min .=./

Granted, there are several reasons for the irritation simmering in your ten-year-old body. For one, you were stuck on a plane for over twelve hours, barely able to get a wink of sleep because of your father’s snoring that could rival the jet engines. Upon touchdown, it was ridiculously windy in London and the particularly strong gusts seemed to have a personal vendetta to knock you over. After surviving the hell that was customs and riding a taxi that reeked of cigarettes, it’d taken an outrageous amount of time to drag your luggage trunk up the cobblestone driveway of your new school. Surrounded by forests and a mile from the nearest city, the fortress that was Mount Othrys Preparatory School was effectively isolated from the rest of civilization. In its heyday, the castle structure had hosted all sorts of nobles and royalty, hence the need for a ridiculously long driveway. By the time you reach the front entrance where your parents were already conversing with their friends, your arms were aching and you could feel sweat beading at your temples. And to top it all off, Yoon Jeonghan was smirking at you like he was reveling in your suffering. 

Your mother’s fingers inconspicuously pinch your bicep and force you to tune back into the conversation.

“You remember Jeonghan and Seungcheol, I’m sure,” she says, referring to the two boys in front of you. You nod and school your face into careful blankness, your expression void of emotion just as your parents’ were. Seungcheol and Jeonghan were boys that you’d known of for most of your life but never knew closely, acquainted with them only by association because of your parents’ working relationships with the Chois and the Yoons. Growing up, you would see them in passing at Sector celebrations and holiday dinners; you could count the number of words you’d exchanged with either of them on one hand. Now you were attending Mount Othrys Preparatory School, a private boarding school exclusive to children under the High Table, and you’d be effectively stuck with them until you were eighteen. 

“You’re both much taller since the last time we saw you,” your father comments. “At the rate you’re growing, you’ll be able to serve the Table by the time you graduate.” Seungcheol’s response is measured and easily forgettable. You figured he was like you–he understood the importance of rules and maintaining appearances. On the other hand, Jeonghan’s smirk stretches into a cocky grin. It makes your stomach flip and simultaneously churn…or maybe that was your hunger talking. 

“Yes, and we would imagine doing nothing less with our lives, sir,” Jeonghan declares with a little too much fervor and you catch the side-eye Seungcheol sends to the boy next to him. “What does it matter if we have hopes and dreams of our own if they don't serve the Table?” You’re too young to completely understand the concept of sarcasm, but the effect lands on you all the same; you’re left wondering what possesses someone to say something like that. Your entire life was built on following rules, obeying your parents and, above all, serving the High Table; to put it simply, the hopes and dreams you had at ten years old were the High Table. However, you learn quickly that Jeonghan’s favorite pastime was to test limits, to poke the bear that was authority and see if it roared back. Your eyes narrow and you look to your parents to gauge what your own reaction should be, but if they catch the snark in Jeonghan’s words, they don’t show it. 

“Perhaps after you graduate, you can work under the Table together, as we do,” Mrs. Yoon proposes and the other adults nod in agreement. “I’m told you would make a wonderful adjudicator,” she comments, looking at you with a stare that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand straight. 

“She will,” your father confirms. “I’ve told her that if she isn’t class president by this time next year, she will not be welcome home.” You know he means it in a jesting manner, as the rest of the parents respond with politely bland laughs that don’t seem to carry humor, yet you struggle to release the sudden tension in your jaw. 

“Enforcing rules is your parents’ specialty, after all,” Mr. Choi adds and something in your chest tightens. “Tax collectors are unsung heroes under the Table. Without them, we would have no order.” 

“Sir,” you acknowledge despite your throat drying up. Both Seungcheol and Jeonghan are eyeing you warily, but you ignore them. You maintain your perfect composure through the rest of the dull conversation and afterward, as your parents’ taxi disappears down the road. 

You don’t cry when they leave–crying was prohibited in your household–and you make it a point to avoid both Seungcheol and Jeonghan the moment all of your parents are gone. You could see yourself getting along with Seungcheol just fine, but the fact that he and Jeonghan came as a package deal was akin to receiving a pencil and a grenade for Christmas. One you could deal with, but the other was so volatile that you might as well not deal with either at all. 

When the school year begins, you slip into the rhythm of classes and homework, following the rules as your parents expected you to. You weren’t without temptation, though; the other girls in your dormitory broke rules as easily as blinking. Megan snuck out after curfew on a nightly basis. Manon stowed dinner rolls in her blouse to snack on later. Lara and Daniella drew tattoos on each other in the bathroom. Sophia and Yoonchae carved their initials onto the bookshelves of the library. Part of you wanted to join them for the thrill, to see how far you could get away with something before authority stepped in, but your parents’ words always echoed in the back of your mind: Without rules, there can be no order. Without order, there can be no control. So, you keep your head down and maintain your perfect grades, tuck yourself into bed promptly at curfew and continue to evade Seungcheol and Jeonghan like they carried the plague. 

Your first year was deceptively easy. You excelled in your studies and were able to present your grades to your parents proudly, to which they would look at the paper and dismiss you without another word. As the year progresses, your eleventh birthday occurs without fanfare; your parents send a single vanilla cupcake to your dorm and give you a book about the history of the High Table. Fortunately for you, Seungcheol and Jeonghan were in different classes for your entire first year, so you only ever saw them briefly during break times in the castle gardens or the common areas. When you did make eye contact with either of them, Jeonghan would wave at you enthusiastically until Seungcheol yanked his arm down. Megan theorized that one of them had a crush on you, but crushes weren’t something you entertained simply because you knew your parents would already choose a husband for you; there was no point in being attracted to anyone else. You were far from ugly, if your friends’ constant gushing about your appearance was any indicator, yet you found yourself disinterested in their discussions on boys. Sophia and Lara still enjoyed teasing you, though, whenever Jeonghan was within sight of your group.

Ironically, the first time you break a rule is because of Yoon Jeonghan.

You were already struggling with algebra from the beginning of your second year–math was never your strong suit and your mind simply could not wrap itself around the concepts you were being taught. It didn’t help that Jeonghan, who you heard had nearly been expelled, was seated on your immediate right. Seungcheol sat in front of him, to your diagonal right, so you were forced to contend with Jeonghan’s antics on your own. But now, a small part of you missed Jeonghan talking your ear off and trying to slip doodles into your notebook as you redo the same problem for the third time. Your brain wasn’t remembering formulas correctly and every time you attempted the problem, one of your variables was wrong. You swallow the lump in your throat, erase your work, and fight back the tears pricking the corner of your eyes. From your peripheral vision, you see Jeonghan and Seungcheol taking their exams as well. 

Jeonghan clears his throat.

Seungcheol shifts in his seat. 

Jeonghan scribbles something down and then erases it.

Seungcheol scratches the back of his neck.

Jeonghan slips Seungcheol a small piece of paper while the teacher’s back is turned.

Wait. 

Your brain does a double-take and you watch as the paper disappears between Seungcheol’s fingers, all while Jeonghan wears the same self-assured grin that irked you a year ago. Your heart rate picks up as you start to realize what they were doing. Your friends cheated on exams, but it never crossed your mind that these two could do it too. It was so antithetical to your moral code that you just stare at them, frozen in shock. Your knee-jerk instinct is to raise your hand and report them to the teacher. It’s what your parents would want you to do, the same way they wanted you to get high grades and maintain a higher moral standard. Without rules, there can be no order. But, another thought makes your arm feel too heavy to lift. It’s not a fully formed thought, per se, but rather a memory of Jeonghan’s smirk that could fool you into thinking he was the king of the world. Without order, there can be no control. 

Why did it still feel like they were in control, even if they weren’t following the rules?

You look back down at the pencil lead smudged over your exam paper. The ink of the problem bleeds from a single water droplet that has fallen and–oh. You were crying. Embarrassed, you aggressively wipe at your eyes with the heels of your hands and flinch when you sniffle too loudly. Your parents weren’t here, but you were still breaking one of their rules. If you didn’t receive high marks on this exam, your grades would fall, and you would be breaking another one of their rules. The idea of breaking two of their rules makes you nauseous and you push down the next wave of tears that well up like a dam trying to overflow. With a shaky exhale, you glance to your right. 

Jeonghan is already looking at you. 

You glare and snap your attention back to your paper, shoving the tears streaking down your face to the side. It’s no use; every new attempt to lift your pencil is overtaken by panic. You can still feel Jeonghan’s eyes on you, but you also feel like everyone’s eyes are on you, because why would you be crying during a math exam? It was pathetic, and your parents would think it’s pathetic, and your friends would think it’s pathetic, and the High Table would think it’s pathetic, and Jeonghan would think it’s pathetic, and a balled up scrap of paper has appeared on your desk–

A balled up scrap of paper has appeared on your desk.

When you look back at Jeonghan, his smile has vanished and his gaze is only on his exam paper. He clears his throat and you realize that he might be trying to avoid your eyes. You look at him, then back at the paper, then back at him…and uncrumple the ball. 

circumference of half-circle: πr, add the two triangle sides’ lengths to get circumference of whole shape. and please stop crying it’s making me sad too

You blink at the paper and abruptly stop crying, a renewed sense of energy driving you to plug in variables and side lengths in a way that you’d somehow neglected to before. Sure enough, when the problem was solved, the solution actually made sense and, checking your work five times, you were sure you answered correctly. You turn in your exam to the teacher, who raises an eyebrow at your red-rimmed eyes, and return to your seat just as Seungcheol and Jeonghan rise to turn in theirs. You watch the teacher carefully as he takes their papers, but there’s no face of alarm or scolding to be found. No, Jeonghan and Seungcheol had cheated on the algebra exam and evaded getting caught. You had cheated on your algebra exam and evaded getting caught. 

Odd. If your parents’ rules were so ingrained in your mind that disappointing them sent you on a downward spiral, then why weren’t you more panicked? Why weren’t you groveling at the feet of the teacher or dragging Seungcheol and Jeonghan to the front to expose their academic dishonesty? Perhaps, in your eleven-year-old mind, you had finally scratched the itch to break a rule and see if you could get away with it, and Jeonghan had helped you. Jeonghan, who was now poking Seungcheol’s back and then pretending to be innocent when the other boy looked over his shoulder with a frown. You smile at their antics. Jeonghan catches you looking and grins back. 

You start sitting with them in the library a week later.

—

At twenty-two years old, Jeonghan has found a new game to pass the time. 

He still hunts as he normally does, targets that Seungcheol deems a threat to the Sector as well as a few low-level nobodies that fetch a couple hundred million won each. He uses the reward money to buy plane tickets and designer clothes and real estate holdings that he doesn’t really care about. He doesn’t care about anything these days, not since he saw you for the first time in four years at the 34th annual Sector celebration a few months ago. Your eyes were distant, dull. You looked through him like he was a spectre, like he wasn’t your rock for eight years and your lover for less than that. You called him Jeonghan, not ‘Han’ or ‘Hannie.’ Jeonghan, like he was just another cog in the High Table machine as you had become. Jeonghan. 

As if he wasn’t the love of your fucking life. 

It starts with framing a business that has a clean record with the High Table. After four years in the underworld and a lifetime of dodging authority, he knows what kind of information to slip to certain ears that will have the Table sending an Adjudicator to someone’s door. The business is always audited and, once the Adjudicator finds that nothing is out of place, left with a warning and the occasional slap on the wrist. Jeonghan’s goal was never to sabotage a business or sow unnecessary mayhem; he just needed a way to smoke out Adjudicators.

It’s well past midnight when a car pulls up to the front of the apartment building. From his position hidden in the shadow of the apartment’s side alley, he spots a middle-aged man with a goatee and an eyebrow slit exit the vehicle. The man’s black trenchcoat swishes behind him as he walks, his boots clicking on the stone steps as he punches in a keycode at the door. Bingo. Jeonghan moves like a ghost, stepping out of the darkness and slipping into the building just before the door latches. 

Dressed in stealth black and a well-loved messenger bag slung at his hip, he looks like the most fashionable burglar to ever grace the state of New York. His gloved hands brush his cheeks as he pulls his neck gaiter over the bottom half of his face, silently following his target up the stairs and toward his unit. There is no blood racing through Jeonghan’s ears, no heartbeat pounding with the insistence of a grandfather clock. No, his mind is completely blank, instinct taking over and driving him into a flow state like a lion hiding in tall grass. By the time the Adjudicator realizes Jeonghan is there, the syringe of anesthesia is already stabbed into his neck and the plunger is mercilessly pushed in. The man’s knees buckle and Jeonghan uses his key to let himself into the apartment, lugging the unconscious tenant in with him. A peek into the hallway shows the broken security cameras and neighbors none the wiser, so he gently shuts the door and secures the latches. 

He works quickly now, dragging the man across the hardwood to lean against the couch, removing his coat and anything from his pockets that could be of value, and cuffing his hands and feet with zip ties. There’s no point in bothering with a blindfold nor a gag, since by the time his target’s consciousness returns, Jeonghan will be long gone. With the Adjudicator accounted for, he turns his attention to his real prize–whatever was in the man’s pockets. Like the other four Adjudicators Jeonghan had ransacked, the man carried the same trinity of a phone, a wallet, and the hefty metal coin that signified an agent as an Adjudicator. Actiones Secundum Fidei reads the script under the ouroboros serpent. Actions according to belief. Anger flashes in his chest and he welcomes it. 

He’s just slipped the phone, wallet, and coin into his bag when his own phone rings. He reads the contact name, considers declining, and answers with an indifferent sigh.

“Yes, Jupiter?”

“Where are you?” Seungcheol’s voice is clipped. 

“New York,” Jeonghan replies, careful not to reveal which borough. If Seungcheol knew he was in Manhattan, he could have Jun and Seungkwan on his tail within a few hours; he wasn’t in the mood to explain to his friends why he was systematically robbing Adjudicators. With his phone squished between his ear and his shoulder, he continues to dig in the pockets of the Adjudicator’s coat, suit jacket, and dress pants.

“Are you working right now?” A keycard labeled ‘MET MUSEUM’ and another labeled ‘NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM’ are tucked into the right interior pocket of the man’s coat.

“Sort of,” Jeonghan evades. He tosses both cards into his bag, even taking the folded post-it note of phone numbers he didn’t recognize. He’d have to find someone to check who the numbers belonged to. He was never hunting for anything particular on these little detours, but it was nice to gather what information he could. “I’m kind of busy right now, Cheol.”

“Really? Because I just got off the phone with Joshua, who has been waiting at the bar of the New York Continental for almost an hour,” Seungcheol disagrees and Jeonghan grimaces. 

“Ah, the Continental? I was just about to leave for it,” he lies. In his excitement to rob another Adjudicator, he’d completely forgotten about his catch-up meeting with Joshua. Joshua was too kind to hold anything against him for too long, but that left Seungcheol and his eerily accurate intuition to worry about. Even if Joshua forgave him, his slip up had alerted the leader of his Sector, who would now press him endlessly until he confessed his activities. It was how Seungcheol kept them all in line–he knew everything about his members, down to their shoe sizes and allergies. “Could you hang up and let him know I’ll be on the way soon?”

“You’re not getting out of this so easily, Yoon Jeonghan,” threatens Seungcheol. The warning goes through one ear and out the other, though, as he roots around the last pocket and comes up with a USB drive the size of his thumb. There’s a small strip of duct tape on it, and scribbled in dark ink are the words ‘PROJECT: HARVEST.’ His eyebrows pinch. The Sectors made a point to know almost everything about the inner workings of the High Table, yet Jeonghan had never heard of such a project before. Harvest? What could the High Table possibly have to harvest? “Hey, are you even listening to me?” Jeonghan blinks and realizes that he had not registered a word Seungcheol had said. 

“Not at all, boss,” Jeonghan responds and he can hear his friend’s exhale from the other end of the line. With the Adjudicator’s pockets emptied, there was only one thing left to do to complete his ritual of thievery, but it would prove difficult if he also had to placate Seungcheol at the same time. “If reminding me of my meeting with Joshua is all you called about, then I’ll let you go now–”

“We’re worried about you, Jeonghan,” Seungcheol pleads. “You’ve been different since the Sector celebration. Everyone has noticed how quiet you’ve become, and don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve conveniently stopped replying to status check-ins.” 

“God forbid a man wants a little privacy,” Jeonghan snarks, making his way into the kitchen with his phone still smushed under his ear. “I’m just taking some time for myself, that’s all. Joshua’s been telling me that I need better self-care practices.”

“Ghosting your friends isn’t self-care,” Seungcheol deadpans. “Is this about her?” Of course it was about you. It was always about you.

“Why would you assume that?” Sometimes Adjudicators didn’t have something readily available to write with, so he would resort to drawing on people’s faces; fortunately, Jeonghan finds a small pad of paper and a pen in the drawer next to the oven. 

“When is it ever not about her?” Jeonghan fights a scowl and focuses on his work. He sketches the same image etched in his signet ring onto the hot pink square of paper, peels it from the pad, and returns to the Adjudicator. With an unceremonious slap, he sticks the picture to the man’s forehead and steps back to admire his work. “She’s my friend too, Jeonghan. I already lost her. I can’t lose you too.”

“I’m right here, Cheol. Talking to you. Can’t lose someone who’s still around,” Jeonghan states more shrewdly than he intended. The man’s pockets were emptied and he’d left his untraceable signature for whoever came looking for the unaccounted-for Adjudicator. Done. 

“She’s technically still around, too, but I think we can both agree we lost her after graduation,” Seungcheol spits. 

“You lost her after graduation. I lost her before that,” argues Jeonghan. It was easier to scorn you–to try and fall out of love with you–if he placed the blame for you leaving solely on you. Not your parents, not the Table, not Seungcheol, not himself and his failure to keep you safe. “Look, it was her decision to become an Adjudicator.”

“Was it?” Jeonghan knows in his soul that that isn’t the complete truth. He has his theories, but at the end of the day, your disappearance and subsequent reappearance several months ago remained a mystery.

“It was,” he insists. “She’s the one that abandoned us.”

“And we let her leave. We let her slip away. Why did we do that?” Seungcheol was never this vulnerable with the other members, only Jeonghan, and a small part of him hated the responsibility of knowing the worst of the Sector leader’s open wounds. “Couldn’t we have fought for her a little harder?” 

“I don’t know why the fuck you’re asking me this,” Jeonghan snarls and ignores the pang of guilt. His nose is burning, the familiar feeling of fighting back tears. It wasn’t fair for him to snap at his friend who just wanted to make sure he didn’t lose another loved one. 

“Because I know that you ask yourself the same questions,” Seungcheol replies tiredly. Jeonghan sighs deeply and pinches the bridge of his nose as he changes the subject. 

“You have any work for me?” He asks, knowing he had to lie low for a little bit while the High Table continued its investigation into who was harassing its Adjudicators. There was no law prohibiting going after agents of the High Table, only common sense and fear of the Table’s retribution, but he was sure he was still pissing someone off. Maybe it was Kronos. The thought makes him smile.

Jeonghan liked pissing off Kronos.

“No. I was just checking up on you, but you decided to be an asshole,” Seungcheol frowns. “Try not to be as much of a dick to Joshua, yeah?”

“Being an asshole is who I am, Choi Seungcheol,” Jeonghan replies carelessly. “How you’ve weathered it for nearly a decade is beyond me.” 

“I somehow doubt that.” His eyebrow quirks.

“What, that you’ve weathered it for nearly a decade?”

“No, you idiot,” Seungcheol corrects impatiently. “That being an asshole is who you are.” He goes to the window, slides it open, and climbs onto the fire escape. 

“Hasn’t made much of a difference, has it?” He doesn’t look back at the Adjudicator and his drawing of a sickle on the pink post-it as he lightly descends the metal steps. Seungcheol is quiet on the other end of the phone, the kind of quiet when someone doesn’t know what to say. “I’m on my way to the Continental now,” Jeonghan says as his shoes meet the wet alleyway asphalt and carry him in the direction of his car. “I’ll tell Joshua you said hello.”

“Be smart, Jeonghan,” Seungcheol says, a farewell more than a warning. He yanks the driver’s side door harder than he intends and even the swell of his engine sounds angry. His mouth curls into a humorless smile. 

“Aren’t I always?”

— 

From On the Proceedings of the High Table (1954) by Kronos IV

“The newly established Order of Tax Collectors will, no doubt, be of vital use to those seated at the Table and their subsidiaries. I can only imagine how much more efficiently business can be conducted now that the Table has designated agents to acquire tribute, similar to the role of the Adjudicator and her task in enforcing the policies of the Table. A sword and a spear, I believe–one to enforce legal policy and one to enforce financial policy. For without rules, there is no order. Without order, there can be no control.”

Your skin warms comfortably under the afternoon sun. It’s peaceful at your table next to the window, and from the second floor of the castle, you can catch the sound of other students playing in the yard outside. The library smells of old paper and wood polish, as well as the robust scent of coffee from the librarian’s desk. All is calm until Jeonghan drops himself into the chair in front of you. 

“I found a new way to escape the grounds,” Jeonghan says excitedly while you and Seungcheol are nose-deep in your textbooks. You ignore him with a shake of your head. Seungcheol doesn’t even blink, returning to a passage about the effects of the Industrial Revolution. You can sense the renewed energy spark in Jeonghan’s body; at twelve years old, you should know by now that failing to get something the first time only motivates him further. There’s a rustling noise as Jeonghan digs around in his bag for a piece of paper, slapping it down on the table with enough force to drag away both your attention and Seungcheol’s. “Take a look.” 

“What are we looking at?” Seungcheol questions with a frown, looking down at the map of the castle in confusion. “This is just a floorplan.” You’re inclined to agree, but a scrawl of writing on the yellowed parchment makes you take pause.

“No, wait. Look at the labels of the rooms,” you point out, focusing on the area that should have been labeled as the dining hall. “Where we take meals is labeled as weapons storage. Why would we need weapons storage at a prep school?” When you look at Jeonghan, he’s already staring with a mischievous smile. “Alright, Yoon. We’re paying attention. What is this?” 

“This, my friends, is a map of the castle when it was still being used as a castle. I found it tucked behind a book on Sumerian agriculture,” he proudly informs you and Seungcheol. You share a skeptical look with the latter. 

“It’s cool history, I guess,” Seungcheol comments, his tone unsure. 

“Fun to know they used to store spears where Megan and Yoonchae fight over the last serving of chicken,” you offer. “How is an old map supposed to help you get off castle grounds?” You ask and Jeonghan looks like a magician preparing for his final trick of the night. He pulls another piece of paper from his bag with a flourish–it’s a wonder he could find anything in there, considering how much stuff he shoved into it–and lays it carefully over the first map. 

“Remember this old thing I found in the helmet of one of the medieval armor sets?”

“I told you to stop touching those,” Seungcheol grumbles. “The groundskeeper already gave the boys’ dorms a warning because he found the sword you failed to replace.”

“I didn’t get caught, did I?” Jeonghan replies. He picks up both papers and holds them up to the window, allowing the light to diffuse through. You squint and, after a few seconds, realize that the top layer of the paper marks a series of lines running through the castle’s many rooms, even demarcating where the second through fourth floors begin and end. The majority of the lines go from room to room, but four extend beyond the walls of the castle in each cardinal direction, into the forest where students were prohibited to go. The pieces click in your head.

“Are these–”

“Tunnels,” Jeonghan finishes. “Twenty, to be exact. Sixteen allow users to navigate between the castle’s rooms, but four can be used as exits. The east tunnel, specifically,” he points to the line extending to the right of the castle, “spits you out in the forest and it’s only another thirty minute walk until you’re in the city.” 

“But it’s in the dark and there’s no path,” Seungcheol points out. “The rest of the forest extends for miles. What happens when you get lost?” 

“That’s what compasses and flashlights are for,” replies Jeonghan.

“You barely passed geography,” you remind him. “How are you supposed to travel thirty minutes, in the dark, with a map you don’t know how to read?” Jeonghan’s eyes sparkle as they bore right into you. 

“It’s a good thing I have a wonderful friend who passed geography with flying colors, isn’t it?” You gape at him. He beams at you innocently. You could manage your guilt from cheating on math exams, something you did relatively often now thanks to Jeonghan and Seungcheol, but breaking more rules still filled you with dread as heavy as a boulder. Sneaking off campus was punishable by expulsion, yet Jeonghan was discussing it like it was his winter holiday plans. 

“You want me to help you sneak off campus,” you state and he nods cheerfully. “In the dark. Where we could get lost. Or expelled.”

“Yep!” Jeonghan chirps. Seungcheol is quick to cut in, his expression hardening. 

“Absolutely not,” he says. “You’re not dragging her into your risk-taking.” 

“That’s not up to you to decide,” Jeonghan argues. 

“Fine,” Seungcheol glares and his attention turns to you. “You are not getting dragged into his risk-taking.” 

“You’re not the boss of her, Choi Seungcheol,” Jeonghan interrupts before you can speak. His voice develops an edge that you don’t hear often, something you only experienced when his patience was truly thinning. “She already has enough people telling her what to do, all the damn time.” You bristle; Jeonghan was the only one who openly spoke out against your tendency to follow what everyone, especially your parents, was telling you to do.

“And you’re telling her to help you get into trouble,” Seungcheol fires back. Even though you’ve heard the two bicker before, this argument was eerily reminiscent of your parents’ discussing your future without you having any say in it, despite being in the room with them. “How is that any different?” 

“Because I’m not telling her to do anything,” Jeonghan scoffs. “I want her to stop being a goody-two-shoes, flip the bird to mommy and daddy, and take a risk for once.” You stiffen as your frustration boils over, and you fight to keep your voice at a volume appropriate for a library.

“And I want you both to stop talking about me like I’m not sitting right here,” you snap, fixing the boys with a glare that has them both shrinking into their seats. “I mean, are you kidding me? I can make my own decisions. Seungcheol is not the boss of me. No one is,” you tell Jeonghan, yanking your bag open and shoving your books inside. 

“That’s not what I was trying to–” Jeonghan attempts, but you steamroll over his words while you continue to toss your things into your bag.

“And Jeonghan’s lost his mind if he thinks I’m going to help him,” you say to Seungcheol, who holds his palms up in surrender. “Not because I’m a goody-two-shoes who doesn’t know how to take risks, but because I understand how crucial rules are to our society, and nothing will ever change that.” The zip of your bag punctuates the tense silence. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to study in the girls’ dorm. I can’t deal with either of you right now.” You throw your bag over your shoulder and stalk out of the library, leaving the boys to sit in their shame as you try and ignore how Jeonghan’s words were cutting like a knife between your ribs. 

A few hours later, you’re perched on the windowsill of the girls’ common room, resting your cheek on your knees that you hug close to your chest. The common room is located on the second floor of the castle, overlooking the back gardens. There’s a fountain in the center and different rings of flowers grow between the cobblestone walking paths, perfect for picnics on warm spring days and snowball fights during winter. Now, you let your eyes wander and linger on the water cascading down the carved marble women in the fountain holding jars or bending to caress the pools under their feet. 

“We’re gonna sneak into the pantry; you want anything?” Manon whispers as she slips on her shoes near the door, breaking you from your trance. Daniella and Lara appear as well, throwing coats over their sleeping clothes. 

“I’m alright, thank you.” You tilt your head at the sound of their shoes knocking against the wooden floors of the dorm. “Can I ask a question before you guys leave?” 

“Of course, did you change your mind?” Lara asks, a little excited at the idea of you accompanying them. 

“No, I’m full from dinner,” you confirm and their smiles turn into pouts. “I swear.”

“You never go out with us,” Manon argues. 

“Because it’s against the rules,” you point out dryly. “And I don’t break rules. You know this.”

“Maybe we’ll have Yoonchae ask you next time,” proposes Daniella. “We’ve been trying a system where each of us asks you, and we see who you’ll respond to the best.” You snort. 

“Maybe you just need to find the right rule I would be willing to break,” you remark and they look at you skeptically. 

“Or maybe,” Manon begins, “It’s a matter of someone who’s not us asking.” Daniella catches on and wiggles her eyebrows at you; you know what they’re implying before Lara can open her mouth. 

“Would you break the rules if it were Jeonghan asking?” Lara goads with a teasing lilt in her voice. Your face heats and you quickly steer the conversation in a different direction.

“Enough,” you plead. “Look, I’m just saying–is the floor in the pantry stone or wood?” 

“Uh, wood. I think?” Dani replies. 

“You might want to wear your flats instead, then,” you recommend. “The heels might echo too loudly on the floorboards.” You have no idea why you’re telling them this. Even if you weren’t going down with them, advising them on how to avoid getting caught was just as bad. Jeonghan’s smirk unwillingly flashes across your memory again but instead of feeling angry, you just feel an ache in your chest. The girls think for a moment and then nod, toeing off their shoes and retrieving their flats from the bedrooms. Daniella’s out first and she pokes her head into the hallway to warn Sophia, Yoonchae, and Megan, who hurry to retrieve their flats as well. “Have fun,” you call and they send you a grateful smile. 

“If there’s anything sweet hiding in the shelves, we’ll pick it up for you,” Sophia promises.

“You’re always welcome to join us,” Megan adds. 

“Thanks, but I’m good here. Don’t get caught,” you conclude and they file out the door in their flats and their coats, six sets of footsteps padding much quieter than before. The common room is empty once again and you turn back toward the window, just in time for a pebble to launch itself at the glass. You startle backward so violently that you almost fall from your seat, and you’ve just regained your bearings when another pebble thuds against the glass. Your face pinches in confusion and you press your hands against the glass to look down at what could be tossing pebbles at your window from the garden. 

But when you focus on the garden below, it’s not what is throwing pebbles, but who. 

You roll your eyes and scooch as far away from the glass as you can, but Jeonghan lobs three more pebbles before you finally appear at the window again. He’s waving like he wasn’t both breaking curfew and damaging school property. When he gestures for you to come down and meet him in the garden, you adamantly shake your head. Not only was being outside the dorms after curfew against school rules, but you were also still mad at him for speaking so flippantly about you in the library. You’re about to shut the curtains for good, but the piece of paper he’s unfolded and holding up for you to see makes you pause. 

“I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. Please come down before I get caught,” you read under your breath, a laugh escaping you before you can catch it. You sigh and, five minutes later, you’ve donned your own flats and coat and slipped out of the dorm. 

“I knew you could do it,” Jeonghan remarks slyly, appearing from behind one of the stone pillars surrounding the perimeter of the garden. 

“If I’m going out of my way to sneak out after curfew, I want a better apology than something written on the back of your homework,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I know you do,” he confirms. “C’mon, I have somewhere we can talk.” He leads you through the hallways and ducks into a dark space that you thought was a closet, but ends up opening into a narrow stairway. Climbing the steps, you end up at a trapdoor that Jeonghan opens upward with a creak. You pull yourself up into the space with Jeonghan right behind you, and realize that you’re in a small nook at the top of one of the castle’s towers. It’s so small that you can almost touch both walls with your arms extended, but the view from a gap in the stones overlooks the entire front of the school. In the distance, you can see the lights of the city flickering like candlelight. 

“How’d you find this place?”

“Finding things in nooks and crannies also means I find new nooks and crannies,” he explains, sitting down and settling back against the bricks. 

“When did you find this one?” 

“Last week. I was gonna show you and Cheol earlier today, but then we started arguing like idiots and ruined the surprise.”

“Yeah, you were being idiots.” Despite your ire, you join him on the floor, sitting almost shoulder to shoulder. 

“Are you still mad at me?” You exhale shakily and try to keep your voice as even as possible.

“I am. It hurts, what you said about me being a goody-two-shoes.” His signature grin is gone from his face in a way that’s unnerving. “I mean, I know I basically am a goody-two-shoes, but the way you said it, like me following rules was a burden to you…that’s the part that hurt.” He nods and his throat bobs as he swallows. “I never want to be something holding you back.”

“You’re not a burden,” he promises. “You never are and you never will be.” The sincerity in his voice sends another ache through your chest. Your parents were never as honest or earnest with you as Jeonghan was.

“I can’t–I don’t know how not to follow rules,” you continue. “It’s just part of who I am. It’s what makes sense. It’s my comfort zone.” 

“I know,” he says. “It makes me sad, though. To me, rules aren’t fun, and if you follow them all the time, then you can’t have fun.” 

“Why do you follow certain rules, then? Attending class and turning in assignments are rules, and you follow those all the same.”

“Just because I follow them doesn’t mean it’s fun. I follow certain rules so I can better break others,” Jeonghan explains. You think it makes sense, in a way that only could for Jeonghan and no one else. “Do you have fun following rules?”

“I have fun when I’m with you,” you comment. “Sometimes I forget that rules exist when I’m with you, and I guess that’s the most fun about it. But going out of my way to break rules just for the sake of breaking them? I don’t know how you do it. It’s scary.” You pull your legs close to your chest and rest your chin on your knees, just as you’d done on the windowsill. 

“I’m sorry for hurting you. I don’t ever wanna do that,” Jeonghan vows and something in your stomach flutters. “I just want you to be happy. If following rules makes you happy, then I’m not in a place to tell you differently.” You don’t know why your nose burns and you suddenly have the urge to cry at how honest and understanding he was being with you; your parents never once asked what would make you happy, but they did love to tell you everything differently than what you believed. “Can I ask you something, though?” 

“Sure.”

“Have you ever done anything that made you happy that wasn’t following rules?” Your eyebrows furrow as you search your memories for any experience of the sort, but you come up empty-handed. 

“No, I don’t think I have.” 

“Then how do you know that following rules is the only thing that makes you happy?” You pause again.

“I guess I don’t? I’ve never really had the opportunity to find anything else, so following rules just became that source of happiness for me,” you theorize and you start to hear the cogs turning in Jeonghan’s brain. “Whatever you’re about to say, if it gets me in trouble, then I don’t want to hear it,” you caution and he bursts out laughing. 

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You didn’t need to–I could hear your thoughts from over here!” You counter, a smile growing on your face. It was hard to stay angry at Jeonghan, especially when he kept looking at you like you were more special than any treasure he found in the castle. “So, when’s your first trip out of the castle?”

“Actually, I just came back.” Your jaw drops. 

“No way.” He makes an ‘X’ over his heart with his finger. 

“Swear on my life, I went out into the city. Granted, it was only for maybe ten minutes before I got lonely, but I did pick this up from a metalsmith for you.” Jeonghan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small burlap bag. He hands it to you and you pull open the drawstrings, shaking the bag out into your hand where a gold signet ring falls into your palm. You glance at him accusatorily, and he throws his hands up. “I got me and Cheol rings too! I’m not proposing to you!” 

“Thanks for the clarification, considering we’re literally twelve,” you snort and admire the craftsmanship in the sliver of moonlight shining into the tower, the image etched into the metal catching your eye. A lion roars back at you, its face reaching the edges of the circle where it was carved. 

“Do you like it? I thought the lion looked cool.” 

“I–I don’t know what to say,” you stutter. “I’ve never gotten anything like this.” You slip the gold ring onto your middle finger and watch it shine in the light. 

“But do you like it?”

“I love it,” you murmur. “Thank you, Jeonghan. What’d you get for you and Cheol?” Jeonghan shows you another gold ring wrapped around his own middle finger, and you squint at the carved symbol, a curved blade. 

“This one’s mine. I think the tool is called a sickle? It’s used in farming but I thought the shape looked cool,” he explains when he sees your confusion. “Cheol’s ring has a lightning bolt on it because he always threatens to smite me when I steal his food.” Your endearing smile falters as a concerning thought occurs to you. 

“Jeonghan, did you steal these?” 

“That’d make the most sense, wouldn’t it?” He jokes but when he sees the worry in your features, he sighs and relents. “No, I didn’t steal yours. I used my Christmas allowance.” 

“Just mine?”

“Hey, the vendor was counting my change and the other two were right there…so somehow they ended up between my fingers and in my pocket.”

“Yoon Jeonghan!” You scold, though you can’t bring yourself to take the ring off. He echoes your own name back at you with the same melodrama. What did it matter that he stole the ones that weren’t yours? It made you happy and you didn’t need to break a rule, so it all worked out. Morals be damned, you liked when he was looking at you like you were sunlight incarnate. “When’s the next time you’re escaping the castle?” 

“Why?” His smile turns daring. “Wanna come with me?”

“Not a chance,” you scoff. “I’m just wondering, because maybe you can grab more stuff for me. Not stealing, though. I’ll give you money beforehand.” 

“Whatever the lady wants, the lady gets,” Jeonghan promises. “No need to give me money, though. I’ll use my own.”

“Why? You’ll run out of allowance eventually,” you point out. He shrugs.

“Because I want to make you happy and if going broke is the way to do it, so be it.” You laugh it off, but something in his face tells you that he’s entirely serious. You don’t have an opportunity to comment on it, though, because suddenly there’s a commotion coming up the staircase beneath you and the trapdoor by your feet is swinging upward. 

Sophia’s head pops up from the space below, sees you and Jeonghan occupying the tower, and gasps like her book couple just kissed. Lara’s head appears next, and her jaw drops so far, it almost hits Manon trying to climb up too. 

“So you will sneak out if it’s Jeonghan asking!” 

— 

The Seoul Continental is quiet by the time Jeonghan makes his way back to the hotel with blood under his fingernails and a bruise blooming over his ribs. On the elevator to the 23rd floor, he shoots Seungcheol a text to let him know his target is eliminated and the contract has been fulfilled. The message is delivered and he shuts his phone off entirely, tucking it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. A tap of his keycard and an open door later, he’s greeted by the dark void of his hotel room. He catches a shadow lounging in the armchair and a sharp scent of citrus lingers in the air. 

Seungkwan. 

“Mercury,” Jeonghan says with a tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He flicks on the lights and sees the Sector’s official messenger cross-legged and sipping an iced Americano through a straw despite the time nearing two in the morning. “I hope there’s one for me in the mini fridge,” he continues, kicking off his shoes next to the door.

“Like you need more caffeine,” Seungkwan snarks and Jeonghan gives him a tired smirk. 

“Did Cheol send you?”

“No, he doesn’t know I’m here.” Jeonghan’s eyes narrow. It was rare that the leader of the Sector didn’t know something, and even rarer that the messenger was keeping something from him.

“Everything alright?”

“Sure, I’m meeting with a financial advisor from one of the Parks’ subsidiaries tomorrow.” A perfectly dodged non-answer. Seungkwan’s eyes follow Jeonghan as he shrugs off his jacket, hangs it in the closet, and begins to remove the weapons strapped in various places on his body. “Working tonight?”

“Yeah.” He tosses his extra magazines haphazardly on the hotel’s provided desk. 

“An actual job, or robbing Adjudicators?” Jeonghan goes deathly still for a barely perceptible moment before turning to Seungkwan with a slightly manic smile. 

“The former,” he answers carefully. “How long have you known?”

“I figured it was you when I first heard someone was stealing from Adjudicators in their own homes, but only had it confirmed when I followed you after your last one. The one in Dubai.” Shit. The most dangerous thing about Boo Seungkwan wasn’t that he killed for the Sector, but that he found people for it. There was no corner on the planet anyone could hide that Seungkwan wouldn’t find, and Jeonghan kicks himself mentally for thinking his latest pastime was an exception. “You’re the only one stupid enough to do something like that.”

“Or smart enough,” Jeonghan reasons. “Who else knows?” Free of weapons, he snags a water bottle from the mini fridge. He perches on the edge of the bed across from Seungkwan and cracks open the cap, taking a leisurely sip. 

“Just me. Figured I’d ask what the fuck you’re doing before running to Coups about it,” Seungkwan explains. Jeonghan hums over the opening of the plastic bottle. 

“Ask me then, what the fuck I’m doing,” he challenges. Seungkwan is unamused.

“I have a feeling you’re going to explain anyway, even if I don’t ask.”

“And I have a feeling you already know what the answer to your question is.” The corner of Seungkwan’s mouth twitches. 

“I know the why and the how, but I need you to enlighten me on the what,” concedes Seungkwan. “What is Yoon Jeonghan trying to accomplish by pissing off Adjudicators?” 

“Not just pissing off; I’m robbing them too,” Jeonghan adds matter-of-factly. 

“Yeah, that,” Seungkwan scoffs. “What’s the point in taking their stuff?” 

“Scratching an itch, I guess.” Jeonghan lifts one shoulder and the bruise on his torso aches. “Call it boredom. Call it restlessness. Call it–”

“Retribution? Control issues that weren’t resolvable in therapy?” Seungkwan cuts in knowingly and it’s Jeonghan’s turn to scoff.

“Yeah, that,” he echoes, picking at the dark red etched under his nailbeds. “The high has worn off though, I will admit.” 

“After how many?” Something dark flashes in Jeonghan’s eyes.

“Fifteen.” 

“Jesus Christ, hyung,” mutters Seungkwan. “You’ve robbed fifteen fucking Adjudicators?” 

“Was going to be sixteen until Cheol put me on a job,” Jeonghan deadpans and Seungkwan has half the mind to laugh. The former’s sharp eyes flicker over to the messenger. “When are you gonna tell him?”

“Seungcheol? Never, if you promise to do it first,” Seungkwan answers honestly. A skeptical frown pulls at Jeonghan’s expression. “You have to tell him at some point.”

“I know, I know,” Jeonghan dismisses with a wave of his hand, an idea forming in the back of his mind. “I’ll stop when I’m satisfied.” 

“And when will that be?”

“After I figure out what ‘Project: Harvest’ is,” Jeonghan baits and, just as he had hoped, the most information-savvy member of the Sector bites. Seungkwan’s eyes narrow a fraction, but it’s just enough for Jeonghan to notice. “Do you know what it is, Boo Seungkwan?” Seungkwan swallows and Jeonghan can see him mulling the question in his brain like they were playing poker–he was deciding how much to bet, how much to risk, how willing he is to lose what he has. 

“I’ve only heard bits and pieces,” Seungkwan begins and Jeonghan leans forward, letting the silence stretch until his junior feels the need to fill it with more information. “Something about restructuring the underworld, starting from the top of the Table.”

“Who’s running it?”

“No idea.”

“Your lady friend hasn’t heard anything?” Fondness briefly softens Seungkwan’s expression at the mention of his favorite agent under the Table, an assassin solely used to eliminate people who might know a little more than they should. Jeonghan has never crossed paths with her, thankfully, but her reputation rivaled that of Seungcheol or Jihoon.

“She kills the people that would know, unfortunately,” he reports.

“Hmm. A shame.” Pulling open the bedside drawer, Jeonghan retrieves the small USB drive he’d taken from the Adjudicator in Manhattan and tosses it to Seungkwan, who catches it with one hand. “Think you could get someone to crack that?”

“You couldn’t hack it?”

“Tried, but the files are password-protected,” Jeonghan admits. “Maybe you know someone who could get into it. My gut tells me something on that drive could affect the Sector.” Seungkwan nods and stands, dropping the drive into his breast pocket.

“I’ll try and find someone, but can you promise that you’ll talk to Seungcheol about what you’ve been doing?” Jeonghan blinks slowly.

“You want me to tell Choi Seungcheol that I’m robbing Adjudicators. Point blank.” Seungkwan makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. 

“No, I want you to tell him that you’re feeling–what did you call it? Bored? Restless? Vindictive?” 

“That last one is your addition,” Jeonghan quips and Seungkwan rolls his eyes, heading for the hotel room door. 

“Just talk to him about it and I’ll get your drive opened. If you won’t tell me what your end goal is, maybe Coups can get it out of you.” 

“You’re the best, Seungkwannie,” Jeonghan sings, swinging open the door for him.

“I know I am,” Seungkwan agrees. “Try not to get yourself killed, hyung. It’ll make matters worse for the rest of us.” 

“Take care, Seungkwan.”

—

From Aboard the HMS Cornwallis (1842) by Kronos I**

“In the signing of this treaty, Britain has fired the first of what I presume to be many arrows into the Achilles heel of East Asia. Our family and its business endeavors shall only continue to prosper with the accumulation of reparations paid by China, as well as the port opportunities afforded to us with the newly-acquired Hong Kong territory.”

**Note: The mantle of Kronos has been passed down from patriarch to patriarch, beginning with a Machiavellian politician from a noble family in the mid-19th century. Kronos I successfully siphoned capital into his private accounts after the Chinese government began transferring reparation monies to the British following the Treaty of Nanking in 1842. 

Seungcheol, despite swearing off sneaking out of the castle, caves a mere four months after Jeonghan’s first excursion, muttering something about needing to keep an eye on him as he wreaked havoc across the city. It became a weekly routine, following them into the tunnel system and seeing them off on their adventures into the city. You never climbed the rickety ladder that led into the forest; it was a line you weren’t ready and weren’t willing to cross, but that never bothered either of your friends. For two years, they happily regale you with tales about bartering with vendors, eating themselves sick on food that was drowned in grease and salt, and the occasional standoff with police that always ended in a chase through back alleyways. By the time you’re fourteen, a hollow sense of longing has burrowed into your heart. You longed to go with them, to explore with them, to outrun cops with them. There’s also a new sense of longing that has started to fester in your body, something hot and dangerous and all-consuming…and the cause of it kept smirking at you like he knew he was the reason it was happening. 

“I’m telling you, that jackass Axel was this close to getting his shit rocked by Cheol,” Jeonghan recounts, swinging his arms as wildly as he could in the cramped concrete tunnel. In his excitement, he nearly walked backward into Seungcheol, who marched just ahead with the oil lamp you found hanging on a trellis in the rear gardens. It was far better than your previous method of illuminating the tunnels, which was hunting around for a candlestick and matches and praying you had enough wax to get from the castle, to the forest, and then back. “‘Seat at the High Table,’ my ass. I don’t think he could even spell excommunicado if there was a gun to his head.” 

“Atlas probably could,” Seungcheol chimes in without turning around. “Get a seat at the table, I mean. It’s a given that he can spell excommunicado, seeing as the twins’ dad was declared it for trying to overthrow the Table.” You readjust their messenger bags on your shoulders, which were now empty and ready to be filled with various snacks and trinkets they picked up from the city.

“Probably,” Jeonghan concedes after a moment of thought. “Axel has the muscles and Atlas has the brains. That’s why I was going to tackle Atlas so Cheol could get a good swing on Axel.” He’s still walking backwards so that he can look at you properly, but he’s adjusted his steps so that he doesn’t collide with Seungcheol’s back. Even after knowing him all of these years, you can’t tell if Jeonghan values looking at you specifically or if he just values eye contact with whoever he’s entertaining. “We make a good team, no?”

“I think you’d kill me in my sleep if we teamed up officially,” Seungcheol monotones and you huff a laugh. Jeonghan’s lips pull into an indignant pout.

“I was asking the lady, thank you,” he snarks with the same unnecessary attitude you found yourself smiling over. “And for the record, I’ve had five years to kill you in your sleep. If I wanted to, I would’ve done it by now. Don’t you think so?”

“Yeah, I think you and Cheol make a formidable team,” you answer quickly before Seungcheol can turn around to flick Jeonghan on the forehead. 

“No, dummy. I’m talking about us three,” Jeonghan corrects and your stomach flips. “There’s no us without you, you know.” 

“He’s right,” Seungcheol adds. “You’re the one who helps us break rules only because you know all of them so well.” 

“I feel like me carrying your burglar bags is more productive than me nagging about being back by sunrise,” you protest. Seungcheol shoots you a frown over his shoulder.

“Don’t call them burglar bags. We don’t burgle people,” he insists. You raise an eyebrow. You could count on both hands the number of times Jeonghan had swiped a watch or a wallet from an unsuspecting victim, though you guess that counts as pickpocketing and not burgling. Either way, the bags were used at some point for illegal activities, and you carried them all the same just as they carried classwork and books during the day. You could add it to your mental list of rules that you were complicit in your friends breaking, but the list had become so long that it was a pain to remember. 

“Yeah, that’s only on special occasions,” Jeonghan agrees and this time, Seungcheol actually turns around to kick him in the shin. You unsuccessfully stifle a laugh and, before the two can break out into true rough-housing, you reach the trapdoor that leads into the forest. You hand the boys their respective bags and take the oil lamp from Seungcheol, who pulls a flashlight from his bag and switches it on. 

“Dried fruit is all you want, right?” Seungcheol clarifies and you nod. Bidding you goodbye, he climbs up the ladder and exits into the forest, leaving you alone with Jeonghan in the tunnel. Your heart rate picks up against your will; the question that he asked you every time you followed them through the tunnels was coming. 

“You’re sure you don’t want to see the city tonight?” Of course I’m not sure.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “Have fun.” 

“Anything I can do to make you change your mind?” Ask me one more time and I’ll probably say yes. 

“No, I don’t think so,” you chuckle and Jeonghan’s smile turns sad, as it always did. 

“Alright. We’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow then, okay?” His hand seems to move on its own as his fingers lightly brush against yours, like he wanted to hold them but couldn’t. The nerves tingle where he made contact with you, lighting your entire body on fire. You could be on fire and you wouldn’t care, not as long as he was looking at you like that.

“Okay.” By the time they’re gone and you’re walking back through the tunnels to your dorm, the tingling in your fingers still hasn’t dissipated, and you come to the horrifying realization that you might like Yoon Jeonghan in more than just a friendly way.

As if Year 10 couldn’t possibly get worse. 

Aside from having mediocre grades, which was the equivalent of failing in your family, puberty was hitting your classmates like a freight train and any whisper of drama became a drop of blood in a pool of sharks. You kept your newfound feelings to yourself, yet your friends seemed to have a sixth sense because they cornered you in the common room and insisted you tell them everything you felt about Jeonghan. 

You were able to narrowly avoid your secret being compromised only by fleeing to your room to work on Adjudicator training forms, a thick stack of papers that your parents had mailed you without warning. The practice scenarios were tedious and made your head pound, but the most sickening understanding you make is that you’re damn good at being what the Table wanted you to be. The scenarios differed in context, but you always followed the same pattern in adjudicating those who break the rules of the High Table: assess the situation, declare the violations, administer appropriate punishment. All that was left was to study High Table policies, which guided the other three steps of adjudicating. Sure, your parents have been training you to become an agent of the Table for your entire life, but it doesn’t make you feel any better to check the answer key and see that all of your responses were correct. Whether you wanted to or not, you were becoming the rule-following weapon that your parents and the High Table wanted you to become. 

Thankfully, your happy experiences stuck with you longer than the stress-inducing ones. If you weren’t absorbing gossip from your girl friends, almost every waking moment was spent with Seungcheol and Jeonghan. You strategically picked the same classes in your schedules, worked together on group projects, and always ended up at the same corner table in the library next to the window. Moreover, you’d stopped going home for breaks because neither Seungcheol or Jeonghan went back to their parents, and your parents barely sent you letters anyway. Your friends became your family, but your conscience kept you a strict rule follower nonetheless. 

That is, until your fifteenth birthday.

It’s the third year in a row that your parents have mailed adjudicator workbooks in lieu of a birthday present, and the fourth year without so much as a candy morsel sent as a treat. You didn’t care. Your girls somehow procured a whole strawberry shortcake and stuck a candle in it, shaking you from your sleep promptly at midnight so you could make a wish. Groggy and rubbing sleep from your eyes, you tiredly let them cut you a slice and you all ate in a circle on the floor of the bedroom. As your friends recounted their favorite memories of you in hushed whispers, you couldn’t care less about the couple of rules you knew you were breaking. They’d also gifted you all sorts of jewelry and cosmetics, as well as a new pair of flats that barely made a sound when you walked normally. For when you finally sneak off castle grounds, they’d said.

That day would come sooner than they could expect, as your birthday also happened to fall on one of Jeonghan and Seungcheol’s excursion days. Your decision was made long before you sneak out of the dorms, and you’re struck by the fact that it’s the first time in your entire life that you feel giddy. You wear the flats that fit like a dream as you make your way down the tunnels that have become a second home, brushing your fingers against the cool concrete while your friends bicker about some nonsense in their history class. There’s a feeling of a weight being lifted from your chest with every step you take toward the trapdoor into the forest, and you’re practically floating by the time Seungcheol climbs up first and Jeonghan turns to you with his routine question. 

“You’re sure you don’t wanna see the city tonight?” You pretend to think on it and see the way his body language shifts as he’s not immediately shut down; you weren’t cruel and you would never let him get his hopes up if there was no reason to. You smirk at his dumbfounded expression. 

“Actually, I think I do,” you reply and Jeonghan blinks at you like he didn’t believe what he was hearing. “And no, there’s nothing you can do to make me change my mind.” His brain computes for a few seconds more before he breaks out into the biggest grin you’ve ever seen, scrambling up the ladder to hold out his hand to you from the top. 

“You are the most wonderful person I have ever met,” Jeonghan declares and you roll your eyes lightheartedly. As you climb the handful of rungs, you can hear Seungcheol grumbling something, which abruptly stops when Jeonghan’s hand slips into yours and he pulls you up into the forest. It’s Seungcheol’s turn to stare at you, so flabbergasted that his bag drops from his shoulder with a comical thud. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” He questions and you wink at him. 

“It’s my birthday, Cheol. Time to flip the bird to mommy and daddy and do what I want,” you assert and Seungcheol’s mouth gapes even wider. Jeonghan’s eyes are sparkling and he’s physically incapable of looking away from you, even when your hand leaves his after holding it for a longer-than-needed amount of time. “Now, are we going or not?” 

The thirty minute walk through the woods to reach the city’s border passes in a blink, with Jeonghan and Seungcheol taking turns excitedly telling you about all that you would see and also exclaiming how surprised they were that you were with them. You’re doubled over laughing at several points during the walk, mostly because Jeonghan refuses to look where he’s walking and nearly runs into a tree. Seungcheol takes the lead, as he always does, but periodically checks in to make sure you didn’t change your mind. By the time you reach the edge of the treeline, the full moon looms high with the stars and all three of you are buzzing with excitement. 

You descend upon the city and have to stop to admire the bustle of the night market your friends had always told you about. Endless rows of string lights hang overhead, lighting the cobblestone streets lined with stalls and packed with swaths of people. There’s a savory smell of smoke wafting between the vendors, underlying the scent of fresh coffee from the vendor immediately to your right. Music is coming from somewhere just up the street, something jazzy heard between sellers advertising their products and people chatting about their day. 

“Pretty cool, isn’t it?” Seungcheol asks and your cheeks have started to ache from smiles.

“This is amazing.”

“You haven’t even seen the Turkish ice cream man,” Jeonghan beams, grabbing your hand and pulling you forward. Seungcheol makes a panicked gawking noise and you feel a tug on the back of your coat as the three of you meld seamlessly into the flow of bodies. 

Anything that you could have possibly imagined and more is there, from finger food to artisan goods to street performers drawing crowds as large as your classes. A magician pulls a dove from his hat that nearly flutters into your face. A florist hands you a white carnation. A jeweler shows you three different pairs of earrings she thinks would suit you. All the while, Jeonghan’s fingers remain firmly laced in yours as you’re guided to booth after booth in the market. With one hand permanently attached to his, you use the other to pick up trinkets that glint under the moonlight and eagerly try samples of skewers hot from the grill. He never lets you loosen your grip and you never let him stray more than a few feet away from you, not that he would want to. All the while, Seungcheol watches Jeonghan watch you, a content feeling of completeness settling in his heart. 

Jeonghan only releases your hand at the end of the night, when you’ve found a calm spot on the seawall bordering the River Thames. With him and Seungcheol on either side of you, you snack on fried food that soaks the paper tray in oil. Your legs dangle off the ledge of the wall, kicking lazily over the dark waves that lap at the stones. 

“I’ll find somewhere to throw this out,” Seungcheol announces, swinging his legs over the other side of the wall and wandering away to toss the empty food trays. You’re left shoulder to shoulder with Jeonghan and you wonder if he can hear just how hard your heart is pounding. 

“I think tonight is the best night of my life,” you declare and Jeonghan looks at you with a lopsided grin. 

“You wait until after Cheol has left to say that?” You roll your eyes and he nudges you with his shoulder. “I’m kidding. Keep talking.” 

“I just–I’ve never felt so free before,” you continue, staring up at the moon. “I should feel guilty for sneaking out, for lying to my parents, for breaking rules more often. But, I don’t. I don’t feel guilty in the slightest.” A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “D’you know my Adjudicator forms have been collecting dust on my desk?” Jeonghan’s mouth falls open dramatically.

“You? Putting off Adjudicator shit? The world truly must be changing,” he remarks. 

“Sometimes, I let Megan and Lara use them as doormats when it rains," you laugh. “Did I tell you the girls smuggled me a birthday cake?” 

“You didn’t, but I knew anyway.” Your eyebrows furrow.

“How?”

“Because I helped them,” Jeonghan states nonchalantly. “I showed them how to use the south tunnels, the ones that run primarily under the kitchen and pantry.” It seems humanly impossible, but your heartrate picks up anyway. 

“You let them use your precious tunnel system?” You say with a melodic lilt in your voice to cover up just how badly your face is burning. 

“For you? Of course,” he answers immediately. “I feel a little bad, though. I didn’t get you an actual present.”

“You bought me whatever food I wanted tonight,” you remind him and he chuckles.

“I guess you’re right. I wish I was able to get you something more meaningful though.” Jeonghan’s eyes flick down to the gold lion ring wrapped around your middle finger. “I feel like I used up all my good-gift-energy giving you that ring.” You shake your head and survey the silhouette of the city horizon sitting just above the river. 

“This is better than any gift you could have given me,” you promise. He waits a few moments more before speaking again. 

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

“Why did you decide to come out tonight, of all nights?” 

“It’s my birthday,” you reply. “I should be able to do what I want, shouldn’t I?”

“Of course,” Jeonghan agrees. “But,” he inhales sharply and for the first time, you see Yoon Jeonghan look nervous. “Is there…any other reason?” Your mind quiets and you turn to look at him; he’s conveniently staring at the laces of his shoes. 

“What do you want me to say, Jeonghan?” You ask, genuinely curious. Your honesty makes him fidget. You could tell that he was pressing you to say something, but the one thing that you could share with him had the potential to ruin the atmosphere and possibly your entire friendship. Was he expecting you to tell him that you harbored feelings for him? Did he want that? 

“I’m not sure.” 

“You’re lying,” you state and he chuckles uneasily, running a hand through his hair. 

“Yeah, I am.” Jeonghan’s eyes flicker over to you, see your unwavering gaze, and quickly return to the tops of his shoes. “I want you to say something, and I think you’ve been wanting to say it too, but I don’t want to force you to say it. That’s–I never want to force you to do something.” You have enough people telling you what to do, is the implication and your stomach flips. Your voice drops to a whisper. 

“So, if I wanted to say, ‘I like you more than just as a friend,’ would that be what you wanted to hear?” His head whips toward you, like he needed you to say it again to be sure he heard it correctly. 

“As long as you’re saying it because you want to, not because I want you to,” he says slowly. 

“I’d be saying it because it’s true,” you confess, twisting the signet ring around your finger. “I like you a lot more than just as a friend.” Jeonghan blinks at you, stunned. You wait for your words to register in his brain; you know they do when he gives you a smile that isn’t his usual wide, boisterous grin. This one is soft, softer than you’ve ever seen him before, and his thumb comes up to gently trace your jaw. The rest of his fingers follow to caress your face, like you would break if he pushed too hard. “Are you gonna say something, Han?” His breathing hitches and his pupils go wide. He must have been dreaming–you’ve never used a nickname with him before, much less one that makes his entire body feel like putty. 

“You’re unreal,” he breathes. “You are absolutely unreal.” You lean closer until your foreheads meet and your breaths mingle, electricity shooting through your body at the first teasing brush of his lips on yours. 

“Jeonghan.” His eyes narrow ever so slightly, like you’d insulted him.

“Mmm, no,” he declares. “We’re never going back to just ‘Jeonghan.’ Call me the other one.” You laugh incredulously. 

“Han?” He hums, satisfied. “Or do you like Hannie better?” You catch the bob in his throat as he swallows. You can’t tell if the warmth around your cheeks is from his face or yours. 

“Either is good, but I think calling me yours is my personal preference,” he grins before finally kissing you properly, something cosmic snapping into alignment when he slots his mouth against yours. The first kiss is brief, barely a second long, but Jeonghan’s quick to close the distance again and keep you against him by a hand on the back of your neck. “I need Seungcheol to take the long way around to find somewhere to throw the trash away,” he murmurs in between kisses.

“I think he had a feeling something like this might happen,” you add, breathless. “There’s a bin by the stairs he could have used. It would have taken him thirty seconds, max.” 

“I can’t even be mad at him if I finally get you like this,” he admits, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Would you consider this a good birthday?” 

“The best,” you agree. “You’re never getting rid of me now that you have me, by the way.” 

“If I ever let you go, I need you to shoot me,” he deadpans, “because I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.” 

“Deal,” you conclude. You’re about to duck forward and kiss him again when a shuffling noise from the walkway behind you catches your attention. You both turn to see Seungcheol with a wide, knowing grin, having thrown the trash away several minutes ago and hiding behind a lamppost until you two got your shit together. “You have something to say, Choi Seungcheol?” You challenge lightheartedly and he shrugs, unable to hide the happiness on his face. 

“Nothing at all,” Seungcheol confirms. “C’mon, you two. We should head back.” Jeonghan sneaks one more kiss against your lips before swinging his legs over and hopping off the wall, offering his hand to you as you do the same. He keeps your hand in his as you leave the Thames behind, your gold signet rings clinking against each other like halves finally being made whole. 

—

Jeonghan had a love-hate relationship with Sector celebrations. On one hand, it was comically easy for him to charm his way around the room and report back to Seungcheol with at least fourteen new tidbits of information. Drunk informants were the best informants, especially when he didn’t need to pull a weapon on them to get them to talk. He enjoyed the part of the celebration where he could stalk around the room looking for someone to toy with; it was a game, after all, and Yoon Jeonghan loved games. On the other hand, there was no amount of champagne in the world that could make him want to play nice in a room full of assassins, mercenaries, and High Table elites that probably ate breakfast with diamond-encrusted forks and shit in gold-plated toilets. 

“You’re frowning again,” Joshua says quietly with a nudge of his elbow, breaking Jeonghan out of his trance as he absentmindedly scans the crowd in the ballroom below.

“I’m not frowning. This is my neutral face,” he reasons. From their place at the top landing of the enormous staircase, he can spot anybody and everybody moving through the swaths of people. The Table has gone for a theme reminiscent of the Palace of Versailles, all candlelight chandeliers and golden candelabras and a heinous amount of velvet-draped mirrors. The space itself isn’t very large, yet the reflections in the mirrors make the dance floor seem larger than it actually is. Suit-clad staff weave between cliques with trays of bite-sized foods topped with mounds and mounds of caviar. The entire affair screams decadence and it makes Jeonghan want to set the place ablaze.

“Your neutral face is smirking like a jackass. Anything other than that is frowning,” Joshua replies. He downs the remainder of his champagne flute and makes a face like a cat spitting out a hairball. “For holding a party in France, of all places, you’d think the Table would get better champagne,” he croaks, placing the empty glass on a passing tray. 

“You just say that because you’re used to wines from Napa, or whatever the fancy vineyards in California are,” teases Jeonghan. “Rich kid.” Joshua’s smile sharpens. 

“Says the one that went to a private school in London.” 

“Touché.” Jeonghan’s about to fire back a quick remark when he spots Vernon climbing the stairs, no doubt coming to escape the introvert’s nightmare occurring behind him. “C’mere, Vernonie. Come stand with the cool kids.” Vernon positions himself beside Joshua with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his dress pants. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Vernon answers. “People keep talking to me but by the time we reach the end of the conversation, I feel like I haven’t exchanged any actual information.”

“It’s not that way with Flora, though, I presume,” Jeonghan reasons and he stifles a laugh as Vernon’s ears turn a shade pinker. “She always has a certain way of talking to you in a way that you actually enjoy.”

“She’s friendly. That’s all,” Vernon argues weakly. Joshua and Jeonghan share a knowing look. “I’m surprised you two aren’t out there working the crowd.”

“We were, believe me, but even I get fatigued talking to this many people,” Joshua explains. Vernon hums, casting a sideways glance at Jeonghan. 

“Catch anything interesting tonight, hyung?”

“Not anything you would need to know yet,” Jeonghan states cryptically, to which Vernon nods and accepts the non-answer. “I’ve caught some things that might be useful, but Cheol always gets to know first.” A couple slipping through the crowd like a pair of twin shadows catches his eye and Jeonghan’s mouth stretches into a triumphant grin. He bumps his shoulder against Joshua’s. “Found ‘em.”

“No way,” Joshua protests. “Where?” Jeonghan’s finger guides Joshua’s eyeline toward Minghao and the woman they affectionately referred to as Nyx disappear into the darkness behind a towering white column. Seconds later, Song Daeshim and Min Kyubok, two out of three members of the High Table’s Anti-Sector Trinity, station themselves to whisper in the same corner, not knowing that two master spies were listening just a few feet away. “That’s not fair; you have a better vantage point.”

“We’re literally standing at the same height with no obstructions,” Jeonghan objects.

“What were you two doing?” Vernon puzzles. 

“We play a game where we try to find Minghao and Nyx in the crowd at every Sector celebration. If there’s anyone who will work the crowd the entire night, it’s those two,” Joshua informs him. 

“Though Seokmin and Seungkwan might give them a run for their money,” Jeonghan chimes in. “Give them a night and those two can talk through the entire country of Austria.” A comfortable silence falls between the three members, who all survey the scene and act as their own personal security, even though weapons were strictly prohibited at the door. That didn’t stop Vernon from smuggling in two of his favorite kunai, though, nor Joshua sneaking in his butterfly knife. Jeonghan is less subtle, choosing to tie back half his hair with a long gold hair stick that was sharpened to a deadly point should he choose to remove the cover on one end. 

An anxious chill blows over Jeonghan’s spine at the same time as Vernon’s eyes narrow on three figures in the crowd.

“Who’s that with Coups and Jun?” He asks and Jeonghan’s entire world tilts violently on its axis. Of all the people he expected to see at a Sector celebration, you were not one of them. 

He had failed to see you at any of the other four celebrations since he joined SECTOR 17, yet this was the day that fate decided to royally fuck up his mental stability. His vision becomes all but a kaleidoscope, the only clear image being you and your dress and the long black gloves snaking their way up your forearms and past your elbows. You were here. You were here, and he was seeing you for the first time in five–no, maybe it was six–years? You looked essentially the same as the last night he saw you, albeit several years older, yet you carry yourself with a different demeanor. It’s different from the quiet introspection he’d grown to associate with you, now honed to something deadlier and more ominous. His body acts before his brain can, forcing him down the crushed velvet staircase and in the direction of where you were conversing with Seungcheol and Jun. You turn over your shoulder to look at him a second before he reaches you, and the expression on your face makes his heart plummet. 

You did not look alive. 

Physically, you looked healthy, yet there was no spark behind your eyes. You looked like a zombie, the most well put-together zombie in the world. Sunken and dull, your eyes looked not at Jeonghan, but straight through him, like he was the ghost here and not you. You don’t smile when you see him, recognition barely flickering across your face. Your face remains as blank and emotionless as your parents’ faces, from what Jeonghan could remember about the first day he met you. The realization makes his blood run cold. You’d done it. You’d successfully turned off all other emotions and become an Adjudicator. You nod at him and return to face Seungcheol and Jun. Jeonghan brushes past you, purposefully making contact with your shoulder to see if you would react, yet you barely spare him another glance. With a rough clearing of his throat, he comes to stand next to Seungcheol, flanking him with Jun. 

“Look who I ran into, Jeonghan,” Seungcheol states with a tailored smile. Jeonghan knows that smile. It’s the look the leader of his Sector gives him when he knows something is wrong, but can’t exactly figure it out. Cheol knows something is off, too. 

“Hello, Jeonghan,” you say too evenly with no change in your voice. You sound neither happy nor sad to see him, and he’s not sure what hurts more. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he answers robotically. His voice, though it comes from his mouth, sounds distant. “And you? Where have you been?”

“I have completed my Adjudicator apprenticeship,” you declare. “I will now adjudicate cases for the Table on my own.” 

“What are you doing at a Sector celebration?” Jeonghan asks. You pause and blink at him. If someone told him you had been replaced with an android, he would believe it. It sickens him. 

“I received an invitation from Kronos. He informed me that Seungcheol and his members would be present, and thought it best that I attend as well.” Jeonghan does nothing to hide the distaste that appears on his face. His distrust of Kronos hadn’t dissipated after he graduated, and definitely not after Seungcheol reached out asking him to join SECTOR 17. Somehow, you had become folded into Kronos’ plans, plans that Jeonghan mentally kicked himself for not figuring out. 

“What else have you been up to lately?” Jun asks, sensing the worsening tension between the group and seeking to resolve it. 

“What do you mean?”

“What do you do in your free time?” Seungcheol clarifies. “When you’re not working?” Jeonghan tells himself that he doesn’t imagine the way your jaw clenches.

“I do not have the privilege of ‘free time’ that you refer to. I adjudicate cases, and I sleep. There is no downtime. I am always working to serve the Table.” The question escapes Jeonghan’s mouth before he can filter it. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Your head snaps to him and your eyes widen the slightest bit, caught somewhere between shock and indignance. Jun stifles a cough into his sleeve, looking around to reassure nearby guests with an apologetic smile. Seungcheol’s nostrils flare, but Jeonghan couldn’t care less about the rising heat clawing up the back of his neck. “All that High Table brainwashing make you forget how to have fun?” 

“Jeonghan,” Seungcheol warns. “Not here.” 

“If not here, then where? Who’s to say she won't run away again like she did the night before graduation?” 

“I’m gonna grab Jihoon. Or Joshua. Or literally anyone else,” Jun decides, retreating into the crowd and leaving Jeonghan with you and Seungcheol. 

“It’s just us three now,” Jeonghan tries. “You can cut the bullshit now.” 

“Maybe we can go somewhere quieter to talk,” Seungcheol proposes and you shake your head. 

“Enjoy the rest of the celebration,” you finish a little hurriedly. Jeonghan watches your face carefully, noticing the way your eyes have started to dart around the room like you were watching for an impending threat. 

“God forbid you remember what it’s like to be your own person,” Jeonghan sneers and you take the bait. 

“I am entirely my own person,” you retort, your voice tightening. 

“Doesn’t seem like it, seeing as you eat, sleep, and breathe the High Table. What happened to flipping the bird to mommy and daddy and doing what you wanted?” For the first time that day, something different flashes in your face. It’s panicked, it’s desperate, and more than anything, it’s carefully restrained to not give anything away. You were hiding something, you’ve been hiding something since the day before graduation. For a moment, he thinks he’s won as you open your mouth to say something before your face hardens.

“I hope I never cross paths with you again, Yoon Jeonghan,” you conclude before turning on your heel and disappearing. 

— 

From Reflections of a High Table Adjudicator (1994) by Unknown

“Adjudication is, perhaps, the most vital asset for the High Table. The Table and those under it function under rules and consequences, both of which keep us from descending into anarchy and barbarism. The Adjudicator is not so much a sword or a spear, but a club. Blunt and firm, but with enough strikes, able to fell even the strongest of adversaries. An Adjudicator must be unfeeling, unwavering, and above all, unyielding to even the strongest of temptations.” 

You live in an unpoppable bubble for fourteen months after the night you kiss Jeonghan. 

Jeonghan. He loved you loudly, as outwardly as he could without getting you both detention. He held your hand under tables, kissed you when no one was looking, and stared unapologetically even if you were doing something as mundane as reading your notes. Loving Yoon Jeonghan and allowing him to love you opened a door that silenced any voice of authority drilled into your head. The world fell away when you were alone with him, and with it any thought of Adjudication and the High Table and your parents’ expectations. On a certain night, when it was just you two in the castle tower, he introduces you to the indulgence of imagining a future that was truly your own. Not the future made by your parents, but something truly yours.

“I haven’t really thought about that before,” you admit with your head against his shoulder. 

“I know you haven’t, which is why I asked,” he replies in that snarky, matter-of-fact manner that used to bother you, but now sends butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Jeonghan had a habit of asking you things you never considered. “I think you could do it. Make something of your own, without your parents breathing down your neck.” 

Up until now, you didn’t consider being with Jeonghan a betrayal of your parents; they had notified you of no marital prospects, so there was no pretense for you to stray from. Technically, they never notified you of anything, not anymore. Even on your birthdays, your mailbox at the school remained filled with nothing but cobwebs and dust. The thought of breaking away completely is enticing, sure, but a small amount of anxiety creeps up the back of your neck at the thought of directly defying your family’s wishes. Physiological reactions and classical conditioning, your psychology teacher would call it. Jeonghan just calls it the side-effects of shitty parenting.

“What will you do after we graduate?” 

“Wait for you to come with me, probably,” Jeonghan states and you feel the familiar heat rise in your face. He smirks at your flustered silence. “I’m serious. There is no me without you, so wherever you go, I will follow.” 

“If I do stay with you, would you become an Operator and move up the ranks, like your parents do?”

“I think I’d rather die,” he deadpans and you snort. His arm around your shoulders pulls you closer. “No, I think I’d take on contracts. Seungcheol and I haven’t been sparring for nothing, you know?”

“I do know, trust me,” you hum. “I’m the one who’s always keeping score after you scared away that transfer kid.” 

“Jun, yeah,” Jeonghan muses. “I think he got freaked out when Cheol’s nose started bleeding.”

“You did hit him with a shovel.” 

“We were practicing fighting with what we have,” Jeonghan defends. “Improvisation is important, especially when you don’t know who you’re fighting.” A new question pops into your mind.

“Have you ever thought about joining a Sector?” You ask. 

“I’m not the biggest fan of other people,” he remarks, giving you a skeptical look.

“True,” you agree with a smile. “If Seungcheol joined one, though, would you?” He pauses, his eyebrows furrowed in thought.

“Depends on who’s in it and if I can tolerate them,” he states after a few moments of consideration. “If Seungcheol made a Sector, though, I’ll be the first member there with him.”

“I’d like to go with you.” 

“I think I’d go crazy if you didn’t.” 

“Then maybe that’s the future that I imagine for myself, without my parents. Somewhere I can stay with you and Seungcheol, and we get to face the world together.” You stare up at the sliver of night sky you can see through the small window of the tower and, when you look back at Jeonghan, he’s watching your face like you were the only person in the entire world. You’re about to tease him when he takes it upon himself to break the moment with his signature, one-line humor. 

“We’d have to find Cheol a girlfriend; he’ll be miserable if he’s our third wheel forever,” he points out with grave seriousness and you burst out laughing, hiding your face in his shoulder.

“You’re unreal, Yoon Jeonghan.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“That’s why you love me, isn’t it?”

“Something like that.”

For fourteen months, your life was perfect. Your life remains mostly the same–you attend your classes, study with Seungcheol while Jeonghan tries to distract you both, and dodge your parents’ letters about becoming an Adjudicator. During the day, you were a picture-perfect student with the highest grades and the most positive feedback on assignments. At night, however, you roam the grounds in your flats that make your footsteps silent. You sneak out as often as your girl friends did, whether it was joining them to raid the pantry or adventuring into the city. You were never caught when you broke any rules, you made sure of it; you knew the rules too well and that was what made it so easy to break them. As the Adjudicator workbooks continued to sit untouched in a pile on your desk, you hid your extra cash and trinkets you acquired at the market beneath a loose floorboard next to your bed, as well as the cheesy love notes that Jeonghan slips you during classes. Everything in your life fits together like puzzle pieces, the closest you’d ever been to a truly perfect life.

Then Seungcheol’s parents are found dead the morning after he turns sixteen. 

A targeted attack, you hear the teachers whisper. Their necks slit while they slept, your classmates murmur. Quick and untraceable. Two deaths that would easily be brushed over. Dead for what, you couldn’t fathom. At sixteen, you already had a relatively deep understanding of the world under the Table. The Choi family wasn’t high up in the underworld–it was how your parents and the Yoons had met them in the first place because they all worked on the same level. Your parents were Tax Collectors, the Yoons managed Operators, and the Chois were a cog in the machine of Administration. For someone to kill the Chois simply didn’t make sense; their absence wouldn’t cripple the Table, but their presence wasn’t adding anything revolutionary. They were simply there, and in the time that followed, it felt like the person targeted the most wasn’t the two dead Chois, but their orphaned son.

A month after his parents are in the ground, Kronos V collects Seungcheol like tribute. 

“I don’t know what we’ll do, but I won’t be at school anymore,” Seungcheol says hollowly on the last night the three of you are in the city. You’ve had the urge to cry since he told you he was leaving, but you fight the burning in your nose every time the feeling arises; if Seungcheol hasn’t cried yet, then you wouldn’t either. Your legs swing off the edge of the seawall over the Thames, but the waves are much more violent tonight as they crash against the stones. The sky is moonless, shrouded with clouds and layered with fog that has settled over the city. It feels like the city is mourning with you. 

“Where will you go?” You ask, your voice wavering. In just under eight hours, your best friend would be gone, disappearing under the wing of a titan of a man who arrived a day earlier and claimed to be his godfather. Seungcheol doesn’t explain the details, but Kronos had given him a choice–he could stay and complete his studies, or he could help hunt down the people who killed his parents. For him, the same passionate boy who nearly knocked Axel’s lights out when you were fourteen, the correct answer was evident.

“I don’t know. Kronos didn’t tell me,” Seungcheol replies. He would hunt down his parents’ killers and continue to train under Kronos. Where that left you and Jeonghan, you had no idea, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to fault him for what he was doing. The same couldn’t be said about Jeonghan, whose eyes had something dangerous burning behind them that you had never seen before. 

“I don’t trust him,” Jeonghan says through gritted teeth and the muscle in Seungcheol’s jaw clenches. “If he’s your godfather, why did your parents never mention him?”

“They kept a lot of things from me. All our parents keep a lot of things from us,” Seungcheol argues. “At least, mine did. Probably what got them killed in the first place.” You run your thumb over the lion etched into your signet ring, but tonight it brings no comfort nor bravery. 

“We’ll be able to see you after we graduate, right? This isn’t goodbye,” you state, still holding on to the hope that Seungcheol wouldn’t just disappear with this stranger who happened to be tied to the founder of your school. Seungcheol hesitates, and that’s enough of an answer for Jeonghan.

“Sure feels like it,” he scoffs and you shoot him a withering glare. “What? It’s not like I’m wrong. He hasn’t exactly given us reassurance that he’s coming back.” Your chest flares with indignance, but Seungcheol interrupts before you can hiss a response. 

“Because I don’t know if I’m coming back. Kronos says he’s gonna restructure the Table and that he wants my help to do it. That starts with finding the people that killed my parents,” Seungcheol argues tiredly. You three had hashed ten different versions of the same conversation since Kronos arrived. “I don’t know what that looks like. I don’t know what I’m walking into.” 

“But you sure know what you’re walking away from,” Jeonghan sneers. 

“Leave it alone, Han,” you warn, but Seungcheol is already fired up. 

“Is there something you wanna say? Or are you just angry there’s no rule you can break to control the situation?” You jut your elbows out to the side to keep apart, but they swing their legs over the side to confront each other directly. 

“That’s enough,” you attempt to no avail.

“Control freak tendencies catching up to you, Yoon?”

“Your fragile pride catching up to you, Choi?” 

“Stop it!” You bark, shoving yourself between the two. “What the fuck is wrong with you both?” Jeonghan is about to back off, but then Seungcheol turns his glare to you.

“Go ahead, goody-two-shoes. Take his side like you always do,” Seungcheol spits and Jeonghan’s expression darkens. Your chest stings like you’d been stabbed. 

“What the fuck are you talking about, Cheol?” You whisper, horrified. It’s the first time you’ve sworn at him, yet he doesn’t flinch. His eyes burn brightly with emotions you couldn’t distinguish, a flaming mess of wrath, despair, hurt, and fear. If Jeonghan notices the conflict behind his best friend’s eyes, he ignores it.

“You don’t talk to her like that,” he threatens in a low tone. His fists clench and unclench, ready to punch. “Don’t ever talk to her like that.” Seungcheol laughs humorlessly.

“You’re perfect for each other, you know? The one with no spine and the one who pretends he has one.” A hush falls over the city. The world around you slows. One moment, you’re forcing your best friends not to rip out each other’s throats. 

The next, your hand is striking the side of Seungcheol’s face. 

His head jerks to the side, his eyes wide open. Your palm stings from the force of slapping his cheek. Jeonghan stands frozen behind you, his own arm raised to stop you a second too late. The waves of the Thames ease their crashing rhythm. 

As the moon appears from behind the clouds, you witness Choi Seungcheol finally collapse under the weight of his grief. 

You don’t remember moving, but in a blink you’re on your knees with him, winding your arms tightly around his shoulders as they shake. Jeonghan is there a second later, wrapping himself around Seungcheol’s back and holding him steady when all three of you begin to cry. Seungcheol convulses with every sob that violently wracks through his body, hoarse cries tearing themselves from his throat while his forehead falls onto your shoulder. You and Jeonghan hug him tighter, if only to feel that you were still there with him. In between choked breaths, Seungcheol whispers a string of apologies–to you, to Jeonghan, to his parents. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. You just nod and rub your hand up and down his shoulder, murmuring reassurances you know he isn’t hearing. The three of you stay huddled on the floor for what feels like forever, until Seungcheol’s breathing evens out and he utters one more broken apology to you both. 

At promptly 7:00 A.M. the next morning, you slip your hand into Jeonghan’s as you watch Kronos’ SUV disappear with Seungcheol down the school’s driveway.

—

Though they were few and far between, Seungcheol sometimes sent his members on hunts that targeted individuals who could be a threat to the Sector’s livelihood. After Jeonghan robs his twentieth Adjudicator in Casablanca and deals with half a dozen nobodies trying to stab him in an alleyway, he practically pounces on the next assignment that appears in the Sector’s groupchat–a Ruska Roma ballerina getting a little too involved with the Anti-Sector Trinity. Easy enough. 

Three days later, Jihoon is waiting for him in the lounge of the New York Continental, sipping a Manhattan and glowering like a demon who crawled its way out of hell. He lurks in a rustic leather armchair and sits shrouded by long shadows cast by the dim chandeliers, an apt appearance for the ‘King of the Underworld.’ A nasty bruise spreads shades of blue and purple just under his left eye, no doubt a parting gift from an attacker similar to Jeonghan’s in Casablanca.

“Who pissed in your whiskey?” Jeonghan questions with a dry smile, plopping into the identical armchair across from his friend. Jihoon’s eyes remain dark, but the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“Glad to know you weren’t caught unaware in Morocco,” the latter says casually, like they were discussing something as trivial as the weather. Jeonghan raises a single eyebrow and fights the impulse to poke Jihoon’s bruised eye, just for fun. 

“You don’t seem too fazed this time around,” he observes, fully aware of the other hotel guests eyeing him and Jihoon like they would bleed gold coins if cut open. It was no secret that the members of SECTOR 17 were high-value targets, but the commandment authorizing eye-for-an-eye retribution tended to ward off smart hunters. The less smart ones ended up being minor inconveniences at best and the cause of Jihoon’s black eye at worst. “I see you dealt with the cannon fodder sent after you.” 

“I did,” Jihoon confirms. “I still think the Table’s been quietly trying to get rid of us since we tamed Hoshi, but they don’t have reasons to put out contracts on us.” 

“It’s a good theory, though I don’t know if tamed is the right word for Soonyoung. The only one who can truly say they tamed him is your twin from the Ruska Roma,” Jeonghan snorts. “But I digress. High Table or low-level Sector, an advance warning would have been nice. I prefer to know when someone’s trying to kill me.” 

“Blame Seokmin for pissing off the Table this time, not me,” Jihoon protests over the rim of his glass. “He’s the one who wandered into Holy Spirits in the first place.” 

“Ah, so it was Table soldiers, specifically Trinity soldiers.” 

“If my hunches are correct, yeah.” 

“Our favorite Trinity is getting a little too bold, lately. It’d be so much fun to blow up their shitty little dive bar,” Jeonghan remarks. He vividly recalls the one and only time he’d ever stepped foot into the establishment notoriously owned by the three most vocal Anti-Sector members of the High Table; he and Joshua had to drag Seungcheol out when he purposefully went looking for a fight. His lip curls in disgust at the memory. “That’s all it is, really. Holy Spirits is a glorified dive bar with shitty LEDs, not enough to call itself a nightclub.”

“Seokmin insists there was good karaoke,” shrugs Jihoon unconvincingly and Jeonghan shakes his head, disappointed. “If there’s one good thing about him wandering into that place, though, it’s that we know to eliminate Nadia.” 

“Remind me what’s bad about her, again?”

“She’s a trained Ruska Roma ballerina, for one,” Jihoon states. “Two, she signed a deal with Park Jum and now has the authorization to train other ballerinas to do the Trinity’s bidding, which could very well include targeting the Sector.”

“Ah, yes. The Father and the Holy Spirit are nothing without the trigger-happy Son,” Jeonghan concludes. “So, I need to kill her before she tries to kill us.” 

“Correct.” 

“Wanna come with me? Visit your old stomping grounds?” Jihoon’s expression hardens into a grimace. 

“I think the Director would be very disappointed if the first time I return home is to kill one of her star pupils.” Jeonghan opens his mouth to throw out a smart remark, but Jihoon is already anticipating it. “And yes, it does still matter even if you’re the one pulling the trigger.” 

“Morals, schmorals. No one knows how to have fun anymore,” Jeonghan grumbles, frowning and crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Don’t sulk, hyung. It’s not a good look for you,” Jihoon teases and Jeonghan lovingly flips him off. “You’ll have to be quick to take out Nadia, since the Ruska Roma will shoot your ass when they find out you killed her.” 

“If they find out,” mumbles Jeonghan. 

“There’s a back entrance to the theater that’s usually guarded by two or three big guys. A silencer will do the trick,” Jihoon continues. “From there, go past the catwalk to the stairs and climb to the top floor. That’s where the principal dancers and instructors sleep. Classes are usually done by 11:00. and she should be in her room by 11:30 at the latest. Get in, take her out, leave through the window.” 

“Shall I bring a parachute?” Jeonghan jokes dryly. “Or is there a fire escape?”

“A rickety one,” Jihoon clarifies, “but it should be fine since it’s just you.” 

“Got it. Anything else I should know before I break into your childhood-home-slash-child-assassin-factory?”

“Yeah. If you get caught, you’ll be beaten to death by a bunch of European giants that eat a dozen raw eggs like potato chips. No pressure,” Jihoon informs him too calmly. Jeonghan sighs and peels himself off the armchair, tossing out a few gold coins that previously belonged to Adjudicators. Jihoon frowns like he’d been insulted. “I don’t need your shit. I’ve probably got more money than you.” 

“I know you don’t need them, but they were weighing down my pockets and bothering me,” Jeonghan interrupts. Truthfully, he’d stolen them off an Adjudicator in Jakarta and forgotten to take them out of the pockets of his pants. “Use them to buy more Manhattans, or something. I’ll let you know when the job’s finished.” He nods in farewell. “Thanks for the info, Pluto.”

“Happy hunting, Saturn.” 

—

From The Art of War by Sun Tzu (c. 475–221 BCE)

“One may know how to conquer without being able to do it.”

Your gut tells you something is wrong on the day before your graduation. The halls remain a flurry of activity, but the impact misses you like a train passing a station. After successfully pulling you away from Jeonghan, your girls have done nothing but chatter in your ears about how excited they were to finally get out of the castle and see the world, albeit with a knife in their boot and a gun strapped to their belt. Their conversations go in through one ear and out of the other, and any sort of excitement is replaced by a lingering sense of paranoia that has you checking over your shoulders relentlessly. A murky feeling of nausea and dread churns in your stomach that makes all the lights seem too bright, every smell seem too strong, and every voice too piercing. 

You get a brief reprieve when a student messenger summons you to the headmaster’s office in your last class, thinking that maybe that was what your gut was trying to warn you about. Following the messenger quietly into the area of the castle where the administration’s offices were, you’re struck by a feeling of contentment. If you had to answer for sneaking off school grounds or swiping extra snacks from the pantry, so be it. You completed your classes with the highest marks and could plausibly deny adventuring into the city, so what could the headmaster possibly get you in trouble for? It’s this line of reasoning that steadies you as you push open the heavy double doors of the headmaster’s office and glance around the seemingly empty room. A throat clears. You turn to the small wooden table in the corner of the office and your heart drops. With a stack of papers that looked suspiciously like Adjudicator forms, your parents sit watching you like a cat hunting a bird.

And they’re smiling. 

“Hello, daughter,” your mother states. It sounds more like a threat than a greeting.

“Mother. Father,” you reply more uneasily than you intend. “I wasn’t aware you were attending graduation.” 

“We’re not, nor are you,” your father clarifies, his voice unwavering. 

“We’re here to collect you and escort you to Osaka.” Your body betrays you and you take another look around the room, as if to ask the headmaster if this is even allowed. “There’s no one to consult, daughter. We’ve already spoken to the school’s administration, and they have agreed to mail your diploma to us.” Your chest tightens. Every fiber in your body screams at you to run, yet your feet remain rooted to the floor, just as you were trained to do in the presence of your parents. 

“What’s in Osaka?” You question with a lump in your throat. 

“A number of seasoned Adjudicators have selected apprentices,” your mother answers. “The Adjudicator you will be shadowing is based in Japan and has instructed us to meet her at the Osaka Continental the day after tomorrow. You will serve as an apprentice for four years, and then be distinguished as an Adjudicator.” 

“You will now fulfill your duty to the Table,” your father states with an air of finality. Your skin prickles under the unnerving stares of your parents. Out of habit, your fingertips brush the lion ring on your middle finger and your heart aches remembering the conversation about the future you had with Jeonghan. 

Jeonghan.

You look your parents dead in the eyes, steel your nerves, and lift your chin.

“No.” Your father’s forehead creases. 

“No?” Your mother repeats, tilting her head slowly to the side, tasting the word you’d never uttered to them. 

“No. I don’t want to be an Adjudicator,” you declare. 

“And what do you suppose we have you do instead?” Your mother’s voice is curt , but the fire growing behind your eyes is too intense to be stamped out. 

“Not what you would have me do. It’s what I want to do, and what I want to do is graduate tomorrow with my friends and figure out where to go from there. Without you telling me what to do.” You don’t realize how your hands have balled into fists until you feel the edge of your ring digging into your palm. Silence falls between you and your parents, the only sound being your ragged breathing. Without another word, your mother flips open the cover of the fifth Adjudicator workbook you left untouched on your desk. 

“It seems your time here has changed you, daughter,” she remarks evenly, looking not at you but at the contents within the book. You take a single step forward and fight the urge to vomit at what you see inside. Extra cash. Stickers. Stamps. Paper trinkets from the city’s markets. Jeonghan’s love notes. All the secret contraband you’d hidden under the floorboard in your dorm, your parents had found it, and were now presenting it to you like evidence from a crime scene. One print in particular catches your eye, a strip from a photobooth Jeonghan had dragged you and Seungcheol into. “I knew those boys would be a bad influence on you. Seungcheol was unexpected, but I don’t need to be a fortune teller to predict the Yoon boy’s insolence.” 

“Don’t talk about him like that,” you growl. “He’s smarter than either of you will ever be.” That makes them both go still. Your mother exhales a deep sigh through her nose. Your father follows your gaze and snags the photostrip before your hand can dart out to grab it, peering at it with beady eyes. 

“You’re young. You’re stupid. You still have time to fix your mistakes,” your mother begins but your face contorts into such an aggressive scowl that she pauses. Her eyes narrow on you, and you glare right back. “Fix. Your. Face,” she orders.

“Or what?” You counter. 

“Enough,” your father seethes, tearing the photostrip cleanly in two with a rip that makes your blood boil. “Our family will not be sullied by your stupidity.” He crumples the shredded paper in a single fist and discards it over his shoulder.

“Cut me off and allow me the pleasure of never seeing either of you again,” you demand. 

“And let our only asset to the High Table go off doing God knows what? I don’t think so,” your mother retorts, irritation seeping into her voice. “You will follow our orders and serve the Table, the way we tell you to.” 

“And if I don’t?” 

“Then we kill the Yoon boy,” your father says. A wave of fear breaks cold against the back of your neck, but you call their bluff anyway.

“Bullshit. The Yoons would never let that happen, work partners or not.” Your mother’s mouth twists into a conniving grin. She gestures at the various pieces of paper scattered across the open workbook.

“One must know the rules in order to best break them, daughter. You don’t think your father and I know that?” The way your face falters fuels her further. “We’re Tax Collectors. We do the dirtiest work under the Table. We could have the boy gone before you could get across the grounds to warn him.” 

“If I tell his parents, what then?” You demand. 

“They’d ask why you killed their son,” your father adds coldly. Your head snaps to him and you see a shadow over his eyes that you’d never seen before. “We don’t want to, but understand that we can and we will make it look like you killed that boy. Who do you think they’ll believe, their long time colleagues? Or the boy-obsessed brat whose fingerprints are all over the knife?” You pinch the inside of your wrist hard enough to draw blood, willing yourself to wake up from this nightmare. Every effort you made to challenge them, to push back, they were already four steps ahead of you. You were backed into a corner. 

“Why?” You hiss, tears burning in the corners of your eyes. “Why can’t you just let me leave?” 

“Because you are not a person. You are a weapon of the Table, and that is all you will ever be,” your mother concludes indifferently, standing elegantly and pushing in her chair like she was leaving a casual Sunday breakfast. Meanwhile, you’re frozen in time, caught between a rock and a hard place with no way out. 

“We leave at dawn tomorrow. Should you refuse, the boy’s life will be considered forfeit,” your father states as he mirrors your mother, taking the Adjudicator workbooks and tucking them under his arm. He exits the office in four long strides, his shoes knocking against the creaky wood. Your wrath is too great for panic to set in as he leaves. Your mother, on the other hand, rounds the table and approaches you, grasping your chin with her entire hand. 

“Warn the boy and I will slit his throat myself, do you understand?” The glob of spit fired at her face leaves your mouth by pure instinct. She recoils backward and lifts her hand to strike you, but you catch her wrist and hold it there, feeling her push against you to no avail. 

“One day, you will die,” you whisper, tightening your fingers as much as you can without her bones breaking, “and I will rejoice.” For the first time in your life, you let your tears flow freely in front of your mother, allowing them to run down your face and serve as evidence of your anger. The message was clear: they may have regained control over your life, but something has awoken within you that refuses to stop fighting. 

Releasing her wrist, you watch as she retreats and stand silently in the office until your feet carry you back to your dorm. You skip dinner and hide in the bedroom until it’s well past curfew, the sacred space beneath your floorboard void of everything except dust and cobwebs. The girls go out for one last pantry raid, but your ears don’t register the sounds of them giggling as they sneak into the hall. 

You unfurl yourself from the windowsill around midnight and slip out of the dorm, creeping toward Jeonghan’s room. He’d previously shared a room with Seungcheol, but the bedspace had remained empty since Cheol’s departure from the school, allowing you to come and go at will as long as you didn’t get caught. Your stomach growls and your eyes sting from crying, but you do your knocking sequence against his door anyway to check if he’s awake–long, short, short, long. The door cracks open just enough for him to take your hand and tug you inside, his other hand locking the door behind you as soon as you’re in the room. Almost immediately he’s flopping back onto the bed, waving you over in a way that makes you chuckle and simultaneously want to start sobbing again. 

“Did I wake you?” You settle next to him with your cheek on his chest, his fingers mindlessly drawing patterns on your arm. 

“Not really. I was about to throw rocks at your window to ask why you weren’t at dinner,” he replies. You ignore the way your stomach pangs at the mention of dinner. 

“I wasn’t feeling well,” you answer, not quite a lie but far from the truth. You tuck your face further under his chin, squeezing your eyes shut and willing the world to fall away like it usually did, but it didn’t. Your parents’ threat remained all the same. 

“I call bullshit,” Jeonghan remarks. “Wanna tell me what’s really going on?” 

“That’s all it is,” you insist. Lie. “I wasn’t feeling well, and now I am.” Another lie. 

“Nervous about tomorrow?” 

“Something like that.” Not technically a lie. You swallow the panic that rises in your throat, curling further into Jeonghan. 

“You’re unusually affectionate tonight,” he observes and it pulls a broken laugh out of you. 

“You make me sound like a feral cat.”

“You’ve got the claws for one, that’s for sure.” You hum in lieu of answering, knowing your wavering voice would give you away. “You’re sure there’s nothing else going on?”

“I’ll be fine.” You peek up at him to find his eyes studying you. 

“That’s a terrible answer.” You look away again, his quiet intelligence too much for you. 

“It’s the honest one.”

“How do you want me to help you?” A pathetic noise escapes your lips. The earnestness of that single question nearly breaks you completely, and you abruptly flip away from him with a jerk. He undoubtedly sees the shaking in your shoulders now, and you taste blood from how hard you’re biting your tongue to stifle a sob. “Hey, hey, hey–what happened? Are you in pain?” You screw your eyes shut and imagine he’s propped up on one elbow, the other arm hovering over you like he doesn’t know where to put it. You shake your head and try to fold even further into yourself, small enough to fall through the cracks in the floor and disappear. “Angel, you gotta talk to me–” 

“I’m scared, Han,” you choke. “I’m so, so scared.”

“Of what, my love?” He tentatively drapes his arm over your waist and pulls you close, his chest to your back. You’re rigid in his arms, unmoving as a statue. “I would never let anything hurt you.” 

“What if I had to hurt you?” He tenses for barely a moment. “I had a nightmare,” you add quickly and the ease of which the lie falls from your tongue hurts more than any broken bone. “I had to hurt you to keep you safe, and you hated me because of it.”

“I could never hate you. I love you too much,” he replies as easily as breathing. “I think I would know that you’re hurting me to keep me safe, don’t you think? I consider myself a relatively intelligent person.” 

“But wouldn’t that hurt more? Knowing that I hurt you to keep you safe?” 

“I mean, if you cut off my arm or something, I might be a little pissed,” Jeonghan reasons. You find the courage to flip back over and face him. His joking smile falls at the sight of you. “Oh, baby,” is all he says as his thumbs brush under your tear-filled eyes. 

“I love you,” you sniffle. “I love you. I love you. I love you. Don’t ever doubt for one second that I could ever stop loving you.” You catch the way Jeonghan bites the inside of his cheek. When he attempts to smile at you again, the smile you probably would never see again, there’s a flash of uncertainty that blinks across his face.

“I love you too,” he promises and you duck forward to kiss him like you’re dying. 

You kiss Jeonghan knowing that it’s the last time you ever will, yet he matches your intensity like he knows you need. He lets you bite his lip and tug at his hair until you’re gasping for breath, murmuring quiet words of reassurance that only twist the knife lodged in your chest. When another round of sobs crash over you like a tidal wave, he holds you steadily and waits for your breathing to even out. Eventually, he drifts to sleep with an arm tucked under his head and the other holding you against his chest, but you don’t shut your eyes for more than a blink. You pray that the world would somehow stop, that time would pause if only for a few more hours with him. No such miracle occurs, and when the sky turns from black to a lighter gray, you slip out of Jeonghan’s bed. 

With one more long kiss on his forehead and a whispered I’m sorry, you leave Yoon Jeonghan behind just to keep him alive. 

—

Seven years.

Technically three as a solo Adjudicator, but seven years of your life after prep school are spent doing nothing but administering the justice of the High Table. You fall into a rhythm as monotonous and unfulfilling as a life without Yoon Jeonghan would be, killing the part of you that loved him still every morning. Your face becomes schooled into a permanent state of blankness, the people that beg for leniency or the businesses that are set aflame by your matches becoming nothing but static. You thanklessly keep those under the High Table in line and you consciously have to remember your own name on the days when you feel more of a machine than a human. The only time you allow your anger to seep through the cracks is when you down an entire bottle of Jack’s in a single night and chuck the empty bottle at the wall; part of you hopes the alcohol will kill you, but you wake up the next morning disappointed, hungover, and pissed that you have to clean up broken glass. This cycle continues for seven years, intensified by the paranoia that your parents were watching your every move. It’s useless and probably more hurtful to keep track, but you know you’re in New York on the seventh anniversary of the day you became an Adjudicator. 

In the taxi on the way to your last assignment of the night, you wonder how early you could retire. With the recent deaths of your parents, shot by a business owner in Rio who refused to pay taxes to the Table, you found yourself unnerved by the sudden prospect of freedom their absence brought. For better or worse, you had next to nothing now; Seungcheol and Jeonghan had each other in SECTOR 17, the most powerful and feared Sector whose power rivaled that of the entire Table. You’d witnessed their bond and their influence at the 34th Sector celebration, the first and only one you ever imagined yourself attending because you knew that if you saw Jeonghan again, you would truly break and your parents would fulfill their threat. While the boys had their Sector, you were left to rot under the endless demands of the Table. After seven years of adjudication and running on autopilot more than truly living, rules no longer held the same value to you as they did when you were young. 

Or perhaps, they never mattered in the first place. 

It storms outside the Tarkovsky Theatre, sheets of heavy rain slamming sideways onto the sidewalk. The droplets pelt your umbrella like bullets as you approach the old woman at the window of the ticket booth. You place your Adjudicator coin on the lip of the window and she eyes it shrewdly before waving you forward, a towering agent of the Ruska Roma opening the double doors for you to enter the theater lobby. Water clings to the black wool of your trenchcoat and you shake it off as you step into the building. The smells of whiskey, incense, and tobacco hit your nose and stick to every corner of the Baroque architecture comprising the room; if you didn’t know any better, you would guess that it was the entrance foyer of Dracula’s castle. Behind the ornate wooden table situated in front of the grand staircase sit two more Ruska Roma men, and a half a dozen others dot the room in carefully-spaced increments. You recognize the two acting as receptionists–Hans and Hermann Bauer, the Director’s heads of security. 

“An Adjudicator in our theater,” Hans remarks with a condescending amount of bravado. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I’m here to see Nadia Wagner. She has business with members at the Table,” you reply evenly. 

“Perhaps we can have business with you after you’re finished with Nadia,” Hermann snarks in his native tongue, unaware that your Adjudicator apprenticeship and time at Mount Othrys allowed you to pick up at least nine languages, including German. Hans and Hermann share a mocking look and you fight down the impulse to scowl. Your years of training as an Adjudicator had taught you how to keep your emotions in check, no matter the situation, but your patience was waning. You were restless, and adjudication never scratched any itches you possessed. You clear your throat and flex your fingers inside your leather gloves to keep from giving away any emotional response. “Oh, right. Shall we take your coat for you?”

“That won’t be necessary. If you could show me the way to Nadia’s room, that would be appreciated.” Hans’ eyes become snakelike. 

“As you wish, Miss Adjudicator. However, the Ruska Roma has a very strict weapons policy in our theater. I’m afraid even Adjudicators are not exempt,” he explains with faux-diplomacy. You bite your tongue in lieu of sighing, peeling off your leather gloves and placing them neatly on the table. The cool metal of your Glock 27 meets your palms as you pull it from your belt, also removing your two extra magazines and setting all three next to your gloves. Your umbrella joins the array after you reveal the thin blade hidden in the handle as a show of goodwill. The only two weapons you keep hidden on your body are a Colt Walker revolver tucked in a hidden pocket of your trenchcoat and a switchblade on the inside of your boot. 

As you step back and allow the brothers to examine your collection, you can’t help but feel guarded when Hermann’s attention narrows onto the ring wrapped around your middle finger. “Are you a married woman, Miss Adjudicator?” You mentally scold yourself for not removing the ring with your gloves, though the idea of leaving behind the signet ring with a bunch of strangers was not one you were very fond of. 

“I am not.”

“Then may I ask about the gold band on your finger? What is the image on it?”

“A lion.” 

“Ah, die Löwin. A fierce animal for a fierce woman.” Hans tongue darts out to run across his lips and it makes you want to grab the umbrella knife and cut out the organ altogether. 

“Direct me to Nadia’s room, if you would please,” you grit. 

“Fine, fine,” Hermann relents. “Up the stairs and through the west wing. Her room is the last one on the left.” 

“Thank you. Is that all, gentlemen?” You ask before you truly do act on one of your fantasies. The twins seem disappointed but relent with a dismissive gesture. But, as you pass the table and climb the staircase, you truly can’t help yourself. “Arschloch,” you call over your shoulder with a glare. By the time the two realize what you said, you’re already disappearing into the west wing of the theater, in the direction of Nadia’s bedroom. 

You’re not sure what you’re expecting when you open the door of the last bedroom on the left, but the scene before your eyes was the farthest from the realm of possibilities. 

Because why the fuck was Nadia in a standoff with Yoon Jeonghan?

“Oh, thank God. I was hoping the Table would send one of you to talk with me,” Nadia remarks shrilly, her hair still half in a bun and her makeup smudged like she was interrupted as she was removing it. She holds a revolver as well and you draw your own on pure instinct, but your body seems to be physically unable to point the barrel at Jeonghan. Instead, your aim drifts to the right like it has a mind of its own, where Nadia stares back at you, dumbfounded. “What the fuck are you doing? Why are you pointing that at me? Don’t aim at me, idiot! Aim at him!” 

“Shut up! I need to think,” you hiss, blinking rapidly to try and process what the hell was going on. You cast a sideways glance at Jeonghan, whose pistol remains locked on Nadia but whose eyes keep flicking to you. “What are you doing here, Han?” He scoffs a humorless laugh and pulls back the hammer of his gun. 

“Hmm, I’m Han again? I would have loved to hear that three years ago,” Jeonghan counters. “Now, I’m not so sure. I’m debating shooting you too since I don’t know if I can trust you.” Everything that leaves his mouth feels like a slap to the face and a needle to your heart. Any words that you had for him die on your tongue, and you’re left staring at a stranger. Yet, even as your eyes sting from the venom dripping from his mouth, you can’t bring yourself to fix your gun on him. 

“Shit, are you two estranged exes or something?” Nadia shifts uneasily and you pull back the hammer of your revolver to make her freeze. 

“Shut up, Nadia,” you and Jeonghan snap at the same time.

“Stop moving and stop talking. I’m not asking again,” you command.

“What she said,” Jeonghan agrees. She obeys, going still but watching you with bewilderment. An Adjudicator was pointing a gun at her, after all, rather than the Sector hitman who was also in the room. 

“Why haven’t you shot her yet?” You question.

“I was in the middle of questioning her when you barged in. I told her if she screamed, I’d shoot where it hurt. If she was quiet, I’d make it quick,” he explains, his face cold and calculating. 

“Maybe you two can just shoot each other and I’ll–”

“I know where to shoot where it hurts, too. Don’t test me,” you say and she falls silent again. 

“She dies either way, but it’s up to her how she wants to go,” Jeonghan concludes.

“I can’t let you do that,” you say, trying to will your arms to aim at him, but it’s no use. Your body physically protests any attempt to do him harm. “She has business with the Table.” 

“Then shoot me and get it over with. Get me out of the way,” he spits bitterly, like he was hoping you would kill him. Your chest feels like someone is cracking it open with a mallet. “Kill me.”

“I–I can’t do that either,” you whisper. “I don’t–I don’t know what to do.” For the first time in your life, you were at a crossroads and the decision would be entirely your own. Not your parents, not the Table’s, but yours. 

If you shoot Jeonghan, even if it was a survivable wound, you would solidify yourself as a loyal agent to the Table but also sever any remaining ties you have to him and Seungcheol. The thought of losing him permanently felt worse than death.

If you shoot Nadia, you would be renouncing your status as an Adjudicator, burning your life that your parents had established for you, and leaping headfirst into an unknown darkness of contracts and assassinations…and there was no guarantee Jeonghan would be with you. Why would he be, after you left him and treated him like he was nobody? 

If you shot neither of them and decided to just leave them be, you would not only be responsible for whoever died while you turned your back, but you would also be running away without taking accountability for the consequences. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you force your arms to drift their aim left and point at Jeonghan. Your fingers tremble on the trigger of your revolver. Shooting Jeonghan was following the rules. Killing Jeonghan was following the rules. Continuing your adjudication task was following the rules. At the end of the day, it was always safest to follow the rules, even if you weren’t happy. Yet, when you open your eyes to look at him, there is no malice or hatred in his expression. He nods, like he was giving you permission. 

“It’s your decision, angel,” he says, his pistol pointed at the ballerina but his eyes completely on you. The rest of the world falls away. 

You jerk your arms to the right and squeeze the trigger. 

There’s a click instead of a gunshot, and your heart drops. Your revolver had jammed.

Nadia’s gun swings wildly in your direction, but she never gets the chance to fire as she’s cut off by the BANG! of Jeonghan’s pistol. Jeonghan’s bullet tears precisely through Nadia’s forehead and she slumps back against her vanity dresser, the revolver clattering against the hardwood floors. Your ears ring from the sound of the gunshot and you feel like you’re underwater, everything around you becoming murky and slow. A high-pitched whine undulates in and out of your hearing, and your eyes have trouble focusing on anything other than the pool of dark red spreading under Nadia’s body. Footsteps thunder up the steps outside the bedroom, no doubt Hans and Hermann and all the Ruska Roma agents coming to see why a gunshot just rang out in their prized ballerina’s room. 

“Hey. Hey, we gotta go,” Jeonghan says, appearing in front of you and taking your face in his hands. “Angel, snap out of it. It’s done. She’s dead. We need to get out of here.” 

“Han,” you attempt, but the words catch in your throat and the only sound that leaves your mouth is a croak. Your impending assailants would hesitate to harm an Adjudicator, but would absolutely shoot Jeonghan on sight if they caught him in the room. “You should–you should go. You need to go. I'll handle the Ruska Roma.” 

“No. I’m not letting you leave me again.” He grabs your hand and attempts to pull you toward the window he shoved open, but you remain rooted in place. “We're leaving. Right now.”

“I'll make sure they stay off your trail. After everything I did, I don't deserve–” The sound of fists pounding against Nadia’s bedroom door makes you jump and Jeonghan takes that opportunity to guide you towards the window. 

“Angel, I do not give a fuck about what you think you deserve. I don't care. You did what you had to do, but now I need you to stay with me. I need you with me. Okay?” You blink at him, breathless.

“Okay.” You clamber onto the fire escape first and the rickety metal creaks under your weight as he joins you, but you don’t have time to worry about the stability of the staircase as he grabs your hand and forces you to follow him down the steps. “You should hate me, Han,” you state as you descend from the final landing. 

“And yet I don't, and that's how it is,” he cuts in a little impatiently, leading you to a black sports car shrouded in a back alley behind the theater. 

“Did you mean what you said? About not caring?” Your hand slips from his and you hesitate as his grip tightens around the car door handle. “Would you have really shot me?” 

“No. There are a lot more things I have to say, but the answer to both your questions is a hard no.” Your shoulders relax and you finally feel like you can take a proper breath. “We'll talk, I promise we will,” he reassures you as he opens the door to the passenger seat. “But right now, we–shit! Get in the car! Right now!” 

You unceremoniously dive into the car as a shower of bullets sprays across the front of the vehicle, denting the hood and splitting spiderweb cracks across the bulletproof windshield. Jeonghan crouches behind the open door as the shots continue firing. Through the darkness, you see two attackers fall from two precise shots he fires around the edge of the door, and you have half the mind to return fire when you suddenly remember the way your revolver had malfunctioned. On a pure hunch, you throw open the glove compartment and mentally thank Jeonghan for having a loaded pistol ready. You slap his arm to get his attention in between shots. 

“Get in the car, I'll shoot!” You yell and he nods, slamming your door shut and dashing toward the back of the car. The engine turns over with a roar as he throws himself inside and opens the sunroof for you. His hand stops you from climbing onto the center console and he gestures to something in the backseat. “I hope that’s a bigger gun!” 

“It's a big gun!” Jeonghan shouts back a little maniacally. He drags an AR-15 out from under the dark blanket it was hiding under, letting you do the rest as he throws the car into drive. “Go get ‘em!”

Jeonghan stomps on the gas pedal, throwing you forward. Pain blooms on your ribs as your torso collides with the edge of the sunroof, but you're quickly regaining your footing and taking aim at the dozen figures firing from the other side of the alley. Squeezing the trigger and feeling the familiar vibration of the gun under your fingertips, you sweep the barrel back and forth while the Ruska Roma continues to shoot. Wind bites your face and stings the tips of your ears, slapping you with cold air. The car growls under the rhythmic blasting of the gun and the shooters you fail to hit fling themselves to the sides as Jeonghan peels out of the alley and into the street. When the theater and the outraged Ruska Roma disappear from the rearview mirror, he gently tugs the hem of your coat to coax you back into the car. It purrs like a cat, cutting through the rain that continues to splatter on the cracked windshield. 

“Are you hurt?” He asks when you're settled back in the passenger's seat and clicking your seat belt into place. 

“I'm fine.” You wince and brush your fingers over your sternum, where your torso slammed into the sunroof edge. “An ice pack would do me some good, though.”

“You got hit?”

“Of course not. Just some damage from the driving. I’ll live.” He nods and breathes a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. It's shorter than the last time you saw him at the Sector celebration, and you finally have a chance to really look at him. In the silence, he catches you unapologetically watching but doesn't comment on it. 

“Did you have somewhere you need to be after adjudicating? I don’t know how your cases work, but I’ll go wherever you need to finish up work,” Jeonghan states a little tersely. 

“You can, uh, just drop me off anywhere,” you reply. “I'll find my way and get out of your hair.” Wrong answer. The car screeches to a halt as Jeonghan slams his foot against the brake, and you're thrown so violently forward that your forehead almost hits the dashboard. 

“Are you serious?” He spits, more in disbelief than anger. 

“What the fuck was that for?” You gape at him indignantly, glancing through the back windshield and fortunately finding nothing but an empty street behind the car. 

“Answer my question,” he demands, some semblance of irritation finally leaking into his voice. “Are you actually asking me to drop you on the side of the street? After some dickheads just shot my car to hell?” 

“I'm just making a suggestion, since I already know I've royally fucked up your night, and probably the better part of your life!” You argue and he barks a laugh of disbelief. “What the hell is so funny?” 

“You don't get it, do you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You think you deserve to be pushed away after everything you did, but I don't care,” he seethes. “I. Don’t. Care. Angel, I have you with me, and that’s enough. Are you hearing me?” His composure completely broken, he grasps his scalp with his fingers in frustration. “If you really want to leave, you have ten seconds to get out. If you don't, then I'm taking us to the Continental, we're going to wash up, and then we'll talk.” 

“But–” 

“No buts. It's your decision.” His tone softens the briefest amount. “It's always your decision.” Ten seconds come and go, and you make no move to exit the vehicle. Jeonghan sighs in relief and puts the car back in drive much gentler than he did before. “You know, you drive me insane.” 

“I know,” you murmur. He shakes his head.

“I don’t think you do.” The drive back to the Continental is quiet, as is the elevator ride up to his hotel room. You don’t speak another word until you've both finished showering, the steam from his shower fogging the mirror as you enter the bathroom to clean up. You turn the water temperature up until it’s nearly scalding, burning off the dirt and sweat and doubt clinging to your body. Once you’re done, you tug on one of his sweaters and a well-loved pair of pajama pants that Jeonghan left for you on the bathroom counter. 

You catch the last part of a conversation he holds on the phone when you step out of the bathroom, and you suspect that he was on the phone with Seungcheol. While you were washing up, he took the time to remove the remainder of the weapons strapped to his body, placing them neatly on the hotel desk. With his phone squished between his cheek and his shoulder, he fishes around his messenger bag–the same one from your school days, you notice–to toss you a bottle of painkillers. Retrieving a bottle of water from the mini fridge, he cracks it open for you before joining you as you perch on the edge of the bed. 

“For the bruises. I’m sorry for jolting you around in the car.” 

“I can’t really criticize getaway car driving if it means I’m alive, but thank you.” You swallow two pills, along with the lump in your throat. “Can I talk first?” You propose tentatively, tugging at the sleeves of the sweater covering your torso. He nods. 

“Of course.” 

“It's gonna be a lot,” you warn. He takes your hand in his and it’s the first time in almost a decade that your skin is directly against his. It feels like coming home. 

“It's okay. I've gotten really good at waiting,” he reassures you with an encouraging smile. “I've waited all this time for you. I'm ready to listen.” 

— 

From scratch paper messages #26 written during Year 11 chemistry class, by Jupiter (J), Saturn (S), Terminus (T), and Ops (O)

**Note: The teacher of the class strictly forbade conversations during lectures, so above students were forced to improvise by writing back and forth on a sheet of notebook paper.

S: foot volleyball after class?

J: you have a makeup exam for algebra 2

S: jun snuck me the answer key i’ll be fine

T: the fuck i did not

O: language

T: you literally called atlas a dickwad to his face yesterday

O: yeah he deserved it

J: i second that

S: sooooo no foot volleyball?

O: finish your exam han and then we’ll play if it’s still light out after

S: i love it when you talk smart to me 

T: ew

J: kill me

O: what a sap

S: only for you <3 

J: enough i’m taking my damn paper back

In the aftermath of Nadia’s death and the Ruska Roma’s sudden interest in having your head on a spike, Seungcheol is quick to absorb you into the safety of the Sector and the reputation that it brings. Hans and Hermann, along with a dozen other agents, hunt you for a week and a half before you, Soonyoung, and Jihoon ambush them, beating them within an inch of their life and effectively warning them what should come if they try to hurt you again. From then on, the Ruska Roma don’t touch you, nor do the High Table and other Adjudicators. Though you agree with Jihoon that the Table was trying to quietly take out SECTOR 17, you knew they couldn’t risk all out war and have all the remaining Sectors rally behind Seungcheol as their commander. So, it remains quiet between the Table and the Sectors, a kind of Cold War settling in as one side waits for the other to throw the first punch. You complete your induction task exactly two weeks after Nadia’s death, officially becoming a member of the Sector with Jeonghan, Seungcheol, Jun, and Vernon as your witnesses. Seungcheol has your signet ring engraved with the Roman numeral two, a subtle match with Jeonghan’s that bears the same number. You’re given the alias Ops, goddess of prosperity and abundance. 

You also don’t protest when you realize that Ops is the wife of Saturn.

While it takes you two weeks to join SECTOR 17, it takes you three months to let yourself love Jeonghan again. He waits for you patiently, like he promised he would the night in the Continental when you talked until the sun came up and then passed out together on the hotel bed. He’s steady as you go through the cycle of thinking you’ve healed, realizing you haven’t, spiraling, and then repeating, over and over and over again. He lets you stay with him in his apartment just outside Seoul, though you’re not there very often as you start taking contracts together. Being in Jeonghan’s proximity again gradually softens the hard shell you had molded around your heart after becoming an Adjudicator, and you find yourself smiling and laughing more as the weeks go by. You cook with him. You eat with him. You watch shitty reality TV with him. You fall asleep on the couch with him and wake up with a blanket carefully tucked around your body. You talk to him about anything and everything, from contracts to movies to betting on Mingyu’s love life. On the nights you wake up screaming, even if you’re rooms away, he always comes in and gently reassures you that he’s not leaving, even after everything that you’ve both said and done. He never pushes you more than what you have to give, and eagerly accepts the little affection that you do muster up the courage to provide. Slowly but surely, you allow yourself to love and be loved, and you help each other heal every wound the other had inflicted. At the end of your fourth month being back in Jeonghan’s life, you ask him to kiss you. He does, enthusiastically, and you both end up holding back a mixture of laughter and tears as you curl up on his living room couch. Loving Jeonghan, as it always did, came as naturally as breathing. 

You attend the 37th annual Sector celebration in Rome wrapped in matching Yves Saint Laurent thanks to Salacia’s savvy handling of the Sector’s business affairs. The Sector is fifteen members strong, finally securing Chan after eight years of convincing. However, his induction task and Joshua’s subsequent appointment to manager of the Los Angeles Continental has left the criminal underworld shaken, and you feel the crowd shift as the Sector steps onto the sprawling agricultural estate where the celebration was being held. You end up huddled around a standing table with Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Jun, and Joshua, watching the sky turn into a watercolor painting as the sun sets over the Italian hillside. 

“Another?” Jeonghan murmurs when you’ve finished your first flute of champagne. 

“I’m alright for now, though I wouldn’t mind a cup of water,” you request. 

“What the lady wants, the lady gets,” he confirms, peeling away from you with a light hand on your hip. Your eyes follow him as he moves in the direction of the bar and you smile when he’s pulled into a lively conversation between Seungkwan and Dino. You weren’t getting that water anytime soon. 

“Don’t be offended when I say that I’m glad to see you smiling again,” Seungcheol says, snapping you out of your thoughts. You quirk an eyebrow when Jun and Joshua nod in agreement. 

“Why would I be offended by that?”

“Because it implies that you never smiled before,” elaborates Joshua and you chuckle. 

“I mean, I didn’t,” you agree with a shrug. “But that’s also because I wasn’t happy before.”

“Neither was Jeonghan,” Jun adds. 

“Did he tell you why he called me on the night you finally saw each other again?” Seungcheol asks and you shake your head. “He said three things to me,” he begins, raising a finger for each comment he recalls. “One, that he had run into you on the ballerina job. Two, that you had chosen him over adjudication, and three, that he had been robbing Adjudicators.” Your mouth falls open.

“He picked then to tell you that he was robbing Adjudicators?”

“That’s what I said! I almost had a heart attack in the middle of a job,” Seungcheol recounts and you give him a sympathetic smile. “But it all worked out. You worked it out, like you always do.” 

“He explained all of his solo escapades that night. Robbing Adjudicators, the job in Morocco, his year of being a solo assassin after graduating before he joined the Sector–” You’re abruptly cut off by Joshua’s melodramatic groan.

“He was so messy back then,” he laments. “The only reason he’s on a first name basis with Continental janitorial is because he does his messiest work in my city.” 

“He’s cleaner now, though. I’m sure you’ve seen,” says Jun. “You’ve been doing contracts together, right?

“We came straight here from a contract in Munich, actually.” Joshua lets out a low whistle. 

“I think I’d faint if both of you were trying to kill me. Jeonghan’s scary, but you have, like, ex-Adjudicator aura.” Your friends burst into laughter, and Jeonghan returns with a cup of water just as you settle back into comfortable silence. 

“You’re not shit-talking me with my wife, are you?” He accuses jokingly and you gratefully take the plastic cup of water from him. 

“Of course not,” Joshua swears. “We would do that to your face.” 

“We have done that to your face,” Jun corrects.

“It’s one of our hobbies, actually,” adds Seungcheol.

“I’m telling Salacia,” Jeonghan fires back with a grin.

“Good. She’ll agree with me,” Joshua grins.

“The only thing we’ll be telling Salacia is how thankful we are that we don’t look like hot messes tonight,” you chuckle and Jeonghan surrenders with a playful show of his palms. 

“That’s true,” Joshua concurs. “I’ve already sent her flowers for holding down the fort in L.A.”

“As you should,” you smirk. “And I will say, we do look pretty damn good in YSL.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Seungcheol declares, raising his half-finished glass of wine. Two blurry figures pass quickly behind Jun, almost invisible if you weren’t already looking for them, and your face lights up with a gasp. 

“I win,” you announce. “I found Nyx and Hao.” The table immediately raises their voices in protest, arguing about how you have the better vantage point and that your former job was literally keeping an eye on people. “Talk all you want; it doesn’t change the fact that I spotted them first.” 

“Alright, but did you see who they’re surveilling?” Jun questions. You squint and crane your head to observe the faces in the crowd, but the couple and whoever they were tailing have disappeared. You curse under your breath. “See, that’s the other part of the game. You haven’t won yet, Ops.”

“I think I have an unfair advantage, then, since I told Hao to keep an eye on someone tonight,” Seungcheol concedes. Your faces fall in confusion. It was rare that Seungcheol targeted a specific source of information rather than letting Minghao sweep through the crowd like a metal detector. “I told him to trail Kronos.” The carefree atmosphere dies the moment Seungcheol mentions his former mentor, shadows falling over the eyes of Jeonghan and Joshua. You glance at Jun, who stretches his neck like he was readying for a fight. 

“What’s your angle?” Jeonghan asks, his voice low. His arm snakes protectively around your waist.

“I’m not sure,” admits Seungcheol. “I’ve been on edge since Salacia’s induction task.”

“Is there any way he could directly attack us without us predicting it?” Joshua asks you, relying on your thorough knowledge of the Table’s rules. 

“Not unless one of the members fucks up, like getting declared excommunicado,” you explain and Seungcheol frowns. “There’s precedent for it. Entire Sectors have been wiped out by High Table forces the instant one member disobeys a commandment. But, that’s also why we have protocols in case something like that does happen. If we’re caught unaware, at least we have a plan of what to do in order to regroup.” 

“Plans that couldn’t have been made without you knowing all the loopholes of the rules, I’ll add,” Jeonghan clarifies. 

“One must know the rules in order to best break them,” you quote, quietly pleased that you don’t feel a wave of guilt after echoing your mother’s words that she had used to hurt you. Seungcheol takes a deep breath and you watch him force the tension to release from his shoulders. 

“In any case, it’s nothing that we can worry about tonight,” he concludes. “I have Hao on Kronos, Jihoon’s keeping Chan and Soonyoung in check, and Vernon’s planning on asking Flora for a dance.” The summary makes your group a little less tense, though you’re sure they’re scanning the room for danger just as often as you are. “Enjoy tonight as much as you can. Watch out for each other.” Seungcheol’s eyes fall on you and Jeonghan. “And try to let yourselves be happy.” The rest of the table nods and takes that as a cue to disperse into the rest of the party. 

“Dance with me?” Jeonghan asks with your hand in the crook of his arm.

“Do I really have a choice?” You remark jokingly. 

“You always have a choice,” he replies and your heart sings. He leads you out into the middle of the dance floor and takes one hand in yours, the other pulling you closer by the small of your back. Under the darkening sky, you sway as the string lights above the estate’s courtyard flicker to life. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m happy. Really happy,” you answer truthfully. “The impending fear of death is still there, obviously, but at least I’m with you. And you? Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fantastic,” he assures you, twirling you slowly and watching your dress flow around your body. “I’ve got a pretty lady in my arms and twelve people watching my back while I dance with her. Life can’t get much better than that.” 

“I think it can,” you state cryptically and he raises one eyebrow.

“Can it, now? Do tell, my dear wife.” You smile and drop your voice to a whisper. 

“I’ve found someone to open Seungkwan’s drive.” 

“For the record, I found it first,” Jeonghan reminds you. “But cool. That’s really cool. Good job, Angel.”

“I know, I know, but Kwan’s the one who asked me if I could open it. I’ve got an Accountant that owes me a favor.” His head tilts to the side.

“I thought Accountants dealt with tech from like, the 80s. The kind of computer monitors that are the same size as our microwave.” Your grin widens.

“That’s what I thought, right? But then I found out that she’s a coder too. She makes sure that the algorithms that send contracts out to assassins’ burner phones are working well.” Jeonghan nods, opening his mouth to congratulate you again, but you’re not finished. “And there’s more. Not only does she code and is able to crack Seungkwan’s drive, guess where she works out of?” He shrugs, having no idea. “Budapest,” you reveal and the cogs in Jeonghan’s brain whir to life. 

“Wait, you’re not saying–”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” you whisper excitedly. 

“The Accountant who’s gonna help us figure out ‘Project: Harvest’ is the girl Mingyu is in love with?” He summarizes and you nod, unsuccessfully stifling your laughter. Jeonghan’s jaw hangs open, a mix of amusement and disbelief painting his features. “When did you find this out?”

“Right after the Munich contract ended, she texted me back. I’ve been wanting to tell you but it got super busy once we landed here,” you explain. 

“Angel, that’s the funniest thing you’ve ever told me. Holy shit,” he grins. “Your tech girl is Mingyu’s tech girl. His life truly is a sitcom.”

“I wholeheartedly agree,” you beam. “There’s uh, one more thing I’ve been thinking about.” The rest of the world has fallen away again, and it’s just you and Jeonghan under the golden lights. 

“Go on.”

“You know how, even though she and Joshua are together now, Salacia joined the Sector through the marriage clause?” 

“How could I forget? I’m the one who pushed them to get married in the first place,” he hums. 

“Well, I was thinking,” you take a breath, trying your best to slow your racing heart. “Even though I’m already a member of the Sector, not via the marriage clause, I still…want to get married.” Jeonghan’s body goes still and you’re not entirely sure he’s breathing. “I’d like to get married, if that’s something you would–”

“Tomorrow?” Your brain short circuits. 

“I–what?” You sputter and he laughs, the happiest grin you’ve ever seen on him breaking out over his face. 

“Tomorrow. We’re not doing anything tomorrow, so let’s get married,” Jeonghan continues and you blink at him. 

“I didn’t think you would agree so quickly, or so soon,” you admit with a nervous chuckle. He looks at you like you painted the stars in the sky. 

“I’ve wanted to marry you since you were pulling your suitcase up the school driveway,” he remembers. “Since you sat with us in the library. Since you snuck out of the dorms. Since you kissed me on your birthday.” Your smile turns melancholy.

“Even when I left without saying goodbye?” He nods slowly.

“Even when you had to leave to keep me safe,” he confirms. “When you were gone, I thought to myself that if I’d told you what I wanted sooner, you would have stayed. We were together, and I stupidly thought that it would always be that way, so I got complacent. I should’ve fought harder for you. I told myself that even if something went wrong, I could just break all the rules to get you back.” You let the tears run down your cheeks, unafraid to cry with him. There was nothing you would ever fear with him. His thumb brushes your face and he presses his lips to your forehead. Your eyes flutter shut with a sigh. “I’ve been yours since the moment you let me help you cheat on that algebra test. I’ve never stopped being yours.”

“Would you believe me if I said that I never stopped being yours, too?” 

“As long as you’re saying it because you want to, not because I want you to,” he whispers and suddenly, it’s your fifteenth birthday and you’re dangling your feet over the Thames. Your head is airy and your stomach is full from too much street food, but all you can think about is how Yoon Jeonghan is looking at you. What an odd but welcome sense of deja vu. 

“I’d be saying it because it’s true,” you murmur back, echoing the first time you finally told him how you felt. “I’ve always been yours. I’ll always be yours.” He tilts his head to brush his nose against yours. 

“I think this is the part where I kiss you, right?”

“Yeah, it is,” you breathe and he finally kisses you, unhurried and leisurely like you weren’t in a room full of trained killers. “You still haven’t said yes.”

“To what?” The corner of his mouth twitches.

“My proposal, that we get married.”

“Only as long as you say yes to mine,” he teases. 

“Which is?”

“That we get married tomorrow. Seungcheol’s friends with the Rome Continental’s manager. We’ll use the roof.” You start visualizing the logistics in your head, a much more pleasant task than creating logistics for adjudication cases. 

“And who’s gonna officiate?”

“Seungkwan, duh,” he states, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “We’ll gather everyone there. Eat. Drink. Play games.” 

“We need to fly in Salacia,” you point out. “And I want Flora and Nyx there too.”

“Of course,” he agrees. “Everything you want, it’s yours.”

“I’ll need a dress.”

“I’m sure Salacia can scrounge up something in,” he glances at the watch on his wrist, “sixteen hours.” 

“You’ll need to write vows.”

“I already have them up here, angel,” Jeonghan says, tapping his finger against his temple. “I’ve been writing them since we were eleven.” Your laugh turns into a snort and he spins you around, holding you close as he dips you at an angle. “So? What do you say?”

“Oh, it’s my decision now?”

“You already know what I’m going to say, angel,” he concedes. Everything is your decision. 

“Yes, Yoon Jeonghan, I will marry you,” you answer and he lights up like a Christmas tree. “Tomorrow,” you add with a chuckle and if the courtyard had walls, he’d be bouncing off of them. 

“We should tell everyone so they can get ready, shouldn’t we?” He asks so enthusiastically that your stomach flips. 

“Kiss me one more time first?” 

“What the lady wants, the lady gets.”

—

TOP PRIORITY: High Table Sector #17 leader "JUPITER" has initiated SCATTER protocol. All members of High Table Sector #17 are henceforth excommunicado and now hold open contracts no less than 1 billion KRW each. Access to services and privileges under the Table are suspended. Relocate current position immediately and avoid contact with other members. Rendezvous instructions to follow.

You’re on a speedboat to Isla Caballo when the SCATTER protocol message comes through. At the same moment, the driver of the speedboat receives a notification that all members of SECTOR 17 are under open contracts sanctioned by the High Table. Your hand calmly drifts to your gun, but he makes no move to kill you. You nod at each other in understanding. You were going to Flora’s island to protect her, and Kronos’ men stationed on Isla Caballo were arguably more loyal to her than to her father. The same song is sung for the other two dozen security officers scattered across the island as you ride the golf cart to the ranch house at the center. They watch with grim expressions as you pass, torn between duty to their boss and loyalty to the boss’ daughter. Even the ranch hands are tense, leading Flora’s massive herd into the stables and away from the airfield where your husband will land. All the staff will leave the island within half an hour, unable to protect Flora but unable to kill her. 

In the end, loyalty wins out for all except one guard. 

Flora’s covered in blood and trembling when you find her on her knees in the back lawn of the house, the grass shooting up so high that you almost miss the lifeless corpse of a guard bent in front of her. Tearing through the tall stems of wildflowers, you wordlessly lift her to her feet by her wrists and corral her into the house, verifying that there was no one except you two inside before hitting the button in the security room to lock down the building. You let yourself breathe only after the heavy metal panels stretch over the windows and the doors bolt themselves shut. She’s exactly where you left her, perched on a barstool at the kitchen counter, when you return from sweeping the house for threats. 

“Where are you hurt?” You ask gently but firmly, scanning her body for injuries as you crouch in front of her. Her shirt and jeans are soaked in blood, but you figure that most of it isn’t her own based on the fact that she hasn’t passed out yet. “Flora, you need to answer me. Where are you hurt?”

“I–I hit my head,” she says quietly. “Or, something hit my head. I don’t–I don’t know. The butt of a dagger, I think.” 

“Where else? Are you bleeding out anywhere?” There’s a gash on the side of her thigh that’s likely to leave a scar, but it would be fine once you stitched it up. Flora shakes her head. “Okay. Let’s get this stuff washed off you. C’mon,” you say, standing and holding out a hand for her to take. She stares directly ahead, her eyes unfocusing. It didn’t take a genius to figure out she had to kill a traitorous guard, and you kick yourself for not getting to her sooner. “Your husband’s gonna kick my ass when he gets here if I don’t get you cleaned up.” She blinks and finally raises her eyes to meet yours at the mention of Vernon. 

“Hansol’s coming,” she states more to herself than to you. 

“Yeah. Jeonghan and Salacia, too. It’s a liability and against protocol to have all of us together, but Vernon insisted I’m the best person to keep you safe. Joshua apparently had the same idea,” you explain and she nods once, taking your hand and letting you help her into the bathtub. “Wash up as best you can. I’ll take care of your stitches after.” The bath water turns pink as she scrubs the blood from her body, and you hop up onto the sink counter to dial your husband. He picks up after two rings. 

“Are you safe?” He asks as soon as the call connects. 

“Yes. We both are,” you answer. You hear him exhale in relief on the other end. “You?”

“Yeah. We’re about to get on the last plane over to the island.” You find a small piece of comfort in knowing that Jeonghan would be there soon. 

“How’s she doing?” 

“Salacia? Yeah, she’s pissed.” 

“I’d be too if you dumped me on Neptune and disappeared to who knows where,” you say sympathetically. Even though Psyche had secured the Sector’s phone lines, you still stick to using aliases rather than real names. “Have you explained why you’re with her and her husband isn’t?”

“Sort of, but she’ll probably listen more to you. She’s too mad at me right now.” 

“Did Neptune say anything about where he’s gonna go?”

“Not to me. If I know him, though, then he’s probably going somewhere that’s super deep-underworld. Somewhere only Nyx and Pluto would know.” 

“And Jupiter?” 

“M.I.A. He’s alive, though, or else we would’ve heard otherwise.” The sound of a Cessna plane roars through the phone. “Gotta go. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Alright. Fly safe, Han. I’ll see you soon.”

“Will do. I love you.”

“I love you.” 

When Flora is patched up and tucked into the corner of the couch against the wall of the security room, you drop yourself into the swivel chair and fiddle with the signet ring on your left hand. Soon, your husband, Salacia, and Vernon would arrive, and you would need to figure out next steps. What those next steps would be, you had no idea, but you knew for certain that the consequences of Seungcheol breaking High Table law were ones you could never have prepared for. The lion on your ring roars back at you under the light of the security camera monitors. 

“Ops?” 

“Hmm?” You spin yourself to face Flora. 

“Are there rules for when the Table declares war?” You shake your head. 

“Not that I know of.” 

“So we’re in uncharted territory,” Flora summarizes. 

“For the most part.” 

“Are we gonna get wiped out by the Table?” Your forehead creases and you think for a long moment. “Ops?”

“No,” you decide. “I don’t think we will.”

“How are you so sure?”

“I’m not sure,” you correct. “But I know the members of this Sector, and I know Seungcheol. And if the Table wants to go to war against SECTOR 17…I hope for their sake that they’re prepared when we fight back.” 

You do not know what to make of it. The warrior who led an army into raping and plundering Aurelia will protect its High Priestess. The general of a warmongering tribe will take your hand and flee from battle. The lost prince who longed nine years for his home will abandon it to save you.

And the heir to a millennia of Strife cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a shallow cut across your palm.

You wonder if you have somehow misinterpreted Oronyx. But when you glance at Prince Mydeimos and catch him studying you with concern, you cannot help but believe that your understanding of your visions is truthful, at least in part. Even that of the one that bothers you the most—the one with all the children.

“Do you like dromases?” you ask him, and he blinks. You'd just been speaking of the Black Tide—its encroachment from all directions, Kremnos’ millennia of struggle against it, the good fortune that Aurelia had in avoiding it—so you suppose it is fair that he's surprised by the question.

“Dromases?” he inquires.

“Yes. You know—the long-necked purple creatures? They’re rather big. Hard to miss.”

He tries—and fails—to suppress an irritated sigh. “I know what a dromas is. I simply wondered if I'd misheard. Why on earth would you ask?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he replies, cataloguing you. “You have never asked about my personal interests before.”

Ever since Oronyx blessed you with prophecies several nights ago, your captor has been frustratingly suspicious of all questions you've asked—and with good reason. Nearly every single one has been related to your supposed future with Prince Mydeimos. However, you would rather die than tell him that you will, at some point in the future, blissfully feed a dromas together before a crowd of giggling children. Worse than the scene itself had been the unadulterated joy you’d felt in it: the genuine delight in seeing Mydei—not your captor, not Prince Mydeimos, but Mydei—so free of sorrow and so… safe.

Safe. You will be safe with Mydei in a beautiful city of eternal sun and cerulean baths. You will be safe with the Crown Prince who sacked your temple and burned your lands. You are safe with your captor who keeps you locked in his room, dressed in chains.

It sends you into such misery that you can hardly think of it, let alone admit to it.

“Nevermind,” you dismiss. “It isn't important.”

The Crown Prince gives you a long look, but you turn your gaze back to the city before he can search you too carefully. The silence that passes is so uncomfortable that you pray he will let the matter drop—but then he replies, “I have always found them curious animals, but I have not had much opportunity to interact with them.”

“Oh.”

You catch him watching you, expectant. “And yourself?” he prompts. At your blank look, he adds, “Do you like them?”

Does it matter? you nearly parrot, before you realise he must think you care about his opinions about dromases, and now he cares about yours. The Crown Prince of Kremnos wishes to know your thoughts about the silliest of all of Georios’ creations, and you can't decide whether to laugh or cry at this absurdity.

You choose to deflect, in the end: “They’re quite useful for trade, yet I hardly ever see them here.” You gesture at the streets, which are filled with soldiers and horses, but bereft of the great beasts that populate the rest of Amphoreus. “I was wondering if Kremnoans had something against them.”

“Not against them, precisely. It is just that they are not often used in war—their disposition is too docile. And the terrain surrounding Kremnos is often too hostile for trade caravans to cross.”

You frown. “Too hostile? How do you get food?” You glance at the plate in front of you, filled with honeyed sweets. “The ingredients that you use when you cook—they’re always fresh.”

“Helots till the land outside Castrum Kremnos in our settlements. Everything else comes from surrounding city-states.”

Prince Mydeimos looks away. So do you. The implication is clear: Everything else we steal. Everything else is plunder. Because the city runs on war, and you know this. You know this because you are no different from fresh food or fine wine. You are plunder just like the brown-sugared apples in your cakes and the warm spice of cinnamon in your dishes, and you will be devoured in the same way—sacrificed to Nikador by the future King of Kremnos.

Aquila’s eyes bear down on Prince Mydeimos in judgment, and your chains gleam in the harsh Kremnoan sun. Some time in the future, a strange, eternal dawn lights up Mydei’s gentle expression, your barren wrists. You can still hear your own laughter at the sight of him feeding a dromas. You can still hear yourself giggling as you are lifted onto one for the first time, a toddler squealing in the arms of her mother.

The truth is that you are painfully fond dromases. They were everywhere in Aurelia, and you loved riding them in the days before you were initiated into the Cult of Oronyx, before you became untouchable in her temple. The truth is that some day in the future, you’ll be elated seeing Mydei with one of those beasts, and you'll have the idea of getting him to take the Kremnoan children on rides—just like how you once were.

You take a bite of your pastry, its syrup cloying on your tongue, and you feel like a traitor.

One night, during the Hour of Curtain-Fall, you wake up with a knife to your throat and a hand over your mouth.

You do not recognize the intruder. He is clad in black, a shadow in the moonlight spilling in through the window. “Come easy and I won't have to hurt you,” he says lowly, and that's when you know that he doesn't mean to kill you, but it doesn't stop you from fighting anyway.

The intruder does not expect you to wield a knife.

The motion comes easily to you after all your practice with the golden dagger—obsessive, fervored, a nightly ritual after your dreams of being raped, of being torn apart by golden gauntlets—and blade runs into the flesh of the man before you, cutting without resistance. But your aim is clumsy, untrained; while the intruder curses and recoils, he is neither killed nor deterred. His hands crush your wrists, pinning you to the bed.

“Fucking whore,” he spits as you kick and squirm beneath him, his blood dripping onto your sleeping garb. “You think I won't kill you if you're more trouble than you're worth?”

It's happening again. Aurelia is burning again. Your ivory chiton is being stained red; your body is being grabbed by violating, pilfering hands. You are going to be dragged away and stolen. You are going to be raped, for that's what happens to women who fall into the hands of the enemy—the hands of Castrum Kremnos. And unlike the first time, you are all alone—no worshippers at your back, no altar giving you strength, no Crown Prince to protect you.

Here, all alone in the hands of a beast, you scream the first thing that comes to mind:

“Mydei! Mydei—help!”

You don't actually expect help to come. You aren't even fully aware of what you're saying, if it even makes sense. But after several moments of shrieking and struggling, the door is forced open and the intruder is being pulled off your body and skewered on a blade. You hardly notice it, though, heart seizing with fear and mind flooding with panic. All you do is weep, feeling the hands that dragged you from your altar, recalling the dreams—visions?—of someone forcing their way inside you, and it takes you several moments to realise you are sobbing into someone's chest.

Someone is holding you. Someone’s arms are cradling you, and they're so warm and firm and safe. You have not felt safe in months, not since the soldiers broke through your temple doors, and now you're pressing yourself into this warmth, clinging to it. You think you'll die if you let go.

“It's alright,” someone says. Their voice is a low rumble, but gentle. “It’s alright. I have you. I have you.”

You are too busy sobbing to reply. A hand rubs your back until you have calmed, your senses returning to you. You look up when you do—

And you panic.

The golden eyes that glared down so hatefully at you when you were stolen, the figure of Strife that will kill you someday—they’re inches away from you. So close. Too close. You flinch, tearing yourself out of the hands that sometime, somewhere in the Evernight Veil, are forcing open your legs.

Even in your fear, you can see the pain in Prince Mydeimos’ eyes when you look at him with such terror.

“It's alright,” he tries to calm you. “I won't hurt you. No one will hurt you. I—”

“I know.” You close your eyes, count to ten as you shudder. I'm not in the temple. I'm not in the tent. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I was raised not to weep. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. “I know you won’t. I’m well now. I'm fine. I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to be sorry.”

Except there is. You are sorry for how weak you are. For how desperately you clung to your captor in your moment of disgrace. For how warm you felt, how safe you felt. If you could apologise to all the corpses on your temple steps, you would. You would place their bones upon your altar and prostrate yourself, and then you would beg Talanton to punish you for your injustice toward them.

How did you feel safe in the arms of a man who killed your worshippers?

“Why did you come?” you ask. Your voice is tight, your anguish barely contained. Why aren't you hurting me? Why are you protecting me? Why are you going to save me as your city falls? But you know the answer, know it before he even says it—

“I told you I do not wish to see you harmed. Not even by a hair.” His voice, calm and deep, is so comforting, like the warm spice of cinnamon. You look down, feeling like a traitor.

“But I thought you stayed at the barracks at night,” you say, desperate to change the subject.

“Normally I do. But King Eurypon called me on business here, and he bid that I stay the night.” His voice grows irritated. “How convenient it is that the guards disappeared and an assassin entered my room on the same evening.”

Even through the fear, your mind works through the implications. “You think he came for you?”

“I know it.”

Your brow pinches. “But he told me to come with him. He—he wanted to abduct me.” You stare at Prince Mydeimos, at the way his mouth tightens, at the immediate outrage burning in his eyes, and then you understand. “…they wanted to take me as a hostage.”

He nods. “I may not have been here, but you would have made for a fine consolation prize.”

It is a ludicrous statement—so naïve that it shakes you out of your fear. An Aurelian general once came to you for counsel on what to do about his most beautiful courtesan, who had been stolen from him by an Aidonian warrior. When you foretold her eventual location, he marched upon the enemy and sealed her fate as a casualty.

“I don't know about that,” you say, thinking of the poor girl, of her mother weeping in your temple. “Whores and slaves generally make for poor hostages. They are too disposable to provide any political leverage.”

“Men have been known to act unwisely for their favoured concubines.”

“I am not your favoured concubine.”

He gives you a wry look. “You are not, yet I act unwisely over you anyway.”

You can hardly argue with this. Prince Mydeimos should have killed you the moment you alluded to his plans of regicide—instead, he has kept you in his room, pampers you with sweets, and has you accompany him on long walks. It’s maddening.

“You should start being crueler to me,” you grouse. “Maybe then I will be left alone by your enemies.” And it would be better for my own sanity.

Prince Mydeimos is unamused. “Even if I had any inclination to hurt you, I doubt it will make things any safer for you at this point.” He stares at the corpse with irritation. “I will need to come back after dealing with this body.”

You blink. “Come back? You won't return to the barracks?”

“No. I would not leave you alone after an attempt to abduct you. I will return and stay here for the night.”

The look that you give him is so affronted that he immediately realises his error.

“Only to safeguard you,” he explains hurriedly. “I would sleep at the door. Leave you alone.”

“I do not think you should stay.”

“I would not hurt you—I swear it.”

“I cannot swear that I would not hurt you.”

“That’s fine. Do whatever you want. You may even kill me as you so often wish—as long as you are kept safe, I don’t mind it.”

You look away, utterly lost. Killing him used to be your fantasy, your only purpose for staying alive. Now, the words make you feel hollow. “You only don't mind it because you won't really die,” you accuse. Deflect.

“Strictly speaking, I would. It’ll just be impermanent. I'm sure it will be no less satisfying for you, though—you will still get to see me suffer in my death throes.”

You do like the idea of him suffering. He would deserve it. Still, you are not a sadist. “If you truly decide to stay,” you reply noncommittally, “we may see for ourselves.”

“I'm certain we will,” he says dryly. He rises from the bed, steps toward the coprse. Says he’ll give you time to change—you only remember then that your nightwear is stained with blood—and that he will return soon enough.

But then he pauses. Hesitates.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

“When you were calling for help,” he says slowly, “you screamed for someone named ‘Mydei’. Did you misspeak in an attempt to call for me? Or were you calling for someone else?”

You freeze. Scramble for an answer. You cannot tell him that you were calling for him—for you weren't, not really. You were calling out for the version of him that Oronyx showed you, the one in that beautiful city where you were both free and safe. Some part of you knows that Mydei would have saved you, knows it so surely that his name was the first and only thing you could think to scream. But assuming the same of Prince Mydeimos would make you an idiot: for all of his good behaviour, the man still has you in shackles, and he has never shown remorse for raining destruction upon your home.

Also, your ego would not be able to take admitting it was him.

“Someone else,” you reply firmly. At his skeptical look, you add, “Truly. Do you think I would call for the man who abducted me?” You give him an disdainful look, and although you can't seem to muster any fire behind it, he believes it all the same.

The suspicion leaves his eyes, and he nods. “This Mydei,” he asks, “is he someone close to you?”

“Close enough.”

“Who is he? A guard? A friend? A lover?”

Wouldn't I like to know. The possibilities make you feel like throwing up, and the pain in your voice is genuine when you reply, “I don’t wish to say. It doesn't matter.”

“I see.” His expression looks strange—an artefact of the moonlight, you want to think. “Well, whoever he is, he isn't here with you. Next time, you should just call for me.”

For the next three nights, Prince Mydeimos sleeps in your room.

He does as promised: he slumbers on the klinai near the door, never approaching your bed. You know this for a fact, for you stay awake the whole night. You stare at the ceiling, clutching your dagger until Aquila opens his eyes and Prince Mydeimos leaves for the day. It is only then you allow yourself to sleep, because even though you can now admit—with a great deal of misery—that the Crown Prince has no desire to hurt you, Aurelia is still burning behind you, and your heart is still rupturing in Nikador’s claws. But somehow, even with all of these memories and visions, you do not think of actually using your blade against the Crown Prince.

Then the fourth day comes.

Prince Mydeimos takes you out for a walk along a new path. It is busier than your usual ones on the rooftops and parapets, which are bereft of anyone other than the occasional warriors. On this long walk through one of the palace courtyards, there are not only guards and soldiers, but also statesmen and nobles—and slaves.

Some of them are in chains like you; some of them are in white caps. Many are soldiers, some are servants, and you see a few other concubines in garb not unlike your own: dressed beautifully in sheer silks, almost translucent and wholly indecent in how they cling to their bodies. But despite their expensive dresses and fragrance and rouge, all of them wear chains, gold or silver dangling from the manacles on their wrists or the collars on their necks. Some are even tied around their waists like belts, cruel and beautiful decoration. There are, you think, helots too—wearing ivory veils or flowers in place of the usual white cap. They are afforded slightly more dignity that way.

But regardless of their exact station—helot or slave—they are in the thrall of their owners, and they are subject to disproportionate punishment under Kremnoan law. You are startled when you hear a shriek pierce the quiet of the courtyard—anguished and pained and followed by begging.

Your eyes land on the source: a master and a slave. The slave is on the ground, her arms held up to shield herself from his strikes, her fiery hair curtaining over her face. She's trembling, cowering, reeling from the force of the abuse.

It feels familiar: both the terror and the pain. You think of the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, of being struck by that hoplite and stumbling to the ground. Prince Mydeimos had saved you then. He'd acted cruelly but he'd saved you, helped you up and took you onto his chariot, away from the Kremnoan soldiers.

But he's not saving her.

The slavemaster yells all sorts of profanities and accusations at the concubine. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes are intent on the two of them, his every muscle tense—but all he does is watch and listen. You stare at him, mouth agape. “Aren't you going to help?” you hiss.

“Were she a helot, I could,” he replies under his breath. “Helots are all owned by the state, and it would be my legal right to intervene. But slaves are private property, and I…”

I cannot draw undue attention to myself.

Your throat goes dry. Your heart pounds in your ears. Each time the Kremnoan kicks his slave, you nearly flinch; every time she begs for mercy, you want to clasp your hands over your ears. Your throat swells up and you think you might whimper—but I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot—

She screams in Aurelian.

You tense. Look at your captor, look at the slave. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, and he knows what you are going to do, but you bolt before he can stop you.

“Stop,” you cry in Kremnoan, “stop, stop!”

The slavemaster is so surprised when you come between them that he does stop. You don't look at him; you only focus on the concubine. She never worshipped at your temple much, but she came when she was younger, just after you rose to the position of hiereia and before the long conflict with Kremnos began. Kassandra, you think her name was. She must recognise you, for she clings to you immediately, starting to babble in your mother tongue. High Priestess, she cries, High Priestess, my lady, please help me, please help, please—

Her master pulls you off her and throws you to the ground. He kicks you so hard in the stomach that you nearly throw up. You writhe like a worm on the stone path, pathetic and disgraced.

It's exactly what you want.

He kicks you thrice more. Once in the stomach, and twice in the ribs, his foot cracking brutally against you. Kassandra weeps and throws her body over yours, begging him to stop, but then she goes as silent as death. The kicks stop too. When you look up, you see a golden gauntlet restraining the slavemaster’s wrist. The man has gone as white as a sheet.

“Aineidas,” Prince Mydeimos says in greeting. His voice is heavy with obvious displeasure. You note the lack of honorific. Not a strategos. Not an Elder. Not a noble—or not an important one, anyway. A warrior? But he's so old…

“Y-your Highness,” Aineidas greets. “It has been long since we’ve last seen each other.”

“It has. The Aurelian campaign was long.”

Aineidas glances at you. Realization flashes in his eyes, and you have to actively stop yourself from smiling.

“I heard your victory was stunning,” Aineidas says immediately, trying to ingratiate himself. “How disappointed I was that I could not fight alongside the Crown Prince and see you in your glory!”

“As am I,” Prince Mydeimos replies. “Had you been there, you would have recognized my war prize.”

His hand squeezes around Aineidas’ wrists. Both of them look at you; you try your best to appear pitiful. It does not come naturally to you—you were raised to act dignified no matter the situation; during your training, you were actually punished for looking unseemly after beatings—but you have teared up so much from being struck that you think it works.

“Yes,” Aineidas scrambles, “yes, I did not recognise her. You know I would not have otherwise punished the slave of the Crown Prince.”

“It is illegal to punish the slave of any citizen other than yourself.” Prince Mydeimos pauses, studying you. “Though it is particularly great folly that you have chosen to strike my concubine, of all people. Either way, you have broken the law.”

Aineidas swallows. He sweats and stares at his wrist, which looks distinctly breakable. “I—you must understand, Your Highness,” he beseeches, “I was not thinking clearly. I was only furious that someone had interfered with my punishment of my own slave.”

“An understandable error. Still, you have violated three Kremnoan laws: you have touched another man’s slave, you have damaged the property of the state, and you have disrespected the royal family.”

You try not to shudder. Property of the state. That's what you are, legally. If I belong to Prince Mydeimos, then it is Kremnos itself that owns me.

“Th-there must be something that can be done,” Aineidas stutters. “You know I have great wealth, Your Highness, business has been quite good lately”—ah, you think, he's a merchant—“so I am happy to recompense you for any damages.”

Damages? What am I, a fucking statue? you think, nearly scowling. But you manage to keep trembling, demure even when Prince Mydeimos leans down and touches your cheek with a gauntleted hand. Your first instinct is to spit in his face again—too close, too close, how dare you call me property—but you only stare at him, teary-eyed.

“I may have been the one slighted, but my concubine is the one who has suffered,” he says. “I would ask her what she requires to heal. That is the only true way to undo the damage to my property.”

You’re going to kill him. You have reached your limit, and you have decided you are going to kill him. For it is one thing to be called a slave, but it is another to be called property.

It is only Kassandra’s quiet sobbing beside you that makes you neglect your dignity. Your pride comes second to your worshippers. You grovel and weep before Prince Mydeimos, trying to strike a balance between sorrow and fear: I'm sorry for misbehaving, Your Highness, and I couldn't help myself, I know Kassandra from the temple, I loved her dearly, and I wish to see her safe, I wish to be with her.

Most importantly: You may punish me however you want. Kill me if you must. Just spare her, I beg you.

Prince Mydeimos discerns what you want him to ask: “Would it help calm you if you were to keep this slave by your side?”

“Yes,” you sob, “yes, it would. Oh, Your Highness, I'll do anything to please you”—you try not to gag—“so long as she is by my side.”

Prince Mydeimos turns to Aineidas. “Allow me to buy out your slave, and I will not take you to court over your follies today. As for the transgressions of my concubine against you, I shall see to it that she is punished appropriately.”

For good measure, you let out a terrified sob.

Aineidas is satisfied. The relief is palpable in his voice: “Yes, yes—take the blasted thing. Take her for free, even; the fault here is mine, and it is the least I can do to make up for my error. I must warn you that she is unsatisfying as a whore but decent as a maidservant. Try her out if you wish, but I would personally keep the priestess for warming your bed.” He pauses his rambling to glance at you. “...and I have no doubt you will discipline her, of course.”

“I will. I have gotten into the habit of spoiling her, but it seems that I still need to break her in.”

Oh, so now I'm a horse.

Aineidas makes a joke about how it is natural for men to spoil their most affectionate lovers—even the whores. Prince Mydeimos’ jaw tightens, but he does not say anything. The two men finish their exchange. Kassandra is sent back to Aineidas’ room to collect her things, while Prince Mydeimos walks you back to your quarters—

—and he rounds on you immediately once the door is closed.

The prince’s eyes flick up and down your form. They darken as they travel over your ribs and stomach, where dirt stains your silk robes, where the fabric hides a terrible ache.

“Why would you do that?” he snaps—almost snarls.

“Do what?” you ask mildly.

“Put yourself in harm’s way. Potentially get yourself killed.” He narrows his eyes at you. “Why is it such an uphill battle to get you to stay alive? Are you so desperate for Thanatos to take you?”

“I did not try to die,” you say delicately. “I was only trying to help. You had no legal right to intervene when Kassandra was being beaten—so I gave you one.”

“At the expense of your own well-being!”

“Well, it was either my well-being or Kassandra’s.” Your frown is deep, irate. “You said once you have a duty to your people. Well, I have a duty to mine. You may have made me a slave, but you have not made me a coward.”

He looks at the ceiling, as if praying to Nikador for the strength not to strangle you. “I do not need you to be a coward,” he grits out, “only to have some sense of self-preservation. What if Aineidas had been a soldier? What if he had run you through with a sword? Or what if he had been an Elder, or a noble—someone not so easy for me to deal with?”

“Then I would have been stabbed or whipped, like most other Aurelians.” You give him an accusatory look. “I don't even understand why you are so outraged when harm comes to me, when clearly you don't feel anything for other slaves. Is it that you don't want to see me hurt, or simply that you don't like to see your property damaged?”

You realise that you want to provoke him. You want him to yell at you. You want to hear him say that you are nothing but a whore. You want to realise that your supposed visions from Oronyx had merely been delusions, and you want to know that you will never again feel so safe and traitorous in the arms of the man who sacked your city.

You are disappointed when Prince Mydeimos merely sighs. He finds his composure, his rage subdued.

“You have to understand,” he explains wearily, “that I cannot save you all. Not in my current position.”

You go quiet. You can't say anything—because you know it's true.

“And I thought”—he gives you a pained look—“I thought it would be obvious by now that I do not see you as my property. I see you as a human being whom I wish to protect.”

Your heart wrenches at his expression. “Why,” you ask bitterly, “why me and not anyone else? Why not Kassandra? Why not the other Aurelians? Why only me?”

“I told you,” he says grimly, “I cannot help you all. Under Kremnoan law, I can only protect what belongs to me—and only you are mine.”

That night, you think of killing Prince Mydeimos in his sleep.

It is not exactly that you want him to die. You don't even think you want him to suffer. But you should. You should want to kill the man who took away your home. You should want to kill the prince responsible for putting thousands of people in chains. It does not matter how kind he is to you, how many sweets he feeds you, how warm you felt when he held you. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. He says he sees you as a human being, but he's been keeping you like a pet. Something to be spoiled or broken in.

Have you been broken in? You can't think of any other reason why you'd be hesitating right now, holding your dagger to your captor’s throat. His soldiers didn't hesitate when they broke into your temple. They didn't hesitate when they dragged you out. They didn't hesitate when they put you in chains. The only time they paused was when they were trying to decide who should get to fuck your cunt first—who should get to steal the virginity of a holy maiden, who should get to defile the chosen oracle of a god they hate.

Aurelia is burning behind you. You taste ash and copper as the edge of your blade presses against your captor’s neck, its hilt gleaming under Oronyx’s moons. Prince Mydeimos is sleeping peacefully, the rise and fall of his chest slow and gentle. He doesn't look like a figure of Strife like this, like the general who sacked your city. He looks a little bit like the boy you saw drowning in the sea. He looks a lot like the man you saw in your visions: Mydei. Gentle enough to hand-feed dromases and play with children and tolerate your teasing. Your hand trembles as you think of him, the knife’s edge shivering against his pulse.

“You shouldn't hesitate.”

You startle. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, fully alert—when did he wake up?—and before you can retreat, his hand clamps around your wrist and forces your blade to stay against his neck. His other one grabs you by the arm to pull you in.

You're nearly on top of him when he steadies your hand. It’s impossible to miss how his eyes burn into yours.

“If you are going to kill someone,” he says, his voice low in your ear, “you should act decisively. Slash the knife through the jugular and carotid as deeply and swiftly as possible. Do you want me to show you how?”

Do you?

You should. You should want to kill him. As long as he is alive, you belong to him; and as long as you belong to him, you are the property of the state that massacred your city. Killing him would be your only reprieve from that, even if only temporarily. Your hand tightens around the handle of your blade, chasing freedom; Prince Mydeimos bares his nape to you, his eyes cool. His hand tightens around yours, guiding you toward a lethal blow, to freedom—

—and a fragrance hits you. Cassia and pomegranates. Clinging to his skin and clothes. Obvious only now, when you are close enough with him to end his life.

It’s probably from when he made you dinner tonight.

Your meal had been an awkward affair. He'd delivered it himself for once, and he had been completely silent when he served it to you. He didn't even ask his usual three questions before leaving—though you noticed him trying. Someone else would have missed it, but not you. You could see it in his face when he wanted to talk to you, and you could also see it in his face when he realised that he didn't know how.

You should want to kill him. It would make you a traitor if you didn't. If you don't slash his throat open now, you should pray to the bones of your worshippers and beg Talanton to strike you down. And then you should slit your own throat for letting a Kremnoan touch you—for letting him put his arms around you, tender and warm.

But at the end of it all, the bones would remain bones. The corpses would stay strewn across the streets. Aurelia will always burn behind you. Neither justice nor death would reverse any of that. All you will have done is kill a man who worries so much for you that he goes out of his way to cook for you, just to make sure you don't starve. A man so gentle that he cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a tiny cut across your palm.

Your hold on your dagger—his dagger—grows slack.

“No.”

Prince Mydeimos watches you. “No? You aren't going to kill me? I thought you wanted to slit my throat.”

“I do,” you bite out. “I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones…" Your voice gets quiet, then. Brittle. "But it wouldn't.”

You lower your knife. Prince Mydeimos lets you. He takes it from your hand and, for one moment, you wonder if you've pushed him too far and he'll use it to finally kill you. But he doesn't—of course he doesn't—and instead moves it away from you.

“You should be more careful handling a weapon like that,” he says patiently. “I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

Something inside you crumples. Your anger collapses, folds into shame, into loathing—whether not for being able to take his life or for threatening it in the first place, you aren't sure.

“You should just take that thing away from me,” you reply dully as you pull away from him. “Clearly, I can't be trusted with it. Nor is there any need for it.”

Prince Mydeimos sits up with you. “You've used it against one man who would be your abductor, and another man who already is. Clearly it is fulfilling a need for you.” He takes the knife into his hand, his expression turning curiously wry as he studies it. “In fact, it’s helped you more than it helped its previous owner, and certainly more than it has helped me. I would like for you to keep it.”

He holds it out to you again, returning it to your hands. It's still warm for your violent touch, from his gentle one. You stare at it: beautifully carved, bejewelled but not gaudy. The carved lion on its hilt stares at you in the moonlight, and it suddenly occurs to you that the beast is a symbol of the Kremnoan royal family: the mark of Gorgo's trophy.

“Who exactly was its previous owner?”

“My mother.”

You look at him, astonished. His gaze is neutral, and it remains as such even when you exclaim, “This belonged to Queen Gorgo?” Why would you give it to me? you want to ask, but your mind takes you elsewhere.

You do not know what Queen Gorgo looks like—you have never seen a portrait or come across a description in any of the histories—yet the image of her comes to you, unbidden. Golden hair and ocean-blue eyes. A lion’s corpse is stretched out at her feet. She's holding your dagger, along with a cup of ambrosia filled with venom.

A poisoned woman with a golden dagger—the one you dreamt about after Prince Mydeimos captured you.

“Your mother didn't die of illness, did she?” you ask. When Prince Mydeimos blinks, you say, “She was poisoned.” Your mind races, trawling through all the hints that the Crown Prince has let slip over the past two moons, all the signs in your dreams: The vision of a son killing his father. The sight of a young king on a bloody throne. I will not be the kind of king my father is, Prince Mydeimos had said. Haven't you seen what he's done?

“She was poisoned by your father,” you realise. “You want revenge.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a startled look. “I will never get used to that.”

“Used to what?”

“How you just know things.”

“So I’m right?”

He gives you a curious look. “You weren't sure?”

You shrug. “Unless I'm directly appealing to Oronyx with prayer and sacrifice, she only gives me vague hints of things. A lot of prophesying is guesswork around those hints.”

“Then you must have very good intuition.”

“It is a practised skill, actually. I had to cultivate it to become a hiereia.”

You pause for a long moment, studying him in the ways you were trained to dissect princes and lords. Noticing the way he's staring at Gorgo’s dagger, soft and almost longing. The way his shoulders are sagging, weighed by something invisible. The way he shifts idly, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders—sore from sleeping like shit for the past few nights, you guess. Prince Mydeimos doesn't trust any of the palace guards anymore, so it's become an indefinite arrangement for him to stay the night, slumbering on the klinai. I don't know who else will try to take you, he'd said, so for now we will need to keep doing this.

Not if, not when, but who.

“You don't have anyone you can rely on in this palace, do you? Not since your mother died.”

Prince Mydeimos tenses. “No. Just Krateros. He provides steadfast support and wise counsel—his loyalty is unquestionable.”

“But his influence has limits,” you reason. “Otherwise you would not be sleeping by a door every night just to safekeep a lowly slave.”

“You are not lowly to me,” he says, offended, and you can hardly believe how earnest he is. He really will make for an idiot king at this rate, you think, to care so much for someone of my status.

It should not matter to you if he will be incompetent at rule, but you chide him anyway: “I should be lowly. I should even be worthless. My life has no meaning to you—you should not be exerting yourself over me. But you have no men here you can trust to handle this for you.” Something inside you sinks. “You really have no one here at all.”

He sighs—quietly, but clearly. “Besides Krateros, you are the person least hostile to me in this palace.”

“Then I am shocked you have not yet been killed.”

“I have been—just not permanently.”

You go quiet. Prince Mydeimos is not bitter in his words; they are matter of fact, a sign of a man who has died so many times that it no longer bothers him. But the words inspire something wretched in you. You think of a baby drowning in the sea, wailing and dying over and over again—then returning home, full of hope, only to drown again in that same, poisonous tide.

Your reaction is instinctive: Revulsion. Rage. Horror.

Guilt.

You should not feel guilty. You should not feel pity for a man who took everything away from you. But you still find yourself looking away, your hands curling in on themselves.

“It must tire you,” you say softly, “that after treating me so kindly for so long, I nearly killed you tonight.” You glance at the dagger, which you have held for so long in your sleep for no reason. “I should really return this to you.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t concern yourself over tonight. It is nothing. This is Kremnos; vicious fights between acquaintances are common. Every person I know has had a blade held to their neck at some point and thought nothing of it after the fact.”

Your brows raise. “Truly?”

“Truly. Actually, my mother held this very dagger to my father’s throat.”

Your eyes go wide. “And what did he do after? Punish her? Or… is that why he killed her?”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a strange look. “Of course not,” he says. “He married her.”

You wake up the next morning with ugly bruises on your ribs. You feel them before you see them, the ache so severe that you hiss when you try to rise from bed. Every breath has you feeling like something is piercing your lungs; every movement has you wanting to gasp. As you grit your teeth and struggle, you cannot help but think of Prince Mydeimos’ anger at your behaviour the day before, and something inside you crumples once more. You'd crawl under the bed if it wouldn't hurt so much.

The prince himself is gone, but as if in anticipation of your injury, he has arranged for a healer to see you. Later in the day, Kassandra arrives as well—to assist and care for you as you recover, she says. It is absurd for a handmaiden to be given to a bed-slave, but Kassandra neither complains nor thinks much of it.

“Men get all stupid when they're besotted,” she says, warbling in Aurelian dialect. “Way he looks at you, soon he’ll be giving you jewelry and flowers and all sorts of treasures. You could rob him blind, my lady.”

You try not to snort. With the way Prince Mydeimos looked at you the other day, it appeared the only gift he wanted to give you was the touch of Thanatos. But then you remember that he bestowed to you his mother’s dagger, and you find yourself going quiet, thinking of it in its hiding spot beneath your pillow.

Kassandra does not notice your sudden introspection. She continues dressing you, opting for somewhat conservative attire—the usual translucent silks reveal too much of your bruising—although the dress she has chosen has a slit cut so high that you can hardly walk without revealing your inner thighs. If Prince Mydeimos ever caught sight of it, you think you might die.

You give Kassandra a tortured look.

“It’s to curry your prince’s favour,” she explains. At your continued despair, Kassandra frowns. “I know this can't be easy for you, my lady,” she says, her Aurelian gentle, a soft and rolling legato. She picks up a delicate brush, dabbing it in rouge. “You were raised to be a holy maiden, and it was taboo for anyone back home to touch you. But now that you're…” She hesitates.

“Now that I'm a bed-slave?” you supply, voice neutral. Her mouth thins.

“Now that you're no longer a holy maiden, I think it's best to appeal to your master and keep him pleased. I'd hate to see the Crown Prince treat you like how Lord Aineidas treated me.”

Your eyes go soft. “And I'd hate to see you be returned to a man like Aineidas. Resent him as I may, I am glad that Prince Mydeimos saved you from him.”

Kassandra smiles. “I'm more grateful to you, my lady. It didn't escape me that it was you who helped me—not him.”

Her brush outlines your lip, tickling you. The corner of your mouth twitches, and you close your eyes beneath her touch. Your conversation turns to kinder things: reminiscing about the bustling markets back home, the beautiful music, the hymns sung within your temple. She tells you of her father, and you tell her about your mother, and the two of you sing the melody of your mother tongue.

It occurs to you that this is the happiest you’ve been since the fall of Aurelia—the least alone you've been, and the most at home.

For the next fortnight, Prince Mydeimos does not take you anywhere. It is not out of any neglect toward you—he still sleeps in your quarters every night, playing guard dog by the door—but out of concern for your injuries.

“I do not wish for you to hurt yourself again,” he says, watching you flinch from the opposite end of the room. You've just taken your lyre into your lap; the motion has you wincing. Still, you frown at him.

“I think I can walk without worsening my injuries. My legs are not connected to my ribs, you know.”

You can see it when he stops himself from rolling his eyes. “My concern is not you walking. My concern is that you might launch yourself into harm’s way again—it seems to be your favorite pastime.”

“I am not such an idiot that I'd do that in this state,” you grouse, and the look that Prince Mydeimos gives you is so skeptical that you huff. “Fine,” you say. “Do whatever you wish.”

You turn your attention to your lyre and sheet music and choose the song he most dislikes—an Okheman prosodion to Kephale. He scowls as soon as he hears the beginning notes, but leans back and closes his eyes anyway, listening. Maybe even appreciating. You think he is asleep by the time you finish, but he immediately looks to you and requests another piece: “Anything other than that Okheman noise, please.”

“Would you like an Aidonian hymn?”

“Are you trying to torture me?”

“What, does His Royal Highness not enjoy my skill with a lyre? Would he prefer some other form of entertainment?”

Your tone is sardonic enough to warrant legal punishment (you have disrespected the royal family), but Prince Mydeimos replies earnestly: “I am greatly fond of the lyre and even enjoy your skill with it. Your taste in songs, however…”

You study him shrewdly. “I did not think Kremnoan royals would care so much for musical arts.”

“We are not educated in them,” he admits. “But I have a friend who is quite the lyrist. It is pleasant to hear the instrument—I have not listened to him play in quite some time.”

“Oh? Why not?” You try not to make it so obvious that you are searching for gossip: that you are surprised the Crown Prince has friends, and that you are curious about whether they are alive. “Did he quit and take up the aulos instead?”

“I hope not,” Prince Mydeimos snorts. “He has no talent for it.” Then the mirth leaves his face, and his eyes get distant. “He has been deployed for some years now to fight the Black Tide. Last I heard, he was warring on the Pyrian front.”

You look away. The city-state of Pyria was southwest of Aurelia—many of its citizens ran to your polis when their homes fell to disaster. Some of them even sought refuge in your temple, their bodies riddled with wounds and corruption. Every holy person in your city, from the Disciples of Cerces to the Sky Priests of Aquila, spent weeks trying to purify them. Still, a great number of the Pyrian refugees were taken by Thanatos in the end, either succumbing to mortal wounds or self-destructing in madness.

You do not want to think of what might be happening to Prince Mydeimos’ lyrist friend. Judging from his expression, he does not want to speak of it either.

Clearing your throat, you flip through the sheet music on your desk. “What kind of songs did your friend like to perform?”

“Bawdy trash,” Prince Mydeimos says, deadpan. “Don't bother searching for them—I would not have disgraced your table with it.” He gives you a thoughtful look. “Why don't you play an Aurelian piece? I have never heard music devoted to Oronyx.”

You stop.

You've never performed an Aurelian piece with Prince Mydeimos around—partly because you prefer to annoy him with Okheman and Aidonian music, but mostly because you didn't think any Kremnoan would want to hear it. They destroyed your temple, after all. High Priestess of a weak god, you remember the hyenas barking as the city screamed. That's what they think I am.

But Prince Mydeimos is—different. He sacked your temple, but for whatever reason, he still wants to hear you worship.

“Alright,” you say, an odd ache in your chest. “If you insist.”

Your final song of the evening is a hymn for the Goddess of Time. The following day, you perform a lyric poem about Janusopolis' early days in the Chrysos War, an epic about the attempted murder of Oronyx in your mother tongue. The next evening, you sing an Aurelian prosodion to Georios; after that, a lively hyporchema of Oronyx Festivals, one that makes you wish you were leading the acolytes and worshippers in dance.

Another night, you throw the prince a bone and play an Aurelian paean to Nikador. It was written prior to the Era Bellica—from a time when the Kremnoan people were not so savage, and Nikador’s only war was the one against the Black Tide. When he was the protector of Amphoreus, not its tyrant. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes never leave your form as you sing in ancient Kremnoan—from an era so long ago that it had not yet diverged from Aurelian, and the peoples of your two cities could understand each other perfectly. His gaze traces the strings of your lyre, the movements of your lips, mesmerized. The next evening, he asks to hear it again.

For ten nights, Prince Mydeimos listens to your paean to his God of Strife. On the eleventh day, by which you've stopped wincing every time you lift your lyre, he finally leads you outside again.

He takes you into the city.

It is your first time wandering beyond the confines of the palace, and you are startled by the bustling streets—the chatter and the laughter and the humanness. An air of aggression still hangs over the city, of course: armored soldiers march endlessly through the streets, chains clink noisily as the slaves labour relentlessly, the sword of Nikador hangs ever-present in the sky. Still, it is all made more bearable by all the people in its streets. By the buzz of crowded markets, by the haggling arguments of vendors and customers, by the giggling of children underfoot in the crowds. If you close your eyes and focus, you can summon memories of Aurelia like this—so easy to recall among the humdrum of daily life.

Castrum Kremnos is still a prison. But you cannot deny that there are parts of it here that feel—not warm, really, for there are still too many slaves, too many soldiers. But it is certainly less cold.

You think that Prince Mydeimos, himself, might enjoy the city more than the palace as well. He is nearly always tense there, but he seems relaxed among these streets, among his people. Every Kremnoan pauses to greet him, not only bowing to show their respect, but really talking. Soldiers’ faces glow as they sing his praises about his might in battle, about his last gladiatorial victory. Older women wave and ask if he is eating well, if he'd like some figs or pomegranates or sweets from their stands. (You think instantly of your aunts and grandmothers back home, and you feel such heartache that you have to look away.) Younger women and a handful of men stop to admire him; you do not miss how their gazes linger on you, the whore trailing after him in golden chains.

What strikes you most are the children. Each one of them squeals with delight upon seeing him, and a few run up directly to greet their prince, babbling about how hard they've been training and how they want to fight alongside him someday. They are the only Kremnoans who do not look at you with discomfort; they study you only with innocent curiosity.

“Prince Mydeimos,” a little girl asks, craning her neck to look at you, “is that your friend? I've never seen her before!”

Prince Mydeimos pauses. You can see him struggling to answer, neither wanting to lie nor explain what a whore is, and you try not to sigh before doing it for him: “I am the prince’s companion,” you say kindly in Kremnoan, smiling at the girl. “Not his friend, but someone who spends time with him when he wishes.”

“Oh.” The girl blinks, tilting her head. “Like, if he gets lonely? Or sad?”

“Something like that.”

She nods, then beams at you both. “Well, I'm glad the prince doesn’t have to be alone when he's sad, then.”

She runs off without another word. You look to him, a dry comment on your tongue—I'm sure you're desperate for a night alone after all the time you've spent in my room—but you find him staring at her retreating back, pensive. Something in his eyes makes your chest ache, and somewhere in the Evernight Veil, you hear him say: I don't remember the last time someone touched me like this.

But here, in the present, he says nothing.

“Come,” he beckons you, curt. “We have somewhere to be.”

He ends up bringing you to a smithy. The rhythmic clang of hammers against hot steel sings in your ears. He approaches a looming figure, impossibly tall, who works in chains. Your eyes are wide as you regard him. Mountain Dweller, you recognise, and slave.

Kremnos is infamous for hunting their kind. You should not be surprised at seeing one in bondage here, forced to work for the state that savaged him. Still, it is a wonder seeing such a mighty creature working so benignly for his captors. If you had such stature, you think you would have died fighting in Aurelia. You would have never accepted a life in chains—let alone one so mild and subservient.

“Crown Prince of Kremnos,” the Mountain Dweller greets. His voice is a slow, lumbering boom—strange in syntax, as if his throat and mind is unfit for human speech: “For your weapon… you have come.”

Prince Mydeimos nods. “Yes—for the weapon, as well as the other matter we discussed.”

The Mountain Dweller shifts. You can feel his gaze on your body, studying you through the slits of his helmet. You look up at him, watching him with curious eyes.

“High Priestess of Aurelia, you were,” he surmises. “Concubine of the Crown Prince, you are now.”

“Yes,” you affirm, and you don't bother softening the edge to your voice. “And you are?”

“Chartonus, leader of the Mountain Dwellers,” he introduces himself. “Blacksmith for the royal family.”

Your interest is piqued at one word: Leader. You decide to smile—not cheerfully, but respectfully, in the way you would for an esteemed guest at the temple. “It is an honour to meet you, Master Chartonus. I have heard great tales of the blessings that Georios has endowed upon the craftsmanship of your people.”

You can feel Prince Mydeimos’ eyes on you, but you ignore him. Only Chartonus has your attention, as would be the way with a formal guest.

“Thank you,” the blacksmith replies. “Of your talents, many Mountain Dwellers in Kremnos have heard. For you, I have something… by the request of the Crown Prince.”

You glance back at your companion. “For me?” you ask, and he nods.

“You'll soon understand,” Prince Mydeimos says.

Chartonus leads the two of you to the back of the smithy, opening a door to some private workspace. On the other side of the threshold, you see a man's silhouette, tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair and grey eyes—

You are looking at an Aurelian soldier.

Not a soldier of career, but one of necessity. Ordinarily, he is a blacksmith from your neighbourhood. One of your worshippers. His name was—is, he's alive, he's alive—Hector, and he frequently visited your temple. You first met him when you were both children, shortly before your initiation into the cult. He often prayed with you after you became a hiereia. Sought counsel from you. Crafted your ceremonial weapons. Once he made a necklace too, which you had to publicly decline and privately accept only at his insistence. I can't bring you olives nor figs, he'd said earnestly, but I can bring you this.

Your heart aches when you look at him. For a minute, you feel like you are back in Aurelia, visiting him in his smithy, watching him work during a few hours’ reprieve from your training. After this you will go to the market together and listen to the musicians play on their aulos and lyres, and later you will go see his sister, with whom you will gossip about the men she saw in her brothel. A week from now, the three of you will dance together in a festival in devotion to your goddess.

And then you see the manacle around his ankle, the chain leading off it, and the illusion is ruined.

Hector is not subdued, though. His eyes go wide as soon as he sees you. “My lady?” he calls out, as uncertain as he is hopeful.

Your composure shatters.

“I can give you five, ten minutes,” Prince Mydeimos whispers into your ear. You’re startled at the proximity, but too shocked to recoil. “Keep up appearances, and don't try anything foolish. Remember that I can only do so much.”

He leaves the door open. He and Chartonus converse just beyond it, admiring some spear that the blacksmith supposedly just mended, and which requires care so intensive that Chartonus delivers an entire lecture to explain it. You can barely hear what they’re saying, so focused on the familiar face before you. You were not physically affectionate with any of your friends nor temple goers—your station demanded strict boundaries—but you would throw your arms around Hector right now, were it not for Prince Mydeimos’ warning.

Keep up appearances.

You settle for running up to him, stopping just short of crashing into him. “Hector,” you whisper, voice strangely choked. I cannot cry, you think. I cannot cry, especially not before a worshipper. “You're alive.”

“High Priestess.” Hector’s eyes blink rapidly. You're reminded of the night you told him you'd stay at the temple, despite the Kremnoan invasion; he'd opposed it so strongly, but how were you meant to abandon the worshippers who had insisted on staying behind? “I didn't think I'd ever see you again. Are you—is he—is he hurting you? Are you injured?”

How typical of him to ask about you first, you think, when everyone else is clearly in worse positions. “Don't worry about me, Hector. How about you? The others? Aeneas? Lycaon? Your sister, Hecuba?”

“Aeneas and Lycaon and most of the other soldiers—they’ve all been sent to repair the fortress walls. I'm only here because I'm skilled. Some of the others who are tradesmen, they're here with me in the city. Hecuba, though, she's been taken to a brothel.” He frowns. “She’s decently learned and full of wit. They might have her working as a hetaira, if we’re lucky.”

Your face falls. People easily die performing hard labour, and the life of a bed-slave is a different kind of humiliation.

“I'm sorry, Hector.”

“No, I'm sorry.” He gives you a look of such despair that your heart twists. “You've been captured by that beast… it's worried me all this time, what he's doing to you. I should have gotten you away from the city before the Kremnoans stormed us.”

Guilt lances through your heart. Prince Mydeimos is nowhere near a monster, and you have suffered nowhere near as much as your fellow Aurelians. “You need not worry for me, Hector.”

“I can hardly stop,” he argues. “I think—I think we should find a way to get you out of this place.”

“...what?”

“We need to get you out of here.”

You stare at him, disbelieving. “If you could find a way out of Castrum Kremnos, I'd much rather you escape with your own life, Hector. I am too noticeable of a prisoner to smuggle out.”

“But you're our High Priestess!” he cries. “We—we can't just leave you in the bed of that monster. Please, my lady. He destroyed our city, our temple, our home. We can't bear to see him destroy you too.”

Something nicks your heart. To the Kremnoans, you are a spoil of war; to the Aurelians, you are a figure of worship. And as long as you stay in the hands of Prince Mydeimos, you are equally a symbol of Kremnoan victory as you are Aurelian disgrace. His supposed rape of you is the ultimate humiliation for them.

You cannot blame the soldiers for wanting you to steal you back.

“Hector,” you say gently, in that voice you reserve for those frightened before the gods, before war, before fate, “I understand your feelings, but you know it would be suicide for you to try. I do not wish to see any more Aurelian blood spilled.” None beyond your own—your fate is inevitable, but Hector can be saved.

“But—”

“No buts. Listen to me. Have I ever guided you falsely?”

Hector closes his eyes. His brow is furrowed deep. His voice is thick, hoarse, when he asks, “Is there no way out of this hell for us? Has Oronyx shown you that our fate lies within these fortress walls?”

Your heart drops.

You understand now that you have been foolish. Unbelievably foolish. What have you been doing, asking Oronyx about your path to freedom and not your people's? What have you been doing, hiding under a bed for months while your friends and worshippers were labouring in chains? So blinded by anger that you could not even think of a way to see them? So blinded by pride that instead of thinking of how to help them, you could only think of killing the man who has now brought you to them?

How selfish.

But now you are thinking of that beautiful city of eternal dawn, in which your wrists were not shackled, in which you were sorrow-free. You wonder if there would have been space for other Aurelians in that paradise, if they would have been just as safe.

How else would your heart have felt so light in that moment?

You measure your words carefully, hiding your shame. Hector does not need to know that his High Priestess is an idiot; it would only depress him. “Not so far,” you reply with grace. “I will try peering beyond the Evernight Veil again for our futures. From what I have seen, I will not say that there is no hope for us—but Hector, there will be no hope for you if you do something foolish. Promise me you won't do anything stupid.”

“My lady—”

“Promise me. Before I have to go.”

He gives you a despairing look. “Will you be taken away again so soon? When will I see you next?”

You hesitate. “I do not know… that would be determined by Prince Mydeimos.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “How am I supposed to work here, unable to see you, when I know you are being tortured in his bed—”

“Who is being tortured?” a voice cuts in. Both you and Hector freeze. Your heart twinges again; you can see it in your friend’s face when his does as well.

Your time is up.

“...no one, Your Highness,” you reply to Prince Mydeimos, even though your attention is on Hector.

You study his features intensely: every crease and contour and shadow. For once, it is not to read someone’s expression; it is simply that you do not know when you will see him next, and you do not wish to forget his face in the meantime. Oronyx never lets you forget calamity—razed cities, bloodied corpses, burning groves—but something as mundane as the face of a loved one? She often neglects it.

You and Hector stare at each other for probably a beat too long. When you remember yourself, you ask Prince Mydeimos, “Is my prince finished his business with Master Chartonus?”

“Yes.” Steel clashes against steel, echoing in the smithy and threading between his words. “There is no longer any reason to linger here. We will return to my quarters now.”

“But—”

“That was an order, not a request,” he says.

Keep up appearances, he means. Remember that I can only do so much.

You deflate, turning away from Hector, unable to look him in the eye anymore—unable to see him gaze upon the symbol of his humiliation. You bow to Prince Mydeimos, feeling both spoiled and broken in.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Your grief must show on your face, for Prince Mydeimos is also unable to look at you as the two of you depart.

That night, Prince Mydeimos makes you a dish that bursts with the spices of Aurelia. He serves it to you personally once more, watching from his usual spot against the wall. You can tell that he wishes to say something to you, but you cannot bring yourself to ask what: you are worried that your voice will crack if you speak. With each bite you take, you think of the quiet peace of your temple, of Hector praying at the altar to which you attended. You think of the music of the Oronyx Festivals under the stars, the hyporchema to which you danced and laughed. You think of the bustling markets that Kassandra visited everyday, looking for figs and olives and cassia under the Aurelian sun.

When you glance at Prince Mydeimos, you wonder if he knows how badly your heart aches.

“Why did you bring me to Hector?” you finally ask. “Why did you seek him out?”

His answer is so simple that it hurts: “You said you wanted to see your loved ones.”

I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones.

“Right,” you say. “When I tried to kill you. I said I wished to return to Aurelia and see everyone there.”

“Yes.”

You look away, lip trembling. When Prince Mydeimos speaks again, his voice is so gentle that you can hardly believe that it is coming from the Crown Prince of Kremnos, from the leader of a warmongering tribe. From the future king who will kill you.

But you can easily imagine it from the throat of a boy who once drowned in the sea, who was cast out of countless homes.

“I took your home away from you,” he says quietly. “Even if you killed me a thousand times, you will never be able to go back. There is nothing I can do to fulfill your wish to return.”

There is remorse in his voice. Genuine. Unbearable. The heir to a millennia of Strife regrets the grief he inflicted upon you. The man who will someday kill you regrets all the pain he brought upon you—and he wishes to undo it.

“You can never take me home,” you recognise, “so you are trying instead to return my loved ones to me.”

He nods, and you understand that this is his apology.

It will not suffice, of course. A sorry will not change anything. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. No matter how considerate he is with you, Prince Mydeimos will always be the man who destroyed your city and sacked your temple. He will always be the beast who dragged you from your altar and into his bed. Aurelia is forever burning behind you, and it is all his fault. Oronyx will never let you forget this.

Still—there are things that have not yet turned to ash. Things that you cannot hold onto not with the power of the divine, but with your own two hands.

“You said once,” you murmur, “that there is a chance that I can move freely throughout the city without you.”

“Yes,” he affirms. “If people were convinced that you were my lover and not my prisoner, they would not think twice about seeing you roam the city.”

I cannot cry, you think. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot cry, but your voice breaks when you ask, “So I could go see them whenever I wished? I could visit Hector, and I could find Hecuba, and I could check on all the men labouring at the fortress walls? I could make sure that they were all safe, all well?”

Prince Mydeimos nods, his eyes absent of deception.

You study him, dissect him in the way that you were trained for princes and lords. You see not your captor, whom you could never even pretend to like—but Mydei in a city of eternal dawn, where you are teasing him gently, listening to the giggles of a flock of children. You see not a beast, but someone who is so easy to love that it scares you. Scares you almost as much as his gauntlets that are cleaving open your legs, almost as much as your death at the foot of his throne.

But you have a responsibility to your people—and even if you are a slave, you are not a coward.

“Very well," you decide. "Let's try it.”

End Part II

notes: I tried so hard (to get to the porn) and got so far (in word count) but in the end it didn't even matter... my genuine apologies that there was so much plot and no sex. enemies to lovers is truly not a trope for the weak T_T

some notes:

there's a ton of ancient Greek refs, as usual - names like Hector, Hecuba, Lycaon, Kassandra, etc. are all borrowed from the Iliad. a lot of Kremnoan names will be borrowed from Spartan history!

"Council of Elders" = Senate per Spartan history. I just like the aesthetic of Spartan vocab.

It’s 12:17 a.m., and the store feels like it’s running on fumes.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're trying to quit. The floor's been mopped twice already, but there’s still a suspicious sticky spot near the freezer aisle. You’ve stopped caring. An hour left on your shift, and you’ve taken refuge behind the express lane counter with a pen and a long receipt roll.

You're halfway through sketching a moth in combat boots when the automatic doors sigh open.

You don’t look up. Probably just another grad student scraping together a meal from energy drinks and despair.

You finish the boots. Add spurs, just for fun.

Minutes pass. A distant freezer door thunks shut. Then: the squeak of a wobbly cart wheel approaches, slow and uneven.

You glance up as a guy pulls into your lane—not with a full cart, but a modest one that looks like it’s been curated by someone either very sleep-deprived or very emotionally unstable.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a chef’s coat that’s half-unbuttoned and clinging on for dear life. There’s flour on one sleeve, something like tomato sauce on the other. A burn mark peeks out just above his wrist like a badge of honor. He looks like he’s been personally insulted by dinner service. 

You scan his face—sharp, tired features and eyes that look like they haven't closed in 36 hours. And still, for some reason, he’s kind of hot in the way that makes you instantly distrust him.

He starts unloading his haul without a word.

A 2 liter bottle of cola.

Repackaged chicken feet.

A pint of heavy cream.

A family-size bag of marshmallows.

Three lemons.

Two ramen seasoning packets (no noodles, just the seasoning, and you don't even ask).

A tray of century eggs.

A novelty fish-shaped lighter.

You look at the items. Then up at him. Then back at the items.

“Either this is the world’s saddest dinner or an extremely niche food challenge.”

He exhales—half laugh, half resignation.

“I had to abandon my souffle. My caramel turned into lava. And my artichoke casserole exploded.”

“And this is... what? Your consolation prize?”

“This is survival.” He nods solemnly at the marshmallows. “These might be dinner. Or something to keep me from spiraling into insanity.”

You arch a brow as you scan the fish lighter. “Planning to set the marshmallows on fire in the parking lot?”

“I like to leave my options open.”

He rests his elbows on the counter like the weight of the grocery cart has followed him here. The store lights catch on the flour streaking his cheekbone. You're not sure if it's endearing or if you should offer him a wet wipe.

“You know we sell lemon wedges, right?” you add, bagging his chaos with minimal judgment.

“I needed to suffer through slicing them myself. Builds character.”

You tap the touchscreen, and the receipt prints in no time. As it rolls out, you add the final detail to your sketch—the moth, now holding a sword and standing triumphantly on top of a lemon. You doodle on a fish lighter beside it like a familiar before handing it over wordlessly.

The guy takes one look and laughs.

“Do you charge extra for emotionally resonant moths?” 

“Only for customers with weird grocery lists.”

He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s filing that away.

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot.”

You don’t respond. You just slide his bag across the counter.

He picks it up, nods once, and turns toward the doors. Stops halfway. Glances back over his shoulder like he might say something else, then changes his mind.

“Thanks for not asking about the seasoning packets. Or the chicken feet.”

You manage a lopsided smile. “Was gonna assume childhood trauma.”

He grins. “Close. Culinary school.”

And with that, he’s gone—out into the night, carrying his bag of questionable dinner plans and a receipt covered in doodles.

You didn’t really expect to see him again.

Weird chef guy with the marshmallows and the seasoning packets. The one who looked like he’d been personally wronged by a stand mixer. He’d left with a fish lighter and chicken feet, and you’d filed him away in your brain under “Midnight Oddities.”

But then, a few nights later, he’s back.

Same graveyard shift. Same busted cart wheel. This time, he’s traded the tomato-stained coat for a plain sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair’s still a mess of white—like someone threw powdered sugar into a fan—and there’s a fresh bandaid across one knuckle.

He looks just as tired as before. Maybe more.

The poor guy drops a basket on your express lane counter with a quiet thunk. Inside: two onions, a bottle of balsamic vinegar, two cylinders of butane gas, and an aggressively large chocolate bar.

“Long night?” you ask without looking up from your pen.

“The lamb reduction caught fire,” he says, with the grave seriousness of someone reporting a tragic death.

You raise a brow. “You mean, like, metaphorically?”

“I mean the fire alarm went off. Twice. It’s fine. The sauce died doing what it loved.”

You nod solemnly. “We should all be so lucky.”

He half-grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I considered setting the rest of the kitchen on fire just for closure.”

“You’ll need more butane for that.”

You ring up the items, fingers on autopilot. He leans on the counter, watching you, like he’s got nowhere better to be.

You don’t know why it slips out. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way your feet ache in that particular flavor of minimum wage exhaustion.

“...Thinking of picking up a second job,” you mutter.

He blinks. “Because this one’s not enough of a spiritual journey?”

You snort. “Because rent exists. And degrees don’t pay for themselves.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding, like that makes perfect sense. “You could always be my emotional support line cook.”

“Tempting,” you say flatly. “Do I get benefits?”

“Free pastries and occasional exposure to open flames.”

“You really know how to sweeten a deal.”

As the receipt prints, you flip it over and start sketching without thinking—muscle memory. A tiny version of yourself appears on the paper, slumped inside a soup pot labeled “Capitalism,” one hand holding a spatula like a white flag. Little cartoon flames lick the edges.

You push it across the counter with his bag.

Mister Chef picks it up. Stares. And for a moment, the usual dead-eyed kitchen glaze in his expression breaks.

“You know, these are actually... really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean it. You’re talented.”

You shrug, already pretending to clean the scanner. “Talent doesn’t cover health insurance.”

He’s quiet for a second. You feel him looking again, too long.

“Why don’t you do something with it?” he says softly. “Take commissions maybe? Or start some freelance work?”

You pause, then smile like it’s a joke.

“Not everyone gets to follow their dream on a full stomach.”

He doesn’t have a comeback for that.

You hand over his change, and he takes the bag, still holding the receipt in his other hand like it might burn him if he grips it too hard.

On his way out, he glances back once.

“The soup pot’s got good linework.”

You don’t answer. Just wait for the doors to sigh shut behind him, and a few beats later, you realize that you don't even know that guy's name. But then again, it's not like it matters. You probably won't see him again anyway.

Except you do.

It happens a week after, when you’re not supposed to be on break.

Technically, you're just passing through the cereal aisle on your way to the walk-in, but somehow your legs stop moving somewhere between the frosted flakes and the granola that costs more than your hourly wage.

You sink down to the linoleum, back to the shelves, legs folded, a rejection email glowing on the screen of your phone in one hand.

Your art didn’t make the cut. Again.

Apparently, “strong technique but lacks conceptual cohesion” is the new “we regret to inform you.”

You don’t cry. You just kind of... sit. Long enough for your name badge to start digging into your shoulder.

You hear footsteps approaching. Heavy ones. Paired with the soft clink of glass jars in a basket.

You don’t even look up until the familiar blur of white hair comes into view.

“Oh,” Weird Chef Guy says, blinking. “Did the Lucky Charms defeat you, or are we both having a bad night?”

You don’t answer.

He sets the basket down. Squats in front of you, arms resting on his knees. “You okay?”

You gesture vaguely at your phone. “Just failed at being talented. Again.”

He frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to squint meaning out of your soul.

“Gallery submission,” you explain. “Rejected. They said my work didn’t have enough... something. Whatever.”

You expect a platitude. Maybe a bad joke. Instead, you get:

“That sucks.”

It’s simple. But it lands harder than it should.

You glance up—he’s in a dark denim overalls this time, smudged with olive tapenade or maybe despair. He smells like rosemary and late-night stress. Still weirdly hot. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since the lunar calendar was invented.

“I applied last minute. Used some older pieces I did before I dropped out of Okhema U.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Art school?”

You nod. “College of Arts. Illustration track. I had to take a leave when tuition got ridiculous, and I thought, you know, maybe if I made some money and kept making stuff, I’d figure it out.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Turns out, sketching on receipt paper in a fluorescent-lit retail hellscape isn’t exactly inspiring.”

Weird Chef Guy sits down beside you now, shoulder just barely grazing yours. His basket sits abandoned next to his knee—a couple of mason jars, chili oil, toothpaste.

“Lack of cohesion, huh?” he says, voice softer now. “They ever tried making risotto?”

You blink. “What?”

“Risotto,” he repeats. “It’s fussy. Needs constant stirring. Tastes like glue if you screw it up even a little. It's a total diva of a dish. You can do everything right and it’ll still come out wrong. But then one day—bam—it hits perfect. Creamy, savory, actual magic. Like it forgave you for your sins.”

You stare. “Are you seriously comparing my failed gallery submission to rice?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe your art’s just... in risotto mode. Not a failure. Just a work in progress with attitude.”

It’s stupid.

It’s really stupid.

But for some reason, your chest eases just enough to breathe again.

You would laugh, genuinely laugh at this stranger's attempt to cheer you up but then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of a snack bag somewhere down the aisle.

“Damionis?” you call, not even turning your head.

A very casual voice responds from behind the cereal shelf: “I’m on break. This aisle just happens to have the best acoustics.”

You groan. “Go bother someone in frozen foods.”

Damionis pops his head around the corner, grinning like the absolute gremlin he is. “Nah, I like this sitcom. You want me to bring popcorn next time?”

“Only if it’s expired.”

He throws you a mock salute and retreats. Probably. You don’t check.

When your nosy co-worker is out of earshot, you glance at your present company. Weird Chef Guy—because you still don’t know his real name despite this being your third meeting in total—leans his head back against the shelf and exhales.

“I’m Phainon, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says, glancing sideways, and you look at him like he might just be a mindreader. “Figured it was time you knew it, since I’ve been reading yours off your nametag like a creep.”

You glance down instinctively at the little badge on your apron. Right. 

You snort. “And here I thought you were just stalking me.”

“Only in grocery stores. And only after midnight.”

“Points for subtlety.”

“Points for not crying in the middle of Aisle Five,” he counters.

You bump his shoulder with yours. Not hard. Just enough.

He bumps back.

And in the cereal aisle, between a shelf of off-brand granola and a man with fireproof hands, something very small and very soft unspools in your chest.

You're not sure if you want to give it a name just yet.

You’re halfway through a bag of chips and a sip of flat soda when you see Phainon walking into the break room like he’s just stormed out of an interdimensional kitchen hell.

His chef’s coat’s still half-buttoned, a tiny smear of what could be mustard or burnt caramel streaking down his arm, and he’s holding a tupperware container like it contains either the cure for all your problems—or the worst food poisoning of your life.

He spots you, and the chaos continues in his wake, like some sort of culinary tornado.

“Hey,” he greets you, looking way too pleased with himself. “You free to eat something…experimental?”

You raise an eyebrow, slowly lowering the chips. “I don’t know, chef. Last time I checked, I wasn’t signing up for a cooking class. And who the hell let you in here?”

“You’re not signing up for anything,” he says, ignoring your inquiry as he drops the container on the table with a grin. “I’m just trying something out. The ‘No Food Left Behind’ policy. You’re gonna be a test subject.”

You stare at the tupperware, unsure if you should be excited or worried. The lid pops off, and you brace yourself for the smell of burnt desperation and raw ambition.

But instead, it’s surprisingly…pleasant?

“What is that?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Whatever it is,” Phainon shrugs, “it’s better than the version I made for myself this morning. I was going for ‘vibrant acidity,’ ended up with ‘distilled regret.’” He gestures to the container like it's a grand masterpiece. “So, eat up.”

You give him a skeptical look, but you’ve seen enough of his food disasters by now to know that he probably isn’t trying to kill you with poorly executed gastronomy. At least, based on what he checks out in his carts and baskets after his midnight grocery runs. Slowly, you take a forkful. And damn.

It’s good. Really good. The kind of good that leaves you almost suspicious.

The flavors somehow work together in this mess of ingredients—something salty, something tangy, something rich and comforting. It’s like he didn’t just throw things together, but created something from a place of necessity.

You blink, lowering your fork. “Wait. This...actually isn’t bad.”

He grins. “You sure you’re not just hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” you mutter, finishing the bite. “But no, this is weirdly healing.”

Phainon sits across from you, watching you with an almost unreadable expression. For a second, you almost think he’s serious. “Not what I was going for, but glad to know it worked. Should’ve added more cheese, though.”

“More cheese?”

“Yeah. You’d be amazed at how much cheese fixes everything.” He bobs his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Next time.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something else there—a tiny spark of warmth you weren’t expecting. The food wasn’t just filling a void; it felt like it was filling something deeper. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed it.

You set the tupperware down and glance up at him, suddenly feeling the weight of the last few days. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice a little quieter than you intended. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

His smile softens, but only a little. “Then I guess this was the right kitchen experiment.”

You really should have known better than to run your mouth around someone like Phainon.

The first time it happens, it’s on Monday night. You’ve just clocked in, half-dazed from an over-caffeinated day, and the last thing you expect is a neatly wrapped bundle sitting in the break room fridge with your name on it.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. You slide it out of the fridge, already bracing yourself for some bizarre culinary experiment. The tupperware looks oddly familiar—like the same one Phainon showed up with last time, only this time there’s a little post-it note slapped on top.

Eat me.

You sigh, but you’re also starving, so you open it.

Inside is some kind of…stew? It’s thick and bubbling in the tupperware, with chunks of something that almost look like meat but might actually be vegetables, and a drizzle of something that looks suspiciously like a spicy aioli.

You’re not sure whether it’s the blend of spices or the odd richness, but it smells warm and inviting. He even prepared a small serving of rice to pair it with. 

You sit at the table, spoon poised, and take a tentative bite. Holy hell, it’s delicious.

You should be angry that he’s invading your break with weirdly good food, but instead, you’re just grateful you don’t have to rely on stale sandwiches anymore.

The next day, it happens again.

And the next.

It’s like a strange, unspoken agreement now. You never see him drop off the food, but there’s always something waiting in the fridge when you clock in.

By the third day, you’ve gotten used to it—the warm, spicy-sweet curry with just the right level of heat, the unexpectedly perfect homemade bao buns, and today, what looks like a bizarrely decadent bowl of ramen with ingredients that should never go together, but somehow do.

You’re standing in the break room, staring at the latest offering like it’s a strange gift you didn’t ask for, when your coworker, Damionis, leans in from behind you, peering into the fridge.

“What is this, another one of Weird Chef Guy’s meals?”

“His name’s Phainon,” you mutter, but even as you say it, you realize you haven’t actually mentioned that part to anyone.

“Right. Phainon,” Damionis mocks, grinning. “Well, whatever his name is, I don’t know whether to be jealous or concerned. You’ve been eating like royalty all week.”

You just shrug, not sure what to say. It’s not like you asked for this. It’s just happening.

Then the weirdest part comes. The food is so consistently good that you can’t even be mad about it anymore. You don’t even ask questions. You just eat.

But then it lasts for over two weeks.

Two whole weeks of unexpected, ridiculously good meals waiting for you in the break room fridge every single shift. You didn’t even need to check the fridge anymore—you just knew there’d be something there. And as much as you’d like to complain about it, the truth is… you couldn’t.

It was all too good. He knew how to cook. Too well.

But this? This had to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the meals. It’s just that you couldn’t shake the nagging guilt that you were being spoiled by someone who barely even knew you. 

And the more you thought about it, the more you felt like you were becoming a passive recipient of his kindness. You weren’t some charity case, and you didn’t want to feel like one.

So, you decide to do something about it.

You arrive at the grocery store at 10 in the morning. The day shift clerk, Arielle, told you this is the time when Phainon usually dropped off his gifts. To your relief, she was more than willing to help you catch the guy red-handed while you lied in wait in the break room. 

And you did. For about twenty minutes. 

Then, almost on cue, you hear a knock on the break room door, and when you open it, there he is. Phainon. Standing in the there with his usual “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine” face.

“You—” You cut yourself off, arms crossed. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Stop what?” He stares at you, genuinely confused. “The food? Is it bad? Because I can totally—”

“No!” You immediately interject, feeling the pressure of not wanting to sound ungrateful. “No, the food’s amazing. It’s just—” You run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding dramatic.

“I don’t want to be a burden. You keep leaving these meals for me, and I feel like I’m just taking and taking and not… giving anything in return. I can’t keep just accepting these like it’s nothing.”

Phainon blinks at you, a slow realization creeping across his face. Then he shrugs. “You’re not a burden. I’ve been doing this because I want to. You’ve been working your ass off, so you deserve to eat something decent. Besides, I like knowing that I’ve made something you’ll actually enjoy.”

You stare at him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. He sounds so genuine, so nonchalant about it all. But still…

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit, suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t owe me anything. We don’t even—”

“—know each other, I know.” Phainon cuts you off with a soft smile, not an ounce of irritation in his voice. “But that’s the thing. We don’t have to know each other for me to want to do this. I’ve been training at a restaurant for the past few weeks, and it’s been crazy. Honestly, I barely have time to sleep, much less cook for myself. So, I just... grab what I can, throw it together, and leave it for you.”

You stare at him, processing his words. “Wait. You’ve been doing this after working at the restaurant?”

“Yeah. I’ve been coming home late, still on my feet, barely able to keep my eyes open, and I thought: ‘Hey, might as well bring something for them. They're working hard too.’” He gives a small, sheepish shrug. “I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, your mind a little overwhelmed by the layers of his thoughtfulness and how much more he’s been giving than you realized. It’s one thing to show up with a random meal once. It’s another thing entirely to be doing it on the regular, after pulling long shifts himself.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you repeat, quieter this time.

“Then don’t,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t make me stop. You’re eating something decent for once in your life. What’s wrong with that?”

You open your mouth to protest again, but something in the way he looks at you—like he actually believes you deserve the meals, and not just because he’s some guy who’s trying to be nice—makes you pause.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he adds. “And I’m not asking for anything in return. Just… don’t overthink it. It’s food. It’s my way of saying, ‘Hey, you’ve got a weird job, but you’re doing alright.’”

And, damn it, that hits a little harder than you were ready for. The simple sincerity of it. You want to argue, but the honesty in his eyes stops you.

“You’re impossible,” you say finally, shaking your head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Fine. But only because I’m pretty sure I’ll starve without it.”

Phainon grins, clearly relieved. “Exactly. Now, I’ve got a soup in there that I think might be your new favorite.”

You can’t help but laugh at how easy he makes this all seem. You know this won’t be the last time he’ll show up unannounced, but this time, somehow, it feels a little less like a gift and a little more like the beginning of something worthwhile.

The commission work has been steady. That’s the word you keep using—steady—even though what you really mean is exhausting.

Since you started accepting paid requests, your days have been a blur of grocery store shifts and digital sketchpads. Pet portraits, custom nameplates, grocery signage with smiling cartoon vegetables—nothing too big, nothing too personal. You keep telling yourself it’s fine. It’s money. It’s more than you had before.

But it’s also not what you love. Not really. It feels like turning your art into product. Into labor. Into something with a price tag instead of purpose.

Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

You think about telling Phainon. You’ve wanted to. After all, this whole thing started because he encouraged you to “do something” with your art. But he doesn’t come around anymore—not during your shifts, anyway. He still leaves meals in the break room fridge, but it's been a while since his last grocery run. You figure he’s probably drowning in work at a restaurant he never told you the name of.

You don’t even have his number. Isn’t that ridiculous?

So you keep your head down. Draw. Clock in. Clock out. Repeat.

And then—

One Thursday night, you’re sweeping up near the produce section, trying to shake off a migraine and mentally calculating how many commissions you’ll need to finish by the weekend, when the automatic doors chime.

You don’t look up right away. It’s late, and most customers at this hour want to be left alone.

But something—some presence—makes you glance up.

And there he is.

Still in his usual chef coat, unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows like always. He looks as if he came straight from the kitchen. But that’s not what catches your attention.

It’s the bruise.

Dark and ugly, blooming along his cheekbone like ink under thin paper.

“Phainon?” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Hey. Long time.”

You’re already striding toward him. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I got in the way of a flying sheet pan.”

“Bullshit.”

His smile wobbles a little, but he doesn’t argue.

You grab his wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and drag him toward the back. He doesn’t resist.

“You’re coming with me,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Scandalous.”

“Shut up.”

You haul him into the break room, ignoring the lingering gazes from co-workers, and make a beeline for the first-aid kit above the microwave.

He watches you in silence as you wet a paper towel with cool water and start dabbing gently at the edge of the bruise. He winces but stays still.

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” you mutter.

“I could say the same about you,” he says, almost reflexively.

You glance at him, and he tilts his head. “I heard from Damionis. You’ve been doing commissions.”

Your hand stills. “...Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You haven’t exactly been around.”

“Touché.”

You look away, focusing on cleaning the worst of the bruising. “It’s fine. It pays. I don’t love it, but it’s something.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says quietly, “I know that feeling.”

You meet his gaze again, and he looks... tired. Really tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper. Like the chaos is starting to catch up to him, too.

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe neither of you do. But the distance feels smaller now. Quieter.

Then Phainon says, “Next time you want to vent about it, just... wait for me. I might not always show up on time, but I will. Eventually.”

You smirk, just a little. “Big words for someone with a black eye.”

“Battle scars,” he says solemnly. “The kitchen is a warzone.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the tension lifts, just a bit.

There’s still curry powder under his nails and ink smudged on your wrists. Neither of you are sleeping enough or eating right unless the other intervenes.

But in this tiny, overly lit break room, with a half-empty vending machine humming behind you and a pack of frozen peas pressed to his face, it almost feels like something is working.

Almost.

The next weird thing he does for you starts with a folded envelope tucked beneath your lunch in the break room fridge.

This time, there’s no doodle, no cheeky post-it. Just your name, written in slanted pen across thick cardstock. You open it between bites of lukewarm stir-fry, expecting another pun or maybe a strange coupon Phainon made up himself—One Free Existential Breakdown Redeemed at Aisle Four.

But it’s not that.

It’s an invitation.

A literal, printed, serif-fonted invitation on heavy cream paper that reads:

You’re cordially invited to a private tasting at The Grand Chrysos. Come hungry. Come after your shift. P.S. Don’t argue. It’s on the house. —P.

Your first reaction is laughter. Then confusion. Then panic.

The Grand Chrysos is fancy. It’s the kind of place you pass on your way to the train station and try not to breathe near, in case you accidentally lower its property value. One with five-course menus and wine pairings and waiters in black gloves. You thought Phainon was training at some well-off restaurant, but not in a place like that. 

You stare at the invitation like it’s going to burst into flames.

When your shift ends, it’s nearly 1:15 a.m., and you’ve changed into a slightly less wrinkled shirt in the back room just in case. You told yourself a hundred reasons not to go. You’re not dressed for it. You can’t afford to even look at the menu. You’ll stick out like a ketchup stain on linen.

But you go anyway.

You’re greeted at the door by someone who seems unfazed by the fact that you’re arriving well past closing. They just smile, gesture you in, and say, “Chef Phainon’s expecting you.”

The restaurant is quiet, emptied of patrons, lit only by a soft glow from the open kitchen.

Phainon lies in wait, blue eyes glittering with anticipation. Still in his chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, looking exactly like the maniac who leaves elaborate noodle dishes in your fridge and somehow always knows when you’ve had a bad day. There’s a tiredness in his posture, sure—but also a kind of light. The kitchen is his domain. He belongs here.

“You’re still open at this hour?” you ask, hesitating at the edge of the dining space.

He glances up, offers that familiar half-smile. “Nope.”

You frown. “Then what—?”

“I just like to experiment until dawn,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “New menu trials. Flavor pairings. Wasting perfectly good sleep in the name of soup stock.”

You stare at him, suddenly seeing the dark circles under his eyes in a new light. “Is that why you always look like a dying student during finals week?”

He snorts. “Not inaccurate.”

He gestures toward a single candlelit table near the kitchen window, already set. You sit slowly, unsure of what to expect. But he’s already sliding the first course in front of you—delicate, strange, beautiful. Some kind of cold-brewed consommé with herbs you don’t recognize and edible flowers that look like they were plucked from a dream.

“This is real,” you murmur. “You’re—you’re the one making all this?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you can see it—how much it matters to him. How proud he is, even if he’ll never say it outright.

Course after course follows. A risotto with saffron foam. A deconstructed katsu curry that tastes like every comfort food memory you’ve ever had. A dessert involving toasted meringue, freeze-dried berries, and some strange, tangy syrup he says he discovered by accident.

You’re halfway through the meal when you finally say it.

“I thought this was your job. But you don’t stop when your shift ends.”

He glances up, caught mid-plate wipe. “You don’t either.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he raises an eyebrow. “How many commissions did you say you had lined up last week?”

You go quiet.

“You’re always tired,” you murmur.

“So are you,” he says gently. “But we keep showing up anyway.”

It’s not romantic, exactly. But it is intimate. And in some ways, that’s worse. You’re sitting in a temple of haute cuisine, eating the best meal of your life, and the only thing you can think about is how tired you both are—and how neither of you will admit you want someone to say, It’s okay to stop.

But for tonight, neither of you do. For tonight, you eat.

And when dessert’s cleared away and he brings out a thermos of something he calls “chaos tea” (probably caffeinated), you smile.

Because tired as he looks, Phainon seems a little more alive with you sitting across from him.

You still glance at the break room fridge out of habit.

It’s been weeks since anything showed up with your name on it in crooked handwriting. No precariously packed curries or leftover fish terrines that somehow didn’t stink up the room. No chaotic bao buns, no weird jellied things in little jars, no “guess the ingredients” soups that left your tongue buzzing and your heart weirdly warm.

Just your stuff now. Yogurt. A banana you probably won’t eat. A sandwich that’s seen better days. Someone else's soda you’re pretty sure is off-limits.

It’s fine.

You’ve learned how to eat properly since then. You even meal-prep sometimes, if you’ve got enough brain cells left at the end of the night. Your commissions have picked up—just enough to get by, just enough to let you breathe without doing math at the register to figure out if you can afford a single bar of chocolate. And it’s not like you miss Phainon leaving food for you like some culinary cryptid Santa Claus. 

But every now and then, you’ll crack open your tupperware and realize that you still wait for the scent of saffron, or the punch of vinegar, or whatever strange spice he was experimenting with that week.

You’ll look down at your rice and scrambled eggs and sigh, not because it’s bad, but because it’s yours—and maybe, for once, you liked when it wasn’t just on you.

The last time you saw him, he’d looked like death warmed over. Like someone had dug him out from under a pile of cookbooks and deadlines. There was flour in his hair and a pen behind one ear, a band-aid around his thumb and a blister forming on the side of his neck from god-knows-what. His phone had buzzed three times while you were trying to ask him about the new cold brew in stock.

“Dissertation life,” he’d said with a lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m elbows-deep in food chemistry and the historical evolution of fermentation methods. Pray for me.”

You’d rolled your eyes and told him to go touch grass. He’d promised to consider it… after graduation.

That was three weeks ago.

You don’t text him often. You think about it more than you act on it. The last thing you want to be is another notification in a sea of deadlines. But sometimes you’ll send a blurry photo of a weird carrot shaped like a foot, or a doodle on receipt paper of a garlic bulb with tiny arms. Sometimes it’s just a message: Still alive. Hope you’re eating.

He always replies. Short stuff. A thumbs-up. A picture of a burnt omelette with the caption "how the mighty fall." A single “LOL” that somehow makes your day.

You know better than to take it personally—he’s drowning in work. His internship at The Grand Chrysos ended with a bang (and at least one small kitchen fire, according to a very dramatic text), and now all that’s left is the thesis he won’t shut up about.

You sit at the break table with your sandwich, scrolling back through old messages. Your shift’s half over. You’re trying not to look like you’re waiting on a ghost.

The last text from him was three days ago:

Working on my related literature. Might collapse. If I don’t survive, tell the duck confit I loved her.

You smile, even though it catches in your throat a little.

You put your phone down and stare at your sandwich. Take a bite. Chew slowly.

It’s fine. It’s good, even.

But it’s not the same.

You’re almost done with your shift when Arielle insists—insists—that you go take your break. 

“I already had mine,” you argue, arms crossed, the fluorescent lights humming far too loudly above you. You don’t even know why she’s here at this hour. She works the damn day shift. 

“Take. Your. Break,” Arielle says, giving you a look that says don’t make me drag you.

You eye her suspiciously. Damionis is nearby, not even pretending to be subtle. He’s suddenly very invested in facing the peanut butter jars, whistling off-key. Something is up.

Still, you're tired, and your feet hurt, and your brain is half mush from answering customer questions like where’s the cheese that tastes like sadness but costs twelve dollars more?

So, fine. Whatever. You head toward the break room.

When you open the door, you're hit by the scent of vanilla and something warm, like toasted sugar and citrus zest. The lights are dimmed—when did they even install a dimmer switch?—and standing awkwardly by the fridge is Phainon.

He’s holding a cake.

Scratch that—he’s holding a gorgeous cake. It’s layered and glazed, decorated with candied slices of orange, flecks of gold leaf, and delicate piping that reads Happy Birthday! in slightly wobbly cursive.

And on top: several tiny candles. Lit. Flickering.

He’s using the stupid fish lighter you remember from his very first visit.

“Surprise,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… as much as this counts as a surprise. I had help.”

“He sure did,” Arielle pipes up from behind you, suddenly crowding the entrance with Damionis, both grinning like idiots.

“We coordinated,” Damionis says smugly. “Told him your schedule. Arielle did the decorations.”

You look up. There’s a single streamer hanging half-heartedly from the cabinet above the sink. One balloon taped to the fridge. It’s so dumb. So unbelievably sweet.

You stare at the cake again. At Phainon, who’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to say more or not.

And then your vision blurs.

“Oh no,” you murmur, swiping at your face, furious with yourself. “Nope. We are not doing this. I am not crying over a cake.”

Phainon smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. The same smile from all those nights he showed up with tupperware and herbs you couldn’t pronounce.

“Well, it is a pretty great cake,” he says gently. “And you deserve nice things. Even if it's just once in a while.”

You sniff. Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “How did you even know? I don't remember telling you my birthday...”

“Mmm, Arielle might have let it slip a couple weeks ago when I bought some salami.” He points the fish lighter at the culprit herself.

Arielle just rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, please. You love it anyway, right?” 

Yes.

It’s ridiculous. It’s heartfelt. It’s everything.

You blow out the candles, blinking rapidly, and someone claps—probably Damionis, who’s always a little too eager about celebrating. Phainon cuts the cake and hands you the first slice. It’s lemon poppyseed with honey cream filling. You don’t even like lemon poppyseed.

But still, it’s perfect.

You stand in the crowd, awkward in your semi-wrinkled button-down and scuffed sneakers, feeling a little out of place among the polished shoes and proud parents. You shift from foot to foot, scanning the rows of graduates seated in the middle of Okhema University’s sprawling courtyard.

And then you spot him.

Phainon’s cap is slightly crooked—of course it is—and he’s fidgeting with his gown like it’s some kind of prison uniform. But when his name is called, he straightens up. Walks like he belongs up there. And when he takes the diploma, there’s a flicker of pride that crosses his face before he spots you in the crowd and grins like he just won the lottery.

You wave, cheeks warm, and try not to look too proud yourself. He’s beaming, radiant with accomplishment and relief and maybe just a bit of exhaustion.

Afterward, in the soft afternoon light, he finds you on the steps outside the university.

“You made it,” he says, a little breathless.

“You invited me,” you remind him, but you’re smiling. “I thought those seats were reserved for, you know. Family.”

“They’re too far away to make the trip,” he says simply. “But you were here.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, feeling something a little too big for your chest. Pride. Gratitude. Something else you don’t want to name yet.

Before you can figure it out, a shadow falls over you both.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy—blonde, scowling by default—clears his throat.

“Mydei,” Phainon says, surprised. “Hey.”

Mydei nods, stiff. “Just wanted to say… sorry. For, uh. Punching you in the face. You know, months ago.”

Your eyes flick between them. Oh.

The bruise. The one Phainon had that night he stumbled into the break room, looking like he’d lost a bar fight with a pan. You remember treating it with frozen peas and whispered concern.

“You really clocked me,” Phainon says, rubbing the side of his jaw with a wince that’s more nostalgic than bitter.

“Yeah,” Mydei says. “You were being annoying. Still. Sorry.”

They clasp hands, awkward but genuine. You don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. Phainon gives Mydei a nod as he walks off, and then it’s just the two of you again.

“So,” he says. “Big graduation moment. I’m finally free. No more dissertation deadlines. No more chefs breathing down my neck.”

“You gonna rest now?” you ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m thinking dinner. Celebration. Something borderline dangerous with a blowtorch involved.”

You roll your eyes, falling into step beside him as you start walking toward the city. The sun’s starting to dip, casting Okhema University’s sandstone buildings in soft gold.

“Actually,” you say, heart thudding. “I have a confession.”

Phainon slows a step, giving you a look. “What, your undying love for me?”

You freeze. “Absolutely not!”

He laughs, smug and bright and utterly unrepentant.

You huff. “I meant—I’ve saved up enough. I’m going back. To school. Art school.”

He stops walking entirely.

“You’re serious?”

You nod. “I sent in my documents last week. Just waiting for confirmation. But yeah. I’m… I’m doing it.”

His whole face lights up like a streetlamp. He lets out a whoop so loud a couple of passing students stare. Even is he's the one who just graduated, Phainon is celebrating you so much louder.

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

You shrug, trying to seem cool, like you haven’t been carrying the weight of this decision in your chest for weeks. “Figured it’s now or never.”

“Come over,” Phainon says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“To my place. Tonight. Let me cook. You’re not getting some lazy congratulations takeout, okay? We’re talking a full meal. Dinner for two. My kitchen, my rules.”

You smile, a little stunned, a little giddy. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be awful if you say no. I’ll be dramatic about it. Maybe cry.”

“Fine,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “But only if you make that weird stew with the spicy aioli again.”

His eyes twinkle. “Deal.”

You keep walking, and for once, the future doesn’t feel so scary. Not when there’s something like this—like him—waiting just ahead.

Phainon’s apartment used to look like nobody actually lived there.

The walls were bare—blank, indifferent, the kind of blankness that says I won’t be here long. His place was functional, stripped down to the basics. Bed, shower, fridge, stovetop. A stack of cookbooks in one corner, post-it notes stuck in like confetti. His kitchen, when he used it, smelled like burnt sugar and ambition. But most nights, he was too tired to even boil water. He came home to sleep, maybe shower, then passed out with his apron still slung over a chair.

That was before you started coming over.

At first, it was convenience. Your new university building was closer to his apartment than your own place, and it saved you forty-five minutes of commuting if you crashed on his couch. Then it became habit. Movie nights. Shared leftovers. Sleeping in until noon on your free days. You never really asked if you could keep staying over—but he never asked you to leave.

Somewhere in between all that, his walls started to change.

He framed one of your failed lino prints first. You didn’t even like it—too messy, too smudged. But he said it “had texture,” and before you could protest, it was up near his bookshelf, angled slightly crooked like he didn’t know how to use a level. Then came a half-finished charcoal sketch of a pigeon. A gouache color study. An ink portrait of a cat you never met. One by one, the misfits from your sketchbooks began populating his walls.

You grumbled. Called it embarrassing. He didn’t care. “You spend half your time here,” he said once, standing in front of the fridge with a container of soup in hand. “Might as well look like you live here.”

It annoyed you—until it didn’t.

Now his apartment feels like something alive. Something shared. His pans still clatter too loud, and his towels are always mismatched, but the walls look warmer. Lived in. Like a space with a history unfolding inside it.

And then, one quiet Tuesday night, he swings by the grocery store again.

It’s nearly midnight, the store is half-asleep, and you’re manning the register with the radio turned low. He buys something ridiculous—a single lemon, a tin of anchovies, and a bottle of hot sauce. You roll your eyes as you ring him up.

On the back of the receipt, you doodle a sleepy cartoon fish holding a sparkler. He grins when you hand it over, folds the paper neatly, and slides it into his wallet.

You catch a glimpse of what’s already tucked inside—half a dozen of your other doodles, dog-eared and soft at the corners. A rabbit with an apron. A stick figure with flaming oven mitts. Even that old moth wearing combat boots with the spurs. All preserved like little relics.

“You keep those?” you ask, surprised.

Phainon shrugs, casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They make my wallet look cool.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. Your chest feels weirdly full.

Because it’s not just the wallet. It’s the walls of his apartment. It’s the fact that he keeps showing up. The way he lights up when you talk about your latest project, even when you’re rambling. The meals he made for you when he barely had time to sleep. How he’s been quietly holding onto all these tiny pieces of you—and never once made you feel silly for handing them over.

You’re not stupid. You know what this might mean.

And maybe—just maybe—you might just feel the same.

It’s barely past seven when you’re stuffing your sketchbook into your bag with one hand and trying to smooth your hair with the other. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to your first class of the day, and somehow, despite waking up with enough time, you’re still scrambling.

In the kitchen, Phainon is moving with that easy, practiced grace he only ever has when food’s involved. There’s toast browning, eggs cooling, something wrapped in foil that smells suspiciously amazing, and a thermos of warm broth in your favorite flavor. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and his chef’s coat is half-buttoned, but he’s focused, like preparing your lunch is his actual job.

“You don’t have to do that every morning,” you mumble as you slip your shoes on.

“I know,” he says, without looking up. “But I like to.”

And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s a given—like of course he’d want to take care of you—that makes your fingers itch. You pull out the little folded doodle you made the night before. It’s stupid. It’s cute. It’s terrifying. Just a rough sketch of the two of you holding hands, hearts doodled above your heads, and the words i like you, idiot scrawled at the bottom.

You wait until he turns around to rinse something at the sink before you slip it into the recipe journal he keeps open on the counter, tucked between a page of messy notes about pickled egg foam and a weird diagram involving chili oil.

Your heart hammers the entire time, but you say nothing. You just sling your bag over your shoulder and shout a “See you!” before you bolt out the door.

Class is a blur. You think your Realism professor says something profound about emotional verisimilitude but you’re too busy trying not to spiral.

It’s only during your break, when you finally unwrap your lunch on a bench just outside the art building, that you find the post-it.

It’s stuck to the inside of the foil, slightly greasy but still legible, written in Phainon’s usual hurried, slanted scrawl.

I’m terrible at feelings but I think I might be in love with you lol. If you’re not horrified, meet me after class?

Your mouth drops open. For a second, you just stare at it, hands frozen around your sandwich, your brain a whir of static.

And then you laugh.

Because of course he responded like this. Of course he had to one-up your confession in the dumbest, most Phainon way possible.

You tuck the note into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, fingers hovering over your messages.

See you at 3 :>

And when 3 o’clock rolls around, Phainon’s already waiting outside your building, hair windswept, journal tucked under one arm. He looks nervous until he sees you walking toward him, and then—then he smiles like the sun finally decided to rise for real.

You grab his hand without saying anything.

He holds on like he’s never letting go.

A cold spike of panic stabbed through you when the noise resolved itself into the sound of someone knocking. You shot up, nearly bashing Shouto in the mouth, and scrambled off of him.

“Uh—! Coming!” you yelled to your visitor, hurriedly yanking the comforter out of its nearly tucked corners, and rucking it up over as much of Shouto as you could. Shouto looked a little dazed, his mouth flushed from your kisses. It took him a minute to realize what you were doing, pulling it on over his tail. He looked equal parts mystified, ruffled, and concerned, and it was actually so cute you could have kissed him again—but now was not the time.

You gestured at him to stay in bed and stay quiet, then hurried to the door.

Yu stood on the other side of it, raising a pert blonde brow when you only cracked it a tiny bit to peer out.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked, trying to look past you. You wedged yourself more bodily into the opening, trying to block her view.

“What—uh. What would you be interrupting?” you said quickly. “Did you, um, need something?”

Yu looked at you for a long minute, her hair ruffling softly in the sea breeze. “I came to see if you were feeling any better. And Death Arms says we’re leaving at eight thirty for Sunfish.”

Your brain was so muddled from the combination of Shouto’s kisses and your sheer panic that it took you a long moment to remember what Sunfish even was.

“Oh!” you said stupidly, nodding quickly. “Yeah, Sunfish. I will be ready then. And I’m definitely feeling better, thank you for checking on me.”

Yu’s eyes again darted past you into your room. A sly smile pulled at her mouth. “I bet you are.”

You stood up ramrod straight in your panic. There was no way she could know.

You garbled out a strangled-sounding goodbye, waving her off and ushering her quickly off your porch. You lingered in the doorway, not daring to move an inch until she disappeared into her own bungalow, then turned back to Shouto.

He looked so handsome spread out in your sheets, mouth swollen from your kisses, but you knew you were running too much of a risk to climb back over him and make good on the promises that had underlaid his kiss. Not now that Yu had come calling.

You sighed, scrubbing a hand along your face. “I’ve got to get you back down to the beach before she remembers something else. And we’ll need to talk about what…this just was more after Sunfish.” You valiantly fought down the flush that threatened to rise to your cheeks.

Shouto’s beautiful mouth turned down, but he nodded, blinking long and slow. “I will answer anything you wish to ask.”

You thought you’d probably need a little more time and space to come up with a coherent list of questions, your head swimming with the memory of his lips on yours. You vaguely remembered something about mating rituals, and you did not have the brainpower to think through all that right now.

“I’ll come meet you tomorrow?” you asked instead.

Shouto nodded, eyes pinned on you intently. You resisted the impulse to lean back down to him.

You grabbed a handle of the wheelbarrow instead and pushed it closer to the bed for him to climb back into, studiously ignoring the sinuous flex of his muscles as he slithered back in. You shoved the tarp back over him too, then poked your head out the door to make sure Yu wasn’t skulking about again before wheeling Shouto carefully back out the front door.

Shouto was unusually quiet on the journey back to the beach, and you couldn’t think of anything to say either that wouldn’t reveal just how much you wanted to turn around and wheel him back into your bungalow.

You slowly guided him down to the water instead, pushing him in until the waves gently lapped at your thighs, sloshing up over the sides of the wheelbarrow.

It was then that Shouto turned back to you, surprising you as he reached out a clawed hand. His fingers brushed ever so gently over your mouth, igniting another hot wave of something under your skin.

“Good night,” he murmured, his voice strangely deep. His eyes seemed glued to your mouth, and you could feel even the tips of your ears getting hot.

You nodded, cringing when your own “goodnight” came out far too breathy.

But that seemed to satisfy Shouto, the corner of his mouth flicking up. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip once more, with a little bit more intention than before. Your skin tingled, and you held yourself very still under his touch, willing your knees not to give out on you.

Slowly, Shouto drew his hand back to himself, and nodded, looking gratified. “I will see you tomorrow,” he promised, in his soft tone.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

And with that, Shouto slid out of the wheelbarrow into the water and disappeared into the dark sea.

Morning found you on the step to Yu’s bungalow, the early morning wind raising goose bumps along your skin. Fat clouds drifted lazily across the sky, and the palms rustled sleepily in the breeze.

When Yu poked her head out, you could tell she was not at all pleased to see you, blinking sleepily with her hair still mussed on one side.

“I’m sorry—did I wake you?” you asked. The crew was set to leave at eight thirty for Sunfish, as she’d informed you the night before, and you’d thought she’d be up already, getting ready.

She waved a hand at you to gesture you in, yawning. “I was up, just regretting my choice of career over a cup of coffee.”

You laughed nervously, following her into the room and shutting the door behind you. Her room looked like a tropical hurricane had torn through it, an explosion of clothes draped over every surface and her luggage laying open, as if ransacked, in convenient tripping locations.

“I had something I needed to show you, before we go to Sunfish,” you said, trying to not let your eyes linger too long on the mess.

Yu grunted, grabbing a brush off the bedside table and yanking it through her blonde mess of hair. She was still in sleep shorts and a pink button-up pajama top. There was no way she’d actually been up before you knocked.

“What is it, kid?” she asked absently, moving over to one of the open suitcases.

Your hand slipped into the pocket of your windbreaker, closing in on the vial you’d filled with the samples of coral from the lagoon.

“It’s—I’ve found something. While exploring the island,” you started slowly, watching her dig through her things with her foot while she finished off her hair with her hands.

She gave a sidelong glance as if gesturing for you to continue.

“There’s this lagoon, towards the northern side of the island,” you said.

Yu’s brows scrunched. “I don’t remember setting up at any lagoon.”

You shook your head. “It’s not accessible by boat. There is—or, was, a small underwater channel to get inside, under one of the cliffs. But it’s been dammed off.”

Yu finally stopped looking through her things, turning to you to give you her full attention. “Dammed off?”

You nodded. “A huge strip of metal plating. It looks recent and it’s definitely intentional—it’s drilled right into the rock. And um, the lagoon is not doing too well.” You pulled your hand from your pocket, laying out the samples of coral on her sitting table.

“The coral there is entirely bleached, and I’ve found traces of industrial processing chemicals after testing in the lab, most concerningly what looks like formalin. There’s a pipeline that looks new as well, dumping everything out into the lagoon. I didn’t trace it back as it’s too small to climb into, and it disappears underground a little ways away from the lagoon. But I think it’s most definitely Sunfish.”

Yu’s eyebrows nearly shot into her hairline. “Well well. You’ve been a busy girl.”

Your stomach churned. You couldn’t tell if she was pleased you’d taken the initiative, or annoyed you were only now looping her in.

“I’m sorry for not telling you first,” you said.

Yu watched you for a long moment, before a devious sort of smile touched her mouth. “Your beach boy help you find it?”

Your stomach lurched then, a motion like it was trying to throw itself right through the wall of your skin. “My—what?” you gasped, catching her sitting chair for balance.

There was no way she’d seen Shouto in your room last night, despite her obvious suspicions. You’d made sure you’d blocked up the entire doorway.

Yu looked smug. “Next time you answer the door after rolling around with someone, you might wanna take a look at your mouth and hair first.”

Your face flamed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Yu just gave you a knowing look. “Red and white hair? Biceps like a Greek god? That ring any bells for you? If I hadn’t seen you out in the water with him the other night I would have almost believed you. But you were so obvious last night too.”

Your heart rate picked up, launching into a sprint. She’d seen Shouto! And she’d seen what he’d done to you!

You were simultaneously horrified and gratified—at least he wasn’t an insanely handsome figment of your overactive imagination. But you thought you’d been so careful! Had she seen any more than she should have?

Yu waved you off, laughing at the look of horror you knew was dawning on your face. “Relax, it’s not illegal to get friendly with the locals.”

You swallowed down a lump in your throat. “It’s not—I wasn’t—”

She padded over her sitting table, picking up the vial of coral samples. “You mind if I check this and log it before we head out?”

You fumbled, unnerved by the sudden change in conversational direction. “I—of course.”

Yu tossed her hair over her shoulder, then went back to her suitcase, digging through it with greater purpose. “If what you’re saying is true, we’ll want a paper trail showing we had this sample before setting foot on Sunfish property. Then we can get one there and see if it matches. That will be enough for local government to issue a search warrant and we can see if your pipeline really does link back.”

A shocked little thrill went through you. If that was true, you were close to closing this case out. The thought of leaving Shouto behind made you feel a little sick, but you quickly pushed it down.

You would talk to him later, once Sunfish was dealt with. And it wasn’t like you could delay. Sunfish was a danger to the local environment, and that included Shouto as well.

You’d rather have him alive and alone than sick and saddled with you.

“Take these to the lab and set everything up for me. I’ll be there when I’m done getting dressed,” Yu told you, flapping her hand at your coral samples again.

You nodded, grabbing them off the table. “Should I tell the rest of the team too?”

“Mmm,” she grunted. “They don’t know we know, but it will be good to have Death Arms cover for us in case we need to sample something they might not like. Make sure he, Kamui, and Masaki are up to speed.”

You dutifully went to the door, wrenching it open to step back out into the tropical sun.

Yu’s voice stopped you on the threshold, sounding warmer than she had before. “And kid?” she asked.

You looked back at her curiously. “Yeah?”

She smiled up at you from where she was still bent over her suitcase. “Good work. The team is gonna be proud of you.”

You felt your face flame again, building on the flush that her observations on Shouto had already left. Your first big job out of school, and your supervisor actually thought you were doing good. You tried not to feel too pleased with yourself, and with the way your relationship with Shouto had seemed to have brought you nothing but good things.

“Thanks,” you mumbled. Then you ducked out of the doorway, and darted into the sun, feeling ridiculous and shy.

Sunfish was a dominating presence on the northern edge of the island, clearly visible along the northern access road.

You’d seen it along the coast as you boated around, setting up the testing stations, but it looked even more comedically villainous up close—a corroding grey warehouse above which multiple vents and smoke stacks rose like castle turrets.

Izuku steered the jeep into the small parking lot, and you watched in the rearview as his normally kind face pinched. You hadn’t had a chance yet to catch him alone and ask exactly how long had he been hiding the fact that he knew fucking merpeople and what the hell was up with their mating rituals. And you wouldn’t dare to now, surrounded as you were by your science crew.

But you thought you caught a curious flash of those emerald eyes as you piled out behind your coworkers.

Death Arms thanked him for the ride, setting up a time for pickup, and then shepherded the rest of you towards the cannery. You wrinkled your nose as you approached, the smell of fish and low tide assaulting your nostrils.

There was a man in a suit waiting for you at the entrance, long-limbed and dark haired, with small, watery eyes. He introduced himself as Ikeda, the cannery manager, and walked you through the list of stops he planned to bring your group on your tour. He held a clipboard at his side, a pen clipped fastidiously to his jacket pocket, and his entire demeanor suggested he was eager to get you in and out as fast as possible, despite the welcoming smile he bestowed on you.

Death Arms nodded along as Ikeda spoke, then pointedly asked in an overly-friendly tone, “Sounds good. So, how long have you been the manager here?”

Ikeda blinked. “About seven years now.”

You couldn’t tell if it was your instant dislike of him, but you thought his tone was rather oily. The cannery manager for seven years—that meant there was no way this guy didn’t know what was going on in this plant. There was no way he’d missed out on a pipeline being installed for waste water disposal. No way he was missing what you were sure were thousands of gallons of waste material being pumped out and away from the facility.

Your mind flashed back to Shouto again, a surge of anger overcoming you. This guy had helped dam off a place of cultural significance to Shouto’s people, and Shouto had had to drag himself over easily a kilometer of forested land, only to then submerge himself into literal poisoned water to get you your coral.

If given enough time, more of Shouto’s people would probably have to undertake the same ritual, endangering more and more of his pod.

Your hand flew up to your neck, pressing over the coral chips that sat just underneath the collar of your shirt. You tried to suppress the wave of virulent dislike that overcame you, and hid yourself behind Yu to cover as much of your expression as you could as Ikeda gestured for your group to follow him.

You trailed along after your teammates as Ikeda led you into the building. The interior was freezing cold, a maze of industrial metals and cold fluorescence. It was a shock to your senses after the lush, humid tropicality outside, and the shiver that overtook you slid into the marrow of your bones, mixing with your sick dislike.

Ikeda led you to the processing lines first, a complex series of conveyor belts and machinery, dotted by workers in hairnets, gloves, and bright yellow aprons. He explained how the fish was sorted according to their type, then cleaned and prepared. He led you to each station as he spoke, walking you through how the fish was then packed into cans and vacuum-sealed, then heat treated to sterilize them, or treated with other preservatives if not canned.

He occasionally paused to let Masaki take samples, a strange stillness overcoming his face as Masaki did so. It made you even more sure of your dislike of him, and you couldn’t help but bring yourself to ask probing questions as Ikeda explained some of the chemicals used to preserve shelf life—salt, citric acid, potassium sorbate. All normal preservatives, and all chemicals you’d found in your samples of the coral from the lagoon—but not the most damning.

“Is that a comprehensive list, or does Sunfish use any other preservatives?” you asked, willing your voice to sound casual. Yu gave you a carefully neutral glance over her shoulder.

Ikeda paused, his eyes seeming to grow even smaller as he looked at you. You didn’t like the sharpness that lurked there, even as he smiled pleasantly. “Sunfish uses a variety of preservative ingredients, as I mentioned. The three I’ve mentioned are just a small subset.”

The statement was so carefully crafted, technically answering while saying absolutely nothing at all.

You realized you would not get an answer out of him unless you asked very directly—and doing so might alert Ikeda to the fact that you had more than just suspicions. You nodded vaguely instead, grateful when Death Arms asked another question, pulling Ikeda’s attention off of you.

Yu’s fingers delicately touched your wrist, and she leaned in, speaking quietly. “The samples Masaki got should match most of the chemical blends you found, and taking pictures of the lagoon will be enough for a warrant,” she said, then paused, lowering her lashes and cutting her magenta eyes to yours. “Although if we can confirm the formalin you mentioned, we can get production shut down immediately.”

You nodded.

Formalin—a solution containing varying amounts of formaldehyde—was a controversial method of preserving fish. Two commercially available formalin products were generally accepted by most food and health administrations, but its usage and storage was highly regulated. If the concentration of formaldehyde was high enough, drainage disposal would not be a legal option. Releasing it into a lagoon, where it would be subject to sunlight and high temperatures and was most definitely dangerous enough to get the entire operation cancelled.

Masaki politely insisted on getting a sample of all of the preservative solutions, and you helped him collect them, frowning over the neatly labeled name of each when you came across them—citric acid, potassium sorbate, sodium benzoate—but no formalin solution.

Yu’s frown was more pronounced as you were led into the administrative offices to meet some of the other executives, and to conduct what Ikeda pronounced a “quality sampling!”, smiling.

You could tell she was getting mildly annoyed, terrible at hiding her emotions, but she took a deep breath before grabbing your wrist.

“Ikeda-san, I’m afraid our newbie is feeling a little queasy after seeing everything. Become a marine biologist because she’s a sweet little animal lover. Could you point us towards the ladies’ room? I’ll take care of her.”

Ikeda blinked, turning his gaze to her, before his eyes darted to you. You had no idea what Yu was trying to do here, but you knew better than to disagree. You quickly hunched in on yourself a little, trying your best to look pale and peaky and pathetic.

“I—of course,” Ikeda said, pointing back out into the hall towards the main production line. “If you turn left out of here and follow the hallway further, they should be around the corner on your right.”

“Thank you,” Yu purred, then put her arm around you in an affectation of matronly concern you were sure she’d never actually felt once in her life. “Come on, sweetheart.”

You let her usher you out into the hall, turning to stare at her when the door closed behind you.

She rolled her eyes at your questioning expression, pulling you back down the hall towards the production line. “Come on, we only have a couple minutes. Formalin needs to be stored in a well ventilated area and it obviously isn’t in the main production area. We have to be quick if we’re gonna snoop—you take the left and I’ll take the right.”

You blinked. “You want to sneak around? Won’t they just say we planted evidence since we went off on our own?”

Yu’s mouth pulled up in a grin. “You got your phone on you? It’ll need to be stored labeled and with a spill kit. Hard for you to sneak an entire industrial spill kit in here, wouldn’t you agree? Just take a quick video of you sampling it and the conditions it’s stored in and that will be more than enough.”

You could feel a giddy sense of incredulity overtake you. She was serious. She wanted to go haring off without supervision, ostensibly breaking into parts of Sunfish without permission.

“Hurry up, time’s ticking,” she said, then tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder, disappearing down the hall almost as enigmatically as Shouto had disappeared into the dark water last night.

The thought of Shouto brought you back to yourself, a sense of urgency snapping over you.

You only had a few minutes to find and prove Sunfish’s guilt, and Shouto was dependent on the results. The faster you shut off the flow of chemical waste water to the lagoon, the safer Shouto would be.

You all but threw yourself down the hall, following it past the women’s room you’d ostensibly been on your way to, peeking into any unlocked room or storage closet on the way. The passage seemed to span the side of the building, letting onto various rooms laden with cleaning supplies, overflow product, and marketing materials.

Time seemed to fly past at sickening speeds, every minute on the clock like a millisecond. You checked the time your phone anxiously, over and over again, urging yourself to move faster, while not wanting to move so quick that you missed what was most important.

It was only as you neared what seemed like the end of the hall, that you came across a room labeled Preservative Storage, papered with various seals of certification and governmental health requirements. Your heartbeat hammered in your chest as you tried the door, finding it open.

The room itself was unassuming, a tidy, cool space with drainage set into the floor and wide vents that spanned the ceiling. A variety of personal protective equipments hung just inside the door, some sealed tightly in plastic, laminated and color-coded charts hanging beside them. A variety of industrial refrigerators dotted the room in intervals, drums of other solutions in between them, everything looking carefully stored and well-maintained.

It was thanks to this orderliness that you had almost no trouble finding exactly what you were looking for.

You followed the line of labeled containers down the room, picking over each one with eagle-eyed focus. And there, in the far corner of the room, next to a variety of spill-cleaning equipment, lay a dark container with a white label, printed clearly with blue ink. You took your phone out with a shaking hand, snapping the picture you knew would close the trap on Sunfish once and for all.

The picture was clear, despite the shakiness of your hands, the label plainly announcing the the drum’s contents: