Haitus

“I don’t deserve to be chased like this!” he yells over his shoulder, breaths short, voice muffled through his mask as he narrowly avoids tripping over a pipe. “I’m a pretty good guy!”

The boots pounding behind him don’t slow. “You’re obstructing justice!”

“You’re harassing a concerned citizen!”

He vaults over a low vent and instantly regrets it, the rooftop pitching sideways beneath him as he skids and catches himself just in time to avoid faceplanting into a rusted-out AC unit. Graceful. So graceful. Just like the comics. His heart’s doing the worst kind of cardio in his chest, the kind that feels like guilt and adrenaline and that specific brand of dread that only ever shows up when you’re behind him.

Because if there’s one thing Phainon’s sure of, it’s this: you hate him.

Maybe not, like, hate-hate. Maybe not enough to tase him out of the sky. But enough to chase him across rooftops with the hopes of finally arresting him for good. 

He can live with that. He’s been hated before. (He just wishes it didn’t make him kind of want your approval.)

“You’re breaking at least three laws just by standing there!” you shout as he swings up and over the next building.

“That’s slander!” Phainon shouts back. “I counted two!”

You’re getting closer. He can hear it in your voice—less winded than his, more focused. He’s not sure if he’s impressed or terrified. Probably both.

“Do you ever take a break?” you snap as you land behind him with a clean, practiced roll.

Phainon whirls around, arms raised. “Do you ever let anyone live?”

Your eyes narrow like you’re imagining the paperwork it would take to make his disappearance look like an accident. 

“Okay, okay! Truce! Five minutes.” He backs up, hands still in the air. “No chasing or tasers. Please.”

You don’t answer, which means you’re at least considering it. He’s getting good at reading your silences, which is probably not a good thing. He should stop doing that. He should stop noticing things about you at all—like how you always pull your sleeves down when you’re thinking, or how you furrow your eyebrows when you’re about to disagree with someone but don’t want to start a fight.

“Look,” he says, tone dropping, just a bit. “This isn’t about me dodging patrol or stealing snacks from that convenience store on 14th Street—”

“You stole—”

“Borrowed,” he corrects quickly. “With intent to pay.”

You stare at him. The wind rustles your coat. Somewhere, a siren wails and dies out.

“There’s something going on,” he says. “A chain of robberies, not random. It’s clean, professional—in and out in under four minutes. I’ve been watching them hit warehouses all across Marmoreal. Whatever they’re after, it’s coordinated. And I can’t keep up on my own.”

He expects you to laugh. Or roll your eyes. Or say something sharp and cutting that’ll make his stomach twist in that way he hates—because you’re usually right.

“I think they’re watching me,” he adds, quieter now. “I think someone knows who I am.”

The wind blows sharp across the rooftop, carrying the tang of rain and smoke and summer dust. It scrapes over the worn brick under Phainon’s boots and rustles your coat, but you don’t move. You just look at him, your face unreadable in the way that always makes his stomach knot a little too tight. It’s the kind of stillness that unnerves him—not because he doesn’t know what you’re thinking, but because he wants to. More than he should. Phainon’s chest rises and falls, just a little too fast.

“That’s a bold claim,” you say slowly.

Yeah. He knows. He also knows you’re not brushing him off, which is scarier than if you had. You’re listening, evaluating. That furrow between your brows is your tell—he’s seen it before, in passing shadows and glimpses from across precinct crime scenes. The way you tilt your head slightly to the left when you’re filing pieces together in real time.

“You have proof?” you ask.

Phainon knows you won’t move without proof—not a whisper, not a theory, not a gut feeling scraped together from caffeine and paranoia. But he doesn’t have clean lines or neat bullet points. What he has is scraps; disconnected threads; a slowly closing hand around the back of his neck every time he turns a corner too sharp. And that feeling—that awful, skin-tight certainty—that something out there has started moving towards him, not away.

“I don’t have anything concrete, but… I’ve been tracking the hits since the first one three weeks ago,” he says, starting to pace now, in small, tight circles, just enough movement to bleed out some of the nervous energy crawling up his spine. “They’re too clean. Like, unrealistically clean. No alarms triggered, no broken doors, no fingerprints. They even bypassed the retinal scanner at one of the biotech labs. Who does that? And for what? They’re not stealing cash or valuables. They’re taking very specific things—equipment, hard drives, chemical canisters.”

“Show me,” you say. Your eyes don’t leave his face. (Well, the mask. But he swears you’re looking through it.)

He blinks. “What?”

You cross your arms. “The footage. The files. Whatever you’ve got. If you’re serious about this, I need to see everything.”

“Oh.” Phainon’s voice pitches up an octave in surprise. “Cool. Okay. Should we, like, grab dinner? I know a good deli down at Kephale Plaza. Best dill pickle sandwiches on this side of Okhema.”

Phainon didn’t lie. Chartonus’ Deli, tucked between a laundromat and a building that’s had a For Sale sign tacked onto the door for fourteen years, does serve the best dill pickle sandwiches in New Okhema City. The fluorescent sign above the deli flickers intermittently—CHART NUS’ on a bad night, HARTONUS DEL when it’s feeling generous—and the inside smells like mustard, old fryer oil, and vinegar.

He’s perched in the booth furthest from the window, under a buzzing ceiling light that flickers every now and then. The vinyl seat squeaks every time he shifts, and the table has a wobble. There’s duct tape across the far corner of the laminate, and someone—possibly Chartonus himself—has carved NO CRYING IN THE DELI into the tabletop.

Phainon has his mask pulled up just past his nose, letting the cool air hit the sweat still clinging to his neck. His hair’s damp, and there’s a tear in the seam of his left glove he only just now noticed. His sandwich is halfway demolished, crumbs gathering on the dark fabric of his suit, pickle juice already soaking into the paper wrapper.

He looks across the table at you. You’re the only person in here not eating, only sipping from a chipped ceramic mug of what Chartonus had claimed was coffee with a shrug. Your coat’s slung over the back of your seat, and your badge is tucked out of sight, but everything about you still screams cop—straight spine, steady eyes, the way your fingers twitch every time the door jingles.

“I told you,” Phainon says around a mouthful of rye and mustard. “Best sandwich in the city.”

“This is where you wanted to debrief?”

He shrugs. “They know my order here.”

You roll your eyes and pull the folder Phainon had handed you on the rooftop from your bag, placing it on the table between you. “You said these started three weeks ago?” you ask, flipping it open.

Phainon nods, brushing crumbs off the table. “Warehouse on Little Thorn. Then a lab two nights later. Then another warehouse. Then the lab again, but a different wing. They’re hitting specific targets, looping back, almost like they’re refining their technique.”

You glance up. “Any pattern to what they’re taking?”

“That’s the thing.” He leans in, placing his half-eaten sandwich on the paper wrapper. “It’s weirdly… modular. Like, they’re not emptying vaults or swiping entire systems. They’re taking parts. Pieces. Very specific ones.”

He slides a finger across one of the printouts. It’s a manifest list from the Little Thorn warehouse, half the lines redacted, but a few still visible.

Carbon-neutral polymer casings

Fiber-optic microarrays

Refrigerated storage containers, Class III

Unknown compound, biohazard sealed

“Doesn’t scream smash-and-grab,” you say, studying the list.

“Exactly. This is purposeful.”

You turn another page. “The cameras—”

“Looped,” Phainon says. “Every time. Not just disabled. The footage looks uninterrupted, except for this weird flicker—like it skips half a second. But the timestamps don’t change.”

You sit back in your seat, fingers drumming on the edge of the table. He watches you think—sees the line between your brows deepen, the way you press your lips together when something doesn’t add up. He likes watching you think. That’s a problem.

“Do you think they’re testing something?” you ask. “Or building it?”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d help me figure out. Detective Brain and Spider Legs. The dream team.”

“Never say that again.”

He gives you a one-shouldered shrug and returns to his sandwich. “Can’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.”

You shake your head and go quiet again, flipping slowly through the rest of the folder. Pages rustle under your hands. The old man behind the counter mutters something unintelligible to the deep fryer. Outsider, a police cruiser drives by without slowing.

When you speak again, your voice is lower. “You said you think someone’s watching you.”

Phainon freezes with a piece of pickle halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he lowers it back to the wrapper. “I don’t think,” he says. “I know.”

You look up.

“Two nights ago, I was tailing one of their runners. Lost him. That should’ve been the end of it, except when I got home…” He hesitates. “My apartment’s locked down. Triple bolted, windows sealed, motion sensors in every hallway. And yet, my closet door was cracked. My spare suit was missing. Nothing else.”

Your expression hardens. “Did you call it in?”

He snorts. “Yeah, sure. Hello, 911, someone stole my crime-fighting spandex, I think I’m being haunted by a bunch of dudes with attitude problems.”

You don’t laugh.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Deflection. I know.”

“You should’ve told someone sooner,” you say sharply. “If someone has your gear, they might have access to your—”

“They won’t,” he cuts in. “The tech’s locked down. Biometric, failsafes, the works. But it means they were inside. Not watching from across the street. Inside. And that… that’s not normal.”

You nod. “You think it’s connected to the thefts.”

“I think I’ve been getting too close,” he says, quieter now. “And someone wants me out of the way.”

You lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. The cracked TV in the corner flickers, playing a rerun of some late-night court drama with the volume turned down low. A door slams shut somewhere in the back. The deli is empty now except for you two.

“Then we need to get closer,” you say.

Phainon blinks. “Wait—we?”

“This is serious,” you say simply. “And if someone’s watching you, they might come for me next. This is bigger than your usual masked hero antics, Spider-Man. So, yeah. We.”

He’s staring again. He knows he is. He should probably say something witty or obnoxious, but his throat’s dry and his heart’s doing that thing again. “Cool,” he says finally, and it comes out a little too quiet. “Cool cool cool cool cool.”

You push the folder back towards him, then stand and grab your coat off the back of the chair. “Tomorrow night,” you say. “Bring everything else you’ve got. We set up a timeline, match it to police records. I want this mapped out by morning.”

He gives a mock salute. “Aye aye, Captain.”

You pause at the door, just long enough to glance over your shoulder. “Wash your suit,” you say. “You smell like mustard.”

The bell jingles as the door swings shut behind you. Phainon stays in the booth for a while, finishing his sandwich in silence. The TV buzzes in the corner. The ceiling light blinks once, then steadies.

The alley off Cortland Street feels shadier than it is in the almost-darkness. Every step Phainon takes echoes just a little too sharply off the damp brick walls, the soles of his boots scraping against cracked pavement slick from the afternoon rain. The air is thick with the tang of gasoline, rotting leaves, and whatever chemical sludge is leaking from the storm drain at the corner. It’s the kind of place you walk faster through on instinct, even if you’ve got super reflexes and unnatural strength.

But for once, he’s early.

The wall behind him is papered with maps: big ones, small ones, some he stole from news kiosks and the city library, others he scrawled himself in the middle of the night, half-asleep and hunched over his kitchen counter with a sharpie in his mouth. He’s patched them together like a spiderweb, the red and black marker lines bleeding over each other, looping through neighbourhoods and dead ends. It’s messy, barely legible in some places, but it serves its purpose.

He shifts on the overturned milk crate he’s using as a seat and pulls his mask halfway up to breathe properly. The flickering streetlight above him hums like a dying bee. There’s a smear of mustard on his glove from the sandwich last night. He tries not to think about how long it’s been since he’s properly showered.

He hates waiting. But he’d never admit that he’s anxious. Especially not for you.

Your footsteps break the quiet—sharp, sure, even. The same way they always sound when you’re walking up behind him like you’re about to read him his Miranda rights.

He doesn’t turn around immediately. That would be too obvious. Too eager. “I was starting to think you ditched,” he says instead, flipping a page in the notebook balanced on his knee.

“You said nine,” you answer. “It’s eight fifty-nine.”

He smiles, just a little. Can’t help it. “Wow. A punctual cop.”

You walk past him, wordless, and he catches the faint scent of your shampoo—clean, sharp, maybe citrus? (He needs to stop.) 

You step up to the wall of maps, arms crossed. The light glints off the corner of your badge, half-tucked beneath your jacket. You tilt your head to the side, the same way you always do when you’re processing too many things at once. God, he’s noticed that too many times.

“This is a mess,” you say flatly.

“Organised chaos,” he corrects.

You shoot him a look, then kneel to examine the clustered marks around Marmoreal’s industrial sector. Your fingers trace a wide red loop that sounds four separate Xs.

Phainon hops down from his crate and joins you, dropping into a crouch beside you. “Those are the first confirmed break-ins. They form a pretty clear arc if you connect the dots. Started on the western edge. They’re moving clockwise.”

“So whatever they’re after is in the centre,” you muse.

“Bingo,” he says, tapping the innermost circle. “And guess what’s smack-dab in the middle of the whole thing?” 

He holds up a photo of a nondescript warehouse, overgrown with weeds, one wall tagged in massive purple spray paint that says I HATE BEES. It’s ugly. You frown and say, “That place?”

Phainon nods. “Used to be a government R&D site during the old tech boom, but it was supposedly shut down after an acid leak took out the foundation. Now it’s just a lot with a locked fence and shit ton of asbestos.”

“Why hasn’t anyone investigated it?”

“Because it’s boring,” he says. “There’s no power running to it. No reported disturbances. No reason for patrol to bother. But if you dig deeper—like, old permit records and city zoning logs—there’s a basement that’s sealed off. No blueprint access since 2013.”

Your silence stretches. Phainon watches the gears turning in your head and realises—again, and with an unfortunate amount of clarity—that he likes watching you think. He really, really shouldn’t.

“So they’re not just building something,” you say. “They’re hiding it.”

“Or staging it.”

“We’ll split up,” you say. “Tonight. You take the chemical plant on Fifth. I’ll hit the battery storage facility near the docks. If either of them gets hit, we regroup.”

“Copy that,” he says lightly, brushing the dust off his gloved palms as he stands beside you. “Though I think you just want to get rid of me.”

“I want to get results,” you correct, already scanning the nearest cluster of notes on the map again. “And we’ll cover more ground this way.”

Fair, rational, efficient. So typically you. Phainon swallows down the inexplicable disappointment in his throat and tries to focus. “The chemical plant’s been shut down since the fires in March, but I’ve seen movement there—shadows mostly, heat signatures. And one of the power boxes was tampered with last week. Could just be squatters, but…”

“But this group doesn’t leave power boxes half-cut,” you finish, glancing at him. “They don’t miss steps.”

Exactly. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the tension in his shoulders eases a little. You’re starting to see what he sees. 

You turn back to the wall, fingers brushing one of the maps again, slower this time. Your brows are furrowed, the crease between them deeper than usual. “I’ll have to log this in quietly. My team’s not going to love me going off-grid again.”

“Your team doesn’t know you’re chasing me around rooftops?”

“They know. They just don’t know why,” you say. “Which is probably for the best.”

He huffs out a half-laugh, kicking lightly at the cracked asphalt near your foot. “Flattered.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Still. Thanks for not turning me in.”

You shrug. “You haven’t made it worth my while yet.”

He wants to tease you for that. Wants to say something dumb and stupid about buying you a terrible coffee from a 24-hour diner or bribing you with Chartonus’ sandwiches, but instead, he asks, “You have a burner?”

You nod. Phainon reaches into one of the hidden pouches sewn inside his suit—past the web cartridges, the crumpled snack wrapper, the broken-off pen cap he meant to throw away yesterday—and pulls out his own cracked phone. The screen’s a mess of spiderwebbed lines, the plastic casing half melted at the edges from some accident involving an exploding rooftop generator last week.

You raise your brows. “That’s a phone?”

“Technically,” he says, unlocking it with a swipe and opening a new contact. “Give me your number. I’ll send coordinates if I catch anything tonight.”

You rattle off a sequence of numbers, and add, “Burner ends in zero-nine. Don’t call me unless it’s urgent.”

“Define urgent.”

“Explosion. Gunfire. Alien invasion.”

“So… brunch?”

Phainon’s lucky day starts with a pigeon dive-bombing his head, continues with a missed web shot that sends him careening into a fire escape, and somehow still manages to improve—because you said yes to brunch with him. 

Or, well, with Spider-Man, which is still him, but in that weird, glass-wall kind of way. You don’t know what he looks like beneath the mask, don’t know his name, his address, his real voice, or the fact that he thought he was going to be late because he tried to hand-sew a rip in his suit and pricked his thumb seventeen times.

He tries not to make a big deal out of it. He really does. But the truth is, it’s been 36 hours since the last robbery attempt, he hasn’t been chased across a rooftop in at least two days, and now you’re sitting across from him at a sunlit table in a tucked-away café where the chairs don’t match and the menus are handwritten in cursive chalk. (And you ordered pancakes. That alone feels like a sign from the universe.)

Phainon takes a sip of his burnt espresso, after pulling his mask up to let it rest on the bridge of his nose. He leans back in his chair, letting the sounds of the café fill the silence—coffee machines hissing, silverware clinking, someone arguing gently in French at the counter. It’s the kind of place that feels too warm for a conversation about conspiracy rings and illegal tech trade, which is probably why he chose it. Something about soft pancakes makes even the worst theories easier to digest.

You flip through a manila folder with highlighter streaks and dog-eared corners, diagrams of circuits, and what look like stolen security camera stills, all stacked and filed with precision. He’s seen you interrogate a guy in less than five words before. Watching you cut a pancake with that same level of intensity is kind of terrifying.

Also: kind of hot. But that’s not relevant.

“So,” he says, because the silence is beginning to grate at him, “have I won you over with my sparkling personality yet, or are you still planning to arrest me after this?”

You hum and reach for the syrup. “I can’t decide if you’re more irritating in daylight or when you’re dangling upside down on a fire escape at 2 a.m.”

Phainon takes a sip of espresso, squinting through the bitter taste. “Why not both?”

You glare at him.

“I’m trying to be helpful,” he says, quieter now. He leans in a little, lowering his voice in case someone’s listening. “I know I’m not the most traditional source, and I’m aware I’m breaking, like, a thousand chain-of-command rules just by talking to you, but I’ve been watching these people for weeks. And I’ve never seen anything like this. They’re too clean. Too prepared.”

You nod. He can tell you’ve already connected the dots. You’ve probably connected ten more he hasn’t even noticed yet. Your eyes are sharp, alert, focused in that laser-sight kind of way that makes his skin itch under the mask.

“I went by the Marmoreal site last night,” you say. “Didn’t go in, though—just circled. But there was movement in the back. A truck with no license plate.”

“Same model from the Fourth Street hit?”

“Couldn’t see,” you admit. “But the sound was the same. The engine was too quiet to be local, so it was clearly modified.”

Phainon exhales slowly. “So they’re still active.”

“Very.” You stab at a piece of pancake and glance up at him. “You sleep at all?”

“...No,” he mutters, sheepish. “But I took a power nap at a bus stop for twenty-seven minutes and dreamed I was being eaten by a vending machine, so that counts.”

“Healthy,” you deadpan.

He shrugs. “You’re one to talk. When was the last time you took a break that wasn’t… this?”

“I’m not the one with a possible concussion and jam on my mask.”

“I like jam,” Phainon says.

You shake your head, but he catches the faintest hint of amusement in your face, quickly hidden behind your coffee cup. He doesn’t say anything; just watches as you lean back in your chair, face finally relaxing into something that looks a little less like a detective building a case and a little more like a person enjoying a few minutes of peace.

That’s when it hits him: this is the first time he’s seen you still. Not mid-chase, not interrogating, not tearing through evidence. Just you, and pancakes, and a soft patch of sunlight warming your sleeve.

He’s in so much trouble.

You glance at him, then, like you can feel it. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, fiddling with a sugar packet. “Just thinking.”

You narrow your eyes. “Dangerous.”

“Extremely.”

“Why’d you bring me here?”

He looks up. “What?”

“This café. It’s nice. Quiet. You could’ve picked anywhere.”

Phainon hesitates. He wants to say it’s because it’s his favourite. Because the coffee’s bad but the people are nice. Because the chairs don’t match and the chalkboard menus always misspell something. Because it feels safe. Because maybe, somewhere in the back of his idiotic brain, he wanted you to like it.

Instead, he shrugs and says, “Thought you’d appreciate the pancakes.”

You study him for a second longer. Then, finally, finally, you smile. “Don’t make a habit of being right, Spider-Man,” you say, spearing another bite.

It turns out that Phainon’s theory is, horrifically, right. 

One week. That’s all it takes.

Seven days of split patrols and encrypted texts, of cataloguing movement and double-checking routes, of scribbling half-mad notes in the margins of maps and losing sleep trying to figure out what the connection is. He’d hoped, stupidly, that the quiet meant progress. That maybe, maybe they’d spooked whoever was behind it. That maybe the worst thing waiting for him that week would be another broken web-shooter or a pigeon with a vendetta.

[22:41] Detective Brain: Battery storage facility. Crossfire. I’m okay.

You’re okay. That should be enough. It should settle the spike of cold panic in his chest, should anchor him where he stands, balancing on the lip of a lamppost on 39th Street. But he rereads it again. Then again.

His fingers tighten around the edge of the lamp. The city breathes below him, neon-drenched and unaware. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren howls. Closer, a car door slams and someone yells about a parking ticket.

Phainon jumps.

The wind is sharp against his skin as he swings, the air slapping his cheeks even through his mask. He’s faster than usual—more desperate than smooth. It’s a graceless sprint across rooftops, the kind that leaves him barely clearing ledges, boots skimming waterlogged gutters, lungs burning. He doesn’t know if you’re hurt. You said you’re okay, but “okay” is such a vague, terrible word when it comes from someone who faces dangerous situations for a living.

The warehouse by the docks comes into view fast, hulking and silent beneath the sodium lights. There’s a scorch mark across the landing bay door, the acrid scent of melted insulation still curling up into the air. Two squad cars are parked askew outside the chain link fence, but the cops are gone, or inside, or too distracted to notice the figure scrambling onto the roof with shaking hands.

Phainon crouches low and peers through the skylight.

You’re inside, standing near a bank of empty battery casings and shattered glass, a radio pressed to your shoulder. You’re not limping. No visible blood. His heart slows half a beat. He taps lightly on the glass. You look up fast, instinctive, already half-reaching for your weapon before you register him. Your eyes narrow, but only briefly. Then you jerk your chin towards the fire escape.

He meets you on the second floor, slipping in through a side window. You’re alone in the room, save for the mess of forensic markers, scorch marks, and the bitter ozone of post-explosion cleanup.

“I’m fine,” you say, even before he can speak.

“You’re not fine,” he snaps, more sharply than he means to. “You said crossfire. That’s not, like, a stubbed toe.”

“It wasn’t aimed at me.”

“That doesn’t help!”

He hears his own voice—too loud, too worried, echoing off concrete—and he turns away before you can see the guilt settling between his shoulders. He runs a hand over his head, dragging his glove against his scalp like he could rub the fear out through friction alone.

You step closer. Your boots crunch over a piece of broken casing. “Spider-Man—”

“What happened?” he cuts in. He needs to focus, needs to understand it before he spirals into full-blown panic. “Walk me through it.”

You sigh, but nod. “I was watching the south entrance. Nothing for over two hours. Then, just past ten, the sensors I set up on the west wall tripped. I saw three figures, all masked. One of them had a disruptor—fried the cameras before we could catch a clear face.”

“Lithium?”

“Gone,” you confirm. “They knew exactly where to go. They broke open the storage lock, took one unit, and left the others untouched.”

“Only one?”

“One. And Spider-Man—” your eyes meet his again, steady now, serious—“they weren’t just fast. They know how to fight. They looked trained for this kind of shit.”

He exhales through gritted teeth. “You think they’re building something.”

“I think they already have,” you say grimly. “And they’re just waiting for the right battery to turn it on.”

Phainon shifts his weight and finally asks the question that’s been sticking in his throat like a splinter. “Did they see you?”

“I—I don’t know. Maybe,” you say.

“Maybe?” His voice rises again.

“I lost one in the dark. I think they doubled back. I’m not sure.”

Phainon wants to scream. Or punch something. Or grab you and teleport you somewhere far away where no one has disruptors and no one bleeds on cold warehouse floors. But he can’t do any of that. He can only stand there, vibrating with a kind of fear he doesn’t have the vocabulary for.

“I should have been there,” he mutters.

“You were across the city.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

You step into his space, close enough that he can hear your breath. “Spider-Man. Stop. I’m not dead.”

“Yet,” he says.

“I’ve been trained for this,” you say. “I know how to handle myself.”

He doesn’t doubt that. Not even for a second. But he also knows what it feels like to arrive too late, to find a scene that’s already stained with the blood of his loved ones. He drags a hand down his face. “You need backup.”

“I’ve got it,” you say, your voice firm. “I’ve got you.”

It’s not meant to do what it does, but those words dig into him deeper than any bullet could. He stares at you for a beat too long, every possible response crashing into each other like waves in his skull.

Finally, he says, quietly, “Yeah. You do. Can I take you home?”

Phainon expects you to disagree. Instead, you let your shoulders slump with relief, and say, “Yes, please.”

The wind cuts sharp along the docks when he leads you out, the air heavy with the smell of brine, old smoke, and burnt copper. There’s a metallic haze still lingering over the scene, but you don’t flinch from it. You walk steadily beside him, chin up, even if your hand hovers just a little closer to your holster than usual. He doesn’t miss that.

The streets are quieter now. Most of the cops have cleared out. A few plainclothes agents hang back to assess the scene, but they barely glance up when he web-slings both of you onto the nearest rooftop—low enough to keep out of view, high enough to get some space from the mess below. You don’t complain. You never do. Even now, when your knees must ache from crouching in dark corners, when your head probably pounds from the tension of nearly being caught in open fire, you simply follow him, like it’s normal. Like you trust him.

Phainon keeps his hold light but steady around your waist, one hand braced just beneath your elbow. You’re warmer than he expects, heat leaking through your jacket into his gloves. Every time he moves—shoots a string of webs, pulls you forward, steadies your landing—he feels you adjust to match him. Fluid. Familiar. (He shouldn’t like that as much as he does.)

Your building’s only three blocks away, and you whisper the directions into his ear. Phainon doesn’t want to rush it. He doesn’t want to leave you alone, not yet—not while your jaw is still set a little too tight and the adrenaline hasn’t fully drained from your bones.

When he finally lands on your fire escape, he lets go reluctantly.

You ease away from him, brushing your hair back, your expression unreadable as always. “You don’t have to walk me all the way up.”

“I know,” he says, already crouched on the rail. “I just… wanted to be sure.”

“Thanks.”

He nods and tries to act casual. Tries not to stare too hard at the soft light spilling out of your apartment window, or the way your fingers fidget at your sides like you’re still half in the fight. He wants to ask if you’re okay again, wants to tell you that the word “crossfire” nearly gave him a heart attack. But you’re already halfway to the window, unlocking it and ducking through the frame.

“Spider-Man?” you say, just before you disappear inside.

“Yeah?”

“Do you, uh, want to come inside?”

He blinks. Of all the possibilities that had been ricocheting around in his head—“stay safe,” or “thanks for the ride,” or “you’re worrying too much”—this had not made the cut. Not even close.

It stalls him, mid-perch, one gloved hand gripping the rusted iron railing of the fire escape, the other resting loosely on his knee. The mask hides his face, but he’s pretty sure his surprise is obvious anyway, just in the way his breath catches or how still he suddenly goes.

Your silhouette is soft in the glow of your apartment’s light. You’ve already kicked off your boots inside the window, standing barefoot on the wooden floorboards, one hand holding the window open, the other resting lightly on the frame.

“I mean,” you say after a second, brows furrowed. “Only if you want to. You don’t have to or anything. You probably have rooftops to gallivant across and—”

“I want to,” he says quickly, too quickly. Then he clears his throat and tries again. “I mean—yeah. If you’re okay with it.”

Your mouth curves, not quite into a smile, but something close enough to make something twist behind his ribs. “You literally carried me three blocks through the air. I think we’re past the point of stranger danger.”

He huffs out a short laugh and swings one leg over the windowsill. It takes a bit of maneuvering to avoid smacking his knees against your desk, and he’s painfully aware of every scuff his boots leave behind on your floor. The space smells like laundry detergent and something warm—coffee grounds, maybe. Or cinnamon. The kind of smell that makes his shoulders start to relax before he even realises it.

Your apartment is small but lived-in. A stack of case files teeters on the kitchen table next to a mug. Your precinct jacket hangs over the back of the couch. There are photos pinned to the side of the fridge with mismatched magnets: city skylines, a blurry shot of you at what looks like a precinct holiday party, someone in a ridiculous Halloween costume posing like a superhero. Phainon feels something tug deep and stupid in his chest.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, heading into the kitchen and flipping on the kettle without needing to ask. “I’ve got tea or instant coffee. No milk, though. Sorry.”

He stays standing for a second longer, then slowly pulls off his gloves and tucks them into his belt. His mask stays on. He lifts the bottom edge just past his mouth, enough to breathe easier, but not enough to risk—well, anything else.

“Tea’s good,” he says.

You nod, moving with a kind of efficiency that reminds him again that you’re still running on fumes. There’s a scrape as you grab two mugs, the clink of metal as you stir one without sugar. You hand him the other without ceremony.

He takes it carefully, fingers brushing yours. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” you return, then gesture to the couch. “We can sit. If you’re staying a few minutes.”

He is. He knows he is. He follows you to the couch and lowers himself into the corner, stiff at first, like his body hasn’t caught up to the fact that he’s safe here. With you. There’s a blanket balled up on one side and an old remote wedged between the cushions. You move them without thinking and curl one leg beneath you, facing him.

“So,” you say. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Phainon frowns. “The break-in?”

“No,” you say, looking at him squarely. “You. You were… panicked tonight.”

Phainon goes still. It’s not immediate—not sharp like a flinch, but a quiet kind of freezing, like someone’s gently pulling the emergency brake in his chest. He doesn’t look away from you, but he doesn’t answer either. His tea cools between his fingers.

You shift forward a little, your voice low. “Look, I’m not asking because I’m nosy. Or because I want some dramatic unmasking moment sort of thing. I just…” You pause, exhale. “I got lucky tonight. That’s what it was. Luck. If I hadn’t ducked at the right second, if they’d come around the corner just a little faster—”

“But they didn’t,” he says quietly, cutting you off.

“That’s not the point.”

You’re sharper now, sitting straighter, your knee pressed to the cushion. Your eyes flash—not with anger, but fear, the kind you don’t let people see if you can help it. But he sees it. And worse, he knows it. He recognises it in the widening of your eyes, the way your fingers curl against your palm.

You swallow. “I’m scared, Spider-Man. I know you’re helping. I trust you. But this—this thing we’re chasing… if something happens to you—I won’t even know your name. I won’t know who to look for. Or if I should look at all. That’s not just reckless, that’s—cruel.”

He flinches at that. You notice.

“I just want to know who’s standing next to me,” you say. “That’s not so much to ask.”

“I can’t,” he says, before he’s even fully processed it. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough.” Your voice isn’t raised, but there’s a new edge to it now, sharper than anger. Hurt, maybe. Disappointment. It slices straight through his armour. “You trust me with your life out there. Every night. You trust me not to shoot you in the back, or get in your way, or blow your cover. But you don’t trust me enough to know who you are?”

“It’s not about trust,” he says quickly, too defensively. “It’s—God, you think I don’t want to tell you? You think I don’t—don’t lie awake wondering what would happen if I did? I think about it all the time.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

He looks at you, then. You’re not angry. You’re scared. Scared of whatever’s coming next. Scared of losing control, of losing him.

“You don’t understand what that means,” he says. “If you know who I am—really know—it changes everything. You don’t get to walk away from that. You don’t get to un-know it if something happens. If someone finds out—”

“I’m a cop, Spider-Man. I’ve seen worse things than secret identities.”

“It’s not just mine,” he says. “It’s everyone around me. You knowing—you become a target.”

“I’m already a target.”

“Not like this,” he bites out. “If someone traces it back to you—if they think you matter to me—”

“I do matter to you.”

You suck in a breath like you didn’t mean to say it that way. But you don’t take it back. You sit there, across from him, eyes steady and hurting and unshakably honest. And all Phainon can think is: Shit.

“You do,” he says, barely audible. “Of course you do.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?”

He closes his eyes, and rubs a hand over the edge of his mask like he can somehow erase the pressure building behind his skull. “Because the second I do,” he says, “you stop being just a cop with good instincts and better aim. You become mine. And that makes you vulnerable in a way I don’t know how to protect you from.”

You shake your head, frustrated. “You don’t get to make that decision for me. I’m not asking for your social security number, or something. I’m asking to know who’s at my side when the bullets fly. When the lights go out. When it’s 2 a.m. and I can’t sleep because I think I saw someone watching my window. I need more than a voice behind a mask. I deserve more.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t tell you you’re wrong, because you’re not. But still, he stays silent.

You stare at him for a moment longer, and when it’s clear he won’t budge, you get up. The mug of tea still has steam spiralling out of it as you walk to the sink and set it down, the sound softer than your next words: “I think you should go.”

Phainon doesn’t try to stop you, or ask you to reconsider. He simply nods, and stands. There’s a strange heaviness in his limbs as he pulls the mask down over his face, tugs his gloves on with fingers that feel numb. He moves to the window but pauses with one foot already on the sill.

“I do trust you,” he says. “More than anyone.”

It’s not that you’re avoiding each other.

It’s that you’re both avoiding each other—which, in practice, amounts to the same thing.

Patrols become asynchronous: silent intel dumps in the encrypted folder, maps updated with colour-coded marks that speak more than either of you will via text. There are no more late-night debriefs on rooftops, no post-mission walks home, no casual banter about who has the worst taste in energy bars. When you text, it’s clipped, tactical. When he replies, it’s mechanical.

(‘West dock checkpoint cleared. No sign of activity.’

‘Copy. South alley tripwire still intact.’)

Phainon doesn’t know what hurts more: the silence, or the fact that it’s entirely his fault. Maybe he was right. Maybe the secret is safer kept. Maybe you are less of a target this way.

But God, it’s lonely.

There’s a rhythm to the city that used to make sense—pulse and swing, fire escapes and antenna towers, the rough percussion of tires against potholes. But now it all feels flat. The rooftops are colder. His landing sticks a little less clean. Even the pigeons don’t heckle him like they used to.

It’s been two weeks. Two long, aching weeks, until, at 3:37 a.m., Phainon receives a text from you, and it takes him less than a minute to reply. 

He doesn’t stop to think, or worry if this is a trap, or a joke, or worse—if you’re still mad at him. When he lands outside your apartment, the window’s already cracked open. Inside, the lights are on low, and there’s a corkboard spread across your living room wall now, half-covered in photos, schematics, lines of red string and sticky notes scrawled in tight, impatient handwriting he recognises from your field memos.

You don’t greet him. You just hand him a folder, your eyes dark with something between fear and exhaustion.

“Biotech division out of Theoros Labs,” you say. “It used to be focused on adaptive immunotherapy, but they lost funding three years ago and went dark. The shell company they reopened under is tied to a private security contractor out of Styxia. And guess what their latest research files are tagged under?”

Phainon’s already flipping through the pages. His gloved fingers still. His stomach drops.

ARACHNID-BASED ENHANCEMENT TRIALS – SUBJECT 33550336. MODEL NAME: FLAME REAVER.

He looks up. “They’re trying to replicate me.”

“Not just replicate,” you say, shaking your head. “Weaponise.”

Your voice is thin, dry, like it costs you something to even say it aloud.

“They’ve been pulling data from old surveillance—fight footage, patrol patterns, even the way you move. You know how we assumed they were looking for high-density batteries to power a device?” You tap one of the diagrams on the corkboard, the spine of it shaped like a human thorax with branching nodes along the shoulders. “Turns out it’s a synthetic neuromuscular system. And this—this lithium core—it’s the ignition switch.”

Phainon stares at the blueprint. It’s rough, unfinished, but horrifyingly clear: a bipedal unit, modelled after him. Spinal cord wiring where his web shooters would be. Photoreactive visor instead of eyes. Muscle clusters designed for explosive vertical leap. Neural sync modules buried in the wrists and calves.

A Spider-Man, stripped of the man.

“Why?” he says, voice hoarse. “Why build this?”

“I don’t know yet,” you admit. “But someone out there sees you as more than just a vigilante nuisance. They see you as a prototype. A formula. Something to replicate, mass-produce, and control.”

He sinks onto the edge of your couch, folder open in his lap. The diagram stares back at him, accusatory and unforgiving. It’s him. The curve of the stance, the wide-set shoulders, the way the unit’s balance favours its left side, just like he does when his knee’s aching. They didn’t just study him; they dissected him.

“How long have you known?” he asks quietly.

“A few days,” you say. “I wanted to be sure. Didn’t want to come to you with a hunch and nothing to back it up.”

“And you texted me anyway.”

You meet his gaze across the room. “Because it’s you, Spider-Man. Look, I know you think hiding your identity keeps people safe. But this? This proves it doesn’t. They’re coming for you whether or not I know your face. They already have your gait, your voice, your power levels. They’re not trying to figure out who you are anymore. They don’t care. They just want to turn you into something they can sell.”

He sets the folder down. His hands won’t stop shaking. “How… did you find out about all this?”

“Don’t get mad.”

When Phainon doesn’t say anything, you sigh and look away. 

“I visited the old R&D site. Alone.”

“Are you serious?” Phainon gestures so wildly that his web cartridge knocks against the back of your chair. He stands abruptly. The folder falls from his lap, papers scattering across your rug. “You went alone. To Theoros. To Styxia-backed labs that specialise in high-risk bioweapons. Without calling me.”

“I called you when I had proof—”

“You shouldn’t have gone in the first place!” he explodes. “What the hell were you thinking? Do you want to get dissected? Shot? Replaced with one of those—those things—”

“You weren’t talking to me!” you shout back. “What was I supposed to do? Wait until they raided another warehouse?”

“I was trying to protect you,” Phainon grits out. “And instead you threw yourself into a place that could’ve had armed personnel, pressure sensors, live prototypes—anything.”

You throw your arms out. “And what was the alternative? Sit on my hands while they build a weaponised version of you? Wait until there’s a second Spider-Man crawling up government buildings with a built-in kill switch? I don’t know how to sit still, Spider-Man. Not when I’m this scared.”

“You think I’m not scared? You think I haven’t been replaying every second of that night at the docks? That I haven’t imagined a dozen versions of how it could’ve gone wrong? You think I’m not scared every time I don’t hear from you for a few hours?”

“Then why didn’t you say any of that? Why did you shut me out?”

“Because if I said it out loud,” Phainon spits, pacing again, hands flying to his head, “then it would be real. It would be—you would be real. Not just someone chasing me on my patrol route. Not just someone who’s helping me out. You’d be a person I’d have to lose.”

You blink, thrown. “You think you’re going to lose me?”

“I know I could,” he says, almost like it hurts. “Because it’s already happened. Every time I get close—every single time—it ends the same way. Either they die, or I leave first. Because that’s the only choice I ever get.”

He doesn’t even hear how loud his voice has gotten, doesn’t notice how he’s gesturing wildly, storming back and forth across your living room.

“I can’t protect you from this. I can’t protect you from them. I can’t even protect myself. You want me to give you a name, but that’s the one thing I can’t do. Because once you have that, it’s over. You’ll look at me differently. Or worse—you’ll stop looking at me. And I can’t—God, I can’t stand that.

“Do you know what it’s like to see yourself turned into a blueprint? To see a file full of numbers and heat signatures and recorded footage and realise someone out there has broken you down into a fucking algorithm? That they don’t see a person—they see a weapon?

“I didn’t sign up for this shit! I didn’t even sign up to be Spider-Man. I just… was. And now they’ve taken that and turned it into something else. Something that walks like me and fights like me and could kill you without thinking. And the worst part is that if you’d died at that lab, I—no one would’ve even known. You’d just be another casualty they scrub from the records—and that would’ve been my fault.”

His voice has dropped to a whisper. His hands are trembling.

He doesn’t realise until you do—until your eyes go wide, and your breath catches like you’ve been sucker-punched.

His mask is gone, not pushed halfway up, or nudged for a sip of tea. Gone. Somewhere in the middle of that breakdown—while he was talking too fast and breathing too hard and tearing at his suit like it was suffocating him—he took it off.

His hair’s a mess, flattened by the fabric, and his face is flushed, mouth parted slightly as he sucks in breath after breath. There’s a bruise blooming along his cheekbone, and a cut healing just beneath his chin. He looks young, with silvery-white hair and bright blue eyes that are rimmed with the redness that comes with exhaustion and caffeine.

“...Oh,” Phainon says, stunned. “Shit.”

You blink, slowly, as though grounding yourself in reality again. “You took your mask off.”

He starts to lift a hand to cover his face, instinct kicking in too late. Gently, more carefully than anything else that’s passed between you tonight, you reach up and take the mask from his hand. Your fingers brush his knuckles, and he flinches, but he doesn’t pull away.

Phainon drops his hand and lets out a shallow breath. “I… didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t mean to,” you echo. “Jesus.”

Phainon can’t say anything, so he simply stands there, feeling as naked as the day he first stepped onto a rooftop and dared to believe he could protect anyone. His heart pounds loud in his ears. He can feel it in his throat, his fingertips, his teeth.

“Can I— Will you tell me your name?” you whisper.

He wets his lips, and says, quietly, “Phainon.”

You nod, once, and say it back. “Phainon,” you repeat, like it’s a truth you’ll guard with your life. “Okay. I’m not afraid of you. And I’m not leaving. So either you let me help, because you asked me to, or I break into another lab and do it anyway. Your call.”

Phainon stares at you: you, with your voice barely holding steady; you, standing in your living room full of maps and stolen schematics and caffeine-fueled desperation; you, tired and stubborn and loyal enough to make him fall to his knees.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You reach out, then, and Phainon thinks you’re handing his mask back to him, but instead, you wrap your arms tightly around his torso and pull him into you. 

He doesn’t move at first. You’re pressed to him, arms wrapped tight around his torso like you mean to hold the pieces of him together before they scatter to the wind. Your cheek rests just above his heart, right where it beats too loud and too fast, thudding like it’s trying to break free from his ribs. His hands hover uselessly in the air for a second, fingers twitching, stunned by the contact, by the way you came to him so easily, so willingly, after all of it.

He exhales. The air leaves his lungs like it’s been caged there for years. His shoulders drop an inch. His spine slackens just enough for him to bend down.

He lifts his arms slowly, like he’s learning how to move again. His fingers brush your back, light and unsure, but you don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. So he lets his palms flatten, one at the curve of your spine, the other curling loosely over your shoulder.

He breathes in.

God, it’s you. Soap and smoke and citrus shampoo. A hundred times he’s seen you crouched beside him on rooftops or hunched over a laptop, bathed in the blue glow of surveillance feeds. But this is different. This is you, pressed to him like you belong there, like the world outside can wait. 

His grip tightens, no longer tentative—arms looping fully around you now, hands grasping like he needs to keep you tethered, like if he lets go, you’ll disappear back into a nightmare or a lab or a headline with your name misspelled. His chin tips forward until his face rests in the hollow of your neck, and it’s instinct, not thought that guides him there. His breath stirs the hair at your temple. He swallows hard.

(It’s you. It’s you, and you’re warm and safe and alive in his arms.)

Phainon closes his eyes and pretends like everything else in the living room doesn’t exist—the weaponised duplicate in the file folder, the surveillance footage broken down to frames per second, the machine built in his image but stripped of everything human. He forgets about the mask you dropped, crumpled on the floor, and the voice in his head screaming that he’s made a mistake, that you’ll leave once the shock fades, that nothing good can come of this.

Instead, he listens to your heartbeat. He memorises the slope of your shoulders beneath his palms, the soft way your hand has fisted in the fabric of his suit like you’re afraid he might vanish, too.

It comes to him—terrible and quiet and so obvious it aches.

He could be in love with you.

Not the kind of love he can shove into the seams of his second life. Not the safe, arm’s-length affection that lives behind jokes and shared intel and the occasional brush of fingers across a coffee cup. No, this is the dangerous kind. The kind that makes you stupid. The kind that makes you soft. (The kind that makes you want.)

He wants a future he doesn’t dare picture. He wants to walk down the street with you in broad daylight. He wants to take off the suit and be Phainon, just Phainon, and know you’ll still look at him the same way.

(His hands tremble. You hold him tighter.)

It’s that simple. You don’t push. You don’t speak. You just breathe against his chest, steady and unwavering and constant, like you always are. Phainon presses his mouth to your hair. His eyes sting, but he doesn’t cry.

It’s five in the morning, and Phainon is walking down a cracked sidewalk beside you with his suit half-zipped, his mask stuffed into your hoodie pocket, and a buzzing under his skin that he’s trying really hard to ignore. You’re beside him, arms crossed against the early chill, leading the way like this—walking, together—is something you do all the time.

It’s not a date, he tells himself. It’s really not. 

But you mentioned waffles. And your voice had been tired but warm when you said it. And he hadn’t wanted to leave yet.

So here he is. Not skipping, because he’s got some dignity, but definitely walking with a little too much bounce for someone who found out he’s being reverse-engineered into a murder bot a little over an hour ago.

The city’s quieter than it ever gets during daylight, the kind of hush that only exists in the space between the last bar closing and the first train running. A low mist clings to the ground, curling around traffic lights and benches and empty newsstands. It’s eerie, maybe, but not unfriendly. Like the city’s holding its breath right along with him.

Phainon doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be feeling. Dread, maybe. Paranoia. Existential terror. But instead, all he feels is this weightless hum in his chest, the kind that makes you walk a little taller, swing your arms a little looser. The kind that makes you forget you’re still half in your gear and probably look completely insane.

You glance over at him as you cross the street, the corner of your mouth twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Staring at me.”

Phainon stumbles on a crack in the sidewalk. “I’m not,” he says, too quickly.

“You are,” you say, not unkindly. “Like I’m going to vanish or something.”

Phainon rubs the back of his neck, grateful for the relative darkness. “Well. I mean. You did break into a lab by yourself, so I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Okay, fair,” you concede, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Still. You’ve got that face on. The one that makes me feel like I’ve got, like, a mysterious smear of radioactive ink on my forehead.”

“I don’t have a face.”

“You do have a face,” you say. “That’s the problem now, remember?”

Phainon huffs out a laugh and looks away, suddenly all too aware of the morning air on his skin, of the fact that he’s not wearing his mask, of how easy it is to joke with you. He’s not sure what scares him more: being turned into a weapon, or feeling like this.

You walk in comfortable silence for a block or two, hands tucked into your sleeves, your breath fogging slightly in the chill. The sky is bruising lavender and gold now, the edges of dawn beginning to soften everything.

Phainon chances a glance at you. You’re watching the sky change colour like it’s a magic trick only you know the secret to, your expression soft and unreadable. There’s a crease between your brows, faint, but it smooths a little when a breeze picks up and rustles your hair. You look tired, not just from the lack of sleep, but from the kind of exhaustion that sinks into a person when they’ve seen too much, done too much, but still can’t stop moving.

The diner sign glows into view at the end of the street—warm yellow and flickering red, letters half-burnt out so it reads INE R & GILL if you squint. There’s a figure leaning against the counter inside, wiping down the same spot with a rag that’s probably older than both of you, and the place smells faintly of grease and syrup.

You pause in front of the glass door, one hand on the handle. “This place okay?”

“It’s perfect,” Phainon says before he can stop himself.

You smile and push open the door. The bell on top jingles, and the waitress glances up from the far end of the counter. She gives you both a once-over, raises a tired brow at Phainon’s boots and long sleeves, and gestures to a booth without asking questions. That’s the nice thing about New Okhema City; nobody cares too much.

You slide into a booth with a contented sigh. Phainon sits across from you, knees knocking against the underside of the table. The vinyl squeaks under his weight, and the Formica is sticky, but he doesn’t care. His hands feel strangely clean without gloves. The menu sticks to his fingers when he flips it open.

You don’t even bother looking at yours. “Waffles, scrambled eggs, hash browns. Extra syrup.”

“That specific, huh?” Phainon says.

You shrug. “Gotta know your diner defaults.”

The waitress arrives with two glasses of water and a notepad. “You kids look like you’ve been up all night,” she says, though she can’t be more than a few years older than you and Phainon.

“We have,” you say sleepily, “but we cracked a supervillain conspiracy, so it was worth it.”

The waitress doesn’t blink. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” you say, and Phainon nods too, grateful. She leaves without another word.

Silence stretches between you again, but it’s easy now, filled with warmth. The sky outside shifts more boldly into gold and peach, casting long shadows against the window. Phainon leans back into the booth and lets himself exhale slowly, deeply.

Your foot brushes against his under the table. He freezes. You don’t move it.

He looks up, and your eyes meet his over the rim of your water glass. There’s something quiet there, soft around the edges—exhaustion, sure, but something else too. A kind of trust he’s not sure he deserves. (Still, it’s there.)

Phainon thinks about how this shouldn’t be possible. How the night started with fear and screaming and blueprints of his body, and somehow ended with this booth, this silence, this person across from him.

[18:04] Detective Brain: Spidey-lookalike broke into storage depot by Kephale Plaza. I’m already on scene. It’s not you, right?

[18:05] Detective Brain: Phainon. Please respond.

Phainon is already out the window by the time your second text comes through, barely bothering to latch it behind him. His fingers fumble for the web shooter at his wrist, and his heart is a fist hammering against his ribs. He almost misses the first jump—lands hard on the ledge and has to steady himself with a rough palm against brick.

He doesn’t even suit up properly. His gloves are half-fastened, the zipper of his suit stuck one-fourths of the way up his spine, but there’s no time to care. Phainon swings hard across the city’s mid-rises, momentum jerking through his shoulders, his aim slightly off with each launch. It doesn’t matter. He’ll take a bruised wrist if it gets him to Kephale Plaza thirty seconds faster.

Kephale Plaza is a glass-and-steel monstrosity, flanked by wide loading docks and a security perimeter that no longer seems to matter. Phainon can hear the distant thrum of police radios as he swings into the industrial district, following the echo of sirens. Squad cars line the street outside the storage depot, lights flashing in fractured red and blue across the cracked pavement. Officers are forming a perimeter, but there’s no crowd. They’re keeping it quiet.

He lands on the roof of an adjacent building, crouched low as his eyes sweep the scene. 

He finds you posted just outside the warehouse’s side entrance, pacing like you’re trying not to burst out of your own skin. Your bulletproof vest is cinched tight, and your standard issue sidearm is still holstered—but your fingers are twitching near it, like you’re weighing every possible outcome of the past ten minutes. Your hair’s tied back, but loose strands stick to your face from the sweat already clinging to your skin. He’s never seen you look so still and restless all at once.

He leaps down from the rooftop, landing in a crouch just behind a darkened patrol vehicle. No one sees him yet. He keeps to the shadows as he makes his war towards you.

The second you hear the shuffle of his boots, you whip around—and relax just as fast.

“Jesus,” you exhale, taking a step forward. “Okay. Okay, thank God. I wasn’t sure you’d even seen the message.”

“I left the second I did,” Phainon assures. “What’s the situation?”

Your lips tighten, and you turn, nodding for him to follow you a few paces away from the rest of the officers. Behind you, the front entrance to the warehouse stands yawning and dark, a single loading dock shutter half-raised.

“It showed up fifteen minutes ago,” you say, pulling out your phone and flicking to the security cam footage. You angle the screen towards him. “Took out the motion sensors, and walked in through a window on the north side. No sign of forced entry—it knew exactly where to go.”

The footage is grainy, flickering, but the figure is unmistakable.

It moves like him. Too much like him. In the footage, the figure slinks down the hallway with the same kind of gait Phainon sees in himself. Every footfall, every pause, every angle of entry—it’s like watching him pace through a mirror.

Only this version is sleeker, meaner. Its limbs are thicker with muscle plating, and its suit—if you could even call it that—is matte-black with streaks of purple circuitry flashing along the ribs and spine. There’s no emblem, no mask markings, just a blank, silver faceplate that reflects the ceiling lights like a shuttered camera lens. One blink and it’s gone, vanishing into the blind spots of the camera feed like it knows exactly where every pixel falls.

Phainon swears under his breath. “They built it,” he mutters. “That’s Flame Reaver.”

You glance up. “You sure?”

He nods. He’s gone through your stolen documents so many times that it feels like they’ve been branded into his skull. “Positive. Same proportions, same gait. But it’s not scanning the building. It’s buying time.”

“For what?”

Phainon doesn’t answer at first. He’s too focused on the still-looping footage. The moment the prototype slips out of view, he sees it—a flicker of something. It wasn’t raiding. It wasn’t looking for intel. It walked into that depot like it had a schedule to keep.

The realisation hits him like a slap to the sternum.

“Wait,” he says sharply. “Where’s your radio?”

You blink. “What?”

“Your radio,” he repeats, scanning your hip and vest and frowning when he sees the wire coiled but your earpiece missing. “You always keep it on.”

“I took it out for a second. There was interference on the line.”

“No.” Phainon turns, scanning the scene again with a new sharpness in his eyes. “No, that’s wrong. This—this whole thing—it’s not a distraction. This is the distraction.”

“What are you—”

His head whips around, eyes scanning the perimeter. You were just here, right beside him, one step behind. Your breath was fogging the air. You were talking.

Now you’re gone.

Phainon’s heart lurches.

“Where is she?” he hisses aloud, and suddenly he’s on the move—scrambling up onto the nearest shipping crate, trying to get height, trying to see. The precinct line’s holding firm around the building. There’s no breach. No one has come or gone.

Except you. Except whoever—or whatever—came for you.

He swings to the rooftop in seconds, breath tight in his lungs, wind clawing past his ears. His eyes sweep the blocks below in sharp, jerking passes—alley to alley, rooftop to ground, looking for anything that feels off.

On the north side, nestled between two disused factories and a rusted chain-link fence, an unmarked van idles in a narrow alley, almost hidden in the dip of a service road. Its brake lights pulse once, too soft to draw attention, but deliberate. A second later, the engine stutters and dies. The door clicks shut. Phainon stills.

From this height, the sounds of the city thin into a muffled hush: sirens echoing somewhere far behind him, police radios buzzing with disjointed chatter. But that alley, that van—it’s too smooth, too clean. There’s no urgency to it, no panic. Just the slow, mechanical precision of something following protocol.

A figure steps away from the van, heading down a side street without looking back. Their stride is steady. Familiar.

Phainon freezes.

It looks like you: the same jacket, same utility belt, even the soft sway of your hair against your collarbone. Your badge glints faintly under the streetlight—your badge. Not a replica.

Except it’s wrong. You’re not there.

You wouldn’t leave the perimeter without backup, wouldn’t ditch your squad without a word, or abandon the very scene that had triggered every instinct in your body just ten minutes ago. At least, not without telling him.

And whoever—or whatever—this is, it’s walking away like it knows the exact timing window it’s working with. Like it wants him to follow.

“They’re splitting us up,” Phainon breathes, the words ripping themselves from his throat. Suddenly, the air feels thinner, sharper. His lungs burn.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even think before launching himself off the rooftop with a grunt, webline snapping out, slicing through the fog-damp air. He swings low, barely clearing a lamppost, and lands in a crouch beside the van. He can smell petrol, faintly.

Phainon yanks the door open. It’s empty—no driver, or equipment. Just the sharp, sterile scent of plastic and ozone. It’s a burner vehicle, then. One they didn’t plan on keeping.

“Damn it,” Phainon curses under his breath. He spins on his heel, already moving—until he hears a faint crackle. The buzz of a police radio. Your police radio.

He follows the sound, weaving between crates and dumpsters until he skids to a stop at the mouth of the alley, and finds your comm unit on the ground. One of the earbuds still dangles loosely from the coil, blinking a faint blue every few seconds. The rest of the radio is scuffed; not broken, just discarded deliberately, placed just far enough from the van to suggest you followed something willingly—until it was too late.

A boot scuff mars the concrete nearby. There is another drag mark next to—a toe, maybe. Someone shifted. Or struggled. Phainon crouches low, brushing his fingers across the ground. His mind races through probabilities, scenarios. None of them are good.

It wasn’t just a prototype in the warehouse. That was the shell, a puppet to get the cops talking, to trigger an investigation. Something visible, something obvious. 

But this was the play: lure him in with the decoy, use it to lock the precinct’s attention, then send the real threat to steal what they really needed—you.

Phainon grits his teeth as he stares down at your radio. His mind flashes to the schematics you’d shown him on your wall. Neural mimicry, behavioural mirroring, photo-accurate masking. It wasn’t a bluff. They had footage, voice samples, enough to build a close-range approximation of him. They’d studied him down to the limp in his left knee.

Of course they had enough on you. You were the officer who was most often assigned with the task of tracking him down, after all.

He thinks of your laugh; the way you tilt your head when you’re about to argue; the furrow in your brows when you’re thinking too deeply. If they’ve copied that—you—down to the way your voice hitches when you say his name—

His stomach flips.

“They took her,” he says aloud, more to steady himself than anything else. “They took her.”

Phainon’s fingers twitch, curling tight into fists. His web shooters press firm against his wrists. His gloves are still half-fastened. He fixes them now, fastens every strap, zips his suit the rest of the way up roughly. The breath in his chest is shallow and burning, but his hands are steady. 

He swings back up to the rooftop, lands in a three-point crouch, and bolts across the ledge without a second thought. Every muscle in his body knows where he’s going: the old R&D site, the remnants of what used to be the government-sanctioned Theoros Labs.

It’s a twenty-minute drive through the industrial corridor to get there. He’ll make it in seven.

Every swing feels sharper now, each launch of webbing tighter, more exact. The buildings blur past him, and his breath comes in hard, rhythmic exhales. He can’t afford to be wrong. Can’t afford a detour. The further they pull you away, the less chance he has of reaching you before whatever they built decides it doesn’t need you alive.

Phainon lands on a rooftop, skids into a roll, fires another web and propels him back into the air. Hold on, he thinks. Please, just hold on.

The air near Theoros Labs smells like ozone and old metal.

Phainon lands hard on the broken rooftop of a utility shed just outside the main building. It’s darker here than it should be. The outer perimeter lights have all been shut off, either manually or by remote override. Only a few flickering emergency bulbs remain, casting a jaundiced glow over the facility’s skeletal frame. Ivy creeps up the cracked walls, half-swallowing faded corporate logos and biohazard signs. The chain-link fencing has been torn down in places and rusted through in others. 

It’s too quiet.

He moves carefully, sticking close to the shadows as he approaches the main entrance—what’s left of it. The glass doors have been forced open, one of them dangling from its hinges. Inside, the lobby lies still and cold, floor tiles coated in dust. But someone’s been through recently. Fresh boot prints disturb the grime, overlapping in frantic patterns. You were here. He follows your footprints past collapsed hallways and rusted biohazard doors. Most of the rooms are stripped—just empty labs and decaying workstations—but the deeper he gets, the cleaner it becomes. Dust thins. Wires appear. Lights flicker to life as he passes.

They’ve reactivated the lower level. Phainon descends a wide staircase lined with old safety tape. The sub-basement has power. Soft white fluorescents hum overhead. The floor is concrete, sealed and buffed, with clean drag marks across it. The walls are lined with black server towers, cords feeding into sealed doors.

Phainon stops mid-step; there’s a tingle in the back of his neck. Someone else is here, too. His muscles go taut, fingers curling half-ready near his web shooters.

“Ah, Mr. Spider-Man,” a voice drawls, drawing out the vowels. “Or should I say… Phainon?”

There’s a hiss behind one of the sealed doors to the left. A vent releases a thin ribbon of steam.

“Don’t be shy. You’ve already made it farther than most,” the voice says, and this time, it’s accompanied by footsteps echoing against the polished concrete, slow and confident. “I imagine you have questions. That’s good. I admire curiosity. It’s a very human trait.”

The man who steps into view is tall, lean, draped in a sleep lab coat far too pristine for a place like this. His shoulder-length hair is slicked back, and most of his face is covered by a visor. His ID badge is clipped to his chest, name and clearance codes etched in a crisp black print.

LYCURGUS – Division Lead, Neuroadaptive Intellitron Systems.

Lycurgus smiles like he’s greeting an old colleague. “This facility was never truly abandoned, you know. That was just a convenient myth. Theoros was… restructured. Privatised. Reoriented towards more ambitious pursuits.” He gestures to the space around him. “Welcome to our prototype cradle. Or, as we researchers like to call it, Stage Zero of Irontomb.”

Phainon’s voice is low, sharp. “Where is she?”

“Your detective, yes?” Lycurgus says. “She is safe. Unharmed, though mildly sedated. She’s being prepped for mapping. It’s better if she doesn’t wake up mid-scan—the sensory feedback can be unpleasant.”

Phainon steps forward. “You’re going to let her go. Now.”

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.” Lycurgus tilts his head. “She’s far too important. As are you.”

He moves towards a glass-paneled observation window. Behind it, a dark chamber pulses with slow, blue strobe lighting. Machines hiss softly within. Something looms in the shadows—taller than a man, hunched forward, hooked into a loading rig like a sleeping animal.

“I know what you think we’re doing here,” Lycurgus continues. “Mass production. Automation. Violence. And, to be fair, yes—we are building weapons. But not just weapons. We’re building evolution.”

“You’re building copies,” Phainon corrects.

Lycurgus lets out a chuckle, quiet and indulgent. “Flame Reaver was a crude iteration. Incomplete, too reliant on mimicry. It served its purpose—chased its prey, gathered its data, misled your little precinct. But Irontomb… Irontomb will do more than chase. It will predict, integrate, override, think.”

He turns back to Phainon. The placid smile fades, replaced with something hungrier.

“We’ve spent years reverse-engineering your every decision. Every rooftop sprint. Every moment of hesitation. Every kill you didn’t make. We mapped your instincts, modeled your reflex latency, simulated the split-second calculations behind your webbing patterns. All of it.”

He taps the side of his own head. “But it wasn’t enough. Something was missing. Something the data couldn’t replicate.”

“You mean her.”

“Yes.” Lycurgus’ smile returns, tight and reverent. “Your control variable. Your compass. We needed to understand how a creature like you formed attachments, what altered your judgement. What humanised you.”

Phainon’s voice is a growl. “She’s not a variable.”

“She’s your pivot, Spider-Man. The reason your risk matrix fluctuates. The reason you pause before you strike. She made you less efficient, and, therefore, more valuable. Which is why we modeled her too. Her responses, her patterns, her tone modulation, her biometric data when she’s afraid. It’s poetic, really. We used her to finish the algorithm that began with you. The perfect balance of speed and restraint.”

The lights behind the glass pulse brighter. The figure in the chamber stirs. It’s not the Flame Reaver. It’s something else.

Its silhouette is bulkier than his, but it looks wrong. It has slender limbs with plated joints; a split mask—half red, half mirrored black; a narrow torso fitted with impact dispersal panels. Something that looks like a spine runs down its back, glowing faintly green. Phainon doesn’t recognise the material, but he can feel the heat rolling off it through the glass.

“It’s a neural sync model,” Lycurgus says, not even trying to hide his pride, “coded from your reflexes and her empathy thresholds. It’s capable of piloting independently or under network command. It doesn’t hesitate. It doesn’t panic. And, most importantly, it doesn’t forget.”

Phainon’s heart hammers. His blood feels like it’s gone cold. “You’re trying to make a Spider-Man that doesn’t need a person inside.”

Lycurgus meets his eyes. “Exactly.”

The machine twitches, then steps forward. Its footfalls are silent. Too smooth.

“You two were only ever reference material,” Lycurgus intones. “And now that the template’s complete—well. All we need are the final scans.”

“Where is she? Where is she?” 

It’s all Phainon can do to stop himself from ripping Lycurgus’ throat out. The scientist merely adjusts the sleeve of his lab coat, as if the demand were a mild inconvenience.

“She’s nearby,” he says coolly. “Lower containment. Cell B-4, off the neural calibration wing. You won’t get far without triggering lockdown, of course. And even if you do—by the time you reach her, Irontomb will already be online.”

Behind the glass, the machine lifts its head. The sound it makes isn’t mechanical. It’s worse—soft, distorted, like the playback of a familiar voice through cracked speakers. It twitches once, then again, shoulders rolling into a combat stance eerily like his own.

Phainon doesn’t wait. He fires a webline directly at Lycurgus and yanks. The man stumbles, but Phainon slams him against the server wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Wires clatter. A tower crashes sideways.

Lycurgus laughs, even as Phainon pins him in place. “You think you’re here to save her,” he says, breathless, “but you’re too late. She’s already part of it.”

“I swear to God—” Phainon hisses, pressing the heel of his palm to Lycurgus’ throat. “I swear to God, if you touched her—”

“I didn’t have to,” the man croaks. “She volunteered. Not knowingly, of course. But those scans she took from our systems? They included a compressed tracer file. As soon as she opened them, our systems opened her. The sync began the moment she pieced it together. Everything she knows—tactical behaviour, voice modulation, interrogation strategy—it’s all feeding the AI as we speak.”

“You fed off of us.” Phainon’s grip tightens. Lycurgus grunts.

“Yes,” the scientist says. “And you should be proud. Irontomb won’t just replicate your choices—it will refine them, strip away all the guilt, the softness. It will be cleaner. Smarter. Perfect.”

Something shudders behind the glass. The observation lights dim.

A low thrum starts up from behind the glass, like a heartbeat filtered through static. The strobe pulses once, then again, casting the chamber in a deep, electric violet. Inside, Irontomb lifts its hand with unsettling grace and slowly curls its fingers into a fist. The joints click into place with too much precision. A webline ejects—thin, metallic, laced with a crackle of electric current—and shoots into the rafters. It latches onto the ceiling brace, and just like that, the chamber is empty.

The reinforced door behind Phainon slams open with a hydraulic hiss. He whirls around. Lycurgus barely has time to flinch before Phainon’s hand closes around his collar and hurls him to the ground. The scientist crashes into the wall beside a rack of servers, skull cracking against plastic. A second later, the emergency klaxons explode to life, screaming overhead in jagged bursts.

CONTAINMENT BREACH. HALL A-7. PRIORITY UNIT ACTIVATED.

Red warning lights flare to life, pulsing in harsh rhythm. The sterile corridor floods with shadow and noise. Phainon bolts.

There’s no time to think—he fires a webline into the open mouth of the elevator shaft and dives. Wind roars past his ears. He drops three floors in seconds, catches himself on a rusted support beam, and slams down onto the concrete sublevel with a bone-jarring thud. His boots hit the ground hard enough to rattle the pipes overhead.

The lower corridors are not like the rest of the facility. There’s no dust, no decay. These halls are clean, too clean—like the world above was only a façade. Bright, artificial light hums from the ceiling. Every footstep echoes.

He sprints forward, ducking under support beams and sliding past corners. NEURAL CALIBRATION →, the wall tells him. He follows the signs, pulse thundering. Every flicker of motion at the edge of his vision makes him tense. Every blinking light feels like a red eye watching.

Phainon skids to a halt in front of a door labelled Cell B-4.

The door is solid, made of reinforced steel with a flat-panel biometric reader. There’s no handle, or keypad. Phainon swears. “Come on, come on—”

From the other side, something shifts. He hears a voice, muffled and strained. “...Phainon?”

He chokes on relief. “I’m here.”

You’re alive.

He scrambles to his web shooter, fingers flying over the dial. He adjusts the pressure valve, toggles it to maximum discharge, and fires at the scanner from point-blank range. The panel erupts in sparks. Circuits shriek. The door eases open, exhaling sterile, recycled air into the hallway.

You’re inside, strapped to a containment recliner, limbs limp but intact. Wires trail from your temples, your clavicle, your pulse points. A monitor nearby is still running diagnostics—waveforms still climbing and falling in time with your heart. Your eyes crack open, bleary, and your head lolls to the side.

“Hi,” you whisper, voice thin as gauze.

“Hi, yourself,” Phainon says, crossing the room with long strides. His voice breaks.

His hands go straight to the leads, fingers trembling as he tears them free. Adhesive snaps off skin. Electrodes clatter to the floor. He moves gently, cradling your jaw to keep your head upright as he removes the final lead from behind your ear.

He lifts you from the chair. Your body sags against his chest, legs folding beneath you. You groan softly as your feet try to hold your weight, but he doesn’t let them. He tightens his grip until you’re fully anchored against him. You smell like static and sedation. Like cold metal and something scorched.

“Irontomb,” you breath, half-slurred. “It’s awake. It… used me. Ran simulations. My voice. My—”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know. We’re getting out of here.”

You lean heavier into him with every step he takes away from the chair. Your breathing is uneven, shallow. But Phainon can tell you’re coming back—your pulse steadying, your fingers twitching where they rest near his collar. He wants nothing more than to get you out, to break every wall between here and the surface, to make you forget this place ever existed.

But the walls hum. The lights tremble. He’s not fast enough. The reinforced door behind  him explodes inward.

Irontomb barrels through in a burst of silver and red. The strobe overhead flickers with the force of its entry, casting the scene in freeze-frame shadows. It doesn’t look like a machine as it charges. Phainon spins, turning his back to the blast to shield you. Debris pelts his shoulder as the room shakes. Irontomb stops, silent and still, in the doorway. Its mirrored mask splits slightly, revealing a narrow gleam of green light that pulses in rhythm with the lithium core humming somewhere deep inside it.

The voice it speaks with is your own.

“Phainon.”

The blood drains from his face.

You stir weakly in his arms. “That’s not—that’s not me—”

“I know,” he whispers.

It tilts its head, mimicking the motion exactly. “You hesitate at a 3.2% deviation rate when she’s within ten feet. Your aim skews left. Your heart rate spikes.”

Phainon doesn’t respond. He adjusts his grip around your waist, gently easing you towards the floor behind him.

“You always protect the variable, even when the variable is hunting you down,” Irontomb says. “That makes you predictable.”

Phainon doesn’t wait for it to move. He fires. A blast of webbing snaps towards the machine’s legs—but it dodges, not quickly or instinctively, but perfectly. It anticipates his angle, catches the web in midair with one mechanical hand, and yanks hard.

Phainon is ripped forward off his feet and slammed into the wall hard enough to fracture plaster. He recovers fast, flipping up and sticking to the ceiling. His shoulder throbs. The moment Irontomb lunges again, he launches, meeting it midair. They clash in a whirl of webbing, steel, and bone. Irontomb fights like it’s studied him for years—and it has. It parries his kicks, reads the tension in his arms before he swings. It knows where he’ll move before he does.

Every strike Phainon throws is met with a calculated block, every dodge answered with a counter-blow. The machine is faster. Stronger. But not desperate—and Phainon is desperate.

“The server room!” you shout, and Phainon sees you staggering up to your feet, still valiantly trying to fight whatever they injected into your bloodstream. “Take it to the server room! Follow me!”

Phainon doesn’t hesitate. He hears your voice—unsteady, but clear—and that’s all he needs. He spins midair, flips back onto the ceiling, and fires a pair of quick weblines towards Irontomb’s shoulders. They stick, just barely. The machine lunges to rip them off, but Phainon yanks hard, using the momentum to slam Irontomb face-first into the far wall with a screech of metal on metal. The moment the machine hits, Phainon’s already moving.

“Go!” you shout again, breath ragged. “Don’t fight it here—they control the lithium core from the server room!”

Phainon tears towards you, lands beside you, and sweeps an arm around your waist to stabilise you just as you start to buckle. Your skin’s cold with effort, sweat sheening your forehead, but your grip on his suit is firm. 

“Can you run?” he pants.

“Can you carry me?”

He grins through bloodied teeth. “Always.”

He hooks one arm under your legs and lifts you effortlessly, pivoting towards the corridor just as Irontomb peels itself from the wall. The lights in the hallway ahead flash red with the alarm, casting everything in pulses of warning. Phainon doesn’t look back. He runs.

You clutch at his shoulder as he barrels down the corridor, webbing the corners ahead of him to pivot faster. Irontomb’s footsteps are thunder behind you—precise, mechanical, relentless. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t pant. It just follows, its gait perfectly even as it absorbs every new piece of data from your movement, your trajectory, your speed.

“It’s learning again,” you murmur.

Phainon grits his teeth. “Tell me where to go.”

“Left!” you gasp, pointing weakly down the branching corridor as you cling to his shoulder. “The blueprints said the server room was by the freight lift, and I—I stole Lycurgus’ key card before he sedated me—”

Phainon veers sharply, feet sliding for purchase on the slick floor as he swings you into the left hallway. Behind him, Irontomb adjusts its trajectory instantly, recalibrating mid-chase, its movements eerily silent save for the low whir of its servos and the electric buzz of its core. Every footstep lands with surgical precision, not wasting an ounce of energy.

He finds the lift shaft up ahead, the gate already torn off its hinges—someone had passed through here in a hurry. Phainon doesn’t stop running. He fires a webline to the upper scaffolding and swings both of you through the open shaft.

The moment you’re both airborne, Irontomb enters the shaft behind you. You hear it climbing. It doesn’t need webbing. It’s fast, powerful, climbing straight up the walls like a spider. A cold burst of static prickles the back of your neck as you look over Phainon’s shoulder and see its split-face mask glowing faintly with that same green hum pulsing in time with your own heartbeat.

“Don’t look down,” Phainon mutters through clenched teeth.

“You mean don’t look up,” you reply, voice tight.

He doesn’t argue. Two more floors. That’s all you need.

Phainon angles towards the next level’s opening, yanks hard on the web, and swings both of you clean through it. You hit the ground hard, momentum rolling you both across the floor in a rough tumble. He absorbs most of the impact—shoulder first, then hip—but keeps you tucked in his arms the whole way.

The server room’s door looms ahead, sealed with thick glass and reinforced by a biometric panel.

“Can you override it?” he asks, already placing you down on your feet.

You stagger once, then nod. “I—I can try.”

Phainon presses a palm to your lower back, steadying you as you stumble towards the wall-mounted keypad. You swipe your stolen access card—Lycurgus’ clearance still hot in the system—and slam your hand against the override scanner. It flashes yellow, then green.

The second the server room door hisses open, Phainon knows it’s wrong. The air is too clean, too still, not like a hospital, but lifeless, like the room itself doesn’t care if he walks in or burns alive. Server towers stretch in columns across the floor, blinking. The lights aren’t just white, they’re clinical, buzzing just above his pain threshold. Everything smells like copper and static and scorched plastic.

At the far end, housed behind reinforced glass, is the core. It pulses, like a heartbeat, except it’s not alive. It’s lithium, it’s electricity, it’s something that was never supposed to breathe—but it is, somehow.

He doesn’t like it.

He crosses the threshold, half-dragging you with him. You’re a weight he doesn’t mind carrying—you’re grounding, real, a reminder that not everything in this godforsaken place is synthetic or made in a lab.

“I’ll buy us a minute,” he mutters.

You don’t respond. You’re already gone—mentally, physically—moving with purpose even though you can barely stay on your feet. He wants to help you, wants to make you sit down, but he doesn’t. You’ve always been like this: stubborn, focused, razor-sharp under pressure. He admires it even when it scares him.

He stations himself at the door, arms braced and knees bent. His ribs hurt. His head’s still ringing from the last slam against the wall. But adrenaline is louder than pain.

The wall explodes. He hears it before he sees it—the thrum of Irontomb’s feet, the deep thunk-thunk-thunk of heavy footsteps.

“Phainon,” it says again, in your voice. “You hesitate at a 3.2% deviation rate when she’s—”

“You said that already, dipshit,” Phainon snarls, hurling himself forward.

He slams into Irontomb. The impact jars through every vertebra in his spine, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t give it time to recalibrate. His shoulder clips its chest hard enough to knock them both off balance, and they go crashing through a row of server towers in a spray of sparks and shattering plex.

Irontomb hits the floor, skidding, its limbs flailing for a fraction of a second. Phainon’s already on it, knee to the chestplate, webbing its arm to the ceiling in a single fluid movement.

“You don’t get to use her voice,” he spits, voice hoarse, hands shaking as he fires again. Webs stick to its mask, its joints, anything he can reach. “You don’t get to be her.”

Irontomb doesn’t flinch. Its head tilts again, that creepy mimicry sparking rage like gasoline in his chest.

“She is a variable,” it says, still in your voice. “All decisions lead back to her. All risk converges.”

He grits his teeth. “Shut the fuck up.”

It wrenches its arm free from the ceiling and drives a knee into his ribs. Something cracks—he doesn’t have time to find out what. The air is knocked out of him, but he rolls, using the momentum to web-sling up to the overhead rigging.

He fires a line down, yanking hard. Metal groans, and a rack of exposed conduit tears free, crashing down onto Irontomb’s legs. The machine stumbles, crushed under the weight for a beat too long. Enough for Phainon to dive.

He hits it again, fists slamming into metal, fury blinding him. He doesn’t have a plan anymore, doesn’t need one. He just needs to keep it away from you. Even as he fights, he hears the beep of the console across the room, feels the glow of the core intensify.

You’re doing it. You’re actually doing it. Irontomb knows.

It shoves him back with unnatural strength. Phainon hits the wall hard enough to dent the steel. Before he can stand, it’s already halfway across the room, limbs unfurling, shoulder joints clicking, webline primed to fire—

“No,” Phainon croaks. He pushes himself up, panting, every inch of him burning, and fires. Web meets Irontomb’s leg. The pull is immediate. But instead of resisting, he yanks himself towards it—into it—slamming shoulder-first into the side of its neck just as it raises an arm to fire at you.

They crash to the floor, grappling, fists slamming into one another like machines. Except Phainon isn’t one. His body gives, bruises, bleeds. Irontomb’s doesn’t.

“Your biology is compromised,” it says. “You are inefficient, slower, in pain. The variable will not survive long without augmentation.”

“You’re not her,” he spits. “You don’t even sound like her.”

Out of the corner of his eye—through the haze of pain—he sees you rise to your feet, the console spitting warnings in every direction. Your hands hover over the control screen. One more step, one more command—

The core behind the glass begins to scream, not audibly, not to the ears, but inside his skull. Irontomb shudders beneath him. Its limbs jerk erratically, the green glow from its spine flickering. Sparks burst from the plates along its back.

You did it.

Phainon throws himself back just as Irontomb seizes violently, crashing to the floor, limbs twitching. Its mask fractures. Smoke pours from the base of its spine as the lithium core begins to destabilise.

He doesn’t exhale until the lights stop flickering. He’s already moving before the sound fades completely, his muscles sluggish, overworked, body bruised—but moving. His chest is burning. His lungs taste like copper and ozone. His ribs feel cracked. But none of it matters.

You’re still on your knees, hunched over the console, and for one horrifying second, you’re not moving.

“Hey.” He drops down beside you fast. “Hey—hey. You good? Talk to me.”

Your head lolls towards him, eyes glassy with exhaustion but alert. You nod and he catches your weight as you say sideways into his shoulder.

“I’m here,” you say, voice like sandpaper. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, you are.”

He pulls off his mask and folds one arm around your back and steadies you against him, his gloved hand cradling the back of your neck, just to prove you’re really here. Still warm. Still breathing. Your heart thuds weakly through your shirt when he presses his other hand to your chest, just fast enough to reassure him that the nightmare hasn’t reset.

You lean into him more fully, your head tucked under his jaw, like you’re afraid to look at the room behind you. Good. You shouldn’t have to. He’ll look for both of you.

The servers are smoking. Irontomb is a heap of metal now, sparking quietly beside the remains of a shattered cabinet. One of its hands is still twitching—reflex, probably. Not real. Not alive.

Still, Phainon keeps you close.

You shift, barely enough to get your mouth near his collarbone. “You okay?”

Phainon lets out something halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Gonna need twelve years of physical therapy. Minimum.”

Your breath catches on a tired laugh. It sounds like a miracle.

“You look like hell,” you murmur, slurring a little now, like the adrenaline’s finally wearing off.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

It’s three in the morning, and the sky is the colour of soot.

The city below doesn’t sleep so much as it holds its breath. The clamour of traffic has thinned to a distant hush, streetlamps stutter, and a single train rumbles across a bridge miles away. Sirens have long gone quiet. No engines scream. No horns beg for way. The night is still, but not gentle.

It’s a stillness born of aftermath—sharp-edged and hollow, as if the concrete itself remembers what happened.

Phainon hangs upside down from a rusting fire escape three storeys above your apartment window, legs hooked neatly over a bar that groans faintly under his weight. He’s perfectly still, suspended in gravity’s indifferent hold, his fingers hanging loose above the cracked sidewalk below.

This is how he thinks best lately: inverted, half a world away from the one that keeps asking him to play hero. The metal is cold through his suit. The air smells like dust.

He’s grown used to these late hours. He’s begun to need them.

After Lycurgus vanished off the grid, escaping into whatever black-market pipelines recycles men like him—scientists with messiah complexes and fingerprints scrubbed clean—Phainon finds his pulse only slows in those long hours between dawn and dusk.

He watches your window. It’s open again, just slightly. It always is now. He’s never asked you why.

The official line is a “biochemical systems breach.” It’s what the public got. But the real reports—classified, sealed, redacted in wide black strokes—told a different story. Theoros Labs didn’t just go rogue; they were funded, sponsored, protected. There was infrastructure behind Irontomb, names buried in layers of clearance, strings running all the way up into the gut of the government. Someone had authorised the prototypes. Someone had approved neural mapping. Someone had known what they were doing.

You’ve testified three times already. You come home each time stiff-backed and silent, eyes rimmed in exhaustion, your voice quieter than usual like you’re still somewhere inside the sterile halls of the oversight committee. You never tell him the details, but you don’t have to. He’s seen the files. He’s seen it in person. He knows what Irontomb made of your voice, how it pitched your laugh, how it whispered his name. He knows what it did to you.

You both have nightmares now.

Sometimes it’s Irontomb itself, eyes burning green behind a mirrored face, moving too perfectly to be real. Sometimes, it’s worse: it’s you, only not. It’s him, only cold. Versions of yourselves that weren’t forged in kindness or fear, but in numbers and algorithms, in prediction models and nerve signal scans. He wakes choking, palms clenched, sweat cold on his back.

That’s when he comes to you, climbing through the window, silent and unmasked. You never greet him. You just shift in bed, roll slightly toward the wall, and make room beneath the blanket without opening your eyes. Some nights he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. Others, he faces you. Sometimes your fingers find each other under the sheets and tangle in that uncertain, half-asleep way that makes the silence easier to bear.

Phainon stares at your open window, at the way the curtain ghosts inward on the faintest breeze. The world looks soft from up here, but his world is down there, just beyond the windowsill.

He drops from the fire escape without a sound.

The thud of his landing on the balcony is soft. His boots press against the worn stone for half a second before he steps toward your window, one gloved hand brushing the glass as he ducks inside.

Your apartment is dim, lit only by the sleepy spill of orange streetlight filtering through the curtains. The air is warmer here, touched with the faint smell of cinnamon and coffee roast, and the remnants of detergent in your sheets.

You’re curled up under the blanket, spine facing him, shoulders rising and falling in that slow rhythm he’s memorised. He doesn’t know if you’re asleep or pretending. It doesn’t matter. You always know when he’s here. You always leave the window cracked just enough.

He toes off his boots quietly, then strips off the top half of his suit, the fabric sticking to sweat-damp skin. His body aches with something deeper than bruises, like fatigue. But it fades the moment he lowers himself into the mattress behind you.

(He’s in love with you, he’s pretty sure.)

“Do you want to date me?”

The question startles Phainon so much he almost drops the wire he’s threading back into place, and nearly slides off the metal railing altogether. He catches himself with a clatter, boots locking tighter to the beam, arms splayed for balance.

“...Sorry, what?” he calls down.

You’re standing several feet below him, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression—equal parts brave and vulnerable. You don’t repeat the question. You just lift your chin a little, eyes steady.

Phainon blinks at you from his upside-down perch, hair hanging towards the concrete, the city stretching behind him. He’s in his suit, sleeves rolled up, mask bunched around his neck, grease on one knuckle, a thin wire looped loosely around his fingers. The early evening air is warm, golden light pooling along the skyline.

“You—you mean date-date?” he asks dumbly, like there’s another kind.

You nod once, not smiling. “Yeah. Date-date.”

Phainon stares at you, the wire still slack in his fingers. The sunlight’s catching on the edge of your cheekbone, painting it gold. You look so certain, so calm, like you haven’t just thrown his entire nervous system into a tailspin. 

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then he scrubs a hand over his face, smearing a bit of grease across his jawline. “Okay. That’s—just to be clear, you’re asking me if I want to date you. Like, go on dates, hold hands, maybe make out a little? Eat food together that isn’t waffles at five in the morning?”

“You make it sound so romantic,” you say dryly.

“I’m hanging upside down in my Spider-Man suit with wire cutters in my hand,” he says, voice rising an octave. “You kind of caught me off-guard.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want me to come back when you’re right-side up?”

Phainon laughs, but it’s strained, caught somewhere between breathless and disbelieving. He shifts slightly on the bar. “No,” he says. “No, don’t—don’t go. I just…” His fingers curl loosely around the railing. “You really mean it? Like, seriously?”

You shrug, but your voice softens. “Why would I joke about that?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, have you met me?”

You walk a step closer, now standing directly beneath him. “Yes. That’s kind of the point.”

Phainon stares at you, still upside down, still blinking like he hasn’t quite caught up with reality. His breath stutters, shallow through parted lips. The last of the sun has dipped below the horizon, and now the city is painted in deepening blue, rooftops etched in sharp lines against a sky the colour of cobalt ash.

You, however, are still golden; still lit from the inside out, like the question didn’t cost you anything, like you didn’t just tip the entire balance of his world in six words flat.

He swallows hard.

“I want to,” he says. “I want to date you.”

You nod, just once. But the tremble in your exhale betrays you. “Okay.”

You shift a little closer to where he’s hanging. The wind tousles your hair. You squint at him.

“Can I kiss you now?” you ask.

Phainon opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

His brain is screaming, Yes, God, yes, obviously, what do you think I’ve been dreaming about every night for the last year? But what actually escapes his mouth is an undignified, “I mean—yeah. If you want.”

You smile, small but warm, and step forward until you’re close enough that he can see the flecks of light in your irises. His pulse pounds at the base of his throat.

“Hold still,” you say.

And Phainon—Spider-Man, night-patroller, rooftop-skulker, awkward wreck of a man in love—holds so, so still.

You reach up, slowly. Your hand is warm as it cups the curve of his cheek. He flinches a little, not because of the touch, but because of how gentle it is. He’s not used to being touched like that. Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw, dragging across the grease-stained skin. He forgets how to breathe.

Then, you lean in and kiss him.

It’s awkward, at first. The angle’s all wrong. You have to stand on your toes, and he has to tilt just right, his body swaying slightly with the breeze, but none of it matters—not when your lips touch his, not when the world goes so achingly, impossibly quiet. It’s soft, firmer than he expects, and yet not rushed. You kiss him like you’ve wanted to for a long time, like you’ve thought about it, like the moment had already existed somewhere in your mind long before you asked the question.

Phainon melts. He doesn’t move for the first few seconds; just hangs there, lips barely parted, letting you take the lead because he’s terrified that if he so much as breathes, you’ll disappear. But then something in him sparks—an ancient, quiet want—and he kisses you back.

He moves slowly, deliberately, meeting you where you are. His lips are dry and chapped from hours in the wind, but he’s warm beneath them, and his breath hitches in that small, helpless way that always happens around you. He tightens his grip on the bar, as though holding himself in place is the only way to keep from falling for real.

Eventually, you pull away.

His eyes open slowly, lashes low over dark, dazed pupils. His lips are parted, red and kiss-bruised.

“That was…” He clears his throat. “Wow.”

You smile, head tilting. “Still want to date me?”

“I want to marry you,” he blurts, then immediately flushes crimson. “I mean—hypothetically. Not now. Obviously not now. I’m hanging upside down. I’ve got wire cutters in my pocket. But you get the idea.”

You laugh, and he grins. 

“Come down, you idiot,” you say, still smiling. “Before your brain floods and I have to explain to emergency services that Spider-Man died because he let his blood rush to his head.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters, already adjusting his grip. With a practiced motion, he swings backward once, then forward, and flips cleanly down onto the concrete beside you in a crouch, landing with a thud and a soft grunt. He straightens slowly, rubbing at the back of his head.

When he looks up again, you’re already walking towards him. You grab the front of his suit, tug gently—and then kiss him again, properly this time. He melts into it, hands hovering at your hips. You take the initiative again, stepping closer, your fingers sliding up his chest to cup his face as your mouth slants against his. The second kiss is deeper, more certain, less careful.

When you pull away, you don’t go far. You rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing hard. His hands settle around your waist now, not hesitant anymore, not unsure.

“You’re sure about this?” he whispers.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

He kisses you again, because he can, because he wants to. Because there’s no machine looming over his shoulder, no countdown, no artificial voice running simulations on how to hurt you best.

There’s only this: you, and him, and the golden hour dimming into twilight. Phainon lets you pull him back into the world right-side up.

Phainon thinks he’s a pretty good boyfriend.

Okay, maybe not, like, great. He has a running tab of things he’s fumbled: texts left on read for six hours because he was halfway across the city chasing someone with rocket boots, half-finished promises to pick up groceries, laundry that’s been folded but never quite put away. Date nights sometimes fall through. Movie plans get postponed. He loses track of time a lot.

But he always comes home. He always makes you laugh, even when you pretend to be annoyed with him. He never forgets the dates that matter, and never lets you go to sleep without hearing that he loves you, mumbled or whispered or scrawled on a Post-It if he’s back late. He’s trying. God, he’s trying.

And right now, looking at you—messy-haired, breathless, flushed and sprawled across the mattress like you belong there, like you belong with him—he thinks maybe he’s doing alright.

Phainon kisses down your ribs, trailing his mouth across your stomach. You shift beneath him, a little restless, a little expectant. He likes that—you trusting him enough to be open like this. It still hits him sometimes, like an aftershock, that you let him touch you like this. That you want him to.

He exhales slowly as he nudges lower, one arm curled under your thigh. His lips brush the inside of your hip, the softness of your skin, and he feels you shiver. Gently, he moves lower, and flicks his tongue over your clit.

You gasp, hand threading into his hair, and he smiles against you, slow and lazy and a little smug. He likes knowing he can do this to you. Likes knowing exactly how your breath hitches when he moves just right. He doesn’t rush. He never does with you. Every motion is measured, learned, almost reverent. He listens—to the catch in your throat, the flex of your fingers, the little half-sigh you try to swallow and can’t.

His grip on your hips tightens as you shift, as your thighs close around his shoulders, and he groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating softly between you.

“Phainon,” you whisper, voice thready. He loves the way you say his name. He hums again in response, and the way you respond to that—your spine arching, your mouth letting loose a litany of moans—makes him want to give you more.

When he finally slides two fingers into you, careful and deep, you let out a sound that makes him smile. Phainon exhales against your thigh, the sound shaky with restraint. Your muscles flutter around him, every inch of you wound tight. He watches you fall apart in increments—your fingers twisting in the sheets, your jaw slack with pleasure, your chest heaving.

“Right there?” he murmurs, half-teasing but wholly focused.

You nod, or maybe you don’t—you’re too far gone to speak, but your body answers for you: the way your hips shift, the way your leg curls around his shoulder, the soft whimper that escapes your lips. He presses in again, just a little firmer, curling his fingers the way he knows you like.

His mouth trails slow kisses along the inside of your thigh, tongue flicking over sensitive skin. He never rushes. He never wants to. Not with you.

“Phainon,” you breathe again. “Oh, fuck—”

He presses his mouth back to your folds, his fingers still working inside you with the same care. He’s mapping you like he’s been doing since the beginning—like every sigh is a star to chart by, every moan a signal flare. He’s learned to read you in a language no one else gets to learn.

You’re shaking now, your whole body strung tight as wire beneath his mouth. Your nails bite into his shoulder and you don’t even seem to notice—don’t seem to care—because you’re so close, teetering at the edge of your orgasm, sharp and sweet and inevitable.

A few more strokes and sucks and licks have you coming for him—arching, gasping, crying out his name. When the aftershocks start to fade, he eases off, kisses the softest parts of your skin as you tremble under him. His fingers slip from you gently. He brushes a hand over your thigh, up your hip, until he’s sliding over you again, kissing a slow trail back up your ribs and chest until he’s beside you.

Your eyes are closed, lips parted, still catching your breath. He watches you—eyes half-lidded, lashes damp, chest rising and falling—and then you blink up at him, a smile tugging at your lips like you’re not quite sure how to speak yet. Your skin is still warm, flushed in a way that makes Phainon want to memorise every inch of you all over again.

He brushes his knuckles over your cheek in that way he does when he doesn’t know what to say. “Still in there?”

You blink once, then smile with that crooked little grin he loves. “Ask me again in five minutes.”

He huffs a soft laugh and shifts to lie beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. His hand trails lazily over your stomach, fingers smoothing across the soft skin just above your hipbone, drawing idle shapes.

“Not bad for a guy who forgot to buy milk this morning, right?” he says.

You laugh and shove his shoulder. “Phainon!”

“I mean, I might’ve failed you on the breakfast front, but I like to think I made up for it in… other areas.”

You scoff, but it’s half a laugh, and the sound curls like a ribbon in Phainon’s chest. He watches the way your face softens when you’re amused—how your eyes crinkle at the corners, how your mouth fights not to smile wider.

“That’s debatable,” you say, rolling to face him fully.

“Oh, come on,” he says. “You sounded pretty convinced a few minutes ago.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” Phainon grins, and leans forward to bump his forehead against yours.

He feels like his heart’s trying to claw its way out of his chest, not in the life-threatening, nine-storeys-up, villain-hurling-him-off-a-building kind of way, but the kind where it’s just him and you, tangled in sheets, skin flushed. The kind of moment that makes his brain go a little fuzzy and his chest go tight, because he’s pretty sure this isn’t just a good day—it’s the day. The one people write songs and poems and stupid rom-coms about.

(You’re right there, inches from him, breathing the same air, and all he can think is: I hope I never forget this.)

He tries to play it cool, like he’s not falling apart from something as small as the curve of your smile, the way your fingers brush along his jaw like you’re trying to memorise him right back. But it’s a losing battle. He’s smiling too hard, the stupid kind that tugs at his cheeks. 

“You’re staring,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says, without even pretending otherwise. “I know.”

His hand is still on your waist, the tips of his fingers tracing small, slow patterns into your skin. He wants to tell you a thousand things—about how he’s never felt safer than he does when he’s beside you, about how it doesn’t matter if the world ends tomorrow so long as he got to know what your laugh sounded like when it was just for him. But the words get stuck somewhere behind his teeth.

You roll your eyes at him like you always do when you’re trying not to smile. “What are you thinking?” you ask.

Phainon opens his mouth to say something clever. He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “That I like you.”

“Yeah?” you say teasingly. “I had no clue.”

He smiles. “Sometimes I think this isn’t real. Like I’m gonna wake up in some busted rooftop vent or in the middle of a car chase, and all this’ll just be some nice dream I had when my brain was low on oxygen.”

“It’s real,” you whisper. “Do you want me to kiss you like real people do? Because I will. Don’t test me.”

(Phainon kisses you first, just to prove he’s real enough to do it.)

When Aglaea finally dismisses class, you pack your stuff neatly and make your way to the cafeteria. Castorice is already sitting by the window, chewing on some noodles that look way too soaked for their own good.

“That instant ramen looks gummier than the strawberry mochi you buy from across the road.”

She looks up at you with a disapproving look, yet her lips tug into a smile, “I was experimenting, okay? I thought you were all for trying out new things.”

“I am, only when those new things aren’t looking like they could come alive any second though.” you gently threw your bag to the seat next to Castorice, where her pointe shoes are hanging off of her powder-pink duffle bag.

“Aglaea is out for blood again.” you mumble as you take a seat across from her, “She has a whole theme for the finals. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she enjoys seeing senior college students suffer.”

Your lavender haired friend snickers from behind her chopsticks, “You say it like that’s not the case.”

You huff a laugh. “Either way, it’s not that much of a problem,” and gesture to yourself with confidence, “I’ll get it done in no time.”

Contrary to your prior statement—and the belief you’ve carefully cultivated with your past achievements—you do not, in fact, get it done in no time.

It’s funny, maybe—or more overwhelming when you think about it a second time.

But whatever it is, one thing is for sure: It’s not in your favor.

You’ve tried everything; roaming museums, studying pieces from your favorite artists, revisiting old works for self inspiration, morning walks, late-night walks… You name it.

You even took out your sketchbook in the middle of one of Castorice’s performances, but alas, nothing came out of it—which surprised you greatly because even with your limited knowledge on ballet, Cas never failed to mesmerize you.

You sometimes wonder how she’d have done as an art major—and feel a little relieved she didn’t, fearing she might have surpassed you by far.

A week passes in futile endeavors. And it’s not like you’re running out of time, but it still frustrated you. Any kind of problem along the way could be solved with enough push and some thought put into it. But there wasn’t any problem to solve, because there wasn’t a work in your hands to begin with. Which was a problem in itself.

Just when you were starting to think you might’ve lost all your creative spark, your dear friend, Phainon, came to your rescue.

It’s early in the morning when you’re pacing towards class, carrying a big canvas in your hands and struggling to keep your bag from falling off your shoulder.

Then from a distance, you see the white haired guy waving at you frantically, and in the blink of an eye, he’s next to you.

“Oh, great timing.” Phainon smiles in greeting, “I was about to call you.”

You drop your bag to the floor, it didn’t want to be carried anyways. “Call me? What for?”

“I’m invited to the concert on the weekend as a press photographer. I get to bring a second with me, wanna come?”

You tilt your head slightly,“Concert?”

“You haven’t heard? It’s all over the campus bulletin boards.” Phainon’s eyes widen in disbelief, “It’s this huge performance where various musicians from across the city take stage together.” he spreads his hands to emphasize, “We have quite a few joining from our school as well.”

At first, you want to argue. Say it’s going to be a headache and you don’t have the time. Which isn’t exactly wrong. You’re all for music and art and performances, that’s true. But with your confidence slowly slipping away from your hands, you’re not so sure you can afford to attend anything grand right now.

“I’d love to come, Phai,” you start, already shaking your head in rejection, “But I’m working on Aglaea’s final.”

“Wow.” he raises his eyebrows, “Using art as an excuse? Just how badly do you want to stay at home?”

You laugh at his joke, internally wishing it was indeed just an excuse, “Unfortunately, it’s true this time. I’m kind of struggling with this one.”

He raises his eyebrows even higher at that. Almost to say, ‘You? Struggling?’

“Damn, must be a real kicker then.”

“It didn’t seem that bad at first,” you sigh, “But now I can’t even find the proper inspiration to start. It’s like—It just doesn’t click.” You shake your head in frustration.

Your dear friend must’ve felt sorry at your deflated state, so he comes up with an offer.

“Tell you what,” he tips his chin, “Come to this performance with me, and maybe it’ll help with your process.”

You squint your eyes at him in confusion, he takes it upon himself to continue.

“You’re struggling to find inspiration, right? What if what you need is... Some sort of muse. Something to get you going.” a confident smile forms on his lips, “A stage where many musicians are showing off might be a great place to look for that.”

And that’s how you end up in a plain white dress, with hair tied up neatly in a bun, and heels that look way too pretty for how badly they hurt, at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night.

The place is grand, both on the outside and the inside. The building rose at the end of the street like an art piece itself, tall columns guarding its entrance, wide marble steps leading to heavy doors polished by decades. Warm golden light spilled from its arched windows, and the faint murmur of tuning instruments leaked into the evening air.

It took a good twenty minutes just to get in and find your seat. There were people with cameras who looked like they were doing some important work, and others in rich suits and elegant dresses who looked even more important than them.

And then there was you.

The inside was just as captivating as the outside. Bright, creamy walls and columns that extended from the floor to the high ceiling. You felt terribly small compared to how major everything seemed to be. There was a massive chandelier at the top that granted the lobby enough light and the marble floors glowed with it’s reflection.

Your seat was towards the back and to the end of the row. It wasn’t a perfect view but it was enough to catch a glimpse of the stage. You guess that’s the best a plus ticket your photographer friend gave you can do.

Speaking of Phainon, he wasn’t there with you. Even though you entered together, you knew he would be at the higher floors taking photos. It probably would be more entertaining with company next to you, but you’ll have to settle for enjoying the concert by yourself. You were here for the music anyways.

The concert started after a short while. The music was pleasant and the view was actually better than you thought it would be. Various musicians came to stage one by one and played their hearts out. It was nice, it was refreshing. You even managed to get a couple sketches in.

A woman’s flute solo, another one’s piano… It was all so beautiful.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

You didn’t have high expectations in the first place. Phainon offered you an idea but he didn’t promise anything. And you knew that when you agreed to it. The theme was something you haven’t tried before and even if you didn’t get to find what you were looking for, the music is nice. So you guess you can just enjoy it while it lasts.

But then, a single note plays out from a violin in the silence.

Your pencil stops.

Your eyes slowly move back to the stage, and hesitate, like they’re scared to see what’s up there.

Then you see him. A tall, blond man with his hair neatly tied low at the back, wearing a simple black suit with a crimson tie that matches the ends of his hair.

You don’t get to observe him much, because seconds later the piano joins him, catching your attention. Then the cellos start humming a quiet, low tune. A chill runs through you, and the hairs on your arms stand on end.

He plays with ease, as if music is something that just happens for him. And he play with heart, with soul. Nothing like what you’ve seen before. Not tonight, not ever.

It’s enchanting, it’s foreign—and you feel yourself drawn to it.

The music flows in the air. It runs through the red velvet seats, dances around the people, and finds its way to your heart. You find yourself unable to move, hands stuck in their place and ice cold, a tingle at the back of your neck, a soft burn in your eyes…

Just what is this?

Then, as if hearing you, he picks up the pace, the violinist. He speaks clearly, it’s impossible to miss it.

Hear me, he’s whispering one second, then shouting the next, witness me. You watch carefully. To see, to understand. What are you doing? How are you doing it?

Long, slim fingers move up and down on the neck of his instrument—delicate, yet present. He seems… scared? But also just as bold, just as vigorous.

He’s either casting spells with his bow, cursing you in some way, or you have gone mad, completely lost it.

His gaze stays low, he doesn’t look up, doesn’t let anything else catch his attention. It’s obvious. On that stage, it’s just him, his violin, and music.

When the whole orchestra joins him, you feel a skip in your heart. They harmonize and dance together. As if they’re all in agreement, all know what’s happening. Like they’re conversing, like they’re playing out a script written carefully.

The trumpets murmur in the back like a choir, the flute sings peacefully, the piano’s notes fall like feathers.

And at the center of it all, him.

His violin cries.

You don’t know how he does it, or what that even means. But you’re certain. That violin is crying, weeping as if it’s at the end of it’s days. Coming alive at the very hands of the man in front of you.

Just like what you were searching for—vulnerable.

After what feels like an eternity, the music gently dies away. The orchestra quiets down, and his motions come to a stop with a flick of his wrist. He takes a step towards the audience, brings his hand to his chest and bows down softly.

People stand up in their seats, loud clapping fills the building and bright smiles paint your vision. It lasts for a long while, a lot longer than average. And you close your eyes, a single tear slides down and drops to your hands, now clapping with the rest of the room. That’s when you know—

You’ve found it.

You don’t even think about it. The moment the performance ends, you spring up from your seat and hurry out of the room, your steps rushed, nearly tripping over your heels as you go. You make your way toward the back doors of the grand building.

You have to find him, learn his name, approach him, introduce yourself, and somehow persuade him into this. The urge feels almost instinctive, as if you’re being pulled after him.

But when you finally reach the place, he isn’t there.

Your eyes search every corner, trying to catch a glimpse of that tall figure, his golden hair, or his overwhelming presence. But you’re only met with a couple press members and some other musicians that went up to stage earlier in the night.

You feel your eyes burn again. This can’t be it right? Surely you find him somehow.

Your only hope, only lead. Something to keep you in, someone to make your art come true, and—a hand on your shoulder?

“What are you doing here?”

Oh, it’s him.

“Phainon?” your eyes widen, you didn’t even realize he was standing there.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the main halls?” he asks confused, “Did I take too long? Sorry, I was almost done.”

“No, no. It’s not that.” you shake your head, “I just—I needed to look for someone.”

“Look for someone?” his lifts his head up, his eyes wander for a second before coming back to meet yours, “Who?”

“The blond guy with red hair? The violinist.” you search his eyes, “It’s him. I need him.”

“Okay,” he drags out the word dramatically and pulls his hands back with a smirk, “Mydei is cool and all but—wow, didn’t know you were into that.”

“Not like that!” you snap, then pause, “Wait, Mydei? That’s his name?”

“Yep. Mydeimos. Mydei, for short.” he tilts his head, “He’s one of the performers that join from our school. Quite the deal, isn’t he?”

He goes to the same school as you?

“From us?” your eyes widen, “You know him? Can you introduce me to him?”

Phainon grins knowingly, “Found what you were looking for?”

“Yes.” you nod your head firmly, certain and final, “Exactly what I’m looking for.”

It turns out, Phainon does more than just knowing him.

He tells you the story of their meeting on your way back. They met each other in high school, same year, same class, and didn’t get along at first—like, at all. He tells you about how they would fight and bicker all the time, and race everything like even breathing is competition. And how they decided to apply to the same school, just out of spite for each other, and somehow both got in.

“And now?” you ask him while fiddling with your seatbelt on his passenger seat, “How are the two of you now?”

“Me and Mydei?” he glances at you momentarily, then pulls his eyes back to the road, “Well… We definitely aren’t like that anymore.”

“Are you close though?”

“Yeah… I guess you could say that.”

You bit down on your lips to stop the smile growing on your face. This is great. Phainon is a close friend of yours, and if Mydei is a close friend of his—then it shouldn’t be too hard, right?

Wrong.

This guys is impossible to get a moment with.

Your friend does everything in his power to help you. You get Mydei’s contact information, even though that feels a bit wrong. And Phainon let’s you know when he’s most available in his schedule—which feels even more wrong—so you have a chance to catch him around the campus.

But the only thing he texts back when you reach out is:

I’m busy right now. Will text back when I’m available.

Great. An automated message. And what’s with the cold tone?

You don’t want to keep pestering your friend with this matter. And you definitely don’t want to seem like a stalker by calling him or texting even more, that would completely blow your chance with him—if you have one, that is.

So while days pass, waiting for something, anything from Mydei, you decide you’re not just going to sit still and pray.

After doing your fair share of research, you find out, he really is quite the big deal, as Phainon said. This guy has not only already given multiple solo performances being only a twenty-two year old college student, he has also made headline after headline. Multiple interviews, many people after him, and a certain future.

No wonder he feels so out of reach.

He started playing when he was very young, but wasn’t really heard of until college. He loves music, clearly, and usually doesn’t say much about himself on interviews, only talking about performances or the more professional stuff like his coaches or sponsors and whatnot.

It feels desperate and, to be fair, a bit pathetic. Checking your phone every other hour to see if he’s reached out, paying extra attention to your surroundings while walking, knowing he’s much more closer to you then you thought.

You weren’t allowed to record during the concerto either, so all you’re left with is some photos that got published a night after and the echo of his violin in your head. Which isn’t enough to give you what you need.

Despite your attempts, you can’t seem to get to Mydei.

Then one morning, when you’re making your way to school—kicking tiny rocks along the road and huffing as you go—you catch a glimpse of something gold.

Spring is here, there is a faint breeze that kisses your cheeks gently and the air smells sweet. The sun is shining bright on your face, the trees are decorated with different shades of pink and green—and you feel the tiniest bit of hope blossom somewhere in you.

Could it be?

It’s only for a short second, and if you hadn’t raised you head just at the right moment, you would’ve missed it.

He turns a corner, and the air he leaves behind is enough to let you know.

You run after the man, the same way you did a couple nights ago—out of breath and desperate. He’s not going the same direction as you, but that doesn’t matter. This might be your only chance, and you will gladly chase it even if it means being late to your morning lecture by a few measly minutes.

When you turn the same corner as him, your eyes meet with his broad back. He’s wearing a simple sweatshirt and some sweatpants, his hair is down and untamed. He looks relaxed, completely the opposite of how he was while performing in front of a thousand people.

He’s walking a slow pace, unhurried, which works in your favor. You think about how to approach him; a tap on the shoulder, or maybe you should shout his name instead? Anything to get his attention. Fastening your steps, you reach your hand out. But then—

“Ow.”

Mydei stops abruptly, and turns around to meet you.

“Sorry,” he says simply, “I didn’t realize you were that close.”

He probably heard your steps, you think to yourself, then look up at him while rubbing your nose, making sure there aren’t any broken bones. What is this guy, a brick wall?

“It’s… fine. I shouldn’t have gotten that close in the first place.”

He nods faintly at that, and there is an awkward silence that follows after.

You avert you eyes and fidget with your fingers, while he looks at you with a straight face, not saying anything back. Now that he’s in front of you, you realize you don’t really know how to talk to him.

“So,” he starts, “Did you want something?”

Up close, you get to see his features much clearly. Something the back row of a big orchestra hall didn’t allow you to do.

And you realize, he’s handsome—or beautiful even. The kind of face that is loved and adored. Someone carrying the weight of being cherished. You can’t help but wonder who is lucky enough to love this man. Or… maybe on a second thought, he might be the lucky one.

His hair catches your attention next—bright, shining, the ends tipped in a burning red, blinding like a summer sunset. It looks smooth and soft, free in its own way. A lot less styled compared to what he had going on on stage, with the exception of a small braid peeking under his ear.

Then you look at his amber eyes—golden like his hair, but a lot more fiery—that are staring back at you now, and say—

“Be my muse.”

“I’m sorry?”

Mydei’s face takes a shape that you struggle to find the words to describe. His brows furrow in confusion first, then they lift back up, his eyes widening with the motion.

Want to know how to creep out a man? The address is right here.

“Okay, that wasn’t what I meant to say,” you wince, “Or–maybe it was. But not like that obviously!”

Mydei crosses his arms across his chest, gives a faint lick to his lips and furrows his eyebrows, letting you know you have his attention, as if urging you to go on. And so you do.

“Look, I know this’ll sound weird,” you smile weakly at him, “But I promise I’m not, like, a stalker or anything. I just tried reaching out to you and you wouldn’t answer so—”

You take a deep breath—quit stalling, just get to the point—you close your eyes firmly, let out that breath, then open them, and continue.

“I was at the audience,” you look at his eyes directly, “Around a week ago, at the big concert with various musicians. You took stage towards the end.”

He nods again, “That’s great to hear. Did you enjoy it?”

You let out another shaky breath. If only it was just that.

“Very much so,” you smile as the sound of the night rushes back to you, “I enjoyed it. In fact I loved it. So, I’m here to make an offer.”

Mydei raises a brow,

“Even though I greatly enjoyed it, my sole reason for being there that night was to find some sort of inspiration for my final.” You tilt your head towards where the school building rests, “I’m an art major, we go to the same school.”

He turns his head at where you’re pointing, then looks back at you, “I see.”

But it’s clear he’s not fully understanding what any of this has to do with anything.

“And this final I’m talking about,” you sigh, “Is really taking it out on me.”

“I’ve sketched, painted, scrapped, restarted—about a hundred times. Nothing works.” You pause, rubbing the back of your neck. “But when you were on stage that night… It was the first time in days I actually felt something click.”

His brows pull together again, though not as sharply as before, “Click?”

“Inspiration,” you clarify quickly. “The way you played, the way the orchestra complimented you—everything about it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it afterwards.”

You hesitate for a second before finishing.

“So I thought… maybe if I actually painted you—”

Mydei blinks.

“—as my muse,” you rush, “Not in a weird way! Just artistically. Strictly academically.” A sheepish laugh leaves you at the end of your sentence, “I’m the best at what I do. I cannot afford to get a grade below the expectation.”

“The best, you say?”

“That’s my reputation, yes.”

He stays silent, but you catch the way his eyes widen the slightest amount. He looks like he’s giving it a good thought, or maybe he’s just calculating how much of an idiot you are. You can only hope that’s not the case.

Then he lets out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“You know,” he says, “most people just ask for an autograph, or an interview, not to paint me as their muse.”

Your shoulders slump slightly, and your gaze lowers in defeat, trying to find comfort in the patterns on the pavement. You’re not stupid, he’s rejecting you without being rude about it—

“I’ll do it.”

You blink. Then snap your head up, searching his face for any insincerity.

“Really?” you ask loudly, “You agree? That easily?”

Mydei seems to be amused by your outburst, a peal of laughter leaves his lips. It’s a clear sound, coming from the chest.

“Really.” he nods, “But I have one condition.”

Condition? Well, it doesn’t matter. As long as he agrees, you think you can do with anything he says.

“Sure,” you beam at him, “What is your condition?”

“I want you to paint me with my violin.”

“Yeah, he agreed!” You kick the air with your legs, overjoyed with pride, “Can you believe? I didn’t even have to do anything.”

Castorice, on the other side of the line, hums in delight.

“That’s good to hear,” her soft tone graces your ears, “So, you have anything in mind?”

You roll on your back in your bed, playing with a piece of hair in between your fingers.

“We didn’t get to talk about the details much, I was running late for class.” you sigh, “But he said he wants me to paint him with his violin.”

Which is already what you were planning to do, so no arguments on that.

After his request, you simply gave a nod of your head and smiled at him sweetly. Then agreed on meeting up for a cup of coffee to talk about the painting and the process—which would be in about an hour from now.

He also saved your number on his phone so that you wouldn’t be having one sided conversations with his automated messages. You still remember the squint on his face and the small apology he muttered as he listened to your complaints.

“I gotta go now,” you informed your best friend, slightly pulling the phone from your ear to see the screen, “I don’t have much time left.”

She then gave a quick warning about updating her, you two exchanged some giggles over that, and ended the call without much ceremony.

You toss your phone beside the pillow and stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting the excitement settle somewhere inside your chest.

Just a painting. Nothing more. It’ll be alright.

Not wanting to waste more time than you already did, you get up quickly.

You get out of your pajamas, wear something decent, make sure you look presentable, grab your bag, and shove your sketchbook, pencils, and a small charcoal set inside. Just in case the conversation turns into an impromptu sketch session.

It probably won’t. But still.

Your phone buzzes just as you’re slipping on your shoes.

Mydei: I’m already at the cafe. Take your time.

Already? That diverts your eyes to the top of the screen. Twenty-four minutes. Is he always this punctual?

A second message follows.

Mydei: Well, don’t take too much time.

You can practically imagine the awkward little smile he must’ve had while typing it. A grin spreads across your face before you can acknowledge it.

You type back quickly.

Me: Omw!!

The walk to the cafe feels shorter than usual, probably because your brain refuses to sit still. You don’t know why it’s doing it, but it is. This isn’t some important commission or for some big contest either. It’s just your stupid final that Aglaea decided to turn into a struggle. And you’ll manage even if things don’t go that well with Mydei.

Still, with each step you take, the sound of your heartbeat rings louder in your ears.

When the cafe comes into your view, he is the first thing you spot from a distance. Sitting near the window, violin case leaning carefully against the chair beside him, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t seem to be drinking.

Mydei looks up the moment the door chimes. You walk over to the table, wearing a polite smile on your lips.

“Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

He shakes his head, “I arrived early,” then gestures to the chair in front of him.

You eyes settle on his instrument while you get comfortable on your seat, “You brought your violin with you.”

“Yeah,” Mydei hums. It’s a sweet sound, you take note, “I come from practice.”

“I see,” you mutter under your breath, then find his eyes, “You seem to have a really packed schedule.”

“I guess you could say that,”

Mydei looks deep in thought for a second, then a small smile appears on his lips, it’s hard to catch and leaves as quickly as it comes, but it was there.

“But I like what I do,” he nods faintly, “So I don’t mind it.”

You want to ask, where does it come from? This love. Because it’s impossible to miss it, you’d need to be quite dense to miss it. Even when he steals quick glances at its way, you can see it. The way his eyes soften slightly, like meeting an old friend. There is history, unsaid words, and some sort of longing.

Not wanting to seem too curious for your own good, you settle for staying silent this time.

To your surprise, the conversation flows smoothly after that. He asks a couple questions about the progress, you ask back about what he is comfortable with or not, and settle on the time and days for your session.

After that discussion comes to an end, you pull your sketchbook out of your bag, flipping it open to a page of loose drawings. They’re messy, overlapping, quick gestures trying to catch an idea before it slips away. The date on the bottom takes you back to when all of this started, and you try to surpass the smile fighting for its place on your lips.

“I was thinking something more natural,” you say, turning the book slightly so he can see. “Not too staged. Like you’re just… playing.”

He gives a quick hum in acknowledgment.

“What are you going for exactly?” he looks into your eyes while leaning forward to catch a better glimpse of the sketches, “Do you have some sort of theme for this?”

Theme. Right. The theme.

You were so focused on actually getting the chance to speak to Mydei that the theme had slipped clean out of your mind until now.

Vulnerability.

For a second you picture saying it out loud—I want to paint you vulnerable. The thought alone makes your stomach twist. It feels intrusive somehow, like those opportunistic paparazzi that swarm at the mention of scandal.

Your eyes flick briefly to the violin case beside him.

He carries himself with a quiet sort of control. Straight posture, calm voice, movements measured and careful. Nothing about him suggests he would appreciate being reduced to something fragile on a canvas.

You felt guilt brimming in you. His love for his music. You don’t know what it means, you don’t know where it comes from.

Would he think you were mocking him?

Your eyes meet with Mydei’s for a brief second and you realize you've been silent for a beat too long.

“Strength,” you clear your throat softly, “I needed something powerful.”

“Powerful?”

“Yes,” you lie with ease, “Your music is exactly what I’m looking for Mydei. Powerful.”

You were lying through your teeth. Powerful? Maybe. But it definitely wouldn’t be the first thought that comes to your mind when you hear him. And it wasn’t how you intended to portray him either. You were going for frail, tender—vulnerable.

Mydei’s eyes linger on the pages. For a moment he studies the loose lines, the unfinished shapes of hands and a violin resting against a shoulder.

Then he nods once.

“I see.”

A wave of relief crashes into you, but it doesn’t completely loosen the tight knot in your chest.

After all, the lie sits heavy in the air, and you have a month of work waiting the two of you.

The studio smells of dried paint and concrete.

The weather is getting warmer and spring is slowly turning into summer, it’s not as cold as it used to be. Most of the students leave school early around this time of the year so it’s not as crowded either. Rooms and tools are left untouched for hours if not days and hallways are quieter than usual. You can’t say you hate it.

The wooden door makes a loud squeak as you push it open. Mydei steps inside after you, violin case on one of his hands and backpack on the other. He takes a moment to examine the room, looking like a lost child.

You can’t help but huff a laugh at the sight, “You can sit wherever you’re comfortable,”

He nods without looking, eyes still wandering around the room, and takes a seat a few steps away from you.

While Mydei gets settled, you busy yourself with setting up your supplies. You cross to the cabinets at the end of the room, pull out a large sheet of paper, and drag an easel back with you, its legs scraping softly against the floor.

You set it up where it won’t block your view of Mydei, then secure the paper in place before taking a seat.

Next come your tools. You pull a handful of brushes from your bag and drop them into a glass, then sharpen a few graphite pencils, lining them up carefully beside it. Tubes of oil paint, a box of crayons—anything you can find, really, even if they don’t quite belong together.

The first session is only supposed to be some sketches. Therefore you know you won’t need all of this. But the room is awkward, you’re nervous, and need to pass the time as much as possible while Mydei is doing his thing.

Then you hear the quiet click of clasps, the soft slide of wood against fabric.

You peel your eyes off of the sketchbook draped open on your lap and glance at Mydei’s way.

He handles the violin gently, but not delicately. There’s no hesitation in his movements, no second-guessing. Just familiarity, something practiced enough to become instinct.

Clearing your throat, you straighten your pose, “You can start whenever,”

Then with a short nod again, Mydei starts playing.

He draws out a note at first, almost like testing the sound, then another, and another. They mesh together and fill the empty room with sound. You’re supposed to be drawing, examining, working right now, but you feel yourself unable to even lift a hand.

This is only your second time hearing him play, and it’s no less mesmerizing than the first one. A part of you wonders if you’ll be able to handle a whole month of this.

“I’ll be moving quite a lot while playing,” Mydei’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, “Will you be able to draw?” He murmurs without peering his eyes off of his bow.

It’s not condescending, he’s genuinely curious.

“I’ll be fine,” your pencil finally meets the paper, “I want to capture the moment anyway.”

He just gives a quiet hum after that, and silence settles between you again, only occupied with the pleasant sound of violin.

Moments pass like this. Mydei playing like it’s instinct, and you trying your best to do his beauty justice.

You sketch the curve of his posture first. The line of his shoulders, the way his head tilts, his fingers flexing on the neck of the instrument, his other hand relaxed, wrist slightly curved in.

In between shared glances and concentration, your curiosity gets the better of you, “Why did you agree to this?” you meet his eyes, “Not that I’m complaining, of course, but I didn’t expect you to say yes so easily either.”

Mydei seems to give it thought for a moment, then he answers back with a shrug,

“It was the look in your eyes, I guess,” he says, “I’ve never heard someone talk about my music like that.”

You feel your cheeks burn as heat rushes to your face. Was it that obvious?

“…What kind of look?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Mydei’s bow doesn’t pause, but the note he draws stretches just a little longer.

“Just—” he exhales heavily, like he is frustrated with himself, “It was as if you’re hearing me for what I actually am.”

And you know, somehow, that there is a deeper meaning to that. That it matters more to him than he lets on. Maybe it’s the way his fingers grip his bow more firmly, or the way his eyes drift off to somewhere beyond the room, but you see it.

You don’t have an answer back to it, which doesn’t help the atmosphere, so you just keep drawing him instead. Avoiding Mydei’s eyes and pressing harder on the page than you mean to.

The graphite darkens, and the light, you realize distantly, isn’t helping.

It spills from the fluorescent lamps at the ceiling, too bright and uneven, flattening everything it touches. It catches on the varnish of the violin too harshly, blows out the contours of his face, leaves parts of him in shadow where you don’t want them to be. You tilt your paper slightly, then back again, but it doesn’t fix it.

You exhale quietly through your nose.

And Mydei should’ve realized the frown on your face by now, because his sound slows and quiets down before he asks, “Something wrong?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” You wave your hands in the air, “It’s just the light causing some trouble. I never liked the studios of the school anyways. Nothing here screams art.”

He hums like that means anything to him, “Anything I can do?”

Your eyes drift from examining the lamps on the ceiling back to his face, “I, uh, I don’t think so? Not unless you know some art studio that doesn’t charge a fortune per hour, I guess.” You sigh.

Both of you sit in silence for a good minute, then agree to take a small break. Mydei lowers his violin and seems deep in thought, while you huff and puff to yourself, wiping off graphite from your fingers.

Just when you’re thinking the world is against this project since everything seems to be going downhill, Mydei’s hum brings you back.

“Actually,” he exhales lightly through his nose, almost a huff at himself, like he can’t believe he’s saying this, “My place has decent lighting. I live on a high floor and the living room has some tall windows.”

Your brows lift a little.

“You could use it. If you want. No pressure, obviously.” he says, a little softer. “If it’s weird, it’s weird. Just figured I’d mention it.”

A small “Oh,” is all you let out at first, “Yeah, um—yeah, that would be great actually. You sure you’re okay with this?”

He shrugs, “I don’t have that many guests and I live nearby, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

The idea of going to Mydei’s house—to paint him, no less—possibly spending hours there, alone; is a bit weird, like he said so. But curse your stupid head because you are a bit curious, and maybe a tiny bit eager.

For the drawing, obviously.

“Alright,” you take a deep breath, “When are you available?”

“How about,” he pauses, “Right now?”

The walk to Mydei’s apartment is mostly silent. He isn’t much of a talker, you’ve realized over the little time you’ve shared so far. You are though, in contrast to him. But not right now. Not when your steps feel too light and your pulse sounds like the chorus of an upbeat rock song.

“We’re here,” he points at a building with his head. You only hum in response.

You take the elevator to the twelfth floor. Mydei steps out with his hands in his bag, searching for something. Then he takes out his keys, they jingle between his fingers before he puts it in the lock and the door opens with a soft click. A small violin charm catches your eyes before he pulls them back out, and you smile to yourself a little before stepping in.

His place smells weirdly clean, like, too clean. Almost makes you question if he even lives here. But you also think that’s kind of in character of him.

He has tall windows that light up the place nicely. The walls, or anywhere else for that matter, isn’t really decorated. It’s just simple furniture, some blankets on a couch, and a big plant on the corner that looks out of place. Maybe gifted from someone else?

You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, breaking the quiet, “Your place is nice.”

He gives a small thanks in response before crossing the room, pushing one of the chairs back with his foot, clearing space near the windows.

“Will this work?”

You step closer, tilting your head, already framing him in your mind. “Yeah,” you shrug, “Way better than the studio.”

A lot more intimate too, your mind reminds you, but you don’t mention that to him.

“Where do you want me?” Mydei asks.

You observe his living room again after that, with more intent than just trying to familiarize yourself with his home.

“It would be nice if we could catch the evening sun,” you hum, “Maybe it could hit you from the side?”

He gives a quick nod and gets moving. Mydei pulls a chair in front of the window, takes his violin back out of its case and sits down, posing the same way he did earlier in the studio, and starts playing. You don’t have all your tools here but a sketchbook should be enough for now. So you sit down in front of him and take it out, your pencil already in your hand.

And the silence is back.

It’s not too awkward, thankfully. But you really wouldn’t mind some more energy in the room. It’s not the stillness of the moment that bothers you—the music is enough to move it—but more so him.

Wouldn’t be so bad if Mydei just gave a bit more than he does, you think. It wouldn’t be horrible if you knew what it meant when his brow raised slightly to the left, or when he flexes his hand every now and then—like a sudden fire burnt his fingertips, when he doesn’t really give an answer but just hums quietly—even if it wasn’t a question, or when he does literally anything else.

You trace the outline of his jawline on your paper, sharp as a knife yet as fixed as stone. His violin rests against it, having already made a home for itself there long time ago.

“So,” you exhale, “Tell me more about yourself?”

His amber eyes rise up from his fingers, and he stares off at the wall in front of him for a few seconds. A few seconds that feel like eternity for you.

“There isn’t much to tell, really. I mean, haven’t you already read the papers?”

Such a dry tone.

“I don’t really care what the papers say. Surely you’d be a better source, no?”

Mydei’s eyes flicker, and he looks like he’s about to speak for a second. He parts his lips, gives a small lick to them, while breathing in heavily, you can see his pupils move back and forth on the pattern of his rug. You wait in anticipation while he draws out another note and the quiet tick of the clock in the room counts time. It all happens so quickly and you really get your hopes up this time,

“I think they do quite a good job, actually.”

Only to be let down.

“I see.” you don’t mean to sigh, but it comes out anyway.

“So you two are finally working together?” The white haired man asks you with genuine surprise.

“Yes, Phai, we really are.” you reply, “I don’t really know how it happened either. One day I was practically begging for him to say yes, and the other I was drawing him play, in his apartment.”

The wide halls of your school echo with your steps, loud and only. Your friend helps you carry your new easel to one of the studios, the drag across the floor joining your footsteps. The year is about to end soon, classes are almost over and everyone has been slowly wrapping up their works. You however are still stuck with a stupid sketch in your hands and a bunch of other questions in your head.

You’ve been thinking about your work, if you have enough time, if it’ll come out like you visualized, but most importantly, if you’re doing it right. Mydei has been nothing but generous towards you. He’s been kind and he doesn’t complain, you would even go as far as to say he actually enjoys it, that he’s looking forward to the end product.

It’s obviously expected that he would be curious or maybe even excited, but you feel like the way his eyes widen every time you make a slightly sharper flick of your wrist on the paper says something more about him.

You caught him peeking at your open sketchbook on the coffee table once when you two were taking a break. It’s a bigger one than your usual so everything is much more clear, more final on the pages.

“Like what you see?” you ask in between bites from the fruit he peeled for you.

He whips his head toward you, clearly not aware that you were watching him, “Sorry, it looks nice.”

“Don’t apologize,” you lick the juice off your thumb, “It’s you on the paper.”

The room is silent, actually silent this time. No violin, no pencil meeting paper, no huffing and puffing because of some wrong lines and a sore neck. Just you, him, and the cold peaches sitting on the table in front of you. Other than the occasional eye contact you two make (which almost immediately ends with one of you looking away in no longer than a second), and the soft taps of his fingers across the marble countertop, not much else is happening.

Making small talk with Mydei is difficult. Not because he isn’t much of a talker, although you’re sure that plays a small part too, but because he doesn’t share, you think.

Mydei keeps to himself. It’s been—what, three sessions so far? Which equals to two weeks of knowing and meeting Mydei. Yet your knowledge about him is still almost as limited as what the internet tells you.

It’s important to understand your subject for your drawing, yes, but putting all of that aside, you’re curious about Mydei. Ever since that stage, ever since feeling like your soul was leaving your skin, ever since running after him in heels that hit all the wrong spots on your feet, you’ve been curious about him.

And when you’re trying to get your sketch across a bigger paper, clipped on the wooden stand Phainon helped you drag into the studio, it happens.

A small ding from your phone interrupts your conversation.

Mydei: Do you think we could do a session today?

“It’s him?” Phainon’s blue eyes search your face with anticipation.

He’s enjoying this way too much, you think, but your friend is lucky because you have better concerns right now.

“Yeah, he’s asking to meet up.” You furrow your brows in confusion. Your next session isn’t due until three days.

“Like, an actual meet up?”

Phainon takes a step next to you, then leans forward to see your phone screen clearly, “A session?”

“Yes, that’s what we call them. But our next one still has some time, I don’t really understand why he’s asking for one right now.” You scratch your neck with your other hand, then mumble quietly, almost a question, “I mean it doesn’t even benefit him.”

Phainon snickers, “Maybe he just misses you.”

That earns him a slap on the shoulder.

You quickly type back, not wanting to make him wait.

Me: our next one is in three days iirc?

Me: but sure!! my schedule’s empty

Mydei: Sorry if it’s inconvenient. You can come over whenever.

Me: will be there in 20

“You’re excited,” Phainon jokes, “You sure this is strictly professional?”

Not really.

“Stop it already, oh my god,” you give a look to him, “I just don’t have anything better to do, and mind you, he’s the one asking.”

Phainon laughs, it’s a loud and unbothered sound. He definitely is enjoying this.

You’re in front of Mydei’s apartment in sixteen minutes since your last message.

The city is warm and the building is warmer. Your hair is sticking to your skin at the curve of your neck, your hands are sweaty from holding onto your bag too tight, and Mydei still hasn’t opened the door.

Well, that might be because you haven’t rang the bell yet, but we’re putting that aside.

It’s just the thought of showing up unplanned, or let’s say three days earlier than what was planned. Coming to his house and feeling like this is more than what the two of you agreed on, more than you trying to keep your eyes on only the parts you’re supposed to draw, more than him keeping quiet, keeping to himself.

Your fingers reach up to the doorbell, only for Mydei to beat you to it. The door opens with a fast swing, almost giving you a heart attack.

“Oh my gods, Mydei,” you rest your hand against your chest, “You scared the living crap out of me.”

“Sorry,” the blonde purses his lips, “I heard some noises so I thought I’d check it out.”

“Well, the noises were me.”

Mydei steps aside to let you in with another quiet apology, but you catch the way he dips his head low in hopes of hiding the small smile playing on his lips.

His place is the same as always, clean, quiet, everything you’ve gotten used to by know. But then you take another step in, and it hits you, the smell of something sweet coming from the kitchen.

“Sorry for asking so suddenly,” Mydei says as he locks the door behind you. “I know we said Friday.”

“It’s fine,” you answer too quickly. “I wasn’t doing anything important but, um, you—did you bake something?”

Mydei doesn’t give an answer immediately, just busies himself with taking your bag off your hands and places it somewhere in the living room. You don’t really push, you stopped doing that some time ago.

He walks toward the kitchen, you try not to stare at him while unpacking your stuff, yet you still catch your eyes following him from across the apartment as he fills a kettle with water. He’s dressed casually today, loose dark pants, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pale hair still slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it all afternoon.

Mydei turns back toward the counter, but not before you catch the way his jaw tightens slightly. “You want tea?” he asks after a moment.

“Sure.” You answer without making eye contact with him.

He doesn’t say anything else, so you begin setting up your pencils while he moves around the kitchen. Your eyes start wandering again. You notice how he hasn’t set up his chair like he usually does before you come, or how his violin is sitting on the couch already.

“You were practicing before I got here?” you ask.

He hums without turning, “Just some old ones I wanted to remember.”

Before you can say anything back, Mydei starts moving. He opens the fridge first, taking out a bowl with stretch film wrapped over it, then he takes out some pre-cut fruits, shuts the fridge, moves to a different part of his kitchen.

You watch all of it in silence.

And when you’re about to ask what’s the matter, a ding sound interrupts his movements. Then he puts on the oven glove resting on the counter, opens the oven and—takes out a cake?

“Huh, you really were baking.” you tilt your head, “Are you celebrating something?”

The kettle clicks softly in the kitchen. Which gives him his escape from answering your question, or so you thought. Because this time, Mydei opens.

“It’s my mothers birthday,” he’s quiet while filling the cups with hot water.

“Oh, is she arriving soon?” You ask with a smile, “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gotten something on my way here.”

You regret asking that as soon as the words leave your mouth, because it’s impossible to miss the way the air tenses around the two of you. The room is silent, again. Mydei gives a look your way, then he puts the kettle down slowly. He’s calm in a very unusual way, he moves slower, he even talks slower, you think. But you catch the way he grips the edge of the counter with his hands until his skins turns white.

“No,” he breathes, “No, she isn’t arriving. I celebrate it by myself.”

Then he looks at you. That’s when it hits you. Oh, stupid you.

You want to slap yourself across the face, lay on the ground and kick yourself in the stomach, but all you could do is raise your eyebrows slightly at the man in front of you.

The words catch you off guard for some reason. Not because of what he said, but because he offered it at all. Usually conversations with Mydei are like trying to catch water in your hands. He gives answers that are polite but thin, always enough to end the discussion before it becomes personal.

So this feels… different.

“I’m sorry,” you say before anything else comes out of your mouth that would make you regret coming here at all.

His brows pinch slightly, “Why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t know.” You give a helpless little laugh,

For a second he simply watches you. Then, surprisingly—

“She used to make that cake every year,” he points at the counter, “I’ve been continuing the tradition, I guess.”

The fondness in his voice is tiny, but unmistakable. And funny enough, this might be the most he’s ever spoken to you at once.

You’re terrified of ruining it.

“So…” you say carefully, “Why invite me over today?”

The question hangs in the air for a minute. You can almost see the gears turning in Mydei’s head, almost to say, Why did I invite her? And you think, or maybe you hope, he just needed company. Mydei, who has been celebrating his mothers birthday all these years, all by himself, needed you here today.

You don’t know what to feel about that possibility.

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” he laughs to himself, as if he can’t believe you’re here either, “I guess I thought you’d enjoy the cake.”

You stare at his face for a good minute, it’s probably only a few seconds in reality, but feels like a minute. With the way his golden strands frame his face, or the way the afternoon light hits his nose, the way his fingers wrap around the piping bag, the way he looks so vulnerable right now; it feels like an eternity actually.

Mydeimos, from the second you’ve witnessed him, felt so, so vulnerable. And you can’t help but see it every time your eyes catch his sights. But despite it all, despite all of the things you see beyond his eyes, all the burdens you know he carries, you still can’t help but smile a little when he looks into your eyes. The man just has that kind of effect on you.

“Yeah, I probably would,” you try to keep your laugh inside while walking up to him, “If only you weren’t absolutely murdering that cake right now.”

“I—” Mydei tilts his head to the side, like a lost puppy. It looks foreign on him, in all honesty. Not unwelcome though.

“Let me help. I’m actually part decent at this kind of stuff, you know, art and all.”

“Right,” he nods his head once, then hands the piping bag to you.

As you take the bag from his hands, you try to ignore the way your fingers brush against his, or the way he takes a second longer than necessary while giving it to you. Almost hesitant.

And you understand it. It’s not surprising that he would halter. It’s not surprising that his fingers, which have been strongly pressing to strings like hammers, yet also move like an irresistible force, would tremble slightly while giving the frosting filled bag to you.

Because it’s just frosting. But then it’s not.

It’s not just sugar, milk and cream. It’s today of every year. It’s Mydei sitting alone in his apartment and blowing candles for god knows how many times now.

The lemony scent hits your nose as soon as you wrap your hands around the plastic. It’s then accompanied with something sweet, like vanilla. And it takes everything in you to not look at Mydei as you squeeze the bag until the top of the cake is smeared in frosting.

“It smells nice,” you mumble, “Made it yourself too?”

“Lemon and vanilla,” Mydei hums. Knew it. “She used to love it. I probably never get the recipe right. It doesn’t taste the same. But the smell still brings some memories back, y’know.”

“What was her name?”

“Gorgo.” The word comes out as a whisper. Like it knows how heavy it is.

“That’s a beautiful name,” you smile, “I’m sure she would appreciate your efforts.”

Mydei let’s out a laugh. A breathy, small and quick one. But still, undeniably, a laugh.

“She would,” he shakes his head, “Then she’d slap me in the head for not making the cake correctly.”

The image makes you laugh too. And as Mydei takes out pomegranate seeds out of another bag, you imagine him, seven maybe eight years old, tiny footsteps into the kitchen, peering from the back of the door and watching his mom, Gorgo, prepare her birthday cake.

Maybe he would try to keep quiet. Maybe he’d go up to her and pester his mom about the cake. If we’re being honest, you don’t really know how small Mydei would be like. The same way you don’t know how he is now.

Or maybe that is slowly changing. Slowly, but it is.

“She didn’t use pomegranates, but I like the taste.”

“You’re telling me a lot about yourself today,” and as soon as the words leave your mouth, you regret them. You’re sure you’ve ruined it now. “Not that I mind or anything of course but—”

“I just think she would’ve liked you.”

The piping bag nearly slips from your hands.

For a moment, the only sound in the apartment is the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic outside the window. You stare at the half-decorated cake. Then at Mydei. Then back at the cake.

Because surely he didn't just say that.

“I—I see,” you purse your lips, “What makes you say that?”

Mydei doesn’t answer immediately, just keeps decorating the cake with the red seeds.

He’s mostly quiet, mostly focused, competitive even though he doesn't show it, one hell of a musician, talented beyond his years, and he for sure knows how to make your chest tighten. Maybe it’s on purpose, maybe he just likes seeing you in this state. Or maybe you’re just delusional.

Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re holding your breath.

“I have a feeling she would,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal.

That’s when you raise your head to protest about how that’s so vague, but you silence yourself as soon as you catch him staring at you.

Amber eyes, golden hair dipped in sunset. A pronounced nose, a sharp jawline, and a face that seems almost sculpted rather than born. As if that weren't unfair enough, the afternoon sun wraps around him in gold, turning every feature softer and brighter.

He looks less like a person and more like an angel fallen from heaven. No wonder your heart is pounding hard enough to shake your ribs.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. So quiet, you wonder if you’d imagined it. “Yeah, she definitely would.”

Then as if nothing happened. As if nothing changed, nothing has been said. Mydei turns back to the cake. He keeps putting the seeds on the cake, some to the side. He even tilts his head to the side at one point, like he’s really focused. On the cake.

While you’re stuck in your place, hands tight, chest tighter. The moment has passed. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.

But you still smile to yourself as the lemony scent of the frosting fills the room.

When Aglaea finally dismisses class, you pack your stuff neatly and make your way to the cafeteria. Castorice is already sitting by the window, chewing on some noodles that look way too soaked for their own good.

“That instant ramen looks gummier than the strawberry mochi you buy from across the road.”

She looks up at you with a disapproving look, yet her lips tug into a smile, “I was experimenting, okay? I thought you were all for trying out new things.”

“I am, only when those new things aren’t looking like they could come alive any second though.” you gently threw your bag to the seat next to Castorice, where her pointe shoes are hanging off of her powder-pink duffle bag.

“Aglaea is out for blood again.” you mumble as you take a seat across from her, “She has a whole theme for the finals. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she enjoys seeing senior college students suffer.”

Your lavender haired friend snickers from behind her chopsticks, “You say it like that’s not the case.”

You huff a laugh. “Either way, it’s not that much of a problem,” and gesture to yourself with confidence, “I’ll get it done in no time.”

Contrary to your prior statement—and the belief you’ve carefully cultivated with your past achievements—you do not, in fact, get it done in no time.

It’s funny, maybe—or more overwhelming when you think about it a second time.

But whatever it is, one thing is for sure: It’s not in your favor.

You’ve tried everything; roaming museums, studying pieces from your favorite artists, revisiting old works for self inspiration, morning walks, late-night walks… You name it.

You even took out your sketchbook in the middle of one of Castorice’s performances, but alas, nothing came out of it—which surprised you greatly because even with your limited knowledge on ballet, Cas never failed to mesmerize you.

You sometimes wonder how she’d have done as an art major—and feel a little relieved she didn’t, fearing she might have surpassed you by far.

A week passes in futile endeavors. And it’s not like you’re running out of time, but it still frustrated you. Any kind of problem along the way could be solved with enough push and some thought put into it. But there wasn’t any problem to solve, because there wasn’t a work in your hands to begin with. Which was a problem in itself.

Just when you were starting to think you might’ve lost all your creative spark, your dear friend, Phainon, came to your rescue.

It’s early in the morning when you’re pacing towards class, carrying a big canvas in your hands and struggling to keep your bag from falling off your shoulder.

Then from a distance, you see the white haired guy waving at you frantically, and in the blink of an eye, he’s next to you.

“Oh, great timing.” Phainon smiles in greeting, “I was about to call you.”

You drop your bag to the floor, it didn’t want to be carried anyways. “Call me? What for?”

“I’m invited to the concert on the weekend as a press photographer. I get to bring a second with me, wanna come?”

You tilt your head slightly,“Concert?”

“You haven’t heard? It’s all over the campus bulletin boards.” Phainon’s eyes widen in disbelief, “It’s this huge performance where various musicians from across the city take stage together.” he spreads his hands to emphasize, “We have quite a few joining from our school as well.”

At first, you want to argue. Say it’s going to be a headache and you don’t have the time. Which isn’t exactly wrong. You’re all for music and art and performances, that’s true. But with your confidence slowly slipping away from your hands, you’re not so sure you can afford to attend anything grand right now.

“I’d love to come, Phai,” you start, already shaking your head in rejection, “But I’m working on Aglaea’s final.”

“Wow.” he raises his eyebrows, “Using art as an excuse? Just how badly do you want to stay at home?”

You laugh at his joke, internally wishing it was indeed just an excuse, “Unfortunately, it’s true this time. I’m kind of struggling with this one.”

He raises his eyebrows even higher at that. Almost to say, ‘You? Struggling?’

“Damn, must be a real kicker then.”

“It didn’t seem that bad at first,” you sigh, “But now I can’t even find the proper inspiration to start. It’s like—It just doesn’t click.” You shake your head in frustration.

Your dear friend must’ve felt sorry at your deflated state, so he comes up with an offer.

“Tell you what,” he tips his chin, “Come to this performance with me, and maybe it’ll help with your process.”

You squint your eyes at him in confusion, he takes it upon himself to continue.

“You’re struggling to find inspiration, right? What if what you need is... Some sort of muse. Something to get you going.” a confident smile forms on his lips, “A stage where many musicians are showing off might be a great place to look for that.”

And that’s how you end up in a plain white dress, with hair tied up neatly in a bun, and heels that look way too pretty for how badly they hurt, at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night.

The place is grand, both on the outside and the inside. The building rose at the end of the street like an art piece itself, tall columns guarding its entrance, wide marble steps leading to heavy doors polished by decades. Warm golden light spilled from its arched windows, and the faint murmur of tuning instruments leaked into the evening air.

It took a good twenty minutes just to get in and find your seat. There were people with cameras who looked like they were doing some important work, and others in rich suits and elegant dresses who looked even more important than them.

And then there was you.

The inside was just as captivating as the outside. Bright, creamy walls and columns that extended from the floor to the high ceiling. You felt terribly small compared to how major everything seemed to be. There was a massive chandelier at the top that granted the lobby enough light and the marble floors glowed with it’s reflection.

Your seat was towards the back and to the end of the row. It wasn’t a perfect view but it was enough to catch a glimpse of the stage. You guess that’s the best a plus ticket your photographer friend gave you can do.

Speaking of Phainon, he wasn’t there with you. Even though you entered together, you knew he would be at the higher floors taking photos. It probably would be more entertaining with company next to you, but you’ll have to settle for enjoying the concert by yourself. You were here for the music anyways.

The concert started after a short while. The music was pleasant and the view was actually better than you thought it would be. Various musicians came to stage one by one and played their hearts out. It was nice, it was refreshing. You even managed to get a couple sketches in.

A woman’s flute solo, another one’s piano… It was all so beautiful.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

You didn’t have high expectations in the first place. Phainon offered you an idea but he didn’t promise anything. And you knew that when you agreed to it. The theme was something you haven’t tried before and even if you didn’t get to find what you were looking for, the music is nice. So you guess you can just enjoy it while it lasts.

But then, a single note plays out from a violin in the silence.

Your pencil stops.

Your eyes slowly move back to the stage, and hesitate, like they’re scared to see what’s up there.

Then you see him. A tall, blond man with his hair neatly tied low at the back, wearing a simple black suit with a crimson tie that matches the ends of his hair.

You don’t get to observe him much, because seconds later the piano joins him, catching your attention. Then the cellos start humming a quiet, low tune. A chill runs through you, and the hairs on your arms stand on end.

He plays with ease, as if music is something that just happens for him. And he play with heart, with soul. Nothing like what you’ve seen before. Not tonight, not ever.

It’s enchanting, it’s foreign—and you feel yourself drawn to it.

The music flows in the air. It runs through the red velvet seats, dances around the people, and finds its way to your heart. You find yourself unable to move, hands stuck in their place and ice cold, a tingle at the back of your neck, a soft burn in your eyes…

Just what is this?

Then, as if hearing you, he picks up the pace, the violinist. He speaks clearly, it’s impossible to miss it.

Hear me, he’s whispering one second, then shouting the next, witness me. You watch carefully. To see, to understand. What are you doing? How are you doing it?

Long, slim fingers move up and down on the neck of his instrument—delicate, yet present. He seems… scared? But also just as bold, just as vigorous.

He’s either casting spells with his bow, cursing you in some way, or you have gone mad, completely lost it.

His gaze stays low, he doesn’t look up, doesn’t let anything else catch his attention. It’s obvious. On that stage, it’s just him, his violin, and music.

When the whole orchestra joins him, you feel a skip in your heart. They harmonize and dance together. As if they’re all in agreement, all know what’s happening. Like they’re conversing, like they’re playing out a script written carefully.

The trumpets murmur in the back like a choir, the flute sings peacefully, the piano’s notes fall like feathers.

And at the center of it all, him.

His violin cries.

You don’t know how he does it, or what that even means. But you’re certain. That violin is crying, weeping as if it’s at the end of it’s days. Coming alive at the very hands of the man in front of you.

Just like what you were searching for—vulnerable.

After what feels like an eternity, the music gently dies away. The orchestra quiets down, and his motions come to a stop with a flick of his wrist. He takes a step towards the audience, brings his hand to his chest and bows down softly.

People stand up in their seats, loud clapping fills the building and bright smiles paint your vision. It lasts for a long while, a lot longer than average. And you close your eyes, a single tear slides down and drops to your hands, now clapping with the rest of the room. That’s when you know—

You’ve found it.

You don’t even think about it. The moment the performance ends, you spring up from your seat and hurry out of the room, your steps rushed, nearly tripping over your heels as you go. You make your way toward the back doors of the grand building.

You have to find him, learn his name, approach him, introduce yourself, and somehow persuade him into this. The urge feels almost instinctive, as if you’re being pulled after him.

But when you finally reach the place, he isn’t there.

Your eyes search every corner, trying to catch a glimpse of that tall figure, his golden hair, or his overwhelming presence. But you’re only met with a couple press members and some other musicians that went up to stage earlier in the night.

You feel your eyes burn again. This can’t be it right? Surely you find him somehow.

Your only hope, only lead. Something to keep you in, someone to make your art come true, and—a hand on your shoulder?

“What are you doing here?”

Oh, it’s him.

“Phainon?” your eyes widen, you didn’t even realize he was standing there.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the main halls?” he asks confused, “Did I take too long? Sorry, I was almost done.”

“No, no. It’s not that.” you shake your head, “I just—I needed to look for someone.”

“Look for someone?” his lifts his head up, his eyes wander for a second before coming back to meet yours, “Who?”

“The blond guy with red hair? The violinist.” you search his eyes, “It’s him. I need him.”

“Okay,” he drags out the word dramatically and pulls his hands back with a smirk, “Mydei is cool and all but—wow, didn’t know you were into that.”

“Not like that!” you snap, then pause, “Wait, Mydei? That’s his name?”

“Yep. Mydeimos. Mydei, for short.” he tilts his head, “He’s one of the performers that join from our school. Quite the deal, isn’t he?”

He goes to the same school as you?

“From us?” your eyes widen, “You know him? Can you introduce me to him?”

Phainon grins knowingly, “Found what you were looking for?”

“Yes.” you nod your head firmly, certain and final, “Exactly what I’m looking for.”

It turns out, Phainon does more than just knowing him.

He tells you the story of their meeting on your way back. They met each other in high school, same year, same class, and didn’t get along at first—like, at all. He tells you about how they would fight and bicker all the time, and race everything like even breathing is competition. And how they decided to apply to the same school, just out of spite for each other, and somehow both got in.

“And now?” you ask him while fiddling with your seatbelt on his passenger seat, “How are the two of you now?”

“Me and Mydei?” he glances at you momentarily, then pulls his eyes back to the road, “Well… We definitely aren’t like that anymore.”

“Are you close though?”

“Yeah… I guess you could say that.”

You bit down on your lips to stop the smile growing on your face. This is great. Phainon is a close friend of yours, and if Mydei is a close friend of his—then it shouldn’t be too hard, right?

Wrong.

This guys is impossible to get a moment with.

Your friend does everything in his power to help you. You get Mydei’s contact information, even though that feels a bit wrong. And Phainon let’s you know when he’s most available in his schedule—which feels even more wrong—so you have a chance to catch him around the campus.

But the only thing he texts back when you reach out is:

I’m busy right now. Will text back when I’m available.

Great. An automated message. And what’s with the cold tone?

You don’t want to keep pestering your friend with this matter. And you definitely don’t want to seem like a stalker by calling him or texting even more, that would completely blow your chance with him—if you have one, that is.

So while days pass, waiting for something, anything from Mydei, you decide you’re not just going to sit still and pray.

After doing your fair share of research, you find out, he really is quite the big deal, as Phainon said. This guy has not only already given multiple solo performances being only a twenty-two year old college student, he has also made headline after headline. Multiple interviews, many people after him, and a certain future.

No wonder he feels so out of reach.

He started playing when he was very young, but wasn’t really heard of until college. He loves music, clearly, and usually doesn’t say much about himself on interviews, only talking about performances or the more professional stuff like his coaches or sponsors and whatnot.

It feels desperate and, to be fair, a bit pathetic. Checking your phone every other hour to see if he’s reached out, paying extra attention to your surroundings while walking, knowing he’s much more closer to you then you thought.

You weren’t allowed to record during the concerto either, so all you’re left with is some photos that got published a night after and the echo of his violin in your head. Which isn’t enough to give you what you need.

Despite your attempts, you can’t seem to get to Mydei.

Then one morning, when you’re making your way to school—kicking tiny rocks along the road and huffing as you go—you catch a glimpse of something gold.

Spring is here, there is a faint breeze that kisses your cheeks gently and the air smells sweet. The sun is shining bright on your face, the trees are decorated with different shades of pink and green—and you feel the tiniest bit of hope blossom somewhere in you.

Could it be?

It’s only for a short second, and if you hadn’t raised you head just at the right moment, you would’ve missed it.

He turns a corner, and the air he leaves behind is enough to let you know.

You run after the man, the same way you did a couple nights ago—out of breath and desperate. He’s not going the same direction as you, but that doesn’t matter. This might be your only chance, and you will gladly chase it even if it means being late to your morning lecture by a few measly minutes.

When you turn the same corner as him, your eyes meet with his broad back. He’s wearing a simple sweatshirt and some sweatpants, his hair is down and untamed. He looks relaxed, completely the opposite of how he was while performing in front of a thousand people.

He’s walking a slow pace, unhurried, which works in your favor. You think about how to approach him; a tap on the shoulder, or maybe you should shout his name instead? Anything to get his attention. Fastening your steps, you reach your hand out. But then—

“Ow.”

Mydei stops abruptly, and turns around to meet you.

“Sorry,” he says simply, “I didn’t realize you were that close.”

He probably heard your steps, you think to yourself, then look up at him while rubbing your nose, making sure there aren’t any broken bones. What is this guy, a brick wall?

“It’s… fine. I shouldn’t have gotten that close in the first place.”

He nods faintly at that, and there is an awkward silence that follows after.

You avert you eyes and fidget with your fingers, while he looks at you with a straight face, not saying anything back. Now that he’s in front of you, you realize you don’t really know how to talk to him.

“So,” he starts, “Did you want something?”

Up close, you get to see his features much clearly. Something the back row of a big orchestra hall didn’t allow you to do.

And you realize, he’s handsome—or beautiful even. The kind of face that is loved and adored. Someone carrying the weight of being cherished. You can’t help but wonder who is lucky enough to love this man. Or… maybe on a second thought, he might be the lucky one.

His hair catches your attention next—bright, shining, the ends tipped in a burning red, blinding like a summer sunset. It looks smooth and soft, free in its own way. A lot less styled compared to what he had going on on stage, with the exception of a small braid peeking under his ear.

Then you look at his amber eyes—golden like his hair, but a lot more fiery—that are staring back at you now, and say—

“Be my muse.”

“I’m sorry?”

Mydei’s face takes a shape that you struggle to find the words to describe. His brows furrow in confusion first, then they lift back up, his eyes widening with the motion.

Want to know how to creep out a man? The address is right here.

“Okay, that wasn’t what I meant to say,” you wince, “Or–maybe it was. But not like that obviously!”

Mydei crosses his arms across his chest, gives a faint lick to his lips and furrows his eyebrows, letting you know you have his attention, as if urging you to go on. And so you do.

“Look, I know this’ll sound weird,” you smile weakly at him, “But I promise I’m not, like, a stalker or anything. I just tried reaching out to you and you wouldn’t answer so—”

You take a deep breath—quit stalling, just get to the point—you close your eyes firmly, let out that breath, then open them, and continue.

“I was at the audience,” you look at his eyes directly, “Around a week ago, at the big concert with various musicians. You took stage towards the end.”

He nods again, “That’s great to hear. Did you enjoy it?”

You let out another shaky breath. If only it was just that.

“Very much so,” you smile as the sound of the night rushes back to you, “I enjoyed it. In fact I loved it. So, I’m here to make an offer.”

Mydei raises a brow,

“Even though I greatly enjoyed it, my sole reason for being there that night was to find some sort of inspiration for my final.” You tilt your head towards where the school building rests, “I’m an art major, we go to the same school.”

He turns his head at where you’re pointing, then looks back at you, “I see.”

But it’s clear he’s not fully understanding what any of this has to do with anything.

“And this final I’m talking about,” you sigh, “Is really taking it out on me.”

“I’ve sketched, painted, scrapped, restarted—about a hundred times. Nothing works.” You pause, rubbing the back of your neck. “But when you were on stage that night… It was the first time in days I actually felt something click.”

His brows pull together again, though not as sharply as before, “Click?”

“Inspiration,” you clarify quickly. “The way you played, the way the orchestra complimented you—everything about it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it afterwards.”

You hesitate for a second before finishing.

“So I thought… maybe if I actually painted you—”

Mydei blinks.

“—as my muse,” you rush, “Not in a weird way! Just artistically. Strictly academically.” A sheepish laugh leaves you at the end of your sentence, “I’m the best at what I do. I cannot afford to get a grade below the expectation.”

“The best, you say?”

“That’s my reputation, yes.”

He stays silent, but you catch the way his eyes widen the slightest amount. He looks like he’s giving it a good thought, or maybe he’s just calculating how much of an idiot you are. You can only hope that’s not the case.

Then he lets out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“You know,” he says, “most people just ask for an autograph, or an interview, not to paint me as their muse.”

Your shoulders slump slightly, and your gaze lowers in defeat, trying to find comfort in the patterns on the pavement. You’re not stupid, he’s rejecting you without being rude about it—

“I’ll do it.”

You blink. Then snap your head up, searching his face for any insincerity.

“Really?” you ask loudly, “You agree? That easily?”

Mydei seems to be amused by your outburst, a peal of laughter leaves his lips. It’s a clear sound, coming from the chest.

“Really.” he nods, “But I have one condition.”

Condition? Well, it doesn’t matter. As long as he agrees, you think you can do with anything he says.

“Sure,” you beam at him, “What is your condition?”

“I want you to paint me with my violin.”

“Yeah, he agreed!” You kick the air with your legs, overjoyed with pride, “Can you believe? I didn’t even have to do anything.”

Castorice, on the other side of the line, hums in delight.

“That’s good to hear,” her soft tone graces your ears, “So, you have anything in mind?”

You roll on your back in your bed, playing with a piece of hair in between your fingers.

“We didn’t get to talk about the details much, I was running late for class.” you sigh, “But he said he wants me to paint him with his violin.”

Which is already what you were planning to do, so no arguments on that.

After his request, you simply gave a nod of your head and smiled at him sweetly. Then agreed on meeting up for a cup of coffee to talk about the painting and the process—which would be in about an hour from now.

He also saved your number on his phone so that you wouldn’t be having one sided conversations with his automated messages. You still remember the squint on his face and the small apology he muttered as he listened to your complaints.

“I gotta go now,” you informed your best friend, slightly pulling the phone from your ear to see the screen, “I don’t have much time left.”

She then gave a quick warning about updating her, you two exchanged some giggles over that, and ended the call without much ceremony.

You toss your phone beside the pillow and stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting the excitement settle somewhere inside your chest.

Just a painting. Nothing more. It’ll be alright.

Not wanting to waste more time than you already did, you get up quickly.

You get out of your pajamas, wear something decent, make sure you look presentable, grab your bag, and shove your sketchbook, pencils, and a small charcoal set inside. Just in case the conversation turns into an impromptu sketch session.

It probably won’t. But still.

Your phone buzzes just as you’re slipping on your shoes.

Mydei: I’m already at the cafe. Take your time.

Already? That diverts your eyes to the top of the screen. Twenty-four minutes. Is he always this punctual?

A second message follows.

Mydei: Well, don’t take too much time.

You can practically imagine the awkward little smile he must’ve had while typing it. A grin spreads across your face before you can acknowledge it.

You type back quickly.

Me: Omw!!

The walk to the cafe feels shorter than usual, probably because your brain refuses to sit still. You don’t know why it’s doing it, but it is. This isn’t some important commission or for some big contest either. It’s just your stupid final that Aglaea decided to turn into a struggle. And you’ll manage even if things don’t go that well with Mydei.

Still, with each step you take, the sound of your heartbeat rings louder in your ears.

When the cafe comes into your view, he is the first thing you spot from a distance. Sitting near the window, violin case leaning carefully against the chair beside him, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t seem to be drinking.

Mydei looks up the moment the door chimes. You walk over to the table, wearing a polite smile on your lips.

“Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

He shakes his head, “I arrived early,” then gestures to the chair in front of him.

You eyes settle on his instrument while you get comfortable on your seat, “You brought your violin with you.”

“Yeah,” Mydei hums. It’s a sweet sound, you take note, “I come from practice.”

“I see,” you mutter under your breath, then find his eyes, “You seem to have a really packed schedule.”

“I guess you could say that,”

Mydei looks deep in thought for a second, then a small smile appears on his lips, it’s hard to catch and leaves as quickly as it comes, but it was there.

“But I like what I do,” he nods faintly, “So I don’t mind it.”

You want to ask, where does it come from? This love. Because it’s impossible to miss it, you’d need to be quite dense to miss it. Even when he steals quick glances at its way, you can see it. The way his eyes soften slightly, like meeting an old friend. There is history, unsaid words, and some sort of longing.

Not wanting to seem too curious for your own good, you settle for staying silent this time.

To your surprise, the conversation flows smoothly after that. He asks a couple questions about the progress, you ask back about what he is comfortable with or not, and settle on the time and days for your session.

After that discussion comes to an end, you pull your sketchbook out of your bag, flipping it open to a page of loose drawings. They’re messy, overlapping, quick gestures trying to catch an idea before it slips away. The date on the bottom takes you back to when all of this started, and you try to surpass the smile fighting for its place on your lips.

“I was thinking something more natural,” you say, turning the book slightly so he can see. “Not too staged. Like you’re just… playing.”

He gives a quick hum in acknowledgment.

“What are you going for exactly?” he looks into your eyes while leaning forward to catch a better glimpse of the sketches, “Do you have some sort of theme for this?”

Theme. Right. The theme.

You were so focused on actually getting the chance to speak to Mydei that the theme had slipped clean out of your mind until now.

Vulnerability.

For a second you picture saying it out loud—I want to paint you vulnerable. The thought alone makes your stomach twist. It feels intrusive somehow, like those opportunistic paparazzi that swarm at the mention of scandal.

Your eyes flick briefly to the violin case beside him.

He carries himself with a quiet sort of control. Straight posture, calm voice, movements measured and careful. Nothing about him suggests he would appreciate being reduced to something fragile on a canvas.

You felt guilt brimming in you. His love for his music. You don’t know what it means, you don’t know where it comes from.

Would he think you were mocking him?

Your eyes meet with Mydei’s for a brief second and you realize you've been silent for a beat too long.

“Strength,” you clear your throat softly, “I needed something powerful.”

“Powerful?”

“Yes,” you lie with ease, “Your music is exactly what I’m looking for Mydei. Powerful.”

You were lying through your teeth. Powerful? Maybe. But it definitely wouldn’t be the first thought that comes to your mind when you hear him. And it wasn’t how you intended to portray him either. You were going for frail, tender—vulnerable.

Mydei’s eyes linger on the pages. For a moment he studies the loose lines, the unfinished shapes of hands and a violin resting against a shoulder.

Then he nods once.

“I see.”

A wave of relief crashes into you, but it doesn’t completely loosen the tight knot in your chest.

After all, the lie sits heavy in the air, and you have a month of work waiting the two of you.

The studio smells of dried paint and concrete.

The weather is getting warmer and spring is slowly turning into summer, it’s not as cold as it used to be. Most of the students leave school early around this time of the year so it’s not as crowded either. Rooms and tools are left untouched for hours if not days and hallways are quieter than usual. You can’t say you hate it.

The wooden door makes a loud squeak as you push it open. Mydei steps inside after you, violin case on one of his hands and backpack on the other. He takes a moment to examine the room, looking like a lost child.

You can’t help but huff a laugh at the sight, “You can sit wherever you’re comfortable,”

He nods without looking, eyes still wandering around the room, and takes a seat a few steps away from you.

While Mydei gets settled, you busy yourself with setting up your supplies. You cross to the cabinets at the end of the room, pull out a large sheet of paper, and drag an easel back with you, its legs scraping softly against the floor.

You set it up where it won’t block your view of Mydei, then secure the paper in place before taking a seat.

Next come your tools. You pull a handful of brushes from your bag and drop them into a glass, then sharpen a few graphite pencils, lining them up carefully beside it. Tubes of oil paint, a box of crayons—anything you can find, really, even if they don’t quite belong together.

The first session is only supposed to be some sketches. Therefore you know you won’t need all of this. But the room is awkward, you’re nervous, and need to pass the time as much as possible while Mydei is doing his thing.

Then you hear the quiet click of clasps, the soft slide of wood against fabric.

You peel your eyes off of the sketchbook draped open on your lap and glance at Mydei’s way.

He handles the violin gently, but not delicately. There’s no hesitation in his movements, no second-guessing. Just familiarity, something practiced enough to become instinct.

Clearing your throat, you straighten your pose, “You can start whenever,”

Then with a short nod again, Mydei starts playing.

He draws out a note at first, almost like testing the sound, then another, and another. They mesh together and fill the empty room with sound. You’re supposed to be drawing, examining, working right now, but you feel yourself unable to even lift a hand.

This is only your second time hearing him play, and it’s no less mesmerizing than the first one. A part of you wonders if you’ll be able to handle a whole month of this.

“I’ll be moving quite a lot while playing,” Mydei’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, “Will you be able to draw?” He murmurs without peering his eyes off of his bow.

It’s not condescending, he’s genuinely curious.

“I’ll be fine,” your pencil finally meets the paper, “I want to capture the moment anyway.”

He just gives a quiet hum after that, and silence settles between you again, only occupied with the pleasant sound of violin.

Moments pass like this. Mydei playing like it’s instinct, and you trying your best to do his beauty justice.

You sketch the curve of his posture first. The line of his shoulders, the way his head tilts, his fingers flexing on the neck of the instrument, his other hand relaxed, wrist slightly curved in.

In between shared glances and concentration, your curiosity gets the better of you, “Why did you agree to this?” you meet his eyes, “Not that I’m complaining, of course, but I didn’t expect you to say yes so easily either.”

Mydei seems to give it thought for a moment, then he answers back with a shrug,

“It was the look in your eyes, I guess,” he says, “I’ve never heard someone talk about my music like that.”

You feel your cheeks burn as heat rushes to your face. Was it that obvious?

“…What kind of look?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Mydei’s bow doesn’t pause, but the note he draws stretches just a little longer.

“Just—” he exhales heavily, like he is frustrated with himself, “It was as if you’re hearing me for what I actually am.”

And you know, somehow, that there is a deeper meaning to that. That it matters more to him than he lets on. Maybe it’s the way his fingers grip his bow more firmly, or the way his eyes drift off to somewhere beyond the room, but you see it.

You don’t have an answer back to it, which doesn’t help the atmosphere, so you just keep drawing him instead. Avoiding Mydei’s eyes and pressing harder on the page than you mean to.

The graphite darkens, and the light, you realize distantly, isn’t helping.

It spills from the fluorescent lamps at the ceiling, too bright and uneven, flattening everything it touches. It catches on the varnish of the violin too harshly, blows out the contours of his face, leaves parts of him in shadow where you don’t want them to be. You tilt your paper slightly, then back again, but it doesn’t fix it.

You exhale quietly through your nose.

And Mydei should’ve realized the frown on your face by now, because his sound slows and quiets down before he asks, “Something wrong?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” You wave your hands in the air, “It’s just the light causing some trouble. I never liked the studios of the school anyways. Nothing here screams art.”

He hums like that means anything to him, “Anything I can do?”

Your eyes drift from examining the lamps on the ceiling back to his face, “I, uh, I don’t think so? Not unless you know some art studio that doesn’t charge a fortune per hour, I guess.” You sigh.

Both of you sit in silence for a good minute, then agree to take a small break. Mydei lowers his violin and seems deep in thought, while you huff and puff to yourself, wiping off graphite from your fingers.

Just when you’re thinking the world is against this project since everything seems to be going downhill, Mydei’s hum brings you back.

“Actually,” he exhales lightly through his nose, almost a huff at himself, like he can’t believe he’s saying this, “My place has decent lighting. I live on a high floor and the living room has some tall windows.”

Your brows lift a little.

“You could use it. If you want. No pressure, obviously.” he says, a little softer. “If it’s weird, it’s weird. Just figured I’d mention it.”

A small “Oh,” is all you let out at first, “Yeah, um—yeah, that would be great actually. You sure you’re okay with this?”

He shrugs, “I don’t have that many guests and I live nearby, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

The idea of going to Mydei’s house—to paint him, no less—possibly spending hours there, alone; is a bit weird, like he said so. But curse your stupid head because you are a bit curious, and maybe a tiny bit eager.

For the drawing, obviously.

“Alright,” you take a deep breath, “When are you available?”

“How about,” he pauses, “Right now?”

The walk to Mydei’s apartment is mostly silent. He isn’t much of a talker, you’ve realized over the little time you’ve shared so far. You are though, in contrast to him. But not right now. Not when your steps feel too light and your pulse sounds like the chorus of an upbeat rock song.

“We’re here,” he points at a building with his head. You only hum in response.

You take the elevator to the twelfth floor. Mydei steps out with his hands in his bag, searching for something. Then he takes out his keys, they jingle between his fingers before he puts it in the lock and the door opens with a soft click. A small violin charm catches your eyes before he pulls them back out, and you smile to yourself a little before stepping in.

His place smells weirdly clean, like, too clean. Almost makes you question if he even lives here. But you also think that’s kind of in character of him.

He has tall windows that light up the place nicely. The walls, or anywhere else for that matter, isn’t really decorated. It’s just simple furniture, some blankets on a couch, and a big plant on the corner that looks out of place. Maybe gifted from someone else?

You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, breaking the quiet, “Your place is nice.”

He gives a small thanks in response before crossing the room, pushing one of the chairs back with his foot, clearing space near the windows.

“Will this work?”

You step closer, tilting your head, already framing him in your mind. “Yeah,” you shrug, “Way better than the studio.”

A lot more intimate too, your mind reminds you, but you don’t mention that to him.

“Where do you want me?” Mydei asks.

You observe his living room again after that, with more intent than just trying to familiarize yourself with his home.

“It would be nice if we could catch the evening sun,” you hum, “Maybe it could hit you from the side?”

He gives a quick nod and gets moving. Mydei pulls a chair in front of the window, takes his violin back out of its case and sits down, posing the same way he did earlier in the studio, and starts playing. You don’t have all your tools here but a sketchbook should be enough for now. So you sit down in front of him and take it out, your pencil already in your hand.

And the silence is back.

It’s not too awkward, thankfully. But you really wouldn’t mind some more energy in the room. It’s not the stillness of the moment that bothers you—the music is enough to move it—but more so him.

Wouldn’t be so bad if Mydei just gave a bit more than he does, you think. It wouldn’t be horrible if you knew what it meant when his brow raised slightly to the left, or when he flexes his hand every now and then—like a sudden fire burnt his fingertips, when he doesn’t really give an answer but just hums quietly—even if it wasn’t a question, or when he does literally anything else.

You trace the outline of his jawline on your paper, sharp as a knife yet as fixed as stone. His violin rests against it, having already made a home for itself there long time ago.

“So,” you exhale, “Tell me more about yourself?”

His amber eyes rise up from his fingers, and he stares off at the wall in front of him for a few seconds. A few seconds that feel like eternity for you.

“There isn’t much to tell, really. I mean, haven’t you already read the papers?”

Such a dry tone.

“I don’t really care what the papers say. Surely you’d be a better source, no?”

Mydei’s eyes flicker, and he looks like he’s about to speak for a second. He parts his lips, gives a small lick to them, while breathing in heavily, you can see his pupils move back and forth on the pattern of his rug. You wait in anticipation while he draws out another note and the quiet tick of the clock in the room counts time. It all happens so quickly and you really get your hopes up this time,

“I think they do quite a good job, actually.”

Only to be let down.

“I see.” you don’t mean to sigh, but it comes out anyway.

“So you two are finally working together?” The white haired man asks you with genuine surprise.

“Yes, Phai, we really are.” you reply, “I don’t really know how it happened either. One day I was practically begging for him to say yes, and the other I was drawing him play, in his apartment.”

The wide halls of your school echo with your steps, loud and only. Your friend helps you carry your new easel to one of the studios, the drag across the floor joining your footsteps. The year is about to end soon, classes are almost over and everyone has been slowly wrapping up their works. You however are still stuck with a stupid sketch in your hands and a bunch of other questions in your head.

You’ve been thinking about your work, if you have enough time, if it’ll come out like you visualized, but most importantly, if you’re doing it right. Mydei has been nothing but generous towards you. He’s been kind and he doesn’t complain, you would even go as far as to say he actually enjoys it, that he’s looking forward to the end product.

It’s obviously expected that he would be curious or maybe even excited, but you feel like the way his eyes widen every time you make a slightly sharper flick of your wrist on the paper says something more about him.

You caught him peeking at your open sketchbook on the coffee table once when you two were taking a break. It’s a bigger one than your usual so everything is much more clear, more final on the pages.

“Like what you see?” you ask in between bites from the fruit he peeled for you.

He whips his head toward you, clearly not aware that you were watching him, “Sorry, it looks nice.”

“Don’t apologize,” you lick the juice off your thumb, “It’s you on the paper.”

The room is silent, actually silent this time. No violin, no pencil meeting paper, no huffing and puffing because of some wrong lines and a sore neck. Just you, him, and the cold peaches sitting on the table in front of you. Other than the occasional eye contact you two make (which almost immediately ends with one of you looking away in no longer than a second), and the soft taps of his fingers across the marble countertop, not much else is happening.

Making small talk with Mydei is difficult. Not because he isn’t much of a talker, although you’re sure that plays a small part too, but because he doesn’t share, you think.

Mydei keeps to himself. It’s been—what, three sessions so far? Which equals to two weeks of knowing and meeting Mydei. Yet your knowledge about him is still almost as limited as what the internet tells you.

It’s important to understand your subject for your drawing, yes, but putting all of that aside, you’re curious about Mydei. Ever since that stage, ever since feeling like your soul was leaving your skin, ever since running after him in heels that hit all the wrong spots on your feet, you’ve been curious about him.

And when you’re trying to get your sketch across a bigger paper, clipped on the wooden stand Phainon helped you drag into the studio, it happens.

A small ding from your phone interrupts your conversation.

Mydei: Do you think we could do a session today?

“It’s him?” Phainon’s blue eyes search your face with anticipation.

He’s enjoying this way too much, you think, but your friend is lucky because you have better concerns right now.

“Yeah, he’s asking to meet up.” You furrow your brows in confusion. Your next session isn’t due until three days.

“Like, an actual meet up?”

Phainon takes a step next to you, then leans forward to see your phone screen clearly, “A session?”

“Yes, that’s what we call them. But our next one still has some time, I don’t really understand why he’s asking for one right now.” You scratch your neck with your other hand, then mumble quietly, almost a question, “I mean it doesn’t even benefit him.”

Phainon snickers, “Maybe he just misses you.”

That earns him a slap on the shoulder.

You quickly type back, not wanting to make him wait.

Me: our next one is in three days iirc?

Me: but sure!! my schedule’s empty

Mydei: Sorry if it’s inconvenient. You can come over whenever.

Me: will be there in 20

“You’re excited,” Phainon jokes, “You sure this is strictly professional?”

Not really.

“Stop it already, oh my god,” you give a look to him, “I just don’t have anything better to do, and mind you, he’s the one asking.”

Phainon laughs, it’s a loud and unbothered sound. He definitely is enjoying this.

You’re in front of Mydei’s apartment in sixteen minutes since your last message.

The city is warm and the building is warmer. Your hair is sticking to your skin at the curve of your neck, your hands are sweaty from holding onto your bag too tight, and Mydei still hasn’t opened the door.

Well, that might be because you haven’t rang the bell yet, but we’re putting that aside.

It’s just the thought of showing up unplanned, or let’s say three days earlier than what was planned. Coming to his house and feeling like this is more than what the two of you agreed on, more than you trying to keep your eyes on only the parts you’re supposed to draw, more than him keeping quiet, keeping to himself.

Your fingers reach up to the doorbell, only for Mydei to beat you to it. The door opens with a fast swing, almost giving you a heart attack.

“Oh my gods, Mydei,” you rest your hand against your chest, “You scared the living crap out of me.”

“Sorry,” the blonde purses his lips, “I heard some noises so I thought I’d check it out.”

“Well, the noises were me.”

Mydei steps aside to let you in with another quiet apology, but you catch the way he dips his head low in hopes of hiding the small smile playing on his lips.

His place is the same as always, clean, quiet, everything you’ve gotten used to by know. But then you take another step in, and it hits you, the smell of something sweet coming from the kitchen.

“Sorry for asking so suddenly,” Mydei says as he locks the door behind you. “I know we said Friday.”

“It’s fine,” you answer too quickly. “I wasn’t doing anything important but, um, you—did you bake something?”

Mydei doesn’t give an answer immediately, just busies himself with taking your bag off your hands and places it somewhere in the living room. You don’t really push, you stopped doing that some time ago.

He walks toward the kitchen, you try not to stare at him while unpacking your stuff, yet you still catch your eyes following him from across the apartment as he fills a kettle with water. He’s dressed casually today, loose dark pants, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pale hair still slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it all afternoon.

Mydei turns back toward the counter, but not before you catch the way his jaw tightens slightly. “You want tea?” he asks after a moment.

“Sure.” You answer without making eye contact with him.

He doesn’t say anything else, so you begin setting up your pencils while he moves around the kitchen. Your eyes start wandering again. You notice how he hasn’t set up his chair like he usually does before you come, or how his violin is sitting on the couch already.

“You were practicing before I got here?” you ask.

He hums without turning, “Just some old ones I wanted to remember.”

Before you can say anything back, Mydei starts moving. He opens the fridge first, taking out a bowl with stretch film wrapped over it, then he takes out some pre-cut fruits, shuts the fridge, moves to a different part of his kitchen.

You watch all of it in silence.

And when you’re about to ask what’s the matter, a ding sound interrupts his movements. Then he puts on the oven glove resting on the counter, opens the oven and—takes out a cake?

“Huh, you really were baking.” you tilt your head, “Are you celebrating something?”

The kettle clicks softly in the kitchen. Which gives him his escape from answering your question, or so you thought. Because this time, Mydei opens.

“It’s my mothers birthday,” he’s quiet while filling the cups with hot water.

“Oh, is she arriving soon?” You ask with a smile, “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gotten something on my way here.”

You regret asking that as soon as the words leave your mouth, because it’s impossible to miss the way the air tenses around the two of you. The room is silent, again. Mydei gives a look your way, then he puts the kettle down slowly. He’s calm in a very unusual way, he moves slower, he even talks slower, you think. But you catch the way he grips the edge of the counter with his hands until his skins turns white.

“No,” he breathes, “No, she isn’t arriving. I celebrate it by myself.”

Then he looks at you. That’s when it hits you. Oh, stupid you.

You want to slap yourself across the face, lay on the ground and kick yourself in the stomach, but all you could do is raise your eyebrows slightly at the man in front of you.

The words catch you off guard for some reason. Not because of what he said, but because he offered it at all. Usually conversations with Mydei are like trying to catch water in your hands. He gives answers that are polite but thin, always enough to end the discussion before it becomes personal.

So this feels… different.

“I’m sorry,” you say before anything else comes out of your mouth that would make you regret coming here at all.

His brows pinch slightly, “Why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t know.” You give a helpless little laugh,

For a second he simply watches you. Then, surprisingly—

“She used to make that cake every year,” he points at the counter, “I’ve been continuing the tradition, I guess.”

The fondness in his voice is tiny, but unmistakable. And funny enough, this might be the most he’s ever spoken to you at once.

You’re terrified of ruining it.

“So…” you say carefully, “Why invite me over today?”

The question hangs in the air for a minute. You can almost see the gears turning in Mydei’s head, almost to say, Why did I invite her? And you think, or maybe you hope, he just needed company. Mydei, who has been celebrating his mothers birthday all these years, all by himself, needed you here today.

You don’t know what to feel about that possibility.

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” he laughs to himself, as if he can’t believe you’re here either, “I guess I thought you’d enjoy the cake.”

You stare at his face for a good minute, it’s probably only a few seconds in reality, but feels like a minute. With the way his golden strands frame his face, or the way the afternoon light hits his nose, the way his fingers wrap around the piping bag, the way he looks so vulnerable right now; it feels like an eternity actually.

Mydeimos, from the second you’ve witnessed him, felt so, so vulnerable. And you can’t help but see it every time your eyes catch his sights. But despite it all, despite all of the things you see beyond his eyes, all the burdens you know he carries, you still can’t help but smile a little when he looks into your eyes. The man just has that kind of effect on you.

“Yeah, I probably would,” you try to keep your laugh inside while walking up to him, “If only you weren’t absolutely murdering that cake right now.”

“I—” Mydei tilts his head to the side, like a lost puppy. It looks foreign on him, in all honesty. Not unwelcome though.

“Let me help. I’m actually part decent at this kind of stuff, you know, art and all.”

“Right,” he nods his head once, then hands the piping bag to you.

As you take the bag from his hands, you try to ignore the way your fingers brush against his, or the way he takes a second longer than necessary while giving it to you. Almost hesitant.

And you understand it. It’s not surprising that he would halter. It’s not surprising that his fingers, which have been strongly pressing to strings like hammers, yet also move like an irresistible force, would tremble slightly while giving the frosting filled bag to you.

Because it’s just frosting. But then it’s not.

It’s not just sugar, milk and cream. It’s today of every year. It’s Mydei sitting alone in his apartment and blowing candles for god knows how many times now.

The lemony scent hits your nose as soon as you wrap your hands around the plastic. It’s then accompanied with something sweet, like vanilla. And it takes everything in you to not look at Mydei as you squeeze the bag until the top of the cake is smeared in frosting.

“It smells nice,” you mumble, “Made it yourself too?”

“Lemon and vanilla,” Mydei hums. Knew it. “She used to love it. I probably never get the recipe right. It doesn’t taste the same. But the smell still brings some memories back, y’know.”

“What was her name?”

“Gorgo.” The word comes out as a whisper. Like it knows how heavy it is.

“That’s a beautiful name,” you smile, “I’m sure she would appreciate your efforts.”

Mydei let’s out a laugh. A breathy, small and quick one. But still, undeniably, a laugh.

“She would,” he shakes his head, “Then she’d slap me in the head for not making the cake correctly.”

The image makes you laugh too. And as Mydei takes out pomegranate seeds out of another bag, you imagine him, seven maybe eight years old, tiny footsteps into the kitchen, peering from the back of the door and watching his mom, Gorgo, prepare her birthday cake.

Maybe he would try to keep quiet. Maybe he’d go up to her and pester his mom about the cake. If we’re being honest, you don’t really know how small Mydei would be like. The same way you don’t know how he is now.

Or maybe that is slowly changing. Slowly, but it is.

“She didn’t use pomegranates, but I like the taste.”

“You’re telling me a lot about yourself today,” and as soon as the words leave your mouth, you regret them. You’re sure you’ve ruined it now. “Not that I mind or anything of course but—”

“I just think she would’ve liked you.”

The piping bag nearly slips from your hands.

For a moment, the only sound in the apartment is the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic outside the window. You stare at the half-decorated cake. Then at Mydei. Then back at the cake.

Because surely he didn't just say that.

“I—I see,” you purse your lips, “What makes you say that?”

Mydei doesn’t answer immediately, just keeps decorating the cake with the red seeds.

He’s mostly quiet, mostly focused, competitive even though he doesn't show it, one hell of a musician, talented beyond his years, and he for sure knows how to make your chest tighten. Maybe it’s on purpose, maybe he just likes seeing you in this state. Or maybe you’re just delusional.

Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re holding your breath.

“I have a feeling she would,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal.

That’s when you raise your head to protest about how that’s so vague, but you silence yourself as soon as you catch him staring at you.

Amber eyes, golden hair dipped in sunset. A pronounced nose, a sharp jawline, and a face that seems almost sculpted rather than born. As if that weren't unfair enough, the afternoon sun wraps around him in gold, turning every feature softer and brighter.

He looks less like a person and more like an angel fallen from heaven. No wonder your heart is pounding hard enough to shake your ribs.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. So quiet, you wonder if you’d imagined it. “Yeah, she definitely would.”

Then as if nothing happened. As if nothing changed, nothing has been said. Mydei turns back to the cake. He keeps putting the seeds on the cake, some to the side. He even tilts his head to the side at one point, like he’s really focused. On the cake.

While you’re stuck in your place, hands tight, chest tighter. The moment has passed. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.

But you still smile to yourself as the lemony scent of the frosting fills the room.

The name of the woman in the painting is Xinyue. The ring on her finger was placed there by the creator of the Xianzhou Empire, Emperor Jing Yuan. This overly detailed portrait was a gift from him to her. It’s to display the beauty and grace of the future Empress.

But that story is why you hold disdain for the painting. Because only months before, another portrait was in this very spot for the same reasoning.

Her painting replaced yours.

Here, in the Xianzhou Palace, your existence is well known. You play an important and occasionally overlooked role in the Royal Court. Politics. The peace treaties between the Empire and other kingdoms were made possible through you. Battles were avoided because of your interference. Alliances hadn’t been broken by your influence.

Before Xinyue, you were the future Empress to be. Jing Yuan adored you, he praised you, he loved you. While he was the fighter, you were the tactician. A perfect pair to rule over the Empire.

And so suddenly, the ring was removed from your finger. Another woman began to roam the palace halls with a different ring given to her by Jing Yuan that held the same meaning. Forged to her exact measurements and liking, Lady Xinyue is now the bride to be for the Emperor. He adores her, he praises her, he loves her.

Now your painting is gone. It is stored in a location unknown to you, serving only to collect dust.

He gave you no reasoning behind his actions. Why had he discarded you off to the side that easily? Years of loyalty to each other and it ended abruptly.

“My Lady,” A voice from the end of the hall directed your attention away from the painting. There is a servant who had been tasked with finding you. She witnessed you intently staring at the artwork hanging on the wall. Knowing your story, she felt a sense of pity deep down in her heart for you. “The guests from Amphoreus are waiting. The meeting will begin soon.”

Amphoreus. A vast land which you had never been to. It was hard to explain how different things worked there compared to the Xianzhou Empire. But of course, like other country leaders, they were here for the exact same reasoning.

Your eyes flicked over to the painting again and then gave the servant a curt nod as a sign of thanks, “Very well.”

It wouldn’t be proper of you to keep the guests of Amphoreus waiting. So, you followed behind the servant woman. The image of the painting lingered in the back of your mind. Unfortunately, with how many times you passed by it since it was hung, you knew it well to the most minute detail.

You arrived outside of the Royal Courts meeting room. All important discussions were held here and away from the prying ears of the servants. Two Cloud Knights stood on either side of the double doors.

Today, behind those doors, were three of the twelve Chrysos Heirs from Amphoreus. Lady Aglaea, Lord Phainon, and Lord Mydeimos.

In recent times, Jing Yuan expressed his interest in having Amphoreus become part of the Xianzhou Empire. This would give him total and absolute control over the region. What that meant is that you would get stuck doing all the diplomatic work. You were very good at what you did, but the Emperor seemed to have a hard time comprehending how impossible it was to sway the Chrysos Heirs.

They weren’t bad people. They, however, were extremely intelligent. They knew how to deny whenever something felt the slightest bit wrong to them. After all, it was twelve of them and only one of you.

Regardless, the guards opened the doors for you. The attendees for today’s meeting were already sitting down at the table. Members of the Xianzhou Royal Court had huddled themselves by the head of the table, the chair reserved for the Emperor. Though you weren’t too focused on them.

As soon as you stepped into the room, the sound of two chairs being pushed back made everyone’s heads turn in that direction. Phainon and Mydei were both standing. It was nice to see that the men of Amphoreus held the utmost respect for women. They at least still stood up whenever a lady walked into the room.

At their side was Aglaea, who continued to remain seated with the others but kindly smiled at you.

“My Lady,” She then stood up once you drew closer to them, “It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise, Lady Aglaea.” You said, shifted your gaze to the other two Chrysos Heirs to greet them. Phainon gently took your hand in his and bowed as a sign of respect. Mydei copied his action, more careful with his clawed armor. “Gentlemen, thank you for being here.”

“It's always an honor to be in your presence.” Phainon said, placing a hand on his chest.

The heavy doors creaked, indicating someone else had arrived. There is a shift in the atmosphere in the room. His Grace, Jing Yuan, entered.

Everyone immediately stood up and turned to bow. His boots clicked against the floor. But there were a second pair of footsteps that followed. He hadn’t arrived alone, and you weren’t expecting him to. He had his betrothed, Xinyue, following behind him. Your brows slowly narrowed despite trying to hide your expression.

A frown settled on Aglaea’s face, but she covered it up by clearing her throat and placing the back of her hand over her lips. Neither Phainon nor Mydei were pleased at this turn of events. When the Emperor suddenly broke off your long term engagement, the news spread across the lands. His actions were considered an abomination in the eyes of Amphoreus, a sign of ultimate disrespect towards you.

“Greetings,” Jing Yuan stopped once he reached the head of the table. He noticed that amongst everyone in the room, you weren’t looking at him. As per usual, you were being cold towards him. “My apologies, I haven’t had time to properly address the three of you since your arrival at the Empire.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Your Grace.” Aglaea said, “You’re a busy man. We understand.”

“Xinyue will be joining us for this meeting.” He motioned over to his fiancée standing right beside him. She held her hands in front of her, behaving like a proper woman. “Is that alright?”

And everyone, in unison responded the same thing, “Of course, Your Grace.” Because no one could be opposed to it. So they had to accommodate and made room for Xinyue. She took the first chair, sitting on the left side of the table. It forced the Royal Court Members to all move one chair down.

You realized you wouldn’t have a place to sit. That’s until you felt a hand gently touching your upper arm to get your attention. The owner’s hand was recognizable by the feel of armor.

“My Lady.” Mydei held onto the back of his chair. He was offering his seat at the table up to you. You glanced at the open chair before walking over to it. You tucked your dress comfortably as you sat down. He then carefully pushed the chair closer to the table. This left you sitting directly across Aglaea and Phainon. A much better position since you would be doing most of the talking with the Chrysos Heirs.

“Thank you,” You said, though not sparing him a second glance. You could feel Jing Yuan’s gaze focused intently on the interaction. And not only that, Mydei remained behind you as if he were your most trusted guard, tasked with protecting you. His lingering presence was… Soothing, in a way. “Let us begin,”

The meeting proceeded. It dragged on for hours. Although on certain occasions, Feixiao and Yao Guang left their input, you had most of the control at the table. It was a back and forth between you and the three Chrysos Heirs. They were not easily persuaded by your statements.

Where Jing Yuan wanted them to see it fit that they join the Empire, they were more towards leaning into an alliance. You weren’t necessarily objecting to that idea, but you knew you’d hear a handful if you didn’t try to negotiate harder with them.

“Amphoreus has prospered under the rule of the Chrysos Heirs.” Aglaea explained, “Our people are happy. They’re content. We’ve avoided many conflicts with other countries. That is what matters most to us.”

The Heirs took their sworn oath to protect their people seriously. You were actually against trying to convince them to give up their rightful thrones. Except, you were a servant who had to fight for the Emperor’s desires. As soon as you were going to speak again, a new person decided to chime in.

“But why have twelve separate rulers, when you could be under the control of one benevolent ruler instead?” Xinyue’s voice rang from the front of the table.

You were baffled, immediately turning over to her. It silenced the others at the table. They looked amongst each other. No one wanted to say it, but they were all thinking the same thing. Xinyue wanted to play your role, and she would fail miserably at this game.

You wished you could say none of this was her fault. Since she knew of your history with Jing Yuan, she was attempting to prove herself. This was her way of saying to you that she was better, and once she became the Empress, you were no longer going to be needed. Her issue was that she had a closed minded attitude, always believing that the Xianzhou Empire could do no wrong.

“Under the control of one benevolent ruler?” The deep voice from behind you said. Mydei held back a scoff at her ignorance. Aglaea had to give him a stern look to remind him who he was speaking against. Though, it was ignored when he continued, “The people of Amphoreus don’t need history to repeat itself. We have only recently been released from Nikador’s grasp.”

Xinyue grew silent. She didn’t know of Amphoreus’ extensive history like you or other members of the Royal Court. In fact, she wasn’t very knowledgeable about the reign of the different lands either. It was unfortunate she struck a nerve in Lord Mydeimos with her comment.

You immediately looked over at Fu Xuan, retainer of the Emperor. When your gaze met hers, she instantly knew what you were trying to say. She was forced to intervene, “Why don’t we put this meeting on hold for today? I think that’s enough discussing this matter. We can continue tomorrow.”

“Yes, I do agree.” Aglaea said, her hands letting go to gently push her chair back.

You exhaled lowly in relief. Fu Xuan had leverage with her position in the Court. Ending the discussion for the time being was better before someone ended up making matters worse.

The meeting room emptied.

Everyone went on their separate paths and attended to their own matters. You had gone with Aglaea, escorting her to the guest wing where she was staying during her time here. You spoke with her, catching up now that you weren’t forced to talk about anything politically related.

Eventually, you decided to say your goodbyes so she could rest.

You wandered through the halls, heading to that same hallway from early this morning in order to return to your chambers. You arrived, only to find out you weren’t alone.

In the distance, Mydei is before that painting and examining it in silence with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s sharp enough to know someone else is in the hallway with him. You had no intentions to stop and talk to him. Your heels echoed through the empty hallway as you walked with your head held high. Just as you passed him, you were forced to stop.

“Lady (Y/N),” He called out to you. His gaze remained fixated on the painting of Xinyue. You closed your eyes for a brief moment. This meant you had to face him, otherwise, it would be improper. He asked the very question you were dreading to hear come from a guest. “Was your portrait not here before?”

How embarrassing.

“Yes, it was.” Your response was short. As expected. He glanced over his shoulder at you. He watched your reaction closely. He motioned to the canvas.

“And… Where is it now?” Mydei asked. His newest question left you puzzled. Your eyes narrowed slightly and your head tilted to the side.

“Where is what?”

“Your portrait.” He elaborated. “Where is your portrait now?”

That made you stop and think about it for a brief moment.

Jing Yuan commissioned the painting as a gift. He wanted everyone to see the beauty of the woman he was going to marry. He was a prideful man, you were his greatest treasure. With everything that happened, you never once wondered where your painting disappeared to.

Why did Mydeimos care? Was he trying to make fun of you? You, who once held the Emperor’s affection and wore his ring on your finger, didn’t even know where the painting dedicated to you had gone.

“I do not know.” You said in a defensive manner. The faintest hint of snark didn’t go unnoticed for the Kremnoan. “Why not ask a servant for its whereabouts?”

He chose to remain silent as you left. Perhaps it was a mistake to ask such a blunt question. He could have worded it differently. It wasn’t his intention to upset you. But you were gone now, and he couldn’t apologize.

His eyes went from the right end of the hallway to the left where you originally came from. Mydei stood there for a moment longer, before making up his mind. He turned the other way with the objective of finding the closest member of the Royal Court.

“You wish for me to go to Amphoreus?”

“Yes.” Jing Yuan nodded his head. He reclined in his chair while you stood across from his desk. He laced his hands together, “That’s exactly what I said. I want you to go to Amphoreus so you can see why they don’t want to join the Empire. Simple as that.”

It had been two months since the three Chrysos Heirs departed from the Empire. The meeting, as you assumed it would be, was unsuccessful. Not a single one of the offers made swayed them. They didn’t bother dwelling on it, and continued proposing an alliance.

It only made the Emperor more insistent. You couldn’t disobey. You lived in the Xianzhou Empire and held a position in the Royal Court. Obeying his direct orders were your every day command. That’s why he chose you to do every diplomatic duty for him, no matter what it was. This is what you had studied and trained for since a young age.

You weren’t fond of the idea of traveling. You truly never liked it and viewed it to be a hassle. With the change in season, the heatwaves would make your experience worse than usual.

“Perhaps they don’t see it fit to join the Empire.” You said. Jing Yuan raised his brow before a smile spread on his face and he let out a short chuckle.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” He said. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve already sent a letter. Once it’s discussed with the Chrysos Heirs and they’ve given permission, you’ll take your leave for Amphoreus immediately. Do you understand?”

If you had to argue with Anaxagoras, you might lose your mind. Instead, you exhaled and nodded your head.

“As you desire, Your Grace.” You bowed.

“Now then. That is settled. Moving on,” Jing Yuan crossed his arms over his chest, “Have you reconsidered my proposal?” Your gaze darkened for the briefest moment. But he was an attentive man, and the shift in your eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

“My answer was no the first time and it will be no each time you ask.” You said with a sharp tone. The corner of his lip twitched downwards. He placed his hands on his desk, pushing himself up from his chair.

“And why is that? You refuse to tell me your reasoning.” He walked around his desk with slow steps. He stood in front of you and reached out, his fingertips grazing your jawline. They came underneath your chin and lifted your head to meet his gaze. “Is it really such a detestable life to become my concubine? All I desire is to keep you at my side.”

This is what you had been reduced to. From his lover and fiancée to a mere puppet he could control. He’d done it so easily and with no remorse, you wondered if he ever loved you at all.

“You used to go about that in a better manner.” You held his gaze. Your words silenced him.

His proposal was like a slap in the face. He replaced you with Xinyan. And you, with an aching heart, had to accept it. Then he turned around and asked that you become a concubine once he married. His only concubine, he said. Your feelings didn't matter to him. Gone was the man you once loved.

He dropped his hand from your chin. He couldn’t find that same love and devotion in your eyes anymore. Did he miss it? The Emperor himself didn’t know.

“You are dismissed.” He flicked his hand.

His temper flared at how quickly you left his study. You had to keep your composure. You refused to show any sign of weakness in front of Jing Yuan, no matter how much you were aching inside.

Xinyue’s painting taunted you as you walked by it. It was beginning to get harder to not place the blame on her. None of this is her fault, you reminded yourself. She wasn’t the one you were engaged to and she wasn’t the one who suddenly broke it off. She believed he loved her, just as you believed it once.

What about you? Didn't you have a right to be angry at this young noble woman who appeared in the palace overnight?

There was no reason to fight over Jing Yuan’s affection. If he took it away so easily, it was never there to begin with.

The Cloud Knights patrolling your wing pushed your chamber doors open when you arrived.

Qingque was inside. Your lady in waiting is adjusting three boxes stacked on each other. She placed a vase of blooming flowers right beside them. She looked in your direction when the doors shut behind. A bright smile formed on her face, “My Lady!” She exclaimed loudly, careful to not bump into the table.

“What is this?” You asked.

“You received a gift all the way from Amphoreus!” She plucked an envelope from the top box. She held it out to you, “They sent flowers from here.”

“Amphoreus?” You repeated.

The wax seal on the back had the symbol of the Romance Titan. Aglaea. You examined the boxes. Qingque practically bounced on the balls of her feet. She seemed more excited about your gifts than you were. Maybe because she knew this was one you’d accept.

Jing Yuan, probably to cover whatever little guilt he might feel if he felt any at all, had been sending gifts to your chambers regularly. A cruel thing to do, you’d simply send them out to noble women, passing them off as your own.

As you carefully ripped the wax seal apart, you gave Qingque permission to open the boxes. You read the letter written in Aglaea’s elegant handwriting.

My dearest Lady (Y/N),

In my years of being a dressmaker, I have been commissioned by many different people. Each of the dresses that I have crafted are woven with love and dedication. The day you read this letter, it is an honor to present to you my own creations. These are creations that I believe are long overdue.

But, I must mention that the dresses you will find in these boxes were made at Lord Mydeimos’ request. When we returned to the land of Amphoreus, he paid a hefty amount for the finest silk and materials. He constantly came to look over my progress and made sure that they would be to your liking.

Though, after I finished and prepared for the gifts to be sent over, I asked if he wanted to write a letter or a note. He became rather shy, and said I could take care of that part as well.

I believe you’ve long ago entranced our Mydeimos with your lovely presence.

Sincerely, Aglaea.

“Look how beautiful they are!” Qingque said, holding one of the boxes in her hands. The other two were left on the table with the lids off. Any piece created by Aglaea was absolutely stunning. The dressmaker had a true talent.

You touched the white silk, soft under your fingertips. They were the toga dresses worn in Amphoreus. Aglaea’s signature style, no matter where she went. In another box was a red dress, and the other held a light blue.

So these were made at the request of Mydei. The brief interaction you had with him months ago in front of Xinyue’s portrait resurfaced. Now you were regretting the sharp tone you used. You folded the letter and tucked it into the envelope again.

“Qingque.” You placed the envelope down on the table by the flowers, “I expect to leave for Amphoreus. When I do, I would like these dresses amongst my wardrobe. In the meantime, please keep them in the boxes.”

She nodded her head, and quickly went ahead with the task to get it out of the way. Not only would you thank Mydei in person, you’d have to apologize for the way you spoke to him.

series material list | part two, coming soon . . .

this is a miniseries, estimated to be three parts in total. if you are interested in being tagged, please comment or send an ask, and make sure i am able to tag you.

And true to their words, his eyes are pinned on you even as he raises his glass for a lazy sip of JD and coke.

You tear your eyes away with an eye roll, forcing your attention back to your friends.

“We are not together,” you say firmly, maybe too firmly. “I am not getting back with him. It’s been months, I’ve moved on, and if he hasn’t? That’s on him.”

The girls trade looks, and then Hysilens smirks like she’s just won a bet you never agreed to.

“Wanna bet?”

“Oh, screw you, Hyse.”

Her laughter disappears into the swell of the music as she slams back another shot, then grabs both you and Cas by the wrists when the DJ slides into the instrumental of Only Girl in the World.

“You gotta dance, girl, c’mon!” she hollers, pulling you out onto the floor.

And you do—because it’s easier to laugh and sway and drown yourself in the lights than to think about his stare burning through the crowd. You were here to enjoy yourself, after all.

It takes at least four more songs and a countless drinks before Cas leans into you, complaining that she’s dizzy, and you shout that you’ll grab her water, then wait for Hysilens (who’s also swaying on her feet) to usher her back into the booth before you leave.

You weave towards the bar, skin damp from the heat, throat parched, ordering three waters over the music blaring from the speakers.

That’s when it happens.

A hand slips around your waist. Firm. Familiar.

“Hey.”

You don't even need to turn your head to know who it is, his cologne gives him away.

You let out a deep sigh and he quirks a brow.

“What? Not even going to greet me now?”

You shift your weight to the leg farthest from him, “Not here, Mydei.”

“Relax, Castorice and Hysilens are too busy dancing to even see,” he insists.

You stare up at him in disbelief, but under the strobe lights, his eyes are molten—steady and unashamed, like he already knows how this night will end. The bass vibrates up your legs, matching the restless beat in your chest.

The bartender sets your order down with a clink, “Three waters,” he says.

You grab it quickly, “So? What about it?” you throw back, but it comes out weaker than you’d like.

Mydei just watches you, head tilted slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. You squirm under his stare, shifting from his hold, pretending not to feel how his fingers brush your hip when you move past him.

You slip away before you can cave, weaving through the crowd until the dance floor opens up again. Cas and Hyse are there, drenched in the flashing red lights, arms thrown around each other as they scream along to whatever remix the DJ’s playing now.

“Water!” you shout over the noise, raising the glass.

Castorice grins wide, hair sticking to her temple, “You’re a saint!” she slurs, then promptly almost trips on her own feet before Hyse steadies her, she looks at you, exasperated.

“I think we’re done,” Cas says, voice raised but slurred with exhaustion, “I’m definitely dizzy.”

You don’t even try to hide your relief, “Good. I’ll go with you.”

Cas waves her phone in the air, “Nooo, I’ll book it! Everyone calm down, I am sober enough for an Uber!”

“Sure you are,” Hysilens chuckles.

It takes her three tries to type in the address, but somehow she manages. You wait with them by the club’s entrance, the music still thudding behind you, the air outside sticky and loud with traffic.

Cas is giggling about something—probably nothing—while Hyse leans into her shoulder, muttering about hangovers and morning classes on Monday.

“Driver’s here in a minute,” Cas says, eyes squinting at her phone like it’s trying to fight her, “you better text when you get home, or I’ll— I’ll punch you tomorrow,” she slurs.

It makes you laugh, “Yeah, yeah. I will.” You know they’ll forget to check anyway, and you’ll just say you fell asleep the moment you got home.

The car pulls up, headlights sweeping over the sidewalk. Hysilens grabs Cas by the elbow before she can wander off, “C’mon, champ.”

She hugs you suddenly, hard and clumsy, “Don’t miss us too much,” she teases before the brunette shoves her gently into the car.

You wave them off, the taillights fading around the corner, the noise of the club dulling behind you.

For a moment, it’s quiet—almost peaceful.

Then a low, familiar engine revs from behind you.

You don’t even have to turn to know who it is.

And despite every nerve in your body telling you to walk away—you don’t.

…

You feel the aftermath before you see it.

The dull ache settles into your bones before your mind even catches up. Every nerve feels tender, worn thin—the kind of soreness that hums quietly under the skin, more memory than pain. 

The sheets beneath you are still warm, the air heavy with the scent of him, citrus, that cologne, and something that’s just so… Mydei.

You shift carefully, turning your head to the side. 

He’s still asleep beside you, chest rising and falling in that unbothered rhythm of his, hair a mess across his forehead. 

Even now, there’s that same faint furrow in his brow—like he’s dreaming about something that pisses him off.

You stare for a second too long before forcing yourself upright, wincing when the movement pulls at your thighs, a painting of red and yellow scattered all over them.There’s a bruise—maybe a bite mark?—blooming near your collarbone—fresh, right over the pulse he loves to find.

Of course there is.

Mydei was always a biter.

You slip quietly from the bed, the floorboards cool beneath your bare feet. His shirt—no, your shirt, you took it from him—lies halfway under the couch, tangled with his jeans, a casualty of the night before. You gather your pants in a silent sweep, not daring to look back.

His bathroom mirror greets you with harsh honesty. The fluorescent light flickers once, then steadies, revealing everything you didn’t want to see. Your hair’s a mess, your lipstick smudged to the edges of your mouth, your neck painted in shades of red and purple.

You press your fingers to one of the marks. It stings.

For a second, you think about taking a bath—maybe even blow-drying your hair—but you stop yourself, because it feels wrong, too familiar. Like staying too long. 

You make yourself look presentable anyway by washing your face and combing your hair down.

Your eyes drift to the hook by the door after. Hanging there is one of his sweaters—black, soft, probably one he won’t notice missing right away. You pull it on anyway. It’s loose on you, the hem falling to mid-thigh, sleeves swallowing your hands whole. It smells like him.

You hate how comforting that is.

With a deep breath, you move around the apartment, collecting the last of your things—your purse on the nightstand, your earrings on the coffee table. You make sure not to wake him or his roommate, Phainon (who probably wasn’t even home), when you grab your shoes from beside the couch.

The city outside is still half-asleep when you book the Uber, the blue glow of your screen lighting up the dark living room. 

Estimated arrival: four minutes.

You stand by the door, hand on the knob, staring at the floor. There’s an empty can of a redbull on the kitchen counter, a half-crumpled shirt of his from god knows when, and the faint echo of laughter from a time you can’t bring yourself to remember.

You twist the knob and step out before you can think twice.

The door clicks shut behind you and your phone pings to let you know the driver was already outside. You sigh as you get in the car, and for the first time all night, the ache in your chest hurts more than the ones on your body.

It wasn’t always like this.

Mydei used to smile when you’d talk about nothing—tracing lazy circles on your thigh, nodding like every word you said meant something only he could understand. 

He used to pick you up from class when it rained. He used to fall asleep with his arm draped over you, heavy and safe. He used to kiss you like he meant forever.

Now, when you try to remember how it all fell apart, it’s like sifting through static, your ears ring whenever you try to recall. 

You don’t even remember what started the fight—something stupid, probably. Something about missed calls, or plans forgotten.

But you do remember how his voice was—raised, sharp around the edges.

(“Why do you always have to make everything about you?”

And yours, breaking.

“Is it so bad that I want to actually let you know how I feel?”

Then more words—overlapping, cutting, neither of you were listening anymore.

A hand through his hair, a bitter laugh.

Your throat felt raw.

The sound of a door slamming.

And then—quiet.

Just the echo of what he said right before it shut:

“Maybe we should stop pretending this still works.”

You don’t even remember what you said back. Maybe nothing at all. Just standing there, staring at the space where he used to be.)

Before you knew it, the taxi you were in tells you you’re at your destination, and you disassociate during the whole interaction, running on autopilot, only snapping back to reality when the lock of the door clicks behind you.

“I really should end it, huh?”

masterlist.

taglist is open!! comment on the MASTERLIST to be added! red means u can't be tagged: @crystalkat6747 @ssetsuka @eilaazzz @emilettew @firefliesoul-corner @violetisreadinghush @fantasyloverisa @iruanmey @mydeilver @milkhalo @pe4rlple @evclipsesstuff @honeyochii @castomeii @lyambdaa

usagi's note: i hate college. this semester has been a fever dream and not even in the good way. anyway i AM making a comeback because i will get to have like three or four weeks off when april starts and i figured now would be a good time to post rock bottom cuz it's essentially where i am right now warahel.

also i didn't write any smut for this. CUZ HELLO ITS THE FIRST CHAPTER. and also because i... am a coward. IM SORRYYYY. there will be some sort of smut in here, because its like rlly connected to the plot, what am i kidding it's LITERALLY the plot. but not now, maybe um... maybe next chapter idfk ive only written the ending and the start LOL anyway yea see u after this week cuz oh my goodness i might actually fucking die my calendar is red because of all the deadlines i have. send your prayers.

@usagiarchive 2026. do not repost, translate, or use for AI. reblogs, likes, and comments are very appreciated!!

You promised yourself that it wouldn’t happen again. After your terrible sleep schedule during finals, and if you were being honest with yourself, all throughout the last term, your lack of regular sleep was really starting to get to you.

You’d tried to fix it, you really did, but nothing ever really stuck. It was a dangerous combination of exhaustion and continuous low moods that you couldn’t quite escape.

Now that you didn’t have any morning classes to get up for, it had only gotten even worse. It was a vicious cycle, going to bed at six in the morning, and waking up a few hours later so you could get to work on time.

It wasn't even as if you had a good reason for staying up, either. You did nothing, literally nothing. Sometimes you would mindlessly scroll on your phone. Other times, you just stared at the ceiling, feeling so empty that you couldn’t do anything else.

And of course, because you ended up going to bed late and sleeping in, you rarely had the time or energy to do anything. So you’d tell yourself, late at night, just one more hour. You’d only stay up another hour, to get something done, but you were so tired. So so terribly tired, and once more, the cycle repeated.

It was sometime past six, and you hadn’t slept. Some video was playing on your phone, but you hadn’t been paying attention, not really. You think it may have repeated once already, you’re not sure.

You see a notification pop up, and you feel your heart drop. You click on it, and your messages open.

—

Mydeimeow <3: Good morning. Will you be busy today?

Message Seen

Mydeimeow <3 is typing…

Mydeimeow <3: You’re up early, feeling okay?

Message Seen

You: Yeah

You: not really busy, no

Mydeimeow <3: Okay. I’ll come over after my run, I want to see you.

You’re typing…

You: ok

Message Seen

Mydeimeow <3 is typing…

—

You turn off your phone when the little typing icon disappears abruptly, and you sigh, only feeling worse than before.

It had been weeks since you’d had your boyfriend over. Admittedly, once things had begun to pile up, and you felt all too incapable of digging yourself out of this hole, you’d started making excuses as to why he couldn’t come over. I’ll just come over to your place. I’m too busy today. Some other time?

If he noticed, he hadn’t said anything.

You look around your room, and gods, it’s awful. There’s clothes and trash everywhere, and you know the rest of your apartment isn’t any better.

Mydei’s coming over, you realize. Your perfect Mydei, who’s always so on top of things. Your Mydei, who has never known anything other than the discipline that he puts into every aspect of his life…school, work, you. Your terribly wonderful boyfriend, who was the type of person to enjoy running at six every morning just for the mere fact that it was good for him. 

And then there’s you. And sure, you’re not always like this, but you have been for a while, and he’s going to come over and see you and your filth and you don’t know what he’ll think. It’s embarrassing. You don’t want him to know that you’ve been struggling, that things aren’t going well, because you should be better than this.

Maybe there’s still time to fix this- some small part of your brain speaks up. Maybe you can fix things up just enough to keep up this act, just enough to hide things away until he leaves.

You know, realistically, that any effort you might make would be futile. It would probably take a couple days of work at your fullest energy for you to get everything in order, that was how bad it had gotten. And right now, when you were anything but fully energized, there was little hope. Still, you stood up, stumbled over the mess on your floor, and searched through your closet for a laundry basket.

You threw in a few items that needed to go for a wash. Not a lot, but some. You stop when you hear your phone ding again.

—

Mydeimeow <3: I love you.

Message Seen

You: ily too

—

You stare at the screen for a moment. Gods, just what kind of crappy partner were you? Your thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment, and then you quickly throw in a heart emoji for good measure before letting your device flop onto your mattress.

You don’t know why, but that really does it for you. You look over and see a pile of crumpled papers on the floor by your desk, and you know that there’s no point to it. So you give up, sinking to the floor instead as tears begin to fall down your cheeks.

You think you stay this way for a while, but you're not sure. Your sleep-deprived mind is nothing but foggy, only leaving you feeling more useless than you already did.

The front door opens at some point, but you don’t really register it. You already know he’s coming, anyway. You faintly hear his footsteps, and then the hesitant knock on your bedroom door. There’s no point to it. It’s already open.

He must see you, you know that he does, but you don’t let yourself look back. If anything, you turn your face more firmly towards the side of your bed, like maybe you can avoid facing him if you wish him away.

He exhales once, slowly, and then you hear the soft crumples and rustles that come with navigating your space. He’s careful not to step on anything breakable, but the lack of exposed floor makes it a little awkward. 

Once he’s close enough to you, he makes space on the floor beside you- handling your items with more care than you had managed in the past few weeks. He lowers himself next to you, thighs and shoulders pressed together, but he doesn’t speak. Not yet.

He stays like that for a while, next to you, quiet. He doesn’t push- you’re not even sure if you’d want him to. 

It takes you a while, but you eventually pull your tear-dried face out from where you had kept yourself hidden. You look at your boyfriend, and he looks nothing but at peace. His head is tilted back- eyes lazily shut like he’d fallen asleep that way.

You watch him, letting your eyes trace the junction where his ear meets his jaw, the soft blanket of lashes that cast shadows over the high of his cheek bones- and you wonder, and you wonder some more.

Why is he here? Why are you dragging him into this? Why did you feel this way? Why why why why why.

You don’t find any answers, but you didn’t expect to anyways. Looking away crosses your mind, but Mydei catches you before you get the chance. He peeks his eyes open, slowly, one brow arched like he’s asking what exactly it is that you’re looking at.

You blink once, twice, and you feel so stupid under his gaze. His eyes feel heavy on you- on your skin that crying must have left patchy, on your hair that hasn’t been properly washed in so long. You know you’re gross, you know he must be able to see it, too.

And Mydei looks good- really good. His hair is pulled back like he does when he just wants it out of his face. He’s wearing his glasses, the ones that make him look ridiculously adorable and that he only ever remembers to wear half of the time. He’s so effortlessly beautiful, and it only makes your heart hurt more with feelings of inadequacy.

When you sniffle, he opens his arms, and tilts his head towards you, a silent invitation that you only hesitate a moment before accepting.

It’s a little harder than it should have been when you crash into him, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. He’s more worried about your face, if anything. He wraps his arms around you- not too tight. You almost wish he’d hold you tighter, but this is nice too, with your head tucked underneath his chin.

You cry into his shirt, and he rubs circles into your back. You only cry harder.

This is too good, you think. Too good for you. He’s too good. You feel so terribly undeserving, when he hasn’t left and you’re still a mess. 

“Sorry…’m so sorry…” 

He doesn’t answer right away, and it scares you. You want to look up, but you don’t. It’s easier to hide your face against him, rather than to look up and see the disappointment that you’re sure will be there once he’s finally realized what you’ve known all along:

You’re not worth it.

“You shouldn’t be.” It’s gentle, it’s quiet, but it’s certain. He lifts a hand up to your hair, and you sigh into him.

“...sorry…I’m just really tired…” You sniffle, but your tears aren’t so heavy anymore. 

“Did you sleep yet?”

“...No, but it’s not just that. It’s- I’m always tired, Mydei. I’m sorry.”

He pulls back to look at you, and you tilt your head up. There’s a line on his forehead in the same spot that one appears when he’s concentrating. Something about it is disarming, though, when it’s you he’s so focused on. 

His thumb swipes along your cheek, rubbing away a loose tear. He nods once. “Okay.”

You try not to show the wobble of your lips, to not make it obvious that you’re working overtime to hold back your tears. You think he might know anyway.

“...Okay?” He nods again, and it's sure, like he’s never been more serious than he is now.

“Okay.” He repeats. “We’ll pour you a bath. I’ll make breakfast. We can put something on the TV after, and we’ll figure this out.” 

You’re not sure if it’s the look you’re giving him, or if Mydei just knows you well enough to recognize the need to ease your doubts, but either way, he speaks again, more firmly this time. 

“We’ll figure this out.”

You know you’re going to cry again, so you lean back into him, seeking the warmth that you’d come to know so well. He accepts you with no hesitation. It helps a bit, to still be wanted like this.

Your boyfriend presses a kiss on the top of your head, and you feel him lift your arms around his shoulders so he can pull you up with him.

“Come on,” he murmurs, leading you over your things and out of your room.

You accept.

“Okay.” 

You know this won’t be the last time you feel this way, because it's not the first. You’re not okay, and maybe that’s okay. Because you’ll work through it. Because as much as it hurts, you’re alive, you’re breathing, and anything else can be reversed.

You’re not okay, but you’ll learn to live through it, to manage and to cope and to know when you’re not able to.

You’ll have happy days, and you’ll certainly have sad days. They’re all equally yours, and that alone makes them worth fighting for.

“Yeah, well, when you’re in a band that makes millions, the label doesn’t exactly care about your personal vendettas. Fans have been begging for this for years. You know how much money this is going to make?”

“I can’t do this, Anaxa. You know what he’s like. He’s gonna make this a living hell for me.”

Your manager’s eyes soften just enough to make you look away. “Look, I know it’s not ideal. But it’s just a tour. A few months, and then you never have to see his face again if you don’t want to.”

You hesitate, teeth worrying your bottom lip. Anxiety coils inside your stomach like a live wire. You’d thought you’d buried that part of your life—left it to rot somewhere in the wreckage of what used to be your band and your relationship. Mydei’s name still leaves a bitter aftertaste whenever it slips out of someone’s mouth.

But the label wants it. The fans want it. 

“So, what—you just expect me to pretend we didn’t break up in front of the entire world?” you snap, though there’s less fire behind it this time.

Anaxa shrugs and sets the contract on your coffee table. “Pretend, don’t pretend. Hell, make it part of the show for all I care. As long as you’re both on that stage together, the crowd’s going to eat it up.”

You hate how practical he sounds. How it almost makes sense. You glance at the contract, at the neat, tidy letters spelling out your own name and Mydei’s right next to each other, and feel something bitter curl up in your chest.

“I’m gonna kill him,” you mutter.

Anaxa pats your shoulder as he heads for the door. “Try not to do it on stage. Though that might actually sell more tickets.”

You flip him off without looking, and Anaxa just laughs on his way out. The contract sits there on the coffee table, and no matter what you do, you can’t seem to look away. Your eyes blur over the words, and all you can think about is him.

Mydei.

You’ve spent months forcing yourself not to say his name out loud, not to think about his legs tangled with yours in bed or the rasp of his voice in your ear when he couldn’t keep his hands to himself before a show. You don’t let yourself think about the songs you wrote together. You definitely don’t think about the way it all fell apart. It was easier when you could pretend that part of your life was over—when you didn’t have to picture his face or hear his voice in your head, mocking you with every love song you swore you’d never sing again.

With a resigned sigh, you grab the pen Anaxa had placed next to the contract papers and flip to the last page. Your signature comes out a little shaky, but it’s done. You let the pen drop onto the table and lean back against the cushions.

The rehearsal studio feels too small. It’s ironic, really—after spending years crammed into dingy vans and shitty motel rooms together, you’d think it wouldn’t bother you. You’re the first person there (Anaxa had threatened to personally drag you out of your apartment if you didn’t show up on time), and because you don’t know what else to do, you set about adjusting your mic stand.

It’s stupid. You know it’s already set to your height, but it gives your hands something to do. The room is way too quiet, the walls lined with soundproofing and a few faded posters from when your band—the Chrysos Heirs—was at its peak. There’s a familiar, musty smell—stale air and old fabric—and it makes your chest ache just a little.

Without really thinking about it, you start humming one of the old songs—one that never made it to an album, just something you and Mydei had messed around with one night in the back of a bus. The melody flows out of you like muscle memory, soft and a little shaky at first, but gaining strength as you let the lyrics slip past your lips.

“Kiss me once and call me baby,Lie to me and say I’m crazy—Can’t believe I let you take me—”

The door swings open mid-verse, and you stop singing so fast it almost gives you whiplash.

Mydei steps inside, and for a second, you can’t move. It’s like being punched in the gut—seeing him again after all this time. He looks almost the same, and that’s what pisses you off the most. The same messy hair, the same worn leather jacket hanging off his shoulders, that same stupid, self-assured expression. The only real difference is the hint of stubble lining his jaw, like he didn’t bother shaving before showing up. Typical.

He stops just inside the door, guitar case slung over his shoulder, and his eyes lock onto yours. His expression doesn’t give away much—just a calm, uninterested look, like he couldn’t give a shit about being here. Your stomach twists, anger simmering just under your skin. You’d spent months convincing yourself that you’d moved on, that he didn’t matter anymore, but seeing him here, right in front of you, makes all that effort feel pointless. You hate that he still looks good. 

He doesn’t say anything, just drags his gaze over you like he’s sizing you up. You force yourself not to react, keeping your expression as neutral as possible, even though your hands are shaking where they grip the mic stand. You can’t let him know how much this is messing with you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

Mydei glances at the mic stand, then back at you, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or just plain indifference. You don’t know which is worse. You half expect him to make some smartass comment about your singing earlier, but he doesn’t say a word. Just sets his guitar case down on one of the couches and starts unzipping it, still not acknowledging you.

The way he’s ignoring you grates on your nerves. You’re tempted to snap at him just to get some kind of reaction. But you know how that game goes—how he’s always been good at pushing your buttons and making you the one who loses their cool first. You’re not giving him the satisfaction today.

You busy yourself with the mic stand again, even though there’s nothing to fix. It’s something to do with your hands, at least. The air feels thick, and your chest feels tight, and you can’t stop your mind from wandering back to late-night songwriting sessions and whispered promises that ended up meaning nothing. You wonder if he thinks about those nights too—or if he’s just moved on completely while you’re still stuck in the aftermath.

The door swings open again, and Castorice and Hyacine walk in, chatting and laughing about something. They both pause when they see you and Mydei, exchanging a quick look before stepping inside.

“Hi,” Castorice greets, adjusting the hem of her faded purple band t-shirt. “Everything okay here?”

You force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Yeah. All good.”

Hyacine gives you a small smile, her pigtails swinging, and starts setting up her bass. Castorice nudges Mydei with her elbow as she passes by, but he just shrugs her off and keeps tuning his guitar. She rolls her eyes and grabs her drumsticks.

You can’t help but glare at him, half-hoping he’ll look up so you can throw something snarky his way. Maybe if he’d just stop pretending like you’re invisible, you wouldn’t feel like your chest is caving in. You’re caught between wanting to scream at him and wanting to leave before your hands start shaking too hard to hide.

Phainon slips in a few minutes later, his snowy hair wind-ruffled and his jeans ripped at the knees. “Already at each other’s throats, huh?” he mutters, mostly to himself, but you hear it.

“Nah,” you bite out. “No one’s dead yet.”

Phainon chuckles and unslings his guitar case. It’s forced, yes, and you know he’s just trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t help much. Mydei doesn’t even acknowledge the comment; he just keeps strumming a few notes like he’s deliberately tuning you out. You look away.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: The Reunion Tour – Behind the Music. Episode One.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP] Soft lighting. Castorice sits on a stool, tapping her drumsticks against her knee absentmindedly. She grins when she notices the camera.

CASTORICE: The first practice? Oh, man. That was a nightmare. I mean, I knew it was gonna be awkward, but—wow. I half expected the room to just spontaneously combust. (Laughs) They didn’t even look at each other for the first half hour. I thought I’d have to throw a cymbal at someone just to break the ice.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her bass leaning against her shoulder.]

HYACINE: Honestly, I wasn’t sure if they’d even show up. _____ got there first, and Mydei came just before me and Cas showed up. When we walked in… (Sighs) It was like stepping into a freezer. I kept looking at Castorice like, Are we really doing this?

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning against the wall with his guitar propped up next to him.]

PHAINON: You could cut the tension with a knife. I was just waiting for one of them to snap, honestly. ____ was messing with the mic stand like it owed her money, and Mydei—(snorts) he just acted like he didn’t give a shit. Everyone knows he does, though. I could see his hands shaking a little while he was tuning his guitar.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, slouched on the couch, arms crossed.]

MYDEI: First practice? Whatever. I showed up, didn’t I? (Shrugs) _____ was already there, singing something I wrote. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t feel like arguing. Didn’t feel like… dealing with that. (Pauses) We got through it. That’s what matters.

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair, arms crossed, eyes fixed somewhere off camera.]

YOU: I didn’t think he’d actually come. And when he did… (shakes head) I was just angry. At him, at myself. At the fact that he didn’t even look at me. We used to be… I don’t know. Better than that. He didn’t say anything to me, and I wasn’t gonna be the one to break first. We both have too much pride.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, twirling a drumstick between her fingers.]

CASTORICE: Eventually, I just started playing something random to break the silence. That usually worked back then—get the rhythm going, and the rest will follow. I guess some things never change, because once I started up, Phainon joined in, and Hyacine just kinda jumped in too. ____ and Mydei just stared at each other like it was some kind of weird staring contest.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, laughing softly.]

HYACINE: I thought one of them was gonna strangle the other before we even got to the chorus. But after a few minutes of us just messing around with the intro, _____ gave in and started singing. Mydei followed—stubborn asshole—but it actually sounded good. Like, almost better than I remembered.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, smiling with his eyes crinkled at the corners.]

PHAINON: It was a mess. A beautiful mess. That’s just how it is with us. Always on the edge of imploding but somehow making it work. They didn’t say a word to each other the whole practice, but the music spoke for them. It’s weird how that works, huh?

[CUT TO: MYDEI, still looking annoyed, but his jaw clenches a little.]

MYDEI: We got through the set. It wasn’t… terrible. (Pauses) She still sings like she’s got something to prove. Never really lost that passion. I guess that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.

[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost hesitant.]YOU: The music was the only thing that didn’t feel different. That’s the worst part. We still fit together on stage. I don’t know how to feel about that.

ii). he had an ego and a temper and a wandering eye.

The venue is packed, lights flashing in time with the beats of the opening song. Castorice is good. That hasn’t changed, not even a little. The heat of the stage lights is already making sweat prickle at the back of your neck, but you force yourself to ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on the dark mass of people in front of you. You can barely make out individual faces past the glare, but it doesn’t matter—they’re all screaming, hands in the air, chanting your band’s name like a war cry.

To your left, Hyacine’s fingers fly over the bass strings, head bobbing in time with the rhythm. Her eyes are focused and sharp, lips curved into a smile. Next to her, Phainon strums his guitar, sweat dripping down his temples. He’s got that manic grin on his face, the one that always surfaces when he’s deep in the music.

You’re trying to focus—keep your voice steady, keep your hands from shaking—but it’s hard when you know he’s right behind you, adjusting his guitar strap and dragging his pick over the strings just loud enough to be a distraction. You swear he’s doing it on purpose, plucking random notes like he’s got nothing better to do, just to see if he can make you crack.

You refuse to look back at him. Instead, you take a slow breath and lean into the mic, eyes half-lidded and voice low as you speak to the crowd.

“Hey, everyone,” you drawl, and the noise swells, cheers and screams merging into a single deafening roar. You give them a crooked smile. “Feels good to be back. Did you guys miss us?”

The crowd roars. You can feel it—the way they’ve been waiting for this, for you. You ignore the way it makes your throat close up a little, focusing instead on the setlist displayed on the prompter. The opening song is one of your older hits, the kind of thing that used to play on the radio at least once a day back when it was first released. You’ve sung it a thousand times before, but tonight, it feels different. He’s right there, and you hate how you can feel his presence without even looking.

The drums kick in, pounding through your ribs, and you throw yourself into the first verse.

“Bite your tongue ‘til it bleeds, Hide the bruises on your knees, Say you never cared— I know you’re lying through your teeth.”

Your voice is steady, loud enough to carry over the instruments as the crowd sings with you. You almost lose yourself in it. The light pulses red and white, casting shadows across the stage, and you grip the mic stand tighter, putting every ounce of frustration into your performance.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mydei move closer to his mic, his guitar slung low and his fingers dancing over the strings. You force yourself not to look at him, focusing on the rhythm instead, on keeping your breathing even as the verse transitions into the chorus.

“Bittersweet vendetta, Carved your name into my skin, Kiss me like a secret. Make me wish I’d never let you in.”

You push your voice harder, practically shouting the last line, and the crowd’s response is instantaneous—voices rising to meet yours, some of them screaming loud enough to rival the speakers. You finally risk a glance to your right, just in time to see Mydei’s lips curve into a smirk, his head tilted like he’s daring you to acknowledge him.

He leans into the mic, and his voice slices through the air.

“She lies like she means it, Fake love on her lips—”

You clench your jaw so hard it aches, but you don’t miss your next cue, even though your mind is reeling. That’s not the original line. He’s never changed it before—not in all the years you performed this song together. You shove down the surge of anger, forcing yourself to keep going as if nothing happened.

The audience reacts immediately—some laughing, some whooping. You know they heard it. You know he did it just to get a rise out of you. You hate that it’s working, that your pulse is thrumming in your ears and your hands are shaking even as you keep your expression blank.

You don’t look at him. Instead, you pour every ounce of your irritation into the next verse, voice dropping low and venomous.

“Cut me down with your clever words, Always knew how to make it hurt, Fake your way to heaven, But I’d follow you through hell first.”

You swear you hear Mydei laugh under his breath, but he keeps playing like nothing’s wrong, his fingers moving over the strings like second nature. Your stomach twists, and you can’t tell if it’s fury or something uglier—something that feels like regret buried under years of resentment.

The bridge comes crashing in, and you give it everything you’ve got. Your voice is raw and unrestrained.

“Swore I’d never write about you, Guess I lied again somehow, Made my bed on broken promises, Tell me—are you happy now?”

The crowd’s roar almost drowns you out, but you don’t let up, spitting out the words like they’re poison on your tongue. You’re breathless by the time the final chorus hits, and the last line comes out almost like a snarl.

When the song ends, the audience erupts, and you finally allow yourself a moment to breathe, wiping sweat from your forehead with your palm. Your ears are ringing, but you catch a glimpse of Mydei as he steps back from his mic, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look at you. Nor does he seem to particularly care that he just tore through one of your most iconic songs with a cheap, unnecessary jab.

You force a smile and wave to the crowd.

The moment the stage lights cut out and the cheers of the crowd fade behind the heavy backstage door, you’re off. You don’t bother thanking the crew or even stopping to catch your breath—you just march straight to the green room, hands still trembling from the adrenaline and the anger. Your heart’s pounding so loud in your ears that you barely hear the door swing open behind you.

You whirl around just as Mydei walks in, still wiping sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt. The sight of him—smirking like he didn’t just pull that shit on stage—makes your stomach twist with rage.

“What the fuck was that?” Your voice comes out harsher than you intended, but you don’t care.

Mydei just raises an eyebrow, like he’s confused about why you’re yelling. “What was what?”

“Don’t play fucking dumb,” you snap. “You changed the fucking lyrics. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He just shrugs and tosses his towel onto one of the chairs. “Oh, that. Yeah, I thought it sounded better. More honest.”

You take a step closer, jabbing a finger at him. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just rewrite shit on stage without telling anyone. We practiced that song a hundred times, Mydei. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You’re really gonna get this worked up over one line?” He scoffs, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Come on, it’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” You laugh, but it’s humourless and cold. “You made it sound like I’m some kind of manipulative bitch in front of thousands of people! How the hell am I supposed to not get worked up about that?”

“Maybe if it wasn’t true, it wouldn’t bother you so much,” he says, leaning back against the wall.

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

Mydei shrugs again, his voice low and taunting. “You always were good at faking it—feelings, sincerity, the whole tragic frontwoman act. Sorry if I just cut through the bullshit.”

Something snaps inside you, and before you even realise it, you shove him backwards with both hands. Mydei doesn’t stumble, but his smirk falls for just a second—just enough to make you feel a flicker of satisfaction.

“Fuck you,” you spit out. “You don’t know a single thing about me.”

His face hardens, and he pushes off the wall to get right back into your space. “Don’t I? I know you lie like it’s second nature. You get off on being the victim, pretending like you’re the one who got hurt. But we both know you’re just as guilty as I am.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” You’re breathing hard now, fists clenched at your sides to keep from swinging at him. “You’re the one who decided to leave the band first. I’m not the one who bailed.”

“Yeah, because sticking around and watching you sabotage everything we built together sounded like a blast. You’re impossible to deal with. Always have been.”

“You think I’m impossible? You’re the one who picks a fight every chance you get. It’s like you can’t stand if I’m not miserable,” you shoot back. “Newsflash, Mydei—not everything’s about you and your bruised ego.”

“Says the girl who can’t stand it when someone calls her out,” he says, lips curling into a mocking grin. “Maybe I hit a nerve because you know I’m right. You’re so used to being adored that the second someone questions you, you lose your shit.”

You shove him again, harder this time, and he doesn’t move—just stays rooted to the spot, glaring down at you. “God, I hate you,” you seethe, voice cracking despite yourself.

“Funny. Didn’t sound like hate the last time you were screaming my name.”

You freeze, heat rushing to your face, and the anger bubbles into something darker—something desperate and bitter. “You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you? Always gotta have the last word, always gotta prove something. You’re pathetic.”

“You’re one to talk,” he grits out. “Still hung up on shit that happened years ago. I’m pathetic? You’re the one still singing about heartbreak like it’s gonna make people feel sorry for you.”

You want to hit him. You want to scream at him until your voice breaks. Instead, you shove him again, and this time he catches your wrists, yanking you forward until your chest brushes his. His face is inches from yours, breath hot against your cheek.

“Admit it,” Mydei murmurs, low. “You’re pissed because I called you out, and now you can’t hide behind your lyrics like a coward.”

You wrench your hands free, but you don’t move back. You’re too close, breathing hard. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” you whisper, voice tight.

His eyes bore into yours. “And you’re a goddamn liar.”

Before either of you can say anything else, Hyacine pushes the door open with a scowl. She takes one look at the two of you and shakes her head. “Seriously? Already? I knew this tour would be a shitshow, but I didn’t think you’d try to kill each other on night one.”

You finally rip yourself away from him, swiping at your face like you’re trying to scrub the confrontation off your skin. Mydei doesn’t look at you. He just picks up his towel and wipes his hands.

Castorice slips in behind Hyacine, still buzzing from the performance. “God, you two are like feral cats. Can’t we just chill for five seconds?”

“We’ve got interviews in ten minutes,” Phainon pipes up from behind her. “You guys need to get your shit together.”

Hyacine levels both of you with a glare. “I don’t care what personal shit you’ve got going on, but don’t pull that crap on stage again. Mydei, you don’t change the lyrics without telling us. _____, stop feeding into his bullshit. You’re both being idiots.”

Neither of you says anything, but you’re still seething, trying to force down the bitter ache in your chest. Mydei rolls his shoulders and turns away, his shaggy hair falling down the nape of his neck. When you finally turn and leave the room, you can still feel his eyes on your back, and it makes your skin crawl. You tell yourself you’re just glad to be away from him, but the knot in your stomach says otherwise.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Opening Night – Sold Out.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, her expression thoughtful.]

CASTORICE: Okay, look, I’m not gonna go around pinning the blame on anyone. That doesn’t do anyone any good. (Shifts slightly) I just think that we’re all adults here, and what Mydei and _____ were doing didn’t do us any favours.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, scowling at the camera.]

HYACINE: They’re pretty f***ing immature, if you ask me. Sometimes I think Mydei and _____ forget that they’re not the only people in the band. They founded it, sure, but what about me, Cas, and Phainon? This isn’t just some petty high school-level battle of the bands shit. This is our f***ing careers we’re talking about.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning back with a cigarette rolling between his fingers.]

PHAINON: Yeah, it’s real inspiring when your frontmen are trying to rip each other’s heads off backstage. Real rock and roll. (Scoffs) Look, they’re both stubborn as hell, and it’s not like we didn’t see it coming. You put two people with that much history on the same stage, and it’s like throwing a match into gasoline.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, arms spread out on the back of the couch.]

MYDEI: It’s not my fault she can’t handle the truth. We’re supposed to be putting on a show, aren’t we? Guess what—drama’s a part of it. If she wants to get pissed because I added a little honesty to the setlist, that’s on her. (Shrugs) I’m not gonna apologise for making it real.

[CUT TO: YOU, visibly tense, gripping the edge of your seat.]

YOU: He didn’t change the lyrics because it was real. He did it to hurt me. There’s a difference. It’s not about the fans, or the show, or whatever bullshit excuse he’s telling himself. It’s about control. He just couldn’t stand the fact that I was getting through it without him, that I was… fine. (Pauses) Or at least trying to be.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, rubbing the back of her neck.]

CASTORICE: (Sighs) You’d think that after all these years, they’d have learned how to work together without turning it into a battlefield. We’re not in high school anymore. We’re on tour. If one of them messes up, it’s not just their mess to clean up—it’s all of ours.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, looking more annoyed than before.]

HYACINE: It’s exhausting. We’re just trying to make music, not mediate whatever unresolved shit they’ve got going on. Half the time, I feel like I’m babysitting. They either need to figure it out or shut the hell up and be professional for once.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, giving a resigned laugh.]

PHAINON: Honestly, if they’d just screw and get it over with, we might finally get some peace around here.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, AGAIN]

MYDEI: Phainon said that? Not a chance. I’d rather set my guitar on fire.

[CUT TO: YOU AGAIN, rolling your eyes.]

YOU: Yeah, well, might be the most impressive thing Mydei’s done in a while.

iii). do i love him? do i hate him? i guess it’s up and down.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Founders’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting upright with your arms crossed.]

INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you tell us about the band’s early days? How did the Chrysos Heirs come together?

YOU: God, that feels like forever ago. (Pauses) It was just me and Mydei at first. We were… just kids, really. We’d meet up after school in my dad’s garage—him on guitar, me scribbling down lyrics on whatever scraps of paper we could find. It wasn’t anything serious back then. We just wanted to make noise and piss off the neighbours.

INTERVIEWER: Did you always know it was going to be a band?

YOU: (Shakes head) Not at all. We didn’t plan for it to be anything more than a way to kill time. We’d play until our fingers ached or Dad came out yelling at us to cut it out. (Smiles a little) It was messy and loud and—fun. We didn’t think much past that.

INTERVIEWER: When did it start to feel like more than just noise?

YOU: When Castorice came into the picture. She was incredible. She had this way of making everything tighter, more precise. Like she just knew what needed to happen to make the sound click. Mydei knew her from some music workshop thing—said she was the only drummer he’d met who wasn’t full of shit. (Laughs softly) One day, she just showed up with this beat-up drum set and told us our timing was crap. And she was right.

INTERVIEWER: What was your reaction to her criticism?

YOU: Oh, I was pissed. I didn’t want some stranger telling us we were doing it wrong. But she wasn’t mean about it—just honest, I suppose. And once she started playing, we couldn’t really argue with her. She made us sound like an actual band.

INTERVIEWER: And Hyacine and Phainon? How did they join?

YOU: They came later. We’d been playing these tiny, shitty bar shows—barely getting paid, just trying to scrape together enough for gas and food. It was clear we needed a bassist. Castorice was the one who pushed for it. She said we sounded hollow without that low end. She knew Hyacine from some other band that had just imploded—some drama I never got the full story on. Hyacine came in and just took over. She was relentless, always pushing for perfection. It drove me and Mydei crazy at first, but she made us sound good. Really good.

INTERVIEWER: And Phainon?

YOU: (Smiles fondly) Phainon was a surprise. Mydei found him at some underground gig—he was up there shredding like it was the easiest thing in the world. Mydei practically dragged him to rehearsal the next day, and Phainon barely said a word. He just picked up his guitar and played like he’d been with us the whole time. We didn’t even have to teach him the songs—he just… knew. It was weird, but it worked.

INTERVIEWER: What was it like performing together back then?

YOU: Incredible. We weren’t perfect by any means—we’d f**k up chord changes and stumble over lyrics, but people didn’t care. There was this energy that made up for it. The crowd felt it too. We’d get off stage, drenched in sweat, hearts pounding, and just laugh about how much we almost screwed up. Those shows were something else.

INTERVIEWER: And what about you and Mydei? You two were already together by then?

YOU: (Pauses, glancing away) Yeah. It just happened. It wasn’t really something we talked about—it just made sense at the time. We were always around each other anyway.

INTERVIEWER: What changed?

YOU: (Exhales slowly) Success changed things. Suddenly we were everywhere—touring, interviews, non-stop shows. We didn’t have time to breathe, let alone talk about anything that mattered. It was just… go, go, go. And when things got tough, we didn’t know how to handle it. We didn’t talk. We just fought. About stupid shit—lyrics, setlists, tempos. It wasn’t about the band anymore. It was about us, trying to hurt each other without admitting that’s what we were doing.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, leaning back in his chair with one arm thrown across the back of it.]

INTERVIEWER (off-camera): Can you talk about why you left the band?

MYDEI: (Exhales, looks away for a moment) It wasn’t… one thing, you know? People always want it to be simple, like there’s one big reason I just up and left. But it wasn’t. There was just—too much shit piling up. Tension between all of us, pressure from the label, and I wasn’t in the right headspace to deal with it.

INTERVIEWER: Do you regret it?

MYDEI: Sometimes. Maybe. I didn’t really think about what it would do to the others at the time. I needed to figure out who I was without the band. It was selfish, I know, but I couldn’t keep pretending I was okay with how things were going.

INTERVIEWER: Were you unhappy with the band itself, or just the dynamics between the members?

MYDEI: Both, I guess. The band was everything to me at one point. It was the one thing I thought I could count on. But then it just got… complicated. We went from just being a bunch of idiots messing around to something huge, and I wasn’t ready for that kind of pressure. The music stopped feeling like ours—like mine. It was just what everyone else wanted from us.

INTERVIEWER: How did the others react when you told them you were leaving?

MYDEI: (Chuckles bitterly) Not well. Castorice tried to talk me out of it—said I was being impulsive and throwing away something we’d built from the ground up. Hyacine was pissed. She didn’t say much, but I could tell she was angry. Phainon didn’t say anything at all. Just kind of… stared at me like I’d betrayed him or something.

INTERVIEWER: And _____?

MYDEI: (Stiffens) She didn’t take it well. She said I was running away—like I always did. We fought about it for hours. Nothing we said made sense by the end of it. Just yelling for the sake of yelling. I think we both knew it wasn’t just about the band at that point.

INTERVIEWER: After you left, the Chrysos Heirs seemed to almost dissolve overnight. Can you talk about that?

MYDEI: (Breathes out slowly) Yeah, I heard about it a few months later. It wasn’t something I expected. I thought they’d keep going without me, honestly. I didn’t think I was that important. (Pauses) Turns out, though, that me leaving kind of pulled the rug out from under everything. 

INTERVIEWER: Did the others ever talk to you about it?

MYDEI: Castorice called me once. She didn’t say much, just that they’d decided to take a break, and that without me there, it wasn’t working. She didn’t blame me, exactly, but I could hear it in her voice. Like she was trying not to say that I’d screwed everything up. (Shakes his head) Phainon never reached out. I don’t know if he was angry or just—disappointed. Hyacine texted me some stuff, mostly updates, but nothing about how they felt about it.

INTERVIEWER: What about _____?

MYDEI: (Tenses visibly) We never spoke to each other after I left.

INTERVIEWER: Do you think that the band dissolving hurt her the most?

MYDEI: Yeah. I know it did. The band was everything to her—more than it was to any of us, I think. She was always the one pushing us to go further, to make better music, to keep going even when it was hard. So when it all fell apart… I know she took it personally. Like she failed or something. Especially when I saw her trying to do solo stuff after that. 

INTERVIEWER: Did you listen to her solo work?

MYDEI: (Nods) Every track. It was good—different, but good.

The studio lights beat down on you like a relentless sun, and you resist the urge to wipe at the thin sheen of sweat forming at your hairline. You force yourself to smile through it, shoulders squared and posture just right, even as your muscles ache from holding the same position for too long. Castorice mutters under her breath about how awkward it feels to act casual when there’s a giant lens pointed right at your face; you can’t help but agree. It’s been ages since the last group photoshoot, and the discomfort is hard to ignore.

Mydei stands at the far end, stiff and distant, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. He’s staring at some fixed point behind the photographer’s head, looking like he’s seconds away from bolting. It drives you insane how obvious he’s being about not wanting to be here. You catch his eye once, and the look he gives you is so blank, it’s almost insulting.

Castorice throws an arm across Phainon’s shoulders, and the two lean into each other. Hyacine sits cross-legged in front of you, holding up two peace signs and grinning widely.

“All right, good! That’s enough for the group shots,” Aglaea, the director of photography, calls out, clapping her hands together. “Everyone but Mydei and _____, take five. I want a few duo shots.”

You stiffen. Castorice glances between the two of you with something close to worry, but when you shoot her a tight smile, she just shrugs and heads off with Hyacine and Phainon in tow.

Mydei hasn’t moved an inch, his hands still stuffed into his pockets, jaw tight. You take a slow breath and will yourself not to let him get under your skin. Not again.

Aglaea gestures you both forward, clearly sensing the awkwardness but too professional to comment on it. “All right, you two. Let’s lean into the chemistry a bit. I want intimate and raw—like the world’s finally looking at you both behind the professional masks.”

Your lips press into a thin line. Mydei doesn’t react at all.

“Face each other,” Aglaea instructs, waving a hand to adjust the lighting. It catches on the bright gold of her blouse, and you blink a little. “Mydei, hands on her waist. _____, put your hands on his shoulders. Closer. I need to feel the tension. Like you’re caught between fighting and kissing.”

You almost laugh at the irony. That’s practically all you’ve done since he showed up again—hovering somewhere between wanting to scream at him and wanting to grab his face and never let go. The thought burns. You squash it as you step forward.

Mydei’s hands settle on your waist, and it’s as if electricity crackles through you, setting every nerve alight. His touch is hesitant, like he’s not sure he has the right to be this close anymore. Your hands come up to his shoulders, fingers brushing over familiar leather and muscle, and you force yourself to look up at him.

His eyes catch yours. Neither of you moves. He looks at you like he’s seeing something he thought he’d lost, and it makes your heart twist painfully.

“Closer,” Aglaea calls out, voice clipped. “Mydei, lean in like you’re about to say something you’ve been holding back for years. _____, tilt your chin up—give him that look, like you’re angry but imploring.”

You do as she says, your breath hitching when his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders, and his hands shift on your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your shirt like he’s trying to memorise the feel of it. Those strands of hair that he always braids because he claimed it made him look “edgy” brushes against the curve of your cheek. You can feel his breath fan across your face, warm and familiar, and it hurts how natural it feels.

When you look to the side, Aglaea is frowning. “Closer,” she says again. “I need to see that longing.”

You don’t bother hiding your scoff, muttering under your breath, “Maybe it’d be easier if he didn’t look like he’d rather be doing literally anything else.”

His eyes snap to yours, defensive. “Sorry I’m not putting on enough of a show for you,” he mutters back, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Maybe if you actually gave a damn, it wouldn’t feel like pulling teeth,” you hiss.

He narrows his eyes, tightening his grip just a fraction, enough to make your pulse jump. “There you fucking go again. Acting like you’re the only one who cares about this.”

You force yourself to keep the smile plastered on your face for the camera, teeth clenched. “Oh, forgive me for thinking you don’t give a shit. It’s not like you haven’t disappeared for months without a word.”

“You think I wanted to leave?”

“You didn’t exactly try to stay,” you snap, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You left me to deal with the fallout while you got to play the tortured artist somewhere else. And now you’re back, and you’re acting like none of it mattered.”

“You didn’t want me to stay,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You didn’t even ask.”

The accusation slices through you, and your grip on his shoulders loosens. “How was I supposed to ask when you made up your mind without me?” you fire back. “You made it clear that I wasn’t worth staying for.”

His expression hardens, like he’s trying to cover the hurt bleeding through his anger. “That’s not fair. You never once asked how I felt about it. You just decided I didn’t care.”

You want to scream at him for being so oblivious—for acting like you didn’t spend weeks waiting for a call that never came. Instead, you force your lips into a tight, brittle smile. “Guess you made it pretty damn convincing when you left even though I asked you to stay.”

Something in his eyes cracks, just for a moment, but then Aglaea’s voice cuts through.

“Yes! That’s it!” she crows. “Keep it up. Mydei, cup her face.”

He doesn’t move at first, just stares down at you, his breath coming out in uneven bursts. Then his hand lifts, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek like it’s muscle memory. The way he looks at you, then, makes your throat close up.

You want to push him away, but your hands stay where they are, like they’re glued to him. Aglaea calls out more instructions, but her voice is distant—just noise behind the thunder in your chest.

When she finally calls for a wrap, you step back, your hands falling limply to your sides. Mydei’s arms drop away from you, his face shuttered and closed off again. You don’t look at him as you turn on your heel and walk off to the break room, every muscle in your body screaming with the urge to just get away from him before you say something even worse.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Members’ Cut.”

The screen fades out into grainy footage from an old concert: Mydei and _____ on stage, harmonising, Mydei strumming his guitar while _____ sways with the mic. The audience sways as one, flashlights held up as they move in time with the song. The video fades out.

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: PHAINON, sitting cross-legged on a couch, an easy smile on his face.]

PHAINON: Back then? Man, they were something else. You’d think they were fused at the hip with how much time they spent together. Writing songs at three in the morning, huddled over some crumpled notebook, arguing about chord progressions one second and laughing the next. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people make something so good while simultaneously wanting to strangle each other. It was weirdly sweet.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, sitting in a green room with her legs swung over the arm of a chair.]

CASTORICE: _____ used to steal Mydei’s hoodies every time we hit a new city. Didn’t matter how hot it was—she’d be drowning in that thing, sleeves halfway covering her hands. Mydei’d just roll his eyes and mumble something about it smelling weird when he got it back, but he never complained. They’d go on these stupid little coffee dates whenever we had downtime—just the two of them, sneaking off like no one would notice. We noticed. Everyone noticed.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting on the floor of the green room.]

HYACINE: Honestly? Their songs were the best ones we ever wrote. Together, they just… clicked. It was effortless. I think the first time I heard “After Midnight”, I kinda wanted to throw up from how sweet it was. But you could tell—every word, every note—they put their whole hearts into it. It was like they were making something for just the two of them, and the rest of us were lucky to get a piece of it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, still sporting that easy smile.]

PHAINON: But, y’know, things got complicated. Like they always do. They’re both stubborn as hell, and neither of them knows how to sit down and talk without throwing metaphorical knives at each other. Still… (Laughs softly) I stand by what I said. If they screw each other and get it over with, everyone’s gonna be okay.

iv). wanna kiss his face with an uppercut.

You’re sprawled across the hotel bed, face buried in the pillow, when your phone rings. You groan, tempted to ignore it, but the screen flashes Anaxagoras’ name, and you know better than to let it go to voicemail.

You pick up and press the phone to your ear. “Yeah?”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Anaxa deadpans. His voice is brisk, no-nonsense as always. “I’m just checking in.”

“Fantastic,” you say dryly, sitting up and running a hand through your hair. “Photoshoot went great. Almost fought Mydei. Twice.”

“Great Kephale,” he mutters, and you can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you two still at each other’s throats?”

“It’s kind of hard not to be when he acts like breathing the same air as me is a personal insult,” you snap. “Aglaea made us take those stupid couple shots, and he looked like he wanted to die the whole time. It’s—” You break off, clenching your jaw. “It’s annoying.”

Anaxa grunts, unimpressed. “You’re letting him get to you.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Then stop it,” he says, as if it’s that easy. “You don’t have to like him, but you do have to get through this. It’s one shoot and a few public appearances. You’ve handled worse.”

“That’s the problem. It’s not supposed to be worse. We’re supposed to be professionals, but he’s—he’s making it impossible.”

Anaxa doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his tone is firm. “Look, if he wants to act like a child, let him. You don’t have to stoop to his level. Smile for the camera, grit your teeth if you have to, and don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s pissing you off.”

You hate that he’s right. “Yeah. I know.”

“You want me to handle anything?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head even though he can’t see it. “I’ll deal with it.”

He doesn’t bother with goodbyes, just hangs up like always. You let your phone drop onto the bed and slump back down, staring up at the ceiling. You hate that it’s still gnawing at you—the frustration, the hurt, the way Mydei’s indifference feels like a punch to the gut every single time.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You can handle it. You’ve been through worse.

A knock at the door startles you out of your thoughts. You blink, wondering if you imagined it, but then it comes again—more impatient, this time. You groan and push yourself up, dragging your feet as you cross the room. Your muscles still ache from the photoshoot, and your mood hasn’t improved because of Anaxa’s call.

You pull the door open, expecting maybe Castorice or one of the others, but it’s Mydei. He leans against the doorframe, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his jaw set in that familiar way that makes you want to slam the door right in his face.

“What do you want?” you snap, not even attempting to sound polite.

He glances away, gaze fixed on some spot above your shoulder. “I— Just wanted to—”

“Oh, please,” you interrupt. “Like you fucking care.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m starting,” you snap back, “because you spent the whole fucking day making it perfectly clear that breathing the same air as me is unbearable, and now you’re playing concerned? Do you even look at yourself?”

“Maybe I do care,” he tells you, and you cut in again.

“You’re the one who looked like he’d rather die than put his hands on me. Trust me, I noticed.”

“It’s not that—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, and steps closer. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me!” you shoot back, shoving his shoulder. “You can’t just act like a dick and expect me to read your mind. Or are you still too much of a coward to admit anything out loud?”

That hits a nerve. His eyes flash, and he steps into your space, so close you can feel the heat coming off him. “Maybe if you didn’t act so fucking righteous all the time, I wouldn’t feel like I’m losing my mind around you,” he spits out.

“Yeah?” you challenge, shoving him again just to get him to react. “Maybe if you didn’t keep running away every time something actually matters, we wouldn’t be stuck in this stupid cycle!”

He grabs your wrist, yanking you even closer, and you can feel his breath on your face, warm and ragged. “I’m not running.”

“Yes, you are,” you hiss, your voice cracking despite yourself. “You always do. You think if you act like nothing happened, it’ll just go away. Well, fuck you, Mydei, because it doesn’t.”

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but his jaw works soundlessly, and you’re so sick of it—so tired of dancing around whatever’s been festering between you since the band split. Before you know it, your hands are gripping the front of his jacket, yanking him forward just as he crushes his mouth against yours.

It’s not soft or careful—nothing about it is gentle. It’s teeth and heat and frustration, like trying to punish each other for every stupid fight, every missed chance. He makes a low, frustrated noise, backing you into the room and kicking the door shut behind him.

Your hands are tangled in his hair now, and his grip on your waist is bruising, like he’s terrified you’ll pull away. You bite down on his lower lip, and he groans against your mouth, pressing you back until your spine meets the wall.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter against his lips, barely catching your breath.

He just smirks, dragging his mouth down to your jaw, his voice rough and breathless. “Yeah? You’re not much better.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he doesn’t even try to hide the shiver that rolls through him. You hate him—you hate him so much for making you feel like this, for pushing and pulling and never letting you breathe. But right now, with his mouth on yours and his hands on your body and heat pooling inside your stomach, the only thing you can think of is him taking you against the wall.

You barely register the way Mydei lifts you off the ground, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he pins you to the wall. His mouth is hot and unrelenting against yours, like he’s trying to erase every insult you’ve ever thrown at him. You’re just as ruthless, biting at his lips and tugging his hair hard enough to make him growl.

He eases you down when you moan—embarrassingly loudly, but you don’t give a fuck. His hand slides under the waistband of your jeans, and you don’t stop him. You let him tug them down, the denim sliding down your legs and pooling at your ankles. Mydei lifts you up, just so you stand on your tiptoes long enough for him to kick them aside. Every brush of his skin against yours feels like an assault—every touch a reminder of all the hurt, all the anger—but you don’t pull away. 

You hate him. You love him. You need him.

His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping tight enough to leave marks, and then he pulls back, panting, his eyes dark and wild. You’re wet by now, enough that your underwear feels cool from where a damp spot has formed already.

“You always have to have the last fucking word, don’t you?” he grits out.

You scoff. “Someone’s gotta knock you off your high horse.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s rough. Without warning, he drops to his knees, his hands slipping under your thighs to keep you steady as he buries his face between your legs.

You gasp, one hand flying to the wall to brace yourself, the other still tangled in his hair. Mydei doesn’t waste any time—he’s ruthless, licking you through the fabric of your panties. It makes your head spin. You choke on a moan, trying to squirm, but he just tightens his grip, keeping you firmly in place.

“Mydei—” you start, but his teeth graze your inner thigh, and your words dissolve into a shuddering gasp.

“Shut up,” he mutters, yanking your underwear to the side and pressing his mouth against your folds with a fierce sort of hunger. His tongue flicks over your clit, and your head falls back against the wall, a keening sound leaving your throat.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you manage to choke out, even as your thighs tremble around his head.

He laughs against you, the vibrations making you bite down on your lip to stifle a whimper. “You’re still running your mouth,” he taunts, giving your thigh a squeeze. “Wonder if I can make you shut up.”

He doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and flicking his tongue in a manner that has you seeing stars. Your nails scrape against his scalp, and he just groans in response, the vibrations sending another shockwave through you. Your hips jerk forward. He grips you harder, dragging his mouth down to lick at your folds like he’s starved for it.

Your fingers tighten in his hair. You can’t help the way you tug him closer, grinding against his face despite yourself. Mydei merely hums approvingly, his hands sliding under your ass to lift you higher, pressing you harder against the wall.

When his tongue dips inside your clenching hole, your knees almost give out, but he holds you steady, refusing to let you escape the overwhelming, maddening pleasure. You’re barely breathing, trying to swallow down the sounds threatening to spill out, but when he curls his tongue just right, you can’t stop the loud, desperate moan that breaks free.

He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, his lips slick and his eyes burning. “You done being a brat now?”

You glare down at him, panting and still shaking. “Fuck you.”

His smirk only widens, and before you can blink, he’s pressing his mouth against you again—rough, merciless, relentless. It doesn’t take long before your vision blurs and your head tips back, his name tearing from your lips as you come against his mouth.

He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and your grip on his hair has gone slack, and even then, he licks you through the aftershocks like he’s addicted to the taste of you. When he finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stands, and says, “You’ll give me one more, won’t you?”

Your breath comes out in shallow pants. You can barely muster the energy to glare at him, but his smirk only grows as he straightens up, dragging his hands up your sides and pushing your shirt higher until it’s bunched under your arms. You’re still too dazed to protest when he lifts it over your head, tossing it to the floor before his hands find your waist again, pulling you flush against him.

He dips down to kiss you, and you taste yourself on his lips—sweet and dizzying all at once. You’re still recovering from your climax, but it doesn’t matter—he kisses you like he’s making up for every second he hasn’t touched you, rough and a little desperate, his hands squeezing your hips.

His hands slide up your back, finding the clasp of your bra. You don’t even have time to catch your breath before he unhooks it and slides and straps down your arms, tossing it aside without a second thought. His mouth is back on yours in an instant, but his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that makes your back arch off the wall.

You don’t even think before your fingers find the hem of his shirt, pushing it up and over his head, and he helps you get it off before crashing his mouth against yours again. Your hands roam over his bare chest, feeling the hard lines of muscle and the rapid beat of his heart under your fingertips. His skin is warm and slightly slick with sweat, and you can’t resist scraping your nails lightly down his abdomen just to feel him shiver.

He bites down on your lower lip in retaliation, and you gasp into his mouth. It earns you a low chuckle. You’re about to shoot back with something sarcastic when his hands slide up to cup your breasts again, rolling your nipples between his fingers, and your retort dies in your throat.

“Thought you were gonna give me attitude,” he murmurs against your mouth, lips curving into a cocky grin. “Guess you can be good when you want to.”

“Shut up,” you breathe out, but your voice comes out shaky. He laughs softly, bending down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. Your hands fly back to his hair, fingers twisting in the strands, and he groans the tug.

Your hips buck against his, and he grinds back without hesitation, the hard line of his cock rubbing against your thigh through his jeans. You can feel just how badly he wants you; the thought sends another wave of heat flooding through your veins. You tug at his hair hard enough to make him look up at you, his lips red and swollen.

“Quit teasing,” you pant. Mydei’s eyes flash with something dark and hungry.

He doesn’t bother replying—just scoops you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist. His mouth is back on yours, demanding, and you feel him fumbling with his belt between your bodies. You don’t have the patience to wait, so you reach down to help him, your hands brushing against his as you yank the buckle open and shove his jeans and briefs down just enough to free his cock.

He groans in relief when your hand wraps around his cock, stroking it slowly and spreading his pre-cum across the length. He bites back a curse. His hands tighten on your thighs, and you don’t miss the way his muscles tense under your touch. You give him a little smirk, but it falters when he presses his tip against your entrance, not quite pushing in yet.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes roaming over your face.

You roll your eyes, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a bruising kiss. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear—”

You don’t get to finish because he thrusts into you all at once, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your head tips back against the wall, and Mydei buries his face in the crook of your neck, groaning against your skin as he adjusts to the tight warmth of your cunt. His breath is hot and ragged, each exhale brushing against your collarbone. His fingers dig into your thighs.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice rough and strained. His hips pull back just enough to drag his length almost completely out before he slams back in, his pace brutal from the start. The force of it makes your back scrape against the wall, and you can feel every inch of him—thick and girthy, splitting you open in a way that has your body straining towards him.

Your hands scrabble for purchase, nails leaving crescents on his shoulders as he sets a relentless rhythm, each thrust hitting deep and perfect. You’re clinging to him, your legs tightening around his waist as he drives into you. The wet, obscene sounds of your skin against skin echo through the room, mingling with your breathless mons and his low groans.

“Fuck—so tight,” he mutters against your skin, his mouth dragging along your throat, teeth scraping and biting hard enough to leave a slight stinging in their wake. “You feel so fucking good. S’like you were made for me.”

You whimper, your hips rocking against his instinctively, desperate for more. You can’t stop yourself from moaning his name shakily. It spurs him on. He grins against your neck, pressing a sloppy kiss to your pulse point before sucking a bruise into your skin.

“Yeah? That good, huh?” he taunts, his tone mocking but laced with genuine awe. One of his hands slides from your waist to cup your breast, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. His thumb grazes over your nipple, and the sensation has your back arching off the wall, pushing your chest further into his hand.

Your head is spinning, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly as he fucks into you hard. You can feel every ride and vein dragging against your walls, every thrust forcing sounds out of you that you didn’t even know you could make.

His mouth finds yours again; his teeth nip at your bottom lip before he slips his tongue inside. You’re so lost in him, so overwhelmed, that it takes you a second to realise his other hand has slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and circling it with almost punishing pressure.

“Fuck—” Your hands are back in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss, but he doesn’t let up, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing insistently as his cock drives into you again and again. “I can’t—fuck, I’m—”

“Gonna come again?” he growls against your mouth, his pace never faltering. “You’re gonna come all over my cock, aren’t you? That’s it. Good girl.”

His words make your thighs clench. Your climax comes over you without warning, tearing a strangled cry from your throat. Your walls clench around him, pulsing and fluttering as pleasure blazes through every nerve ending. You feel your thighs trembling where they’re locked around his waist.

Mydei doesn’t slow down; he just keeps fucking you through it, each thrust coaxing another wave of sensation that leaves you gasping and boneless in his grip. Your mind is a haze, barely able to process how good it feels to be taken like this. You’re dimly aware of his breathing getting rougher, his hips stuttering as your body milks him.

You drag his face back to yours, capturing his lips in a desperate, messy kiss, biting until you taste copper. He groans into you. You feel him shudder just before his rhythm falters. With one last, deep snap of his hips, he buries his cock inside you, spilling hot and thick as his body shakes with the force of his release.

His forehead presses against yours as he catches his breath, both of you panting and trembling. He stays inside you, like he’s not quite ready to let you go, his hands sliding up your sides to hold you close. You’re still reeling, your pulse racing, but you manage a small, satisfied smile, brushing your lips over his with a gentleness that almost feels out of place after what just happened.

For a long moment, neither of you move—you just breathe each other in, letting the remnants of pleasure tangle in the space between you. Finally, he pulls back enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip.

“Still think I’m running my mouth?” you whisper, still trying to muster some semblance of defiance.

Mydei simply nudges his nose against yours. “Maybe,” he says, a little bit hoarse, “but at least I finally shut you up.”

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: The Reunion Tour – Behind the Music. Episode Two.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, sitting on a stool.]

CASTORICE: You want to know about the relationships? (Grins) Oh, man. It’s like a dysfunctional family reunion. Some of us slipped right back into old habits, and some of us… well, it’s complicated. Mydei and _____? (Snorts) Don’t even get me started. You can feel the tension from three rooms away.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor.]

HYACINE: There’s definitely still some… uh, unresolved stuff. We used to be so tight. All of us. I mean, we fought, sure, but we’d always make up eventually. Now? I don’t know. It’s like everyone’s got their guard up. Phainon’s doing his best to keep things light, Castorice just barrels through any tension like she doesn’t notice, but Mydei and _____… (Pauses) It’s like walking on eggshells around them.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, leaning back against the wall with his guitar across his lap.]

PHAINON: I think everyone kind of forgot how to be around each other. We spent years being everything to one another—friends, family, bandmates, rivals. When the band split, it wasn’t just the music that fell apart. It was us. Now it’s like… we’re all trying to figure out where we stand again. The way Castorice and Hyacine laugh like nothing’s changed, while Mydei and _____ act like they’re on opposite sides of a war zone. It’s exhausting.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, still slouched on a couch with his arms crossed.]

MYDEI: I’m not gonna sit here and pretend everything’s fine. It’s not. The band breaking up after I left? I’m sure that wasn’t just some decision they made over drinks. Castorice acts like we’re one big happy family again, but she knows it’s not that simple. Phainon’s always the peacemaker, trying to smooth everything over, but that just makes it worse sometimes. I don’t know.

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a folding chair.]

YOU: It’s frustrating. We used to be so close. All of us. And now it feels like every word has teeth. Castorice is trying so hard to keep us from falling apart again, and Hyacine’s just… tired. Phainon’s stuck playing mediator, and Mydei—(shakes head)—he still looks at me like it’s probably my fault. Maybe it is. But it wasn’t just me who made it boil down to this.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE AGAIN, balancing her drumsticks on her finger.]

CASTORICE: We’ve always been a mess. That’s kind of our thing. But it used to be that we were messy together. Now it feels like we’re just trying not to accidentally set each other off. I miss how easy it used to be. Back when Mydei and _____ could actually talk without biting each other’s heads off. Back when Hyacine would just crack a joke instead of staying quiet.

[CUT TO: HYACINE AGAIN, resting her chin on her hand.]

HYACINE: Sometimes it feels like we’re playing pretend. Like we’re trying to convince ourselves that we’re still friends when we’re really just… people who used to know each other. Cas keeps pushing for us to hang out after shows, but it never feels right. Everyone’s just waiting for someone to break the silence. I don’t know. Maybe it’ll get better once we’ve been on the road for longer.

[CUT TO: PHAINON AGAIN, eyes thoughtful as he fiddles with his guitar strap.]

PHAINON: I think everyone’s just afraid to be the one who cares the most. Back in the day, we knew each other better than anyone else did. Now, it’s like we’re scared of stepping on each other’s wounds. Mydei’s carrying too much pride to apologise, and _____ is too stubborn to forgive. Castorice and Hyacine just want everyone to get alone, but no one’s talking about the elephant in the room. We’re good at pretending on stage, though. Real good.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, his jaw clenched, his eyes hard.]

MYDEI: You don’t just come back from something like that. You don’t go from being everything to each other to nothing without it leaving a scar. I’m not saying it’s all her fault. (Hesitates) I’m just saying that it’s easier to be mad than to admit I might’ve messed up, too. That’s why I keep my distance. It’s just… easier that way.

[CUT TO: YOU, looking almost weary.]

YOU: I never thought it would feel this hollow. I don’t know what I expected—a clean slate, maybe? But it doesn’t work like that. We’re still carrying the past with us, and it’s dragging us down. I guess… I just wish he’d talk to me. Even if it’s to say he hates me. At least that would be something.

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, shrugging with a half-smile.]

CASTORICE: Whatever happens, I’m not giving up. We’re stuck with each other. That’s just how it is. Even if we have to scream it out or throw things at each other, we’re gonna make it work. Because the way they look at each other sometimes? There’s still something there. They just gotta get over themselves long enough to see it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, adjusting his guitar.]

PHAINON: They’ll figure it out. We’re not just a band—we’re more than that. And sometimes, being more means we break and put ourselves back together. We’ll get there.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, giving a faint smile.]

HYACINE: If we can just stop letting the past dictate everything, maybe we can start being friends again. Maybe more. I don’t know. But I do know this—on stage, we’re still the same. Maybe the music will help us remember how to be us again.

v). so i write him all these letters and i throw them in the trash.

When you stir in your sleep, the mattress beside you is cold. 

It’s late—past midnight, probably. Your stomach grumbles; you sit up and shuffle tiredly over to the mini-bar and grab a bag of salted cashew nuts, tearing it open. There’s no trace of Mydei. It’s as if he was never here, didn’t fuck you against the wall like it was all he could think of, didn’t lay down on the bed next to you and curl a strong arm around your waist.

You wish you could say you were just disappointed. The truth is, you had expected nothing else, but disappointment still curls around your ribs.

It’s stupid. You walk over to the glass table placed in front of the plush armchair towards the side of your bed. There’s a notepad and a slightly blunt pencil placed on top of it. You sink into the armchair, popping a handful of cashew nuts into your mouth and chewing. 

The words should be flowing by now—anger and frustration always make for good material—but tonight, they’re stuck somewhere between your ribs, buried under the feeling of his mouth on your skin.

It shouldn’t feel like this. You knew what you were getting into. You knew better than to expect anything else from him. But the way he kissed you, like he was trying to make you forget every fight—made your chest ache. You’re not surprised that he’s gone. You’re not even hurt, really. Just angry. Angry at him for leaving without a word, angry at yourself for caring that he did. You shove a few more cashews into your mouth and wipe your fingers on your sweatpants before picking up the pencil.

Your hand moves almost without thinking, words scrawling across the page faster than you can catch up with them.

You look at me like I’m your only song, And I play the part even when it feels wrong. We’re always dancing on the edge of a goodbye, But I’d risk the fall just to feel you by my side.

You pause, glaring at the lyrics. You should throw the notepad across the room, rip the page out, crush it in your fist. Instead, you just sit there, tapping the pencil against your knee. You can still feel the way his mouth moved against yours, the bruising grip of his hands on your hips. You take a shaky breath and force yourself to keep writing. It’s better than sitting here drowning in the memory of him.

We’re tangled and twisted and never the same, We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain. You’re poison and honey and everything wrong, And I hate that you’re still the one I want.

The pencil scrapes harshly against the paper as you press harder than you mean to. The words taste bitter in your mouth, but at least they’re honest. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to write them down—because admitting that you want more than just his hands on you feels like exposing a wound you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

You swallow down the knot in your throat and lean back, squeezing your eyes shut. It would almost be easier if you hated him. If you could just shove him out of your head and pretend he was nothing more than a bad decision. But it’s not that simple. You don’t just want him; you want the old him, the one who used to light up when you walked into the room, who teased you until you were laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. You want the Mydei who didn’t always look at you like you’re a problem he can’t fix.

You know you’re being unfair. He’s not the only one who’s changed. You’re not the same either—too guarded, too tired. Sometimes you wonder if you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment because it’s easier than admitting you still love him.

Your chest aches, and the next words come almost like a confession.

You look at me like I’m the one you’ve been missing, Kiss me like I’m the dream you keep wishing Would come true when the lights fade away— But you never stay.

You finish the verse and set the pencil down, pressing your fingertips to your lips like you can still taste him there.

You told yourself you wouldn’t do this again. But he looked at you tonight like he was starving—like you were something he couldn’t resist. And you let him have you because a part of you needed it, too. Needed to feel wanted, even if it was just for a few hours. Even if he was gone before you woke up.

You shove the notepad away, letting it fall to the floor as you curl up in the armchair, knees pulled to your chest. The song lingers in your head, the lyrics clawing at your heart. You feel ridiculous for letting him get under your skin like this, like a bruise that won’t heal.

The truth is, you’d let him hurt you a thousand times if it meant he’d look at you like that again. Like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe that makes you a fool, but you don’t know how to be anything else when it comes to him.

Shaking your head as though to dissolve it of its thoughts, you tear out the sheet of paper with your lyrics on it, fold it into a square hastily, and shove it inside the pocket of your sweatpants. You stand up and grab your lighter from your bag. You need a smoke.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Founders’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: YOU, sitting on a simple black stool, hands loosely clasped in your lap.]

YOU: Writing with Mydei… God, it used to be so easy. We didn’t have to think about it. (Smiles softly) We’d just be sitting on the floor of his shitty apartment—barely any furniture, just the couch his neighbour was gonna throw out and that one rug we stole from Hyacine’s place. One of us would pick up the guitar, start playing something, and it was like everything else just faded out.

INTERVIEWER (off-screen): Was it always that natural?

YOU: (Nods) Yeah. It just worked. Sometimes we didn’t even talk before starting a song. I’d be on the floor, writing down whatever came to mind, and he’d be next to me, leaning against the wall with his guitar. Sometimes I’d hum something, and he’d just—pick it up. It was like we were reading each other’s minds.

[CUT TO: MYDEI, sitting with his back slightly hunched, elbows on his knees.]

MYDEI: We wrote some of our best songs at 3 A.M, dead tired, arguing about lyrics while eating instant ramen. She’d always overthink the words—had to make sure they said exactly what she wanted. I didn’t care as much. I guess I figured the feeling mattered more than getting every word right.

INTERVIEWER: Do you have an example for the same?

MYDEI: There was this one song (pauses, shakes his head). We wrote it after this stupid fight. I’d stormed out, pissed as hell, but when I came back, she was sitting on the floor, scribbling lyrics like her life depended on it. I didn’t say anything. Just sat down and played along with whatever she was humming. Neither of us apologised, but… I guess that was our way of making up.

[CUT TO: YOU]

YOU: We never talked about it, you know? We’d write all these songs that were practically confessions—about each other, about how much it hurt when we fought, or how we couldn’t stand being apart—and then we’d just… move on. Never acknowledged it.

INTERVIEWER: Do you regret that?

YOU: (Hesitates) Sometimes. But the songs made it pretty obvious. We were practically begging each other to figure it out without actually saying it.

[CUT TO: MYDEI]

MYDEI: She always wrote like it was her way of… bleeding out whatever she couldn’t say. We made something good out of it, though. Even if we never said it out loud. And… yeah. Sometimes I miss that. The simplicity of it. Just us and a guitar and whatever shit we were working through. I didn’t need anything else back then.

[CUT TO: YOU]

YOU: It’s funny. We used to write about heartbreak like it was this distant concept—something that happened to other people. Never thought we’d end up writing about each other.

vi). i want to get him back (and then?)

The rooftop is quiet at this hour—too early for most and too late for the rest. The sky is more navy than blue, more shadow than light. You push the heavy metal door open with your shoulder, and it clicks shut behind you with a soft thud. You tug your hoodie tighter around you, retreating into the warmth, and dig around in your pocket for your cigarettes.

The lighter sparks on the second try. You inhale. Smoke fills your lungs, and something in you loosens. You hate how easy it still is to find comfort in bad habits.

That’s when you notice him.

At first, it’s just the faint glow of a cigarette at the far corner of the rooftop. But you know it’s him—know it in the shape of his silhouette, the way he leans forward with one elbow braced on the ledge, hoodie pulled low over his face. Mydei. Of course.

You hesitate for a beat, frozen halfway between the door and where he stands. It would be easier to leave—pretend you didn’t see him, pretend you didn’t spend the night tangled up in him and then wake up to cold sheets and silence.

But you don’t.

Your steps are quiet as you cross the rooftop, stopping a few feet away from him. He doesn’t look at you, just exhales slowly, eyes on the horizon. You take a drag from your cigarette, watching the tip burn orange, watching the smoke curl upwards and vanish into the sky.

“Why’d you leave?” you ask. You mean the hotel room, but not only that.

He’s quiet for a long time. You wonder if he’s even going to answer.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says eventually, still not looking at you.

You huff a breath. It’s not quite a laugh. “You didn’t want to be there.”

He doesn’t argue. The silence stretches again, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just tired. He glances at you. The wind picks up a little, brushing your hair across your cheek. He notices—always notices—and shifts just slightly so he’s blocking the breeze. Neither of you says anything about it.

“You looked peaceful,” Mydei says. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“You think not being there was better?”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

You nod. You don’t push. You’ve learned not to with him. “It’s not just about tonight,” you say quietly.

He nods, eyes dark and shadowed. “I know.”

The sun starts to edge over the horizon, painting faint streaks of pink and orange across the navy sky. It’s beautiful in that fragile, fleeting way, like something you’re scared to touch because you know it’s too delicate to last. You both watch in silence for a while, letting the smoke and the light fill the air between you. There’s a comfort in it, strangely enough. The way the world keeps turning even when your heart feels like it’s stuck. The way mornings come anyway.

You look at Mydei again.

He’s tired. You can see it in the curve of his mouth, in the slump of his shoulders. But he’s here. Part of you wants to ask him why. Why he came up here. Why he didn’t leave the hotel entirely. Why he lets himself touch you but won’t let himself stay. Instead, you say nothing.

He offers you his lighter when yours gives out, and your fingers brush when you take it. It’s a brief touch, barely there, but it’s enough to make your chest ache in that too-familiar way.

You smoke the rest of your cigarettes side by side, not speaking, not needing to. It’s the kind of silence that used to exist between songs in the studio. When you stub the last bit out on the ledge, you take one last look at the sunrise. The light catches on his face now, gold and soft, and you want to say something. You don’t even know what.

So instead, you pull your hoodie tighter and nod. “I should go.”

He nods too, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop you either.

You turn back towards the door, and as you do, a folded piece of paper slips from your pocket. You don’t notice it fall, fluttering once before landing gently near his feet. You don’t notice it, because you’re too busy disappearing back into the stairwell, too wrapped up in keeping your shoulders straight and your breathing steady.

He doesn’t move for a while after you’re gone.

Then, slowly, Mydei leans down and picks up the paper. The handwriting is unmistakable—your quick, slanted script, a few smudges where the pencil dragged.

He reads it once. Twice.

Then he folds it back up, holds it in his hand like it might crumble, and watches the sun break over the city, alone.

The lights shift from the vibrant spotlights of the previous set into something softer, slower—dimmed gold and dusky purple spreading like ink over the stage. Your mic is cold under your fingers. You roll the cord absently through your hand. You can’t see much beyond the footlights; only the sea of shadows, the faint outlines of swaying arms and cell phone lights blinking like stars.

But Mydei’s there, across from you. This next song is just you and him, after all.

He’s adjusting the strap of his guitar, head bowed, eyes hidden beneath the fall of his hair.

It’s the same stage. The same lights. The same song. Why does it feel so different?

The crowd doesn’t know what they’re about to hear. Most of them don’t even know the song, you’re pretty sure. It’s some B-side from one of your earlier albums. You remember when you wrote it. The quiet of three in the morning, the late-night arguments that bled into music, the unraveling of two people who couldn’t speak to each other unless it was in chords and half-rhymed lines.

Here you are again. Older. Worse at pretending.

The intro begins with gentle chords, the kind that hurt more than they soothe. Your mic is already at your lips. You inhale like it’s your first breath of the night.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care this time, Said your name like it didn’t still taste like goodbye. But you look at me like you never learned how to let go…”

Your voice holds, though it feels like walking a tightrope. Every word comes out measured, like if you let it slip, your heart will come out tumbling too. You don’t look at him, not yet. You can feel his presence—like gravity—but you don’t turn your head.

Not until he sings. Then, you do. He meets your gaze.

“I said we were fire meant to burn out fast, But I keep finding you in every song I’ve written last. You don’t ask me to stay, and I don’t ask you to try… But we’re still standing here, pretending we’re fine.”

His voice—God, his voice. It’s rougher than it used to be, edges carved by years and distance, but it still wraps around your lyrics like it was always meant to. He’s not just singing. He’s looking at you like he’s saying every word for the first time. It knocks the air from your lungs.

Your heart’s pounding now, and you hate that it still reacts to him like this. Like your body remembers the way he used to hold you when no one else was watching. 

The chorus crashes over both of you.

“So lie to me, baby, say it’s still love, Say the ending never mattered, that this beginning’s enough. We were smoke, we were stars, we were doomed from the start, But tonight, just tonight, sing like you still mean every part.”

Mydei steps closer. You do, too. It’s instinct, not plan. You don’t even realise it until you’re nearly toe-to-toe, voices tangling into harmony, eyes locked.

You wonder if the crowd can feel it. If they can hear the way your throat tightens, how the vowels tremble when he looks at you like that. Like he’s trying to remember the shape of you—not just your face, but your soul. The bridge comes. You always dreaded it.

“Maybe we’ll break like we always do, Maybe we’ll forget this in the morning too. But for now—God, for now— You still feel like a home I never knew.”

The line lands like a punch to the chest. Yours, and maybe his too.

You let it ring out, raw and full. For a second, it feels like the two of you are back in that tiny studio years ago—barefoot, angry, tired, in love. Writing a song you were both too scared to mean. But you meant it. You always did, and you do now.

The last chorus is quieter, a lullaby instead of a plea.

“And I’d sing this with you a thousand times… if you’d let me.”

You drop your hand from the mic, breath catching in your throat, and for a moment—just a moment—there’s silence. Just you and Mydei.

He doesn’t move. He’s staring at you with something unspoken lodged in his eyes, something that looks too close to regret.

You turn away first. Your heart’s already too full. One more second and it might burst.

The crowd roars behind you, applause crashing in waves.

[CUT TO BLACK SCREEN] Text appears on screen: “The Members’ Cut.”

[INT. STUDIO – DOCUMENTARY INTERVIEW SETUP]

[CUT TO: CASTORICE, lounging back on the couch.]

CASTORICE: It was just a fact. Mydei and _____. You didn’t say one name without the other. (Shakes her head) And the way they used to look at each other on stage? Insane. Like, we’d be in the middle of a song, and I’d be watching them instead of playing because damn. The rest of us could’ve vanished into thin air, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

(Laughs lightly, rolling her eyes.)

CASTORICE (CONT’D): It was kinda funny, actually. Like, okay, we get it, you’re in love. Can we get through the set without you two making heart eyes at each other? (Pause) But, y’know… it was also kinda nice. Seeing people that in sync. That kind of connection isn’t something you fake.

[CUT TO: HYACINE, sitting cross-legged on the floor, bass resting on her lap.]

HYACINE: They were disgusting. I mean that in the nicest way possible. (Grinning) Like, you’d be tuning your guitar, and they’d just be standing off to the side, whispering to each other like they weren’t literally about to perform in front of thousands of people. And yeah, sure, couples sing duets all the time, but with them? It was different. Like they were letting us in on something private, something meant just for them. Even if it was a song they’d performed a hundred times before, it always felt like they were saying something new.

(Chuckles, eyes soft with nostalgia.)

HYACINE (CONT’D): They made you believe in that kind of love, y’know? The all-consuming, this-song-is-about-you kind of love. You couldn’t watch them and not feel it.

[CUT TO: PHAINON, sitting with his arms draped over the back of the chair, smirking lightly.]

PHAINON: Yeah, they were that couple. The ones who made you roll your eyes but also kind of wish you had what they had. Like, I remember this one show—Mydei had just finished this crazy guitar solo, and instead of, I don’t know, reveling in the applause like a normal person, he immediately turned to _____ like she was the only one whose reaction mattered. And she just grinned at him, and I swear to God, he looked like he won the lottery.

(Shakes his head and scoffs.)

PHAINON (CONT’D): They were reckless with it. Loud about it. No hesitation, no holding back. They didn’t just love each other, they showed it. And that’s rare. You don’t get that kind of honesty on stage very often.

(His smirk fades just slightly.)

PHAINON (CONT’D):  …That’s why it was so hard when it ended.

vii). ‘cause i miss the way he kisses and the way he made me laugh.

The crowd is louder tonight. Not louder in volume, necessarily, but just… like they’re expecting something. Like they know something you don’t.

You glance at the setlist as someone does your in-ear check. Your duet with Mydei is coming up next—the same one you’ve done every night for years. It’s not your most popular song, but it’s yours. It always has been. Something about it felt safe even now, when everything else between you and him was held together with duct tape and willpower.

You take a sip of water and step towards the side of the stage, waiting for the intro cues.

But when you hear the first notes, they’re not yours.

Your stomach drops. The chord progression is soft, a little unfamiliar. It’s not one of your tracks, or a part of the agreed setlist.

Your gaze snapes to the center of the stage where Mydei stands—guitar in hand, face calm. He’s adjusted his mic, and he’s… smiling? Not a grin. Nothing cocky. Just this small, quiet thing, like he’s doing something that matters to him more than he’s ready to admit.

“This one’s not on the list,” he says into the mic, casual, like this doesn’t upend everything. “I wanted to try something new tonight.”

Your brow furrows. You step a little closer, careful not to draw a scene. Castorice gives you a sharp look from behind her kit, like, Did you know about this? You shake your head once. 

Mydei starts to sing.

“You look at me like I’m your only song, And I play the part even when it feels wrong.”

It hits you like a punch to the ribs.

That lyric. That exact line. You know it because you wrote it, alone. In that hotel room weeks ago, scrawled in a burst of emotion you weren’t proud of, folded up and shoved into the pocket of your sweatpants. You’d thought it got tossed in the wash or lost somewhere in the shuffle between cities.

Apparently not. Apparently he found it. And instead of asking you—like a normal person would—he set it to music. He built a melody around your bleeding heart and decided to sing it to a crowd of thousands.

“We’re tangled and twisted and never the same, We love like it hurts and kiss through the pain. You’re poison and honey and everything wrong, And I hate that you’re still the one I want.”

It’s a beautiful melody, and you feel something inside your chest twist, hard. He sings softly but unsteadily, like he wasn’t sure that you’d hear it—or worse, that you would.

He doesn’t look at you while he sings. He scans the crowd, eyes on the horizon. But the meaning is clear. You can feel it in the tightness in your chest, in the hush that’s fallen over the audience, like they know this isn’t just a love song.

You fold your arms over your chest, more for grounding than anything. Castorice doesn’t play a beat. Hyacine and Phainon watch silently, hands loose on their instruments like they’re ready to jump in if needed, but they don’t. Neither of you do.

This is his moment, and your words.

“You look at me like I’m the one you’ve been missing, Kiss me like I’m the dream you keep wishing Would come true when the lights fade away— But you never stay.”

You exhale shakily. You feel exposed, as if you’re standing naked in front of an entire arena. The words weren’t just lyrics—they were confessions. Grudges. Regrets. Things you never had the guts to say out loud. And here Mydei is, saying them for you.

No. Singing them.

Your fingers curl into your palms. You don’t know whether to be furious or deeply, deeply moved. 

He finishes the song in a whisper, almost. The last chord rings out like an unanswered question. The audience is silent for a beat too long. Then they erupt—whistling, cheering, screaming. It’s a standing ovation for something they didn’t even know was a story.

And still, Mydei hasn’t looked at you—until now.

He turns, finally, just a little, and meets your eyes across the stage. You don’t smile. You don’t clap. You just stare at him, speechless and conflicted.

Then, Mydei steps back from the mic and gives the signal to move on with the set. You turn your face away before the next lights come up, blinking hard. Your heart’s racing. You don’t know what happens after this; what this means; what you’re supposed to say.

You only know one thing: That song was yours, and now, it’s his, too.

The hallway outside the dressing rooms is buzzing—crew rushing around, the muffled roar of the crowd still seeping through the walls, someone shouting about cords and lights and encores. But all you can hear is the blood in your ears and your name echoing in Mydei’s voice as he sang your lyrics.

His voice, but your words. Your heart on a scrap of paper you never meant for anyone else to see.

Your footsteps are harsh against the floor as you turn the corner and push the door open. The dressing room is too bright, too sterile compared to the intimacy of the stage. Mydei stands with his back to you, shirt clinging to his skin with sweat, hair pushed off his forehead like he ran his fingers through it too many times.

You close the door behind you with a click. Quiet, but final. He hears it.

“Hey,” he says, not turning around yet.

You stare at the back of his head. “Don’t do that to me.”

Mydei pauses. Slowly, he turns to face you. “I figured you’d be mad.”

“Mad?” You laugh, breath catching somewhere in your throat. “You think I’m mad?”

“You look mad.”

“I am mad,” you snap, taking a step closer, heart pounding. “You sang a song you weren’t supposed to have. You didn’t even ask me, Mydei. You just—just stood there and threw it at me in front of ten thousand people like it meant nothing.”

“It didn’t mean nothing,” he says. “That’s why I sang it.”

You’re both quiet. The silence stretches and tightens until it’s almost unbearable.

“You could’ve told me,” you say finally, voice hoarse. “You could’ve talked to me. About the song. About anything. But you don’t. You never do.”

Mydei exhales slowly, resting his hands on his hips like he’s bracing himself. “I didn’t know how.”

You tilt your head, lips parting in disbelief. “That’s such bullshit, Mydei. We wrote songs together. We told each other everything through music. And now you’re just—standing there, acting like it’s some impossible thing.”

He looks at you, then. Really looks. And for a moment, he’s not the cold, distant version of himself he’s been for months. He’s just him. The boy who used to fall asleep beside you in the tour van. The one who hummed half-finished melodies in your ear at midnight in whatever motel you were crashing in. The one who used to kiss you like the world might end before morning.

“I didn’t know how to say I missed you,” he admits. “So I used your words instead. Because mine never come out right.”

You don’t want to forgive him. You really don’t.

But the hurt in his voice is real. So is the way he’s looking at you—like you’ve always been the only person in the room, and he’s just been waiting to see you again for real.

You take one shaky step forward. Then another.

When your lips crash into his, it isn’t careful or slow. It’s everything you’ve been holding back: Rage, longing, grief, hope. His hands find your face, yours grip his shirt, and everything around you blurs until it’s just him, just the warmth of his mouth and the softness of his sighs and the undeniable truth that this still feels like home.

You part, breathless.

Neither of you speaks at first. You’re still close enough to feel his breath on your cheek, the heat of his skin under your fingertips. 

Your voice comes out quieter than you intend when you tell him, “I want to get you back.”

Mydei doesn’t hesitate. “You already have.”

It hits you harder than the kiss did. Something cracks inside you—something small and soft and long-buried. You almost don’t realise you’re crying until he wipes your cheek with the back of his hand.

You let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.” His thumb traces the edge of your jaw. “You’re allowed to be.”

You step back first, gently. He lets you go, but his eyes follow you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

As you adjust your jacket and run a hand through your hair, something slips from your pocket—folded paper, creased from being handled too many times. You don’t notice, but Mydei does.

He kneels to pick it up after you’re gone, quietly unfolding it to find another unfinished song. Lyrics in your handwriting. His name, half-crossed out and rewritten three times.

He reads the first line. Smiles.

He doesn’t hand it back to you. He tucks it into his jacket, like he already knows how it ends.

[CUT TO BLACK] Text appears on screen: “Chrysos Heirs: Reunion Tour. THE END.”

You don't like how your entire body seizes at the way his voice curls around that title, and you despise even more that you can't hide it.

If you had any clue that he’d entered the room somewhere in the midst of your reverie, you sure have no recollection of it. The coarse surface of the railing scrapes against the tips of your fingers when you curl them.

You can hear the way the ends of his cape kisses the floor, it's not difficult to in the vacuum of the uppermost chamber.

What is difficult is mustering the courage to turn and face him, which, much unfortunately for you, is exactly what he wants.

You can't resist shifting under the pressure of his presence, one needs no vision to perceive the way he oppresses the air in the room.

Before you could get lost in it though, a sharp tap-tap-tap pierces through, those dreadful claws stirring a reminder that you cannot ignore.

You almost hate it more than when he grips unto silence and forces you to squirm in it — almost, because when he indicates like this instead, at least you know that he's been tiptoeing impatience.

It's not a victory though, because still, you must turn.

That aggravating noise comes to a halt when you twist your body, slowly, not because you know how to torture, but because you fear being scorched under his attention should you shift too quickly.

“If I am?” you risk a direct glance at that masked being, before letting your gaze glaze over to look nowhere in particular.

It takes everything in you to not clutch at your skirt and shrink further into the shadow which he casts over your seated form.

Heavens, you don't know where that sudden surge of audacity came from, and the Flame Reaver notices. Of course he does, though he validates it by no more than a faint tilt of his head.

He does that a lot, as you’ve observed.

What he does not do often is crouching on the floor before the chaise. You trace the sheen of light on his pauldron with an askance stare, heartbeat rudely interrupted when he taps the floor again.

Typically, he’d deign instead to tower over everything that crosses his path. So this behavior… you can say for certain, if this is his way of seeming more approachable, it is not working.

“Well,” human hearts are wild things, that is why they're caged — you feel this sentence to your atoms at the first prick of that sharp talon.

The monster leans into his previous head-tilt in tandem with your flinch, “We both know how that ends, don't we?” unwilling tingles travel to your marrow as he circles over the swell on your ankle with the tip of one nail.

As if on cue, a sting of pain shoots up your leg and suddenly, you're paralyzed in place. The blacks and streaks of gold of his mask blend and swirl, swirl, swirl ; like a spiraling staircase. Shadows reach up and attach to your legs like tar, yank you down and down the infinite stairway—

“Y-you came back early today…!” you heave, almost choking on a gasp, the Flame Reaver’s nail hinges precariously on the lifted hem of your skirt and on the jut of your now bared knee.

You do not want to reminisce about your failed escape attempts, and luckily, the Flame Reaver recognizes it.

“Are you upset?” your relief doesn't even last a millisecond, because he keeps on inching up your dress.

If you could take your eyes off that motion, you would've thrown a much justified tantrum.

This— this monster in the shell of a man who loves to pretend like he understands nothing of human customs, but knows every trick in the book to keep you in his choke-hold, just with his words.

It infuriates you.

You want scream and break a few things.

For with what audacity does he question if you're upset or not? Upset that he keeps you locked in the sky? Upset that he didn't kill you? Upset that he stole you from your wedding altar?

(But you don't yank your leg away like you very much could, and perhaps that says more than your increasingly aggravated look.)

Against all your instincts, you force yourself to take a deep breath, twisting the worn fabric of the cushions under your nails.

It's hard to pinpoint the monster’s expression due to that mask — if he even has one, but you can feel that he's staring right at that motion.

“You are.” he answers his own question, clothes rustle as he shifts slightly in his crouch.

You cross your arms across your chest, “Am not.” your attempt at averting your gaze is thwarted when you feel a long scratch being drawn up your thigh, forcing you to inhale.

And when you look back, you find the Flame Reaver an inch away from stealing your next breath.

Gravity slips from your grasp. You have to plant a firm hand on the chaise to hold yourself up when his proximity forces you lean back.

Whatever light there was in the chamber is swallowed by his presence, a wisp of the afternoon sunbeam glints over the metal tip of his mask.

“Why…” you have to force yourself to swallow the way your heart twists in tandem with the circle he draws on your thigh, “Why does it matter to you…?”

The Flame Reaver dares you to push him off by leaning even closer, “Can it not matter to me?” the timbre of his voice buzzes against your ear.

Trick question. He's a master at those and in reducing your two decades worth of education to mere stutters.

How do you even begin to respond to that? When those wicked fingers rest alarmingly close to your core and your brain is electrocuted by how easily his claws engulf your entire thigh?

“I—I’m cold!!!”

If the Flame Reaver had a face, you could imagine him blinking dumbfoundedly at this exclamation. Your chest heaves alongside your breaths and you can't find the courage to open your squeezed eyes.

It's not exactly a lie, a poor excuse borne of a frayed brain, maybe, but it's the truth.

You feel hot, feverish to the point where chills have begun to crawl up your toes, and you're so, so afraid of what that will prompt you to do.

A few moments pass in awkward silence, in which you try to calm yourself and the Flame Reaver just watches.

Titans, you hate it when he watches. Like he knows your skin better than you do.

The next events occur a bit too fast: the claws retract, you're freed from the impromptu captivity of his arms and at last, wrapped in his cloak.

You blink once at the way the fabric settles over your shoulders, and again as he retreats, standing to his full height this time.

The first thing you notice is the faint smell of charr now enveloping you, next is that its warm, far warmer than what you’d expected from a being who always looks so cold ; the ends of the cloak reach all the way to floor.

The Flame Reaver meets your befuddled gaze with another one of his tilts, difference this time being the strands of silver that shift with the motion now that the hood no longer hides them.

He stands still like that, and you're taken aback by how much it resembles an obedient hound awaiting praise.

You can only hope that you read that cue right when you let out in hesitance, “Thank you…?”

You really wonder if half of the things you see in this tower are real or not, because the Flame Reaver’s shoulders seem to loosen.

The Flame Reaver traces your form again, lingering a second longer on the way your fingers subconsciously clutch at his cloak.

Perhaps he finds the sight of how it seems to swallow you ridiculous, or humorous how you cling to the clothes of your captor.

“Hmph.” he makes sure to express that loudly enough that you hear it, and then, just as silently as he came, he vanishes.

You pull your legs up to your chest when the smoke of indigo fades. His is of a power unrivaled in this world, hands that can command the Black Tide itself to their whims, and leave behind nothing but ashes.

It's a miracle that you're still alive in his den, you think.

Though why you are is still a mystery to even yourself ; a futile one to dwell in, as you've discovered, since the source of the mystery is ever elusive where it is concerned.

So, you can do nothing but curl up in yourself — in the cloak of your captor, no less.

The fact that there are blankets at arm’s reach teases you, and you're disturbed from your sinking mind when you realize how uninterested you are in reaching for one.

It chills you more when the events that’d preceded this silence resurface, and you remember, how not even once, had you pushed the Flame Reaver off.

Spine straight, shoulders relaxed, eyes so soft they melt someone's heart like wax, always smile with your lips pursed — those were only a few of the things that were drilled into your head since you learned to walk.

Your life was as eventful as that of any princess in Amphoreus. Learn by the books, master the arts, do not peek into political matters and be a lady befitting of your husband ; you're certain even your comb remembers how many times it’s heard this dialogue from the lips of your mother.

Life was not harsh by any means for you, so you remained a good child and were grateful for every comfort you’d received. Even when chatters of the most anticipated event of your life stirred, you had no leeway to complain.

Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. The Hero whose name is sure to be sung in paeans of the future.

Kephale's chosen, the Goldweaver's protege, the Sage Anaxagoras’ most exceptional disciple, the Slayer of the Flame Reaver — how could anyone ever seek fault in a man like that?

He's a warm, valiant, kind and courteous soul, despite the depth of horror he’d endeavored ; you verified this much quickly in just the first glance.

The priests passed solemn vows that you were his most perfect match, and the rest was a mix of hurried dress fittings, gossip filled with excitement in every corner of the city, and trysts sneaked between the chaos of the century’s most anticipated wedding.

You do not dislike Sir Phainon by any means. Even before your engagement, you distinctly recall him being present in the front rows during your harp recitals, smiling so proud that it left you wondering if he’d been the personification of Aquila's joy instead.

Sir Phainon always bowed first with the utmost humility to you, he never spoke harshly or disrespectfully, and he always had half his wits fixed in looking after your clumsy self.

Perfection. If there exists anything close to it in this world, it is lord Phainon, you think.

And perhaps, that is the … problem.

“See that round white bird on that branch? The one with the grey stripes?” you recall him pointing once in one ‘date’, and you’d followed his eager finger with all your trust.

“That is called a Sousourada.” the smile he sports is the picture of pure childlike glee, so unlike the serious image he usually paints.

Your mouth forms an ‘O’ upon the way the songbird flits to and fro across the trees of the palace garden, “It’s so cute.” you clasp your hands atop your lap, afternoon sunbeams glinting off of the jewels in your hair.

If possible, Phainon's smile widens. “Right?” he tilts his head to better catch the shine in your eyes.

“Back in… Aedes Elysiae, I'd see these little guys in hoards during harvest season.” he leans back against the bench, smile softening.

“The new wheat was so good that they couldn't resist having a taste I suppose…!” his chuckle this time is noticeably forced.

“They’d keep the air alive with their songs all day long,” his voice quietens and his shoulders macerate with an unexpected slump.

“And I'd fall asleep in the middle of the wheat fields listening to their chirps… though Snowy would always sniff me ou— ah! I'm extremely sorry, my lady— I shouldn't have began monologuing like that.”

A crease forms between your brows as the hero busies with apologies, rubbing the nape of his neck. You know why the memories of his homeland make him solemn.

After all, the Black Tide left nothing but the weight of them for him to carry — not the wheat fields, not Snowy, not the Sousouradas of Aedes Elysiae.

You shake your head, stopping him from spiraling with a raised hand. An idea strikes you, making you lean closer towards the hero.

“What do say, my lord, we visit Aedes Elysiae after the ceremony?” your lips twitch in a hopeful smile, “I’d like to formally mourn the departed with you.”

Phainon's hand drops from the nook of his neck, those cyan eyes widen and his lips part in shock.

Was that a rude proposal to make? It's now your turn to be anxious. “Uhm…” you raise a hand, palming the air in uncertainty.

Before you could retreat or spell the apology on the tip of your tongue though, the hero snatches that hand, prompting your breath to hitch.

“Are you certain that you… want to do that with me, my lady?” Phainon looks at you with so much hope it breaks your heart, clasping your hand in his gloved ones with all his fragile might.

There's no way you could say no to that look, “Mhm, I am.” you can only hope your smile is reassuring enough.

A trembling breath leaves the hero’s lips and brushes against your cheek, the heat of which makes the scarcity in proximity between you and him sink, and jolts you into realizing the quickened pace with which the hero's lips inch closer to yours.

Phainon blinks as your palm covers his mouth, you chuckle coyly, though it's more nerves than anything.

“Patience, my lord?” you loosen the press of your hand.

The gold in Phainon’s eyes glint as they widen, before glazing in fluster when he realizes his mistake.

“Of course —! I apologize again, I—” he grips your hand before it could slip away, “I don't know what came over me there, it's just that…” he sneaks a glance at your puzzled face before attempting to hide his expression in your hand.

“Ugh… excuse me, I was just being an idiot.” he clears his throat and presses a kiss on the back of your hand.

When you try to pull back your hand though, he clings to it. “I’ll be as patient as you order me to be,” his lips slide to your vacant ring finger next, “— For as long as you want me to be.” he seals the vow with the softest kiss there yet.

Yes, you are the lucky woman who’ll walk down the aisle with this perfect man, bind your body, heart and soul with his. Petals will rain down from the people's hands at the wedding parade, trumpets will resound the victory of Phainon again.

Or at least, that's how it was meant to go.

There's that falcon circling the parameters of the tower again, round and round, unflinching under the heat of the midday sun.

“Are you planning on luring it to you with that bread?” the Flame Reaver's voice echoes from behind you, something like mockery and amusement mixed in his words.

You don't turn to face him this time, attention fixed on tearing pieces of the bread and tossing the crumbs whenever the falcon passes by your window as if to say — what if I am?

The Flame Reaver huffs, “Are you aware that they're carnivores?”

That irks you enough to shoot him a glare over your shoulder, “I know that. But what if I can interest it in coming closer with bread? I’ll give it meat after!”

The Flame Reaver taps a talon against one of his folded arms, body leaned against the doorframe of your chamber.

“Foolish princess. Do you not know that half of a predator’s meal is the thrill of the hunt?”

You don't listen and hold your stubborn pout, tossing another bread crumb in the air, which merely drops to the ground with a sad plop.

“Ahh, or perhaps,” your shoulders tense as he takes that tone, “You’re leaving breadcrumbs for that hero to follow? Your confidence in that brat’s skills is rather pathetic, princess. Impressive in a way, but pathetic nonetheless.”

“Don’t speak of my fiance like that.” this time, you hold your glare for a second longer than the last.

Strands of silver, bared still as a result of him lending his cloak to you yesterday (though now neatly folded on the table), shift as he tilts his head. “… Or else?”

“Or… or else I—” you clutch at the loaf of bread, scrambling for a riposte that never surfaces. “I’ll…!”

Your verbal struggle, and consequent fluster greatly pleases the monster. And you wonder if it's normal to be able to catch that when you can't even see a smidgen of his expression.

“Hm. Can you stop wasting food and eat your lunch now, princess?”

You hate hate hate how much that sentence reminds you of the condescending remarks of your mother, and it snaps whatever was left of your frayed composure.

“I don't know, can you take off your mask and face me like a man?”

Your fists tremble as you realize what you just did, breath lodged in your throat as the Flame Reaver goes utterly still.

You stutter again, mind backpedaling in fear, but it's too late to take it back.

A gasp is forced out of you, the world tilts as gravity is swept from under your feet, the greys of the ceiling mesh and mix before settling again.

You take a sharp gulp of breath as the world calms ; as you look around, you realize that you're seated on the wooden chair before the table and five of the Flame Reaver's Shadows surround you like hounds.

One takes the half wasted loaf of bread from your hands, one grips your jaw, one scoops up a spoonful of stew and the other two glower at you enough that you open your mouth to take the food without a thought.

There's no way you could've protested against that, you huff as another spoonful is pushed to your mouth, doesn't make it any less humiliating though.

Thumps against the floor make you glance back to see the Flame Reaver's advance.

“What?” he jabs upon noticing your puffed cheeks squished in his Shadow’s grasp, “Shall I get you a bib as well?”

Heat rushes to your face, an indignant protest dies at the tip of your tongue upon the approach of the Flame Reaver's claws.

“Don’t touch me!” you recoil in the Shadows’ grasp, brows pinching together in a frown, deepening more and more when the monster doesn't stop.

The edge of one metallic nail brushes past your hair, “I’m warning you I—” you watch in terror as his thumb grazes your cheek and then moves past towards the folded cloak which sat upon the table.

Fabric rustles as the Flame Reaver shakes the cloak open, you blink dumbfoundedly once, before embarrassment seizes your psyche.

The Shadow pushes another spoonful to your lips, which you accept this time with much humility.

No one even mentions the mishap, and that makes it worse.

Unable to stand the silence of your humiliation, “Uh, Flame Rea—”

“Khaslana.”

Right. You’d nearly forgotten that, the monster's strange insistence on you using that name instead of the title he’s known by, one which you’ll pretend like you can't hear for as long as you can.

“Ahem, uhm, I was wondering —! Are these… do these clones of yours have free will?” you see from the edge of your vision as he halts mid-motion, cloak hung on his shoulder.

“… Why do you ask?” you know he's looking down at the sight of you getting fed like an ignorant newborn, his tendency of answering your questions with one of his own isn't surprising either.

Because I want to dig a hole and crawl in there? You swallow another mouthful of stew, a bead of the dish escapes from the corner of your lips.

You have half a mind to blow a raspberry at him and a quarter to keep your mouth shut in offense. But the logical part of you supplies, “I’m bored.”

“What?” the Flame Reaver sounds genuinely baffled.

It gives you the modicum of courage to glance up, “Boreeeeeed! I’m so bored I want to jump from that window sometimes!” you clench your fists, dodging the Shadow’s attempt at pushing another bite to your lips.

A faint sag overtakes the Flame Reaver's shoulders, “You’re eating, bathing, sleeping. Is that not entertainment enough?” there's so much exasperation in his rugged voice it would've convinced a lesser man.

“What do you mean entertainment?! Those are basics of—mmph!” the Shadow holding your jaw swings you back to accept the rejected spoonful.

You push through to make your point anyway, “Leevewing! Baysics of leevinh!”

The Flame Reaver watches as stew smears across your lips and chin, the sudden heat of defense in your eyes completely at odds with how you look more like a stuffed hamster than an elegant princess.

He forces out an annoyed sigh, “Alright then, princess.” crossing his arms over his chest, the Shadows stop shoving food to your mouth upon catching the faint command. “What is ‘entertainment’?”

The heat in your eyes morphs to sparkles, “Like! Reading! Books!”

A glint of light reflects off of the metal of his mask as he tips his head back, “While eating?”

“Yes!”

“That’s childish.”

“Whoa—” you lean back as though scandalized, “Have you ever tried reading a good book while eating?”

The Flame Reaver's response comes flat, “I don't need to eat.”

He watches with some fascination as all the offense drains from your body at that single line.

You blink a couple of times, as though recalibrating everything you've thought about the monster.

“That’s… quite sad.” your gaze flits from his masked face to the hooves of his boots.

Silence parades the chamber once again, the air humid with pity. You fiddle with the fabric of your skirt, pale pink paint from your wedding day fading from your nails, you shift in your seat in uncertainty.

All the indignation that’d lit your pride on fire before suddenly nowhere in sight.

You're jolted from the deluge of reverie at the press of a familiar thumb, though unlike before, it refrains from scratching at your skin and instead, wipes away the mess of stew from your lips. The residue at your chin is swiped away by his knuckles.

You blink up just as the Flame Reaver retreats, pulling his hood up.

“Come down after you’ve finished eating. Five floors down from this one, the door with a bronze infinity symbol.”

—

You were raised a child of the books ; from moulding your inner world to shaping you posture, books were present in every step of the way.

It was considered integral to the image of ladies of the upper class to be able to hold conversations on historical and contemporary texts, hence, the popularity of reading in this era.

Not to mention, it was one of the only ways to pass the obdurate days for noblewomen.

Legend of the Dawn Hero, The Chimera's Patronage, The Sun and the Morning Glory — were some of the most popular titles you grew up with.

It was easy as well, to get lost in the vibrant worlds where brave heroes heralded pilgrimages to save the world, in the folds of drama and thrill and adventure.

When you were nine, you were handed a copy of Legend of the Dawn Hero by your governess, a popular romance featuring the ‘Deliverer’ who saves the world from an opprobrious monster.

“Which part moved you the most?” she’d asked in that terse tone of hers.

You distinctly recall hesitating, your little hands fumbling with the book (which earned you a glare from the woman). “The part where… the monster's past was revealed.”

“Oh? Do elaborate.”

“Uhm,” it takes everything in you to not stutter more under her curiosity, ”It was simply unexpected to me. I never thought villains could have bad starts as well. It made me rather sad.”

The woman graciously ignored your last sentence, “And what did you think about the Deliverer?”

You stared at the painted sun on the book’s cover for a second, and then shrugged. “He was okay.”

That took her visibly by surprise.

“Huh. What an odd child.”

The books that filled the ‘library’ the Flame Reaver opened for you were far from the shiny books you’d read back at home.

Since your arrival — or should you say, manhandling by the Shadows to this place — you’ve become increasingly hesitant to even call it a library.

The rows upon rows of dusty tomes and unkempt pages, tall cabinets storing who knows what give this chamber more the impression of a mad scholar’s secret study.

And you would've been charmed by the vellichor of it all, had this been a different circumstance.

The one saving grace of this labyrinthian library is the chaise by the window, illuminated by the rays of the sun as it dips to the west horizon. Everything else is graced by scattered candlelight, a small mercy by him, is what you conclude.

It's not like you're in the position to complain, and honestly, it's a much better experience than counting clouds from your chamber.

You pause, eyes stuck on the spine of a book labeled ‘basics of meteorology’ in Styxian script. The coincidence prompts you to fish it out of the row.

A Shadow flickers in your periphery just as your turn the front page, almost making you flinch.

You can't even begin to describe your aggravation with those things. They appear to be as — if not more — emotionless than their master, but if there was something in this world synonymous with being hellspawns, you think it’d be them.

It's just that you have no way to actually prove that, so all you can do is ignore them.

Unlike the books you'd browsed in this chamber before, you find the one in your hands to be actually readable, with small illustrations accompanying the rules.

With a newfound spark in your gait, you turn with the intention of reaching the chaise — the jump in your step halted upon the collision with something hard.

A yelp escapes you, hand reaching on instinct to rub your nose. When you crane your neck to look up in irritation, you see the candlelight glinting off of the metal of the Flame Reaver's mask.

He, just watches the flow of emotions on your face, as he usually does.

You’ve discovered interrogating him on this habit to be futile, so you take a step back and another to your left to pass him by.

Which he meets.

You throw him a furtive glance and then step to the right the next second.

He copies it.

You go back towards the left and he meets you there, resulting in your temple colliding with his chest again.

And then, he huffs in irritation like you are the hindrance.

“Hey, can you—” your request is catapulted midair, you gasp, hands seeking to clutch at something, anything for balance as the Flame Reaver hauls you up his shoulder.

The first thing you register, is how far the floor suddenly is from your reach, and the next is the uncomfortable sensation of your chest being squished against his shoulder blades.

The dark lines of the floor swirl and twirl with his steps, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut lest the motion makes you sick.

When your hand finally manages to clutch onto his cloak for some semblance of balance, they're removed from it just as fast.

You blink, hair ruffled and breaths erratic as the Flame Reaver's hands grasp your waist, the chaise bounces from the force of your drop.

His retreating step is loud in the library, an intentional move to snap you back to reality.

Instead of vanishing like he usually would've done though, he lingers for a moment longer on how this simple thing disheveled you from top to bottom.

When you catch his stare, he turns away with a click of his tongue. A snap echoes, and the book you had in your hands drops to your lap — you didn’t even realize it’d fallen from your hands.

When you look up next, the Flame Reaver is no longer there ; only you, the sibilant Shadows, and the weight of this fluster you have no control over.

“There lives an evil monster at the far north of Amphoreus — we call it the Flame Reaver. He brought with him this wretched Black Tide. It corrupts and mutilates everything that it touches beyond saving.”

“And the Chrysos Heirs are our heroes, they work tirelessly every day to fight the Black Tide and slay that monster.”

“Lady Goldweaver of Okhema, Lady Tribios of Janusopolis, Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos, Castorice the Hand of Shadow, Hycinthia of the Twilight Courtyard, Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany, Imperator Cerydra, Hysilens of Styxia… and lord Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, the Blazing Sun who’ll bring dawn to this world one day.”

You remember the edge of pride on your governess’ face as she’d introduced them, fourteen years ago. It was only the beginning of her long history lessons.

Fourteen years later, on the year 4931 of the Light Calendar, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae would defeat the notorious Flame Reaver.

On the year 4931 of the Light Calendar, you would become the lady of his house…

Steam cloak’s the room, even a whisper sounds as though it were an exclamation. Somewhere, there's an ictus of falling water.

A sigh escapes you as your back meets the marble of the bathtub, the waterline caresses your clavicle, where damp strands of hair brush past.

The temperature is just a bit on the hotter side, but it's bearable, a small reprieve in your prison. You think life to be so strange, things you had never thought twice about back home are luxuries beyond its gates.

Things are prepared without even a trace of another life in the tower ; food, clothes and even this bath — you can only conclude it to be the result of magic.

For the past weeks, you’ve had scarce sleep. Your eyes only close when your mind is tired out from worrying all day, and even then, the rest you get is sporadic.

But the warmth of the bath numbs your restless mind, the fragrance of wild herbs lulls it further.

In this lapse of time, even an enclosure feels like a sanctuary, makes you feel as though you've brushed past freedom once more, and before long, your breaths have slowed.

Though it doesn't last long.

You feel tingles spreading from the backs of your knees first, then tickles at your nape as though your hair was being swept aside.

Probably just the water, you reassure yourself in your half waking state.

The edge of the bathtub grazes against your head, you think you hear a faint splash, ghosts of touches gliding over your chest, weighing your breasts and sliding down your belly.

A sting shakes you awake.

The gulp of breath you're forced to take is pulled taut by the firm press of something against your lips, it takes you more than a few frantic blinks to look over the veil of the fog and at last, you see it.

At least a dozen of those Shadows, all sporting the form of that Dark Swordmaster, their edges flickering like flames ; two palm your breasts, one holds your head in place, another parts your dew soaked legs and the rest fight for even an inch of your skin.

Your gasp is smothered by the hand on your lips and you nearly choke when it covers your whole face for a moment, before planting one thumb to keep your sounds from echoing.

Your flailing arms are seized next, you can't even see what's going on there past the curtains of those shadows that allow not even scant light to touch your skin.

The sounds of splashing water rattle the walls, everything is too hot, too hot, too hot — from the wisps of choked breaths they mercy upon you in betwixt the unkind twists of their fingers across your core, to the burn of their claws digging and drawing indents of their hunger on your body.

Tears prickle the corners of your eyes, another sound that you dread to be a whine is muffled as the shadows coil tighter around you.

By some cruelty, the thumb on your lips shifts just enough to let the next cry echo.

On top of the water that laps at your skin, there's something else too, parting the petals of your clitoris and plunging deep with one rough swipe.

Their talons attach like barnacles, holding you in place, and in obedience by your hips.

You do not know how to explain the sensation, it's like a knot is being crafted in your belly with every swipe and twist, every squeeze and pinch, stretched taut til your breaths are no more than broken whimpers.

You catch one Shadow looking directly at you from your peripheral, it betrays no emotion, just floats quietly behind the crowd.

Your head tips back further when the shadows part your legs to scavenge for more room and from the small crack in between them, you see more apparitions through your blurry vision.

It clicks suddenly, there's another wave of them, awaiting their turn patiently.

A line of drool slips past your lips and smears your chin, the Shadow which was covering your mouth wipes with one swipe of its thumb ; your toes curl midair as the knot in your lower stomach snaps.

Steam cloak’s the room, even a whisper sounds as though it were an exclamation. Somewhere, there's an ictus of falling water.

A groan escapes your lips as you stir, vision shrouded with enervation, your joints complain when you shift in the bathtub.

The water’s heat is now faint, but every candle is lit as you recall.

Slowly, you come to, gripping the edge of the bathtub for support. You’ve never felt more disoriented in your life, not even when the Flame Reaver pointed his blade at your throat and then let you off from tasting its sharpness.

Right. The Flame Reaver. The captivity.

… His Shadows.

You sit up straight, glancing frantically at your hands and body as the memories resurface.

There isn't a single scratch on your skin, but you can still recall the feel of their greedy touches, the way they moulded you to their liking.

The bath water is now completely cold, sending chills down your spine but you could not care at all.

Your teeth work at your bottom lip as the scenes flash through your mind again, a droplet of water slides down your cleavage.

A faint tremble seizes your body.

What was that? Was that real? Was that a dream? Why was it so vivid if it were one? And why does your body feel so heavy if it weren't one?

And most importantly, why can you not stop replaying it in your mind?

Sharp thunks echo as pages flutter to the ground, in your frenzy (for what exactly, you can hardly pin down), you bump against shelves and cabinets more times than you have the mind to count.

You just know that you need a distraction, and in pursuit of it, your feet have led you to the only other place you're (somewhat) allowed entry to in the tower ; the ‘library’ — without any intervention of the sentinel Shadows.

Those cursed Shadows, you heave, leaning against a cabinet.

If breaking your ankle the last time you’d tried to escape wasn't bad enough, they’d decided to shift to toying with your sanity next.

Every night, without fail, you're certain those hellspawns have been doing something to you. But for some, some reason, by dawn you only have blurry memories to recount.

As such, the Flame Reaver never takes your complaints seriously — he doesn't even answer any questions you might have about his powers, let alone those cryptic clones.

But does his dismissive scoffs help you at all? No! With every moment alone with those Shadows, you feel as though you're being pushed closer and closer to the edge of an abyss ; one that dulls your inhibitions, and makes you desire for things you’ve been taught your whole life to loathe.

The Shadows cease reaching with their grabby hands in the presence of their master, but he only makes that pinching feeling in your heart worse.

You're scared to even observe it for long — and you absolutely, absolutely can't afford to linger on it, not when your family is still waiting for you, not when your fiance has foregone half of his sanity in search of you (you're sure he has).

Your confidence in that brat’s skills is rather pathetic, princess. You flinch as that monster's words resurface in your mind.

Rust coats the voice in your recollections, that easy condescension which pulls at the steady strings of your heart, Impressive in a way, but pathetic nonetheless.

You bite your lip, hands gripping the handle of the wooden cabinet ; all at once every instance where he’d reached too close cluster forth in your mind, every time the edge of his mask brushed against your cheek, everytime you were a breath away from feeling those silver strands of his hair.

The edge of the handle bites into your hands, you wonder, as the recollections of the Shadows’ whispers mesh with the cadence of his tone in your mind, how would it feel if it was him whispering those filthy things in your ear while coaxing tears out of your eyes?

Just as quickly as the flood of thoughts came, they wane.

You blink, the first thing you notice when you come to reality is that your cheeks feel hot, the next is that the cabinet’s door has somehow come loose from its hinges in your hands.

The door clutters to the ground when you drop it. For a second, you palm at the air in uncertainty, and then, you decide to duck and peek inside the thing almost mindlessly.

A cough escapes you as a deluge of dust emerges from the stack of worn notebooks in the cabinet.

You wave away as much of it as you can, squinting in the dim candlelight to get a better look.

Something in your gut tugs at you, tells you that you probably shouldn't go farther than this.

You did come down without permission here, and the logical thing to do would be to not test the Flame Reaver's graces more.

… But the prospect of finding out how he’d react to this act of rebellion is undoubtedly tempting.

Dust smudges your fingertips as you pull out (what seems to be) a notebook. You blow on the cover, perhaps it was just the faint light from the candles’ fault, but you remain unsuccessful in deciphering the cover page.

The contents within the notebook though, were a different story.

You tilt the pages toward the candles, eyes squinting, shifting, widening with every word.

ENTRY - - -: Attempt #28,371,274

• LIGHT CALANDER — 4894, MONTH OF JOY •

The Black Tide field test in the frontier village, Code: AE6 was a success. Two survivors emerged from the rubbles. One’s location is still unidentified. The other remembers himself to be called “Khaslana“. … Aged approximately eight. Some minor injuries but otherwise in good health.

…

ENTRY 001: NEW EXPERIMENT. In Juncture With Attempt Count #28,371,275

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4894, MONTH OF EVERDAY •

Admittance of subject “Neikos496”. Age : 8, Male. Shows signs of being resistant to the corrosive properties of the Black Tide. Further observation required.

..

ENTRY 003: Attempt #28,371,276

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4894, MONTH OF - - - - - - •

Subject Neikos496 shows intense impulses. Has been refusing meals.. Consistently asks for the whereabouts of “brother Phainon“. Further observation required.

…

ENTRY 034: Attempt #28,371,- - -

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4896, MONTH OF FREEDOM •

Subject Neikos496 shows extreme tolerance towards the Black Tide. Procedures for Experiment: Imbibition are in order.

..

ENTRY 035: Attempt #28,372,- - -

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4896, MONTH OF WEAVING •

Subject Neikos496 has lost his sense of taste. Note: The Black Tide has not yet hindered his growth in any way.

..

ENTRY 050: Attempt #28,500,- - -

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4899, MONTH OF MOURNING •

Subject Neikos496 can fully harness the destructive properties of the Black Tide. A revolutionary breakthrough in - - - -..

ENTRY 051: Attempt #29,- - -, - - -

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4899, MONTH OF FORTUNE •

Subject Neikos496 shows signs of rapid physical growth… Form growing distant from that of… umans… Further observation required.

..

ENTRY 101: Attempt #33,- - -,- - -

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4909, MONTH OF EVERNIGHT •

Subject Neikos496 can fully control the Destructive properties of the Black Tide phenomena. Procedures to unleash… Heavy observation required. Subject shows tendencies of rebellion.

Overseer : --.. .- -. -.. .- .-.

ENTRY - - -: Attempt #33,550,36

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4910, M- -TH O- - - - - •

Subject Neikos496 is suspected to rebel. The tower’s defences have been set. Operation: Irontomb will soon lau..nch.. do not panic. Everything will b.. —

“I thought princesses knew.. how to maintain curfews?”

Your heart kicks against your ribcage violently as it registers that voice. The old, worn paper in your grasp is soaked from your sweaty palms, your desperate grip on its words.

You open your mouth to respond by instinct, but nothing tangible comes out.

The edge of the Flame Reaver's hood brushes against your hair as he leans down to catch a peek — not at the notebook that you shouldn't be holding, but at the abject horror painted on your face.

His hands hover by your skirt, and with every breath you're forced to take, you get more and more acutely aware of the fact that his chest is flush against your back.

“Answer me, princess.” you’re yanked back before you could spiral in your thoughts, but you can hardly make your mind cooperate with his demand.

The Flame Reaver, graciously decides to assist you.

You jolt as his hand comes up to grasp your chin, “What’s wrong?“ condescension drips from his words and into your ear, “You weren't so scared when you waltzed into the obituary of a madman.“

“I…” you scramble your mind for something, anything to respond with amidst the sillage of bulrush and smoke that encroaches in your space. “I’m—”

Your treacherous heart jumps again as the Flame Reaver clicks his tongue, not because it's loud in the narrow space, but because it sounds indulgent.

“Are you about to apologize, princess?” he moans against your cheek. “Save me the charade. I have no interest in the fact that you found this.”

That makes you blink as some clarity returns.

Just as you're about to urge him to elaborate though, the Flame Reaver squeezes your cheeks together with enough force to make you yelp, the nails of his thumb and forefinger dig into the meat, hard.

“I’m sure you know where my interest is in.” you could've never, in the twenty years of your existence, ever expected the Flame Reaver to sound so coy, so elated — at mushing your cheeks to oblivion or to the underbreath of the unfolding events, you can hardly care.

“But the question is,“ his left hand finally makes its presence known in the shape of grasping your waist, “Are you brave enough to indulge me?” he cranes your neck up to meet his heated breaths, face to masked-face.

You don't dare to open your eyes and stare into that nothingness, but you don't do anything to break out of his grip either, not even as he threatens to paint your cheeks red in your own blood, or how his claws tear into your dress.

You know what he's pushing you towards.

Phainon — you saw Phainon's name with absolute clarity in the notebook now crumpling in your hands, and you’d wished, with every re-read that those words morph into something else or vanish altogether.

“You…” you shudder as he parts your ankles with the tip of his boots, squeezing the words out through the death-grip he has on your face. “You should stop touching me like this. I— I'm betrothed to someone else!”

In the end, you're not brave enough to take his bait.

But the Flame Reaver doesn't appear discouraged, in fact, he seems even more pleased, if possible.

“Oh? Betrothed you say…“ he loosens his grip just before his claws could puncture your cheeks, shifting to rub at the abused flesh with the pads of his fingers.

“But did you remember that the past few months?“ something in your stomach flips as his knee nudges between your legs, “Or, do you only like using that excuse when I confront you about your flighty little morals?“

You would've never guessed air could feel this heavy, nay, it bends to the monster's every breath, threatening to take you with it under, as well.

You can hardly think through the jolts coaxed by the way he strokes your heat with his knee, but of course, the monster wouldn't allow you the reprieve of sinking completely — so he uses the grip he has on your hip and yanks you to crash against his chest, sending a sharp jolt through your core against his knee.

The Flame Reaver chuckles, it's rough and rugged like the edge of a cliff, “I’m curious, princess,”

He trails his left hand up from your waist, letting the claw of his pointer finger drag up your heaving chest, “Would your ever chivalrous hero even take you back if he knew about how much of yourself you’ve given to me already?” he circles around where your heart has concocted a crazed prance, humming in pleasure when it answers with a loud kick against his hand.

“Even now,” he twirls a strand of your hair on the tips of his claws, “You don't tell me no, not even once.”

That, that snaps you out of the maddening trance he’d illustrated so far. The realization sweeps away half of the heat from your gut, settling like an anvil on your conscience.

No, not at all. You don't want Flame Reaver to stop. You would've kicked, flailed and fought your way out of his hold by now like the first day, the day he stole you in the dress of a bride — if you wanted out of this suffocating embrace.

So, how dare you still speak of a fiance?

The Flame Reaver hums at your stunned silence, letting your hair fall from his hand. “I have a proposal, princess.”

“Instead of living like a prize on that brat’s shelf,” he tests the jolts of your pulse with the tip of his thumbnail, “Why don't you become mine instead?”

Your shoulders macerate with a slump as that singular sentence steals all the fight from your bones.

Guilt begins to crawl up your conscience, just like how those Shadows did on your body, and how you allowed it — enjoyed it even.

And now, even as the weight of your hypocrisy presses down on your heart, you find yourself wishing that the Flame Reaver — Khaslana, would do something, anything to make you forget that, forget your past and transgressions and let you to sink into the abyss he’s only been teasing you with touches and words.

Princess, oh dearest princess, what have you become?

There was once a time in the 'Flame Reaver's' life where he loved the shade of blue.

It was in the midday sky of Aedes Elysiae, in the waves of the sea — in his eyes.

His innocence stretches as far as he can recall that color, the days spent chasing fairies, napping in the wheat fields and drifting wish-in-a-bottles in the ocean.

And then, one day, red swallowed that lovely blue, burned everything that ached to hold that color to ashes.

When Lycurgus found him, wounded and bruised, stranded all alone in the middle of nowhere, he promised the boy a home.

Though the tall, dark tower at the edge of the north didn't seem to be anywhere near as warm as the roads of Aedes Elysiae, it was shelter, it was protection, and for a while, that was enough.

Until, the mad researcher asked, “Don’t you want revenge?”

Revenge. A word too lofty for a little boy of his age to fathom. He only vaguely recalled reading it in those fairy tales of Cyrene, the ones about heroes and villains and magic.

At his silence, the scholar urged, “For your ruined hometown? For your family?”

That, that’d struck him.

Though he couldn't fathom the weight of the word, somewhere in his heart, there burned this little fire of fury.

That fire was fed slowly and steadily with every experiment, every failure and every subsequent success.

But no matter how much Khaslana resisted, how much he endured, the pain never dulled.

“The pain and the anger are your life forces.” he’d been told, “Nurture it, cling to it and wield it.”

But why should one live for pain and anger? No one would answer the shackled boy in the cold lab. No one would tell him why the Black Tide consumes and doesn't cease, no matter how much he’d asked.

Then, by chance or misfortune, Khaslana discovered the conductor of the threnody that haunts this world.

“For the utter destruction of Reason itself, this world must burn, it must end!” Lygus had exclaimed in delight, “And you— you… will make that fire roar! You will bear the Destruction itself!”

Even till his last breath, his last spasm on the floor, Lycurgus had laughed.

Khaslana had thought that killing that madman and his lackeys would've been enough to satiate his fury. He’d be content to bear all of the Black Tide in himself so that the world could drift on in peace, even.

But of course, why would it be so kind to him?

“Have you heard? There's a monster that lives in the north. They say that he's the reason for the Black Tide!”

“The Chrysos Heirs have rallied from all corners of Amphoreus to defeat him!”

“He must be defeated!”

“Off with his head!”

“Death to the monster!'”

“BURN HIM BURN HIM BURN HIM!”

Zandar, despite posing as a scholar of class, was one petty manchild.

As such, he’d used whatever was left of his consciousness, and had modeled the lie that Khas— Flame Reaver of the Deepest Dark, was the source of the Black Tide.

And the result of this propaganda was a thousand passionate ‘heroes’ sent at his door to bring glory back home. Pathetic, so pathetic he couldn't even care to give them a proper duel.

… That was until, he came.

Silver tresses and that cornflower blue still shining so bright in those sunlight eyes, a legendary sword in his hands and comrades at his sides — every bit the hero from those stories he’d read with him in childhood.

A mirror of himself, if he’d still retained anything of his former image.

Perhaps, that is why Phainon didn't recognized him.

Flame Reaver would've been fine with that much, to go the rest of his existence as a dead memory — but the stupid, stupid hero and his troop of fools just had to disturb his peace, had to shoot him down with that weapon.

And then, Phainon had the audacity to parade around the city in victory, bask in the cheers and salutations of everyone who now fell at his feet ; offering their homage, their lives and all their treasures for a smidgen of the hero's ‘favor’.

You were one such ‘treasure’, the beloved princess of Stygia who’d been hidden since childhood from the world.

Rose petals had begun to pile up on the baths of the Holy City as a result of the people's excitement. The century’s most anticipated union, a pair chosen by the gods themselves!

How could they not rejoice? For their icon looks at you like you're a piece of heaven itself, a piece he shall not lose or let go of.

It was supposed to be a perfect, sun-lit day. The lilies were in full bloom, thousands had gathered outside the chapel to witness the moment when the beautiful princess and the hero of legends would become each other's.

So easily? Just like that?

The panicked screams of the crowd as Flame Reaver's Shadows tore down the venue were music to his ears.

The skittering people, the chaos, the silken banners burning in flames — now that was pretty.

And amidst the ensuing ruin, there was you.

Stranded from the others in the commotion, clutching at the skirt of the pristine ivory dress as rubble rained down around you.

You’d looked so scared, so uncertain while trying to work your puny human brain for a way out.

So, he took you.

Was it a bit of an impulsive decision? Yes. But the look of absolute horror on Phainon's face as he whisked you away a breath from his arms was so, so worth it.

In the beginning, he’d been fully set on just giving you a swift, painless death.

But something had stopped him, something… yes, that ruffled look on your face, how you’d scrunched up your face and glared at him like letting your displeasure known would be of any help.

He thought it was amusing — and amusement, to a man so used to pain and obdurate days, is intoxicating.

So, he decided to let you scurry around in the cage instead.

The way you flinched at every little thing, stayed curled up in a ball by the corner of the uppermost chamber of the tower only made him more and more intrigued.

See, Khaslana had known scarce interaction with humans throughout the forty five years of his cursed existence. However much of it was real, happened far too long ago, and those cold exchanges with the researchers were no interaction at all.

So, everything that you brought with you was new to him, and he shamelessly, wanted to see more of it, all of it.

Every squeak, every frown, every down turned gaze, every tsk of annoyance and most surprising of all, every moment of fluster.

It took him a while to catch on, but you would get flustered around him whenever he got close to you or taunted you.

And that brewed a new plan in his mind.

He would tempt you slowly and agonizingly, fill that little head of yours with nothing but desire.

Until you’re so fed up with the push-and-pull that you reach for him yourself and give all of you to him.

And you will play right into his hands.

He’ll make sure of it.

Twilight is still yet to bleed into the east when you awake, the sporadic chirps of birds outside keep you tethered to the waking world.

When you turn to your other side, the first thing your eyes fall upon is the Flame Reaver brooding on the chaise, the faint light of the burgeoning morning illuminate his silhouette.

Mindlessly, you get up, rubbing your eyes as a yawn moistens their corners.

Your steps are groggy as a result of your restless slumber, and they click loudly in the quiet morning.

With each step, the heaviness of last night returns, slowly, and then all at once.

You’d tossed and turned enough times to rumple the bedsheets beyond saving, screamed into your pillow when the thoughts grew cacophonous, cried into the same pillow when the guilt got too monstrous.

Where are the Shadows when you actually need them? You’d even found yourself wishing at times, to your surprise.

But what can you do? You’ve vacillated between believing that you have not sinned, that you would be welcomed back into the arms of your fiance — and the heavy, bone-chilling realization that you won't, that you have no way to face that man anymore.

Do you even want to go back to Phainon? You halt in front of the Flame Reaver's legs. Would a man who never came looking for his own brother, never even recognized his twin, even recognize you?

Let alone cherish?

The Flame Reaver lifts his head with a jolt when you swing your leg over his, settling on his lap.

An exhale leaves his mouth, coarse and penetrating in the dead quiet. You can feel his gaze following your fingers as they glide up his arms and over the gaping sun on his chest.

“What are you doing?“ he asks rhetorically. You're not sure if it's just your sleep addled mind, but you could've sworn that the muscles of his thighs tightened under you when you pressed your palms flat on his chest, and trailed them up his throat.

Is this stupid? Most definitely, the smidgen of rationality in your mind supplies.

But you can't bring yourself care, you can't bring yourself to think amidst the roaring thoughts, the doubts, the guilt, the desire and the thirst to end this push-and-pull, to silence every voice echoing in your mind.

The pointy edge of the metal frame of his mask brushes against your fingertips, “You said,” your own voice is hoarse from sleep and bone-deep fatigue, “That you could make me forget it all.”

You press your forehead against his, knees planted on either side of his hips on the chaise. “But I don't know if I want that without even knowing the master of that magic.” warm breath mingling with his.

The Flame Reaver makes a sound that almost sounds like an intrigued hum, if it weren't for the faint tremble in it that you manage to catch thanks to the proximity.

“Correction, princess.” he doesn't move a breath, but he doesn't lean into the touch either. “I offered you to become mine.”

Your brows pinch slightly at that, your clouded mind struggling to care about semantics in the wake of him raising his hands, and just letting them hover above your back.

You lean back just enough to look at his masked face, chest heaving in irritation.

“Become yours without even seeing ‘you’?” you rest your right palm against where his cheek should be at and let the other trail over his shoulder.

Metal bumps against your wandering hands, the grooves and stiffened muscles stretched taut against the fabric of his clothes. You’d only gotten the sillage of it before, but you can feel the sheer rigidity of his body right under your hands, against yourself, now.

(You force yourself to swallow whatever tingle that’d brought to your mouth.)

His sigh makes you blink, “You’re an impulsive creature.” he admonishes, tapping a claw against the chaise.

“Does it never cross your mind that some boundaries are set for your own good?” his hood drops as he tilts his head in your hand.

You purse your lips in confusion, “Is your face radioactive?”

The taps pause, “Worse.” he says breezily.

“How worse?” you push closer.

“Enough to make a sheltered little princess recoil?” there's derision in his tone, at you, or himself — is uncertain.

You cup his face, drawing a circle on his cheek over the dark fabric. “Try me.”

A long beat passes, a bird announces the start of its day with an exclamation outside the premises of this scene, twigs snap under worried boots.

The Flame Reaver's shoulders slump in surrender, though the huff he exhales suggests (feigned) annoyance.

It's enough permission for you.

Carefully, so, so carefully you peel back the metal ornament ; its sharp corner scratches against your fingers when you're unable to control the tremble in them, but you can hardly care about that.

A breathy exhales escapes you, blending with his own as the mask clutters to the floor.

Porcelain. That's the first word that comes to your mind when you see him. Gold pulses from the cracks of his porcelain-like body, blue and violet swirl in the abyss of the left side of his face, beckoning you closer, far closer than you’ve ever dared to venture.

Khaslana turns his head away — in disappointment, not surprise, and suddenly his previous derision makes sense to you, why he always caved into himself when you brought it up, why he always avoided this.

It makes something in your heart pinch to the point of suffocation.

You shift your grip, tilting his turned head back to you in the cradle of your hands — and kiss him.

Khaslana's next breath is pulled taut by the abruptness of it, the cushion under his hands is teared as he swipes at it with his talons in surprise.

His lips are cool under yours, unlike the rest of his body which has set the air around you ablaze.

You chase the chill, keeping his lips locked against yours by holding onto his jaw and you're only encouraged to continue when his hands spring up to grasp you by the waist.

It's your turn to gasp as he yanks you close, the force of the pull makes your nose bump with his and your chest press against his clavicle.

You taste mint and heat in his breath as his mouth parts against yours, the tip of his tongue teases the corner of your lips —

“PRINCESS [NAME]!!!”

A sharp flinch jostles you both, labored breaths fogging the thin distance between your mouths.

“LADY [NAME]?!!”

Every nerve in your body tenses. You know that voice, you’ve heard it declaring promises of patience in your hands, wishes and hopes of a serene dream in your ears, sneaking whispers of how beautiful you look in your wedding dress before the altar—

Khaslana's chuckles breaks the daze, it's a rugged, intrigued thing against your ear.

“Ahh…” he noses in the little nook under your earlobe, “Looks like your hero— no, your fiance is here to pick you up.”

Your treacherous, treacherous heart kicks against its cage, and then churns at his lazy acknowledgment. You can see glimpses of soldiers flittering across the parameters of the tower down the drop and then— him.

A bead of sweat rolls down from your temples, Khaslana adjusts his hold on your hips, shifting you forward to aide you in seeing the scene better (cruelty).

“Well then? Princess?” your eyes crinkle as you feel something wet lave over your cheek, “What will you do now?” a thin sheen of drool smears on your cheek to your chin as Khaslana catches that bead of sweat on his long, serpentine tongue.

You would think that the monster would try to cling to you, but instead, he goads you on, like this is a game to him and all he cares about is feasting on your moves.

It wouldn't take much to alert the troops, a small item thrown, maybe one of the pillows — you could even scream, it wouldn't be unexpected of the Phainon to be able catch its pitch despite the distance.

…. However.

“I don't want to go.” your eyes dim as you see the rays of the early morning light playing catch with the hero’s armory, those silver strands — ones you now know so intimately, ruffled by worried hands.

It almost makes you not notice Khaslana's eerie silence.

“…What?”

You sneak a peek at him through your periphery, “I don't want to go ba— oof—!”

A wheeze is forced out of your lungs at the force of the push, your surprised blinks are shadowed by Khaslana's looming form.

“I don't believe you,” he fists at the chaise on either side of your head, it's difficult to see his expression despite the flickers of the blue flame.

You keep on searching for it though, “Tell me what will make you believe then.”

He sneers, “This is just a game to you.”

“It is not.” frustration creeps in betwixt your brows.

But he doesn't listen, “You don't even understand— you don't even understand what I feel for you! What I want to do to you—!” he tugs at his hair.

You open your mouth but his exclamations drown out your words, “You naive, stupid girl. You think you could know me?” his voice fades to a coarse whisper, and your patience snaps. “There is absolutely no way! Nothing! Nothing you could do that—”

You grab him by the collar and swallow the rest of his complaint with your mouth.

Something in Khaslana's brain sizzles, makes him forget that he can breathe as you pull him closer, closer than anything he’s dreamed, and all so willingly, eagerly.

His normal eye softens impossibly for a second, before flashing with a jolt of wicked blue.

Your exhale is pulled taut by his hand snaking up the back of your head, gripping at the roots of your hair to keep you locked in the kiss.

His free hand wanders down to your legs, and parts them by gripping one knee. Your hands reach out to clutch at his cape when he throws one of your legs over his shoulder, making room for himself — and when you're dizzy from the lack of breath and space, he rewards you by biting down your lower lip.

“You’ll leave me.” he gasps against your cheek, talons gripping restlessly at your pulled up skirt.

Despite your mind being in a swirl of nothing but heat, you find the strength to shake your head no, clinging to him.

Khaslana squeezes his eye close for a moment, as though pained. “You’ll abandon me at the first chance you get— like him, like everyone —”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, “Never. I won't ever abandon or betray you, Khaslana.”

A shudder quakes the monster's whole body. He drops his head to your shoulder, taking lungfuls of your scent, his claws threaten to draw blood at the dip of your waist.

“Tell me…” his nose traces a line from your jawbone to your clavicle, halting at the neckline of your dress to take the edge in between his teeth. “Tell me to stop, princess.” he begs, dragging the neckline down with his bite.

Your knees press around him as his scorching exhales brush against your now bared chest, “Don’t— don't stop, Khaslana.”

A long, heavy breath leaves his lips, littering your skin in gooseflesh. A squeeze seizes your heart as Khaslana nuzzles against it with his cheek.

“Could you… kiss me again?” you almost don't hear his request through the erratic march of your heart, “So that I know this isn't a dream?”

He doesn't dare to meet your gaze when he says, “… Please?”

If there was even a fraction of doubt in your mind before, it vanishes to oblivion with that one word.

This time, the beginning of the kiss is much gentler than all the previous ones. You tilt his head up with your hands and for a moment, just breathe against him, before pressing your pledge against his lips.

Khaslana loosens his vice grip on your hair to let it trail down your back, pushing you closer in time with his tongue parting your lips.

The hand that was on your hips comes up to hold your face — though, with its size, it has to settle on your throat instead.

The leg that was hoisted over his shoulder bends to squeeze around his back when his tongue pushes inside your mouth and licks at the cavern.

Tears prinkle the corners of your closed eyes as you choke, you’d caught a glimpse of it before, but the Flame Reaver's tongue is long, it takes up your whole mouth, rendering your feeble attempts at returning the kiss futile with one swoop — till stars burst behind your eyeleads from the lack of air.

Your toes curl against his back when he presses you closer into the kiss with a squeeze around your throat, your cry is broken when he sinks his fang into your lip again.

When he finally, finally pulls away, silver bursts color your vision and your heartbeat hammers against your ears — you feel lightheaded in the best way.

“Hah…“ he wipes the string of drool with the back of his hand, you can hear the vague smirk in his words. “Sick of me already?”

At that, your vision clears and you pout, shaking your head. You tug him closer, a plea smoldering in your eyes.

It makes him croon.

Your world is hurled to the side as he pushes you down on the chaise again.

“You’re one greedy princess, aren't you?” your jump when he takes your exposed nipple in his mouth, coaxing a whimper out of you with a hard suck.

You press the heel of your palm against your mouth as he continues his torturous ministrations, his hands slide down your sides, pushing up the hem of your dress again to part your thighs.

His tongue wraps around the taut bud for a second, before letting go to pinch it with his fang instead. He controls your spasming body effortlessly, bringing your ankles to lock around his neck with ease.

His eye flickers up to the sight of your desperate attempts at muffling your whimpers and he lets go of your nipple with a displeased pop.

“What’s wrong? Don't you want your hero to hear how mine you are?” he taunts, pulling back the elastic of your panties and letting it snap back against your thigh — but he doesn't just stop there, and hooks the pointed nail of his forefinger under it when he pulls it again, the sound of tearing fabric defeats your ragged breaths.

He sits up slightly to drink in the sight of your debauched state, the glint in his eye shifts in a way that makes you feel as though he's patting himself in the back for reducing you to a quivering, needy mess.

“Well,” he smoothes over your right leg with one hand, the metal of his talons creating shivers on the skin. “It doesn't really matter to me either way. Because…”

He turns his head to press a kiss on the ankle hooked over his shoulder and before your could blink the next one — he dives in.

You're certain your soul had left your body there, only to be pulled right back by the Flame Reaver's death-grip.

Your hand offers no support in stopping the cry that's pulled out of you. First, he scares you halfway to death by swooping down like a vulture ; next, he parts your petals with his tongue with a slow lick, coming full circle by plunging it deep inside you the next second.

Now, you realize that he was holding back in the kiss. His tongue alone reaches crevices inside you that you weren't even aware of, his teeth brush against your clit sporadically with every harsh suck and twist.

Your body rebels against the assault by instinct (even as your mind craves it), but Khaslana keeps you close and obedient to take his starving mouth by holding your hips, his nails create bloody scratches on the sides of your thighs with every thrash and pull.

He's done this before, the realization passes by your your dazed mind between gasps and moans.

Though you're not allowed the leeway to ponder on it as the building pressure in your lower belly abruptly snaps, making your back arch from the force of the orgasm.

You blearily consider reaching for Khaslana's shoulders to anchor yourself as waves after waves are drawn out of you, but you can't even reach that far, forcing you to fist your hands against the chaise’s surface.

The Flame Reaver doesn't pause for a millisecond of reprieve — no, no, he feasts on the necter of your release, like this is what he's been starving himself of for all of his life.

The sounds are obscene, both of his sucks and of your tearful moans.

But you can hardly bring yourself to care about anything as the pain subsides and invites that pleasant cotton-like haze in your mind, smoothens your taut muscles until they grow numb.

Khaslana rubs his cheek against your inner thigh, rubbing circles on the other to bring you back. His breaths only send jolts through your oversensitive core.

He peeks from between your parted legs, tracing the rise and fall of your chest, your bruised and red lips and the absolutely blissed out blankness in your eyes.

“Beautiful.“ he says, though it sounds vague through the ringing in your ears.

The kind thing to do would be to stop his worship at this juncture, let you adjust to having his most intimate servitude slowly.

But Khaslana is nowhere near being done with you today.

It takes your ecstasy induced mind a while to register the fact that you're being moved around.

You blink through your tear-smeared vision as your back presses against something cold — and then all at once, the distance between you and the floor crashes down on you.

You cling to Khaslana by instinct as he adjusts your legs to rest on his hips ; over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of your toes hovering a good five feet above the ground, the tattered hem of your dress brushing against the asphalt.

“Princess,” he snatches your attention by turning your head to him with a finger, you're taken aback — mesmerized by the tenderness and desire swirling in his eye and in the void.

“You’ve given yourself to me so sweetly.” your heart thumps at the praise, “So,” he presses his forehead against yours, “Won’t you let me give myself to you, in return?”

You don't understand why, your mind is far too intoxicated in him to even think of saying no, but somehow, for some reason, the corners of your eyes moisten — perhaps at the unexpected vulnerability he’s offered.

You nod, “Y-yes,” wrapping your arms around his shoulders, “All of you— I want all of you, Khaslana.”

Khaslana's eye flashes at your demand, “Last chance, princess— if you don't push me away here, I'll never, ever let you go, not even if Thanatos themself came to take you away.”

Your eyes widen, and then crinkle in delight, “Good.”

This time, Khaslana kisses you first and oh, does he not hold back in making sure all you can breathe is him, him and him.

Your fingers slide into his silvery hair, you squeeze your legs around his waist when he dips his tongue inside your mouth again.

Your head tilts back against the wall as he shifts one hand to support you by the buttocks. Amidst the muffled sounds of your mewls, a sharp zip pierces through.

Your brows furrow at the sound, but you're far too distracted by the way Khaslana nibbles on your bottom lip to care.

One of your hands falls to grip his cape, you try to adjust your leg when it spasms at the feeling of something big entering your core.

Your gasp is loud and Khaslana doesn't have the coordination to muffle it in any way this time.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes again as a flash of pain sizzles up your spine — your mind goes utterly blank as the feeling of intrusion burns against your walls.

“Tsk…” Khaslana keeps you in place by gripping your hips, “I thought the Shadows had loosened you eno— ugh…”

Your jaw slackens as he maneuvers you to push you down on the appendage, the veins of it pulsing against your insides, slowly, painfully, carving itself a home within the innermost part of you.

Khaslana gasps with you when he bottoms out, his claws draw marks all over your hips as he struggles to not throw his control out of the window and take you in brutal sweeps.

And then, a chuckle escapes him — snapping you out of the numbing jolts.

You see through your blurry vision as he laughs against your cheek, it is a free, happy thing ; like the confession of a man who's tasted heaven so intimately he cares little about being banished to hell.

In all honesty? You feel the same.

“[Name], [Name], [Name]…” he chants wildly against your ear, dragging his fangs down your throat.

“Kha..as…—!” you attempt to reciprocate, but your vocal chords don't cooperate.

“Shhh…” Khaslana reassures you, catching a stray tear on his tongue. “I know, I know. Breathe with me, princess. No need for words.”

You try to follow his instructions, but it's easier said than done when each thrust of his rattles your bones, the cold wall scrapes against your back and it feels as though he's created a crater for him to crawl into inside of you.

With each push, pull and drag against your insides, you find yourself being distanced farther and farther from everything that you used to be.

In fact, he moves and moulds your body body like he's trying to remake you to his liking, like he will make you forget whoever you once were.

Khaslana pulls back slightly to look at where you're joined together — your body works overtime and is stretched to its ultimate limits to accommodate him.

If he died right here, he thinks, he’d die a very, very happy man.

The violent jolts of euphoria in your mind halt for a moment when you feel your hand being lifted.

Through the veil of your blurry vision, you see, just as you feel the familiar coil nearing its end in your belly.

Khaslana presses your hand against his cheek, holding you upright to him by his other.

Then he tilts his face in your palm and takes your ring finger in his mouth, letting his teeth sink into the skin and sucking until a crescent like hot mark has bloomed on your finger.

And you know then, at that sting and string of bloody drool stretching as his lips detach, that you are exactly where you’ve always yearned to be at.

—

Dawn has broken out into the east when you awake, the chirping of birds keep you tethered, keep you from succumbing to the sleep once again.

When you roll to your sides, you're immediately jolted awake by the sharp flashes of pain that erupt from various parts of your body, making you gasp and then groan.

It takes a few more minutes for you to be able to open your eyes, the early morning light bleeds in from the corners of your vision, and at the center of it, is him.

Khaslana kneels by your bedside, arms folded beside your body. You don't know why, but you get the vague feeling that he’s spent all night in that position.

For a moment, you do nothing but stare at him — at his unmasked face.