yeah we call this shit "normal"

THE EVENING OF YOUR SISTER'S DEATH, YOU HAD DRAWN THE WORLD, REVERSED FROM YOUR TAROT DECK. You remember staring at it, unsettled, tracing the details as if the lines themselves could tell you what was coming.

It was one of those rare, hand-crafted decks, a fragment of the old world, tangible and delicate. In a world with so little physical art and so little understanding of the universe, you'd cherished the deck, a small luxury in a world where most people wouldn't have understood.

You remember knowing the card was a warning. The only trouble was you didn't know what for. You left the card face up on the desk and blew out your candles, your mother's voice calling through the estate's intercom again, impatient and angry because you were late.

Again.

To her, being late was a condition, not a habit. To you on that rainy November evening, it had been a kind of salvation, though perhaps salvation wasn't the right word. You didn't believe in gods or higher beings, but you did believe in the strange, quiet ways of the universe.

Strange, like how lingering over a single tarot reading could keep you from stepping into the restaurant when the gas explosion tore through the back of the block - when your sister, waiting at your usual table, became the first member of your family to die.

Gone in a moment, the entire direction of your life rearranged.

The world, reversed.

-

The rain over the Upper District is thin and metallic. It sheets off the glass buildings in vertical lines, turning each tower into a waterfall of neon and water. You watch the rain from the back of the car, forehead pressed to the cold window. The city slides past, a smudge of light.

Nexus Capital rises ahead of you, a monolith of glass punch through the low cloud ceiling. You stare at the building that's a feat of architecture with a list of awards and features in architectural magazines. You don't understand why a banking building needs to be an architectural work of art.

You don't find it to be very artistic anyway. Nexus Capital is one hundred and twelve floors of smoked glass and carbon fiber, no logos and no name, but a solid black tower threaded with light that everyone knows when they see it glow against the horizon.

Most nights, it turns invisible, like a trick of the light. If it weren't for the purple LEDs pulsing through the building's framework now, lighting it up to make air travel safe, you wouldn't even see it, though you know exactly where to look.

The car turns into the private ramp beneath the plaza, the security gates opening slowly. The car pauses as the driver cracks the window to state your business and clearance information. You wait, staring dully out the window as the scanners read the car for weapons and trace the plates. When it clears, the driver pulls through, continuing down the spiraling ramp toward the sub-level reserved for people who don't use the public lobby.

People like you.

You step out into a cold, concrete garage. Security guards are waiting on either side of the elevator for you, their charcoal suites pristine. They nod politely as you approach, heels clicking. One presses his palm to the panel, the lift doors opening with a soft hiss.

Your ride is eighty-nine floors, no stops. You breathe slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Four counts in, hold for four, exhale eight. Even numbers. Good numbers. Your pulse steadies.

The reflection in the glass wall of the elevator is jarring: black dress, black blazer, hair tamed, heels, minimal jewelry. The girl who used to sneak out of charity galas to stare up at the moon and fill jars of water to collect its energy is nowhere in sight.

A chime indicates your arrival and you stiffen. The lift opens directly into an executive corridor of basalt floors and recessed lightly. It smells faintly of cedar in the hall, no doubt pumped in by an unseen air filtration system, meant to give the offices an old, serious feel.

The eighty-ninth floor is nothing but meeting rooms and executive spaces. You walk along the network of empty rooms now, knowing the way by heart - you'd practiced the route a million times. Normally, even after hours, the meeting rooms would be full of people. This evening's meeting is high profile though, so the entire floor has been reserved and dismissed.

Double doors greet you as you turn a corner. A security guard is outside, tipping his head to greet you before opening the door to let you in. Inside is a massive board room full of people.

One entire wall is made up of glass, Hyperion glittering on the other side: neon arteries, ribbons of traffic, the distant strobe of a casino in the Pearl District. The table in the center of the room is a massive rectangle of smoked quartz, lit from beneath so it looks frozen.

You go straight to your side of the table where your father and board members sit. There's a single, high-back chair for you next to your father - it used to be your mother's, but after she'd killed herself a few months ago, she bequeathed the chair to you.

Her ghost clings to you every time you sit in the chair, a coolness sticking to your skin. You grit your teeth. This room needs sage and perhaps some selenite. It has neither, so you ignore the way a shiver slides up your spine, phantom fingers reminding you of the heaviness of her absence. Ghosts don't like to be ignored, but no one else in this room can feel the way spirit lingers, the way memories have a way of clinging to a place.

Today is not a day for fear and superstition. Today is the kind of day where you have to ignore all of your instincts in favor of being practical and analytical - the kind of girl your sister would have been, instead of you, the strange one who believed in the energies of the universe and its strange higher powers.

Lifting your eyes, you peer across the table as your father clears his throat to settle the room. Xu Minghao is seated directly across from you, the polished surface of the crystal table stretching like eons between you. He's narrower than the file photos, dressed in a suit so dark that it seems to eat the light around him. His hair is longer too, styled neatly around his ears to rest against his collar bones. It suits him, you think.

He's prettier than you realized, too. His face is exquisitely balanced between sharp and soft, his eyes fierce and burning as he stares at you, his mouth soft and supple. His equally sharp jawline is offset by a gentle nose, a blend of contrasts that make him breathtaking to look at.

And extremely intimidating.

"Shall we begin?" Your father asks. He's using his calm voice, the one he likes to use to show he isn't intimidated.

The Xu side inclines heads in near-perfect synchrony. Minghao's father, Xu Jian, sits at the center opposite your father, his hair dark and long like his son, threading with silver at the temples. Odd, you think. In a world where showing age is so rare, you find it fascinating that the Xu family's patriarch has deliberately decided to show his age. A powerplay, perhaps, that he does not fear how fast the world around him is moving, nor is he influenced by the trends of appearing young.

Xu Luli is the opposite. Minghao's mother is a radiance of youth, dressed in immaculate dove silk with a single jade pendant the size of a small egg pinned to her blazer. Her face has no obvious lines, full and flushed with color like she's still in her twenties. It's unsettling, and when your eyes flick to Minghao, you realize how much he looks like her with his full lips and sharp eyes. He's nearly her mirror, save for his eyes are dark and near-black where hers are uncanny stormy grey.

Across the table, Minghao sits perfectly upright, his hands folded loosely on the table. No rings, no watch, no jewelry at all. There's just a faint scare across the first knuckle of his right hand, pale against otherwise flawless skin.

Your father gestures to the lead counsel on your side to begin. She taps the table and a holo screen blooms above the quartz, rotating for all to see. It's a splitting of proposed assets, tallied net and financial worth, assets both tangible and liquid, and everything else about you both true and not splayed for everyone to see.

"Xu Worldwide Logistics currently moves forty-three percent of all container freight through Hyperion's docks in the Civ District," the lead counsel begins. "Post-marraige, joint control of the merged entity will be split sixty-forty in favor of Xu Worldwide Logistics, with veto rights retained by Nexus Capital."

Xu Jian smiles. "Forty-three percent is a conservative assessment of our business. Perhaps seventy-thirty would be more appropriate."

"Sixty-five," your father answers, smiling. "Thirty-five. That feels more appropriate. Our assumptions of your capital are conservative, as you say."

Jian bows his head and agrees.

You watch in silence as your assets are debated for you - assets you didn't have until a year ago, when your sister had been blown apart in a freak accident. Your hands sweat looking at the figures and numbers that shouldn't belong to you, the endless amount of credits, properties, offshore accounts and liquid assets you don't even understand.

Swallowing past a dry patch in your throat, you glance at Minghao. He doesn't look at the rotating holograms of your entire net worth reflected for a room full of suits - he looks directly at you. He's not staring, exactly, but you fight the urge to shiver anyway. His gaze is intense and cataloging, like he's reading every tiny expression on your face.

In fact, he probably is. Minghao's family isn't from Hyperion, but they've clawed their way to the top with the money and empire they've built in Hyperion, which means they know how to play the game. After all, if they didn't know how to play, they wouldn't be sitting at this table negotiating a political marriage to gain access to the one of the city's most powerful Syndicates.

"Along with the marriage comes guarantees," your father says, catching your attention. "Of additional security for shipments."

No one says Choi Syndicate. No one has to. This entire marriage is for the Choi Syndicate, who are seeking an advantage in the Yong Syndicate-owned shipping yards in the Civ District. While the Xu family has remained neutral thus far, the fact that you're all sitting in a room discussing your legal marriage to the heir of their business is an aggressive move for the Xu family.

"Additionally," your father adds, as though sensing the unsaid danger in the room, "Nexus Capital is partnered with Aegis Security Corp. They're a long-standing client of ours, and are happy to provide additional support, both personal and professional to the Xu family and clients."

You can't help the way you start to roll your eyes. Aegis Security Corporation is a legitimate business portfolio pledged to Nexus Capital, but that certainly isn't the security your father is promising. He's promising the Xu family Choi Syndicate protection, a silent acknowledgement that by being here in this room, they are agreeing to the risk of being targeted by other Syndicates but will be offered the protections of guns, money and blood that the Choi Syndicate can offer.

The smile the Xu patriarch gives assures you that he is right where he wants to be, though his son remains expressionless, eyes unreadable.

Minghao's mother leans forward, her jade pendant catching the light. "And the personal union? We understand the principal heirs will co-own the new holding company directly. We would like the details of residence, public representation, and succession details clarified."

This time, you do cringe. You can't help it. The word succession details crawls inside of your ribcage and threatens to start corroding. She means where will you live, who gets to be the press's shining star, and who inherits if someone dies inconveniently.

Or conveniently, depending on if you die and all your assets default to the man across the table. Which is a real threat that you've talked about with your father, knowing that he could be signing you over for someone to assassinate you and claim rights to all that you own. It is exactly why the proposal keeps the shipping assets in favor of the Xu family and the banking assets in favor of your family, a shared split but a majority of both residing with the original shareholder.

Your father looks to you to answer Minghao's mother. The message is clear: you’re the woman of the family. Speak to your counterpart.

"Residence will be the penthouse at the Observatory," you answer. "It's at the edge of the Upper District near the Estate District."

"The Observatory?"

"A starter home for us to settle. When we decide to have a family, there is a private residence left to me in the Estate District as dictated by my mother's will." She leans back, pleased. Your eyes drift to Minghao. "I assume Mr. Xu has no objection to living above the clouds to start."

"Height has never bothered me," he answers. His voice is soft, but the way he says it makes the hair on your arms raise. "It's a generous gift."

You learn forward, resting your forearms on the cold table top. The sleeves of your dress ride up just enough to show the faint bruise on your left wrist, fingermarks from last week when your father decided punctuality required emphasis. You adjust the sleeve, but when you look up, you see Minghao's eyes latched to the spot.

"Public representation," you continue quickly, trying to keep him engaged, "will be joint. Galas, council meetings, the usual. We smile, we shake hands, we let the photographers snap pictures. Public image is a joint effort and a joint success."

Both of his parents nod, pleased. Minghao is still staring at your covered wrist. "As far as succession, if one of us dies, the surviving spouse inherits full voting control of the merged entity for a minimum of five years. After that, it reverts to the strongest board proxy. Standard widow's clause."

"What is your security like?"

Minghao's question catches you offguard. You're unsure if he means the traditional security you use as the heir to one of the city's richest families, or the Choi Syndicate security you use to ward people away from you. You're sure he doesn't mean the spell jars hidden in the drawers of your room or the spell oils you tinker with.

"Standard," you offer. It seems like a safe answer.

"Standard." He frowns. "I find that the standard rarely does the job."

His father starts to speak, but Minghao lifts a finger, barely a centimeter. You watch in shock as it silences his father. It's so subtle you're unsure if anyone else notices it. Strange, for a son to dictate what a father does. You file that bit of information away for later.

"Do you have a recommendation, then?" You ask. "Feel free to propose something less standard."

His mouth twitches, a ghost of amusement. "Security protocols should be put in place. Travel routes, choices of driver, general schedules, should all have a shared veto. If one of us believes a risk is unacceptable, the other yields. No appeal."

Your father makes an angry sound. "You're asking for the right to countermand my daughter's security detail? That's entirely too controlling and rather convenient if you wanted her assets."

The accusation ruffles the feathers on the other side of the table, but Minghao remains nonplussed, eyes flicking to your father. His expression has barely shifted, but there's something subtle there, something sharp.

"I'm asking," he corrects, voice soft, "That neither of us dies stupidly because the other was too proud to listen. I find that joint decisions on matters of travel and security are often best, especially considering that this marriage will be highly publicized."

"Fine," you answer before your father can object. "Shard veto, with the amendment that our security teams are jointly chosen. You may not employ any member of security who has not been vetted and agreed upon by me personally."

Minghao inclines his head. "Agreed."

Above the table, a redline version of the agreement drafts as you trade amendments. Your eyes drop down to the scar on his knuckle again. It's thin and precise, the kind of mark left by a wire garotte or a very sharp knife. Not the sort of scar you get from yachting around the world like you've been told he does frequently.

Strange. In just a short manner of time, the list of strange things about Minghao grows longer. Something about him tugs at your tuition, a feeling of premonition you can't place. 

When you look back up, Minghao is watching you. His mouth twitches and your skin burns like you've been caught. You try to work out the expression on his face, but as his mother brings up the section regarding children, it's like dunking your head into ice cold water.

"Two," she says smoothly, fixing you with a pointed stare. "Minimum. More is fine. Bloodline continuity is non-negotiable. Two is safe, should the other-"

She cuts herself off, face going white. No one speaks. Your father is stiff next to you - you don't even think he's even breathing. Luli looks like she doesn't know what to do, caught between needing to apologize and the terrible of making such a bad social faux pas.

It's a reminder that the Xu family isn't from here. Arkos isn't a city that far away, but it's foreign enough in social structure, political makeup and culture that you're reminded how hard the Xu family must have worked to adapt to Hyperion's complex pecking order and social norms, and Luli has just made a terrible mistake. Were she in a room of Hyperion socialites or Syndicate women, she'd probably never recover.

"Should the other die," you finish for her. "Yes, we're quite familiar with the concept. Two minimum makes sense. Do you have a preference on gender?"

The silence in the room is so complete you can hear the faint echo of the city outside. You wait, staring across the table, trying to do anything but think about how intimately familiar you are with parents needing an heir and a spare, especially in a city like Hyperion. Luli's lips part, then close, surprised at how quickly you've addressed her concern and moved on.

"So do you?" You ask again, eyes flicking between Minghao and his mother who glance at one another. "I'm only asking because some families still care about sons carrying the name. Saves awkward paperwork later."

"Gender is irrelevant," Minghao answers. "Healthy heirs are all that matters."

"Yes," his mother agrees. "Healthy. And timing?"

You lean back in a dead woman's chair. Not for the first time, you wonder if this is what your sister had to sit through. Though you were only a few years apart, your sister is alien to you. Unfamiliar. Did she have to sit through board rooms and negotiate terms and rights to her womb? She did have to pledge herself to a total stranger and promise to pop out heirs?"

Of course she did. You wonder if she was any good at it. You never asked her. You'd been too busy hiding away from your family in the gardens, watching butterflies land on the water lilies while the house keeper told you about craft and how certain herbs had metaphysical properties. You’d been fascinated by her and her practice, an ancient, earthy belief that most people thought was nonsense.

"Five years," you tell her. "Minimum. Our data shows that the city's current climate is not ideal for infants." You pause as the lead counsel shows the data in question. "After that, we can revisit timelines. Medical oversight may be split eighty-twenty, with my priorities and preferences emphasized."

"I would prefer-"

"Accepted," Minghao says softly, cutting off his mother. She leans back, pursing her lips. You don't know much about Xu Luli, but she looks like someone who would prefer far more control over the birth of her grandchildren. Minghao's eyes slide back to you. "A final item, if you will."

Your father gestures for him to continue. Minghao reaches inside of his pocket and produces a matte-black rectangle no larger than one of your tarot cards. There's no logo or text, so dark that it drinks the light in like his suit does. He sets it on the table and flicks it with a finger, sliding it across the table like oil slick.

You blink in surprise when you realize it's a comm device, thin enough to slice paper with the faintest holo-sheen on it. You've never seen its make before, and you look back up at him, questioning.

"A private channel," Minghao says, addressing you. "Encrypted. Off-grid. Not monitored by family, counsel, or security. For discussions that do not belong in the meeting minutes."

Next to you, your father's scoff is immediate and sharp. "She doesn't need-"

"Voluntary, of course," Minghao assures. "Either party may choose never to use it. It exists, though. Personal devices will be the main point of contact."

Xu Jian's smile is thin. "A gesture of good faith and a family tradition. The Xu family places emphasis on having direct contact with our partners in times of turmoil."

"And what turmoil do you predict to befall this city?"

Minghao's father spreads his hands. "The world is ever-changing. It is not a reactionary practice, but perhaps a proactive one."

Your father's fingers drum on the table. The rhythm is familiar - you've heard it in the back of cars, against the arm of the couch, on the top of a desk. It's the telltale sign of his increasing irritation, the need to do something with his fingers before he strikes.

After a long beat, your father nods. "Voluntary."

Minghao dips his head. "We have no other amendments."

The lead counsel taps the table. The contract above ripples, red lines bleeding into final black. A soft chime confirms transmission, and you look down to see the new draft appearing in the table's interface in front of you. Your name is already glowing in the signature line, waiting for your official sign off.

Swallowing hurts. Your throat is desert-dry as you pick up the stylus, hating the way it shakes in your hand. You grip it tighter, fighting off the tremor as you glance up instinctively.

Minghao is no longer watching you. His head is bowed, stylus moving in a single, fluid stroke that ends in a flourish. He sets the stylus down with deliberate care, aligning it parallel to the edge of the table before he looks up at you again, expectant.

You look down and sign, a nervous trickle of fear cutting through you. Once executed, the documents appear across the interface in rotation, allowing for the room to sign as witnesses. You keep your gaze fixed to the document rather than him, but you can feel the eight of his stare settle on you like a blade pressed to the hollow of your throat.

"Ajourned," your father says as soon as the final signature is to document.

Chairs roll back in a sudden rush of sound. Quiet chatter rises, the polite and rehearsed gratitude backtracking the soft shaking of hands. A side door you hadn't noticed opens and two white-gloved staff glide in with trays of chilled plum-infused water, coffee, and tiny plates of yuzu macarons dusted with gold leaf.

You cringe. The refreshments are small but you know they cost more per bite than most people in the Lower District make in a week, the display of wealth so suddenly unfamiliar to you that you feel your stomach flip.

People begin to mingle. Your father is already shaking Xu Jian's hand, voice pitched politely again. Luli is laughing at something one of the lead counsel members is saying bright and lilting.

You stand, knees shaking. The air feels a little too thick for you, your pulse a frantic bird trapped inside your ribcade. You don't bother excusing yourself verbally - no one in the room notices you. They never do. So no one stops you when you slip through the door into the corridor.

Outside the boardroom the air is cooler. You breathe in the cedar-scent, walking away from the room. Your heels are too loud and you soften your steps, making it feel like you're sneaking off. And you kind of are, honestly. You need a break, a breather from the formality and the cage of formality.

You find a smaller meeting room, windowless and lit only by a single strip of amber light along the ceiling. There's a narrow table with four chairs and nothing else. You lean back against the door for a moment, letting out the breath you'd been holding the entire meeting.

Reaching into the pocket of your blazer, you produce a silk-wrapped bundle. The cards are warm from your body heat, the silk falling away as you unwrap the tarot set. You walk toward the table, shuffling the cards. You feel your anxiety ease with the familiar weight of them in your hand, the soft schk as they shift in your fingers.

You don't even ask the deck a question. You just need the feel of them, need something familiar in this strange building with these strange people. The cards speak anyway, three cards slipping from the deck to clatter on the table, face-up.

The Tower, upright. The Moon, reversed. Death, upright.

It feels cold in the room. You stare at them, teeth working your bottom lip as you process, your eyes dragging over each guard. Lightning splitting stone. Lies and illusion dissolvering. And ending that's a beginning. It's the usual trio that's been haunting you since you drew the World, reversed a year ago.

You don't hear the door open as you look over them. It isn't until you see a shadow fall over them that you flinch, whirling around with your hand flying to your chest.

Minghao stands just inside the threshold, one hand still on the handle, the other loose at his side. He closes the door without a sound, tilting his head to peer around you at the table of cards. You step to block his line of sight, vision pounding.

"Oh, it's you-" You break off, unsure what to say. He probably has no concept of tarot cards anyway. "It's a… hobby of mine."

Minghao says nothing. He approaches with deliberate, lithe steps until he's standing next to you but with a respectable distance between you. You catch the faint scent of pine and cold air clinging to his jacket, refreshing.

"What do they mean?" He asks, voice soft. "When they fall like this? What do you see?"

"You know what they are?"

"I know it's strange that you have them. You don't strike me as a wicked woman." You frown at the term wicked woman. It's slang for the women who work backdoor craft and ritual practices - you're curious how someone of his status knows the word at all. He points to the cards on the table. "Tell me, please."

You step forward, fingers tightening around the deck. "The Tower means sudden change. The collapse of something that was supposed to be stable. Violence, sometimes."

"The Tower like the rulers of the Syndicates?"

"Yes."

He hums. "Keep going."

"The Moon reversed is lies coming undone. Secrets dragging into the light whether one wants them to or not."

"I see. And Death?"

"Death isn't always literal." You don't know why you feel the need to clarify, but you do. "It's transformation. The end of one thing so another can begin. You can fight it or you can walk through it, but you never stay the same."

Minghao is quiet for a long moment. The light bathes him half in shadow, half in light, like a dark angel. He's so beautiful it's hard to think straight for a moment, hard to realize this is the man you're going to marry.

"You're practiced at reading these, then?"

"Very. I trust very few things, but these have never lied to me."

"You're too honest," Minghao's gaze lingers on the Death card before he turns to leave, not sparing you a glance. "It will hurt you one day."

—

The night of your engagement part, the party planning committee led by Xu Luli outdoes itself. The Sky Venue at The Elysian is an architectural wonder - one hundred and thirty-three floors up, the entire top level has been gutted and rebuilt into a single floating garden suspended beneath a retractable dome of smart glass.

Tonight, the dome is open to the stars. The air is warm despite the cooling season, the climate controlled by tiny micro-drones flying around the open dome, naked to the eye. The air tastes faintly of night-blooming jasmine, and guests wander through the garden with glasses of champagne.

Waterfalls pour from above into man-made koi ponds, night lilies floating on the rippling surfaces. Servers in white silk glide past, careful to avoid the ponds as they serve golf leaf canapes and cocktails served in what you think might be diamonds. In the corner, a string quartet plays on a platform of transparent glass suspended thirty meters above the ground, music cascading down and over the crowd.

Spared no expense, someone mutters as you walk by. Of course you didn't. This is the night that your family alongside the Xu's are selling you to the city and showing off their wealth.

A statement night, really.

You stand near one of the koi pongs in a gown of liquid obsidian. There are thousands of microscopic diamonds hand-stitched into the dress, making it look like you bend the light the same way as your fiancée's suit. Your neckline plunges just enough to be daring, and the back is open to the base of your spine.

A single strand of black tourmaline beads is loped around your wrist. To anyone not paying attention, it looks like diamonds. To you, it's grounding, steadying you against the thousand eyes currently cataloguing you.

Minghao finds you before you find him. He appears at your left shoulder without a sound, a flute of champagne in his hand. You flinch when you see him - over the last two months, you've been entirely unable to adjust to the way he materializes out of thin air.

"You look like a dark priestess," he murmurs. "Very on-brand, wicked woman."

You turn to him, trying to control your pointed smile. "Call me that again and I'll make your mornings quite unpleasant. I will hide hex bags where you will never find them."

His mouth twitches. He doesn't look at you, his eyes scanning the crowd, sharp as ever. He hands you the glass and you take it, knowing better than to dismiss him in public.

"Threats already," he observes. "We're not even married yet."

"I'm not a wicked woman," you say. "It's rude to call me one. I'm a practitioner. Kind of. I wanted to be. I don't sell phony fixalls from behind a Rose Room in the Lower District."

"And what is it you practice?"

"None of your business."

He hums. "You smell of incense and herbs, wicked woman. It's nice."

"If you're trying to upset me-"

"I'm trying to distract you." He glances at you, dark eyes glittering. "You have an angry resting face. It makes people think you're unhappy to be here."

"I am unhappy."

He lets out a small sound. You realize it's amusement and you feel an odd twitch behind your ribs. "I told you already, you are too honest."

In the last two months since your engagement, your interactions with Minghao have been minimal. He is doggedly polite, formal, and stiff, saying all the right things and smiling at all the right times, but none of it is real. He's so practiced and rehearsed that at first, you thought it might be real. But the more you watch him, the more you realize that Minghao is the perfect imitator.

Except now. His poking and prodding seems in jest, though you know there's certainly something more to it, something important that you're missing. This light banter is new to you, and you dislike that he asks questions about your practice. The elite don't often take kindly to those who believe in powers beyond money and Syndicates, but Minghao seems more amused than disturbed.

You glance beyond Minghao, eyes settling on the Tower of the Choi Syndicate. You feel your mouth go dry at the sight of Choi Moojin. He stands a distance away with his wife, dressed in a bespoke midnight suit, the mountain emblem embroidered in a threat of silver at his cuff.

The Tower of the Syndicate is the single most powerful person in the room, if not the city. Though there are two other Syndicates in the city, the Choi Syndicate has been strong the last few years, gaining a slight power foothold both politically and economically.

Not territorially, though. Their loss of the Port of Hyperion being located in the Choi-dominated Warehouse District to the Yong family had been a blow, and was the entire reason that your wedding to Minghao was happening at all.

As long standing patrons dedicated to the Choi family, your union to Minghao guarantees better assurances for Choi-owned shipping freight and better sway and management with the shipping authority.

A smart match. A political one. All dictated because the Tower of the Choi Syndicate needed it. Strange, that your entire life has shifted at the command of a man you've never personally met because he needs something from you that he'll never pay you back for.

A little ways away from the Tower and his wife, their children argue. At least, that's what it looks like they're doing. Seungcheol leans against a pillar nearby, murmuring something to his sister, expression heated. She ignores him, staring out into the crowd as though she can't hear him at all.

The Choi heiress is the kind of beauty that commands the attention of the entire room, even now as her brother mutters urgently to her. Recently engaged herself, you're surprised you don't see her fiancée lurking about. You're sure that Kim Yijun was on the guest list. Instead, she ignores Seungcheol, a haunted look on her face, a beautiful dove with a broken wing. She'd looked like that the last time you'd seen her too, an empty shell of the girl you'd gone to etiquette school with.

"Strange," Minghao murmurs, drawing your attention back to him. "To see them in person."

"Why?"

"They seem normal."

"They are."

Minghao hums but doesn't answer. Perhaps he has a point - they do seem normal. But why shouldn't they? They're two of the most privileged people in the room, growing up under a banner of Syndicate peace and prosperity. Had he expected obvious criminality? Knives and guns, threats of violence?

The way he observes them with his mouth slightly downturned tells you he might have expected exactly that. He's unfamiliar with the Syndicates, and you think belatedly of the scar on his knuckles, the one you often wonder after.

You drain your champagne in one swallow. "They're here to make sure this is a union they support, not cause violence."

"The union was their idea." You cut a glance at Minghao. It's a truth that no one says outloud, least of all here. He returns your stare, his eyes inky and unreadable. "They wouldn't suggest it if they didn't support it."

"You told me being too honest would get me hurt one day. Maybe you should consider that as well."

"Should a husband not be honest with his wife?"

A passing server offers caviar on mother-of-pearl spoons. You ignore him, your eyes on the Choi heiress who turns to her brother and says something that shuts him up. Minghao gives the server a single look and sends him scurrying away, your fiancée sliding a step closer to you.

"You strike me as someone who uses truths to hide other truths," you note, looking him up and down. "You'll tell me one honest thing to make me confident while you hide six others."

Something flickers behind Minghao's eyes. It's that same flare of something like that first day you met him. Maybe surprise or recognition. You're not entirely sure, but it does something to you that you can't name, a little tug right behind your ribcage.

"Observant."

"I have to be."

"What have your cards told you about tonight?" You give Minghao a sharp look. He doesn't look at you but he sighs. "It wasn't a barb. I'm not sparring with you- not anymore, anyway. I’m trying to get to know you."

He laces his hands behind his back, waiting. Minghao is good at waiting, you've noticed. He doesn't ask for things twice, and he never clarifies himself - save for you. There is power in silence and waiting others out, and Minghao maneuvers that silence like a carefully sharpened blade that he's intimately familiar with.

"The same three cards," you tell him eventually. "The Tower. The Moon, reversed. Death."

Minghao hums. "Violent change. Illusions stripped away. Transformation."

"You don't have to pretend to believe in it for my sake."

"I don't know what I believe in. Perhaps there is some truth to your tarot and the spell jars you keep hidden in your pockets. Who is to say?"

Before you can answer, a ripple moves through the crowd. You watch as heads turn and you find the source. The Tower is moving, slow and inevitable toward you. Your heart lurches and you glance around, looking for your father, who should be here to receive this conversation, but he's nowhere to be found.

Minghao's hand settles at the small of your back, making you swallow thickly. The heat of his palm against your skin is an inferno, but it grounds you as the Tower approaches with his wife, children and Wisdom in tow.

You glance at Yoon Minji, the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate. You hadn't noticed her at first, the woman a near imperceptible shadow lurking behind the Tower's wife. She's dressed in a blue so dark that it's almost black, hair pulled back and slick as oil. Her son is at her side, a twin shadow that you have heard is her image in more than just physical likeness.

Choi Moojin stops an arm's length away. Up close, he's larger than you remember, the kind of presence that fills up a room and makes you feel small. His eyes are fathomless, but surprisingly warm, a weird offset to the danger you know he poses.

"You look beautiful," he says, voice soft. "Congratulations on your engagement. Your families must be proud, you're an exquisite couple with good taste."

You dip at the knees and lower your head, bowing as deep as decorum for the moment demands. "Thank you, Tower. Your blessing is appreciated."

Seungcheol steps around his father, offering his hand to Minghao while his sister lingers behind him, a strange look on her face as she watches you, almost like panic. Her brother shakes Minghao's hand firmly before he takes yours and kisses the top politely. "Congratulations."

Minghao's fingers flex against your spine, the tiniest pressure before you drop Seungcheol's hand and the Choi's drift away. You feel yourself exhale as they do, relief flooding your system at their obvious approval. The Mountain will stand behind your marriage, which is as good as signing the paper and saying your vows.

The Wisdom goes with the Choi's, dipping her head toward you with a small smile that unsettles you, but her son lingers, drifting closer with a lazy grin.

Jeonghan offers a hand to Minghao. "A union of banking and shipping. Tell me, does love come standard with the merger, or is that an optional upgrade?

It's crass. From what you know of Yoon Jeonghan, it isn't surprising that he likes to see you squirm. Though he's next in line to be the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate when his mother steps down from the title, you're unsure if he's suited for it if he can't help but make inappropriate barbs at an engagement party.

You have half the mind to tell him so, but it's Minghao who answers, a sharp smile on his face as he shakes Jeonghan's hand. "We prefer equity over love."

Jeonghan laughs, delighted. "Enjoy the party. Congratulations on your union."

With a final wink, Jeonghan drifts away, chasing after Seungcheol who is arguing with his sister again. The Tower ignores his children, clapping someone on the back from Nexus Capital's board of directors.

Minghao's hand slides from your back to your wrist, thumb brushing the tourmaline bracelet once before he drops his hand entirely. You don't dare look at him. The touch is intimate and softer than you expect. It unsettles you that it’s the softest bit of warmth anyone has shown you in years.

Your fiancée waves to a group of people familiar to him but not to you. You expect him to lead you over and introduce you, but he doesn't, drifting away from you with a final look that you can't read. You watch him go, the place where his hand rested burning like a brand.

-

Your new penthouse is too large for two people. You knew that before you moved in, but with someone as quiet and absent as Minghao, it feels like you're on your own most days.

The penthouse occupies the entire crown of the residences at The Observatory in the northeast corner of the Upper District. Your new home is four thousand square feet of smoked glass, matte black steel, and pale ash wood that leaves the home cold.

The main living space is a single open expanse, the kitchen bleeding into the dining room and lounger. Floor to ceiling windows frame the open space on three sides, letting in the spill of city flights on a clear night. Tonight, it's cloudy, the fog on the glass pressing close and obscuring the world. It makes you feel like you're in your own dimension far away from Hyperion.

Your bedroom is in the east wing of the apartment, Minghao's is in the west. Two totally opposite ends of the space you're supposed to share together. Live in together. Be married in together. He'd requested your rooms remain separate, and though it hadn't bothered you at first, it does now.

It doesn't matter what bothers you, though. There's no one around to complain to. Your days have settled into a brittle sort of rhythm: you get up at seven to go to the gym to find him already gone. You never see him leave but when you make your mugwort and lemon tea, the kettle is always warm. He returns sometime between nine and noon, hair damp, expression icy. He gives you a polite nod, then vanishes to his wing of the apartment.

No words. Nothing.

You spend the hours alone learning the layout of your home. It's different from the rolling estate of your family. Smaller and bigger all at once, lacking the intricacies and oddities of a home that has been in a family for generations.

The windows never open - you suppose that makes sense, this high up. The air is triple-filtered and scent-neutralised, making the rooms feel dead and clinical. You decide to combat this every Wednesday after the cleaners have gone.

As soon as they're gone, you begin your work. The routine is simple, nothing extravagant. You take a small bundle of palo santo from the tin you keep with your tea and light one end, letting the sweet smoke rise. With the woody smoke drifting from the lit end, you walk the apartment slowly, clockwise while thinking on your intentions.

You trail the smoke along the windows, under the sofa, around the legs of the stools at the island. You grow hesitant when you near Minghao's room, but you let the smoke drift toward his door anyway. You don't open it, but your hands trace the doorframe, a small peace offering.

As you work, your mind empties save for your little intentions: peace, protection, harmony. You're kneeling in the middle of the living room, passing the palo santo beneath the low coffee table one last time when the front door opens without warning. You sit rod straight, turning to see Minghao come into the apartment. Your eyes flick to the clock and you frown. He's early today.

He's dressed in black workout clothes, hair damp, a bottle of water dangling in one hand. He stops the moment he sees you.

Smoke curls between you. He says nothing and neither do you. You half expect a question, a raised brow, anything. He looks at the palo santo in your hand, the thin ribbon of smoke, and then back to you. Something shifts in his expression that you can't place, but he doesn't say anything.

Instead, he steps carefully to the kitchen, giving you a wide berth despite the physical distance already between you, and opens the fridge. He takes out a second bottle of water, and sets it on the island counter top toward you.

"You look dehydrated," is all he says before he tips his head and walks back to his wing.

You remain on your knees, staring at him, lips parted a little. His bedroom door shuts with a distant click, leaving you in the silence and the curling smoke.

Eventually, you get up, knees cracking as you do. You feel a little dizzy and realize you are thirsty. You have no idea how he was able to clock that you're dehydrated by simply looking at you, but you file it away as one of Minghao's oddities, a neverending list that points to him not being the arrogant rich kid you expected.

Heading to the counter, you grab the water, the condensation on the bottle cold and exactly what you needed. As you drink it, Minghao surprises you by coming back out, a bag over his shoulder. You frown, eyes dropping to the bag.

"I'll be gone for three days," he tells you. "I'll see you on the morning of the third day."

"Where are you going?"

"Business." You don't like the ambiguity, but he's already halfway out the door. He hesitates and turns to you, mouth opening and closing as he chooses his next words carefully. "This is your home. Practice how you'd like."

"Pardon?"

"Your… practice. You don't need to hide it from me, Wicked."

You scowl. "I told you not to call me a wicked woman."

His mouth tilts. "I'm not. Simply wicked, is all. Not quite a wicked woman, not quite a practitioner, hmm?"

You glare through his logic and he shrugs, heading for the door and slipping through like smoke.

-

"Here," you say softly, shoving a bundle into Minghao's hand. He raises his brows, eyes skirting the crowd around you. "This is for you."

It's not the best time to give him the gift, but Minghao is never at the penthouse and keeps hours strange enough that you almost never see him despite living with him. The charity auction for the Archaeology Restoration Fund swells around you under the floating sky of the Lumina Tower, but as a moment of quiet opens up while you're standing next to the orchid walls, you take your change.

His dark eyes flick to your face, then back to the offering. He unwraps the silk with careful fingers, revealing the bracelet nestled inside. It is a deep blood-red cord, braided deliberately by your own hands over several quiet nights in the penthouse. Woven into the threads are three fine strands of your own hair, unmistakeable. At the center hangs a small, polished azabache charm, a piece of jet stone you sourced a few days ago. The stone is smooth and cool, carved with subtle protective sigils only visible under the right light.

He stares at it for a long moment, thumb brushing over the braided cord and the jet stone. Something unreadable flickers across his features before he quickly schools it away.

“You made this?” His voice is low, almost cautious.

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"The red is for strength and safety. The azabache is for warding off the evil eye. The hair binds my intention."

"It's not a curse?" You scowl and his mouth twitches. "You threatened to hex me, forgive my hesitation."

Minghao turns the bracelet slowly in his fingers, the azabache catching the soft light. He runs his thumb over the braided strands of your hair, expression softening by the smallest degree. "You continue to surprise me."

"Yeah, well. You don't have to wear it if you don't want to."

Minghao is quiet for another long beat. Then, without a word, he slips the red bracelet onto his right wrist. The contrast of the vivid red cord against his black suit and pale skin is striking. He flexes his hand once, as if testing how it feels, then looks back at you.

"Thank you." There's no mockery or deflection as he lowers his hand. "I'll wear it."

"Don't read too much into it."

"Hm. Too late. Thank you, Wicked."

For a moment, the nickname sounds fond instead of teasing, and the noise of the gala fades. The glowing orchids, the drifting lanterns, the murmur of high society - all of it recedes and leaves the two of you standing in this small pocket of quiet among the spectacle.

-

When you were a little girl, you always imagined that your wedding might be somewhere in a forest, somewhere where forests still legitimately existed. You'd be barefoot, feet planted firmly on a mossy ground, and your hands would be bound in red ribbon to your lover, covered binding oil distilled from flowers and herbs over your wrists until the ribbons were saturated and heavy with the smell of herbs.

This wedding is not that.

The air in the bridal suite is scented heavily with orchids and warm vanilla, the florals spilling over their vases and decorating every surface even here when no one can see them. You stand motionless before the towering mirror, the weight of your gown weighing you down as attendants move around you, adjusting the train of your dress and the butterfly-delicate gossamer of your veil.

Thankfully, the gown is a little like what you imagined. Forgoing the traditional white, it's made of layers of midnight silk, covered in thousands of hand-stitched obsidian beats and microscopic diamonds that fracture in the recessed lighting, turning it into layers of constellations. It spills dramatically into a trail of inky fabric.

You'd commissioned the dress six weeks ago, requesting the design to echo the deep, light-devouring suits Minghao favored. It was a deliberate statement of unity, power, and ultimately, ownership. You'd done it on purpose, and your father had approved when he'd seen it for the first time this morning.

A small win.

Your fingers drift beneath the long sleeve on your left wrist, tracing the black tourmaline and jasper cord hidden against your skin. The cord feels warm, a quiet tether to something older and more certain than the spectacle awaiting you. You breathe deliberately - four counts in, four out. It calms the frantic bird trapped behind your ribs, but only barely.

The reflection in the mirror is alien to you. You've never seen yourself look more elegant and composed, but inside you still feel like the little girl who collected moon water in jars and whispered secrets into manifestation journals.

Beyond the heavy double doors, the ceremony garden waits. The Garden of Eden is one of the city's finest venues, a floral dream suspended three hundred floors above Hyperion's rain-slicked streets. Real, living soil fills massive engineered beds through the space with towering tropical ferns planted, their glossy fronds glinting with dew. Multiple water falls cascade from tiered rock formations into koi ponds, the splash audible even from behind closed doors.

You'd chosen the venue because it was the closest thing you could get to the living earth in Hyperion. Minghao's mother had chosen it because it was the most luxurious venue she'd ever had access to up until now, a haven reserved for the elite. The commonfolk of Hyperion didn't have access to house plants, much less the night-blooming jasmine climbing up trellises and arches or the deep blood-red roses and exotic orchids dotting the aisles.

Hundreds of guests are already seated under the domed ceiling with an engineered twilight sky. Hidden audio systems weave strings and the resonant hum of crystal bowls through the space, frequencies chosen to evoke harmony and solemnity. You can hear the din of the crowd over the sounds, the Upper District elites shimmering in jewels and silks worth more than entire city blocks.

A soft knock interrupts your thoughts. Mina, your lead attendant, slips inside. She's only a few years older than you, but she's sharp-eyed and had years of service with your family, previously working with your sister. You don't mind her - she's not a friend, but she's also not unfriendly, which you'll take.

“It’s time, miss," she informs you. "The Tower and his family are seated and the Xu family is positioned. The garden is ready."

You nod once, throat tight and dry. There is no escape. The contracts were signed in that cold boardroom months ago. You'd known since the moment your sister died that this is what your life was now - the Tower upright, sudden change. The moon reversed, lies coming undone. Death, upright, great transformation. You'd been pulling the same cards for months, each the same thing.

It was the universe's way of telling you that this was your fate, as inescapable as any hard law or scientific rule.

Fragrant air greets you in the corridor. The staircase is full of flowers and dripping in vines, the steps covered in moss and trailing ivy that release sweet smells with every step. Swallowing, you walk down the stairs carefully, attendants behind you and ensuring you don't trip until you're at the bottom of the staircase behind a private screen, preparing to turn the corner and walk down the aisle.

Taking a breath, you turn the corner. Your heart pounds in rhythm with the distant music as the aisle comes into full view. The aisle stretches in front of you, a pathway edge with living white orchids. The ceremony cuts right through the heart of a lush garden, mist curling around the guests feet as they rise, hundreds of them moving in a wave of silk and murmurs.

Eyes track you from every angle - envy, calculation, hunger, approval, curiosity - but you keep your gaze fixed forward, suddenly latching to the man waiting beneath the grand arch of vines and cascading blooms.

Minghao is a shadow given form. He's dressed in black on black, the fabric so absolutely it seems to absorb the light and color from the greenery. His hair is styled longer, framing the exquisite balance of his face. His eyes find yours instantly, intense and unreadable, a stillness that calls to you.

Your pulse thunders as you start the walk. The train trails behind, gently managed by two young attendants as mist from the nearest waterfall kisses your skin, cooling the heat rising in your cheeks. Anxiety coils tight in your stomach, a living serpent, but you move with the trained grace of someone who has practiced this exact path in rehearsals. Future matriarch. Bride. Pawn in a larger game of shipping lanes, banking power, and Syndicate alliances. You wonder if your sister felt this same suffocating weight on her own path or if it was cut too short to ever consider it.

When you reach the altar platform, Minghao extends his hand. You offer him yours, hating the way your hands shake. He grips your hand firmly, and the contact sends a subtle spark up your arm, grounding amid the overwhelming sensory storm of the garden. For a single heartbeat, the hundreds of eyes, the cameras, and everything else recedes, leaving only you and Minghao.

His eyes are fathomless, easy to lose yourself in. His hand tightens a fraction around yours, his eyes only for you. "Temperance upright," he murmurs, only to you. "Patience. Balance. You embody those qualities. I appreciate them."

You blink in surprise when you realize he's talking about the tarot cards. You don't know what to say, the compliment stunning you, but Minghao doesn't wait for you to respond. His eyes flick to the officiant, a respected and neutral legal arbiter provided by Hyperion's council for this special occasion. She's dressed formally, her face perfect and impassive, making it impossible to tell how old she is.

Her voice is solemn but commanding as she urges the guests to sit, the ceremony beginning. Your hand remains in Minghao's, dropped between your waists as you stare ahead with unseeing eyes. You hear the officiant's voice, but you barely hear the words, your pulse loud in your ears as your heart hammers, each word spoken another piece of your sealed fate.

Ahead, the officiant speaks of alliance between houses and the merging of love and families. When you exchange rings, your hands are shaking again, stilled only by Minghao's gentle fingers as he clasps your hand to steady you, helping you slide the plain obsidian band onto his fingers, his sleeve pulling up just slightly to reveal his red bracelet.

Your ring is just as dark, inlaid with gold leaf and precious black stones that make it glimmer and flash dangerously. It feels heavy. Permanent. You watch as his nimble fingers slide it onto your hand, the single scar on his finger catching the light.

"Say the vows," the officiant instructs softly.

"I take you as my husband," you start, nearly whispering. You glance up at him and he nods a fraction, urging you to continue. You continue, voice clearer. "I vow to stand beside you in shadow and in light, in power and in duty, in prosperity and in peril, until this union is dissolved by law or by death."

Minghao doesn't miss a beat. "I take you as my wife. I vow to stand beside you in shadow and in light, in power and in duty, in prosperity and in peril, until death."

"It's-"

He cuts off the officiant's correction. "I know the words."

Your heart flutters, Minghao's choice to skip until this union is dissolved by law or by death a deliberate choice. Somehow it feels more powerful the way he's said it, like he's promising only death can tear you away from him. You think perhaps it's just the last bits of you clinging to the idea of romance, the idea of love that makes you feel that way.

The officiant pronounces you husband and wife and thunderous applause erupts, mixing with the hush of the waterfalls. Minghao lifts your face toward his with careful fingers, his touch lingering at your jaw, fingers gentle as they tilt your face upward. His eyes flicker with something so quickly you don't catch the emotion, and then he's leaning forward, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to your lips. He tastes faintly of wine, the touch lingering as he pulls away quickly.

Husband and wife. The words sink deep, heavy as the rings now on your fingers.

-

The reception is an ode to extravagance that most people cannot fathom. Spanning across three floors, each level opens into cascading terraces of real gardens with multi-tiered waterfalls feeding into glowing pools where rare bioluminescent koi swirl and swim. Walls of ferns, flowering vines, and fruit-bearing trees create alcoves with glass benches and trickling fountains. Each table is overflowing with food that won't be eaten, servers passing by with platters of rare chocolates dusted in edible gold and endless flutes of vintage wines and champagnes.

You navigate the crowd at Minghao’s side, his hand a near-constant presence at the small of your back. The contact is grounding for you but probably possessive in the eyes of your onlookers - and there are many. But only a single onlooker matters tonight, and as Choi Moojin approaches with his wife, you feel your spine go rigid until he offers his formal congratulations and blessing. As always, his daughter lingers nearby with that familiar haunted expression, her brother behind her like a shadowed gargoyle.

You smile until your cheeks ache. You exchange pleasantries with board members, accept compliments on the dress, the venue, the fabricated love story fed to the press. The floral scents grow heavier, the constant murmur of voices and music pressing against your temples. The bird in your chest flutters more desperately with every passing minute, and after nearly an hour and a half of relentless performance, you need a break.

"I need a moment," you murmur to him. "I'm just going to go to the upper powder room terrace. I'll be brief."

He studies your face carefully, then nods. “Take Mina and let security know where you're going."

You slip away with your attendant after telling security where you're going and getting their nod of affirmation before they mutter instructions into an earpiece. Mist from a nearby waterfall cools you off as you walk up the stairs, Mina helping with the heavy train. When you're finally alone on a private terrace, security just outside, you let yourself relax against a stone fountain, drawing in deep breaths of the mineral-rich air.

For the first time since the ceremony began, your practiced smile slips. Your feet hurt, your neck and shoulders ache, and you're starving, wishing you could stop the pleasantries for a moment to just eat. 

A small, wet gasp cuts through the peaceful trickle of the fountain and you spin around, startled. Time fractures as you try to put the pieces together of the image in front of you. A man dressed as a server with the lower half of his face obscured by a mask stands directly behind Mina, a gloved hand clamped over her mouth while she screams into his palm. He draws a sharp blade across the softness of her throat, scarlet spraying.

Mina's eyes widen in terror, locking onto yours for a single, agonizing heartbeat before they glaze over, her body convulsing once before she goes limp. Blood pours down the attacker's arm and down the front of her uniform, spilling red onto the terrace floor.

A scream rips from your throat, raw and primal, echoing off the stone walls. "Security!"

No footsteps thunder toward you. No shouts of alarm. The doors remain closed. The posted guards don't answer your call, and the music and laughter from the reception floors below continue uninterrupted, as if the universe itself has muted you.

Terror floods your system like ice water. Your heart slams against your ribs so violently you feel it in your throat. Adrenaline surges, sharpening every sense while simultaneously making your limbs feel distant and heavy.

Your right hand dives into the hidden slit of your gown, fingers closing around the small, discreet knife you've kept on your person since your sister's death. You yank it free, gripping the handle with enough force that your knuckles hurt as you pivot from the fountain, putting it at your back for a sliver of protection.

The attacker releases Mina’s collapsing body and he crumples to the ground in a heap of blood-soaked fabric, her eyes open and staring. The masked figure turns toward you with predatory calm.

"Security!" You scream again, the sound of your voice bouncing off the terrace walls.

No one answers, and a single, horrifying realization crashes over you - either the guards have been compromised or they're dead, and this attack was timed with terrifying precision.

There's no time to think as the attacker lunges.

You twist desperately to the side, the blade whistling past your ribs by inches. The movement throws you off balance on the wet stone, but you slash out wildly with your own knife, catching the attacker’s sleeve and drawing a thin line of blood. He grunts angrily and pivots, his knife slashing at you again. You duck and stumble backward, the fountain’s stone foundation scraping painfully against your hip as you use it to keep distance.

Fear is a living thing inside you now, clawing at your lungs, making every breath sharp and ragged. I’m going to die here. On my wedding night. In front of a fucking fountain while people drink and celebrate without knowing. The thought fuels a desperate surge of fury and you lunge at him this time, catching him off guard as you stab upward.

You manage to nick him, but you don't know how to fight and his retaliation of your anger is brutal as his knife flashes against and slices across your forearm, cutting through silk and skin in a burning line of pure agony. Blood pours instantly, hot and slick down your wrist and hand, making your grip on your own knife slippery and you scream out in pain.

A second strike follows before you can recover, a deep gash opening up across your upper left arm as you turn away from him. The pain is white-hot and blinding, and you let out another choked, animal sound as your vision narrows, blood roaring in your ear.

Every heartbeat sends fresh agony through the gashes, but terror keeps you moving. You kick out hard, your heel connecting with the attacker’s knee and he staggers but recovers easily, closing the distance to kill.

And then Minghao is there, exploding onto the terrace like a force of nature. One moment he's at the door, the next he's a blur of controlled violence as the killer turns to face the more immediate threat. Minghao is fast, stepping inside the man's guard, hand shooting out to grip his wrist and twist with bone-cracking force. A sickening crunch echoes and the man screams, the blade clattering to the ground.

The man swings with his free hand, but Minghao ducks under the wild punch with fluid precision, driving his elbow upward into the man’s throat in a devastating strike. The sound is wet and choked, the cartilage shattering under Minghao's elbow.

You stumble backward against the fountain’s stone foundation, left arm hanging useless and burning, blood streaming down your fingers in hot rivulets. Your own small knife trembles in your right hand, slick with blood. Fear still claws at your throat, tight and awful as Minghao - your husband for less than two hours - moves like something trained for this exact kind of violence. The polished, soft-spoken heir from the boardroom is gone. In his place is something sharper, darker, and far more dangerous.

The attacker tries to recover, lashing out with a desperate kick, but Minghao catches the leg, yanks it forward, and slams his knee into the man’s inner thigh with brutal force, dropping him to one knee. Then Minghao is behind him, a single arm snaking around the attacker's neck. For a second, your eyes meet Minghao's, his gaze ice and fire all at once. Then, he snaps the man's neck hard, the crack loud and final.

The attacker’s body goes limp instantly, collapsing in a heap beside Mina’s body. Blood pools beneath both bodies, mixing with the water from the fountain and staining the delicate white orchids that edge the stone paving.

Minghao is heaving, catching his breath as he stares at you across the violent terrace. He takes a single step toward you before chaos erupts in the doorway, heavy footsteps thundering across the stone as members of the Choi Syndicate flood the space. Seungcheol is in the room first, face like thunder and gun in hand. Jeonghan is behind him, the lazy smirk gone and replaced with deadly focus, armed and gun raised over Seungcheol's shoulder.

Seeing Soonyoung surprises you - you hadn't realized the Sword of the Choi family was here. You'd heard he'd been unpredictable and unhinged as of late, but from what little you knew of him, he was Seungcheol's first line of defense and probably went everywhere the Tower's son did.

Behind him, you vaguely recognize another Sword of the Choi family speaking into a comm at his wrist. You've met Joshua several times at galas and parties, his family high up enough in the Choi Syndicate to run in the elite circles - you even remember them being disappointed he'd become a Sword instead of a socialite or something less violent.

More personnel pour in behind them, your father’s security, Nexus Capital executives, event staff in panicked disarray. The peaceful mist of the terrace turns thick with the metallic stench of blood and the overlapping shouts of orders while you lean against the fountain, light-headed and bleeding.

Your father’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. “Shut it down! Shut the entire fucking wedding down! Seal the floors now!" He pushes through the growing crowd, face flushed with fury. “I want this building locked. Find out how the hell this happened under our security! Someone’s head will roll for this!”

The chaos swells. Guests from the lower levels begin to murmur and push upward as rumors spread like wildfire. Security teams from both families clash in their attempts to take control, voices rising in overlapping commands. Someone is already photographing the bodies. Another is calling for medical extraction.

Through it all, Minghao moves straight to you.

“Everyone back!” he barks, voice sharp as Nexus Capital security moves toward you. "I will handle my wife. Get away from her."

Minghao sits you on the edge of the fountain, the water spraying your back and soaking through your dress. He drops to his knees in front of you, shrugging off his jacket in one fluid motion and pressing the expensive fabric hard against the deep gashes on your left arm. The pressure sends fresh waves of white-hot pain radiating through your shoulder and chest, but you bite back a cry.

“Breathe," he instructs, voice soft. "In for four, out for four."

You look at him sharply. "How do you know that?"

"You did it the entire time we were at the altar, Wicked. Where are you hurt?"

"Cuts on my arms."

"Deep? Tell me ba-"

Your father pushes closer, still shouting as he interupts whatever Minghao was about to say. “Minghao, let my people handle this. We need to get her to a secure-"

“No,” Minghao snaps, rising to his full height while pulling you to his side, hands pressed against your wounds to staunch the bleeding. “No one touches her except me right now. This is my wife. My responsibility.”

The possessiveness in his tone sends a strange shiver through you, mixing with the adrenaline and pain. He begins guiding you slowly away from the fountain, toward the far side of the terrace where the chaos is slightly less suffocating, his hands never leaving the wounds, applying constant, firm pressure.

Joshua separates himself from the Syndicate group and approaches carefully, hands raised in a clear non-threatening gesture. Minghao pulls you away but you squeeze his arm and whisper, "Syndicate. High up. Don't offend him."

"I don't care-"

"I can help," Joshua cuts in, earnest and gentle. "My fiancée is here tonight. She’s an ER nurse and is always prepared because I'm a bit of a disaster. She has supplies in her bag. Let her patch your wife quickly and privately. We can move to the adjacent private lounge. It’s secure.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens and his eyes flick to you, assessing the amount of blood still soaking through his jacket and the way your legs are beginning to tremble. For a long second, he seems ready to refuse. Then he gives a single, curt nod. “Briefly. Privately. No one else comes near her.”

Joshua signals quickly. A moment later, a woman in an elegant deep emerald gown slips through the crowd, escorted by a man you don't know. Her expression is focused and professional, despite the surrounding chaos. She doesn't waste time with introductions, marching toward the small, adjoining private lounge just off the terrace.

Inside, the space is quiet, dimly lit with warm amber lighting, furnished with low couches and lush potted plants. She works with swift efficiency, focused on helping instead of introducing herself. She orders Minghao to keep pressure on your wounds while she cuts away parts of your dress to clean the gashes with antiseptic. The sting makes you hiss through your teeth, fresh tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Minghao’s free hand finds yours, squeezing gently, surprising you.

"Cuts are deep but clean," she says, voice clinical. "No major vessels hit. You’ll need proper stitches and antibiotics soon, but this will hold for now."

She applies quick-acting clotting powder, then wraps your forearm and upper arm in tight bandages. The pressure is firm, immediate relief against the constant bleeding. Throughout it all, Minghao stays close, one hand on your back, the other assisting where needed.

Your mind spins. Mina’s lifeless eyes flash behind your eyelids every time you blink. The wet sound of her gasp. The way the attacker moved, professional, silent, deadly. This wasn’t random. This was targeted. On your wedding night. In the middle of the most public spectacle Hyperion has seen in years with some of the heaviest security you've ever been around.

You glance up at Minghao. His face is a mask of controlled fury, but his touch on you remains careful, almost tender as the woman finishes securing the last bandage.

"That'll hold until you get her to her own private care."

“Thank you,” you manage, voice hoarse and shaky. The pain is still there, a deep, throbbing burn, but it is no longer actively bleeding you out.

Minghao helps you to your feet, keeping his arm securely around your waist. He nods once at Joshua and his fiancée. "We're leaving."

Joshua nods and opens the door, letting you back into the chaos.

Outside, your father is still shouting orders to shut everything down, demanding answers, threatening careers. Syndicate members move through the growing crowd like shadows, securing perimeters. Soonyoung and Seungcheol stand guard near the doors, expressions grim while Jeonghan leans against a wall, watching everything with those sharp, unreadable eyes.

Minghao keeps you tucked firmly against his side as he guides you out of the private lounge and through the swelling chaos of the upper terrace. His arm around your waist is unyielding, taking most of your weight while his other hand maintains relentless pressure on your bandaged left arm.

Every step sends fresh throbs of pain radiating through the deep gashes, but the clotting powder and tight wraps are holding. Still, warm blood seeps slowly through the bandages, staining the sleeve of your ruined obsidian gown. The once-beautiful dress now hangs heavy and ruined, torn silk clinging wetly to your skin.

“Clear a path,” Minghao growls, cutting through the crowd.

Syndicate members fall in around you without question, creating a protective bubble as he steers you toward a discreet service corridor hidden behind a wall of flowering vines. The lush greenery brushes against your shoulders, leaving faint pollen and the sweet scent of jasmine on your skin. Mist from the waterfalls still clings to the air, now carrying the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.

Your head spins. The adrenaline that kept you upright during the fight is crashing hard, leaving your legs unsteady and your vision edged with black spots. You lean heavier into Minghao’s side, inhaling the faint pine and rain scent that always seems to cling to him. He doesn’t falter. His grip only tightens, steady and sure.

The private exit corridor is dimly lit with recessed amber lighting, two armed guards stationed at the end snapping to attention when they see Minghao, stepping aside instantly. A reinforced service elevator waits. Inside, the space feels claustrophobic, the mirrored walls reflecting your bloodied, disheveled appearance back to you.

Minghao says nothing. He simply helps you out when the elevator doors open directly into an underground private garage reserved for the highest tier of guests. . An armored black car idles, its engine humming. The driver steps out briefly to open the rear door and Minghao helps you inside first, easing you onto the leather seat with surprising care before sliding in beside you. The door seals with a heavy, reassuring thunk, and the car pulls away smoothly.

Minghao leans forward toward the driver and speaks in a fluid, melodic language you have never heard before, making you frown. It doesn’t sound like any of the common trade tongues used in Hyperion or Arkos, but the syllables roll off his tongue with effortless familiarity, carrying the weight of something old. One of the dead languages, you think. The driver responds in the same tongue, short and affirmative, before accelerating.

You stare at Minghao, startled. He settles back against the seat. His suit is ruined with your blood, the dark black of his shirt somehow darker. His hair is slightly disheveled for the first time since you met him, a few strands falling across his forehead. His eyes are sharp and unblinking, fixed entirely on you. He hasn’t relaxed. Not even slightly. His posture remains coiled, ready, one hand resting on his knee while the other occasionally flexes as if wanting to reach for a weapon.

You swallow hard, meeting his gaze head-on. “Was that your people? Did your family arrange this? To test me? To test the alliance?”

Minghao doesn’t look away. His expression remains unreadable, but something flickers behind his dark eyes. “I’m not sure."

The honesty lands like a stone in still water. No deflection. No smooth corporate reassurance. Just the stark truth that unsettles you more than any lie could have. In a world built on calculated performances and half-truths, his directness feels dangerous and alien.

You let out a shaky breath, leaning your head back against the cool leather. The city lights streak across his face in shifting patterns of neon violet and electric blue.

“Thank you,” you whisper after a long moment. “For saving me."

Minghao’s jaw tightens. "You’re no use to my family dead.”

The words aren't kind or romantic. They carry no warmth, no reassurance. Still, they're true. In this transactional marriage of power, your survival is an asset. The bluntness stings a little, and it unsettles you. He's repeatedly told you that honesty would get you killed, and hear he is being honest himself.

Well. Honest to hide other truths, you're sure, as is his way.

You study him in the shifting light. The scar on his right knuckle stands out pale against the dried blood on his hands and you're reminded of the way he dismantled the attacker. It wasn't a survival reflex like your clumsy attempt had been - it was the training of someone who practiced and who fought efficiently, someone professional.

"Who are you?" You ask, narrowing your eyes. The car glides through a tunnel, plunging you both into momentary shadow before neon lights wash over you again. “You’re not who my family was led to believe. That wasn’t the fighting style of a logistics prince. You killed him like you’ve done it before.”

Minghao’s gaze hardens. He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching you with that intense, cataloguing stare that makes your skin prickle. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

The warning hangs between you and you can feel the weight of his hidden truths again. None of it makes sense - the scar, the ancient-sounding language, the way his father deferred to him with a single finger twitch in that boardroom. Something isn't right with Xu Minghao, but you don't know what.

"I think I deserve to know who I just married," you say evenly. You ignore the warning, the throbbing in your arm. "My family thought they were allying with a neutral shipping empire from Arkos but you fight like someone who was trained to kill. You played into being an idiot party boy. You are not."

Minghao exhales slowly through his nose. For the first time, you see a flicker of something almost like weariness cross his features. He leans back again, eyes never leaving yours.

“This marriage is transactional,” he says evenly. “You don’t need to know everything about me. You only need to know that you're my wife and I would go through great pains to keep you alive. It has to be enough.”

The finality in his tone closes the subject like a door slamming shut. You want to argue, to demand more, but the pain in your arm is sharpening as adrenaline fully ebbs, and exhaustion is pulling at the fraying edges of your patience.

Minghao continues watching you, tense and alert, as if expecting another threat to emerge from the shadows at any moment. His hands, still stained red, rest on his thighs as the armored car glides through the upper levels of Hyperion’s streets, the neon sprawl of the city reduced to blurred streaks of violet, crimson, and electric blue beyond the tinted windows.

The car eventually slows and turns into a private underground entrance beneath a sleek, unmarked residential spire in the Upper District. Not the Observatory penthouse you selected as your starter home, but something else. A contingency location, you realize. One of the secure safehouses that must have been part of the joint security protocols you both negotiated and approved during those long, tense meetings.

When the vehicle comes to a stop, Minghao exits first, then reaches in to help you out with careful hands. His arm slides around your waist again, supporting your weight as your legs threaten to buckle on the polished concrete. Two figures step forward immediately from the shadows of the garage, security personnel you recognize from the joint vetting process you and Minghao conducted weeks ago.

A woman named Elara with sharp eyes and a calm demeanor, and a man named Kai, broad-shouldered and quiet. They were among the handful both of you had personally approved after rigorous background checks and interviews. Neutral. Capable. Unaligned with either family’s deeper entanglements.

“Status?” Minghao asks them.

“All clear, sir,” Elara replies. “The building is locked down. Three additional teams on the perimeter. No unauthorized movement.”

Minghao nods once, satisfied, and guides you toward the private elevator. The ride upward is silent except for the soft hum of machinery. When the doors open, you step into a spacious, fortified apartment that is elegant but deliberately understated compared to the Observatory penthouse.

Minghao leads you straight to a wide, low couch in the main living area, easing you down with surprising gentleness. Elara and Kai take up positions near the entrance, professional and unobtrusive. A medical attendant has already been prepared in an adjoining room, but Minghao waves off immediate further treatment for now.

He kneels in front of you, his bloodstained hands resting lightly on your knees as he studies your face. For a long moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the building’s air filtration system and the distant murmur of the city far below.

“I need one of your little wicked jars,” he says quietly. “The one you’re still hiding on yourself.”

You blink, startled despite the fog of pain and exhaustion. "Why? And how do you even know I have one?”

Minghao’s mouth twitches, the faintest bit of amusement. “I’m observant.” He glances meaningfully at the torn sleeve of your gown where the bandages peek through, then back to your eyes. “And considering you’re still alive after what just happened, they must work. I would like to keep one with me for what I’m about to go do.”

"What are you about to go do?"

"Something very violent."

The request hangs between you and you hesitate before you lift your trembling fingers to reach into the hidden inner pocket sewn deep into the bodice of your dress. The small glass jar is still there, warm from your body heat. Black salt, rosemary, hematite, sealed with wax and a drop of your blood. You press it into his waiting palm. The glass looks small against his bloodstained fingers.

Minghao closes his hand around it carefully before tucking it into the inner pocket of his ruined suit jacket. "Thank you."

He rises to his feet, but doesn’t step away immediately. Instead, he looks down at you with that intense, unreadable gaze. “Do not leave this safehouse until I return. Elara and Kai have their orders and they answer to us both. Doctor Tzintzun is here - I understand she is your family doctor."

You nod. "Be careful. Please."

Minghao lingers one final second. His thumb brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead in a gesture so unexpectedly gentle it contrasts sharply with the violence you witnessed barely an hour ago. It makes your heart skip, the breath getting stuck in your lungs for a moment. Then the mask slips back into place, the familiar cool and controlled calm you know.

He lifts his wrist, flashing the bracelet you gave him. "You’re protecting me, right? I'll be fine. I’ll return before dawn. Rest. Let the doctor fix your arm, Wicked."

He turns and walks toward the entrance without another word. Elara and Kai acknowledge him with respectful nods as he passes, and the door seals behind him with a solid, final sound.

The silence that follows feels immense. You lean back against the couch, staring out the windows where the city’s distant lights glitter like cold stars. Your left arm pulses with deep, aching fire, but the bandages hold. Mina’s face flashes behind your eyes again, her wet gasp and spray of blood, the way her body crumbled. You swallow hard against the rising nausea.

Doctor Tzintzun sticks her head out of the adjoining room. "Ma'am? Whenever you're ready."

You nod and allow her to come out and help you to your feet. She guides you toward the adjoining room to clean, stitch and re-bandage you again. As she does, your mind drifts back to the car ride and specifically, your new husband.

None of it makes sense. The ancient language. The brutal efficiency with which Minghao ended the attacker. His unflinching honesty when you asked if it was his people. The blunt truth about your value to his family. And now, the small spell jar resting against his chest as he walks into whatever shadows he’s about to confront.

You close your eyes as fresh antiseptic stings the wounds, tourmaline cord still warm around your wrist. The universe had warned you with its cards. The Tower falling. Illusions stripped bare. Death and transformation. Tonight, it delivered all three in blood and violence, but a steady sense of foreboding had been building all night, like the cards aren't done with you yet.

You wonder, as the pain dulls under medication and exhaustion finally pulls you under, what exactly Minghao is doing out there and what background taught him to be this way. As you fall asleep, you hope the small jar of salt, herb and intention will be enough to bring him back so you can find out.

-

Minghao moves through the rain-slicked unverbelly of the Civ District like a shadow. The neon glow from distant shipping cranes reflects off puddles stained with oil and blood, turning the narrow alley into a fractured mirror of Hyperion’s endless hunger. He's swapped the ruined wedding suit out for something more form fitting and breathable - and more importantly, free of your blood.

He'd scrubbed his hands free of your blood a few hours ago, but now someone else taints his knuckles as he presses his hand to his chest, ensuring the small spell jar that is tucked there is undamaged. It's a strange talisman, this jar that you've given him. He doesn't think they work, exactly, but it's a fascinating little practice, this stuff of yours. He's since looked into practitioners and the culture of women who practice craft, but he still can't understand how or why you came to it.

Still, he likes to wear the bracelet you gave him, often looking at it before going into a room to add another body to his list or before he has to do something he needs strength for. He's never thought much about luck, fate, or the universe, but now he carries the jar and bracelet on him like personal tokens of faith and protection.

Of all the things that Minghao finds most surprising, how often he thinks of you now is number one on the list. This marriage between you is purely transactional, a bridge between Nexus Capital's banking power and the Xu family's growing logistics empire. A calculated move to secure favor with the Choi Syndicate as instructed by the Virate to expand foothold in Hyperion.

But, strangely enough, he is fascinated by you. He's not fascinated by much, but when he'd seen you in that board room hiding bruises beneath your sleeves and drawing your peculiar tarot cards in secret, he felt a slight crack in his plan to use you and push you to the side. You were not the sheltered, obedient heiress they described. You were something sharper. Something that watched the universe with quiet, stubborn belief.

And tonight, someone tried to kill you.

He'd been shocked to find you with a knife in your hand despite the terror in your face. He'd heard you scream - he still doesn't know how, considering how far he had to run to get to you. The universe, perhaps. It impressed him to see that you'd fought back despite how bad you were at it, and the steadiness in your voice when you asked him point-blank in the car, whether his people had tried to kill you had nearly cowed him.

Most heirs in this city would have crumbled. You fought. You pushed. You handed him the spell jar without fully understanding why he wanted it, just that he did. He doesn't know what he wanted either, but it's warm against his chest and it's nice to have. Perhaps if a little jar of rocks and dirt and blood can save you from an assassination attempt, it can save him from whatever plot is unraveling in the shadows.

Minghao’s jaw tightens as he reaches the service door of the nondescript warehouse. The man inside - Strakos - is a mid-level fixer who'd coordinated the attacker's movement tonight. He'd been sloppy, though, and Minghao was incredibly good at finding out information in a city that didn't understand the nuances of the Virate.

He slips inside without sound. The interior is dimly lit by hanging work lamps, the air thick with the smell of rust, seawater, and cheap synth-cigarettes. Strakos sits at table, back to the door, reviewing holo-feeds of some shitty porno that makes Minghao's blood boil. This man had helped plan your death, and he's sitting in the middle of a warehouse, fully clothed watching someone get fucked over a couch.

Minghao strikes before Strakos has time to react.

One hand clamps over Strakos's mouth, yanking his head back while the other loops a thin wire garrote around his throat. Strakos thrashes, hands scrabbling at the wire as Minghao gathers it in his hand and pulls, his mouth brushing against Strakos's ears.

"You ruined my wedding," he murmurs.

The wire cuts through flesh and blood wells instantly, hot and dark. Strakos bucks wildly, knocking over the table as he gurgles, hands clawing at his throat. Minghao holds firm, knees braced against the chair as he pulls, gritting his teeth. Strakos's struggle is ugly and desperate, his feet kicking as the chair legs scrape against concrete, wet chokes escaping despite the crushing pressure.

Minghao’s mind remains clear, detached. This is not rage. This is correction. The Virate taught him long ago that hesitation kills empires.

He thinks of your face in the car, exhausted but determined, eyes wide with pain as you demanded the truth anyway. He thinks of the way you pressed the spell jar into his palm without hesitation. Of the faint scent of incense and herbs that always clings to you, the quiet rebellion of your tarot cards and hidden rituals. You are not soft. You are not simple.

You are as unexpected to him as he is to you, he thinks. And he's been very sloppy around you, unguarded and far too honest in the way that he keeps thinking will get you killed.

The wire sinks deeper. Strakos's struggles weaken, then cease entirely. Minghao holds the tension a few seconds longer, ensuring Strakos is dead before he finally releases, the body slumping forward onto the table with a dull thud. Blood drips onto the concrete floor, and Minghao smashes the phone to stop the crude holo from playing.

Minghao wipes the garrote clean on the dead man’s sleeve and tucks it away. He scans the room quickly, deleting the holo-feeds and pocketing a small data chip that might contain further connections. Only then does he pull out his encrypted comm device - the same matte-black rectangle he gave you all those months ago - and dials his father.

Xu Jian answers on the second ring. "Son."

“It’s done,” Minghao says quietly. He stares at the corpse, expression impassive. "Now to trace the loose threads of the web to the spider."

A long exhale on the other end. “Be careful. Your little display at the reception has the Choi’ curious.”

Minghao’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Let them wonder. The message is clear: she is under my protection now."

"They don't know we're Virate. You could have exposed us."

"I made a calculated decision and you'll say nothing more of it. The Choi Syndicate has other things to worry about than wondering if we're Virate. I want you to look into who hired these scum. If it was Virate, we have a problem."

"It will be done."

In Arkos, under the old laws of the Virate - a loose but iron-bound confederation of family lineages bound by blood oaths far older than the Syndicates - Minghao isn't the quiet heir he is in Hyperion. He's the patriarch, the lead of his family, raised from childhood within the Virate's hidden ranks and trained in their shadows, a hidden member loyal to the Triptych.

Jian might appear to be the head of the family in Hyperion, but Minghao's elevation through blood and merit in the Virate is where the Xu family truly gets their power. While his father played the public face of Xu Worldwide Logistics here in Hyperion, planting seeds and building legitimate fronts, Minghao had been the blade ensuring those seeds took root. The true power behind the throne.

Of course what he did tonight was a risk. He knows that. Honestly, if he was doing what the Virate asked of him, he would have let them kill you. You weren't actually a necessary piece to the puzzle, but he knows that with you alive, he has a better narrative with the Choi Syndicate and it's annoyingly perceptive Wisdom and her son.

Minghao grimaces at the thought of Jeonghan and his eyes that see far too much. He knows that tonight will be a grave error and that the Wisdom's son will dig his teeth into Minghao and ask questions and prod, but it can't be helped now. What's done is done and Minghao had taken a calculated risk that he could keep the Choi's away from the Virate ties in favor of saving your life.

His father sighs on the other end like he can hear Minghao's thoughts. "This marriage is already more complicated than we anticipated."

"She is not what we expected,” Minghao admits. "She fought tonight, though she doesn't know how. Most heirs would have just screamed and died."

"You sound fond."

Minghao exhales slowly. Fond. The word feels too small, which unsettles him. From the first boardroom meeting, something had shifted. What was meant to be a strategic union already matters more than it should, and just meeting you has complicated Minghao's world when Minghao has never had complications before.

He killed for you tonight without hesitation. Not just because you are a valuable asset, but because the sight of your blood on the terrace floor had ignited something cold and possessive in his chest. He's unused to the feeling.

"I protect what belongs to me," Minghao says eventually. "She is Virate now, though she doesn't know it. I'm committed to her safety as I would be for you or mother."

His father chuckles softly. “You always did prefer the old ways. Be careful, son. You cannot lean on the Virate. We're in the shadows.”

"I know the rules. I was forged by them.”

Minghao ends the call and slips the comm back into his pocket. For a long moment he stands over the body, rain drumming steadily against the warehouse roof. His thoughts return to you again and again, like a current he cannot escape.

You, sitting across from him in the car, shaken and unflinching as you asked whether his people had tried to kill you. The quiet strength in your voice when you thanked him even after his blunt reply. The way you fought with that small knife, desperate and untrained.

This marriage was never supposed to matter beyond its utility. Yet tonight, watching your blood spill, something fundamental had shifted. You're no longer simply the Nexus heiress - you're his wife, and in the old customs of the Virate, that bond carries weight far heavier than any corporate contract.

Minghao straightens his jacket and leaves the warehouse the same way he entered. The rain washes away the last traces of blood from his hands as he walks toward the car, ready to shower and sleep.

He'll return before dawn, as promised. And later, he'll find the remaining threads of tonight's violence and cut them clean. And perhaps, in the quiet of whatever time he finds, he'll decide how exactly he's going to be a husband to a woman who believes in tarot cards and moon water in a city that only worships power, violence and credit.

For now, the head of the Xu family has done his honor bound duty to his wife, and somewhere across the glowing city, you're probably sleeping. Bandaged but alive, carrying the barest hints and pieces of Minghao's secrets and your strange, annoying charm with you.

Minghao touches the small jar in his pocket once more, feeling its faint warmth against his chest, and allows himself the smallest ghost of a smile in the darkness.

-

Minghao steps out of the armored car into the private underground garage of the safehouse, the rain from the Civ District still clinging to him like second skin. The neon glow of the city filters down in muted streaks, casting long, fractured shadows across the concrete.

He moves on autopilot, muscles aching from the night's violence. His mind is still razor sharp though, cycling through every detail of the kill, every loose thread he'd severed tonight.

Elara and Kai materialize from their posts near the elevator, postures alert. They relax when they see Minghao and bow respectfully, straightening as he approaches. They're among the few personnel both you and Minghao jointly vetted, neutral enough to serve the new union without picking sides.

“Report,” he asks, walking into the kitchen.

“All secure, sir,” Elara replies immediately. "Doctor Tzintzun treated her and gave her something for the pain and to sleep. She’s resting in the east wing suite. She did ask about you."

Minghao’s chest tightens at the words. She asked about you. Of course you did. Even bleeding and exhausted, you pushed for answers, for truth. He nods once.

"No one comes in or out. Not even her father or anyone from Nexus Capital."

Kai inclines his head. “Understood. The Choi Syndicate has sent discreet inquiries. Mr. Kwon personally. They’re offering additional support.”

“Let them offer,” Minghao replies. “We accept the appearance of cooperation, nothing more."

Minghao dismisses them with a wave and heads toward the east wing, leaving them back at their posts. He finds you in the master suite, tucked beneath dark sheets. Your face is relaxed in sleep, but tension still lingers in between your brows and your jaw as you frown. The black tourmaline cord peeks from beneath the edge of the bandages on your wrist. Minghao stands in the doorway for a long time, simply watching the steady rise and fall of your chest.

Something unfamiliar and dangerous twists behind his ribs. He had not anticipated this complication. The scales feel tipped out of balance, like something new has taken root, and he doesn't know what to do about it.

Minghao finally turns away and moves to the bedroom across the hall to strip off his tactical gear with mechanical, practiced movements in the bathroom. He's careful with your little spell jar, setting it down gingerly on the counter where the low bathroom light catches the glass.

He lets the scalding water melt everything but his thoughts away. He stands under the spray, watching the water swirl around his fink and fade from pink to clear. The heat feels good, unwinding his muscles and burning him to the point that the only thing left are thoughts of you and this new predicament he's in.

When he can't take the heat anymore, he steps out and changes into something soft and comfortable before settling in the middle of his bed with his computer in front of him. With the tap of a key, the screen projects holograms around him in a circle, broken only by his arm as he inserts the data chip from Strakos' warehouse into the computer.

He finds limited information on it - remnants of someone referencing the union of Nexus Capital and Xu Worldwide Logistics. He taps his fingers on his knees. The enemies in Hyperion are endless, but few of them have killing power. Most of the people in the city who hate his family are business competitors, minor patrons of various Syndicates in Hyperion. None of them have the power to send a Syndicate-sanctioned attack on his wife, which means this hit is higher up than simple city corporations.

It could be Syndicate, he supposes. He's still learning about the nuances of the three powerhouses that sit at the top of the food chain in Hyperion, but he's not convinced the Kim or Yong family would be moved enough by the marriage to do something so public about it - especially not with Choi Moojin's daughter engaged to Kim Yijun as a sign of union.

A sour feeling settles in Minghao's stomach. The easiest conclusion to make is that the threat is from the Virate. A finger of dread traces his spine at the thought. In a way, families of the Virate were similar to families of the Syndicate - they vied for power, it was always at war, and the most powerful family was always the one that was ten steps ahead. Unlike the Syndicates of Hyperion though, the families of the Virate collectively answered to the three heads of the Virate, the Triptych.

Except members of the Virate didn't know the Xu families were members. Outside of the Triptych, the Virate didn't even know Minghao existed. To them, Xu Jian was a retired member who had moved to Hyperion when he was seventeen after being honorably discharged and given the blessing of the Virate. Even with their blessing, Jian had given up all ties, powers, assets and favors from the Virate for life. That was the way it worked. His wife Luli, who had tried to leave the Virate once before, had joined him.

They'd left a key part of them there, though. Their son. The Triptych was in need of a family with old ties to be removed and relocated elsewhere, someone they could trust and that could believably sever ties with the Virate. The Xu family had been just that, and they'd given their only son to the Triptych to raise in the shadows, nameless and unclaimed as a Shade, forged in the Triptych's perfect image of an assassin before sending him to do the single thing he'd been created for: win over a Syndicate in Hyperion.

He sighs. He's tired - he's always tired these days, even more so than when he was a teenager learning how to become a shadowed killer. The lying and scheming is often harder than the killing, and trying to uncover his enemy hiding in the dark without access to real Virate influence and pull is a challenge.

An email to his personal catches his attention. It's one of the Trustees of Nexus Capital with more of Minghao's access to his new assets - your assets that are now his. It's overwhelming. Nexus Capital’s vast banking networks, offshore accounts, silent partnerships, voting proxies. Pages of sensitive data scroll past full of liquidity reports, hidden holdings in Syndicate-adjacent ventures, influence maps.

Minghao swallows. It's exactly what he wanted. With this level of access, the family can begin weaving influence deeper into Hyperion's financial arteries, and through the Choi alliance, they can steer shipping lanes and capital flows without the Syndicates ever realizing a new, quieter power is embedding itself beneath their foundations. The Choi's believe this is nothing more than a political marriage for port advantages. They have no idea what the Virate is capable of.

Minghao should feel satisfied. This is entirely the reason he was given to the Triptych and raised as a Shade, a nameless member in the shadows, someone without influence and without a name, but one of the most valuable members of their society. Everything is proceeding according to plan, and yet for the first time in his life, he feels sharp, unwelcome conflict like the edge of an enemy's blade.

His gaze drifts again toward the door where you sleep just across the hall. You were never part of the equation. You were meant to be kept at a distance, polite and useful, a spoiled brat who would go to parties and be the socialite Minghao was told you were. Instead, you have lodged yourself under his skin and you haven't even done anything - you'd simply looked at him after he'd killed the attacker tonight not in fear, but wary recognition that Minghao was also not what he seemed.

Protecting you tonight had felt instinctive. Necessary. The thought of you lying dead beside Mina had ignited a cold fury he rarely permits himself. And that realization terrifies him.

Loyalty to the family and to the old ways has defined Minghao's entire life - every choice he has ever made. It gave him purpose when his father focused on building the legitimate Hyperion front, it forged him into steel when he was being wiped and cut and tested. Attachments were always meant to be managed, never indulged, and yet here he is sitting in a safehouse, conflicted over a wife he doesn't really know.

If future objectives ever require sacrificing your safety, or keeping truths from you that could destroy the fragile trust beginning to form - what then? A few months ago, Minghao would have said he'd cut you away no problem. Now, he thinks he might need to cut you out like cancer, nearly killing himself in the process to sever the tie.

How unsettling. He isn't sure how he's gotten here, but as always, it's up to him to figure it out. Right now is not the time, though, so he rolls his shoulders and continues working through the remaining hours of darkness, mapping pressure points within Nexus Capital, noting which Choi figures might be influenced over time. Every new door opened by the marriage is another step into Hyperion's core, his entire purpose.

The first hints of dawn begin to lighten the sky beyond the glass of the bedroom. He glances up and realizes his current work has no business being done in the light of day, so he powers down the computer, the cyan numbers and screens vanishing. He stands and shuffles across the hall to check on you, opening the door as quietly as he can.

You're still asleep, breathing steadily in the same position he left you in. Sighing, he sits down in one of the chairs, leaning so his elbows are on his knees and his chin rests in his elbows, staring at you as you sleep.

For the first time in his life, the sharp edge of his purpose feels negotiable. Not abandoned or broken, but rather complicated by the strange, stubborn woman sleeping in front of him.

Perhaps you are wicked, but rather for the things you do to him instead of your actual deeds.

-

The last place you want to be tonight is the Eternal Bloom Gala at the Celestial Atrium in the Pearl District. The atrium is a floating marvel suspended between three interconnected spirals, gardens far more exquisite than even your wedding dominating every space. Though it looks nothing like your wedding, it's close enough to make your stomach turn, your fingers brushing across the closed wounds, still healing since the attack three weeks prior.

Massive domed ceilings of smart glass reveal the night sky above Hyperion, projected stars mingling with the real ones when the clouds part. Tiered terraces overflow with tropical foliage and cascading waterfuls that tumble into artificially glowing pools full of night-blooming lilies the size of dinner plates.

Crystal lanterns drift lazily overhead like captive moons, casting warm golden light that softens every sharp edge of wealth on display as women glide through the gardens in gowns of liquid silk and embroidered starlight. Servants in white move like ghosts, offering flutes of shimmering vintage and tiny edible sculptures dusted with real gold leaf.

Tonight, you're playing the part of socialite perfectly despite the bone-deep exhaustion that clings to you even now. Your gown is a deep forest green this evening, chosen to complement the venue’s living opulence and because it has sleeves that high the healing scars on your arm. Minghao stands a few paces away, devastating in a green so dark that it's almost black, his presence a dark anchor amid the glittering crowd.

Your husband is a startlingly good date. He's attentive in public, close enough for appearances, but never quite warm. He speaks to you more than he used to, small observations about the room, quiet comments on people passing by, but the deeper questions you ask still meet that same polite, impenetrable wall.

Despite asking multiple times, he still won't tell you who trained him to kill with such clinical efficiency. Won't explain the ancient language he used with the drive that night. It doesn't matter how much he dances around your questions - you still probe, willing to chip away at his armor with every conversation if you have to.

You turn your attention back to the circle of high society ladies surrounding you. As much as you hate it, they're the gatekeepers of Hyperion's upper echelons, wives and daughters of banking dynasties, shipping magnates, and Syndicate families. Their gowns shimmer in jewel tones, their smiles sharp as broken glass.

Though exhausted, you have spent the last hour slowly weaving Minghao into their world, dropping careful mentions of his insights on logistics and neutral trade routes, painting him as a valuable new addition to the delicate balance of power.

Lin stands at the center, as she usually does. She's always been a ring-leader, now married to a mid-level Sword whose name you forget. She carries herself with the confidence of someone whose family has hovered near the inner circle for generations. You've known her since you were teens, your circles overlapping heavily enough that she feels almost like an old yet complicated acquaintance.

Tonight, she's in deep crimson silk that catches the lantern lights like fresh blood, her smile sweet on the surface but sharp underneath You don't miss the way her eyes linger on Yoon Jeonghan as he glides by, bowing politely to the women and giving them all his dashing smile. You don't think it's dashing at all, feeling your spine stiffen as the Wisdom's son winks at you and Minghao before vanishing into the crowd.

Suianne is next to her, and you're surprised to see her. She'd married into the Yong family and though the Syndicate's were currently at peace, the Yong family and the Choi family had been fighting at the docks which was the entire reason you got married to Minghao. Neither of you speak of business tonight, instead focusing on her pretty, navy gown that flowers like water.

Eva stands to Lin’s other side, beautiful and brittle in shimmering silver, still nursing the very public sting of being discarded by Kwon Soonyoung after she let him into her bed. From what you'd heard, he's not spoken to her since and as you watch her eyes flick around the gala, you can see the humiliation that still clings to her.

The three of them form a petty but influential ring, always watching and always trading secrets. They're not your favorite women to spend time with, but you don't have friends. Not really. Your sister had always been the one to establish the relationships, and you'd only started after she'd died, making for awkward conversations and learning social queues clumsily.

Lin leans in slightly, lowering her voice as a drift of jasmine-scented mist curls toward you. "You have to tell us - honestly. How are you really finding married life with your mysterious Xu heir? The whole city is still rumbling about your wedding. I'm so glad you're alright."

You offer a measured, slightly tired smile, letting them see the exhaustion beneath the polish to make the performance more authentic. "Minghao is quieter than most men, but there's a steadiness to him I enjoy. He remembers small details."

"He certainly watches you closely," Suianne notes, tilting her head. "A man in love, I suppose."

You glance across the garden where Minghao stands speaking with a small cluster of neutral businessmen. His dark eyes find yours almost instantly, holding for a heartbeat too long. He tilts his head as if to ask are you okay and you nod back. He seems appeased, eyes flicking back to the men he's speaking to.

The two of you have moved back into the Observatory penthouse full time. The space no longer feels quite so vast and empty now that he joins you for breakfast some mornings. He even is willing to sit in the living room while you light palo santo, watching you warily. He still deflects every real question about his past, but the silence between you has grown less brittle.

"He's attentative," you agree, turning back to them. "Last week he remembered I prefer lemon-mugwort tea in the mornings without me saying anything. We’ve settled back into the penthouse, just the two of us above the clouds. It’s peaceful. We're still learning."

Eva lets out a soft, bitter laugh, swirling the liquid in her glass. “At least he comes home to you. Kwon Soonyoung fucked me senseless for three weeks straight and now pretends I don’t exist when we’re in the same room. The man is a ghost after he gets what he wants.”

Lina's smile turns knowing. "That's what you get for fucking the mad dog and thinking you could mend him after she left him."

Eva looks put out by Lin's comment, but Suianne drops her voice to a whisper. "Speaking of her - no one has seen her in weeks. Not since her engagement party. You used to be close with her, weren't you Lin?"

"We're still close," Lin sniffs. "She's simply busy with her fiancée. Kim Yijun is a demanding man." She waves a hand and turns to you. "Enough about Baby. Tell us more about your husband. Is he as intense in the bedroom as he looks in public?"

Eva shouts Lin's name as the question lands like spark on dry tinder. Heat floods your face instantly and your mouth opens and closes. For a moment, all your carefully practiced poise deserts you and you're left staring at Lin who looks rather smug, like she's caught you in a lie.

"Um," you manage. The women burst into delighted laughter, clearly pleased to have cracked your composure. “He is considerate. But that's not something I'm going to discuss in detail."

A smooth voice interrupts from just behind you. “Oh, Lin, you terrible thing. Must you scandalize the poor girl in public?”

You turn, grateful for the interruption, as a woman you don’t recognize steps into the circle with effortless confidence. She's utterly striking, tall and elegant in midnight blue silk that pools around her like shadows, her dark hair swept up with silver pins.

“Minael,” Lin says warmly, reaching out to clasp the woman’s hand. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight. And with your husband, no less.”

Minael’s husband steps forward beside her, a tall, well-built man in impeccably cut black. His features are sharp, with cool grey eyes that seem to take in everything at once.

"Sato Ken," he introduces himself, offering his hand with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You extend your hand to shake his, and the moment your palms meet, your gaze drops down involuntarily to his hand. There, across the first knuckle, is a thin, precise scar, nearly identical to the one on Minghao’s hand. Pale, deliberate, the kind left by wire or a very sharp blade. Not the sort of mark one expects on a society husband.

A chill slides down your spine. Ken's grip is firm, lingering just a fraction too long, and when you meet his eyes again, he's studying you with an intensity that feels uncomfortably familiar, As if he is cataloguing you the same way Minghao does.

Something in your gut turns rotten. A chill settles over you as you stare at Ken. Beyond him, something catches your eye. Near the top of the trees, a black bird lands, shuffling its wings. It's so black it's almost blue, oil-slick feathers shining in the light as it shuffles, craning its head until it blinks two beady eyes at you. You stare at it for a moment - you don't think you've ever seen a crow in the city before.

And then it flutters its wings and flies away through the open roof, vanishing into the inky sky like it was never there at all.

“Pleasure to finally meet you,” Ken says smoothly, bringing your attention back to him. “We’ve heard much about the new Xu-Nexus union.”

Minael laughs lightly, linking her arm with Lin’s. “Darling, you must tell me everything later. I’ve been dying to hear how the mysterious Arkos heir is settling into our little ecosystem.”

The conversation shifts around you, but you remain hyper-aware of Ken. He stands slightly behind his wife, eyes occasionally drifting back to you with that same probing focus. Something isn't right about Sato Ken. His wife seems perfectly well and good at socializing and you can tell Lira and the others are doting on her, but her husband is bad at this, his presence a palpable edge to the softness of his wife.

A tingle prods at the back of your neck, and instinct tells you to be wary of him. You engage with him little, ensuring that his wife is positioned between the two of you at all times. Your finger brushes against your bracelet, warm from your skin and grounding.

Thankfully, Minael and Ken don't linger long. After a few minutes of polite exchange, they drift away toward another group, the eerie man casting one final, lingering glance over his shoulder at you before disappearing into the foliage.

Moments later, Minghao appears at your side, moving with that silent grace you have come to expect. His hand settles lightly at the small of your back, warm through the silk. You suck in a breath, glancing at him, a little startled by his nearness.

“Are you ready to go home?” he asks quietly, voice pitched so the others can hear. “We were supposed to stay another hour, but you look exhausted.”

“Yes,” you murmur. “Please.”

He nods once and excuses you both from the group with polished grace, and guides you through the gardens toward a private exit. As you walk, you glance back one final time to see Ken watching you from across the atrium, half hidden behind a curtain of jasmine vines. An odd, unsettled feeling twists in your stomach and you turn away, leaning slightly into Minghao.

The armored car waits in the secure bay below. Once inside, the doors close behind you and the vehicle glides smoothly onto the road. You don't hesitate, getting onto your knees and reaching into your dress for the wrapped tarot deck you'd hidden in your pocket.

Minghao watches you from across the seat, eyebrow slightly raised. “Now?”

"Hush."

You shuffle the cards, the soft shck of the cards familiar. You don’t ask a specific question out loud. You rarely need to anymore. The deck knows, and three cards slip from the deck and fall face up onto the seat as you shuffle.

The Devil, upright. Ace of Swords, reversed. Nine of Wands, upright.

You stare at them, heart sinking. Chains and bondage. Blocked clarity. A wounded warrior still standing guard, exhausted but defiant. The message feels heavy, layered with warning. Something binding. Something obscured. Something that requires continued vigilance despite deep fatigue.

Minghao leans forward slightly, studying the cards with open curiosity. “What do they mean?”

You don’t answer immediately, tracing the edges of The Devil with one fingertip. The image of chained figures stares back at you. Your mind drifts to Ken's scar, to the way he studied you.

"Well?" Minghao asks again.

You glance at him. "Do you know Sato Ken?"

"Who?"

You frown. "The man I just met at the party. He had a scar like yours, and grey eyes."

Minghao goes unnaturally still. "What scar?"

"You have a scar on your finger." You reach out and grab his hands. He lets you, frowning as you lift his hand to the light and point to the faint scar on his knuckle, thin as can be. His hands are warm in yours, the fingers rough against your skin. "This one."

Minghao stares at where your hands are linked. "That scar specifically?"

"Yes."

A vein in his temple twitches before he shrugs a shoulder. "I don't know a Sato Ken."

Not for the first time, it sounds like Minghao is telling the truth. But you think about the way he uses truth to hide other things, and as you drop his hands and look back to the cards, you wonder which card is Minghao. The man in chains or the wounded warrior still standing guard. Maybe both.

-

Being in the Lower District alone is a bad idea. You have no choice, though. Hours in the library in the Legal District have led you here, an impossible lead buried in nonsense files. It hadn't been easy to find - Sato Ken hadn't brought up any solid leads, nor had his wife. But your search had revealed a Sato Rhia who had died in a car crash a decade ago with her husband and adopted son, a young boy who was named Zhi Yuan, not Sato Ken, but who had the same uncanny grey eyes and the beginnings of a face like the man you remember from the gala.

Pulling your coat hood up against the drizzle, you begin walking toward the nearest transit hub that will take you down to the Lower District where your research indicated the shelter was. If Zhi Yuan passed through the system, someone might remember him. Someone might know how a boy with grey eyes and a future scar ended up.

You get lost twice trying to find the train to take you to the Lower District. You've never been there without security personnel, and when you finally board the train, you feel a sense of apprehension as the car rocks back and forth, neon smearing by on the windows before it shoots underground.

Sitting near the head of the car, you settle with your hand tucked inside your coat, finger brushing the hilt of your small knife. The other rests against the tiny vial of protective oil in your inner pocket, its glass warm and grounding.

Through the scratched windows, the city becomes visible briefly as the train dives in and out of subterranean tracks. People huddle under leaking overhangs, begging for credits or hovering near fires for warmth. When the train stops, you step out and cringe, the smell of too many bodies living close together hitting you all at once.

Climbing the stairs is dangerous, the grime and rain making the ascent slippery. You hesitate to touch the rail when you see the rusted filth, and instead ask the universe to keep you from busting your ass.

The streets here are narrow and chaotic, slick with oily rain that reflects stuttering neon signs in iridescent puddles. Real rain falls harder at this level, drumming against rusted metal awnings and corroded pipes. Gang tags in glowing spray-paint pulse on every wall, though above them are the looming symbols of the Syndicates.

Street vendors hawk bootleg data pads, hacked implants, and vials of questionable stims from flickering stalls. The air grows thicker, heavier, carrying the unmistakable smells of unfiltered rain, and fried street meat. You feel painfully exposed, your coat too clean and posture too refined for this district.

Eyes follow you - some curious, some calculating. You keep your head down but your sens sharp, hand never far from your knife as you navigate the rain-slicked streets.

The shelter squats at the end of a dimly lit side street, a squat brutalist building reinforced with bolted steel plates and outdated security cams that flicker with static. Faded holographic signage above the entrance flickers with the building name, though it's broken and half on so none of the letters seem to make sense.

Rain drips steadily from the overhang as you push open the reinforced door. Inside, the air is warm and stale. You curl your nose, immediately missing the freshness of recycled air. You hadn't realized what a privilege it was until now.

Rows of cramped cots line the main hall. A few residents glancing at you curiously. A man mopping the floor with water that doesn't look any cleaner than the sticky tile nods politely at you. You approach the front desk where a middle-aged woman in a worn uniform flicks through data on a tablet under the weak glow of a buzzing fluorescent bar.

“Excuse me,” you say, keeping your voice low. “I’m looking for information about someone who might have stayed here as a child. His name was Zhi Yuan. This would have been around twenty to twenty-five years ago. I think he was adopted by Sato Rhia and her husband Amar.”

The woman studies your face, noting how obviously out of place you are before she ignores you and goes back to reading whatever is on her tablet. You grit your teeth and pull out your phone, tapping the small tile on the desk to transfer credits.

"Try again," you say through your teeth.

She glances at the credits and stiffens, rolling her shoulders as she begins typing. "Zhi Yuan?" She repeats, voice raspy. "Might not have the records that far back."

"That far? It was only twenty something years ago."

She huffs. "Listen lady, we don't got fancy storage here. We delete shit."

"Are you going to do the search or not?"

She grumbles and hits a few keys. "All I've got is some random kid from Arkos here for a few weeks. That's it."

"That's it?"

"You can transfer me more credits, but it won't do shit."

You think about leaving a handful of rusty nails, but you force a sharp smile. "Thank you so much for your help."

As you reach the door, the older man in stained janitorial coveralls pauses his mopping. He's weathered with deep lines around his eyes and hands scarred from years of hard labor. He glances at you, then at the woman behind the desk.

"You shouldn't be chasing ghosts down, miss," he whispers. "Not that one."

You pause, turning back. “What do you mean?”

"The boy. Let him stay dead. Virate operates that way."

The word lands like cold steel against your spine. Virate.

It's an unfamiliar word to you, but it tugs at your gut, like something is telling you it's important. “What is the Virate?”

The man’s expression shutters immediately. He looks over his shoulder toward the back rooms, then back at you. For a moment, genuine concern flickers across his weathered face.

Better that you don’t know,” he says quietly, almost urgently. “Go home, miss. The Lower District isn't for you."

He returns to mopping without another word, the wet slap of the mop against cracked tile the only sound between you. You stand frozen for a long second, heart hammering, before pushing open the door and stepping back into the relentless rain.

-

Minghao sits across the table from his mother in the private tearoom of the Xu family residence in the Upper District. The space is deliberately designed, a copy of old Arkos interior design and architecture. Low tables of dark lacquered wood rest on mats woven from rare fibers imported at great expense, and the walls are paneled in warm cedar that release a faint, woody smell.

Soft paper lanterns hang at varying heights from the ceiling, their golden light diffused and flickering gently, mimicking the old-world illumination of ancestral estates back in Arkos. Outside the reinforced floor-to-ceiling windows, Hyperion sprawls in an endless, restless web of neon arteries, flickering holograms, and rain-streaked towers piercing the low cloud ceiling.

Rain taps steadily against the glass, a metallic percussion that Minghao has long since learned to tune out since moving here. Inside, the air is warm and fragrant with the steam rising from the teapot and the subtle notes of jasmine.

It should feel peaceful. Instead, it feels like the calm before a storm he himself is about to unleash.

Xu Luli pours the tea with the same graceful precision she has always possessed, her movements fluid, the delicate porcelain cup gliding silently across the surface of the table as she pushes it toward him. Her grey eyes catch the lantern light as she lifts her cup, sipping.

Luli looks eternally young. It's always unsettling to Minghao that his mother doesn't look like she ages, while his father lets himself age freely. He knows it's a status and power play, but he hates the way he looks at his mother and sees someone frozen in time, someone he will eventually surpass because augmentation and longevity is not for him.

Minghao watches her hands. Elegant. Steady. The same hands that once ran through his hair when he was a young boy, before the Virate claimed the rest of his childhood and turned him into a trained weapon, a blade at their beck and call.

He takes a slow sip of the tea, letting the rare Arkos blend warm his chest and ground him. The flavor is complex, floral and slightly bitter, with an underlying earthiness that reminds him of the herbs you roll into handles and distill into oils that you like to spray across doors and clothes and objects.

"You look well," Minghao offers, sipping his tea.

Luli smiles at him softly, the kind of smile she reserves only for him. "You look tired. The marriage has been… eventful."

“Eventful,” Minghao echoes, a dry note threading through his voice. He studies her face in the golden lantern light, noting every micro-expression. "My wife and I have not had an easy start."

"All marriages are complicated. Your father and I were not always easy, either."

“Now that you've mentioned it, I’ve been thinking about your life before Father. Before the Xu name became yours.”

Her fingers pause for the briefest moment on the teapot handle. Minghao catches it, the tiny tightening at the corner of her mouth, the way her stormy grey eyes flicker once toward the reinforced window overlooking the glowing, rain-streaked city below. The lanterns cast shifting golden patterns across her flawless face, highlighting the elegant line of her jaw.

“It was a difficult time,” she says lightly. "Your father and I found each other at the right time."

"You were out of the public eye for a while. Why was that?"

"Youthful rebellion," she snorts. "I thought I could escape the expectations placed on me. Your wife has done a better job at hers, I will admit."

"And yet you think she's wicked."

"I never said wicked. She's just strange."

Minghao tilts his head, watching her with the same intense, cataloguing focus he once used on targets in shadowed rooms. The lantern light plays across her features, softening nothing.

"Was there someone before my father?" The question catches her off guard and her cup clinks sharply against the plate when she sets it down. "I always wondered. I never could figure out what made you leave."

"Minghao-"

"The Triptych always told me you wanted to leave," Minghao continues, nodding. He puts his chin in his palm, watching his mother keenly. "And that's why they were willing to part ways publically, that you'd asked for it. But your first departure from the Virate wasn't after you received permission. So what was it?"

"Son…"

"I'm not angry. I'm just looking for some answers."

Luli is quiet for a long moment. She lifts her own cup, takes a slow sip as if buying time, and sets it down with deliberate grace. The soft clink of porcelain against lacquer sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Outside, the rain intensifies, drumming harder against the glass.

“Yes,” she admits at last. “I ran away with a lover.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air between them. Minghao nods, mind racing ahead. His eyes drop down to the red bracelet you'd given him, the azabache charm cool against his skin.

"Who was he?" He asks.

"Someone unsuitable. From outside the Virate. He was very charismatic, brillitan in his own way. I thought I could disappear and live outside the rules."

“And then?” he prompts when his mother falls silent again.

“I became pregnant.”

The words land like a blade between his ribs. Minghao goes very still. The lantern light suddenly feels too warm, the cedar scent too heavy. His mother continues, her voice trembling only slightly now, each word pulled from somewhere deep and painful she has clearly tried to bury for decades.

“I carried the child to term. A boy. We lived happily for a year before he decided that the child and I were too much. So I went back." She swallows. "The child wasn't Virate, though. So they took him and offered to place him somewhere safe and give me a new start, a single offer of mercy.”

"A safe start," Minghao echoes. "They offered to let you part with the Virate publicly if you did favors for them privately, didn't they?"

She chews her lip and nods. "I married your father and then we had you. You know the rest from there. We had you until you were five. Then we moved and you were theirs."

Minghao’s mind races, pieces clicking together with brutal, crystalline clarity. Grey eyes. The thin, precise scar. The way Sato Ken had studied you at the gala. You'd been unsettled by Ken, though Minghao had neither seen the man nor heard of him. None of his contacts knew of the name Sato Ken, and a quick online search had simply told the story of a businessman who married into a wealthy family.

In any other circumstance, Minghao might have disregarded it. But you'd been unsettled more than usual, insisting that the man with grey eyes - a Lin family trait from his mother's side - had the same scar as him. He trusted your instincts.

It was the same scar the initiated members of the Virate had, one where a finger had been severed during interrogation only to be later surgically added back on. The scar was always a reminder that members had passed, that they'd like the Virate take a part of them during an interrogation that felt realer than anything else Minghao has ever gone through, and that they could take it just as easily again.

He rubs his finger now, fingers brushing over the scar, remembering the snap of the bone and the way he'd nearly bit through his tongue. He'd not given up the information, though, and that had been enough to pass and earn the digit back.

If you were unsettled by a man with grey eyes and the same scar… well, Minghao didn't believe coincidences. Not since he had started watching you read your tarot and scribble into dream journals when you thought he wasn't paying attention.

“Does father know?” he asks eventually, voice low and tightly controlled.

“No. No one does. Only the Triptych."

Minghao exhales slowly, mind already spinning through the implications. If this Sato Ken was Minghao's brother - either by blood or initiation - he existed only in the dark. Which meant he was a Shade, and no one but the Triptych knew he existed. It unsettles Minghao more than he would like, mind scrambling to find a motive. Jealousy? Resentment? A move within a move by the Virate? It could be anything.

As a Shade himself, Ken shouldn't know Minghao existed. Not even the most coveted of the assassins belonging to the Virate knew the identity of one another, which was why Minghao thought nothing of Ken at the gala - hadn't even seen him. It makes him feel shaken, a ghost slipping by him that Minghao was trained to find, to see.

Worse was that Ken had seen you. Approached you. Shaken your hand. He'd done all that and Minghao simply hadn't noticed him. Years of Virate training had failed him, and he'd let something as dangerous as a Shade get close to you. It not only wounds his pride, but it wounds him.

Minghao feels the red bracelet you gave him shift against his wrist again. The azabache charm feels heavier suddenly, a small weight of your strange faith pressing against his skin.

He stands abruptly, the low table creaking as his knees push against it. Rain continues to lash the windows, the sound growing louder as the storm intensifies outside.

"I have to handle this," he mutters.

"What?" She asks, slipping into Zhenwen, a language dead to the world for generations but kept alive by the oldest families of Arkos. "What's happening?"

"Your illegitimate son tried to kill my wife."

"No," Luli shakes her head. "He was adopted into a family, outside of the Virate."

Minghao tsks. "You think the Virate gave away your child without training him? The Shade is born in darkness and has no name. I would know."

Luli closes her eyes, a single tear slipping down her eternal face. Minghao turns away before the sight can soften him. He cannot afford softness right now. Not when the delicate balance he has spent years maintaining is suddenly threatening to shatter around him for a haphazardly protected secret.

"I will do what I must for my family," Minghao tells her, steeling himself. "Blood for blood."

"Blood for blood," she agrees.

As he walks out of the room, he touches the red bracelet on his wrist, thumb brushing over the braided strands of your hair woven into the cord. The small protective charm you made for him feels both absurd and strangely vital at this moment. He wonders what you would say if you knew the truth, that the man you married carries blood older and darker than anything you have imagined. That the secrets he keeps are not just his own.

Whatever game is being played either by this half-brother of his or by the Triptych, Minghao will end it.

But for the first time, the thought of collateral damage makes his stomach turn because now, the collateral has a name, and she sleeps in the east wing of his penthouse and sticks her nose where it doesn't belong because she's too smart for her own good.

-

Thick, metallic air swallows you the moment you step into the bar. Sweet smoke chokes the room, the neon bleed of alternate reality systems flickering from behind closed doors. A few patrons sit slumped over table tops, nursing drinks lazily as though they're half in a dream. Most of the doors are shut, the private alternate reality rooms cutting them off from the bar and everything else in the real world.

Energy shifts immediately. Your skin prickles, and you scan the room, sensing the way energy here is a vacuum, like these rooms that offer everything but reality suck the essence of the soul out of the body.

The rain from outside clings to your coat in silver beads, but the oppressive warmth in the bar immediately makes your back and neck start to sweat. You step into the bar further, letting the door shut close behind you, cutting off the sound from the Pearl District. Neon from the district streets leaks through frosted windows in fractured violet and electric blue, painting the high wooden beams in shifting colors.

A few figures who move with the careful grace of people who have stepped between realities one too many times. You scan them all without making it obvious, your fingers brushing the black tourmaline cord hidden beneath your sleeve. The small knife in the hidden slit of your coat presses reassuringly against your ribs as your gaze settles on the woman behind the bar.

She's pretty, pouring someone a drink as she laughs at something the customer says. A simple black tank top shows toned arms covered in faint tattoos that seem to shift when the light hits them at the right angle. Her features are difficult to hold onto, like she's someone you might forget the moment you turn away while being strangely magnetic.

You drive toward the bar, hyperaware of the way the bartender notices you. Based on the description, you think she's who the Tower's daughter told you to find.

Kero, she'd said, eyeing you warily. Kero is good at information. Are you okay, though? I can help if you're in danger, you know that, right?

It had been a kind offer whispered at a gala last week, a rare moment where the two of you had been in the powder room and you'd been insane enough to ask her for a good source of information in the Syndicate.

Your heart pounds thinking about it again, remember the way she'd raised her brows and urge you to tell her if there was something wrong. Her kindness was a rarity in the Syndicate, and though you were somewhat familiar with her, facing her full on had been nearly overwhelming.

The bartender turns toward you as you slide onto a stool, her lips curving into a grin as she leans one hip against the bar.

"Hi," he drawls, eyes flicking up and down as she drinks you in. "New face. You look very expensive, sweetheart. What can I pour you?"

“I’m not here for a drink,” you say evenly. “I’m looking for Kero.”

Her smile doesn’t falter, but something sharp flickers behind her eyes. She tilts her head, studying you more carefully now, as if reassessing the woman standing in front of her.

"Kero is around. What do you need?" She asks eventually, fingers tapping the top of the bar.

"The Tower's daughter told me Kero might be able to help me with some information."

The words land with weight. She straightens slightly, the playful curve of her mouth diminishing. Mentioning the Tower’s daughter commands absolute authority here, you realize. She gives you a long, measured look, dark eyes tracing over your face, your coat, the way you hold yourself, drinking in every detail.

"I'm nothing if not a humble servant to the Tower and his children," she says eventually. "I'm Kero. You can come with me, sweetheart. Keep your pretty hands where I can see them, yeah? Baby is a good friend of mine, but I don't know you."

She slips out from behind the bar fluidly, exchanging a quick, wordless nod with the burly bartender who steps in to cover her station seamlessly. You follow, weaving between tables. No one notices you as you walk by, each customer staring off into nothingness with a glazed over expression that makes you shiver.

Kero leads you to a narrow hallway, the walls covered in flickering frames of alternate reality landscapes. You glance at them as you walk by, looking into lush forests, empty beaches, and night skies. At the end of the hall, she stops and presses her balm to a hidden scanner, a heavy wooden door hissing open after her clearance passes. She gestures for you to enter first, grinning and winking as you pass by her.

The private room beyond is small but surprisingly comfortable, a storage space turned lounger. Dim amber sconces cast warm, flickering light across two worn leather armchairs and a low table. A plush couch sits against one wall, and shelves hold bottles of rare liquor, scattered data pads, and a few precious paper books.

Kero closes the door behind you, engages the lock with a soft click, then turns with that same half-smile. She gestures to one of the armchairs, leaning casually against the table’s edge. You sit gracefully, unwilling to let her know that she makes you feel off keel.

Something about her unsettles you. In the dimmer room, her features are even harder to latch on to, like her eyes change everytime you look away or her hair is a shade adjusted. She watches you like a cat watches a mouse as you sit, and though you know mentioning the Tower's daughter has awarded you some power, you're not sure it's given you immunity here.

“So,” she says lightly. "What kind of trouble are you in, hmm?"

"Who says I'm in trouble?"

"It's written all over your face. You're tense as shit."

You give a small, knowing smile. “I’m not used to the Pearl District. That doesn’t mean I’m lost.”

Kero cocks her head. “Damn, no VR for you, huh? You rich types don’t really need to escape reality. You have everything you could ever want.”

“Not everything.”

"Unless you're trying to escape that fancy marriage."

"So you know who I am?"

Kero pushes off the table and walks over to a chair, dropping into it unceremoniously before pivoting sideways to hook the backs of her knees over the arm.

“Of course I do,” she snorts, dropping into the opposite chair and hooking her knees over the arm. “Big wedding. I wasn’t invited. Not high enough up the ladder, you know what I mean?”

"No."

"You're very honest, Mrs. Xu."

You meet her eyes without hesitation. “I’m very honest, yes.”

The name Mrs. Xu still feels foreign, but you no longer flinch. You so rarely hear people use your new legal name - most people still often see you as the heiress to Nexus Capital, content to use your family name because in this city, Minghao has married into your family, not the other way around.

"I met a man a few days ago at a gala and he left me with questions," you start slowly. Kero raises her brows. "No one really seems to know who he is, which isn't common among the elite."

She snorts. "You came here because someone isn't as well known as you?"

You ignore the barb, continuing, "He gave me the name Sato Ken. He doesn't seem to be much - just a mid-level businessman who married the daughter of a Patron of the Choi Syndicate. I think he might have a second name, though. Do you know anyone by the name of Zhi Yuan?"

Kero shakes her head. "Should I?"

"I don't know. Do you know what the Virate is?”

Kero’s entire posture changes in an instant. The lazy sprawl vanishes. She unhooks her legs and plants her boots on the floor with a quiet thud, leaning forward sharply and the playful glint in her eyes hardens into something guarded and alert.

“Virate,” she repeats, voice low and sharp. “What are you doing with the Virate?”

"I don't know what the Virate is."

"Of course you don't." She stands in one fluid motion, pacing a tight circle behind her chair, one hand dragging through her hair. “Tell me how you came across the Virate. Explain in detail."

You do. You tell her about the man from the gala, how something about his energy felt misaligned, your instincts screaming. How your research led you to the foster home in the Lower District where the cleaner had given you the strange, ominous warning about the Virate. About how you think Sato Ken and Zhi Yuan might be the same person.

Kero stops pacing. She steps closer, extending her right hand under the nearest sconce, palm down. You're not sure what you're supposed to be looking at until your eyes catch the smallest little scar, silver and right over the knuckle. Just like Sato Ken. Just like Minghao.

"Did he have a scar like this? Do you know?" She asks.

"Yes."

Kero pulls her hand back, flexing it once before sinking into her chair with heavier grace. The leather creaks as she rubs her temple, staring at the low table for a long beat while distant bass throbs from the bar’s VR rooms and rain drums steadily against the outer walls.

“Alright,” she says at last, voice quieter. "The Virate isn’t some street gang or Syndicate. They're like the Syndicate's here in the city but the structure is very different and they're a lot more complex. Think generations of bloodlines that build a shadow confederation that works in the cracks most people never see. They pull kids through foster systems, adoptions, quiet placements. Forge them. Shades, they call the ones with no names. Ghosts trained from blood and bone to serve the Triptych - the three who sit at the top.”

"Okay," you say slowly. "So you're saying maybe Sato Ken was Zhi Yuan previously, and now he's Sato Ken and he's a member of the Virate."

She shows her hand again, the silver scar making you shiver. "Virate initiation. They take the same finger during interrogation to see if you break. If you don't, they give you the finger back. If you break, you die."

You sit frozen, the weight of her words pressing down like cold rain. Minghao has that scar. You think of Minghao’s brutal efficiency on the terrace, the dead language in the car, the way he always deflects with half-truths. Your heart beats hard, frantic.

"If Sato Ken isn't a real name, you might be dealing with a Shade. It's hard to say. Shades are hard to find and are usually found only if they want to be… being uncovered for them is like death. They're the hidden assassins the Triptych likes to raise. Not even standard members of the Virate know who they are." Kero leans back. "Did he make any threats or have you seen him before?"

"No," you tell her. Your mind is on Minghao and not Ken - Yuan, whatever his name is. "Just met him at a party. My gut tells me he's important."

"If your gut managed to find an assassin for the Virate, that's a pretty good stomach."

You hum, noncommittal. "So you're a member of the Virate?"

"Was," she corrects. "Left when I was thirteen."

Both of you sit in silence as your mind races through fragments that feel too sharp to ignore. The scar on Kero’s knuckle. The identical mark on Sato Ken - Zhi Yuan. And Minghao. That thin, precise line across his first knuckle that you’d noticed from the very first boardroom meeting. The way his father deferred to him with a single finger twitch. The ancient language he spoke in the car after the wedding attack. The effortless violence on the terrace. The way he knew about your practice without you ever showing him.

The realization settles heavy in your chest. Your husband - the man who pressed his jacket to your bleeding arm, who wears the red bracelet you braided with your own hair - is not who anyone thinks he is.

Kero doesn’t mention the Xu family once. Doesn’t connect Minghao to any of this. Her ignorance of your husband’s involvement is louder than any confirmation could be- Minghao is an unknown member of the Virate. A Shade, Kero had called it. A ghost wearing the face of a logistics heir, planted here for purposes far beyond shipping contracts and political marriages. You keep your expression neutral, swallowing the storm of questions and fears that you can't let consume you - not here, not with this stranger.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. "This helps."

You reach into the inner pocket of your coat and pull out two things: the sleek, matte-black digital card and a small silk pouch you’d prepared weeks ago during one of your quiet Wednesday rituals. You set the card on the low table first, then slide the pouch toward her with careful fingers.

“If you ever want a new private account set up, use this," you tell her. "It's completely clean and untraceable, with access to resources most people here only dream about in these AR rooms you run." You point at the pouch. "This is for protection. Black salt, rosemary, a bit of hematite. I made it myself. It’s nothing fancy, but… it's my way of showing gratitude."

Kero stares at the offerings, genuine surprise flickering across her face. She picks up the silk pouch, turning it over in her scarred hand. “You made this?” Her eyes lift to yours, sharper now. “Are you a practitioner?”

“I dabble. It was something I started as a kid to pass time. I.. didn’t have much of a childhood and some of the housemaids practiced.”

Kero’s lips curve into a faint, knowing smile, but she doesn’t press. She tucks the pouch into her pocket with surprising care. “If you ever want to apprentice with real practitioners, go to the Silver Thorn Apothecary in the Lower District, near the old canal bridge. Tell them Kero sent you. They don’t take just anyone, but they might make an exception.”

“I appreciate it.”

Kero leans back, studying you for a long moment. The amber light softens the edges of her shifting features. “Watch yourself with the Virate. They don’t play by Syndicate rules. They bind blood, erase names, and turn children into weapons. Once you’re in their sights, it’s hard to get out.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Still… there’s something about your energy. Stubborn. Grounded. I like it."

A small grin tugs at your lips. “I’m trying. I should go. Thank you again, Kero. For everything."

You stand and she rises with you, holding the digital card in her hand. "Don't be a stranger, Mrs. Xu. Try to stay alive."

Rain hisses down on you as you leave, your boots splashing softly in the shallow puddles pooling in the concrete. The Pearl District is alive with partygoers, tourists and socialites heading to clubs, casinos and more, their laughter harsh against the churning of your mind.

Minghao is a Shade. You know with utter certainty, somehow. He's a ghost - a weapon, and you have no idea what it means that he married you or what he wants. He'd told you that you were no use to his family dead and you still believe that, but now you want to know for what.

In an alley between buildings, you dig around in your pocket for your cards. You shuffle them quickly, rain beading on their glossy surface as you do. Three cards slip out one by one, catching on your wet hands until you pull them out of the deck and flip them over.

The Tower. The Moon reversed. Death.

Thoughts of the cards haunt you all the way to the train. Your hood is pulled low, the black fabric of your coat blending into the sea of weary commuters. The bracelet on your wrist feels heavier than usual, a quiet anchor against the unease crawling up your spine.

Pressed between a businessman muttering into his phone and a woman clutching a synthetic flower bouquet, a sense of unease creeps up on you. Eyes on you. Not the casual glances of strangers, but something deliberate and predatory.

The doors hiss shut and the train lurches forward, accelerating into the tunnel with a low whine that vibrates through your bones. You keep your gaze fixed on the scratched window, watching the blur of service lights streak past like dying stars. Your hand slips into your coat pocket, fingers brushing the matte-black comm device Minghao gave you months ago. The private channel. Encrypted. Off-grid. You haven’t used it yet, but it feels good to have in your hand.

You shift your weight, scanning the car without turning your head. Faces blur in peripheral vision, a sea of tired eyes, downturned mouths, and people asleep in seats. No one stands out. No one meets your eyes for too long. Yet the sensation builds, a slow pressure like storm clouds gathering before lightning splits the Tower.

Two stops pass and your pulse quickens with each one. At the third, you make a split-second decision to get off that's nowhere near your intended route toward the Observatory. You elbow your way toward the doors as they open, stepping onto the platform and into the sub-level station, ait thick with the scent of damp rot and the distant rumble of freight loaders. Neon signs flicker overhead, advertising cheap stim-packs and off-grid betting dens.

You don’t look back. Not immediately. You weave through the sparse crowd, heels clicking against cracked concrete, and take the exit stairs two at a time. The streets above are narrower, hemmed in by crooked buildings and powerlines that spark intermittently in the thin rain. You turn left, then right, cutting through a market alley where vendors hawk sticky buns and meat skewers, fat sizzling.

Still, the feeling follows.

Your breath comes sharper now and you pause at a corner stall, pretending to examine a rack of knockoff jade pendants while your eyes flick across reflections in a rain-streaked metal panel. Nothing. A shadow shifts two stalls down, but it's gone when you focus. Your instincts, honed by years of the universe’s subtle nudges, scream a single name.

Sato Ken.

The thought lands like a cold blade between your ribs. The scar on his knuckle flashes in your memory. So does his polished smile and the way his gaze had lingered too long at the last charity function, heavy with something unreadable. You’d felt it then too. The Devil.

You quicken your pace, ducking down a narrower side street. The rain intensifies, sheeting off overhangs and turning the ground into a slick mirror of fractured neon. Your coat clings to your skin, heavy and cold. Heart hammering, you slip into a shadowed alley between two derelict storage units where it smells of rust and urine.

Crates are stacked haphazardly against one wall, providing meager cover where you press your back to the damp brick, breathing through your mouth to stay quiet. Water drips from a rusted pipe overhead, steady as a metronome. For a moment, only the distant train rumbles and your own pulse fills the space.

A splash confirms you're being followed and you don't hesitate. Your fingers close around the comm device, pulling it free with trembling hands. The surface is cool, almost alive under your touch, drinking in the faint alley light. You activate it with a press of your thumb, the faint holo-sheen blooming like starlight in the dark. The private channel connects with a soft chime that feels too loud in the confined space.

It rings once. Twice.

“Come on,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the rain.

Your free hand grips the small knife in your other pocket, though the blade feels inadequate against whatever waits in the shadows. The universe had warned you. The cards had warned you. Death upright. Transformation through violence.

The line clicks open and Minghao's voice comes through, low and immediate. "What's wrong?"

You've never been happier to hear his voice. The sound of his calm and controlled voice nearly buckles your knees. You lean harder into the wall, eyes darting to the alley mouth where a silhouette might appear any second. Rain sluices down your face, mixing with the cold sweat on your skin. The feeling of being watched intensifies, a prickling heat at your nape like fingers hovering just above your spine.

"I need you to find me," you tell him, voice barely audible. "I'm about to get taken or killed."

"Wicked-"

"You have access to my medical records," you interrupt. "You should have been emailed how to access. I have a subcutaneous tracking chip. Activate the emergency beacon with the password given to you - it pings your private network. Do it now."

Footsteps again, deliberate now, closing in from the alley’s entrance. A shadow detaches from the gloom, tall and masked.

“I know you’re a Shade,” you whisper. “Maybe I mean nothing to you at all, but you saved me on our wedding night and if I’m still important to your family, you need to find me. Or at least my body."

Minghao says your name - not wicked woman, not wicked - just your name. You say nothing else, swallowing as you drop the comm in the rain and crush it under your heel, the sharp crack lost to the sound of increasing downpour.

When the figure steps out of the shadows, all you can see are the grey eyes. You stare at him head on, refusing to show him fear despite the way your hands tremble in the cold rain.

"Is your husband coming?"

"Yes."

He nods. "Good."

-

Thunder shakes the penthouse. It's not loud enough to drown out the hammering of Minghao's heart as he gets dressed frantically. For once, Minghao feels like he might be panicking. He's not entirely sure - panic is a foreign concept to him. As a Shade of the Virate, he doesn't operate in adrenaline and panic - he simply exists in the detachment of calm and deliberate decision making.

This doesn't feel like that. He has no idea when he started caring about you so much - can't even really figure out when it happened. He supposes between the random late night dinners, the rare instances of breakfast, and the weekends when he watched you sit at the coffee table with your little herbs and candles muttering to yourself, he decided he liked you.

Had you been the elitist, snobby socialite he assumed you were going to be, he wouldn't be in this situation. Yet fate - because he's starting to believe in fate - had put you into your position - unprepared and woefully unjaded - through the violence of your sister's death, and put you directly into Minghao's path. He doesn't know what else to call it, because only destiny could be this specific.

Rain crawls in silver streaks down the windows, turning Hyperion into a smeared galaxy beneath the clouds. Minghao stands in front of the open wardrobe in a black compression shirt and tactical trousers, fingers gone motionless around the clasp of his chest holder as the information he'd requested through your instructions appears across the retinal display he'd put over his right eye.

PATIENT STATUS: ELEVATED STRESS RESPONSE WARNING: HEART RATE EXCEEDING SAFE BASELINE WARNING: ADRENALINE EXCEEDING SAFE BASELINE WARNING: CONCUSSION DETECTED LOCATION PING: ACTIVE LOCATION: 908 LOWER WATER STREET, WAREHOUSE DISTRICT, HYPERION 3094304

Minghao watches as your biometrics spike violently across the lens. Oxygen levels unstable, cortisol flooding yourself, neutral activity elevated. Nothing in your current vitals tells him that you're dying, which is the single positive news he has while he finishes buckling the holster before he opens another hidden compartment in his room, revealing weapons.

He takes the knives and two guns. They charge at his touch, the pulse letting him know they're primed as he holsters them. The red cord around his wrist slides with his hand movement, the azabache charm clicks against the gun as he removes his hand.

You'd looked so serious when you handed it to him, like you were testing him. He hadn't seen it then for what it was - a leap of faith to see if he was serious about you practicing your little customs without fear from him. Now he knows that he'd passed the test, because you'd start being more open around him. Not hiding things. Calling him and telling him you needed his help.

Minghao yanks a jacket over the holsters and accesses the medical feed again with a blink of his eyes. Nothing has changed, and your location still pings in an abandoned shipping corridor near Pier Nine. It's in Xu territory, a dock that belongs exclusively to Minghao's father, and by extension, Choi Moojin.

The hours Minghao has spent trying to track down his half brother have gone to waste. It appears that his brother has the jump on him, and why shouldn't he? Zhi Yuan or whatever the name he goes by now has known Minghao existed for far longer than Minghao has known he had a sibling, and it's clear that you've been in his sights for a while as an obvious attempt to get to Minghao.

Minghao is going to kill him. He made the decision long before you'd called him. He had decided before his mother even finished telling him about Yuan, about the first born son she naively thought the Virate gave away. It doesn't matter if Yuan is blood, though. He'd spilled the blood of those under the protection of the Xu family, and Minghao was bound by honor to pay him back.

Blood for blood.

It's not an easy situation. Minghao doesn't know if his brother is here by authorization of the Virate, or if he's gone rogue. The right thing to do would be to contact the Triptych, but Minghao has no plans of doing that. It's too much of a risk if they've sanctioned whatever attack this is, so he's decided to do what he wants. He knows it'll have consequences - he has carried out the punishment for this kind of thing plenty of times.

"Fuck," Minghao sighs, running a hand over his face.

As much as he wants to do this alone, he knows that the odds will be better if he has leverage. Everything with the Virate and the Triptych especially is above leverage and moves within moves, and Minghao doesn't have any right now. So he picks up the phone and dials a number he's never called before, heart hammering as the phone rings.

"Xu Minghao," Jeonghan answers softly. "What can I do for our favorite shipping heir on a rainy Thursday evening?"

Minghao slips a knife into the sheath at the base of his spine as he speaks. “I need a deal.”

Jeonghan pauses. "Oh?"

"In exchange for leverage and information on the Virate."

"I'm listening."

"I need protection and support from the Choi Syndicate if the Virate comes knocking at my door."

Jeonghan's no longer amused or joking when he says, "And why would they do that?"

"Agree to it before I say anything."

Jeonghan pauses. "Why'd you call me?"

"You're the heir to the Wisdom and you're smart. You'll know whether I'm lying or you'll figure it out yourself. Now I want a deal before I say anything."

The Observatory feels too high, too isolated tonight, suspended above the storm like a fragile glass cage. Neon from the distant Pearl District bleeds through the fog in fractured violet and electric blue, painting the matte black steel beams in shifting hues that do nothing to calm the unfamiliar knot twisting in his chest.

The line is silent for a beat too long. Jeonghan’s voice returns, stripped of its usual lazy amusement. “A deal, how bold. Alright - I, Yoon Jeonghan, Second to the Wisdom, affirm that the verbally negotiated agreement between us is valid and binding, and will be upheld by the Choi Syndicate under penalty of death or exile. Talk."

“The Virate,” Minghao starts, running a hand through his hair. "I'm a member. They raised me as a Shade. Nameless. Trained for killing and secret work. My family’s move to Hyperion, the logistics empire, this marriage - it isn't just business moves, it’s for the Virate. They wanted someone nameless but loyal to sow seeds and gain influence with one of the Syndicates of the city, ideally the Choi Syndicate."

A soft whistle from the other end. “And here I thought you were just another pretty Arkos heir playing at power. Continue.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens. He moves to the bedroom door, glancing once toward the east wing where you should be safe. The biometric feed in his retinal display pulses steadily, your location fixed, stress elevated but alive. For now.

“I have an unexpected target on my back,” he says, already striding toward the private elevator. “A Shade operative. One I didn’t know existed until recently. He orchestrated the wedding attack. Tonight, he has her. I’m on my way to eliminate him. It might blow back. If the Virate decides I’ve gone rogue or exposed too much, they’ll come for cleanup. I need Choi Syndicate support if that happens - protection, resources, a buffer. In exchange, I’ll give you information useful for leveraging a partnership with the Virate in Arkos. Real leverage. Names. Structures. Weak points the Triptych would rather keep buried.”

The elevator doors hiss open. Minghao steps inside, the mirrored walls reflecting a man dressed for violence. His hair is still damp from the earlier rain, eyes sharp and unblinking. Jeonghan is quiet again, but Minghao can hear the calculation in the silence, the Wisdom's son weighing angles, risks, opportunities.

"Hm," Jeonghan hums. "Interesting. You know this verbal agreement could be void based on your intent to threaten the safety of the Syndicate, right?" Minghao doesn't answer as the elevator plunges downward. "Why trust me with this?"

“Because you’re useful,” Minghao answers flatly. “And because my wife is bleeding time in a warehouse while we talk. Agree or don’t. But if I walk into this alone and don’t come back, you lose the chance at whatever game you’re playing with the docks.”

“You’re more interesting than I gave you credit for, Minghao. Fine. Deal. Choi support if the Virate comes calling. You deliver on the information. And try not to die, Baby would be devastated if the lead she gave your wife ended up with her dying."

Minghao pauses. "We'll discuss what you mean later."

"Sure."

Minghao pockets the phone. His mind cycles through possibilities of Yuan’s training, the scar, the grey eyes that matched his mother’s. Blood for blood. The old laws demanded it, but something sharper cuts beneath the duty now. Your voice on the comm, steady even in terror. The way you’d crushed the device rather than let it lead danger straight back here. Stubborn. Honest. Wicked in ways that had nothing to do with tarot cards.

The doors open into the cold concrete expanse. Elara and Kai snap to attention near the armored car, but Minghao waves them off with a sharp gesture. “Stay here. Guard the penthouse. No one in or out. If I’m not back by dawn, call Yoon Jeonghan."

“Understood, sir.”

Minghao slides into the driver’s seat himself, the engine humming to life. Rain hammers the garage ramp as he accelerates upward, the city’s neon arteries blurring past. His grip on the wheel is steady, but the red cord around his wrist catches the dashboard light.

His hands tighten on the wheel. He's ending this game of shadows tonight.

-

Your head throbs with a deep, nauseating pulse that radiates from the back of your skull down through your jaw. The world tilts when you try to lift it, the edges of the dim warehouse blurring like wet ink on parchment. The concussion is surely courtesy of the desperate headbutt you'd delivered when Zhi Yuan had grabbed you in that alley. The satisfying crunch of his nose breaking still echoes faintly in your memory, a small, defiant victory amid the terror.

Thick ropes bite into your wrists and ankles, securing you to a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor. The warehouse is vast and derelict, one of the many abandoned husks along the Lower Water Street docks where Xu shipping containers sit in rows.

Rain hammers on the corrugated roof overhead, leaking in thin streams through gaps in the panels to form oily puddles on the concrete. Dim emergency lights cast long, sickly yellow shadows across stacked crates and rusted forklift skeletons.

You test the ropes around you subtly, keeping your movements small, but there's no give. Your small knife is long gone, though the black tourmaline bracelet is still there, warm against your skin, a fragile tether.

Across from you, Zhi Yuan is seated casually on an overturned crate. Blood has dried in dark rivulets from his broken nose down over his mouth and chin, staining the collar of his shirt. The injury makes his sharp, balanced features turn grotesque, his grey eyes eery in the low light. He holds a stained cloth in his hand, dabbing occasionally at the swelling in his face.

"You're not what I expected," he admits. "Though I suppose any woman associated with the Choi family fights back."

You lift your chin, ignoring the way the motion sends fresh dizziness spiraling through you. Fear coils tight in your gut, but you refuse to let it show. You meet his gaze evenly, challenging every boardroom lesson your father ever drilled into you since your sister's death.

"Headbutting you was worth the headache," you mutter. "Though I imagine it hurts worse on your end."

His mouth twitches into something like a smile. "I've endured worse. You know, most heiresses would be sobbing by now. Begging. Offering credits or Syndicate favors."

"I'm not worried."

"You think your husband is coming?"

"I know so."

He leans back and sighs. "I know so too." His eyes watch you carefully. "I saw the way you looked at my scar at the gala. Same as his. You don't miss much, do you?"

“Enough to know you're a threat. What do you want, Zhi Yuan? Or is it Ken? Does the Virate let you keep any name at all?"

His grey eyes narrow slightly, but the amusement doesn't fade. "Names are fluid for us. Tools. Zhi Yuan was the boy the system forgot. Sato Ken was the man who married well and smiled at galas. Neither is real. But you can call me Yuan. It's... familiar."

“Familiar because of whatever connection you have to my husband.”

Yuan stops dabbing his nose and watches you for a long moment. He rises slowly, pacing a few steps through the puddle-streaked space. His boots splash softly. Yuan drags another crate closer and sits across from you again, legs stretched out casually.

“Tell me,” he drawls. “How does it feel to be married to a man who was never meant to have a wife? A real one, anyway.”

“It feels like he's going to kill you." You stare at him. "And if he doesn't, the Choi Syndicate will. I'm not some random woman you can steal away in the middle of the night. Your turn - why me if this is about him or the Virate?"

"I was at your wedding, you know?" He cocks his head. "You made a beautiful bride. The intent was to kill you and turn the Choi Syndicate against him, but once I saw that he cared, I knew that wouldn't work. They would see his honestly. So now you're just bait. My brother owes me a conversation."

The revelation hits you like a physical blow. Your breath catches sharply in your throat. Brother. You look into Yuan's eyes and don't know how you missed it - Luli looks right back at you, the cool grey, the calm eye of the storm.

Yuan watches your reaction with dark satisfaction, leaning back slowly. “Yes. Luli’s firstborn. The one she tried to hide. I found out about him by accident, you know? There he was, golden second son, raised by our mother and Jian in relative comfort, given a public name and legit empire to inherit while being a Shade for the Virate. All while I rotted in foster homes and training cells, learning how to kill before I could read properly. It wasn’t fair. He got life, the light, the illusion of choice. I got the shadows and the scars."

The Devil upright. A man in chains, who cannot escape what he is bound to. The tarot cards make sense, suddenly. You're looking at the devil, a man who cannot or will not escape the fate he thinks he's tethered to. You think of the Nine of Wands upright - a wounded warrior still standing guard, exhausted but defiant - and realize it's Minghao. Someone stuck between two worlds.

"I don't care where you're from or who you're related to," you spit out. "Only a weak man pities himself to this degree."

It hits a nerve. Yuan stands, violence written all over his face, but a device on the table a few feet away chimes and shows a hologram of a map, a red dot pinging as it approaches. Your heart lurches when you realize it's Minghao, throat tightening as the dot speeds through the roads of the Warehouse District.

"Finally," Yuan sighs. "I get to meet my brother."

Thunder rolls in the distance. Your heart hammers in your chest as you watch the entrance door, hearing the hiss of tires and the slamming of a car door. You can barely breath until the heavy metal door is being ripped open, rain pouring in as a dark silhouette slips through. Minghao shuts the door behind him, water streaming off of his black jacket, hair plastered to his forehead and neck. His eyes are unreadable, scanning the room before they fall on you.

Minghao strides forward, ignoring Yuan entirely. Your heart stutters, the violence in his eyes like nothing you've seen.

"Are you okay?" His voice cuts through the rain, low and steady.

You manage a nod, the motion sending fresh spikes of pain through your skull. The ropes bite deeper as you shift, but you hold his gaze. “I’m alive.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering along his cheek. For a heartbeat, the polished heir you met in the boardroom vanishes completely. This is the man who snapped an assassin’s neck on your wedding night. This is the Shade.

"Good. I'll be just a moment, okay?"

You nod and only then does he turn to his brother. Yuan is standing, clearly annoyed. The resemblance is unmistakable now that you know to look for it - the same sharp-soft balance in their features, the same predatory grace. But where Minghao carries a coiled stillness, Yuan vibrates with resentment, grey eyes burning with untapped rage.

“Brother,” Yuan greets. “Took you long enough.”

Minghao doesn’t waste words on pleasantries. “You’re no family of mine. We cull men weak enough to be driven by petty jealousies.” Minghao gestures to him. “Knives only. Old way. No guns. No tricks. You and me."

Yuan’s smile widens, splitting the dried blood on his lip. “You still cling to the old customs? You're a little princeling here - you aren't Virate.”

“I honor what I am,” Minghao replies. He shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall to the wet floor. Beneath it, the compression shirt clings to his frame, revealing the holster straps and the faint outline of the small spell jar you gave him, still tucked against his chest. The red bracelet on his wrist stands out like a slash of blood against pale skin. “Do you?”

Yuan laughs, low and bitter and strips down to a similar compression shirt as Minghao. Two blades appear in his hands, thin, wickedly curved karambits that catch the light. “I was forged in the same dark you were. Let’s see which of us the Triptych favored more.”

Minghao draws his own knives. No flourish. Just efficient, practiced motion. One in each hand, shorter than Yuan’s but perfectly balanced. He rolls his shoulders once, eyes never leaving his brother’s face as the rain hammers the roof in relentless sheets and water drips from cracks overhead, plinking into puddles that spread across the concrete like spilled ink.

You test the ropes again, heart hammering against your ribs. The black tourmaline bracelet feels warm against your skin, a small circle of your own intention. You close your eyes, sucking in a short breath as you center yourself and focus on the single intention you have: Minghao living.

The fight begins without warning and you flinch. Yuan lunges first, a blur of motion across the wet floor, his karambit slashing in a wide arc meant to open Minghao’s throat. Minghao twists inside the reach, blades flashing up to parry. Metal screams against metal and sparks fly, tiny and bright in the dimness. They separate, circling each other like lions.

Yuan attacks again, faster this time, feinting low before slicing high. Minghao ducks, but not quite fast enough as the blade catches his shoulder, opening a shallow line of red. Blood wells immediately, mixing with rainwater. Minghao doesn’t flinch. He counters with a vicious upward thrust that forces Yuan to leap back, boots splashing.

Each collision is brutal, knives cutting air. Feet slide on the slick concrete, searching for purchase. Yuan is slightly taller, leveraging reach, but Minghao is faster and more economical with his movements, his efficiency brutal as he slashes Yuan across the rib, tearing fabric and flesh.

Minghao presses the advantage, driving Yuan backward with a series of rapid strikes. Their blades lock, faces inches apart, and for a moment, they strain against each other, muscles corded, breath visible in the damp air. Yuan’s grey eyes gleam with something like joy.

"I knew you liked the girl," Yuan goads. "This isn't business for you. This is emotional."

Minghao headbutts him hard and Yuan's face explodes in blood again, the damage you'd done earlier doubling. He stumps and Minghao follows, his knives dancing in a pattern too fast for you to track as he cuts open Yuan's shoulder, his forearm, his thigh. Minghao moves like pain is irrelevant, cutting Yuan until the man is screaming and kicking at Minghao for distance.

Yuan feints left, then spins, driving a blade toward Minghao’s kidney. You suck in a sharp breath but Minghao pivots and catches Yuan's wrist, twisting violently with a sickening pop. Yuan roars, dropping one karambit while swinging wildly with the other. Minghao takes a cut across the chest for it, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he yanks Yuan forward and drives his own knife upward where it sinks into Yuan's side, just under his ribs.

Yuan gasps, eyes widening. He tries to pull away, but Minghao holds him close, almost intimate. Their faces are inches apart, rain dripping from Minghao's hair onto Yuan's cheek.

"Blood for blood," he says, voice hard. He says something to Yuan in that same language you don't understand before he twists the knife.

Yuan’s mouth opens in a silent scream while his free hand claws at Minghao’s shoulder, leaving bloody streaks. His grey eyes lock onto Minghao’s for one long, terrible second. Then the light in them gutters out. Minghao yanks the blade free and Yuan collapses to the wet concrete with a heavy splash. Blood spreads beneath him, dark and final, mixing with rainwater and oil. The body twitches once, twice, then stills.

Minghao stands over his brother for a long moment, chest heaving, blood running down his arms and torso. Then he turns to you. The shift in him is immediate and devastating as the killer melts away into something soft. He crosses the distance in three strides, dropping to his knees in the puddle before your chair

His hands are trembling as he unties the ropes at your wrist, careful as he cuts through them with the knife slicked in his brother's blood. His dark eyes search your face frantically, cataloguing every bruise, the swelling at your temple, the way you’re favoring your head.

"Are you hurt?" He murmurs. "Tell me where. Please."

Please. You don't think you've ever heard him say that. Not to you. The way he says it is devastatingly soft, his sharp eyes round as he looks up at you, hands hovering like he doesn't know what to do.

“I’m okay," you whisper.

Minghao cuts away at the ropes around your ankle before tossing the knife and pulling you forward, careful not to press against any injuries. His embrace is fierce and gentle at once, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other spanning your back. You can feel his heart hammering against yours, fast and terrified in a way his face never shows.

It's the first time he's touched you - honestly touched you - since your brief kiss at the altar and the night you were almost killed. His touch is grounding and warm, the smell of him comforting but laced with the metallic tang of blood. You pull away, your hands hovering as you look at all the places he's bleeding.

“You’re bleeding-"

“It doesn’t matter.” He pulls you back in, his voice muffled by your hair. "You are nosey and you are stubborn and you are fascinating. Thank you for calling me."

"Minghao, you need stitches."

“Later.” He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed. Rain drips from his lashes. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters right now.”

The spell jar is still pressed between you, warm against his chest. You can feel its faint outline. The red bracelet on his wrist brushes your skin as he cups your face again. Something inside your chest cracks open, relief, fear, the strange blooming warmth you’ve been trying to ignore for months.

“I knew you’d come,” you whisper.

“I will always come for you.” The words are quiet, almost reverent. He kisses your forehead, then your temple, avoiding the bruise, then the corner of your mouth. Not possessive. Just desperate reassurance. “I’m sorry you had to face him alone."

“I headbutted him. Broke his nose.”

A soft, startled laugh escapes him. “Of course you did.” His thumb traces your jaw. “My wicked, impossible wife.”

He helps you stand, supporting most of your weight when your legs threaten to buckle. The warehouse spins for a moment, but his arm around your waist anchors you. He keeps you turned away from Yuan’s body, shielding you with his own as he guides you toward the broken door.

Outside, the rain is still falling in torrents. Minghao’s car idles just beyond the entrance, lights off, engine humming low. He helps you into the passenger seat with painstaking care, buckling you in, checking the angle of your head, murmuring soft instructions to breathe slowly. Then he rounds the car and slides behind the wheel.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Rain lashes the windshield. Minghao’s hands grip the wheel, knuckles white. Blood still trickles from the cut on his chest, but he ignores it, eyes fixed on you.

“I killed my brother tonight,” he says eventually, voice hollow. “For you. I need you to know I would do it again. I understand I have not been forthcoming or warm, but I care for you.”

You reach across the console and take his hand. His fingers curl around yours immediately, tight enough to hurt. The red bracelet shifts between you.

“I know,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, eyes closing again. When they open, the intensity is back, but softer now. Protective. Possessive in a way that feels like safety rather than the chains you'd felt that first meeting in the boardroom.

“Let’s go home,” he says. 

You nod, exhaustion crashing over you like the rain outside.

-

Doctor Tzintzun finally steps back, wiping her hands on a sterile cloth. The Observatory penthouse is quiet except for the low hum of the air filtration system and the distant patter of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Fog presses close outside, turning Hyperion into a muted glow far below

The doctor packs her kit with efficient movements, glancing between you and Minghao. “The stitches on your arm will hold, but keep them dry. Concussion protocol is in place - rest, dim lights, no screens. As for you, Mr. Xu, those cuts were deep. Change the dressings in six hours. Pain management is on the bedside table. Call if anything worsens.”

Minghao nods once, voice low. “Thank you. Elara will see you out.”

The door seals behind them with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone in the low-lit living room. Your body aches in new and old places, your temple tender from the concussion. But you’re alive. He’s alive.

Minghao sits on the wide, low couch beside you, closer than he’s ever been in this space. The black silk robe he wears hangs open at the chest, revealing the edge of white bandages and the hard planes of muscle beneath. His hair is damp, falling across his forehead in dark strands. The red bracelet you made him still circles his right wrist, the azabache charm catching the soft amber light from the single lamp. He hasn’t taken it off.

You shift slightly, the oversized shirt you wear - his, you realize - riding up your thighs. The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid. The fight. The blood. The truth of what he is. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the faint scar on his knuckle, the way his chest rises and falls with careful, controlled breaths.

He turns toward you, dark eyes intense in the dimness. For once, there’s no polished mask, no deflection. Just raw, unguarded focus on your face.

“I don’t know why you get under my skin,” he says quietly. "I was trained not to let anyone close. Attachments were liabilities. You were supposed to be a transaction - a bridge that was useful and controllable."

He reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with surprising gentleness. The touch lingers, callused fingertips tracing your jaw. “But you fight back when you should crumble. You read the universe in cards and smoke and believe in it so stubbornly it makes me question everything I was forged to be. You called me when you were terrified and trusted me to come.”

His thumb strokes your lower lip, eyes dropping to watch the motion. The air between you crackles, charged like the moments before lightning. Your pulse quickens, heat blooming low in your belly despite the exhaustion and pain. You can smell him, clean skin, faint pine.

“I don’t understand it,” he murmurs, leaning closer. "You affect me. You make me want things I was never meant to have.”

"So have them," you murmur.

He laughs and kisses you. It’s not the chaste brush from your wedding. This is real and hungry, months of restrained tension exploding between you. His mouth claims yours, tongue sweeping in to taste you deeply. You moan softly into him, hands fisting in the front of his robe, pulling him closer. He tastes like mint and rain and something darker, needier. His hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, the other sliding down your side to grip your hip.

The world narrows to the wet slide of tongues, the soft sounds of breath and need, the heat of his body pressing you back against the couch cushions. Your bandages pull slightly but the pain is distant, drowned in sensation. His scent envelops you. The low groan vibrating from his chest makes your pussy clench.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse point. “Tell me to stop,” he rasps against your skin, voice wrecked. “If this is too much after I lied-"

“Don’t you dare,” you whisper, threading fingers through his damp hair and tugging him back up for another searing kiss.

Minghao makes a low sound and shifts you both, pulling you into his lap so you straddle him. The robe falls open completely, revealing his bandaged torso and the hard length of him pressing against you through thin fabric. Your shirt rides up, bare thighs against his hips. He’s already hard, thick and hot, and the realization sends a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you.

He kisses you like a man starving, hands roaming under your shirt to cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble tight and you let out a shaky sound, overwhelmed.

“So fucking perfect,” he growls, breaking the kiss to yank the shirt over your head.

Cool air kisses your skin, then his hot mouth is on you, sucking one nipple deep while his fingers pinch and roll the other. The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth, the suction - all of it pulls desperate whimpers from your throat. You arch into him, grinding down against his cock, feeling the thick ridge slide against your dampening folds through your panties.

“Minghao-" His name breaks off on a moan.

He switches sides, lavishing the other breast with the same filthy attention, sucking hard enough to leave imprints of his teeth on your skin. One hand slides down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers finding you soaked.

“This wet for me already?” he murmurs. “My wicked wife.”

Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling deep. You cry out, hips rocking instinctively as he starts to pump them slowly at first, then faster, thumb finding your clit and circling with devastating pressure. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers working in and out of your pussy fill the room, mixing with your gasps and his low groans. He kisses you again, swallowing your moans as he finger-fucks you harder, scissoring and curling until you’re trembling on the edge.

“Come for me, baby,” he demands against your mouth. “Let me feel it.”

The orgasm crashes over you, sharp and sudden, and you clamp down hard around his fingers, thighs shaking as it rips through you. He doesn’t stop, working you through it with deep, steady strokes until you’re whimpering his name.

He pulls his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with a groan. “Taste so good. Need more.”

Before you can catch your breath, he lifts you effortlessly, ignoring the way you yelp, hands hovering near his injuries. He lays you back against the wide couch and kneels between your spread thighs, peeling your soaked panties down your legs and tossing them aside. The cool air hits your exposed, dripping pussy, making you shiver. Minghao stares like a man possessed, eyes dark, lips parted.

He spreads your thighs wider, hooking your legs over his shoulders, and buries his face between them. The first long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit draws a broken cry from you, his tongue parting you like velvet.

“Fuck, you’re dripping for me,” he mutters, voice muffled.

He sucks your clit between his lips, tongue flicking rapidly while two fingers plunge back inside you, fucking you in time with his mouth. It makes you suck in a sharp gasp, lost to the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers. You fist his hair, hips grinding against his face as another orgasm builds fast and brutal. He curls his fingers against that perfect spot inside you, sucking hard on your clit, and you shatter again with a sharp scream, thighs clamping around his head as you come again.

He laps you through it, gentler now, until you’re twitching and oversensitive. Only then does he rise, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. His cock strains against his pants, a wet spot forming at the front that makes you eager. You reach for him, tugging the fabric down, freeing his thick, heavy length to reveal a flushed dark head slick with precum. You wrap your hand around him, stroking once, and he hisses, hips jerking.

“Need to be inside you,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Now.”

He sits back on the couch, pulling you into his lap again so you can straddle him with your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. His cock slides hot and bare against your soaked folds as you grind down, coating him in your arousal.

“Fuck me,” you whisper lips dragging against his. "Like you mean it. Like I'm yours. Like you should have on our wedding night"

Minghao grips your hips, eyes locked on yours, and pulls you down onto him in one smooth, relentless thrust that has you gasping into his mouth, your hands cradling his face.

The stretch is exquisite, burning pleasure as he fills you completely, bottoming out with a shared groan. You’re so wet he slides in easily, but the fullness makes your breath hitch. You can feel every ridge, every throb of his cock buried deep enough to make you shiver.

"Fuck," he hisses. His hands knead your ass, guiding you to rock on him. “So fucking hot and wet around me.”

You start moving, riding him slow at first, savoring the drag of his thick cock against your walls. He floods your senses - his scent, the taste of him still on your lips from earlier kisses, the sight of his bandaged, muscled torso flexing beneath you, the feel of his hands guiding you harder, faster.

He surges up, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss as he thrusts up to meet you. The angle hits deep, grinding against that spot inside of you that has you twitching. Sweat slicks your bodies where they press together, his heart pounding against yours.

“Ride me harder,” he growls, one hand pressing your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock inside you. “Want to feel you come on my cock.”

You do, grinding down with fluid rolls of your hips until the pressure builds again. He sucks harshly against your neck then lower, biting and licking his way toward your chest. The feeling of his teeth scraping against you sends you over, coming around him as you hide your face in his neck, crying his name.

Minghao curses, flipping you onto your side gently with your back to his chest. He's careful as he lifts one of your thighs and hooks it over his, and he slowly thrusts back into you from behind in a single, fluid stroke. His arm wraps around you, hand cupping your breast, pinching the nipple as he fucks you with long, drawn out thrusts that have you panting.

"My pretty wife," he pants against the shell of your ear, nipping lightly. "Fate brought you to me. I know it. I never believed before until you."

You moan helplessly, pushing back to meet every thrust. Another orgasm crashes over you, vision whitening as your walls flutter and squeeze him. Minghao groans deeply, pace faltering until he buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking as he spills inside you.

You stay locked together, panting, bodies slick with sweat. His cock softens slowly inside you but he doesn’t pull out, holding you close. His hand strokes lazily over your stomach, down to where you’re still joined, feeling the mess of your combined release leaking out.

After long minutes, he presses soft kisses to your neck, your shoulder, your jaw. Turning your head, he kisses you properly again.

“I never intended this,” he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss. “I was supposed to use this marriage, keep my distance, and fulfill the Virate’s purpose. But you deserve better. You deserve a real husband. Protection, honesty, partnership. I promise you that - until death, like I said. No more shadows between us."

"I would like that," you whisper, looking up into his eyes - open and honest for the first time. "Thank you."

Rain taps against the window as you lay there, tired and safe in his arms. For once, you don't worry about anything - there is nothing to worry about. The Tower has already fallen. The illusions are gone. All that remains is what you choose to build from the wreckage.

-

The wedding you always imagined is better than your first one. Late afternoon light filters through the canopy of trees in soft, dappled gold, catching on the mist that clings to ferns and low-hanging moss. The air carries the scent of damp earth, pine resin, crushed herbs, and night-blooming jasmine. For once, the rain has paused, like the earth is letting you have this brief moment among the trees.

This is nothing like the extravagent wedding suspended three hundred floors above the city. No cameras. No political theater. Just earth. Just intention. Just truth.

You're barefoot on a small clearing of soft moss and fallen petals, wearing a simple slip of midnight silk that brushes your ankles. Minghao stands across from you, barefoot and dressed in loose black linen that makes him look less like a Shade and something softer. More solid. Something yours.

A length of hand-dyed red silk binds your hands together, soaked through with oils, saturated with the smell of rose and mugwart and something bitter. Baby stands a respectful distance away beside Seungcheol, her haunted expression gentler today, almost peaceful. Jeonghan leans against a tree with his usual lazy smirk while Kero grins, all teeth.

“This is the one that matters,” Minghao murmurs. "Until death."

:( her witchy moon water jars i love her :(

(sort of have the feeling that the Freak Accident was not a Freak Accident)

ohhhhhhhhh mama xu stepped in thaaaaaaaaat jaisjfioasjfiaj yikes yikes yikes

"yes we're familiar with the concept" ajsfhiufhiuahfsuiahsufihfuiahu is witchy gonna be my favorite syndicate oc, i think she is

"Very on-brand, wicked woman." - he's FLIRTING!!!

HEY. I HATE THE BABY SIGHTING BECAUSE WE KNOW WHY SHE'S SAD. SCREW YOU HALI MEDE.

"when his mother steps down from the title" yeah babe i hate to tell you but she's uhhhhhhhhh not gonna get that chance

"dont read too much into it" / "too late" THEYRE IN LOVE (theyre not lol)

"Syndicate. High up. Don't offend him." / "I don't care-" - sir you might want to care, like, a tiny bit? lol 

not hoshi's fuckboi era lmfaooooo HE MISSES BABY HES GRIEVING OK

i still like the idea of robot crow but WHATEVER

"like you should have on our wedding night" is CRAZY

wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh i love that ending a lotttttt :( :( :( :(

Call me He Who Howls in Open Places. Call me the Red One, the Unmoored, the Crooked Star. Do not call me Brother, for brothers bind.

Call me the Eye Unbound. I drink what spills. I burn away the unworthy.

THE SUN SPILLS RED, HUNGRY LIGHT BLEEDING. This is the desert evening, blood-spilled sand and burning waves of heat.

Said heat slams into you even as the sun dies, your shoes sinking in the sand as you slide out of the jeep. Dunes stretched out in every direction, red and gold and endless, rippling under the blood sky. Luxor is far behind you now, somewhere far behind where you can see. Wind hisses across the surface, carrying grains of sand that sear right through you. Somewhere far off, a hawk cries once.

Below you, the dig site lies half-revealed by the storm that blew in a few weeks ago. Black stone pylons jut from the sand like the broken ribs of a dead god, sending a chill up your spine. The gateway stands open, its stone mouth carved with falcons whose wings have been worn smooth by centuries of wind and sand.

Sand. The sand here is endless, clinging to anything and everything, the grit crunching between your teeth and scraping beneath your eyelids despite protective covering. Sand sticks to you even now as you pull your scarf higher over your mouth as you start down the slope. Each step sinks you ankle-deep, grains pouring into your boots.

The sand isn't the only nuisance - the heat is deadly, an inferno that presses against the top of your scalp and makes the exposed parts of your skin tingle as you walk. By the time you reach the camp ground below, your shirt is plastered to your back with sweat and your lungs feel sun-scored and sand-scoured.

Tents cluster around the dig site in orderly rows, white canvas snapping in the wind. Generators thrum, powering the floodlights as they kick on in the rapidly growing dark. Dozens of people move between the tents, a combination of laborers in faded galabeyas carrying crates, archaeologists in khaki bent over folding tables, a photographer in jeans adjusting a lens. Somewhere, the smell of cardamom tea drifts toward you, sharp and sweet.

A man exits one of the larger tents and spots you. He's tall and broad shouldered with silver threading his dark hair, the expensive watch on his wrist catching the last of the red sun like a flare. Harlan Voss is every bit as intimidating in person as he was on the phone. He's a shipping magnate, a collector of antiquities and the kind of man who funds expeditions like this because he can.

He isn't your cup of tea, but he's the only way into the site up ahead right now, so you're willing to swallow past the sour taste in your mouth and accept his handshake when he reaches you.

"Great to see you," He greets, his handshake firm. "I trust the drive wasn't too punishing?"

"No. Storm seems to have cleared the way." You look past him to the ancient dig site. "It really did clear away the sand here too."

"Thank the Gods." You cock your head at the turn of phrase but he's already looking over his shoulder at the half-dug up site. "We're on a timeline. Storms roll in often, so we need to get in and out before the next. Come on, let me show you the operation."

You follow as he walks and talks, introducing you in clipped tones to a Rolodex of names you're struggling to keep up with already: Dr. Hassan al-Masri the epigrapher and Leila Farouk the conservator are names you vaguely recognize, shaking their hands politely. Less known to you is Piet Keppens, a lanky photographer whose hands are a little too clammy and is sunburned to hell, and a swath of Cairo University students hauling equipment for internship hours, eyes wide when they hear your name.

A security team stands apart from everyone else, sprawled under a shaded awning despite the vanished sun like a pride of lions. They check rifles and lean over schematics and computers of perimeters that you don't understand - could never understand, probably. You don't know why you need security in the desert with guns and knives. It's not like the jackals will bother big groups and no one is coming this far out to rob a tomb like in an Indiana Jones movie.

Well. Perhaps not no one, you realize, as you set eyes on someone familiar, your lip curling in dissatisfaction.

Voss gestures toward a figure leaning on an awning pole, watching you with dark eyes. "Vernon Chwe," Voss says. "Our specialist in acquisitions and one of our security personnel."

Your stomach knots. You know Vernon. Most people in your field do, considering he has a habit of getting tombs open before permits are granted, finding artifacts that vanish into private collections, and a decent degree to back his unethical tomb raiding.

Fucking Vernon.

He straightens as you approach, tall and lean, skin tan from spending days under the sun. His hair is hidden under a dark cap, his linen shirt loose with the sleeves rolled high enough to reveal arms covered in ink. Your eyes snag on the tattoos, recognizing ancient scripts and symbols winding up his arms and vanishing under his sleeves.

Strange. You've never seen his tattoos before, but you wonder why a tomb raider of his legacy - however tainted - is sporting tattoos of hieroglyphic protective wards and Coptic symbols for binding alongside something that you can't decipher. Sumerian, maybe.

The thought unsettles you. You're supposed to be the historian and language expert here, and seeing dead languages on a man who would rather turn a profit than uncover history and deliver it to those who should preserve it makes your stomach turn.

Vernon's mouth curves when you stop in front of him, a small and unreadable smile. "Doctor."

You nod once. "Chwe."

Voss claps your shoulder, his hand lingering a beat too long before he wishes you a good evening and stalks off, calling orders about timelines as he goes.

Wind tugs at the tent ropes, and somewhere, someone laughs as the scent of cooking fat and meat wafts toward you, dinner preparations underway. You and Vernon stand in the small pocket of quiet in the security hub, your eyes flicking back to his arms, tracing the ink.

He tilts his head. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"Yes, I've been busy."

"Hiding in those stacks?"

"Working, Chwe." You cross your arms. "I suppose you're unfamiliar, unless the word theft has replaced the word work in recent years."

"You're the linguist." He smirks. "You tell me."

"I'm a historian."

"Tomato, tomato."

He irks you. The few times you've had the displeasure of crossing paths with Vernon Chwe have always left you flustered and frustrated. He is annoyingly good at poking all of the buttons that anger you, and he always does it with a flippant comment and a blase attitude that makes you see red.

It doesn't help that everyone is unfailingly charmed by him. Your colleagues both want to be him and want to be with him, always falling for the smooth lines and the fact that he has a face that belongs on a runaway, not at an ancient civilization site. The kind of face that would have definitely had a statue or two dedicated to it, a painting maybe-

"You been to the site yet?"

That question catches you off guard. You look him up and down, but he just watches you with that same lazy expression he always has. "No."

"Want to?"

You hate that you do. You don't need an escort, though, so without answering, you pivot in the sand and start walking. He laughs behind you, but you hear him push off the pole and follow you.

Immediately, you don't know where you're going. The maze of tents might as well be a mini city, and they're tall enough that you can't see the dig site that is down further in the sand. You pause as you try to gather your bearings, swiveling from left to right until Vernon breezes past you, taking a left.

"This way, Stacks," he laughs.

You storm after him. "I beg your pardon?"

"What?"

"What do you mean stacks? Are you seriously talking about my ass?"

He pauses to turn and look at you, brows raised. When he realizes you're serious, he starts laughing, open and loud and so amused that it makes you immediately feel embarrassed, flushing from head to toe as your hands make fists.

"What?" You demand.

"Stacks as in libraries," he manages. "Not your ass. I mean you do have a great-"

"Shut up!"

He holds his hands up and starts walking again, chuckling faintly as though your error still amuses him long after the moment has passed.

Vernon leads you down careful wooden steps that have been built to lead into the heart of the dig site, the Temple of Montu still half-buried from sand. A tingle slides over your skin as you approach, the floodlights casting shadows up the sides of the temple and between the pylons. Black basalt walls drink in the light and as you reach level footing, your steps slow as you approach.

Wind stirs as you approach. The temple is taller than you expected, with sand-scoured carvings and weather-bitten stones. Up close, you feel the heavy eyes of the stone falcons, heart skipping a little as you near them. Vernon seems unbothered, walking between the falcons without missing a beat. You scurry after him, casting a glance at the twin statues before stepping into the shadow of the gateway that leads into the temple.

Vernon stops just outside the collapsed front door. Tomorrow, the work teams will clear the door for you to go inside. For now, it's just the whistling wind and the buzzing on your skin like you're being watched. When you look around, it's just you and Vernon here, his inky eyes on your face.

You drift away from him toward the gateway. The shade inside the passage is deep, and you can feel the hiss of cool air coming from inside, smelling of dust and cold stone. Your eyes adjust slowly as you try to peer past the collapsed stone.

The inner walls are covered in reliefs, though wind has worn them soft. Montu stands triumphant, falcon-headed with his spear raised, offering placed around his feet below him. Your eyes catch on the lower register of the statue and you realize they're not eroded - they're gouged. Deep chisel marks mar the stone where text and figures once lived, like someone wanted them gone.

Glyphs on the doorframe catch your attention. You walk over to them, hand lifting as you trace them with your finger. The sand scrapes beneath your hand, stone solid and cold. Your mind works fast, unscrambling the words, brows pinching as you read.

"Finding secrets?" Vernon's voice makes you flinch. You'd almost forgotten he was there.

"What did Voss say this place was again?"

Vernon lifts a shoulder. "Temple to Montu. Supposed to be like a treasure hold or some shit."

"Don't be crass."

"Fine. Some stuff."

You hum, thoughtful. "These inscriptions are weird. It says cast beneath the horizon and held."

"Great. What's it mean?"

"I don't know."

"Useful."

Your head snaps in his direction. "Don't be an ass."

He smirks. "Don't be crass."

You fight the urge to snap back at him. He's leaning on a pylon, arms crossed, those tattoos staring back at you, and you can't help but get distracted by them again. The collar of his shirt is looser now, revealing a cluster of symbols that look like a map, lines intersecting in ways that tease at a meaning but slip away when you try to pin them down.

"You're staring." You glance up to find him smirking again. "Come on, Stacks. Work in the morning. Let's make sure there are no scorpions in your tent."

"I'm entirely capable of doing that myself."

"Damn. You want to come take care of mine?"

Letting out an angry sound, you turn your back on the temple and storm past him. You figured the hardest part of this dig would be the sun and the deciphering, but you've decided that your biggest challenge is going to be Vernon, an unexpected bump in the road.

You don't look to see if Vernon follows - you don't have to. You feel him there, a quiet pressure at your back. It doesn't occur to you until you're in your tent changing that Vernon's presence had felt exactly like the temple.

- A faint rustle pulls you awake as dawn cracks against the horizon like an egg, the sun's yolk spilling through the tiny gap in your tent door. The air in your tent is thick, but the leftover cool from the night before hasn't been burned off from the sun yet.

You shift, intending to sit up when you feel something cold and segmented brush against your calf. You freeze. Heart hammering, you lift the sheet slowly and carefully, peering underneath. Coiled on your nice little bed by your leg is a scorpion, inky body fat, its stinger arched.

Leirus quinquestriatus. A deathstalker, its pinchers raised slightly, sensing your movement. You know if it stings you that its venom is potent enough to ruin you for days. Even if it wasn't, you really don't want to be stuck, trying to swallow down your discomfort at the way its scaly little body siddles up to you.

Holding your breath, you ease your hand toward the edge of the cot, fingers closing around the empty water glass. You don't dare breathe as you bring the cup toward the creature. It twitches and you stop, folding your lips together to stop you from squealing. You're not afraid, but you really don't want to be stung.

Licking your lips, you carefully bring the glass toward the scorpion and then in a single fluid motion, you invert the glass over the arachnid, trapping it against the sheet. It skitters, legs tapping the glass. You don't lift your hand, reaching with a free hand to grab your notebook, putting it against the edge of your bed.

Carefully, you slide the glass and the scorpion immediately gets angry, fighting the glass as you drag it until it's trapped between glass and notebook. Its tail flicks, pissed off at its makeshift prison. You exhale, swinging your legs over the side of the cot to stand. The sand floor is cool under your feet as you rush to the entrance, pushing the doorway open.

Outside, the camp is waking up. You hear distant voices and the clatter of cookware, the low hum of generators powering up. The sky is a gradient of grey and blue, stars fading in the light.

A worker passes, nodding at you while mumbling, "Sabah el-khair."

You nod back with a smile. "Sabah el-noor."

Stepping into the open air, you kneel at the edge of the tent. With careful hands, you tip the glass and let the scorpion scuttle free into the sand. It pauses to orient itself, then burrows swiftly out of sight.

You watch it go, a shiver tracing up your spin. In most traditions, scorpions are omens, guardians and harbingers of death. Specifically in ancient Egyptian lore, scorpions were sacred to Selket, but they were also symbols of chaos and strife, omens of dark tidings on the horizon.

You shake off the thought. Superstition has no place here. Though you deal in lore and mythos and theology as much as you deal in history and language, superstition in the desert can quickly feel like heat stroke and conspiracy, and as much as you'd like to think there is something mystical and otherworldly about the ancient world, you know it's a thread that's too dangerous to chase.

Back inside your tent, you dress quickly in khaki pants, a long sleeved shirt to ward off the sun and the cool temple air, sturdy boots laced all the way up, and grab a satchel full of notebooks, pens, a water bottle and small archaeologist tools.

Outside, the camp is fully alive, people brewing tea over small fires and clustering around maps. The smell of flatbread baking mingles with the sharp tang of the diesel generators. You want to look for coffee, but you find Voss instead, retracing your steps from last night to the dig site.

He's already barking orders, his silhouette sharp against the rising sun. The workers have been at it since before dawn, and the collapsed doorway to the temple is already cleared, the rubble piled neatly to one side as Leila oversees where it needs to go.

Floodlights still cast harsh beams into the shadowed maw of the temple, gliding past the black basalt pylons. You glance at the falcons again, their beady eyes eroded with time and sand but still watching.

"Doctor!" Voss calls when he sees you. "Good, you're up. We're going in. Teams of three: security, researcher, laborer. No one wanders alone."

You nod, approaching the group collecting to be assigned. Dr. Hassan al-Masri is there, his epigrapher's toolkit slung over one shoulder, chatting rapidly to Keppens, whose camera is slung around his neck, face stuck in the white cast of sunscreen.

Voss assigns teams and you scan the group, hoping he pairs you with anyone except-

"You'll go with Chwe and Karim," Voss says, gesturing to Vernon who lounges against one of the falcons. He's dressed in all black tactical gear with a keffiyeh around his neck and pulled up to his nose, protecting him from the morning sun. You're surprised to see that his traditional dark hair has been replaced with a dark blonde mullet, roughly styled from the wind. "Chwe has a radio if you need it."

Of course. You nod and swallow past the dry patch in your throat, walking over to Vernon and Karim, who nods his head when he sees you.

"Morning, Stacks," Vernon greets, smirking. "Sleep well?"

You ignore him and turn to the third man in your party. "Ahlan wa sahlan."

Karim grins. "Ahlan beeki. Ready for the shadows?"

"Always."

The temple looms, its gateway a yawning void that seems to pulse. You've felt the pulse since last night, a strange sense of doom like fingers brushing the nape of your neck. You think of the scorpion in your bed this morning and the doom deepens, but you shove it aside, unwilling to let your mother's bedtime stories lead you astray.

The teams fan out, headlamps flicking on as they step through the gateway. You follow Vernon and Karim into the dim coolness, the temperature dropping sharply as sand gives way to the stone floor. The air is stale and thick with dust, carrying the faint echoes of incense long burned out and faded myrrh.

Inside, the temple unfolds, the hypostyle hall stretching before you, columns rising like petrified palm trees, the lotus blossom shaped tops cracked and smoothed with time. Floodlights from the entrance cast long shadows, dancing as the team moves. Your boots echo on the flagstones, each step stirring puffs of dust.

Montu, the falcon-headed god of war, dominantes the reliefs. He stands with his spear in hand, ready to smite his enemies. You see each enemy etched alongside him, the paint faded and nearly washed away. Nubians, Hyksos, Libyans - all of them await his slaughter and fury, his most hated enemies. Montu's form stands taller than them all, his depiction muscular and divine, wings partially unfurled.

One carving catches your eye and you hurry over to it, Vernon and Karim on your heels. You blow the dust from the wall, wiping a hand to sweep away the thick layers of grime and time.

"Look at this," you murmur, more to yourself than your companions. "Montu was Theban originally, but his cult spread north during the Middle Kingdom. I'd wager this temple is Eleventh Dynasty, based on the style."

Vernon leans in too close. You smell him immediately - woody oud mixed with something else staticky. His breath is warm on your shoulder when he says, "Fascinating. Does he have a favorite color as well?"

You shoot him a glare. "If you're not going to contribute, at least don't distract me."

Karim chuckles at your exchange and shines his flashlight along the base of the column. "The god is angry here. See the fire in his eyes?"

Shuffling closer, you look to where Karim points. Indeed, the inlaid eyes are gone, sockets hollow. Still, the ferocity remains in the carved lines.

You nod, switching to Arabic to keep Vernon out of your conversation. "Yes, Montu was the bull of battle. It is he who grants victory. But in later periods, he merged with Ra, becoming Montu-Ra, the solar warrior."

Vernon snorts. "Solar warrior?"

You stare. "You speak Arabic?"

"I've got the same degree as you."

"You don't."

"Alright. I've got a degree."

"Well if you can't appreciate the cultural significance-"

"Ease up, Stacks. It was a joke. I appreciate the significance."

You grit your teeth, moving on. The sense of doom you'd felt this morning intensifies as you delve deeper, a prickling unease that makes your skin crawl. It's not just the chill - you feel like the walls are watching and you're reminded of the falcons in the front.

Temples like this were sacred precincts, boundaries between the mortal and divine. You've translated enough texts to know that the Ancient Egyptians weren't messing around with their warnings and curses, and the knowledge weighs heavy on you the further you go.

The hall branches into corridors, the teams' voices echoing faintly from other paths. Your group takes a left fork, Vernon leading with casual confidence, the beam of his flashlight sweeping.

"This way looks promising," he announces. He glances back at you, eyes flashing with something dark that gives you pause. "Unless you want to flip a coin, Stacks?"

"Based on what? Your pirate instinct for loot and theft?"

"Something like that."

Behind you, Karim snickers at your bickering. You ignore both of the men, walking further into the temple where the corridor begins to narrow, the walls closing in. As you go, you see that the reliefs here are denser, narrating a tangle of Montu's story starting with his birth from Nun to his battles against Apep and his role with ancient Pharaohs.

You trace a cartouche with your finger, dust flaking. "Mentuhotep II," you murmur. "He unified Egypt after the First Intermediate Period. This temple might commemorate his victories. Perhaps Montu was his patron."

Vernon is quiet for a second. "Patrons aren't always what they seem."

You glance sideways at him. "Meaning?"

"Meaning keep looking for shit, Stacks."

"You're impossible."

Despite Vernon, you push forward. The corridor opens into a chamber, smaller than the hall but richly decorated like some sort of ritual room. Offering tables line the walls, carved with heaps of bread, beer and oxen, all tributes that would have been given to the gods. In the center, a pedestal holds a fragmented statue of Montu, falcon head intact, body cracked but not entirely broken or dismembered.

Grinning, you drop to your knees and unpack your notebook to begin sketching. Your pencil scratches against the room while Karim lingers near the door, his eyes scanning the shadows as Vernon lounges against a wall, arms crossed, silent for once.

As you work, something presses against your awareness. The air feels thicker here, charged somehow, like the moment before a storm. You look up briefly, eyes scanning the room, but you see nothing. Still, you feel something pressed against you, a warning you can't feel. You hate that you think of the scorpion in your bed again, seeing the way its tail swayed back and forth, an ominous pendulum. Your hand trembles slightly as you work and you swallow past the unease.

Vernon watches you, his eyes burning a hole in your back. "You look like you're enjoying this."

"Some of us value knowledge over profit."

"Ouch. Knowledge pays your bills too though, doesn't it?"

He isn't wrong, but there is a difference between what you and Vernon do. Your desire to uncover history and write about it is rooted in preserving its cultural significance and keeping artifacts in their native lands where they belong, not front and center at some museum in New York or London - or worse, in some rich man's mansion that is rarely visited save for the holidays.

History is a personal endeavor for you - it's always been more than a job. It's air. It's blood. It's what keeps you going. You don't know how to explain that to someone like Vernon who doesn't understand that history isn't a subject to you, it's an artform.

You remember the first time you truly understood that. You were eight, curled up on the worn couch in your mother's Cairo apartment, the river glinting beyond the balcony like a ribbon of molten silver. Your mom had just come home from a dig in Saqqara, dust still in her hair. She always had dust in her hair, the braids ashen from spending hours by lamplight in digs far out in the desert. That night she'd brought you something, and in her lap was a shard of pottery, no bigger than your palm and painted with lotuses and a single line of hieratic script.

"Feel it," she'd said, handing it to you. You remember her calloused fingers stained with ink, the rasp of them against your skin, the way she'd leave finger prints on you sometimes. "This belonged to a woman who lived four thousand years ago. She held it. She drank from it. She probably argued with her partner over whose turn it was to fetch water, just like the women of this age do."

You'd traced the delicate brush strokes, awestruck. "How do you know it was a woman?"

"Because the name inscribed on the rim is a woman's name. Merit. And because women have always been an important part of history. Merit is no different. What women do holds power. Never let anyone tell you that history is made by men. History is painted with the power and prowess of women, no matter how men try to snuff it out."

From that day on, history wasn't something you could find in just textbooks. It was alive. It was stories whispered across thousands of years, lives and histories of people like Merit. Your mother had made it that way for you until her last day in a hospital room, clinging to that same piece of pottery you'd sat on the couch and examined together.

"There's a thread," she said, weak and tired as life slowly left her. "Running beneath the official history. I can feel it. Something no one records plainly. Something more, something we don't think is real. I wanted to find it."

She never had the chance.

Shaking your head free of visions of your mother, you focus on a longer text wrapping around the pedestal, wondering if you'd ever find the threads your mother used to talk about or if your fear of the mystical and rejection of the other would keep you from wandering down her same, chaotic path. The text is a hymn to Montu detailing his history. You scribble notes, unpacking how he was once a local deity in Armant, then elevated during the Eleventh Dynasty.

"He who makes the Nile red with the blood of his enemies," you translate, voice barely above a whisper. "Guardian of the hidden ways, binder of the chaos beyond."

"What does Montu know of chaos?" The tone of Vernon's voice makes you look at him.

He's half in shadow, watching you, the keffiyah loose around his neck, his face unreadable. Your eyes linger on the swirling tattoos that should make sense to you - do make sense to you, in a way. The binding symbols on his arms are a strange choice for a tomb raider who walks around with a gun, and the script near his throat…

"Need something, Stacks?" His question makes you look back up at him. He's watching you with an intensity that makes you flinch. "A new pen? A snack, perhaps?"

Huffing, you turn back to your task. The sense of something lingers, though, tingling at the back of your neck as Vernon watches you work. You know that he isn't stupid - he's far from it. Vernon is well-read and knowledgeable, and though you hadn't known his affinity for Arabic, you shouldn't be surprised.

You continue writing down the text and you frown at the shift as the language grows more archaic, switching periods and skipping around between dialects and writing systems. Weird. Your brows furrow as you write the words down haltingly, translating underneath a little at a time.

The sealed gate lies deep, where he who feeds the soil with iron waits…

You frown, unable to read damaged lettering. You skip to the next part, shuffling on your knees to get a better look.

… not open the lid, for spear will walk anew.

A chill races through you. The words echo and you think again of the scorpion this morning. You hadn't been sure what the omen meant, guardian or chaos, but the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach worsens.

Montu's temples often had hidden chambers, crypts for sacred objects or forbidden knowledge. This speaks to something grander, though. Something powerful, maybe. But you don't understand the meaning.

Vernon notices you've stopped writing, leaning forward to look at you, brow pinched. "What?"

"There's a warning here. It's a bit hard to understand but it… Do you speak Ancient Egyptian?"

He snorts. "Yes."

"It says not open the lid, for spear will walk anew. I don't understand the lid or the spear will walk anew."

Sighing, Vernon leans down and looks at your writing. He seems ready to make a snarky joke when his expression pinches. "That says door not lid and war not spear. Door and lid are written the same but the end is pronounced differently."

"Insightful. So not open the door, for war will walk anew."

Vernon looks to Karim. "Is there a lower chamber here?"

"Yes, that is part of what the team is to help clear the way, if needed."

Vernon looks at you but you're already getting up, shoving your notebook in your bag. "They shouldn't open that door. I'm not superstitious but it could be anything - booby traps, underground gasses. We need to tell Voss.

You hurry back through the corridor, Karim trailing with his flashlight beam bouncing across the walls. Vernon keeps pace beside you, the usual smirk absent. The sense of something dark clings to your skin, the temple alive in a way it wasn't before.

Halfway down the corridor, Vernon stops dead. His hand shoots out, fingers closing around your upper arm. You jerk to a halt, Karim nearly bumping into you from behind.

"You should go back," Vernon says, voice urgent. "Karim, taking her to camp. Now."

"What?" You stare at him, incredulous. "Why?"

"This isn't your fight."

"My fight?" You yank your arm free. "It's not a fight, Vernon. It's a temple, my goodness. There could be one of those ancient traps behind that door! Or any amount of gasses. The text isn't literal, ancient civilizations often used gods to explain natural dangers they didn't understand."

"Great. So go back to the tent where there's no mystical warnings."

"No."

Karim shifts uncomfortably, looking between the two of you. "Doctor-"

"No," you cut him off, turning your glare on Vernon. "What is your problem, Chwe? One minute you're mocking everything I say, the next you're trying to dismiss me like I'm an intern."

His jaw tightens. "I'm trying to do you a favor. Just listen to me."

"Or what? You're gonna shoot me?"

You hold his stare, heart hammering, not understanding the sudden intensity in his eyes, like he’s seeing something you can’t. Something that scares even him. It infuriates you more because you don't get it.

"Fine." He turns away to let you pass. "Get yourself killed then."

You storm past him, anger propelling you deeper into the temple. Karim calls your name once, uncertain, but you don't stop. You're not going to get killed, no matter how much Vernon's dramatics feel like a cheap script to a Lara Croft video game.

The corridors blur left, right, then left again. You follow the faint echo of voices and the scrape of tools. The air crows colder and thicker as you plunge into the temple, the apprehension behind your ribs pulling tight like a rubber band.

You enter a lower chamber, larger than the sanctuary above, lit by harsh portable floodlights. You're momentarily stunned at its vastness, steps slowing as you look up at the tall ceilings of cracked stone and floating dust. Your heart skips, mouth twitching briefly at the marvel of a new, undiscovered piece of history before you remember why you were rushing down here in the first place.

Voss stands at the center of the room, arms folded, watching as workers lever a massive stone door set into the far wall. The floodlights cast him in harsh light, half of him shadowed and intense as he stands back as the overseer. Dr. el-Masri is there next to him, scribbling notes while Piet snaps photos. Two security men stand ready, rifles slung. You roll your eyes. These people and their guns. You're in a tomb where the most dangerous thing is collapsing tunnels, natural gas and ancient traps.

"Voss!" You shout, jogging toward him. "Tell them to stop, they can't open that door."

"Ah, Doctor. Perfect timing."

"I found a warning upstairs," you tell him, holding out the notebook. "I think there's an ancient trap behind it or something precious the temple is trying to protect, maybe even a natural danger-"

"Every temple has warnings, Doctor. Curses to scare thieves. We're professionals."

"This isn't a curse. I think-"

"Listen, Doctor." He turns to you, smile thin. "Money requires risk. My investors require results. You require an in. We open the door, catalog what's inside, and get out before the next storm. Simple, and good business."

"You're willing to gamble for artifacts? How many archaeologists have died from ancient traps doing exactly what they were meant to? Or tunnels collapsing or hitting lethal air pockets of natural gas?"

"I'm willing to gamble for history. Your history, that you wanted to learn, no?"

Fury boils in you. You do want to study this temple, but the right way, not with force and lack of caution and-

Your anger is cut short when the work team gives a final heave, stone grinding against stone as the door shifts and swings inward with a hollow boom.

For a moment, there's only silence. Dust billows out in a choking cloud, swirling under the floodlights and sending everyone coughing. You take a few steps back, lifting the collar of your shirt to cover your nose, immediately wary of breathing in natural gases and poisoning yourself.

Everyone stands and waits for the dust to clear. You narrow your eyes, trying to see into the endless dark of the doorway, and you swear you see movement in the dark beyond. You squint, willing your eyes to see further, trying to make out anything in the gloom.

A shape lurches forward from the dark and several people take a step backward. The shape is tall and skeletal, wrapped in desiccated linen and bronze scales that clatter as it walks, making your skin crawl. Empty eye sockets glow faintly red, and the skeleton carries an ancient but sharp khopesh blade that glints in the floodlights.

No one speaks as the skeleton stops. You're open mouthed, heart pounding while Karim starts praying behind you as the revenant - you don't know what else to call it - stops, and stares at the room. You tilt your head, analyzing the wrappings and the decay rate of the skin, trying to do quick math and references to the mummified artifacts that the world already has access to in order to place the decay age of-

The first scream comes from a young student as a revenant you didn't see cleaves through her shoulder with a blade. Blood sprays, bright and obscene against the black stone. It's so violent that you don't move at first as you stare in horror, not processing the barbarity of it, the blood and the gore so out of place among scholars and workers.

Chaos erupts around you.

Workers scatter and the security team shouts, riffles firing in sharp rapts that make you clap your hands over your ears, cringing. Bullets spark off the armor of the revenant, some finding purchase in brittle bone with explosions of brittle white, but the revenants keep coming, more of them spilling out of the maw of darkness.

A hand shoves you hard from behind and you scream and wheel around, only to realize it's Vernon. He slams you sideways into a narrow alcove behind a fallen column, his body shielding yours. He forces you down to the ground, ducking with you as he goes. His hands are firm, pressing you into the alcove until your back is against cold stone and your knees are pressed into the dirt.

"Stay down," he barks, eyes wild.

Then he's gone, leaping into the fray.

You watch him, heart pounding, as you survey the scene in front of you. The chamber is a nightmare, filled with flashes of gunfire, bronze clashing against modern steel, and screams. Blood slicks the floor, turning the dirt to a clumpy maroon. There is more blood than you've ever scene, a hand clapping over your mouth as a khopesh cuts a man open from navel to throat. You spot Karim holding his own, swinging a pickaxe as he fights alongside a security woman, both of them trying to fend off one of the skeletons.

And then you see Vernon.

He moves like nothing human, faster than your eyes can follow, ducking under a khopesh as he wrenches a spear from a nearby revenant's grip. The weapon looks ancient, shaft wrapped in faded leather, but in Vernon's hand it sings. He spins it easily, fluid and practiced, and drives it through a revenant's chest. Dust explodes outward as the thing collapses into a heap of armor and bones, morbidly similar to a video game.

A spark crackles along the spear's length for an instant, blue-white and bright before vanishing. You blink, convinced you imagined it. But it happens again when Vernon parries another blade, a spark leaping from metal to metal, charring the skeleton's bone black.

Vernon fights like something out of the reliefs on the walls themselves, vicious and precise, ancient forms blending with modern brutality. A revenant lunges and Vernon sidesteps, spear whipping around to take its head clean off. You watch with your lips parted, unbelieving as another charges him and Vernon plants the butt of the spear into the ground to vault over the screaming revenant before spinning the spear around and driving it into the back of its head.

One of the students collapses against the wall near you, making you flinch. Her gut is sliced open, blood pooling dark between her fingers as she tries to stop the bleeding. She's gasping her eyes wide with terror, wet sounds coming from the back of her throat as she tries to say something - a prayer or plea for help, maybe. You start to crawl out to her, ripping parts of your shirt to press against her wound, to offer her something to staunch the bleeding.

A revenant leaps toward you, khopesh raised. You don't even have time to scream as you drop to the floor. Time doesn't slow like you thought it might as you approach death. You'd always thought maybe it would happen like it does in film, a single slowed frame where you see everything in detail. You don't, though. You only see the swing of the blade and feel the single pulse of fear so hard that it hurts your chest.

And then Vernon is suddenly there, spear flashing as he impales the skeleton through the jaw and out the back of its skull. He rips the spear out and spins to you, panting. He growls at you, face sneered as he bends down to grab you and haul you back into the alcove by your collar, your feet dragging against the dirt. You'd be offended if you weren't so grateful he'd just saved your life, falling into the alcove as he drops you like a sandbag.

"Save your empathy for later," he growls, voice raged. "Stay. Put."

He's gone again before you can answer.

The fight drags on. Gunfire dwindles as enemies run out. Bodies hit the floor, but so do revenants. The final one collapses into dust and bones courtesy of Karim's pickaxe, leaving him shaking and covered in sweat.

Silence returns, broken only by sobbing and labored breathing. Voss stands near the breached door, coat torn, face pale but alive while he stares into the darkness beyond, something hungry in his eyes despite the carnage.

Vernon strides through the settling dust, spear still in hand. He looks untouched - shirt ripped - but otherwise whole. The tattoos on his arms seem darker, the lines sharper, as if ink had bled fresh. For a second when you look at him, you don't see Vernon. Instead, you see something vengeful and alive, something uncontainable and vaster than anything else in the room.

When you blink, it's just Vernon again. He stops at your hiding place and tosses the spear aside casually. It clatters and he looks down at you, expression unreadable. He doesn't offer you a hand, but his face is expectant, so you push yourself up. The first time, your legs give out. When you try again, your stance seems to hold.

"How," You ask shakily, "the hell did you do that?"

"Good cardio, Stacks." He wipes grime on his shirt. "You should try it.

"Don't. I saw you. You moved like you've done this before. And the lightning-"

"Adrenaline does crazy things to the mind. Let's go."

Vernon grabs your wrist, not rough, but firm. He pulls you toward the exit as survivors limp past. Karim is soot-streaked but upright, helping a wounded security man. Leila is crying as she huddles near Piet, who is cradling a broken arm. Somewhere, Voss is barking orders.

Outside of the temple, the sun is brutal. The camp is in utter chaos, full of shouting and running feet, radios screaming for medevac. Stretchers are improvised from tent poles and canvas, the smell of diesel mixing with the scent of blood.

Vernon doesn't slow down for a second. His grip on your wrist is unrelenting as he cuts through the chaos, steering you past clusters of stunned survivors toward the largest of the medical tents. The white canvas flaps snap in the hot wind, each crack like a gunshot from the tomb, making you flinch.

Inside, it's already crowded but he ignores the crying of the wounded and the yelling of the very few medical experts as he pulls you to a corner and pushes you toward a tiny stool. "Sit."

You do without argument, legs folding without permission. The world tilts strangely, sounds muffled as though you're underwater. Your hands are in your lap, but you can't feel them at all, you realize. Strange. You don't remember when the numbness started, but it's creeping up your hands as you stare at your palms upturned in your lap. They're speckled blood. You realize it's not yours - that your hands are stained with someone else's blood. Probably someone dead.

Vernon crouches in front of you, blocking the rest of the tent from your view. He reaches out with a hand and tilts your chin upward, drawing your gaze from your hands to his face. His face is streaked with dust and dried blood, eyes darker than ever as he studies you the way he studied the revenants before attacking, quick and predatory.

"You're shaking," he says. Not a question.

You are? You look down. You are. Tremors ripple through your fingers, your knees knocking together though you're sitting. Your teeth want to chatter, and you can't fight it - you let them. Once the tremors start, you can't stop them, the ripples coming in waves that vibrate through your entire frame no matter how much you want to stop.

"Oh."

"You're going into shock."

He reaches past you and grabs a folded wool blanket from a stack of supplies. The motion brings him close - you catch that same woody oud scent, now laced with something sharper like blood. He shakes the blanket out and wraps it around your shoulders, tucking it tight.

"Breathw," he orders. "Slowly."

You try. The air tastes like antiseptic and metal, making your lungs stutter. Vernon's hands settle on your knees and he grips you, the pressure firm.

"Look at me."

You do. His eyes are darker up close, pupils blown wide, the irises almost black. There's something restless behind them, something vast trying to stay leashed. You wonder if the others see it too, or if the shock is making you see things like the lightning in the temple.

"In through your nose," he urges. "Out through your mouth. With me."

He demonstrates with a slow inhale, controlled exhale. You follow, clumsy at first, then steadier. The roaring in your ears recedes a little.

“Good.” He doesn’t move his hands. “Again.”

Minutes pass. Or seconds. Time has gone slippery. The blanket traps your body heat, and gradually the violent shivering eases into something mangable. Feeling creeps back into your fingers, prickling like pins and needles.

A medic approaches with a tray of medical supplies, but Vernon waves them off without looking away from you. "She's not injured. Just shock. Give us a minute."

The medic hesitates, then nods and moves on to someone whose wounds are worse.

You swallow. Your throat feels lined with sand. “They’re dead. Because of a door. Because Voss wanted-"

“I know.” Vernon’s thumbs press small circles against your knees, an absent motion, like he’s done this before. “Not your fault.”

“I tried to warn him.”

"I know. Voss has his own gods to answer to."

You stare at him. There’s that flicker again in his eyes, something ancient and furious banking itself down. The tattoos on his forearms shift as his muscles tense and the binding symbols seem to writhe for a heartbeat before stilling. Again, you can't help but feel like you're seeing things that aren't supposed to be there, but that you know are.

"What are you?" You whisper, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

"A tomb raider," he answers, his voice deadpan. He reaches for a canteen on the supply table, unscrews it, presses it into your hands. “Small sips.”

The water is warm but clean. You drink obediently. He watches until you’ve had enough, then takes it back. “Better?”

You nod. The blanket feels heavy now, comforting. Your pulse has slowed to something human. Vernon sits back on his heels, but doesn’t stand yet. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself and look toward the tent flap, where the desert glares white-hot beyond the canvas.

"Thank you," you say quietly. He raises his brows. "For saving me. I didn't listen to you. So thanks."

His expression softens for a fraction, gone almost before you catch it. "Don't mention it. Seriously, don't. We're not friends."

But he stays crouched in front of you a little longer, a silent sentinel, while the camp outside tries to stitch itself back together around the pieces of what just broke free.

-

The temple stretches around you, but it's wrong. It's too vast, the columns rising into a startless, black sky. Sand shifts under your bare feet, warm as blood. The air smells of myrrh and hot iron.

A low growl rumbles through the stone. You turn, heart kicking, and see her. It's a lioness pacing between the pylons, her coat the deep red-gold of fresh spilled blood in sunlight, muscles rippling with every step. Her golden eyes fix on you, ancient and furious. A golden disk flickers in and out above her head, flaring like the sun.

She circles closer, paws silent on the flagstones as she approaches, sleek muscles shifting. Around her neck hangs a collar of crimson fabric - its linen soaked through and dripping, leaving wet prints whenever she steps. Blood you realize.

You try to speak, but your throat is dust and ash, unusable. The lioness stops directly in front of you. Her breath is furnace-hot and she opens her mouth, but nothing comes out save for the sound of something wet and tearing.

Red fabric unfurls from her jaws, endless and spilling. It wraps around your wrists, your ankles, your throat. You feel the weight of plagues, of arrows, of slaughter ordered by a god who grew tired of mercy. The rage presses into you deeper and deeper, the lioness's eyes boring into yours.

The temple floor cracks open beneath you and sand pours upward like reverse rain, swallowing the columns, swallowing the lioness, swallowing you.

You jerk awake, lungs burning like you can still feel the sand scouring them in your dream.

The tent is dark, the camp outside hushed except for the low hum of generators and the occasional murmur of voices. Your shirt is soaked with sweat, your sheets tangled at your feet.

Something is wrong.

It isn't just the dream. The air feels charged like the moment before lightning strikes and your skin prickles with the same sense of being watched you felt the first night outside the gateway.

You swing your legs off the cot, heart racing as you stumble for your boots in the dark. Your movements are quick and automatic, rushing as you get dressed. You don't bother lacing your boots fully before yanking the flap of your tent open to step into the night.

The desert air is cool now, almost sharp after the day's furnace. Stars burn overhead, spilling across the sky in thousands of untold stories. The camp is mostly asleep, tents dark, only a few security lights flowing. The temple looms in the distance, floodlights casting a ghoulish halo in the distance.

And there, just outside your tent, is Vernon. He's sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket with his back against the supply crate while he eats dates from a small pouch. A pile of pits sit in the sand next to him as he chews, a gun unholstered on the blanket next to him along with a knife that looks like it's the length of your forearm.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He pops another date into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. "Guarding the perimeter. Scorpions, jackals, tomb raiders. You never know."

"You're guarding my tent."

"Technically the whole camp. Your tent happens to be on the perimeter." He offers the pouch. "Hungry?"

You ignore it. "You've been sitting here."

He shrugs and you stare at him, a tangle of emotions you don't have a name for yet. He looks tired with shadows under his eyes, but alert, like he's listening to every sound the desert makes.

"Anything else happen?" You ask finally.

He wipes his fingers on his pants. "Voss took a team back in. Small one. Himself, some security, Dr. el-Masri. Said it was safe now that the guardians were dealt with."

Vernon's tone tells you exactly what he thinks of that assessment and your stomach drops. "He went back in?"

"Man's got priorities. Look, we should head out-"

You turn toward the temple without another word. The pull is immediate and magnetic. You need to see what they're doing, need to stop whatever fresh stupidity Voss is commiting. It's what anyone with a brain would do - what your mom would do.

Vernon is on his feet in an instant, blocking your path. "No."

"Move."

"You're not going back in there."

"I need to tell him what he's doing! If he disturbs more seals-"

"He knows what he's doing." Vernon's voice is flat. "And you're not equipped for round two."

You step around him. "I don't need your permission."

Cursing, Vernon scoops up his weapons and jogs after you. "Of course you don't."

"No one is asking you to come with me - least of all me. I'm not a child."

You stride across the sand, boots crunching. The temple grows larger with every step, floodlights carving harsh shadows between the pylons. Vernon keeps pace, his anger crackling like the lightning you swore you saw the day before.

"You just came out of shock. You're running on adrenaline," he argues.

"I'm fine."

You stop at the wooden steps leading down to the site. The night wind whistles through the pylons, carrying faint voices up to you. You start down the steps and Vernon grabs your arm.

"I'm serious, Stacks. Go back to your tent."

You wrench free. "Why do you care? You don't even like me."

"You think I dragged you out of that bloodbath just to watch you walk back in? I don't have to like you. I have common fucking sense."

The words hit harder than you expect but you swallow, lifting your chin. "I'm not helpless."

"I didn't say you were, Gods above!" His voice drops, lethal. "But you're human. And whatever is in there isn't. We should leave."

You search his face, looking for the lie, the flippant mask. It isn’t there. Right now it's just raw frustration and something close to fear.

"Then come with me."

He laughs, short and bitter. “That’s not how this works.”

"Suit yourself."

You shove past him down the remaining steps, trying not to make eye contact with the falcon statues as they watch you pass. Vernon curses behind you and you hear him scramble to keep up.

"Why are you so stubborn?" He demands as you pass through the opening. Cool air greets you and you shiver, turning on a flashlight despite the floodlights guiding the way. You hear voices from a distance, but most of the main temple is empty. "You don't even have a weapon.

"I don't need one."

"Do you not remember yesterday?"

You do remember yesterday, though the memory is hard to grasp. Never in your life did you dare to believe in monsters and mummies, too afraid that you'd spend your career following loose threads and nonsense like your mother, but those creatures had been real. The blood had been real. So had the death.

It's what drives you at a breakneck pace through the temple now, determined to stop whatever Voss was doing to save himself and those with him from disaster you're sure is about to happen.

Halfway down the main corridor, where the floodlights from the entrance no longer reach, Vernon stops abruptly. He catches your wrist again, pulling you to a halt.

"Stop." His grip tightens, not painful - never painful - but immovable. "You want to play the hero, fine. But not tonight. Not after what happened yesterday. Wait until the morning."

The hallway feels smaller, suddenly, the walls pressing in. Somewhere deeper, a tool clangs against stone. It echoes your pounding heart, the smell of Vernon's woody cologne and sweat making you dizzy. You realize how close he is and try to step back but he doesn't let you, crowding your space.

His fingers stay locked around your wrist, warm even through the layers of dust and sweat, his thumb pressed against your pulse. His body blocks most of the faint light spilling from deeper inside, leaving you half in shadow.

Up close, you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flicker from your face to the darkness and back again, like he's fighting some sort of war you're not privy to.

"Let go," you murmur. "Please."

He doesn't. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you moves. The air between you turns to static. His gaze drops to your mouth for the briefest second, so quick you think you imagined it, then snaps back up. Something like frustration flickers across his face before he shakes his head.

"You are shaking, Stacks."

"I'm fine."

The words hang heavy. You're hyper aware of how alone you are, how the rest of the world feels miles away behind layers of stone and sand. For one second you think Vernon might pull you closer, but he doesn't. His shoulders sag as the fight bleeds out of him and he lets you go.

"Fine." He steps back. "Do what you want."

He retreats deeper into the shadows and you watch as his faint outline melts into the dark. The space he leaves behind feels cold and empty, your wrist tingling where he held you. Swallowing, you shove down the fluttering feeling in your stomach and turn, determined to stop disaster before it can happen again.

The beam of your flashlight cuts a narrow tunnel through the black, the light jittery with every hurried step. The temple swallows the sounds of your boots on stone, your ragged breathing, the pounding of your heart.

The hypostyle hall feels endless, the columns rising like the ribs of some colossal beat, their lotus capitals lost in shadow. The floodlights from the entrance have faded, and the darkness swallows you save for the glow of a portable lamp left behind by Voss's team every few meters.

You pass the sanctuary chamber where you first found the warning and something presses down on you, the air changing. The corridor narrows, forcing you to turn sideways in places. your shoulder brushes basalt etched with faded scenes of victories - pharaohs trampling enemies, Montu towering above, spear dripping with blood.

A low murmur of voices drifts from ahead. You slow, clicking off the flashlight to let your eyes adjust to the dim glow spilling from the lower chamber. The same chamber where the revenant poured out hours ago. The air is warmer here, carrying the metallic tang of fresh blood and your stomach knots.

Edging the threshold, you peer inside and the scene stops your heart.

Portable floodlights have been arranged in a rough circle, casting harsh white beams that leave the ceiling lost in absolute black. In the center of the bloodstained flagstones, a pattern has been drawn into the ground out of charcoal, the lines forming a vast cartouche of interlocking falcons and spears. At its heart lies a low basalt altar that looks older than the rest of the temple, its surface pitted and dark.

Voss stands at the altar's head, sleeves of his shirt rolled high. His expensive watch glints as he arranges tools with reverent precision - a broken khopesh, a bowl of natron, a golden vessel that catches the light like liquid fire. Dr. el-Masri stands behind him, an ancient papyrus unrolled in trembling hands.

Two security men flank them, rifles slung blue sidearms ready. Kneeling in the center is a woman from the security team - Nadia, you think. She's tall and broad-shouldered, her dark hair cropped short. She's stripped to a black tank top and her skin is gleaming with oil, her eyes closed and face tilted up.

It's a ritual space.

Your stomach lurches as your mind pieces together all of the details - the warnings, the sealed gate, war walking anew. The temple contains Montu, the unbound fury.

Patrons aren't always what they seem.

You think of Vernon's words. How the entire temple is painted with pharaohs and the mark of Montu, their god. How it is an ode to his victories. You realize Voss tends to wake Montu - or perhaps, to let Nadia make him her patron, if such a thing is possible and if you were to believe in something beyond like your mother always had.

You step into the light before you can think better of it, fury and fear colliding as you say, "Stop."

Heads snap toward you. Nadia's eyes remain closed, but Dr. el-Masri's eyes widen as he looks at you. Voss smiles unpleasantly but beckons you in.

"Doctor, welcome. We're just about to get started."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Finally starting what I have been after for years." He gestures to the altar. "As you have figured out, this temple is not a treasury. It was a prison."

"You're trying to wake a god." Your eyes flicker to Nadia. "And… bind it? That's madness. Montu isn't a tool. Historically, he's slaughter incarnate, the texts-"

"The texts," Dr. el-Masri interrupts, "Are written by heretics. In Ancient Egypt, the understanding that rulers were divinely chosen was so absolute, that it was the single thing Egyptians agreed on for thousands of years."

You laugh, sharp and disbelieving. "It is the belief in divine rulership that led them to dehumanize their own population. To think onesself is a god is different to think oneself is a king. When you're a god, everyone is beneath you and you become infallible. People are not infallible, Dr. el-Masri."

Voss sighs. "You're a scholar, Doctor. You of all people should appreciate the pursuit of knowledge."

"This isn't knowledge. This is hubris. Which you both should know was the downfall of Egypt time and time again."

Voss smiles thinly. "Call it what you like. Nadia volunteered. She understands the honor." Voss looks at his security team. "Doctor, you should join us."

The security men move faster than you expect. One grabs your arms from behind while the other clamps a hand over your mouth before you can scream. You thrash, kicking and twisting, but they're heavy and trained. Your flashlight clatters to the stone, the beam spinning wildly.

Together, they drag you toward the altar. You feel your heart pounding as you scream, muffled by the man's hand. You bite down on his fingers and he yelps, pulling his hand away. Your scream of rage echoes in the temple, cut off as the other man drives his knee into your spine to force you down at the altar.

The stone is cold and you roll over to kick at them. They grab your legs and hold you down, binding your hands and feet as you scream your throat raw. Nadia ignores you and Voss sighs as someone stuffs your mouth with cloth. You strain against the cords, but they don't move, your muscles aching as you thrash.

Dr. el-Masri begins reading from the papyrus and you stop, looking at him with pleading eyes. He ignores you, reading words of ancient invocation to Montu, Lord of Terror, He Who Makes the Nile Red.

Nadia stirs. You snap your head toward her, watching as her eyes open, pupils blown wide, irises flickering for a second. You're reminded of Vernon's eyes suddenly, the feeling that something ancient and feral was scraping behind his gaze, that-

Pain explodes, white-hot between your ribs. You look down to see that Voss has driven a blade in your stomach and you scream, arching against your restraints. The pain is so bad that you see flashes of white in your vision, the terror taking over as blood wells hot and immediate, soaking your shirt and pooling onto the altar.

Dr. el-Masri's voice rises, chanting faster. The floodlights flicker. Sand begins to sift from cracks in the ceiling. Wind howls.

Power foods the chamber like a sandstorm. The air burns and you squint, sobbing around the gag in your mouth. Nadia convulses, her body arching impossible as golden light pours from her eyes and her mouth. The temperature in the room skyrockets, heat buffeting you as temple groans and you hear cracking stone, a column in the corner tilting as it breaks and crashing into the ground in a plume of dust and rot.

Voss stumbles back, grinning. "It's working."

A basalt block falls from the ceiling, shattering near Dr. el-Masri. He screams as he completes the ritual and when you turn to look at Nadia, she's no longer entirely Nadia. She rises to her feet smoothly, head tilted as if listening to something distant. Her gaze passes over you without recognition, then she turns to Voss.

"You have freed me and given me a vessel," Nadia says, but the language is ancient from a time beyond Voss's comprehension. "What is it you seek?"

It's Dr. el-Masri who answers, "We seek Maahes, the hunter."

Nadia grins. "Come."

They leave the temple as it begins to collapse. Nadia pauses as she passes you, her eyes flicking to the knife in your stomach. She bends down and just as you think she's going to remove it, she twists it. Your shriek is lost to the gag, the pain leaving you blinded and heaving, throat convulsing around the cloth as you gag.

When you blink again, they're all gone, leaving you alone with the dark and the growing roar of falling sand and a collapsing ceiling.

Blood bubbles in your throat. Each breath is shallower than the last. The pain starts to fade and is replaced with something different, something cold creeping up your limbs. Sand pours in through the ceiling now through widening fissures, cascading like waterfalls, and for a moment you think of your dream with the lioness and the sand falling upward.

You stare at the ceiling as the world crumbles. Somewhere far above, there are stars you'll never see again.

Please, you think, unable to speak. Anyone.

Nothing answers but the sound of cracking basalt.

You think of Vernon - his rough hands steady in the med tent, the way he looked at you in the corridor like he wanted to say something more. You wish you'd listened. Wish you said something kinder to him when he was just trying to help.

You think of your mother. Her smile over that pottery shard. The way she said your name like a promise. Like hope. You pray that wherever she is now, she isn't watching this, that she isn't seeing your violent, bloody end.

Sand peppers your face. It's almost gentle, and your eyes flutter as darkness clouds your vision.

Child of blood, a voice calls, low and furious. You are in need of vengeance.

You can't move your head, but you feel something, heat in the cold, pressure against the collapsing dark. A presence that is vast and beyond your understanding, scented with the desert sun and spilled blood.

They woke war, the voices continues. And left you to pay the price. I know war too, child of blood. Let me pave the way.

Yes, you think. Yes.

Yes, the voice agrees. But not gently. Not without cost.

The sand stops falling.

Fire ignites at the edge of your vision, gold and crimson, licking along the cracks in the stone. It doesn't burn the temple - it burns you.

Pain flares anew, different now. Your blood steams, your wounds sear shut. You smell charred linen as the cords binding you turn to ash. Sand near you crystalizes to glass, crunching as you scream, the gag in your mouth burning until you're choking on ash, your screams loud in the chamber. Your body arches against the altar as power pours into you, vast and ancient and furious. Every nerve sings and your lungs fill with heated air that tastes of life instead of death.

Call me the Eye Unbound, the voice tells you, growing in volume, her laughter hot. I drink what spills. I burn away the unworthy. I am Sekhmet and you are my vessel.

Sekhmet's laughter echoes through your skull, wild and approving.

Rise daughter, she purrs. There is hunting to do.

The fire settles in your veins like molten gold cooling to armor. Your eyes open, and the chamber is lit from within you, crimson light spilling from your skin. The temple around you is collapsed, but there's a perfect ring of protection around you, the symbols flaring with scarlet light.

You sit up. Blood flakes from your shirt. The knife is now on the ground and when you lift your shirt to peer at your stomach, the stab wound is a ridged scar, glowing faintly. The light from you fades, but you realize that you can see unnaturally in the darkness.

Yes, Sekhmet says when she feels your surprise. You are changed.

Somewhere above, you hear chaos. You don't know what it is, but thunder shakes the temple violently. You feel Sekhmet as though she is you, as though you are one. Like Montu and Nadia, host and patron.

They run, she purrs when you think of Montu. Shall we chase?

You stand in the rubble. You feel white hot rage go through you, stronger than anything you've ever felt before. You see a red sky. Red sands. A red river. Blankets of scarlet red blood, and a lioness walking across hot sand as she burns away the unworthy.

Voss is unworthy. And he has Montu with him, a god with a vessel, just like you.

"Yes," you say out loud, your voice raw. "We chase."

-

Vernon storms out of the temple, his boots grinding against the flagstones with each step. The corridor blurs around him, shadows twisting like smoke, the floodlights from the entrance flickering at his approach. Anger coils tight in his chest, hot and familiar, a companion he's known longer than most people.

But this time it's sharper and laced with frustration.

Stubborn idiot, he thinks, the words aimed at you but ricocheting back at himself. Why couldn't you listen? Just once? He slams a fist against a column as he passes, the impact echoing like thunder in the enclosed space as the column instantly collapses with the force of his punch. Pain flares in his knuckles, but it's nothing compared to the storm brewing inside of him.

Set stirs at the edge of his mind, a presence as constant as his own heartbeat. The god's amusement rolls through him like distant thunder. Idiot. You let her goad you. Again.

Shut up, Vernon snaps internally, clenching his jaw. He doesn't need Set's commentary right now. Not when his blood is singing with the urge to turn back and drag you out kicking and screaming if it he's to. He doesn't want to hurt you, but he will drag you, even if it means you never speak to him again or you curse his name every day. At least you'd be alive.

The god chuckles. She challenges you. I like her fire. I see why you like her.

Vernon ignores him. He has no intention of going round and round in circles with Set about who or what Vernon does or does not like. The god has a particular habit of showing up every time Vernon sees you, prodding him in ways that almost make him lose his cool at auctions, galas and conferences. Set seems entirely incapable of letting Vernon admire you from afar without meddling, and right now when the world is collapsing is not the time for an ancient god's meddling.

The entrance to the temple looms ahead, the night air spilling in cool drafts. Vernon pauses at the threshold between the temple's door and the open desert. The pylons loom like sentinels and he looks at the falcons, their eyes eroded but watchful, like the eyes of Montu are ready to strike at any moment. He leans against a wall, breathing hard, trying to rein in the chaos inside of him - trying to reign in Set.

This whole expedition was supposed to be simple. Or as simple as anything gets when one is bound to a god of chaos. Vernon had heard whispers of the site months ago, rumors in a black market antiquities circle that he haunts, tales of a storm uncovering a temple tied to a bound god.

Vernon has been with Set for eight years now, but he's never stopped trying to get rid of him. It had started in a forgotten tomb in the Valley of the Kings back when Vernon was just a cocky archaeologist fresh out of his degree program, chasing glory like everyone else in the field. He'd been a bit rogue then too, not waiting for a permit before he started poking around.

Like Voss, he'd opened a sealed chamber he shouldn't have and Set had poured into him like sand through an hourglass, violent and overwhelming, reshaping Vernon into a cage for divinity.

Call me He Who Howls in Open Places, Set had whispered, his voice crackling. Call me the Red One, the Unmoored, the Crooked Star. Do not call me Brother, for brothers bind. I am Set.

Vernon had survived. Set is good at keeping his host alive. He'd walked through the desert with new tattoos burning fresh on his skin, hieroglyphs of binding and Coptic words of containment.

Since then, it's been a constant war. Set grants Vernon gifts - strength beyond human limits, control over storms, the ability to step through shadow. But the god's volatility amplifies Vernon's own anger, his own emotions.

And Set hungers. Always for chaos. Always for unmooring the world.

Vernon wishes this dig had worked out. He'd been hoping to find something here to unbind him, but he hadn't been expecting you to be here. When you'd shown up two days ago, Vernon's entire plan changed. You don't like him much - he doesn't blame you - but Vernon's been fond of you for years. Likes your work ethic, the genuine desire to do good, to seek truth.

He'd been like that once. Now he trades in artifacts and secrets to survive, trying to use relics to fund his way out of this mess with Set.

We are one, Set reminds him now. You seek to cut the thread, but it binds us tighter.

I didn't ask for this, Vernon reminds him, rubbing his tattoos. They're bothering him tonight, hot and itchy.

No one asks for divinity. It takes.

Now, Vernon doesn't know what to do. He'd realized Voss' intent to bind a god when you'd found the inscription the day before. After the aftermath with the revenants, he had planned to let you sleep it off and force you to leave in the morning. He had not anticipated you being a pig-headed fool and charging into a temple at night, refusing his help.

He doesn't know why it bothers him so much. He lets you have your assumptions about him. It's better than the truth, not that you would believe him. He saves ancient sites too, redirecting looters and forging documents to return artifacts when he can. It isn't all about stealing like you think it is - he does try. You see none of that, of course. Why would you?

She sees more than you think, Set sighs. Smart girl. I think you are hopeless, though.

Vernon growls and pushes off the wall muttering, "Not now."

He starts toward the camp, intent on packing your things himself. Then, he’d walk back inside the temple and he'd force you out and shove you into a jeep and send you back to Cairo. Karim could drive - he was reliable - and Vernon trusted him not to ask questions.

A tremor stops Vernon cold.

It starts subtle, a vibration underfoot. Then it grows stronger, the ground shuddering as sand shifts in ripples. Dust sifts from the gateway arch and the pylons groan.

Vernon's head snaps back toward the temple. Set surges in his mind, alert and hungry. War awakens. The falcon stirs.

"Fuck," Vernon hisses. He didn't think Voss would manage this quickly, or he wouldn't have let you keep walking into the temple.

He runs.

Vernon plunges back into the darkness, shadows dancing around him. His form flickers as he shadow steps, blinking in and out of existence from one pool of dark shadows to the next, covering ground faster. He hates the feeling of shadow stepping, fading from a physical body to mist and back again, but he suffers it to get to you faster.

Voss and his team burst from a side corridor and spills across Vernon's path. Nadia is leading them, except Vernon realizes it's not Nadia. Her eyes burn gold, pupils slitted, and she thrums with power, a god in a fresh vessel. Vernon recognizes it immediately, reminded of the first time Set stepped into him.

Voss spots Vernon first. "Chwe! The temple is collapsing, let's go."

Vernon ignores him, eyes locked on Nadia. Set roils inside of him, ancient hatred flaring. Brother no more. The ordered one, the betrayer, let me tear him free.

Not yet, Vernon snarls back, but the power in him builds anyway, wind whipping in the corridor.

Nadia tilts her head and smiles. "Voss, did you know you already had a god in your midst? The Crooked Star. How fitting to see you slither here."

Her voice is layered, Nadia's timbre overlaid with a deep rumble that must belong to Montu. She raises a hand and the air shimmers as a spear materializes from nothing, bronze and ethereal, tip glinting. Vernon realizes this is a manifestation of one of her gift, a weapon forged from divine will.

She hurls the spear but Vernon shadow steps sideways, reappearing in a flicker of shadows as he summons storms. Wind howls through the temple, violent and unchecked. Overhead, thunder cracks, the chaos feeding on his frustration and fear that you're hurt or worse. Lightning arches from Vernon's fingertips and slam into Nadia, knocking her back.

The air compresses around her and she summons a shield of air and flame. "You rage, Unmoored one."

"You are a child," Set answers through Vernon, hissing. "I will show you power."

Vernon steps through a shadow, feeling the brief cold of nothingness before he materializes behind Nadia. His fist connects with her back, his enhanced strength crumpling her tactical vest like paper. She spins faster than any human, a khopesh appearing in her hand. The blade sings and Vernon ducks, feeling the heat of the divine weapon as it skims over him, nearly taking his head clean off his shoulders.

Nadia's blows are seismic, each one backed with the heat and power of the sun. He shadow steps mid-swing, flickering in and out, landing hits on her from impossible angles that make her roar in frustration. Set cackles in Vernon's head, the older god trickier and slipperier than his younger family member.

Set is strong, but the storm Vernon commands feeds on him. His anger at you, at Voss, at this cursed bond - it amplifies everything, making the wind in the temple erratic, lightning sparking and exploding against rock. A bolt blasts a column and brings down chunks of the ceiling, sending Voss and the others running while Nadia stays to fight off Vernon.

Set howls in delight, his energy snapping. Rend the falcon!

Nadia presses him, a spear grazing his side, searing flesh. He hisses in pain, but pain fuels the storm as a crackling spear of white lightning forms in his hand. Vernon feels himself start to slip, Set taking over his thoughts and body more fully as the bolt manifests into a solid spear of lightning, his blood singing.

He spins the spear in his hand, beating Nadia back. She might be host to the god of war, but Set is an ancient chaos not easily beaten, and Vernon sees the frustration on Nadia's face as Vernon''s spear catches her across the thigh, burning flesh. She howls, the cavern shaking, rock falling.

The temple is crumbling, he realizes. And somewhere in the temple is you, left behind. Sacrificed, maybe. Dead, maybe.

That single thought cuts through Vernon's rage like a blade.

No, Set protests, surging for control. The enemy is here!

She's more important.

The god recoils. Is she?

Vernon forces the god into submission, drawing the storm inward, coiling it tight. Nadia lunges at him but he shadow-steps away, breaking the engagement.

She laughs, spinning on him. "Cowardice from chaos? How novel."

"I don't have time for you," he growls, stepping into another shadow and turning to nothing.

Set rages as Vernon plunges into the temple, running and jumping deeper. You deny me glory for her?

She's not dying tonight.

The god subsides, grudging but curious. Very well. But the falcon will pay later.

Vernon doesn't disagree. He wants to rip the god from Nadia's skull as much as Set does, knowing that Montu being set out onto the world can't be any good. Especially because Nadia doesn't seem interested in controlling her god the way Vernon controls his.

The temple fights him as he approaches the chamber, the floor shaking and the ceiling caving in. Vernon summons energy, feeling the air around him compress as he thrusts a hand out, blasting a wall of rock with kinetic bursts. Rock flies, the covering choking with dust, but he does it again and again, crackling with energy as he carves his way to you.

His trek is an exhausting combination of shadow stepping through partial collapses and blasting his way through the tunnel, the thunder deafening in his ears. Set is silent, his fascination at Vernon's desperation palpable.

Set has never seen Vernon this eager to save someone. Ever.

Fear eats at him. He should have made you leave the second he knew what Voss was up to. It had been his pride and his desire to let you make your own choices that left you lingering here in this cursed place, and now he knew you were most likely dead.

The thought drives him harder at the wall, blasting through the final bit of collapsed columns and basalt. He has no idea how you'd survive a temple collapse, but he doesn't care. He needs to know. Needs to get to you. Needs to do what he can to right his wrong of leaving you here.

Vernon's side burns from the spear wound Montu gave him, but Set knits the skin slowly as Vernon waits for the dust choking the air to clear. Vernon swallows thickly, waiting and panting as the air finally starts to clear and he can see the inner ritual chamber.

Sand fills most of the space, a sea of golden death. His stomach drops when he realize you're probably in here suffocating somewhere, terrified and-

Light catches his attention. Vernon goes entirely still as red light blazes from a figure standing amid the ruin, crimson and bloody as the light starts to fade behind soot-covered skin.

You.

There's a khopesh in each one of your hands, outstretched and gleaming crimson. Tattoos wind your arms, red and blazing before cooling to a dusky, desert red. When your eyes open, your irises are aflame, pupils stilted like a lion's, glowing like freshly forged gold.

Set's wariness surprises Vernon, the god slithering in his mind. The Eye Unbound, he growls. She who drinks what spills. She who burns the unworthy. Sekhmet.

Vernon doesn't know what that means and he doesn't care. He hardly hears set at all, distracted by the terrifying display before him. You look beautiful, blazing in glory and anger and rage, but most importantly, alive. And then the light fades from your eyes and you blink at him, confused and wincing.

"Vernon?"

It's the last thing you say before your eyes glaze over and you collapse backward.

-

Your entire world is sand. The horizon stretches endlessly in each direction and the sun hangs unnaturally low, rays bleeding over the world like a wounded god. The grains of sand under you shift restlessly, pressing into your skin hot.

Heat simmers in the distance, distorting the air. You sit cross-legged in the center of endless dunes, and no matter which direction you look, the sea of red sands are endless. Timeless.

Across from you, the lioness manifests in a waver of heat. Sekhmet. She's massive, her form towering over you, a monument of divine fury. Her coat gleams gold-red, her fur rippling with power as she settles onto her haunches.

She stares at you and it's unnerving. Her feline features are etched with eons of wisdom, fangs glinting like polished obsidian when she yawns. Behind her, the red sun halos her head, a perfect red disk - a crown.

"You were not ready," she notes. Her voice is a low, resonant rumble that resonates through you, mouth moving to form the words. You stare, entranced. "Unfortunate."

"I didn't exactly have time to prepare," you reply, voice small. You can tell she's disappointed, but it isn't every day you become host to a powerful ancient entity. "I wasn't expecting the power to burn through me like that."

She chuffs, amused. "Mortals rarely do." She shifts, paws sinking in the sand. "I have kept vigil over these places of sealing, the tombs where gods slumber and remain chained. I keep those who should not be here away - a whisper in the wind to deter the greedy, a dream to haunt the foolish. A scorpion slipped into a bedroll under the cover of night."

The scorpion. Your mind flashes back to that morning, the segmented touch against your skin, the careful capture and release. An omen you'd brushed off, feeling silly for thinking of superstitions. Now you know it was a deliberate nudge from the divine, a warning.

"You bled for the truth," Sekhmet acknowledges. "For chasing the thread your mother left behind for you. You are honest. Honesty is good."

The desert around you seems to shift at her words, the red sands undulating. You think of your mother, wondering if this is what she had envisioned when believing there were hidden histories in Egypt.

"What happens now?" You ask the goddess.

"Now you carry me, and I you. We are bound, flesh to flame." She pauses, ears flicking. "Beware the one who carries the Crooked Star."

"Vernon."

"Sutekh. He walks again in the flesh, hungry. He is volatile and is capable of great evil if left to his own devices for too long. Empires have fallen to his whims, rivers diverted, brothers slain for sport. Chaos is his domain."

You think of Vernon and his dark eyes, the way you could see something ancient there, something he fights to keep under the surface. Vernon, who had pulled you from carnage and steadied you through shock. Vernon who had come back for you against all reason, and who had guarded your tent.

Guilt eats at you. You've spent years thinking of him as a spur in your side, an annoying bee that wouldn't stop stinging every chance he had. Now you owe him your life, and you realize perhaps you have been too harsh on him, too cruel.

"Vernon fights Set," you insist gently. "I've seen him do it."

Sekhmet shrugs, the motion a powerful ripple of muscle and fur. "For now. Mortals break under divine weight. Gods endure. We are unyielding."

The sand begins to whirl around you, rising in spiraling vortices that tug your clothes and hair. You feel the dismissal, and when you look up, the lioness is gone, but her voice still carries on the ancient wind.

Remember. Vengeance is a blade with two edges. Wield it carefully.

The red sun flares and you shield your eyes, flinching-

You wake gasping, lungs seizing. You swivel in bed, the sheets sticking to your sweaty skin. It takes a moment to get your bearings, but you realize that you're in the med tent, dim light from the moon outside filtering in.

Outside, the camp is unnaturally silent, a void where there should be a hum of activity. The wind is restless against the canvas tent, snapping in the breeze. Some of the cool air reaches you, cooling your overwarm skin.

Your body aches with a deep resonant thrum. You feel as if your bones have been hollowed and refilled with molten iron, the fire coursing through you new but not unpleasant. You lift your shirt to look at your stomach, cringing at the scar. You touch it tentatively, feeling the warmth behind it, the ridged tissue coiled with power.

Suddenly you become aware of someone else's presence. You look up to see Vernon sitting in a folding chair near the tent flap, elbows braced on his knees. His posture is slumped but alert, his eyes sharp as they stare at you. The moonlight slipping in through the canvas cuts across the sharp angles of his face, panting him in harsh light.

His shirt is torn at the shoulder, bloodstains dried rusty brown. His tattoos seem to writhe subtly in the dim light, and now that you look at them, they make more sense than they ever have: He Who Howls in Open Places. Red One. Unmoored. Crooked Star. Bind and balance, storm and dust.

With new eyes, you see the ritual for what it is - a binding sigil, scoured into Vernon's arms to tie him to Set. You look at your own arms and let out a little gasp, seeing similar markings twist on your arms, but they're a dull red, like blood dried millenia ago.

"You're awake," he observes.

You swing your legs over the cot's edge, the sand floor cold against your feet. Testing your balance, you stand. He moves like he's ready to catch you if you fall, but despite the world tipping, you remain on your feet.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"About 20 hours. It's night again."

Vernon stands and moves the flap open. Moonlight spills in like liquid silver. You notice a cookfire out in front, highlighting scattered medical supplies and materials from the camp Vernon has dragged to the front of the tent for ease.

You step outside and he follows. The night is crisp, the sky above stretching in a luminous river of stars overheard. The camp sprawls out, a ghost city left to just the two of you. Tents sag like deflated lungs, their white canvases stained with and and blood. Deep tire tracks in the sand show that the cars are gone, leading into oblivion. You notice the dark patches in the sand, your gut twisting when you realize it's blood.

"They took the vehicles," he notes. "Drove off eastward toward the old trade routes."

Your stomach twists, guilt and horror mingling as you survey the desolation. You wrap your arms around yourself, the wind tugging at your clothes. "How many dead?"

"Enough."

You look at Vernon - really look at him. The moonlight carves his profile in silver relief, the strong line of his jaw flexing as he grits his teeth in frustration, his eyes flashing in ancient anger. He's been watching over you, alone in this forsaken place, a testament to loyalty you never credited him with.

"I didn't think you'd come back," you admit.

"You're an idiot. Of course I came back. I wasn't leaving you buried under a bunch of rock, though knowing you, you were exactly where you wanted to be."

The joke falls a little flat. His tone is softened around the edges, almost affectionate. It makes your heart do something stupid, and you don't know how to answer as the words hang between you. You feel a shift, your entire perception of him changing in just a day.

"Vernon-"

He tenses. "Don't."

"Alright."

"Let's just make dinner. I'm starving."

Together, you scavenge the items Vernon has dragged to the med tent. You have to go scout for a few, the two of you working together in charged silence. You gather pots, some flatbread that is a little hard, dates in a small sack, a can of tea leaves and a can of stew meat.

The fire is already going, casting a warm glow that pushes back against the night's chill. You sit across from him on a folded blanket, knees almost touching as you watch him brew tea. He hands you a chipped mug, fingers brushing yours briefly. His touch sparks a connection, his fingers lingering briefly before he pulls away and you wrap your hands around it, letting the heat seep into your palms.

Both of you settle, the meat stewing in the pot over the fire. The moon is a bright silver coin in the sky, looking down at the two of you, pale face watchful.

"Tell me how it happened," you say quietly. "With Set."

Vernon stares into the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes. The firelight paints his face in gold and shadow, softening the sharp lines you've always associated with arrogance. Now you see weariness. Vulnerability.

"Valley of the Kings," he murmurs. "Eight years ago. Found a chamber no one had catalogued and I just went in head first. I was arrogant then - still am, I guess. You know what it's like to chase after knowledge and glory though."

He pauses, touching the tattoos on his forearm absently. His fingers trace the ink, as if seeking reassurance.

"Set was waiting. Poured right into me, though I didn't know what was happening. Unlike Nadia, I was not a willing host. Everyone else died. I woke up three days later with these marks and a god laughing in my head."

You listen, guilt turning your stomach over. All this time you'd look at Vernon and see vanity and rebellion. Now you see him for what he truly is - tired under the weight of being a prison for something most people cannot fathom.

"He isn't evil," Vernon says slowly. "Not exactly. Chaos isn't evil - it's change without permission. It's discord and upheaval and it frightens people. But he is not inherently evil, though I suppose many can argue that the results make him so." A faint smile tugs his lips. "We fight constantly. I win sometimes. Sometimes I don't."

"Sekhmet told me to beware him. That you might not be able to contain him."

"Maybe she's right, but I'm pretty stubborn. I've been doing this for eight years and I'm better at it now than I was then." He sighs. "Your turn."

You tell him what happened in the chamber - about the altar, the cold stone against your skin. The way Voss stabbed you in the gut to bleed you out for the ritual. You see anger flash in his eyes then, raw and ancient. Somewhere, thunder rumbles and you cast your eyes up toward a clear sky, wondering how confident Vernon is in his control.

"Her wrath was overwhelming," you admit. "Sekkmet is a lot of things. She's purification through fire, she's war, she's Ra's divine justice. But she is also full of wrath, and it's so at ends with who I am. But I was angry and desperate and afraid of dying."

"No shame in that. Sometimes we want retribution for the things that happen to us."

"Is that what you're searching for? Retribution?"

"More like freedom. Set is alright but it's been a long time since I've had my thoughts to myself."

"He's talkative?"

"Sekhmet isn't?"

You shake your head. You feel her there, watching your conversation with Vernon like a predator, but she keeps her thoughts to herself. She is a hot grain of sand in the back of your mind, subtle but there.

"Must be nice." He grunts, amused. "Set whispers chaos. Tries to push for opportunities to unmake things. Burn it all down and rebuild something new on the ashes. Most days I can tune him out. Some days…"

He shrugs, the motion casual but his eyes hold yours, heavy with a vulnerability you've never seen from him before. Without thinking, you reach toward him, brushing your fingers across his wrist. The contact sparks again, but this time it's literal.

Crimson flame licks down your arm and you jump, watching your tattoos come to life. Lightning dances across Vernon's arm, white-blue and staticky. The flame and lightning meet in a swirl of energy that tingles but doesn't burn, twining like old friends.

Neither of you pulls away, watching with parted lips as the colors shift until they fade. His tattoos burn faint blue, yours dark red, both of you lingering until the tattoos fade and the power vanishes beneath the surface of your skin again.

Vernon's mouth twitches. "He says like calls to like."

Hm, Sekhmet hums, displeased. I'm not so sure about that.

"What about Voss," you ask, drawing your hand back slowly. Vernon frowns. "What do you think he's planning?"

"Power. I just don't understand what."

"When I was in the temple, Voss asked Montu to lead him to Maahes."

That stirs Sekhmet. You feel her uncurl like a feline, her anger sparking as she paces in your mind. You give her a questioning prod and she growls.

My son.

"Oh," you say outloud. Vernon raises his brows, confused. "Maahes is the son of Sekhmet. I forgot. The lion to the lionness."

Traitor, she hisses. Folly. They claim he perfects what I cannot, that he is discipline where I am unchecked.

"Well do you know where they're going?" You wince and look at Vernon. "Sorry, is there a way to not talk to myself when I'm trying to talk to her? This is awkward."

"She can read your thoughts. I just think at Set and it sort of works. Sometimes I talk out loud too, though. Especially when he's pissing me off."

There is a temple deep in Wadi Al-Hitan, Sekhmet hisses. It is where he is bound. Maahes knows the way to Apophis.

You repeat what she said to Vernon. The reaction is instant, his face twisting in anger as his entire body goes rigid. His pupils blow wide and black, lines of white and molten blue crawling along his tattoos. The wind around the fire picks up, whipping sand into spirals that hiss against the fire.

A sound tears out of Vernon, not quite human, not quite animal. It's the howl of the desert storm giving voice, centuries of hatred pressed into a single note. The fire gutters and you instinctually hold out a palm, feeling power radiate through you as you buffet the flame.

"Apophis," Vernon snarls, laced with a voice that isn't his own. "They're going to wake the serpent."

You feel Sekhmet growl, her words coming through you. "Let them try."

Vernon's hands tremble, his knuckles white as he makes a fist. "Set has been Apophis's executioner since the world was new. Every dawn, every night, he drives the spear into the serpent's throat so the sun can rise again. If Voss means to unleash Apophis-"

He cuts himself off, swearing in Ancient Egyptian. The words are strange and guttural in his mouth, spoken with the perfect accent and articulations. The words resonate with you in a different way now than they had before, a language you studied becoming a language you instinctually know.

"Voss wants to be a vessel off Apophis."

"And destroy the fucking world while he's at it," Vernon growls.

Set surges again, a tide of lightning behind Vernon's eyes. The tattoos pulse like living things, wards straining. For a heartbeat, you think he's going to let loose and set the entire camp ablaze in lighting. But he breathes through it, slow and deliberate, forcing the god down by sheer will.

"We cannot let that happen," he murmurs, looking at you. His eyes are his own again, but he looks strainted and tired. "Set likes chaos, but not this. Not at the hand of Apophis."

"We?"

His mouth twitches. "You bailing on me, Stacks?"

Sekhmet's growl is in your voice when you say, "Never."

Vernon nods, grinning at you for the first time since Voss opened the seal to reveal revenants. You smile back, feeling the savage delight of your god as she paces, eager and ready to hunt.

For the first time since Voss stabbed you with that knife, you're not afraid.

You're ready.

-

The sun claws its way over the horizon, spilling molten gold across the dunes. Heat simmers already, distorting the endless sea of sand. Your boots sink ankle-deep with each step you take, the grains shifting as you trek. Your muscles are already screaming, each step requiring effort.

You and Vernon have been walking since dawn, packs heavy with scavenged supplies. You're thankful you have the newfound strength of a god, otherwise you'd never have been able to stuff the packs as much as you have. Water sloshes around in the canteens with each step, your pack stocked full of water, food, and a slim selection of medical supplies.

The medical supplies are a precaution. As evidenced by your recent stabbing, your healing is different now, aided by the goddess who keeps watch inside of you. It's a nice perk - kind of like the fact that you're not out of breath after hours of walking and you're not keeling over - but being the vessel of an ancient entity doesn't make the trek less tiring or the sun less hot.

Barrâmîya lies ahead, a distant smudge on the GPS. The dusty outpost is now your lifeline, though if you can't get a hold of a car you're not sure what the plan is. Wadi al-Hitan is hours away from Luxor, up north in Egypt's Western desert. The Valley of the Whales is vast, and somewhere lies a hidden temple to Maahes, whose location is only known by the gods living inside of you and Vernon.

Vernon walks a pace ahead, keffiyeh wrapped around his head and face to hide him from the sun. His stride is steady despite the heat, and sweat darkens his shirt, clinging to the lines of his back.

"Keep up, Stacks," he calls over his shoulder, smirking at you. "Wouldn't want you collapsing before the sun gets to the worst part of the day."

You roll your eyes but there's no bite in it. Not anymore. His smugness used to grate against you, but now it feels almost comforting. Familiar in a sea of gold and red and endless heat.

"I'm fine, worry about yourself."

"I'm doing great. Set loves the desert."

Sekhmet huffs in your mind, a low growl of disdain. Naive, she purrs. He teases to hide the storm.

You ignore her, focusing on the burn in your thighs as you crest another dun. The sand here is finer, almost silken, slipping away under foot. Wind hisses across the surface, carrying grains that sting your exposed skin like needles. Far off, a hawk circles, its cries loud against the vast silence.

Vernon was right about the sun. It climbs higher, turning the world into a furnace. He keeps you talking though, like he's trying to keep your mind off the heat. It's nice. You tell him about your mother, about how she chased threads of hidden history beneath Egypt.

He pauses on the top of a rise, shielding his eyes against the glare. He smiles, glancing down at you. "She was onto something, I guess. Smart. I see where you get it from."

The heat you feel has nothing to do with the sun. You stop next to him, panting as you both break to take sparing sips of water. "What about you? How'd you get into history?"

"Parents passed when I was a kid - car accident. Uncle took me in. He was a wealthy bastard obsessed with history. He used to drag me to museums and auctions. He was nice, if not a little hyperfocused on his hobbies. He funded my degrees. I thought it was a pretty cool life until Set decided to hitch a ride."

Guilt flickers inside of you. You've judged him for years, only seeing the tomb raider, never the man chained to chaos. "I'm sorry. For um. Well. My assumptions of you the last few years."

We waves it off. "Don't go soft on me now, Stacks. I like the fire."

Your heart does something stupid in your chest, Sekhmet snarling in annoyance. Guard your heart.

The day drags, the sun a hammer pounding relentlessly. Mirages taunt on the edge of your vision, but you both keep moving. Your throat remains parched despite sips of the canteen and exhaustion gnaws as you as the sun dips down toward the late afternoon. Divine energy sustains you, keeping your legs moving when mortal will would fail.

By dusk, Barrâmîya appears. You think it's a mirage at first, but Vernon lets out a sigh of relief and you know it's real. The town is a cluster of low mud-bricked buildings huddled around a well, palms swaying in the breeze. The air cools as you stumble in, the scent of baked earth replaced by spices from a market stall.

Locals eye you warily, two dust-caked strangers staggering in from the desert. Coin speaks louder than questions though, and when Vernon pulls out a wad of folded money, no one looks warily at you again.

The inn you find is a squat structure, walls cracked from the endless sun. Lanterns swing outside in the breeze as the last of the sun dies beyond the horizon. There's only a single room left, and you're both too tired to care. The two narrow cots shoved against opposite walls is good enough for you, a single window letting in moonlight as you collapse on a bed.

Vernon drops onto the bed closest to you, breathing out tiredly. You turn your head to glance at him in the dim light. The room is tiny and though his bed is against the other wall, he's close enough to hear his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest steady. Your eyes trace the tattoos on his arms, inky in the dim.

He catches you looking and smirks. "See something you like, Stacks?"

Heat flushes your cheeks. "Just wondering if you ever shut up."

He laughs. "There's the fire I like."

The room feels smaller as you lie back, staring at the ceiling cracks like ancient veins. Tomorrow, you need to get a car. From there, the wadi. But tonight, you need sleep, despite the fact that the air between you and the man across from you is charged with something new. Just something… more.

-

The sun is a brutal disk of white by the time you and Vernon get into a battered jeep the next morning. Vernon doesn't explain how he had bartered for it - all he'd said was he found a ride as he'd come back into the room before dawn, kicking dust off his boots. You didn't ask, too grateful to not be walking in the blistering heat as he starts the engine with a guttural cough that doesn't sound promising for a lengthy trip.

Inside the car smells like old oil and sun-baked vinyl and the faint smell of storms that you've come to associate with Vernon. He looks tired in the driver's seat, adjusting the rearview mirror, eyes sliding over to you as you buckle your seatbelt.

"Ready?" He asks, voice rough. You nod and make a sound when the vehicle lurches forward, tires spinning in the sound before catching. "My bad."

Behind you, Barrâmîya shrinks to a smudge on the horizon, then nothing. The Western Desert stretches ahead of you, a vast sea of ochre and gold that stretches under a sky so blue you have to shield your eyes to look out the dusty window. Heat rises in shimmering waves, distant rock formations wavering like ghosts in the high-heat of morning.

Hours bleed together as Vernon drives east. There's only a single road that cuts across this part of Egypt, the cars few and far between. Occasionally, the jeep bounces, hitting holes in the road that no one bothers to fix. This far from the main cities, it doesn't matter, but as you near the east coast of Egypt, the road smooths out.

Vernon drives with one hand on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road. You glance at the tattoos peeking from under his rolled sleeves, the ink harsher in the dark light. You look down at your own, the dusty red ink winding in whorls you now understand. Something has shifted between the two of you now, the sharp silences dulling to something softer and far more comfortable. You catch yourself watching the way his fingers flex on the steering wheel, the line of his throat when he swallows, the way his eyes narrow against the glare.

Sekhmet stirs in the back of your mind. Naive, she growls. She seems to favor that word to describe you. He is chaos and wrapped in flesh. Affection is useless.

You ignore her, focusing on the expanding blue of the Red Sea with Marsa Alam rising in the distance. The tropical paradise is at ends with the tension in the car, the desert giving way to a resort town that feels entirely out of place with the violence of the last two days. Vernon says nothing, but the tension in his jaw increases as he turns north to get on the highway and follow the coast.

"What do you think Voss is really after?" You ask eventually, eyes stuck on the endless blue of the Red Sea. "Beyond power, I mean. He has Montu. Why chase Maahes and Apophis?"

Vernon's grip on the wheel tightens. "Apophis is powerful. If Voss can harness that power, he can rewrite the world in his image."

"I don't like that."

"Neither do we."

We. You notice the way he says the word, speaking for him and Set. You wonder how much of Vernon is Set and the other way around. Eight years with a god inside of your head is hard to imagine, even as you feel Sekhmet's prowling silence now. You wonder what it was like for him and what he was like before.

"Set doesn't like Apophis," you note.

Vernon shakes his head. "Set and Apophis have been at each other's throats since the world was new. Set's killed him in many lifetimes. The idea that the serpent could wake under Voss's control is unsettling."

"What was it like for you? With Set, I mean. With Sekhmet it's…" You fight to find words, looking at your hands in your lap, the tattoos dark. "She's always there, but quiet. Sometimes I get the sense that she's pacing, like she's waiting to attack. But it also feels warm. Safe."

"Set's louder. The first year with him was hell, honestly. I'd suddenly get angry and the sky would open up with rain and lightning, or I'd just lose myself to him entirely."

"That sounds terrifying."

"It was. We learned some balance, though."

Unlikely, Sekhmet mutters.

You ignore her. "How'd you do it?"

"I don't fight him head on anymore. Sometimes we have a bit of a fight for control, but ultimately this is my body and I'm still me. When we fight head on, it tires me out and it's easier for him to slip in."

You nod. "Makes sense."

"Some advice - don't ignore her. It's very isolating. Talk to her out loud if you have to. They like being acknowledged and makes them feel less like prisoners and more like partners, even if they're assholes."

Sekhmet huffs in your mind, but there’s a reluctant amusement in it. He is not entirely wrong. Though his god is far louder than I.

You repeat what she says to him and Vernon smirks, glancing at you sidelong. "Set says Sekhmet is stuck up. Old family drama, I think."

The sun climbs higher as the conversation dies out, exhaustion weighing you both down. To the west is an endless landscape of red, to the east, only blue. Vernon's hand brushes yours when he reaches for water, a spark going up your arm. You jerk your hand back, startled. If he notices, he says nothing, uncapping the bottle to take long pulls of water. You catch yourself staring at the line of his throat as he drinks.

By early afternoon you've reached the point of turning west to drive inland again, Wadi al-Hitan still hours away. Your head leans heavy on the head rest, eyes heavy as the jeep ambles. Vernon glances at you, mouth twitching.

"Sleep," he murmurs.

"No, it's okay. We can switch if-"

"Sleep, Stacks. It's been years since Set and I joined, but I remember how exhausting those first few days were. We have about six hours until we hit the Wadi."

"But-"

"Sleep." His tone is gentle, but the way he looks at you brokers no argument. "I need you at your best, yeah?"

Your stomach flutters a little and you nod, sinking down in your seat to lean heavier against the door. The glass is warm on your forehead, the vibrations of the car on the road a constant lull as you close your eyes, trusting Vernon to get you to where you need to go.

The jeep’s engine rumbles low as you drift in and out of uneasy sleep, the road vibrating through the cracked seat and into your bones. The sun has dipped low, painting the desert in deep oranges and blood-reds that bleed across the horizon like an open wound. Heat still clings to you, but you slip into sleep, the world fading.

Black basalt gleams under torchlight, the air thick with myrrh and the crackle of fire from braziers. Vernon stands in the hypostyle hall, shadows clinging to him. He looks different, the blood and dust gone, revealing only the sharp lines of his face that are softened by the firelight. His tattoos glow faintly, the binding wards shifting like living ink as he steps closer, dark eyes locked on you. The space between you shrinks until he's right in front of you, warm breath ghosting across your lips.

His hand comes up, calloused fingers brushing your jaw softly. You shiver and he smiles, tilting his head as his dark eyes drink you in. "You're impossible," he murmurs. "You know that, Stacks?"

You lean into him on instinct, tilting your face into his touch. "Am I?"

He kisses you then. It's anything but soft. Instead, it's hungry and desperate, like he's been holding back for years and the dam is finally broken. His mouth is hot against yours, tasting of salt and desert, his mouth like the static of a storm against yours. One hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair to pull you closer while the other presses against your lower back, anchoring you to him.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours. You moan into his mouth, shivering as you press into him, hands fisting in shirt, the fabric bunching under your fingers. He makes a low sound in his throat in response and presses you against a column, the cold stone a sharp contrast to the heat of his skin and Sekhmet's fire in your veins.

"Vernon," you whisper, voice broken.

He lifts his head, eyes dark and blown. "What do you need?"

Instead of answering, you pull him back to you, kissing him harder, tongues tangling. His thigh slides between yours, the pressure perfect and maddening. Heat pools low in your belly and-

You flinch awake as Sekhmet's roar shatters the dream like glass. Your heart slams against your ribs as you gather your bearings and realize you're still in the jeep, the engine humming. Night has fully claimed the desert, the sky a vast, black dome scattered with stars so bright they look close enough to touch. The headlights of the car cut twin beams through the darkness, illuminating jagged rock formations as Vernon drives deep into Wadi al-Hitan.

Vernon glances at you. "You okay?"

Your face burns. The dream clings to you - his mouth, his hands, the way your body had arched into him. You can still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin. You sit up straighter, pressing your thighs together against the lingering ache, and clear your throat. “Sorry. Bad dream.”

He glances at you, one eyebrow raised, the corner of his mouth twitching in that familiar smug way. But there’s something softer underneath tonight, a quiet concern in the way his eyes linger.

Sekhmet snarls in your mind, Do not let his shadow touch you so easily.

You ignore her, focusing instead on the road ahead. The wadi has closed in around you, towering sandstone cliffs rising on either side, their layered strata glowing faintly under starlight. Wind whistles through the narrow canyons, carrying faint echoes that sound almost like distant howls that make you shiver.

"We're about an hour into Wadi al-Hitan." Vernon has one hand on the wheel, the other on the gear shift, putting the jeep into all-wheel drive. "I can feel Set pulling toward something, but he's a bit vague. I don't think he knows where to go. Does Sekhmet?"

You nod, closing your eyes for a moment. Sekhmet stirs, still irritated from the dream, but she answers with reluctant precision. You see images flashing behind your eyelids: a narrow side canyon that branches left, a cluster of fossilized whale bones half-buried in the rock face, a steep descent into a hidden valley where the cliffs open up.

"Left at the next fork," you murmur when you open your eyes. "Then follow the dry riverbed until the whale skeletons appear on the right. The temple is beyond them off the road tucked into the cliff wall where the light can't reach."

He doesn't question the instructions. He turns the wheel, the headlights sweeping across jagged rock as he navigates off the road and down the narrow track. The path grows rough, loose stones clattering against the undercarriage as the car creaks with every dip. You can see the cliffs clooming closer, the faces carved by years and years of wind and floods.

The closer you get, the more your anxiety coils. The air grows heavier, charged with the same sense of doom you'd felt in Montu's temple. Sekhmet paces restlessly in your mind, her presence a low burn of anticipation and warning. You can feel her fire under your veins, increasing in temperature as Vernon drives.

You think of the Temple of Montu, of the khopesh twisting deep in your gut, of the pain and the fire, the sand raining down on you as you bled out on the altar. That fear morphs into rage, a small fire at first but gradually blooming into something hot and wild as Sekhmet growls, a huntress closing in on her prey.

"You okay?" He asks, the softness in his voice catching you off guard. "You look tense."

"I can feel the rage," you murmur as you stare ahead. "Both mine and hers. Hers amplifies mine."

"Do you want to talk about it?" You hesitate. "You can tell me, Stacks."

The nickname lands differently now, less mocking, more familiar. You feel the pull to Vernon again, and you wonder if he feels it, this thing between you. Perhaps it's only in your head, amplified by the exhaustion and divine fire hiding inside of you.

"I was so afraid," you whisper, thinking back to those last few moments. "It hurt so much and for a while that was all I could think about. Then I started to get cold and all I could think about was that I hoped wherever my mom is, she couldn't see what happened, that she would never know how I was going to die alone and afraid in a collapsing temple."

Vernon's hands grip the wheel, knuckles going bone white as your words fade. You'd never been afraid to die until it was about to happen. Ancient history had taught you how sacred death was, that dying was just another journey and adventure. But in that single moment alone and bleeding out, you realized how terrifying it was, how painful it was to be entirely alone and without help.

"I'm so fucking sorry," Vernon rasps. You glance up at him to see him staring out the front dash, eyes burning. "I shouldn't have left you. I was angry and I was going to pack your things and come get you and- fuck, Stacks. I shouldn't have left you."

You shrug. "I didn't make it easy on you."

"Doesn't matter. I knew it was dangerous and I thought I could just… do it my way. I'm sorry."

He seems to mean it, Sekhmet sniffs. Interesting.

I told you, you think back to her. He's different.

The goddess says nothing as the jeep descends into a deeper canyon, the walls rising higher until they block out most of the stars. The headlights catch on scattered fossils of massive whale vertebrae that are half-buried in the rock, ancient burns turned to stones over millions of years.

"Slow down here," you murmur, sitting up in the car, entirely awake now. "The entrance is just past the largest skeleton. It looks like a natural fissure, but it opens into the temple courtyard."

Vernon eases off the gas, the jeep crawling forward. The headlights sweep across the cliff face, illuminating a narrow vertical crack in the rock that looks barely wide enough for a person, let alone a vehicle. Beyond it, the darkness is absolute.

He kills the engine but leaves the headlights on. The sudden silence is deafening, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and the distant sigh of wind through the wadi. Vernon turns to you, one arm draped over the steering wheel, his expression serious in the dashboard glow.

“Ready?” he asks. His voice is quiet, but there’s steel beneath it. “We go in together. No heroics. If it feels wrong, we get out.”

"I'll listen to you this time."

He smirks. "I'll believe it when I see it, Stacks."

You both step out into the cool darkness, your skin turning to goosebumps. The slamming of the jeep door is too loud, echoing in the canyon before dying down. Vernon leads the way to the stone fissure, which is narrower than it looked from the jeep. You have to turn sideways to slip through, your shoulders scraping against stone as you follow Vernon through the crevice.

It's easier to see in the dark with Sekhmet present, your eyes adjusting easily to accommodate for the lack of light. Her presence flares brighter the moment you cross the threshold, her power a hot coal in your chest as she directs you toward a long corridor with a carved-lion headed sentinel.

"Left," you murmur to Vernon, voice echoing. "Then down the ramp. She said the main hall is lit."

Vernon listens without question. He hand brushes the small of your back for half a second as you step into a large room, steadying you before he moves ahead. He takes the left and leads you down a corridor, both of you silent as you creep along.

Gold light greets you as you step into the main hall suddenly. Golden-orage flames flicker in shallow stone bowls set into the walls, casting dancing light across the walls. The carvings in the wall are pristine here, untouched by the desert wind and protected by the cliffs. You marvel at the reliefs: Maahes in his lion form, devouring enemies, his mane wreathed in solar fire; processions of priests carrying offerings of meat and wine; scenes of the lion god standing behind Sekhmet, both of them pathed in blood.

My deepest pride, the goddess growls. My biggest regret.

The hall is entirely empty. Your boots echo on the flagstones as you step deeper into the main hall. It's warmer, the brazier's heat making sweat bead along your hairline. Vernon stays close, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours and sending sparks through your spine.

"Voss, was here," Vernon mutters. "Brazier's don't light themselves. But where did they go?"

Deeper, Sekhmet urges. Into the heart.

The two of you move together down a wide ramp that spirals gently into the earth. The walls grow closer, the carvings showing lions with open jaws, flames pouring from their mouths, scenes of Apophis writhing beneath Maahes's claws. Your pulse quickens as you walk, feeling Sekhmet's energy pulse in time with yours.

The ramp ends in a grand antechamber. More braziers burn here, their light reflecting off polished obsidian inlays that make the walls look like liquid night. The floor is inlaid with a massive mosaic of a lion devouring a serpent. The air feels heavier, charged, as if the temple itself is holding its breath.

Great stone lion statues on pillars bellow into the night, their faces twisted in anger. You pull up short when you look at them, something in your gut twisting like when you'd seen the falcons outside of Montu's temple. You get the sense of something that ripples down Sekhmet's spine like an angry cat-

Stone grinds. You look up to see the stone lions tearing themselves from the columns, all four of them crashing down to the ground. Dust flies as you and Vernon step back. They're twice the size of natural lions, their bodies made of living basalt veined with glowing red lines of fire. Their eyes burn red as they shake the dust from their shoulders, teeth grinding like rock as they prowl toward you.

"Shit," Vernon swears.

Power floods your veins as Sekhmet surges forward. Your hands burn and you don't even think - you just reach outward with both of your hands, twin khopesh blades manifesting in your grip, their bronze edges blazing crimson. The weapons feel perfectly balanced, humming with Sekhmet's wrath as the lions charge.

Vernon's spear appears in his hands with a crack of thunder, the same weapon you'd seen in Montu's temple crackling with lightning. He surges forward to meet the first lion head on as you challenge another, spinning as one khopesh slashes upward in a blazing arch. The blade cuts through the living stone like it's clay, shearing off a chunk of the lion's shoulder in a spray of sparks and rock.

The guardian roars in rage, swinging a massive paw at your head. You duck under it and drive the second blade into the creature's flank, gritting your teeth as Sekhmet roars inside of you. Flame explodes outward, cracking the basalt apart from the inside, causing the lion to shatter and collapse into rubble.

Vernon is a living storm beside you, shadow-stepping through darkness to reappear behind another lion and drive his spear through its spine. Lightning erupts along the shaft, spiderwebbing across the stone body in brilliant white cracks. The stone lion convulses and fractures, shattering the same way yours had moments before.

The two of you fall into a sync without words as the last two guardians descend, becoming flame and storm. You blast one of the lions with fire, knocking it back before it can get to Vernon before you challenge it head on, ducking as it swipes at you. You spin and bring down both blades on its neck, severing the stone head as Sekhmet's strength burns through you, hot and liquid.

Vernon plants his spear into his lion's side, sending a bolt of lightning that hits the creature with an explosion that leaves your ears ringing. Dust billows thick through the antechamber as you shield yourself from stray rock and dust as Vernon's killing blow finishes. He stands a few paces away, spear dissolving into sparks, chest heaving. His eyes meet yours across the settling dust, dark, wild, and something else.

For a second the air between you crackles with more than divine power, but Sekhmet's growl cuts it short. They're gone.

You nod. "She says they're gone."

Vernon nods once, jaw tight. “Let’s make sure.”

The final corridor is shorter, narrower, lined with carvings of Maahes standing triumphant over Apophis. The braziers here burn lower, as if whatever ritual was performed has already drained them. You push through a last set of massive stone doors that stand slightly ajar, their surfaces carved with roaring lions.

The heart of the temple opens before you, a circular chamber, vast and domed, the ceiling lost in shadow high above. A single massive altar of black basalt dominates the center, its surface still stained with fresh blood and scattered with remnants of ritual. You absently press your hand to your stomach, feeling the heat of where the blade had entered you, the wound that Sekhmet had burned shut.

I am here, she murmurs.

Vernon touches your arm, drawing your attention. His eyes are dark, a storm sparking behind them. "You're not alone." He pauses and rolls his eyes. "Set says you have nothing to fear."

Sekhmet gives a deliberate hmph but you smile, thankful for their presence - even the God of Chaos.

The chamber is empty like Sekhmet said. No Voss. No Nadia-Montu. No Dr. el-Masri or remaining security. Only the echo of your footsteps and the faint crackle of dying flames. The last of Sekhmet's fire fades beneath your skin as you walk through the chamber, the twin blades vanishing from your hands.

"Gone like she said."

You nod, staring at the bloodstained altar. The scent of smoke and iron is thick. You sink down onto the edge of the altar, legs suddenly heavy. Vernon hesitates only a moment before sitting beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch. The stone is warm from the braziers. The chamber feels strangely peaceful after the violence, and for a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Vernon’s voice is low when he finally breaks the silence. “I liked the blades."

You let out a shaky breath, staring at your hands. The tattoos on your arms have faded back to dull red, but you can still feel the fire. “I think Sekhmet did most of the work. Felt like I knew exactly what to do, though."

He huffs a quiet laugh, leaning back on his hands. “Set’s the same. Sometimes it feels like I’m just along for the ride. Other times it feels like we're working together."

The silence stretches again. Vernon settles back and his shoulder presses a little firmer against yours. You glance at him but he isn't watching you, his gaze focused on the dim fire of the chambers. You can feel the warmth of him beside you, the steady rhythm of his breathing. He shifts slightly, his boot scraping against the stone floor.

“I keep thinking about it,” he says, breaking the silence as he stares. “Leaving you in that corridor. I was pissed, and I told myself you were a grown woman who could make her own choices, but I knew better. I knew Voss was planning something bad. I should’ve dragged you out of there kicking and screaming if I had to. I shouldn’t have walked away.”

The words hang in the air between you. You stare at him, surprised at the admission. His jaw is tight, the line of it sharp in the low light, and his hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing once like he’s fighting the urge to clench them into fists. He looks exhausted and it twists something in your chest.

You turn toward him, studying the side of his face. The firelight catches on the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the way his dark eyes reflect the dying embers like distant lightning. He’s always worn that smug, untouchable mask so well, but right now it’s cracked, and you can see the other version of him beneath it, the one who sat guard outside your tent and who kept you grounded in the medical tent after that first night of slaughter.

"It isn't your fault, Vernon." You tentatively reach out, resting your hand on his forearm. The skin there is warm, the ink slightly raised under your fingertips. “I was angry. Stubborn. I didn’t want to listen because I thought you were coddling me and I've spent most of my life chasing after my mom's dream. I made the choice to go deeper. You tried to stop me. Multiple times. I’m the one who ignored every warning.”

He doesn’t pull away from your touch, but his shoulders tense. “Doesn’t change the fact that I left you there to bleed out on an altar. I should have made you listen."

The guilt is eating at him, you realize. It’s weighing on him like the collapsed temple itself, pressing down on his shoulders. You can see it in the tight set of his mouth, the way his free hand flexes against his thigh. This isn’t the smug Vernon who called you Stacks and made you see red. This is someone who’s been carrying too much for too long - Set's chaos, his own secrets, and guilt that you can't even begin to understand.

You squeeze his arm gently, thumb brushing over one of the binding wards. “Hey. Look at me.” He does, reluctantly, dark eyes meeting yours. In the dim light they look almost black. "When have I ever done what you asked?"

He scoffs a little. "I guess."

"You came back. That means a lot to me."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

“Don’t be nice to me just because you understand me better now.” His voice is rough, edged with that familiar tone when he'd been an ass all those years, but there's a vulnerability you feel now that you know how to look for it. "You spent years hating me and you had every right to. You don't owe me comfort now just because you know I'm carrying Set."

You hold his gaze, refusing to look away. “I’m not being nice because I feel sorry for you. I’m saying it because it’s true. And so what if I regret how I treated you. I was wrong. Though, to be fair, I think you were pushing my buttons on purpose."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I was."

You snort. "Why?"

He looks at you for a long moment, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "Liked your fire, and when you were mad at me, it made me feel seen. At least you not liking me was honest."

"I didn't hate you. I just… really didn't like you."

He smirks. “I’ve always been impressed by you, you know. You're incredibly smart and your commitment to the right thing reminds me of myself before Set. I always liked that about you."

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is, the warmth of his body, the way his fingers linger on yours, the dark intensity in his eyes as they drop to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning to yours.

Sekhmet growls but you ignore her, your heart pounding in your chest as you stare at him. "I thought you thought I was naive and stupid."

"Stacks, I think the fucking world of you."

"Really?"

"Mhm." His eyes drop down to your mouth again. "Can I be honest?"

Your heart thuds. "Yes."

"I really want to fucking kiss you right now."

You suck in a sharp breath, your hand on his arm tightening a fraction. Licking your lips, you murmur, "I'm not going to stop you."

Vernon doesn't hesitate. He presses forward, his mouth meeting yours in a kiss that starts slow but quickly deepens, hungry and desperate, like he’s been holding back for far longer than you realized. His lips are warm, slightly chapped from the desert, and they move against yours with a certainty that makes your head spin. One hand reaches up to rest on your cheek, the other sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as he pulls you closer.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, hands fisting in his torn shirt, the fabric bunching under your fingers. The taste of him - salt and something static - floods your senses. Heat blooms low in your belly, and when his tongue brushes yours and you part your lips for him, he groans low in his throat, the kisses turning deeper.

Immediately you think of the dream as you cling to him, the room spinning. Sekhmet is nowhere to be found as you press into him, his hands tangling in your hair, tongue sweeping against yours. You make a small sound and he breaks the kiss, panting.

“Fuck, Stacks,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Tell me to stop and I will. Right now.”

Instead, you pull him back down, kissing him harder, deeper, tongues sliding together in a messy, desperate tangle. He groans into your mouth, the sound low, vibrating through your chest. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, then lower, palming your ass as he hauls you fully into his lap on the edge of the altar. The stone is still warm from the braziers, but nothing compared to the heat of his body pressing against yours.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. He bites your bottom lip and you whine while his tongue darts out to soothe the sting with his tongue. “Watching you glare at me across every dig, every conference, pretending I didn’t want to shove you against the nearest wall and kiss the fucking shit out of you."

Your laugh is breathless, turning into a moan when he rolls his hips up, letting you feel exactly how hard he already is. “You were such an asshole on purpose.”

"Yeah. You're hot when you're mad. And you not liking me was something."

He kisses you again, slower this time, savoring, like he’s memorizing the taste of you. His hands are greedy, sliding under your shirt, the callouses on his fingers scraping across your hips before skimming up your ribs to cup your chest through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble tight.

"Oh," you breathe.

"Yeah?" He smirks, mouth sucking greedily along your jaw. "Been driving me insane for years."

Vernon leans up to peel your shirt off, his eyes hungry as he takes in the sight of you. The scar on your stomach glows faintly red in the low light, and he ducks down to press open-mouthed kisses along the ridged line, tongue tracing every inch.

“Mine,” he murmurs against your skin, the word possessive and rough. "Mine to protect, mine to touch."

He lays you back on the wide basalt altar, the stone warm against your bare back. His mouth follows, worshipping every inch of skin he uncovers. He kisses the hollow of your throat, the curve of your collarbone, the sensitive underside of your breasts. His hands snap the claps in the back and peel the fabric off you, the scrape of it against your skin making you shiver. When he finally closes his mouth over one nipple, sucking hard while his hand palms the other, you cry out, back arching off the stone.

"Fuck," you hiss.

He hums, the vibration shooting straight between your legs. “That’s it. Let me hear you. Finally using that crass language I adore.”

He takes his time, mouth and hands mapping your skin. Your mind goes blank, the feeling of his mouth and hands on you turning you to static. Heat blooms where he kisses, your body feeling the electricity underneath his skin as he plants kisses down your stomach.

A few days ago, you'd never imagine Vernon touching like this. Now that he is, you can't imagine him not touching you. You never want him to stop, never want the heat of his palms to leave your ass or the wet press of his mouth to stray too far. For too long have you watched him, irritated but intrigued, and now that you've tasted him, you don't want to stop.

When Vernon finally moves lower, hooking his fingers in your waistband and dragging your pants and underwear down in one smooth motion, he groans at the sight of you bare and glistening for him.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “So wet already. All for me?”

You nod, breathless. His hands are gentle as he spreads your thighs wide, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thighs while he settles between them. He presses open-mouth kisses down your thighs and you suck in a sharp breath when you feel the heat of his breath on your wet cunt, a thrill going through you.

The first slow, broad lick of his tongue from your entrance to your clit makes your hips jerk and a broken moan tear from your throat. Your hands shoot down to thread in the strands of his hair, twisting in the longer strands near the nape of his neck, nails scrapping on the shorter sides.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he growls, the words vibrating against your folds. “Gonna eat this pretty pussy until you’re shaking.”

The words knock the wind out of you as he presses his mouth to you, slow and messy. His tongue works you open in long strokes, circling your swollen clit before sucking it gently between his lips. Your hips twitch and your eyes squeeze shut as you arch, the feeling so good you can't do anything except squirm in his hold.

Two thick fingers slide inside you without warning, curling just right, the wet sound of him fucking them into you echoing in the temple chamber. He doesn't rush - just sucks messily at you, letting you roll your hips in broken, little twitches into his mouth.

"Fuck," you gasp, laughing as your head presses back into the stone. "Feels so good."

He groans against you. "That's it, Stacks, use me."

You do, hips rolling as he stretches you open while his tongue flicks relentlessly over your clit. The first orgasm crashes over you hard and sudden, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as your walls clamp down around his fingers. He doesn’t stop, grinning as he licks you through it, slow and messy until you're oversensitive and whimpering.

Vernon finally pulls back, lips and chin shining, eyes dark with stormclouds. "You're addicting."

Before you can catch your breath, he’s kissing you again, deep and wet with the taste of you. His fingers never leave you, thrusting slow and deep while his thumb circles your swollen clit. You moan into his mouth, hands fisting in his hair as another orgasm builds fast and overwhelming.

“Come on,” he murmurs against your lips. “Give me another. Want to feel you come on my fingers."

You do, clenching tight around his fingers as you come with a choked cry. You squeeze your eyes shut, breath coming out in choked sounds, colors blooming behind your lids. He swallows every sound you make, kissing you through it until you're boneless and panting. Only then does he pull away, bringing his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean before he kisses you again.

"Need you," he murmurs, the slide of his mouth warm against yours. "Do you want-"

"Yes," you gasp, sucking his tongue into your mouth greedily. He whimpers and you dig your nails into him, pulling at his shirt. "Please."

You help him tear his shirt off as he shoves his pants down, his heavy cock springing free. It's thick and glistening, making your stomach flip because of course the asshole tombraider has a nice cock.

Vernon settles between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance. He grins when you squirm beneath him, lifting your hips in an attempt to push him in. Instead, he rolls his hips lazily against you, smearing your arousal across your pussy as he teases you, laughing while he peppers your face in kisses.

"Desperate," he notes.

"Asshole."

"I like what it gets out of you."

Before you can retort, he pushes in slowly, inch by thick inch, splitting you open with a burn that feels better than Sekhmet's fire. When he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, both of you groan. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer as he drops his forehead to yours, kissing you sweeter than the moment calls for.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel so good. Made for me."

He starts to move then, his lips dipping with slow, deep rolls that drag against you. The pace is deliberate, his cock filling you completely with every thrust. Your nails dig into his back, keeping him close as his thrusts punch the air from your lungs.

But you want more of him.

With a surge of Sekhmet's strength, you flip him suddenly, pinning him down on the stone beneath you. His brows raise, then darken as you press your hands to his chest, keeping him flat as you roll your hips and grin.

"My turn," you whisper.

The new angle makes you both moan, the feeling deeper and fuller now. You start to ride him, slow and grinding at first, then faster, hips rolling as you chase your pleasure. Vernon’s hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise, eyes locked on where you’re joined, watching his cock disappear inside you with every bounce.

"Fuck," he groans. “Riding me so pretty. Take what you need, baby.”

The new name makes you whine. You roll your hips faster, chasing the warm knot in your belly, ignoring the burn in your thighs as you tip your head back, nails digging into his sweaty chest. He sits up suddenly, one arm wrapping around your back to hold you close while the other hand slides between you to rub tight circles over your clit.

“Come on,” he growls against your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “One more. Come on my cock.”

You nod, clinging to him as the orgasm rips through you, sharp and blinding. You cry out, walls clenching around him as you come hard. He growls, keeping you moving until he spills after you, burying his face in your neck.

Vernon falls backward and you collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick and trembling. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as the braziers flicker lower around you. One hand splays across your lower back while the other strokes slow, soothing lines up and down your spine.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The only sounds are your mingled breaths, the soft crackle of the last embers, and the distant sigh of wind moving through the wadi outside the temple. For the first time since Sekhmet burned her way into your veins, the fire inside you feels quiet and content.

Vernon presses a lazy kiss to your temple, his voice rough and low against your hair. “We should stay here tonight. It’s safer than trying to drive out in the dark with Voss and Montu somewhere ahead. We can rest, regroup.”

You nod against his chest, too boneless to argue. “Yeah. Supplies are still in the jeep, though. Water. Food. Blankets.”

“Just a bit longer,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up so he can kiss you again, slow and deep. “I mean it, Stacks. You’re mine to protect now. Not just because of the gods riding us. Because it’s you. I’m not walking away again."

You lean in and kiss him once more before resting your head on his chest. "I know."

Sekhmet stirs inside you, her presence a low, steady burn rather than the usual sharp flare of irritation. She watches the moment with the wary gaze of an old lioness.

He is determined, she notes warily. I think he might burn the world to keep you safe. Perhaps it is not a bad thing. Chaos seems to like you. Beware the love of a God.

And what about you? You ask her.

Beware of me too, child. I burn away the unworthy.

-

Dawn is pomegranate pink when you slip out of the temple's stone fissure, the cool morning air of Wadi al-Hitan not yet burning. You move in easy silence now, shoulders brushing, hands finding each other without thought as you pass Vernon the last of the scavenged supplies. The sky above shifts from pink to rose, to blue, the faint mineral bite of ancient rock still in the air.

You study a map spread out on the hood of the jeep, a pen in your hand as you keep the wind from lifting the paper edges off the metal of the car. Vernon comes up behind you, his arms sliding around your waist without hesitation, chin resting on your shoulder. The casual affection makes something warm bloom inside of you, and you lean back into him, tilting your head to the side so he can see better.

"Find the way?" He asks.

"Yeah. Sekhmet's version of directions isn't as simple as looking at a map." She growls and you grin. "But I think I've got it figured out."

"Good."

"You drove yesterday. I'll drive today."

He hums in agreement, the sound low and pleased, and gives your waist a gentle squeeze before stepping back. “Good. Means I get to watch you instead of the road.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth is genuine. “Flirt.”

"Get used to it, Stacks."

The drive out of the wadi is smoother than the journey in, the narrow track widening as you leave the canyons behind. Vernon rides shotgun, one arm draped along the back of your seat, fingers occasionally playing with the ends of your hair or tracing idle patterns on your shoulder. Every touch feels easy and open, and you catch yourself glancing over at him more than once, catching the soft curve of his smile when he catches you looking.

When the road straightens and you reach over to rest your hand on his thigh, he covers it with his own without hesitation, thumb stroking slow circles against your knuckles.

"This is nice," he says, fingers tightening on yours. "I spent a long time convincing myself the only way to keep you looking at me was to make you angry. Stupid, in hindsight.” He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of yours. “I like this better. A lot better.”

"You're going to keep doing it though, aren't you?"

"Sure am."

Two hours slip by faster than you expect. The landscape changes subtly as you draw closer to the suspected location of Apophis’s resting place, rockier, more fractured, the cliffs giving way to wide, barren plains dotted with strange, wind-sculpted formations that look almost like broken bones. The sky remains clear and mercilessly blue, but the air feels heavier, charged with something unnatural.

Then you see it.

Far ahead on the horizon, a wall of darkness is building, the storm clouds thick and alive. Black and bruised-purple thunderheads boil upward, swirling as lightning flickers inside of them in violent, blood-red forks rather than the usual white. Even from this distance, you can see the sand being whipped into violent spirals beneath the storm.

Vernon sits up straighter, his hand tightening on yours. "The serpent."

His voice startles you and you glances sideways at him, the ancient language rolling off of his tongue as Set speaks through him for a moment. Sekhmet stirs sharply in your mind in response, giving a low warning growl.

The storm grows larger as you drive toward it, the sky darkening rapidly. Wind buffets the jeep, sand stinging against the windshield like tiny needles. Vernon’s jaw clenches, tattoos beginning to glow faintly blue along his forearms as Set rises to meet the threat.

“Pull over for a second,” he says.

You ease the jeep to a stop and Vernon closes his eyes, breathing slow and deep. You feel the shift in the air immediately, your hair standing up on your arms as the energy crackles in the car. The wind around the jeep whips up for a second before it dies down, Set's calming the unnatural storm ahead. Ahead, the thunderheads still rumble, but the lightning lessens and dims to sullen flashes.

Vernon exhales sharply, opening his eyes. Sweat beads on his forehead. “That is all I can do from here. Set is fighting the serpent’s influence, but it is like trying to push back the tide. We need to get closer.”

You nod and put the jeep back in gear, pushing forward through the unnaturally calmed corridor Vernon has carved. The storm still rages ahead, but the path to the temple remains passable.

The site appears suddenly as you crest a low rise, the chaos spread out across the barren plain like a battlefield. Abandoned vehicles sit at crooked angles, doors flung open, some with hoods still smoking. Tents lie half-collapsed or shredded by wind, canvas flapping wildly. Equipment is scattered everywhere, crates overturned and tools spilled.

Dark stains mar the ground in several places, blood both dry and still fresh. The storm’s edge looms directly over the area, thunder cracking like whip strikes, red lightning illuminating the destruction in violent flashes.

“No bodies,” Vernon mutters, scanning the wreckage. “Either they ran or Voss forced them deeper.”

You kill the engine a safe distance away, heart pounding. Sekhmet’s fire surges hotter in your veins, ready. Vernon’s hand finds yours one last time, squeezing tight before you both step out into the howling wind.

The storm presses against the invisible barrier Set has created, but it holds. You feel the vibration of the storm against your small pocket of air, stepping close to Vernon as you both walk in the sand, feet sinking in step by step.

Up ahead, the entrance to the temple of Apophis yawns open, waiting and framed by cabins of coiling serpents. A ripple of anger goes through you as Sekhmet growls, and you feel the heat in your hands, ready to summon fire and weapons if necessary.

Together, you approach the temple, Vernon gritting his teeth with the force of keeping the storm at bay. You touch his wrist and he steadies a little, his focus sharpening as you pause at the temple's entrance, stone serpents hissing down at you.

"Together?" You ask.

"Together," he confirms.

The darkness of the temple swallows you whole and the wind cuts off like a door slamming shut. The air inside of the temple is thick and stale and unnaturally warm, pressing against you with the metallic tang of blood. You don't let it deter you, your footsteps silent as you and Vernon navigate the dark, guided by the eyes of Sekhmet and Set.

Prepare, Sekhmet growls.

Your palms heat as the khopesh blades manifest, burning crimson in your grip. Vernon must have the same instinct, his spear crackling blue in his hand as the air around him pops. Together, you move down the narrow corridor, the walls covered in images of coiling serpents, their eyes inlaid with polished obsidian.

Sekhmet’s presence surges hotter in your veins, a low, constant growl of warning. Deeper. They are close. The serpent stirs.

Vernon's jaw is tight as you walk. His free hand brushes yours for half a second, a silent promise as he surges forward, the passage widening into a series of antechambers. Braziers burn low and erratic here, casting dancing shadows that make the carved reliefs seem alive. You scan scenes of Apophis swallowing the sun, of chaos devouring order, of the world unraveling into endless night - but its the floor makes your stomach turn.

Blood is everywhere. Dried and fresh, dark pools and smeared streaks across the flagstones. Bodies like where they fell - laborers, students, security personnel. Throats are slit, chests are opened in ritual patterns, some with eyes open, others close. The sacrifices number in the dozens, violent and grotesque.

Sekhmet's voice growls through yours, "I drink what spills. We will end this now."

Ahead, the corridor opens into the main chamber. It's a vast, cavernous space carved deep into the living rock, its ceiling lost in shadow high above. A single colossal altar of black basalt dominates the center, its surface slick with fresh blood. Braziers ring the room in a perfect circle, flames roaring unnaturally high and red. In the middle of it all stands Voss, arms raised, chanting in a voice that is no longer entirely his own.

Nadia stands to his right, still possessed by Montu, her body thrumming with solar power. Besides her is another security team member - Tariq, you think. Maahes burns in him now, golden light leaking from the corner of his eyes and manifesting in golden armor made of light on his body.

Apophis is rising. You can feel it in the air, the serpents hiss filling the room as the ground trembles beneath your feet. Red lightning crackles across the ceiling as Voss's chant grows louder and faster, guided by Dr. al-Masri.

Nadia and Tariq turn the second you and Vernon step into the room, Nadia's smile spreading. "The Crooked Star returns."

"Ah," Tariq says. "The Eye Unbound is with him. Hello, mother."

Neither Sekhmet nor Set answer in kind. They surge forward as Nadia lunges at Vernon first, her khopesh blazing as Vernon meets her head-on, spear crackling with lightning. The God of war is fast, each crack of her blade against his spear like thunder, sending sparks flying.

You lose focus on Vernon as Tariq charges you, the might of Maahes powering him with terrifying speed. His eyes burn golden as he chops at you with a short sword. You leap to meet him, your twin khopesh blazing. The first clash of metal sparks, the impact vibrating up your arm and vibrating through your teeth. Sekhmet's strength floods you and you snarl as you press him, making Tariq stumble backward.

He disengages and feints left before striking right, and you barely parry in time. The force sends you sliding back across the blood-slick floor, feet skidding. Pain flares but you dive and roll away from another heavy swing of his sword, charging him as he recovers from the chop. Your khopesh slash across his side, carving deep wounds that sizzle flesh. He roars, Tariq's voice mixed with something ancient and furious, as he retaliates with a roaring breath of fire that makes you leap back.

Across the chamber, Vernon and Montu are locked in brutal combat. Vernon flickers in and out of shadows, spear thrusting with lethal precision while storms rage around him. Nadia counters with blinding light, fire roaring from her palms, blades and weapons manifesting and vanishing as she hammers down on him. The two gods clash in a whirlwind of lightning and fire, the chamber trembling with every blow.

"You are a whelp," Sekhmet growls through you to Tariq and he sneers. "I am the lioness. You are a cub."

He lunges, sword swinging in wide, deadly arcs. You meet each strike with your own blades, flame meeting flame in explosive bursts of light and heat that make sparks rain down around you. Maahes slams his shoulder into you, using his stolen body’s mass to drive you back against a pillar. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, but Sekhmet roars through you. You twist, bringing one khopesh down in a vicious overhead strike that catches him across the collarbone. Golden light pours from the wound like molten metal, and he howls in pain and rage, the sound shaking dust from the ceiling above.

End him, Sekhmet roars.

You press the attack, khopesh flashing, crimson flames licking up the edge of the blades. Tariq catches you once in the side, opening a shallow cut on your ribs that makes you snarl, but you push through, kicking him back and making his arm fly wide for the smallest window of opportunity. You take it, striking with both blades and driving them home into his chest.

He staggers backward, golden light spilling from the wound. His body convulses as the god within fights to stay anchored, and you refuse to let up, summoning fire in your palms. You thrust your hands forward, a rush of white flame scorching Tariq. He screams as you grit your teeth, feeling the flame run through every part of you, your veins heating with divine power.

"We burn the unworthy," you growl, feeling Sekhmet's rage and grief as the fire pours out of you.

Tariq’s body collapses to the ground, charred and smoking as the golden light flickers out. Sekhmet's wrath is edged with sadness, but she doesn't let it overwhelm either of you as both of you pivot to where Vernon drives a spear through Nadia's stomach, his lightning exploding in a blinding flash of white that makes you shield your eyes.

Vernon is storm incarnate, the wind ripping through the chamber and buffeting you as he pins Nadia to the chamber floor. He pulls the spear out, pointing it to the ceiling as he spins it fluidly in his hands again, gathering static before he strikes down again, the crack of thunder so loud that all sound goes out for a moment, your ears ringing as you clap your hands over them.

Nadia’s body goes limp as Montu’s presence flees, leaving her body behind. You stand panting in the carnage, hands over your screaming ears as Vernon leans over her, panting. When he looks up at you, it's not Vernon looking at you, but the blazing storm of Set, seething and angry. For a moment, you're terrified you've lost Vernon to the god, but you see his mouth twitch in a smile before turning to where Voss stands in the center of the room.

Voss's eyes burn gold, his pupils narrowed to serpentine slits. Black scales ripple across his skin in slow, oily waves, spreading from his throat down his chest and arms. When he smiles, his mouth splits too wide, revealing rows of needle-sharp fangs that glint in the dying brazier light. The air around him thickens, heavy with static.

“You dare interrupt the end of all things?” The voice that comes out of Voss is layered with something vast and ancient. "The Crooked Star and the Eye Unbound. How fitting. I will swallow you both before I swallow the world.”

Vernon’s grip tightens on his spear, lightning crackling louder along the shaft. "I am the chaos within the order of the world, I am the protector of disorder, I am Set, the Crooked Star, and I will devour you whole, snake."

You feel Sekhmet surge forward in your veins, her wrath a white-hot flame that sharpens every sense. Your twin khopesh blaze brighter, crimson fire licking up the blades until they glow like molten metal. The scar on your stomach burns in answer.

"I am with you," you growl.

You and Vernon move as one.

Apophis answers in kind, lunging with impossible speed, his black-scaled hands elongating into claws. The air tears as he slashes toward you. You spin left, khopesh flashing in a wide arc that meets his claws in a shower of spitting flame. The impact jars your arms, but Sekhmet’s strength holds you firm. Vernon shadow-steps right, appearing behind Apophis and driving his spear toward the serpent’s spine.

Apophis twists mid-motion, tail-like darkness whipping out to slam Vernon back. The impact sends him skidding across the blood-slick floor, but he rolls to his feet and immediately summons a violent gust of wind that hurls debris and sand into the serpent god’s face.

Your khopesh slash downward in twin blazing arcs as you seize the advantage, and one catches Apophis across the shoulder, carving a deep, smoking gash that leaks black ichor. The other bites into his side and Sehmet's fire pours into his wounds, burning away shadow and scale.

Apophis roars a sound like the world cracking open and backhands you with a clawed fists. Pain explodes across your ribs as you fly backward, slamming into a pillar hard enough that it cracks and collapses behind you.

Vernon is there in a second, shadow-stepping to pull you up roughly while thrusting his spear with the other hand. Lightning chains from the tip, striking Apophis square in the chest. The serpent god convulses, black smoke rising from the point of the impact, but he laughs through the pain, the sound wet and terrible.

"You think you can contain me?"

Apophis spreads his arms, and the chamber erupts. Shadowy serpents burst from the floor, coiling and striking with venomous speed. One lunges for you and you spin a khopesh, severing its head easily.

Together, you and Vernon fall into a perfect tandem, taking on the primordial deity of chaos. Vernon forces openings, blasting Apophis back with air and shadow stepping to draw his attention while you strike from the flank, your blades carving deal, burning wounds that Sekmhmet's fire refuses to let close.

When Apophis turns on you with a barrage of shadow claws, Vernon appears in a flicker of darkness, spear thrusting into the serpent’s side and unleashing a point-blank lightning strike that lights the entire chamber white-blue.

Apophis bellows, the sound ear-splitting. Black ichor sprays across the floor where your blades and Vernon’s spear find purchase again and again. You feel the serpent weakening, his movements growing slightly slower, the golden glow in Voss’s eyes flickering like a dying bulb.

With a roar that rattles your bones, Apophis slams both hands into the ground. The stone floor erupts in a wave of writhing shadow serpents that surge toward you like a living tide. You slash desperately, flame cutting through them in wide arcs, but there are too many. One coils around your ankle and yanks you off your feet.

Vernon’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Stacks!”

He shadow-steps through the writhing mass, spear spinning in a blazing circle of lightning that clears a path. He reaches you, grabbing your arm and hauling you upright just as Apophis lunges again, claws aimed for your throat.

Vernon drops low, sweeping his spear in a wide horizontal arc that catches Apophis across the knees, lightning exploding outward and buckling the serpent’s legs while you leap, both khopesh raised high. Sekhmet's full wrath surges through you in a single, blinding pulse of flame as you bring the blades down, a roar ripping from your throat.

The twin khopesh strike Apophis’s shoulders in perfect unison just as Vernon sends another lightning strike through the god. Divine flame and lightning meet in the middle, and for a moment, there's no sound. Then, Apophis roars, black scales shattering as fractured light spills out of him. His body convulses violently, and for an endless moment, the three of you are locked together.

Apophis finally breaks.

The serpent’s essence shatters outward in a violent burst of black smoke and golden shards that dissolve into nothing before they hit the ground. Voss’s body goes limp, collapsing to the bloodstained floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The golden glow fades from his eyes, leaving only the dull, empty stare of a man who invited a god in and paid the ultimate price.

You and Vernon collapse with him, chests heaving, weapons still glowing faintly in your hands. Sweat, blood, and ichor streak your skin. The braziers flicker lower, casting long shadows across the carnage.

Vernon’s spear dissolves into sparks. He rolls toward you, breathing hard, and reaches out. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight despite the mess covering both of you. You squeeze back, Sekhmet’s fire cooling to a gentle warmth in your veins.

The silence is deafening, only the soft pop of the last dying braziers and the distant sigh of wind through the wadi remain. Blood, ichor, and dust coat everything. Your body feels heavy, every muscle trembling with exhaustion, but Sekhmet’s fire still hums gently beneath your skin, the lioness satisfied.

Panting, you stare up at the ceiling. Your heart is still racing, adrenaline and divine power crashing through your veins in fading waves. The scar on your stomach pulses warmly, a reminder of how close you came to dying on a similar altar not so long ago.

You almost died on that altar in Montu’s temple. You watched people slaughtered for a madman’s ambition. You carried a goddess of vengeance inside you and learned how to wield her fire without losing yourself. And Vernon - Vernon, who you once hated on sight - fought beside you every step of the way.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, unexpected and hot. Not from sadness, but from the sheer overwhelming relief that you are still here. That he is still here. And that there are gods that walk in the world, that beneath the simmering history of Egypt, at the root of it all, your mother was right. There is a magical thread that makes the impossible possible - you'd just followed it to near the end of the world.

A shaky laugh bubbles up from your chest, half-hysterical, half-relieved. You turn your head to look at Vernon. He's already watching you, chest rising and falling rapidly, dust and blood streaking his face. His hair is matted with sweat, a cut on his cheek bleeding sluggishly. But his eyes are soft now, raw with something that looks a lot like awe.

“You’re insane,” he rasps, voice hoarse from shouting over the storm. A tired, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “We just killed a primordial serpent god and you’re laughing.”

"She was right," you pant. "My mom was right."

"Yeah. She was."

He shifts closer, pulling you against his side despite the mess covering both of you. His arm wraps around your shoulders, holding you tight as you turn into a combination of laughing and crying. Sekhmet is quiet inside you for once, her presence a warm, approving glow rather than the usual sharp growl.

You stay like that for a long time, tangled together on the floor of the ancient temple, bodies aching and hearts still racing. Vernon’s fingers thread through your hair, gentle despite the calluses.

"I think," he says eventually. "I would like to go on vacation for a while."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"What about that resort town we passed on the way here?" He asks.

You laugh. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, Stacks. I'm fucking tired."

"Alright. Yeah. A vacation." You pause. "Wait."

He looks down at you, concerned. "What?"

"I think I'm out of PTO soon."

He groans. "Stacks," he grumbles, mouth pressing to yours. "Fuck your PTO."

-

The sun is warm on your skin - not the punishing heat of the desert, but the salted kiss of the beach that makes everything feel soft like the sand beneath your feet. Marsa Alam stretches out in lazy blues and golds, the waves lapping against the white sand while the palm trees sway in the breeze and you curl against Vernon's side in the shaded cabana you claimed this morning.

Vernon's arm is draped around your waist, the heat of his skin slick with sweat. It doesn't bother you, though. You just like being pressed up against him, the familiar hum of Set's lightning just under the surface of Vernon's skin. The scar on your stomach has faded to a faint silver line that still glows faintly when Sekhmet stirs, but today she's quiet. Vernon’s fingers trace idle patterns over the mark through the thin fabric of your cover-up, a habit he has developed that makes your chest tighten with warmth every time.

He looks relaxed in a way you have never seen before, dirty blonde hair tousled by the wind, sunglasses pushed up into it, a half-empty cocktail sweating in his free hand. The tattoos on his forearms have settled into something less volatile now that the storm inside of him is more checked considering Set has learned to behave on most days.

“Another one?” Vernon asks, lifting his glass toward yours in a lazy toast.

You clink your glass against his, savoring the taste of the bright, citrusy drink. “Only if you promise not to steal the little umbrella again.”

“No promises, Stacks. I like how it looks in your hair.”

Annoying, Sekhmet sighs. Good thing he fights well and looks at you like you are the only sun worth rising for. Perhaps I do not entirely hate him.

You smile against Vernon's shoulder and murmur the compliment to him. He chuckles and brushes his lips against your ear to murmur, "Tell her I'm growing on her. Like mold."

Sekhmet huffs, but you feel the faintest flicker of amusement from her like a lioness who has decided the annoying jackal is tolerable after all. It makes you grin, glad that she no longer fights you about him every step of the way.

The two of you lean back, tangled up on the cabana as he runs his fingers through your hair, stealing sips of your drink. You watch as two guests stroll by their voices catching your attention as they laugh.

"… swear it's true!" The guy says to the girl. "Some guy in Cairo is claiming he’s the actual Anubis. Like, full-on jackal-headed visions, guiding lost souls or whatever. People are calling it the new cult of the dead. Wild, right?”

His companion laughs, covering her mouth. "What a lunatic."

You and Vernon both go still.

Your eyes meet over the rims of your glasses. Vernon’s grin spreads slow and wicked, the same crooked smile that used to infuriate you and now makes heat pool low in your belly. “Anubis, huh?”

You feel Sekhmet stir with interest. The Jackal has always been a meddler. But a worthy one.

You set your glass down, already reaching for Vernon’s hand. “We were getting bored anyway. Three weeks of peace is plenty.”

He laughs, low and delighted, and pulls you up with him. Sand clings to your legs as you both stand, the sea breeze tugging at your clothes. The resort stretches behind you in perfect, sun-drenched luxury, but the pull of the red sands is stronger now, older and deeper, calling you back to the desert.

Vernon tugs you close, one hand sliding to the small of your back as he kisses you slow and sweet, tasting of rum and mango. "Ready, Stacks?"

"I am, Crooked Star."

In high school, there was this girl you knew who seemed to have unlimited amounts of it. She got straight A’s without even trying. When teachers pulled names for classroom chores, she always got the easy ones like sweeping or dusting, while you were, more often than not, stuck cleaning toilets. She didn’t even seem capable of having a bad hair day—her luck was that good.

You’ve always wondered what it would be like to live like that. Luck has never been on your side.

You’re no stranger to the humiliation of a humongous zit erupting on your forehead the day before yearbook photos, or your car breaking down the morning of an important job interview. Not to mention the countless instances of locking yourself out of the apartment, or spilling coffee all over yourself five minutes before work, or stepping directly into a puddle in shoes you just bought.

It certainly explains your dating life. Unlucky in love, much like everything else. 

And yet, you keep trying.

Your mom has always told you it’s one of your best qualities. Despite the way the universe insists on knocking you down, you never fail to pick yourself back up and keep going. 

Even when it hurts. Even when it feels pointless.

Still, these past few weeks have given you a new perspective. You wouldn’t say your luck is turning around, not quite, but you’re starting to feel stupid, dangerous things like hope—at least where your bedroom-related woes are concerned.

Yoongi told you he’d be there for you, that all you needed to do was ask and he’d come running, and you’ve been taking him up on the offer. Often. 

Which is to say, you’ve been having many, many, many orgasms. Ridiculous amounts, considering you were batting zero just a month ago.

It’s honestly surreal. You’ve spent so long convinced your body was fundamentally broken that every time Yoongi gets you off still feels nothing short of miraculous. It’s as if whatever weird cosmic curse has haunted your sex life since your late teens disappears entirely.

Which is why getting a text from your ex while you’re still sweaty and out of breath from three consecutive orgasms feels a little laughable. Not necessarily unlucky, but definitely ironic.

hey. found some of your stuff while cleaning. when do you wanna come grab it?

So, Sunday morning, you find yourself in the car, on your way to what’s-his-face’s place.

You honestly wish he would’ve just offered to drop your stuff off while you were at work. It would’ve been the kinder thing to do.

Because now that you’re actually in Yoongi’s passenger seat and your ex’s street is getting closer and closer, your stomach feels like it’s full of wet cement. 

“You can still back out,” Yoongi reminds you as he pulls up to a red light.

“No, I can’t.”

“You literally can. Watch.” He breaks his 10-and-2 to gesture at the road ahead of him. “I’ll just keep driving.”

Your hands twist nervously in your lap. You recognize what he’s trying to do, and normally, it’d work. At the very least, it would get a laugh out of you. You’re just not feeling it.

“No, I want my stuff back,” you say quietly. “It’s okay.”

Yoongi glances at you from the corner of his eye. You can practically see him weighing whether to keep pushing or leave it alone.

Thankfully, he chooses the second option.

“Okay,” he says simply. The light turns green, and the car rolls forward.

When he finally parks on the street outside the building, you don’t make any immediate move to get out of the car. You just stare out the window with dread usually reserved for dentist appointments and funerals of distant relatives. 

A few months ago, you came here excited. Nervous in a good way. Hopeful. Now the building just looks cold.

You can see the window of his apartment from here, curtains half drawn. A succulent you bought together used to sit on the sill, but it isn’t there anymore. Which means you can probably expect to have it in your hands in a few minutes.

“You want me to come up?” Yoongi asks softly, breaking you out of your thoughts. 

Ha. Again, you appreciate the thought, but that would probably only make things worse. 

You shake your head, reaching to open the passenger door. “No. I’ll be quick, okay?”

“I’ll be here,” he says. 

You step out onto the sidewalk before you can change your mind, the car door closing behind you with a muted thump.

You walk inside, past the mailboxes, up the familiar flight of stairs because waiting for the elevator feels unbearable. Each step gives your brain another opportunity to reconsider, but you don't take it.

By the time you reach his floor, your palms are damp.

You stop outside his door and stare at it for a moment. Breathe once. Twice. Then you lift your hand and knock.

You’re greeted with your ex’s face less than a minute later.

For one awful second, your body reacts on instinct. A familiar face, familiar apartment smell drifting through the crack in the doorway, familiar posture leaning against the frame. Muscle memory tries to kick in before your brain catches up, and suddenly you’re vividly aware of how many evenings you spent standing exactly here kissing him hello.

The feeling dies almost immediately, because he looks as uncomfortable as you feel.

At least the suffering is mutual.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly.

“Hey.”

The interaction itself is painfully polite. Almost sterile.

He already packed everything into a cardboard box for you. A couple t-shirts. Your toothbrush from his bathroom. Some skincare products you forgot about. Movie tickets. Tiny remnants of a relationship reduced to clutter.

“How’ve you been?” he asks, once the hand-off is complete.

Ugh. You hate this. 

“Fine,” you say, adjusting your grip on the box. “You?”

“Good,” he says.

You nod. He nods. Nobody says anything. 

It's almost impressive.

This is someone you once spent entire weekends with. Someone you told stupid stories to at two in the morning. Someone who knew how you took your coffee and which side of the bed you preferred.

Now neither of you can sustain a conversation for more than thirty seconds. Funny how that works.

Your ex shifts awkwardly. "So..."

"So."

“I guess that's everything.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry it took so long to get it together.”

“It's fine.”

More silence. Then he rubs the back of his neck.

“Well,” he says. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“You too,” you say softly. Then you turn around and leave.

When you make it back to the car, you don’t say anything. You just buckle your seatbelt, cardboard box balanced on your knees.

“You okay?” Yoongi asks as he pulls back onto the road.

Good question.

You haven’t thought about your ex much since he dumped you. You weren’t with him for long, sure, but historically, you love to dwell. To pick apart every event that led up to the end, to catalogue all of your missteps so you don’t make them again. 

You haven’t had much time for any of that, with how quickly you fell into bed with your best friend.

Should you feel guilty for that? Maybe so. You don’t, not really, but you’re definitely feeling something. It’s weird, staring down at a neatly packed box of all of your memories with someone, no matter how long the relationship lasted, and knowing you’re the reason it ended. That it’s your fault you’re in this position. 

What’s-his-face is a nice guy. He liked you. He tried with you. 

And you failed, again. You couldn’t be what he wanted.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “That sucked.”

Yoongi hums sympathetically. “Screw that guy,” he says. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

You huff. It’s a nice sentiment, but it doesn’t really work in this case. You couldn’t screw that guy, and that was exactly the issue. He knows what he's missing and he’s perfectly fine not having it.

“He’s a nice guy, Yoongi,” you mumble, smoothing your hands over the box in your lap. “I was the problem. I always am.”

“Hey,” Yoongi says softly. “You’ve gotta stop talking about yourself like that.”

You turn your head towards him. “It’s true, though.”

“It isn’t.”

“Yoongi,” you say tiredly. “Come on. Think of all of the partners of mine you’ve met. You know I’ve never broken up with any of them? I’m always the one who gets broken up with. You seriously think that’s just a coincidence? Because I don’t.”

“I seriously think you just haven’t dated the right person.”

“How many more people do I have to date?” you snap. “It feels like I’ve been dumped by the entire population of Seoul! And I don’t blame any of them, Yoongi! Would you want to date someone who can’t fucking cum? I don’t blame them, because it’s probably insulting.”

Ugly as they may be, the words rush out of you with no hope of stopping them. A dam finally broken by years of erosion. Of heartbreak and frustration and too much time spent feeling horribly, disgustingly inadequate. Defective, like you told Yoongi before. Broken from the start.

Yoongi goes quiet. You suck in a shaky breath and, head in your hands, try to pull yourself together.

You didn’t mean to snap at him, but you’re just so tired of it all. You can only take so much of the whole ‘there are plenty of other fish in the sea’ thing. You get enough of it from your mom, from Jimin and Taehyung and Hoseok, from your fucking exes themselves sometimes. You don’t want Yoongi to bullshit you, too. Not when, for your entire life, he’s been the one person you can trust to be honest with you, no matter what.

“But you can,” he mumbles.

You lift your head. “What?”

“You can cum.”

Oh.

You don’t know how to respond to that. There’s no nice way to say ‘yeah, but practicing with you is different from the real thing’ without sounding like an asshole—not that you think Yoongi would care. 

“Look, can we just go home?” you ask instead. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Yoongi glances at you out of the corner of his eye for a moment, then sighs and redirects his attention to the road. “Okay.”

୨ৎ

When you get back to the apartment, you can tell the conversation isn’t actually over.

You both slip off your shoes in silence. Silence that continues as Yoongi sheds his jacket and hangs up his keys and you find somewhere to stow the box you came home with. But he’s being twitchy, and you can tell he wants to say something more.

It’s driving you crazy.

You shove the box in the corner of the living room to deal with later and whirl around to face him, annoyed.

“Whatever you’re thinking, just say it.”

Yoongi, who’s in the middle of adjusting the Dodgers cap on his head, freezes at the threshold of the living room, caught.

“Who said I was thinking anything?”

“We’ve known each other for how long?”

“You said you didn’t want to talk about it,” he hesitates, which just annoys you even more.

“And now I’m saying spit it the fuck out,” you snap.

Yoongi’s been on the receiving end of your stubborn streak more times than he can count, so you know he knows better than to fight you on this. 

He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face as his feet guide him a little further into the room. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he gathers his thoughts, clearly trying to choose his words carefully before they come out of his mouth.

Normally, you’d appreciate it, but right now it sets your teeth on edge.

“Look,” he starts after a moment, “it just pisses me off that you keep talking like there’s something, like, fundamentally wrong with you.”

You cross your arms defensively. “Well, up until about a month ago, I thought there was.”

“But there isn’t!” he says, gesturing wildly. “There’s nothing wrong with you! I mean, fuck, how many times do I need to make you cum before I finally get through to you?”

Oh, this really does piss him off.

You scoff. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“You want me to?” 

“Yes!”

“Fine. Your ex was a fucking loser.”

Wow.

You’re so stunned that you visibly back down, arms dropping limply at your sides. You didn’t exactly have a quippy response locked and loaded for that one.

Yoongi keeps going.

“You keep saying he was a nice guy,” he continues, “but nice guys don’t break up with their girlfriends over shit like that. Did he even try to talk to you about it before he decided making you cum wasn’t worth his effort? Did any of them?” 

The bluntness of his words hit like a slap, forcing your eyes down to the floor where you’re suddenly very interested in your sock choice of the day. 

Turquoise with yellow stars, and there’s a tear you didn’t notice in the heel of the left one. You can try to mend it, you think, but it would be so much easier to retire them entirely.

Hm.

“I hate the way you talk about your exes. Like they’re fucking saints for deigning to touch you or something. Because you’re so hard to figure out, right? You’re not.”

You look up from studying the hole in your sock. 

“You’re not hard to figure out,” he reiterates, stepping closer. “It only took me a few minutes, didn’t it?”

Something about the way he says that makes your face instantly hot. How, how, how does he sound so sure of himself? Of you? 

It’s baffling, maddening, completely unbelievable that he can think of this as anything other than a fluke. A product of sheer luck (his, not yours), or experience (again, his).

“Because I told you what I was into,” you try to reason.

“You really think I wouldn’t have figured it out anyway?”

“You’ve known me my entire life! Don’t act like you don’t have an advantage here.”

“No, I listened to you,” he says, jabbing his index finger at his own chest, repeating, “I listened to you. I paid attention. It isn’t rocket science.”

Your brow furrows. Suddenly, it feels like you’re talking about something else entirely. 

“I’m sorry, when did this become a competition between you and my exes?”

“It didn’t! It isn’t!” he insists. He’s pacing now, feet mapping the same semi-circle over and over. “I’m just sick of you talking about your past relationships like you were somehow the only one at fault for the way they ended. I don’t like seeing you punishing yourself for other people’s shitty behavior.”

You laugh humorlessly. “Because you’re the only one who’s supposed to be punishing me, right?”

At that, Yoongi stills. Looks you dead in the eye. 

“You know,” he says, his voice suddenly dangerously low, “maybe I should.”

You blink, eyes widening like a deer caught in the headlights. Or maybe, more accurately, caught in the crosshairs. 

Oh.

“You aren’t serious,” you say weakly, because you were fucking joking. Or, at least, you think you were joking. 

But the look on his face tells you he doesn’t think shit is funny.

“I could be,” he says. “Maybe you fucking need it.”

Oh.

“What are you gonna do?” you weakly taunt. “Make me cum until I stop talking badly about myself?”

Yoongi tilts his head in consideration. 

“That’s an idea,” he admits. “But not quite what I have in mind.”

“No? Then what? You gonna spank me?”

Amusement flashes over his features, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek to poorly mask a smirk.

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “You’d like that too much, I think. Defeats the purpose.”

That just pisses you off even more.

“Well, are you planning on telling me anytime soon? Or are you just gonna keep me in suspense?”

“I’m kind of enjoying letting you run your mouth.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“See?”

You glare at him and he just stares back, so maddeningly calm that you’re the first to break, looking back down at your stupid socks.

You don’t know how he can even be so calm, how his head isn’t spinning like yours is. Only seconds ago, you were arguing. Something you and Yoongi don’t do that often to begin with. And then you opened a door, a door you didn’t even intend to open, a door that leads to… fuck.

Sexy landmines everywhere.

You’re not super upset about it, not really, but it’s a little pathetic, isn’t it? You shouldn’t fold this easily. You should have some dignity. 

“Who says I even want to do anything?” you mutter after a moment, because it’s the last line of defense you have. 

Yoongi doesn’t say anything for so long that you honestly think he’s going to back off. 

It would make sense. He’s a boundaries guy, he’s made that clear. And this is unfamiliar territory for you. Light reprimand for talking back or teasing during a scene is one thing, but what he’s suggesting? Full-scale punishment? 

Maybe he’s decided you’re out of your depth.

“Say it, then.”

At the sound of his voice, you lift your head, brows drawn together.

“What?” 

Yoongi shrugs. “Tell me you don’t want it. This all happens on your terms, remember? I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to.”

His gaze drags over your face for a moment, studying you. You’re sure there are a million tells in your expression, clear as day for him to catalogue, but you have no idea what they are. You wish you knew. You wish it were easier for you to hide how much you want him.

“But I think you do,” he adds.

You lick your lips. “What makes you think that?”

He closes the distance between you, and you barely fight off your urge to back yourself against the wall. 

On a normal day, Yoongi is about as threatening as a newborn kitten, poor eyesight and all. But whenever he gets like this, you feel your heartbeat in your throat. You feel like the defenseless animal.

You don’t know what it says about you, that you like it so much.

“You mean other than you giving me suggestions on how I should punish you?” 

He cups your jaw, littlest finger pressed firm against your carotid. You wonder if he can feel your blood rushing. 

“Very cute, by the way,” he murmurs, voice so low it practically vibrates through you. “You think I need suggestions?”

Fuck.

Your eyelids flutter. You can feel yourself slipping, your body swaying into his. Whatever magnetic pull exists between you in this moment is so much stronger than the weak dregs of defiance you pathetically try to scrape together.

“Shut up,” you breathe.

“Nuh-uh.” A light squeeze to your jaw draws your eyes to his again. “Do you want it or not?”

Your throat feels so dry. “I…” you start, but nothing else comes out.

“That’s funny,” he teases. “You seemed perfectly capable of using your words a minute ago.”

Your lips flatten into a line at his condescending tone, but you’re getting wet. You can feel it, and you like it, because you’re a sicko.

“C’mon, baby,” he coaxes. “Yes or no?”

“Fine,” you grit out. “Yes.”

Yoongi clicks his tongue. “I think you can be a little nicer than that, can’t you?”

You stare at him, slackjawed.

“You want me to say please?” you ask. “Seriously? You want me to plead with you to punish me?”

“I think the practice will do you some good,” he says with an infuriating shrug.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I just have a feeling you’re going to be saying it a lot in about…” he trails off, checking his non-existent watch, “five minutes?”

Asshole.

Complete fucking asshole.

But you did, quite literally, sign up for this. You can’t deny that you’re more than a little curious about what he’s got in store for you, although the circumstances of the whole thing are a bit strange.

“Please,” you bite out through clenched teeth. “Will you please punish me?”

Yoongi looks so pleased with himself.

“Of course, baby,” he replies smoothly. “If that’s what you think you need.”

“I hate you.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Is your laptop in your bedroom?”

This conversation is just throwing you for a loop at every turn. You blink hard, shaking your head in confusion when you ask, “yeah, why?”

He nods his head towards the hallway. “Let’s go.”

And then suddenly you’re faced with his broad back through the fabric of his worn Supreme tee as he retreats down the hallway, just innately expecting you to follow.

Which you do.

Once inside, you tentatively grab your laptop from your desk and set it at the foot of your bed, although you still aren’t sure why you need it in the first place. The look Yoongi gives you, eyebrows raised as if to says, ‘well?’, prompts you to bend at the waist and open it up, but when the screen wakes and prompts you to type in your password, you glance at him over your shoulder.

“Is the laptop part of the punishment?” you joke. “Are you gonna smash it or something to teach me a lesson? It was expensive, you know.”

Yoongi snorts. “Are you gonna be a brat the whole time?” he counters. “You know you’re just making things worse for yourself, right?”

“I’m just making sure,” you defend with a smirk.

“Your laptop will be fine. C’mere.”

He gently grabs your wrist and pulls you to turn around and face him. Strong hands move to your hips, thumbs rubbing little circles just above the waistband of your sweatpants.

“You understand what’s about to happen?” Yoongi murmurs. 

You have the urge to continue being a brat and prolong this just to annoy him, but your curiosity wins out. You want to know what he’s planning. 

Plus, if you had to guess, this is probably the last time he’s gonna be nice for a while. So you decide to soak it in and not piss him off any more than you already have.

“You’re gonna punish me for talking badly about myself,” you say.

“Uh-huh. But I need you to know just because it’s a punishment doesn’t mean you can’t say no,” he reminds you. “You’ve still got your safewords. You can use them at any time and everything will stop. Understand?”

You nod.

“Words.”

“I understand,” you say.

“Good girl,” he says. He grips the brim of his cap and pulls it off, running his fingers through dark locks before putting it back on, backwards this time. Then, he grabs your wrist. “Come here.” 

He pulls you closer and you follow willingly until your body is flush with his. Your arms instinctively wind around his neck, and he leans down to kiss you. 

Doesn’t feel like much of a punishment, but you aren’t complaining. Yoongi is a great kisser. Maybe the best you’ve ever had. It doesn’t matter if it’s slow and lush, like this one, or if it’s heated and frantic. You feel it all the way down to your toes every single time, without fail.

By the time he pulls away, his hands spread over the small of your back, you’re already breathless. His forehead presses against yours for just a moment, and then he takes a step back.

“Remember when you told me about the research you were doing? On BDSM?” he asks suddenly.

You nod, although your brow creases in obvious confusion. 

Haven’t you already covered this? You don’t see why it would come up again. Is he planning on punishing you by making you talk shit to death again? Because honestly, that’d be pretty evil on his part.

“Why?” you ask.

“Well, you told me a little about the sites you signed up for. Articles. Shit like that.”

“Yeah…” you say, waiting for the point.

“And, okay, I guess it wouldn’t be totally out of character for a Wikipedia rabbithole to turn you on,” he jokes. “But I have a feeling you were leaving some stuff out. Call it a hunch.”

Oh no. 

Ohhhhh no, you have a feeling you know where he’s going with this.

Warily, you ask, “what… what kind of stuff?” 

Yoongi crosses his arms over his chest, his shirt stretching over the lean muscle hidden beneath. You try (and fail) not to stare. 

“You tell me,” he says.

“I have no idea.” You’re a lying liar who lies. 

“No?” he asks. “So you didn’t, say… watch any videos, during your research?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, ABORT MISSION! IS THIS WHY HE ASKED ABOUT YOUR LAPTOP???

“Like… like porn?” you stutter.

Yoongi’s lips twitch. “Yeah. Like porn.”

Dread. Dread is what you’re feeling. Pure, unadulterated, put-your-heart-in-your-ass dread.

“I mean… I might’ve watched one…? But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Maybe I want to see it.”

FUUUUUUUUCK!!!

You laugh nervously, heat creeping up your neck. “Yoongi, no.”

“Why not? Are you embarrassed?”

Yes. “I mean… I probably wouldn’t even be able to find it,” you lie. Again. 

You’ve watched it countless times since that first night. The title is pretty much seared into your eyelids at this point. 

Yoongi clicks his tongue. “You’re a shitty liar. If you’re embarrassed, you can just tell me.”

You groan, annoyed. “Fine! I’m embarrassed.”

“Enough to use your safeword?”

Your lips part in sheer disbelief. 

Shit, he’s really on a roll tonight, isn’t he? You have no way of predicting what’s going to come out of his mouth next.

“I… no?” you finally manage.

Yoongi nods his head towards your laptop. “Prove it, then.”

Walking back over to your bed literally feels like walking the plank. You still don’t know what he’s planning, but whatever it is, you know it hasn’t even started yet. And you already hate every second.

You’re also soaking your underwear, but whatever! Whatever.

You bend down to finally unlock the screen fiddle with the trackpad as you pull up your browser (in an incognito tab, because you aren’t an animal). Meanwhile, Yoongi cages you in from behind, one hand braced on the mattress next to yours, while the other slides under your shirt to grope at your tits.

You try to type in the URL, and you get more than halfway through with immense effort, but your breathing picks up when he starts to tweak at your nipples, rolling the buds between his fingers. He kisses the back of your neck, openmouthed, and your thighs squeeze as another gush of arousal seeps into your panties.

“Focus,” he murmurs, and oh, you hadn’t even realized your eyes had closed.

He probably thinks you’re deliberately trying to prolong things, and if you had all of your brain power right now, maybe you would be. But you’re not. 

He’s just so…

You swallow hard, staring at the cursor blinking in the search bar as you fight for some composure.

“Sorry,” you breathe, and poise your hands to type again.

After a bit more effort, the garish site fills your laptop screen. Shame swirls in your gut as you locate the video, mingling with the pleasure-pain of him playing with your tits. You feel exposed, in more ways than one.

“There.”

Yoongi doesn’t even react. He just glances over your shoulder and asks, “want me to tell you what your punishment is?” 

“Please,” you pant.

He chuckles at how easily you say it as he gives your aching nipples a break to slip a hand beneath the waistband of your sweats. 

“You and I are gonna watch this video together…” He cups your pussy with his entire palm. It’s torture forcing yourself not to immediately grind down into the heat and pressure of it. “...While I play with this sweet cunt.”

Fuuuuckfuckfuckfuckfuckpleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—

Pause. 

Wait…

 “That’s it?” you ask breathlessly, turning your head to look at him over your shoulder. “That doesn’t sound like a punishment…”

Yoongi takes advantage of the position to capture your lips in a quick kiss. “I haven’t told you the rules yet,” he murmurs.

You swallow, already dizzy. “What are they?” 

Yoongi uses his free hand to cradle your cheek, kissing you again, this time with tongue. You know it’s probably a distraction, something to disarm you, but you don’t care. It’s working. He’s touching you, he’s kissing you, and you can’t get enough.

His hand moves from under your sweatpants and you whine at the loss, but then he’s turning you in his hold and kissing you deeper.

You only break apart so he can shove your shirt up and over your head until you’re bare from the waist up. Your sweatpants go next, along with your panties, pushed roughly down your legs until they’re tangled at your feet. He’s still licking into your mouth as he helps you step out of them, until all that’s left is your star-patterned socks. You take those off yourself.

When he finally completely pulls back, you’re naked in front of him. His hand slips between your legs, fingers parting your folds and gathering wetness, sliding up to circle your clit. Your knees practically turn into jelly.

“Ah, fuck—”

“Feels good, baby?” he rasps, hooking his free arm around your waist to keep you upright.

“Mhmmm…” 

“You’ve gotta tell me when you’re close, okay? That’s your first rule.”

“A-ah, yeah,” you breathe, nodding enthusiastically. If he keeps doing that, it isn’t going to take long at all. “I’ll tell you.”

“Yeah?” His motions speed up enough to make your thighs shake from the force of it. “Gonna be good for me?”

“Yes!” You moan helplessly, pressing your face into the fabric of his shirt to dampen the sound.

“Promise?”

“Yes, fuck, I promise!”

“Good. ‘Cause your second rule is that you aren’t allowed to cum. Not until I say so.”

Eyes wide, your head jerks back so fast you swear you hear your neck crack. “What?” 

Yoongi doesn’t even falter. “You heard me.”

Oh, FUCK. That’s the punishment, then? 

A month ago, it would’ve made you laugh. In your mind, reaching orgasm wasn’t even in the cards, so the idea of holding one back? Unheard of. But you had a taste of it the night of the gala—when he almost made you cum just from playing with your nipples—and the memory is more than enough to know this is going to be fucking torture.

God, he’s good.

“Clearly making you cum whenever you want isn’t getting through to you,” he explains. “So maybe if I make you work for it, you’ll understand.”

“No, no, please,” you whine immediately, because he’s still rubbing your clit with terrifying precision and you’re already getting close enough that the threat feels real.

“This is the nice version, baby,” he coos, nipping at your neck. “Trust me, if you decide to break my rules and cum anyway, you’ll be getting a lot worse than that.”

Your stomach drops at the thought. You believe him. This is evil mastermind level punishment, so you don’t even want to know what his mind deems as worse.

“Are you gonna break my rules?”

“No,” you pant quickly. “I won’t.” And because you’re trying to prove it, you will yourself to admit, “I’m close.”

“That’s my good girl.” And then he pulls his hand away completely.

You make a broken sound at the loss, while Yoongi simply climbs onto the bed, settling back against the headboard with his legs spread comfortably.

“Sit,” he says, patting the space between his thighs.

You scramble onto the mattress immediately. The second you’re close enough, he pulls you against his chest so your body rests between his spread legs, the bare skin of your back pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt. Him fully clothed where you’re completely bare. You’re figuring out he likes it like that.

He reaches around you to drag your laptop closer.

“Show me,” he says, grabbing your hand and guiding it to the trackpad. Making you press play yourself.

Your body feels rigid as the familiar frames play out in front of you, the low voice of the dom filling your ears as the camera adjusts. Yoongi watching over your shoulder like this makes you so much more aware.

Fuck, now that you’re paying attention, this guy’s timbre is kind of similar to Yoongi’s…

And then the sub appears, bound to the headboard by her wrists, thighs forcibly held open by a spreader bar. There’s a needy, dazed look in her eyes as she squirms just at the idea of being used.

It bothers you that you can’t see Yoongi’s face. That you can’t tell whether he’s judging you.

You snap out of it when Yoongi’s hands ease your thighs apart. You hadn’t even noticed you’d closed them, probably unconsciously did so out of embarrassment. 

“Shy?”

“No,” you lie.

“Good,” he says, and then repositions you so your legs are draped over his spread thighs, making it that much harder for you to close them again. He gestures towards the screen, at the spreader bar locked around the woman’s calves. “‘Cause I’ll get you one of those if I have to.”

Your pussy clenches greedily at the thought. 

“You’re telling me you don’t have one already?” you ask.

You know if you keep mouthing off you’re bound to face consequences, but you can’t help taking such an easy shot. Plus, you’re genuinely curious.

Yoongi hums. “I prefer using my hands.”

OH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

His hand dips between your thighs, fingers lightly trailing over your slit. You twitch at the contact, releasing a surprised puff of air.

“Relax,” he murmurs against the back of your neck. 

How are you supposed to be anything other than tense in this situation? Humiliated, hopelessly turned on, actively being punished—that is not a recipe for relaxation! 

Still, you don’t talk back this time. You try to do as he says, even though every inch of your skin feels as if it’s on fire.

You lean back into the cradle of his body, inhaling deeply through your nose. Exhaling slowly. Allowing yourself to finally melt just the tiniest bit when Yoongi’s fingers gently relocate your throbbing clit.

“Good girl,” he coos. “Remember your rules?”

You nod. “Mhm.”

“Gonna add another one,” he tells you. The hand not currently teasing you into madness snakes up between your breasts until he’s got a firm hold on your face, squishing your cheeks. He directs your attention back to your laptop screen. “You’ve gotta actually watch.”

Shit.

Right then, the man’s hand moves from the woman’s throat, rearing back to deliver a light slap to her cheek. A shiver runs down your spine. It’s exactly what you asked—begged—Yoongi to do to you the first time you were together, and now he knows where you got it from.

As if he can read your thoughts, the hand holding your face moves to gently pat your cheek, mimicking what you just watched. You gasp.

“Like that?”

Fucking obviously, you think. He knows that. But you bite it back, giving a jerky nod instead. The woman on your screen, much more courageous than you, begs to be fucked.

In response, the man delivers another slap, this time to her pussy. Yoongi’s hand on yours stops cold, and you go rigid all over again. 

“Like that, too?” he asks.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“Color?”

“Green,” you rush out.

“Answer me, then.”

You squirm in his hold, eyes still fixed on the screen. The dom has his cock out now, one hand wrapped around the base as he teases the tip up and down his sub’s cunt, drawing pathetic whines from her throat. She’s spread open so wide you can see the way her hole clenches and unclenches in anticipation.

“I think I do,” you admit shakily. “I don’t know.”

Yoongi hums, seemingly satisfied if the way his fingers continue their gentle rubbing is anything to go by. 

“Wanna find out?” he asks breezily.

You force yourself to set your shame aside, because yes. Yes, you want to find out. That’s what all of this is for, right? So you can try these things with someone you trust? So you nod.

Yoongi taps your cheek again, harder this time. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” you pant. “I want to find out.”

“Mm.” The couple on your screen is fucking now, you notice. Hard not to, with the way the woman is wailing in pleasure. In relief. “Say ‘please spank my needy cunt, Yoongi.’”

Oh holy fuck!!! 

Is he serious? He can’t be serious, right?

“Yoongi,” you whine, wiggling your hips in an attempt to increase the friction on your clit and evade his request all at once.

“No,” he reprimands, swatting your cheek a third time. This one stings enough to make you moan. “Say it, baby.”

God, he’s cruel. You can’t believe he’s really making you say this shit, and you’re just!!! You like it! You like how it’s making you feel! 

“Please…” You swallow thickly. “Please spank my needy cunt, Yoongi…”

You feel Yoongi’s amused huff against your nape. “Cute,” he mocks. “You’re trying so hard to be good, aren’t you? You must really want it.”

There are so many things you want to say, but you can’t bring yourself to. Instead, meekly, you ask, “are you gonna…?”

“Spank your needy cunt?” Yoongi finishes smugly. All you can manage is a nod in response. “I’ll think about it.”

Record scratch.

“But—”

Whatever pathetic plea was bound to come out of your mouth is cut short when Yoongi’s hand dips lower, a single finger breaching your folds.

His laugh is fuller this time, throaty. “Shit, you’re squeezing me so tight, baby,” he rasps, dragging his finger all the way out just to thrust it back in so deep your eyes roll back into your head. “Does it feel that good?”

You’re so wet you can hear it, even over the sounds emanating from your tinny laptop speakers. Skin slapping. Ragged breaths. Their sex mixing with yours, completely at odds with one another. Yoongi is moving so slowly in comparison, dragging things out just to torture you. Punish you.

“Yes,” you pant, but you can’t help but squirm. You want more.

And thank god Yoongi has apparently been gifted the ability to read your fucking mind, because before you can even ask, another finger plunges in alongside the first. 

The angle is a little weird to start, the added intrusion throwing things off. But then you adjust your thighs, spreading them even wider where they’re hooked over his, tilting your hips up just a bit, and suddenly it’s perfect. 

“Fuck,” you moan, your eyes squeezing shut. Your head falls back against Yoongi’s shoulder, and the hand holding your face adjusts to rest lightly at your throat instead. “Please don’t stop.”

You feel his hum reverberate against your back, deep in his chest. He doubles his efforts, fingers fucking you a little faster in response, his shallow breaths tickling your ear and mixing with the slick sounds in the air. The hand at your throat squeezes, just a little. You don’t know if it’s purposeful, but it makes you moan all the same.

He’s too good at this. He’s right, it only took him a few minutes to figure you out. If there were some kind of competition to be won, he’d win it by a landslide. It wouldn’t even come close. 

Because now that you think about it, nothing you and Yoongi have done together has been too crazy, too far outside of the realm of what you’ve done with others. You’ve barely even scratched the surface of his scary-exhaustive list of Deviant Sexual Acts. You haven’t needed them.

He’s capable of getting so much out of you from so little. You guess you have his slut era to thank for that—which was, apparently, also the era where he learned how to fucking talk like he does. In that way that makes all the hair on your body stand up. 

You have to give credit where credit is due.

You feel like you’re burning up. Your muscles spasm as Yoongi’s fingers curl and rub at your inner walls, and when his thumb joins the mix to stimulate your clit in tandem, you realize with dread that you’re about to cum.

It’s kind of funny. You told him not to stop, and now you have to tell him the opposite.

Chest heaving, you moan, “think I’m gonna…” 

You hope that’s enough for him. You don’t really want to say anything at all.

In response, Yoongi—the bastard—has the audacity to laugh at you, breath puffing against the back of your neck. “Yeah, I could tell.”

The pumping of his fingers slows, and your orgasm slowly recedes. Which is enough to make you whine on its own, but it certainly doesn’t help that now that he’s worked you up so much, you’re unbelievably sensitive. Even the languid pace he’s set now is enough to have you squirming in his hold.

“Still good?” he asks.

“I kind of want to kill you.” 

He laughs again. “Mm. Are you tapping out?”

You stretch your neck awkwardly to give him a flat look. “Are you gonna let me cum anytime soon?” you counter.

“If I feel like you’ve learned your lesson, maybe.”

If he thinks you’re going to unlearn literal years of psychological bullshit just by denying you a few orgasms, he’s got another thing coming. It isn’t that easy. 

Still, you’re no quitter.

“I’m not tapping out,” you sigh. “I’m actively fantasizing about smothering you with a pillow, but I’m not tapping out.”

“Whatever works for you.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” you say. “Green, go, get on with it.”

“Don’t be like that,” Yoongi murmurs, and you absolutely intend to continue being like that, but his lips find the side of your neck before you can, tongue laving over your pulse as his fingers continue to lazily pump in and out of you. Instinctively, you tilt your head to give him better access. “I’m doing this for a reason, baby. I’m not being mean just to be mean.”

His reason is stupid. He’s stupid.

“Your reason is stupid,” you mumble, although it’s half-hearted. Logic isn’t really on your side here. Everything feels so nice. 

“I don’t think so. You’re already proving my point, aren’t you?”

The hand at your throat slides down to grope at your chest, squeezing each breast once before settling in to tease his thumb over one of your nipples, still stiff and sensitive from earlier.  

You moan, hips wiggling to coax his fingers deeper, and Yoongi lets out a groan that sounds almost pained as he obligingly picks up the pace. You haven’t been able to see any of his reactions this whole time, forced to face away from him, so the audible evidence that he’s affected by this too—maybe just as much as you are—turns you on even more.

“You think something’s wrong with you?” he rasps, nipping at the shell of your ear and causing you to shiver. “‘Cause it doesn’t seem like it from where I’m sitting.”

You can’t help but preen openly at the praise.

“How could anything ever be wrong with you? Shit, I wish you could see yourself, baby. So pretty. So fucking perfect for me.”

All over again, you’re so wound up you’re about to cum. He says things with such certainty it makes it damn near impossible to doubt him, and the idea that he sees you like that? That he thinks you’re perfect like this? It’s a good thing your eyes are closed, because if you were to open them and make eye contact with him in any way, you’d be a goner.

“Yoongi, I—”

“I know, I know,” he soothes, clearly taking pity on you this time. But unfortunately for you, this time he backs off completely, withdrawing his fingers from your aching cunt. You can’t stand it.

“Please,” you beg, eyes wide as your neck strains to look behind you. “Please, please, please let me, I can’t—”

Yoongi shushes you, the tip of his nose brushing your temple. “Just a few more, yeah?” he says, pressing a kiss there. “You’re doing so good for me. You can take a little more.”

You don’t see how that could possibly be true, but it’s not like you have much of a choice. So, weakly, you nod your consent for him to keep going.

“You sure it’s okay?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” you breathe, swallowing hard. “Green, just… mm, please touch me, Yoongi…”

“Fuck,” Yoongi grunts, shifting behind you and immediately snapping your attention to the thick press of his cock against your lower back. Fuck indeed. You’re going insane. “Think you can take it if I get a little rough?”

“Yes,” you whoosh out instantly, uncaring of how needy you sound. Suddenly, you don’t have it in you to be embarrassed anymore. “I can take it, I promise.”

He makes a low sound in his throat, and then, sudden enough to make you cry out, he grabs a fistful of your hair and roughly forces your gaze back to your laptop screen.

“Fuck—!” 

“Remember what I told you to do?”

You can barely think, let alone speak! Three denied orgasms, and now he’s switching up on you so fucking fast, like it’s as easy as breathing for him. You whimper and blink hard as you grasp at straws for any coherent thought.

“A-ah, um, you,” you gasp, licking your dry lips, “y-you told me to watch!”

“Were you watching?” he demands.

“Yes! I-I, fuck, I was trying—”

“Then try harder this time,” he says, and then he splits you open on his fingers again.

“Ah—!”

You don’t even try to bite back your sounds—it would be useless. Up until now, Yoongi has been relatively gentle. Coaxing. Teasing. Now, the pace he sets is cruel.

“Oh my god, Yoongi—”

Your hands fly to grip his forearm just for something to hold on to. If your body wasn’t so securely cradled in his, you’re sure you’d be careening off the mattress. 

“Shit, I fuckin’ love when you say my name like that,” Yoongi groans, but even as he praises you, his grip at your scalp tightens. “Watch, baby.”

Fuck, right, you’re supposed to be doing something. Somehow, you just barely manage to keep your eyes open, your bleary vision fixed on the filthy scene playing out in front of you.

For someone who has probably never seen this video, Yoongi’s timing is sick. Because when your eyes finally focus, you’re greeted with the sight of the dom pulling out to stroke his cock fast and hard while his sub lays beneath him, still shaking with the tremors of her orgasm. You swallow hard when a throaty moan sounds from the speakers, thick spurts of cum landing all over the sub’s stomach and cunt.

Yoongi’s fingers falter just slightly, and behind you, his dick twitches hard against the small of your back.

Oh.

The overworked gears in your brain stutter back to life all at once, and suddenly, you’re overwhelmed at the thought of being fucked. Of Yoongi fucking you. This isn’t the first time the thought has crossed your mind in recent memory, but it’s certainly the first time you’ve felt this desperate for it. 

You can imagine it so clearly. Yoongi flipping you over and fucking you hard, giving it to you so good you can’t help but scream into the mattress just like the girl in the video. Pulling out and marking you with his cum, maybe on your back, or your stomach, or your tits, or your face. Maybe he wouldn’t pull out at all. Maybe with his last thrust, he’d press his hips even harder into your ass to get as deep as possible.

You’re so caught up in the fantasy—mouth hanging open on a moan, eyes heavy-lidded, practically drooling—that you don’t register your screen going black. You don’t register the grip on your hair disappearing. You don’t register anything at all except the pleasure sparking hot in your stomach, spreading like wildfire through every limb in your body as Yoongi pounds you closer and closer to—

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The fingers stuffing you full withdraw so fast it sends you reeling, and before you can even ask why, Yoongi’s full palm comes down hard on your aching pussy.

“Ohhh!” you wail, clit throbbing.

“Filthy slut,” Yoongi spits. “You think you can get away with breaking the rules now?”

You blink hard, tears pricking at your eyes. What? What is he talking about? “I-I… I don’t…” 

His knuckles graze the side of your face, the fleeting gentleness tethering you back to reality for a moment. “Color, baby,” he says softly.

Your chest heaves as you gulp a big breath, turning your head to look back at him. There’s a crease between his brows, but it’s in concern, not anger. Like he’s nervous he took it too far.

Your Yoongi.

“Green,” you whisper. 

You want to say more. You want to tell him how much you liked it, how much you want him to do it again. But you can’t find the words, so you silently hope that’s enough.

Yoongi lightly traces your cheekbone with his thumb. “Want a breather?”

You shake your head. “I’m okay, just…” You crane your neck a little more, tilting your head towards him in what you hope is a clear request for a kiss.

Thankfully, Yoongi gets the hint, dipping down to gently press his lips to yours once, twice. On the third, he lingers, deepening the kiss just enough for you to relax in his hold. 

“C’mere,” he murmurs, reaching past your body to shut your laptop and push it closer to the edge of the bed. Satisfied, he takes a minute to rearrange your bodies so you’re laying on your back beneath him. “Let’s slow down anyway, okay? Just for a minute.”

Part of you wants to reassure him that you’re fine, that you don’t need to be coddled just because you’re a beginner, but you can’t find it in you to complain. Not when he’s finally allowing you to face him.

Instead, you loop your arms around his shoulders, pulling him back in. Your thighs spread wide to accommodate his body between them as he kisses you thoroughly, over and over until the scattered pieces of your mind lock back into place.

Satisfied, Yoongi sucks gently at your bottom lip before soothing the sting with his tongue, pulling back to admire your swollen mouth. “Feeling good?”

“Mhm,” you hum, hands sliding down from his shoulders and over his chest. “You’re mean.”

Yoongi huffs. “Too mean?” he jokes, but you can tell he’s genuinely wondering.

“No,” you softly insist. “Not too mean.” Then, you pause. “Actually, the not letting me cum part is pretty evil.”

His responding laugh is real this time, your own worries quelled by the sight of his gums showing. “You knew what you were signing up for,” he reminds you, features settling into something gentle and fond. “I make you cum literally every day. I think you’ll survive a little longer.”

“Nooooo,” you complain. “There’s more?”

“Only if you’re really okay,” he says, kissing your pout away. “Wanna taste you.”

The thought makes your body heat up all over again, your eyelids fluttering shut and hips lifting all at once. “Oh?” 

“Mhm,” Yoongi hums against your lips. His hips roll down, his clothed cock pressing against your still-soaked cunt. “You like that idea?”

You nod eagerly, a breathy moan tumbling from your parted lips. “Uh-huh…”

“Even if I still don’t let you cum?”

“Yoongi…” you whine. 

“C’mon, baby,” he coaxes, sliding his hand between your legs again. “Don’t you want me to eat this pretty cunt?”

Your head falls back against the mattress. You moan softly, looking up at him as he tenderly traces your oversensitive slit with one finger.

He drives a hard bargain, he really does. You hear what he’s really offering loud and clear—you can either say yes, and he’ll edge you until he’s satisfied enough to finally give you what you want, or you can say no, and everything stops now.

It’s still a punishment, after all.

So you take a breath, gather all the determination you can, and say “yes.”

Eyes still locked on yours, Yoongi smirks, his hand retreating. He braces his hands on each side of your head. “Do you want me to be nice about it?” he asks. 

You know why he’s asking. He’s making sure you can take it, after everything you just did.

You don’t even hesitate. “Fuck no.”

Delighted, Yoongi grins. “That’s my girl.”

And then he’s quickly sitting up, his strong hands taking hold of your hips to roughly flip you over. You gasp, bouncing against the mattress once before he yanks you up onto your hands and knees.

You don’t even get a chance to adjust to the new position before a hand cracks down harshly on your ass. You moan, squeezing your eyes shut as you brace yourself for more.

“Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook,” Yoongi says, spanking you again. “You think you can cum without my permission?”

“N-no!”

“No,” he agrees. “Because that was one of, what, three things I asked you to do? If you have such a hard time following simple instructions, I think I’m gonna have to punish you more often. Train you up.”

The thought makes you dizzy. Honestly, just the phrasing makes you dizzy, a reminder that while you may be new to this, Yoongi isn’t. Not even a little. 

His palms smooth over your ass, kneading and squeezing unabashedly, like it’s a simple fact that he gets to touch you however he pleases. And to prove him right, you practically mewl, pushing back into his touch.

“Oh, you like that idea, huh?” Yoongi asks, sucking his teeth. “Knew you would. Such a nasty fucking girl.”

“Uh-huh,” you moan, unashamed. 

“No wonder you couldn’t cum with anyone else, baby.”

You look over your shoulder in surprise at his words, only to find him biting his lower lip as he admires your pussy. His thumbs dig into the softness of your inner thighs, spreading you open even further. When he looks up to meet your eyes, he raises a brow.

“They didn’t treat you like the slut you are.”

His words steal the breath from your lungs, and before your brain can fully process what they mean, Yoongi surges forward to push your head back down.

“Still green?” he asks.

Cheek pressed into the sheets, you breathe your muffled consent, and then the mattress dips behind you. After some shifting, Yoongi’s hands spread over your ass again, holding you open.

“Oh, shit,” you moan when he kisses your clit.

He told you he was going to eat you out, but you didn’t know he was planning to do it like this. There’s something so dirty about it, being on all fours while his tongue darts out to taste you.

Yoongi hums in satisfaction, the sound vibrating through you before he pulls back, breath ghosting over your soaked folds.

“You remember your rules?” he asks.

Your chest heaves. “D-don’t cum without permission.”

“And?”

“Tell you when I’m close.”

“Good girl,” he praises. He gives your ass a gentle squeeze. “Keep that shit up, you understand?”

“Yeah,” you pant, digging your knees further into the bed to stabilize yourself. 

Yoongi doesn’t waste any time after that. 

He licks a luxurious stripe up your slit, collecting your arousal on his tongue and groaning into you at the taste, to which you respond with your own strangled moan. Fuck. He’s already so good at this to begin with, you don’t know how long you’re going to last with how sensitive you’ve become. 

Every delicious stroke has your thighs trembling, breathy whimpers spilling into the sheets as he fucks his tongue into you, using his grip on your ass to lock your squirming body into place.

Surely you must be dripping onto the sheets by now, with the way he’s devouring you. You wish you could see, but it’s almost hotter like this—only being able to hear the way he messily laps and slurps at your cunt.

And then, just when you think you can’t take anymore, he switches course.

“O-oh!” you cry, your legs nearly giving out when his lips wrap around your angry, swollen clit. 

But Yoongi doesn’t take pity on you. If anything, he doubles his efforts, sucking so ruthlessly your vision whites out. You do your best to clench your muscles in a desperate attempt to keep your orgasm at bay, but at this point, it’s only making things worse. There’s no way you can hold back anymore.

“Yoongi,” you cry, “I can’t—fuck, please, please, I’m gonna—!”

Suddenly, the warmth of his mouth leaves you entirely. Yoongi slings his left arm around your shoulders, hauling you up until you’re seated in his lap, your sweat-slick back pressed against his chest again. Your head is forced back against his shoulder when his arm tightens, bicep and forearm squeezing at your throat. You reel at the way he’s used that deceptive strength of his to manhandle you exactly how he wants you.

“What do you want?”

“I wanna cum,” you gasp, unable to control the way you squirm, grinding back against his cock.

“Yeah, I know,” Yoongi snarls into your ear. “‘Cause you know you can, don’t you? How many times would you have cum already if I let you, hm?”

“F-four…”

“Four is nothing, baby,” he mocks. “You’re already done? I can do this all night.”

Your eyes go wide. “N-no, Yoongi, please, I’ve been so good!”

“If you wanna cum, tell me what you’re gonna do to earn it.”

Fuck! You can barely even remember what you’re being punished for anymore. Your brain has gone all fuzzy again, exacerbated by the delicious pressure at the sides of your neck. All you’re able to grasp onto is your single-minded need to cum, right now.

“I…” You gulp a breath, vision swimming. “I don’t know what you want… Please…”

He loosens his hold on you. “Do you want to stop?”

“No!” you panic. Your hands fly up to grip his bicep, nails biting as you encourage him to squeeze again. “Nonono, green, fuck, I’m okay!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

Yoongi hums. “But you want me to make you cum,” he clarifies, and you nod eagerly. He chuckles, breath tickling your ear. “You need it, baby?”

“Need it,” you moan.

“Hm.” He takes a moment to consider that, nosing the side of your neck. “Well, maybe we can switch things up a little.”

You perk up instantly, straining to look at him behind you. “Really?”

He smirks. “Don’t get too excited.”

Fuck that! You can barely contain yourself! 

You grin at him, eyes sparkling. “Sorry,” you say breathlessly, not meaning it at all.

“Uh-huh.” His arm drops from around your neck, his palm coming down on the side of your thigh. “Lie back.”

You instantly scramble off of his lap and flip flat onto your back, spreading your legs. Is he going to fuck you? You hope he’s going to fuck you. 

“Shit,” he groans, sounding amused and turned on all at once. He climbs over you, caging you in. “Look at you. So fuckin’ easy for me, aren’t you?”

“Mhm,” you agree shamelessly. You tug gently at the front of his shirt, and Yoongi leans in to kiss you once, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Why’s that, huh?” he mumbles, nipping your bottom lip.

“‘Cause you make me feel so good,” you answer breathlessly. “Please make me feel good, Yoongi…”

“You make it hard to say no,” he says. “Too fuckin’ cute.” His hands run greedily over your spread thighs, stroking and squeezing. “Okay, baby. I’ll give you what you need.”

“Thank you!” you moan, tilting your hips up towards him.

He laughs, scooting down on the bed until he’s kneeling between your legs. “Don’t thank me yet. This doesn’t mean your punishment is over.”

You sit up on your elbows, brow furrowing as you blink at him. “Wh-what?”

Yoongi looks up at you, eyes dark. “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he tells you, sinking his teeth into your inner thigh just to hear you yelp. “I’m gonna eat this pussy again, and you’re gonna be loud for me. You’re gonna scream my name until our neighbors know exactly who makes you cum so good.”

Your face goes hot, your stomach swooping.

“And then you’re gonna keep cumming,” he continues. “You’re gonna cum over and over until you have no choice but to tap out. Do you understand?”

Oh, fuck. You can’t even be mad at him for this, because you’re the one who suggested it in the first place. This is just what you get for running your mouth.

“I understand,” you manage, because what else can you say? You want to cum so badly.

“Good.”

And then he’s sucking on your clit with fervor, and you’re screaming just like he told you to.

“Yoongi—!”

Your first orgasm catches you by surprise. You’re so pent up that it crashes through you within mere seconds, your body floundering pathetically from the force of it. Yoongi just grunts in satisfaction, gripping your thighs tightly to keep you spread open beneath him as he feasts on you.

Because he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow down! He just adds even more, pushing three fingers inside your sopping cunt and making you shriek as they curl up to rub hard at your G-spot.

“Oooooh my god!” you cry out, another wave of pleasure wracking your body.

“Fuck yeah,” Yoongi groans against you, pistoning his fingers even harder, “cum again. Keep fucking cumming.”

And you do. 

Every time you think you can’t have any more left in you, that you can’t possibly cum again, you prove yourself wrong. You lose track, breaking over and over until you can’t tell where the last one ended and the next one begins.

“C-can’t take anymore, fuuuuck, p-please,” you plead. You reach down to push at his shoulders, but Yoongi uses his free hand to smack yours away, still mercilessly fucking you with the other.

He pulls back, the lower half of his face completely soaked. “Are you gonna use your safeword?” he asks, and you shake your head. “Then show me you’ve learned your lesson.”

“I’m sorry!” you wail. 

To your surprise, Yoongi stills his fingers inside you, watching your face intently. Something clicks into place.

“I-I’m sorry for talking badly about myself,” you continue, eyes welling up with a fresh wave of tears. “I-I don’t… I know there isn’t anything wrong with me.” You immediately shake your head, because that isn’t quite right. “I’m trying. I’m trying to know that. I’m trying to believe it.”

Yoongi’s expression softens. “I know.”

“I’ve felt this way for years, it isn’t…” Your words break off with a sniffle, your bottom lip trembling. “It isn’t easy to stop.”

“I know,” he repeats. Slowly, carefully, he withdraws his fingers.

“I need you to help me,” you say, tears streaming freely now. “I wanna stop. I wanna keep working on it, but I can’t… Will you help me?”

You don’t even really know what you’re asking for, if it makes any sense at all. All you know is that you only feel good lately when you and Yoongi are doing this. When he’s showing you exactly how not broken you are.

Maybe that was his point.

Yoongi wipes his hand off on his pants and moves closer to pull you up and into his arms, shushing you gently.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs against your hair. Overwhelmed, you sob into his chest, a pathetic, hiccupy sound that instantly makes Yoongi’s arms tighten around you. “You’re okay, baby. I’ll help you. That’s all I wanna do.”

He holds you for a long time, rubbing your back as you get it all out. You haven’t cried like this since the first time, and this is so much more intense. You aren’t sure if it’s from the way your day began, seeing your ex, or if it’s from sheer overwhelm. Maybe it’s a mix of both, but regardless, it’s clear to both of you that you need it.

Once your breathing evens out, Yoongi carefully pulls back, nudging your chin up so you’re looking at him.

“You’d tell me if I gave you too much, right?” he asks, his words laced with clear concern. 

“It wasn’t too much,” you reassure him. “I think you were right. I think I needed it.”

Yoongi frowns, cradling your face in his hands. “I shouldn’t have started anything while we were arguing like that. It wasn’t the right time. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” you tell him honestly. “It, like… It got me out of my head, you know? I liked it.”

Something in his expression changes then, just for a moment. It isn’t there long enough for you to know what it means or how he’s feeling about that. He just rubs your back some more, deep in thought.

“Hey,” he says after a minute, nudging you, “we’re gonna have a good week.”

Oh, right! After all the drama with your ex, you almost forgot about the trip.

Hoseok’s dance crew has a big showcase happening in Tokyo, so you, Yoongi, Jimin, and Taehyung are all flying out to support him. Your vacation time officially starts tomorrow, and you’ll be there for a whole week.

Your mouth lifts at the corners. “Yeah,” you say, thankful for the reminder.

“We’ve both been needing some vacation time, I think,” he says, matching your small smile. “No work, no exes. It’ll be fun. Get your mind off of things.”

You hum in agreement, resting your cheek against his shoulder. He’s right. It’s been a long time since you’ve taken a trip like this. For a long time, neither of you were able to afford it. Lately, you’ve both been so busy—you in particular.

But you took the time off months ago, and you’re excited for it. You know Hobi’s been working hard.

Suddenly, a thought pops into your head.

“Are we telling them?” you ask. “About, uh… this.”

Yoongi looks down at you. “Uh,” he says, surprised. “Do you want to?”

You only realize how ridiculous it sounds after you’ve asked—letting your friends in on the suddenly-sexual nature of you and Yoongi’s relationship because… why? Because they’d find it interesting?

“Actually, nevermind,” you say, covering your face with your hands. “Forget I asked.”

Yoongi’s chest shakes with a laugh. “I mean, if you want to tell them—”

“No,” you say emphatically. 

He gently pulls your hands from your face, his lips twitching at the corners when you finally open your eyes. “We won’t, then.”

“Good.”

“It isn’t anyone’s business unless you want it to be.”

“Good,” you repeat.

"Besides,” he continues, his thumb tracing slowly across your shoulder. "I kind of like this being ours."

You swallow. "Oh."

It’s unbelievably stupid, you think. After everything that happened today, that's what makes your stomach flip the hardest? Not the punishment. Not the orgasms.

I kind of like this being ours.

"Yeah," you agree softly, caught off guard.

And although you both have so much left to do tonight—dinner, packing, coordinating plans—you allow yourself to sink into the comfort of his arms for just a little bit longer.

୨ৎ

The next morning, Jimin and Taehyung arrive earlier than you expected them to.

You’ve been on trips with them before. Yoongi and Hoseok have a tendency to take point when it comes to vacations, the most punctual and practical of the group. You, on the other hand, used to be a nightmare when it came to getting anywhere early. But to your credit, that was back in college. Working in the adult world has beaten punctuality into you. Plus, living with Yoongi always meant that if there was somewhere to be, you woke up when he woke up. 

Jimin and Taehyung, though? They’ve always been the last ones out the door. Both have a tendency to preen, determined to look their best even if they’re going to be stuck in the airport (and then a stuffy metal tube) for hours. It only got worse when they started dating, because… well. Morning sex, of course.

So when you open the door still nursing your first cup of coffee, only to find both of them standing in the hallway with their luggage already in tow, it’s hard to mask your surprise.

"Good morning," Taehyung says breezily.

“Oh,” you say, eyes wide as you let them both in. “Yoongi’s not back yet.”

They both set their bags by the door and walk to the living room, dropping onto the couch.

"Where'd he go?" Jimin asks.

You shrug. "No idea."

Yoongi left over an hour ago, and all he'd said was that he had to run an errand before the flight. No explanation. No elaboration.

"He didn't tell you?"

"No."

That seems to surprise both of them. It surprises you a little, too.

Not because Yoongi reports his every movement to you—he obviously doesn't—but because it’s so unlike him on a day like this. He’s usually carting everyone to the airport with hours to spare, double and triple checking everyone has what they need.

The conversation drifts elsewhere—Hoseok's showcase, travel plans—until the sound of keys rattling outside finally cuts through the apartment.

The front door opens, and your eyes nearly bug out of your head.

Suddenly, you understand why he didn't tell anybody where he was going.

The longer hair he'd been sporting lately at the behest of his eomma is long gone. It’s significantly shorter now, exposing more of his forehead.

Yoongi closes the door behind him and sets a small shopping bag on the entryway table before looking up. Immediately, he catches three people staring at him.

"What?"

Taehyung blinks first. "You got a haircut."

"Oh,” he says, as if he'd forgotten.

Jimin squints. "When did you do that?"

"This morning."

"That's where you went?"

"Yeah."

The conversation continues around you, but you're only catching about half of it, too distracted by your monkey brain going haircuthaircuthaircuthaircut.

You hate that you're noticing things like the shape of his neck. Or the cut of his jaw. Or the fact that the delicate silver hoops in his ears are more visible now. 

He looks pretty.

Yoongi catches you staring. "Do you not like it?"

The question catches you completely off guard. Shit.

Jimin and Taehyung follow his gaze to you. Double shit!

"What?" you ask, heat creeping up your neck.

"My haircut."

"It's fine," you say.

The second the words leave your mouth, you know they were a mistake. Yoongi's eyebrows lift.

"'Fine?'" he repeats.

Taehyung looks between the two of you. "I think it looks good,” he offers.

"Thank you," Yoongi says.

“It makes you look like a baby,” he continues.

"Thank you?" 

"I'm not sure if that was a compliment,” Jimin says.

"Neither am I,” Yoongi says, glancing at you pointedly, “but it’s better than ‘fine.’”

Your cheeks are so hot at this point you don’t know how much more you can take.

"Can we please leave before we miss our flight?" you ask, standing up from the couch. “We have places to be, people!”

“Damn, hello Hoseok,” Jimin says, but still, thankfully, everyone starts grabbing their bags.

Once the luggage is packed into the trunk and the four of you are finally settled in the car (Yoongi in the driver’s seat, you in the passenger seat, Jimin and Taehyung in the back), your phone buzzes three times in your lap.

You pick it up and flip it over, squinting to your left when you see that it’s a text from Yoongi. You were wondering why he was spending so much time fiddling on his phone. You figured he might be checking the flight details one more time, or queueing up some music, but apparently not.

When you open it, your eyes widen. Oh. That’s why he texted you instead of saying it out loud, then.

Yoongi: I’m glad you like my haircut.

Yoongi: By the way, there’s a BDSM club in Tokyo I’ve been wanting to check out. If you’re down.

Yoongi: Think about it :-)

You slam your phone back down onto your lap before Jimin or Taehyung have a chance to be nosy, your cheeks going hot.

Fuck.

So much for this trip being relaxing.

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The partners at the firm are in the final stretch of closing a massive case, which means tension is high and patience is nonexistent. Emails pile in faster than you can properly read them. Your phone rings before you’ve finished the last call. Every document seems to need revising, formatting, printing, signing, and to be sent out yesterday. You’ve been moving nonstop, a one-person relay between departments, clients, and lawyers who all seem convinced their request is the only one that matters.

And because the universe apparently enjoys piling it on, the firm’s annual gala is this weekend.

So on top of everything else, you’ve also been coordinating RSVPs, seating charts, last-minute changes from people who absolutely should know better, and fielding passive aggressive emails about floral arrangements like they matter even a fraction as much as the deal that’s about to close. 

By the time you get home every night, you barely even have enough time to shower and collapse into bed, let alone knock on Yoongi’s door and…

Well, you actually don’t know what the hell is supposed to come next.

After… what happened last week, you didn’t really discuss a next time. You didn’t discuss anything at all, really. 

Yoongi held you until your tears dried, helped you get ready for bed, laid with you until you fell asleep, and that was it. It was nice, and it was definitely what you needed in the moment, but it was also almost entirely nonverbal.

When you woke up the next morning, it was like nothing had happened at all. You spent the rest of the weekend together doing completely PG things, and then you went to work Monday morning glowing and blissfully unaware of the shitstorm of paperwork you were about to walk into. 

Since then, your interactions with Yoongi have been limited to texts. Extremely normal, short-and-to-the-point texts about groceries and bills and cancelling plans so you can spend more time in the office.

Texts that are remarkably unsexy, even though sex is practically all you’ve been thinking about during the rare moments that your mind can actually wander.

As a result, you’ve been keyed up and irritable, every minor inconvenience scraping against nerves already fried by the overwhelming arousal you can’t seem to shake. More than once, you catch yourself staring off mid-task, thoughts slipping somewhere filthy and consuming—the memory of Yoongi’s hands, his voice in your ear, the press of his clothed erection beneath you.

It’s constant, intrusive, and maddening, and underneath the frustration is that insistent want to taste that kind of pleasure again—to squeeze out every delicious drop you can, maybe until someone, like… passes out or something.

And it doesn’t help that every night, when you finally drag yourself into bed exhausted and determined to take the edge off, the same thought always stops you cold.

You probably shouldn’t, right?

Yoongi never said you couldn’t take matters into your own hands, but the idea has rooted itself deep anyway, completely out of nowhere. As if by touching yourself, you’d be stepping out of line. Like you’re meant to wait, to ask, to hear it from him first. 

Because he’s your dom now. 

The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine, equal parts thrilling and nerve-wracking, and suddenly the idea of giving yourself relief feels cheap compared to what he could do to you. 

So, needless to say, you want to talk to him about it. You just don’t have time, and, more importantly, you don’t know how.

This kind of arrangement requires a lot of talking shit to death. He warned you. So maybe that’s what’s making you hesitate now—the fact that the talking hasn’t happened yet, because the ball is in your court.

Historically, neither of you have ever been very big on feelings talk. Oddly enough, that’s part of what’s made you work so well as best friends. You both know how to read between the lines. The conversation you had at the restaurant was, by far, the longest you’ve ever spent talking about anything emotional. Even coming out to each other required fewer words to be exchanged.

But if talking is suddenly a prerequisite to sex, then you’re going to have to catch up with what Yoongi has apparently had years to learn. And this week, your lesson is making you realize just how bad you are at asking for what you want out loud.

Out of the two of you, Yoongi has always been the direct one. The one who goes for what he wants—fuck the fear, fuck the embarrassment, fuck the consequences. Which, you guess, is probably why he’s so well-suited for this sort of thing—and why you, up until last week, had never had an orgasm that wasn’t self-made. 

And likely never will again, if you keep chickening out.

Come Friday evening, the case everyone has been killing themselves over is finally done, and you should be relieved. 

Nothing is stopping you from getting home at a reasonable time tonight. You can shower, maybe get a full night of sleep before the gala tomorrow night…

Or finally grow a spine.

You think about it seriously while you shut down your computer. Nothing is standing in your way anymore.

Maybe you’re being silly. Yoongi has known you your entire life. Plus, he’s the one who propositioned you in the first place! You have no reason to feel embarrassed by the idea of asking him to… take care of you again, when it was his idea from the start. Knowing him, he probably wouldn’t even make a big deal out of it. He’d just pull you into his lap and—

“Drinks?”

You shake away the remnants of your dirty thoughts and look up to find Namjoon The Paralegal leaning against the edge of your desk, tie already loosened, sleeves pushed up like he’s been waiting all day to stop pretending he cares about professionalism.

You glance at the clock. It’s barely thirty seconds past five. 

“That was fast,” you remark dryly.

“Wouldn’t you rather be drunk than be here?” he quips back with a dimpled smile. “C’mon. We deserve to celebrate making it through this week alive.”

He makes a good point.

The bar is within walking distance, close enough that you don’t have time to analyze why you folded so quickly. (You know why. Chicken.) It’s one of those places that caters to the after-work crowd, the clientele almost solely dressed in rumpled business casual and ordering soju by the bucketful. 

You slide into a booth across from Namjoon, shrugging off your coat, already feeling some of the week’s tension begin to loosen in your shoulders.

By the time you’re one shot in (you don’t want to overdo it) and halfway through your first drink, you’re starting to feel less like a cog in the machine and more like a human again. An indignant, overworked human.

“God,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face, “I don’t think I’ve slept more than four hours a night all week.”

Namjoon blows a raspberry at you, unmoved. “Four is light work. Try two.”

“This isn’t a competition, Kim Namjoon,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I’m just the secretary! I understand why you had to lose sleep all week, but me?”

“You’re the only reason any of us made it through this without committing a felony! Do you know how many times you saved my ass today alone?”

“At least five,” you shoot back.

“Exactly. Minimum five.” He tips his glass toward you in acknowledgment. “You run that office more than any of us do.”

You snort despite yourself. “You’re lucky those were easy saves, by the way,” you say. “I was happy when I had to clean up after you, because everyone else was so much worse. Is not being able to spell a prerequisite for law school? Eddie had me ready to commit a crime every single time he had me proofread for him.”

“I’ll testify in your defense,” Namjoon offers, putting on his best lawyer voice to say, “your honor, wouldn’t anyone be driven to violence when faced with stupidity of this caliber?”

Namjoon has always been your favorite coworker. 

He’s sharp as hell, with the kind of intelligence that honestly kind of intimidated you at first—until you found out how hopelessly clumsy he can be, constantly knocking into things or misplacing something important right after he sets it down. 

Plus, he’s easy to talk to, and, objectively speaking, looking at his face for extended periods of time is hardly a hardship.

As you knock back your drinks, you both pick apart the week together, trading horror stories. The impossible turnaround times, the partners who changed their minds every ten minutes, the client who suddenly proposed “urgent revisions” at 11:58 p.m.—it all spills out in a steady stream of complaints that feel lighter the more you say them out loud.

“And the stupid gala! The flowers!” you add, incredulous even now. “The flowers, Namjoon! I got three separate emails about the shade of white.”

“Ah, they’re not just flowers, though,” he teases, “and not just white, remember?”

“Vendela roses,” you both say at the same time, breaking into giggles at the absurdity of it.

The laughter peters out, and you swirl your drink idly, watching the ice shift.

“I hate this job,” you add after a moment.

“Yeah,” Namjoon agrees. “If money wasn’t a factor, I would quit tomorrow.”

“What would you do instead?” you ask. You’ve never hung out with him like this, outside of the office, and the longer you sit across from him the more interesting he becomes.

“Honestly?” 

You nod.

“I’d still do law,” he says. “Just… not like this.”

“That could mean a lot of things,” you point out. “Enlighten me.”

Namjoon hesitates, clearly a bit self-conscious, but the genuine curiosity painting your features is enough to keep him talking.

“I’d want to work with musicians,” he says. “Contracts, rights, negotiations, all of it. But actually on their side.”

You perk up, immediately hooked. “Oh?”

“The industry’s a mess,” he continues. “Labels take advantage of people all the time, especially younger artists who don’t know what they’re signing. They get locked into these contracts that strip them of ownership, control, sometimes even their own work. It’s legal, technically, but it’s… It’s fucked. It isn’t fair.”

“It’s not,” you agree.

“I’d want to help with that,” he says. “Make sure they actually understand what they’re agreeing to. Protect them from getting screwed over before they even have a chance to build something.”

It’s clear he’s been thinking about this for a while, and the way he talks about it is so familiar. Not just the words, but the conviction behind them. The frustration.

It reminds you of Yoongi.

He gets like that too when the topic comes up. You’ve only heard it in passing over the years—stories here and there, the occasional late-night tangent when he’s had a drink or two too many—but it’s the same core sentiment.

Except Yoongi’s been on the receiving end of the shit deals Namjoon is talking about. 

It’s a big part of why he does what he does now—why he stays behind the scenes, producing instead of performing, writing songs only to hand them off and move on to the next. He used to want more than that, but somewhere along the way, that ambition dulled into something more practical. 

He seems happy now. You’d be able to tell if he wasn’t. But maybe if there were more people like Namjoon in the world, he could be even happier.

“That’s really cool, Joonie,” you offer. “You should do that.”

Namjoon scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah. Maybe in another life.”

“Why not this one?”

“Because this one comes with student loans and rent, and this job pays enough to make that manageable.”

You grin despite yourself because yeah, Namjoon and Yoongi would really get along. Lips loosened from the alcohol, you tell him that.

“You know, I really should introduce you to my roommate.”

“Oh? Planning on setting me up?” Namjoon asks, raising a brow. “Is she hot?”

“He’s a dude,” you say with a smirk.

He shrugs. “Is he hot?” 

You blink, surprised. Of course you’ve unknowingly befriended the one other queer person in the office.

“You tell me,” you say, resting your chin on the heel of your hand. “You’ve definitely seen him before. He’s met me for lunch a couple of times.”

You watch in real time as realization dawns over Namjoon’s face, and his eyes get so big you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stifle a laugh.

“That guy is your roommate?” he asks, whistling lowly. “Shit. He is hot.”

You hum, preferring not to comment. Like “that guy” didn’t set an insanely high standard for all your future orgasms just nights ago.

“So, you aren’t setting me up?” Namjoon asks, pouting a little. “Because if he’s single and into men, I wouldn’t say no, you know.”

Hm. You’re not quite sure how to respond to that.

“He’s…” 

He is technically single, isn’t he? You’re certainly not dating Yoongi, although the fact that you’ve spent the past week trying to figure out the best way to get him to make you cum without outright asking could pose an issue, re: his dating life. What if Namjoon is his soulmate, written in the stars and shit? Are you really willing to stand in the way of that to secure more orgasms for yourself?

“It’s complicated,” you settle on. Selfishly.

“Bummer.”

“Sorry.”

Namjoon waves a hand. “I was just fucking around, anyway. Honestly, up until two minutes ago, I thought you were dating him.”

You freeze, nervous laughter bubbling up your throat. “What?!”

“Meeting you for lunch is a very boyfriend-like activity!”

“No it isn’t!” you protest, cheeks hot. “Yoongi and I are friends. We’ve known each other since we were still in diapers. Dating him would be like…”

“Dating your brother?” Namjoon supplies, extremely unhelpful.

You grimace. “No,” you say firmly. “Definitely not that.”

“Jeez, touchy.”

“Sorry,” you huff, rubbing at your temples. “It’s just weird to think about, is what I mean. We’re close, but it’s always been platonic, you know?”

Up until about a week ago, you think. But Namjoon doesn’t need to know that.

“I get it,” Namjoon says. “Forget I said anything.”

You let out a relieved breath. You’re the one who brought Yoongi up in the first place, but this is definitely not where you thought it would go, so you take the out thankfully. 

You’ve never been so eager to keep talking about work.

You and Namjoon spend the next hour sipping on waters as you complain about the gala. By the time you walk back to the office parking lot, you’re definitely sober enough to make it home safely, but the weirdness from before still lingers.

There’s no shot in hell that you’re going through with talking to Yoongi tonight, that much is clear. Not with the idea that people automatically think you’re dating him when you walk down the street together fresh in your brain.

When you begged the universe for a solution to your rampant horniness, this is not what you had in mind at all.

Instead, when you finally make it back to the apartment, you make a point to tiptoe past Yoongi’s door so you don’t wake him. You peel off your work clothes, put on your comfiest pajamas, and slip into bed just to lay wide awake as anxiety chews at your insides.

You’ll talk to him soon. You will. You have to, you realize, your heart skipping in your chest.

Fuck. This is probably the only time in history that Yoongi being your permanent plus-one has bitten you in the ass.

He’s your date tomorrow night.

୨ৎ

You stare at yourself in the mirror, hands braced on the edge of your dresser like you’re about to throw up.

This is stupid.

You’ve been to this thing every year since you started at the firm, and you’ve never felt this nervous about it before. It usually consists of overpriced alcohol, stiff conversations, and a handful of coworkers you actually like enough to make the night tolerable—certainly nothing to lose your lunch over. 

You press your lips together, irritated with yourself.

Yoongi has always been your date to shit like this. That’s not new, either. It’s just easier to bring him than field questions about why you showed up alone, and he’s always been more than willing to go anywhere that involves free food and an open bar. For you, at least.

Nothing has changed. 

Except, of course, everything.

You take a deep breath and stand up straight, glancing over at the dress draped over the edge of your bed.

Maybe that’s why you feel sick.

You don’t normally buy things like this. You’re a clearance rack, “good enough is good enough” kind of person. Every single pair of tights you own has a run in the thigh. In fact, 99% of your closet is made up of things you’ve owned for years, pieces that have been worn soft at the seams from use.

This is brand new, and probably the most expensive item of clothing you’ve ever owned by a mile. You justified the purchase because again, this gala happens every fucking year, and you were starting to get sick of showing up underdressed compared to everyone else.

You slip it on and gaze at your reflection as you hold it to your chest. 

For a second, you don’t recognize yourself. Not because you look wildly different, or unlike you, but because you look…

The black fabric hugs your body like it knows exactly where to linger, cinched at your waist just enough to make the curve of it obvious, gliding over your hips before falling clean down your legs. The neckline dips lower than anything you’d usually dare, a little indulgent, a little out of your comfort zone, but not in a bad way.

You don’t think you’ve ever worn something that felt like it was made with you in mind, instead of something you had to make work. 

You really like it.

But as soon as you reach back to grab the zipper, you run into a problem.

Fuck! No, no, no, you were doing so well!

“Come on,” you mutter under your breath, craning your arm at an angle that’s definitely going to hurt later. You twist, fingers grappling uselessly for leverage. 

You can get it halfway up, maybe a little more if you strain, but definitely not all the way.

You stare at yourself in the mirror for a long, stubborn second.

Your options are clear. You could wrestle with it for the next ten minutes and risk injuring yourself. Or worse, risk breaking it entirely, effectively wasting all the hard-earned money you spent on it. Or…

You close your eyes.

“Yoongi?” you call, raising your voice just enough to carry through the apartment.

Through the wall, you immediately hear his muffled “yeah?” in response.

“Can you… help me with something?”

“Yeah,” he calls back. “One sec.”

You open your eyes and stare at your reflection again, resisting the urge to immediately start fixing things that don’t need fixing.Your makeup turned out better than usual. Not perfect, but good enough that you didn’t immediately wash it off and give up. Your hair is behaving. Why do you suddenly have the urge to preen?

Get it together, you think. It’s just Yoongi.

The door clicks open behind you, and you whirl around to face the door instantly, pretending like you weren’t being the most vain person on the planet, and—

Oh.

Oh, that’s… not fucking fair.

You’ve seen Yoongi dressed up before, plenty of times. High school graduation, college graduation, his first interview for a job that actually mattered to him. Just months ago you went to the wedding of a mutual friend with him, stayed for the ceremony and dipped before the cake was cut. 

But he was wearing a t-shirt beneath a blazer that time, and even so, you hadn’t been paying attention yet.

You’re certainly paying attention now.

His hair is styled, pushed mostly out of his face save for a few strands that hang to artfully frame his forehead. The button-up he’s wearing is crisp white, fitted just enough through his shoulders and chest to hint at what’s underneath without trying too hard about it. And the slacks—fuck—the slacks are almost worse, tailored close through his thighs without looking restrictive. His undone tie, a delicate houndstooth print, hangs loose around his neck.

Even unfinished, he just… inexplicably looks like he belongs in a room full of people with money and power and things to prove. Like he can command any room he walks into, including your bedroom.

You catch yourself and force your focus back to his face, but once you get there, whatever words you were trying to come up with die pitifully in your throat.

Because he’s looking right back.

His gaze drags from your face down the line of your body, slow enough that you feel it like a touch. Like he’s mapping out all the places he wants to explore, if you’ll let him. It’s pathetic how desperately you want to let him.

He seems to catch himself. When he looks back up, you both freeze, and then, almost in sync, you look away.

“Um,” you say, eloquent as ever, twisting a little and gesturing behind you. “Can you—I can’t—the zipper.”

Smooth. Really smooth.

He huffs a quiet, almost amused breath and steps closer. “Yeah. Turn around.”

You do, grateful for the excuse to face away from him. Right then, your stupid horny brain decides it’s the perfect time to remind you that if you leaned back even slightly, you’d be pressed right up against him. His chest to your back, his crotch against your ass.

You don’t move a fucking inch. 

His knuckles graze as he drags the zipper up slowly, brushing against bare skin inch by inch, each small touch sending a sharp, electric ripple up your spine. By the time the zipper reaches the top, your shoulders are tight, your breath shallow, your pulse loud in your ears.

“Done,” he says softly.

You swallow thickly. “Thanks.”

For some reason, neither of you moves. It almost feels like something is about to happen. Like if you turned your head just a little, if you leaned back even an inch, he’d meet you there. Like his hand might slide from the zipper to your waist, pull you in. Like you could ask, actually get the words out this time, and he wouldn’t hesitate to—

Your phone blares to life from your dresser, the alarm you set earlier cutting through the room like a knife. The moment snaps instantly.

“Oh, shit,” you squeak, scrambling to grab your phone and silencing it. “That’s—we should probably—”

“Go,” Yoongi finishes for you, significantly less frazzled.

“Yeah.”

You hurriedly set your phone back down and reach for your shoes. The heels are new, too, and a little higher than what you usually go for. You sit on the edge of your bed, slipping one on, then the other, adjusting the straps at your ankles carefully.

You push yourself to stand, wobble for half a second as you find your balance, and then straighten. When you finally glance up, Yoongi is in the middle of tying his tie.

You watch his ring-clad fingers move with rapt attention, the way they skillfully loop and pull the fabric through until the knot is at his throat.

Don’t, you think to yourself. Do! Not! Go! There!

You turn to grab your clutch off the dresser, suddenly very interested in making sure you have everything you need. Lip gloss. Keys. Cash, just in case. 

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, forcing something light into your voice. “As I’ll ever be.”

୨ৎ

The hotel ballroom is already full by the time you and Yoongi step inside. Everything gleams—polished marble floors, golden light spilling from chandeliers, tables dressed in pristine linens with those stupidly specific Vendela roses arranged just so. Waiters weave through the crowd with trays balanced expertly, offering drinks and bite-sized appetizers that no one seems to actually eat.

Yoongi’s hand settles at the small of your back as he guides you further in, a subtle touch that does absolutely nothing to calm your buzzing nerves. If anything, it makes it worse—heightens your awareness of him at your side.

“Fancy,” he says, waggling his brows.

“Expensive,” you correct under your breath.

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes sweeping over the crowd until he clocks the open bar. “You want?” he asks, tilting his head toward the sea of people lining up for free alcohol.

You nod gratefully. “Please.”

“I’ll be back.”

You watch as he disappears into the cluster of bodies, leaving you to fend for yourself for a few minutes.

Not that it matters. No one is sparing you a passing glance, anyway. Partners, associates, people you’ve spent the past week running yourself ragged for. A few of them glance your way, but it’s polite recognition, nothing more. Because you’re the secretary.

Which is fine. You’re only here because you have to be. You don’t want to talk to anyone you work with except—

“Hey!”

You turn your head at the sound of your name, spotting Namjoon weaving his way toward you with a drink already in hand. Relief floods through you at the sight of him and his predictably crooked tie.

“You made it! I was starting to think you were going to bail.”

“Tempting,” you admit. “But I did all the work for this thing. I deserve to at least drink on the company’s dime.”

Namjoon grins, raising his glass in agreement. “Exactly. That’s the only reason I’m here, honestly. Free alcohol and the chance to judge everyone in expensive clothing.”

“You’ve been doing that all night?”

“Religiously,” he says. “You clean up nice, by the way,” he adds, giving you a once-over that’s appreciative but not invasive. “Almost didn’t recognize you without a stack of files in your hands.”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “Thank you,” you say. “Are you here with anyone?”

“Nah,” he says. “Didn’t feel right to drag anyone into this. Figured I’d just float around, make sure I’m seen, then disappear before anyone important notices me.”

“Smart.”

He tilts his head, studying you for a moment. “What about you?” he asks. “You here alone?”

As if on cue, Yoongi appears at your side and hands you your drink. 

You take it with a quiet thanks, watching his throat work as he takes a sip of his whiskey sour.

Ugh, focus!

“Yoongi,” you say, clearing your throat and forcing yourself into something that resembles composure. “This is Namjoon, one of the paralegals at the firm.”

“Kim Namjoon,” he says, straightening and offering his hand.

Yoongi takes it without hesitation. “Min Yoongi.”

“Nice to meet you, man. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Namjoon says, his eyes flicking conspiratorially to yours for half a second. You have to resist the urge to reach out and strangle him with his crooked tie.

“Oh?” Yoongi asks, turning to you with a raised brow. “Good things?”

You’re in hell. Kim Namjoon is a traitorous bastard who thinks he knows everything, when really he knows nothing.

“Horrible things,” you reply flatly. “I was actually just asking him if he’s in the market for a roommate.”

Yoongi laughs. “Good luck,” he says, eyeing Namjoon. “Can you cook?”

“If instant ramyeon counts.”

Yoongi sighs, deeply offended. “You’ll both be dead within a week,” he says matter-of-factly.

You take a long sip of your drink, because clearly you’re going to need it. 

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, I’d be lost without you,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Are we gonna find somewhere to people-watch, or do you wanna swing your dick around a little more?”

“I don’t know,” Yoongi says, sucking his teeth. “This dick swinging business is pretty fun, if you ask me.”

“Don’t quit your day job,” you shoot back.

Namjoon laughs, clearly amused by the back-and-forth that’s become second nature to you and Yoongi over the years. 

“I know a spot,” he cuts in. “I’ve been dodging people all night. C’mon. You’re welcome to keep swinging dick when we get there.”

Namjoon leads you both toward the far side of the room, where the lighting dips just a little lower and the noise softens. There’s a stretch of floor tucked beside a structural column, dotted with a few small cocktail tables that no one seems particularly interested in claiming.

From here, you get a clear view of the room without actually being in it—like watching a performance from backstage.

Perfect.

“Oh, this is good,” you murmur approvingly, already claiming a spot and setting your clutch down on one of the tables.

“Told you,” Namjoon says as he and Yoongi sit on either side of you, pleased with himself.

Yoongi hums in agreement beside you, posture noticeably loosening now that you’re out of the main current of people.

“What do you do, Yoongi?” Namjoon asks, breaking the ice.

“I work in music,” Yoongi answers.

Namjoon’s eyes light up with recognition. “Ah, so that’s why you were saying we’d get along last night,” he says to you.

“Uh-huh.” Yoongi immediately looks confused, so you explain. “Joonie is going to defend musicians to keep them from getting taken advantage of.”

“Ah,” Namjoon says sheepishly, waving his free hand so he doesn’t slosh his drink. “I wouldn’t say I’m ‘going to.’ I want to, one day.”

Yoongi straightens in your periphery, eyes lighting up on Namjoon with interest that hadn’t been there before.

“Yeah?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “What kind of stuff? Contracts? Ownership rights?”

“Yeah, exactly,” Namjoon says. “Artist contracts, licensing, making sure they actually understand what they’re signing before they get locked into something awful.”

Yoongi lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “I wish more people cared about that shit. Kids are way too excited by the idea of a record deal these days, they don’t think to stop and read the fine print.”

Namjoon perks up. “That’s what I’m saying! Half the time it’s not even that the deals are hidden, it’s that people don’t have anyone on their side explaining what they mean. They just trust the wrong people and—boom. They’re stuck.”

“Mm,” Yoongi hums, his gaze dropping briefly. “Happens more than it should.”

“That’s exactly why I want to get into it,” Namjoon says. “People shouldn’t have to learn the hard way.”

Yoongi’s mouth quirks faintly. “If you actually do it, I think the whole industry would collapse.” He meets Namjoon’s eyes again. “Which, for the record, I’m all for.”

Namjoon grins, dimples at full force. “Gotta burn it down to build something better, right?”

“Damn straight.”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen Yoongi take to someone this quickly.

There’s something easy about the way they fall into it—no awkward posturing, no one trying to one-up the other. Just two people who have very clearly spent a long time thinking about the same broken system from opposite sides, meeting somewhere in the middle and immediately finding common ground. 

Yoongi’s a little more blunt about it, a little rougher around the edges, but Namjoon matches him point for point, thoughtful where Yoongi is sharp, filling in the gaps without smoothing anything over.

You called it, but still, it’s… kind of fascinating to watch.

You grin into your drink, warmth blooming in your chest that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

“Look at you two,” you coo, glancing between them. “Bonding over your shared hatred of capitalism. It’s beautiful.”

“Not just capitalism,” Namjoon corrects, lifting a finger. “Corruption. Exploitation. Systems designed to benefit the few at the expense of the many—”

“You sound like you’re about to start a podcast,” you cut in, amused.

Namjoon takes it in stride. “I know you mean that as an insult,” he starts, waggling his brows as he gestures between Yoongi and himself, “but tell me you wouldn’t listen to an hour and a half of these dulcet tones.”

“Can I leave hate comments?” you ask sweetly.

The three of you lapse into a comfortable rhythm after that—pointing out people, making up stories, occasionally dipping into real ones when you actually know something about whoever you’re watching.

At some point, Yoongi gets up to freshen all of your drinks, and when he gets back, Namjoon points subtly toward a man across the room, currently holding court with a group of very serious-looking clients. 

“That’s the ‘pls fix’ guy,” he murmurs to you, taking the glass Yoongi offers him with a grateful nod. 

“No way,” you say, leaning slightly to get a better look.

“The one and only.”

Yoongi follows your line of sight as he sits back down, his arm stretching over the back of your chair. “The what guy?”

“He sent Namjoon a draft earlier this week for the huge merger that just wrapped up,” you explain, lowering your voice. “And it was full of errors. Like, really bad. Plus, he was supposed to have it done for our client, like, days prior. He was single-handedly holding up the whole thing. So, he asked Joon to…”

“‘pls fix,’” Namjoon finishes, pained.

Yoongi huffs into his drink. “I thought lawyers were supposed to be smart.”

“I wish,” Namjoon says. “I have no idea how he made it through law school, honestly. Dude’s an idiot. I fantasize about punching him at least once a day, but I’d definitely get fired, and anyway, I’m a pacifist.”

“Pacifist, smash-a-fist,” you say, delighted by your accidental pun. “I can’t wait for the day you finally snap. He’s begging for it, Joon.”

Yoongi hums, visibly sizing the guy up. “I could probably take him,” he says simply.

“In a fight?” Namjoon asks.

“In a spelling bee.”

You laugh, delighted. “A fight, too! Yoongi can be your backup, for sure! He’s a member at some fancy boxing gym in Gangnam.”

“Hot,” Namjoon says.

“He also does pilates,” you add with a snort.

“Hey, don’t knock the pilates,” Yoongi says, nudging your shoulder.

“No, no, I’m not. It’s a big step up from what you used to do, which was absolutely nothing,” you tease. “I’m very proud of your fitness journey.”

“If it makes him strong enough to take down our gym rat coworkers, I’m not judging,” Namjoon says, discreetly pointing into the crowd again, this time to someone different. “After you’re done with ‘pls fix,’ I vote that he’s next.”

You follow the invisible line drawn by his finger and immediately groan. “Oh my god, not him.”

The guy in question is impossible to miss, broad shoulders straining against a suit that looks a size too tight. He’s just like all your other coworkers—an egotistical, hot-headed law bro. Except he’s particularly annoying, because he’s also obsessed with fitness.

“You know, he cornered me in the break room once. Tried to explain protein macros to me while I was heating up a Lean Cuisine.”

Namjoon snorts. “Did you learn anything?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I learned I should start eating lunch in my car.”

“Jesus,” Yoongi mutters, eyes scanning the room again. “How do you deal with these people every day?”

“I don’t,” you say. “I dissociate and wait for five o’clock.”

Namjoon nods solemnly. “Same.”

“Kim!”

The voice cuts through the pocket of peace the three of you have built like a whip crack, and Namjoon’s spine instantly goes rigid.

“Uh-ooooh,” you sing-song. “Dissociation time is over.”

“No,” he mutters under his breath. “No, no, no—”

You follow his gaze just in time to see one of the senior partners making a beeline straight toward him, expression already locked into something expectant.

“Found you,” the partner says, clapping a hand onto Namjoon’s shoulder like he’s just been rescued instead of captured. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Namjoon pastes on a polite smile so fast it’s almost impressive. “You found me!”

“We need you,” the partner continues, already steering him away. “Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Namjoon looks back at you over his shoulder, eyes wide and pleading.

“Damn,” you murmur into your glass, watching him go with zero intent to save him. “Thought he was gonna make it.”

“Poor bastard,” Yoongi agrees.

“Moment of silence,” you say, lifting your drink slightly.

“Moment of silence.”

You both take a sip, watching as Namjoon disappears into the crowd.

“He’s cool,” Yoongi says after the moment ends, turning to you. “I’m glad I got to meet him.”

“Yeah,” you say, lips upturned. “I knew you would like him.”

As soon as you say it, though, your mind drifts back to the memory of the bar last night. 

“You know,” you add, the words slipping out before you can properly filter them, “when I told him that, he assumed I was trying to set the two of you up.”

Yoongi’s brows lift slightly, more thoughtful than surprised. “Huh.” 

You don’t know what you were expecting. 

A scoff, maybe. Immediate dismissal. Something definitive you could grab onto and file away neatly.

Not that, though. Not something so open-ended. Huh? That’s all he has to say?

You turn your head toward him fully now.

“What,” you press, studying his face for any hint of something you don’t want to find, “is he your type or something?”

“I told you, I don’t really have a type,” Yoongi says into his glass.

Hm. You remember. 

It would be a satisfying answer, if you didn’t also remember all of the men he’s brought home over the years.

“You say that,” you counter, stubbornly picking at the thread even though some part of you is whispering to drop it, “but all of the guys you’ve dated kinda look like him, now that I think about it.”

Tall, jacked, masculine. Varying in personality, sure, but all the more reason for Namjoon to fall into the category. He contains multitudes.

Yoongi finally turns his head to you, raising an amused eyebrow. “You jealous or something?”

Shit!

You successfully suppress your immediate urge to sputter, forcing your features to remain in what you hope is a calm expression. 

“No,” you say, steady. “Why would I be jealous?”

You lift your glass, using the motion as cover, taking a longer sip than necessary just to buy yourself a second.

“I’m just wondering,” you continue, setting the glass down carefully, “if I should’ve set you up, since he’s so obviously your type and all.”

There. 

That sounds reasonable, right?

Yoongi’s mouth twitches. “Yeah, you’re jealous as hell,” he says. “Being really cute about it, too.”

Your cheeks go hot, and you scowl. “Fuck off.”

Yoongi’s posture changes—not bigger, not aggressive, just… more present. Like something in him just clicked into place, attention sharpening entirely on you.

“Ooh, less cute,” he murmurs, interest flickering in his eyes as he turns fully toward you now. Then, softer, like it’s just for you, “watch yourself.”

Oh.

It’s not a joke. You can tell it isn’t.

The warning settles low in your stomach, sending a strange mix of heat and defiance curling through you.

You should probably back off and remember where you are. Remember that this isn’t the time or the place. Remember that Yoongi is not above teaching you a lesson right here if he has to, especially since you personally ticked literal boxes that gave him express permission to do so.

But you don’t. 

You want to poke. To test. To see where the edges are. After a week of nothing, of silence and restraint and too much thinking, you want to see what happens if you push. 

“Or what?” you challenge, lifting your chin just slightly.

Yoongi holds your gaze. “You really think I don’t know what you’re doing?” 

”I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Really,” he says flatly.

“Really.”

“So you’re not giving me shit on purpose just to see what I’ll do about it?”

As always, he sees right through you. 

Your shoulders drop just a fraction, the fight leaking out of you as quickly as it flared up. You’re not good at this, and you don’t know why you’re pretending to be.

“I just want your attention,” you admit, embarrassed at how easily he called you out. 

“You have it, baby.” 

Your breath catches at the pet name, a ripple of sensation running down your spine and settling heavy between your thighs. 

“You could’ve had it days ago, too,” he adds pointedly. “It’s not like I live far.”

If he only knew how many times you paused outside of his door on your way to your own, weighing the pros and cons of knocking until your cowardice won out.

“I was busy,” you say, lips pushing into a small pout, clinging to the safest excuse you have.

“I know,” he says. There’s something soft threaded through it, something that wraps around the words instead of sharpening them. “My girl’s been working so hard, huh?”

His girl. Your thighs press together under the table. Is that what you are now? It must be, if you’re this attuned to just a simple change in his voice.

“Mhm,” you say, because anything more coherent feels out of reach.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Been thinking about me?”

You have. Constantly.

At work, at home, in the shower, lying in bed staring at the ceiling with your mind running in circles you couldn’t shut off.

You wish you had the strength not to give him the satisfaction so easily. To deflect, tease, give him something less than the truth so you can keep even a shred of control.

“Yes,” you breathe instead. “When I had time.”

“What about me?”

Motherfucker.

You huff and cross your arms, coming back to yourself momentarily. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

It’s weak. You know it is.

He knows it, too.

“S’why I asked,” he says, a hint of amusement threading through his voice. “You gonna tell me or what?”

“Or what,” you shoot back. “We’re literally surrounded by everyone I work with right now.”

“So?” Yoongi says. “Nobody’s paying attention to us.” He leans in just enough that you can feel the heat of him, the subtle encroachment into your space. “And even if they were, you like that shit, don’t you?”

Your jaw might as well be on the floor. 

Yoongi grins.

“Relax,” he says. “It’s not like I’m gonna stick my hand up your dress right here. As much as I may want to.”

You inhale sharply, your entire body lighting up at the image before you can stop it.

“I just wanna know what you thought about.”

“A lot of things,” you deflect weakly. “I don’t know.”

He clicks his tongue. “Not good enough,” he admonishes. “C’mon, I know you can do better than that.”

Fuck. He isn’t going to let this go, isn’t he?

You take a deep breath, searching your brain for something you can say that will satisfy him without completely exposing how desperate you’ve been.

“I thought about last time,” you admit shakily. “The way it felt.”

“Yeah?” he prompts.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“What else?”

You make a frustrated sound, his name slipping out like a plea before you can stop it. He doesn’t budge.

“Nuh-uh. You wanna cum tonight?”

The words hit like a switch flipping. Everything in your body reacts—heat flaring, tension snapping tight, that aching, insistent want roaring.

Suddenly, the stakes feel very clear. You’re in it now.

You can keep dodging, or you can be honest. And the thought of walking away from this—of going home still wound up, still aching, still stuck in your own head—

Yeah, fuck that.

“Fuck,” you hiss under your breath, darting a quick glance around you even though he’s right—no one’s paying attention. “Okay, fine. You win.”

Yoongi hums and leans back, crossing his arms over his chest as if to say, ‘I’m waiting.’

The words start spilling out faster than you can filter them, like once the dam breaks, there’s no stopping it.

“I thought about you fingering me without anything in the way,” you rush out. “I thought about you making me cum so many times I lose count. I thought about you putting me on my knees and using my mouth and then not letting me cum at all, but for the record, I think I’d kill you if you did that tonight. I thought about pretty much everything I said yes to on your list,” you finish, words tumbling over each other now, frustration bleeding through. “And I’m fucking pissed that we’re sitting here talking about it—that you’re making me talk about it—instead of actually doing it.”

Yoongi lets the silence linger long enough to make you squirm, and then lets out a low whistle.

“Damn.”

Your face burns instantly. “Don’t,” you mutter, mortified.

“Don’t what?” he asks innocently.

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not.”

You shoot him a look.

“I’m not!” he insists, a grin tugging at his mouth. “That was hot as fuck. You’re better at this than you think.”

You scoff. “Okay, now you’re really making fun of me.”

He leans in close enough that his breath ghosts over your skin. “Baby,” he tells you, voice rough, “I’m so fucking hard right now.”

Oh shit!

Your entire body reacts. A sharp inhale, your stomach tightening, heat pooling low and immediate.

“O-oh…”

The tip of his nose brushes your neck, light, deliberate, and you don’t even move to stop him. “Did you touch yourself?”

You barely register the question. You make a small, confused sound, your eyes fluttering shut as his proximity overwhelms your senses.

“I’m asking,” he rasps, lips just barely grazing your skin, “if you played with that wet cunt while you were thinking about all of that.”

Fuck.

“N-no,” you stammer. “I didn’t, uh… I haven’t…”

“No?” he murmurs, lips pressing more firmly to your neck now, slow, distracting. “Why not? Knew it wouldn’t feel as good without me?”

“That, ah—” Your breath catches, a soft, traitorous sound slipping out of you. Jesus. Get it together. “That, and I didn’t… know if I was allowed.”

Your words hang in the air, mortifying in how revealing they are, and suddenly everything stops. Yoongi stills completely.

He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, brows drawing together.

“You didn’t touch yourself…” he repeats slowly, like he’s making sure he heard you right, “…because you thought you needed my permission?”

“…Yeah?” you say hesitantly. You feel a little silly, now that you’ve said it out loud.

He huffs a laugh, his head dropping forward until his forehead rests against your bare shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he exhales a quiet “fuck.”

Oh god. He’s laughing at you?

“Look, I know,” you rush, face so hot now you’re worried it’s going to explode. “It was stupid, okay?”

You feel the movement of his head as he shakes it against your shoulder, and then he lifts it again, eyes locking onto yours. “We need to go home.”

You blink.

“Huh?”

“We need to go home,” he repeats, clearer this time, each word deliberate, “before I stop pretending to care we’re surrounded by your coworkers and fuck you right here.”

Your breath catches.

“Understand?”

Oh.

Oh.

You swallow hard. “Right now?”

“Is that a problem?”

You shake your head quickly

“Good. Then yeah, right now. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice.

୨ৎ

It’s a miracle that either of you make it into the building.

The door to your shared apartment barely has a chance to shut before he has you pressed against it, the solid wood thudding at your back as his mouth crashes into yours. It’s messy and breathless, the kind of kiss that steals the air right out of your lungs, and far from the first you’ve shared since you left the stupid gala. 

You fumble blindly at the wall for balance as your heel catches on the rug, and with a frustrated little sound you kick both shoes off, letting them scatter somewhere behind you.

You don’t care.

You don’t care about anything except the way his hands slide down to your ass, gripping, pulling you flush against him.

“You’re such a good girl, fuck,” he breathes against your lips, voice rough. “Can’t believe you waited. So fuckin’ sweet.”

A soft, helpless sound slips out of you, your body reacting instantly, arching into him without permission.

“Can’t wait anymore,” you gasp, your head tipping back as his mouth breaks away from yours and moves to your neck. His teeth scrape lightly over your skin and you shudder. “Please don’t make me wait.”

He chuckles lowly against your neck, and you just barely register that you’re being guided now, maneuvered through the apartment. 

You follow without thinking, your body already tuned to him, responding automatically.

By the time you hit his bedroom door, you’re dizzy from the way he’s been kissing you. His hand fumbles behind you for the knob, twisting it open while his mouth never leaves your skin, like he can’t stand the idea of even a second of distance.

The door swings open, and you stumble inside.

“Tell me what you want,” he says.

God, can he get on with it already?

“I don’t know what I want,” you whine, the frustration bleeding through.

Every thought you’ve had this week, every half-finished fantasy, every what-if you didn’t let yourself follow through on—they’re all crashing together now, stacking and overlapping until you can’t separate one from the other.

You want his hands. His mouth. His voice in your ear. You want to be taken apart slowly and all at once. You want to cum until you can’t think.

How the fuck are you meant to narrow that down into something coherent?

Yoongi hums and untangles his body from yours. You whine at the sudden distance, the loss of his hands on you, but watch as he sits on the edge of his bed, legs spread wide like a king.

Fuck.

With a crooked finger he beckons you forward, and you go without a second thought, fitting yourself to stand between his thighs.

Now that you’re pressed against him again, he takes the opportunity to let his hands roam over your body, starting from your breasts and sliding all the way down to your hips. You can see how hard he is through his slacks. 

“This fucking dress,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You bite your lip. “You like it?”

“You look beautiful,” he says, meeting your eyes. You aren’t expecting the honesty of it, to believe him so easily. 

Your lips part. Damn.  

“Thank you,” you murmur shyly.

Yoongi gazes up at you still, his expression devastatingly open. “Will you let me take it off of you?” he asks.

There’s something so hot about him asking permission like that, even though he’s the one with all the power here. 

“Yes,” you breathe, earning a gentle squeeze at your hip.

“Turn around, baby.”

You do, your pulse jumping as you present your back to him. His fingers find your zipper just like they did earlier in the night, but this time he’s dragging it down, unwrapping you. The dress loosens, then slips, fabric gliding over your skin until it pools at your feet in a dark heap. Cool air kisses your bare back, making you shiver.

Behind you, Yoongi groans under his breath. “Fuck…”

The sound alone makes your stomach flip.

His hands come to your ass immediately, big and warm, squeezing like he’s been waiting all night to get his hands on you like this, properly, skin to skin. You gasp, instinctively pushing back into his touch.

And then—

Smack!

The sting blooms instantly, heat radiating across your ass as a startled gasp tears from your throat.

“Oh!”

“Come back,” he orders, audibly less patient now. 

You spin around obediently, and he pats his thigh.

“Sit.”

You step forward, positioning yourself carefully into his lap. You’re keenly aware of how similar this is to last time, but the second you settle over him, it also feels so different.

Because this time, you’re damn near naked. 

Meanwhile, he’s still fully dressed, crisp and controlled. His clothes are rough against your bare skin, and there’s an unmistakable hardness pressed right between your thighs. Straddling him like this leaves you completely vulnerable, your bare tits level with his face.

You wonder if it’s intentional.

His tongue drags over his lower lip. “So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss between your breasts. “You remember your safewords?”

You force yourself to focus, to pull the words from memory even as your body keeps trying to drag you back under.

“Green means I want more,” you recite, voice a little shaky. “Yellow means slow down. Red means stop.”

“That’s my good girl,” he says, big palms sliding up your ribs and settling just beneath your chest, thumbs brushing appreciatively over the undersides of your breasts. “I’m gonna give you what you want, baby. Gonna make you cum so hard you cry for me again, yeah?”

You whine. “Please. Need it.”

He seems to enjoy how shameless you’re being, if his responding growl is anything to go by. “You’ll get it,” he says, palming your tits fully now. “But not yet. You’re gonna wait.”

Not yet? You immediately snap out of your daze. 

“What the fuck? Why not?” you demand.

He chuckles, eyes glinting as he tongues the inside of his cheek. “That’s why,” he says, pinching your nipples hard enough that you cry out. “Your bratty fucking mouth. Think I forgot?”

Your protest slips out of you before you can stop it, our brows pulling together as you look at him. “But you just said I was good!”

“And you are,” he says easily. “But you’ve also been testing the fuck out of me all night, and I can’t let that slide.”

You pout, because of course you do, your body still buzzing, still needy, still unwilling to accept anything that isn’t immediate gratification.

“Can’t you, just this once?” you try, tilting your head just slightly, softening your voice without even realizing it, like that might work on him.

It doesn’t.

“It’s cute that you think this is negotiable,” he says with a smirk.

Maybe that should be the end of it. He’s the one in control here. But you can’t accept it.

You don’t think.

You just act.

“But I thought you wanted to fuck me,” you say, your hand snaking between your bodies to squeeze his length through his slacks. “I want it, too.”

He hisses through his teeth, indulging you for a moment, almost like he can’t help it. “Fuck…”

“You’re so big,” you breathe, leaning forward to suck at his jaw. “Definitely gonna make me cry.”

You can tell he didn’t expect this from you, and his responding groan makes you feel powerful, like maybe you do have more control here than you originally thought.

But then he grabs your wrist and pins it behind your back, the motion so fast your breath catches. And then the other wrist follows, as if for good measure.

“Do I need to tie you down?” he growls, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. “Because I will. I’m being fucking nice, letting you cum after all the shit you gave me tonight, but I can stop being nice real quick. I’ll tie you down and spank your ass raw, and then I’ll leave you like that. You want that?”

Your cunt clenches at the image, but you shake your head violently, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Say it.”

“N-no! I don’t want that.”

“What do you want, then?”

You swallow hard. “I want to cum.”

“Then shut up and take your punishment like a good girl,” he says. “Look at me.” You open your eyes. “We clear?”

Something in his gaze makes your stomach flip for an entirely different reason than before.

You nod, quick and obedient. You don’t trust your voice, and besides—he told you to shut up.

That seems to satisfy him. He exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as his grip on your wrists loosens.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs. His hands gentle as they move to cradle your jaw. “Come here.”

You lean in obediently, he meets you halfway, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that’s slower than before but no less intense. It’s deep and consuming, his tongue sliding against yours possessively. You whimper into it, the sound swallowed by his mouth, your body melting right back into him despite everything.

When you finally pull apart, a thin string of saliva stretches between your mouths for a brief second before snapping.

“If you get close, tell me,” he says.

Your brain lags behind.

Close?

Close to what—?

You don’t get the chance to ask, because the next second, he’s leaning down to pull one of your nipples into the heat of his mouth. You arch into it with a broken sound, your head falling back as your fingers tangle in his hair.

“Oooh, fuck,” you moan.

Yoongi hums around the bud and sucks harder, pulling another louder, more desperate sound from your throat. He pulls back with a soft pop, just long enough to look up at you, eyes dark and knowing.

“Sensitive?” he asks with a smirk.

“Y-yeah…”

“Thought you would be.”

His mouth moves to your other breast, lavishing it with the same treatment—tongue, teeth, suction—while his hand takes over where his mouth just was, fingers pinching and rolling roughly.

You don’t even realize your hips have begun rocking against his lap until his free hand comes down hard on your ass, shocking you into stillness.

“Ah!”

“Don’t fucking move,” he admonishes against your skin, not letting up for a second.

Your breath stutters as his teeth graze your hardened peak before biting. It’s that mix of pleasure-pain that makes you suddenly realize—holy shit!!! You’re about to cum!

Right now. When he hasn’t even touched your pussy.

“Y-yoongi, I—” you gasp out, trembling from your impending release. “I think I—”

He hums in question, and the buzz of it around your nipple only makes matters a million times worse.

“‘M close—!”

He pulls back so fast it makes your head spin.

One second you’re right there, your entire body drawn tight like a wire—and the next, it’s just… gone.

You’re left shaking in his lap, chest heaving, nipples slick and oversensitive where his mouth had been, the ghost of it still there but not enough. The orgasm that had been building recedes just as fast, slipping through your fingers before you can grab onto it. 

Your body feels confused, like it doesn’t understand why it was stopped, why it was denied something it had already started to take.

You suck in a shaky breath, blinking down at him, dazed.

You’d be pissed—you should be pissed—but all you can think about is the fact that he just almost made you cum by sucking on your tits.

Unbidden, your brain supplies the memory of last week, when he asked if you were still okay with him touching you. “How else are you supposed to make me cum?” you’d asked, to which he’d smirked and responded, “you'd be surprised.”

Is that what he meant?

“Color?” he asks now, snapping you out of it.

“Green,” you manage through shuddering breaths.

“Didn’t know you could do that, huh?” he asks, flicking lazily at one of your puffy nipples. Your whole body twitches in response.

You shake your head. Of course you didn’t know. How could you?

“Don’t worry,” he continues smugly, clearly enjoying himself, “we’ll get some proper use out of it at some point.”

Fucking bastard.