Mar

The smell of ozone and dust burns in Oscar’s throat. He can still hear you shout his name once before the fissure swallows you. You, falling into the dark. The sound of your voice torn from the world.

He drops his sword without meaning to. His lungs seize. For a minute, all he can see is you in flashes. You, fixing the wheel of his chariot. You, rolling your eyes when he brings you seashells from Long Island Sound. You, under the glow of the forge, saying softly, “You know, Piastri, for a son of Poseidon, you’re really bad at subtlety.”

He remembers stammering back, cheeks hot, “I’m working on it.”

He had been. For months. Long walks along the beach after curfew, lunches under the strawberry fields, lazy hours by the lake where you pretended not to notice his hand brushing yours. He had built his courage piece by piece, the same way you built your machines. Careful, deliberate, hoping that when the time came, it wouldn’t all fall apart.

Now, as the earth yawns wide and your scream fades into nothing, all of that feels meaningless. The sea in his veins surges, fierce and panicked. He can’t lose you. Not when he hasn’t even had the chance to have you, not properly, not completely.

Around him, the battle still rages. Campers shout. Swords clash. But Oscar is already moving, sprinting toward the edge of the fissure. Someone calls his name—Nico, maybe—but the sound is far away. 

He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t think. He never has, not when it comes to you.

He just jumps. The fall is endless; the crash, soundless. 

Oscar wakes to the sound of your voice before he opens his eyes.

“Are you completely out of your mind?”

Your tone is somewhere between fury and disbelief. The air around him feels heavier than it should. When he blinks himself awake, the first thing he sees is you. The Underworld stretches out behind you: a vast expanse of black sand and grey rock, the sky a bruised violet, lit only by faint, trembling firelight from rivers that shouldn’t burn.

He pushes himself up slowly, the weight of exhaustion clinging to his limbs. “You’re okay,” he breathes, half to himself.

You cross your arms, scowling. “Of course I’m okay,” you spit. “You’re the one who jumped into the literal pit of eternal despair with no plan whatsoever.”

Oscar wipes at his face, wincing as his hand comes away smudged with soot. “Right. That.”

“What’s the plan now, big guy?”

He looks at you, then around at the desolate horizon. There’s a faint hum in the distance—maybe souls moving, maybe wind. He wishes the sound could give him an answer. “I… didn’t think that far,” he admits. 

You stare at him, incredulous. “Unbelievable.”

“Worked out so far,” he says. His gaze catches on a cut at your temple, a dark streak against your skin. He frowns and steps closer before you can stop him. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.” You turn your head away, brushing his hand aside. “Worry about yourself for once.”

His eyes linger anyway, tracing your face like he’s making sure you’re still real. “Can’t,” he says absentmindedly. “You’re kind of distracting.”

Your cheeks color despite the gloom. “You’re insufferable.”

He exhales, and a small chuckle slips through. It sounds strange here, fragile against the dead air. “Yeah,” he exhales. “You keep me that way.”

Around you, the Underworld thrills, stitched together by memory and loss. The shadows move like they’re breathing. You don’t look at him, but he can see the tremor in your hands, the way your jaw tightens. “We shouldn’t stay here,” you say. 

“Yeah,” Oscar manages. “Let’s find… something.” 

The two of you walk for what feels like hours. The air is thick and still, heavy with a silence that hums against Oscar’s skin. The only sound is the crunch of gravel beneath your boots and the occasional sigh of gust that isn’t really gust.

You’re ahead of him, always a few steps out of reach. Every so often, you glance back—not to check if he’s following, but to make sure he hasn’t wandered off somewhere stupid. The tension between you simmers. You haven’t said much since the argument. You don’t have to. The way your shoulders square is enough.

Oscar knows you’re still angry. It’s there in the sharp way you move, in the clipped rhythm of your breath. He’s about to say something—anything—to break the silence, when the ground ripples ahead of you.

At first, it looks like a mirage. Then it rises, liquid and whole, a shape taking form from the black sand. A horse, carved from murky river water, its body glimmering faintly with silt and pieces of bone drifting inside it. It smells like salt and decay.

You stumble back instinctively, hand flying to your weapon. Oscar, though, doesn’t move. His heart twists with recognition. “It’s one of my father’s,” he murmurs, almost reverent.

Poseidon was the tamer of horses. It’s a message; Oscar knows that much. The horse’s eyes are dark and unsteady, its voice gurgling the same way the tide drags pebbles across the shore. “Son of the sea god,” it says, haltingly, each word rippling through its body. “You must… return. Doors of Death… your path. Half the battle… is getting there. Thanatos… awaits.”

Oscar’s pulse quickens. “Wait,” he says, stepping forward. “Where are the doors? How do we—”

The horse shudders, its form beginning to collapse. “Time… is not your ally,” it manages before melting into a puddle that seeps into the ground, leaving only the faint smell of brine and something old.

You exhale slowly, the sound shaky. “Well,” you mutter, shaking out your boots as water seeps through the cracks in the soles. “That was disgusting.”

Oscar watches the spot where the creature vanished. “At least we have a direction now,” he offers feebly. 

You snort. “And a deadline, apparently.”

He glances at you, catching the faintest trace of fear in your expression before you turn away. The Underworld looms, and for a moment, he almost wishes the horse had stayed. At least it had sounded certain.

Oscar squares his shoulders, forcing the smallest smile. “Guess we should start walking.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, brushing damp hair from your face. “Together, right?”

He tries not to think too deeply of the words. “Always.”

Time doesn’t move properly in the Underworld. It stretches and folds, like light through water. Oscar tries to count the steps he’s taken, but even that feels unreliable. His sense of rhythm fades until there’s only the sound of your steps beside his. Sometimes it feels like you’ve been walking for hours. Sometimes it feels like minutes.

There are small concessions, though. You don’t grow hungry. You don’t need water. The exhaustion is there, but dulled; it’s the ache of a bruise rather than the throb of an open wound. It’s strange, and it makes him think that maybe the Underworld wants you moving. Wants you to keep going until you find whatever it is you’re meant to find.

“Still no monsters,” you mutter after a while. “Starting to think they’re scared of us.”

Oscar glances sideways, catching the faint glimmer of a grin tugging at your mouth. “Or they’re just letting us get comfortable,” he shoots back.  

“That’s dark.”

“It’s the Underworld,” he says simply, but his tone carries a flicker of humor, and you roll your eyes. 

It feels almost normal, like those afternoons where the two of you tease each other over burnt marshmallows or your latest invention that accidentally blew up part of the forge. You talk about camp for a while—about the most recent Capture the Flag, how Chiron’s probably furious at your disappearance. It’s a coping mechanism, a way to try and forget you’re in the land of the dead. 

The banter fills the space between you until it runs out of air. Until the silence returns, heavier this time.

It’s because you’ve reached the river.

The air shifts before you see it. In comes a damp chill, metallic and sour. Then the black water comes into view, sluggish and wide, thick as oil. The surface glints with things that don’t belong in any natural current: broken toys, ripped diplomas, shattered mirrors, bits of jewelry tangled with letters that were never sent. All of it drifting together in a slow, endless swirl. The River Styx.

You step closer to the river, curiosity pulling you forward. The surface ripples, catching the dim, gray light of the Underworld. It looks ordinary from here—just another poisoned current—but Oscar’s voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and certain. “Don’t.”

You turn, one eyebrow raised. “What?”

“Don’t touch it.” He’s closer now, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable. His eyes aren’t on you, though. They’re on the water. “It’s not just a river. It takes things from you.”

You study him for a moment, then tilt your head. “You’ve been here before.”

He doesn’t answer, which is all the confirmation you need. “Oscar,” you press, voice low. “You have, haven’t you?”

He exhales, jaw tightening. For a second, it looks like he might brush you off with a joke. Then his gaze crumbles, and something shifts in his expression as if he’s standing at the edge of something he’d rather not remember. “It was a quest,” he says finally. “Months ago. Chiron sent me.”

Your eyes narrow. “And?”

“I fell into it,” he admits quietly. “Or maybe I jumped. Hard to tell now.”

He remembers it in flashes—the cold that isn’t cold, the sound of everything he’s ever feared echoing inside his chest. The river pressing against him like a heartbeat, whispering every regret, every failure. He remembers surfacing, gasping, certain he’d left part of himself behind. How he’d emerged with skin that was supposed to be thicker. 

“The river gave me something,” Oscar says. “The Curse of Achilles. I’m invulnerable. Mostly.”

You don’t even try to hide your shock. “You what?”

He hesitates, then lifts the hem of his pants, just enough to show the small mark. An almost imperceptible scar, pale and thin, just below his knee. “That’s where it didn’t touch me. My weak spot.”

Your expression changes in an instant—surprise giving way to anger. “Why would you tell me that?” you half-yell, tugging the hem of his pants back down. “Are you stupid?”

Oscar blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“You don’t just tell people that!” you hiss, gesturing wildly. “That’s literally the only way anyone could kill you!”

He stares at you for a long beat, then shrugs, the smallest, most maddeningly calm gesture in existence. “Why? I trust you.”

For a moment, you just gape at him, your mouth opening and closing like you’re searching for words. He’s trying not to smile. There’s a flicker of amusement behind his calm, but it’s fond, not teasing. You shake your head and turn away, muttering something under your breath about reckless sea boys and terrible decision-making.

Oscar looks at the river again, the reflection of its dark surface wavering. He’s not sure if it’s the water or you that makes his heart feel so impossibly fragile in a place where everything is meant to last forever.

Tired from all the walking, the two of you find a small alcove carved into the black stone. A shallow curve of safety in a world that doesn’t want you safe. The air is colder here, thinner somehow. The River Styx murmurs not far away, its voice low and constant. The world’s oldest secret refusing to die.

You sit first, drawing your knees to your chest. Oscar hesitates before sitting beside you, close but not touching. The silence is awkward but not unbearable. It’s the kind of quiet that asks to be filled, even if neither of you knows how.

After a while, you speak, your voice wary. “So you’re invincible.”

“Mostly.”

You glance at him, the faintest crease between your brows. “That’s not an answer.”

Oscar leans back against the wall, his gaze fixed on the dim glow of the river. “It happened before the war started. When it looked like Kronos was going to win.” His voice is steady, but his eyes drift somewhere else—somewhere he’d rather not return to. “I thought if I had the power, maybe I could stop it. Maybe I could make sure no one else had to die.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, then your tone sharpens, just slightly. “And Poseidon just let you?”

Oscar glances at you, the edge in your voice not lost on him. “He didn’t just let me. He… approved. Said it was my choice, at the end of the day,” he says, almost defensive. 

You scoff under your breath, shaking your head. “Gods,” you grumble. “Must be nice, having your dad’s blessing to nearly drown in a river of death.”

The irritation in your voice pricks at him, and for a second, Oscar feels his own temper stir. “You think I wanted it?” he says, the words sharper than intended. “You think it didn’t—” 

He stops himself, breath catching. Because he sees it. The way your jaw trembles, the shine in your eyes you’re trying to hide. You’re not angry. You’re upset. Upset that he had to go through it in the first place. 

Something inside Oscar softens (a wave breaking against rock). His voice gentles. “It wasn’t easy,” he admits quietly. “They said you had to hold on to one thing—something that ties you to the living. Otherwise, you’d disappear into the river. Become part of it.”

You lean back into the carved stone, your voice small. “What did you think of?”

Oscar pauses. The truth feels too raw, but it demands to be said out loud. “You,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I thought of you. The way you’d glare at me across the forge when I said something stupid. The sound of you laughing during dinner. The smell of burnt metal in your hair. I thought… if I could just get back to that, then it’d be worth it.”

He stops when he realizes you’re not answering. He glances over—and finds you asleep, head tilted slightly toward him, breathing soft and even. 

The corner of his mouth lifts, something warm stirring in his chest. He feels it, then, what you do in your sleep. The lightest brush of your fingers against his knee. The exact spot where the river didn’t touch him. His breath catches, the smallest, stupidest sound in the back of his throat.

He stares at you for a long moment, lying in wait. Your hand doesn’t move. It stays there, lingering even in your unconscious state. It’s as if you think you can protect this fragile little part of him with your touch alone. 

The Styx whispers nearby, carrying its cargo of broken things. But here, in this narrow alcove, there is the complete opposite: something unbroken.

We’ve established it’s not Oscar’s first time in Hell.

Still, it feels different now. Every shadow seems heavier, every sound sharper. He’s been through these paths before—though not this exact one—but the unease curling through his stomach isn’t about the place. It’s about you.

You walk beside him, careful and quiet. Your hand sometimes brushes the hilt of your weapon, sometimes the seam of his jacket when the path narrows. Each time, he feels it like a spark. He keeps his eyes ahead, pretending he doesn’t.

The Underworld sprawls endlessly around you: gray rock, pale dust, rivers of dark water that seem to breathe. Oscar knows the way, roughly. The Doors of Death aren’t a place one forgets easily. But the ground shifts here, the landmarks blur. He can’t be sure, and the thought of leading you through something he doesn’t entirely understand makes his pulse quicken.

You notice, of course. You always do. “Relax,” you say, lightly. “You’re acting like I’m about to fall into another pit.”

He glances at you, managing a small, crooked smile. “You’ve got a talent for that.”

You stick out your tongue, but there’s no real bite in it. “I’m serious, though,” you say after a couple more paces. “You keep looking at me like I’m about to vanish.”

“Maybe I’m just making sure you don’t,” he mutters.

You look at him, that teasing glint in your eyes softening. “For what it’s worth,” you say quietly, “there’s nobody else I’d rather be stuck in the Underworld with.”

Oscar freezes, caught between disbelief and something warmer that rises too quickly to name. His throat feels tight, his heart unsteady. He opens his mouth, trying to figure out what to say. ‘Me, too’? ‘Don’t mention it’? ‘I’d follow you to hell and back, actually’? 

Light from ahead spares him of his misery. The glow, faint and silvery, spills across the ground like mist. The Fields of Asphodel sprawl endlessly in every direction, a vast plain washed in shades of grey and pale gold. The flowers ripple like seafoam beneath a colorless sky, their scent faint but heavy, sweet in a way that clings to the throat. The wind moves lazily through the stalks of wheat that grow between the blooms. A thousand forgotten voices.

Oscar walks a step behind you, the ground crunching softly beneath his boots. He remembers this place only vaguely. The strange stillness, the muted horizon. Still: It feels different now. He feels different. You’re here, which means he can’t afford to look at the world the same way.

He catches you glancing around, eyes wide with a kind of wary wonder. “This is Asphodel,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Where the souls go when they weren’t bad enough for punishment, but not good enough for Elysium, either.” He gestures loosely to the horizon. “They just... stay. Wandering. Forever.”

Your brows knit. “That sounds awful.”

“It is. They lose their memories over time—the good, the bad, everything. Eventually they just... exist.”

There’s something about the way he says it, the unease in his tone, that makes your steps slow. You stop in the middle of the plain, the flowers brushing against your knees. The air hums faintly, as if listening. “Wait,” you murmur.

Oscar turns. “What?”

You bow your head slightly. “Just... give me a second.”

You start to whisper under your breath. Eternal rest grant unto them, and let perpetual light shine upon them. 

Oscar looks away, pretending not to listen. He’s never been much for the gods. They always seemed too fickle, too cruel. But seeing you like this—soft-spoken, sincere—something inside him stirs. He ducks his head and cups his hands into a clumsy imitation of your own. He closes his eyes, awkwardly following your lead. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know who to say it to. But he believes in you—in the way your voice trembles when you care too much, in the way you reach for light even down here in the dark.

He may not believe in gods, but he believes in you. 

When you finish, you look up, eyes catching his. He clears his throat, suddenly self-conscious. “Right. That’s enough sightseeing,” he says. “We should keep moving. This place gives me the creeps.”

You smile faintly, a little sad, a little knowing. “Sure, big guy.”

He can tell something’s off with you after leaving Asphodel. You’re quiet in a way that isn’t just exhaustion. Your steps drag a little, your eyes dart to the edges of the path, unfocused. He wants to ask what’s wrong but doesn’t. It’s not his place, he thinks. Not yet. Not when you look like that, like the ground might open again if he says the wrong thing.

He’s just about to make some half-hearted joke about you losing your sense of direction when you speak first. “I don’t know how to feel about them,” you say. Your voice sounds smaller than he’s used to. “The souls. Forgetting everything. Their lives, the people they loved. I can’t tell if I pity them or envy them.”

Oscar’s mouth feels dry. “Envy them?”

You glance at him, then back ahead. “I mean… isn’t it easier? To forget? To not have to carry it all around?” You laugh, though it sounds like it hurts. “Maybe that’s the real peace, not remembering.”

He frowns. “That’s bleak.”

“It’s realistic.” You nudge a pebble with the toe of your boot, watching it roll across the cracked stone. “I don’t know. Is it better to have loved and lost, or to have never loved at all?” You tilt your head at him. “But, like… is it better to have loved and forgotten, or to remember everything until it crushes you?”

Oscar slows, watching you walk a few steps ahead. He’s quiet for a while, turning it over. He’s not sure where he stands. Forgetting sounds merciful, but also wrong. The thought of losing the pieces of himself that are tied to you makes something tighten in his chest.

“I don’t think I could forget,” he says finally. “Not the good stuff, anyway.”

You look back at him, half a smile curling at your lips. “I could. Memory’s overrated.”

He almost argues, but then he catches the flicker of sadness in your eyes and stops. You mean it. You’re resolute in that way that scares him a little, the way you can talk about letting go like it’s freedom. He just shakes his head, falling back into step beside you. “Guess we’ll just have to disagree on that.”

“Guess so.”

Oscar doesn’t know what’s waiting ahead, but he knows he’ll remember this. The way your voice trembles on the word envy, the way you keep walking anyway.

You both need a break. He suggests resting, saying he’ll keep watch, but you counter that he should be the one to sleep this time. He doesn’t argue. He never really wins with you anyway.

He lies back against some cold stone, the ground beneath him cool and firm, but rest doesn’t come. Something about the way you’ve gone silent feels wrong. That hollow tone in your voice, the way your eyes keep finding the horizon even though it doesn’t move. It scares Oscar.

He turns his head toward you. “You’d rather forget?”

You glance at him, expression unreadable. Gone is the girl who might have once called him nosy, might have told him to mind his own business. “Sometimes I wish I could,” you confess. “The monsters, the quests, the fighting. You ever think about it? How none of us asked for this?”

He sits up, restless now. He’s heard you complain before, but not like this. There’s no anger this time, no spark. All that’s left is exhaustion, as if you’re tired of your prayers being met with indifference. He feels something twist in his chest. “Hey,” he says quietly, reaching for the only defense he knows: memory. “Remember the fireworks at camp? When you almost set the dining pavilion on fire?”

You huff out a laugh, small and unwilling. “Almost,” you echo, eyes half-lidded. “You tackled me before it got that far.”

“Yeah. You thanked me by dumping water on my head.”

Your lips twitch, but the light doesn’t stay long. “See? Even the good memories end in disaster.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that. 

“We’re kids, Oscar,” you say, pulling your knees to your chest, “and they want us to fight a war?” 

It’s unfair. Oscar knows. He—the poised prodigal son—knows that. But he sets aside his fear, his own misgivings, and tries to see it through your eyes. You, with all your half-siblings, the burden of godly blood in your veins.

Oscar reaches for your hand. His palm is rough and warm, while yours is cold from the Underworld’s chill. You don’t pull away.

He doesn’t say anything to your honest truth, though his silence sounds a lot like Yeah. They’re started a war, and now we have to pay the price. Oscar stares at your joined hands and feels the ache of everything unspoken: the fear, the guilt, the act of resistance that is being alive together in a place meant for the dead.

The River Lethe sprawls before you like a dream turned sour. 

It looks deceptively calm. Pale, glassy water that glimmers faintly under the shade of the Underworld. It smells faintly of rain and rot. When Oscar gets close enough, he feels the tug of something beneath the surface. Not current. Memory.

He tells you what he knows. “A single drop of that could make you forget who you are,” he exhales. “Everything you are. The dead come here when they want to start over. They wash themselves clean before rebirth.”

You crouch near the bank, studying the water with the kind of curiosity that terrifies him. It reflects your face back at you, blurred around the edges, like you could disappear if you just leaned in far enough. You murmur, almost to yourself, “To forget everything… that must feel like peace.”

Oscar shifts his weight, uneasy. “It’s not peace. It’s—” He stops. He doesn’t actually know what it is, only that the thought of you wanting it makes something twist in his chest.

You glance at him, eyes a little too soft. “You don’t think about it? What it’d be like to forget everything that hurts?”

He stares at the water, then back at you. The river catches the light in your eyes, makes them shimmer in that way that reminds him how fragile things can look right before they break. “No,” he blurts out, and the words come too fast, too certain. “If I forgot everything, I wouldn’t remember you.”

You blink, and for a moment, the weight of the Underworld fades. The river ripples again, whispering promises to those who want to forget. Oscar grabs your wrist gently, pulling you back from the edge.

He studies the river for a long time, searching for a path that doesn’t exist. The Lethe stretches wide and patient, its silver surface unbroken except for the occasional drift of something indistinct. Every instinct tells him to keep you far from it. He paces the bank, jaw tight, until he realizes the truth he’s been trying to avoid. The only way forward is through.

He turns to you, and his voice is steadier than he feels. “I can get us across. The water won’t touch us.” His fingers twitch at his side before he reaches for your hand. “Just don’t move too fast, and don’t look down.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“I haven’t,” he admits, and it almost makes you laugh. Almost. But your expression rearranges itself when you see how serious he is. He’s never looked so intent, like the river itself might reach out and steal you from him if he let go.

“Alright, big guy,” you sigh. “Let’s do it your way.”

He exhales, slow and trembling, and steps forward. The surface of the Lethe shivers. The water pulls back under his will, rising into translucent walls that shimmer around you both. Mist curls along the edges, carrying whispers that make Oscar’s skin crawl.

You start forward, but he doesn’t. His hand is clamped tight around yours, the pressure bordering on desperate. You glance back. “Oscar,” you chide. “You’re holding too tight.”

He swallows hard and forces himself to loosen his grip, though he doesn’t let go. “Sorry,” he mutters. His voice sounds rough, uncertain. “Just—don’t fall, yeah?”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

Together, you step onto the dry riverbed between the parted waters, the ghostly murmur of forgotten lives echoing above your heads. Oscar focuses on the sound of your breathing, the warmth of your hand, the pulse steady against his palm. It’s proof that you’re still here, still his to protect.

He’s used to water bending to him. The effortless command of it, the way it listens when he asks. But this isn’t like that. The Lethe pushes back. It doesn’t move so much as resent being moved, dragging against his will with a slow, heavy pull that feels like hands trying to reach inside his skull.

He can feel it brushing against his thoughts, the edges of who he is. A soft, insidious whisper, asking him to forget his name, his purpose, you. He grits his teeth, focus flickering as he presses his palms against the air. The walls of water tremble.

You stall, stepping closer to him. Not touching, not quite, but close enough that he feels the warmth of you through the cold. You keep your eyes fixed ahead, voice hushed as though you’re afraid of disturbing the river.

“Remember the first time you beat me at capture the flag?” you whisper. “You were so smug. Thought you were untouchable.”

Oscar snorts under his breath. “Wasn’t I?”

“You tripped over your own shield,” you murmur. “Right into the creek.”

He huffs out something between a laugh and a grunt. The sound steadies him. You keep going, throwing scraps of memory like lifelines. “Campfire nights. The smell of burnt marshmallows. The way the sea breeze always hits right before breakfast. That time we found that baby hydra in the woods. The way you pretended not to be scared.”

He feels the pressure ease slightly. The Lethe hisses around him, angry but retreating. He tightens his grip on your hand—not desperate now, just anchored—and forces the river to part the last few feet. 

When you step onto the opposite bank, he lets the water crash back into place with a roar. His arms ache, his mind throbs, but you’re here. You smile at him, small and relieved. “See? Easy.”

He exhales, a shaky laugh escaping him. “You talk too much,” he grumbles, though his voice carries more gratitude than annoyance.

Oscar sits on the bank, catching his breath. He runs a hand through his hair, half-expecting it to come away wet, though the river never touched him. You linger nearby. The light from the water paints your face in shifting silver, and for a moment he mistakes the look in your eyes for wonder until he realizes it’s longing.

He swallows hard. “If you could… would you?” he asks carefully, bracing himself for an answer he doesn’t want to hear. “Dip in, I mean.”

You turn your head toward him, startled. “What, and forget everything?”

“You seemed tempted.”

For a moment, you don’t answer. The silence stretches, and he starts to regret asking. Then you glance away from him, from the water, looking instead towards where you two ought to head. “Maybe,” you say. “But I don’t want to forget everything.”

His pulse jumps. “Why not?”

Your shoulders rise and fall. “I wouldn’t want to forget you either.” The words come out softer than you mean them to, and the second they do, you’re turning red. “Forget I said that.”

Oscar stares at you, dumbfounded for half a heartbeat before the shit-eating grin spreads across his face. “You wouldn’t want to forget me, huh?” he says, excitement threading through his tone. “That sounds a lot like you like me.”

You groan, covering your face. “Oh my gods, shut up.”

He laughs, warm and incredulous. The sound drowns out the river. “I’m just saying—it’s good to know I’m unforgettable,” he says, his heart hammering in his chest. 

“Keep talking and I’ll make sure you aren’t.” You march ahead, already putting distance between you.

Oscar gets to his feet, still smiling, and jogs after you. “Admit it,” he calls. “You’d miss me.”

You don’t look back, but he sees the way your shoulders shake with a laugh. For a brief, impossible moment, it feels like you’re back at camp again, like you’re not walking through the Underworld at all, but through the world you both still have to fight for.

A few paces later, you stop by a regular river. Ordinary water, not cursed or whispering or ancient. Oscar crouches at the edge, rinsing grime from his boots. You’re focused on cleaning your blade, sleeves rolled to your elbows, the faintest smear of ash still on your cheek. Something about it—your calm, your quiet—and your earlier declaration makes the question slip out before he can stop himself.

“What do you think a date would look like if we were normal?”

Your brow furrows. “Normal?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Like, no monsters. No wars. Just us.”

“You’re assuming I’d go on a date with you.”

“You wouldn’t?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, pretending to scrub harder at the metal. “I didn’t say that.”

Oscar grins, emboldened. “Alright then. Somewhere by the ocean, probably. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“You’d like that.” 

“Boardwalk fair,” he goes on, like he’s painting the picture in real time. “You’d drag me to every stall. I’d have to win you a prize just to impress you.”

You glance up at him, amused. “You? Win anything? You’d waste all your money trying.”

He laughs. “I’d get there eventually. I think I could manage a stuffed dolphin.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Too on theme.”

“You’re right,” he concedes. “Should be something ridiculous. Like a seven-foot-tall bear I’d have to carry around all night.”

You’re smiling now, faintly. “And then what?”

“Then we’d get ice cream. You’d make me try some weird flavor like sea salt caramel.”

“That’s not weird.”

“It’s a little weird.”

You scoff, but there’s warmth there. “Fine. And what about you? What would you pick?”

He thinks about it for a second, then smiles. “Doesn’t matter. I’d probably just steal a bite of yours anyway.”

You give him a look that’s scandalized. “You’d better not.”

“Come on,” he teases. “You’d let me. Especially if I’d already won you the bear.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. Oscar feels so damn brave. Braver than he ever was aboveground, when he’d stared at you longingly across campfires or when he’d ‘uh, uhm’ed his way through asking for your time. 

“What if I kissed you?” he presses. “After the fair?”

You eyes narrow in mock warning. “Oscar.”

“What?” he grins, acting like his stomach isn’t churning at the thought of finally, finally, finally doing what he’s wanted to do for years. “It’s hypothetical. I’d say you have a bit of ice cream on the corner of your mouth, and then—”

You shove his shoulder before he can finish, and he stumbles, laughing. The sound echoes off the water, light and alive. You’re already walking ahead, pretending to ignore him, but he follows, still smiling.

For a fleeting moment, it feels like a promise. A small, impossible glimpse of the life waiting above the ground.

As sweet as we've seen these two be, the Underworld is not forgiving to happiness.

The River of Acheron lies before you now, endless and restless. It doesn’t move in one direction like most rivers do. It coils in on itself, a serpent swallowing its own tail. The water churns and folds, heavy with something darker than silt, a thick current of agony that hums low like a warning. Each ripple seems to echo a memory of pain, circling back, refusing to fade. This is the river that flows into Tartarus, Oscar recalls, only to return to the Underworld again. A loop without mercy. A cycle that cannot be broken.

You stand beside him, looking like a soldier about to head to war. He can see the reflection of the river flickering in your eyes, a muted shimmer of blue and gray. You don’t say anything for a while. Neither does he. The air reeks with the scent of minerals and something burnt, something unkind.

Oscar exhales. “We just have to cross it,” he says, though the words sound small, even to him. 

His voice doesn’t carry against the low murmur of the river. It’s swallowed whole before it can reach the other bank. He’s already thinking of how to do it, how to keep the two of you safe, when you move. Your fingers brush his wrist before sliding down, finding his hand. It’s tentative at first—like you’re afraid he’ll pull away—but he doesn’t, he’d never. 

Your palm is warm against his, and for a moment, the noise of the river softens. The cycle slows. He glances at you, at the faint furrow between your brows, at the steadiness of your grip. You’ve never come to him like this. It’s always been him reaching for you, trying to bridge that gap, to find an excuse to have you close. 

He almost forgets to breathe. “Okay,” you say tentatively, eyes still on the water. “Let’s do this.”

Oscar nods, though you can’t see it. His thumb presses lightly against your hand, as if promising something he doesn’t yet have the words for.

The Acheron snarls like a living thing, churning black and silver under the bloodless sky. Oscar stands at the edge, jaw set, eyes narrowing at the river that screams back at him. He can feel it. The pull of its grief, the weight of its endless lament.

He breathes once, twice, and steps forward.

It isn’t unlike what he did at the Lethe. The logic is the same: open a path, keep you safe, get to the other side. But the Acheron resists differently. It doesn’t just move against his will. It accuses. The river hisses with thousands of voices, all rising and falling in agony, their cries tangled with words meant to wound. 

Murderer. Coward. Failure.

Oscar grits his teeth, pressing his palms toward the river. The water trembles under his command, shuddering like something alive and unwilling. A narrow path forms—about twenty feet across—walls of water rising and folding back like teeth. The sound of it drowns out everything except the thudding of his own heart.

The first few steps are steady. The atmosphere is thick with despair. The current roars around you, so loud it almost sounds like laughter. Then the voices begin to change. They twist into something familiar. Faces in the water, glimpses of moments he never wanted to see again. His mother crying. The day he ran. The people he couldn’t save.

Oscar clenches his fists, forcing the current still. They’re not real. They’re not real.

He opens his mouth to warn you, to tell you to look straight ahead, to focus on him, but then he sees you. You’re frozen mid-step, eyes wide and glassy, your expression hollowed by something he can’t quite name. The river is whispering to you, too. He can’t hear what it says, but he knows the tone. That coaxing, poisonous succulence that makes you believe every word. Your lips move, mouthing a name that isn’t his.

“Hey,” Oscar says, voice sharp. You don’t answer.

He reaches for you, catches your wrist just as your foot slips forward. The water lashes up like it senses weakness, like it wants to claim you. He tightens his grip, pulling you back against him, his other hand still raised toward the trembling river.

“You have to listen to me,” he hisses, voice low and taut. “It only gets in if you let it. Don’t let it. Look at me.”

You blink, shaking, tears clinging to your lashes. Slowly, your focus returns. First to his voice, then to his face. Oscar doesn’t let go, not even when the walls of water begin to quake around you again. The Acheron howls in protest, but he holds steady, every nerve screaming with the effort.

He tells himself he can take whatever the river throws at him. But the thought of losing you—to water, to memory, to anything—terrifies him more than the Acheron ever could.

Oscar struggles to keep his footing as the Acheron swirls, its current like a living thing clawing at his will. Every muscle in his body trembles from the strain of parting the water, the pressure of its voices drilling into his head. He can hear them whispering, accusing, promising release. He ignores them as best he can until he hears you start to whisper back.

Your voice is faint at first, then clearer, shaking. “They’re right. I deserve it.”

You’re staring at the river, pupils dilated, lips parted in something close to dazed surrender. The sight sends a spike of panic through Oscar. He tightens his grip on your hand, the water trembling with his lapse in focus.

“No. Don’t listen to it,” he manages. “It’s lying to you. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

You just shake your head, tears pricking your eyes. “I have. I’ve hurt people. I—I should’ve been better. I should’ve—”

“Stop.” His voice cracks like a whip, sharper than he means. Then softer, almost pleading: “You don’t deserve any of this. You’re… you’re the best of us. You keep everyone together even when you’re falling apart. You make things feel like they matter. You make me want to matter.”

The river seethes, furious, and Oscar grits his teeth, forcing it back with the last of his strength. He can feel his energy flickering, the strain almost unbearable, but he won’t let go. He won’t let you go.

“You don’t deserve punishment,” he says, dragging you forward, his fingers aching around yours. “You deserve peace. You deserve to get out of here. You deserve—”

The last step nearly takes him under, but he pushes through, hauling both of you onto the shore. The moment his knees hit solid ground, the river crashes closed behind you, its howls fading into the distance.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The silence is deafening. Then, slowly, Oscar realizes you’re still clutching his hand. Your pulse flutters weakly under his thumb. You’re both shaking, drenched in sweat and exhaustion, but alive. Your chest heaves, but the look on your face is no longer one of utter despair. 

He laughs once—breathless, disbelieving—and leans his forehead against yours. “You made it out,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You only breathe, shallow and steady, and he counts it as proof of life.

You put as much distance as possible between yourselves and the river, walking until the sound of the Acheron fades into the restless hum of the Underworld. Oscar can still feel its pull—the phantom echo of a thousand screaming voices lodged in his skull—but he focuses on you. You’re trembling faintly, exhaustion written across every inch of you, and he hates that he can’t take the memory of that river away from you.

When you finally stumble upon it—a garden in the middle of this forsaken place—it feels wrong and right all at once. The air is thick with the scent of soil and sweetness. Flowers bloom in impossible colors. Pomegranate trees rise from the ash, their fruit glinting like rubies. It feels like stepping into someone’s memory of summer, a cruel imitation of life.

You sink to the ground first, legs folding beneath you. Oscar joins you without hesitation. You lean into his shoulder, and he feels your heartbeat through the thin layers of armor and fabric. Your voice, when it comes, is broken. “It told me I deserved it,” you say. “For existing. For being his daughter.”

Oscar looks down at you, his jaw tightening. “You don’t deserve that,” he whispers back. “Not any of it.”

You let out a humorless laugh, dry as sand. “You didn’t hear what it said.”

“I don’t need to. You’re a good person.” 

He’s not good at this—comforting people, saying the right thing—but you don’t need perfect. You just need someone to stay, and so he does. You curl closer, head against his chest, as though the proximity alone might keep the darkness at bay. Oscar keeps his arms around you, careful but steady. 

Your breathing slows, uneven at first, then softer, until you fall into uneasy sleep. He stays like that for a long while, counting the beats of your heart, watching the faint shimmer of the pomegranate light on your face.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head when he’s certain you’ve dozed off. It’s part-theft, because he doesn’t know how you’d react to it, but it’s also part-prayer. A wordless plea to the gods he doesn’t believe in. Keep her safe. Keep her mine. 

Oscar doesn’t mean to fall asleep. He only planned to rest his eyes for a moment, to breathe in the silence and the faint perfume of blossoms. But exhaustion catches up to him, pulling him under. His dreams are shallow and restless. Shadows of the river, your voice calling his name, water turning to glass.

When he wakes, it’s to the sensation of movement, of something vast shifting the air. He blinks, disoriented. The light in the garden has changed; it’s softer, tinged with gold. Standing among the pomegranate trees is a woman so breathtakingly beautiful it feels like a trick of the Underworld. Her skin is pale as bone, her dark hair floating as if suspended in water. Her eyes are a kaleidoscope of color, though muted, as if the Underworld itself had drained her of vitality.

Persephone.

Oscar’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t move, doesn’t dare wake you. You’re curled against him, still asleep, face slack with exhaustion. For a moment, the goddess only looks at you, her expression unreadable. Then her gaze flicks to him.

“The war’s about to break,” she says, voice like the echo of leaves rustling. “Your time here is ending. You’re needed above.”

Oscar swallows. “The Doors of Death,” he says quietly. “Where?”

Persephone studies him for a long moment, then gestures toward the far horizon, where the garden gives way to shadows. “Follow the obsidian path. It will lead you to the Gates. But you will not pass easily. Thanatos guards them.”

Her gaze returns to you. The hardness in her face softens, just slightly. “She carries sorrow,” Persephone murmurs. “A soul should not bear that weight for long.” 

From within the folds of her gown, she retrieves a flower. A night-blooming cereus, white and luminous, its petals like glass under the dim light. She holds it out to Oscar. “For saving. You will know when.”

Oscar hesitates, but accepts the flower with both hands. Its stem is cold, its glow faintly pulsing like a heartbeat. He feels something twist in his chest. The idea that he might need to save you makes his stomach turn.

“Thank you,” he manages, because he would have to be a fool to turn down a gift from a goddess.

Persephone inclines her head. “Hurry, son of Poseidon. The world waits for neither gods nor men.”

And just like that, she’s gone. The garden exhales, and Oscar is alone again, the pomegranate trees whispering in her wake. You stir faintly against him, and he clutches the flower tighter, its glow seeping between his fingers like a fragile promise. He shoves it in his pocket and hopes he never has to use it. 

He should’ve known better. 

No shrieks, no tremors in the ground, no shadow shifting in the distance. The Underworld is rarely merciful, and the silence should’ve been warning enough.

The obsidian path gleams beneath your feet, slick as oil and reflecting the dim red light from above. You’re walking just ahead of him, a faint spring returning to your step after the nap in the garden. Oscar is about to call out for you to slow down when the ground splits open with a sound like tearing flesh.

Something massive crawls out. A creature that looks like a lion made of bone and smoke, eyes burning gold, mouth dripping molten light. A monster, half-forgotten by history and too angry about it.

Oscar steps forward, summoning water from the cracks in the stones, but before he can act, you’re already running toward the thing, blade drawn. He swears under his breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

The monster roars, swiping at you. You dodge the first blow, but the second catches you across the ribs, sending you flying into the rock wall. The sound it makes—your body meeting stone—snaps something inside Oscar.

He rushes forward, furious. The world narrows to the beat of his heart, to the pulse of divine power thrumming in his veins. The water around him coils, alive and sharp, slicing through the monster’s form. It howls once before collapsing into dust, dragged screaming back to Tartarus.

Oscar stands over the fading ashes, chest heaving. He rounds on you, relieved that you’re breathing and not in need of the flower burning a hole in his pocket. 

“What the hell was that?” His voice cracks on the last word. “Do I have to remind you that I’m—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight, the words tasting bitter. Invulnerable. That’s what he means. But it feels wrong to say it now, when you’re sitting there bruised and dazed, hand pressed against your side. When you’d acted on pure impulse to protect. 

You glare up at him through the pain. “You’re welcome.”

“You could’ve been killed.”

“You’re not a hundred percent invincible either, big guy.” 

He doesn’t have an answer for that. Not one that won’t sound like an excuse. He kneels beside you instead, touching your arm. “Next time,” he sighs, “let me be the idiot, yeah?”

Your face, still flushed from battle, is too close. Your hand, still trembling, grips his sleeve. For just one second, he forgets where he is.

And that’s when it hits.

He doesn’t see it, only feels it. A weight slamming into him, claws scraping across skin that should not break. There’s the sound of something ancient roaring, a flurry of scales and teeth and darkness. The blows land hard and fast, but they don’t pierce. They can’t. They shouldn’t.  

You’re already moving, blades flashing. Daughter of Hephaestus, forged in fire. The monster shrieks, tries to recoil, but you’re faster. A clean, sharp strike, and it’s gone. Banished. Silence falls, the kind that hums with leftover fear.

You turn to Oscar. “See?” you start to joke, something biting to cover the terror. “Told you I could—”

Then you freeze.

There’s a glint of something wrong. A scale, black and slick, jutting out from just above his knee. The one place where the curse can’t protect him. 

Oscar’s face slackens. The world tilts.

He falls.

You’re by his side in a second, hands shaking as you reach for him. His eyes find yours, glassy but still so painfully alive. His fingers twitch, catching on your sleeve. You’re saying his name now. Again and again. Like it’s the only thing that might keep him here. Oscar, Oscar, Oscar. 

Oscar feels the world narrowing, the dark ground pulling at him like a tide. The air is cold, dry, the kind that steals breath instead of giving it. The tremor in your voice splits him open worse than the wound ever could. His knee burns, then chills. The blood doesn’t matter; what matters is how your hands shake when you press down on it.

“Hey,” he murmurs, though his voice comes out rough. “Don’t… don’t look like that.”

You shake your head fiercely, hair sticking to your temples. “Shut up. You’re fine. You’re okay.” Your palms are slick with his blood, and the way you press harder makes him wince.

He tries to smile, because that’s what he always does. “You’re bad at lying.”

“And you’re bad at staying alive,” you snap, voice cracking mid-alive. “You’re not dying here. You hear me? You still owe me—” You choke back a sob. “You still owe me that boardwalk date. The stupid ice cream. The kiss.”

His chest rises, falls, slower each time. He looks at you through the blur. You’re shaking, furious, heartbroken all at once. You’re so alive it hurts to look.

“We can still do that,” he says softly, almost to himself. The words slur a little. “When we get back… I’ll take you. Promise.”

“Stop talking like that,” you plead. Your hands are trembling as you cradle his face, trying to force him to stay awake, stay here. “You don’t get to promise things if you’re not gonna make it.”

He wants to laugh. He can’t. It comes out as a breath, shaky and small. He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing your wrist. His lips move again, trying to form something—a name, a confession, maybe both.

“Don’t you dare,” you say quickly, tears slipping down your face. “Don’t you dare say goodbye. I’m not letting you. I won’t.”

Oscar blinks up at you, and for a second, he thinks you could command even death itself. That your voice could tear open the sky if it meant keeping him here. His heart stutters. He forces one more breath, his hand still tangled with yours. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” you whisper fiercely. “You have to be.”

He closes his eyes, not in surrender, but in something like peace. The faint, impossible hope that your voice will be the last thing he ever hears.

Oscar can feel his consciousness slipping, the edges of the world softening into static. The pain is distant now, almost merciful, and his breathing comes shallow, uneven. He blinks hard, trying to focus on you—your face blurred and luminous in the gloom of the Underworld. His death is slower here in the Underworld, his soul not needing to travel, and that is half of what saves him. 

Your tears streak his vision, and for a second, he thinks he’s already gone. But then you shift, and he feels you rummaging through his pockets, frantic. Looking for something, anything. The motion jolts him weakly back into himself.

“Wait,” he manages to rasp, his voice cracking. “That’s—”

You pull out the crushed white bloom. Its pale petals glow faintly in the dark, bruised but still pulsing with a strange, unearthly vitality. “What is this?” you demand, your voice raw, desperate. “What is this, Oscar?”

“It’s… it’s for you,” he croaks. “Persephone said—it’s supposed to save—”

You don’t let him finish. The words die between you as you tear the flower apart, your shaking fingers scattering its petals. You don’t even seem to breathe as you press one over the wound in his chest, another to his neck, to his temple, to the soft skin of his wrist. Nothing happens. His body is still heavy, still cold.

“Please,” you whisper, over and over, your voice breaking on the word. “Please, please, please, don’t—”

Out of some half-mad instinct, you push one of the petals past his lips. It tastes like ash and sunlight and something wild. For a moment, nothing changes. Then Oscar’s body jerks violently under your touch. He coughs, hard, the sound tearing through the stillness. His chest heaves, dragging in air like it hurts to breathe again.

The petal glows faintly between his teeth before dissolving into light. The glow spreads through his veins, up his throat, into the hollow of his cheeks. The wound on his knee knits itself shut, faint scars of gold tracing where the scale had pierced him. You’re still clutching him, watching in disbelief as color floods back into his face.

Oscar inhales sharply. His vision clears. You’re hovering over him, eyes wide and glassy, lips trembling. He wants to say something, anything—thank you, I’m here, I love you—but all that comes out is a ragged laugh.

You let out a sob that sounds like a laugh, too. And then you’re both crying, both shaking, tangled in each other’s arms in the dark heart of the Underworld. 

Two stubborn, living things, refusing to let go.

Oscar’s laughter breaks first. Half-choked, delirious, the kind that borders on hysteria. You’re still kneeling beside him, hands shaking, his shirt damp with riverwater and blood, when the realization finally crashes through you: he’s alive. Against every law of nature and death, he’s breathing again.

And then you’re hitting him in the chest, weakly at first, then harder. “You idiot,” you gasp. “You absolute, stupid, reckless idiot.” 

Each word lands like a blow you wish could make him understand the terror you felt. The fear of watching him fade, the helplessness that still clings to you like a second skin.

He catches your wrist before the next strike. His grip is gentle, almost reverent. He pulls you into him, presses his forehead to your shoulder. You’re still shaking, still babbling about his stupidity, the way he always tries to save you, the way he never thinks of himself. Oscar doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, the sound of your voice anchoring him to the living. 

When you finally start to crumble, he exhales and lets his lips brush your shoulder—soft, apologetic, grateful. “Will you carry me out of hell?” he murmurs against your skin. It’s a question that sounds more like a confession.

You don’t hesitate for a second. “Of course I will.”

So you do. His arm loops around your shoulder; your arm finds his waist. His weight is heavy but warm. Together, you start back down the obsidian path, step by step. The Underworld stretches before you, but this time, Oscar doesn’t look ahead.

He only looks at you.

Somebody once told Oscar that love and death are extremely similar.

He doesn’t remember who. Maybe it was Chiron, or maybe it was you, once, on some late night where both of you were too tired to argue but too awake to fall asleep. Either way, the thought returns to him now, as the path leads to two towering doors carved with scenes of the living and the dead.

They don’t creak or groan like mortal doors do. They hum. A low, eternal sound that seeps into the bones. It’s the kind of sound that knows the weight of endings.

You and Oscar stop a few feet away. Your breathing is still uneven from the trek, his arm slung over your shoulders. He can feel the tremor in your stance. Not fear, exactly, but awe, maybe disbelief that the journey is nearly over. His chest aches with it, too.

But in front of the doors stands a figure.

He’s tall and lean, every inch of him bleeding power. His skin gleams dark and warm, like polished teakwood, his hair cascading in black waves that catch faint traces of light. The air around him ripples as if it can’t decide what temperature to be. When he moves, his wings follow. Black as midnight, yet glimmering faintly with threads of blue and violet, like the sky just before dawn.

You whisper, “Eros?”

Oscar glances at you. “What?”

“The god of love,” you say, as though the answer should be obvious. “He looks like—”

The man’s golden eyes lift to you, calm and knowing. His voice is soft when he speaks, but it cuts through the air like light through glass.

“I am not Love,” he says. “I am Death. Thanatos, lieutenant of the Underworld.”

It slips out before you can stop yourself.

“You’re beautiful.”

Oscar watches the color rise in your cheeks the instant the words leave your mouth. Thanatos only inclines his head, calm as moonlight. His wings rustle, the sound softer than sighs. “That,” he says, “is why you thought I was Eros.”

You fumble for an explanation, but he spares you the effort. “It isn’t the first time I’ve been mistaken for him. Love and death, after all, are not so different. We can both be beautiful.”

The way he says it sends a ripple through the air. Even the ground seems to breathe slower. Oscar feels the truth of it settle in his bones. How both can take and give, how both leave the living undone.

You glance at him, uneasy, like you’re not sure what to do with the weight of that thought. Oscar looks back at Thanatos, his voice a little rough when he speaks. “We need to go back,” he explains. “The war up there—it’s breaking again. They need us.”

Thanatos studies the two of you. His gaze is endless and ageless, a pool reflecting everything and nothing. “You ask much of death,” he says sagely. “It has never been fair. Nor has freedom ever been without price.”

Oscar straightens, shifting, instinctively placing himself between you and the god. “What do you want?”

Thanatos’s lips curve, not quite into a smile. “What will you give,” he asks quietly, “for safe passage?”

Oscar keeps his hand on yours, the pressure grounding him even as the god’s golden eyes hold both of you still. Thanatos doesn’t breathe. He only watches. An eternal silence wrapped in grace. His wings stir, soundless, brushing the stale Underworld air with what feels like inevitability.

You’re the first to speak. “We’ll give you anything,” you bargain. “Just not our lives.”

Your voice wavers between defiance and exhaustion, the thin thread that has held the two of you together. Oscar wants to tell you to stop, but he can’t. He can’t stand the thought of silencing you, not when your voice is the only thing that still feels alive down here.

Thanatos tilts his head. “Anything but your lives. How predictable.”

He doesn’t even seem cruel—just weary. Oscar senses the futility in pleading. Death, he realizes, is not one for compromise.

Something sparks in Oscar. A half-remembered story, half-formed thought. He clears his throat, heart pounding. “Wait,” he says. “You wrestled Hercules once. For Alcestis, right? The wife of Admetus.”

Thanatos’s eyes flicker, the faintest trace of amusement glinting in them. “You remember your myths. Few mortals do,” he muses. 

Oscar swallows. “Then wrestle me. Or—no. Not wrestle.” He stumbles over his words, heat rising in his cheeks. “Set your terms. We’ll accept whatever you choose, as long as we leave alive.”

You turn to him, disbelief flickering in your expression. But Thanatos is suddenly smiling. It’s not kind, but it isn’t cruel either. It’s knowing. “You would give me the right to name the price,” the god says slowly, as though savoring the thought. “Interesting. Few offer Death the power to choose.”

Oscar nods once, tightening his grip on your hand. “We don’t have much of a choice, do we?”

Thanatos studies the two of you for what feels like centuries—long enough for the silence to become unbearable. Then, he inclines his head. “Very well. I accept.”

The deal is made. Whatever comes next, there’s no undoing it.

Thanatos moves without sound, his wings folding close as if the air itself bends to make room for him. In his hands, two vials shimmer. A liquid that seems neither water nor light, but something suspended between the two. He holds them out to the two of you, their faint glow reflected in your eyes.

“Drink,” Thanatos says as if it’s the most simple thing in the world.

You and Oscar exchange a look—confusion first, then disbelief. Oscar takes a cautious step forward, his hand half-reaching. “Both of us?” he asks.

Thanatos’s expression doesn’t change. “No,” he says, patient as the end of time. “Only one.”

A silence opens between the three of you, long and fragile. “What’s in it?” you ask, voice trembling with suspicion.

Thanatos doesn’t answer. He only tilts his head, eyes glinting like coins at the bottom of a dark river.

Oscar’s throat tightens. He can feel the unease gathering in his chest, heavy and alive. “We’re not playing games,” he says. “You said you wanted a wager.”

“I did.” Thanatos’s voice carries the faintest hint of something close to pity. “This is it.”

You turn toward Oscar, eyes burning with stubbornness. “Then I’ll do it,” you say, too quickly.

He scoffs, the sound sharp and defensive. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You almost died,” you snap. “You shouldn’t even be standing.”

“Neither should you.” His tone falters. He tries to sound cold, but it trembles, the edge dulling under the weight of everything left unsaid. “Let me handle this.”

Your jaw sets. “You’re not the only one who gets to be a hero.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but something in your expression stops him. The kind that frightens him more than death itself. You step closer. The glow from the vials catches the curve of your cheek, the faint tremor in your lips. Oscar braces himself for another fight, ready to stop you if you reach for the poison—or whatever it is. His pulse thrums, wild and erratic.

But you don’t reach for the vials.

You reach for him.

Oscar barely has time to inhale before your hands are on his collar, pulling him forward. His mind flashes white, body still caught in the moment’s impossible weight, and then your mouth finds his. The kiss lands fierce, desperate. Something stolen from the jaws of fate.

For a heartbeat, he forgets the gods. The bargains. The death waiting on the other side.

For a heartbeat, there is only you.

And in that heartbeat, Oscar forgets how to breathe.

Your lips meet his with a startling kind of certainty—like you had planned it all along, like every look, every argument, every almost had been leading to this single point in time. His mind blanks. His body knows what to do before he does. He kisses you back, not gently, not desperately either, but with the bewildered reverence of someone realizing too late that they have already fallen. The world blurs at the edges; Thanatos, the river, the weight of the Underworld fade until there is only you, your hands, your warmth, the taste of your breath.

Then it ends.

You pull away too soon, leaving him dazed, suspended somewhere between disbelief and ache. You look at him with that same maddening light in your eyes, the one that has always meant trouble, and say, softly but with a curve of humor, “The ice cream at the boardwalk will be on me.” 

He opens his mouth, but the words won’t come. He can’t move fast enough. His limbs feel slow, heavy, useless, as you snatch one of the vials in Thanatos’ hand. You shoot it back before he can stop you.

Oscar says your name, horrified. 

But nothing happens. 

You wipe your mouth, turn toward him, lips already curling into a grin. “See? I told y—”

The sentence never finishes.

Your voice cuts off like a string pulled taut and snapped. The color drains from your face; your gaze turns distant, unfocused, your pupils dilating as if you are staring past him. The air goes still. Oscar stares, waiting, but it’s Thanatos’ voice that arrives like a whisper through glass.

“Loss of memory,” the god tuts. “A fate sometimes worse than death.”

Water from the Lethe.

Oscar doesn’t think. He lunges.

Thanatos barely shifts, the movement effortless. The god’s wings catch the light as he sidesteps, and Oscar’s strike cleaves nothing but the thick Underworld air. Rage burns through the demigod, sharper than the ache in his wounded leg. It’s all he can feel, all he wants to feel.

“You took her memory?!” Oscar sputters, angry. 

He strikes again. Thanatos dodges again. The god’s eyes, gold and unblinking, regard Oscar with pity. “I gave you a choice.”

“You tricked her!”

“I did no such thing.” The god’s tone is infuriatingly calm. “She chose. You both did.”

Oscar can barely hear him over the blood pounding in his ears. His sword trembles in his hand as he takes another step forward, but then he hears you. Your voice, small and frightened.

“Where… where am I?”

Everything in him stills. The blade falls from his grip.

You’re staring around, eyes wide, breathing uneven. The obsidian path, the god before you, even Oscar himself seem foreign to you. When your gaze lands on him, there’s no recognition. Only fear.

“Hey, hey—” He’s at your side in an instant, gathering you into his arms before you can flinch away. “It’s me. It’s Oscar.” His voice cracks. “We’re—we’re fine, okay? You’re safe. We’re together.”

You shake your head, tears spilling fast. You shove against his chest. “I don’t—I don’t know you.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. He tries to whisper memories like prayers. “Camp Half-Blood. Cabin Nine. The stupid river,” he says, the words tripping over each other. “Come on. You said you’d carry me out of hell.”

You tremble, pushing against Oscar. “Who are you?” you wail, and Oscar is inclined to agree. A fate worse than death. 

His composure fractures. He turns to Thanatos, eyes wild, still holding you even as you thrash. “Give it back,” Oscar begs. “Please.”

The god’s gaze softens, but his voice remains steady. “This is penance.”

“It’s cruelty,” Oscar spits. “You took everything.”

Thanatos folds his wings behind him, the feathers sighing like the sea. “Not everything. You know what she carried. The guilt. The exhaustion. The longing for an end. She is free of it now.”

Oscar’s throat burns. “You think that’s freedom? You think this—” He gestures helplessly to you, shaking in his arms “—is peace?”

Thanatos tilts his head. “You’ve hated the gods’ games. You’ve cursed your bloodline, your fate. You said once you would give anything to stop living like this,” he says. “She feels the same way.” 

Oscar’s eyes are glassy, furious. “Yeah, I did. She did. But—but she’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to be selfish about.”

For the first time, Thanatos looks almost human. Thanatos studies Oscar in silence, his expression an impossible blend of pity and patience. The god’s voice is smooth when it finally comes. “She will return,” he says. “Not to this realm, not to you. To her life before all of this. No memories of camp, no burden of monsters or gods. She will have what she’s longed for.”

Oscar’s throat tightens. His voice sounds foreign to him when he asks, “And me?”

Thanatos regards him like he’s something small and brave and foolish. “You will remember. That is your punishment and your mercy. But you still have a choice, demigod.” 

There’s a bit more of the water in the vial. 

When Oscar looks down, you’re staring between them, bewildered and trembling. You don’t know who he is. You don’t even know where you are. But in the same vein—you know of no war. You don’t have to be the daughter of a god, don’t need to be the salvation of the world. Peace. The one that has eluded you all your life. 

When Oscar reaches for your hand, you don’t pull away.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, even though the words nearly undo him. He’s not sure why he’s asking; he just needs to hear it.

Your brow furrows. Your voice is soft, uncertain, even amid all the fear. “I… I think so.”

It’s almost funny, how even now you trust him. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s the last flicker of something that once burned too brightly to die completely.

Oscar exhales, steadying his shaking hand. The vial trembles between his fingers. “Good,” he murmurs. “I need you to trust me one last time.”

It could be his, but he meant what he said then. About wanting to remember you. He tilts the last of the water toward your lips. 

You blink, confused, but don’t resist. The liquid shimmers like glass as it touches your tongue. Oscar’s heart cracks open as he watches your lashes flutter, your eyes losing focus, your body going still. For a brief, breathless moment, he thinks you’re simply falling asleep. But then your gaze clears again, gentle and empty.

You look at him like he’s a stranger.

Oscar smiles, just barely. You won’t remember any of this. You’ll wake up in your bed back home, where Thanatos will have done his job. You’ll have your mother, and the life you never got to live, and the déjà vu of how Oscar has loved you through the years. 

“You’re okay,” Oscar tells you, even though the words taste like ash. Then, quieter, because if there’s anything you remember of him, he hopes it’s this: “You’ll be okay. You always were going to be.”

The Long Beach Boardwalk doesn’t care that Oscar saved the world two months ago.

It’s alive with noise and color. Sunlight catching on glass storefronts, seagulls crying overhead, the salt breeze carrying laughter and the smell of fried dough. Mortals mill about, blissfully unaware that demigods bled and fought and clawed their way through hell to keep the world turning. The ocean sighs against the shore, endless and unconcerned.

Oscar stands still in the middle of it all, a ghost in daylight. His hand flexes by his side as if remembering the weight of a sword. He’s not sure what he expected to feel coming here. Relief, maybe. Or peace. But both are strangers to him now. The only thing he feels is the faint, persistent ache of something lost.

You’re a few stalls down, arguing animatedly with the guy running a rubber duck scooping game. Your hair catches the sun like it used to when the campfire lit it. There’s a furrow between your brows, your lips moving fast as if trying to talk your way out of a bad deal. It’s you—alive, ordinary, whole.

The crowd moves around Oscar, a current he’s too stunned to swim through. You laugh, exasperated, and the sound strikes something in him, sharp and tender. He feels like he’s looking at a miracle and a wound all at once.

Before he can think twice, his body moves. One step, then another. He’s walking toward you, half-afraid that if he blinks, you’ll vanish like a dream burned away by morning.

He tells himself to play it cool.

He slows his pace, hands shoved in his pockets, pretending that his heart isn’t breaking open in his chest. Your tone is the same, indignant but good-natured, as you complain, “This game is impossible to win!” 

It almost feels like muscle memory, the way he moves closer. “You’re trying too hard,” he says casually, voice steady despite the tremor under his ribs. “Aim for the ones stuck against the current. They’re easier to scoop.”

You glance over, eyes narrowing. “Do I know you?”

“No,” he lies, smiling a little too stiffly. “Just a guy who’s seen this scam before.”

You study him for a beat—long enough to make him want to look away, to escape—but then you shrug and follow his advice. The scoop slides into the shallow current, the plastic ducks swirling lazily in their artificial stream. Oscar flicks a finger, imperceptible to anyone watching. The water tilts. A duck floats neatly into your net.

You laugh. “No way! Finally.”

It’s the sound of victory, bright and easy. The sound of everything he’s been missing. The stall owner grumbles and waves toward a row of prizes hanging behind him. “Pick one.”

You scan the options—plush bears, snakes, neon frogs—and then your hand lifts. “That one.”

Oscar freezes.

The dolphin’s gray and cheap-looking, its seam pulling a little at the tail. But it’s the same one he once described, half a lifetime ago in the Underworld, when you were both covered in ash and laughing about a life you could never have.

He swallows, forcing a smile when you turn toward him, triumphant. You hold up the prize like proof that small miracles still exist. “Guess your advice worked,” you say.

“Yeah,” Oscar exhales. “Guess it did.”

Somewhere, a child shrieks with delight as a gull swoops too close. Somewhere else, a radio plays an old love song. 

Oscar almost smiles. Almost. He  swallows it down, the motion rough in his throat. His heart feels like a bruise he can’t stop pressing. He bites back everything he wants to say—the thousand I-missed-yous, the you-look-happy, the I’d-do-it-all-again-for-you. You look lighter now, freer, the way you never were at camp. Your shoulders aren’t weighed down by prophecy or grief or impossible expectations. You’re just a person in sunlight, living. 

And memory, he thinks, was a small price to pay for that life.

So he only says, softly, “Hope you have a good day.” 

He nearly says hope you have a good life, but catches himself just in time. Then he turns, chest heavy, forcing his legs to move. He convinces himself that this is enough—that seeing you alive, well, and laughing among mortals who will never know the wars waged for them is enough. It has to be.

He takes three steps before he hears it. “Hey!”

Oscar freezes. His pulse stutters. He turns too quickly and stumbles a little, eyes wide. You’re jogging up to him, the stuffed dolphin tucked beneath your arm like a trophy, the same way you used to hold your celestial bronze dagger. You smile at him. Small, shy, and devastatingly familiar.

“There are other games I’ve been trying to win,” you say conversationally, tilting your head toward the boardwalk lights, the ferris wheel spinning behind you. “Think you could give me some more advice, big guy?”

Something inside him unravels. The nickname, the tone, the subtle flirtation. Oscar’s disbelieving laugh is a sound caught between joy and ache. “Yeah,” he says, trying for nonchalance and failing spectacularly. “Let me win you something good. How do you feel about a seven-foot-tall bear?”

You grin, teeth flashing, eyes bright. “Ice cream’s on me if you bag it.”

The crowd swells around you both, the lights flickering gold across your face as dusk deepens into amber. As he follows you into the gold-dusted evening, the boardwalk’s chaos fades into a distant hum. The world feels suspended, as if time itself has decided to grant him one last kindness.

Oscar has learned that memory is a fragile thing. 

It bends, it blurs, it betrays. It can shift, deceive, vanish entirely. But love—love endures quietly, stubbornly, in the smallest gestures. In the way you still tilt your head when you’re teasing him. In the way your laughter fills the spaces between heartbeats. Memory might fade, might trick, might ebb away like the tide but for as long as there’s breath, there’s longing. 

For as long as there’s life, there’s love.

you don’t answer franco’s question right away. the words hang in the air like smoke, soft and lingering, while the lake reflects the pink-orange sky like nothing’s changed. but everything has. you’ve been claimed. the camp sees you differently now. the boys look at you differently now. and franco - well, franco’s sitting beside you like he’s holding his breath.

“I don’t know,” you finally say, voice quiet. “I need some time.”

he nods, gently, like he expected that. “I figured. just… had to say it.”

you give him a small smile, one that says thank you for being brave, and the two of you sit there a little longer, shoulders brushing.

but things don’t exactly go back to normal after that.

——————

in the days that follow, everything is heightened. lando finds you before breakfast just to walk you to the pavilion. oscar always manages to end up your sparring partner in sword practice - except he mysteriously “forgets” how to go easy, like you didn’t just get claimed by a literal god of the dead. daniel brings you snacks he “definitely didn’t steal from dionysus’ stash,” and charles… charles watches. from across the field, the dining area, the archery range. he watches you like you hold answers he’ll never get.

and franco? he gives you space.

he’s still around. he still smiles. but he doesn’t bring it up again. not yet.

one night, after a long day of drills and a brutal obstacle course (george bet five drachmae you’d beat alex - he won), you sneak away from the cabins. the woods are too loud, the campfire circle too crowded, and the lake too obvious. so you walk, past the strawberry fields and through the torch-lit paths, until you end up near the forge.

you don’t mean to see him. but there he is.

carlos.

shirt slightly damp with sweat, soot on his cheek, holding a freshly finished bronze dagger that glows faintly with celestial bronze. he doesn’t see you at first, too focused on the blade, but when he does, his eyes widen.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he says, not unkindly. “it’s late.”

“I could say the same to you,” you reply, stepping into the warm glow of the forge. “but I guess fire gods don’t sleep either.”

he chuckles, setting the dagger down. “you okay?”

you nod, even though you’re not sure. “too many thoughts.”

“same,” he says. then, after a beat, “is it the five?”

you blink. “the five?”

“charles, lando, oscar, franco, daniel,” he lists casually. “you’re kind of their whole personality right now.”

you let out a tired laugh. “don’t remind me.”

carlos picks up a cloth and wipes his hands. “you ever think maybe they’re all wrong for you?”

you tilt your head, amused. “and you think you’re right?”

he shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “not saying I am. but I’m definitely not a follower.”

he takes a step closer. the forge’s glow dances on his face, softening his sharp features. “they circle around you like you’re some prize. I just think maybe someone should see you without the competition.”

you swallow. “and you think that’s you?”

he doesn’t answer - not with words, anyway.

he leans in slowly, gaze locked on yours. it’s deliberate, careful. and then he kisses you.

it’s different. not like lando’s lingering touches or franco’s gentle flirtations. not like oscar’s thoughtful glances or daniel’s confident nudges or even charles’ intense stares. it’s warm, grounding, a little messy with the scent of smoke and metal clinging to your clothes. and when he pulls back, your heart is racing.

you stare at him, lips still parted, stunned.

he smiles, cocky but quiet. “I’ll let you think about it.”

then he walks past you, leaving the forge behind, the faint scent of fire and bronze still in the air.

and you?

you just stand there, blinking, wondering how in the underworld carlos just became a very, very real problem. ————————————————————————————

© all rights reserved to folkwhoreberry. no stealing or copying will be tolerated.

“it’s so pretty…so beautiful…” michael sighs out at the world. perfectly framed through the open balcony doors, billowing curtains, a fairytale fantasy made real just for the two of you. it wasn’t lost on you that he’s gotten to see this all his life, all the time. you finally understood why he could never get sick of it.

staring out at the calm blue night, the city lights, the hills and the paintings it could’ve made, your heart fluttered, taken over by all of its coolness, its beauty. and him, of course; tangled bare in each other, in the lushness of the hotel bedding. it felt like a most magical reverie.

you look out at the night, pressed cheek to cheek like in the old starlet movies, your eyes glinting with the night’s stars in them. he watches with soft eyes and presses his lips flat to your cheek, kissing there.

“everything with you is like a dream.” your eyes meet, his sharp brown tinted blue in the moonlight. when he laughs, you cross his shy giddiness with a giggle of your own, emphatically repeating yourself: “i mean it! everything.”

he smiles, his youth springing from him the way it did when he was a boy. “it all means so much more to me now that i can share it with you…”

the sweetness rolls out of his mouth and through your body like a field of flowers in the wind and his earthly hands run along the softness of your back, the comfort he nurtures silently goading you to kiss him. your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling your naked chests together. lips come together like they’d been made for the other’s, a gratitude escaping both your throats as it would in prayer. it’s beautiful like this, so right. the most perfect getaway. days of remarkable sights, local music, disguises to fool the public. nights of feasting; on the gorgeous food, on each other. you’d already gone a couple of delicious rounds this evening, you were practically bathed in the residual love.

your kiss deepened, and so did his need. that familiar heartbeat below, searched for reprieve. you look at each other, lips parted and glistening. silent permission meets a new look of want.

“can you…rub it on yourself?” he asks in a voice so low one might mistake it for timidness, but you know better. his desire, so ripe, awash over him. excitement heats your body instantly as you take him, hard and thick in your sweet hand, gently between your legs. oh… you moan low at the contact against your curls, rolling the slippery head taut against the bud of you. he lets out a long, savory sigh.

“do you like it?” you whisper shakily, eyes full with something caught between shame and surprise, arousal coloring your face all the same.

michael purrs in assent, teeth sunken into his lip, hips gyrating. “i love it. i love it, baby.”

you slide easy against him, warmer and warmer as he pulses harder, a delicate pang of need getting hotter against your body.

“that’s it, that’s it, baby, get it wet,” he utters under his breath, his guiding hand squeezing the flesh from your hip, the contact between your eyes never breaking…those darling brown eyes, round and wanting, laying all he needed on you with a mere twitch of an eyelash, long, pretty, and fluttering. you buck a little faster, totally blissed.

his breath quickens and his hand moves to cradle your lower back, almost stilling you completely. “you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice breathless and lustful—overcome with it. “c’mere…c’mere.”

you rock up onto his thighs and he slides his fingers between the two of you, his skin and knuckles growing sticky and wet. you raise your hips, chest meeting his chin, then lips as he kisses the bone along your sternum.

he rubs himself against the soft, slippery ache, beckoning you to take it again. with a whine you sink down wantonly, his eyes still trained on you diligently. love evident in the tenderness. your face contorts divinely, soon full to the brim with him, nestling perfectly along every pulsing vein. his name leaves you in a quivering moan and he kisses your jaw lightly.

The bass of the jazz band rumbles through the smokey air as you walk in. You notice a large crowd on the dance floor. Their bodies rock from side to side to the rhythm of the 4-count music. To the left are several tables designed for an assembly of friends. The booths are decorated in a simple brown leather with each table covered with wine-red cloths designed to give you an intimate feel as friends conversation.

There are 4 young men there right now. Their head all turned to you. You give them a small smile which excites them butyou ignore it and look to your right. That way is the bar. That’s where you’re expected. You clear your throat and slowly walk to the bar before taking a seat on one of the many high barstools. The array of alcohol beautifully decorates the large wall before you. From wine to whiskey, it’s all gracefully shelved, disguising the liquid poison as something beautiful.

“Can I get you something to drink?” The bartender interrupts your thoughts. His smile was genuine and calm, indicating his expertise in customer service.

You return the smile, your red lipstick morphing into a gracious grin as you speak. “I’m not too sure what to order. Any suggestions?”

“Of course, ma’am. Do you have a taste for a sweet or bitter drink?” He leans on the counter, clearly taken aback by your allure.

“Sweet, please.”

“I would suggest a lemonade or strawberry daiquiri.” He looks you up and down with his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Strawberry, please.” You giggle, rolling your eyes as he nods before turning around to prepare your drink.

While the bartender works on your beverage, you fix your gaze on the large clock. 22:10. Aubrey had said your date would be by the bar by 22:00 but he’s not here yet. You decide to shrug it off and wait a little longer.

“Here you are, ma’am. A strawberry daiquiri.” He carefully slides the drink your way with a wink.

You take a long sip through the paper straw. The sweetness of the strawberry fizz compliments the thick rum. You’re quiteimpressed by the taste. Having never drank this before, your tongue enjoys every drop of it, and soon enough, you’re asking for another one.

22:30.

You huff.

“Are you expecting someone?” The bartender inquires, sliding you your second daiquiri.

“Yes, I am, but I’m afraid I’ve been stood up.” You take a sip of your drink with a frown.

“That happens here quite a lot, unfortunately,” he starts, “Just a few hours ago, an older lady sat here with me and waited for her date to arrive. Alas, he never did.”

You sigh and nod. Maybe the same fate had met you.

“Don’t fret. I’m sure he would have been a waste of time anyway.” He grins, tapping his fingers on the marble counter.

You nod again, accepting your circumstances. Instead of moping about your current fate, you turn to face the band across the bar. They play a more upbeat tune now. Something that has the dance floor cheering and whistling. The sight lifts your mood. Your head begins to rock to the rhythm.

“You should join the crowd, let loose!” The bartender encourages you.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” you lean back to turn the suggestion down.

“Oh come on, ma’am. I’m sure you’re great at it. Plus, why come to Club 30 if not to dance? This is the place to dance, and I know*-”*

The bartender’s words are cut off as he notices the large oak doors open again. The thick, smokey air in the club shifts, as if it’s being controlled by something greater than it; something that makes the jazz band mess up rhythmic jam.

“Oh no. Tonight of all nights?” He whispers behind you and you fix your gaze towards the two large men who you assume are bodyguards.

Before you can respond, another man walks in. He’s dressed differently from the black-suited large men behind him. You glance at his white tailored suit. The expensive fabric hugs his slim figure perfectly, accentuating his toned arms and legs. Beneath his white suit jacket is a soft pastel blue shirt sleekly complimented by a white tie. His hair, curly, thick, and longis topped off with a white fedora. His presence has undoubtedly changed the club’s mood. What you cannot decipher is if this shift is a good or bad one. What you do know, however, is that his arrival has garnered the attention of everyone in the club.

As swiftly as he arrived, his bodyguards escorted him to the far corner of the club. He sits between them as if he is royalty of some sort. He examines the room, seated in the perfect place to see every corner of the club; to see you.

You hadn’t noticed that you were staring at him the entire time he had sat there until he finally fixed his gaze on you. With a nervous smile, you wave at him. He tilts his head, but before he can do anything else, his table is surrounded by a cluster of girls ready to throw themselves at him.

“I wouldn't if I were you. That man is trouble.”

You turn to face the bartender whose face is painted with concern.

“Why’s that?” You smile inquisitively.

“He’s known for doing shady business around these parts of Chicago. Rumour has it that he’s taken a life just outside the club, in the back ally”

You scoff.

“I doubt that's true. If it was, we’d see news of a death on the papers, no?”

Before the bartender could answer, one of the large men from the corner table tapped you on your shoulder.

“Excuse me, ma’am. My boss would like to speak with you.” The large man speaks with an even tone.

You look at the bartender who shakes his head in disagreement with the request, but you; not having anything better to do here; smile and stand up to follow the black-suited man.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” You reassure the bartender before you walk to the designated table.

A dozen eyes watch you as you make it to the alluring man. The girls that once squealed with excitement at his arrival now fix their eyes on you with bitter jealousy. That doesn't stop the white-suited man from motioning you to sit beside him. You slowly scoot your way onto the leather seat, sitting just a few inches away from him.

“Leave us.” He commands, and as if they’re filled with fear, the two bodyguards make their way to the dance floor. The girls, on the other hand, linger.

“All of you. Now.” His voice is stern now, his piercing gaze scaring the girls away with those simple words.

Now, you’re left alone with him. With nobody around, his scent floods your nostrils. A deep sage with a mix of vanilla surrounds him. What an intoxicating scent, one you could inhale for aeons.

“What’s a pretty young thing like you doing here all alone at this hour?” He asks.

His voice is surprisingly softer than the tough visual that he is. He shifts closer to you, closing the gap you had left before looking you dead in the eyes. His deep brown eyes glisten in the mellow lighting of the club. Something is confusing about those eyes. They appear so innocent, but something in them hints at a darker reality.

“I- I had a date tonight,” you fidget with your rings, “regrettably, he never showed.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink, which you’ll come to learn is whiskey. His gaze never leaves yours as he drinks.

“What a foolish man he is to leave a woman hanging like that, especially a woman of your…stature.”

You giggle. He loves that. The sound of your giggle eggs him on.

“My stature?” You probe and he nods.

“An enchanting woman like you shouldn’t be treated so poorly.”

You’re taken aback by his words. Looking away from him you fiddle with your rings. He notices this and gently places his hand on yours. You look at. It’s much larger than yours with veins travelling to and fro. You look up surprised and are greeted by a soft grin.

“The name’s Michael. Michael Jackson. Yours?”

Without a second to waste you tell him yours. His smile brightens at your response, a few crinkles surround his eyes as he smiles.

“It’s very nice to meet you, darlin'.” Michael whispers into your ear in a sultry tone, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

“Now, tell me. What nonsense was our little bartender telling you about me, hmm?” He leans back into the leather seat.

“That you’re trouble.” You shrug bluntly, tapping your slim fingers on the table before you.

“Oh really?” He motions for his bodyguard, “What kind of trouble did he say I am?

Before you answer, he whispers something to his bodyguard before shooing him away. You watch the large man walk to the bar.

“That you’ve done some shady business here and even…”

“Even what, darling?” He coos.

The bodyguard returns to you and places a strawberry daiquiri in on the tabl before turning and leaving for the dance floor once again.

“Thank you.” “You smile and take a sip. “He said you’d killed someone in behind this very building.

Your words provoke a loud chuckle from him. His head tilts backwards as he laughs, exposing his Adam's apple.

“As you can see, Louis over there has quite the imagination.” He clears his throat and drops his expression into something more serious. “Don’t believe everything you hear about me around these parts. People love to gossip about my occupation. They know nothing of what they speak of.”

You sigh a sigh of relief and drink the last of your beverage, continuing the conversation. He remains calm and collected, only sharing enough to keep you intrigued, but not sufficient to satisfy your curiosity.

September 14th 1935

Three years into your relationship you’ve come to learn that Michael would always be that way. Not even the fact that you’re his wife could change that. Anytime you ask about his work, he’ll give you a short answer. Nothing too specific, just enough to reassure you that he’ll be safe on the next business trip he’d be heading to. Lately, things have changed. Your husband had no longer told you where he was headed. He’d simply leave a note alluding to where he’d be and what he’d be dealing with.

To say you were annoyed by his behaviour is an understatement. You spent the past 3 months with your housemaids. They knew the ins and outs of your new grand home, the home you moved into with Michael when he married you two and half years ago. You grew friendly to them in the early stages of your marriage which you thank yourself for doing because you can ask them what exactly your husband gets up to while you’re asleep or away with friends and family.

“Two weeks ago, he had three men here. They were all dressed in expensive-looking suits, and we were all ordered to serve them with whatever they pleased,” said Diane with an admitting tone.

“And a month before that, he had a woman here,” Claire adds, “but worry not. He did not lead her to your bedroom or anything of that sort.”

You listen to them intently, your fists clenching and relaxing as they tell you just how much Michael has been hiding from you.

“Do you know where he’ll be later tonight? You two are the eyes and ears of this house. I’m sure you heard word of his night excursion.” You look at them both.

“Yes. Of course!” Diane speaks. “I overheard him talk to his chauffeur, Bill, about being at Club 30 tonight at 11 pm for some business.”

“Perfect. Once he leaves for that, be sure to have a car for me to follow him there.”

Diane and Claire nod and disburse as your so-called honest husband makes his way to the kitchen where you’re situated.

“Good day, darling.” Michael coos, placing a soft and long kiss on your lips. “What were you all discussing just now?”

You kiss him back and hum, knowing not to tell him the truth. “We were planning for our housewarming party tomorrow.

“Ah, I see,” he sits beside you, placing his large hand on the small of your back, “I’ll make sure to get all the alcohol needed tonight, okay?”

You nod and cup his face with your warm hands, “Thank you, my love. You’re a lifesaver.”

He smiles, rubbing your back slowly before turning his attention to the newspaper. You notice his jaw clench as he reads the front cover, so you turn to the newspaper.

“Two Bodies Found at The Docking Pier Near Club 30”

“Oh my,” you gasp, catching Michael’s attention, “Poor souls.”

“It’s shocking indeed, darling,” he says not because he means it but because he has to in order not to alarm you. You can tell he knows more about these deaths than he’s saying so you probe.

“When did they find them?”

“The morning of September 9th.” He answers as he continues to read.

“Were you not there the night before?” you lean closer to him.

“What Are you sayin’?” He slowly turns towards you.

You huff and look him dead in his eyes. ”Surely you would have seen something.”

Michael’s Gaze hardens and his hand clutches the newspaper tightly. It’s not the first time you’ve angered him this way. There have been times when you asked him about his whereabouts, noticing how they always seemed to correlate with the discovery of a dead body. This time, however, you prob further. Gone are the days when you simply say “Okay fine” and let it go. Today, You want to know as much as he’ll tell you, even if it means he’ll be infuriated by your unwavering questioning.

“Darlin’…” He takes a deep breath to calm himself. “Why would I know a thing about this.” He asks irritated, shaking the paper firmly.

“Because you were they the night before, no?” He nods. “And the paper says there was a quarrel around the same you when there for a drink.”

You observe his increasing anger, his breath getting deeper as he attempts to keep himself from raising his voice at you. One thing is for sure; he has something to hide, but he won’t dare yell at you. He knows better than to treat his woman with such fury. He would rather die than create room in your heart for you to fear him. If he did that, he would have failed as a husband, as a man, but God, were you pissing him off right now.

“Darlin’, I do not witness the fights that break out at the club. I’m gone by then.” He speaks bluntly.

“So why’d you come home so late that night?”

“Listen,” He snaps but quickly lowers his voice, “what I do in my spare time is not your concern. All you need to worry about is the goings-on of our home and yourself. Is that clear, Darlin’?”

His tone is stern as if to discipline you like a child. He’s never used such a tone while addressing you. You knew now that he was not telling you the complete story.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to get ready for work.” That's the last thing he said to you that day before he disappeared out of the large wooden doors of your home to do God knows what.

19:00

Michael had arrived back from work an hour prior. He did not spend much time with you that evening, and soon, he was out the door. The only thing he said was that he’d be back with the alcohol for tomorrow’s housewarming. Why were you having a housewarming two years into moving here? You didn’t know, but that's not important. What's important is to figure out exactly what he has planned for the night.

23:17

“Mrs Jackson, the car is ready for you,” Diane whispers and you nod.

“Thank you, Diane. You and Claire be sure to take the day off tomorrow. We’ll have other servers here in your place.” Diane nods hastily at your words before she and Claire disappear into the servants’ quarters.

23:45

You thank the driver before stepping out of the car. Here you are, in front of Club 30 once again. It had been months since you were here, having feared that you’d meet the same fate as those two young men who were found dead this morning. That fear is now replaced with pent-up rage from your husband's lies. You were done with the secrets. Tonight, you’ll find out the truth, and nothing will stop you from completing that mission.

You walk into the ally and sneak your way into the club through the back door.

“Thank you, Louis. You’re a gem.” You give the bartender a soft kiss on the cheek as he helps you through the club’s kitchen.

“He’s here already. Two men came in shortly after him,” he blushed at the kiss, “Then two other men followed. They’re all seated together in his booth.”

You nod with a frown. “Do you know what they’re up to?”

“No, ma’am. They’ve had the jazz band playing to cover up their conversations, but the band will retire for the night soon.”

You follow him to the club’s end of the kitchen. To your surprise, the band has already left, leaving the five men, including Michael, to their own devices. Their conversation is clear as day. Both you and Louis lean on the door to listen in.

23:50

“How did they find the bodies?” Michael asks, his tone cold.

“We don’t know, boss. Don said he’d take care of it but-” One of the men tries to defend themself but is cut by the other.

“I never said I’d take care of anything!” You assume that is Don talking.

“Boss told you too! You always mess up the simplest jobs.”

“Enough!” You hear Michael shout as he delivers a loud bang to the table. “I will not tolerate such childish behaviour from anyone tonight. You all need to shut up and listen.”

A shiver runs down your back at his commanding voice. His soft-spoken nature seems to have shifted into something darker, something you didn’t recognise. Was this your husband? Of course, it was, but this was a side of him you were not acquainted with.

“But first. I must deal with something,” Michael begins, “Louis, bring her here.”

You dart your eyes to Louis, whose hand has already grasped yours, pulling you out of the kitchen and into the club's main room. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment as Michael stands before you, his curls messy and suit well-kept. He clicks his tongue and circles you slowly, shooing Louis away with a knowing nod.

“Now, what do we have here?” Michael speaks with a disappointed tone.

You’re frozen in place. The shock of Louis having sold you out fogged your mind. All you can do is dart your eyes as he continues the torturous dance around you. At that moment, you feel small. Like a rabbit waiting for the cheetah before it to pounce. 

“I- I can explain-”

Michael chuckles. “What happened to all that spunk you had interrogating me this morning, Darlin’? Was it all a front?”

You have no choice but to look down abashedly. You’ve been caught, your plans ruined by someone you thought you could trust. Oh, once you get out of here, you’ll be ripping Louis a new one.

“Come. Sit.” Michael grabs your arm and leads you to the booth. You fall onto the leather seat and face the four men who sit across from you and Michael on hard wooden stools.

“Explain yourself, darlin’.” He commands.

The anger you’ve bottled up finally spills over as you begin: “Explain myself? You have a lot of nerve to say such a thing! How dare you lie to me about your life to this degree? Shame on you! Shame on all of you in this room right now!”

You’re seething with anger, your hands clench tight around nothing, your jaw tight, and your brows furrowed. Your eyes roam your surroundings. The four men facing you don’t react to your words. One, however, smiles contently.

“I never knew your wife could yell like that, Boss.” Don smiles.

“Neither did I,” Michael admits, “You’re full of surprises, young lady.”

“And you’re full of shit!” You spit at Michael, provoking a twitch of disapproval across his face.

“Watch yourself.” He lifts a finger, reprimanding your outburst. “I know you want answers, but I will not accept such foul language, darlin’. Understand?”

You shake your head, cross your arms and look anywhere but him or his lackeys. “Speak.”

Michael chuckles at your attempt to be tough. “Oh, you’re too cute, my love,” he says as he sits beside you, “As you wish. What would you like to know?”

“Who are these men?” You start with a simple question.

“These are Tony, Don, Trevor, and Allen. They’re my cleaners, my boys.” He sips his whiskey.

“Cleaners? Meaning what?” You raise a brow at them and they all bow their heads in acknowledgement.

“What an innocent mind you have” He coos. “They clean up after me. You know, after I deal with someone.”

“What?” You raise your voice.

“We get rid of anyone he kills, Mrs Jackson. That’s our job, but someone didn’t do it right on Friday.” Tony hits Don on the heads

Michael shifts in the seat and shakes his head. “You are all so childish.”

You can’t believe what you’re hearing. Your husband, the man you love is a killer. A cold-blooded killer. How did he never show any sign of this sick side to him?

“Michael, you’re a killer?” You look at him with your cheeks red.

“Darlin’, it’s much more complicated than that-”

“Then explain yourself” You snap.

Michael sighs before nodding. He stands up, holding his hand out for you to take it, but you don't. Instead, you stand and follow him to the balcony on the second floor.

00:00

The hustle and bustle of Chicago has slowed down significantly at this hour. As you and Michael stand outside, you hear a dog bark from afar and a car rumble through the empty road. This calm view of the city lights does little to nothing to ease your stress. It seems as though nothing he has to say with change how you feel in the moment.

“Listen, I know what you’ve heard is concerning to you, but I must assure you, my love, that You have nothing to worry about.”

“Is that so?” You huff. “How am I supposed to do that when you’re running the streets killing people?”

Michael lifts his finger to hush you. The last thing he needs is to have the patrolling police listening to your heated conversation.

“It’s not that simple, my love.”

“Simplify it for me,” You cross your arms.

“You won’t believe me, but alas, I’ll explain.” He leans onto the rails, lighting a cigar before taking a long breath of the smoky substance.

“Remember when I told you about my upbringing? My family always had to move from state to state.” you nod. “Well, that was because my father was involved in criminal activity. But you know that part.”

You remember Michael telling you about how his father was killed in prison by a gang he worked in opposition with.

“Go on,” you command.

“When my father died, my older brothers wanted nothing to do with the life my father led, so I took over as boss.” Michael wraps his lips around the cigar, sucking on it as it fills his lungs with the smoky air. He puffs rings of smoke out as he watches for your reaction.

“You're some kind of mafia boss? here, in Chicago?” You cough as the aftersmoke hits your throat.

All Michael can do is nod. His eyes stay fixed on you as you take in everything you’ve heard. 

How long was he going to hide this? What would he have done if you were in trouble? What did he expect you to do if he got arrested or hurt?

“I would never let myself get hurt, let alone put you in any form of danger, darlin’. I swear.” He reassures you with one hand on your face and the other holding the burning cigar

“You’ve already endangered me by not telling me this from the beginning.” Your voice cracks.

“How could I tell a stranger that I’m a criminal?” He runs his fingers through his curls.

“You’re calling your wife a stranger? Jee, Michael. I never knew you were this cruel.” Your head shakes as tears roll down your cheeks.

“Darlin’…I meant no harm. believe me.” Michael wipes a tear from your eye which does nothing to soothe your sorrow.

“I cannot do this right now.” You turn away from him.

“My love…” his voice falls small.

“You’ve lied to me for three years, Michael. Three years.” You sigh and take a step away from him. “I cannot bear to look at you without feeling betrayed. I cannot be around you right now.”

You walk away, leaving him on the balcony with a cigar in his hand and a tear threatening to fall from his beautiful brown eyes.

00:38

As you hastily pack an overnight bag, you look at your shared bed with teary eyes. The thought of you sharing a be with a killer haunts your mind and breaks your heart. You had to get away from here, from him.

Right now, nothing could stop you from seeing him as a monster, and that hurt to admit.

You married a criminal. You married a killer.

March 1st, 1932

22:00

You take a deep breath in as you examine your surroundings. You can’t believe you’re going to do this, going on a date with a man your friend, Aubrey, set you up with.

It had been a long time since your separation from your long-time boyfriend. The split was painful. You remember it every so often; the emotions of that day build up at random times of your day, leaving you teary and shaking with sadness. He promised you the world. Maybe that was the first sign of his infidelity. No man promises a woman the world three months into a relationship. It was all bull from the beginning, but could you have known? You were in your late teens, naive and lovestruck. You couldn’t have known.

Now, here you are, in front of Club 30, in a silky red dress and sleek golden heels. Your hair is done beautifully in a top bun with a few loose curls draped behind your ears. You fiddle with one of the multiple rings you have on, contemplating whether or not you should go in. You take in one final breath before pushing open the heavy oak doors, ready for whatever the late night has in store for you.

The bass of the jazz band rumbles through the smoky air as you walk in. You notice a large crowd on the dance floor. Their bodies rock from side to side to the rhythm of the 4-count music. To the left are tables designed for an assembly of friends. The booths are decorated in a simple brown leather, with each table covered with wine-red cloths designed to give you an intimate feel as friends converse.

There are five young men there right now. Their heads all turned to you. You give them a small smile, which excites them, but you ignore it and look to your right. That way is the bar. That’s where you’re expected. You clear your throat and slowly walk to the bar before taking a seat on one of the many high barstools. The array of alcohol beautifully decorates the large wall before you. From wine to whisky, it’s all gracefully shelved in a way that makes you forget that all those liquids are poison.

“Can I get you something to drink?” The bartender interrupts your thoughts. His smile is genuine and calm, indicating his expertise in customer service.

You return the smile. Your red lipstick morphs into a beautiful grin as you speak. “I’m not too sure what to order. Any suggestions?”

“Of course, ma’am. Do you have a taste for a sweet or bitter drink?” He leans on the counter, clearly taken aback by your allure.

“Sweet, please.”

“I would suggest a lemonade or strawberry daiquiri.” He looks you up and down with his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Strawberry, please.” You giggle and roll your eyes, and he nods before turning around to prepare your drink.

While the bartender works on your beverage, you fix your gaze on the large clock. 22:10. Aubrey had said your date would be by the bar by 22:00, but he’s not here yet. You decide to shrug it off and wait a little longer.

“Here you are, ma’am. A strawberry daiquiri.” He carefully slides the drink your way with a wink.

You take a long sip through the paper straw. The sweetness of the strawberry fizz is complemented by the thick rum.You’re impressed by the taste. Having never drunk this before, your tongue enjoys every drop of it, and soon enough, you’re asking for another one.

22:30.

You huff.

“Are you expecting someone?” The bartender enquires, sliding you your second daiquiri.

“Yes. I am, but I’m afraid I’ve been stood up.” You take a sip of your drink with a frown.

“That happens here quite a lot, unfortunately,” he starts, “Just a few hours ago, an older lady sat here with me and waited for her date to arrive. Alas, he never did.”

You sigh and nod. Maybe the same fate had met you.

“Don’t fret. I’m sure he would have been a waste of time anyway.” He grins, tapping his fingers on the marble counter.

You nod again, accepting your circumstances. Instead of moping about your current fate, you turn to face the band across the bar. They play a more upbeat tune now. Something that has the dance floor cheering and whistling with joy. The sight lifts your mood. Your head begins to rock to the rhythm.

“You should join the crowd, let loose,” The bartender encourages you.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” you lean back to turn the suggestion down.

“Oh, come on, ma’am. I’m sure you’re great at it. Plus, why come to Club 30 if not to dance? This is the place to dance, and I know—”

The bartender’s words are cut off as he notices the large oak doors open. The thick, smoky air in the club shifts, as if it’s being controlled by something—something that makes the jazz band mess up rhythmic jam.

“Oh no. Tonight of all nights?” He whispers behind you, and you fix your gaze on the two large men who you assume are bodyguards.

Before you can respond, another man walks in. He’s dressed differently from the large, black-suited men behind him. You glance at his white tailored suit. The expensive fabric hugs his slim figure perfectly, accentuating his toned arms and legs. Beneath his white suit jacket is a soft pastel blue shirt sleekly complemented by a white tie. His black curls upon his head are topped off with a simple white fedora. His presence has undoubtedly changed the mood of the club. What you cannot decipher is if the shift is a good or bad one. What you do know, however, is that his arrival has garnered the attention of everyone in the club.

As swiftly as he arrived, his bodyguards escorted him to the far corner of the club. He sits between them as if he’s royalty of some sort. He examines the room; he’s seated in the perfect place to see every corner of the club, to see you.

You hadn’t noticed that you were staring at him the entire time he had sat there until he finally fixed his gaze on you. With a nervous smile, you wave at him. He tilts his head, but before he can do anything else, his table is surrounded by a cluster of girls ready to throw themselves at him.

“I wouldn't if I were you. That man is trouble.”

You turn to face the bartender, whose face shows concern.

“Why’s that?” You smile inquisitively.

“He’s known for doing shady business around these parts. Rumour has it that he’s taken a life just outside the club, in the back alley.”

You scoff.

“I doubt that's true. If it were, we’d see news of a death in the papers, no?”

Before the bartender could answer, one of the large men at the corner table tapped you on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, ma’am. My boss would like to speak with you.” The large man speaks with an even tone.

You look at the bartender, who shakes his head in disagreement with the request, but you, not having anything better to do here, smile and stand up to follow the black-suited man.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” You reassure the bartender before you walk to the designated table.

A dozen eyes watch you as you make it to the alluring man. The girls that once squealed with excitement at his arrival now fix their eyes on you with bitter jealousy. That doesn't stop the white-suited man from motioning you to sit beside him. You slowly scoot your way onto the leather seat, sitting just a few inches away from him.

“Leave us.” He commands, and as if they’re filled with fear, the two bodyguards make their way to the dance floor. The girls, on the other hand, linger.

“All of you. Now.” His voice is stern now, his piercing gaze scaring the girls away with those simple words.

Now, you’re left alone with him. Without others around, his scent floods your nostrils. A deep sage with a mix of vanilla scent surrounds him. What an intoxicating scent, one you could inhale for aeons.

“What’s a pretty young thing like you doing here all alone at this hour?” He asks.

His voice is surprisingly softer than the tough visual that he is. He shifts closer to you, closing the gap you had left before looking you dead in the eyes. His deep brown eyes glisten in the mellow lighting of the club. Something is confusing about those eyes. They appear so innocent, but something in them hints at a darker reality.

“I had a date tonight,” you fidget with your rings, “regrettably, he never showed.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink, which you’ll come to learn is whisky. His gaze never leaves yours as he drinks.

“What a foolish man he is to leave a woman hanging like that, especially a woman of your…stature.”

You giggle. The sound of your giggle eggs him on. “My stature?” You probe, and he nods.

“An enchanting woman like you shouldn’t be treated so poorly.”

You’re taken aback by his words. Looking away from him, you fiddle with your rings. He notices this and gently places his hand on yours. You look at. It’s larger than yours, with veins travelling to and fro. You look up surprised and he shoots you a soft grin.

“The name’s Michael. Michael Jackson. Yours?”

Without a second to waste, you tell him yours. His smile brightens at your response; a few crinkles surround his eyes as he smiles.

“It’s very nice to meet you, darlin',” Michael whispers into your ear in a sultry tone that causes a shiver to run down your spine.

“Now, tell me. What nonsense was our little bartender telling you about me, hmm?” He leans back into the leather seat.

“That you’re trouble.” You shrug bluntly, tapping your slim fingers on the table before you.

“Oh really?” He motions for his bodyguard, “What kind of trouble did he say I am?

Before you answer, he whispers something to his bodyguard before shooing him away. You watch the large man stand at the bar, and the bartender fixes up a drink.

“That you’ve done some shady business here and even…”

“Even what, darling?” He coos.

The bodyguard makes his way back to you and places a strawberry daiquiri in front of you before turning and leaving for the dance floor once again.

“Thank you.” “You smile and take a sip. “He said you’d killed someone behind this very building.

Your words provoke a loud chuckle from him. His head tilts back as he laughs, exposing his Adam's apple.

“As you can see, Louis over there has quite the imagination.” He clears his throat and drops his expression into something more serious. “Don’t believe everything you hear about me around these parts. People love to gossip about my occupation. They know nothing of what they speak of.”

You sigh a sigh of relief and drink the last of your beverage, continuing, the conversation with Michael. He remains calm and collected, only sharing enough to keep you wondering.

14 September 1935

Three years into your relationship, you’ve come to learn that Michael would always be that way. Not even the fact that you’re his now could change. Anytime you ask about his work, he’ll give you a short answer. Nothing too specific, just enough to reassure you that he’ll be safe on the next business trip he’ll be heading to. Lately, things have changed. Your husband had no longer told you where he was headed. He’d simply leave a note alluding to where he’d be and what he’d be dealing with.

To say you were annoyed by his behaviour is an understatement. You spent the past 3 months with your housemaids. They knew the ins and outs of your new grand home, the home you moved into with Michael when he married you two and a half years ago. You grew friendly with them in the early stages of your marriage, which you now thank yourself for doing because you can now ask them what exactly your husband gets up to while you’re asleep or away with friends and family.

“Two weeks ago, he had three men here. They were all dressed in expensive-looking suits, and we were all ordered to serve them with whatever they pleased,” said Diane with an admitting tone.

“And a month before that, he had a woman here,” Claire adds, “but worry not. He did not lead her to your bedroom or anything of that sort.”

You listen to them intently, your fists clenching and relaxing as they tell you just how much Michael has been hiding from you.

“Do you know where he’ll be later tonight? You two are the eyes and ears of this house. I’m sure you heard word of his night excursion.” You look at them both.

“Yes. Of course!” Diane speaks. “I overheard him talk to his chauffeur, Bill, about being at Club 30 tonight at 11 pm for some business.”

“Perfect. Once he leaves for that, be sure to have a car for me to follow him there, please.”

Diane and Claire nod at your plan and disperse as your so-called honest husband makes his way to the kitchen where you’re situated.

“Good day, darling.” Michael coos, placing a soft and long kiss on your lips. “What were you all discussing just now?”

You kiss him back and hum, knowing not to tell him the truth. “We were planning for the housewarming party you and I are hosting tomorrow.

“Ah, I see,” he sits beside you, placing his large hand on the small of your back, “I’ll make sure to get all the alcohol needed tonight, okay?”

You nod and cup his face with your warm hands, “Thank you, my love. You’re a lifesaver.”

He smiles, rubbing your back slowly before turning your attention to the daily newspaper. You notice his jaw clench as he reads the front cover, so you turn to the newspaper too.

“2 Bodies Found at the Docking Pier Near Club 30”

“Oh my,” you gasp, catching Michael’s attention, “Poor souls.”

“It’s shocking indeed, darling,” he says not because he means it but because he has to in order not to alarm you.

You can tell he knows more about these deaths than he’s saying, so you probe.

“When did they find them?”

“The morning of September 9th.” He answers as he continues to read.

“Were you not there the night before?” You lean closer to him.

“What are you sayin’?” He slowly turns towards you.

You huff and look him dead in his eyes. ”Surely you would have seen something.”

Michael’s gaze hardens, and his hand clutches the newspaper tightly. It’s not the first time you’ve angered him this way. There have been times when you asked him about his whereabouts, noticing how they always seemed to correlate with the discovery of a dead body. This time, however, you probably went further. Gone are the days when you simply say, “Okay, fine,” and let it go. Today, you want to know as much as he’ll tell you, even if it means he’ll be infuriated by your unwavering questioning.

“Darlin’…” He takes a deep breath to calm himself. “Why would I know a thing about this?” He asks, irritated, shaking the paper firmly.

“Because you were there the night before, no?” He nods. “And the paper says there was a quarrel around the same time you were there for a drink.”

You observe his increasing anger, his breath getting deeper as he attempts to keep himself from raising his voice at you. One thing is for sure; he has something to hide, but he won’t dare yell at you. He knows better than to treat his woman with such fury. He would rather die than create room in your heart for you to fear him. If he did that, he would have failed as a husband, as a man, but God, were you pissing him off right now?

“Darlin’, I do not witness the fights that break out at that club. I’m gone by then.” He speaks bluntly.

“So why’d you come home so late that night?”

“Listen,” He snaps but quickly lowers his voice, “What I do in my spare time is not your concern. All you need to worry about is the going-ons of our home and yourself. Is that clear, Darlin’?”

His tone is stern as if to discipline you like a child. He’s never used such a tone while addressing you. You knew now that he was not telling you the complete story.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to get ready for work.” That's the last thing he said to you that day before he disappeared out of the large wooden doors of your home to do God knows what.

19:00

Michael had arrived back from work an hour prior. He did not spend much time with you that evening, and soon, he was out the door. The only thing he said was that he’d be back with the alcohol for tomorrow’s housewarming. Why were you having a housewarming two years into moving here? You didn’t know, but that's not important. What's important is to figure out exactly what he has planned for the night.

23:17

“Mrs. Jackson, the car is ready for you,” Diane whispers, and you nod.

“Thank you, Diane. You and Claire be sure to take the day off tomorrow. We’ll have other servers here in your place.” Diane nods hastily at your words before she and Claire disappear into the servants’ quarters.

23:45

You thank the driver before stepping out of the car. Here you are, in front of Club 30 once again. It had been months since you were here, having feared that you’d meet the same fate as those two young men who were found dead this morning. That fear is now replaced with pent-up rage from your husband's lies. You were done with the secrets. Tonight, you’ll find out the truth, and nothing will stop you from completing that mission.

You walk into the alley and sneak your way into the club through the back door.

“Thank you, Louis. You’re a gem.” You give the bartender a soft kiss on the cheek as he helps you through the club’s kitchen.

“He’s here already. Two men came in shortly after him,” he blushes at the kiss, “Then two other men followed. They’re all seated together in this booth.”

You nod with a frown. “Do you know what they are up to?”

“No, ma’am. They’ve had the jazz band playing to cover up their conversations, but the band will retire for the night soon.”

You follow him to the club’s end of the kitchen. To your surprise, the band has already left, leaving the five men, including Michael, to their own devices. Their conversation is clear as day. Both you and Louis lean on the door to listen in.

23:50

“How did they find the bodies?” Michael asks, his tone cold.

“We don’t know, boss. Don said he’d take care of it, but—” One of the men tries to defend himself but is interrupted by the other.

“I never said I’d take care of anything!” You assume it is Don talking.

“Boss told you too! You always mess up the simplest jobs.”

“Enough!” You hear Michael shout as he delivers a loud bang to the table. “I will not tolerate such childish behaviour from anyone tonight. You all need to shut up and listen.”

A shiver runs down your back at his commanding voice. His soft-spoken nature seems to have shifted into something darker, something you didn’t recognise. Was this your husband? Of course, it was, but this was a side of him you were not acquainted with.

“But first. I must deal with something,” Michael begins. “Louis, bring her here.”

You dart your eyes to Louis, whose hand has already grasped yours, pulling you out of the kitchen and into the main room of the club. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment and fear as Michael stands before you, his curls messy and his suit well-kept. He clicks his tongue and circles you slowly, shooing Louis away with a knowing nod.

“Now, now. What do we have here?” Michael speaks with a disappointed tone.

You’re frozen in place. The shock of Louis having sold you out is still fogging your mind. All you can do is dart your eyes from left to right as he continues the torturous dance around you. At that moment, you feel small. Like a rabbit waiting for the cheetah before it pounces. Its heart thumps uncontrollably as it awaits its demise.

“I—I can explain—”

Michael chuckles. “What happened to all that spunk you had interrogating me this morning, Darlin’? Was it all a front?”

You have no choice but to look down abashedly. You’ve been caught, your plans ruined by someone you thought you could trust. Oh, once you get out of here, you’ll be ripping Louis a new one.

“Come. Sit.” Michael grabs your arm and leads you to the booth. You fall onto the leather seat and face the four men who sit across from you and Michael on hard wooden stools.

“Explain yourself, darlin’.” He commands.

The anger you’ve bottled up finally spills over as you begin, “No! You have a lot of nerve to do such a thing! How dare you lie to me about your life to this degree? Shame on you! Shame on all of you in this room right now!”

You’re seething with anger, your hands clench tight around nothing, your jaw tight, and your brows furrowed. Your eyes roam your surroundings. The four men facing you don’t react to your words. One, however, smiles contently.

“I never knew your wife could yell like that, Boss.” Don smiles.

“Neither did I,” Michael admits, “You’re full of surprises, young lady.”

“And you’re full of shit!” You spit at Michael, provoking a twitch of disapproval across his face.

“Watch yourself.” He lifts a finger, reprimanding your outburst. “I know you want answers, but I will not accept such foul language, darlin’. Got it?”

You shake your head, cross your arms, and look anywhere but at him or his lackeys. “Speak.”

Michael chuckles at your attempt to be tough. “Oh, you’re too cute, my love,” he says as he sits beside you, “As you wish. What would you like to know?”

“Who are these men?” You start with a simple question.

“These are Tony, Don, Trevor, and Allen. They’re my cleaners, my boys.” He sips his whisky.

“Cleaners? Meaning what?” You raise a brow at them, and they all bow their heads in acknowledgement.

“What an innocent mind you have, darlin’.” He coos. “They clean up after me. You know, after I deal with someone.”

“What?” You raise your voice.

“We get rid of anyone he kills, Mrs. Jackson. That’s our job, but someone didn’t do it right on Friday.” Tony hits Don on the head.

Michael shifts in the seat and shakes his head. “You are all so childish.”

You can’t believe what you’re hearing. Your husband, the man you love, is a killer. A cold-blooded killer. How couldn’t you have known? How did he never show any sign of this sick side?

“Michael, you’re a killer?” You look at him with your cheeks red.

“Darlin’, it’s much more complicated than that—”

“Then explain yourself!” You snap.

Michael sighs. He stands up, holding out his hand for you to take it, but you don't. Instead, you stand and follow him to the balcony on the second floor.

00:00

The hustle and bustle of Chicago has slowed down significantly at this hour. As you and Michael stand outside, you hear a dog bark from afar and a car rumble through the empty road. This calm view of the city lights does little to nothing to ease your stress. It seems as though nothing he has to say will change how you feel in the moment.

“Listen, I know what you’ve heard is concerning to you, but I must assure you, my love, that you have nothing to worry about.”

“Is that so?” You huff. “How am I not to worry when you’re running the streets killing people?”

Michael lifts his finger to hush you. The last thing he needs is to have the patrolling police listening in on your heated conversation.

“It’s not that simple, my love.”

“Simplify it for me.” You cross your arms.

“You won’t believe me, but alas, I’ll explain.” He leans onto the rails, lighting up a cigar before taking a long breath of the smoky substance.

“Remember when I told you about my upbringing? My family always had to move from state to state,” you nod. “Well, that was because my father was involved in criminal activity. But you know that part.”

Your memory is sparked, and you remember Michael telling you about how his father was killed in prison by a gang member he worked in opposition with.

“Go on,” you command.

“When my father died, my older brothers wanted nothing to do with the life he led, so I took over as boss.” Michael wraps his lips around the cigar, sucking on it as it fills his lungs with the smoky air. He puffs rings of smoke out as he watches for your reaction.

“You're some kind of mafia boss? here, in Chicago?” You cough as the aftersmoke hits your throat.

All Michael can do is nod. His eyes stay fixed on you as you take in everything you’ve heard. How long was he going to hide this? What would he have done if you were in trouble? What did he expect you to do if he got arrested or hurt?

“I would never let myself get hurt, let alone put you in any form of danger, darlin’. I swear.” He reassures you with one hand on your face and the other holding the burning cigar.

“You’ve already endangered me by not telling me this from the beginning.” Your voice cracks.

“How could I tell a stranger that I’m a criminal?” He runs his fingers through his curls.

“You’re calling your wife a stranger? Jeez, Michael. I never knew you were this cruel.” Your head shakes as tears roll down your cheeks.

“Darlin’…I meant no harm. believe me.” Michael wipes a tear from your eye, which does nothing to soothe your sorrow.

“I cannot do this right now.” You turn away from him.

“My love…” His voice falls small.

“You’ve lied to me for three years, Michael.” You take a step away from him. “I cannot bear to look at you without feeling betrayed. I cannot be around you right now. I don't even recognise you anymore”

You walk away, leaving him on the balcony with a cigar in his hand and a tear threatening to fall from his beautiful brown eyes.

00:38

As you pack an overnight bag, you look at your shared bed with teary eyes. The thought of you sharing a bed with a killer haunts your mind and breaks your heart. You had to get away from here, from him. Nothing could stop you from seeing him as a monster.

You married a killer. You married a criminal.

if you’re wondering, “how can a part ii come before a part i???” well…i have a kissing michael headcanon i was already working on but this one fought to come out first LOL……

i feel like a mature michael would really appreciate a long make out session

just to get a bit of a break

just to have his eyes closed for a moment, get his mind off of the world and onto you

your lips

your tongue

connecting and…

i imagine it can come about in casual ways, the domestic sort of thing that happens when you have the comfort of living together

out on a walk or making lunch in the kitchen, his hands taking space on the island behind you

your lips in the bright california light, in perfect rhythm—together

he likes kissing like that

just slow, no expectation for anything more than that

i imagine it comes on the nights when you join him with an uncorked bottle of wine after bedtime stories

just a glass, or two…

he’ll have you in his lap, grateful, so loving

how he loves you…

you kiss him long and slow then in between rubs of your faces together, warm from the sweet red,

he puts his forehead to yours and says he’s proud of you

no, really, really

really, baby

and he kisses you a bit raggedly in the lamplight, lips full,

his tongue

fuck

tasting like…

and there’s never no expectation for some touching

in these moments you might undo a couple buttons on his shirt, air his skin out

explore his bare chest a little, tease his nipple, palm along his neck

and i think his hands would squeeze your legs, know them deftly

his hand going down, fingers slipping between your thighs, gripping just to hear you moan for him

break the kiss, smile, share a few breaths or taunting gazes, dive into each other again………..

he likes kissing like that, too.

another time i imagine are those nice mornings when there’s all the time to lounge

sun pouring in, warming your bed

you slept bare, so you appreciate a little extra warmth

you kiss each other forever it seems

that’s when you’re really gluttonous for each other

i’m not sure if you grow together you just care less but

neither of you have a chance to freshen up before these sessions

you don’t really speak much either

just

kiss…

like magnets vibrate to come together

it’s when he gets the most nasty too

when he gets your mouth open wide

sucks your tongue the way he wants

you roll yours against the bridge of his mouth

you kiss teeth and love it, somehow

and you can’t tell whose spit is whose

somehow

just

kissing him

tangled in each other on a sunday