you. You were strong in your own ways for enduring so much for so long.

He grit his teeth.

The only thing he hated more than kicking down the weak? People who actually did it. Enjoyed doing it. Who took pleasure in tearing down the already trembling.

He changed the subject, steering the conversation away from the direction she was clearly trying to take it.

"Have you heard from your father at all, Lira?" he asked smoothly, eyes watching her every move as she ground out the cigarette in a nearby crystal ashtray.

She exhaled slowly through her nose, her fingers brushing imaginary ash from her lap. "Yes and no," she said after a moment. "He sent me a package earlier this week. It’s been so hard without him." Her voice softened, face shifting just enough to appear genuinely pained. For a second, she almost looked like a daughter longing for connection.

Almost.

Sylus matched her expression with ease. He lowered his voice, injected it with practiced sympathy, even let his gaze drift away like the weight of the moment meant something to him.

"I know it can’t be easy. But at least he's shown he's still thinking of you."

The words sounded sincere, and maybe in a way they were. But only in the abstract. Sylus had no intention of getting pulled into her dramatics. Not when he knew exactly what she was capable of.

"Yeah, well..." she said, the softness vanishing almost instantly. A sly smile replaced it as she leaned in closer, her body pressing up against his. "I have one thing that could make me feel better..."

Sylus sighed inwardly, keeping his face neutral.

She was nothing like you.

Bold. Unapologetic. Blunt.

You didn’t toy with affection. You didn’t hint or tease to manipulate. You didn’t move in angles or read people like marks. Hell, he couldn't even imagine you taking the lead like this, not without a shaky breath or an unsure glance. But that was what made your presence so different, so disarming. So honest.

Not that he would mind this behavior from you.

But she wasn’t you.

"Not right now, Lira," he said, gently but firmly. He adjusted his posture, nudging her back just slightly. "We don’t even have much time to chat, I'm a very busy man. Would you like to accompany me for lunch while we still have time tonight?"

She let out a dramatic sigh, tilting her head back like this was the greatest inconvenience she’d ever endured. But the smile that followed was playful.

"Sure! There’s this new place in the city and—"

She launched into a list. Five-star restaurants, exclusive clubs, rooftops with imported wine lists and gold-plated menus that her father had brought her to. Every place she named came with a story she didn’t finish and a price tag she made sure to highlight. Sylus listened just enough to keep the rhythm of his responses timed. A nod here. A hum there. Convincing, if not engaged.

He offered her his arm, and she took it without hesitation. They walked together toward the elevator like a picture-perfect couple. Her heels clicked confidently beside him, her words still floating through the air as she spoke of truffle foam and panoramic skyline views.

But as they passed the kitchen, something shifted.

His eyes caught movement—subtle, small.

There you were, tucked quietly in a corner at the far end of the kitchen, knees drawn slightly in a chair, hunched over a modest sandwich. Headphones in. Eyes down. It was your lunchtime, too.

And you were alone. No twins in sight.

His steps slowed for the briefest moment. Just long enough to watch you lift your sandwich, take a small bite, and chew without ever looking up. You hadn’t seen him. You probably wouldn’t. You were clearly trying to disappear.

His chest tightened.

"Meet the twins by the car downstairs," he said, turning to Lira without looking at her. "I have to instruct my staff on a few things."

She blinked, surprised at the sudden shift, but smiled anyway. "Of course," she said, likely already imagining the next moment she’d be able to slip back onto his arm.

And then she was gone.

Leaving Sylus standing just outside the kitchen, gaze still locked on you, wondering what it was you were listening to—and why seeing you like that made everything else feel even heavier.

You had a bit of mayo sliding down the corner of your mouth. It was white, creamy, and clung to your skin in a way that made Sylus's thoughts turn far darker than he intended. He swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he shifted slightly, adjusting his stance. His pants suddenly felt a bit tighter. He cursed inwardly, pulling his gaze away just long enough to pretend he was in control of his own mind.

Wouldn't hurt to tease you a little before he left.

He tapped the edge of the table with a finger.

You jumped, startled, the sound snapping you out of your trance. You yanked out your headphones with fumbling fingers and blinked up at him, eyes wide and alert. Your lips parted like you were about to apologize and then hesitated.

"Oh! I was just about to finish lunch..." you said, gripping your sandwich a little tighter, like it could shield you. "The dishes are almost done though."

Your voice was soft. It wrapped around his chest and squeezed.

Without a word, Sylus reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a folded handkerchief. He stepped in closer, slow and unhurried, and leaned down to your level. He wiped the corner of your mouth with careful precision, thumb brushing your cheek in the process. The gesture wasn’t overtly intimate, but it was close.

You froze.

Your breath hitched, eyes wide with something between confusion and embarrassment. Heat surged to your face, the kind of flush that spread fast, burning under your skin. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Adorable.

He pocketed the handkerchief again, casually, like it was something valuable he didn’t want anyone else to see. He was invading your space today after weeks of respecting it, whether you liked it or not.

"I’ll be back in a little while," he said, his voice deeper now, a touch more gravel in it. "Don’t clean my office until I’m back. Understood?"

You nodded, stumbling through a shy, "Y-Yes, sir."

Then you stood from your chair too fast, trying to gather yourself. You adjusted your shirt, tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and tried to fall back into the mechanical rhythm and blank face that had protected you all these weeks.

But Sylus saw through it.

The way your hand lingered a second too long on the back of the chair. The darting glance you gave him before quickly looking away. You were still flustered, still unraveling in real time from that one tiny touch.

God, if only he had the time.

He could spend hours watching the way you unraveled under his gaze. The way your breathing quickened when he leaned in, how your lips parted just slightly like you were already imagining what he might do. He’d start slow, fingers grazing exposed skin, letting you squirm, letting you tremble. He’d whisper filth into your ear, make you squeal in his ear from embarrassment. He’d tease you until your thighs clenched, until your breath came out in soft, needy gasps. Until your voice wasn’t just a whisper, but a moan, a plea, begging him to just take you.

But...

He had a role to play. A mission to finish. Lira still held pieces of the puzzle he needed, and as much as he hated it, that took priority.

So he turned without another word and walked away, each step slower, heavier.

And every inch of him aware of your lingering warmth behind him.

When he came back from an exhausting dinner with Lira, the first thing he did was instruct the twins to drop her off at her place. No lingering goodbyes. No forced intimacy. He needed the space, the silence, and more importantly, he needed to be alone with you.

It would be just the two of you now.

He loosened his tie as the elevator climbed, fatigue tugging at his shoulders. The conversation over dinner had been exhausting. Empty flattery, false laughter. He hadn’t meant a single word of it. But playing along had been necessary. That woman had frustrated him to no end, and he hadn't gotten any answers he was was seeking. Now, all he wanted was quiet.

The elevator doors slid open, and as he stepped into the hallway leading to his office, he came to a stop.

You were sitting there.

Right outside his office door, legs crossed neatly, cleaning supplies at your side. Your hands were folded in your lap, posture straight, head bowed slightly like you’d been waiting for a while.

You looked up at the sound of his approach. Blank-faced. Guarded.

"What are you doing on the floor of all places?" he asked, voice low.

"I finished everything...I wasn’t sure what to do since you weren’t back yet," you said quietly.

"Good girl", he thought, the words sliding through his mind. The sight of you sitting there so quietly, like a stray kitten waiting to be claimed, stirred something low and hungry in him. There was something painfully tender about how you obeyed without being asked, how you waited without complaint. It wasn’t just adorable. It was intoxicating. You didn’t even know how much power you gave him by being so willing, so pliant.

He extended a hand toward you, palm open and steady.

You took it without hesitation, your fingers slipping into his, light and tentative. The moment your soft fingers connected with his palm, he felt like electricity was coursing through him. He pulled you to your feet effortlessly, then turned and unlocked the door, gesturing for you to step inside with him.

The moment the door shut behind you, your eyes wandered—he noticed it right away. You took in the space with a quiet curiosity. The towering shelves, the dark wood, the precise arrangement of everything. Your gaze lingered on the finer things, the things you hadn’t been allowed to touch before. But still, you said nothing.

No questions. Just a respectful, efficient nod before you moved wordlessly toward the nearest shelf and got right to work.

Of course.

He watched you for a moment, jaw tightening. You were really going to play it that way, huh? Still trying to make yourself invisible. Still performing the perfect role, the silent, diligent housekeeper. Like if you stayed quiet enough, if you focused hard enough, you could disappear entirely.

He was sick of it.

Sick of the distance. Sick of pretending he didn’t see you. Didn’t notice you. That he hadn’t spent the entire ride back thinking of you instead of Lira.

Tonight, he decided, would be different.

He could already feel the nervous energy rolling off you as you moved through the space. You weren’t speaking, but your body said everything. The careful way you gripped the duster. The overly deliberate steps. The way your shoulders subtly tensed every time you turned your back to him, like you were aware of being watched and trying your hardest not to show it.

He leaned back in his chair behind the desk, a few papers laid out before him, though he wasn’t really reading them. His eyes kept drifting. You moved with focus, methodical as you positioned a stool near the back wall to reach the taller shelves. His gaze trailed lower, catching the curve of your calf, the way your clothing bunched slightly when you stretched.

You weren’t wearing a skirt this time.

Lately, you'd been dressing more conservatively—looser fabrics, longer hems, high collars. It was subtle at first, but he noticed. You’d wrapped yourself in layers, not out of modesty, but defense. Like armor. As if hiding from his gaze could make you feel safer.

He didn’t blame you.

He only had himself to blame for that change. It wasn’t like you had chosen these new clothes on your own, he’d bought them. Soft sweaters, pants, high-collared blouses, longer skirts, and thicker fabrics that suited the colder weather. Clothes meant to be to your liking. To make up for the tension he’d created.

They were still flattering, he made sure of that. He hadn’t picked anything shapeless or drab. But they created distance. Soft armor disguised as kindness. A buffer. And though some part of him respected the silence and the safety it offered you, another part of him—darker, more possessive—missed the way you used to let your guard slip around him.

A part of him was almost proud. Proud that you were adjusting, adapting. That you wore what he gave you. That you were learning how to manage the space between you and him, even if it meant hiding behind cotton and caution.

But it didn’t stop him from yearning.

As you bent down to clean the lower shelf, something small slipped from your pocket and hit the floor with a soft, solid thud.

Sylus’s gaze snapped to the object.

A small, worn pack of cigarettes.

His brows lifted slightly, and a grin pulled at the edge of his mouth. It was cracked and bent, probably stuffed in that jacket pocket without much thought. But it was the sight of it that struck him as out of character for you.

He lifted a hand, letting his Evol stir to life. Red mist slithered from his hand, slow and graceful like smoke on still air. It curled through the space, coiled gently around the cigarette pack, and lifted it clean off the floor. It hovered for a second, then glided into his open palm with perfect precision.

You hadn’t noticed. Too focused. Too wrapped in whatever careful, avoidant rhythm you'd forced yourself into.

"Since when do you smoke?" he asked, his voice casual but edged with something more.

You turned sharply, clearly caught off guard.

His thumb flipped the top open with an audible snap. It was still full, mostly. Only one had been used.

Interesting.

He turned the pack slowly in his hand, eyes flicking up to meet yours. You stood frozen, not quite panicked, but uncertain. It was written in the set of your jaw, the way your hands hovered at your sides like you weren’t sure whether to defend yourself or apologize.

Finally, you squeezed your hands together and let out a quiet sigh, shoulders sagging as though you had been holding your breath. The tension in your posture gave you away, even before you spoke. You weren't relaxed. Sylus could see the effort it took for you to keep your voice even.

"Since yesterday. Now can you give them back, please?" you asked, carefully. Your voice tried for neutral, but he caught the edge of defensiveness curled beneath it. That mix of irritation and embarrassment, coiled tight and trembling behind your ribs, made you seem smaller somehow and more real. Vulnerability looked good on you, whether you meant to show it or not.

Sylus flipped the carton in the air with a slow, lazy flick of his wrist. The movement was practiced, deliberate. He caught it with ease, his eyes locked on you the whole time. The edge of a grin touched his lips. Amused. A hunter watching a kitten stumble closer to his trap.

"Come over and get them yourself," he said. He simply set the pack on the edge of the table, deliberate and slow, his fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary. There was no need for show or emphasis. Just a quiet expectation that you'd do as told.

The change in your expression was immediate and unmistakable. Your eyes widened just a fraction—not enough for the average person to notice, but Sylus wasn’t the average person. That quick, silent flicker of uncertainty told him everything. The tension in your frame sharpened, your body caught between the instinct to obey and the desire to flee.

But you came.

You walked slowly, deliberately, like every step was a decision. The silence stretched between you, heavy and taut, as your shoes tapped softly against the floor. Your hands fidgeted at your sides. Your gaze stayed low, only darting to him when you thought he wouldn’t notice.

Closer.

The air felt charged, and Sylus felt his pulse slow in response—anticipation thick in his blood. You were trying so hard to act unaffected, to keep your breathing steady. But he saw through it. The tension clung to you, wrapped around you like static.

You reached the table and paused. A single, breathless moment where you hovered. And then, with careful fingers, you reached for the pack.

He struck.

His hand closed over yours before you could even blink.

His grip was warm, unrelenting. Not rough, but not gentle either. Your body tensed instantly. The air left your lungs in a shallow gasp, and your eyes darted up to his. You didn’t speak. You didn’t pull away. You just froze, caught between fear and confusion.

Sylus leaned forward, just slightly, his presence folding in over yours. His thumb moved slowly across the back of your hand, dragging along your skin like he was committing it to memory. He could feel how cold your fingers were. How they trembled just the slightest amount beneath his touch.

"Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with you now?" Sylus asked, his voice dipping lower, quieter than usual, like he didn’t want to scare you off. His hand stayed wrapped around yours, warm and steady, anchoring you in place with just enough pressure to remind you that he was there. He already had a good idea of what was bothering you, but hearing you say it aloud would make it real.

You grimaced, body tensing, and instinctively tried to pull away. It was a half-hearted movement, more of a reflex than a true effort to escape. Your body trembled, and your eyes flicked past him, unable or unwilling to meet his gaze. "Nothing’s wrong...let go..." you mumbled, your voice thin and frayed. It wasn’t convincing. Not even close.

"We both know that’s not true, sweetie," he said, and the nickname came out too smoothly, too easily, like it had been waiting on his tongue. His grip tightened, just a bit. Not enough to hurt. But enough to remind you that you weren’t walking away from this.

You let out a breath and stopped resisting, your shoulders dropping as if the fight had drained out of you in one long exhale. You looked exhausted. Worn down. He could see it in your posture, the weight of whatever you were holding in dragging your whole frame downward. You’d stopped trying to tug your hand back. You knew it was pointless.

"Sylus, please...I have work to do," you said, your voice softer now, barely above a whisper. Your gaze dropped to the floor like it might swallow you whole if you wished hard enough.

He tilted his head, studying your face, every flicker of emotion, every twitch of resistance. His voice, when it came, was calm and certain. "Cleaning wasn’t the real reason I brought you in here," he said. "You know that, don’t you?"

He didn’t say it to shame you. He said it because it was the truth. One you’d been trying to ignore.

You shut your eyes and nodded slowly, like the weight of everything you’d been holding in was finally starting to crack. The tension in your shoulders dropped, your breath trembled. A silent surrender.

"Then speak," Sylus said, voice like velvet laced with command. Without waiting, red mist curled from his hand. It slithered through the air, elegant and alive, like it knew exactly what to do. Within seconds, it wrapped around your frame, lifting you off your feet with graceful precision. You let out a soft squeal, startled, unprepared. And then your body settled in his lap, the mist vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

You landed lightly, but the impact still registered. Not just physically, but emotionally. The shock hadn’t quite worn off, and neither had the awareness of where you were, perched squarely on his lap, knees on either side of him, the heat of his body radiating into yours.

He needed you close. Close enough to read every flicker in your expression, to hear every hitch in your breath. He couldn’t bear the distance anymore. Weeks of restraint had tested every ounce of his patience. But now—with your body pressed gently against his, your shaking frame exposed to him, he felt it. The unspoken truth in your trembling.

"Sylus..." you whispered, barely audible. There was nothing defensive in your voice now. Just softness. Fear and fragility. He heard it all.

He leaned in, breath brushing your ear, low and unwavering. "It’s alright, kitten. You can tell me."

His hands moved to your waist, resting there with a stillness that contrasted the storm between you. His fingers brushed over the fabric of your shirt, just barely, and then stayed—offering steadiness, not force. He didn’t push or pull. He simply held you in place, as if his touch alone could ground you enough to speak.

You stiffened at the contact, the air catching in your throat. Slowly, your eyes rose to meet his, wide and glassy. Your lips parted, trembling, and for a moment he thought you’d speak. He could see you searching, internally clawing through the mess of emotions for the words you’d tried to bury. Your throat bobbed as you swallowed hard, lashes fluttering with uncertainty.

He waited. Eyes locked on yours. Everything about him still, except the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was close. So close.

Then, finally, you exhaled a breath, shaky and reluctant. Like the truth weighed too much to carry any longer. "It’s...erm..."

You hesitated. The pause stretched, hanging thick in the air.

"My landlord," you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sylus raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable at first. Then skepticism flickered behind his eyes, subtle but undeniable. That was a piece of the puzzle, sure, but not the whole picture. He could feel the edges of something bigger pressing beneath your words.

But he didn’t interrupt.

Instead, he nodded once—slow, deliberate, encouraging. "Go on."

"He's been a piece of shit for the longest," you burst out, the words tumbling from your mouth with a bitterness that surprised even you. "He never fixes anything when it breaks. The plumbing, the heater—he just ignores my requests. I know he goes inside when I'm not there. I can tell things are moved. It's creepy."

Your face was flushed now, brows furrowed and lips tight with anger. Sylus watched you with sharp curiosity. He’d never seen you like this before—so openly furious, so unguarded. It was a stark contrast to your usual meekness, and it intrigued him.

"And now he's sniffing around because he's realized I’ve come into some money," you continued, voice tightening. You looked like you wanted to scream or cry, maybe both. "I’m sick of people trying to get something out of me. But I'm more sick of being too weak to stand up for myself."

Your voice cracked at the end, and you sniffled, quickly wiping at your nose with the back of your hand. The frustration, the helplessness—it spilled out of you.

"He’ll probably raise my rent now too, just get more money out of me."

Sylus’s expression didn’t shift much, but his eyes sharpened with intent.

"I can imagine most landlords around here like to drain every penny they can," he said, his tone even, measured. "Though, I’m not sure why you’re worried. I pay you well enough, don’t I? Any increase in rent shouldn’t be an issue."

"Yeah...you do," you admitted softly, your voice losing some of its earlier edge. There was a different tone in it now—tired, thoughtful. You let out a brief, shaky sigh. "It’s just...I’m honestly tired of feeling stuck. I’m hoping to move eventually. Out of that apartment. Out of the N109 Zone entirely, honestly. I mean, my mom did..."

You trailed off, your gaze shifting to the side again, not quite meeting his eyes. The air around you thickened, heavy with something unspoken. Saying it aloud made it real.

Sylus’s heart dropped.

Leave? The word rang in his head like an alarm bell. You couldn’t mean that. He could accept you wanting to leave that crumbling, decrepit apartment. That place was barely fit to be called an apartment. But leaving the entire city? Walking away from the N109 Zone, the best place he could keep a direct eye on you? That thought dug in deep. The idea of you vanishing and slipping away into a part of the world he had no direct access to struck him deeply.

He imagined the distance. Imagined you being somewhere he couldn’t monitor, couldn’t protect, couldn’t touch. Somewhere you could forget him. It wasn’t fear that clawed at him. It was the burn of potential loss, of losing something he hadn’t even fully had yet. Of having you slip through his fingers like smoke.

Of having no excuse to pull you back.

He didn’t show it. His expression stayed smooth, controlled, but his hands, still resting lightly at your waist, tightened just slightly. The motion was subtle, but deliberate. A silent tell. Just enough pressure to reveal the faintest flicker of tension running through him.

"Why not just find a nice place here?" he asked, his voice smooth and composed. "There are plenty of decent neighborhoods. You could have a place to yourself, close to work. I’d help you find something."

But you shook your head slowly, decisively, your lips pressing into a faint, bittersweet line. "No...I honestly just want a fresh start. Somewhere that I’m not dragged down by my past. Somewhere I can breathe. I just want to save enough to get a car and never come back."

Sylus’s breath caught, just for a second.

He couldn't let this happen. He couldn't. The very thought of you leaving clawed at something deep and primal inside him, burrowing into a place so dark and unrelenting that it almost scared him. Almost. It wasn’t just about wanting you close, it was the intolerable reality of you existing beyond his reach. That kind of distance felt like a death.

He’d do everything in his power to keep you here. Anything. Buy you an entire mansion just a few blocks from his penthouse. One with many, many rooms. He could stock it with everything you liked. Make sure you never had to lift a finger again. Shower you with more money than you could spend in a lifetime. Change your world completely. Strip away every obstacle, every excuse, until there was simply no reason left for you to leave. Until staying was the only option that made sense.

He could also...

His gaze drifted downward, settling on your belly. The thought came out of nowhere, reckless and wild, but it rooted itself in his mind like a seed cracking through dry soil. Get you pregnant. The ultimate claim. The deepest mark. Surely that would bind you to him. You, with a child inside you, his child. The image formed in his head so vividly it made his pulse spike. His sweet kitten, swollen with his baby, waiting delicately in one of his lavish homes, kept and treasured. Waiting for him when he came home. Dependent. His.

He'd have you right where he wanted you, pinned beneath him, your breath quickening as he loomed over you. He'd plunge his cock into you, for hours and hours, each thrust deliberate and deep, his body moving with a primal rhythm that would leave you breathless and begging.

He'd make love to you every chance he got, his hands roaming your flesh, claiming every inch of you, until you were leaking with his cum, your body marked and filled by him, his scent clinging to your skin. Afterward, he'd pull you close, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace, his heartbeat pounding against your chest. He'd kiss you deeply, sweaty bodies close, and cuddle you until your soft sleeping breaths filled the room.

It was irrational. He knew that. You hadn’t even known each other that long. But logic had long since left the room. The obsession had carved its own path, and he wasn’t about to fight it.

Maybe he’d do all of it. The mansion. The riches. And the child. Layer after layer of permanence, until there was no version of life where you weren’t tethered to him. Until the idea of leaving would feel like ripping your own heart out.

And then he heard you.

A soft, broken sound—sniffling, barely held in. He looked up just in time to see the tears sliding down your cheeks. They clung to your lashes, thick and glistening like fragile jewels. Your mouth trembled as you tried to hold yourself together.

"I-I just..." you choked out, your voice buckling under the weight of everything you'd kept inside. The sentence collapsed into a sob, deep and involuntary. It cracked through the quiet like thunder, shaking you from the inside out. You brought a hand to your mouth, trying to silence it, but it was too late.

You looked so small. So heartbreakingly delicate. Your shoulders shook as you tried to breathe through it. Your eyes were wide and watery, darting up to meet his with a kind of desperation that made his chest ache.

Then you looked at him. Genuinely looked at him. For the first time in almost a month.

And Sylus felt his heart twist in his chest. You were so adorable when you cried, it physically hurt him.

Without hesitation, he pulled you against him, gathering you up like you might slip through his fingers if he didn’t. His arms wrapped around you and he cradled the back of your head with one hand while the other slid up your spine in a slow, steady motion. Like if he held you tight enough, you wouldn’t fall apart. Like his touch alone could stitch you back together.

He gently rocked you, not shushing your cries, not telling you to stop. He let you sob into his chest, let you soak the front of his shirt with your tears. His hand rubbed soothing, slow circles against your back, steady and grounding. Every sharp breath, every broken sound you made, he absorbed it silently, protectively, as if he could shoulder the weight for you if you’d let him. He stayed there, present and unwavering, letting you fall apart in his arms.

He hadn’t expected how much it would hurt to feel your body shake against his. He hadn’t expected the tightness in his chest, the surge of something sharp and helpless when your cries cracked into sobs. It shook him in places he hadn’t known were still alive.

But then, without warning, you pushed against him.

Your hands braced on his chest as you shoved yourself away, anger flashing like lightning in your tear-glossed eyes. "Why are you doing this? You don't even care!" you snapped, voice rising in raw, choked fury. The words struck hard, but it was the betrayal in your voice that landed the deepest cut. You tried to scramble out of his lap, your limbs stiff and clumsy, trembling with the last threads of adrenaline, but he caught you before you could slip away. His grip was firm but not harsh. He held you in place.

He wasn’t going to let you run from this. From him.

He wasn’t surprised by the accusation. But it still cut deeper than he expected. You didn’t know the things he was doing behind the scenes, the lengths he’d gone to for your safety. To keep you in the dark.

"That’s not true," he said quietly. His voice didn’t waver. There was no dramatic defense, just truth. "Admittedly, I’ve never comforted someone before, so I’m not the best at it."

Then his hands rose to your face, cupping your cheeks with deliberate care. His thumbs brushed over your damp skin, catching the last of your tears. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were locked onto yours with an intensity that made the air between you shift.

"But I do care," he said, his voice firmer now, low and clear. "And I want you to depend on me."

The way he said it wasn’t just about comfort. It was a confession. A possessive need masked in the language of protection. He didn’t want you to lean on anyone else. He didn’t want you to look to anyone else.

Your eyes narrowed, blinking through the fresh wave of tears, and you stared at him with bitter confusion. "Then why—"

You stopped. The rest of the sentence caught in your throat. You couldn’t say it. Couldn’t put to words the truth he already knew. The pain that had been festering inside you ever since that night he went to your apartment. The sight of him with her. The way it shattered whatever fragile hope you’d been building.

He saw the hesitation, the heartbreak, and knew he couldn’t explain it. Not because he didn’t want to, but because there was no way to make it make sense to someone like you. Not without exposing too much. Not without unraveling everything he was trying to accomplish. There were secrets still being played like pieces on a chessboard, and telling you the truth now would only hurt you more—or worse, drive you further away.

So instead, he leaned in.

He kissed you.

His mouth captured yours with a kind of hunger and certainty that left no room for doubt. It wasn’t rough. But it was possessive. Anchoring. A kiss meant to tell you everything words couldn’t. A kiss that demanded you feel it—believe it. His fingers slid from your face to the back of your neck, drawing you deeper into him, erasing the inches of distance you’d tried to reclaim.

He wanted you. Needed you. He'd been dreaming of doing this again since the first time he kissed you. And now he had you.

You tensed in his grasp at first, the sudden closeness rattling whatever defenses you had left. Your body went stiff, breath catching in your throat, but you didn’t push him away. Slowly you began to soften. Not entirely, not without friction, but enough. Your fingers gripped his shirt, clutching at him like something solid in an uncertain moment. Sylus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, deepening the kiss, pulling you in as though closeness alone might anchor you to him.

The sound of your mouths meeting and parting filled the air between you, mingling with the quiet cadence of your shared breath. He was hyper-aware of it—the temperature of your skin, the tremble in your limbs, the soft catches of your breath. You weren’t fully there yet, not surrendered, not convinced—but you weren’t pulling away either. There was desperation in his movements, a hunger under the surface. He kissed you like he needed to claim something that kept slipping through his fingers.

It felt like time stopped. Every second stretched long, blurred by want and restraint. But eventually, you pulled away. Your breath came in short, sharp bursts. Your lips were parted, kiss-bruised, your cheeks stained with heat. "C-Can’t breathe..." you said, voice small, colored with uncertainty.

Sylus growled low in his chest, a sound that rumbled with unspoken frustration and want. He stood abruptly, chair scraping back as he rose, and in one fluid motion, lifted you from his lap and set you gently onto his desk. His body closed in between your knees, his presence enveloping. You looked startled, but you didn’t move to stop him.

"You can't run from this," he said, voice weighted and rough. His hands rested firmly on your thighs, keeping you steady. His gaze dropped to your lips again. Then he kissed you, harder this time. Urgent. Messy. The control he usually wore like armor was starting to slip.

And still, you didn’t melt. You whimpered against him, fingers resting against his chest, not in surrender but in hesitation. Your body tensed again. Then you turned your face, breaking the kiss.

"Sylus...no," you whispered, barely audible. Your tone wasn't firm, but it wasn’t yielding either. Your eyes, wide and still glassy from earlier, searched his face. You looked on edge. Still unsure. Still scared. It hit him like a blow. "I'm dirty from cleaning earlier..."

His jaw clenched, but his hand moved slowly, deliberately to your chin. He tilted your face back to his, eyes locked onto yours. He could see everything in that look. The confusion. The pain. The hesitation. It made him ache.

"Sweetie," he murmured, voice low and rich, "I couldn’t care less about a little dirt. I want you. So tell me…how much longer are you going to pretend you don’t want this too?"

It was what he needed to believe. That somewhere in your confusion, you wanted this too. That your body’s stillness wasn’t rejection, but fear. That he still had a chance to show you what this could be.

He didn’t wait for an answer. Couldn’t. He kissed you again, slower this time, softer, more deliberate. His hand cradled the back of your neck, the other slipping to your lower back, urging you closer, anchoring you to him.

Finally, you fully relaxed in his grip. Sylus felt it—the shift in your body, the way your shoulders sank, the subtle easing of tension as your shaky hands clenched and unclenched against the front of his shirt. That tiny surrender made his pulse spike. You weren’t pushing him away anymore. You were letting him in.

Ah. You just needed him to slow down. He understood now. You were just a little overwhelmed.

He leaned forward, guiding your body gently until your back touched the cool surface of the desk. He followed, hovering above you, caging you in just enough to feel the heat radiating off your skin. His mouth trailed down from your lips to your neck, where he pressed a soft, lingering kiss. Then another. And another.

"Ah! Sylus...that tickles..." you gasped, your voice breaking into a half-whine, half-protest.

But he didn’t stop. The sound of your reaction was addictive. He grinned against your skin, kissing you again, slower this time, more teasing. He relished every flinch, every twist of your torso beneath him. His hands slid along your sides, fingers exploring the shape of you through the fabric as he pinned you gently beneath his weight. Just enough that you knew you weren’t going anywhere.

He left more kisses across your neck, trailing up to your jaw, savoring the soft sounds you made and the warmth of your breath as it hitched. This was what he wanted. What he missed. This closeness. This tension.

You, beneath him, slowly coming undone.

His hands, strong and sure, find the buttons of your pants, his fingers dancing over the fabric as he skillfully undoes them. The zipper glides down with a whisper, "You think I don't care," he breathes against your skin, his voice a low, seductive murmur. "But there's only one person I can't get out of my mind." You freeze, your body taut with anticipation as he tugs your pants down, exposing your legs to the cool air. His touch is electric as he lifts your shirt, inch by inch, revealing the lace of your bra. With a flick of his wrist, he undoes the clasp, the fabric falling away to leave your breasts bare, vulnerable to the chill and his hungry gaze.

He drinks in the sight of you panting beneath him, face flushed and breasts exposed, cool air causing your nipples to harden into tight, sensitive peaks. He leans down, his mouth finding your breast with skillful precision. His tongue circles your nipple, teasing and tasting, before he draws it into his mouth, sucking gently. You gasp, the sensation sending shivers down your spine. "Beautiful," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low, appreciative growl that vibrates through you, heightening your arousal.

You whine in response, clutching him for dear life. Your breathless as he moves to the other, repeating the motions with the same delicious skill. He eventually gets off your nipple, a small string of saliva trailing from his mouth. He feels like he's dreaming.

"Sylus..."

He places a gentle finger against your lips, hushing you softly as he begins to unzip his own pants. The sound is a harsh rasp in the quiet room, a promise of what's to come. He wants no time for either of you to change your mind. This was happening. As much as he knew he shouldn't, he couldn't take it anymore. His cock, thick and hard with need, strains against the fabric, eager for release.

With a swift, decisive movement, he pushes his pants and boxers down, freeing himself. Your eyes widen in a mix of fear and shock as his large, throbbing erection springs free, standing big and ready. His tip is already leaking precum, dripping a bit down the side.

You squirmed slightly beneath him, breath hitching as his mouth ghosted over your skin. Your voice came out in a shaky whisper, panicked and unsure.

“W-Wait...we don’t have any condoms! We shou—”

Before you could finish, Sylus’s hand slid down, fingers hooking beneath the hem of your underwear with slow intent. His touch silenced you more effectively than words ever could.

“It’s alright, sweetie” he said, voice low and steady, almost soothing. He looked into your eyes as if daring you to doubt him. “Whatever happens, I’ll take full responsibility.”

He knew he shouldn’t. Every rational part of him was screaming at him to stop before he ruined you. Tied you to him in ways that couldn't be undone. But fuck, if it wasn’t hard to imagine a future with you. To see it so clearly: you in his arms, in his home, in his life permanently. The thought burrowed deep, dangerous and sweet. And it could all start now.

The urge wouldn’t go away. And if he didn’t act on it now, he knew it would only grow, gnawing at him until it consumed every ounce of patience he had left.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, confusion flooding your expression. You began to squirm harder beneath him, your voice barely holding itself together.

“W-Why...would you even say—”

But you didn’t get the rest out. Sylus pulled you closer, silencing you with the warmth of his touch and the certainty in his grip. He leaned down, capturing your lips again. This kiss was slower. Intimate. Your breaths tangled together, shaky and uneven, filling the quiet space around you with tension that could snap at any second.

His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb brushing against your cheek with surprising tenderness. “This will hurt,” he whispered, voice husky and deep. “Bite down on me if you need to.”

You thrash beneath him, your legs kicking as he tugs your underwear down, exposing the rest of your body to him. Your pussy is already wet, glistening with desire despite your protests. "Sylus! We should think about this…!" you whimper, your voice a mix of fear and longing. He silences you with a finger, pushing it deep inside you. You choke on a gasp as he curls it, finding your sweet spot with uncanny precision.

Like he already knows your body inside out.

"F-fuck!" you yell, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash over you. Tears well up in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks as you struggle to form words. "I can't…I-" Your plea is cut short as he adds another finger, stretching you, filling you. You moan, a raw, primal sound that speaks of your body's betrayal, your mind's surrender.

"Yes you can. Just lay still." he whispers. He pulls his fingers out, glistening with your wetness, and brings them to his mouth, licking your essence off them with a satisfied smirk. He couldn't wait any longer. No amount of fingering would adequately prepare you for the real thing anyways, you'd simply have to endure it. He spreads your legs further apart, promising himself he'd be gentle and go slow.

His cock throbs, pulsing with anticipation as he positions himself at your entrance. You shiver beneath his intense gaze, your face streaked with tears, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Your innocence is unraveling, just as he always imagined.

You let out a cry, a mix of pain and surprise, as he begins to slowly push inside, your body resisting his size. He lets out a groan himself. Your tightness wasn't making this easy. But god you already feel amazing just wrapped around his tip. With a gentle but firm grip, he takes your hand, intertwining your fingers with his. He pulls out slowly, giving you a moment to adjust, before pushing back in by a meager inch. You arch your back off the desk, letting out another whine.

Finally. Finally, he'll-

Suddenly, your voice tore through the air like a whip crack, slicing clean through the haze of desire and tension.

"Stop! Stop! I can't take it! I won't let you use me again!!" you screamed, raw and shaking.

The words slammed into Sylus harder than any punch he'd ever taken. For the first time that night—hell, maybe in years—he froze completely. The depth of your anger crashed into him like a wave, knocking the wind from his lungs. You writhed out from under him, frantic and breathless, and in that half-second of his hesitation, you shoved yourself free. Your foot slipped against the edge of the desk, and you nearly tumbled, catching yourself only by the edge of a chair.

Sylus reached toward you without thinking. "Use you? Kitten, I'd never—"

But the universe refused to give either of you space to breathe. A knock came sharp and awkward against the door.

"Er, bossman? You busy? We’ve got intel on Adan, it’s important. Sorry to bother!" Luke’s voice rang out from the other side, his usual tone of confidence coated in hesitation.

Sylus’s eyes shut for a beat, jaw grinding with building irritation. Of all times. He exhaled a tight, sharp breath and turned back to you.

You were a mess of movement, struggling with your clothes, trying desperately to put yourself back together. Every gesture screamed panic, your hands trembled, your breath came in shallow gulps, your fingers caught uselessly in the fabric. You looked like you were about to fall apart before his eyes. He'd never seen such emotions from you.

And it gutted him. Why the sudden change? What had he done?

He took a step forward, trying to temper his voice. "Sweetie—"

"Move!" you shouted, voice cracking with emotion. Your eyes were red, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I won't be your toy that you just throw away after you get what you want. Ask your girlfriend or whatever!"

The last part burst out in a sob, barely coherent but laced with venom. It hit him like a second strike. He stared at you, stunned. Words lodged in his throat. He’d expected you to be upset, confused about Lira still, but not this.

You finished yanking your shirt back on and stumbled past him, shoving hard against his chest. He didn’t block you. Couldn’t. His arms fell to his sides uselessly. The echo of your accusation rang in his ears, louder than the knock, louder than the chaos of his own mind.

The door opened just as you reached it. You nearly crashed into Luke, who seemed stunned to see you in such a state. Hair wild, cheeks wet, eyes wild.

"Woah hey, are you alright?" he asked, reaching out instinctively.

But you were already gone, bolting down the hall, leaving a trail of shattered tension and broken pieces in your wake.

Sylus stood where he was, by the desk where the heat between you had once been. Now it was cold. Hollow. The silence around him felt deafening.

The taste of your kiss still lingered on his lips. Your tears still stained the fabric of his shirt. Your voice, your scream, looped through his head, stuck on repeat.

And just like that, you were gone.

And for the first time in a long time, Sylus didn’t have a plan. He just had a hole in his chest and the undeniable knowledge that he had hurt you.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d lost you for good.

You didn’t show up for work the next day. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.

The world blurred together in a haze of misery and stillness. You barely moved. Curled in bed, the covers drawn over you like a cocoon that couldn't keep the pain out. Your body ached from doing nothing. Your stomach twisted from hunger, but the thought of food made you sick. It wasn’t just sadness, it was grief. Real, suffocating grief.

You cried until your throat was raw. Until your chest physically hurt from the weight of it all. It had felt so good, the way he touched you, the way he kissed you, those words he said like they meant something. For a moment, you let yourself believe in it. Let yourself fall. And then in the middle of it all, you remembered.

You remembered who Sylus was.

That woman. The way he treated you like nothing, until he wanted something. The illusion that maybe, just maybe, you were special. That you could be loved

But it wasn’t real. None of it.

And so you ran. You did the only thing you could to save yourself from further pain.

On the fourth day, your phone buzzed against the nightstand. The screen lit up in the dark room. You ignored it at first, until curiosity got the better of you. You reached for it with trembling fingers.

A single text.

Sylus: I'd like to apologize.

Four words. Simple. Empty. Too late.

And yet, your hand didn’t move to delete it. Another text followed soon after.

Sylus: Are you sore?

Yeah, you were. But he was probably pretending like he gave a shit to get you to come back. You ignored it.

On the evening of the fifth day, another message came in. Longer this time. Cold, almost—but trying not to be.

Sylus: Come back to work, and I’ll triple your pay. You’ll have a car in no time. I won’t touch you anymore.

You stared at the screen, heart twisting. The words didn’t sting. They numbed. A business offer, disguised as an apology. And then came the last line:

Sylus: If you don’t show up tomorrow, I’ll assume you’re done and leave you alone. You have my word.

Your stomach dropped. Because beneath the sterile tone and the bribe, you could feel the finality of it. A door closing. One he wouldn’t reopen if you didn’t walk through it yourself.

Shit. He had to have known there was no way you could refuse such an offer.

Another text. Your heart dropped.

Sylus: Please.

You weren’t sure why it only took that one, simple word to get you to march back into the elevator.

Maybe because it was just so unlike him. Sylus didn’t say “please.” He didn’t ask. He demanded. Expected. Took. That word didn’t fit the man you knew. It startled you more than any of his other messages ever could. Maybe that’s why you stared at the message for so long, rereading it, questioning if it was even real. Or maybe it was more practical than that. Maybe you were just desperate. Desperate for a car. Desperate for money. Desperate to regain some piece of control over your unraveling life. And if that meant showing up again, walking back into the lion’s den, then so be it. You’d survive it. You always did.

Your legs felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each as the elevator carried you upward. You clutched your phone tightly in your palm, your nails digging half-moons into the skin. The hum of the machinery felt louder than usual, amplifying your heartbeat. You didn’t know what you were expecting on the other side of those doors—an apology, confrontation, some cold version of indifference—but you still couldn’t stop your eyes from scanning the space the moment you stepped into the penthouse.

But he wasn’t there.

No greeting. No voice from down the hall calling your name. No sign that he’d even noticed you walked in. Just silence.

Until she appeared.

"Oh! Hi again!"

That voice.

The dark-haired woman rounded the corner with the ease of someone who knew the space intimately. She was dressed in a way that looked effortless but clearly wasn’t—every detail curated to remind you exactly who you weren’t. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor, her smirk blooming like a bruise.

"Hi…" you said, barely above a whisper. Your throat tightened. Your shoulders tensed.

She smiled at you like a cat smiling at a bird with a broken wing.

"Sylus isn’t here right now. Don’t think he was expecting you," she said, her voice lilting with false sweetness.

She took a step closer, folding her arms, cocking her head slightly in mock curiosity. Her eyes glittered, not with kindness, but something colder.

"So tell me, what’s the deal? Where you been? Aren't you here like everyday?"

Her tone shifted on the last syllable, biting down on it with a sneer so casual it made your skin crawl. She wasn’t asking out of concern. She wasn’t even pretending that well.

You elected to ignore her. You didn’t have the energy to entertain whatever game she was trying to play. "Excuse me...I have work to do," you said flatly, voice quiet but firm. Your face was blank, emotionless. You were too tired, too hollow, too drained to deal with her bullshit.

You turned and walked away, resisting the urge to look back as you heard her scoff.

"I was talking to you, but okay," she called out in a sing-song, mocking tone.

You didn’t answer. Pretended not to hear her. Pretended she didn’t exist. You had a job to do. A reason to be here. Focus on that.

You walked into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of chemical cleaner, and dumped it into a mop bucket with a practiced motion. The sharp, acrid smell burned your nostrils, but you welcomed it. It grounded you. You set the bucket on the counter, dipped the scrubber into the mixture, and knelt down to start on the floor.

You get a slight feeling of deja vu.

As the bristles hit tile, your brain betrayed you. Your thoughts flooded with images—Sylus kissing you, touching you, his weight pressing you into the desk, the rasp of his voice whispering things you wanted so badly to believe. Lies. All of it.

Fucking bastard.

He said he cared. He said he wanted you to depend on him. He looked at you like you were the only person in the world, and then turned around and let her back in like you never meant anything at all.

You scrubbed harder, the brush rasping violently across the floor. Your muscles tensed, fury mixing with sadness until you didn’t know which was stronger. Your thoughts spiraled.

Why doesn’t he just—

A sharp splash slammed into your skull. A thunderous, burning wave of sour-smelling chemicals poured over your head and shoulders, soaking your shirt, your skin, stinging your eyes instantly. You cried out, the mixture dripping down your face and burning against your neck and scalp.

Pain bloomed fast. Your vision blurred with tears. You choked on the fumes.

“Oops!”

The voice sliced through the haze like glass. Syrupy. Mocking. Fake as hell. You could barely see her through the stinging blur of your eyes, the chemical burn leaving your vision swimming, distorted with pain and tears.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You were too focused on staying upright as you shoved yourself off the floor, your knees wobbling beneath you. You stumbled toward the sink, heart racing, lungs fighting for steady breaths. The ache in your skin was immediate and punishing, a thousand invisible needles dancing across your scalp and shoulders.

You twisted the faucet violently and thrust your head under the stream, the cold water hitting like a slap to the face. It coursed over your scalp, your forehead, streaming into your eyes as you gasped and blinked through the flood. Your hands trembled as they tried to direct the flow, to wash it all away. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. All you could do was try to survive the burn.

Behind you, her voice floated through the air like poison.

"I was just trying to get a snack. I must’ve bumped it. I’m so clumsy!"

It was sweet enough to rot teeth. The false innocence, the intentional cruelty beneath the singsong tone, it was a performance, and you were her favorite audience.

You heard the quiet, deliberate snicker follow her words. She wasn’t sorry. Not for a second.

And she didn’t move to help you. She didn’t ask if you were okay. She just stood there, watching. Enjoying the show.

But none of it mattered in that moment. Your world had narrowed to the cold sting of water and the burn beneath your skin. Your chest heaved with sobs, gasps breaking out between each cry as you tried to rid yourself of the pain. You could barely register your own voice over the sound of the running tap.

Thank god, thank every star in the sky, it was mostly water-based cleaner. It could’ve been worse. So much worse.

Eventually, after what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, the fire behind your eyes dulled. Your heartbeat began to slow. Your breath came easier. You blinked hard, again and again, until shapes came into focus. Your reflection in the metal of the faucet looked like something out of a nightmare. Red eyes. Wet cheeks. Skin blotchy and glistening.

You stood there, unmoving, gripping the counter so tightly your knuckles paled. Your eyes locked on the sink drain, watching the diluted chemical mix swirl and vanish. Your thoughts weren’t clear. They were static. Sharp flashes of memory, anger, humiliation.

And then you heard it.

A giggle.

Light. Delicate. Detached.

You turned your head slowly, your entire body stiff. Your eyes—still puffy, rimmed with tears—met hers.

She was a few feet away, arms casually crossed, her manicured fingers covering her mouth like she was trying to hold in a laugh and doing a terrible job of it. Her eyes glinted with satisfaction, her smile curling in a way that made your stomach churn.

Then came another giggle. Softer this time. But more vicious. She was loving it. Drinking in your pain like champagne.

You stared at her, your expression empty but your mind racing. The fury in your chest was slow-burning but steady, like coals gathering heat.

What had you done to her?

What had you done to anyone to deserve this shit?

The questions slammed into you with brutal clarity, tearing open a flood of pain that you couldn’t contain anymore. The humiliation, the burn, the mockery, it all bubbled up and broke loose. You choked on a sob, and then another, until the sound was ripping from your throat, raw and frantic.

You ran. Bolted right past her.

Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t care. You didn’t want to see her smug face another second. Fuck this place. Fuck everyone here.

If you were going to be miserable, then fine. You’d go back to being miserable on your own terms. At least then you wouldn’t have to keep pretending, wouldn’t have to play servant to monsters with pretty smiles and handsome faces.

You burst into the front room, heart pounding in your chest like it wanted out. You grabbed your bag with shaking hands, yanked your phone from inside it, and typed with trembling thumbs to Sylus.

"I quit."

You hit send.

Then, without a second thought, you dropped the phone to the ground. It hit the floor with a sickening clatter, the screen cracking on impact. A thin spiderweb of shattered glass bloomed across its surface, reflecting the light in jagged fragments.

You didn’t stop to look at it. You couldn’t. You were already crying too hard, the sound of your sobs echoing off the marble floors.

You made it to the elevator and slammed the button. The doors slid open and you stumbled inside, wiping your face, breath hitching. As the doors closed behind you, sealing you off from the nightmare above, you crumpled slightly against the wall.

And then you were gone.

Gone, with your heart cracking in your chest like thin ice giving way.

Away from her cruel laughter, from her perfect smirk that still burned behind your eyelids.

Away from Sylus, his large hands, his voice, his lies that tasted too sweet until they rotted.

And away from all the pain.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself as you stood alone in the elevator, sobbing your eyes out, silently begging the doors to never open again.

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