surrender becomes desire; desire becomes... power♠

The door creaks open.

The closet’s darkness slips away, replaced by blinding light and loud cheers.

But everything feels distant.

Your breaths are shallow. The warmth of his breath still clings to your skin, the ghost of his lips a lingering echo. His touch—still branded into your waist, your jaw, the hollow between your ribs. Your pulse hasn’t settled.

The air outside is cool, but your skin burns.

You stumble slightly as you step out, Sylus behind you—his shirt rumpled, one button undone. His silver hair is tousled, a little too messy. Your lips sting. You know you look wrecked.

And the crowd eats it up. Whoops and whistles explode around you.

You try to smile. You try to breathe.

But then your eyes land on him.

Caleb.

He’s across the room, half-lit by the cheap string lights, drink forgotten in his hand. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable—except for his eyes.

They are cold.

Piercing.

It’s not anger. It’s like he’s looking right through you—like you’ve somehow ruined something sacred. Like you’re the disappointment.

Your chest tightens.

And then, just behind him, you catch a flash of movement.

MC.

Her head is down, hair shielding her face, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she brushes past him, shouldering her way through the crowd.

Caleb snaps out of his trance in a heartbeat. His face shifts—concern overtaking scorn—as he calls after her and follows without hesitation.

And just like every time before, he doesn’t even spare you a second glance.

The cheers fade into static. Laughter turns tinny and distant, swallowed by the ringing in your ears.

It hits you all at once.

The heat. The mess. The press of Sylus’s body against yours. The way you leaned into it. The way you wanted to. The way you let yourself.

And then—MC’s face. Her voice. Her smile when she told you he’s kinda cute, isn’t he?

Guilt slams into you like a car.

It punches the breath from your lungs.

You feel it in your throat, acidic and raw, threatening to spill. A sickening twist coils in your stomach, bile licking at the edges of your tongue.

What have you done?

What did you just let happen?

Your skin crawls. The warmth you felt seconds ago now feels wrong—disgusting. It clings to you like smoke. Like shame.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold in the nausea curling up your chest.

Sylus says something beside you, low and teasing, but you don’t catch the words.

All you can hear is your own blood rushing in your ears.

And all you can feel is the weight of what you’ve just done. The taste of it. Bitter. Burning.

And the worst part?

You don’t even know who you’re more disgusted with—Caleb…

Or yourself.

You don’t wait for the whispers.

You don’t wait to see if MC turns back or if Caleb says anything at all.

You push through the crowd, pulse hammering in your throat, lungs clawing for air like there’s not enough oxygen in the room, not enough space in your ribs for this many feelings, this much shame.

The door slams shut behind you but it’s not enough.

Not enough to drown out the ghost of Sylus’s hands still on your waist. Not enough to erase the memory of his mouth against yours, hot and unbothered and too real.

Not enough to wipe away the scowl in Caleb’s eyes or the way MC couldn’t even look at you.

The night is too loud. The world is too close. Everything—everything—is pressing in on you.

So you push everything out of your way, scouring to find air.

You don’t think, don’t breathe, just bolt down the steps of the villa, sandals slapping against stone, the wind catching in your hair, stinging your eyes, stealing your balance. You don’t care.

The beach calls to you like a goddamn siren.

You trip onto the sand, knees buckling, breath shaking, heart feral in your chest like it’s trying to break out and leave you behind. You tear your heels off, toss them somewhere you’ll never find again, and march straight toward the water like it might wash you clean.

The ocean crashes louder than your thoughts.

Salt fills your nose. Wind tangles in your hair. The stars above are too bright, mocking. Too calm for the storm splitting your insides apart.

You drop to your knees at the shoreline, water licking at your calves, seeping into your clothes, and you let it. You need it. You need the cold. You need the sting. You need to feel something real.

Because everything in your chest is twisted. Twisted and wrong and out of place.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against your knees, breathing like each inhale might keep you from unraveling completely. You wish it were just the alcohol. Just a mistake. Just a hazy memory you could laugh off tomorrow.

But you remember it too clearly.

His mouth. The weight of his gaze in the dark. The way his hand didn’t hesitate when it slid against your jaw, when he leaned in like he’d been waiting to taste you all night.

And you let him.

Worse—you wanted it.

The thought turns your stomach. You dig your fingers deeper into the wet sand, nails scraping at the earth, like maybe you can bury the part of you that’s smiling.

Because she’s there.

Somewhere inside you—beneath the nausea, beneath the shame—there’s a version of you curled up, smug and satisfied. A version who watched MC’s face twist, who watched Caleb’s scowl turn cold, and felt nothing but satisfaction.

That part of you is smiling.

You hate her.

Because that part of you—the one that enjoyed it—she’s been quiet for a long time. Always biting her tongue, always watching from the corners while MC took the spotlight, while Caleb gave his warmth to someone else. You taught her to wait. To be kind. To be better.

But god, you’re tired.

Tired of twinkling for people who never look up long enough to see you. Tired of being loved only in parts—when you’re easy, when you’re quiet, when you’re beautiful and harmless.

You’ve always been the supporting character in everyone else’s story. The best friend. The comic relief. The tragic footnote.

So tonight, you wanted to be the villain.

So tonight, she let herself out.

You let her kiss him.

You let her drag Sylus into that closet and tilt your chin up with a smile that begged “ruin me if you want to.”

And she did.

Now here you are, buried in the sand and sea, trying to figure out if the guilt eating at you is heavier than the satisfaction still curling at the edge of your lips.

You’re not supposed to feel this way.

You’re not supposed to want to be seen like that. Wanted like that.

Not at the cost of MC. Not at the cost of Caleb’s crumbling expression.

But you do.

You wanted them to see. You wanted to be wanted. And for a second—you finally were.

And for that, you are repenting your sins, kneeling by the shore and letting the cold eat you whole.

The tide rushes in again, crashing against your skin.

You raise your head, throat raw, eyes burning.

You sit there, watching the waves hit and retreat, over and over, counting the sparkling stars reflected on the ocean surface, until you could not feel your feet.

This is your way of atoning—because you fear the girl curled up inside you, biting on her nails every time a tear threatens to fall. Because the damage she has done once you let her out for a fraction of a moment is irreversible. Collateral.

And because you can’t promise this will be the last time you let her out.

You finally return to your room, dread curling tight in your chest like a vice. Each step down the hallway feels heavier than the last, your body moving on autopilot, mind spiraling with possibilities.

You hesitate at the door. Fingers resting on the knob. You aren’t sure what you’re bracing for.

An angry Michaela?

A tear-streaked Michaela?

A cold, distant Michaela who won’t even look you in the eye?

You don’t know which would be worse.

The knob turns with a quiet click, the door creaking open. You take a breath—slow, bracing—and step inside.

Empty.

The room is quiet. Still.

Her suitcase remains tucked in the corner. A half-drunk bottle of water sits on the bedside table. The lights are off, the curtains drawn. Not a trace of her. Not even the ghost of footsteps.

Somehow, it’s worse than yelling.

You stand there for a moment, motionless, caught in the heavy weight of nothingness.

Then your phone buzzes.

MC [02:46 AM]: Had to clear my head. Be back later.

Short. Punctuated. Not cold, but definitely not warm either.

And with that, you’re left alone.

Surrounded by silence.

Sinking into it.

You sit on the edge of the bed, heart thrumming against your ribs.

You should feel relieved.

You grip the edge of the mattress tighter.

You should be thankful the confrontation didn’t happen yet.

But all you feel is this crawling unease.

Like the silence is just the eye of the storm.

And when she comes back—

You’re not sure which version of Michaela you’ll meet.

And worse—you’re not sure which version of you she’ll find.

You get changed and crawl under the covers, body heavy, soul heavier. The silence is your only companion—thick, choking, unforgiving. You bury yourself into the blankets like they could shield you from the weight of what you’ve done.

Eventually, exhaustion drags you under.

•

Rustling wakes you.

Sharp. Precise. Intentional.

You blink your eyes open, and there she is.

Michaela.

Her back turned to you.

Her suitcase is open on the floor, half-filled. Clothes folded with a neatness that feels hostile.

You sit up slowly, throat dry.

She doesn’t look at you, nor say a word.

You rise. Move toward your side of the room. Get ready in silence. The kind of silence that screams.

Every breath feels wrong. Every second, guilt crawls further up your throat, pressing, choking, aching.

You swallow hard, then try to break the weight as you part your mouth to speak.

Your voice is quiet. Fragile.

“Michaela… last night, I—”

Michaela freezes for only a second before she turns around, face already wearing a smile that feels too sharp, too bright.

“Was such a blast! You gotta tell me all about what happened in that closet!” She winks.

“No—I—”

“Don’t think too deeply into it!” She waves her hand casually, like you’d just brought up a funny memory from a party instead of the reason her bag is half-packed. She lets out a breathy laugh, brushing her hair behind her ear. “It’s college, Yn. People kiss like, all the time. It’s nothing.” Her face drops slightly, but returns back to its beaming state. She reaches for your hands, and her voice lowers down. “It’s just a kiss, isn't it?”

A pause.

“Y-yeah,” you utter.

Her face beams once more as she squeezes your hands. “Besides, he is a pretty good kisser, isn’t he?”

You stare at her. The smile she’s wearing is dazzling—carefully crafted, practiced.

But it doesn’t reach her eyes.

And that hurts more than if she’d screamed at you.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

Eventually, the two of you gather the last of your things and leave the room. You walk side by side, the air between you tight with everything unsaid.

Outside, everyone is saying their goodbyes. Laughter, hugs, last-minute selfies. But none of it touches you. Not really.

You spot Caleb near the car, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He shifts his weight, arms crossed, leaning against the car with that infuriatingly calm expression—like he’s been waiting to deliver a blow.

“Well, well,” he drawls, eyes dragging over your form. “Eventful night, huh?”

You freeze mid-step.

His tone is light, teasing, even laced with that familiar cocky lilt—but it cuts deeper than any insult. Because you know Caleb. You know exactly when he means it. When the smile on his face is just another weapon.

“Hope he was worth the show,” he adds with a smirk. You can’t quite get a read on his face, can’t really understand whether the smirk is teasing, jabbing, or insulting.

You don’t answer. You can’t. So you walk past him without a word.

But he’s not done.

He leans in just slightly, voice dropping low enough for only you to hear:

“I bet you still thought of me.”

It hits you like a slap. You don’t flinch. You don’t give him that satisfaction. But it scorches down your spine, curling into something heavy and sour in your stomach.

All words run dry in your throat.

Because you know you did, and he knows you did.

So, swallowing down the lump in your throat, you quietly climb into the car.

The ride back is a void—quiet and cold despite the sun that floods through the windows.

Michaela sits in the front, headphones in, eyes fixed outside. Her expression is unreadable, a delicate mask of serenity.

Caleb drives in silence, but the tension in his body betrays him.

His knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. The muscle in his jaw ticks every time the car slows.

And yet—despite everything—you still see the way his hand occasionally reaches over to Michaela’s thigh. Subtle. Familiar. He squeezes gently, reassuringly, every time the silence grows too loud.

You sit in the backseat, hands clenched in your lap, stomach churning, heart clawing at your ribcage.

Because somehow, in this cramped little car filled with silence and ghosts, you still feel like the one who doesn’t belong.

•

You finally find yourself back in your familiar space.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Shoes off. Bag down. Keys tossed on the counter.

The silence wraps around you, soft and undemanding.

For the first time in days, you breathe without pretending.

You shower, letting the water scald the memory of Michaela’s laugh off your skin.

You eat something. Actual food. Not alcohol. Not regret.

And for a brief, flickering moment, you start to feel okay again.

Until your phone pings.

A message.

Unknown [6:43 PM]: So?

You freeze.

Every part of you stills—except for your heart, which begins to pound like it remembers the thing you’ve tried so hard to forget since last night.

Something forbidden.

Something thrilling.

Something wrong.

The memory comes back in flashes as guilt claws its way up your throat, hot and unrelenting. It tastes like shame.

You stare at the screen until the words blur.

And then, with trembling hands, you type.

You [6:50 PM]: It was a mistake.

You [6:50 PM]: Don’t text me again.

You hit send before you can think twice.

Your phone slips from your grip, landing face-down on the bed as you bury your face in your hands.

“It was a mistake,” you mumbled.

•

The following days were the most peaceful ones you’ve had in what felt like forever—quiet, slow, and mercifully uneventful. No parties. No whispered gossip. No sharp glances from Caleb or strained smiles from Michaela. Just the soft hum of routine and the space to finally breathe.

You sleep more. Eat better. Enjoying the lasts of your break. You’re rebuilding yourself piece by piece—one uneventful morning at a time.

But the moment you start feeling a little more like yourself, Monday catches up.

The quiet comfort of the break ends the second your feet hit campus tiles. The world spins forward like nothing ever happened.

Michaela acts like nothing ever happened.

She greets you with the same bright smile, the same light giggle, the same affectionate bump of the shoulder. As if that night was just another one of many forgettable college party blurs. As if your lips had never touched Sylus’s. As if her eyes hadn’t dulled the second they landed on you.

And you pretend too.

Because it’s easier that way. Safer.

Later that day, she loops her arm through yours as you walk out of class, swinging your hands between you. “Let’s go shopping after lectures? I need a new outfit or something for the first viewing next week,” she beams.

You nod before you can think too hard about it.

“Oh—” she adds, with that little flicker in her voice that always precedes something calculated, “I invited Caleb too.”

Your smile doesn’t falter, but your stomach twists.

The shopping trip is tolerable at best. Michaela slips into her spotlight with ease—twirling in front of mirrors, holding up dresses with playful pouts, laughing just a bit too loud at jokes that don’t quite land. Caleb sticks close, fingers brushing her waist, whisper her ear when she grins too hard.

But his eyes wander.

You catch him sometimes, gaze flicking to you when Michaela isn’t looking. Just for a second. Just enough to leave that same sour taste in your throat.

You don’t acknowledge it.

You can’t.

Instead, you smile when Michaela pulls you into the dressing room with her. You nod when Caleb asks if you’re tired. You pretend not to notice how her laugh dims a little when he lingers by your side for too long. You go through the motions—lift the hangers, compliment the colors, offer the safe, neutral opinions you’ve mastered so well.

It’s like muscle memory now. Playing your role.

Because if you don’t look too hard, you can almost believe this is normal. That nothing’s changed. That your mouth hadn’t betrayed you. That your silence wasn’t stitched from guilt.

By the time the sun dips below the skyline and the three of you step out of the store, bags in hand and feigned joy in your lungs, you feel wrung out—drained from smiling too much and meaning none of it.

Caleb says something—something teasing, probably—and Michaela laughs like a girl in love.

You stay a step behind them, clutching your bag a little too tightly.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You tell yourself you deserve this.

Because in this triangle of careful lies and quiet betrayals—

You’re the one who kissed the wrong boy.

And you were the one who almost said yes again.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” Michaela says, as if it just came to her. “You have to come to the premiere next month.”

You blink. “The… premiere?”

She grins. “The film. The one we shot over break? We’re doing a small screening—kind of like a soft launch—for friends and crew.” She swings her shopping bags absentmindedly. “It’s just this tiny old theatre on 12th. Indie vibes, red velvet seats, ancient projector that might burst into flames halfway through—super charming.”

You force a smile. “Sounds cute.”

“You’ll come, right?” she says, looking at you over the rim of her cup. “I already told them to save you a seat.”

You hesitate—but not long enough for her to notice. “Sure.”

She beams. “Perfect.” Then, casually: “Sylus will be there too. I made sure he’d come.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the straps of your bag.

“Made sure?” you echo, trying to keep your tone even.

Michaela shrugs, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes—the kind that always means she’s saying more than she lets on. “Yeah! I’ve been seeing him pretty frequently these days. Bumped into him a few times after the shoot… had coffee once or twice. He’s actually really funny when he’s not being all mysterious and broody.”

“Oh,” Caleb joins, light and amused. “Him. Great. Can’t wait to hear him brood about cinematography or whatever the hell it is he does.”

Michaela laughs, linking her arm with yours again. “Be nice. He’s actually been really helpful lately.”

“Helpful,” Caleb echoes, quirking a brow as he pops the lollipop from his mouth. “Didn’t realize mysterious bad boys were part of the crew now.”

“He’s not a ‘bad boy’,” she says, rolling her eyes.

She says it lightly, but there’s a deliberate lilt in her voice—a softness, almost flirtatious.

Your grip on your bag tightens, the fabric biting into your fingers.

You nod once, slow. “Didn’t know you two were close.”

She hums. “We’re getting there.”

Then, with a coy smile: “He asked a lot about you, though. Thought that was cute.”

Your chest constricts. The air feels thinner somehow.

“Anyway,” she says, skipping in front and spinning to fully face you, “it’s going to be such a fun night. You should wear that black slip dress—the one you wore to Jenna’s party? You looked so good in that.”

And all you could mutter in response was a short hum along with a smile.

•

The following days were as normal as they could’ve been. Well, aside from the fact that he has suddenly been everywhere.

At first, it was subtle.

A glimpse of him through the glass-paneled door of the editing lab, leaning over a student’s shoulder.

The sound of his voice drifting down the hallway—low, smooth, impossible to mistake.

Then you saw him again, this time in the courtyard. Talking to a group from the business department, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a coffee he barely drank from.

Word spread quickly.

“I thought he took most of his classes online?” someone whispered nearby.

“He does. No one ever sees him around.”

“Then why’s he here now?”

“Who knows? Maybe to complete his last courses before graduation?”

“He’s a business major, right?”

“Yeah, but like… old money business. Scary smart. The kind that makes you nervous to breathe too loud.”

You kept your head down, but your pulse never quite stayed still.

Because every time you caught sight of him, he never once looked your way—

And yet, you felt his presence like it was stitched into the fabric of your day.

He was too composed. Too polished. Too calculated.

And somehow, his silence was louder than if he’d cornered you outright.

“Just a mistake,” you mumble to yourself each time you see his figure waltz by.

But your quiet whispers to calm your nerves didn’t prove to be a very sustainable method.

Not when the universe seems hellbent on rubbing it in.

You see them together.

Once in the corridor outside the media building—her laugh echoing off the walls, his hand casually in his pocket, head tilted down to hear her better. They walk side by side, their pace easy, unhurried.

Michaela looks effortless next to him—bright-eyed, golden, her hand brushing his arm as she says something that makes him smile.

Not his usual smirk. Not the quiet, condescending curve of his mouth he wore like armor.

You stop in your tracks.

Just for a second.

Long enough for Michaela to spot you.

She waves. Cheerful. Unbothered. “Hey babe!”

He followed her gaze and landed on you. The smile on his lips curls up a little higher as you meet his eyes.

“Hello,” amusement coats his voice.

“Hi—”

“I’m probably not going to be free today for our usual hangouts,” Michaela cuts in, turning to you with an apologetic pout. “I asked Sylus to help with some of my work… You can hang out with Caleb by yourself, right?”

Before you can answer, she adds with a dramatic sigh, “Please tell him to chill and that I’m fine—just really busy. He’s been blowing up my phone non-stop these days.”

You force a smile, nodding once. “Yeah. Of course.”

She beams, already tugging Sylus further down the hall.

He casts one last glance your way.

A flicker of something in his eyes—teasing, sharp, unreadable.

As soon as you’re left standing there, caught in the space between their footsteps and your silence, your phone buzzes.

You glance down,

Caleb [4:28 PM]: where are you

Caleb [4:28 PM]: arent we having dinner today

Caleb [4:28 PM]: are you with her? she’s not answering my texts

Your stomach tightens.

You can still hear Michaela’s laughter fading around the corner, Sylus’s low voice murmuring something back.

Caleb [4:29 PM]: nvm

Caleb [4:29 PM]: i’ll find you myself

You don’t even remember agreeing to it.

One minute you’re reading Caleb’s texts with a pit in your stomach, the next he’s striding up to you outside the lecture hall—jaw tense, eyes scanning over your shoulder like he’s half-expecting Michaela to appear.

“She’s with him, isn’t she?” he asks, no greeting, voice clipped.

You blink. “Caleb—”

His expression shifts. He exhales, scrubs a hand through his hair, and forces a smile.

“Whatever,” he says, eyes softening as they settle on you. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here.”

And just like that, the edge in his voice fades.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder. “I’m starving. Let’s go grab something before I start chewing my own arm off.”

You hesitate for half a second, but he’s already walking ahead, glancing back to make sure you follow.

•

Dinner ends up being at this tiny place tucked behind the arts building—warm lighting, mismatched chairs, the kind of quiet hum that makes everything feel a little softer.

You sit across from him, arms tucked against your chest, still a little shell-shocked from everything.

He notices.

“You’ve been doing that thing again,” he says between bites. “Where your brain goes somewhere else and forgets to take your body with it.”

You snort. “And what thing are you doing right now?”

He leans back, exaggeratedly smug. “Being charming and irresistible, obviously.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth lifts. Just a little.

When your food arrives, he pushes his plate toward you with a quiet, “Try this. It’s better than yours.”

You glance at him, suspicious. “You haven’t even tasted mine.”

He grins. “Exactly. That’s how confident I am.”

It’s silly. Stupid, even. But it helps. The knot in your chest loosens just enough to let a small laugh slip out.

And then—just as you’re mid-bite—his voice softens.

“Hey.”

You look up.

His eyes are steady now. No teasing. No act.

“I never really got the chance to say it properly,” he murmurs. “About what happened at the filming set. That night. Everything.”

The clinking of cutlery fades around you.

“I was inconsiderate,” he says. “I thought too little. Acted too harsh. ”

He looks down at his hands for a moment. “I overlooked your feelings. And I hurt you more than I meant to.”

You don’t know what to say.

So you just watch him as he finally lifts his gaze again, softer now. Warmer.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry.”

The air between you stills.

“Can’t say I really enjoyed the stunt you pulled though,” he jokes.

The dinner continues quietly—less heavy now, more like the old rhythm you used to share with him. Caleb cracks a few jokes, pokes fun at your serious face, and makes exaggerated guesses about the lives of people at nearby tables. You end up laughing more than you expected to.

Then, as you gather your things to leave, he tilts his head toward you with a mischievous glint.

“One drink?” he asks. “There’s this quiet place nearby. They make the worst cocktails I’ve ever had in my life. Thought you’d like it.”

You roll your eyes. “Sounds irresistible.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

The bar turns out to be this cozy hole-in-the-wall tucked behind a bookstore, dimly lit with string lights that look like they’ve been up since 2003. There’s an old piano in the corner no one plays, and the bartender greets Caleb like he’s a regular—which is both comforting and mildly concerning.

The music’s soft. The booths are deep and worn-in. And somehow, the world feels smaller here.

Caleb orders for both of you, raising a brow at you across the table. “Just trust me.”

You don’t. But you drink it anyway.

“You’re smiling,” he points out, pleased with himself.

You arch a brow. “Must be the worst cocktail I’ve ever had in my life.”

He lifts his glass. “To consistent branding.”

You clink glasses, laughter warm between you.

The kind of warmth that sneaks up on you—gentle, nostalgic, easy.

And then, somewhere between the second and third drink, he leans back, eyes softer now, his playful edge melting at the corners.

“You know,” he starts, swirling what’s left of his drink. “I don’t really remember what my parents look like anymore.”

You glance over at him.

“You don’t talk about your family much,” you say gently.

He lets out a breath. It could’ve been a laugh.

“Don’t really have one,” he says. “Not really.”

He lifts the glass to his lips, but doesn’t drink. Just rests it there, like he needs something to hold on to.

“Thankfully, Michaela’s took me in,” he continues. “Thankfully…” he repeats, quieter this time.

Your mood sours from the mention of her name. Of course she would be mentioned.

“She has always been sick since she was a kid. ‘Cause of her bad heart.”

You stay quiet. Let him keep going.

Something in his voice says he needs to.

“It’s always been my responsibility to keep her safe,” he says, almost like he’s reminding himself. “Since we were kids.”

His fingers drum against the glass, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.

“And whenever I failed to do so… well…” he trails off, then smiles, a crooked, breathy thing that doesn’t touch his eyes. “It never really ended very well.”

You feel the weight of those words, the way he tries to tuck pain into them like they’re just another part of the joke.

“He used to remind me constantly… of my purpose…” Caleb mumbles, his voice slowing, slurring slightly. His words are slipping like his grip on the glass—loose, tired, too worn down to hold on.

You watch his eyes begin to dim, heavy with drink and something much older.

“You’re too drunk, Caleb,” you say softly, reaching out to steady the glass before it tips.

He blinks at you. Slow. Dazed. And then his lips part, just barely.

“That I’m just a stray…” he whispers, almost to himself. “If no one needs me…”

His gaze unfocuses for a moment. You don’t think he even realizes he’s still speaking.

Your breath catches.

He’s still smiling, faintly, lazily. But it’s the kind of smile that scourches your chest.

You slide your hand across the table, fingers brushing his. He doesn’t move.

“You should go home,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer. Just leans further into his folded arms, the tension in his shoulders finally giving out.

You sigh, quietly.

The bar is warm, the night colder. And somehow, without much thought, you find yourself wrapping his arm around your shoulder, whispering half-hearted complaints as you half-drag, half-guide him out the door.

•

The days fly by like leaves lifted off the branches.

Nothing of the past has ever been mentioned ever again—the few days at the film set, the tense atmosphere between you and Michaela, nor the night Caleb slumped into your shoulder, murmuring half-truths through the haze of cheap liquor and old pain.

Classes resume. Group chats return to life. The cafeteria starts serving that awful tomato soup again. You slip back into the rhythm like nothing happened.

But the cracks are still there—just beneath the surface, waiting.

You’re sitting under the shade of a banyan tree behind the humanities building. It’s quiet, peaceful, a little breezy. Your lunch is balanced on your lap, half-eaten. Michaela plops down beside you with a soft “ugh” and a dramatic stretch.

“God,” Michaela says brightly, appearing at your side like she always does—seamlessly, like a breath of perfume. “He’s actually so funny once you get him to talk.”

You glance at her. “Who?”

She tilts her head, playful. “Sylus,” she says, drawing the name out. “He’s been helping me prep for the Q&A tomorrow. Said I needed to sound less ‘pageant’ and more ‘visionary.’ Whatever that means.”

Her laugh is breezy. Too light.

“Oh?” you respond, forcing a smile. “Sounds like you’re getting close.”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious,” she says quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Coffee here, late-night notes there. He’s just so…” She trails off, eyes sparkling. “Interesting, don’t you think?”

You hum. Noncommital.

Michaela doesn’t seem to notice—or pretends not to.

She takes a sip of her drink, then suddenly perks up. “Oh! The premiere’s this Saturday. Are you ready?”

You blink. “Ready for…?”

“The spotlight, duh,” she grins, nudging your arm. “To see yourself on screen, see the scenes you played in come together with the background music. And to see your name in the closing credit!”

You roll your eyes, but it makes you smile. “It’s not that serious.”

“It is,” she insists. “You looked amazing, even in the trailer. You carried that café scene.”

You snort. “I said four words.”

“Yeah, but you felt those four words. I almost cried.”

You laugh together, and for a second—it feels real. Familiar. Like the last few weeks never happened.

“Have you picked an outfit yet?” she asks between bites of salad.

You shake your head. “Was just gonna wear something simple.”

Michaela gasps. “No. You’re not walking into an indie theater full of film nerds in ‘something simple.’ You have to look effortless. Like you’re not trying, but also like… if you were trying, you’d end worlds.”

You glance at her, raising a brow. “That specific, huh?”

“Always,” she says, eyes sparkling.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you.

Two girls beneath a tree, laughing about dresses and dumb film boys and the weight of appearances.

It feels soft. Safe. Like how things used to be.

And it hits you with a quiet ache.

Because even now, part of you still wants to believe this friendship can survive what’s been done.

That maybe you haven’t already burned the bridge.

That maybe—just maybe—she hasn’t noticed the match in your hand.

The rest of the week passes in quiet, deliberate steps.

Classes blur. The campus grows louder, buzzing with exams and end-of-semester deadlines. Your name gets tagged once or twice in the group chat—reminders about call times, wardrobe, a blurry meme of someone joking about crying during the Q&A.

You try on outfits with Michaela after class, like you promised.

It’s surprisingly normal—her room filled with scattered hangers, half-empty iced coffees, the faint sound of a playlist humming from her speaker.

You laugh. You bicker. You twirl.

And then—Saturday arrives.

The day of the premiere.

It’s just past golden hour when you step out of your building, the sky painted in soft streaks of lavender and orange. The air is crisp. The kind that wakes you up and reminds you something’s about to happen.

The old theatre on 12th is just as Michaela described it—small, a little run-down, with velvet seats that creak and a marquee that flickers every other letter.

There’s already a crowd forming outside. Film kids in too-large blazers and thrifted dresses, professors dressed semi-formal but too cool to act like it, and the crew—all wide-eyed and excited, passing around programs and laughter.

The theater glows in the soft spill of marquee lights, buzzing faintly overhead as you approach, clutching your clutch tighter than necessary.

The car pulls up just as you step onto the red-carpeted pavement.

And then you see her.

Michaela steps out first, the silk of her silver dress catching the light like water. It slips over her frame effortlessly—cool-toned and reflective, like moonlight turned human. Her lips are painted a soft coral, her eyes dusted with shimmer, and her smile—bright, unbothered, breathtaking—lands like a punch to the chest.

Then comes Caleb.

He unfolds from the car in slow, unhurried movements, sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled neatly to his elbows beneath a tailored blazer, the collar unbuttoned just enough to suggest trouble. His hair is slicked back, not too perfect, and a hint of cologne catches the air as he leans slightly toward Michaela, saying something close to her ear.

You feel it instantly—the pull. The heat.

They look like they stepped off a magazine spread. Like they’re here to be looked at. Owned it. Earned it.

Your stomach twists.

But then her eyes find yours.

“Yn!” Michaela beams the second she sees you, waving you over like the oldest friend in the world. Her voice cuts through the crowd with effortless warmth. “You look stunning! Oh my God!”

You force a smile, walking toward her as she reaches out and takes your hand for a brief spin. “See? I told you that dress was the one. Absolutely gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Caleb’s gaze drifts lazily toward you. His eyes widen slightly, just for a second—subtle, but there. And then that crooked, lazy smile of his crawls up his face like he’s trying not to let it show too much.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, just loud enough for you to hear over the soft chatter of the crowd. “You do look good today, shortcake.”

You don’t turn to look at him. You don’t smile. But your pulse stutters anyway.

Inside, the lights are low and flickering, casting everyone in gold.

You find your seats near the front.

You sit first.

Then Michaela slips in beside you, smoothing the back of her dress.

Then Caleb—his thigh brushing against hers, jacket folding as he slouches back with that usual too-cool ease.

And then—

An empty seat. Reserved with a single placard.

SYLUS QIN

You stare at it for a second too long.

The serif font. The clean white card. The space he hasn’t filled.

People slowly fill the theatre, and the chatter dies down as soon as the introducing speech starts. Cheers and laughter are exchanged as the producer welcomes everyone, and soon, lights begin to dim, the hush rippling through the room like a spell settling.

The first flicker of light sears across your vision—too bright, too sudden. You blink, disoriented.

The grainy opening shot bleeds onto the walls, painting everyone in uneven strobes of white and shadow. Your hands curl into the fabric of your dress.

Then you hear your voice.

Just a small line, off-screen. But it makes your throat tighten.

And then you’re there. You.

A glimpse of your face on camera—too quick, too exposed.

Your stomach flips. A cold rush spreads down your back. You shrink into your seat without meaning to.

The flickering continues—scenes switching with sharp cuts, too fast, too loud. Your eyes strain to follow. The glow of the screen presses against your skin like heat.

You feel it in your temples. In the base of your skull.

A thrum. A pressure.

You try to breathe slower.

But there you are again.

In the corner of the frame. Behind Michaela’s shoulder. Walking across the background, smiling as she delivers a perfect monologue.

You’re always there—but never really there.

Never centered. Never seen.

Just enough to anchor the shot.

Never enough to be remembered.

Your heart races faster.

You glance sideways—Michaela is watching intently, chin tilted just so, the soft rise and fall of her breathing unbothered. Her hand rests lightly on Caleb’s arm.

You try to focus on the screen, but the lights are too much now. The images change too quickly. Your skin feels hot. The sound dips and rises, warping in your ears. Laughter in the film echoes strangely, like it’s bouncing around inside your chest instead of the room.

You swallow down the tightness clawing its way up your throat.

Breathe.

You stare at your knees. At your folded hands.

The screen flashes white again—another cut. Another shot of Michaela framed in golden light, eyes brimming with perfectly timed tears.

And just behind her, out of focus—your figure. Barely lit. Barely there.

You curl your fingers into your dress and force yourself to stay still.

Because if you move—if you flinch, if you breathe too loud—it’ll feel too real.

Like this isn’t just a movie. Like your position in the film is just as it is in real life.

Your breath hitches.

Get through this. Just get through this.

But the room feels too full. Your lungs too tight. Your face too visible under the flickering screenlight.

So, with quivering hands, you quickly excuse yourself out quietly, muttering a soft “I need to use the toilet,” to Michaela.

Your fingers brush her arm as you squeeze past, knees knocking against the velvet seat in front of you.

You don’t look at Caleb.

You don’t dare.

The moment you reach the aisle, you bolt.

The darkness of the theater presses in from all sides, but the exit sign glows red—blessedly real, blessedly distant from the version of you being projected for everyone else to see.

You push through the heavy doors.

Out into the hallway.

Into the quiet.

It’s cooler out here. Dimmer. The hum of the projector muffled by layers of walls.

And still, your hands shake.

Your chest heaves.

You press your back against the corridor and squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to breathe again.

To stop hearing the lines you spoke, the laugh that wasn’t yours, the way you stood just out of frame.

You weren’t supposed to matter.

You weren’t supposed to be seen.

But seeing yourself just that—seeing yourself as nothing more than a narrative device—knocks all air out of your lungs.

And so you do what you do best in situations like these.

You walk.

Down the corridor. Past posters for old plays and peeling signs pointing to locked rehearsal rooms. The soft clink of your heels echoes against the concrete, sharp and rhythmic, the only sound in the hush that follows you.

Left. Then right.

You take the stairwell without thinking—something about the way the door hangs open, waiting.

Up.

One flight. Two.

You’re not counting. You’re not really anywhere.

Just moving.

The final door gives with a groan.

And then—open air.

The rooftop is quiet. Dimly lit by a few tired bulbs and the soft haze of city lights glowing from below. The wind brushes past your cheeks, tugging at the hem of your dress, the strands of your hair.

You inhale slowly—deeply.

The air fills your lungs and doesn’t choke. For the first time tonight, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

You hug your arms around yourself, rubbing warmth into your skin as you move toward the edge of the rooftop. The wind tangles softly in your hair. The quiet is heavier than silence—it’s soothing. Honest.

The sounds of the premiere, the echoes of your lines, the weight of Michaela’s smile, Caleb’s lingering glances—all of it stays behind those concrete walls.

But the moment your shoulders finally drop—the tension unwinding from your spine like thread pulled too tight—

a voice slices through the quiet.

“The movie boring?”

You jolt.

And there he is.

Leaning lazily against the railing at the far edge of the rooftop, one hand resting in the pocket of his black slacks, the other loosely curled around a cigarette he hasn’t lit. The wind toys with the edges of his shirt, untucked and open at the collar, the soft fabric fluttering just enough to hint at the warmth beneath.

His silver hair—bright even under the dull rooftop lights—shifts with the breeze, strands falling across his forehead in that effortless way that should be illegal. The city glows behind him, casting shadows across the hard angles of his jaw, the sharp lines of his cheekbones. His eyes catch yours beneath long lashes, amused, unreadable.

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t need to.

Just the sight of him—calm, crooked smile in place, posture loose like he’s got nowhere to be and nothing to prove—pulls something taut inside you all over again.

Sylus Qin.

Looking like trouble sculpted in moonlight.

And you walked straight into it.

Your voice stumbles out, more breath than word.

“What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tips his head slightly, eyes trailing over you in that infuriatingly slow, unreadable way of his.

“Didn’t realize rooftops were exclusively yours now.”

His voice is quiet but laced with amusement, like he’s already enjoying how thrown off you are. The wind picks up, tousling the silver strands of his hair. He doesn’t fix them. Just leans back against the railing again like this is his space now. Like you’ve wandered into his scene.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he adds, gaze settling on you. “Didn’t strike me as the type to abandon your own premiere.”

Your jaw tightens. “It’s not my premiere.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, eyes glinting. “You were in almost every shot. That little background smile of yours really carried the emotional arc.”

You shoot him a glare. He shrugs.

“Relax,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make your skin prickle. “I’m just making conversation.”

And then, without breaking eye contact, he pulls the cigarette back out from his pocket—like he knew exactly when to use it for effect.

You watch as he rolls it between his fingers, slow and practiced, before slipping it between his lips. His eyes flick downward, shadowed beneath dark lashes, as he flicks the lighter.

A soft click.

A brief spark.

Then flame.

He cups the light with one hand, shielding it from the wind, the gesture intimate in its precision. The flame catches the edge of the cigarette, a quick sizzle, and then a curl of smoke unfurls between his lips as he leans back—head tilted, silver hair brushing the collar of his jacket.

He exhales through parted lips.

Smoke spills from his mouth in a lazy stream, rising into the night air.

And for a moment, the whole rooftop smells like sin.

You swallow. Hard.

Because it shouldn’t look that good.

No one should look that good doing something so simple.

But he makes it look like poetry wrapped in gasoline.

Dangerous. Beautiful. Impossible to look away from.

He glances sideways, catching your gaze—then smirks around the cigarette.

“What?” he says, smoke curling past his teeth. “You want one?”

You ignore his question as you cross the distance between you with quiet steps, heels clicking softly against the rooftop floor, until you’re beside him.

Close, but not touching.

You lean forward onto the railing, elbows braced, eyes fixed on the world below. The city stretches beneath you—cars like fireflies, neon signs blinking against concrete, life spilling in all directions.

“Heard you’re pretty close to Michaela these days.”

Words slip out of your mouth before you could stop them—carried off too quickly by the breeze.

Sylus doesn’t respond right away. Just takes another drag, eyes still on the skyline, unreadable behind the soft glow of the city lights and the rising smoke.

“Is that what people are saying?” he asks, voice low, like he’s half-amused, half-bored.

You glance sideways at him, but his expression doesn’t shift.

“She’s been… talking,” you murmur.

He exhales slowly, smoke curling from the corner of his lips. “Yeah. She does that.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that leaves your thoughts too loud.

“She seems to like you,” you add, keeping your voice light. “Says you’re funny. Helpful.”

His gaze finally cuts to you, slow and sharp. An eyebrow arches. A slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips.

“You sound jealous,” he says, voice dipped in something darker. Teasing. Dangerous.

Your breath falters.

“I’m not.”

He hums, low in his throat, clearly unconvinced. Then, he turns—just slightly—enough to face you, enough to make you feel it.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, voice barely above the wind.

He leans in, just a bit. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that the air between you shifts.

“I mean… if you wanted my attention,” his eyes drag slowly down your face, “you didn’t have to bring her up to get it.”

You blink. Hard.

The smirk deepens. He takes one last drag from the cigarette, flicks it to the side, and exhales—

Right past your shoulder, warm and slow, like it was deliberate.

Then he turns back toward the railing, arms resting casually as if he didn’t just turn your pulse inside out.

“Relax,” he says again, voice smooth and cruelly amused. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Fuck you and your conversations.”

“Language, princess.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and smug, like he enjoys your bite more than he should.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks next—just watches the lights below with that lazy, unreadable calm.

“The deal’s still on, by the way,” he says, almost offhand. “I don’t usually hold my deals this long.”

Your breath catches—but you don’t answer. Not immediately.

Instead, eyes still fixed on the city, you ask quietly,

“What’s it like?”

He glances sideways.

“To smoke,” you murmur, voice soft against the wind. “What does it feel like?”

That catches him off guard.

His smirk fades into something quieter—still sharp, but thoughtful.

He straightens a little, resting his elbows on the railing, eyes narrowed at the skyline like he’s remembering something he can’t touch anymore.

“It’s… warm,” he says eventually. “First few seconds burn. Then it’s just heat in your chest. Makes everything a little slower. A little duller.”

He glances at you again, eyes shadowed beneath silver strands.

“You’d hate it.”

And then, softer—

“You’d get addicted.”

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “That confident, huh?”

His smile returns, crooked and slow.

“Always.”

Then—without looking away—he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the pack again, taps it once against his palm.

“Wanna try?”

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

The rooftop wind brushes your skin. The lights below blur like you’re not quite grounded anymore.

“…Okay,” you say finally, barely above a whisper. “Sure.”

His gaze lingers on you for a breath longer than it should—sharp, slow, searching.

Then, with practiced ease, he slips the cigarette between his lips, flicks the lighter, and inhales. The tip glows ember-red. Smoke curls around his face like it belongs there.

He steps closer.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just… inevitable.

Until your backs are no longer parallel, but aligned.

Until his body is angled toward yours, his hand brushing the railing beside your arm.

Then he exhales—slow, steady—up into the air first, just to show you how.

And before your thoughts can catch up, before your pulse even finds a rhythm, his hand slides around your jaw. Gentle, but certain. Fingers curling under your chin, tipping your face up to his.

“Open,” he murmurs.

And you do.

He leans in—closer, closer still.

Not to kiss. Not yet.

His mouth hovers just a hair’s breadth from yours, and then—

He exhales.

Smoke floods from his lungs into yours, warm and heady and tasting like fire and him.

It hits you all at once—your lips parted against his, the heat of his breath rolling into your mouth, your chest, your nerves. Your hands grip the railing behind you, fingers curling tight.

And just as your knees begin to weaken, just as the smoke begins to burn—

His lips press to yours.

Not soft.

Not tentative.

It’s full, hungry contact—heat and pressure and something sharp beneath the surface. He kisses you like you’re something he earned. Like he knew this was coming the moment you stepped onto that rooftop.

And god, you let him.

His hand slips from your jaw to your throat, thumb resting lightly just beneath your pulse. You feel it hammering there, wild and fast. He deepens the kiss, mouth coaxing yours open further, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip like a tease, like a challenge.

You kiss him back.

Harder. Needier. Like you’ve been holding it in.

Like you’re finally letting go.

The smoke lingers between you. In your mouth. Your chest. The heat of it coils through your veins, makes the moment feel reckless, dangerous, electric.

When he finally pulls away, just barely, your lips are still parted—still chasing after him.

And Sylus—

He’s already smirking.

“Told you,” he breathes, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“You’d get addicted.”

Your breath comes shallow. Foggy. Like you’re drunk—from the smoke. From him.

From the way his voice sits too low in your stomach, too warm in your throat.

You blink, dazed. “What the fuck was that?”

He laughs—low, rich, and dizzying.

“Still want to call it a mistake?”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Not with the nicotine still curling in your lungs. Not with his breath still ghosting yours.

Maybe it’s the way the air thins between you again.

Maybe it’s the flush that rises to your cheeks when you look up at him and realize he hasn’t stepped back this time.

Or maybe it’s just that dangerous cocktail of heat and haze and the taste of sin still lingering on your tongue.

“I think,” you whisper, eyes flicking to his mouth, “you didn’t teach it properly.”

His gaze sharpens. That smirk falters, just for a second—enough to show the hunger underneath.

“Oh?” he breathes.

You nod. Barely.

He leans in. Slowly. Purposefully.

His hand grazes your waist, his breath brushing your lips—and just when you think he’s going to kiss you again—

He pulls back.

Barely an inch. Just enough to keep you chasing.

His smirk returns, lazier this time. Meaner.

“Didn’t think you’d beg so soon,” he murmurs.

You glare. “I didn’t beg.”

“Mm,” he hums, dragging a finger along your jaw, “Not yet.”

Then—finally—he kisses you.

But it’s slower now. Crueler.

His mouth moves with calculated ease, like he’s studying you. Like he wants to see how long you can last with the tension stretched this thin.

He barely gives you what you want—just enough heat to make your knees unsteady, just enough pressure to make you lean in.

When your hand fists in his shirt, tugging him closer, he lets out a quiet laugh against your lips.

“Impatient,” he mutters, and you feel it—low and hot—right in your throat.

And then he deepens the kiss.

Because he knows you’re done pretending you don’t want it.

And he’s done pretending he doesn’t love watching you unravel.

But in the middle of it all—his fingers sliding under your shirt, your hands fisted in the back of his hair, breaths shared like secrets—

It hits you.

A crack of clarity.

Sharp and sudden, cutting through the haze.

You pull back.

Not far, but enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to speak.

“Why are you doing this?”

His brows knit, just slightly. You feel the shift in him, the quiet tension settling beneath the heat.

You keep going. You have to.

“What will you get out of the deal?”

Your voice is low, but steady. The question tastes bitter in your mouth—maybe because you’ve been trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

But it does. It always did.

He watches you, smoke still clinging to his breath, his thumb pausing on your skin.

And for a moment, he doesn’t answer.

Like he’s deciding what version of the truth to give you.

Like he’s debating if you’ve earned it.

He fully pulls away, the warmth of his body gone in an instant.

You watch as he straightens his spine, smooths down his collar with one hand, runs the other through his wind-tousled silver hair—like he’s putting his armor back on. Like he needs the distance again.

“I’m not playing games,” he says.

His voice is low. Still sharp, but there’s something underneath now. Not heat. Not flirtation.

Something older. Quieter. Worn.

You cross your arms, still catching your breath. “Then what is this?”

He pauses.

You see the flicker in his eyes—a calculation, a hesitation. The part of him that always weighs what to say and what to bury.

Then his lips tug into that same maddening smirk.

“You’re just really pitiful,” he says, voice lazy with mock sympathy.

Your brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“Kind of like someone I knew,” he continues, like he didn’t just insult you to your face. His tone is still light, but something about the way he says it—too casual, too precise—makes you freeze.

He doesn’t elaborate right away. Just glances down at the city lights below, cigarette smoldering between his fingers again.

He takes one last drag from the cigarette before flicking it over the edge, watching the ember fall like a dying star.

Then he turns back to you—smirk faded now, voice lower, rougher. Real.

“Let’s just say—” he begins, eyes locking with yours,

“you get to use me to get whatever you want…”

A pause. A slow step closer.

“And I’ll use you to get whatever I want.”

He lets the silence stretch between you, lets the weight of the words hang there like smoke.

“Sounds fair?”

You don’t answer right away.

You just stand there—wind tousling your hair, the taste of smoke still clinging faintly to your lips—watching him.

Watching the way he doesn’t push.

Doesn’t ask again.

Just lets the offer hang in the air like a match waiting to be struck.

Your thoughts spiral—through the flickers of the film, the ache in your chest as you watched yourself play the shadow, Michaela’s bright voice, Caleb’s wandering gaze, Sylus’s mouth on yours, the weight of his hands, the things he said.

And the worst part?

The way all of it made you feel alive again.

Like something inside you had finally stirred.

Like you were tired of being careful. Tired of being quiet. Tired of waiting for someone else to hand you the pen to your own story.

You draw in a breath, meet his eyes.

“Fine,” you say, soft but steady.

“I’m in.”

His smile is slow. Pleased. Like he already knew.

But he says nothing. Just nods once and turns to leave, hands in his pockets, silver hair catching the rooftop light.

You don’t stop him.

You stay there for a moment longer, listening to the echo of your own heartbeat.

And when the rooftop door clicks shut behind him—

You’re still tasting sin.

Still thinking about the deal you just made.

You quietly fold clothes while MC sits on the couch a couple feet away from you. Every so often you glance at her, your eyes drawn to her breasts, specifically the pump that slowly fills a bottle with milk. She hums contently, eyes closed and back resting comfortably on the couch. You feel bad intruding this private time, but she always insists it's fine, that she enjoys your company during it.

You glance again, breath hitching when you see her other breast leak milk, it drops to her swollen belly then dribbles down. Your body grows warmer and you unconsciously press your thighs together. You desperately wish to lick it, to follow the trail up to the source and drink to your hearts content.

"My dear"

Your eyes widen and you look up at her.

"Y-yes ma'am?"

"You've been folding that shirt for ten minutes now"

You look down at the shirt then back at her.

"I'm so sorry ma'am I-I was just lost in thought" you say, embarrassment creeping in.

"I noticed" she laughs. "come here sweetheart"

"Huh?" you look at her confused which makes her laugh again.

"You've been working hard, come rest with me"

"No it's okay ma'am I'll finish this, I promise I'm not tired-"

"Come here" she smiles sweetly yet her tone leaves no room for refusal.

You slowly drop the shirt and nervously walk to her. You sit down at a respectable distance, back straight, hands neatly on your lap, head looking down.

"Come closer my dear, you won't be able to taste it so far away"

Your head whips to look at her, your shock evident on your face. Her fingers reach to her perked nipple, squeezing out a bit of milk onto her fingers then she reaches up to your lips.

You blush harder and shake your head, "Ma'am I-"

Her fingers force themselves in, her sweet milk filling your taste buds.

"Shh it's okay my love, I know what you need" she forces her fingers in deeper then pulls back slightly, fingers rubbing against your tongue and lips deliciously.

You feel embarrassed at how easily you give in, for some reason you find it hard to say no to them, and when you do, you quickly change your mind with just a couple words or touches from them.

Your lips wrap around her fingers and you suck a little, eyes looking at hers for approval.

"There we go, see? I know what exactly what my girl needs" she gingerly pats your head with her other hand.

After a couple sucks she pulls her fingers away, a string of spit connecting them to your lips.

"Did it taste good?"

You nod slowly, "...Yes ma'am"

"Have some more then" her hand reaches for her breast, lifting it a little.

Your face flushes, "I couldn't possibly-" you shrink a little looking at her embarrassed "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be doing this"

"But don't you want to? I know you've been curious"

"Yes but.." Your fingers twitch and dig into your skirt.

"Poor thing, always thinking too much" she says, hand reaching up to rub your head. "Isn't it tiring to do that all the time?"

"A little..." you admit quietly.

"You don't have to do that here" she smiles. "Here all you have to do is listen to me, okay?"

Your lips part then close, your eyes avoiding hers. Your fingers play with the hem of your skirt as you think. While it is your first job you're pretty sure this isn't the sort of thing employees usually do with one of their bosses. But thinking back, your relationship with her has never been that profesional, so should you really be surprised when she takes another step closer?

You feel her kiss your forehead and you tense.

"Stop overthinking, when have I ever been wrong, hm?"

"Never" you answer quietly.

"Exactly," she hums. "So turn off that pretty little brain of yours and listen to mommy okay?"

You look at her in shock but she only smiles, her hands already reaching for you. She pulls you on your knees on the couch, one of your hands rests on her shoulder while the other between her legs. Before you can protest, she pushes your head until you're face to face with her leaking nub.

"Go ahead sweetheart don't be shy"

You look up at her flustered, "Ma'am I-"

You're quickly silenced by the taste of her milk, for a moment everything freezes, your mind blanks and when you come back to your senses you're already sucking for more. It quickly fills your mouth, for some reason you can't seem to stop yourself, your body eagerly searches for more. You messily drink, some of it spilling from the sides of your mouth, if your mind was a little clearer you'd quickly clean yourself, but at the moment all you can think about is her.

"You're so cute" she coos. "Such a good girl"

You blush at her words yet continue to drink.

"You deserve an extra reward for being so good for mommy"

You look at her confused until you feel a hand on your thigh, it slowly caresses it's way up until it reaches your panties. With a single pull it rips and she carelessly tosses it aside. Your eyes widen, you had just bought them.

"Ma'am-" you start to pull back.

"-mommy" she chides, "when we're alone that's how you'll address me as"

When you don't respond she gently spanks your clit making you gasp.

"Understood?"

"Yes mommy" you say breathlessly.

"Good girl" she spanks you again this time harder, it feels so good you have to bite down a moan.

She pushes your head back to her breast and you start to suck again. Her other hand starts to tease your entrance then dragging up to your clit, she goes back and forth, spreading your juices across your sensitive skin.

"You look so pretty like this" she gently pinches your clit then rubs. "We can hire you full time, and of course we'd cover your housing and necessities"

Your eyes close at a certain touch, arousal shooting up your body, then open half lidded.

"No more stress about professors, assignments, classmates. Doesn't that sound great?" one of her fingers pushes in, wiggling a little. "Besides a cute thing like you doesn't need a degree"

It feels good, her hypnotizing words, her gentle touch, her warmth. Your body craves it and your mind melts into a comforting fuzz.

"You can be our pretty doll instead, doesn't that sound much better?"

Her fingers thrusts in and out slowly and you mindlessly nod.

"I can dress you up in all sorts of cute outfits, take you to places you've been wanting to go...we can give you everything your heart desires"

You barely register her words but they settle in deep, they overwrite you as if they were the absolute truth. It doesn't need to make sense nor be logical, at least to you. You don't have to understand, only agree.

You continue to draw more milk out of her, moaning and whimpering from her skilled touch and taste. For the first time in a while you feel at peace, like a petal floating over water, light and pliant to the sway of water. You're too lost in sensations, of being a good girl for her that you don't hear the door open nor the footsteps that follow.

Sylus's eyes are quickly drawn to your exposed self, watching his wife's fingers unravel you.

"Am I interrupting?" he smirks amused, as he locks the door.

"Not at all" MC responds, using her free hand to beckon him over.

He casually approaches the couch then bends down to kiss MC slowly.

"Welcome home" she pulls back smiling.

"Thank you," he bends further down to kiss her swollen belly. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm great thanks to our cute little helper" she gingerly pats your head.

"Always working so hard" he meets your half lidded gaze. "As her bosses we should give her a nice bonus, what do you think sweetie?"

"What did you have in mind?" she hums.

Sylus stands straight and searches his pocket for a moment before pulling out a golden plug, the base of it has a vibrant ruby attached.

"It's so pretty! it'll look perfect on her" MC says brightly.

"I'll save it for later" he puts it back in his pocket then directs his attention to your spread folds. You're so wet a puddle has already formed on the couch, each drag of her fingers makes wet squelches echo in the room. Her movements have turned into scissoring motions that try to stretch your tight walls.

You feel another finger probe you, this one thicker, longer and calloused, your arms trembling as you weakly keep yourself up. The finger joins the delicate ones, moving with more intent. Your hips search for their fingers, forcing them in deeper. Every so often your lips part from her nub to gasp for air before you're pushed back to continue drinking.

The amount of fingers increase, stuffing you full and stretching your lips wide. Your clit throbs, swollen and sensitive as their touch never falters. It doesn't take long for you to be close to the edge, you feel so overwhelmed and stimulated, your eyes tear up and twitch shut.

"You're close aren't you?" his voice is low and warm against your ear. "I can feel it"

You rapidly nod and your vision starts to get blurry. With a gasp your head moves to rest on her breast, you whimper and pant feeling the familiar build up along with something else. You don't have time to wonder before you're trembling and cumming on their fingers, waves of pleasure crashing on you. Their fingers continue through it, it feels so good you can't help but feel like cumming again.

Eventually they slow down to a stop, leaving your puffy folds gaping as they pull out. MC looks down at you fondly, pressing a chaste kiss on your head. "Messy girl"

With a loud whine you squirt, fluid bursting between their fingers. You faintly feel an arm keep you up, but you fade in and out of consciousness too much to tell.

Your mind feels blank and your body heavy. You listen to the sound of her heart beat, it's soothing just like her soft voice. You whine and hug her, hiding you face in her chest more.

"You did so good for mommy, taking it all like the good girl that you are." She gently caresses your hair, hugging you carefully.

"Mommy?" Sylus asks, looking at her with a mixture of amusement and intrigue.

MC looks over at him with a small glare.

"Shut up Sylus, don't look at me like that" she huffs.

You feel his hands rub your quivering thighs gingerly, his body pressing closer.

"No need to get so defensive kitten, I'm just curious" he says as he leans over to kiss her, she easily melts into the kiss and sighs.

They continue to kiss, her hand reaching to his hair to pull him deeper. Desire blossoms and he pulls away, you along with him. You look at him confused, a little hurt that he's pulled you away from her but your confusion is quickly replaced by excitement when he places you on your knees in front of her. He parts her legs further and lifts MCs dress until her drenched folds are visible.

Sylus kneels behind you, pushing your upper half closer to her.

"Show mommy how much you appreciate her love"

He slides in a little then places one hand on your hip and the other on the couch. His massive frame completely envelops you like a warm blanket making your body relax at the intrusion.

You obey, mouth quickly getting to work to pleasure her. You alternate between licking long stripes and sucking on her clit. Meanwhile Sylus unbuckles his pants and pulls down his zipper. He takes his time pulling out his length, giving himself a couple strokes before lifting your skirt to rub himself across your folds. You moan against MC, the vibration making her shudder and pull your face closer.

"I'll go in slowly" he whispers.

The familiarity of it makes it easy to adjust to his size, yet no matter how many times you've done it you still feel the stretch.

"That's it, good girl, open up for me"

He pushes in the rest, filling you up completely. For a moment he stays still, letting you feel his warm and twitching length.

"You feel so good sweetheart" he grunts, steadily pulling out before pushing himself back in.

You squirm, the position making him hit your deepest parts. Your body tingles and jerks, you feel a little dizzy from his thrusts.

You try to keep pleasuring MC, sloppily licking and rubbing your face against her. Your face is wet from her juices and her taste blends in with her milk that you drank earlier. Sylus's thrusts grow rougher and your face squeezes more against her. You smell, taste, see and touch her. You kind of feel like a toy being passed between them, and the thought of it only makes you wetter.

You imagine yourself always being ready for them to play with you, awake, sleeping, bathing, eating. Always available for their needs, and in a way it satisfies your needs, or desires. You don't understand it much, but you know you desperately wish to remain by their side.

They wrap themselves around every part of you, a kind of ownership you feel in your soul. You belong to them and you need them, it's a new purpose that makes you feel complete.

Sylus being that dude that nobody invited 😭 jk I felt bad not including him. This was interesting to write idk if anyone is gonna actually like it but I always love expanding my writing and trying different things. Maybe in the next one I'll have reader call Sylus daddy 👀 I was gonna originally on this one but I wanna test the waters first cause I'm lowk scared they will come for my ass. Anyways, I will be working on the requests next! 😝

Sukuna apparently knew the entire time and just kept him around for entertainment, saying the most out of pocket shit to, and around,the poor guy so he’d look stupid when reporting back to his boss. And now that he’s grown bored of messing with the guy, he’s electrocuting him. 

At least that’s what it sounds like with all the static-y noises and the screams that follow them. You’re not sure what’s harder to hear— the guy begging for help, or Sukuna laughing at all his pleas, before resuming his torture.  

There was nothing but violence in the compound— save for the staff, which would include you. 

For the most part, Yuki was right about the staff being well taken care of. None of you were hungry, none of you worried about your safety in the way the subordinates did. You were all free to roam around the place— something you’d rather not do, in fear of running into the man you bit, and his boss, who honestly seems to have it out for you. 

You can guess why. Not everyone likes being told “fuck you” as a greeting, even though he fully deserved it, and more. 

His treatment towards you isn’t as bad as those he actually punishes though, but it’s unfair, to say the least. 

It’s like he makes it his personal mission to single you out each and every time you’re near him. Calling you out for frowning when you’re not, telling you to drop the attitude when you respond, and nitpicking at your appearance. 

“Your corset needs to be tighter.” 

“How the hell did you already get your heels creased?” 

“Now you look like you can’t fuckin’ breathe. Go loosen it.”

“There’s black shit smudged over your eyelid, go fix that.” He was referring to your mascara last night. It was more of a speck, something only someone as psychotic as him would notice. 

You already can’t stand being in a room with him that’s full of others. Being alone with him, even if he were just catching you walking down one of the halls, would be a nightmare. 

Which is why you’re speed walking through them, hoping you don’t run into him. Hoping you don’t run into anybody, for that matter, except for Yuki. An eyelet fell out from your only clean corset, and you need it to be fixed or replaced before you get called out again, or god forbid, punished for not being able to take care of your things. 

In your defense, it’s only been 3 weeks, you doubt it was any of your doing and has all to do with the material. But a certain someone would absolutely find a way to turn it around on you. 

Yuki told you where her room is in the compound. Somewhere in the east wing, but a little closer to the west. She’s also told you to feel free to come by whenever you need anything, too. All that’s left to do now is actually find it. You know what the room to her door looks like, it’s just getting there that’s the actual problem. There are way too many rooms. Too many halls. It was easy to get lost here if you didn’t already know your way around. 

Your anxiety shouldn’t be steadily rising right now— you’re allowed to walk around freely, after all, but again, there are people you do not want to run into. Hearing the echo of your footsteps only adds to the suspense of it all, along with the distant sounds of men laughing in one direction and Sukuna torturing someone in another. 

When you actually get to Yuki’s room, you start to question if it’s even hers or not. Weakly knocking on the door, heart dropping once you hear a click— watching the doorknob turn in slow motion. 

“Hey, is everything okay with you?” Yuki asks, looking slightly worried as she leans against the door frame. 

Fuck— do you look that scared?

“Yeah, I’m good,” you wave a hand, assuring her that what you came to visit her for wasn’t anything serious. 

She steps aside to let you into the spacious room. The eccentric furniture and band posters plastered on the walls directly contrasting the lifeless, modern monstrosity just outside the doors. Your hesitance starts to build again as you walk further inside— from the corner of your eye, you notice a shirtless man smoking a joint on her bed.

“Oh, this is Choso, by the way.” 

Ah, her boyfriend, who is also Sukuna’s half-brother. A product of their mother's affair– allegedly. You believe it though, with his dark hair and brown eyes. He doesn’t even have a tan like his brother does. He waves, simply saying, “sup,” in a tone more laid back than you ever expected. 

He’s already way less intimidating than you imagined he'd be, making it easy to smile and greet him back before he went back to watching whatever was on the T.V.

At first, you think how nice it must be for Yuki to have something that grounds her in this hellhole, but then you remember where you are and what they are. Even if Yuki was one of the nicer ones here, there’s no telling what kind of guy he is when he’s not getting high and lounging around.

You turn back around to Yuki, handing her the black corset. “One of the eyelets popped out. I don’t even know how it happened. I just noticed it was gone.”

“Oh shit,” she says in a hushed tone, though it’s more to herself. “Fuck— we don’t have any replacements right now. Where are your other ones?”

“Dirty and off with one of the maids. I don’t think I’ll be able to get them back until tomorrow.” You didn’t want to go off and find her either, wanting to avoid the word getting back to Sukuna that you were somehow rushing the staff. “Do you think he’ll notice if I wear it like this tonight?”

Choso huffs out a laugh, answering for Yuki, “Yeah. He runs a strict program— fuckin’ perfectionist.” He gets up from the bed and walks towards the two of you to get a better look at your uniform himself. “Think I got a pair of shoes that have eyelets that match the color… if you don’t mind using that for now.”

It’s honestly shocking how willing he was to help. 

“Wait– really?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs boyishly, already turning on his heel, making his way towards the closet. “They’re just shoes.”

“Okay,” you say, still shocked and looking at Yuki, who looks incredibly proud to be his girlfriend right now. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he hums. 

Choso’s surprisingly crafty as well, that much is known when he comes back with some glue and pops the replacement back in himself. You didn’t even need a new corset at this point, but Yuki still insisted, convinced that the product itself was just a fluke and would most likely give you issues again in the future. 

“Thanks again,” you wave as you walk out of the room, giving them a little smile of gratitude as you do so because they really did save your ass back there. You were in such a good mood from something working out well, for once, that none of the worries you had before dared to cross your mind on your walk back to the west wing. 

It probably helped that you could no longer hear the distant screaming and laughing, too. It’s not until a door ahead of you opens, and you catch a peek of pink hair, that you realize why you can no longer hear them anymore. 

Sukuna was done with his little torture session. 

You wished he’d look and walk away in the opposite direction, just so that he wouldn’t see you, but this was a place where if you weren’t him, none of your dreams were coming true. 

You’ve never seen him happier. It's downright sickening. The joy in his eyes only seems to grow when he notices you, huffing out a little laugh as he starts to walk over. It instantly sets off your fight or flight, every fiber of your being screaming at you to run. Except, where would you even go? Your room? He’d just follow you right in. 

And that’s if he doesn’t start chasing you at full speed, inevitably catching you after however long he allows you to run for. 

“What are you doing out here?” he inquires, using a tone that is way too casual for someone who’s been verbally targeting you every chance he gets. You take a couple of steps back once he really starts to impose on your space, only for him to step to the side and continue, until your back eventually presses up against the wall. He looks way too pleased with how you look while you’re cornered. “I asked you a question.” 

“Nothing– just… visiting Yuki,” you murmur, struggling to hold eye contact with him. 

“Yeah? What for?” he hums, standing so close he could probably hear your heart beating at a hundred miles per hour. 

“I um…” the words fizzle out in your throat, knowing there was no way of making up some sort of lie, you were holding the corset right behind you for fucks sake. 

He’s still staring at you with a smug look on his face as he reaches around, rough fingers gently brushing against yours as he takes it from your hands. Looking down and briefly examining it, he starts to wonder what the hell you brought it to Yuki for. 

“Did you manage to break it or something?” he finally asks, sounding more unamused than anything, as if he already expected you to pull some shit like this. 

“One of the eyelets fell off… so I was just asking if there was any way to fix it,” you murmur, trying to not make it sound like it was a big deal, because it wasn’t— he’s just a tyrant.

His face twists in annoyance, “fuck’s that?” 

You try not to look at him with judgment. He wasn’t the one who had to wear it, not to mention he was a fucking man. 

“It’s the rings that you pull the laces through,” you point to one, and the look on his face says, of course that’s what an eyelet is. It honestly would’ve been pretty cute had he not kidnapped you and made you work here against your will. 

He takes his eyes off of it, directing his attention back to you. “And I’m assuming she did?”

“Mhm.” 

“Good,” he says with resolve. 

“Yup,” you nod, sounding more awkward than you’d like in your response. “I should probably head back and get ready now.” 

“Yeah, you should.” A smirk forms on his face, handing you back your uniform. “You know.. I liked the way you did your hair yesterday— think you can wear it again like that tonight?” 

It’s a demand, but still, you appease him, acting like you had a choice to begin with as you take the corset off his hands. 

“Yeah, I can.”

So obedient. For someone who loves to be the one holding the puppet strings, he’s not quite sure how he feels about it right now. There’s obvious fear in your face, and it’s bringing out something he’d rather not feel right now— but fuck, wouldn’t it be nice for him to keep going until you cry, just so he could turn around and be nice guy for once, wiping your tears away? 

It’s a disgusting feeling to him either way, but even when he acknowledges it, it still feels like he has to rip himself away from you when he decides to walk away. 

“See you later then, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

The pet name doesn’t settle too well in your stomach as you stand there, refusing to turn your head to watch him walk away. The last thing you needed was for him to catch you looking, making him think he had some sort of effect on you. It was enough that he already did. 

For once, you wished he would’ve just given you his usual, cold treatment— you have no idea what the fuck that was.

—

“You better be careful putting that mascara on before Master scolds you again,” Sai playfully warns you as she applies her lipgloss. 

You all call him that behind his back. 

Making fun of him by mocking his status and position could definitely get you killed, but finding humor in it was probably the only way to cope with what’s happened to all of you. 

“I’m sure Master will find something else to scold me for. He has the sharpest eyes in all the lands after all,” you respond in a regal tone, before muttering, “how I’d love to gouge them out one day.” 

She lightly hits your arm, murmuring, “stop it,” as if she didn’t start the conversation herself. 

“You know you’d love to do that too,” you pout, carefully applying your last layer of mascara. 

“Can you guys check to see if my curls look okay in the back?” Miya comes rushing in, as worrisome as always, even when you were all still working at Kento’s Club. She’s also the same girl who was crying the whole drive here. 

“Yeah, lemme see.” You toss the tube of mascara back into the bag, seconds later you’re raking your hands through her hair, playing around with it to see if it was up to par with your captor's expectations. “Go grab your curling iron, there’s only a few pieces that need to be redone.” 

“Okay!”

Tonight’s the same as it always is– loud, lively, rowdy. These guys didn’t give a fuck about class, not when being dirty was how they made all their money. Their only redeeming qualities were that they didn’t mess with the staff… too much.It’s not a difficult task anyway when they have strippers and escorts drinking with them, sitting on their laps more often than not. 

You are your usual happy and cheery self. It’s a requirement, but you found it’s better this way— pretending that you’re having as much fun as everyone else is. There’s no way that spending most of your time brooding over your circumstances is healthy. Maybe this’ll be the one thing that’ll keep your sanity intact.

Chin up. Shoulders back. Slow steps.

The several shots of tequila on your tray lightly clink together as you walk over to the table that ordered them. One of the men who will be enjoying them is Sukuna, who currently has some girl in his lap, and another sitting across from them, on one of his business partners’ lap. The two look happy to be here. You wonder if they knew what they were. You wonder if they even cared if they did. 

“Alright– here you are,” you say in a sing-songy tone, setting the shot glasses down one by one as they start sliding them across the table to each other. They’re all tipsy and excited to take the next shot, which is probably why the playful one with white hair catches you by your wrist. You’re not very intimidated by him for some reason, even though you should be with the giant dragon tattoos wrapped around his forearm. 

“C’mon,” he grins, handing you one of the shots, “take one with us.” 

You can’t lie, this guy's hot. 

On a normal night, you would’ve, but you’re obviously wary, especially with Satan being right there, ignoring the girl on his lap as he stared you down. You don't know what to make of the look he’s giving you right now— if you were allowed to take shots with the members or if you have to take shots with them when they ask. There’s nothing about him that says no, there’s nothing about him that says, “take that fucking shot before you embarrass me,” either. 

So, you use your best judgment and take the shot glass from the cute guy with the blue eyes. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” his grin widens as he clicks his glass against yours, the two of you throwing the shot back at the same time.

He praises you for something right after, not that you catch it. You were trying your best to let the burn in your throat fade away without twisting your face like you usually would when you take shots. 

The whole time, Sukuna doesn’t react. He just watches, and you try to tell yourself that it’s just the tough guy act, even though you can't help but feel the hairs on the back of your neck start to raise. 

So you try to get away from the table as fast and as politely as you can. 

“Let me know if you guys need anything else,” you end up saying with a smile, giving a little wave as you walk away, not seeing the way Satoru keeps his eyes on you until you’re out of sight. 

Or the way Sukuna’s eyes darken at the fact that he does. 

The night’s kind of a blur for him after the fact. He’s not entirely sure why he’s annoyed— he just knows that he is and couldn’t wait to get that girl off his lap so he could go outside for a smoke. 

She offered to join him, he said no. Satoru then offered to come along, to which he also said no to as well. 

Maybe harsher that time around. 

You’d think being outside, letting the crisp, cold air hit his face, would simmer him down, but the image of that fuckin’ asshole grabbing your wrist lingers. How you didn’t startle one bit. 

You would, if that were him wrapping his fingers around you. You’d tense up too, looking up at him with wide eyes filled with desperation to get the hell away from him. 

He has no right to be bitter about it. 

He shouldn’t even be thinking about what he has the right to do. He was the head of the Yakuza, for fucks sake, he can do whatever he wants. Always has, always will.

With that, he drops the butt of his cigarette and crushes it under his leather shoe, then walks back into the den, where it’s significantly warmer compared to outside. He lets himself acclimate to it by taking his dear time walking back to the table, subtly scanning his eyes over the entire floor. 

His eyes eventually stop and focus when he finally sees you. It was pretty easy to spot you, especially when you were wearing your hair like that. As much as he’d like to stand here and give himself a second to think about how pretty you look to him, he can’t. The same annoyance builds up, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. 

A little violence usually does it for him, but he wasn’t going to put his hands on you. What he decides to do is a lot worse than that, at least to him. 

He b-lines it to you while you’re still tucked off to the side of the bar, hidden from mostly everyone's view.

You don’t notice his presence until right in your ear, his big body looming over you. And his tone’s low, but his words are sharp.

“I don’t know what the fuck Yuki told you to do, but I know damn well she didn’t say to go around flirting and batting your fuckin’ eyes at the members.” His tone’s low, but his words are sharp, making your blood turn cold. 

“I-I wasn’t,” you stammer, trying to defend yourself for once since he’s never sounded this cold towards you. “He just asked me to take a shot, and I didn’t want it to be a problem if I said no.”

“Yeah? Well it is,” he murmurs, sending goosebumps throughout your body. “Don’t ever do that shit again, you understand me?”

You nod, softly swallowing. “Yeah.”

“Good— now leave. You’re done for tonight.

notes: (:

The engineer on comms is useless. It’s one of the returning specialists from last year’s mid-season disaster. He keeps asking Sukuna to describe the feedback in sector two. Sukuna tells him to shut the fuck up. He asks again and Sukuna ignores him. When asked about throttle behaviour, he responds once: “You tell me, you’re the one watching.” The channel goes quiet after that as no one knows how to deal with it.

He hates this. Testing, this fucking track, the heat, the dust, the fake optimism in the garage every time someone tries to say the balance looks promising. It doesn’t. They’ve fucked up the balance and the whole rear end of the car feels like it’s floating under load and not one person in the garage can figure out why. Unfortunately, that includes him, which he hates the most.

He does three more laps, but there’s no improvement and apparently no solution from the engineers. He hits the apex perfectly on turn 9, but the car barely lets him keep it stable through 10. At this point, he doesn’t trust the car… and sure as hell he doesn’t trust the team.

As the data streams back to the pit wall and the channels stay quiet, while the laps go on and on and no one fixes a thing, he considers killing the session altogether: pull in, leave this fucking place, and let them figure out how to explain tens of laps of nothing.

How the fuck is he expected to win back the championship in this piece of trash?

He’s about to head in and strangle every useless engineer in sight when a woman’s voice comes through his ear.

“Ryomen, this is chief. Rear instability on decel points to aero imbalance; looks like we’re stalling the floor under high load through sector 2. Recommend boxing, we’ll shift setup offset. Rear dampers plus two, floor angle down 0.3. Confirm.”

For a full four seconds, Sukuna says nothing, sitting in the cockpit with hands steady on the wheel as the wind peels around him down the main straight. He hasn’t heard that voice over comms before.

Of course he knows who she is. Ferrari hasn’t shut up about their new hire since December. “Revolutionary insight,” they said. “New discipline and control. Different perspective.” They said she worked trackside at endurance circuits, helped restructure car data systems, co-designed the updated floor concept. Helped fix the car he broke. He knows her name, saw her in the headquarters a few times, spoke to her a few times after test sims, but nothing more than short technical exchanges.

Sukuna doesn’t need or want to talk to her, yet she’s here on his comms now.

He switches the mic on his wheel. “You sound real sure for someone who hasn’t touched a steering wheel today,” his voice finally cuts in, sharp and taunting. “You gonna fix it, or just keep talking pretty over comms?”

She doesn’t bother explaining, just repeats the call calmly, “Recommend boxing. Rear dampers plus two, floor angle down 0.3. Confirm.”

“You’re lead now?”

Her voice comes back instantly. “Today I am.”

The driver waits another second to answer.

There’s no chance in hell he can trust her, knowing she’s here to “handle” him or “fix” his racing. He doesn’t want her here, doesn’t like the timing, doesn’t like the idea that the only woman in their garage is the one Ferrari assigns to his radio.

But she hasn’t stammered. She hasn’t asked him to calm down, breathe, or adjust his input. Most importantly, she hasn’t asked stupid, pointless questions he doesn’t have answers for, like the old engineer. She told him straight what was wrong with the car and it sounds correct.

He presses the comms button again. “Box.”

“Copy. We’ll have setup 2 ready.”

He pulls into the pit lane with too much fight still in the wheel. The rear slips slightly as he enters the limiter zone, catching a hint late on the left before straightening again under his hands. It’s nothing dramatic enough to anyone to notice and show on replay, but enough to remind him the balance is still fucked.

—

People would think that when the engine is turned off in the box, the place is quiet. On the contrary, it’s full of noise and chaos, when the pit crew swarms the driver instantly.

You keep your back to him as you review the real-time feedback. One of your hands rests on the control panel, while the other flicks through collected data and settings. Tire temp normalized on the left rear, but left front still running hot, floor drag dropped by 2.1%, entry phase smoother by half a second.

The setup change was an instinct. You’d spent the past three months buried in the 2025 aero concept, analyzing every possible failure pattern that could emerge from a hybrid floor profile, and you knew the moment you saw it in real time that this was a stall.

Two mechanics go straight for the rear suspension covers, reaching into the narrow cavity and giving each side two firm, indexed turns to increase damping resistance. Another pair adjusts the rear ride height shims, lowering the back end fractionally to flatten the floor angle.

The car sits propped on quick-lift jacks as they check clearances and confirm the setup with laser ride-height sensors. In less than three minutes, they’d sealed the panels.

“Car One cleared for track. Launch now,” you say into comms, when mechanics were done.

Sukuna fires the engine and his gloved hands flex once on the wheel as he locks in, focused on nothing but the car around him. The Ferrari drops from the jack, and he takes the signal without so much as a glance toward the crew. The car moves forward smoothly, but even through that short crawl down the lane, he is already reading every vibration through the seat, noting what feels different and what doesn’t.

Out of the limiter, he opens the throttle fully. The car responds sharper than it did just ten minutes ago, but he does not take it as proof yet. He feels the rear, waiting for the same slip it gave him before, but there is more grip now and the response is slightly firmer on his hands as the tires dig in.

Turn 1 comes fast and the braking zone is shorter than ideal for a first lap on a fresh setup, but he takes it anyway, late on the brakes, forcing the weight forward to provoke the front into a wobble like it did before the change. The balance holds on entry, and the rear doesn’t throw itself wide when he picks up throttle on exit. That was the first failure point before; now it only twitches once and settles back down, a sign that the floor is staying connected when it needs to.

He pushes it again in turn 2, hitting the apex late and exiting wide to test the edge. The car moves more predictably this time, and he notes it silently even as he feeds in more power toward the straight.

Ahead, an Alpine car crawls along the straight with massive sensor rakes bolted to the rear, dragging through a straight-line aero test, so Sukuna flicks to the right, overtaking cleanly before turn 4.

Through sector one, the steering feels cleaner and there’s less resistance fighting him mid-corner, less of the floating sensation that forced him to catch it three times earlier in the morning.

He shifts early through the next straight, lifting slightly to take mental stock before pushing it again into sector two, where the instability had been at its worst.

The braking zone for turn 8 is where he truly expects to feel resistance as the car had been light and prone to sliding earlier, but it stays planted under him this time. The floor, with its slightly reduced angle, feels more grounded; it doesn’t stall under deceleration like before, and the change in rear dampers allows a smoother load transfer as he releases the brakes. It is still slightly stiff, but it no longer fights him for control.

Sukuna opens the throttle aggressively on exit to see if the car steps out at full weight transfer, and when it doesn’t, he knows the call you made was not just noise.

Turn 10 is another test as he keeps his input sharp just to see how it reacts. The rear gives him one short and controllable slide, which he corrects instantly, registering the difference. Before, the car would have rolled wide and cost him the straight-line speed; now, it grips enough to hold pace into the next straight. He glances at the delta on the display, notes that the loss is smaller than it had been, and puts in more throttle for the run into the final sector.

“No visible stall on entry, balance looks cleaner,” your voice comes steadily through comms.

He doesn’t radio any feedback immediately. He keeps driving, one lap, two laps, then three, each time pushing slightly harder, tightening his line, feeding more throttle on exits to see if the car holds under aggressive load.

Every lap, the feeling remains the same: the car is still not perfect, still heavier on response than he would like, but it is at least not sliding without warning or forcing him to chase grip that doesn’t exist. He feels where it will still need changes later, where the balance isn’t fully aligned with his driving style, but it is no longer untrustworthy.

Only after the third lap does he press the radio button. “Rear’s holding. Stability’s better. About time one of you fixed it.”

“Noted. Sector two improving. We have all the data needed, box when you’re ready,” your reply comes through almost immediately, disregarding his taunting comment again.

After that he drives around ten more laps for good measure, before calling it in. “Box,” he says through the comms simply and after finishing the current lap, he drives to the pit lane, stopping cleanly in his box.

—

Sukuna strips off his gloves and tosses them onto the table without looking, leaving the Ferrari suit peeled only halfway down and the white fireproof top still clinging to his frame from the heat of the cockpit. The material is damp at the collar and sleeves, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. His hair is still a mess from the helmet, pink strands spiked and sticking, with a faint sheen along his temple and jaw where the heat hasn’t faded yet.

He drops into the chair with the water bottle someone shoved into his hand before he entered the room, not bothering to hide the look he gives the stack of engineers crowding around the workstation. He’s still breathing faintly heavier from the drive, waiting to hear if anyone is going to waste his time.

You are already standing at the center console with data overlay pulled up, the traces of his last three laps layered in ghosted lines over the unstable run from earlier. Your headset rests around your neck as you lean into the table. Your voice is low and confident, the exact opposite of the hesitations that had filled the comms earlier.

“Talk me through balance entry-to-exit, especially sector two.”

“Entry’s stiffer now. It still bites a little at mid-corner if I overcommit. Exit’s clean.”

“Any signs of floor stall or aero separation on decel after the offset change?”

“No float. Holds under load now.”

“And how’s steering response with the rear damping change? Lag gone?”

Sukuna drinks and gives one nod, flexing his jaw like he wanted to say more. “Sharper. Bit heavy mid-corner, but no delay. I’d hope so if you’re rewriting my whole setup on instinct.”

“Good,” you say, scanning the numbers on the screen, not taking the bait. “Delta gain in sector two is four tenths.”

Having all the answers you needed to confirm your setup change was in fact correct, you glance across at the performance engineer, who is quietly taking notes, and then at Sukuna’s race engineer standing awkwardly at the edge of the group.

“We’re done chasing ghosts. It was a floor stall on load transfer, which was resolved with this offset. We’ll use it for the afternoon session, too.”

The performance engineer nodded quickly, already pulling up new maps for the next run plan, while the previous engineer muttered something about simulator correlation and went quiet.

“Last thing,” you finally raise your gaze to look at the driver. “Tire feedback? Any signs of overheating after this session?”

Sukuna leans back in his chair, running his hand on the back of his neck. “Temps fine. Left front still chewing.”

Without hiding the edge of confidence in your voice, you say, “That’s all, then. Yuji’s up after lunch, so you’re done for today. Take a break and be back for the full debrief at eighteen-hundred.”

Sukuna stands, stretching the stiffness out of his shoulders, and tosses the empty bottle in the trash. “Yeah. Just make sure no one undoes my work.”

Turning to the others, you roll your eyes and you’re back to business, “I’m handling Yuji this afternoon to ensure the car is stable and the fixes stick. You’ll be back on your usual channel after today.” Your last sentence is directed at the second driver’s race engineer as you don’t want to make him feel like you’re taking his job.

He looks at you for a moment longer, but your attention is already on the rest of the crew loading the car’s updated baseline.

—

The garage changes when Yuji suits up. Unlike his older brother, he walks into testing day like he still couldn’t believe he was here.

It was the first public event of the year aside from the car reveal, and the difference between closed track testing and this was visible in his posture alone. On private days, he was faster than expected, always eager to get back in the car, asking questions at a pace the team couldn’t always keep up with.

But this—Bahrain, cameras, press, live timing displays overhead—is real. Even if he smiled just as wide and joked just as often, you could see the edges of it in the way he glances around before pulling his gloves on, like he was waiting for someone to tell him they made a mistake.

You’d seen enough rookies to know what it looks like when someone has the skill but hadn’t yet worn the pressure. Of course he used to drive in F3, but this was different.

“Yuji, we made a rear offset change based on Sukuna’s feedback—rear damping plus two, floor angle down point-three. Expect more stability on entry and safer exits. I’ll be your lead today, so I can monitor and verify the setup,” you inform him, before he gets into the car. “Give me balance feedback after your first flying lap.”

When he’s inside of the car, he holds his thumbs up to you and right after, he fires the engine.

“Telemetry’s live,” you say into comms. “Warm-up lap first. Let’s keep the tires clean.”

“Copy!” His reply comes back immediately. He is excited, but you can hear the nervousness in the pitch.

You change the channel so your voice goes through to engineers in the box too. “Car two cleared for track.”

He rolls out of the garage cleanly and the team holds their breath for half a lap, before moving again. A few gathered behind the monitors, closely watching the first public testing of Ferrari’s rookie.

“Left rear temp rising. Try earlier brake release into 4.”

“Got it—yeah, okay, that feels—yeah, I feel that.”

Yuji isn’t as fast as his brother yet, but he was smoother than most rookies you saw. He’s not reckless and seems eager to learn. He adjusted when told, responded clearly and when the car drifted wide though sector 2, he corrected it without panicking and asking what went wrong. It was kind of refreshing in this line of work.

Five laps in, he comes over comms again. “Hey, um… are people watching this?” You smiled to yourself, but before you answered, he was talking again. “I mean, like—not everyone—but like, this is streamed, right? Like this whole thing?”

“Keep your hands steady through turn 10,” you say, trying to bring his attention back to the driving.

“Right. No panic. Got it. I’m cool. Super cool.”

There is a faint laugh somewhere behind you—someone from the pit crew, probably. You don’t say anything, focused completely on his sector times, brake temps and deltas. You watch how, even with the nerves, he is keeping within a second of target pace set for his training session, and how every corner looks cleaner than the last. He isn’t consistent yet, but he is learning in real time.

For you, that is more valuable than a perfect first session.

Doesn’t change the fact, he is still rough through turn 10 and this time it isn’t a car’s fault. He enters it a bit too wide, and hits the apex too slowly. You corrected him once already, telling him to adjust brake balance and trail lighter into the left curve, but his line isn’t holding. Lap after lap, the car slips wide by the same margin. It’s not enough to lose position, but he was losing precious time.

You are mid-sentence, watching the lap delta flicker again and left front surge before deceleration, when a hand reaches past your shoulder suddenly, and yanks the headset clean off Yuji’s original race engineer’s head.

“Lift ten meters earlier—” the low and deep voice snaps into comms. “—and carry the brake. Don’t stab it. You’re unloading mid-corner and killing your rotation. Let the rear work, brat.”

“Wait—Sukuna?!” Yuji’s confused response comes instantly.

You turn your head to the man, but he doesn’t look at you or even acknowledge the engineer whose headset he’d stolen. His eyes are on the track feed, following his brother’s move on the screen.

Fighting a sigh, you shake your head towards the engineer, and he understands, taking the spare headset off the pit wall and connecting them to your channel.

Sukuna stays next to you, watching Yuji take the next lap and the car sailing through turn 10 without a single correction, improving time but one tenth in sector 2 finally.

You can tell him off and to get the hell off comms, but instead you inhale once, and say, “Proceed. He’s holding it.”

He doesn’t move or gives further instructions to his brother, but keeps listening, breathing quietly and letting the next laps play out like it had nothing to do with him.

After fifteen more minutes, you decide to call it.

“Box this lap.”

“Box. Copy. Was that okay? Like… good okay or just not-crashed okay?”

You almost chuckle, but manage to keep it down. “You did well.”

There is a long pause, before his answer comes through. “Thanks, lead.”

And for the first time all day, you realize how different it feels to hear that and how much it doesn’t really change anything. You aren’t here to be thanked, only to win, but still… you’ll take it.

Yuji rolls into the box fast. He confidently brakes, and the second the engine dies, he is already unbuckling his harness with the energy only a twenty-year-old on his first real test day can get away with.

The visor comes up and beneath, he is beaming.

Gloves still on as he pulls himself out of the car with a little too much momentum, nearly catching one of the mirror arms with his shoulder when stumbling down the step onto the garage floor. He doesn’t even seem to notice the misstep, spins around once, looks at the monitors, then turns directly to where the two of you stand.

He walks right up to his brother, taking off his helmet and balaclava.

“Thanks for the call through ten,” he says, panting slightly. “That fixed it. I really didn’t know what I was doing before that and I kept trying to force it but—yeah. You fixed it. So… thanks.”

Sukuna doesn’t look at him for more than a second, tilts his head slightly and with an unreadable expression, he replies flatly, “Don’t mention it, brat.”

Yuji smiles like it was the highest praise in the world, claps him once on the shoulder—too hard, like he always did—then turns to you.

“And you,” he says and you notice the happiness beaming in his eyes, “you killed that floor read. I had no idea it was dragging. I thought I was just driving like shit but it actually was something. You just... said it and it worked.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You thought you were driving like shit?”

“I mean,” he grins, pulling off a glove, “yeah. A little. But like, I knew the car felt weird, but I didn’t know what kind of weird… and you knew. That was cool.”

He means every word of it. You didn’t need it, but still, it is impossible not to nod at least once, enough for him to catch it.

“Go debrief,” you say. “Now. Before the adrenaline wears off.”

“Copy that,” he grins again, mock-saluting as he jogs off toward the data desk.

Only then you allow yourself to smile widely, happy for having such walking sunshine for a rookie in your team.

At the same time Sukuna looks at you for the first time since his debrief with the barest acknowledgement, before he turns away again and disappears back toward the rear of the garage, leaving the headset on the pit wall desk.

—

You enter the Ferrari’s debrief room for the second time today. Yuji is already waiting for you with his suit hanging from his hips, and as soon as you step in, he smiles widely. He looks flushed from the laps, his hair is damp, and he’s definitely too energetic for someone who’d just finished his first big session in front of the media and factory engineers.

Sukuna is there too, standing silently with his arms crossed, leaning back against the wall behind the row of engineers.

When younger of brothers sits, leaning forward with both elbows on his knees, grinning like he just won a race, you start going through questions.

“Talk me through balance entry to exit. How did it feel with the rear offset change?”

“Entry felt heavier, yeah, but, like, in a good way—like it’s actually there when I turn instead of all floaty. Mid-corner was smoother once I stopped overthinking it. I had one moment where I thought I was gonna spin, but that was me messing up the brake, not the car. Exit’s clean—really clean—it actually grips when I want it to.”

You and other present engineers note down his feedback, as he floods you with his train of thought.

“Any instability under braking? Especially into turn 10.”

“Oh, turn 10 hated me for like five laps. I was braking way too late, then I’d panic and try to fix it mid-corner, which, yeah, terrible idea. After Sukuna yelled at me—thanks for that, by the way—it just clicked. Braked earlier, carried it in, and bam, the car did what it’s supposed to do. So no, no instability once I stopped being dumb about it.”

There’s a faint huff of air from the back of the room. Sukuna doesn’t speak, but his eyes flick once toward his brother and then back to the data screens. Yuji catches it and smiles even wider.

You cover your mouth, pretending you’re close to sneezing just to hide the smile, then shake the head and drop the hand down.

“That’s good. How’s steering response with the new offset? Any delay or heaviness?”

“It’s heavier, but predictable. At first I was like, ‘oh no, it’s gonna fight me,’ but it didn’t. It’s like, if you actually let it do its thing, it just… works? I dunno, I expected it to feel twitchy like before, but it’s way calmer now.”

You pull up tire data. “Tire behaviour? Any overheating or balance shift after five laps push?”

“Rear was chill the whole time. Left front warmed up more than I thought it would—I mean, I felt it drag a bit through 8 on one lap, but that was probably me putting too much load in. After I sorted braking, temps felt even. Honestly, I expected to shred them more, but I didn’t.”

There’s some laughter from the engineers, but you don’t let it derail the debrief. “How’s confidence level now versus this morning?”

“Seven now. This morning was, like, a solid four—like, ‘please don’t crash, Yuji’ level. Now it’s more like, ‘okay, I can actually drive this thing.’ If I stop thinking about all the people watching me, maybe an eight.”

One of the data engineers smiles into his monitor. Sukuna remains stone-still with his eyes on the screen like he’s memorising every trace.

“You changed your entry after Sukuna’s call, how did it feel?” you ask, finally glancing his way for just a fraction of a second.

“Yeah, like, instantly better. I didn’t even realise I was stabbing the brakes that hard until he said it. Felt kind of dumb, honestly, but then I tried it his way and the car just rotated. Like, properly rotated. No fighting, no sliding. I get why he’s so annoying about braking now.”

There’s another almost-sound from Sukuna. This one is barely audible, like a breath through his nose.

“Anything you still don’t trust about the car?” you press.

“Turn 10 still freaks me out a little, but that’s on me, not the car. The car’s fine—it’s actually better than I expected, honestly, after the private tests we had. I kept thinking I was doing something wrong and then you said the floor was dragging, and I was like ‘oh, so I’m not crazy!’ Anyway, yeah, car feels good. Me? Still figuring it out, but I’ll get there.”

You nod once, close the overlay, and glance at the performance engineer who’s already making notes for tomorrow’s plan. “Copy that. We’ll keep this offset as baseline for now and adjust braking maps overnight. Good session.”

“Cool! Awesome, actually. I thought I was gonna look like an idiot on stream, but nope, didn’t crash. That’s a win, right?”

“That’s a win,” you confirm.

Yuji grins at you, then glances over his shoulder to his brother. Sukuna’s gaze meets his for a second, unreadable as ever, before he pushes off the wall and walks away without a word, leaving his own headset behind on the desk.

Yuji exhales in a half-laugh. “I’m gonna pretend that’s his way of saying ‘good job’.” You don’t answer, already turning back to the screens, but you don’t disagree either. “You have a moment, though?”

You stop, and look back at the driver. You walk with him out of the room, saying you’d be back soon to the crew. When you find a quiet place, he starts talking.

“I wanted to thank you,” he hesitates, when you meet his eyes. “I mean not for the run,” he clarified, lifting a hand, “obviously I’m supposed to do full stints, it’s not like I’m expecting a reward for doing my job—just—uh—thank you for not yelling when I couldn’t shut up on the comms.”

You don’t interrupt.

“I get like that sometimes,” he goes on, rubbing the back of his neck. “Especially when the adrenaline’s high and I’m not sure if I’m screwing something up. My brain just kind of panics and fills the silence. I’m working on it.”

“You didn’t distract anyone,” you said calmly, offering him a smile. “You followed instructions. That’s enough.”

His shoulders dropped like you’d just cleared him for takeoff.

“Okay. Good. Cool. Yeah.” He exhales. “Also, setup felt incredible. I’ve never felt that confident through eight. The balance shift out of it—whatever you changed, it let me hold the line like I actually knew what I was doing.”

You tap your tablet, flicking through tire degradation plots without glancing up. “Tire pressure tweaks. You didn’t overdrive, that’s why it held.”

He blinks, and gives you that same open, eager smile that always seemed a little too big for this world. It hadn’t been dulled yet by results sheets or media sharks or the weight of comparison and you honestly hope it never will.

“Still. Thank you.”

This time, you don’t answer, and Yuji, fidgeting slightly, glancing at the wall, shifts to what he really wanted to say when he asked you for your time.

“About my brother…”

You look up slowly. He swallows, looks briefly at the floor, then back at you again with something almost apologetic in his voice.

“He didn’t mean to interrupt anything, I think he just thought I was gonna screw the line again—which, yeah, I probably would’ve—so thanks for not making it a big deal.” You stay quiet, so he keeps going and the words tumble out of him faster. “He’s… not really cold. Or—well, maybe he is, kind of. Not to me though. I think he’s just trying to figure out how to not—” he waves vaguely toward the garage, “—fuck this up. The car, the season… you being here.”

That last part makes you tilt your head, so he rushes to explain.

“Ferrari brought you in after he lost the title. He’s not stupid. He knows what that means. He thinks you’re here to fix something about him, and he doesn’t really trust people who try to ‘fix’ him. But he also knows he can’t win without you, and that freaks him out more than he’ll admit.” You watch him quietly as he sighs. “I just… wanted you to know he’s not being an ass for no reason. He wants this, really bad. He just doesn’t know how to say it.” His mouth opens like he might say more, but then he just shakes his head with a laugh. “Anyway, thanks for letting him talk earlier—it really helped.”

“Yuji,” you say quietly and he shuts up instantly. You stare at him with a soft smile. “You drove well. I’ll tell the data team to upload your long-run and we’ll review degradation overnight.”

He nods so fast and looks relieved. “Yeah. Yeah, of course,” He turns to go, but says one more thing over his shoulder, smiling, but not looking at you anymore. “You’re gonna kill it this season. I can feel it.”

—

The room is filled with more cameras and more journalists leaning forward in their chairs than most other teams this weekend as Ferrari draws that kind of energy even for pre-season. At the table sit Masamichi Yaga, as unbothered as ever; Sukuna Ryomen, leaning back with his arms folded and a look that dares someone to ask something stupid; and Yuji Itadori, smiling, bright-eyed and sitting far too straight, still clearly new to this level of attention. Uraume stands in the back of the room, prepared to jump in if necessary.

First question is voiced almost instantly as the moderator gives a green light. “Yaga, Ferrari brought an updated floor and suspension package to testing this year. Are you satisfied with how the car is responding so far?”

“So far, yes. The updates are correlating well with what we saw in the simulator and wind tunnel. This stage of testing is about validating concepts, and what we’ve seen on track matches our predictions. There’s always work to do, but we’re in a good place for this point in the program.”

“We heard Sukuna on the radio sounding… let’s say, very direct early in the day. How do you manage those situations while still getting productive feedback?”

“We don’t view direct feedback as a problem. Sukuna is passionate and clear about what he feels, and that’s valuable to us because it shortens the time between identifying and solving issues. The important thing is to keep communication focused on solutions, and that’s what we did today.”

“Sukuna, earlier today you were heard on radio sounding frustrated before a mid‑session setup change. Are you satisfied with how the car feels now?”

Sukuna tilts the mic closer, smirking like he’s been waiting for this one. “Satisfied? Sure, if you count losing half a morning to a car that wanted to spin me into a fucking wall as productive. Someone finally flipped the right switch and, shocker, it actually drives like it’s supposed to. Y’all should write that down: ‘Ferrari fixed their shit mid-session.”

There’s an awkward pause as reporters note down his sarcastic remark, while Yaga doesn’t even blink, used to this already.

If Uraume’s gaze could kill, Sukuna would probably be dead right on the spot. He just smiles at them, unbothered, that he dropped a ‘fuck’ so early into the presser.

“Ferrari brought in a new Chief Race Engineer after the 2024 season, who was on your radio today, Sukuna. How has that transition been for the team?”

“We needed a new perspective.” Yaga answers and gives his lead driver a subtle glare, before he says something the team principal will have to strangle him afterwards. “Last season showed us there were areas to improve not just on the car, but in how we process and act on information during race weekends. Change is always significant at that level, but it’s been positive. The new chief has already made a difference in how quickly we identify and solve issues. Today’s mid‑session fix is an example of why we made the change.”

“…Car works now, doesn’t it? That’s all I need to know,” Sukuna says, rolling his eyes at a man beside him.

“From my side, it’s been great. Clear feedback, quick solutions—it means I just focus on driving, and that’s huge for a rookie.” Yuji adds, earning a smile from Uraume, standing in the back of the room.

“Yuji, this was your first full public session for Ferrari, with cameras and timing data. How did you handle the pressure?”

The second driver shifts in his chair, clasping his fingers a little too tight around the microphone. He glances once at Yaga, then at Sukuna, like he’s checking for silent backup before answering.

“It was… intense at first, yeah. I talked too much on the radio until I settled in, but after a few laps, it felt like driving again. The car’s incredible. I’m just not used to being in so much spotlight yet. F3 is way… calmer, after all.” He laughs awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “I might’ve even apologised to our chief mid‑lap, which I’m pretty sure isn’t how pros usually do it…”

Several reporters chuckle quietly at that, one even muttering something about 'refreshing honesty' as fingers keep typing. The atmosphere softens noticeably, shifting from the tension Sukuna created earlier.

“There was a moment in the session where Sukuna was heard coaching you through turn ten. How does having a sibling as a teammate affect your development as a rookie driver?”

“It’s, like, intense, but in the best way. He’s not exactly gentle with feedback—”

“Why would I be?” Sukuna cuts in.

“—but it works.” There’s a huge, affectionate grin on Yuji’s face. “He sees things I don’t even realise I’m doing wrong yet. Turn 10’s tricky, and yeah, that one line he gave me saved a ton of time and today’s run plan.”

Sukuna side‑eyes him, “...saved me from getting a heart attack after watching you crash, you mean."

The younger of the brothers shrugs, laughing, “Hey, but I didn’t, so… teamwork, right?”

“And regarding being pretty vocal on the radio early in your run, you seemed to settle in quickly after the chief's feedback. Was that just nerves, or are you naturally a talkative driver?”

“Oh, that? Bit of both, I guess. Yeah, I talk when I’m nervous, can’t help it. But once I got comfortable, I shut up and focused. Also, yeah, try not to smile when you’re in a Ferrari, you know?”

“He talks when he’s nervous, talks when he’s comfortable, talks when he’s breathing…” his brother groans and lets his voice trail off.

Yuji laughs and many people in the room join in. “See? Honest feedback 24/7.” He glances toward Sukuna again. “And hey, it’s not every day your big brother’s voice is telling you to break earlier while half the paddock’s listening. Hard not to laugh at yourself when that happens.”

A couple of photographers grin at that, some even lowering their cameras for a second, clearly entertained by the rookie’s self-awareness.

Both Yaga and Uraume notice that Yuji might be a rookie that’s not used to the spotlight, but definitely he’s an asset for Ferrari in pressers, giving the polite answers and making reporters laugh, without causing any scandals along the way.

“Sukuna, you’ve been known to have strong opinions during testing. Did today feel different with a mid‑session fix instead of an overnight one?”

Sukuna shrugs. “Look, I’m not here to do yoga, I’m here to drive. If the car’s wrong, I say it’s wrong. People don’t like hearing that? Take the headphones off. At least this time someone listened fast enough to save me the headache.”

Yaga cuts in smoothly before the tension builds up, “The car responded well to adjustments, and we’re happy with today’s data. That’s the focus here.”

“Ferrari has one of the more intense pairings this year: an experienced, aggressive driver and a rookie learning on the fly. How are you building that working relationship?”

Yuji smiles and cheerfully answers, “It’s been great. I’m learning a ton from his data: where to be braver, how he commits to corne—”

Sukuna interrupts, voice deadpan, but there’s a grin on his face. “Translation: he’s stealing my homework.”

There is a wave of laughter from journalists and Yuji himself.

“After back-to-back titles in 2022 and 2023, last year was a fight you didn’t win. Is the mindset now to reclaim the championship immediately?”

Team principal cuts in before Sukuna gets a chance to answer, “The mindset every season is to win, but we’re realistic. We know how strong the competition is, particularly Mercedes, but our approach hasn’t changed. Deliver the best car, give the drivers the tools to succeed, and take it race by race. The target is always the top.”

Uraume nods to Yaga, happy with his answer and stealing the opportunity to give his own from Ryomen.

“Do all of you feel this car is capable of delivering a championship this year?”

“Absolutely. I mean, I don’t have much to compare it to at this level, but the car feels amazing. If I do my part, I’m sure it’s capable of winning.”

“Capable? Yeah. Whether we win depends on everyone doing their jobs and not choking under pressure. I’ve already done it twice with Ferrari, so it’s not a dream—we know what it takes. The question is whether everyone else remembers how to do their part.”

“What Sukuna means—” Yaga steps in smoothly, before his driver's words might be wrongly understood, “—is we have confidence in the direction of the car and the team as a whole. The competition is strong, but we know what success looks like and what it requires. That’s our focus.”

“Sukuna, with Gojo and Geto already exchanging words in their own pressers, where do you see yourself in that mix this year?”

Sukuna’s grin turns a bit dangerous as he answers, “In front, simple as that. They can throw words around all fucking day; I’ll throw lap times—and if they want to compare anything else, well, I’ve never had trouble keeping people interested.”

A few reporters chuckle, one coughs and one raises an eyebrow at the language. Yaga’s jaw tightens slightly, already calculating the upcoming fine if his main driver keeps this up, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“Sukuna, one more question about your new chief engineer, hired right after you lost the title last year. Some have speculated it was to rein you in after certain radio outbursts and… let’s call them, ‘controversial moments’. There’s even talk the team’s long-term focus might be shifting toward Yuji as their lead driver. How do you respond to that?”

The room goes quiet, besides a faint shuffle of camera lenses. Yuji shifts slightly in his chair, muttering “oh-oh” and looking between Sukuna and Yaga like he’s not sure who’s about to speak first. Yaga starts to lean toward the mic, but Sukuna beats him there.

“First of all, stop trying to write bad blood between me and my brother. That’s low, even for this room. He’s doing his job, I’m doing mine. We push each other; we don’t stab each other in the back for your headlines,” Sukuna snaps in a low and sharp voice, as if the reporter just stepped somewhere off-limits. “And as for ‘reining me in’—I’ve won two championships and more races than most of this grid will ever manage in a lifetime. You don’t rein in someone who delivers; you let them do their job, and you stay the fuck out of their way.”

A low ripple of whispers moves through the room, a few journalists trading glances like they’ve just been handed a week’s worth of headlines in one sentence as their fingers tap on their phones and tablets furiously.

“Uh, yeah, what he means is—like—we’re working together really well, so—”, Yuji starts but Yaga cuts in with a tone colder than before.

“That’s enough. We’re not entertaining speculation like that, especially ones designed to divide this team. This is a team built to win, and both drivers are critical to that goal.”

Smiling nervously, Yuji flicks his eyes to Sukuna like he’s wondering what the hell just happened. The older of the brothers, meanwhile, folds his arms and leans back. He’s done answering and, most definitely, done pretending to play nice.

The FIA media officer calls an end before someone can push this angle further, already making a note about Ryomen’s language. Yaga thanks the room with his usual calm, measured tone, while Sukuna stands and leaves first, unconcerned. Yuji stays long enough to wave and grin at the photographers, still somehow looking like he’s just happy to be there.

The journalists respond with a few polite waves and smiles of their own with an unspoken acknowledgment that at least one Ferrari driver might be easy to work with this year.

—

In the Ferrari garage, you mutter under your breath while watching the feed, “Unbelievable, he's gonna get fined again… yup, definitely getting fined.”

—

The fine email lands in Uraume’s inbox an hour later—€12,500. They barely blink, click acknowledge, and forward it to Ferrari’s finance team, already used to this process. Afterwards, they type a short text to Sukuna.

Uraume: “Twelve-five. Three ‘fucks’ and one ‘shit.’ You’re breaking your own record.” Sukuna: “Worth it.” Uraume: “I know. Already lined up talking points for tomorrow. Try not to add any new ones until we at least finish lunch.” Uraume: “And come to hospitality now.”

By the time Sukuna walks into the hospitality area, Uraume is already there with a small smirk on their face. “You done terrifying journalists, or should I hold the next race’s fine budget open too?”

“Depends if they ask stupid questions again.”

“Thought so. Sit down. We need to spin this into ‘passion’ before the FIA writes us a love letter.”

He groans, but doesn’t argue. Uraume knows exactly who he is and Sukuna knows they’ll always have his back, even while filing paperwork for his fines.

post-session debrief: okay, prologue chapter is here, i hope all of you enjoyed it and got through the jargon, technicalities etc without too much annoyance haha gojo's prologue will be up during the weekend also i'm extremely curious which team you will be rooting for when GPs start. after all... there can only be one winner.

Ferrari POV - Sukuna storyline: Bahrain pre‑season testing · Pit Stop →

Change the car: get into Mercedes with Gojo for Bahrain pre-season testing

Masterlist · Glossary

The vampire swirls a glass of blood in one hand, directing his red mist around you in the other

It dances over your sensitive skin, up your bare legs, inside your wet warmth. Your legs were held open for his viewing pleasure - Stayrus's tail curled around your calf to spread you open, pulling you apart with Sylus's fingers gripping your thigh

But not for long

The two of them quickly succumb to their greed, driving their cocks into your holes as the vampire calmly gives his commands

They wouldn't listen to him. He knows this. They'd only listen to you, but you are in no state to give commands

The vampire's commands are for you, his sweet pet, lost in the haze of lust injected into you from the bite on your neck. He had poured some of your blood into his glass as an appetizer, but only just a bit

Oh, your blood is sweet, rich, with a depth that he can sink into again and again, and still find new ways to appreciate your taste

But he knows the best things come to those who wait

Sylus and Stayrus holding you down, stretching your holes as they pumped their cocks into you? That's merely the seasoning

The more heat flows through you, the more you beg for him and their shared soul, the more you buck your hips up to in a desperate attempt to rub your clit against their fingers?

The more you cum again and again around their cocks,

The sweeter your blood tastes

The more nuanced your blood becomes

The more he can taste your desires on his tongue

Like liquid sex

Pure sin

The vampire's eyes glow red as he takes in the sight of you crying out, your thighs trembling as your cunt clenches around the dragon's cock, your combined sticky white fluids dripping out of you, droplets sliding down your ass and onto Sylus's cock and drenching the sheets below

You hear growls all around you as the dragon bursts inside you. Sylus squeezes you in his arms, keeping you still as he pumps his dragon cum-covered cock into your ass

"Stay with us, kitten," he grunts in a breath

Your mind is so lost in lust that you don't even notice his hand rise up and come down hard in a punishing slap on your engorged clit. It makes you wail, takes your breath away. The sudden impact makes your vision go white as a flood of endorphins pull you under again, drowning out the pain

"Say that you're mine," he demands, the sharp edge of the Onychinus leader's voice cutting through in his selfish greed. He bites down hard on your neck, over the fang prints left behind by the vampire to reclaim you

You can hear your own pathetic whimpers in your ears, but you barely even recognize them as the dragon pulls his cock out of you, only to take his second cock -- fresh, hard, and ready to go -- and line it up with your cum-splattered entrance

"I'm not done yet," the dragon breathes out his words like fire over you as he spreads your folds again with his sharp claws and thrusts his second cock in, forcing the cum of his first orgasm to spill out, each thrust pulling more and more cum out of you

His second cock feels bigger somehow, and your needy, slick walls stretch open for him eagerly, obediently, to welcome him inside once more

"Aren't you happy, my dearest wife? This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be fucked, filled, and defiled?" The vampire laughs as he savours a sip of your blood slowly

He needs to steady himself, not give in to temptation too soon. But it's getting harder to resist with each passing second as he watches you cum again and again by his other selves

But he'd wait

Your blood will taste all the more sweet when you're filled to the brim with lust and cum

And only then

Will he stroke your cheek so gently, so tenderly with the back of his fingers

Sink his fangs into you once more

And drink from you,

His cock thrusting inside you, making your heart pump blood through your veins faster and faster,

Letting him indulge in your blood until, through all the heat and sweat, you start to feel cold,

Your eyes in the mirror are too wary and tired, as your gaze frantically slides from your curls to the necklace around your neck, then lower, to the unaccustomed depth of your décolleté, before rising again.

Perhaps too much preparation for a simple visit to someone's study.

Does that make you feel better?

Not in the least.

You sigh, putting the box down and nervously open it again. Two precious cufflinks wink at you with their gentle shine from the inside, gems catching the light and showing off all of their worth.

You just hope Sylus will like them.

Lucy tried to convince you of this all morning as she helped you, but Lucy left almost an hour ago, when you asked for a few minutes of privacy to get your thoughts in order. But there was no order, and definitely no certainty too.

You bite your lip and try to fix the neckline once again. However, it stays as deep as Lucy chose it, going as far as dropping even lower as you finally stand from your seat. Splendid.

The lid of the jewelry box falls carelessly onto the table as you hastily peer inside, lost in thought. It takes three more rings, a pearl bracelet and some rose quartz pendant to make you feel guarded enough.

Your eyes still distant as you put on every piece in the mirror, slow and focused, like each ring and clasp is armor, and you're about to start a war.

You had avoided Sylus for almost three days.

At first, it wasn't even intentional, you see. It just that he seemed too eager, too interested when you saw him back then, in that unfortunate alleyway, so you couldn't find enough inner strength to face him. To look him in the eye and find nothing of it, aside from polite indifference.

And the thing is, it wasn't even that hard.

You've suspected this for a long time, and now you're convinced once again: Sylus didn't cross paths with you very often, unless you made an effort to do so. He wasn't exactly a man of routine with his sudden trips to an unknown destination, but it didn't take to be a genius to find him in his study in the morning or on the training ground in the afternoon.

Which is exactly what you were going to do now.

It would be to much to avoid your husband on his birthday, after all.

With every clasp in its place and every pearl cold against your skin you straighten, meeting your gaze in the mirror. The dress sits uncomfortably tight around your chest and snugly encircles your waist, but you suspect that the slight dizziness has nothing to do with it.

The crimson lace of the frills sets off your face, and you hope you don't look as insecure as you feel.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch another ring glinting enticingly from the depths of the box. Maybe if you wear enough, he won't notice the engagement one among them? Maybe then his gaze won't linger on your hand when you offer him the gift?

Shaking your head, you hastily reach for gift box and round the table. You're sure your steps might be heard even on the floor below as you stride through the door and down the hall.

There are more important things to worry about.

All of the enthusiasm vanishes right at the door to the study, where a steady hum of voices can be heard.

A butler? Or maybe some guests?

You ponder for a good minute before finally reaching for the handle. You'll just congratulate him and then leave, right? It shouldn't disturb him too much, and besides, the less time it takes, the easier it will be for you-

Without any warning, the door suddenly opens, forcing you to immediately dodge the blow and step back. With heavy jeweled earings swinging and heart skipping, your eyes lock onto a tall unfamiliar man politely holding the door half-closed to avoid hitting you.

Your gaze skims across his jet-black hair, its plain locks falling into a loose braid over his broad shoulder, and then at his crisp-white vestments, pulling tightly against an unfairly broad chest, until your eyes meet his ivy green ones.

"Ah, looks like your wife is here at last, Your Grace," Zayne all but smiles over his shoulder, his mocking tone making you finally come to your senses.

"Cardinal," you hastily bow your head a little in a polite greeting, trying to hide your confusion behind one of the curls framing your face.

The gift box must be getting crumbled from how hard you're squeezing it, but the only thought occupying your head is: what is he doing here?

"There's no need to bow your head, Dear," Sylus reaches the door in a couple swift steps, easily maneuvering between you and Zayne. "Besides, our guest is already leaving, you see. Let's not keep him any longer."

The Cardinal slightly narrows his eyes, but stays pretty calm owerwise. "Why don't you let Lady Qin decide on that? I thought it's a part of the emperial etiquette to at least offer some tea to the guest, no?" he glances your way, and you almost catch him smirking, before he stares back at Sylus, and adds, "Right, My Lady?"

And you can tell the exact moment Sylus had enough.

"I'll let her decide when she invites you herself," his tone is too cold for the polite expression he is wearing, but you don't get to think too much. One moment you feel his gloved hand on the side of your waist, and next — you're already halfway into the study, leaving Zayne alone in the hallway. "Our discussion ends here, Cardinal. Hope you have a nice trip back."

For an instant, you catch the guest's gaze flickering back too you — ivy-green and dangerous— and just like that, the door is closed shut, leaving you in stunned silence.

Sylus doesn't turn to you right away, the line of his shoulders too tense under the crimson tunic, his posture too straight as he waits for the steps to quiet down. At the back of your mind you take a belated notice that you two match perfectly in colour. So Lucy knew what she was doing, huh.

The thought makes you sigh, suddenly remembering the low cut framing your chest. Maybe it's too much? Stuffing the gift box under your hand, you try to tug it up a little once more. You need to fix this mess before he notices-

"I see you're feeling quite nifty today, Dear."

It takes everything in you not to drop the box, clutching it to your chest protectively. Sylus seems pleasantly amused with your reaction, his stride slow as he gets closer, gaze focused under your neck. You hope it's the box that got him so interested.

"I'm just dressed for the occasion, Your Grace," he tilts his head in silent question, searching your eyes, and you hand him the box with a shy smile, "Happy Birthday, Sylus."

And he doesn't react like you expected. In fact, he merely reacts at all.

Sylus visibly stiffens, hands twitching slightly by his sides, eyes too uncertain, full of emotion you couldn't name. His gaze is heavy as it flickers from the gift to your eyes and back, and you start to become restless with the anticipation of a final blow.

Were you too intrusive? Sylus sure never told you when he was born, and you doubted anybody in the estate knew at all. Maybe he didn't want you to know? Maybe it was too much to receive a birthday gift from someone you barely know? Someone out of place, someone unwanted-

Too engrossed in your inner turmoil, you almost miss the moment Sylus's hands cover yours, not really taking the box, but just lingering there. His palms are warm and big, tightly wrapped in thin black gloves.

The sickening feeling inside you whispers it might be a forced measure: he can't allow you to see his skin.

How far have the patterns already reached, you wonder? Then, days ago, you were able to catch only a sliver of skin, fair but intricately stained with thin swirls. Have they covered his hands fully by now? And worse... Does it hurt?

You desperately wish you could just ask. To stop pretending that you don't notice how tired he started to look, how the lines under his eyes are growing deeper, a sad reminder that you need to do something now, before they became permanent.

How much time is there left anyway?

You feel a gentle tapping on your hand and wince slightly.

His eyes are warm when you finally look up, steady in a way you rarely saw lately. Sylus is not angry, not annoyed. For some reason, this doesn't calm you down at all.

"And what's inside, I wonder?" He doesn't smile fully, but there's an unmistakable amusement in the way the words linger on his tongue, almost like a purr.

"You'll have to see for yourself, Your Grace."

Under your watchful gaze, Sylus takes his time opening the box. He traces his fingers along the surface, feeling in the texture of the ingravings, doesn't rush with the lock latch.

It opens with a soft shuffle, and you hold your breath.

One movement — and his eyes take on a new depth, clear and shining with the reflection of the polished gems. Curiously, you glance at the cufflinks and oh, they are even better than you imagined.

The stones in the silver rim are large, like ripe cherries, their shine sharp and bright on black velvet. But you return back to his face, and there's no mistake: his eyes are still brighter. Truly unmatched.

Sylus purses his lips, still not looking at you. Did he not like them?

"So... What do you think?" your voice comes out before you can stop yourself, but it's too late. Sylus glances your way for a mere moment, and, when you think he won't answer at all, murmurs something illegible.

"What?"

"Why pomegranates?" he repeats, clearly this time.

You pause, caught off guard. "Well... They are..." the words are lost on your tongue, all too inappropriate, all too honest. You can't tell him the truth, can you? "The pomegranate is a gem of passion and power. It surely fits you, Your Grace," your voice comes out too cold this time, alomost impersonal. He sighs, ready to close the box-

"It reminded me of your eyes," you blush, looking away.

That finally makes him move.

You hear the sound of his slow footsteps, the clack of the box against the wooden tabletop, but when he gets closer, you're still unprepared for what's to come.

He doesn't rush, but then you shyly raise your gaze, he suddenly too close. His hand gently traces the wave of your long curl, and you blush noticeably deepens when he takes it to his lips.

"My eyes, huh?" Sylus can't seem to hide his grin behind the strand, his voice too pleased when he lilts, "Then why won't you meet them now?"

And you're breathless at once.

You try a tentative glance through your lashes, and he is already looking at you, intent and unblinking, and you freeze, fully enchanted.

"Oh, don't get shy now, Dear. I deeply appreciate your attention, so why don't you give me some more?"

"And what else do you want, Your Grace?" you breathe. He gets even closer, making his shadow swallow you completely. You feel cornered, small near his looming figure, but it only spurs mixed emotions inside. You trace the movement of his fingers as he plays with the strand, not daring to blink, to miss the flicker of his gaze.

You take it all in, eager even for a sliver of his time, but oh, how you want more.

"I do not know, my Dear," he steps further, urging you to come closer to his desk, "It’s not everyday that I receive gifts for such an occasion," the final step pushes you against the desk, and you feel something under your hand as you're forced to lean on it. Your heart skips treacherously when he adds, "Maybe you have something in mind already?"

For a moment, you just stare at him. What you have in mind? What he has in mind, cornering you like that?

You narrow your eyes, studying his face. Sylus seems calm, as hard to read as always, but something swims in his eyes, in the way his pupil diolate slightly, as if drinking you in. He looks relaxed, so maybe you can-

"Well I..." you watch him raise an eyebrow, urging you to continue, "I wanted to do something, actually."

You move a little to take the giftbox, turn it to him and open in as silent offering. He tilts his head curiously, and you brace yourself for his next reaction. "I was hoping to help you put them on. Can I?" you almost whisper.

And you watch in real time as Sylus visibly tenses, your strand slipping from his grasp. His smile quivers, and he looks down to the box, avoiding your gaze. His every next word is too quiet and curt, as if it costs him something to say it.

"I'm afraid they are simply to precious for the place I'm going to."

"Too precious?" your brows furrow. "But today is literally your birthday, Sylus. Where are you even going?"

"Nowhere fancy for sure," he straightens, looking somewhere behind you. "If something were to happen to them, I would be very upset, Dear. I'll wear them next time."

"Something to happen? Where are you going, Sylus?" You feel him slowly slipping from you, that avoidant behavior too familiar to you. Is he planning to meet up with her? On his birthday?

You search his eyes, but they are fixed on the cufflinks now, away from you. So all of this just to distract you for him to leave freely when you're satisfied? Like here, I took your present, now take your leave.

"Not too far away," he traces the box with his hand before closing it with a clack, indicating the end of discussion.The moment is gone.

Sylus rounds the table, take his fur coat from the nearby armchair and quickly buckles it up.

You straighten up, too, taking your hand off the table, and you can feel that there must be prints on it from where you were resting. And so it is: your palm is laced with lines, some larger than others, with a vague figure in the center, like a simple round face divided in half. It almost looks like a smiley, and you want to laugh in despair. Before you can see what has left such a ridiculous mark, Sylus scoops everything off the table into the top drawer and approaches you again.

"I'm sorry I have to leave you like that, Dear." His tone sounds too genuine, too full of emotion, but you don't allow you to believe him. Sylus takes you your hand once again and takes to his lips. His lips on your ring finger are even softer than his words as he promises, "I'II try to come back as fast as I can."

You don't answer, turning to the window.

After a few steps, you hear the door open, the fur of his cape rustling against the wood.

When the door closes, you don't turn around.

୨⎯ ✧ ⎯୧

You don't leave the study for a while.

The Duke's chambers are large, perhaps even too large for one person, with numerous cupboards and shelves that loom over you like a heavy wall. You don't know what's inside, and you've never been interested in finding out what all those doors hide, except for one.

The heavy, ornate oak door that leads to his bedroom.

You noticed it right away, but you didn't realize its bitter purpose at once: you could never guess that time that Sylus needed do many doors to hide from you.

Even now, alone with this silent barrier, the temptation still lingers within you. What lies within the heart of the estate? A place of unbearable despair or a corner of warm hope?

You cross the threshold before your thoughts go too far.

The corridor greets you with its usual coldness and the unusual noise that echoes off the walls. In the end of it, right by the stairs, next to the huge window you easily spot two similar figures, and sight, slowing down your steps.

"Counting crows, boys?" Luke and Kieran simultaneously jump and turn to you in fear, covering the view.

"Your Grace! We thought you were in your chambers!"

"Right, right! You usually go there than His Grace leaves for-" Kieran hits Luke's head and he suddenly stops, even more horrified.

"For what?" you raise an eyebrow, completely unimpressed by their performance. Their tense shoulders clearly indicate that you won't get an answer, so you take a step closer. "Come on guys, I know you can do better than that," you smile sadly. "Is Sylus there or something?" they don't even budge, so you wave them off, "You know that there's a window with the exactly the same view, right?"

That's gets Kieran by surprise, so you shove him gently to the side, almost preparing to see Sylus in the arms of a certain someone or something at the same level of despair, but what you see catches you by surprise. Luke tries to correct his brother's mistake and pulls on the edge of the thick curtain, but to no avail: there, two floors below, standing under the still-bare tree, is none other than Cardinal Zane. As if sensing the presence of new spectators, he turns his head slightly and nods briefly before returning to his original position.

"Huh. Why is he still here?"

"Still here? Have you already seen him, Your Grace?" Kieran stops himself from pulling the curtain on the other side of the window and turns to you.

"Yeah, I saw him a few hours ago, when he was leaving the study... Why, Sylus told you to keep me away from him?" you tilt you hald slightly, turning back to the twins, and smile. Because of course he did, but it looks like their plan is falling apart.

"What? Oh, of course not!"

"Of course he didn't, Your Grace! It's just that... it's not..." Luke is suddenly at a loss of words, and Kieran this time tries to save his brother.

"It’s not in your responsibilities to keep an eye on uninvited guests," he nods. He then takes you hand gently and guides you down the steps. "Who even cares about them, right, Luke? It's better for you to avoid worrying about such unnecessary nonsense and..." he nods to his twin, urging him to continue.

"And have some tea, Your Grace," Luke takes you by the other hand, and, slowly but very insistently, they help you down the stairs, making sure you don't look out the windows this time.

Sensing they won't leave you alone, you suddenly stop two steps before reaching the first floor, and sigh, making them turn to you.

"That sounds really nice, thanks you boys," you smile a little, before sighing again. "But... I'm not in the mood to sit alone in dining room though... And don't even start it," you wave them off, "I know you have more important things to do than sitting with me there in silence," you look down mastering your saddest voice. "So I think it will be better for me to have tea in my room instead."

Luke is the first one to object, "But the won't be silence, You Grace, we can-"

"Lucy will be free after she brings me the tea."

"I understand you, Your Grace, we're leaving now," Luke hurries Kieran down the steps and to the left, past the main entrance. "Tell her I'm waiting in the library!" he shouts as he turns the corner, and you wave him goodbye.

Then, after making sure they're nowhere to be seen, you ask one of the servants for your fur coat and quickly slip out the door.

୨⎯ ✧ ⎯୧

Snow seems to be an integral part of the landscape here: even in the middle of spring, it's still cold and wet, showing no signs of going away. Every step is accompanied by a soft squelch, and you're hoping that the moisture won't seep through your house shoes. You should have changed...

You round a corner, then another, the path wraping around the mansion like a ribbon, and look around.

The spot under the windows is empty now, deep imprints in the snow the only sign you didn't just imagine your guest.

The wind suddenly picks up with a new force and takes off your fluffy hood, forcing you to hastily turn away from the cold air. You sigh, impatiently trying to collect your hair, which is playing in the wind, but to no avail: the ribbon that was gathering the front strands slips from your chilled fingers. You try to catch it, but it easily flies higher, driven by the echoing flow, and you can only watch wearily as it slips away from you.

Slips away until it falls into someone else's palm.

Zayne stands on the hillside, confident and calm, not taking a single step towards you. His gaze, still poisonously green, patiently follows your every move as you approach. The snow on the hillside is even deeper, so you stop a short distance away, and he finally descends, seeing your indecision to ho further.

You bow, "Cardinal."

"Are you here to see me off personally, Lady Qin?" he rounds your form and heads back to the estate, clearly not in the mood for unnecessary talking. "There's no need. I won't linger any longer."

You straighten up, trying to catch up with him, but it's no use: his stride is twice as long as yours, and the boots peeking out from under his robes are clearly more suited for snow. Where he effortlessly cuts through the ground, you stumble clumsily, tripping over the hem of your dress.

"Wait!" you try to take a wide step and finally catch up with him, but the snow is even deeper than you expected, and you wince, losing your balance. "Wait, please, Cardina- Uh!"

Before you can fall, Zayne catches you gently and sets you down next to him on the cobblestone path. There's no expression on his stoic, pale face, but you still feel a sense of deja vu.

Do you have to stumble over every snowdrift?

"You ought to be more careful, Lady Qin," he turns away from you again, clearly intending to leave. "Your husband might think something improper if he sees you following me around like that," his tone is still disinterested as he glances at you over his shoulder. "Alone, running after another man only in your slippers... simply scandalous."

You huff, "Sylus is not like that."

At that, your guest finally stops. "He is exactly like that," he squints, as if waiting for your reaction. "Are you?"

"What?"

"Are you running after me, Lady Qin?"

This man. You suddenly remember Zayne from the novel, this quiet and well-mannered gentleman in white garments, a true angel incarnate, if their religion had any. Why is he talking to you like that?

"I need to talk to you."

"Oh?" there is no interest in his voice, just polite concern. "Talk then."

You give him an indignant look, but then stop yourself: you're not in a position to be act uninviting. Zayne is your shortest route to all the knowledge you need, so you don't have time to be picky.

Feeling your now drenched feet, you carefully inquire, "Why don't we go inside? It's awfully cold here."

"I don't mind the cold," he stands still, and you want to sigh out loud. Why all the men in here are so stubborn? But then, an idea crosses your mind. You've read the novel, so you should know something useful, right?

Something like certain someone's little weakness.

"Lady Qin?" your guest sounds like he's starting to lose patience, and you smile, bowing your head a little.

"Do come with me, Cardinal. A tea party. I'm inviting you."

At that, Zayne raises his eyebrows, but doesn't refuse.

୨⎯ ✧ ⎯୧

Perhaps only God and Lucy herself know how much time and effort it took for you to:

1) sneak a whole Cardinal into your room without the twins noticing;

2) convince Lucy that this is very important and no, you're not cheating, and yes, you need at least ten different kind of sweets for tea... two cakes aside, of course.

You can still feel the mistrust of her wary gaze on your skin, hear her voice as she's asking you why do you need to have a tea party in your room, when there are so many spare rooms in here. Her reluctant presence outside the door is a guarantee of your safety, of course, but you can already foresee a long conversation ahead.

But it doesn't matter now, so you shove as deep as you can the feeling of how wrong it feels to sit at a table with another man at your husband's birthday. In secret. While he's away.

Oh, you're digging your own grave at this point.

You look at your guest. The culprit, however, is not at all bothered by his conscience: he is not embarrassed by your ridiculous excuses, nor by his presence in your chambers. Zayne has remained delightfully quiet since he heard about the tea party, and he certainly hasn't said a word since the table was set. You look in surprise at the several empty plates in front of him, once filled with custard cookies, and hastily put yourself in order. At this rate, it'll run out of sweets before you even have a chance to ask.

Trying to get his attention, you gently pull the plate he was reaching for closer to you and take the last piece of cake. Zayne startles, clearly not expecting this, and then looks at you, regaining his serious expression.

"Right," he clears his throat. "It must've been rude of me to keep you waiting," you watch him straighten, as if quietly preparing for something. "What did you want to talk about, Lady Qin?"

And suddenly you're at a loss of words. You had never planned to talk to him in the first place, not even expecting to meet him so soon. Zayne, of course, was one of the male leads in the novel, but his story was strongly connected to the temple and it's afairs, so you guessed it would be hard to spot him in the wild. He had his own reasons to be connected to the heroine, none of which had anything to do with Sylus.... except the fact that his death brings them together.

So now, the part that interests you the most is — do they know each other? Because, well, even if you weren't that attentive while reading all of the Zayne-containing scenes, you definitely had reread all the Sylus ones at least thrice. And you certainly weren't blind. So why is Zayne even here?

It's unlikely It's his first visit, too, as he clearly knew where he was going back then, in the garden. Or when you lead him to your room, trying to do so as quietly as you can, and he just of handedly asked why didn't you gone through the main staircase. No doubt he knew something; you just don't know how much you can ask without revealing too much.

Too calm for a visitor, too careful for a guest. Just who are you in here, Cardinal Zayne?

Misreading your silence for belated embarrassment, Zayne tilts his head a little, averting his eyes from you to trace the rings on your fingers.

You realize too late that you're wearing too many.

"I see you have quite an eye for jewels, Lady Qin." You hastily place your hands on your knees, clutching the hem of your dress.

"Hardly so... but thank you," you blink. You need to step up now, before he takes the initiative. "As for-"

"I heard you like the rare ones more, through," he muses, looking back at you.

You search his eyes. Where is he going with that? Is he trying to distract you? But from what? "Most of the jewels in the North are rare, Cardinal. I usually just go for the ones that pull me in."

He smirks, and you suddenly feel caught, as if you said something you shouldn't have.

"The one's that pull you in, huh... Like Anima Lapis?"

And it takes everything in you not to gasp. How did he even-

"I'm afraid I'm not, following, Cardinal," you muster up your most clueless expression. "I certainly don't have those." You can't let him catch you. Not now, not then everything is so out of place-

"Yet." Zayne takes a slow sip from the cup, unmoving. "But you certainly won't be opposed to. Right?" he smiles.

You furrow your brows, but don't answer, lips tight.

"Right, Lady Qin?" his eye glints dangerously. "Right," he stands suddenly, not waniting for your answer. You only watch, in horor, as he slowly rounds the table, circling you, like a prey. A sinking feeling tells you he knew the answer all along.

One more step — and he is too close, too warm as he crotches down a little to look you in the eye. His hand on the back of your chair prevents you from looking away, but you don't even dare to blink.

Oh, you didn't plan this. You did not!

"Not so fierce now, are you?" he reaches for your face, and you close your eyes, as if in trance. You can feel his palm hovering just over your skin, the sensation almost tingling, but the moment you brace for the contact, it's gone.

You feel Zayne putting one of the curls behind your ear and tentatively open your eyes.

He looks a little different now, almost surprised. Eyes rake over your face again, curious, but then you meet them — he turns away, straightening.

You let go the breath you didn't know you were holding.

"Right," he repeats almost to himself, and glances back at you.

You purse your lips, cornered. Now that you're alone with him, you suddenly remember how unpredictable and dangerous Zane can be, not separated from you by the rustling of pages and the flow of letters. He's here, and the thought crosses your mind: you have nothing against him. Regardless how much he knows, one thing is certain: you can't reveal more to him before he reveals himself. This is not a matter of your honor, or your fear: there is something more at stake, and you take a deep breath, ready to fight.

"How do you know?" your voice is harsher than it should be, but it's a necessary measure, your invisible shield. Cautious, testing. What's the point of playing the hostess when both of you are aware of the state of affairs?

"Showing teeth at the first threat?" the sound of his quiet footsteps echoes like heartbeat in your chest. Zane slightly opens the curtain, indifferently looking out into the courtyard, "A true Qin you are, indeed."

"How do you know?" you press, and he just smiles bitterly.

"I've been there too."

The silence hangs over you like a ringing headache, too sudden to bear. His eyes — pure poison, clear and cold to the point of shivering. Something that cannot be conveyed in a few words. Danger.

You can't just read about it in a novel.

"Whatever you're looking for, Lady Qin, believe me, you won't find it. This path has already been taken, and there's only one end to it," Zayne comes closer and takes a few pastries from the plate, "A dead end."

"What are you-"

"Everything that is known about these stones has long been written in the church books. The legend cannot be changed."

"Don't humor, me, Cardinal," you stand up, fed up with his prevarication. "There is nothing but their names in there, and not a word about their nature."

"And you need more?" his tone is calm, almost moking.

"Is there more?"

Zayne doesn't answer you, turning back to the window. You watch in disbelief as he casually opens the balcony door, making you shiver from the cold.

With a gust of wind, a familiar feeling envelops you: you're about to lose him. Gathering your will and remaining audacity, you quickly place yourself beside him. The crack of the window frame echoes in your ears as you shut the door, but the Cardinal doesn't even blink, more entertained than annoyed.

"Is there more, Cardinal?"

Your breath catches when he suddenly leans in. With so little space between you, his voice is too clear when he says, "You're so similar, you know? You and Sylus." The name sounds strange on his lips, as if it belongs to a different time. "But your husband had a choice, and believe me, he made it on his own. You may have heard a different story, but it doesn't matter anymore. Don't put yourself in his position, Lady Qin, because there's no benefit for you in it."

"Can you just answer my question, Cardinal? I didn't come here to ask you for relationship advice."

He freezes, taking another look at you. Zayne purses his lips, as if he's already regretting what he's about to say, but this time he doesn't remain silent.

"There is only one legend, Lady Qin. The only thing that varies is the translation," he takes your hand from the door, slowly opening it again. "The original text wasn't written in imperial, so the first translations may be quite rough. They are fuller than what we know now, but extremely rare. A perfect gift, if you ask me."

And that still doesn't answer your question. You want to stop him, to close the door and ask again, but suddenly you hear the distinct sound of footsteps approaching, getting closer to your room.

Zayne politely bows his head, "I'm afraid we're about to be interrupted, Lady Qin. Thank you for your warm welcome."

"Cardinal, wait-"

"Greet the new moon with gratitude and await the full moon with awe. Everything will fall into place with the new cycle," he steps into the balcony, still facing you. "Glory to the Goddes."

And just as he's fully crossed the threshold, the door to your chambers suddenly opens, making the draft catch the curtains and you lose sight of Zayne's face behind a heavy, patterned canvas. Luke and Kieran fly into the room, breathless and disheveled, as if they were really going to catch you cheating. Lucy hurries after them, nervous and outraged to the core, as she pants, "Told you My Lady was just having tea!"

She hurries to close the balcony door, visibly shivering from the cold, and when you look outside, it's empty.

A single pastry lays in the snow on the tiles, the only trace left after your supposed interrogation.

Lucy reaches to close the curtains, eyeing you questionly. You don't stop her.

୨⎯ ✧ ⎯୧

Qin estate always turns so cold at night no matter the season, growing shadows that are hard to bear, impossible to escape.

Sylus never came back for dinner. Not that you'd really been hoping he would: you'd long since learned that any time period he mentioned was just a rough estimate when it came to her. But that didn't make it any easier.

The room is stuffy again, dimly lit by a candle on the bedside table. Surrounded by soft pillows, quilts, and the scent of tea, already cooled and as cold, you sit in silence, too restless to sleep.

The ring given to you by the Alva is cold in your palm, silent and unresponsive, as you search for a shred of meaning in Zayne's words.

This whole plan seems so naive now that you're alone with your thoughts, a fool's errand meant to fail. Uh, you almost want to cry.

Preoccupied with your worries, you don't notice how you clench your fist, flinching when you feel the sharp pattern of the ring on your skin. Surprised, you open your palm and scoff: the pattern imprint is clear, like a tattoo, all ridges in their place. It's small circle, close to a coin, and you run your fingers over it, deep in thought. Wait, why do you feel like you've seen this before...

You sit up abruptly, trying to remember where you've seen the pattern before. Memories of the day pass by in an usteady line: your dressing table, the box, Sylus's office, his table, him leaving..

His table.

The imprint left after you rested on it.

You slowly start to remember Sylus, how he hastily shoved everything on the table into a drawer, and pause. Zayne's words echo in your head, "...A perfect gift, if you ask me..."

Could he have gifted Sylus something with the temple's emblem on it? His words sounded as if they indeed knew eachother for a quite longtime, so could he have given him... the original translation?

You bite your lip, weighing your options. But you can't just sneak into his office to find out for sure, can you?

Turns out you can.

For the second time today, the door to the study stands before you like a silent barrier, and you take a deep breath, reaching for the handle. Well, there's no turning back now.

The door opens easily, and you slip inside like a shadow, rustling the hem of your long nightgown as you cross the threshold.

It's cold inside, too cold for someone dressed only in a shirt and a shawl, and you shiver, either from the chill or from your nerves, forcing yourself to hurry.

Illuminated by moonlight, like a signpost, the table stands a little to the window, and you rush around it, hoping to find the right drawer as quickly as possible.

Your heart beats with each step, making it difficult to concentrate and causing your hands to tremble. Thud-thud, thud-thud, and as soon as you see the right handle, you pull it without hesitation, eager to end this silent torture.

The drawer opens easily, revealing its treasures like a precious chest. Fountain pens, papers, white ribbon, an empty receipt, another stack of papers. But then, in the chaos of documents and stationary, something suddenly glitters, and you pull hopefully on the shiny part.

And just one glance is enough to see that you were right.

The book is small, but quite heavy, with almost sharp, metal-treated edges. It rests comfortably in your hand, blue-silvered by the moonlight, the perfect embodiment of the forbidden fruit. The familiar emblem in the center winks at you, reflecting the light, and you quickly come to your senses.

You need to get out of here.

Something suddenly comes over you then, something like fear mixed with a viscous anxiety, making you leave the room as quickly as possible. You don't remember closing the drawer and walking out into the hallway, and only one thought is clear in your head as you hastily climb the stairs, your steps far from light.

Something is wrong.

And you don't have to wait long to find out what it is.

You stop, nervously clutching the book to your chest under the wide fabric of your shawl, hoping to hide it with shaky hands.

Sylus stands right at the top of the stairs, facing the open door to your bedroom.

You've been caught.

✧ a.n. uhh guys hiii it's been a while 😭 burn out is rough & uni is not better but I hope the next chapter will be easier to write 🥀🙏

hope you enjoyed your 6.6 k meal 😋 now back on a diet 🫡

aaad inbox & requests are openn if you have something to say!! 💋💋 xoxo

✧ taglist: @napforalifetime @allycat2090 @vellihor @sillyfreakfanparty @eurynam @certainduckanchor @vyntheria @donotspeakunlessyouarenamjoon @mcdepressed290 @hao-ming-8 @loomslis @fallenchipsworld @glassandhoney @mariahuchiha90 @moonlight-inthe-sea @dilf-destroyer-04 @theferretkids @floofycookie @moonlight-dream54 @pepperushia @unknown-ends @needsumcomfypillowstosleep @poptrim @bloodline1632 @beesin03 @girlwith-kalei-do-scope-eyes @peachmartini @maryy237 @000rpheus

let me know if you want to be added too! ;)