Part 1
Imagine. Part 2: That day, you followed him anyway.
Of course, not right away. Not so obviously that it would look pathetic. You waited, let him disappear between the buildings, walked past a couple of market stalls as if you really meant to buy something, even stopped in front of a display window that held nothing interesting except your own reflection, tense and drawn. And then you turned in the direction he had gone.
It was funny, trying to convince yourself this wasn’t stalking. Even funnier to think that Tamsy Kaines wouldn’t notice.
He wasn’t surprised.
Because when you reached the old building on the edge of the district, the door was left slightly ajar, as if it had been left that way specifically for you. Inside, it smelled of dampness, dust, and cold metal. The stairs beneath your feet led downward, and every step echoed through the silence so clearly that, at some point, it became almost thrilling. Interesting, even. As if you weren’t sneaking into someone else’s secret, but arriving late to a meeting both participants had known about in advance, though neither had said a single word all evening.
A dim lamp burned below. Tamsy stood with his back to you. No skates this time. Just his ordinary shoes, his shoulders relaxed, his hair loose, falling freely over his shoulders and back, nearly brushing his shoulder blades. There was something strangely unfamiliar and magnetic about it.
In front of him was a set of bars. And behind those bars sat none other than Amo. Chains lay heavily over her arms and stretched toward the wall, clinking with every smallest movement. She lifted her head when you entered and looked at you as if she expected to see fear, disgust. Or at least confusion, something she could cling to.
But you weren’t afraid.
And, worse than that, you were hardly surprised.
Something inside you clicked quietly, disgustingly, sweetly into place, as if it had finally settled where it belonged. The corner of your mouth twitched on its own, then slowly curved upward. The smirk was small, almost unnoticeable, but you felt it so clearly it was as though someone had pressed a cold blade to your face.
You felt uneasy. But not because of Amo behind the bars. Because of yourself.
Because of how quickly your body had betrayed a reaction you hadn’t even had time to understand. Because of the strange, shameful satisfaction spreading beneath your skin. Because you had been right. Because Tamsy Kaines really had turned out to be exactly the kind of person you had, for some reason, wanted him to be: not the proper boy he pretended to be in front of others, but dangerous and secretive.
And damn it, you liked it terribly that he hadn’t disappointed you.
Tamsy didn’t turn around right away. First, he gave you time to take everything in: the bars, the chains, Amo, the dim light, your own smile reflected somewhere in his silence. Only then did he turn his head, and you saw that there was no surprise on his face. No anxiety, either. Only that familiar foxlike, satisfied smirk.
He hadn’t been wrong about you either. And from that day on, the two of you had a little secret.
So small it could have fit between two accidental glances at headquarters. So quiet it went unheard at the common table, among voices, laughter, other people’s footsteps, and the usual bustle of the Cleaners. You still rarely spoke around the others. You didn’t seek each other out too openly, didn’t sit beside each other without reason, didn’t exchange phrases that might make someone raise an eyebrow.
For everyone else, almost nothing changed. Tamsy still smirked lazily whenever someone spoke too loudly. You still pretended not to notice his gaze. On missions, you spoke briefly, practically, sometimes even sharply, as if there was nothing between you but ordinary professional wariness.
But whenever the two of you were alone, everything changed. The familiar masks slipped from your faces, and what remained beneath them required no explanation. You could stay silent beside each other far longer than you could talk with anyone else. You could walk through narrow streets toward the old building on the edge of the district without saying a word, and still feel the air between you growing denser with every step. There, below, behind the bars, sat your shared secret. But over time, you began to understand that Amo was not the reason.
She was only an excuse. Because the real secret was what the two of you became beside each other.
At headquarters, you both knew how to pretend, because everything there was simple. There, you had to fit into the common rhythm: answer, nod, smile, get annoyed in moderation, be part of the team. But in the basement, or in the empty corridor of the old building, you didn’t have to perform anything. You could look directly. You could say unpleasant things without fear that someone would immediately try to smooth over the edges. You could stop being good.
And Tamsy, it seemed, liked seeing you exactly like that. Not because you were becoming like him, no. Rather, because you stopped hiding the true essence of yourself.
Sometimes you lingered by the bars only briefly. Sometimes you went down there merely to make sure everything was in place, or to ask Amo the necessary questions. And sometimes Tamsy simply stood beside you, hands tucked into his wide sleeves, and you could feel the fresh scent of menthol coming from him, still strangely clean amid the damp, iron, and dust. That scent gradually became far too pleasant to you.
Then came the evenings in his room. Late, almost silent ones, when headquarters had finally fallen asleep and the corridors stood empty. You didn’t come every time. Sometimes you dared to go there yourself, after a brief glance he had thrown you over dinner. The door would close quietly, and the world outside seemed to immediately fade into the background.
Tamsy’s room was tidier than you had expected. Not perfect, not deliberately so, but everything lay in its place as if he couldn’t stand anyone else’s chaos intruding on his territory. There was a chair by the window, and beside it a small table where a comb often lay, one you kept stealing quick glances at.
He noticed, of course. Tamsy noticed a great many things. He simply didn’t always admit it.
For example, that evening he sat on the floor by the bed, his hair loose. Long pale-blue strands spilled over his shoulders and back, catching the weak lamplight, looking so soft that your fingers almost itched with the desire to check. You tried not to look too obviously, but it was useless. He stayed silent for a while, letting you believe you were managing your self-control, and then smiled that very foxlike smile and said:
“You can touch it. I know you want to.”
You flinched as if he had caught you doing something far more shameful.
But you didn’t back away. Your hand reached for his hair on its own, slowly, carefully, almost distrustfully. You touched the ends with your fingertips and suddenly felt something inside you settle strangely. They really were soft. Much softer than hair had any right to be on someone from the Ground. Well-kept, smooth, cool from the evening air, carrying that same barely perceptible menthol scent that was now far too firmly tied to him in your mind.
He handed you the comb without another word. And you took it. At first, your movements were awkward. You were afraid to pull too hard, to catch a strand, to do something wrong, though you didn’t understand why it should matter at all. Tamsy sat calmly, head slightly bowed, allowing you to comb his hair as though he were giving you something more than this strange little indulgence.
Gradually, you grew used to it, and your movements became bolder. The comb slid slowly through the long strands again and again, and the room grew quieter. Tamsy relaxed more than usual. You could tell by the way his shoulders lowered, by how his breathing deepened, by how his head tilted slightly toward your hand. And for you, already used to catching every shift in his face and voice, that was enough.
Then you suddenly heard him exhale softly, low and languid. You froze with the comb in your hand, then smiled despite yourself.
“You like it?”
He didn’t pretend.
“Yes.”
You smiled.
“I didn’t expect you to admit it.”
“I’m not embarrassed by what I feel.” He turned his head slightly, and you saw his profile. “Unlike some people.”
You poked his shoulder with the comb.
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
The two of you laughed quietly. And for some reason, that short exchange stayed with you more vividly than many words that should have mattered more.
There were other evenings too. Not as quiet. In your secret hideout, far from the Cleaners, arguments sometimes flared between you. Sharp, vivid, unpleasantly honest ones. You could disagree over something completely minor, then catch on it, pull at it, unravel it until the air around you began to spark. You knew where to press. So did he. And neither of you was kind enough to always stop in time.
Sometimes you did it on purpose. Pushed him off balance. Needled him with words. Smiled in response to his warning look. Tested where exactly that thin line lay, the one beyond which his lazy calm began to crack.
And Tamsy understood that. One time, he raised his eyes too slowly, and you felt it at once.
You didn’t even have time to gasp. His Jinki acted sharply, almost soundlessly, and in the next instant your arms were lifted above you, caught by a taut rope. It tightened around your wrists firmly, but not painfully. Just enough for you to feel the restriction, the weight of your own breathing, and the way your body instantly stopped pretending to be indifferent.
In this game of yours, there were already boundaries. Tamsy rarely crossed them without your gaze, without your silent permission, without that barely noticeable smirk you hated in yourself and waited for at the same time. And yet every time, it still felt sudden and dangerous. As if he had caught you not with rope, but with your own desire.
He stepped closer.
“Sometimes I think you provoke me on purpose.”
You lifted your eyes to him. And your lips stretched into a smile. Kaines understood everything without words.
Yes, you liked it.
You liked feeling the rope tighten around your wrists. You liked that brief, sharp helplessness that, for some reason, held more freedom than the familiar need to behave properly. You liked seeing Tamsy’s bored mask disappear, giving way to something real, something that looked at once like irritation and interest. All of his attention was fixed only on you now. And because of that, everything inside you tightened with a pleasant, aching heat.
And perhaps that was what frightened you most of all.
Not Amo behind the bars.
Not the basement.
Not the secret itself.
But what frightened you most was that beside Tamsy Kaines, you were more and more often forgetting to ask yourself whether any of this was right.
You simply wanted more.
