dev; quit

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ೀ JUHOON 김주훈

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ೀ MARTIN 마틴

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ೀ SEONGHYEON 엄성현

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ೀ KEONHO 안건호

He always greeted you with those gentle eyes and a smile which was different from what he would give the others. He was mocking you, or that's what you thought atleast.

You’d nod back. “Morning.”

During lectures, you both answered questions with frightening consistency. When the professor posed something complex, there was always that split second of silence—just long enough for the class to hold its breath—before either you or Phainon spoke.

Sometimes it was you.

Sometimes it was him.

When it was him, you clenched your jaw and wrote faster. When it was you, you could feel his gaze on you— As if he were genuinely listening. As if he were impressed

It wasn’t like he tried to outshine you directly. He never interrupted. Never corrected you in front of others. If anything, he tended to build on your answers, adding a thought here, a clarification there, always respectful. Always careful.

Like he didn’t want to step on your toes.

Which, frankly, felt worse than if he had.

Your classmates adored him. Professors trusted him. Even the most cynical students seemed to soften around him, drawn in by his warm, charming and reassuring confidence. You overheard people talk about him in whispers—He’s so smart, He’s actually really nice, I wish I could study with him.

The first real bicker happened during a study hall you hadn’t planned on attending. You’d claimed a corner table in the library, notes spread out, headphones in but not playing anything. You were halfway through reorganizing a page when a familiar shadow fell across your paper.

“Mind if I sit here”

You didn’t look up. “The library has plenty of chairs.”

A pause, Then the soft scrape of a chair anyway.

You sighed and finally glanced at him. He was already settling in, sleeves rolled up, exposing his strong forearms, expression calm in that infuriatingly gentle way. “I’ll take that as a no but I’m sitting anyway”

“That wasn’t an invitation,” you said flatly.

He smiled, “I know.”

That did it. Something in your chest tightened, irritation blooming warm and sharp. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Am I” he asked lightly, opening his notebook. “I think I’m pretty predictable.”

“You show up everywhere I am,” you shot back. “It’s distracting.”

He blinked, then laughed softly under his breath, like you’d said something unexpected but amusing. “You say that like it’s intentional.”

“It isn’t?”

He tilted his head, considering you with that same attentive look he used during lectures. “If it were, I’d admit it.”

You looked back down at your notes, jaw tight. He’s doing it again, you thought. That calm, easy tone like nothing ever rattled him. Like this rivalry was just a game you were playing alone.

Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the turn of pages and the scratch of pens. You tried to focus. Really tried. But every so often, you could feel his eyes flick toward you, not staring, just checking. As if making sure you were still there.

“You’re outlining that wrong,” he said eventually, mild as a comment about the weather.

You froze. Slowly, you looked up. “Excuse me”

He leaned closer—not invading your personal space, just enough to glance at your page. “Your conclusion is solid but if you move this argument earlier, the flow improves. Otherwise you’ll have to justify it twice.”

There it was. That careful tone. That helpfulness you never asked for.

“I didn’t ask for help,” you said.

"I know, but i still did anyways"

You turned back to your notes, pen hovering uselessly above the page. “You realize that makes you annoying, right.”

He smiled, soft and unbothered, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve been told worse.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

You expected him to push back, to tease or defend himself, but instead he let the comment sit there between you. The quiet stretched, comfortable in a way you didn’t like admittign at all.

“You don’t have to take the suggestion,” he said after a moment, voice gentler now. “I just thought it might help. You’re already close.”

That word again. Close. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it settled somewhere under your ribs, warm and irritating all at once. You hated that he noticed things like that. That he paid attention.

“I don’t need you monitoring my progress,” you muttered.

“I’m not monitoring,” he replied easily. “I’m observing. There’s a difference.”

"insufferable idiot."

You expected him to laugh louder at that, maybe throw something clever back at you, something sharp. Instead, he just looked at you for a second too long, that same gentle expression settling on his face, lips curved into an easy smile.

Which only made your irritation spike.

“Why are you smiling,” you asked flatly. “Did I say something funny.”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. “No. I just—”

“Because it looks like you’re enjoying this,” you cut in, eyes narrowing. “Like you get a kick out of hovering over my work and pretending you’re being helpful.”

His expression shifted then, the smile faltering just slightly, like you’d knocked something fragile off balance.

“That’s not—” he started, but you were already gathering your things, shoving your notebook into your bag with more force than necessary. The zipper snagged. You yanked it closed anyway.

“Save it,” you muttered, slinging the strap over your shoulder.

He stood halfway, chair legs scraping softly against the floor. “Hey. I didn’t mean—”

You didn’t look at him. If you did, you knew you’d see that same calm concern in his eyes, and it would only make everything worse. Instead, you turned and walked away, steps quick and clipped, jaw set tight.

The hallway outside felt colder somehow. Your footsteps echoed as you moved toward the exit, heart thudding harder than it should have. You told yourself it was anger. Annoyance. Nothing else.

Behind you, you thought you heard him call your name—not loudly, not chasing. Just once. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

You didn’t stop.

The walk back to your dorm was longer than usual. The campus paths blurred past as you replayed the conversation in your head, over and over, dissecting every word, every look. That smile. Always that smile, that beautiful warm smile making you feel fuzzy. Like he understood something you didn’t.

It made your chest ache in a way you refused to name.

By the time you reached your dorm building, the irritation had dulled into something heavier, more frustrating. You climbed the stairs two at a time, unlocked your door, and shut it behind you with a quiet click.

You dropped your bag by the desk and leaned back against the door, exhaling slowly.

You immediately flop onto the bed with your phone in hand, maybe you need a break..

You sank into the mattress face-up, one arm flung over your eyes, phone balanced loosely in your other hand. The ceiling stared back at you, blank and unhelpful. Your heart was still going a little too fast.

“A break,” you muttered to no one. “I need a break.”

You unlocked your phone on instinct, thumb scrolling without direction. Notifications. Group chats. A reminder about an upcoming quiz that made you groan and roll onto your side, burying half your face into the pillow. You exited out of it immediately.

From studies and Phainon.

Except your brain, traitorous as ever, refused to cooperate.

You saw him anyway. The way he’d leaned over, careful not to crowd you. The quiet certainty in his voice. That look—soft, attentive, like he was genuinely interested in how your mind worked. Not mocking. Never mocking. And that realization only annoyed you more.

You turned your phone off and let it fall onto the bed beside you with a dull thud.

“Why do you have to be like that,” you murmured into the sheets, words muffled. Nice. Patient. Infuriatingly kind. So gorgeous, attractive, ugh..you felt doomed.

Avoiding Phainon turned out to be easier than you expected and harder than it should have been.

You stopped arriving early to lectures. Sometimes you didn’t arrive at all. You stayed curled in your dorm room instead, blinds half-drawn, the world reduced to the hum of the heater and the scratch of pens from the desk across the room where Hyacine sat with impossible posture, color-coding her notes. (i hc that hyacine has a shrimp posture)

She noticed, of course, your emotions are practically like an open book to read.

“You skipped Cognitive Systems again,” she said one afternoon without looking up, her voice light but deliberate. “That’s the third time this week.”

“I wasn’t feeling it,” you replied from your bed, staring at the crack in the ceiling that vaguely resembled a constellation if you squinted hard enough.

Hyacine hummed, unimpressed. “You’ve never ‘not felt’ a lecture in your life.”

You rolled onto your side, pulling your blanket up to your chin. “People change.”

She finally glanced over at you then, one perfectly groomed brow lifting. “Is this about Phainon.”

“No,” you said immediately.

Hyacine stared at you with her large doe eyes.

“…Not entirely,” you amended.

Hyacine let out a little sigh, her fingers still scribbling notes but her gaze softening on you. “You know, you’ve been bedrotting for—what?—three days straight now?” She tilted her head, one hand propping up her chin in that impossibly delicate way, like she was both amused and exasperated at once. “Stop bedrotting alreadyyy!” she added, voice sing-song, like trying to coax a stubborn cat out of hiding.

You groaned into your pillow, muffling your reply. “I’m not… bedrotting… I’m… resting…”

“Resting?” she echoed, voice rising slightly in mock disbelief. “You’re turning into a little human burrito, wrapped up, And not even in a productive way.” She finally slid out of her chair, moving to stand at the edge of your bed. Her presence was bright, like sunlight spilling into the room through the blinds, and somehow infuriatingly cheerful. “Come on. The world’s still out there, y’know. Classes exist. Food exists. And unless you want to turn into a permanent fossil, you might want to leave this mattress before it files a restraining order against you.”

You groaned again, but a part of you—the part that hated admitting Hyacine was right—started to shift under her relentless cheer. Her energy was warm and insistent, the kind that made you feel like sulking was a little selfish.

“C’mon,” she said, grabbing your wrist and tugging gently but firmly. “If you stay here, you’re only feeding your brain with more doom thoughts. You need air. You need sunlight. You need… maybe even a coffee. Or two. Or five.”

You squirmed under her grip, muttering protestations, but her grin was unwavering, and her bright eyes practically dared you to resist. Somehow, you didn’t resist. You let yourself be pulled upright, hair mussed and blanket slipping, glaring at her with the smallest, begrudging acknowledgment that she had won this round.

“Theres my pretty roomie!” she said triumphantly, clapping her hands together. “Up you go!"

"You're not being awesomesauce right now.." "You are a nerd! who even uses awesomesauce nowadays"

You stumbled after her, half-grumbling, half-sighing, but she didn’t give you room to argue. Her energy was infectious, like she was the sun and rainbows. The walk outside the dorm building was brisk, the air cool and sharp, and it hit your senses like a slap you didn’t know you needed. Birds chirped in the trees lining the campus, and somewhere nearby, students were laughing over coffee and chatter.

Hyacine nudged your shoulder, nudged it again when you lagged. “See? Isn’t this better than staring at a ceiling all day?”

You glanced at her, noting the faint shimmer of her silk scarf, the subtle gold bracelet on her wrist catching the light. The glimmer of the "twillight courtyard" engraved in her bracelet, it was astonishing really how she already became the top intern of the hospital. But instead of making you feel insecure it makes you feel happy, she was a senior to you anyways despite not looking like it.

She led you off-campus, down cobblestone streets where small cafés and bakeries had just started setting out their morning trays. “Pastries first,” she declared, tugging you toward a tiny shop tucked between a florist and a bookshop. “Then we’ll shop for something practical—you need actual clothes besides dorm sweats—and maybe some new books? definitely romance because everyone BUT you has some love going on, so you might aswell read about it!"

"Excuse me what do you mean by th-"

She cut you off as she chatted about the pastries, pointing out which croissants were flaky enough to be worth it, which cinnamon buns were outrageously sweet, and you found yourself actually smiling at her commentary, rolling your eyes less than usual.

When you paid, she insisted on picking up your share, waving your protests off with a flick of her hand. “I told you, my treat. You’re too grumpy to handle the cashier,” she said, nudging you playfully with her elbow, handing you a peach-lemon iced tea.

You took a sip, the warmth spreading through your hands and chest, and, against your stubborn self, had to admit she was right.

And you finally smiled at her, genuinely.

.....

Hyacine unlocked the door with a practiced flick of her wrist and nudged it open with her shoulder. “See?” she said lightly, stepping aside to let you in. “Still the same room. Still safe. But you’re different now.”

You scoffed, dropping your bags beside your desk. “I bought socks and a notebook. Don't overreact.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, kicking off her shoes and immediately curling into her chair with that familiar shrimp posture, legs tucked under her. “Disagree. You smiled outside. That counts as character development.”

You rolled your eyes, but the edge wasn’t there anymore. You sat down on your bed instead of collapsing into it, shoulders loosening as you exhaled. The room felt calm.

Hyacine watched you for a moment, softer now. “You don’t have to figure everything out today,” she said, almost casually, but you knew her well enough to hear the intention behind it. “Avoiding someone for a bit doesn’t make you weak. It just means you’re… processing.”

You picked at the seam of your sleeve. “What if I’m just being childish.”

She smiled, not teasing this time. “Then you’re being human. Big difference.”

Hyacine stretched, arms raised above her head. “I’ve got rounds tomorrow morning, so I’m turning in early,” she said, already reaching for her planner. “But you? You’re coming to class tomorrow. Even if you sit in the back. Even if you don’t say a word.”

You hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. Okay.”

She grinned, satisfied. “Good. Progress.”

Phainon noticed your absence before he admitted it to himself.

The first day, he told himself you were just late. You always arrived early, but everyone broke habits sometimes. He kept glancing at the door during lecture anyway, pen hovering uselessly above his notebook, ears straining for footsteps that never came. When class ended and your seat stayed empty, a quiet unease settled in his chest.

The second day, it became impossible to ignore.

Your chair was still empty. Your name wasn’t called during discussion. When the professor asked a question you usually would’ve answered quickly with a smug grin on your face looking at him.

By the third day, he was miserable about it.

He sat in the library with three open textbooks and absorbed none of them. His eyes kept drifting to the entrance, then to his phone, then back again. No messages. No accidental run-ins. No quiet glare from across the room that told him you were there and still competing.

He missed it. Gods, he missed you.

He replayed your last conversation on a loop, wincing every time. The way you’d narrowed your eyes. The way your voice had gone flat. He’d smiled—why had he smiled?—and watched you walk away like he deserved it, like he didn’t have the right to stop you.

“I wasn’t mocking you,” he murmured to no one, chin resting in his palm as he stared at a half-written paragraph. “I was just… happy to talk to you.”

Pathetic, he thought distantly. Completely, utterly pathetic.

His friends noticed, of course.

“You’ve been staring at that page for ten minutes,” someone said from across the table. “You okay, Phainon?”

He nodded automatically. “Yeah. Just tired.”

That was a lie. He wasn’t tired—he was restless. He felt off-balance, like something important had been quietly removed from his routine and no one had warned him. Even walking across campus felt wrong without the possibility of running into you, without the sharp back-and-forth, the tension that kept him alert.

He passed by your dorm once. Accidentally. On purpose.

He didn’t go in. He didn’t text. He just stood there for a moment, hands shoved in his pockets, staring at the building like it might give him answers. Like you might suddenly appear, arms crossed, expression unimpressed, ready to tell him exactly what he’d done wrong.

He would’ve listened. He would’ve apologized. He would’ve taken it.

Instead, he turned away, shoulders slumping, feeling foolish for hoping.

“I should give you space,” he told himself quietly as he walked back toward his own dorm. “That’s what you want. Probably.”

The word probably echoed unpleasantly.

That night, lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling, replaying the sound of your voice saying his name—sharp, annoyed, alive. He missed the way you challenged him, the way you looked at him like an equal rival instead of an idol, you made him feel free instead of burdened.

...

Mydei listened to Phainon complain for exactly three minutes before deciding he’d had enough.

They were in the baking club kitchen which was warm with the smell of bread and sugar, the low hum of ovens filling the silence Phainon kept breaking. Mydei stood at the counter, broad shoulders hunched as he kneaded dough with aggression. Phainon sat on a stool nearby, elbows on the counter, chin in his hands, staring into nothing with sadness in eyes only seen in the eyes of european victorian twinks.

“I think I upset them,” Phainon said for the fourth time, voice low and miserable.

Mydei did not look at him. “You’ve said that.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Phainon continued, words tumbling out anyway. “I was just trying to help. They always look so focused, and I thought—maybe if I said something useful, they wouldn’t feel so alone.”

Mydei slammed the dough down harder than necessary. “You are unbearable.”

Phainon flinched. “I know.”

That, finally, made Mydei pause. He glanced sideways, frown deepening when he saw Phainon’s expression—eyes dull, shoulders slumped, smile nowhere to be found. He clicked his tongue in irritation.

“You haven’t seen them in how long,” Mydei asked.

“Three days,” Phainon said instantly. Too instantly. Like he’d been counting.

Mydei scoffed. “And you’re acting like someone died.”

“They might hate me,” Phainon said quietly.

“Oh titans” Mydei muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They skipped a few classes, Phainon. They didn’t announce their hatred against you"

Phainon shook his head, curls falling into his eyes. “You didn’t see the way they looked at me. Like I was… mocking them. I never would.”

“Well,” Mydei said flatly, returning to his dough, “you do have a very punchable polite smile.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It is honest.”

Phainon let out a small, miserable sound—something halfway between a sigh and a whine—and slumped forward, forehead nearly hitting the counter. “I think about them constantly,” he admitted, voice muffled. “Every lecture. Every question. It’s quieter without them...i hate it :c"

Mydei’s kneading slowed.

“Do you like them,” he asked, blunt as a blade.

"Of course i do! They are gorgeous, so smart, shes not too much of herself and ...it's not suffocating to be around her"

“You’re down catastrophically,” he said.

Phainon made a soft, defeated noise. “I know.”

Mydei sighed, long and long-suffering, then shoved a tray of unbaked rolls into the oven harder than necessary. “Have you tried,” he said slowly, “talking to them. Like a normal person.”

“They don’t want to see me,” Phainon said immediately. “If they did, they wouldn’t be avoiding me.”

Mydei turned fully now, arms crossed. “Or,” he said, “they’re upset, stubborn, and exactly like you. Waiting for the other person to move first.”

Phainon looked up, hope flickering weakly in his eyes. “You think?”

“I think,” Mydei said dryly, “that if you keep moping in my kitchen instead of doing something, I will personally throw flour at you.”

"Not if i do it first!" Phainon said as he threw the white powder onto Mydei's face before running off"

"HKS!! PHAINON OF AEDES ELYSIAE YOU WILL MEET MY FIST AFTER IM DONE BAKING!!"

Phainon did not look back.

He bolted down the corridor with the grace of someone who had absolutely no grace when panicking, laughter bubbling out of him despite the very real threat of Mydei’s wrath echoing behind him. He skidded around a corner, nearly collided with a cart of cooling pastries, whispered a frantic apology to no one in particular, and ducked into the first open door he saw.

He slammed it shut behind him and pressed his back against it, chest heaving, hands braced on his knees.

Safe.

Probably.

The room was… small. Uncomfortably so. A storage room, maybe—barely enough space for two people to stand without brushing shoulders. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with old boxes and cleaning supplies, the air smelling faintly of paper and detergent. A single dim light buzzed overhead.

Phainon exhaled, relief loosening his shoulders.

Then—

“…Phainon?”

what the HELL. Does life hate you? Do the titans hate you? because what is phainon doing here.

That was the exact thought screaming through your head as you stared at him in the cramped supply closet, your back barely brushing the shelf behind you. You’d come in here for one reason and one reason only—to escape the girls’ restroom crowd and swipe on some lip gloss in peace. Two minutes. That was all you wanted.

Instead, you got… this.

Phainon blinked at you like he’d been caught committing a crime. Which, judging by the way his shoulders stiffened and his eyes widened slightly, he probably felt like he had.

“I—” he started, then stopped. “I didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

“Clearly,” you muttered, fingers tightening around the lip gloss tube in your hand. Your heart was beating far too loud for such a mundane situation.

The room felt even smaller with him fully turned toward you now. You took half a step back on instinct—and immediately regretted it.

Phainon moved at the same time, equally startled, one hand flying out to steady himself against the wall.

Except the wall was right beside your head.

His palm hit the surface with a soft thud, and suddenly he was way too close. Not touching—not really—but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm when he inhaled.

You froze. You could practically feel his scent, his scent which made your heart flutter. God he was mesmerizing.. now that your head was finally cleared up, you could see why in terms of looks he was voted 1st.

“Oh—sorry—!” he blurted out immediately, trying to pull back, except there was nowhere to go. Shelves behind you. Boxes beside him. The door—

The door.

You glanced past his shoulder just in time to hear the unmistakable click.

Locked.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Phainon’s eyes flicked to the door, then back to you, horror dawning on his face. “It… it locks automatically,” he said, voice low, like he was afraid speaking too loudly might make it worse.

You closed your eyes for half a second, inhaled, then opened them again. “Of course it does.”

“I swear I didn’t mean to—” He shifted again, careful this time, pulling his arm back immediately and pressing himself closer to the opposite shelf instead. “I can move. I mean—I am moving. I just—there’s not a lot of space.”

“I’ve noticed,” you replied, a little too quickly.

Your reflection stared back at you from the small mirror mounted crookedly on the wall—lip gloss uncapped, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and flustered irritation. You capped it again with a soft click, hands not quite as steady as you’d like.

Phainon cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth,” he added, quieter now, “this is… not how I planned to see you again.”

You let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t been edged with nerves. “Same.”

Outside, footsteps passed. Voices. Life continuing on, blissfully unaware that the universe had decided to trap you and your academic rival in a supply closet the size of a confession booth.

You crossed your arms, eyes flicking back to him. “So,” you said flatly, “are we going to acknowledge how insane this is, or pretend it’s normal until someone lets us out.”

Phainon hesitated—then smiled, small and sheepish, not mocking this time. “I vote for acknowledging it.”

You sighed. “Figures.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said suddenly.

You stiffened. “I took a few days.”

“Three,” he replied, then winced. “Not that I counted.”

You turned to look at him despite yourself. “You counted.”

His ears went red. Actually red. “I—I notice patterns. It’s a habit.”

“Of course it is,” you muttered, though there was no real bite in it this time.

Another pausem was longer.

“I missed you,” Phainon said, softly enough that it felt like the room absorbed the words before you did.

That stopped you cold.

You swallowed. “You’re not supposed to say things like that in locked supply closets.”

“I know,” he said immediately. “I’m sorry. I just—every time you’re not there, everything feels… off. Like I’m answering questions into empty space.”

You laughed quietly, more breath than sound. “You’re dramatic.”

“Only about important things.

You opened your mouth to snap back with something clever—something sharp, something that would put distance back where it belonged—but nothing came out. Your throat felt tight. Annoyingly so. You hated that he could do this. That he could say something so earnest it knocked the breath out of you.

So instead, you looked at him, up at him eyebrows furrowed, you felt so vulnerable now.. it was annoying.

That was a mistake.

He was already looking at you—really looking. Not like in lectures, not like when you were rivals circling the same problem. This was quieter. Focused. His eyes softened when they met yours, like he’d found something he’d been missing and wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

You swallowed again. “You’re… staring.”

“Sorry,” he said automatically—and then didn’t look away. “I just—when you’re close, I forget what I’m supposed to do.”

Your pulse jumped traitorously. You shifted your weight, trying to create space that didn’t exist, your shoulder brushing the shelf behind you. “You’re supposed to argue with me,” you said, voice steadier than you felt. “Outscore me. Annoy me.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “I do that too.”

"Just...stop looking at me with those eyes?"

"What eyes?"

You huffed, turning your face slightly away from him like that would help. It didn’t. You could still feel his attention, warm and intent, like sunlight pressing through closed lids. “Those,” you said vaguely. “The ones that make it hard to think.”

He let out a quiet, breathy laugh, more nervous than amused. “I can’t help that,” he admitted. “You always look like you’re about to say something brilliant or devastating. Sometimes both.”

“That is not a compliment.”

“It is to me.”

You snapped your gaze back to him, ready to retort—and faltered. Because he wasn’t teasing. There was no smugness, no mockery. Just that same earnest focus, like you were a problem he wanted to understand, not solve.

“You’re doing it again,” you said, more softly now.

His fingers twitched at his side, like he was resisting the urge to reach out. “I know,” he said. “I just… I don’t get many moments like this with you. Usually you’re already halfway out the door.”

“Maybe because you’re unbearable,” you shot back weakly.

“Maybe,” he agreed easily, then hesitated. “Or maybe because you don’t realize how much space you take up in my head.”

Phainon let out a slow, shaky breath, like he’d been holding it far too long. You felt it brush the crook of your neck before you could stop yourself from noticing, warm and uneven, sending a shiver straight down your spine.

He leaned forward just enough that you had to tilt your chin up to look at him. Gods, he was tall—always had been—but this close it felt unfair, the way his presence seemed to take up half the narrow room. His expression had lost its composure entirely now, brows drawn together, mouth parted like he was on the verge of saying too much and terrified of it all the same.

“Please,” he said quietly.

The word hit harder than it should have.

“I’m not good at pretending I don’t care,” he continued, voice dropping, rough around the edges. “And when you ignore me, I don’t know where to put all of this.” He gestured vaguely to his chest, fingers curling into his sweater like it physically hurt. “I keep wondering if I said the wrong thing. Or smiled wrong. Or if you’ve finally decided I’m just… annoying.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Your throat felt tight.

“I don’t need you to like me,” he added quickly, like he was afraid to ask for too much. “I just—don’t leave me guessing. Don’t disappear like that.” His voice wavered, barely, and he hated himself for it. “I notice when you’re gone. Everything’s louder. And emptier.”

He swallowed, eyes flicking to yours, searching, hopeful and terrified all at once.

“So if you’re going to be mad at me,” he said, almost a whisper now, “do it to my face. Argue with me. Compete with me. Just… don’t shut me out.”

You simply stared at his eyes. Phainon looked… undone. His eyes were wide and searching, fixed on yours with a kind of helpless intensity that made your chest ache.

His eyes lingered on your lips, still glossy from earlier, the light catching on them in a way you hadn’t thought twice about until now. You saw his throat bob as he swallowed, like the thought surprised him as much as it startled you.

Almost immediately, his eyes snapped back up to yours.

Caught.

Flushed.

“Oh—” he breathed, like he hadn’t meant to do that at all.

“Hey—” he murmured, voice low, roughened around the edges. “I’m not—I won’t—”

But you were already moving.

Your fingers found his hand almost on instinct, warm against his much larger palm. He froze completely as you lifted it, reverent in a way that made his breath hitch, and pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of his hand. It was nothing. It was everything.

The moment your lips touched his skin, Phainon went still like the world had stopped functioning properly.

You pulled back just as quickly, eyes dropping to the floor, cheeks burning. You couldn’t look at him—not when your heart was pounding like this, not when you could feel his gaze on you so intensely it made your knees weak.

“I—” you started, then stopped.

Phainon exhaled shakily.

“Oh,” he whispered, like the sound had been knocked out of him.

His fingers curled slightly where your lips had been, like he was afraid to move and lose the echo of it. “You can’t do that,” he said desperately. “You can’t be this— this gentle with me and expect me to stay composed.”

You risked a glance up.

Big mistake.

You feel his big arms wrapped around your waist, solid and careful and trembling like he was afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip even a little.

“Wait—Phai—” you breathed, but he was already leaning in, forehead brushing yours, breath uneven, eyes searching your face one last time like he was asking without words.

When your lips met, it wasn’t gentle.

It was hungry in the way of someone who had been holding himself back for far too long. Not reckless, not rough—but desperate. Like he was afraid this wasn’t real, like if he didn’t hold onto you now he’d wake up and find the space empty again.

His hands anchored you. One slid up to cradle your jaw, thumb warm against your cheek as if memorizing the shape of you. The other stayed firm at your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left to doubt his intent. You melted into him without thinking, the tension you’d been carrying for days dissolving all at once.

Phainon made a soft sound against your lips—half relief, half disbelief—and kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense. Like he was savoring it now, like he finally believed he was allowed to want this.

Your breath hitched as he pressed impossibly close, his hand sliding from your waist just a little lower reaching our thighs. anchoring you to him in a way that made your knees go weak. You whimpered softly, lips parting against his, and he caught it instantly, deepening the kiss, slipping his tongue in and swallowing every single sound we make, like he was desperate to memorize every sound, every curve, every shiver.

His other hand lingered at your jaw, tilting your face gently, lips molding perfectly against yours, and you could feel the intensity radiating off him, heat pooling between you both in the cramped space. Every exhale, every soft groan against your mouth sent sparks through your chest, and you bit your lip reflexively, tasting him and yourself, caught somewhere between panic and want.

You pull away from the kiss with a string of saliva between the mouths of you two, as your cherry-flavoured lipgloss was smudged over phainon's pretty lips.

"Oh c'mon...baby please don't pull away you taste so good :c" He drags you back but instead he lifts you up effortlessly making you let out a muffled yelp as his bruised lips are back on you. WIth your legs wrapped around his waist

"f-Fuu- Phai-"

Now you feel his hands rushing down your shorts, and his mouth leading down your neck and collarbone leaving a road of kisses, bite marks but you could do nothing, you jsut accepted your fate whining into his touch with overwhelming pleasure.

Your hands gripped his forearms pathetically, unsure whether you wnat him to be gentler or rougher. You would be lying if you said you didn't find this unnattractive, though. Phainon gave a slow, appreciative squeeze, his smile widening after hearing your whine and feeling the slow roll of your hips against his.

You whined, feeling the wet, soft muscle around your hard bud and his thumbs playing with the other one. Your hips hump against the air, crying out his name desperately, feeling a dull ache between your thighs.

"B-baby, fuuckk such pretty tits you have—♥" Phainon whined out, messily sucking on one of your nipples before pulling out with a loud POP!.

He grabs both of your breasts and massages them against each other, practically squishing them, and he was devouring both of your buds. Sucking, licking, biting them, and moaning your name pathetically,

Then before you could realise one finger was already inside your underwear and easily slipped inside your sopping wet cunt ;c

"Ph-phai?!"

"s-sorry pretty...hypnotising me already..ahh fuck" He whined breathlessly as your warm walls squeeze around his big fingers making him groan out your name and he quickly slips one more finger inside, the heat rising in your abdomen chasing your high. You were in euphoria, tears forming at the corner of your eyes. Tongue stuck out of your mouth, and sweat everywhere your body.

Your eyes roll back to the back of your skull, feeling your release wash over you as your thighs shake uncontrollably.

"N-noo~ phAi!?"

"P-pretty girl fuck..wanna taste you please baby please..."

You could only whine in response still trying to catch your breath

"Babyy, you're dripping~" he murmured before the pad of his thumb desperately rubbed circles around your wet, sensitive clit, as he pulls out his fingers making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. Looking at his shameless cerulean blue eyes as he puts the two arousal-coated fingers of his into his mouth sucking each and every juice of yours, And then goes down on his knees.

His hands push your thighs back and rests them on his shoulders as he shoves his face into your pretty lil' cunt, lapping up your essence and sucking you dry. Tongue dwelt deep, snug in your cunt

"wow. so wet and sho...tasty.." he chuckles, then pecking your swollen clit for a split second as you jolt out due to the sudden contact of his lips on your sensitive clit, his fat tongue moves your folds out of the way to continuously make a mess or if your aching cunt.

You felt your stomach churn up, thighs shake harder than ever, you're burning up and grinding against his mouth even more and you finally scream out Phainons name. Your back arching, nipples perky and hands clenching the sheets.

Phainon peeked at you from below your thighs with the dreamiest look on his face, your juices and his spit mixed all over his face- especially his mouth, absolutely drunk on you. His tongue comes out and works out around his lips, tasting you and the most pornographic moan comes out of his lips.

And then you hear a faint sound of zip.. looking down as your eyes widen at his cock, heavy flushed and leaking pre-cum all over. Its so huge and pretty, veiny t the base and pretty pink tip. He easily manhandles you with one hand of his as you feel his tip slobbering all over your swollen clit.

"A-ahh"

He slowly pushes the cockhead against your entrance, slowly pushing it inside as you felt your eyes roll back and tears form.

You choke on a sound. “Pha—Phainon—”

“Shhh,” he whispers, and he smiles, this time with actual faux sympathy, this sadist..“It’ll fit.”

ANd when he's finally done he looks in awe at the small bump on your belly..

"T-too big..."

"Baby it'll fit cmon..dont run away from me now, you're my girl"

His cock was reaching all the right places inside your cunt, filling you up completely, perfectly. Your body tightens around him like you want him inside forever, screaming out muffled moans biting his neck and giving him hickeys all over , lipgloss smudged everywhere your lips and his neck.

Your legs are shaking already sensitive with his tongue and fingers but his cock feels so good..tears slipped from your cheeks and drool comes out as he then desperately rushes to kiss you, trying to taste the cherry on your lips again and to stop anyone from hearing you.

"Sorry pretty...we'll head to my dorm after this? You can scream all you want there"

You only respond with a fucked out whimper feeling his cock bump inside you and outside with every thrust to which with phainon jsut smirks, eyes darkening with lust and leans in to bite your neck.

"Atta girl."

His hips roll again, slow at first, but deeper. Hungrier. Every stroke pushes against that oversensitive spot inside, and with the way you’re already so full—so stretched—it feels like he’s everywhere at once. Your body tries to squirm away, but he pins your hips down with one hand and holds your thigh up with the other.

“Fuck fucl fuck- take it for me pleaseplease~" And with a loud muffled whine against your neck he releases inside you, thighs shaking and supply room filled with the noises of two of you and scent of sex.

Phainon quickly regains his conciosuness seeing you fucked out completely on his cock and chuckles.

"Come on...lets go to my dorm, right pretty girl?"

Paperwork, cleaning tools, paperwork again, slow and steadily her hands maneuver around vials and a petri dish before coming to rest once again.. on more paperwork. Any onlooker would assume her work to be boring or tedious, but for a certain genius this sort of study was so deeply engaging that it consumed her focus entirely, barely aware of anything beyond the rectangular frames of her desks. The barely dusty floor, movement outside the windows between rooms, and the buzzing of sterile lamps all became a soft blurry backdrop for whatever unfathomable creation was in the making. Moving back and forth between her desks in her workspace, the sudden appearance of a bright blue box caught her eye.

It was a stark contrast to the dull gray, white and metallic things strewn across her space. As she leaned in from her spot in her chair she saw a note placed on top of the box, an almost comically cutesy look to it with the heart shaped sticker attaching it to the lid. She couldn't hold back the fond smile that bloomed on her usually cold expression. "Work is important, but you are too! Don't forget to eat during your so called "break", i know very well you're probably working right through it! Besides.. if you return the box empty you might get a kiss <3"

Upon lifting the lid from the box she sees that you've taken some inspiration from her. Lifting one of the small catcake shaped snacks as if to admire it, almost too cute to eat.. but then how will she get that kiss?

"Hm.. how sweet", she neatly tucks away the note in a small collection she's started. The front page of her notebook littered with notes form you.

Perhaps she will finally take a much needed break to pay you a little visit, lunch is better enjoyed in company. Little do you know she's also planning a little treat to sneak into your bag for when you to find during your own lunchbreak tomorrow.

She likes trying to guess what you'll make next, having noticed a few patterns in your thoughtful gifts. With impressive accuracy she's able to figure out what you're bringing before you even give her the lunchbox.

Herta is also the type to keep the notes, having a wall dedicated to them in her office. When you first saw the neat composition of written praise on display it was embarrassing to say the least, but your very amused girlfriend simply says it "keeps her motivated" with a teasing tone. She had worried a little that you might shy away from writing the notes afterwards, only to beam a bit as she sees yet another lovingly made lunch on her desk.

She opens the lid, finding a rather endearing scribbly drawing of one of her puppets alongside the words "Prettiest girl <3". The smug look that emerged on her face quickly morphed into surprise as she saw the contents beneath the note. She's quite impressed with how intricate the food was, neatly arranged into the shape of a familiar flower. If there's one thing she happily admits defeat to its cooking, as she's well aware of what the kitchen might look like after her own attempts at it. (And maybe in hopes of praising you into making more for her <3)

She can't help but feel like you spoil her a bit sometimes with how much love and care you put into something as simple as lunch. Taking the time out of your day, making it a part of your routine itself to care for her in such ways. While she eats she arranges ideas of how to spoil you in return, making sure to return your gestures tenfold.

"Well she did say she wanted come with me for my next trip... wouldn't hurt with some new clothes.. maybe some more of that perfume she likes.. some of those pastries she wanted to try- some flowers- some-"

A puppet next to her rolls its eyes slightly.

“You don’t understand the weight of these decisions,” Jing Yuan said, his tone sharper than usual. “Every action has consequences—not just for us, but for the entire Alliance.”

“I’m trying to help you!” you shot back, voice trembling. “But you keep shutting me out like I’m just an outsider!”

Jing Yuan ran a hand through his long hair, visibly exasperated. “It’s not about shutting you out—it’s about protecting you. Don’t you see that?”

When he suddenly stepped closer, his voice louder than before, you instinctively flinched, taking a step back. His eyes widened, his anger evaporating in an instant.

“Wait…” His voice softened. “Did you just flinch?”

You looked down, ashamed. The moment hung heavy in the air. Jing Yuan’s heart ached at the sight of you retreating from him, and he cursed himself for letting his emotions overwhelm his judgment.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently, his hands hovering before dropping to his sides. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He took a step back himself, giving you space. “I would never hurt you.”

You hesitated before nodding, your eyes still wary. Jing Yuan took a deep breath, his usual calm returning. He walked to his desk, retrieved a cup of tea, and set it down in front of you.

“Let’s talk—properly this time,” he said, his voice steady but laced with remorse. “I want to listen to you, truly.”

And for the first time that evening, you felt safe enough to let him in.

The opulent office felt suffocating as Aventurine paced back and forth, his normally suave demeanor unraveling. You had challenged one of his high-stakes decisions, and he hadn’t taken it well.

“You think I didn’t calculate the risks?” he barked, his voice sharp as a blade. “You think I don’t know exactly what I’m doing?”

“I’m saying it’s dangerous, Aventurine!” you shot back, your voice rising to match his. “You can’t keep gambling with people’s lives like this!”

His eyes burned with frustration. “You don’t understand the game I’m playing! Every move I make is—”

When he spun to face you, gesturing emphatically, you flinched, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. The slight recoil stopped Aventurine mid-sentence. His hand, frozen mid-air, dropped to his side.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then, his voice came out softer, almost unsure. “Did I… scare you?”

You didn’t respond immediately, and that was answer enough. Aventurine’s usually confident mask cracked, revealing the guilt underneath. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his tone devoid of its usual bravado. “I let my temper get the better of me.”

You crossed your arms, your voice shaky. “I just want you to see that I care, Aventurine. You don’t have to face everything alone.”

He chuckled dryly, his smile weak but genuine. “It seems I’m the one who needs a reminder of that sometimes.” He reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing yours. “Can we try this again? No shouting this time.”

You nodded, and as he led you to sit beside him, the gambler seemed determined to show you he was more than just his sharp words and risky strategies.

The gentle hum of the Astral Express felt distant as you and Dan Heng faced off in the library. He rarely raised his voice, but tonight, his frustration was palpable.

“You can’t just rush into danger like that!” Dan Heng exclaimed, his voice uncharacteristically forceful. “Do you have any idea how reckless that was?”

“I was trying to help!” you defended, equally upset. “You always act like I can’t handle myself!”

“Because you don’t see the risks!” He stepped forward, his hand clutching his spear. “What if something had happened to you? Do you think I could—”

When his voice rose further, and his spear clinked against the floor as he adjusted his grip, you flinched, taking a step back. Dan Heng immediately froze, his sharp eyes widening in realization. The air grew heavy with the weight of what had just happened.

“You…” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He set his spear down, his hands shaking slightly. “I didn’t mean to… I would never—”

You looked away, biting your lip. “It’s fine. I just… wasn’t expecting you to—”

“No, it’s not fine,” he interrupted, his voice steady but filled with guilt. “I lost control. That’s on me.”

Dan Heng lowered himself to sit on the edge of the table, his posture uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I don’t want to push you away. I’m just… scared of losing you.”

You hesitated before stepping closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m scared too, but we need to face this together. You don’t have to carry everything on your own.”

He nodded, his usual calm slowly returning. “You’re right. I’ll… do better.”

In that moment, you saw the real Dan Heng—not the stoic guardian, but the man who carried the weight of the past and feared losing the one person who made him feel safe.

The grandiose living room of Alhaitham's home felt oppressive as your argument with Kaveh escalated. He stood in the middle of the room, his expressive eyes alight with frustration. You had challenged one of his decisions, and his idealistic nature didn’t take it lightly.

“You don’t understand what this means to me!” Kaveh exclaimed, his voice shaking. “I worked my entire life to make a difference through my designs! And now you’re questioning that?”

“I’m not questioning your work, Kaveh,” you said, your voice tinged with desperation. “I’m worried about you! You’re pushing yourself too hard, taking on too much—”

“Because I have to!” he shouted, his hands flaring in an animated gesture. “If I don’t, who will? Do you think anyone else cares as much as I do?” He stepped closer, his tone growing sharper as he continued. “Stop acting like you—”

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up. You flinched, taking a small step back as his voice rose and his movements became more animated. The action stopped him in his tracks, the weight of the moment crashing down around him like a crumbling structure.

His arms dropped to his sides, and his face fell. “Did… did I scare you?” he asked, his voice suddenly quiet and laced with regret.

You didn’t reply immediately, your throat tight with emotion. “I—I didn’t mean to—” you started, but Kaveh shook his head, cutting you off.

“No,” he said firmly, his tone filled with self-reproach. “This isn’t on you. I… I shouldn’t have yelled like that.” He took a step back, giving you space, his eyes filled with guilt. “I never meant to make you feel unsafe.”

“Kaveh…” you began, your voice softening.

He turned away briefly, running a hand through his hair. “I let my emotions get the better of me. Again. It’s just… everything feels like it’s falling apart, and I’m trying so hard to hold it together.”

You stepped forward hesitantly, placing a hand on his arm. “I know you’re trying, Kaveh. But you don’t have to do it alone. You don’t have to carry this weight by yourself.”

He looked at you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I just… I don’t know how to let go. But I don’t ever want to hurt you, not even by accident.”

“You won’t,” you assured him, squeezing his arm gently. “But you need to let yourself rest, Kaveh. Let yourself breathe.”

He nodded slowly, his usual dramatic flair subdued by the gravity of the moment. “You’re right. I’ll… I’ll try. For you.”

And as the tension eased, you saw in his eyes the vulnerability he often tried to mask with passion and idealism—a man who cared so deeply, it sometimes consumed him.

The sterile halls of Herta’s spaceship echoed with the sharp edge of your argument. Herta stood before her console, her fingers tapping impatiently on its surface as she glared at you.

“Do you even understand the magnitude of what I’m trying to achieve here?” she asked, her tone biting. “This isn’t just some experiment—it’s a breakthrough!”

“I do understand,” you replied, your voice raised. “But you’re so focused on the outcome that you’re ignoring the risks!”

Herta’s eyes narrowed as she whirled around to face you, her movements swift and deliberate. “Risks are inevitable in science! If I stopped every time something was dangerous, we wouldn’t even have the Simulated Universe! You—” She gestured sharply, stepping closer as her voice grew louder.

The suddenness of her movement made you flinch, your shoulders tensing as you instinctively stepped back. The reaction was subtle but unmistakable. Herta froze mid-sentence, her eyes widening in realization.

She stared at you for a long moment, the tension in her posture dissipating. “Wait… did I just… scare you?” she asked, her voice unusually soft.

You looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “It’s fine. I know you didn’t mean to.”

But Herta shook her head, her usual detached demeanor cracking. “No, it’s not fine,” she said, setting her clipboard aside. “I might be a genius, but that doesn’t give me the right to… intimidate you like that.”

You glanced at her, surprised by the remorse in her tone. “Herta…”

She crossed her arms, avoiding your eyes as she spoke. “I get so caught up in my work, I forget about the people around me. I’m sorry.” She sighed, her sharp wit returning slightly. “It seems even I have room for improvement.”

You chuckled softly despite the tension. “You think?”

She smiled faintly, stepping closer but keeping her movements slow and deliberate. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll explain everything properly this time—no yelling, no dramatics.”

You nodded, the knot in your chest loosening. “I’d like that.”

As she guided you to her desk, the usual confidence in her demeanor was tempered by a quiet sincerity. For the first time, you saw the side of Herta that wasn’t just a genius or a scientist, but someone who valued your trust more than any experiment.

Lushaka in midsummer is unforgiving.

The humidity seeps into your clothes, the scent of fuel clings to your hair, and the comms line hasn’t been quiet for a single minute since dawn. You feel the weight of every eye in the grandstands waiting to see if your team can hold its crown.

Chrysos Racing’s garage breathes with the same tension as it always does. Mechanics and engineers bustle about in their gold-trimmed uniforms, and the air is dense with the tang of fuel and scorched rubber. Screens flicker, telemetry scrolls, radios hiss. At the center of it all sits you, the race engineer directly wired into your driver’s radio.

Phainon’s car is already out on track like a streak of gleaming sunlight against the dark curve of the circuit. He drives as if Lushaka itself bends to him, attacking the corners and shattering sector times like it’s something he always does on the weekends—the picture of reckless brilliance as always.

The roar of his engine cuts through the audio feed, vibrating in your chest so loud you swear you can feel it in your teeth. As he blazes down the back straight, the telemetry data spikes red and your pulse stutters. He’s pushing harder than he should, earlier than he should, and you already feel the strategy unraveling under his hands.

“Phainon, you’re burning through the tires,” you mutter. “Back off two-tenths and box this lap.”

He doesn’t radio back in right away. There’s always a pause—that infuriating pause, as though he savors leaving you suspended between obedience and rebellion. But before you can repeat yourself, his voice threads through the static, smooth enough to curl around your ribs.

“Sounds like you don’t trust me to bring her home.”

You close your eyes before inhaling sharply through your nose. “It’s not about trust. It’s about strategy. If you keep this up, you’ll be crawling behind Dan Heng by the final stretch.”

A low chuckle vibrates through your headset like honey over gravel. He’s smiling—you can hear it even over the howl of his car. “You’re grumpier than usual today,” Phainon comments as he veers down a tight chicane. “Didn’t you get enough sleep last night?”

Your hands freeze over the keyboard as the data starts to blur on-screen. Heat sparks straight to your throat, not from embarrassment, but from the sharp edge of memory: tangled sheets, his mouth at your neck, the press of his body keeping you awake long past midnight. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He always does. The words are innocent enough to pass for banter over the radio, but the weight of them is for you alone.

“Just come in for a pit stop or I might actually strangle you.”

“As you wish, Chief,” he chuckles.

Of course, he ignores you completely and sails past the pit entry at blistering speed, tires screaming as he plunges into another lap.

Not for the first time, you wonder how he doesn’t crash. By every metric, Phainon is the more erratic of Chrysos Racing’s golden duo. Mydei tempers his car like a blade, never stepping beyond what can be controlled. Phainon, though—he gambles with physics. He flirts with disaster and threads the needle where no sane driver dares. But damn him, he makes it work. There is genius inside the madness, precision tucked beneath the recklessness, and a brutal elegance that lets him pull off miracles Mydei would never attempt.

So when the checkered flag drops, and he crosses the line in third despite his constant delinquency, you aren’t surprised. But even if it should feel like a victory, it doesn’t.

When the podium ceremony is over, and the photo-ops are finished, you’re waiting for him in one of the back rooms of the garage for a one-on-one debrief. The scent of hot rubber clings to the air when he finally strolls in, fireproofs peeled down to his waist and sweat streaking his temples. He’s glowing with the kind of reckless triumph that makes you want to throttle him right then and there.

“Not a bad day,” he says, leaning against the wall as though the room belongs to him. “A podium’s a podium, right?”

You step closer with your jaw set with annoyance. “You could’ve taken first if you’d listened to me. Your tires were shredded, your braking was messy, and you bled seconds off every lap. You cost yourself points. Again!”

Phainon tilts his head, watching you with that infuriatingly calm gaze. Then he smiles. “Strange. I don’t recall you minding when I ignored you last night and kept going.”

Now that punches the breath out of you. “You—”

He doesn’t let you finish. The devil himself closes the distance between you in a few strides, cupping your jaw delicately before his mouth slants against yours.

Phainon tastes like salt and adrenaline, stealing the words right out of your throat as he backs you against the wall. You push at him, nails catching against the damp fabric of his undershirt, but when he groans against your lips you pull him closer, caught in the undertow despite your simmering rage. The garage is still buzzing on the other side of the walls, but in here, it’s only him, the grip of his hands, and the thrum of your pulse answering the race he just ran.

A knock splinters the moment.

“Phainon,” a staffer calls through the door. “They’re waiting for you to film something with Mydei. Is it okay to steal you away for that?”

His forehead rests against yours, breathing raggedly and unwilling to move. “Tell them I’m busy,” he mutters, his mouth brushing yours again.

“Go,” you hiss even though your fingers are still twisted in his shirt.

Your reckless driver both on and off the track laughs low in his chest, and you feel yourself shudder from the mere vibrations of it. He kisses you once more—slower this time, as though he's making a promise. Phainon pulls back with a smirk curling at his lips as he slips toward the door.

“Don’t run off, yeah? I’ll come find you.”

And then he’s gone, leaving the room thick with gasoline and the taste of him as your heart hammers faster than his car ever could.

If anyone told your younger self you’d end up on the pit walls of several Formula 1 Grand Prix, calling strategy for one of the most volatile drivers on the grid—you would’ve laughed. Race engineering was never the plan. You were supposed to build, not babysit. Temper engines, not egos.

But fate had other ideas.

Your childhood friend, Aglaea, the ever-golden face of Chrysos Racing’s public relations, called one evening and said it like it was no big deal: “We’re looking for a new race engineer. You’re more than qualified.”

You sat on the decision for weeks. Because deep down, you knew she was right, and that terrified you. You’ve seen paddocks in streams you caught on TV. They were all littered with men in polos and pressed trousers, sporting practiced smiles and assumptions sharper than steel. These were people who dedicated their entire lives to the skill of the drivers representing their team.

When you visited Aglaea at the circuit at her insistence, you didn’t miss the way several eyes slid over you when you trailed behind their PR manager like some lost puppy. Like a woman in the paddock was an accessory, not a mind worth adding onto the roster.

So when the offer letter came through from Chrysos Racing, you’d almost turned it down.

Until you met Anaxa.

The team principal of Chrysos Racing wasn’t the type to mince words. He’d lost an eye in an unfortunate explosion during his early years as a car designer, and rumor has it, he saw things others couldn’t—weak points, hidden angles, potential buried under noise. When you shook his hand for the first time, he looked at you like you were a puzzle he already understood.

“I don’t particularly care what the rest of them think,” he said. “I’ve read your research and evaluated your work thus far. You don’t need to prove you belong here. You just need to show me that you can keep up with the way we do things.”

You marched into their main office the next day to submit the necessary paperwork.

Since then you’ve lived up to Anaxa’s expectations—over and over again. You spent countless nights studying how to interpret telemetry data until your eyes blurred, learned how to read Phainon’s driving style like an evolving language, and pulled strategy from chaos when even Mydei’s side of the garage faltered.

But the whispers never really stopped.

Lucky hire. Anaxa’s pet project. Pretty face with good connections.

It didn’t matter how many races you optimized or how many precious milliseconds you scraped off a lap—every time you walked through the paddock alone, the air shifted. Conversations dimmed. Glances lingered a little too long before sliding away. The same old narrative followed you, as persistent as engine oil beneath your nails.

You learned not to care. You were here to do your job. The only person you were meant to build any real rapport with was the driver whose voice filled your headset for two hours straight every race weekend.

Somewhere down the line though, you might have built said rapport a little too well.

You were the one who set the rules.

No touching where others could see. No visiting hotel rooms after ten. No calls that weren’t about work.

Phainon laughed as you listed them out. “You make it sound like I’m the problem.”

“You are the problem,” you told him. “And I like my job, so don’t make me lose it.”

You tell yourself it works. You were careful. Professional, even. But control has a strange way of dissolving when it’s three in the morning, when the data from free practice won’t line up, and Phainon’s sitting beside you in a hotel room in the Luofu wearing a dri-fit shirt that smells faintly of his favorite cologne.

His knee brushes yours once, twice, until it’s no longer an accident. You try to keep talking about tire degradation and entry speeds, but then he leans in with one hand braced on the mattress, his voice tinged with something deeper than desire.

“Show me again where you think I’m losing time.”

You point at the screen to explain the angle, the split second of hesitation on Turn 8. But he isn’t looking at the video anymore. His gaze drifts to your mouth, sparkling blue in the low light. You can feel the question forming in the air between you like a dare neither of you ever say out loud.

And you always know what happens next.

Phainon kisses you with your laptop still prepped on your thighs—the heat permeating through your sweatpants as his lips move in tandem with yours. You’re unsure of how and when he got you to this point, where you’d respond to his shameless advances so willingly, it almost feels like instinct.

His lips part, and his tongue sweeps a slow, intoxicating path over yours. The kiss deepens, becoming greedy and desperate and entirely him. All thought of those silly data metrics evaporates like steam. The knot of anxiety that was tightening in your chest all night over the free practice numbers finally loosens into pure, unadulterated sensation.

Your laptop—that crucial, data-filled anchor of your control—is suddenly a hot, inconvenient barrier. Phainon seems to agree. He pulls back just enough to look at it, a faint smirk playing on his lips, his eyes heavy-lidded and blazing blue.

"You'd let me into your hotel room for more than just our briefings, won't you?" he murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip.

Your pride wants you to bark out in protest, but instead your lips wrap around his thumb as you suckle and lick, which only makes his self-satisfied smile curve wider. With his other hand, Phainon reaches down, his fingers brushing over the hot aluminum shell of the computer. With a decisive thump, he flips the screen shut and shoves it roughly toward the foot of the bed, where it lands with a soft bounce on the comforter.

You don't even protest.

Phainon leans back in to ease you gently down onto the pillows as his thumb prods at the flat of your tongue. His body weight is a welcome pressure against yours, and when he withdraws his hand, the press of his lips on yours is encompassing—a demanding blend of heat and taste as the scent of him drowns you in heady ecstasy. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him to erase the last vestiges of your self-control.

You shift, trying to get closer to the warm, smooth skin of his chest beneath the dri-fit material. He takes the hint and breaks the kiss only to drag the hem of his shirt up and over his head, tossing it somewhere into the dark silence of the room. Phainon's skin is warm and flawlessly defined from years of keeping himself in shape. His hands slide from your face to the curve of your hip, just shy of the waistband of your sweatpants.

The contact reminds you that you are a professional, but only sometimes.

Tonight, you are just his.

The heat building between you is instantaneous, driven by his touch. You gasp into his mouth when he kisses you again, and Phainon seems to take it as a cue to pull his lips from yours. He trails a searing line of kisses down your jaw and across the soft curve of your neck, making your fingers curl desperately in his ivory tresses.

As he moves lower, he settles his head by your hip, his breath a humid puff against your skin where your midriff just sits below the hem of your own shirt. The sudden loss of pressure makes you whine, reaching instinctively for him, but before you can pull him back up, Phainon simply smiles.

"Shhh," he murmurs against your stomach, the sound muffled by your top. He uses his forearm to prop himself up, his eyes locking onto yours before he shamelessly says:

"Sit on my face."

Your eyes widen, momentarily pulling you out of the haze of desire. The suggestion is so blunt, so utterly Phainon, and so far outside the bounds of your careful, professional life that it’s almost funny. You try to pull back as a flush of pure, mortified surprise rushes over your cheeks.

"Are you serious?" you manage. "That's... that's not happening."

He just grins wider, the cocky, self-assured smirk that has won him three championships and put him on countless magazine covers. He reaches up and gently rests his hand against your inner thigh.

"Why not? Don't tell me you’re worried about my neck," he challenges, his tone dripping with mock injury. He leans closer before his voice drops into a low, seductive rumble that is meant for your ears alone. "Chief, I can withstand the lateral G-force when I'm taking the fastest corner on the circuit. I can handle a few more pounds of your pleasure, I promise."

The sheer audacity and the way he uses his professional fitness to justify his demands, is infuriating. And yet... the reminder of his physical strength, his absolute control over his body, only fuels the reckless, dissolving control in your own. You chew the inside of your cheek as you meet his challenging gaze. You hate that he knows exactly how to break you down, how to leverage your shared world into this private one.

"Fine," you grit out, the word thick with reluctant surrender. "Just don't you dare bite me."

Phainon’s eyes flash with victory. "Never."

When you reluctantly manage to kick off your sweatpants, he gives you a gentle tug on your thigh, a clear instruction. You push yourself up and maneuver over him. Your heart is hammering against your ribs as you plant your knees on either side of his head. When you settle yourself over his face, guided by the slow, firm pressure of his hands on your hips, embarrassment coils with anticipation.

His grips grounds you, keeping you locked in place, and you close your eyes as the rhythmic, focused drive of the world's fastest driver is now entirely dedicated to getting you off. Phainon is utterly meticulous. There is nothing soft or hesitant about his work.

His mouth is a hot, wet vice. He starts with a savage, deliberate sweep, his tongue lashing at your slick folds like a piston. He drills his tongue in tight, tight rings around your already swollen clit until a desperate half-grunt, half-whimper is bellowed from your lungs. His grip on your hips becomes unforgiving, slamming your pelvis against his face as the pressure concentrates. You can feel the sharp bone and muscle beneath your thighs—rooting him to the spot like an anchor, refusing to let you escape.

He starts to use his teeth—a rough, controlled graze that rips a jolt of fire through your core. He alternates between that shallow, grinding friction and deep, obscene suction that sends your hips thrashing mindlessly into his mouth.

Your hands are flat against the headboard, the only goddamn thing keeping you from shattering into pieces. You try to lift off him and away from his sinful tongue, desperate to break the contact, but Phainon's hands clamp down in firm and utter dominance. You can feel the ragged effort in his breathing; he’s pushing his own limits for this.

"You want this," he snarls, his voice vibrating against your wet skin. "Stop fighting. Let go and break for me."

The control you prized so much snaps. You stop fighting the sound, letting out a raw, guttural moan as the pressure inside becomes a screaming siren. Your hips slam down onto his face, a desperate, animalistic reaction to the brilliant pleasure he's coaxing out of your skin.

Your climax hits like a lightning strike. Every muscle in your body convulses, your toes spasming as the shockwave shreds through you. You drop your head back, fingers digging into the headboard as you are utterly consumed and devoured by the shattering sensation.

Phainon doesn't stop. He holds you right there, maintaining the relentless, punishing rhythm as he drives you further up the wall. He works the sensitive peak with the savage concentration of a conqueror, demanding every last desperate drop of your surrender. He punishes the final, violent tremors, the deep, focused suction pulling you apart until your hips finally fall slack against his face.

He lets out a satisfied sound of conquest before he finally eases up, not pulling away, but simply licking your aching slit clean in a way that has you shuddering. He shifts his weight and you slide off him, collapsing onto the pillows in a slick, utterly ruined heap.

He rolls over instantly, hauling you against his damp, hot body, his arm clamping around your shoulders like a permanent shackle. You lie tangled together, your breath hitching, the metallic tang of lust and his cologne thick in the quiet room.

"See?" he rasps, his spit-slicked lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Pure, optimal performance. You just needed the right driver."

You don't have the strength to argue, only enough to bury your face into his skin and inhale the scent of his shirt. You hate that he can unravel you that easily. You hate even more how you let him.

Because when it’s over, it’s you who’s the first to pull away. You set your laptop upright and play the video pretend like nothing’s changed. He just lies there, half-smiling despite the obvious tent in his sweats, eyes tracing you like a secret he intends to keep.

“Back to work already?” he teases.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t crash tomorrow.”

He laughs softly. “You say that like you aren’t the reason I push harder.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you parse through the footage, the two of you watching the ghost of his car dance through corners on replay. He leans over your shoulder, fingers brushing your wrist as he points at map of the circuit flashed on the screen.

“If I take this line tighter next race—”

“You’ll spin out.”

He hums, unconvinced. “Or I’ll overtake Dan Heng.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you, thrumming hard enough that you fear he can hear it himself.

This—whatever it is between you—exists somewhere between precision and chaos. The same line Phainon drives on track. The same one you pretend you aren’t already following him across.

You never meant to attend the fellowship event.

Evenings after race weekends were meant for data reviews, simulation tweaks, and obsessing over split-second sector times—not networking in banquet halls dressed up like opera stages. But Aglaea has a way of bulldozing past your excuses with the grace of a wrecking ball wrapped in silk.

“Networking builds longevity,” she tells you, adjusting the drape of her gold lamé gown in your hotel room mirror. “You can’t hide behind your data spreads forever.”

“I’m not hiding,” you mutter before tugging at the hem of your far more modest dress. “I just don’t like… people. Especially all those F1 moguls.”

Aglaea smirks. “You seem to like Phainon just fine.”

You choke. “That’s different.”

“Mm. Sure it is,” she says, entirely unconvinced, then hooks her arm through yours and marches you out before you can even think of retreat.

This special fellowship is set in a glass-domed pavillion overlooking the neon sprawl of Xianzhou Luofu, where the air is thick with thrum of strings and conversation—executives, engineers, and drivers mingling beneath soft amber lights that glinted off champagne flutes. The room smells faintly of perfume, money, and the sweet, antiseptic scent of success.

You feel like an impostor in a dress that doesn’t fit right and shoes that hurt. Everywhere you look, people talk in numbers and contracts, in performance margins and brand partnerships. You understood every technical term that left their lips, but you still feel like a translation out of sync.

“Smile,” Aglaea whispers as she presses a wineglass into your hand. “You look like you’re about to file for resignation.”

“Because I might.”

She grins. “At least do it after the dessert course.”

You try to keep up with Aglaea as she glides through the room. She’s in her element among the polished glass and velvet conversations, all charm and poise and practiced warmth. You, meanwhile, are doing your best not to trip over your own heels.

It’s easier to blend into her shadow. You sip quietly, ears half-tuned to the thrum of conversation, as you drift to the checklist on your phone for tomorrow’s race sim.

“The bright mind behind Chrysos’ latest tech upgrade, yes? Anaxa must be proud,” someone says in passing.

You manage a polite nod. “Something like that.”

They’re already gone before your words settle in the air. You exhale softly. Perfect. Let them keep talking to Aglaea—she thrives on the attention. You thrive on the quiet.

You’re halfway through calculating corner entry deltas in your head when a shadow falls beside you.

“New race engineer for Chrysos, aren’t you?”

The voice is low, smooth, and just rough enough to draw your gaze. When you turn, you’re met with the unmistakable sight of Jing Yuan—the Silver Lion of High Cloud Racing. Even off the track, he looks the part: silver hair perfectly disheveled, posture languid yet sharp, eyes the color of late afternoon sun through smoke.

“Ah—yes,” you manage, gripping your glass tighter. “That’s right.”

“I thought so,” he muses, eyes flicking over your face with idle curiosity. “You were the one who helped reconfigure Chrysos’ aero balance this season. Clever adjustment. I was wondering who’d had the nerve to override Anaxa’s preferred model.”

You blink. “You… noticed that?”

Jing Yuan smiles. “Hard not to, when it shaved three-tenths off Phainon’s lap in Edo Star.”

You laugh awkwardly. “Most people remember the driver, not the one crunching data behind him.”

“Then most people don’t understand how the world works,” he says simply, tone carrying an easy confidence. “The best engines in the world still need hands to tame them. And the best drivers need minds that can keep up.”

The compliment catches you off guard. You open your mouth to deflect it, but he’s already leaning a little closer, his voice dipping low enough that it threads through the music.

“Tell me, do you ever tire of trying to contain a storm like him?”

You meet his gaze, heartbeat hitching. “Is this how High Cloud Racing recruits?”

“Recruit?” he repeats, as if tasting the word. “No. I prefer to think of it as… recognizing potential.” His smile turns almost feline. “And letting it know there’s someplace else waiting for it.”

You shake your head, though your pulse betrays you. “That’s not really something you should say lightly, Jing Yuan.”

He hums. “You’re right. It isn’t. Good thing I never say things I don’t mean.”

Jing Yuan pauses just long enough for the silence to tighten. “If you ever decide you’d rather focus on cultivating talent instead of taming it, you’ll find High Cloud’s doors open. And I’m not just talking about a job offer.”

The last line lands like a spark against dry kindling. You can’t tell if he’s teasing, or if that slow, measured drawl is exactly what it sounds like—an invitation wrapped in metaphor.

Your lips part, searching for something clever, something safe to say, but all that comes out is a faint, “You’re quite bold for someone I just met.”

“Age has its privileges,” he chuckles. “So does admiration.”

For a fleeting second, it’s almost easy to forget the world beyond this little pocket of stillness—the soft hum of music, the heat of his gaze, the faint brush of his sleeve against yours when he sets his empty glass down beside your untouched one.

Then Jing Yuan steps back, bowing his head slightly—a gentleman’s farewell disguised as retreat. “I do hope you think about it, Engineer.”

He leaves you with nothing but the ghost of his cologne as he disappears into the crowd. But before you can let your thoughts overwhelm you, Aglaea gets to you first.

“There you are,” she sighs, tugging you back into the crowd. “I turn my back for five minutes and you vanish. Who were you talking to?”

You hesitate, fingers tightening around your glass. It would be so easy to tell her. Aglaea, of all people, would know what to make of a casual conversation with Jing Yuan. She’d dissect it, turn it into something neat and manageable like a bullet point in a team briefing.

“Just someone from High Cloud,” you say lightly. “Small talk.”

Aglaea gives you a knowing look. “Right, yes. And your face is red because…?”

“It’s humid.”

You are spared further interrogation when the room itself seems to shift—voices dipping, attention pulling toward the entrance. The double doors part in a wash of light and murmurs.

Phainon and Mydei have arrived.

Even in a room full of power, they have an allure that gravitates everything toward them. Mydei in his sharp obsidian suit; Phainon beside him donned in blue and ivory, his expression the perfect blend of poise and distance. The gold lights caught in his ivory hair, glinting off the small pin at his lapel—the Chrysos insignia.

Aglaea is saying something, but you barely hear her. Because Jing Yuan’s offer is still buzzing faintly under your skin. You aren’t the type to be swayed by flattery. Chrysos gave you a chance, a platform, a purpose. You were fine here. More than fine.

Yet, as Phainon’s crystalline gaze finds you, your pulse skips.

Maybe that was the problem.

Before your first ever race as Phainon’s race engineer, Castorice (Mydei’s race engineer, and one of the few women in the entire pit lane who wasn’t constantly underestimated) told you about your driver’s… habits on the track.

“He’s not reckless,” she said in a way that kind of suggested otherwise. “He’s just instinctive. Problem is, his instincts scare the hell out of everyone else.”

You nodded along, of course. You’ve done your research. Watched every onboard, memorized every twitch of Phainon’s steering wheel and every clipped apology he’d uttered after spinning out in the middle of a fight for position. All the information you needed was practically etched in the back of your eyelids. You were ready.

Or so you thought.

“Box box,” you told him through the radio, keeping your tone even despite the chaos unfolding on-screen. “We’re changing the front-wing configuration.”

“Copy that.”

Your eyes were glued to the data feed, waiting for the expected dip in speed that would mean he’d entered the pit lane. Instead, his delta time turned green.

“Phainon,” you radioed in again as your gut starts to twist. “You missed the pit entry.”

“Did I?” he mused playfully, like he was amused. “Just want to see how the car holds up in clean air.”

You exhaled sharply, watching his telemetry spike through the high-speed chicane. He was meant to be collecting aerodynamic data, not running Practice 1 like it was Sunday already.

By Practice 2, you’d learned two things: one, Phainon had an almost supernatural ability to make people like him, even when he was driving you insane. And two, he treated limits like vague suggestions rather than rules.

“Phainon, brake bias to the rear. You’re losing stability into Turn 9.”

“Gotcha—oh. You mean this turn?”

The telemetry spiked yet again. You could practically hear the tires screaming.

“Don’t you dare—”

Too late.

He drifted. Perfectly. On purpose.

The entire garage erupted in half groans and half cheers. From across the divider, Castorice yelled through her mic, “You’ve got your hands full over there, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You were too busy recalculating tire degradation and questioning every career choice you’d ever made.

Practice 3 wasn’t much better. Phainon had taken to calling you “Chief” over the radio and every instruction you gave was met with either stubborn experimentation or outright mischief. When you told him to lift and coast, he sang a few bars of some pop song instead.

By the time qualifying rolled around, you’d stopped expecting miracles. You just wanted a clean session. Of course, you didn’t get one.

Phainon pushed too hard. His final lap was sloppy in Sector 2, costing him enough time to drop to P5 on the grid. Mydei, calm and clinical as ever, secured pole position. The cheers on his side of the garage were deafening. You forced yourself to smile, to clap, to look like you weren’t quietly imploding.

The next few circuits passed in a blur of half-wins and hollow podiums.

At the Vonwacq Grand Prix, you’d rewritten your entire strategy sheet overnight, anticipating every one of Phainon’s worst habits. You thought if you could just outthink him, you could rein him in. But the moment the lights went out, he slipped free again—taking risks on the tightest corners like he’d made a deal with gravity. He placed fourth. You didn’t sleep that night.

Then came Pegana. The humidity there turned the track into a sauna where engines practically boiled beneath the glare. You’d told him to conserve his tires. He’d agreed, sounded obedient, even until Lap 38, when he dove into a battle he didn’t need to win and nearly clipped the barrier. The car came out intact. You weren’t sure you did.

And then Amphoreus, Chrysos Racing’s home track and crown jewel. The one circuit they could always count on to deliver. Double podiums, year after year.

It should’ve been perfect.

In some ways, it was—Phainon second, Mydei third. Aventurine from IPC Racing took the win with a performance so clean it made Anaxa grind his teeth. The press still called it a victory for Chrysos, but you couldn’t shake the weight in your chest. Phainon had brought the car home, yes. But you knew that he could’ve done better if only he’d listened.

You stared at the telemetry transcripts that night long after the garages emptied and you retreated into your own hotel room. Every line of data felt like an accusation.

You’d done everything right. Why didn’t it feel enough?

That brought you to Anaxa’s office the following weekend, when there weren’t any races to pore and ponder about. He was already there at seven in the morning bent over a stack of reports, as you knew he would be.

He didn’t look up when you entered. “Problem?”

You hesitated at the doorway. “Am I doing something wrong?”

That made him glance up. His one good eye glinted in the lamplight, sharp and unflinching. “Define wrong.”

You stepped closer, fingers tightening around the folder in your hands. “Phainon doesn’t listen. Every call, every instruction—it’s like he’s hearing me, but not really listening. I’ve rewritten strategy after strategy, but he still does whatever he wants.”

Anaxa set his pen down and leaned back in his chair. “And yet he finishes.”

“That’s not the point,” you said before you could stop yourself. “It’s like—like he’s daring me to lose control. How am I supposed to lead someone who refuses to be led?”

“You’re not supposed to.”

You frowned. “What?”

Anaxa steepled his fingers. “You keep trying to manage him like a system. But Phainon isn’t a system. He’s a storm. The more you fight it, the more it tears you apart.”

You stared at him, caught between frustration and disbelief. “So you’re saying I should just let him do whatever he wants?”

“I’m saying,” Anaxa said, voice quiet but firm, “that you need to coexist with him. Don’t box him in—read him. He drives on instinct. You think in numbers. You’re both right, but neither of you will ever work if you don’t learn to speak the other’s language.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you like he had the first day you met. “That’s why I hired you. Not because you’d control him, but because you’d adapt to him. The others tried to tame him and burned out but you? You might actually be able to keep up.”

That night in Anaxa’s office became your quiet turning point.

You carried his words with you through every late-night strategy revision, every 2 a.m. call with the tire engineers, every frantic adjustment you made mid-session when Phainon decided to improvise again.

It wasn’t easy. Phainon was still frustratingly impossible to pin down. But the more you watched, the more you began to see the logic in his chaos. The way he’d brake early not out of caution, but to bait an overtake. How he’d stay out a lap longer on worn tires just to test a theory you hadn’t even realized he’d formed.

When it worked—when your data matched his instincts—you’d catch him smiling in the debrief room, helmet still tucked under his arm as he whispers, “Nice call, Chief. You read my mind.”

Sometimes, he’d even thank you. It was never dramatic or loud. Just quiet, sincere gratitude that left you staring a little too long at the way his eyes crinkled when he said it.

The team noticed the difference. Chrysos was finally finding rhythm again. And for a while, you convinced yourself that was enough—that you could balance professionalism with the strange gravity Phainon carried around him.

Until Belobog.

The post-race celebration for that GP was supposed to be harmless. A team night out, nothing more. You’d spent most of it tucked in a corner booth with Mydei and Castorice, letting the bass thrum through your bones while the others danced and drank under the pulsing blue lights. It was colder that time of year, so you had no problems downing pint after pint just to keep yourself warm.

By midnight, you were tired—half-drunk, half-dazed, and wholly ready to call it a night when Phainon appeared out of nowhere.

“Leaving already?” he asked, with a smile that promised nothing but trouble.

You turned to squint at him, unsure if he was actually there or if this… hot mess in front of you was a trick of the light. His tie was undone, shirt collar open, cheeks just as flushed as yours probably are. The club’s lights washed him in flickering indigo and gold.

“Yeah,” you grumbled. “I’ve got a meeting in the morning. Unlike some people.”

He grinned. “You worry too much.”

“Because you drive like you’re immortal.”

“Maybe I am.”

You rolled your eyes and brushed past him, but he followed—lazy steps, hands in his pockets. You didn’t realize where you were headed until the hallway narrowed, the noise fading behind the two of you as the low hum of the heaters filled the space instead.

When you turned to say goodbye, he was already close enough that you could smell the hint of gin and citrus on his skin.

“Phainon,” you warned, but it came out softer than intended.

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize something. “You’re the only one who ever makes me feel like I’m not losing control out there.”

“Don’t say things like that,” you whispered.

“Why not? It’s true.”

You should’ve stepped back. Should’ve reminded him of every line you weren’t supposed to cross. Instead, you froze—heart stuttering when his hand brushed your cheek with featherlight tenderness.

Then you kissed him there. Or maybe he kissed you. You’d never be sure.

It wasn’t careful or slow—it was too much, too sudden, the kind of thing that shouldn’t have happened but did anyway. The world narrowed to heat and heartbeat and the faint scrape of his calloused fingers against your skin. His tongue plundered the cavern of your mouth like all he wanted was to take and take and take. And you let him because you have the alcohol to blame, and not the low, simmering heat that has been burning for him since you first met those eyes of endless blue.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathing hard. The hallway felt smaller somehow, as if it knew what you’d done.

Phainon smiled, a little soft, a little dazed.

It should have ended there.

You should have laughed it off and bid him good night before returning to your room just a few floors up. But instead, your fingers fisted the front of his unbuttoned shirt as you kissed him again. And again. And again. Until you ended up beneath him in the secret hush of his hotel room, having changed the trajectory of your relationship for good.

Salsotto race weekend is upon you in a blink.

The air is too thick and the wind carries the faint hiss of engines long before the cars ever reach the straight. You’ve grown used to long days like this—sunset bleeding over the circuit, the whir of machinery mixing with the sharp tang of fuel. But lately, even routine has started to feel precarious.

Practice was uneventful the day before, but not in the way that reassured you. Phainon had been distant. No jokes, no teasing between turns, no lazy comments about the weather or the setup. His voice came through the comms clipped, precise, and stripped of all the warmth you’d grown used to.

And today, during qualifying, it was worse.

“Out lap looks clean,” you say into the mic. “Brake balance at minus two, watch the crosswind into Turn 8.”

“Copy.”

You frown slightly. The single word was flat, almost mechanical. You mark it down mentally, though there was no time to dwell. The car speeds into its first timed lap, and for a few minutes, everything falls into rhythm—the pulse of data, the flicker of green deltas, the steadiness that came when the world narrowed down to pure calculation.

Then it begins to slip.

You catch the hesitation in Sector 2—the faint delay in throttle, the early turn-in. A deviation you recognize instantly because you’ve seen him drive through chaos with less margin for error.

“Phainon, reset brake bias. You’re losing time in the mid-corner.”

No response.

“Phainon, do you copy?”

“Yeah,” he radios in. “I hear you.”

You press your lips together. “Then adjust. You’re—”

The telemetry spikes red.

You see the lock-up into Turn 12 happen before the feed catches up. The plume of smoke, and the jagged line on the data readout where everything went wrong. It all makes you close your eyes in quiet prayer.

“Abort the lap. Box this one.”

“Negative. I can make it work.”

“You shot your tires—”

“I said I’ll make it work.”

The words come sharper than you’ve ever heard from him. The line goes silent after that, filled only by the sound of static and your own pulse hammering through your headset.

When he finally crosses the line, the timing screens tell you everything: P17.

Seventeen.

You take off your headset slowly, fingers trembling against the weight of it. Around you, the garage buzzes with a noise you couldn’t quite place—pity, maybe, or disbelief. Mydei’s name shines steady at P2 on the livestream rolling in the paddock TV. The rest blurs.

You don’t see Phainon until hours later.

He completely avoided you in the paddock. But the night folds soft and warm around the hotel when you catch him in the hallway of your shared floor. He changed out of his uniform—loose shirt, loose sweats, hair still damp from a quick shower. For once, he didn’t look untouchable. Just tired.

“Phainon,” you call, stopping him before he reaches his door.

He turns, the faintest curve of a smile forming as though he’d been expecting you. “Evening, Chief.”

You search his face. “You want to tell me what that was today?”

“Bad day, I guess.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He looks at you then, and it is the first time since landing in Salsotto that he’d met your gaze for longer than a heartbeat. His voice, when it came, is soft enough to break you.

“We all have bad days,” he mutters. “Guess this was just mine.”

You want to argue, to demand something more, but the words die on your tongue. He smiles again, small and aching, before stepping back and reaching for the door.

The latch clicks shut behind him with an echo of finality.

When race day comes, the morning sun glitters along the asphalt, and despite everything, you let yourself believe that today will be different. Mechanics swarm the garage, cameras flash along the pit lane, and you force your nerves into the rhythm of pre-race checks, tire temperatures, last-minute calibrations.

You told yourself last night that whatever weighed on Phainon would pass. He’s weathered worse storms. He’s the driver who could thread a needle at two hundred miles an hour, who laughed through downpours and brake failures alike. Seventeenth place or not, you believed he’d find a way to climb. You believed in him.

When the race begins, he does exactly that. The first few laps are clean—measured aggression, controlled overtakes, that effortless precision that used to make your heart ache with pride. By Lap 15, he’s already in tenth, hunting the next gap with his old, steady fire. You catch yourself smiling, even daring to exhale.

But then Lap 20 arrives.

The DRS zone opens, and everything happens at once. A flash of silver in his mirrors, a twitch of the front wing, and everything spins out of control. You don’t even see the impact so much as feel it. Carbon shrieks against barriers and a violent bloom of smoke and debris erupts across the straight.

“Phainon—!” You fumble for the mic, your voice catching on instinct. “Phainon, are you okay?”

No response. Only the scrambled feed of the crash replay looping on the monitors, the safety car already screaming down the lane. Your heart stutters, cold spreading through the hollow behind your ribs. Around you, people are running and shouting but all you can hear is your own breath echoing in your headset.

You picture him in the hotel hallway last night. The weariness in his eyes. The way he smiled, small and tired, before walking away.

“Phainon, do you copy?” you try again, your voice breaking.

For a long, unbearable moment, nothing.

Then, through the static—a crackle, a sharp inhale, and a voice rasping back.

“…No.”

The smell of antiseptic hits you the moment the infirmary doors slide open.

It’s smaller than you expected—no more than a handful of curtained rooms, each buzzing faintly with the low rhythm of medical machinery. The air-conditioning hums over the distant roar of engines outside, a reminder that the race hasn’t stopped. The world moves on, even as your pulse hasn’t caught up.

You reach the check-in counter with Anaxa and two other managers, still in your team jacket, still half-shaking. The medic glances up from her datapad, expression neutral.

“He’s fine,” she says before anyone can ask. “Minor contusions, light bruising along the ribs, no fractures. He’s been cleared for discharge once observation ends.”

The words make your knees nearly give out from relief.

“The car’s totaled,” one of the others mutters under his breath, scanning a tablet. “Millions of credits down the drain.”

Anaxa only hums, folding his arms. “Cars can be rebuilt. Drivers can’t.” His gaze shifts to you. “Per infirmary protocol, one visitor at a time. Go ahead and check on him.”

You blink. “What? Why me?”

“You’re his engineer,” he reminds. “You’ll need to hear what happened firsthand. Experiences like this…” His good eye narrows, not unkindly. “…they make you steadier. Better.”

You want to protest—to insist that he’s the senior, the one who should be handling it—but the words catch somewhere between your throat and your chest. The others are already turning back toward the exit, talking in low, brisk tones about parts inventories and data recovery.

That leaves you.

The medic gestures toward the last door on the left. You thank her before letting your feet carry you to your destination.

The light inside is soft, washed pale by the filtered sun through frosted glass. Phainon sits propped against the bed’s headrest, still in his race undershirt with a few dark smudges of bruising visible near his collarbone. His hair is tousled, his summer blue gaze fixed on nothing in particular.

When he notices you, his lips curve faintly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Well you nearly made me one.”

Phainon huffs a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so frayed at the edges. “Guess I should be flattered you care that much, Chief.”

You ignore the nickname, stepping closer and taking a seat at the foot of his bed. “You scared everyone. The team thought—” You stop yourself, fingers curling at your sides. “What happened out there, Phainon? You never crash. Not like that.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. His gaze drops to his hands, bruised knuckles flexing restlessly over the blanket. “My head’s just… not been in the right place lately.”

“Since when?”

He shrugs, a sharp little motion that doesn’t hide the tension in his shoulders. “Since a while.”

You tilt your head, watching him closely. “I’ve noticed. You’ve been off since practice. You know you can tell me if something’s wrong, right? If it’s the car, I can take a look—”

“It’s not the car,” he cuts in.

“Then what is it?”

Phainon exhales slowly, the kind of sound that comes from somewhere deep. He mutters something under his breath—too soft for you to catch. You narrow your eyes and shift closer, refusing to let him retreat into his usual walls. “Say that again.”

He glances up at you, blue eyes rimmed with exhaustion, something unreadable flickering behind them. For once, he doesn’t hide.

“There are rumors that High Cloud’s been trying to poach you.”

You blink. “What?”

He gives a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You didn’t know?”

“How did you even hear about that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Phainon says, eyes flicking away. “Word gets around.”

You stare at him incredulously. “You mean to tell me you’ve been off your game because of some rumor?”

He doesn’t answer right away—just presses a thumb against the bruise blooming along his knuckle, like he can will it to disappear.

You stare at him for a long moment, torn between exasperation and disbelief.

Of all the things he could’ve said, this—this rumor, this ridiculous, baseless thing—was what had him unraveling on track? What cost them a car, a small fortune, and nearly your sanity?

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than him. “You could’ve just asked me.”

Phainon doesn’t rise to it. He just sits there, shoulders slightly hunched, gaze fixed somewhere past your knee. His hair falls into his eyes, soft and unruly from sweat, and for a heartbeat, you catch the faintest downturn of his mouth—the kind that looks too much like a boy who knows he’s done something wrong.

The sight tugs at something deep in your chest, something traitorous and too tender for this place. Your annoyance dulls to a sigh.

“You really thought I’d just… leave?” you ask quietly.

He hesitates before speaking. “All my life, people have said the same thing about me,” he says slowly, as if he’s forcing the words through his teeth. “That I’m all instinct and no restraint. All talent, no direction. They called me a storm that no one could tame.”

Your breath stills.

“My race engineers used to last a few races, maybe half a season,” he goes on, eyes flicking to the corner of the room. “They’d try to manage me, box me in, until it all fell apart. But you—” His voice softens, almost reverent. “You never tried to control me. You learned how to read me. We work because you don’t fight the storm—you ride it. You’re the best engineer I’ve ever had.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Your throat feels too tight for words.

So you settle for the easiest thing: a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “If that’s how you feel,” you murmur, “then why do you keep purposely pissing me off?”

Phainon’s mouth twitches—the smallest flicker of a smile, but it’s enough to soften everything. “Because I wanted your attention,” he admits, shameless and fond. “I never said I wasn’t a nuisance.”

That earns an honest laugh from you, low and helpless. It spills into the quiet like something fragile but real. The space between you narrows without either of you meaning to, until the edges of your knees brush, until you can feel the warmth of him radiating through the sterile air.

Then, slowly, his hand finds yours.

It’s bruised and rough and calloused from years of work, but warm. So impossibly warm. He holds it like it’s something he doesn’t quite trust himself to keep, thumb brushing over your knuckles with a hesitance that feels achingly unlike him.

“Phainon,” you start, trying to make sense of the ache building in your chest. “High Cloud did make an offer. But it’s not something I was planning on accepting anyway.”

He looks up, searching your face like he’s afraid to believe it.

You squeeze his hand once. “You really think I’d walk away from this? From you?”

Something flickers behind his eyes—relief, maybe, or something far more dangerous. The corner of his mouth lifts, but the sound that escapes him is a low, uneven exhale.

“Didn’t mean to crash the damn car over it,” he murmurs. “I just… couldn’t focus. Kept thinking about how it’d sound—hearing someone else’s name on your radio comms instead of mine.”

Your heart stutters.

There’s no witty comeback, no lecture sharp enough to break the spell of the moment. Just the sound of theb infirmary air conditioner, of his trembling breaths, of the cars still speeding beyond the walls.

You exhale slowly. “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” he says softly. “But you’re still here.”

You don’t let go of his hand after that.

Not for a long while.

The final race of the season feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

The paddock buzzes with nerves and static, engines screaming through the cool dusk air. It’s not just another circuit—it’s the decider. Phainon and Mydei, same team, same machines, separated by only a handful of points. One race left to settle everything.

You stand by Phainon’s car as the last of the mechanics do the finishing touches. Beyond the garage, the track gleams under the floodlights, silver and sharp, like a living thing about to wake.

“Last one,” you say, checking his telemetry readouts one last time. “No mistakes today.”

Your driver stands beside you, already suited up with his visor propped open. There’s a calm about him that borders on dangerous—that particular stillness that always comes before he does something breathtaking.

“You sound nervous, Chief.”

“Of course I’m nervous,” you mutter, scanning the numbers again even though you already know them by heart. “Do you realize what’s at stake?”

He tilts his head, eyes catching yours through the half-shadow of his helmet. “World championship. Eternal glory. The usual.”

“It’s been years since a title fight was this close between teammates. Everyone’s watching.”

His lips twitch in a quiet, knowing smile that only ever shows itself when it’s just the two of you. “Guess we should give them something worth watching, then.”

You huff a soft laugh, shaking your head as he exchanges a brief, heated glance with Mydei from the other side of the garage. However, just before Anaxa yells for both of them to strap in, Phainon steps closer, lowering his voice just enough that no one else can hear.

“If I win this, will you give me a reward?”

Your stylus stills mid-air. “…A reward?”

His grin sharpens, the kind that could melt steel. “Something to look forward to at the finish line.”

“Focus on the race then we’ll talk,” you deadpan.

“Oh, I will,” Phainon says cheekily, slipping his visor down with a click. “You just gave me all the motivation I need.”

Minutes later, the lights go out and the race begins.

What follows is fifty-four laps of relentless precision—twenty drivers pushing their machines, their nerves, their trust to the limit. Every call you make, he responds to without hesitation. Every adjustment, every risk—executed flawlessly. You can almost feel the rhythm of his heartbeat in sync with your own.

Mydei holds pole for most of the race, but Phainon’s patience is razor-sharp. On the final lap, he dives inside the last corner with a move so clean it looks effortless. The checkered flag waves. Phainon crosses the line in first place.

Cheers erupt across the paddock. The engineers, the pit crew, the crowd—everyone’s shouting his name. You stand there frozen for a second, headset slipping around your neck as the roar sinks in.

He did it.

Then his voice filters through the radio, low and soft beneath the static.

“This one’s for you, Chief.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow a laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Copy that. Now get back here soon—you’ve still got a podium to stand on.”

Phainon laughs. “Can’t I cash in on that reward first?”

The radio crackles again, and you know every word is still being broadcast live. You inhale slowly, trying to ground yourself as laughter and cheers erupt in the background.

“Fine,” you say him exasperatedly, despite the smile creeping on your face.

“But you better make it quick.”

The podium gleams under floodlights and champagne spray, but it feels strangely incomplete. Mydei and Jing Yuan, who came in second and third respectively, raise their trophies as camera flashes pop from every angle. The crowd roars, commentators scramble to fill the gap with excuses—“delayed interview,” “team debrief,” “perhaps a technical issue.”

But everyone knows what they’re really thinking.

Where’s the one in first place?

Phainon’s portrait blares across every monitor, every banner—Champion of the Season, they already dubbed him—yet his place on the top step stands empty, the trophy waiting on its pedestal, gleaming and untouched beneath the lights.

But somewhere in a hotel room with its lights still off, he’s receiving a more worthwhile prize.

When the door clicks shut, Phainon doesn’t hesitate. His hands find your hips with the same precision he’d used to control a car at two hundred miles an hour. The wall meets your back a second later, the breath stolen clean from your lungs as his mouth crashes into yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s all heat and adrenaline, the taste of victory still sharp on his tongue. His fingers dig into you like he’s anchoring himself, grounding the rush that hasn’t yet left his veins. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your pulse thrumming in your ears like the engine he’d commanded to glory only half an hour ago.

His fingers find the collar of your uniform, tugging until the first button gives, then the next, each sound making your chest prickle with anticipation as he helps peel it off your body. The cool air hits your skin, chased instantly by the heat of his palms as they slide up your sides.

“Been hard since the last lap,” he murmurs against your mouth. His hips press forward so you can feel the truth of it, thick and insistent against your thigh. “Kept thinking about you moaning all pretty for me, taking my cock deep in your guts.”

The words send a jolt through you, heat pooling between your thighs at his shamelessness. Your breath hitches as his lips trail to your jaw, nipping hard enough to make you gasp.

“Phainon,” you mumble, hands fisting in his half-unzipped fireproofs, “s-slow down...”

He laughs, a low, wicked sound that vibrates against your skin.

“Slow down?” His voice is rough, dripping with the arrogance that carried him through every win. “Chief, haven’t I been patient all season, listening to you in my ear, telling me to brake, to push, to win?” His hands roam behind you to unclasp your bra and discard it onto the floor. With your tits bared, his thumbs circle your nipples until you arch against the wall with a soft whine.

“I’m just claiming what was promised to me.”

Phainon’s hands are relentless, shoving your pants and underwear down in one swift motion. After you kick them off, you’re left bare against the wall, trapped by the heat of your driver’s body. He doesn’t waste a moment. His palm slides between your thighs, finding you slick and ready, and he groans as his fingers tease you open.

“Fuck,” he quite nearly whines, rutting against you like he can’t wait another second. “Gonna make you feel so good, just like the moment you made me a champion.”

The heat coiling in your core threatens to swallow you whole, his voice fanning it higher with every word. But then that spark inside you catches, sharp and defiant. You’ve spent all season steadying his chaos, steering his storm. You’re not his prize. You’re the one who kept his career intact.

You’re here to remind him of that.

In a blink, you duck under his arm, catching him off guard. Phainon’s taller, stronger, but you know his rhythm too well—how he overcommits when he’s too sure of himself. The next thing he knows, it’s him against the wall, breath knocked out of his lungs in a startled laugh.

“Huh.” He grins, cock twitching against his racing suit. “You’re not usually this dominant.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, despite the same need burning through you. Your free hand yanks at his fireproofs, shoving them down just enough to free his thick length. It springs free, hard and heavy in your palm and Phainon tips his head back against the wall with another groan. The effect you have on him sends a rush of something addicting straight into your head, prompting you to bring your lips to his ear.

“I told you to slow down, didn’t I?”

You don’t give him time to answer. Dropping to your knees, the cool marble bites into your skin as you wrap your hand around the base of his cock. He’s thick, veins pulsing under your fingers, the tip already glistening with a pearly white sheen. You glance up to catch the way his jaw clenches, his summer blue eyes locked on you, pupils blown wide with want. He looks wrecked already, and you haven’t even started.

You lean in, dragging your tongue along the underside of his length and savor the shudder that runs through him. His hand flies to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands, not quite pulling but holding on like he’s anchoring himself to the world.

“Fuck, Chief,” he breathes, voice cracking as you swirl your tongue around the head, tasting the salty tang of his precum. It coats the back of your throat as you take him deeper, lips stretching around his girth, the weight of him heavy on your tongue.

You hollow your cheeks and his hips jerk forward as a choked moan spills from his lips. Phainon’s head tips back against the wall, exposing the taut line of his throat, sweat-slicked and flushed from the race and now this. His grip in your hair tightens; not forceful, but desperate, as though he’s fighting to keep control.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you push further, the stretch making your jaw ache. You breathe through your nose, fighting the reflex to gag because the salt and musk of him is overwhelming but intoxicating. Your hand works what your mouth can’t, stroking the base in time with the bob of your head, slick sounds filling the quiet suite. His moans are obscene and each one sends a fresh wave of heat between your thighs.

Unable to help yourself, one of your hands slips down your own body, fingers finding your clit already slick from how turned on you are. The sight of Phainon unraveling—his parted lips, the way his chest heaves, how he’s gripping your hair like a lifeline—makes you ache. You rub tight circles into your pulsing nub, moaning around his cock as the vibration draws another wrecked sound from him.

“You’re so good for me,” he pants, hips bucking harder now, chasing the heat of your mouth.

Tears streak down your cheeks, mixing with the mess of spit and precum as you take him as deep as you can. His hand fists tighter in your hair, guiding you faster, his control slipping with every thrust. “Gonna—fuck—gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he growls, eyes locked on the way your lips stretch around him and the way your eyes glint with tears and defiance.

Your fingers move faster against yourself in a steady, delicious stream of pleasure. His hips stutter, cock twitching in your mouth, and you know he’s close. His whole body is tensing like he’s about to hit the apex of a corner at full speed. You pull back just enough to tease the head with your tongue, sucking hard, and he breaks into a litany of broken curses, his grip in your hair almost painful now.

“Chief,” he gasps in warning, but you don’t pull away. You want him to fall apart, to see the champion you’ve guided all season come undone because of you. Your fingers press harder against your clit, moaning around him, and next thing you know, the sound pushes him past his limit. His hips jerk one last time, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he spills into your mouth, hot and thick, the salty taste flooding your palate.

You swallow what you can, some of it dripping down your chin as you pull back. Phainon slumps against the wall with his chest heaving and his hand still tangled in your hair. He looks down at you, all wrecked and flushed as a lazy grin spreads across his face.

“I can’t…” he mutters hoarsely. “You’re gonna kill me before the next season starts.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, smirking as you rise, legs shaky but steady enough to stand. “Good. Means you’ll listen to me next time.”

Phainon’s grin sharpens with the spark of a challenge flickering in his summer blue eyes. He moves fast, shedding the rest of his fireproofs in a blur of motion, the material pooling at his feet until he’s gloriously bare—all lean muscle and race-honed power. Before you can catch your breath, his hands find your thighs, lifting you with effortless strength and your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. The show of raw power makes your core clench, slick gushing from your cunt as he holds you like you weigh nothing.

His mouth crashes into yours, sticky with the remnants of his cum, and you moan into the kiss, the taste of him mingling with the heat of his tongue. It’s sloppy and desperate as he carries you across the room, your arms looping around his neck to hold on. Your eyes flutter shut, expecting the soft give of the bed, but instead, a shock of cold glass presses against your back, jolting you alert.

“Phainon,” you gasp, breaking the kiss when you realize you’re by the floor-to-ceiling window. “People might…”

You trail off, the words dying in your throat as you catch the look in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, absolutely fucked out in a haze of lust and triumph that makes your stomach swoop. Of course. Phainon, the reckless bastard who thrives on adrenaline and eyes on him, would love the idea of the world seeing you like this—his engineer, his partner, his everything, pinned and panting for him.

“You’ll let me have you right, Chief?” he mumbles against your lips, taking your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging just hard enough to make you whimper. His hips shift, his hardening cock dragging along your wet slit to tease your entrance as he presses you harder against the glass. The cold bites into your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his body, and you shudder, arousal spiking as he ruts against your pussy. “Need to cum in you. That’s my prize, isn’t it? Getting to fuck you senseless?”

You know you should protest, insist on the bed, on privacy, on anything but this reckless exposure. But his voice wraps around you like smoke, making your head spin and your resolve fray. His mouth latches onto your throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and you tilt your head back, moaning as he grazes his teeth over your pulse.

“Phainon,” you breathe, half-warning, half-plea, your legs tightening around his waist as he grinds against you, his cock slick with your arousal.

“Say it,” he growls, one hand sliding down to grip your ass, angling you so the tip of him catches at your entrance. “Say you’re mine, Chief. Let me have you.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, the city lights blurring beyond the glass as your body screams for him. “Okay,” you gasp, lightheaded and aching. “I’m yours. Take me, please.”

With a groan that sounds like victory, he surges forward, sinking into you in one deep, brutal thrust, filling you to the hilt. You cry out, head tipping back against the glass, the world outside forgotten as he sets a relentless pace, claiming you as his true prize.

“So fucking warm for me,” he moans into your ear as his hips piston into you. “I think I would’ve lost my mind if you… hah—left for fucking High Cloud….”

His cock stretches you perfectly, every inch dragging across your gummy walls and hitting spots that make your vision blur. You’re delirious, lost in the burn of him and the way he splits you open with every thrust, your cunt clenching around him like it’s trying to pull him deeper. The team will have questions about why you both vanished from the podium ceremony. The FIA will throw fines, the media will speculate, but fuck if his cock doesn’t erase every shred of logic and reason from your mind.

You curl into him, thighs locked tight around his waist as he keeps you hoisted, his strength unwavering even as he fucks into you with a rhythm that’s all instinct and need. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the hotel room, mingling with your gasps and his low, filthy groans. The glass at your back rattles with every thrust, cold against your fevered skin, and it grounds you just enough to keep you from spiraling completely.

“Feels so fucking good,” Phainon rasps, his breath hot against your neck. “This cunt’s mine, yeah? Been dreaming of having you every time since I first laid my eyes on you.” His hips snap harder, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, your moans pitching higher. “Gonna fill you up, make you drip with me. Let everyone know who you belong to.”

His words hit like fuel to a fire, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails he’ll wear like trophies. You whimper as your head starts to spin, your body arching into him while he pounds into you. “Fuck, don’t stop, please.”

“Stop?” He laughs, rough and breathless. His grip on your thighs grows tighter. “Not a chance, Chief. Gonna fuck you till you can’t walk, till you’re screaming my name loud enough for the whole city to hear.” His cock drags out slow, then slams back in, the stretch so good it makes your eyes roll back, your walls fluttering around him.

Then, abruptly, he stops, pulling out entirely and leaving you clenching around nothing. You whine, a desperate, broken sound, as he sets you down on wobbly legs, your thighs trembling from the sudden loss of him. Confusion clouds your face, your brows knitting as you look up at him, panting, aching, and utterly wrecked.

“W-what—”

Phainon doesn’t let you finish. With a swift, practiced move, he spins you around, his large hand splaying flat across your spine, pressing you forward until your tits squish against the cold glass of the window. The shock of it makes you gasp, your palms slapping against the surface for balance as your breath fogs the pane. The city sprawls below, lights twinkling like a sea of stars, and the reality hits you hard—people could see you, bare and pressed against the glass, fucked senseless by the champion who ditched his own podium.

“Phainon,” you start, voice shaky with a mix of arousal and alarm, but before you can get another word out, the head of his cock catches at your slick, abused entrance. He sinks back into you in one brutal thrust, filling you so completely your back bows and a helpless whimper spilling from your lips. The new angle is devastating, his cock dragging deeper, harder against your tight walls, hitting that spot with every stroke until your legs threaten to give out.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, leaning over you, his rippling chest pressed tight against your back, dwarfing you with his size. His lips find your neck, pressing breathy, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. “Taking me so well. This pussy’s gripping me like it doesn’t wanna let go.” His hips snap forward, relentless, the wet slap of his skin against yours echoing louder now, filling the room with the raw, filthy sound of it.

You’re beyond coherence, moans tumbling from your lips as he fucks into you, the cold glass against your breasts a stark contrast to the heat of him inside you. The thought of being seen—by anyone, by the world below—should terrify you, but it only makes your cunt clench tighter around him, slick dripping down your thighs. You gasp his name, barely able to form the syllables, and your head lolls back against his shoulder as he drives into you.

“Love how you sound when you’re like this,” he murmurs against your ear, one hand sliding up to cup your breast to give it a tender squeeze. “All fucked out just for me. Bet you don’t even care who sees, do you? Let them watch. Let them know you’re mine.” His other hand grips your hip, pulling you back to meet his thrusts, the angle so perfect it has you seeing stars.

You should care. You should be thinking about the team, the fallout, the questions waiting when you both show up late, disheveled, and reeking of sex. But his cock is too good, stretching you so perfectly, dragging against every sensitive spot until you’re trembling, your mind blank except for the overwhelming need for him.

“Please,” you whimper, not even sure what you’re begging for, your body arching further into the glass, chasing the pleasure that’s building, coiling tight in your core.

“That’s it,” he growls, his teeth grazing your shoulder, his thrusts growing harder, more erratic. His hand slides from your hip, slipping between your legs with a precision that’s almost embarrassing. His fingers finding your clit in an instant. It’s a testament to how well he knows your body, every curve and trigger point mapped out over months of stolen moments like this. You don’t have time to dwell on it, though, because Phainon starts to rub tight, relentless circles against your slick, swollen nub, and you’re so fucking close you can taste it.

“Come for me,” he rasps, licking a hot, wet stripe along the curve of your neck. “Soak my dick like a good little engineer. Show me how much you love this.” His hips snap harder, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you, and his fingers don’t let up, pushing you closer until the coil in your core snaps.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your vision whiting out as you cry out and your walls clench tight around him. Your legs shake so violently you’d collapse if not for Phainon’s strong arms wrapping around your waist, hoisting you up against the glass to keep you upright. Your palms press hard against the window, fingers splaying as you ride out the pleasure. Almost embarrassingly, your cunt pulsing around his cock as slick drips down your thighs in a messy, obscene rush.

But Phainon doesn’t let up. He fucks you through it with deep, brutal thrusts, chasing his own release.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he babbles, his voice a wrecked, incoherent stream of filth. “So fucking tight, squeezing me so good—gonna fill this pussy up, make you mine, fuck, I love you so fucking much—” The words slip out in the haze, raw and unguarded, but you’re too lightheaded, too lost in the aftershocks of your climax to process them fully. His hips stutter, his grip on you tightening, and with a final, guttural groan, he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you. The white-hot warmth of his release floods your core, satisfying in a way that makes your toes curl and your body tremble against the glass.

He holds you there, both of you panting, his chest pressed to your back, his arms still wrapped around your waist as you both come down from the high.

And in that split second when your brain finally kickstarts again—

“So,” you pant. “You love me so fucking much, huh?”

Phainon laughs, breathless and rough, the sound vibrating against your skin. He tilts your chin back with a gentle hand, his summer blue eyes glinting with something softer now, though still edged with that reckless spark.

“Don’t think about it too much,” he murmurs, before capturing your lips in a long, passionate kiss that steals what little air you had left. His tongue moves sweetly and slowly and you melt into it completely.

You pull back just enough to smirk, your voice playful despite the haze in your head. “Big words for a guy who just ditched his own podium ceremony. Gonna have to explain that one to the team, loverboy.”

He chuckles, unbothered, his hands sliding down to scoop you up princess-style, cradling you against his chest with that effortless strength that still makes your core flutter. “Let them talk,” he says, carrying you toward the bed, his voice low and warm. “Worth it for this.”

You stare dumbly at him, having expected to start cleaning up. After all, you both should be rushing back to the circuit, damage control already spinning in your mind. But instead, Phainon lays you gently on the mattress, the crisp white sheets cool against your overheated skin. His spend leaks from your soiled cunt, a warm, sticky trickle that stains the fabric. You prop yourself up on your elbows, ready to protest, but then you catch sight of him crawling toward you, those unfairly beautiful blues dark with intent.

“Phainon,” you start, voice tinged with disbelief, “don’t tell me—”

He doesn’t let you finish. His hands nudge your thighs apart, spreading you open as he settles between them, gaze fixed on your dripping core with a hunger that makes your breath catch. “

“Not done with you yet, Chief,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, before he leans in, his tongue dragging a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds. The sensation is overwhelming, his cum and your slick mixing as he laps at you, cleaning you with a reverence that feels almost obscene. You gasp, your head falling back against the pillow, your fingers gripping the sheets as he works you over, his tongue relentless, dipping inside to chase every drop.

All of a sudden, the year flashes through your mind in fragments—taking the job as Phainon’s race engineer, the late nights poring over telemetry, the tension of every radio call, guiding him through corners and chaos. He was a wildcard, a driver who pushed every limit, on the track and off it. You’d clashed at first, his arrogance grating against your precision, but somewhere along the way, the lines blurred.

Stolen glances in the garage, brushes of hands during debriefs, the first time he kissed you in that afterparty in Belobog. It’s been undefined, messy, a secret kept between hotel rooms and quiet moments, but as he worships you now, his mouth working you with a devotion that makes your heart stutter, you know you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The podium ceremony can wait. The fines, the questions, the media frenzy—they don’t matter. Not when Phainon, the most insatiable man on the grid, is between your thighs, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as he brings you to the brink again.

You’re his, and he’s yours, and in this moment, nothing else exists.

He would only do it if you made a move against him. And even then, what an honour it would be to die by your hand, to have you be the last thing he sees before the west winds take him away. But he wouldn't let you carry the guilt and pain of his blood on your hands. That was a burden that he was willing to take.

You didn't move to attack, but you did raise your hands in surrender.

"Khaslana, listen to me," you said with a stern voice. The same one you'd use to stop him from making another foolish competition with Mydei. "You cannot trigger the Era Nova."

"Why should we believe you?" Cyrene spoke up from behind Khaslana. She made her way in front of him, not fearful of the monster in front of her. "For all we know, you could be lying?" She'd always hate to question people, believing that everyone should be given a chance to be heard. Yet in such a crucial moment in history, even she needed to be a little skeptical. 

"I- I don't know how to explain any of this, but you have to believe me." Khaslana resisted the urge to run forward and hold you in his arms. Your voice was broken, and in the years of knowing you, he'd never heard your beg or plead. You'd told him that you'd rather be slain in an unhonourable manner than to beg for your life. 

You sounded so earnest, but he couldn't turn back from his mission now. He refused to let the deaths of his fellow Chrysos Heirs be in vain, yours being the highest on this list.

"Enough!" he yelled through the tears in his eyes. He would not let this monster desecrate his memory of you any further. A familiar rage burned in his heart, one that had been festering since the day Aedes Elysiae fell. "The Flame-Chase journey must reach its end, and I will not let you or anyone stop me."

You fell silent, a resolve being built behind your eyes. Your eyes went cold, devoid of the warmth that he'd be blessed with on your good days. Everyday was a good day with you.

"Fine," you said, cold and callous. It reminded him of the first time you met all those years ago. "If you two choose to be fools and fall for Irontomb's tricks, so be it." Your sword appeared by your side, red and hungry for golden blood.

"But I will not let you doom this universe, or so the Aeons help me if I fail again."

Before he could ask what madness had befallen you, talking about 'Irontomb' and 'Aeons', slow clapping came from behind you. All three of you turned your heads to see who had joined you.

"Please don't stop on my account, I was just enjoying the show." 

A robotic voice spoke up, its voice more amused than anything and through the darkness walked Lycurgus, somehow smug beneath his mask.

"Walk away, Destruction's pawn," you threatened, sword turned away from the two Chrysos Heirs and towards the Antikytheran. Standing in between them and the robot, your voice gained some clarity. Like looking at the Theoros had reminded you of your life. Khaslana's starting to think that this life was long before Amphoreus. 

"Do you think cultivating another Ravager will gain your pathetic self Nanook's gaze?" you mocked, and while Khaslana couldn't see your face, he could tell that you found glee in Lycurgus's reaction. At your mockery, the robot flinched, your words hitting exactly where you wanted to hurt.

Regaining his composure, he continued.

"You simply don't understand the entirety of this plan, dear emanator." He tried to walk past you to go further into the Vortex, only to be stopped by your blade. Khaslana could see sparks from where your sword cut into the robot. "Even though you are aware that they are code, you still protect them?" he asked, the question almost asked in an earnest manner.

"Take another step and I will show you how Destruction pales when faced with Finality." Purple and red wisps of energy flaked off your skin, creating a disturbance in the air where you stood. 

Khaslana was struggling to take in all the information he'd been given at that moment. He even looked over at Cyrene who looked just as lost as he did. What kind of game is being played right now? What did Lycurgus mean when he called them 'just code'? And just how were you privy to this knowledge?

(He wasn't jealous that you knew far more than him. But he was disappointed, not in you, never you. All of his hatred was reserved for himself. Khaslana had promised you that whatever burden you carried, you will share the weight together. That while he was destined to carry the fate of this world, that yours would take priority over Amphoreus. He'd never tell you that, lest you chastise him for his poor decision making. It didn't matter now, for you still had your fears – your secrets – that you'd never share with him.)

"Are you confused, Deliverer?" Lycurgus addressed him for the first time. "Do you know why you're here? Why were any of you brought here in the simulated world?"

Even you, who was so resolute in your anger, went quiet. Perhaps your curiosity had won over your rage. Whatever the reason, it was enough of a pause for Lycurgus to continue.

"Heh, as a reward for reaching the end of the world, let me answer your questions."

And thus the entire farce of Amphoreus was revealed to all of you. Of the cycles and how their actions were used to train Irontomb. The Prime Mover of Life. The fact that despite the lives lost, it didn't matter if they were contributing to the destruction of worlds in the future.

The more and more Lycurgus spoke, the more rage Khaslana felt at his apathy. If his existence was to serve the purpose of a larger program, then was he truly alive? But he has to be! He lived and cried and felt pain and hated and loved so deeply. Everything about him proved that he was human enough– that all of them were still human. But how human could he be if he was just programmed to feel these emotions.

You didn't speak up, letting Lycurgus complete his explanation. Would you start to see him differently now that you knew the truth? Would the moments of triumph and tragedy you have gone through with the Flame-Chasers feel empty if this was all a false reality. To him, it felt like everything but for you, this might just be a glorified storybook. 

Would you still see him as Khaslana or as NeiKos496?

"But you," Lycurgus turned to you, "you are perhaps the most true being in this simulated world."

"Then why bring me here." Your eyes narrowed, your mind trying to figure out his reasoning. "Wouldn't bringing in another emanator ruin your plans?"

"If it were anyone else perhaps, but you," he chuckles before continuing, "you are special."

"After the last cycle, we noticed that despite the numerous simulations we had run, Amphoreus was… incomplete." As he talked, Lycurgus moved in circles around you, slow like a lion sizing up his prey. He wanted to see how much you could take before you snapped. Khaslana had never wanted to rip someone's head off their shoulders more than in that moment.

"As much as the information kept in the scepter was useful, there were still some parts missing. Things that couldn't be recorded in a history book. However, they could be found in–"

"Memories," your voice dazed while completing his sentence. "You used my memories to feed Irontomb. You needed me to properly recreate Amphoreus' destruction."

"Terminus may not have many emanators, but it's good to know that the ones that THEY choose are of quality," he quipped, a joke made only for him to laugh at. "You provided everything we needed, and to keep you in line, I infected you with part of the Destruction's equation. The more memories you gained back, the more the virus would consume you until you would lose your mind and begin Amphoreus' final destruction."

"Causing Khaslana to trigger the Era Nova, and if I tried to stop him, he'd assume I'd gone mad," you scoffed, crossing your arms. "I have to admit, that was a good plan."

Khaslana had almost slapped himself for being so stupid, almost falling for such a wicked scheme.

"But that's not all. Irontomb still needed some practical application of its new found knowledge, and what better way then to use another emanator. There is just one small wrinkle…" He leaned in closer, almost like he was telling you a secret. "NeiKos496, PhiLia093, they can be revived through their code in the next cycles, but the only way to bring you in here was to tie your soul with Irontomb."

"Death in this simulation means death for you in real life, and when that happens, Irontomb will absorb your soul and gain its full power."

Your eyes went wide, hands gripping your sword so hard that Khaslana could see it shaking. 

"So whether you die after being absorbed into the program, or Irontomb kills you as its final test, this simulation doesn't end without your death." Lycurgus stood there, watching the fear and realization cross your face. His laugh echoed inside the Vortex, like Khaslana and the others are witnessing a comedian they don't find funny. "Would you risk another Ravager being born for the sake of your freedom, emanator?"

Maybe you figured out what was humorous because you started to laugh out of nowhere. Khaslana is starting to think that you actually lost it. 

"So you, in your infinite knowledge granted to you by the Erudition, thought it was a good idea to tell me exactly how to stop your plan?" The chuckle that came out of you was dark, corrupted by this Destruction virus. Or maybe it was tainted with a darkness that he couldn't even comprehend. "Do you think that we're so incompetent that we won't be able to find a way to break out on our own?"

"That possibility is highly unlikely given the circumstance–"

"Then I will make sure that your arrogance becomes your undoing." Eyes cold as ice and a voice as sharp as steel. You were different then the person who would comfort him on his bedside when the prophecy became too much.

(You pushed away the hair stuck to his forehead, using a damp cloth to clean up the sweat. Another nightmare, that much was nothing new. But what made this so different – so utterly terrifying – was that you were on the other end of his sword. Khaslana has killed his own father and mother as an act of mercy, and he would sooner murder everyone he cared about just to grant them a swift death.)

(But you? Titans above, he couldn't fathom bringing you any kind of pain, even under the guise of 'saving you'. Ever since you had asked him to end your life should the Black Tide take over your body, all Khaslana has done was plead to the Gods above to spare you. If Amphoreus is destined to burn to the ground, fine! Let him be the one to light the match to set everything ablaze.)

(All he asks from the Gods that have abandoned him was that they spare you. You and your kind soul hidden under prickly roses. Who gave away the last of their water on a hot, humid day for the stray cats in Okhema. Who would lay down their life for the most pathetic and evil men, just so they can face true justice in the future.)

(Sometimes Khaslana wishes that you were chosen as the Deliverer, a walking example of Kephale's legacy. But if all he could do in the face of failure was to give you the chance to put your sword down for good, then he will forsake the Flame-Chase and kneel before a more worthy God. You kissed his forehead and laid down next to him, and it was the closest thing to salvation he will ever receive in this doomed world.)

"We could always choose another option," Cyrene spoke up. She walked towards the two emanators and continued. "Like you said, Amphoreus is just an experiment, and we're the participants. We can only walk along the predetermined path towards the ending under the watchful eyes of the stars…"

"But that also means there isn't just one Aeon that can cast THEIR glance at Amphoreus, right?"

"I fear that Terminus will not be here to save you any time soon," Lycurgus spoke in that smug tone that had Khaslana wanting to end him where he stood.

"But we both know that she isn't referring to THEM? Why don't you answer the girl's question?" you said with a smirk on your lips. In his showboating, Lycurgus just so happened to walk into a trap of his own making.

"Is this question really hard to answer? Or did I get it right?" Cyrene had always been the most clever between the two, all the way back to Aedes Elysiae. Even without the knowledge that you have from coming beyond the stars, only she could have guessed the one thing Lycurgus feared. "This world has already been under the watchful eyes of other Aeons."

When Lycurgus didn't retort with another comment, Khaslana spoke up, tired of the mind games at play here. 

"You're pretending, revealing the so-called truth just to deceive us, covering up another possibility…" He uncrossed his arms, resting one on top of the hilt of his sword. "Destruction is not the only outcome for the fate of Amphoreus."

"Do you really think, as 'petty little demigods', you can change the outcome written by the stars?" he sneered. For the sake of the Titans, could someone please rip his voicebox out? If not, Khaslana would be happy to act that thought out himself. "What makes you think you'll be capable of doing that?"

Cyrene put her hand on her chin, acting as though she was pondering his question. But Khaslana has known her long enough to know that she would never not take an opportunity to tease someone, even if it was someone who could meddle in their fates.

"Hmm… A little courage and determination? Just kidding, the answer is pretty simple–" She put her arms behind her back and gave the Theoros her signature wink. "But we're going to tell ya!"

Khaslana didn't wait to see the frustration on Lycurgus's face, taking his sword to decapitate the Antikytheran. It felt good to finally shut him up, even if it was until the next cycle.

All that was left was to come up with a plan to do the impossible.

The silence hung heavy among the three friends, with the understanding that there would be a long journey ahead, one that might have no end. Despite the fear that crept up his throat, of not being good enough to carry out such a mission, he swallowed it all back down. Amphoreus has bled over and over again for this prophesied tomorrow, and Khaslana was not going to let all this blood, golden or otherwise, waste in vain.

The first two parts of the plan were decided. With the power of Oronyx, Cyrene would reset 'Time' to create an endless Flame-Chase journey at the cost of her life. She insisted that this would be a small price to pay for the reward of freedom, but it still didn't sit right with Khaslana. It did not matter what he wanted though, it never has. So he picked up her blade, ready to take her life once she was ready to embark on this never-ending road.

Khaslana, for his part, would continue their mission inside of the simulation, finding ways and flaws to exploit in order to create a different outcome. He remembered Lady Triannon's lesson about how the more one meddles with a prophecy, the worse its outcome will be. He would have to apologize to his former teacher for blatantly disregarding her lesson, but he promises it would be worth it.

Which left you. An outlander who was brought into this world as a failsafe to make sure this simulation was successful. From how Lycurgus spoke of you, you had more power then he could ever dream of. How awful it was that you were given the curse to play the villain in this eternal dance?

"We can still find a way for you to escape," Khaslana found himself speaking up. You had no reason to be bound to this fictional world when you have a very real life waiting beyond the false sky. 

You didn't say anything, just looking between Khaslana and Cyrene. There was fondness in your eyes, but it didn't do much to hide the regret either. 

"My dear, sweet Khaslana," you finally spoke up with a softness that was reserved for him alone. Your voice had lost its hard edge from when you threaten the headless Theoros. This was the person that Khaslana had gotten to know over the last few years. He only wished that he could create a passage for you, like the triplet's Century Gate. But if could do that, then he wouldn't have to take Cyrene's life in a few short moments.

"Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to leave." You crossed your arms with a huff. "That damn robot had everything thought out, tying my soul to this Sceptre," you scoffed, kicking Lycurgus's head across the vortex into the pool. "And even if he didn't do that…"

"It wouldn't feel right to destroy Amphoreus for my freedom. I've witnessed it once, and I'd be damned to be the reason it dies again."

You stood right in front of them, your eyes focused on Cyrene and Khaslana, but your gaze looking into a past that neither of them were allowed to see.

"Inside of this simulation, there is no hiding from Lycurgus's watchful eyes, but that just means that we will have to hide in plain sight." You walked towards the spirit basin, looking at your reflection in the water. You smiled wistfully, "every story needs to have a villain afterall."

But why did that have to mean that it had to be you? Darling you who tried to harm yourself before you could even think of harming others.

"My body will remain in the cycle, carrying out the role that has been laid out for me," you started to explain. Selfishly, Khaslana was okay with it if it meant he'd get to hold you for even just another moment. Maybe he could even find a way for you to escape your fate and give this tragic role to someone else.

"I'll turn my soul into another cage for Irontomb, trying to stop its growth from the inside." You put a hand up to silence Khaslana before he could start protesting. If the whole point is for you to not be absorbed into Irontomb, then why would you offer yourself on a silver platter. He knew how addicting the voices of the Destruction could be, and for as headstrong as you are, there was only so much a person can take.

"Lycurgus only wants my soul because of the Finality attached to it, so a soul without divinity is just empty calories." You smirk, cocking your head towards the headless Theoros. "Besides, imagine how mad he'd be if Irontomb absorbed a regular human soul."

He couldn't lie, Khaslana would love to see his reaction if that were to happen. But it won't because he and Cyrene will figure out the Eternal Recurrence before that would ever happen.

"Where would your powers be then?" Cyrene asked, a worried look in her eyes.

"With you two, of course. There's no one else that I'd trust more."

You took the necklace around your neck and held it in the palm of your hands. That same violet and crimson energy from earlier lit your veins, from your heart to your hands. When you opened them and revealed the necklace, the red gem had crackled with an energy that he couldn't comprehend. You did the same thing with the ring on your finger, the blue gem becoming tinged with purple.

The necklace was for Cyrene and you clasped it around her neck. It was a little too big, the pendant hanging low on her torso, yet it suited her all the same.

The ring was for Khaslana and you held his hand as you put it on his finger. It was too small for his ring finger, so you settled for putting it on his pinky. Khaslana couldn't help but think that it should be him putting a ring on you and not the other way around.

"Having even partial powers of an Emanator will help you two navigate this simulation, and hopefully give you both the strength to carry on this arduous journey," you explained. Your eyes flitted over both of them, like you were committing every bit of themselves to your memory.

(Or maybe, your gaze went back thousands of years, to a past and history he will never be privy to.)

"When the time comes, when you both find a way to break this cycle, find me beyond genesis and bring my ring and necklace back to me." You seemed a little more drained, a little more human. "I may not be standing beside you for the next cycles, but I will always be here with you."

The next and hardest step is for Khaslana to stomach, because it meant killing the two people he cared most for in this world.

"Come on, cheer up a bit, okay?" Her smile would haunt him for the rest of his journey, wondering if there was any other way to achieve their freedom.

(Even when faced with death, Cyrene would never let you or him see the tears in her eyes. Yet her cheerful disposition failed to rid herself of her own rage. It was different from Khaslana's burning hatred, but rather a cold, calculating fury. Even though each Heir was programmed with a different Primum Mobile, they were all still children of the Destruction.)

With Cyrene's sickle in hand, the two of you plunged it gently into her heart, so desperate to make her death as painless as possible. Khaslana saw the scream she held back with her teeth, wondering if the next time she'd be so gracious to hold herself back. Regardless, screaming or not, whether she goes peacefully or painfully, he must go on like the good soldier he never wanted to be.

Khaslana stared at the corpse in a pool of her own golden blood, committing every detail to memory. He was on a path of his own self-destruction, and he needed to make sure to never fall into apathy. The fine line between Destruction and Nihility was razor thin, and thus begins the greatest balancing act this universe has ever seen,

"Khaslana…" your voice spoke up behind him, breaking him from his self-induced trance. He turned to see your melancholic smile and unshed tears. Your hands were clenched in a fist and your nails drew blood. A habit that Khaslana knew all too well, when you were overwhelmed with your own feelings and didn't have the time to shut down to block them.

He held your hands in his, gently prying your nails from hurting yourself. Everytime you did that, or anything else that would hurt yourself, it broke his heart a little more.

"I'm so sorry you have to do this," you started with a shaky voice. You paused to take a couple of deep breaths to compose yourself. Another one of your habits that he despised. "If it were up to me, I would never-" a sob bubbles up your throat, cutting you off. There was no continuing after that, with you collapsing into a crying mess in his arms.

He pulled you close, with your head tucked into his neck, steady and present the way you have always done for him.

"It's alright Startlight," he whispered into your hair, with a soft hand rubbing your back. "I'd rather go through a million cycles of anguish before seeing you suffer in a single one."

"I rather you not suffer either, dumbass," you chuckled through your tears. With a final deep breath, you pulled away from him. He mourned the loss of your warmth, even if he does carry a part of you with him. Khaslana did get to wipe your tears from your face before you did it yourself. He gave himself a single score in his mental tally.

(You were never afraid of dying, technically having already died once. And you would die however many times over to keep Khaslana, Cyrene and the rest of your Amphoreus friends safe. What you were afraid of was leaving your sweet Khaslana behind to deal with this fallout.)

(You have the easiest job out of the three. You weren't navigating the outskirts of this simulation to store the cycles memories like Cyrene, nor were you braving an infinite amount of resets like Khaslana. All you have to do is die a very deserved death as the villain of this story. Your role is a failsafe in case the worst comes to fruition, if they cannot find a way to end Irontomb from the inside.)

(Life imitates art, and you're stuck in another world waiting for the End. What was that old saying back home? )

"The powers of Finality should make it easier to carry all of those Coreflames, but the burden remains on you to not give into the Destruction," you told him.

"What am I looking for?" he asked, bordering on begging for an answer from you. Within the confines of Amphoreus, of this simulation with scripted outcomes and decisions, he was comfortable with being a hero. The title of Deliverer was a burden regardless, but it was still an honour he carried on his shoulders. 

But this? The fact that there is a whole world beyond the false sky he admires, that there are schemes and plans with pieces that are far more important than his lowly self made him feel incompetent. Almost as if he was an imposter. Despite being in the starring role, this new and expanded story wasn't written for him. 

For you, though? If you asked him to bring the sun on a silver platter, he would  find a way to do so.

"I don't know," you confessed as if it pained you to say. He could imagine that someone who values control and preparation as much as you do, sending him into the unknown with minimal help would have you ripping all the hair off your body. Not on his watch tho.

"You just have to keep going until there is some anomaly, even the tiniest discrepancy, to exploit." You held the hand that was covered in golden blood. "I don't know what or who that would even be, you just have to keep going."

What does he do better than persevering without restraint?

(He remembers a conversation you had in passing, something about the different types of heroes that there can be in the world. He was starting to think that maybe he fell in the latter category.)

"Then I will continue to blaze a path forward, either to find a way out of this hell, or that somebody will take notice and have mercy." Khaslana tried to steel his voice the way you would, hands shaky as he pointed the tip of his blade over your heart. For a brief moment, he thought about being a coward and turning his sword onto himself, but he would never want to disappoint you in any way.

Besides, he was about to get extremely familiar with the sight of yours and Cyrene's corpses.

"Go forth and become the Deliverer," you smile, walking slowly onto his blade. You cup his face and dry the tears forming in his eyes. "May you always find the strength to see this story to its end."

Forgive him for being selfish, he had to steal one final kiss from you before his endless and fruitless quest. He will feed this memory to the embers of his rage, making sure that the fire will stay lit for eternity.

Khaslana only noticed that your heart stopped beating when your lips went cold and your body couldn't hold itself up. Not to worry, he would always keep you steady and upright.

Alright Khaslana, the one who will bring Amphoreus to its next dawn. It's time to prove why you were given this role, just like you have in countless realities before.

("There is only a single ideal in this world – trampling the ideals of others. According to this standard, people fall into two categories: Those who've done so and have imposed their will are considered heroes and the rest are just ordinary people. Everyone wants to be a hero but we know that if everyone was a hero… We could only imagine what a terrible place the world would be. So another type of hero was born. Their ideals are completely different because they wish for their ideals to be trampled upon instead.")