infiluv : interlude

Rafayel:

623 missed calls. 200 texts. 82 more missed calls.

All hours after your post.

Who is he? Why are you in bed with him? Is he your boyfriend? What is his name?

You barely have time to breathe after your meeting before the onslaught of texts floods in. Even the comment section of your post hasn’t been spared.

Thomas is already on the case. Rafayel is whining, sobbing, crying and absolutely not afraid to play dirty to get you back.

He's already planned a hundred ways to nip this budding romance at the root.

He thinks he has the upper hand, feels kinda smug about it too.

Still… there’s a twinge of heartbreak. A little ache for having to wait longer for you, for the idea that you might have chosen someone else. But if nothing else, Rafayel is persistent.

So, of course, he’s already forgiven you.

But don’t think, even for a second, that he won’t complain about it.

He’s still mulling over it, dramatically painting all his canvases black, getting ready for his villain arc, when you finally call him back.

"A prank?"

He is indignant.

He cried over a prank.

All that effort… for nothing.

"IT’S BEEN 800 YEARS. JELLYFISH ARE WALKING. NAKED SEA TURTLES ARE CLIMBING TREES. SHARKS ARE EATING GRASS—FOR FREE. "

AND RAFAYEL?

RAFAYEL CRIED OVER A PRANK.

HE WENT FULL VILLAIN ARC FOR A LIE.

HIS CANVASES ARE BLACK. HIS PLANS FOR REVENGE? RUINED.

ALL BECAUSE YOU AND TARA WANTED TO PLAY GAMES.

He might never recover. Might. But first, he needs to call Thomas back before his "investigation" starts a national crisis.

Xavier:

He had just returned from a long night of fighting Wanderers when his phone chimed with an alert.

Half-asleep, he smiled at the sight of your name, already thinking of how he'd respond once he changed and collapsed into bed.

That smile froze the moment he saw the picture.

The phone slipped from his fingers, landing on his face. But he didn’t even wince. Too numb to feel it.

His vision blurred. His chest ached. Tears welled, unbidden.

Genuinely heartbroken. So weary. So tired. For a moment, he was shattered.

Did he have the strength to wager another lifetime?

His time was already running out. His strength faded with each passing day. He had selfishly wanted this spring with you...but this was better for you. You were too kind, too caring to bear his loss.

Perhaps this was for the best. His lips trembled at the thought.

You had someone now, someone who would not bring you grief. And you looked so happy in that photo. He stared at the blurred curve of your smile, tracing it with his gaze.

Somehow, he managed a small smile too.

And then he folded into himself. And slept.

For days.

So long that you started to worry, noticing his absence at work.

Until, finally, you barge into his apartment, breathless and frantic, only to find him asleep, moonlight spilling across his face, eerily still.

Your heart plummeted.

"Xavier." Your voice trembled as you rushed to him, fingers shaking as you took his hand.

For a terrible, suffocating second, he didn’t move.

And then, his brow twitched.

Air rushed back into your lungs.

Zayne:

This was to be expected.

He was never what you needed.

He often failed at words. His gestures, too vague to be understood.

You deserved someone who loved you. Someone who had the courage to say those words out loud.

Not him.

Not someone who could hurt you. His scars only grow deeper with time.

So he accepts it. Buries himself in work.

If he could not be your lover, then he would play his part as a friend.

Pays extra attention to your health. Pours over your reports. He must. Because he is no longer close enough to watch over you himself.

And weeks later, when you finally visit him, he keeps up the act—cold, distant, unbothered.

He does all the tests. Runs all the checks. Everything is routine.

But you see it.

The dark circles, deeper than ever. His skin, paler. Cheeks, sunken. His shirt, unwashed.

"You're coming home with me."

Your voice leaves no room for argument as you take his hand. "You never call. You only text about my reports and nothing more. We need to talk."

You tug him forward. He follows, until he stops.

"Your boyfriend won’t like it," he murmurs, staring anywhere but at you.

Silence.

"What boyfriend?"

You blink at him, dumbfounded.

Sylus:

Sylus spits his coffee, choking as he stares at the pictures.

Does not buy it.

That’s clearly not a man.

Yet somehow, he keeps going back to it, again and again.

It’s only when Luke and Kieran peer over his shoulder that his denial starts cracking.

"Ooooh, boss has got competition," Luke chimes.

One minute, they’re laughing. The next, they’re outside the mansion, the door slamming shut behind them.

Luke blinks. "That explains..."

Kieran yanks him into a chokehold for getting them banished for the day.

Inside, Sylus switches to wine.

The day has been too much.

Not a man, right? he muses, scrutinizing the photo, before accidentally pressing the heart button.

And then, he all but chews the glass in his hand.

He’s not worried.

He just suddenly feels the urge to burn his entire closet because nothing looks good enough.

He doesn’t care.

He’s just made a few calls, just to make sure you’re not involved with anyone sketchy. Unless, of course, it’s him.

Then, like an absolute idiot, he gets a panicked call from an associate.

The only person who’s been in your apartment? Tara.

Sylus stares at the image. Facepalms.

That evening, when he picks you up from work, he looks exhausted.

As if a few hours have aged him years.

When you ask, he waves you off, dodging every question.

You raise a brow. "Are you sure? You look—"

"I said it’s nothing," he snaps, before sighing, dragging a hand down his face. "...Can we just go home

Caleb:

Storming to Linkon.

Geared up to blow up the entire apartment complex.

Spends five minutes struggling with the locked door before finally getting it open.

Marches in.

Stops. Sighs in disapproval at your empty fridge.

Good thing he packed snacks. Leaves them on your counter. You’ll thank him later.

Then, back to the mission.

Collects all forensic evidence needed. Marches out.

No time to waste.

Supervises the DNA administration.

Hair sample. Used coffee mug. Both next to yours.

He will find the bastard. He will take him out.

And then, he will whisk you away to Skyheaven, to console you once you learn of your tragic, mysterious loss.

Grief will bring you closer.

Every intern running tests is sweating.

So are the lead scientists, who have been personally forced to oversee this insanity.

No one is messing with the colonel today.

And then, finally, the results land on his desk.

Caleb stares. Dumbfounded.

Is he to fight both men and women for you now?