A Cat & Her Crow

And just yesterday, he was standing under your window and calling for you, his heart soaring as you poked your head out to see who it was. When your eyes landed on him, you looked relieved, and he almost wanted to apologize. Instead, he asked you to meet—here, at the meadow into which you two retreat every time the world becomes too much—classmates too mean, teachers too harsh, parents too rough. 

He’s nervous—one of the few times in his life he is afflicted with such an emotion. His muscles are tense, his jaw locked in that particular way it always is when he expects a fight but prays for something else. And though he wouldn't name the emotion, wouldn't allow himself the softness of hope, he wants—desperately—for you to come.

Because he’s going to ask you to run away with him.

The idea seemed so bright when he first entertained it, but as the seconds pass, and the silence stretches on, it’s becoming apparent that he might have overestimated his own standing in your life. What right does he have to ask you to leave the comfort of your home and everything you’ve ever known? And to what end—to roam with him in the shadows like a pair of fugitives? With increasing alarm, he realizes he has nothing to give you but this stubborn longing that overtakes his rationality every time he thinks of you—the very thing that’s led him to this.

The silence breaks with the sharp crunch of a branch underfoot.

Sylus turns, nerves on edge.

In the shadow between two twisted pines, a figure emerges—tall, cloaked, and moving with unsettling certainty. The boy doesn’t hesitate. He jumps forward, fist clenched, his body all instinct. His punch cuts clean through the air—only to be caught mid-swing.

The stranger’s hand is like iron.

The cloak falls back.

And the first thought that enters Sylus’s head is—this must be an illusion.

Some wizard’s sick attempt at a trap. Or his own mind playing tricks on him.

But no, he’s staring into his own face—only older, sharper, more deadly. There are faint crow’s feet near the eyes, a scar over one brow, and an intensity behind the crimson gaze that is unmistakable. And this strange apparition of himself is astonishingly tall, clad in black armor threaded with red veins, a blade of polished obsidian secured on his belt.

For a moment neither speak. The younger Sylus feels nearly unmoored—struck by a bone-deep sense of dislocation, as if time had folded and he’d stumbled into the crease.

The man takes a slow, deep breath, raising both his calloused hands in a show of peace. “I don’t mean any harm,” he begins, voice low and steady with restraint, like a song played on an old instrument. “But I don’t have long, so you’d better listen.”

The teenager’s lips part, but the words die before they become sound.

“So this is how I looked,” his older counterpart chuckles ruefully. “I bet you’re pretty confident you know what you’re doing—I used to be like that. I used to carry so much pride and anger that I could wield it like a weapon.”

“Wait, what are you saying…? Who are you?”

A wind picks up, carrying the scent of cold metal and distant pine smoke. The man steps forward, and something in his gait—steady, regal, wearied—reminds the younger of the dragons from the old texts: creatures that move like kings even as their bones ache with the weight of millennia.

“I am what was and what could be,” he says plainly. You taught him to be kinder to himself, and his heart no longer holds resentment for this child—this version of himself that saw the world in absolutes.

The boy looks at him as if gazing into a mirror. “If you are me, you’d know I’m not too damn confident right now.”

“In her?” replies the man, one eyebrow quirked. “Or in yourself?”

The younger Sylus says nothing, though in his hearts of hearts, he knows the answer.

“I am not you, child,” the elder’s voice is softer—patient. “Not yet, that is. I let her die more times than I’ve lived beside her. Lifetimes went by while I let her think she didn’t mean anything to me.”

“What…?” the boy sputters in disbelief. Suddenly, he wants—no, needs—to put as much distance between him and this stranger as possible. “You’re lying!”

“No, you listen to me now,” the man commands, all without raising his voice, seizing his younger self by the shoulders. The boy is caught dead in the gaze of his left eye, which bleeds red like a ghostly flame.

And then he’s not standing in the meadow anymore.

The air smells of ash and metal. His shirt is soaked with rain, and the feeling of being exposed makes his skin crawl. One glance around and he realizes he’s surrounded. City folk—pious eyes staring out from gray faces, clothes as dreary as the sky above them. Another glance, and he realizes they aren’t even looking at him.

They’re looking at you. But it isn’t you—it couldn’t be? For why are you so still, your skin so pale, your eyes closed? The haze lifts, and he can see clearly now.

“No, no, nonono—” he hears his own words echo back at him. Spoken by his tongue but carried on someone else’s voice. An older, lower voice. A voice that he has just heard minutes before. His eyes land on the figure slumped near you, cradling you in his arms. Obsidian horns protruding from silver hair, crimson wings sagging like windless sails.

It feels like he’s wading through water when he tries to run to you, his arms outstretched in the vain hope of reaching you—of seeing for himself your broken body. The fear in his heart is total and all-consuming. Because he knows he’s already too late.

“Wait—” he tries to scream but he’s already being swept along by swirls of red and black. The current of memories deposits him elsewhere—in a semi-darkness made possible only by the scant light that trickles down from the mouth of a deep abyss.

A sound, like the rustling of clothes. Then a female voice—not yours, why can’t it be yours?

A deal is being made. A pact to bind one’s soul with that of another. But for the life of him, he cannot fathom why it’s not you.

Because you thought she betrayed you. The truth rings in his ears, and he flinches. You fool.

The scene changes again, but he’s too busy covering his ears to notice at first. Only when you walk through him does he lower his hands to hear the poisonous words he’s hurling at your retreating back. He raises his eyes to see, in full profile, his older self—a creature blinded by hatred, an accursed future he could never have conceived.

He wants to chase after you. He wants to say he’s sorry. He will beg if he must.

But before he can say a thing, he finds himself back at the meadow, faced with the same endless night. Except now there’s the flicker of torches in the distance and drawing closer. The clang of metal signals weapons, and voices warn of retribution. He blinks, and the Justiciars are on him, pressing his face into the dirt.

“Let me go!” he spits at them, claws digging into the ground. “I cannot leave her—!”

“Her?” his faceless persecutor mocks. “She’s the one who ratted you out, demon.”

“What?! No—” he doesn’t want to believe. He can’t. Not after what he’s just witnessed—your death, his cold rejection of you, his betrayal. The bones in his shoulders snap, and he can feel the wings breaking skin. He has to get out. He has to get to you—

“Easy!”

He doesn’t listen, keeps struggling until he’s hoisted off his feet.

“You can change it,” the elder Sylus’s voice breaks through the chaos. “Snap out of it, and I’ll tell you how.”

At that, the boy goes mostly still. When his feet touch the ground again, his knees nearly give. His hand flies to his chest, clutching at his frantic heart. His throat feels dry, like his vocal cords had been rubbed raw with sand. “I—no, you did that to her.”

“I did,” the older man nods, his eyes dimming.

“Why? You loved her.”

“I still do.”

“Then how could you?”

“I couldn’t. I went back. I changed the course of history just to see her again. She forgave me, even though I didn’t deserve it. And I held her hand when her hair turned silver. I memorized the shape of her laughter, the sound of her footsteps in the house we built together.”

The older man’s voice thins. “One full life with her was more than I could ever ask for. But you—” he reaches forward and places a hand on the boy’s shoulder, solid and grounding, the gesture almost fatherly—“you’re standing on the threshold of the mistake that cost her nine more. Nine lives wasted because I let my insecurities cloud my judgment. Do not make that mistake.”

He steps back. To the young Sylus’s alarm, his body has begun to fade, crumbling at the edges like parchment touched by flame.

“What’s happening to you?” the boy asks, voice barely there.

“My time has come, kid,” the elder answers as though stating a simple fact. “For centuries, I’ve had to go on without her, because I was waiting for this moment. My beloved is gone, but yours is still here. Never let her go.”

And as the wind carries the last of him over the tall grass, daturas follow, blooming across the earth in a quest to cover every inch. Deep red—almost black, sweet, ghostly.

Sylus stands silent, heart still thudding, the meadow no longer empty.

He stays there long after the last of the ash had vanished, long after the flowers have reached his feet, dizzy from the weight of what has been placed in his hands.

He feels raw, as if something has been peeled away inside him, exposing the soft, uncertain boy beneath the defiance he wears like armor. He looks down at the flowers—so fragile, so impossibly soft for something born of such ruinous power—and he kneels, fingers curling around a green stem.

"Never let you go," he whispers to the petals. Then, slow as though carrying a holy mandate, he rises to his feet.

Because from the crest of the hill, you come running.

You remember. For the most part.

You remember the way Sylus looked as he walked by your side. Not the Sylus of this life, but the Sylus from long ago. From when you were living in a city of steel and glass.

It’s come back to you in bits and pieces. Sometimes, a tune brings back the memory of him humming while putting your children to sleep—gods, your two beautiful children, a boy and a girl, with his eyes and your hair. Other times, a flavor reminds you of one of the dishes he used to make for you when you were sick.

Most of the time, it’s the fact that you see another Sylus in the flesh every day, every glance triggering a sense of deja vu. Your Sylus is much younger, the shadows under his eyes not so pronounced, the lines of his face more rounded with youth, but it’s him alright. Because regardless of which version of him you’re thinking of, he drives you nuts.

Nuts enough to make a rope out of torn bedsheets and sneak out of your locked room in the dead of night. Your parents will bury you alive if they ever find out. But if your memory serves you well—and if the Sylus knew in your first life had told the truth, then this is the night he could be taken away from you for nearly an eternity.

Your cloak snaps in the wind as you slip through the bramble and nettle edging the western wall of Taurus City. The sky hangs low, twilight bruised and sullen, brushing the ground with a hush of color. Your lungs burn with both effort and exhilaration, but you run in silence, as if the sound of your breath might give you away. You’ve waited until the last oil lamp guttered out in the hall, until your father’s snores unfurl in steady procession like the soft turning of pages. Your mother padlocked your door, and you kept it that way. They trained you to be obedient. They didn’t train you to be clever.

On the way, you identified and loosed the Justiciars’ horses, cut their reins, tossed handfuls of smoke powder to ignite panic in the animals. Even now, hooves thunder uselessly in the distance—pursuing shadows, not quarry. It won’t last. They will regroup, and quickly.

But for now, you’re free. Your feet could find the path to the meadow even if you were blindfolded, and you run.

Soon, you crest the hill and spot him exactly where he said he’d be.

Your wayward classmate is leaning against the trunk of a large oak tree, framed by the blackening sky. He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t look around. You make eye contact, and your heart beats out of control.

“Sylus!” you call, waving with one arm. “They’re coming! You need to leave—now!”

He doesn’t run. Doesn’t even blink.

You stumble toward him, chest heaving, the fabric of your cloak catching on the dry grass. “They’ll kill you. You don’t understand, they—”

“I do,” he says, moving toward you slowly, like he doesn’t want to startle you, and sets his hands on your arms. His touch is solid, warm. His eyes—those eyes that once flared with temper and recklessness—now hold a wisdom you’ve never seen before.

You shake your head. “There’s no time for this.”

“Then we make time,” he insists. Then on one knee, he changes your future forever. “I love you. I don’t care if we’re too young. I don’t care if we don’t make sense to anyone else. I would rather stand beside you for one doomed moment than live a long, hollow life without you.”

You think you might have stopped breathing. Any other day, and you would have thrown yourself into his arms with joy. Instead, you pull him up and start stuttering, “I-I love you, too. So, so much. But they’re almost here! You have to—”

He hushes you with a kiss.

It’s gentle, unhurried. The kind of kiss that carries the unspeakable weight of recognition—the way you might touch the face of someone returned from the dead. Your fingers find the fabric at his collar, clutching it like a lifeline, as though afraid he might vanish if you let go. The air between you contracts, and the world collapses into a single, trembling axis—the place where your lips meet his.

You feel it in your ribs, in the marrow of every life you will ever live, and it dawns on you: this is a rejoining. A reclamation. For a brief, impossible moment, there is no crusade, no prophecy, no blood-soaked future bearing down on you. Only the knowing. The astonishing fact that you’ve found each other again.

Torchlight spills through the trees. Horses neighing, men shouting. Unsheathed metal glinting coldly in the encroaching darkness.

You break apart. And understanding passes wordlessly between you before you both turn, hand in hand, to face towards the commotion.

Two dozen Justiciars—more than you expected. More than even Sylus could hope to take on without being hauled in chains back to Ivory City, where they’ll sentence him to death in the Abyss.

“Are you sure?” you check one last time, giving his hand a desperate squeeze. “I can hold them off, buy you some time. This is your last chance.”

“They can’t take both of us. You can fight, right? I’ve seen your work with the school bullies,” he replies, eyes twinkling with mischief. Once, it would have frightened you to see him so careless. Now, it only makes you love him more.

His eyes turn serious. Crimson wings burst from his shoulder blades, stretching to full span. Dark horns erupt from his forehead, curling like burnished metal. His transformation is more fluid than you’ve ever seen it. More controlled. His claws are longer than your fingers.

You ready yourself. A sharp white gleam takes form in your open palm. A blade—a dagger—conjured out of pure energy.

“Well, well,” a heavy voice booms across the meadow. “If it isn’t the runaway fiend and the poor misguided soul he tricked.” The captain, you think, steering his horse to the head of the pack. He doesn’t bother to dismount, but gestures at the rest of the Justiciars to form a tight semicircle around you and Sylus. He narrows his eyes and lets out a dry chuckle. “Y/N, I thought I saw your old man on his way to the Magistrate’s office this morning. This brat’s parents, too. Been making some interesting reports, they have.”

The words are a punch to your gut. Your father. He meant it when he told you to stay away from ‘that demon child.’ Your eyes burn with the sting of anger, but you tamp it down, not allowing these bastards the satisfaction of seeing you troubled.

“I’m not my father,” you tell the captain. “I’m here of my own volition.”

“Good to hear,” the man shrugs, waving a hand and spurring his men forward with a single word: “Seize!”

Sylus takes a step in front of you, wings flaring as the Justiciars advance. The first two are on him in no time, but fall just as fast to the quick arc of his arm—claws cleaving flesh from bone.

The third lunges to restrain you with a coarse shout, and you duck just in time. You turn, bringing the dagger’s edge across his face, and he cries out as he collapses to the ground. One of them gets smart, aims a crossbow in your direction, but the bolt never hits its mark. Sylus is there in an instant, catching it with one hand like a thrown spear, and launching it back at the shooter with the force of a god. The man drops. You two stand back-to-back in the darkening field, immersed in the chaos of flying steel and curses. For every Justiciar you take down, two more leap in to take his place. It seems hopeless. But you glance at each other, and you smile, and for some reason it feels like you’re winning.

“They’re putting up more than a fight!” one of them yells in panic. A handful of the soldiers begin to fall back, retreating into the night.

“Cowards! They’ll hang you for desertion!” the captain shouts at the defectors, finally dismounting and drawing his own sword. “Get back here!”

"This is it," you shout over the din to Sylus.

He closes his eyes, summoning a new roar from deep within. This one is different, erupting from his throat in a hot, orange burst. Some of Justiciars catch fire as they tumble to the ground.

You throw up a shield, a shimmering half-dome. It glows like a second moon as arrows rain down, disintegrating on the surface. You grit your teeth and focus, feel your energy pulsing with a strange and feral rhythm.

“Hold it!” Sylus yells, his voice raw. You nod, the force field flickering with your breath.

A flaming figure lunges through, a blazing comet of muscle and fury. A Justiciar, robes tattered, eyes wild. You jerk your hand, conjuring a spear. It solidifies midair, electric blue, and pierces him through the chest. He crumples, and with a flash of heat and light, you dissolve the spear and collapse the shield.

“Now!” you scream.

Sylus charges, his roar splitting the night. Flames leap from his skin—he is a firebrand, a meteor. You can hardly see him through the wall of heat. The Justiciars fall back, the sky raining ash. You mold a new weapon—a sharp, crackling sword—and follow him.

It’s chaos. You dance through the smoke, your bare skin unscathed by the blaze of Sylus’s wake. You are a tempest, a wild spirit. You are beautiful, and you are terrible.

The captain is shouting, orders or obscenities you can’t tell. You see Sylus bring him down in a single, flaming swipe, throwing the man’s sword to the grass and pinning him to the earth. The captain’s eyes widen in terror.

“Demon!” he shrieks, his voice surrendering to fear. “They’ll find you! They’ll hunt you down! They’ll—”

A last cry, and he goes limp. Sylus pulls back, chest heaving, his breath alive with embers and fire.

The few remaining Justiciars flee in all directions, their torches disappearing into the night.

“Scared of a little heat?” Sylus taunts, shaking the last of the flames from his wings.

You let out a breathless laugh, almost a sob, and run to him. He catches you, pulls you close, the edges of your cloak scorched and still smoking. His heart is a drum against your ear, steady, reassuring.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs into your hair.

You pull back just far enough to look him in the eyes, and you see it again—the knowing. The memory of a life you thought was only a dream.

“I thought you’d never ask,” you reply, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his horn.

By the time you reach the edge of the forest, you are almost giddy with disbelief.

“Where are we going?” you ask, exhausted but happy.

“Wherever you want,” Sylus says—and you have no doubt he means it.

Then he wraps his arms around you, wings forming a cocoon. The air ripples like the surface of a pond, and the meadow vanishes from under your feet.

A heartbeat later, you are standing on the edge of a seaside cliff, the expanse of the ocean stretching to the horizon, the sound of the tide crashing below.

You let go of him and spin around, eyes wide with wonder. You’ve never seen the ocean before, and it is everything you imagined it would be. Wild, loud, untamed. It reminds you of the boy staring at you with a mix of pride and fear, as if he can’t believe you’re still here, still choosing him.

It reminds you of the man you once knew, the one you’re certain this boy will become, and you can’t help but love him for it.

“This is perfect,” you tell him, throwing your arms around him and burying your face in his neck. “You’re perfect, Sylus. But... how did you know? My parents, the Justiciars—”

“I’m not as cocky as I used to be,” he says, leaning back to meet your gaze. “Takes more than a stupid lie to catch me off guard now.”

You laugh, and it feels like the first time you’ve laughed in a hundred years.

“I mean it,” he says, holding you at arm’s length. “I know what I’m doing, Y/N. I know who I want to be. Just say you’ll come with me.”

“Always,” you answer. “Every part of me belongs with you, until the end of time.”

You nodded, adding some pep to your voice as you spoke. “Yup, I heard you apprehended Voss recently. And I already gave my testimony in the case against Marcus."

"You won’t be attending the trials?"

"The investigators recorded everything I had to say and pulled records from the hospital where I was taken after Marcus’s attempt on my life, so they have plenty of evidence," you tactfully declined. You were simply glad to be done with the whole ordeal—there was no point putting on a show for a jury and the whole world. Your time would be better spent on other endeavors—like catching up on sleep. Your dreams were still patterned with fire and blood, Sylus’s roars folding into the piercing screams of faceless strangers. The scent of burning asphalt, the memory of shattering glass—these lingered in your mind like ghosts waiting to be exorcised.

Jenna leaned back, folding her arms, her expression hopeful. "You don't have to leave the force entirely. UNICORN could use someone like you. In his confession, Voss implicated EVER Enterprises—we need someone on our side who hasn’t been compromised by those technocrats."

"I appreciate that. But it’s time I moved on—fight my battles somewhere else. Maybe one day, I’ll come back… if the team will still have me,” you offered a small smile, more apology than pride.

Outside the frosted windows, the world went on—drones cutting air lanes through the city, neon bleeding into daylight. Somewhere beyond, N109 pulsed with its usual entropy. A siren howled, distant but present, like a reminder that the city was always fraying at the edges.

Captain Jenna signed your resignation letter with a practiced hand. The hallway offered no fanfare as you exited her office—just the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the echo of your footsteps against polished tile. But the triumph was yours: you’d made it out, proven the allegations wrong, and earned your freedom to do as you pleased. And that would be more than enough.

Downstairs, the lobby was half-empty. Hunters passed by with muted recognition; a few glanced at you with apologetic smiles, others with an awkward embarrassment for having jumped the gun on you. You moved through them with your head held high until a familiar voice halted your steps.

"Y/N."

You turned. Xavier, impeccably composed even in streetwear, stood beside MC, who had traded her usual battle gear for something subdued. Civilian softness, like a peace offering.

MC stepped forward first. "We just wanted to say—we’re sorry. For everything. For not believing you sooner."

You studied them for a moment. The sincerity was there, sweet and unassuming. No defensiveness in their posture, no insistence on redemption. And you realized you would miss them once you stepped outside.

"I’m glad you talked me down," Xavier added. He looked softer in the simple white hoodie, blond hair slightly ruffled and eyes a boyish blue. You were happy for him, for them both, and thankful that they had made no mention of the dragon Wanderer’s mysterious disappearance after Voss’s gem had been destroyed. Xavier’s forgetfulness had turned out to be tremendously handy, as he’d given Captain Jenna a sleepy-eyed, nonchalant account of slaying the Wanderer and seeing it disintegrate like Wanderers usually did after he’d run them through with his sword.

"Thank you," you said. "I mean that."

“Don’t be a stranger!” MC piped up, deciding this didn’t have to be a goodbye. “I’ll see you at Kitty Cards next Thursday!”

You beamed, letting her pull you into a tight hug. “You bet!”

Outside, sunlight fractured against the mirrored towers of the Association complex. And there he was—leaning against his bike, arms folded, black shades obscuring the half-lidded sharpness of his gaze. Sylus looked only slightly out of place in the broad daylight: black leather jacket, faded jeans, well-worn boots with scruff marks from untold skirmishes, and a cocky half-smile that suggested he relished the dissonance.

He held up your helmet when you approached. The sturdy piece of gear was made to match his—matte black with deep red internal padding and cat ears affixed to the crown—his way of reminding you that you were his ‘kitten.’ The moniker would have put you off if it had been anyone else…

"So, did you make it official?" he asked, his voice low and rich as ever.

You took the helmet from his hand, slipping it on. "I did. You’re looking at a completely ordinary civilian."

He adjusted the strap beneath your chin, knuckles grazing your jaw. He was close enough that you could stand on your tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his cheek—and so, you did—quick and earnest, like a memory you two hadn't had the chance to make before. He stilled at the contact, a flicker of warmth breaking through the cool veneer. For a moment, he didn’t want to move—in lifetimes past, he had been feared, condemned, hunted, but never kissed like this: gently, without ceremony, without strings. It struck him as absurd and unspeakably tender.

He cleared his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Civilian, yes, but hardly ordinary. Let’s get you home, sweetie."

You swung onto the back of the bike, the leather seat still warm from the sun's generous rays, and wrapped your arms securely around his waist. The scent of smoke and metal clung persistently to his coat, a familiar aroma that made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. You pressed your cheek lightly against his back for just a fleeting moment—long enough to steady the subtle trembling in your fingers. No words passed between you. Just contact. Just comfort. Just the profound awareness of being alive, together, and moving forward into the unknown.

The engine beneath you roared to life like a beast reborn, its powerful growl echoing through the air as you slipped into the bustling arteries of the city. He felt it—your heartbeat, steady and reassuring against his spine, more grounding than any earthly tether.

For the first time in an eternity of lives, the road ahead didn’t feel like an exile.

You stood before the mirror, smoothing the velvet of your dress with absent hands, when Sylus stepped in behind you, something small cradled in his palm.

“I have something for you,” Sylus said, voice soft with a gravity that made you turn.

In his hand lay a pendant—sleek and dark, carved from a single piece of obsidian, strung on a slender gold chain. It caught the lamplight, gleaming like a night sky filled with stars.

You gasped. “What’s this…?”

“Once upon a time, there was a clumsy teenaged boy whose favorite classmate’s birthday was fast approaching,” Sylus began, speaking in that poetic way of his. “It was her fifteen birthday, but he had no idea what to give her. He had yet to amass any treasure, and even if he had, no gem could compare to her beauty. Then one day he overheard a traveling merchant’s sales pitch—something about obsidian having the power to protect and to reveal hidden truths. Perhaps, he was hoping that she would understand what he hadn’t yet learned how to articulate.”

You reached out, touched the gem like it might vanish. “Did that boy happen to have silver hair and red eyes?” You asked, trying not to grin.

Sylus pretended to contemplate your question before nodding. “Yes. But he’s no longer a boy, and this time he’s telling you directly how he feels. May I?”

Now there was no way you could stop the maddening giddiness that rushed through your chest as you turned your back to him, lifting your hair. His fingers brushed the nape of your neck as he clasped the chain, letting the stone settle above your collarbone like a promise reclaimed. He lingered, bending down to place a kiss on your exposed shoulder. “My beloved,” he murmured against your skin. “Now, and forever.”

Together, you looked into the mirror—you in your new dress, the obsidian pendant glowing softly at your throat, Sylus behind you in his tailored coat, his hand resting at the curve of your waist.

Your gaze flicked up to meet his in the reflection. “We look like something out of a dream.”

“It’s not a dream, sweetie,” Sylus chuckled, pulling you plush against his chest, his large frame enveloping yours. “I check every evening when I wake up.”

He could lose himself in the depth of your eyes—bronze-flecked, knowing, ever watchful. But it was your mouth, gently parted in concentration, that undid him: too soft for the world you’d fought through. And your voice—whenever it rose in challenge or curled into something quieter—it echoed in the hollows of him where memory lived.

You caught him watching, and your cheeks bloomed with heat. "You can stop looking now."

"I can, but I won’t."

You rolled your eyes, even as you let out a laugh, then turned back to the mirror, tucking in an earring. He kept watching you —elegant, self-assured, beautiful in ways that made time itself pause.

By the time you made it out of the base and into the Michelin-starred restaurant he’d reserved, heads were already turning. The gossip mill churned—hushed voices proclaiming a new queen of the N109 Zone as Sylus walked past with you on his arm. You let the whispers wash over you, almost reveling in the absurdity of it all, unashamed to be his equal—his partner, in life and yes, in crime, if need be.

The dining hall was delicately lit, every surface beckoning with understated opulence. Waitstaff in tailored uniforms glided between tables like actors in a play with no missed cues. The maître d’ greeted you with a bowed head and the deference reserved for heads of state or something far more fearsome.

"Good evening, Mr. Qin. Miss. Your table is ready."

You were led to a secluded alcove near the window. The skyline of Linkon and the N109 shimmered below you, cool and weightless behind the glass. Candlelight flickered softly on the linen-draped table, and a single red rose bloomed in a crystal vase between you.

You lowered yourself into the chair, gathering your dress under the table as Sylus signaled for wine.

"You didn’t have to do all this, you know," you said.

"I’ve hoarded treasure for a thousand years," somehow when he said it, it didn’t sound like bragging. "Who else would I spend it with?"

“You might regret letting me use your credit card one day,” you protested half-heartedly, your tone light. The sommelier returned with a deep red vintage, and Sylus swirled it expertly before nodding his approval. He poured for you first.

“I’d like to see you try.”

Your food arrived before you could take more than a few sips—duck breast seared to a crisp edge, sliced against the grain, plated with smoked cherries and roasted endive. The flavors were rich, perfectly balanced. You tried to scold him again for being too indulgent but ended up savoring every bite. Every detail had been attended to—from the cutlery to the softness of the music drifting through the space.

Sylus leaned back in his seat, wineglass in hand, content to observe the way the light played across your features as you talked about what you’d been up to while he was away for business overseas. The conversation drifted easily. You spoke of how you’d told your parents you were consulting for international security firms—how they’d mourned the loss of the prestige that came with being a Hunter but ultimately decided to respect your wishes—and how you’d made a little nook of your own in Sylus’s expansive collection of first-edition books and vinyl records.

"I have been working hard to learn ancient Philosian," you said, dabbing at your lip with the corner of a cloth napkin. "You’re a good tutor. When you’re not being distracting on our calls."

"I had to give you some challenge."

You arched a brow. "I already live with a fire-breathing cryptid."

"Who built you an entire rooftop greenhouse."

"It’s lovely," you smiled, and reached across the table to touch his hand. "So is the man who built it."

He said nothing, but the faintest flush touched the tips of his ears.

You began discussing your plans for construction projects in the outer blocks of the N109 Zone—low-incoming housing and free schools for the families and children of ex-convicts or those looking for a way out of the Zone’s lawlessness. It was tough work to fundraise for the projects—you staunchly declined Sylus’s offer to bankroll the whole enterprise (he found other means, but you would never know if he had his way)—but it was worth it knowing these kids now had a chance.

By the time dessert rolled around—a decadent sundae with ample hot fudge and whipped cream, you were tipsy and luminous, eyes bright with warmth. The world outside the restaurant no longer felt intrusive—it was something far away and dim, like a place you’d no longer owed.

Sylus’s chamber was a sanctuary of shadows, the air thick with the scent of anticipation and the faint musk of desire. The door clicked shut, sealing away the world, leaving only the two of you—two bodies, two hearts, and a hunger that had simmered for far too long. Your breath hitched as he turned to you, his eyes dark with something that made your stomach coil in delicious knots. He kissed you then, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the taste of you, his lips molding to yours with a reverence that made you ache.

Your hands moved on their own, trembling as they slid up his chest, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of his shirt to find the heat of his skin. His muscles tensed under your touch, a low hum vibrating in his throat as you pressed closer, your body flush against his. The warmth between you was electric, a static charge that threatened to ignite at the slightest friction. His hands found your waist, his fingers digging into the softness there, pulling you tighter against him until you could feel the hard length of him pressing insistently against your stomach.

Your dress pooled at your feet with a whisper of fabric, leaving you bare and vulnerable in the dim light. Sylus’s gaze roamed your body, his eyes tracing every curve, every dip, like he was committing you to memory all over again. You stepped free of the dress, your skin glowing as if lit from within, and moved toward him with a confidence that made his breath catch. Your fingers found the buttons of his shirt, working them open one by one with agonizing slowness, your touch deliberate, teasing. You let your nails drag across his chest as you pushed the fabric from his shoulders, your lips curling into a smirk when you felt his muscles twitch beneath your fingertips.

His hands skimmed over your back, tracing the delicate curve of your spine, before sliding around to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened under his touch. You gasped, your head falling back as he leaned in to press a kiss to the base of your throat—the heat of your skin contrasting with the coolness of the obsidian pendant, his lips trailing downward in a slow, torturous path. He paused at the swell of your breast, his breath hot as he dipped his tongue to taste you, drawing a moan from your lips that echoed in the stillness of the room.

“Please,” you whispered, the word barely more than a breath, but it was enough to make him growl in response. He lifted his head, his eyes locking with yours as he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

“Are you certain?” he asked, his voice rough with need.

Your hand closed over his wrist, guiding it down to the wet heat between your thighs. “Take me,” you said in a plea. “I'm yours.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Sylus lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the bed and laying you down with a gentleness that belied the hunger in his eyes. His hands roamed your body with a reverence that called forth goosebumps, tracing the faint scars that marred your skin like they were relics of some forgotten battle. He didn’t shy away from them; instead, he kissed each one, his lips soft and warm against your flesh, as if he could erase the pain they represented with his touch.

When he finally settled between your thighs, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress sent a thrill of anticipation racing through your body. He reached down, his fingers slipping through your soaked folds, stroking and teasing until you were gasping for breath, your hips arching off the bed in silent plea. He slid a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right to make you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders as you rocked against his hand.

“Sylus,” you moaned, your voice breaking on his name. “I need you.”

He gladly obliged. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your slick heat, and slowly pushed inside. You both groaned as he filled you, inch by torturous inch, until he was buried to the hilt. He stilled then, giving you a moment to adjust to the stretch, his forehead pressed against yours as you breathed in sync.

When he began to move, it was with a slow, deep rhythm that had you seeing stars. His thrusts were deliberate, each one hitting that sweet spot inside you that made your toes curl and your back arch. Your errant hands traced the hard planes of his chest and the ridges of his abdomen before sliding down to grip his hips, urging him deeper, faster.

And just like that, your bodies moved together like two halves of a complete whole, each thrust and grind bringing you closer to the edge. Sylus’s lips found yours again, his kiss desperate and hungry as he drove into you with increasing urgency. You could feel the tension coiling in your core, a crescendo building that threatened to shatter you into a million pieces. Your thighs tightened around his hips, pulling him deeper as you gasped into his mouth.

“Sylus, I’m close,” you bit out between sounds of pleasure.

He growled in response, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chased his own release. He reached between you, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with just the right amount of pressure to send you spiraling over the edge. You came with a cry, your body convulsing around him as waves of pleasure crashed over you. He followed soon after, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself inside you with a deep groan.

Sylus’s hand trailed lazily down your spine, his fingers drawing invisible patterns on your damp skin as you lay entwined in the tangled sheets. The air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat and sex, and the faint hum of your shared heartbeat filled the silence like a lullaby. You nestled closer to him, your head resting on his chest as you listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

“That was…” you began, still slightly breathless.

“Two thousand years in the making,” Sylus finished for you, his lips brushing against the crown of your head. “And worth every second.”

You chuckled softly, your knuckles bumping against his collarbones as if to chide his scandalous nature. “You always know just what to say.”

He smiled against your hair, tightening his arms around you in a silent promise. “Only when it’s true.”

You drifted into a comfortable silence after that. Until… “You’re staring,” Sylus remarked, amusement evident in his tone.

You didn’t deny it as your gaze continued to move across his face in careful detail—the slant of his brow, the half-healed scar at his jaw, the way his lips softened now that he wasn’t using them to hide anything. His eyes, always edged in fire, were smoldering embers this night.

“I’m making sure I remember,” you said. “For all of my future lifetimes.”

He inhaled through his nose, one arm tightening around you. “Even if you forget,” he affirmed, “I’ll find you. You’re not getting rid of me ever.”

You tucked your knees against his, bare skin threading into the hollows of his frame. “But doesn’t this create a loop? Does the future you knew still exist?”

“It does,” he said at length. “And it doesn’t. Time doesn’t vanish. It fractures. We’re in one of the pieces now. As long as you’re here, I don’t care where it goes.”

—

You maneuvered your motorbike through the crowded thoroughfares of Linkon City. You didn’t even have a solid destination in mind, heading in the general direction of chaos.

You were perhaps a couple of blocks away before the road was jammed by a turned-over truck. In one smooth motion, you discarded your vehicle, tossed aside your helmet, and resumed on foot. The sound of explosions and screams made you pick up your pace until you were running at full speed.

Smog filled your nostrils as you came up on the wreckage. An office building burned to you left. Someone was shrieking in abject terror to your right. The sky had turned to scorched iron, pulsing with red and gold, as if the heavens themselves couldn’t decide whether to bleed or burn.

Somewhere in the center of it all—him. The Harbinger of Doomsday himself. And the one person in this entire city you’d trust your life with. As much as you’d rather mope around in your room and never show your face again, you couldn't just stand by and watch.

He was airborne, vast and elemental, a silhouette cleaved from storm-clouds and hellfire. His wings—luminous and jagged at the edges—beat with a force that rattled window panes miles away. The scales along his spine shimmered with obsidian sheen, and his eyes glowed like coals banked too long. He looked like a deity sculpted from dusk.

Yet this was the same creature that had held you as you slept—who cooked for you in silence, who watched you laugh with that infinitesimal tilt of his lips. Every line of him—raw, massive, and magnificent—shouted Sylus in ways only your soul could comprehend.

Vaguely, you remembered a quote from an old movie you saw as a teen. It was one of those indie flicks, with a rusty color palette and a pair of nihilistic vampiric lovers for protagonists. And the quote had gone something like:

When you separate an entwined particle and you move both parts away from the other, even at opposite ends of the universe, if you alter or affect one, the other will be identically altered or affected.

That’s it, that must be it. Somewhere in the vast expanse of the universe, some time both long ago and not yet come to pass, atoms aligned just right to birth an ever-constant law: whatever substance constituted your being—it was bound to love this man unconditionally, irrevocably—to seek out your other self, your shadow, as sure as gravity pulls you to the Earth. Because how else could one explain what was happening to you? What had happened and would repeat in your every lifetime, ad infinitum?

Figures in the corner of your eye snapped you out of your reverie—figures clad in uniform, undeterred by the destruction around them.

From the rooftops, the Hunters launched—four of them, rigged in light armor designed for vertical assault. They moved in a cross-formation, anchoring to their marks with wireline harpoons and magnetic grips. Sylus soared above the burning city, his wings a great black shadow cut against the drifting ash, his movements erratic under Voss’s influence. They met him midair.

The first line wrapped around the base of his right wing. The second found his ankle. The third embedded in the soft membrane beneath his spine. Each wireline was charged with suppressive current—meant to disrupt motion. Shock first, then collapse.

He roared, but it was a strangled sound, fury filtered through exhaustion. His body seized in violent recoil, and for a moment it looked as though the sky itself might break beneath him.

He crash-landed, wings flailing, battering wind currents, slamming against antennae and glass towers on the way down. Buildings groaned under the force of his body’s inertia. Before the plaza met him in a spray of shattered stone and fractured earth.

The impact left eerie silence in its wake, like the vacuum of sound that follows a big explosion. His form crumpled at the center of the impact crater. Steam rose from the seams in his scaled body.

Four of the Hunters remained. One raised a sword, two-handed. Another stepped forward with a wand ablaze with their Evol. There was a flash of light, like a comet slicing through the air, that you instantly recognized.

You raised a hand without thinking, a wall of force snapping into place just as a beam of light crashed against it. Sparks fanned out across the smoke.

None other than Xavier materialized a second later, expression taut with frustration, light-etched sword still humming. His eyes were a stormy blue and held no warmth as he regarded you. “Y/N.”

You had nothing against him—really, you didn’t. If anything, his less-than-conventional behavior around HQ had landed him quite high on the admittedly short list of colleagues you wouldn’t mind teaming up with. He looked harmless enough, half-asleep most of the times you bumped into him, but you were smart enough to know that there was much, much more than met the eye. If only people gossiped about you with the same sort of awe they reserved for gossiping about him. 

The Hunters slowly surrounding you weren’t machines—that would have been easier. Machines didn’t believe they were doing good. The protocol was clear: See a threat to civilians, eradicate it. They didn’t see Sylus. They saw a Wanderer. And in their world, that made him dead already.

As you planted yourself firmly between Sylus and Xavier, the latter’s indifference sent a flare of anger up your spine.

“I’m afraid I cannot let you do this,” you said, your voice rising above the noise of another detonation in the distance.

Xavier’s blade lowered half an inch. “Why is that?”

“Would you listen to me if I told you?”

“Please, Y/N, don’t make this harder than it has to be,” came a feminine voice. Naturally, where there was Xavier, his partner—MC—was never far behind. The blond man was half-blocking her view, unwilling to let any harm come her way. But as she peered over his shoulder, your gaze met hers, and you could see—evident on her sorrowful expression and innocent eyes—she pitied you. She probably thought you were a misguided thing, a pawn in a chess game manipulated by bigger, smarter players.

Another Hunter stepped forward, stance tense. “Stand down, Y/N. That thing’s a S-ranked threat. You’re lucky we’re too busy to bring you in right now.”

And something about how oblivious they were—how they were completely unfazed by the insidious machinations happening before their very eyes—rendered you irrationally, indescribably livid.

You’d spent years trying to follow these rules. You’d chipped away at yourself to fit into these neat angles, these holy absolutes. And this was what you got for it—not even the chance to plead your case.

Fuck that. You were fed up. Sick, exasperated. Filled with the kind of stone-cold rage like you’d been dropped into an ice lake.

The others could sense it. This ominous change in the atmosphere. It wasn’t the Wanderers, the rampaging Evolvers, or the fleeing masses.

Weapons surged around you, called to existence like faithful vassals—axes, spears, warhammers, blades of unreal size and shape, pulsing with the light of your unfettered will as they spun into orbit like moons around a celestial body.

The freedom was exhilarating. Your body and mind, having sloughed off the shackles of expectations, buzzed with energy. Your constructs flowed seamlessly from one form to another. Spears, blades, a mace with serrated edges. A short pike to disarm. A concussive disk to break cover. Members of the UNICORN Unit, elite soldiers in their own right, dealt you with their heaviest blows but succumbed to your deadly dance one by one—knocked unconscious amid the rubble or sent sprawling twenty feet away.

Out of the squad, only Xavier and MC remained. They were well-paired and well-trained, their chemistry undeniable as MC’s Evol amplified Xavier’s already impressive speed and strength. You moulded your constructs into a semi-transparent armor around yourself, narrowly avoiding flurries of slashes.

A part of you—the angry, fed-up part—wanted to cripple Xavier’s confident steps, but you resisted. Instead, you pivoted and swept MC’s legs with a low, fluid motion—just enough to send her stumbling. The girl landed hard but safe.

That did the trick; it sent Xavier into a frenzy, made him sloppy. You met his sword with a double-edged spear, both weapons locked in radiant clash. While his attention was on the frontal attack, you brought down a giant axe from above, forcing him to break the stalemate and fall back. 

You barely had time to catch your breath when the ground shook.

Sylus rose from the crater like a fury unchained, coils of restraint trailing from his limbs. His wings spread wide, dark and immense. The gleam in his eyes held no recognition. Only command. Whatever devious concoction Voss had brew up—it still held him.

And above it all, at the balcony of the ruined auction hall, stood the true villain of the story.

He looked absurdly at ease in his pristine suit, as though he weren’t responsible for an entire city’s suffering. One hand rested against the rail; the other lifted, gesturing toward the wreckage like a maestro conducting his finale. Behind him, masked attendees stood frozen in sick fascination.

“Behold,” Voss called, his voice magnified through unseen tech, calm as a man unveiling a painting. “The future of order. A dragon tamed by will alone. A city purged of dissent.”

The spectacle didn’t escape Xavier’s notice. He had heard words like those before, spoken from ivory towers and holy pulpits, from marble thrones and ruined gates—in his own family who had condemned his lover to countless deaths just to hang on to wretched immortality.

You saw it too. “My word might not be worth much to you,” you jerked your chin towards the councilman. “But trust me when I say I’d rather be fighting Voss right now.”

Xavier’s gaze rose again. The balcony, the decadence, the controlled chaos—there was too much precision in it. Too much anticipation.

“He was always too glib for my liking,” Xavier acquiesced, brows furrowed—somehow, he exuded the air of an old man with wary bones and one too many battle wounds. “I’ve seen this theater before. They always claim they’re building a better world—so long as they get to rule it.”

His blade dimmed. The hum faded. But he still kept the pressure on, staring you dead in the eye.

“If I let you do this, and anything happens to her,” he warned. “I will not hesitate to take your head.”

You nodded, expecting nothing less. “Fa ir enough.”

Just then, MC pulled herself upright, dusting off her uniform. Xavier turned toward her, his eyes softening, his hand flicking out. A thread of light connected him to her skin—Resonance stabilizing.

"Go. I’ll buy you time," he told you simply.

They came at you in waves. Voss’s mind-controlled Evolvers moved with the precision of a hive, blind to fear, to pain, to reason. A man with flames on his arms swung at your throat—you ducked, caught the arc of his swing with a spear, and drove the butt into his solar plexus, knocking the wind from him. Another came from behind, claws sharpened by some crude cybernetic graft; you caught his wrist in a bind, and used his own momentum to drive him into the pavement. Yet others took their place, stepping over each other to attack you like a horde of zombies.

Luckily for you, the twins had caught up by now—Luke shouting vector coordinates into your comm with rhythmic urgency, Kieran providing cover fire from an adjacent rooftop. “Another two floors,” Luke directed. “Voss is at the tower’s upper ledge!”

“I can’t get to him yet!” You shouted back, knocking aside a polearm aimed for your spine, your breath a hiss between clenched teeth.

Above them, the sky thundered. It seemed that a certain dragon hadn’t missed your approach. He circled once, above the chaos, before diving.

“Y/N, I just reviewed the footage Boss got from the auction—you need to get to that red gem Voss is holding,” Luke said, his voice distorted by static. “There’s no way we can beat him with that gem still intact.”

“Noted,” your answer was clipped. You couldn’t afford to lose your head now. Your eyes locked onto the tower’s spire where Voss raised the gem—a luminous core pulsing with malignant clarity. Its power hit the air like a tuning fork in your bones, calling to your Evol. Sylus shrieked, twisting mid-air as though caught in some invisible current.

Then he went straight for you.

You didn’t blink—planted your feet, launching a sequence of dull-edged blades in quick succession. They slammed into his side, knocking his trajectory off-center, but not stopping him. He veered towards the ground like a fallen Leviathan, concrete splintering beneath his mass. You were thrown back, shield flaring as a tsunami of rubble swept over you.

You rolled, scrambled to your feet just as he reared back. Claws slashed, straining your barrier. His roar was deafening, but it wasn’t hatred you heard—it was anguish. He was warring with himself as much as he was warring with you.

“Sylus,” You tried to call out, commanding your constructs to wrap around his torso like a brace. “It’s me!”

Heedless of your plea, he lunged, forcing you to counter. Your weapons reformed mid-strike, adjusting to his angles, your arms trembling under the sheer force of his might. You bit down on your bottom lip, drawing blood, as you pressed forward.

A flash overhead. Kieran again. “The gem!”

Voss, thrown off his feet by the tower’s shifting foundations, had dropped it. The gem tumbled from the spire, bouncing down the steps like a cursed relic looking for a new master.

You immediately released your constructs and sprinted. It was within reach. It was right there—

Sylus pursued, his roar producing a concussive shockwave that knocked you from your path. The gem skittered into the ruins. Gone. And his restraint went with it.

He came for you with fire curling from his throat. Desperate, you threw up a dual barrier, feeling your muscles burn with each passing second, halting his jaws inches from your face.

“Please!” You shouted, your voice hoarse with effort.

He pressed harder. Th e barrier cracked like porcelain. Your knees buckled, and in desperation, you rammed a gauntlet into his shoulder to dislodge his grip.

“We’ve been through too much for it to end like this. Do you hear me?! You promised me you’d stay!”

In the debris below, Luke was desperately scanning for the gem with thermal imaging. Xavier joined them, his sword sheathed in prismatic light, his expression grim. He muttered into the comm: “We found it. One more minute.”

You were shaking. You didn’t know how much longer you could hold Sylus off. With a strained cry, you used the last of your strength to temporarily pin one of his wings to the wall. He whirled back, claws dragging furrows through concrete. His chest expanded with a thunderous breath, the fire coalescing again behind his bared fangs.

But when he charged, there was a minute shiver in his movement. At the last moment, his claws twisted, veering just enough to gouge the ground beside you instead of your chest. He loomed, the full shadow of his monstrous self thrown over you. The spines of his back rose and trembled.

Something cold and heavy coalesced in your open palm—rising from a blaze of smoke and fire, a nightmare given form. The Fiend Reaper.

Your fingers closed around its obsidian hilt—and in your grasp, it was reforged.

The blade deconstructed into shards, into dust, into energy that bled into your constructs like rivulets of blood into glass. You took it all in—his past, his fury, the full measure of what he was. From that storm of particle and flame, you brought into existence something new and infinitely more powerful—curved pylons of radiant matter that anchored themselves into the walls and ceiling, forming a shelter, a cradle. 

Around you, the tower groaned. Load-bearing beams had split under the pressure of a dragon’s might, and sections of the upper floors were sagging. Rubble poured in streams down the stairwells. The whole place was on the verge of collapse.

You kept your eyes squarely on Sylus.

 “You came here for me, remember? I wasn’t sure before, but I know now… I w-want us to have a chance—I want you!”

He snarled again, snapping his fangs just past your cheek. But he didn’t bite—he couldn’t bring himself to.

“It’ll all be okay,” you whispered, tears slipping down the sides of your face.

His snout was a hair’s breadth from your face, close enough for you to feel the heat boiling in his throat. Then—

Srng!

A pulse of energy slammed outward in a blinding flood of light. All the Evolvers around you collapsed, gasping for air like drowning men. The enchantment broke.

Sylus’s wings seized, then slackened—not gradually, but all at once, like a circuit breaker tripping.

He fell forward—talons scratched blindly into stone, scales unraveling. The transformation wasn't some elegant ballet of magic. It was biological, messy—joints recalibrating, bones shortening with audible protests. What remained was just a man—sweat-soaked, gray-faced, vibrating with the aftershocks of power withdrawal.

Inside his skull, phantom chains clinked like distant wind chimes. The gem lay in fragments. The hypnosis undone. And yet—

There you stood, backlit by smoldering debris, occupying the exact radius his fire should have sterilized. Not miraculously spared, but tenaciously present through your own doing.

His knees struck concrete with the dull thud of surrender. He hunched forward, elbows jittering against the rubble. Each breath rattled through odd corners of his lungs. He wanted to compress himself smaller and smaller until he became just another piece of wreckage.

But then— Your hands. Your fingers, gritty with soot and tacky with drying blood, found his human face. He twitched away, animal-quick, man-ashamed. "No," you said, pressing your forehead against his. "It’s okay. I’m here, I’m fine. We’re fine."

He locked his jaw. His palms hovered near your shoulders, wanting to create distance from a vertigo of emotions. The dizzying drop of being witnessed at his worst and not dismissed.

"I could have killed you," he said, consonants scraping like his voice had forgotten the words. "You should have—"

He pulled back, eyes flaring with something bitter, self-lacerating. “I was ready to burn you to cinders. That’s what I’m made for, Y/N. Destruction. I’m a cursed thing, a fucking monster.”

“But you didn’t,” you said softly. “I’m fine. Look—“

His laugh was sharp, wounded. “Only because you were faster. Stronger. Because you made me stop.”

“So what? All that matters to me is that you came back," you countered, shaking your head fervently. "You were fighting against yourself the whole time. I felt it, Sylus. Under all that rage and anguish, you were there,” A smile curved your lips. “I wouldn’t have let anything happen, even if you tried. You said it yourself—I’m just stubborn like that.”

He shifted to look elsewhere, but your hands tracked him like an inconvenient conscience. Your thumbs sketched incomplete circles through the grime on his cheeks, attentive in the way of someone repairing something delicate. His eyes closed. The air tasted like copper pennies left in the sun. His bones still hummed with the churning inferno of his inhuman self. “That was too close…” He still couldn’t shake the image from his mind. "If you hadn't— if they hadn't intervened—"

"But they did. And I did. And you stopped.” You leaned closer, the gap between you two thinning. Your breath ghosted across his face, warm against cooling sweat. "I told you, I won’t go down that easily. You taught me that—you showed me how strong I could be.”

"I used to think just seeing you would be enough," he admitted. "I thought if I could hear your voice one more time, I could let you go. But then you looked at me that first time in the café, and I knew I could never leave your side again. I love you so much it terrifies me. But that love—my love—it has teeth. It has claws. It is not safe. I don’t know if it ever will be.”

"It doesn’t have to be safe, Sylus," you chuckled. "It just needs to be yours… Because I love you, too.”

You flexed your fingers once, then stilled.

Your breath came slow, deeper than necessary. Your heart wasn’t racing—yet. The tension was elsewhere, curled somewhere deep in your chest, hollow and sour. You’d barely slept. Your parents were arriving soon.

You didn’t want to think about it. Not about the disappointment in your father’s voice. Not about the headlines. Not about the accusatory glares and wagging tongues.

You needed to move.

A spear bloomed into your hand—clean, angular, humming. You lunged.

The first drone dropped without a sound, cleanly bisected at the center. Your weapon shattered on contact, already rebuilding itself into twin glaives before the next barrage of fire arrived. You moved between it—no wasted effort, no flourish. Just angles, pivots, pressure.

What if they don’t believe me? The thought spiked unbidden.

A second drone swung in from the left. You turned into it, one glaive dissolving mid-motion, replaced by a shield that caught the strike. It slammed into your guard. You didn’t flinch.

They’ll say I should’ve stayed quiet. That I made this worse. That I always make things worse.

You countered with a hammer. The weight of it was satisfying—real enough to jar your wrist on impact. The drone crashed backward and vanished in sparks.

Twelve more replaced it.

You couldn’t stop the spiral. Even as your body moved, reacting with precision and violence, your mind twisted sideways—darting into worst-case scenarios, building them like scaffolds.

Your stance narrowed. You adjusted. A whip coiled from your palm, snaring one mid-turn and yanking it directly into the arc of a newly-forged sickle. Another construct spun into place behind you—a shard-like blade that hovered before launching itself into a drone’s eye.

Maybe they’ll pretend to understand and go home and call the Association anyway. Maybe Sylus will get tired of this, of me, of trying.

You weren’t exactly paying attention. You just went for it. Felt the rhythm, the distance, the weight of it all. Your body kept on going even while your mind was a million miles away.

The terrain changed again. Ledges. Cliff faces. Simulated wind.

You jumped, vaulting between outcrops, forming narrow bridges under your feet that disintegrated the second you moved off them. A bow unfolded in your hands. Three arrows notched at once, and when you loosed them, they moved like things alive.

More drones. More shifting.

You welcomed it.

Because here—here you didn’t have to explain yourself. Didn’t have to smile politely, or justify why your silence wasn’t rudeness, or why your anger didn’t always look like yelling. Here, your body spoke fluently. Here, you didn’t have to shrink to fit someone else’s definition of good.

When you finally came to a stop, the room was scorched and riddled with collapsed targets. Your constructs hovered in the air like ghosts, flickering, waiting to be dismissed.

You stood in the quiet, chest rising. The ache in your ribs was almost welcome. Your thoughts, for once, followed a beat behind you instead of racing ahead.

The silence didn’t soothe you, but it didn’t hurt either.

You could pretend, for just a moment, that all the pieces still fit together.

The car arrived without ceremony—sleek, black, silent as a knife unsheathed. From your perch at the mezzanine railing, you watched it glide to a halt beneath the portico of Onychinus’s north wing. The twins emerged first, dressed like men who belonged nowhere and everywhere, and opened the rear doors with an unsettling flourish.

Your parents stepped out as if walking onto a stage they hadn’t agreed to perform on.

Your mother’s coat—an ash-gray wool that clung too tightly to her thin frame—was buttoned up to the neck. Your father, taller but not broader, had the look of a man arriving at a diplomatic parley under duress. His shoulders were drawn in, his eyes behind his glasses already narrowed in suspicion.

You descended the stairs with a practiced grace. Your lungs stung with held breath, and the soft pat-pat of your socks on the stone steps sounded absurdly loud in your ears.

“Y/N,” your mother said, reaching you first.

You embraced, stiffly. Your father remained a pace behind, watching Sylus from the corner of his eye.

"Mr. Qin," he said coolly, extending a hand. "I presume."

Sylus took the offered hand with the calm assurance of someone used to such scenes—cloak and dagger, machinations dressed as courtesy. "A pleasure," he replied, voice smooth as oil over steel.

He did not elaborate, and your father did not press. Instead, they followed you deeper into the base, past security turrets artfully disguised as sculptures, through a corridor paneled in smoked glass. You led them to one of the more human rooms—less dragon’s lair, more sophisticated mansion. There were soft rugs, warm lighting, and a tea service already laid out on the coffee table.

You poured the tea yourself. Your hands were steady, though the rest of your was not.

They made polite conversation at first. Your mother complimented the decor. Your father asked if you were eating well. But it didn’t last. Soon came the questions: Where had you been? Why hadn’t you reached out sooner? What exactly was your relationship with the man who owned this strange, windowless empire?

You answered in clipped tones, each word measured like a stone set into the foundation of a defense you had rehearsed a dozen times. You explained the accusations, the falsified evidence, the coordinated smear campaign. You told them about Marcus and Voss, about Sylus’s efforts to help you expose the corruption at the Association.

Your father frowned. “So you’re hiding.” “I’m surviving,” you said. “That’s not the same thing.” “No. It isn’t.” Your mother reached across the table and placed her hand over yours. "We only want you safe."

“And I am,” you replied, glancing at Sylus where he stood behind the armchair. He hadn't spoken since the introductions. His stillness was purposeful, almost cautious, as if he understood the gravity of the moment and had no intention of intruding on it.

Your parents ended up staying less than an hour. When they left, it was with soft assurances that they wouldn’t alert the Association, but you saw it in their eyes—the doubt, the distance already forming.

You didn’t come down for dinner.

The twins noticed first. They were unusually quiet at the table, eyeing the untouched third place setting Sylus had laid out himself—grilled halibut, wilted greens dressed in sesame oil, jasmine rice. All the things you had mentioned once, offhandedly, in that distracted way you spoke when your thoughts were elsewhere.

“Think she’s asleep?” Kieran asked.

“Or hiding,” Luke said, flicking a grain of rice off his sleeve.

Sylus didn’t entertain their banter. He rose from the table without a word and climbed the stairs two at a time.

You hadn’t locked the door to your room, but it was shut. That alone said enough. He paused with one hand on the frame, the other balancing the plate he’d prepared again—a smaller serving, warm, with the grilled lemon still steaming faintly.

He knocked once. “Sweetie.”

No answer.

“I'm coming in.”

He pushed the door open carefully.

You sat on the floor beside the bed, knees drawn up, your arms folded tightly across them. Your face was turned away from the window, eyes vacant, unfocused. The dim light from the hallway cast a long shadow across the floor. Your shoulders were hunched like you were bracing for impact.

He said nothing at first. Just stepped in and shut the door behind him. Set the plate down on your nightstand. Sat beside you without asking.

Silence stretched between you, not awkward, just heavy, like the air before a thunderstorm.

“I’m sorry,” you said after a while, your voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to ghost everyone. I just... I didn’t want to talk.”

“You don’t have to,” Sylus replied. He leaned back against the bed frame, arms resting loosely on his knees. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to see him in your periphery. “I thought seeing them would help. That it would remind me who I was before all this. But it just—”

Your voice died. Your throat moved like you were swallowing glass.

“I didn’t belong there either. Not really.”

The room smelled faintly of citrus and fabric softener. Outside, the N109’s perpetual rain tapped lightly at the windows. Sylus waited. He didn’t press, didn’t try to fill the space. He let you find your own way through it.

“I know they love me. I know they just want the best for me. But I don’t think they’ve ever known what to do with me,” you said. “And all this time, if I could just say the right thing, maybe it would be easier for everyone involved. And I’d still be allowed to go home someday. But that house was never mine. I don’t know if any place ever was.”

You didn’t sound angry. Just tired. Tired in a way that sleep didn’t fix.

Sylus exhaled slowly. "Do you know what you looked like today? When you were in the training room?"

You didn’t answer, but he saw your brow twitch.

"Like someone who doesn’t need a home to be whole. Who makes space for herself, wherever she is."

You gave a weak, bitter laugh. "That sounds like something you’d say to someone you're trying to keep from falling apart."

"Maybe. But it's still true."

You pressed your face into your arms. “I feel like if I let myself fall apart, I’ll never be able to put the pieces back the same way.”

Sylus reached over, fingers brushing your shoulder, tentative but warm.

“Maybe they don’t have to go back the same way. Maybe they weren’t ever right to begin with.”

A beat passed.

“Do you think that?” you asked quietly. “Do you really believe people can—can rebuild from nothing?”

He answered, confident to the point of arrogance. “I don’t think. I know.”

You didn’t move. But you didn’t pull away either. Your breathing had started to steady, though you blinked too often and too fast, like you were trying to keep something at bay.

He stood then, briefly, to retrieve the plate.

“You haven’t eaten,” he said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“That’s why I made something warm.” He knelt and placed it beside you. “Just try. A few bites. Then you can yell at me to leave.”

You sniffed, rubbed your wrist across your face, and reached out wordlessly. Took the fork. Took a bite.

He sat beside your again, close but not pressing, silent as a stone.

Eventually, when the plate was mostly empty and the muscles in your shoulders finally remembered to relax, you leaned against him, your forehead on his shoulder.

“I’m scared,” you said softly. “Not just about being arrested, or hunted. But scared that... maybe this is who I really am. Someone no one knows what to do with.” Sylus turned his head. “Then they don’t deserve to know you.” “Thank you,” you whispered. “For what?” “For not being afraid of the mess.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple. “I’ve been worse,” he murmured. “And you still chose to stay.” A pause. “I’ll always choose you. Every time.”

Outside, the rain continued. The sound of it against the glass was slow and steady, a rhythm softer than breath. Inside, You finally slept, still curled against his side.

Sylus didn’t leave.

He stayed until the window fogged and your breathing evened out, his arm loosely around your shoulders.

The room was dark save for the pitter patter of rain, and the sound of Sylus’s breathing, deep and even beside you. You had drifted into sleep against his chest, curled in the circle of his arm. For a time, your slumber was dreamless. Weightless. Then the current pulled you under.

The world was not Linkon. It looked older, cloaked in stone and fire. Dark corridors led to a cathedral of marble and bone, where banners of the Justiciar Order hung from vaulted ceilings like the skins of flayed animals. The sky was red, not with sun but with blood that had long since dried in the cracks of prophecy. The air buzzed—not with heat or insects, but with the low hum of judgment, of something final.

You were not yourself—simply a spectator, suspended above a young woman in armor. Her white mantle was torn and bloodied, her claymore glinting silver beneath stained light. Her breathing was shallow, her stance weary, though her eyes blazed with fierce resolve.

Before her, Sylus stood.

He was in dragon form, but diminished—not in power, but in something more essential—hope, perhaps. His wings were half unfurled, as if in resignation. His scales glinted with soot and blood, cracked along the spine. He wasn’t fighting. Not anymore. He was kneeling in the center of the ruined execution ground, lit from above like a sacrificial offering.

And MC was there, standing behind the young knight, yet neither seemed to acknowledge the other’s presence. They were like two images overlayed, existing in the same frame—just on totally different planes. 

The claymore was already raised.

Your subconscious supplied you with information your logical brain never registered. This was what was supposed to happen—this was supposed to be Sylus’s fate if you hadn’t taken his place ten lifetimes from now. MC was supposed to be the protagonist of this narrative—she was supposed to be the dragon’s beloved, cursed to die by his hand...

Sylus looked up, crimson eyes shining like precious gems. There was no fear. No plea. Only a kind of haunted relief—as though this, too, had been inevitable.

Your vision warped, like film consumed by flames. Suddenly, you were no longer watching. You were there.

The armor pressed against your skin. The claymore hilt held aloft by your hands. Your palms ached from the force of your grip. And you saw Sylus’s face—his real face. Not the abstracted silhouette of the future-past, but the man who had held you in his arms hours ago. The man who had looked at you like you mattered more than anything else.

His lips moved. No sound came. But you felt the words, somehow: I’m sorry. And then the blade plunged into his chest.

You screamed—only it didn’t escape your mouth. It echoed inside your skull, reverberating like a cracked bell in a buried chapel. You couldn’t breathe. And you couldn’t let go of the sword.

His blood was warm on your hands. Viscous and dark red. Your vision blurred with salt and horror.

“No,” you gasped. “No—this isn’t real—”

But the dream wouldn’t release you.

Sylus collapsed, wings dragging, breath shuddering out of him in one final exhale.

The scene came undone at the seams. The banners tore themselves from the rafters. The light overhead became searing and white—

—and you woke up.

The room was still dark. The only light came from the street-lamps beyond the windows, flickering orange through the curtains. But something was wrong.

Sylus was gone.

You sat bolt upright, your breathing frantic, sweat clinging to your spine like an old wound reopened. Your hands trembled as if they still held the blade. Your chest ached like something vital had been carved from it in your sleep.

“Sylus?” You whispered, voice like that of a child scared of the dark.

No answer.

The sheets beside you were still faintly warm. He hadn’t left long ago, but long enough to make the silence feel cavernous.

The room boasted an obscene display of glamor. Velvet draped the walls, chandeliers hummed overhead with artificial light sculpted to mimic candle glow, and every attendee wore a mask—elaborate and strange—a masquerade hosted by the underworld.

Sylus leaned against the balcony rail on the mezzanine level, a crystal glass untouched in his hand. His mask was minimal—onyx black, angular, the shape of a dragon’s profile. The irony didn’t amuse him.

Below, a quiet storm of voices drifted between the auctioneer’s rhythm. Items were displayed one by one under protective domes: illegal augmentations, altered Protocores, exo-suits so thin they shimmered like silk. He had eyes on all of it—thanks to the recording lens embedded in his contact lenses, streaming footage directly to the Onychinus servers. Every name, every gesture cataloged. The purpose was simple: catch Councilman Voss in the act, talking deals with known syndicates. Evidence. Something you could use.

He hadn’t expected you to haunt his thoughts the way you did.

Even now, with music echoing in his ears and predators dressed in finery pacing below, all he could think about was the way you’d looked asleep in his bed. The slight furrow in your brow, like even dreams didn’t grant you rest. The way you curled inward, as if trying to make yourself small enough to vanish.

A low hum passed through the crowd. Movement near the stage. Heads turned. Sylus tilted his head slightly to track the shift.

Voss entered.

The councilman wore white. Not ivory or cream, but pristine white—like something out of a cult’s fever dream. His mask resembled a fox, lacquered gold, smiling too broadly. Two guards flanked him, their suits sleek and lined with stimulants, the kind you only used if you expected to walk into war.

Voss raised a hand. The crowd quieted.

"My friends," Voss’s voice carried, rich and modulated, amplified by unseen tech. "We are gathered tonight not merely to trade—but to reshape the future."

A hush fell over the room. Even the music died down.

“Too long have we been made to crawl before bureaucrats. Too long have we hidden what we are—our ambition, our brilliance. But no more.”

He was good. Charismatic. The kind of man who built cults from desperate men and myths from gossip.

“Tonight, I offer not only weapons. I offer liberation. Unity. The chance to turn chaos into order. We will bridge the gap between politics and power. With me, you will never have to bow again.”

There was applause—thin at first, then growing. Sylus’s fingers curled around the glass until it groaned.

Then the doors sealed. All of them. One by one. With the hiss of hydraulic locks engaging.

The crowd faltered. From hidden vents in the ceiling, an invisible mist began to descend. Soft at first, almost perfumed.

But Sylus smelled it for what it was. Not gas. Not poison. Control.

The air turned sharp in his lungs. His vision oscillated at the edges. The ambient hum of his powers—always there like static under his skin—flared once, then dipped. Hard.

He staggered back against the wall. Something inside him coiled, panicked. His control slipped.

The dragon. The part of him that was older, wilder. That had never accepted chains—not even the ones he’d put on himself.

His mask cracked. He could feel it shredding at the edges, scales surfacing along his jaw, the heat rising in his chest like a furnace about to break loose.

He glanced down. Already, chaos. The gas had reached the floor. Evolvers seized; some screamed, others fell to their knees. But gradually, one by one, they began to rise—with eyes glowing violet. Moving in sync like puppets.

You threw the covers back, stumbling to your feet. Your legs shook. The floor was too cold. Your mouth tasted like iron and ash.

You barely thought to grab a jacket before bolting into the hallway, barefoot, calling, “Luke? Kieran?”

You found them in the war room, illuminated by the soft blue glow of the monitors. Maps, data streams, camera feeds—the overload of stimuli assaulted your vision.

Luke turned first, startled. “Y/N—what’s wrong?”

“Where is he?” you rasped. “Where did Sylus go?”

Kieran rose slowly, his expression shifting from confusion to worry. “He went to the auction. The one Councilman Voss was rumored to attend. Said he’d try to catch Voss in the act—spy footage, backup plans.”

Your stomach dropped. Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. “When?”

“Hours ago. Said he’d be back by midnight.”

You turned to the clock. 2:41 AM.

Your gaze snapped to one of the side monitors. A breaking news banner scrolled across the feed. Headlines flashed, chaotic and jarring:

BREAKING: MASSIVE DRAGON WANDERER SIGHTED IN CENTRAL LINKON. HUNTERS DEPLOYED. CIVILIAN EVACUATION UNDERWAY.

Your heart stopped.

You couldn’t speak. You just gestured to the twins and reached for your boots. Jacket. Anything that would get you there faster. Because you knew. You knew what dragon they had seen.

The Onychinus base materialized from the urban sprawl, its fortifications slicing upward like obsidian teeth against the polluted skyline. The security gates recognized Sylus's approach, parting without challenge. Guards stationed at the entrance flicked their gazes toward you—assessing, calculating—before returning to their vigilance. Their expressions said what words didn't: she is contraband, a walking liability.

Inside, Sylus finally helped you dismount, his hands steady but withdrawn once you found your footing. He summoned medics with a sharp gesture that brooked no argument, then stepped back, creating deliberate distance as attendants swarmed you.

Voices murmured technical jargon while hands pressed, prodded, examined. You focused on the ceiling, counting cracks in the paneling to distract from the violation of being handled, of being helpless.

Then—a shift.

A warmth bloomed beneath your skin, unexpected and foreign. The pain didn't just dull; it retreated, like a tide pulling away from shore.

Your gaze snapped toward Luke and Kieran, who hovered like anxious sentinels near the doorway. "What did you do?" The question rasped from your throat, sandpaper-rough.

Kieran gestured toward a sleek titanium case on the medical tray. A holographic interface pulsed above it, projecting cellular reconstruction data in luminescent blue. "Cutting-edge nano-regeneration tech. Black market. Worth more than most people make in a decade."

Wanting to test their words, you twisted your upper body. The movement came too easily, too fluidly. The wound that should have left you incapacitated for days now presented as merely a dull throb—a whisper where a scream had been.

Your stomach clenched in revolt. This unearned healing felt like cheating, like another debt accumulated.

Sylus stood framed between shadow and light, arms crossed over his chest. His crimson irises gleamed in the half-dark, inhuman and watchful. He said nothing, yet his silence spoke volumes.

Only now did you take in your surroundings properly. The room's opulence registered in increments: midnight-black silk sheets beneath your fingertips, heavy damask curtains drawn tight against daylight, furniture crafted from what appeared to be genuine wood—extinct luxury in the impoverished N109. This wasn't a medical ward or guest quarters.

This was his space. His sanctuary.

You searched his face for clues, for direction—Was he furious? Disappointed? Both seemed equally unbearable.

"Sylus—" you began sheepishly.

"What the hell were you thinking?" He cut you off, words barely rising in volume but falling like meteorites, dense with brewing fury. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. “Why do you insist on throwing your life away like this? That wasn't just reckless. It was—" A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Stupid."

The word sliced deeper than any blade. Not anger but dismissal. As if you were a child who'd wandered into traffic, incapable of rational thought.

"I didn't—" You attempted to explain yourself, but the words were getting stuck in your throat. You forced yourself to meet his gaze, summoning whatever dignity remained. "I didn't ask you to solve my problems—the last thing I wanted to be was just another burden. B-But I had to try. I had to prove that I could—"

The sentence fractured, incomplete. Prove what? That you deserved your badge? That you weren't the traitor the whole city thought you were? That you were worthy of... of what? Of him?

To your horror, something hot and treacherous gathered behind your eyes. No. Not now. Not in front of him. But your body had reached its threshold, and defenses long maintained began to crumble.

A single tear escaped, tracing a silver path down you cheek. You whipped your face away, cursing your weakness.

Too late. He'd seen.

“Fuck,” Sylus wanted to kick himself in the gut. He was no use at this—at being the man you deserved.

The distance between you vanished. Strong arms enveloped you, pulling you against a chest that radiated impossible warmth. That familiar scent of him filled your senses.

You stiffened, then melted. Your fingers clutched at his shirt with desperate intensity, anchoring yourself to him as the dam inside you finally, catastrophically failed.

The first sob wrenched from you chest with violence, years of accumulated grief finding release. Then another. And another. Each more raw than the last, each bearing fragments of a lifetime spent proving your worth to people who never saw you at all.

Sylus didn't offer empty platitudes. Didn't tell you to compose yourself. He simply held you, his embrace tightening with each tremor that passed through your body, his fingers threading through your hair with unexpected gentleness.

You pressed your face against his chest, surrendering to the storm. Somewhere amidst the tumult, a terrifying realization crystallized: despite everything, despite the secrets and lies and half-truths, you were falling in love with him.

And that revelation ached more fiercely than any wound.

Eventually, the tempest subsided. Your breathing steadied, though occasional aftershocks still trembled through your frame. Only then did Sylus shift.

His hands moved to cup your face, thumbs sweeping away the wetness on your cheeks with a reverence that made your heart constrict anew. His eyes searched yours—seeking something, permission perhaps, or absolution.

Was this what you were hiding from him all along? Now, and in every lifetime going forward? He should have known that beneath the strong warrior was a well of pain, should have thought about that before he’d let you walk to your final death. Because if he had spared but a moment to truly see you, he would have realized just how much you had been hurting. He didn’t deserve you, but you—you deserved the truth.

You gazed back, raw and hollowed out, expecting... what? An explanation? A confession?

Instead, something uncertain flickered across his features. He withdrew his touch.

"Wait here," he murmured, voice rough-edged with emotion.

You watched as he crossed to an antique lacquered cabinet you hadn't noticed before. From a locked drawer, he retrieved something that appeared fragile with age.

When he returned to you, he held out a folded parchment, edges softened by time, creases deeply worn from repeated handling. You accepted it with shaking fingers. The moment the paper touched your skin, recognition jolted through you—the handwriting flowing across the yellowed surface was unmistakably yours. The loops of your letters, the distinctive way you crossed your t's...

Yet impossibly, inconceivably:

"This isn't mine," you whispered, confusion fracturing your voice.

Sylus knelt before you, his gaze steady now, unflinching. "It is yours," he said quietly. "Just not from this lifetime."

You sat on the edge of the bed, the letter quivering in your hands. “What… What does this mean?” You understood every word—each one seemingly written by your own hand—yet none of it made any sense. The letter read like a fairy tale, speaking of knights and dragons and priests locked in a battle of biblical proportions. Of childhoods spent running barefoot through fields of flowers, of star-crossed young love, of reincarnations and transformations. None of it belonged to you, none of it your story.  

"This…” Sylus tapped a finger to the letter, “… is your future. Our future. Centuries from now, when you would be reborn again in a kingdom called Philos… and have the misfortune of knowing me for the first time."

Holding your rapt attention, he recounted the happier days of your youth—how you’d see his troublemaker self and decide to make him your friend, how you’d sit next to him in class, how you’d tutor him and he’d pay you back with stolen candy. Then under a veil of gloom, he explained the Justiciars’ crusade, how they’d fed him lies when they tore him from his place by your side. How they’d painted you as his betrayer, laughing as bitterness took root in his heart. His voice lost its characteristic confidence as he admitted the worst—he’d believed them without question.  

“I’m what they called a fiend,” He continued, flexing his hand to reveal obsidian scales. “A dragon. They said my kind existed only to tempt humans with their own desires. To corrupt and consume. In my rage and solitude, I only ever proved them right—I was your undoing in every lifetime, a monster who stole away all the lifetimes you should have lived, and I'm here because it is my nature to be greedy...”

He described the Abyss not through vivid imagery, but through the hollow spaces between words. Centuries in darkness, clinging to hatred for a ghost. Then freedom, and his misguided devotion to the woman—a future reincarnation of MC—who had broken his shackles. In his hunger for companionship, he accepted a transaction as love.

And when you had finally found him, he’d rejected you—sought to wound you with his words and hateful glares.

In a world where humans like you could create energy contracts out of thin air and teleport at will, you weren’t exactly taken aback by the fantastical account. But it hurt all the same to find out that, after all, he’d once chosen someone else… The old ache bloomed—not anger, but the ever-present fear of never measuring up.

With careful movements, you set the letter aside on the rumpled covers and reached out, taking his face between your hands. Your thumbs traced the sharp angles of his features—the pronounced cheekbones, the strong jaw with its faint stubble, the faint scar in the corner of his left eye, the slight asymmetry that somehow made the whole arrangement work. These contours felt as if your hands had mapped them before in some half-forgotten dream.

"I've been dreaming about you," you said finally, voice barely audible. "Not normal dreams. These weird flashes that come out of nowhere. Sometimes when I close my eyes, sometimes right in the middle of doing something completely ordinary." Your gaze dropped, suddenly self-conscious. "I see pieces of things—places I've never been, conversations I don't remember having. And there's always this boy with your eyes and this unbearable sadness, carrying something so heavy it makes my chest hurt just to see it. If I could somehow reach through time and take that pain from him, I would. In a heartbeat. The person who wrote this letter—if she is indeed a version of myself, I’m sure she would have felt the same…”

Sylus leaned into your touch like someone who'd been wandering in the cold for too long. His eyes closed briefly, surrendering to the moment. His breath hitched, lips grazing your palm in a kiss that felt like worship. When he looked at you again, the unvarnished intensity in his gaze was startling.

"That was me," he said, his usually confident voice stripped bare. "Those aren't just dreams, sweetheart. They're memories bleeding through the fabric of time—echoes bouncing back at you." He swallowed hard, fingers digging into his palms. "I was such an idiot. I let anger cloud everything. When things got complicated, I chose the easy path—suspicion instead of trust. I believed the worst without giving you a chance to explain. I-I don’t deserve forgiveness. But you need to know—I love you. I’ve loved every version of you, even when rage buried it."

The weight on your chest lessened at his confession, though wariness still lingered in your eyes. "And if she—that future version of me—hadn't died for you and your lover... would you even be here now, asking for forgiveness?" you pressed, finding unexpected strength in your voice. "Are you here because of who I am right now, or because you're chasing after some ghost of who I'll become? Because I can't compete with a memory, especially one I haven't even made yet."

Sylus moved his hands to cover yours where they still rested against his face. His grip was firm but gentle. "My love," he said, his voice carrying authority earned through hard experience, yet tempered by unmistakable fondness, "It’s always been you. Not some idealized version I've built up in my head, not the woman you might become tomorrow or years from now. In every life, you remain true to yourself—there’s no changing that frustrating stubbornness, that relentless determination, that self-sacrifice that scares the hell out of me because I understand it too well. Your will matches mine, sweetie—strong enough to bend reality when you need to. But underneath all that strength is a compassion that completely disarms me."

His words, while sincere, had yet to dispel years of insecurity. "But what if I do change? What if time turns me into someone different—someone who stops taking risks, who loses her edge, who gets cautious and boring? Will you still want me then?"

Despite it all, a rare, genuine smile broke across Sylus's face, warmth radiating from him as he teased, "If you ever stopped being stubborn, I might actually get a full night's sleep instead of lying there making mental lists of all the dangerous situations you might have thrown yourself into." His expression grew serious again, hands moving to frame your face. "But yes, absolutely yes. I'll love you regardless of how you change, because at your core, you'll always be you."

You exhaled slowly, letting the tension leave your shoulders, although you held back from saying everything you felt. "I need time," you started again, biting your lip. "But... I think I want you to stay."

Sylus's smile held the patience of centuries. "I've survived thousands of years with nothing but your absence. I can handle a little more waiting."

"And if—" You dared not believe this wasn’t too good to be true just yet, "If I eventually decide that this—us—isn't what I want?" The question hung between you two, fragile and solemn.

Pain flashed across his face before settling into something more complex—a mixture of resignation and honesty. "Then I'd respect that choice, even if it destroyed me. Your happiness isn't something I'm willing to negotiate. It never has been. Having you in my life in any way—friend, ally, even occasional enemy—is infinitely better than not having you at all."

At long last, relief washed through you, temporarily silencing the doubts that had been circling in your mind. You stood slowly, suddenly aware of how every muscle in your body ached. "I should clean up," you said, glancing down at your disheveled state—clothes wrinkled and stained, skin marked with the evidence of recent chaos. "Can I use your shower?"

The change in Sylus was immediate and fascinating—vulnerability retreating behind his usual charismatic charm. A playful smirk transformed his features, lightening the atmosphere. "We could share," he suggested, mischief in his eyes. "Save water. Very environmentally conscious."

Your face flushed hot, embarrassment momentarily overriding exhaustion. "Absolutely not!" You shrieked, taking a step back. "Separate showers or I'm sleeping in the hallway."

Sylus laughed. ”Fine," he conceded with an exaggerated nod. "The twins will leave some clothes for you outside the door."

Within the confines of Sylus's ridiculously luxurious bathroom, you surrendered to the perfect pressure of the shower. Steam rose around you in comforting clouds; your muscles gradually relaxed, exhaustion seeping into every part of you until you found yourself drifting, consciousness fading as you leaned against the cool tile wall.

A gentle knock jarred you back to awareness. "Kitten?" Sylus's voice came through the door, concern evident. "You okay in there? It's been almost an hour."

"I'm fine," you called back, hurriedly shutting off the water. "Just... zoned out."

Wrapping yourself in his robe—an outrageously soft thing that swallowed your much smaller frame—you cracked the door open cautiously. Finding the hallway empty, you padded barefoot back to his bedroom, relieved to see Sylus at a distance, absorbed in an old book at the coffee table. A small lamp created a pool of warm light around him, leaving the rest of the spacious room in comfortable shadow.

The promised clothes waited on the bed—simple pajamas that looked suspiciously new, price tags still dangling. You dressed quickly, fighting a smile at how Sylus's apparently endless resources extended even to spontaneous wardrobe needs. The bed called to you with irresistible appeal. Without overthinking it, you slid under the covers, sighing as your body sank into the mattress.

A while later, Sylus emerged with a towel slung low on his hips, water trailing the notched scars along his abdomen.

You lay curled on your side, one arm tucked beneath your head, the other splayed across his pillow. The new PJs hung loose on your frame, the collar slipping to reveal the pale curve of your shoulder. Your breaths came slow, deep, the rhythm syncing with the distant roll of thunder.

He stood motionless, watching.

You looked younger in sleep, the relentless worries of your waking hours smoothed away. Your lashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks, and your lips parted faintly. Sylus’s throat constricted. This, he realized, was a privilege he’d never earned: to see you without the walls you’d constructed around yourself, to exist in the quiet bliss of your trust.

He approached silently, bare feet sinking into the plush rug. His fingers itched to trace the slope of your jaw, to relearn the map of you face, but he clenched his fists. Let her rest.

The mattress dipped as he slid beneath the covers. You stirred, a soft murmur escaping you as you rolled toward him, drawn by instinct or latent memory. Sylus froze, half-expecting you to wake up. Instead, your forehead pressed against his collarbone, your exhale warm on his skin.

“...’s cold,” you mumbled, half-conscious.

A laugh rumbled in his chest, quiet and disbelieving. He tugged the duvet higher, tucking it around your shoulders. “Demanding even in sleep, my beloved.”

You didn’t respond, your fingers curling loosely against his sternum.

Sylus wrapped an arm around your waist, anchoring you against him. Your hair tickled his chin, smelling of his shampoo—cedar and smoke, foreign yet fitting. Outside, the storm lashed the N109 Zone’s skyline, rain sheeting against the windows. Inside, your warmth seeped into him, thawing centuries of frost.

He pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering. “Sleep,” he whispered. “I won’t let anything hurt you.”

When dawn crept through the curtains hours later, Sylus was still awake—eyes sharp, senses tuned to every shift in your breathing. Let the city burn. Let the Hunters scheme. For now, the world could wait.

“I know,” you said absent-mindedly, flexing your fingers against the starch-stiff sheets. Your body felt foreign, stitched back together by hands that didn’t care if the seams held.

Kieran snorted. “He’ll be back angrier. You should’ve seen him when he found Marcus. Looked like he wanted to melt the city block.” His voice softened. “He’s… not good at losing things he cares about.”

Things. You bit your tongue. You knew you weren’t a thing, but the word needled you anyway. Sylus had secrets coiled tighter than the scars on his knuckles, and you’d let him kiss you without thinking too much about the consequences.

Luke grinned, oblivious. “Remember when he dragged that Hunter—what’s her name, MC?—back to base last month? Thought she’d pissed him off, but nah. He helped her. Even let her use the private comms line. Real cozy, if you ask me.”

Your stomach churned, a sharp twinge of pain. MC. Your colleague’s face flashed in your mind—flawless, efficient, the Association’s golden girl. The same MC who’d clung to Sylus like a lover at the retreat, their heads bent too close.

Kieran shot Luke a glare sharp enough to draw blood. “It wasn’t like that. She needed to acquire an Aether Core. Business.”

“Business with benefits,” Luke singsonged, twirling the knife. “Kieran here tried to play wingman. Kept offering her drinks from the boss’s stash—single-malt betrayal, aged 20 years.”

The machines monitoring your vitals beeped louder, and your barely-healed scar burned. Stupid. You’d let Sylus cradle your broken body like it mattered, while he’d been playing savior to MC all along. You wanted to believe the sincerity in his eyes when he spoke to you, wanted to let the warmth of his embrace soothe your aching heart—except you’d been in this position before, with boys that strung you along while waiting on the true object of their desire, and you should have known better.

“He’s been single forever,” Luke added, kicking his boots onto the bed rail. “We figured he’d die alone, muttering about ‘legacies’ or whatever. But you—” He pointed the knife at you, grinning. “You’ve got him sprung. He’ll raze the city for you. It’s kinda sweet.”

Your laugh came out brittle. “Sweet.” The word curdled. You wanted to give Sylus the benefit of a doubt,  but already your mind was painting a vivid picture of him and MC in some shadow-drenched armory, trading favors and flattery. How many times had he ‘helped’ MC? How many times had he lied?

Kieran stiffened, reading your silence. “It’s not what you think. Sylus doesn’t—he doesn’t connect with people. Not since…” He trailed off, guilt flickering in his eyes.

Not since whoever broke him first, you filled in. You weren’t a stranger to this kind of story—you'd played a supporting role in them, contorting yourself to fit inside a mould of someone’s fancy. Knew the way loneliness fossilized into spite. But it didn’t matter. You were just another soul orbiting Sylus’s supernova, burning yourself up for glimpses of light.

“I need air,” you lied, swinging your legs over the bed. The movement tore a gasp from your throat, but you welcomed the pain—more palatable than humiliation.

“Whoa, bad idea—” Luke reached for you, but you shook your head.

“I’m fine,” you repeated the same phrase you’d given to co-workers after a horrendous mission. Your reflection in the window was enough to call your bluff: pallid, hollow-eyed, like a ghost clinging to borrowed time. Beyond the glass, Linkon’s towers speared the clouds, indifferent to the girl who’d survived a bullet but couldn’t survive a half-revealed truth.

Kieran hovered, tense. “He’s not with MC. He’s just… bad at letting go of the past.”

You toddled over to the window and pressed your forehead to the cold glass. “I don’t know what to think anymore,” you said quietly.

Luke whistled. “Yeah, no. Don’t think—stab. It won’t hurt him anyways.”

You almost chuckled, almost let it go. Your breath fogged the glass, and you closed your eyes. You’re not a second choice, you told yourself, trying to be the level-handed adult that you usually were. Yet the words rang hollow as your phone buzzed—a notification from the Hunter’s database. Your ID flashed alongside a case file: Internal Investigation Ongoing.

The bodega reeked of stale grease and spilt beer. Sylus sat in the upstairs dining room—a grimy, cluttered cubbyhole with cracked vinyl booths and a flickering hologlass menu advertising “Authentic New Mumbai Curry.” Below, gang enforcers in leather jackets slurped noodles alongside low-ranking Hunters. No one spoke, merely signalled: a tapped cigarette pack, a half-finished beer left at a specific angle, three fingers wrapped around a phone. Sylus watched it all through the smudged lens of a folded newspaper, its pages littered with pinprick holes—a low-tech surveillance aid he’d perfected over the years.

A gangster at Table 3 scratched his neck twice. A Hunter at the counter adjusted his belt. Seconds later, a data chip slid into the condiment tray. Sylus memorized the exchange, his mind cross-referencing faces with the Onychinus payroll. Third precinct. Bribed. Reliable. He sipped his tepid coffee, the bitterness grounding him. Dragons hoarded secrets as fiercely as gold, and this rot—this quiet, transactional rot—was his kingdom.

His earpiece crackled to life. 

Kieran’s voice emerged through the static: “Boss, Marcus got out. No trail yet, but we’re working on it.”

Sylus’s thumb dented the paper. Impossible. He’d sealed Marcus in at the cannery, welded the locks himself. Only three people knew the location. Traitor? His pupils slithered into dagger-thin crescents before he forced them human again.

Another voice came through on the comms channel. This time, it was Luke, infinitely more sheepish than his twin: “Uh… Boss, don’tkillmeplease but Y/N just checked out of the hospital… Couldn’t stop her because it’s her deci—”

Sylus stood abruptly, chair screeching. The Hunter at the counter flinched, hand drifting to his sidearm. Sylus tossed a crumpled bill on the table—exact change, untraceable—and descended the stairs. Outside, light rain misted the streets, melting holographic ads for Voss’s reelection campaign into neon sludge. He pulled down his cap, becoming another shadow in Linkon’s stream of pedestrians.

Half a block away, a bar’s wall-screen blared an obnoxious jingle before cutting to a press conference. Councilman Voss materialized, his smile a scalpel’s edge. The crowd inside the bar paused, noodles dangling mid-slurp. Sylus lingered in the doorway, rain dripping down his neck.

“—and let me be clear,” Voss said, steepling manicured fingers, “the Hunter’s Association has been compromised by corrupt individuals willing to sell their dignity for the highest bid.” The bar erupted in jeers. A bespectacled lady shook her head in disapproval. “Effective immediately, we will arrest those who’ve exploited their power for personal gain. Starting with Y/N.”

Your face flashed on-screen: badge photo, fresh-faced and bright-eyed. Sylus’s claws unsheathed, shredding his gloves. He flexed them under his coat, scales rippling up his wrists.

Voss leaned closer to the camera, his eyes glinting with curated outrage. “This woman conspired with Onychinus, the most dangerous syndicate in the N109 Zone, to sabotage our city’s security. Evidence will be released—”

The broadcast died, replaced by a toothpaste ad. The bar groaned, resuming its symphony of clattering bowls and gossip. Sylus parsed the room: a Hunter at the back table texting rapidly; a street vendor outside packing up, fear in the twitch of her hands. Panic spreads faster than fire, he thought. And Voss had just lit a match.

He strode into an alley, pulling up an encrypted map on his phone. Red dots marked Marcus’s known contacts—arms dealers, black-market surgeons, a disgraced lab tech—all clustered near the N109 docks. But Marcus wouldn’t run to them. He’d run to whoever freed him. Sylus zoomed in on the cannery’s blueprints, searching for weaknesses.

A rat, he realized.

Security footage from the cannery’s exterior showed a thermal blur the size of a small dog slipping through a vent an hour before Marcus escaped. Sylus enhanced the image: a rodent, its cybernetic spine glinting, something clamped in its teeth. Voss’s pet, most likely—the councilman had a known fondness for bio-augmented pests.

Two problems now braided together: Voss moving publicly against you, and Marcus armed with whatever lies Voss fed him. A perfect shit storm.

Steeling his expression into one of indifference, he texted the twins: Scrub her apartment. Burn anything tying her to me. Then find Marcus—he’ll head for the sewage tunnels under Grid 7.

Luke responded in an instant: You sure?

Sylus loved the boys like his own brothers, but there were days when he wanted to wring their necks. Yes, he typed back.

A beat. Then:

A notification from Kieran: And you?

Sylus weighed his options, staring at your face still glowing on the bar’s dormant screen. I will do anything for her, he thought, pocketing his phone before melting back into the crowd.

The rain fell in sheets, sharp and metallic, as if Linkon itself were weeping rust. Your boots clicked on the cracked asphalt, your breath coming up short beneath the weight of Sylus’s oversized jacket. The fabric swallowed your frame, its sleeves hanging past your fingertips, but it smelled like him—sandalwood and amber, a scent that made you feel safe despite your conflicted feelings towards its owner. Neon signs blared overhead, their fractured light staining the puddles with garish hues of cyan and magenta. Councilman Voss’s face loomed on every screen, his voice a honeyed taunt. “Justice is not negotiable,” he declared, pixels glitching around his too-perfect smile.

Your phone vibrated non-stop:

Mom: You’ve ruined us. Turn yourself in. Captain Jenna: HQ now. Don’t make this worse. Unknown: How much did those thugs pay you, traitor?

You silenced it. The Association’s spire gleamed three blocks away, its glass façade like a beacon in the dark. Just get to somebody—MC, Tara, Simone, Andrew, even Xavier. Explain. Make them listen.

A delivery drone buzzed too close, its camera lens whirring as it zoomed in on your face. You snatched a brick from a pile of rubble—discarded remnants of a demolished tenement—and hurled it. The drone shattered, sparks fizzling in the rain.

The effort alone drained you, and you leaned against the alley’s graffiti-tagged wall, breathing through the ache in your side. It seemed that Sylus’s jacket would have to go—you needed your arms free in case another threat surfaced—and you made a mental note to buy him a replacement as you shrugged it off, leaving it folded on the ground.

A flicker of movement.

Two men stepped into the alley’s mouth, their postures coiled. The taller one held a police-issue taser baton, its prongs crackling faintly. The shorter one adjusted his brass knuckles. Bounty hunters. Not Voss’s elite. Desperate freelancers chasing the reward that Voss had no doubt put on your head.

You summoned a shimmering, translucent dagger with your Evol. It wavered, its edges dissolving like mist. But it was the best you could do given how fresh blood was seeping through your shirt.

The man with the taser charged. You sidestepped, slashing at his wrist. The blade grazed skin, drawing a hiss, but dissolved before it could bite deeper. The second man swung at you with his fist, and you ducked, pushing through the soreness in your limbs. You returned the favor with a jab, your knuckles connected with his jaw. He staggered, swearing.

A third figure appeared—a woman in a rain-slicked motorcycle jacket.  “Don’t make this messy,” she said, her voice flat. “Voss wants you alive.”

You backed up, your heel slipping on wet concrete. The dagger flickered back into existence, smaller now, could hardly be called a shiv. The woman tried to grab you by the collar—you cried out, driving the blade into her shoulder. She jerked back, letting loose a string of colorful expletives.

One of the other assailants pounced, taser crackling. You pivoted again, but the prongs caught your hip, the electricity locking your muscles. You collapsed, seeing stars, and he swung a steel-capped boot at your ribs. In desperation, you blocked with a half-formed force field, the impact driving you into the wall.

Pathetic, you felt shame rise like bile up your throat. All these years of training, can’t even shake off a few common thugs.

The self-loathing hurt worse than the taser and the boot combined, and you squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself to calm down and work out your next moves.

Then the air around you warped.

Crimson-black mist coiled around your wrist, subtle as a pulse yet strong enough to bolster your Evol like wind filling the sails of a ship. A weapon materialized within your grasp, responding to your unbending will—a claymore, its golden core threaded with veins of black and red. Stable. Lethal.

The brute moved to strike again. This time, you parried, the blade shearing through his calf. Blood splattered across your face, and you watched him stumble backwards, screaming his head off.

Seeing their comrade permanently maimed, the other two rushed into action, only to be caught by tendrils of mist. Sylus dropped from the fire escape above, silver hair plastered to his forehead thanks to the rain, eyes burning like smelted iron. His Evol lashed around him, alive and feral. It crushed the taser baton to scrap and coiled around the woman’s throat, lifting her off the ground.

“Run,” warned Sylus through bared teeth, the word vibrating with something not entirely human. Nodding their heads furiously, the bounty-hunters slunk back into whatever hellhole they had crawled out of.

Sylus didn’t give chase. He knelt beside you, the mist dissolving into the night. His hands hovered over your wound, with a barely perceptible tremor. Blood soaked through your bandages, staining his fingertips. In the semi-darkness, you thought you saw a scowl mar his handsome face. He gently wiped your face clean of your attacker’s blood and confirmed what you already knew, “You’re bleeding.”

Your face burned—you’d come to the conclusion that he simply had that unfortunate effect on you—and you feebly pushed his hand away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” He stated plainly, voice edged with barely contained wrath.

You shoved herself upright, expending the last of your strength just to look him in the eye. “What am I to you?” You bit out—if you were to cry now, at least the rain would conceal your tears. You weren’t skating on the edge of unconsciousness this time—not yet, anyways—and you were all the more confused. All I am is a burden. That familiar feeling of shame still hadn’t subsided. If anything, having him save your life twice over the span of a week was quite a blow to your ego as a Hunter.

He didn’t answer, because he wasn’t sure he could keep a lid on his anger if he had. Instead, he slid an arm beneath your knees and lifted you. His heartbeat thudded against your ear, and you felt like a child who was in for a lot of lecturing.

“Sylus—” Your voice snapped him back. Your hand twitched weakly against his chest, smearing blood over his shirt. He stared at it, the crimson stark against white fabric, and for a heartbeat, he saw her blood—the you of another life, the one he’d failed.

“Faster, Luke,” Sylus ordered rigidly. The younger man obeyed, the car lurching forward. Sylus had acted as soon as he saw your Hunter’s Watch go offline; he’d sent Mephisto to trail you, and through the crow’s eyes, he’d seen everything happen. He abandoned a meeting and went straight to you, as fast as he could, and yet—

Your head rolled against his shoulder, your skin ashen. The wound in your abdomen pulsed with every heartbeat, and Sylus pressed harder, his palm slick with blood. Your blood. Always your blood.

Gunshot wound, bleeding out, stay awake—you chanted the words in your head, a mantra to keep the darkness at bay. But the cold was creeping in, numbing your limbs. You were losing blood too fast; just mere seconds ago, you had a series of questions to ask—now the only thought you were able to hold onto was: Sylus was shaking.

You forced your eyes open. His face loomed above you, pale and stricken, his red eyes wild. You’d never imagined seeing him like this. Not the legendary crime lord whose very name struck fear into the hearts of the most hardened felons. This man was raw, fractured, his hands trembling as they pressed against your wound.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice cracking. “Darling, look at me.”

You tried. God, you tried. But your eyelids were leaden, and the ache in your chest had nothing to do with the bullet. “M’here,” you slurred, forcing a weak smile. “Stop… yelling.”

He wanted to scream. This was the same stubborn tilt of your chin, the same reckless defiance that had gotten you killed lifetimes ago. “I’ll be back by dawn,” you’d told him then, too, right before you’d walked into the Justiciars’ trap.

“You didn’t come back,” he hissed, his hands shaking as he brushed hair matted with blood from your face. “You never did. Why do you keep doing this?”

Doing what? You wanted to ask. Surviving? But the words dissolved into a cough, blood bitter on your tongue.

His grip tightened, his fingers tangling in your hair. “Stay awake. Stay awake.”

You wanted to laugh. Or cry. Sylus was begging you, begging, like your life mattered more than his own. It made no sense. You were friends, maybe something fuzzier around the edges, but not this. Not the way his voice broke when he said your name, like it was a prayer he’d worn thin.

You didn’t answer, didn’t have enough air in your lungs to form the words—and panic clawed up his throat.

Memory tore through him: Your body limp in his arms, your warmth leaching into the cold ground. The way your fingers had felt slack in his, the way he’d screamed your name until his voice shattered— “Y/N!”

You jerked awake, unaware you’d drifted. His face was inches from yours, tears streaking through the blood smeared on his cheeks. He’s crying. For me?

In the front seat, Luke and Kieran exchanged a glance. They’d never seen Sylus unravel like this—their Boss who’d gut men without blinking now quivering like a child.

“You’re… scaring them,” you murmured, your gaze drifting to the twins. You didn’t even know them, but their anxiety was evident enough in the way they dared not make a sound.

“I don’t care,” Sylus growled. He cupped your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You don’t get to die. Not again. Not again.”

You frowned, confusion swimming in your dimming gaze. “Again?”

He choked. How could he explain? The centuries of guilt, the way your death had carved a hole in him that even time couldn’t mend. “You left,” he whispered, the words raw. “You left, and I—”

A sob ripped from him, ugly and unchecked. Your eyes widened, one hand lifting weakly to his cheek. “Sylus…?”

He caught your wrist, pressing your palm to his face. Your skin was cold. Too cold.

“Don’t,” he pleaded, the last of his composure crumbling. “Don’t go where I can’t follow. Not this time.”

This time? You couldn’t begin to understand. You two had only known each other a few months. But the way he looked at you—like he’d spent lifetimes searching—made your chest ache.

“Silly… man,” you managed, your voice a thread.

In the front seat, Luke white-knuckled the wheel, Kieran’s usually stoic face etched with shock. 

The car swerved, and pain blazed through you. You gasped, your fingers clawing at Sylus’s shirt. “S-sorry…”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he growled, crushing you to his chest. “You fight, sweetie. You fight like hell.”

Why? The question barely made it through the murkiness of your brain. Why do you care?

But the words wouldn’t come. The cold was winning, your thoughts fraying at the edges. Yet even as darkness beckoned, you felt it—the ghost of a memory, hazy and warm. Wings. Obsidian scales. A boy with sad eyes, whispering your name like a secret.

The car rounded another sharp corner, jolting you both. Sylus snarled at Luke, “If she dies, I’ll burn this city to the ground.”

Despite it all, you laughed—a wet, broken sound. “Drama… king.”

But your eyes were drifting shut, your body sagging against his.

No. No no no—

“Y/N!” He shook you, his vision blurring. “Open your eyes! Look at me!”

You didn’t stir.

In the silence, Sylus froze. The world narrowed to the stillness of your chest, the blood on his hands, the silence.

Then—

A whisper. “Sylus…”

Your eyelashes fluttered. You were still here. Still here.

He pulled you impossibly closer, burying his face in your hair. “I’ll kill them all,” he vowed, his voice unsteady with tears and fury. “Every last one who hurt you.”

“Don’t,” you breathed. “Just… stay.”

He kept holding you, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against yours. Outside, the city blurred into nothing. All that mattered was your weight in his arms—alive, alive, alive—and the suffocating fear that this time, he wouldn’t be fast enough. Again.

Luke tossed him a file. “Councilman Voss’s dirty. Arms deals, bribes—the whole nine.”  

Sylus flipped through the documents, unmasked claws pricking the paper. “Burn it all.”  

“Including Voss?”  

“Especially Voss.”  

Luke whistled. “You’re getting sentimental, boss.” 

Sylus glared, but the kid was already jogging to the car. He stared at the hospital’s glowing windows, imagining your steady breaths, your stubborn smile. 

She’d forgive you, a traitorous voice whispered. She always does.

But forgiveness wasn’t the problem. It was the cost.  

His phone buzzed—a text from an unknown number: Back off, or the Hunter dies next time.  

Sylus crushed the phone in his fist, red mist rippling up his arm.

Rain lashed the abandoned cannery, the air thick with the stench of rust and rotting fish. Sylus kicked open the door, his human facade fraying. Marcus cowered behind a stack of crates, eyes wide.

“P-please! It was Voss! He wanted her dead!”

Sylus’s vision bled an ominous crimson. Scales slithered up his neck, claws elongating as he lunged. “You shot her.”

“I didn’t—!”

His fist connected with Marcus’s jaw, bone crunching under scaled knuckles. “You left her to bleed.”

“Please—!”

He pinned Marcus to the wall, claws piercing his shoulders. “Tell Voss she’s dead,” he snarled, fangs glinting. “Or I’ll carve his lies from your throat.”

The hospital room smelled of antiseptic, the plastic vase on the windowsill holding wilted sunflowers that you would have appreciated. You yourself lay motionless, your torso bandaged where the bullet had torn through muscle and viscera—grade III liver laceration, the surgeon had recited, as if cataloging parts of a machine. Sylus stood rigid by the bed, his knuckles white around the bed rail.

You’re still breathing. This time, he was fast enough—just about.

The heart monitor beeped a steady rhythm. Your face was pale, your lips chapped, your hair tangled from hours of fitful sleep. Sylus felt as though a hand had closed around his throat. Before him was the woman who’d laughed over a mocha in a dim café weeks ago, your cheeks flushed as you’d teased him for ordering black coffee. “Too bitter,” you’d said, pushing your mug toward him. “Try mine.” He’d sipped the sugary drink, revolted, and you’d laughed—a sound he’d rewound time to hear again.

The door slid open. Luke leaned in, placing a paper cup onto the side table. “Marcus is holed up at the old cannery. Kieran’s got eyes on him.”

Sylus didn’t turn. “Keep him there.” “You want him alive?” “For now.” Luke lingered, eyeing you. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

The tick in Sylus’s jaw was enough to cue the young man’s exit. Alone again, he sank into the chair, his hands curling into fists. Scales prickled beneath his skin, threatening to breach the surface. Control. You need control.

Eventually, you stirred, pain cutting through the morphine haze. Your eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the harsh overhead lights before landing on Sylus slouched in the chair beside you, a paper cup in his hand.

“Mocha,” he said, his voice even huskier than usual. “Decaf, two pumps of caramel. Just how you like it.”

You blinked, wincing as you shifted. For some reason, you were glad he was the first person you saw upon waking up. Your lips quirked up, “Mocha, huh? How ever could you have known?”

Because I memorized the way you smile when the whipped cream sticks to your lip. He shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

His dejected look was a grim reminder. You had been shot, and he’d shown up just in time to carry you to safety. You had been too weak to fight your way out. Disappointment in your own incompetence sinking into the pit of your stomach, you cleared your throat, “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

He smirked, masking the tremor in his hands. “You’re paranoid.”

“And you’re evasive.” You reached for the cup, your fingers brushing his. A wave of heat crashed through him, and he jerked back, scales licking up his forearm like wildfire. Your close call with death had thrown him off-kilter, and the dragon was no longer heeding his commands, rising out of the depths of his soul to protect its most precious possession.

Of course, all of that didn’t escape your notice. “That’s… new.” Damn it. Sylus stood abruptly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Hallucinations. Side effect of the drugs.” “Bullshit.” He turned toward the door. “Rest. I’ll send a nurse.” “Sylus.” He paused, pulse roaring. “What’s wrong?” I’m terrified. Of losing you. Of you seeing me for the traitorous fool that I am.

“Are you okay?” You didn’t let it go, though your tone was less hostile—more worried. The sight of him grief-stricken and pleading had stuck with you, and you were half-afraid you’d done something wrong.

He stood stock-still, watching as you reached out, your fingers grazing the rough ridges on his knuckles. “Does it hurt?”

The words shook him. In every life, you kept insisting on not seeing the monster before your eyes.

“No—”

“It’s pretty…” You murmured, almost to yourself, admiring the color of his scales—charcoal, with deep red marbling, like molten lava. 

He let out a breathless laugh, leaning back against the bedside chair. “Sweetie, you should worry about yourself first.”

Surprise crossed your features before you schooled your face into a lopsided smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “I know… I must look quite a mess…”

He saw it then—the way your shoulders hunched, the flicker of self-doubt in your eyes. He’d sworn he would never again be the cause of your pain, but it looked like he was failing miserably. Elbows on his knees, he gingerly lifted your chin. “What I meant was you got hurt—bad. The doctor recommended you avoid strenuous activity for the next month and a half, so no twisting, no heavy lifting, no straining and definitely no fighting anyone.”

If how your body felt was anything to go by, you figured your physical appearance must be haggard. And he was too close, just like how he’d been in the car before you’d blacked out from the blood loss. Your wrist still felt sore from when Marcus’s cronies stomped on it to destroy your Watch, and you had no idea if anyone at the Association had searched for you. At any rate, it appeared that neither your colleagues nor Sylus had alerted your family, for which you were grateful.

Looking anywhere but at Sylus, you caught sight of the sunflowers on the window sill. It made you smile, before you realized that you’d never once told him about your favorite flowers. It might be a coincidence but… “In the car, when I was—you know, fading,” you ventured, rubbing your wrist as you fumbled for words. “You said some strange things…”

“Did I?” Sylus feigned innocence, although he knew fully well that you had a memory like a steel trap.  “How’d you find me?” “I have my ways.”

“I’m going to need more than that from you, Sylus,” you rolled your eyes, but your gaze was kind—too kind. You wrapped your fingers around his hand that still lingered by your chin, leveling him with the best puppy-eyes you had. “You looked… distraught. And I can’t help but feel like it was my fault.”

“You blame yourself too much,” he remarked. And you blame me too little. He held your face in his large palm, his thumb grazing ever-so-slightly over your bruised cheek. The whole world gave way to the warmth of your skin beneath his touch. “And for the record, you look beautiful. You always have,” he closed the gap between you, igniting sparks deep in your chest as your lips touched.

He kissed you.

It was clumsy, desperate—a collision of guilt and longing. Your lips were chapped, your hands clammy as they slid into his hair. 

He expected you to pull back, to recoil at the heat of his skin, the inhuman sharpness of his teeth. Instead, you leaned into him, your sigh a balm against centuries of solitude.

When you broke apart, his claws had pricked the sheets, shredding the linen. 

You chuckled contentedly, your forehead resting against his. “Now I absolutely have to know,” you teased, nodding to the ruined fabric.

He huffed, scales fading as his pulse steadied. “You’re impossible.” “And you’re stuck with me.”

He took the opportunity to admire you once more—the flecks of gold in your eyes, the stubborn set of your jaw, the bandages that couldn’t hide your fire. She’s here. She’s real.

He caressed your cheekbone. “I’m not… good at this.” “At what? Kissing?” “At trusting.” You smiled, bittersweet. “Then let me.”