#yes i'm writing breaking the chain again so like. ether is 'magic' to us. but they have scientific explanations for it

[seagullcharmer]

what even constitutes magic

[starkjoy]

Are you the author of the lovely fic Devil’s Advocates? Just wanted to say I love it very much!!❤️ This is not to put any pressure on you or anything and I understand if you don’t plan on writing more chapters but if you do, I am very excited to read more of it❤️❤️ Have a good day!!

I am indeed the author! I'm writing the next chapter as we speak, and as a thank you for your kindness (and everyone else's who've sent me messages like this), here's a small wip sneak preview.

Read below:

Frowning, Tom cocks his head. “Are you busy with something else?” he questions, suddenly on guard. He can imagine it now, Greg avoiding his eyes as he admits, “So, I actually met with my cousins and we brokered a deal? But um, you’re not part of it?” Or worse: “I’m in love with a girl I met yesterday at the HR mixer, so this narrative won't work for me after all. Good luck.”

“No, no. I’m ready,” the younger brunette quickly recovers, another weird smile on his lips. “Our calendars are blocked and loaded.” He points his index finger like a gun, cocking it and mimicking a kill shot at the Rubik’s Cube on his desk. He shifts again, clears his throat. “Come in.” 

Tom accepts the answer after a moment’s scrutiny. “Good,” he says before reaching out into the hallway and rolling his secret weapon into the office: a large whiteboard he’d snagged from the neighboring conference room. He shuts the door behind him, locks it just in case. 

Greg shifts. “What’s that for?” 

“Did you black out from the wine, Gregory? We have a big day tomorrow.”

“Of course, but why do we uh, need a whiteboard?”

“Need a demonstration, do you?” Tom picks up one marker from the bottom tray and unsnaps its lid. He turns toward the board, back facing Greg, and writes. “See, here we can document our hearts’ desires with gliding ease,” he instructs with a condescending lilt like a professor scratching out an advanced equation for an audience of toddlers. He turns around, gesturing to his finished work: CAN’T MAKE A TOMLETTE WITHOUT BREAKING A FEW GREGGS.

“This again—” 

“But wait!” he interrupts like an infomercial’s worst salesman. “The real magic?” Tom grabs the eraser brick from the tray, replacing it with the marker, and then disappears the text with one long swipe. “Gone into the ether! No paper trail, no email chains. A temporary haven without risk of Congress, the DOJ, or any other governing body finding our receipts.”

“I know how a whiteboard works, Tom.” 

He feigns confusion. “Well, you’re the one who asked what it's for.”

“I didn’t mean—,” Greg stops himself and spreads his lips in a thin line. “You’re razzing me,” he confirms rather than asks.

Tom smirks, satisfied, and stuffs his hands in his slack pockets. He cocks his head. “Yes. But no, actually. I’m going to quiz you on our timeline and write it down on the board for our reference. Then we can run through a few more times until we’re feeling good, yeah?” 

Greg nods, eyes flitting away from Tom’s and zoning out a bit. Social awkwardness is par the course for the leggy brunette, but something about his detached demeanor compared to last night’s casual intimacy sends a chill down Tom’s spine. Perhaps his earlier assessment was all wrong—maybe their little tête-à-tête made Greg like him less. Maybe Greg’s enacting one big long con against Tom, chasing the promise of a fancy promotion and cushy office, dreaming of some vapid heiress to entrap with his old-money heritage and gaudy, newfound riches. Tom’s always loved his protege’s slimy moments, those little testaments to his influence taking hold, evidence that the younger man trusts him enough to reveal his ugliest colors. This time, however? The scenario, even dreamt, makes him sick to his stomach.

Tom swallows. “What is it, Greg?”

His friend blinks, returning his gaze. “Oh, nothing. Sorry. I’m fine and dandy, all’s good in the hood. I don’t know if ‘hood’ is an appropriate term for me to be using, actually, but since my office is a refurbished mailroom, it could be considered the ‘hood’ of Waystar, I guess? Refurbished may be generous, it’s pretty uh, un-furbished, if you will? Never furbished to begin with—” 

“Okay, stop,” Tom interrupts. He steps toward Greg, pulls out the chair facing his desk, and sits down. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Greg stares at him with his big, blue eyes. “Nothing, man.”

“You’re squirming like a virgin hiding his first boner and rambling like a coked up parakeet. Did something happen after last night? Did the siblings reach out to you? Logan?”

“No! No, I haven’t heard anything.” Greg’s dark brows furrow over his down-turned blues, again evading Tom’s stare. “It’s not that.” 

Tom inhales, preparing himself for whatever blow comes next. “So what is it, Greg?”