svperfar｡𖦹°⭑.ᐟ

Call me He Who Howls in Open Places. Call me the Red One, the Unmoored, the Crooked Star. Do not call me Brother, for brothers bind.

Call me the Eye Unbound. I drink what spills. I burn away the unworthy.

THE SUN SPILLS RED, HUNGRY LIGHT BLEEDING. This is the desert evening, blood-spilled sand and burning waves of heat.

Said heat slams into you even as the sun dies, your shoes sinking in the sand as you slide out of the jeep. Dunes stretched out in every direction, red and gold and endless, rippling under the blood sky. Luxor is far behind you now, somewhere far behind where you can see. Wind hisses across the surface, carrying grains of sand that sear right through you. Somewhere far off, a hawk cries once.

Below you, the dig site lies half-revealed by the storm that blew in a few weeks ago. Black stone pylons jut from the sand like the broken ribs of a dead god, sending a chill up your spine. The gateway stands open, its stone mouth carved with falcons whose wings have been worn smooth by centuries of wind and sand.

Sand. The sand here is endless, clinging to anything and everything, the grit crunching between your teeth and scraping beneath your eyelids despite protective covering. Sand sticks to you even now as you pull your scarf higher over your mouth as you start down the slope. Each step sinks you ankle-deep, grains pouring into your boots.

The sand isn't the only nuisance - the heat is deadly, an inferno that presses against the top of your scalp and makes the exposed parts of your skin tingle as you walk. By the time you reach the camp ground below, your shirt is plastered to your back with sweat and your lungs feel sun-scored and sand-scoured.

Tents cluster around the dig site in orderly rows, white canvas snapping in the wind. Generators thrum, powering the floodlights as they kick on in the rapidly growing dark. Dozens of people move between the tents, a combination of laborers in faded galabeyas carrying crates, archaeologists in khaki bent over folding tables, a photographer in jeans adjusting a lens. Somewhere, the smell of cardamom tea drifts toward you, sharp and sweet.

A man exits one of the larger tents and spots you. He's tall and broad shouldered with silver threading his dark hair, the expensive watch on his wrist catching the last of the red sun like a flare. Harlan Voss is every bit as intimidating in person as he was on the phone. He's a shipping magnate, a collector of antiquities and the kind of man who funds expeditions like this because he can.

He isn't your cup of tea, but he's the only way into the site up ahead right now, so you're willing to swallow past the sour taste in your mouth and accept his handshake when he reaches you.

"Great to see you," He greets, his handshake firm. "I trust the drive wasn't too punishing?"

"No. Storm seems to have cleared the way." You look past him to the ancient dig site. "It really did clear away the sand here too."

"Thank the Gods." You cock your head at the turn of phrase but he's already looking over his shoulder at the half-dug up site. "We're on a timeline. Storms roll in often, so we need to get in and out before the next. Come on, let me show you the operation."

You follow as he walks and talks, introducing you in clipped tones to a Rolodex of names you're struggling to keep up with already: Dr. Hassan al-Masri the epigrapher and Leila Farouk the conservator are names you vaguely recognize, shaking their hands politely. Less known to you is Piet Keppens, a lanky photographer whose hands are a little too clammy and is sunburned to hell, and a swath of Cairo University students hauling equipment for internship hours, eyes wide when they hear your name.

A security team stands apart from everyone else, sprawled under a shaded awning despite the vanished sun like a pride of lions. They check rifles and lean over schematics and computers of perimeters that you don't understand - could never understand, probably. You don't know why you need security in the desert with guns and knives. It's not like the jackals will bother big groups and no one is coming this far out to rob a tomb like in an Indiana Jones movie.

Well. Perhaps not no one, you realize, as you set eyes on someone familiar, your lip curling in dissatisfaction.

Voss gestures toward a figure leaning on an awning pole, watching you with dark eyes. "Vernon Chwe," Voss says. "Our specialist in acquisitions and one of our security personnel."

Your stomach knots. You know Vernon. Most people in your field do, considering he has a habit of getting tombs open before permits are granted, finding artifacts that vanish into private collections, and a decent degree to back his unethical tomb raiding.

Fucking Vernon.

He straightens as you approach, tall and lean, skin tan from spending days under the sun. His hair is hidden under a dark cap, his linen shirt loose with the sleeves rolled high enough to reveal arms covered in ink. Your eyes snag on the tattoos, recognizing ancient scripts and symbols winding up his arms and vanishing under his sleeves.

Strange. You've never seen his tattoos before, but you wonder why a tomb raider of his legacy - however tainted - is sporting tattoos of hieroglyphic protective wards and Coptic symbols for binding alongside something that you can't decipher. Sumerian, maybe.

The thought unsettles you. You're supposed to be the historian and language expert here, and seeing dead languages on a man who would rather turn a profit than uncover history and deliver it to those who should preserve it makes your stomach turn.

Vernon's mouth curves when you stop in front of him, a small and unreadable smile. "Doctor."

You nod once. "Chwe."

Voss claps your shoulder, his hand lingering a beat too long before he wishes you a good evening and stalks off, calling orders about timelines as he goes.

Wind tugs at the tent ropes, and somewhere, someone laughs as the scent of cooking fat and meat wafts toward you, dinner preparations underway. You and Vernon stand in the small pocket of quiet in the security hub, your eyes flicking back to his arms, tracing the ink.

He tilts his head. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"Yes, I've been busy."

"Hiding in those stacks?"

"Working, Chwe." You cross your arms. "I suppose you're unfamiliar, unless the word theft has replaced the word work in recent years."

"You're the linguist." He smirks. "You tell me."

"I'm a historian."

"Tomato, tomato."

He irks you. The few times you've had the displeasure of crossing paths with Vernon Chwe have always left you flustered and frustrated. He is annoyingly good at poking all of the buttons that anger you, and he always does it with a flippant comment and a blase attitude that makes you see red.

It doesn't help that everyone is unfailingly charmed by him. Your colleagues both want to be him and want to be with him, always falling for the smooth lines and the fact that he has a face that belongs on a runaway, not at an ancient civilization site. The kind of face that would have definitely had a statue or two dedicated to it, a painting maybe-

"You been to the site yet?"

That question catches you off guard. You look him up and down, but he just watches you with that same lazy expression he always has. "No."

"Want to?"

You hate that you do. You don't need an escort, though, so without answering, you pivot in the sand and start walking. He laughs behind you, but you hear him push off the pole and follow you.

Immediately, you don't know where you're going. The maze of tents might as well be a mini city, and they're tall enough that you can't see the dig site that is down further in the sand. You pause as you try to gather your bearings, swiveling from left to right until Vernon breezes past you, taking a left.

"This way, Stacks," he laughs.

You storm after him. "I beg your pardon?"

"What?"

"What do you mean stacks? Are you seriously talking about my ass?"

He pauses to turn and look at you, brows raised. When he realizes you're serious, he starts laughing, open and loud and so amused that it makes you immediately feel embarrassed, flushing from head to toe as your hands make fists.

"What?" You demand.

"Stacks as in libraries," he manages. "Not your ass. I mean you do have a great-"

"Shut up!"

He holds his hands up and starts walking again, chuckling faintly as though your error still amuses him long after the moment has passed.

Vernon leads you down careful wooden steps that have been built to lead into the heart of the dig site, the Temple of Montu still half-buried from sand. A tingle slides over your skin as you approach, the floodlights casting shadows up the sides of the temple and between the pylons. Black basalt walls drink in the light and as you reach level footing, your steps slow as you approach.

Wind stirs as you approach. The temple is taller than you expected, with sand-scoured carvings and weather-bitten stones. Up close, you feel the heavy eyes of the stone falcons, heart skipping a little as you near them. Vernon seems unbothered, walking between the falcons without missing a beat. You scurry after him, casting a glance at the twin statues before stepping into the shadow of the gateway that leads into the temple.

Vernon stops just outside the collapsed front door. Tomorrow, the work teams will clear the door for you to go inside. For now, it's just the whistling wind and the buzzing on your skin like you're being watched. When you look around, it's just you and Vernon here, his inky eyes on your face.

You drift away from him toward the gateway. The shade inside the passage is deep, and you can feel the hiss of cool air coming from inside, smelling of dust and cold stone. Your eyes adjust slowly as you try to peer past the collapsed stone.

The inner walls are covered in reliefs, though wind has worn them soft. Montu stands triumphant, falcon-headed with his spear raised, offering placed around his feet below him. Your eyes catch on the lower register of the statue and you realize they're not eroded - they're gouged. Deep chisel marks mar the stone where text and figures once lived, like someone wanted them gone.

Glyphs on the doorframe catch your attention. You walk over to them, hand lifting as you trace them with your finger. The sand scrapes beneath your hand, stone solid and cold. Your mind works fast, unscrambling the words, brows pinching as you read.

"Finding secrets?" Vernon's voice makes you flinch. You'd almost forgotten he was there.

"What did Voss say this place was again?"

Vernon lifts a shoulder. "Temple to Montu. Supposed to be like a treasure hold or some shit."

"Don't be crass."

"Fine. Some stuff."

You hum, thoughtful. "These inscriptions are weird. It says cast beneath the horizon and held."

"Great. What's it mean?"

"I don't know."

"Useful."

Your head snaps in his direction. "Don't be an ass."

He smirks. "Don't be crass."

You fight the urge to snap back at him. He's leaning on a pylon, arms crossed, those tattoos staring back at you, and you can't help but get distracted by them again. The collar of his shirt is looser now, revealing a cluster of symbols that look like a map, lines intersecting in ways that tease at a meaning but slip away when you try to pin them down.

"You're staring." You glance up to find him smirking again. "Come on, Stacks. Work in the morning. Let's make sure there are no scorpions in your tent."

"I'm entirely capable of doing that myself."

"Damn. You want to come take care of mine?"

Letting out an angry sound, you turn your back on the temple and storm past him. You figured the hardest part of this dig would be the sun and the deciphering, but you've decided that your biggest challenge is going to be Vernon, an unexpected bump in the road.

You don't look to see if Vernon follows - you don't have to. You feel him there, a quiet pressure at your back. It doesn't occur to you until you're in your tent changing that Vernon's presence had felt exactly like the temple.

- A faint rustle pulls you awake as dawn cracks against the horizon like an egg, the sun's yolk spilling through the tiny gap in your tent door. The air in your tent is thick, but the leftover cool from the night before hasn't been burned off from the sun yet.

You shift, intending to sit up when you feel something cold and segmented brush against your calf. You freeze. Heart hammering, you lift the sheet slowly and carefully, peering underneath. Coiled on your nice little bed by your leg is a scorpion, inky body fat, its stinger arched.

Leirus quinquestriatus. A deathstalker, its pinchers raised slightly, sensing your movement. You know if it stings you that its venom is potent enough to ruin you for days. Even if it wasn't, you really don't want to be stuck, trying to swallow down your discomfort at the way its scaly little body siddles up to you.

Holding your breath, you ease your hand toward the edge of the cot, fingers closing around the empty water glass. You don't dare breathe as you bring the cup toward the creature. It twitches and you stop, folding your lips together to stop you from squealing. You're not afraid, but you really don't want to be stung.

Licking your lips, you carefully bring the glass toward the scorpion and then in a single fluid motion, you invert the glass over the arachnid, trapping it against the sheet. It skitters, legs tapping the glass. You don't lift your hand, reaching with a free hand to grab your notebook, putting it against the edge of your bed.

Carefully, you slide the glass and the scorpion immediately gets angry, fighting the glass as you drag it until it's trapped between glass and notebook. Its tail flicks, pissed off at its makeshift prison. You exhale, swinging your legs over the side of the cot to stand. The sand floor is cool under your feet as you rush to the entrance, pushing the doorway open.

Outside, the camp is waking up. You hear distant voices and the clatter of cookware, the low hum of generators powering up. The sky is a gradient of grey and blue, stars fading in the light.

A worker passes, nodding at you while mumbling, "Sabah el-khair."

You nod back with a smile. "Sabah el-noor."

Stepping into the open air, you kneel at the edge of the tent. With careful hands, you tip the glass and let the scorpion scuttle free into the sand. It pauses to orient itself, then burrows swiftly out of sight.

You watch it go, a shiver tracing up your spin. In most traditions, scorpions are omens, guardians and harbingers of death. Specifically in ancient Egyptian lore, scorpions were sacred to Selket, but they were also symbols of chaos and strife, omens of dark tidings on the horizon.

You shake off the thought. Superstition has no place here. Though you deal in lore and mythos and theology as much as you deal in history and language, superstition in the desert can quickly feel like heat stroke and conspiracy, and as much as you'd like to think there is something mystical and otherworldly about the ancient world, you know it's a thread that's too dangerous to chase.

Back inside your tent, you dress quickly in khaki pants, a long sleeved shirt to ward off the sun and the cool temple air, sturdy boots laced all the way up, and grab a satchel full of notebooks, pens, a water bottle and small archaeologist tools.

Outside, the camp is fully alive, people brewing tea over small fires and clustering around maps. The smell of flatbread baking mingles with the sharp tang of the diesel generators. You want to look for coffee, but you find Voss instead, retracing your steps from last night to the dig site.

He's already barking orders, his silhouette sharp against the rising sun. The workers have been at it since before dawn, and the collapsed doorway to the temple is already cleared, the rubble piled neatly to one side as Leila oversees where it needs to go.

Floodlights still cast harsh beams into the shadowed maw of the temple, gliding past the black basalt pylons. You glance at the falcons again, their beady eyes eroded with time and sand but still watching.

"Doctor!" Voss calls when he sees you. "Good, you're up. We're going in. Teams of three: security, researcher, laborer. No one wanders alone."

You nod, approaching the group collecting to be assigned. Dr. Hassan al-Masri is there, his epigrapher's toolkit slung over one shoulder, chatting rapidly to Keppens, whose camera is slung around his neck, face stuck in the white cast of sunscreen.

Voss assigns teams and you scan the group, hoping he pairs you with anyone except-

"You'll go with Chwe and Karim," Voss says, gesturing to Vernon who lounges against one of the falcons. He's dressed in all black tactical gear with a keffiyeh around his neck and pulled up to his nose, protecting him from the morning sun. You're surprised to see that his traditional dark hair has been replaced with a dark blonde mullet, roughly styled from the wind. "Chwe has a radio if you need it."

Of course. You nod and swallow past the dry patch in your throat, walking over to Vernon and Karim, who nods his head when he sees you.

"Morning, Stacks," Vernon greets, smirking. "Sleep well?"

You ignore him and turn to the third man in your party. "Ahlan wa sahlan."

Karim grins. "Ahlan beeki. Ready for the shadows?"

"Always."

The temple looms, its gateway a yawning void that seems to pulse. You've felt the pulse since last night, a strange sense of doom like fingers brushing the nape of your neck. You think of the scorpion in your bed this morning and the doom deepens, but you shove it aside, unwilling to let your mother's bedtime stories lead you astray.

The teams fan out, headlamps flicking on as they step through the gateway. You follow Vernon and Karim into the dim coolness, the temperature dropping sharply as sand gives way to the stone floor. The air is stale and thick with dust, carrying the faint echoes of incense long burned out and faded myrrh.

Inside, the temple unfolds, the hypostyle hall stretching before you, columns rising like petrified palm trees, the lotus blossom shaped tops cracked and smoothed with time. Floodlights from the entrance cast long shadows, dancing as the team moves. Your boots echo on the flagstones, each step stirring puffs of dust.

Montu, the falcon-headed god of war, dominantes the reliefs. He stands with his spear in hand, ready to smite his enemies. You see each enemy etched alongside him, the paint faded and nearly washed away. Nubians, Hyksos, Libyans - all of them await his slaughter and fury, his most hated enemies. Montu's form stands taller than them all, his depiction muscular and divine, wings partially unfurled.

One carving catches your eye and you hurry over to it, Vernon and Karim on your heels. You blow the dust from the wall, wiping a hand to sweep away the thick layers of grime and time.

"Look at this," you murmur, more to yourself than your companions. "Montu was Theban originally, but his cult spread north during the Middle Kingdom. I'd wager this temple is Eleventh Dynasty, based on the style."

Vernon leans in too close. You smell him immediately - woody oud mixed with something else staticky. His breath is warm on your shoulder when he says, "Fascinating. Does he have a favorite color as well?"

You shoot him a glare. "If you're not going to contribute, at least don't distract me."

Karim chuckles at your exchange and shines his flashlight along the base of the column. "The god is angry here. See the fire in his eyes?"

Shuffling closer, you look to where Karim points. Indeed, the inlaid eyes are gone, sockets hollow. Still, the ferocity remains in the carved lines.

You nod, switching to Arabic to keep Vernon out of your conversation. "Yes, Montu was the bull of battle. It is he who grants victory. But in later periods, he merged with Ra, becoming Montu-Ra, the solar warrior."

Vernon snorts. "Solar warrior?"

You stare. "You speak Arabic?"

"I've got the same degree as you."

"You don't."

"Alright. I've got a degree."

"Well if you can't appreciate the cultural significance-"

"Ease up, Stacks. It was a joke. I appreciate the significance."

You grit your teeth, moving on. The sense of doom you'd felt this morning intensifies as you delve deeper, a prickling unease that makes your skin crawl. It's not just the chill - you feel like the walls are watching and you're reminded of the falcons in the front.

Temples like this were sacred precincts, boundaries between the mortal and divine. You've translated enough texts to know that the Ancient Egyptians weren't messing around with their warnings and curses, and the knowledge weighs heavy on you the further you go.

The hall branches into corridors, the teams' voices echoing faintly from other paths. Your group takes a left fork, Vernon leading with casual confidence, the beam of his flashlight sweeping.

"This way looks promising," he announces. He glances back at you, eyes flashing with something dark that gives you pause. "Unless you want to flip a coin, Stacks?"

"Based on what? Your pirate instinct for loot and theft?"

"Something like that."

Behind you, Karim snickers at your bickering. You ignore both of the men, walking further into the temple where the corridor begins to narrow, the walls closing in. As you go, you see that the reliefs here are denser, narrating a tangle of Montu's story starting with his birth from Nun to his battles against Apep and his role with ancient Pharaohs.

You trace a cartouche with your finger, dust flaking. "Mentuhotep II," you murmur. "He unified Egypt after the First Intermediate Period. This temple might commemorate his victories. Perhaps Montu was his patron."

Vernon is quiet for a second. "Patrons aren't always what they seem."

You glance sideways at him. "Meaning?"

"Meaning keep looking for shit, Stacks."

"You're impossible."

Despite Vernon, you push forward. The corridor opens into a chamber, smaller than the hall but richly decorated like some sort of ritual room. Offering tables line the walls, carved with heaps of bread, beer and oxen, all tributes that would have been given to the gods. In the center, a pedestal holds a fragmented statue of Montu, falcon head intact, body cracked but not entirely broken or dismembered.

Grinning, you drop to your knees and unpack your notebook to begin sketching. Your pencil scratches against the room while Karim lingers near the door, his eyes scanning the shadows as Vernon lounges against a wall, arms crossed, silent for once.

As you work, something presses against your awareness. The air feels thicker here, charged somehow, like the moment before a storm. You look up briefly, eyes scanning the room, but you see nothing. Still, you feel something pressed against you, a warning you can't feel. You hate that you think of the scorpion in your bed again, seeing the way its tail swayed back and forth, an ominous pendulum. Your hand trembles slightly as you work and you swallow past the unease.

Vernon watches you, his eyes burning a hole in your back. "You look like you're enjoying this."

"Some of us value knowledge over profit."

"Ouch. Knowledge pays your bills too though, doesn't it?"

He isn't wrong, but there is a difference between what you and Vernon do. Your desire to uncover history and write about it is rooted in preserving its cultural significance and keeping artifacts in their native lands where they belong, not front and center at some museum in New York or London - or worse, in some rich man's mansion that is rarely visited save for the holidays.

History is a personal endeavor for you - it's always been more than a job. It's air. It's blood. It's what keeps you going. You don't know how to explain that to someone like Vernon who doesn't understand that history isn't a subject to you, it's an artform.

You remember the first time you truly understood that. You were eight, curled up on the worn couch in your mother's Cairo apartment, the river glinting beyond the balcony like a ribbon of molten silver. Your mom had just come home from a dig in Saqqara, dust still in her hair. She always had dust in her hair, the braids ashen from spending hours by lamplight in digs far out in the desert. That night she'd brought you something, and in her lap was a shard of pottery, no bigger than your palm and painted with lotuses and a single line of hieratic script.

"Feel it," she'd said, handing it to you. You remember her calloused fingers stained with ink, the rasp of them against your skin, the way she'd leave finger prints on you sometimes. "This belonged to a woman who lived four thousand years ago. She held it. She drank from it. She probably argued with her partner over whose turn it was to fetch water, just like the women of this age do."

You'd traced the delicate brush strokes, awestruck. "How do you know it was a woman?"

"Because the name inscribed on the rim is a woman's name. Merit. And because women have always been an important part of history. Merit is no different. What women do holds power. Never let anyone tell you that history is made by men. History is painted with the power and prowess of women, no matter how men try to snuff it out."

From that day on, history wasn't something you could find in just textbooks. It was alive. It was stories whispered across thousands of years, lives and histories of people like Merit. Your mother had made it that way for you until her last day in a hospital room, clinging to that same piece of pottery you'd sat on the couch and examined together.

"There's a thread," she said, weak and tired as life slowly left her. "Running beneath the official history. I can feel it. Something no one records plainly. Something more, something we don't think is real. I wanted to find it."

She never had the chance.

Shaking your head free of visions of your mother, you focus on a longer text wrapping around the pedestal, wondering if you'd ever find the threads your mother used to talk about or if your fear of the mystical and rejection of the other would keep you from wandering down her same, chaotic path. The text is a hymn to Montu detailing his history. You scribble notes, unpacking how he was once a local deity in Armant, then elevated during the Eleventh Dynasty.

"He who makes the Nile red with the blood of his enemies," you translate, voice barely above a whisper. "Guardian of the hidden ways, binder of the chaos beyond."

"What does Montu know of chaos?" The tone of Vernon's voice makes you look at him.

He's half in shadow, watching you, the keffiyah loose around his neck, his face unreadable. Your eyes linger on the swirling tattoos that should make sense to you - do make sense to you, in a way. The binding symbols on his arms are a strange choice for a tomb raider who walks around with a gun, and the script near his throat…

"Need something, Stacks?" His question makes you look back up at him. He's watching you with an intensity that makes you flinch. "A new pen? A snack, perhaps?"

Huffing, you turn back to your task. The sense of something lingers, though, tingling at the back of your neck as Vernon watches you work. You know that he isn't stupid - he's far from it. Vernon is well-read and knowledgeable, and though you hadn't known his affinity for Arabic, you shouldn't be surprised.

You continue writing down the text and you frown at the shift as the language grows more archaic, switching periods and skipping around between dialects and writing systems. Weird. Your brows furrow as you write the words down haltingly, translating underneath a little at a time.

The sealed gate lies deep, where he who feeds the soil with iron waits…

You frown, unable to read damaged lettering. You skip to the next part, shuffling on your knees to get a better look.

… not open the lid, for spear will walk anew.

A chill races through you. The words echo and you think again of the scorpion this morning. You hadn't been sure what the omen meant, guardian or chaos, but the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach worsens.

Montu's temples often had hidden chambers, crypts for sacred objects or forbidden knowledge. This speaks to something grander, though. Something powerful, maybe. But you don't understand the meaning.

Vernon notices you've stopped writing, leaning forward to look at you, brow pinched. "What?"

"There's a warning here. It's a bit hard to understand but it… Do you speak Ancient Egyptian?"

He snorts. "Yes."

"It says not open the lid, for spear will walk anew. I don't understand the lid or the spear will walk anew."

Sighing, Vernon leans down and looks at your writing. He seems ready to make a snarky joke when his expression pinches. "That says door not lid and war not spear. Door and lid are written the same but the end is pronounced differently."

"Insightful. So not open the door, for war will walk anew."

Vernon looks to Karim. "Is there a lower chamber here?"

"Yes, that is part of what the team is to help clear the way, if needed."

Vernon looks at you but you're already getting up, shoving your notebook in your bag. "They shouldn't open that door. I'm not superstitious but it could be anything - booby traps, underground gasses. We need to tell Voss.

You hurry back through the corridor, Karim trailing with his flashlight beam bouncing across the walls. Vernon keeps pace beside you, the usual smirk absent. The sense of something dark clings to your skin, the temple alive in a way it wasn't before.

Halfway down the corridor, Vernon stops dead. His hand shoots out, fingers closing around your upper arm. You jerk to a halt, Karim nearly bumping into you from behind.

"You should go back," Vernon says, voice urgent. "Karim, taking her to camp. Now."

"What?" You stare at him, incredulous. "Why?"

"This isn't your fight."

"My fight?" You yank your arm free. "It's not a fight, Vernon. It's a temple, my goodness. There could be one of those ancient traps behind that door! Or any amount of gasses. The text isn't literal, ancient civilizations often used gods to explain natural dangers they didn't understand."

"Great. So go back to the tent where there's no mystical warnings."

"No."

Karim shifts uncomfortably, looking between the two of you. "Doctor-"

"No," you cut him off, turning your glare on Vernon. "What is your problem, Chwe? One minute you're mocking everything I say, the next you're trying to dismiss me like I'm an intern."

His jaw tightens. "I'm trying to do you a favor. Just listen to me."

"Or what? You're gonna shoot me?"

You hold his stare, heart hammering, not understanding the sudden intensity in his eyes, like he’s seeing something you can’t. Something that scares even him. It infuriates you more because you don't get it.

"Fine." He turns away to let you pass. "Get yourself killed then."

You storm past him, anger propelling you deeper into the temple. Karim calls your name once, uncertain, but you don't stop. You're not going to get killed, no matter how much Vernon's dramatics feel like a cheap script to a Lara Croft video game.

The corridors blur left, right, then left again. You follow the faint echo of voices and the scrape of tools. The air crows colder and thicker as you plunge into the temple, the apprehension behind your ribs pulling tight like a rubber band.

You enter a lower chamber, larger than the sanctuary above, lit by harsh portable floodlights. You're momentarily stunned at its vastness, steps slowing as you look up at the tall ceilings of cracked stone and floating dust. Your heart skips, mouth twitching briefly at the marvel of a new, undiscovered piece of history before you remember why you were rushing down here in the first place.

Voss stands at the center of the room, arms folded, watching as workers lever a massive stone door set into the far wall. The floodlights cast him in harsh light, half of him shadowed and intense as he stands back as the overseer. Dr. el-Masri is there next to him, scribbling notes while Piet snaps photos. Two security men stand ready, rifles slung. You roll your eyes. These people and their guns. You're in a tomb where the most dangerous thing is collapsing tunnels, natural gas and ancient traps.

"Voss!" You shout, jogging toward him. "Tell them to stop, they can't open that door."

"Ah, Doctor. Perfect timing."

"I found a warning upstairs," you tell him, holding out the notebook. "I think there's an ancient trap behind it or something precious the temple is trying to protect, maybe even a natural danger-"

"Every temple has warnings, Doctor. Curses to scare thieves. We're professionals."

"This isn't a curse. I think-"

"Listen, Doctor." He turns to you, smile thin. "Money requires risk. My investors require results. You require an in. We open the door, catalog what's inside, and get out before the next storm. Simple, and good business."

"You're willing to gamble for artifacts? How many archaeologists have died from ancient traps doing exactly what they were meant to? Or tunnels collapsing or hitting lethal air pockets of natural gas?"

"I'm willing to gamble for history. Your history, that you wanted to learn, no?"

Fury boils in you. You do want to study this temple, but the right way, not with force and lack of caution and-

Your anger is cut short when the work team gives a final heave, stone grinding against stone as the door shifts and swings inward with a hollow boom.

For a moment, there's only silence. Dust billows out in a choking cloud, swirling under the floodlights and sending everyone coughing. You take a few steps back, lifting the collar of your shirt to cover your nose, immediately wary of breathing in natural gases and poisoning yourself.

Everyone stands and waits for the dust to clear. You narrow your eyes, trying to see into the endless dark of the doorway, and you swear you see movement in the dark beyond. You squint, willing your eyes to see further, trying to make out anything in the gloom.

A shape lurches forward from the dark and several people take a step backward. The shape is tall and skeletal, wrapped in desiccated linen and bronze scales that clatter as it walks, making your skin crawl. Empty eye sockets glow faintly red, and the skeleton carries an ancient but sharp khopesh blade that glints in the floodlights.

No one speaks as the skeleton stops. You're open mouthed, heart pounding while Karim starts praying behind you as the revenant - you don't know what else to call it - stops, and stares at the room. You tilt your head, analyzing the wrappings and the decay rate of the skin, trying to do quick math and references to the mummified artifacts that the world already has access to in order to place the decay age of-

The first scream comes from a young student as a revenant you didn't see cleaves through her shoulder with a blade. Blood sprays, bright and obscene against the black stone. It's so violent that you don't move at first as you stare in horror, not processing the barbarity of it, the blood and the gore so out of place among scholars and workers.

Chaos erupts around you.

Workers scatter and the security team shouts, riffles firing in sharp rapts that make you clap your hands over your ears, cringing. Bullets spark off the armor of the revenant, some finding purchase in brittle bone with explosions of brittle white, but the revenants keep coming, more of them spilling out of the maw of darkness.

A hand shoves you hard from behind and you scream and wheel around, only to realize it's Vernon. He slams you sideways into a narrow alcove behind a fallen column, his body shielding yours. He forces you down to the ground, ducking with you as he goes. His hands are firm, pressing you into the alcove until your back is against cold stone and your knees are pressed into the dirt.

"Stay down," he barks, eyes wild.

Then he's gone, leaping into the fray.

You watch him, heart pounding, as you survey the scene in front of you. The chamber is a nightmare, filled with flashes of gunfire, bronze clashing against modern steel, and screams. Blood slicks the floor, turning the dirt to a clumpy maroon. There is more blood than you've ever scene, a hand clapping over your mouth as a khopesh cuts a man open from navel to throat. You spot Karim holding his own, swinging a pickaxe as he fights alongside a security woman, both of them trying to fend off one of the skeletons.

And then you see Vernon.

He moves like nothing human, faster than your eyes can follow, ducking under a khopesh as he wrenches a spear from a nearby revenant's grip. The weapon looks ancient, shaft wrapped in faded leather, but in Vernon's hand it sings. He spins it easily, fluid and practiced, and drives it through a revenant's chest. Dust explodes outward as the thing collapses into a heap of armor and bones, morbidly similar to a video game.

A spark crackles along the spear's length for an instant, blue-white and bright before vanishing. You blink, convinced you imagined it. But it happens again when Vernon parries another blade, a spark leaping from metal to metal, charring the skeleton's bone black.

Vernon fights like something out of the reliefs on the walls themselves, vicious and precise, ancient forms blending with modern brutality. A revenant lunges and Vernon sidesteps, spear whipping around to take its head clean off. You watch with your lips parted, unbelieving as another charges him and Vernon plants the butt of the spear into the ground to vault over the screaming revenant before spinning the spear around and driving it into the back of its head.

One of the students collapses against the wall near you, making you flinch. Her gut is sliced open, blood pooling dark between her fingers as she tries to stop the bleeding. She's gasping her eyes wide with terror, wet sounds coming from the back of her throat as she tries to say something - a prayer or plea for help, maybe. You start to crawl out to her, ripping parts of your shirt to press against her wound, to offer her something to staunch the bleeding.

A revenant leaps toward you, khopesh raised. You don't even have time to scream as you drop to the floor. Time doesn't slow like you thought it might as you approach death. You'd always thought maybe it would happen like it does in film, a single slowed frame where you see everything in detail. You don't, though. You only see the swing of the blade and feel the single pulse of fear so hard that it hurts your chest.

And then Vernon is suddenly there, spear flashing as he impales the skeleton through the jaw and out the back of its skull. He rips the spear out and spins to you, panting. He growls at you, face sneered as he bends down to grab you and haul you back into the alcove by your collar, your feet dragging against the dirt. You'd be offended if you weren't so grateful he'd just saved your life, falling into the alcove as he drops you like a sandbag.

"Save your empathy for later," he growls, voice raged. "Stay. Put."

He's gone again before you can answer.

The fight drags on. Gunfire dwindles as enemies run out. Bodies hit the floor, but so do revenants. The final one collapses into dust and bones courtesy of Karim's pickaxe, leaving him shaking and covered in sweat.

Silence returns, broken only by sobbing and labored breathing. Voss stands near the breached door, coat torn, face pale but alive while he stares into the darkness beyond, something hungry in his eyes despite the carnage.

Vernon strides through the settling dust, spear still in hand. He looks untouched - shirt ripped - but otherwise whole. The tattoos on his arms seem darker, the lines sharper, as if ink had bled fresh. For a second when you look at him, you don't see Vernon. Instead, you see something vengeful and alive, something uncontainable and vaster than anything else in the room.

When you blink, it's just Vernon again. He stops at your hiding place and tosses the spear aside casually. It clatters and he looks down at you, expression unreadable. He doesn't offer you a hand, but his face is expectant, so you push yourself up. The first time, your legs give out. When you try again, your stance seems to hold.

"How," You ask shakily, "the hell did you do that?"

"Good cardio, Stacks." He wipes grime on his shirt. "You should try it.

"Don't. I saw you. You moved like you've done this before. And the lightning-"

"Adrenaline does crazy things to the mind. Let's go."

Vernon grabs your wrist, not rough, but firm. He pulls you toward the exit as survivors limp past. Karim is soot-streaked but upright, helping a wounded security man. Leila is crying as she huddles near Piet, who is cradling a broken arm. Somewhere, Voss is barking orders.

Outside of the temple, the sun is brutal. The camp is in utter chaos, full of shouting and running feet, radios screaming for medevac. Stretchers are improvised from tent poles and canvas, the smell of diesel mixing with the scent of blood.

Vernon doesn't slow down for a second. His grip on your wrist is unrelenting as he cuts through the chaos, steering you past clusters of stunned survivors toward the largest of the medical tents. The white canvas flaps snap in the hot wind, each crack like a gunshot from the tomb, making you flinch.

Inside, it's already crowded but he ignores the crying of the wounded and the yelling of the very few medical experts as he pulls you to a corner and pushes you toward a tiny stool. "Sit."

You do without argument, legs folding without permission. The world tilts strangely, sounds muffled as though you're underwater. Your hands are in your lap, but you can't feel them at all, you realize. Strange. You don't remember when the numbness started, but it's creeping up your hands as you stare at your palms upturned in your lap. They're speckled blood. You realize it's not yours - that your hands are stained with someone else's blood. Probably someone dead.

Vernon crouches in front of you, blocking the rest of the tent from your view. He reaches out with a hand and tilts your chin upward, drawing your gaze from your hands to his face. His face is streaked with dust and dried blood, eyes darker than ever as he studies you the way he studied the revenants before attacking, quick and predatory.

"You're shaking," he says. Not a question.

You are? You look down. You are. Tremors ripple through your fingers, your knees knocking together though you're sitting. Your teeth want to chatter, and you can't fight it - you let them. Once the tremors start, you can't stop them, the ripples coming in waves that vibrate through your entire frame no matter how much you want to stop.

"Oh."

"You're going into shock."

He reaches past you and grabs a folded wool blanket from a stack of supplies. The motion brings him close - you catch that same woody oud scent, now laced with something sharper like blood. He shakes the blanket out and wraps it around your shoulders, tucking it tight.

"Breathw," he orders. "Slowly."

You try. The air tastes like antiseptic and metal, making your lungs stutter. Vernon's hands settle on your knees and he grips you, the pressure firm.

"Look at me."

You do. His eyes are darker up close, pupils blown wide, the irises almost black. There's something restless behind them, something vast trying to stay leashed. You wonder if the others see it too, or if the shock is making you see things like the lightning in the temple.

"In through your nose," he urges. "Out through your mouth. With me."

He demonstrates with a slow inhale, controlled exhale. You follow, clumsy at first, then steadier. The roaring in your ears recedes a little.

“Good.” He doesn’t move his hands. “Again.”

Minutes pass. Or seconds. Time has gone slippery. The blanket traps your body heat, and gradually the violent shivering eases into something mangable. Feeling creeps back into your fingers, prickling like pins and needles.

A medic approaches with a tray of medical supplies, but Vernon waves them off without looking away from you. "She's not injured. Just shock. Give us a minute."

The medic hesitates, then nods and moves on to someone whose wounds are worse.

You swallow. Your throat feels lined with sand. “They’re dead. Because of a door. Because Voss wanted-"

“I know.” Vernon’s thumbs press small circles against your knees, an absent motion, like he’s done this before. “Not your fault.”

“I tried to warn him.”

"I know. Voss has his own gods to answer to."

You stare at him. There’s that flicker again in his eyes, something ancient and furious banking itself down. The tattoos on his forearms shift as his muscles tense and the binding symbols seem to writhe for a heartbeat before stilling. Again, you can't help but feel like you're seeing things that aren't supposed to be there, but that you know are.

"What are you?" You whisper, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

"A tomb raider," he answers, his voice deadpan. He reaches for a canteen on the supply table, unscrews it, presses it into your hands. “Small sips.”

The water is warm but clean. You drink obediently. He watches until you’ve had enough, then takes it back. “Better?”

You nod. The blanket feels heavy now, comforting. Your pulse has slowed to something human. Vernon sits back on his heels, but doesn’t stand yet. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself and look toward the tent flap, where the desert glares white-hot beyond the canvas.

"Thank you," you say quietly. He raises his brows. "For saving me. I didn't listen to you. So thanks."

His expression softens for a fraction, gone almost before you catch it. "Don't mention it. Seriously, don't. We're not friends."

But he stays crouched in front of you a little longer, a silent sentinel, while the camp outside tries to stitch itself back together around the pieces of what just broke free.

-

The temple stretches around you, but it's wrong. It's too vast, the columns rising into a startless, black sky. Sand shifts under your bare feet, warm as blood. The air smells of myrrh and hot iron.

A low growl rumbles through the stone. You turn, heart kicking, and see her. It's a lioness pacing between the pylons, her coat the deep red-gold of fresh spilled blood in sunlight, muscles rippling with every step. Her golden eyes fix on you, ancient and furious. A golden disk flickers in and out above her head, flaring like the sun.

She circles closer, paws silent on the flagstones as she approaches, sleek muscles shifting. Around her neck hangs a collar of crimson fabric - its linen soaked through and dripping, leaving wet prints whenever she steps. Blood you realize.

You try to speak, but your throat is dust and ash, unusable. The lioness stops directly in front of you. Her breath is furnace-hot and she opens her mouth, but nothing comes out save for the sound of something wet and tearing.

Red fabric unfurls from her jaws, endless and spilling. It wraps around your wrists, your ankles, your throat. You feel the weight of plagues, of arrows, of slaughter ordered by a god who grew tired of mercy. The rage presses into you deeper and deeper, the lioness's eyes boring into yours.

The temple floor cracks open beneath you and sand pours upward like reverse rain, swallowing the columns, swallowing the lioness, swallowing you.

You jerk awake, lungs burning like you can still feel the sand scouring them in your dream.

The tent is dark, the camp outside hushed except for the low hum of generators and the occasional murmur of voices. Your shirt is soaked with sweat, your sheets tangled at your feet.

Something is wrong.

It isn't just the dream. The air feels charged like the moment before lightning strikes and your skin prickles with the same sense of being watched you felt the first night outside the gateway.

You swing your legs off the cot, heart racing as you stumble for your boots in the dark. Your movements are quick and automatic, rushing as you get dressed. You don't bother lacing your boots fully before yanking the flap of your tent open to step into the night.

The desert air is cool now, almost sharp after the day's furnace. Stars burn overhead, spilling across the sky in thousands of untold stories. The camp is mostly asleep, tents dark, only a few security lights flowing. The temple looms in the distance, floodlights casting a ghoulish halo in the distance.

And there, just outside your tent, is Vernon. He's sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket with his back against the supply crate while he eats dates from a small pouch. A pile of pits sit in the sand next to him as he chews, a gun unholstered on the blanket next to him along with a knife that looks like it's the length of your forearm.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He pops another date into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. "Guarding the perimeter. Scorpions, jackals, tomb raiders. You never know."

"You're guarding my tent."

"Technically the whole camp. Your tent happens to be on the perimeter." He offers the pouch. "Hungry?"

You ignore it. "You've been sitting here."

He shrugs and you stare at him, a tangle of emotions you don't have a name for yet. He looks tired with shadows under his eyes, but alert, like he's listening to every sound the desert makes.

"Anything else happen?" You ask finally.

He wipes his fingers on his pants. "Voss took a team back in. Small one. Himself, some security, Dr. el-Masri. Said it was safe now that the guardians were dealt with."

Vernon's tone tells you exactly what he thinks of that assessment and your stomach drops. "He went back in?"

"Man's got priorities. Look, we should head out-"

You turn toward the temple without another word. The pull is immediate and magnetic. You need to see what they're doing, need to stop whatever fresh stupidity Voss is commiting. It's what anyone with a brain would do - what your mom would do.

Vernon is on his feet in an instant, blocking your path. "No."

"Move."

"You're not going back in there."

"I need to tell him what he's doing! If he disturbs more seals-"

"He knows what he's doing." Vernon's voice is flat. "And you're not equipped for round two."

You step around him. "I don't need your permission."

Cursing, Vernon scoops up his weapons and jogs after you. "Of course you don't."

"No one is asking you to come with me - least of all me. I'm not a child."

You stride across the sand, boots crunching. The temple grows larger with every step, floodlights carving harsh shadows between the pylons. Vernon keeps pace, his anger crackling like the lightning you swore you saw the day before.

"You just came out of shock. You're running on adrenaline," he argues.

"I'm fine."

You stop at the wooden steps leading down to the site. The night wind whistles through the pylons, carrying faint voices up to you. You start down the steps and Vernon grabs your arm.

"I'm serious, Stacks. Go back to your tent."

You wrench free. "Why do you care? You don't even like me."

"You think I dragged you out of that bloodbath just to watch you walk back in? I don't have to like you. I have common fucking sense."

The words hit harder than you expect but you swallow, lifting your chin. "I'm not helpless."

"I didn't say you were, Gods above!" His voice drops, lethal. "But you're human. And whatever is in there isn't. We should leave."

You search his face, looking for the lie, the flippant mask. It isn’t there. Right now it's just raw frustration and something close to fear.

"Then come with me."

He laughs, short and bitter. “That’s not how this works.”

"Suit yourself."

You shove past him down the remaining steps, trying not to make eye contact with the falcon statues as they watch you pass. Vernon curses behind you and you hear him scramble to keep up.

"Why are you so stubborn?" He demands as you pass through the opening. Cool air greets you and you shiver, turning on a flashlight despite the floodlights guiding the way. You hear voices from a distance, but most of the main temple is empty. "You don't even have a weapon.

"I don't need one."

"Do you not remember yesterday?"

You do remember yesterday, though the memory is hard to grasp. Never in your life did you dare to believe in monsters and mummies, too afraid that you'd spend your career following loose threads and nonsense like your mother, but those creatures had been real. The blood had been real. So had the death.

It's what drives you at a breakneck pace through the temple now, determined to stop whatever Voss was doing to save himself and those with him from disaster you're sure is about to happen.

Halfway down the main corridor, where the floodlights from the entrance no longer reach, Vernon stops abruptly. He catches your wrist again, pulling you to a halt.

"Stop." His grip tightens, not painful - never painful - but immovable. "You want to play the hero, fine. But not tonight. Not after what happened yesterday. Wait until the morning."

The hallway feels smaller, suddenly, the walls pressing in. Somewhere deeper, a tool clangs against stone. It echoes your pounding heart, the smell of Vernon's woody cologne and sweat making you dizzy. You realize how close he is and try to step back but he doesn't let you, crowding your space.

His fingers stay locked around your wrist, warm even through the layers of dust and sweat, his thumb pressed against your pulse. His body blocks most of the faint light spilling from deeper inside, leaving you half in shadow.

Up close, you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flicker from your face to the darkness and back again, like he's fighting some sort of war you're not privy to.

"Let go," you murmur. "Please."

He doesn't. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you moves. The air between you turns to static. His gaze drops to your mouth for the briefest second, so quick you think you imagined it, then snaps back up. Something like frustration flickers across his face before he shakes his head.

"You are shaking, Stacks."

"I'm fine."

The words hang heavy. You're hyper aware of how alone you are, how the rest of the world feels miles away behind layers of stone and sand. For one second you think Vernon might pull you closer, but he doesn't. His shoulders sag as the fight bleeds out of him and he lets you go.

"Fine." He steps back. "Do what you want."

He retreats deeper into the shadows and you watch as his faint outline melts into the dark. The space he leaves behind feels cold and empty, your wrist tingling where he held you. Swallowing, you shove down the fluttering feeling in your stomach and turn, determined to stop disaster before it can happen again.

The beam of your flashlight cuts a narrow tunnel through the black, the light jittery with every hurried step. The temple swallows the sounds of your boots on stone, your ragged breathing, the pounding of your heart.

The hypostyle hall feels endless, the columns rising like the ribs of some colossal beat, their lotus capitals lost in shadow. The floodlights from the entrance have faded, and the darkness swallows you save for the glow of a portable lamp left behind by Voss's team every few meters.

You pass the sanctuary chamber where you first found the warning and something presses down on you, the air changing. The corridor narrows, forcing you to turn sideways in places. your shoulder brushes basalt etched with faded scenes of victories - pharaohs trampling enemies, Montu towering above, spear dripping with blood.

A low murmur of voices drifts from ahead. You slow, clicking off the flashlight to let your eyes adjust to the dim glow spilling from the lower chamber. The same chamber where the revenant poured out hours ago. The air is warmer here, carrying the metallic tang of fresh blood and your stomach knots.

Edging the threshold, you peer inside and the scene stops your heart.

Portable floodlights have been arranged in a rough circle, casting harsh white beams that leave the ceiling lost in absolute black. In the center of the bloodstained flagstones, a pattern has been drawn into the ground out of charcoal, the lines forming a vast cartouche of interlocking falcons and spears. At its heart lies a low basalt altar that looks older than the rest of the temple, its surface pitted and dark.

Voss stands at the altar's head, sleeves of his shirt rolled high. His expensive watch glints as he arranges tools with reverent precision - a broken khopesh, a bowl of natron, a golden vessel that catches the light like liquid fire. Dr. el-Masri stands behind him, an ancient papyrus unrolled in trembling hands.

Two security men flank them, rifles slung blue sidearms ready. Kneeling in the center is a woman from the security team - Nadia, you think. She's tall and broad-shouldered, her dark hair cropped short. She's stripped to a black tank top and her skin is gleaming with oil, her eyes closed and face tilted up.

It's a ritual space.

Your stomach lurches as your mind pieces together all of the details - the warnings, the sealed gate, war walking anew. The temple contains Montu, the unbound fury.

Patrons aren't always what they seem.

You think of Vernon's words. How the entire temple is painted with pharaohs and the mark of Montu, their god. How it is an ode to his victories. You realize Voss tends to wake Montu - or perhaps, to let Nadia make him her patron, if such a thing is possible and if you were to believe in something beyond like your mother always had.

You step into the light before you can think better of it, fury and fear colliding as you say, "Stop."

Heads snap toward you. Nadia's eyes remain closed, but Dr. el-Masri's eyes widen as he looks at you. Voss smiles unpleasantly but beckons you in.

"Doctor, welcome. We're just about to get started."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Finally starting what I have been after for years." He gestures to the altar. "As you have figured out, this temple is not a treasury. It was a prison."

"You're trying to wake a god." Your eyes flicker to Nadia. "And… bind it? That's madness. Montu isn't a tool. Historically, he's slaughter incarnate, the texts-"

"The texts," Dr. el-Masri interrupts, "Are written by heretics. In Ancient Egypt, the understanding that rulers were divinely chosen was so absolute, that it was the single thing Egyptians agreed on for thousands of years."

You laugh, sharp and disbelieving. "It is the belief in divine rulership that led them to dehumanize their own population. To think onesself is a god is different to think oneself is a king. When you're a god, everyone is beneath you and you become infallible. People are not infallible, Dr. el-Masri."

Voss sighs. "You're a scholar, Doctor. You of all people should appreciate the pursuit of knowledge."

"This isn't knowledge. This is hubris. Which you both should know was the downfall of Egypt time and time again."

Voss smiles thinly. "Call it what you like. Nadia volunteered. She understands the honor." Voss looks at his security team. "Doctor, you should join us."

The security men move faster than you expect. One grabs your arms from behind while the other clamps a hand over your mouth before you can scream. You thrash, kicking and twisting, but they're heavy and trained. Your flashlight clatters to the stone, the beam spinning wildly.

Together, they drag you toward the altar. You feel your heart pounding as you scream, muffled by the man's hand. You bite down on his fingers and he yelps, pulling his hand away. Your scream of rage echoes in the temple, cut off as the other man drives his knee into your spine to force you down at the altar.

The stone is cold and you roll over to kick at them. They grab your legs and hold you down, binding your hands and feet as you scream your throat raw. Nadia ignores you and Voss sighs as someone stuffs your mouth with cloth. You strain against the cords, but they don't move, your muscles aching as you thrash.

Dr. el-Masri begins reading from the papyrus and you stop, looking at him with pleading eyes. He ignores you, reading words of ancient invocation to Montu, Lord of Terror, He Who Makes the Nile Red.

Nadia stirs. You snap your head toward her, watching as her eyes open, pupils blown wide, irises flickering for a second. You're reminded of Vernon's eyes suddenly, the feeling that something ancient and feral was scraping behind his gaze, that-

Pain explodes, white-hot between your ribs. You look down to see that Voss has driven a blade in your stomach and you scream, arching against your restraints. The pain is so bad that you see flashes of white in your vision, the terror taking over as blood wells hot and immediate, soaking your shirt and pooling onto the altar.

Dr. el-Masri's voice rises, chanting faster. The floodlights flicker. Sand begins to sift from cracks in the ceiling. Wind howls.

Power foods the chamber like a sandstorm. The air burns and you squint, sobbing around the gag in your mouth. Nadia convulses, her body arching impossible as golden light pours from her eyes and her mouth. The temperature in the room skyrockets, heat buffeting you as temple groans and you hear cracking stone, a column in the corner tilting as it breaks and crashing into the ground in a plume of dust and rot.

Voss stumbles back, grinning. "It's working."

A basalt block falls from the ceiling, shattering near Dr. el-Masri. He screams as he completes the ritual and when you turn to look at Nadia, she's no longer entirely Nadia. She rises to her feet smoothly, head tilted as if listening to something distant. Her gaze passes over you without recognition, then she turns to Voss.

"You have freed me and given me a vessel," Nadia says, but the language is ancient from a time beyond Voss's comprehension. "What is it you seek?"

It's Dr. el-Masri who answers, "We seek Maahes, the hunter."

Nadia grins. "Come."

They leave the temple as it begins to collapse. Nadia pauses as she passes you, her eyes flicking to the knife in your stomach. She bends down and just as you think she's going to remove it, she twists it. Your shriek is lost to the gag, the pain leaving you blinded and heaving, throat convulsing around the cloth as you gag.

When you blink again, they're all gone, leaving you alone with the dark and the growing roar of falling sand and a collapsing ceiling.

Blood bubbles in your throat. Each breath is shallower than the last. The pain starts to fade and is replaced with something different, something cold creeping up your limbs. Sand pours in through the ceiling now through widening fissures, cascading like waterfalls, and for a moment you think of your dream with the lioness and the sand falling upward.

You stare at the ceiling as the world crumbles. Somewhere far above, there are stars you'll never see again.

Please, you think, unable to speak. Anyone.

Nothing answers but the sound of cracking basalt.

You think of Vernon - his rough hands steady in the med tent, the way he looked at you in the corridor like he wanted to say something more. You wish you'd listened. Wish you said something kinder to him when he was just trying to help.

You think of your mother. Her smile over that pottery shard. The way she said your name like a promise. Like hope. You pray that wherever she is now, she isn't watching this, that she isn't seeing your violent, bloody end.

Sand peppers your face. It's almost gentle, and your eyes flutter as darkness clouds your vision.

Child of blood, a voice calls, low and furious. You are in need of vengeance.

You can't move your head, but you feel something, heat in the cold, pressure against the collapsing dark. A presence that is vast and beyond your understanding, scented with the desert sun and spilled blood.

They woke war, the voices continues. And left you to pay the price. I know war too, child of blood. Let me pave the way.

Yes, you think. Yes.

Yes, the voice agrees. But not gently. Not without cost.

The sand stops falling.

Fire ignites at the edge of your vision, gold and crimson, licking along the cracks in the stone. It doesn't burn the temple - it burns you.

Pain flares anew, different now. Your blood steams, your wounds sear shut. You smell charred linen as the cords binding you turn to ash. Sand near you crystalizes to glass, crunching as you scream, the gag in your mouth burning until you're choking on ash, your screams loud in the chamber. Your body arches against the altar as power pours into you, vast and ancient and furious. Every nerve sings and your lungs fill with heated air that tastes of life instead of death.

Call me the Eye Unbound, the voice tells you, growing in volume, her laughter hot. I drink what spills. I burn away the unworthy. I am Sekhmet and you are my vessel.

Sekhmet's laughter echoes through your skull, wild and approving.

Rise daughter, she purrs. There is hunting to do.

The fire settles in your veins like molten gold cooling to armor. Your eyes open, and the chamber is lit from within you, crimson light spilling from your skin. The temple around you is collapsed, but there's a perfect ring of protection around you, the symbols flaring with scarlet light.

You sit up. Blood flakes from your shirt. The knife is now on the ground and when you lift your shirt to peer at your stomach, the stab wound is a ridged scar, glowing faintly. The light from you fades, but you realize that you can see unnaturally in the darkness.

Yes, Sekhmet says when she feels your surprise. You are changed.

Somewhere above, you hear chaos. You don't know what it is, but thunder shakes the temple violently. You feel Sekhmet as though she is you, as though you are one. Like Montu and Nadia, host and patron.

They run, she purrs when you think of Montu. Shall we chase?

You stand in the rubble. You feel white hot rage go through you, stronger than anything you've ever felt before. You see a red sky. Red sands. A red river. Blankets of scarlet red blood, and a lioness walking across hot sand as she burns away the unworthy.

Voss is unworthy. And he has Montu with him, a god with a vessel, just like you.

"Yes," you say out loud, your voice raw. "We chase."

-

Vernon storms out of the temple, his boots grinding against the flagstones with each step. The corridor blurs around him, shadows twisting like smoke, the floodlights from the entrance flickering at his approach. Anger coils tight in his chest, hot and familiar, a companion he's known longer than most people.

But this time it's sharper and laced with frustration.

Stubborn idiot, he thinks, the words aimed at you but ricocheting back at himself. Why couldn't you listen? Just once? He slams a fist against a column as he passes, the impact echoing like thunder in the enclosed space as the column instantly collapses with the force of his punch. Pain flares in his knuckles, but it's nothing compared to the storm brewing inside of him.

Set stirs at the edge of his mind, a presence as constant as his own heartbeat. The god's amusement rolls through him like distant thunder. Idiot. You let her goad you. Again.

Shut up, Vernon snaps internally, clenching his jaw. He doesn't need Set's commentary right now. Not when his blood is singing with the urge to turn back and drag you out kicking and screaming if it he's to. He doesn't want to hurt you, but he will drag you, even if it means you never speak to him again or you curse his name every day. At least you'd be alive.

The god chuckles. She challenges you. I like her fire. I see why you like her.

Vernon ignores him. He has no intention of going round and round in circles with Set about who or what Vernon does or does not like. The god has a particular habit of showing up every time Vernon sees you, prodding him in ways that almost make him lose his cool at auctions, galas and conferences. Set seems entirely incapable of letting Vernon admire you from afar without meddling, and right now when the world is collapsing is not the time for an ancient god's meddling.

The entrance to the temple looms ahead, the night air spilling in cool drafts. Vernon pauses at the threshold between the temple's door and the open desert. The pylons loom like sentinels and he looks at the falcons, their eyes eroded but watchful, like the eyes of Montu are ready to strike at any moment. He leans against a wall, breathing hard, trying to rein in the chaos inside of him - trying to reign in Set.

This whole expedition was supposed to be simple. Or as simple as anything gets when one is bound to a god of chaos. Vernon had heard whispers of the site months ago, rumors in a black market antiquities circle that he haunts, tales of a storm uncovering a temple tied to a bound god.

Vernon has been with Set for eight years now, but he's never stopped trying to get rid of him. It had started in a forgotten tomb in the Valley of the Kings back when Vernon was just a cocky archaeologist fresh out of his degree program, chasing glory like everyone else in the field. He'd been a bit rogue then too, not waiting for a permit before he started poking around.

Like Voss, he'd opened a sealed chamber he shouldn't have and Set had poured into him like sand through an hourglass, violent and overwhelming, reshaping Vernon into a cage for divinity.

Call me He Who Howls in Open Places, Set had whispered, his voice crackling. Call me the Red One, the Unmoored, the Crooked Star. Do not call me Brother, for brothers bind. I am Set.

Vernon had survived. Set is good at keeping his host alive. He'd walked through the desert with new tattoos burning fresh on his skin, hieroglyphs of binding and Coptic words of containment.

Since then, it's been a constant war. Set grants Vernon gifts - strength beyond human limits, control over storms, the ability to step through shadow. But the god's volatility amplifies Vernon's own anger, his own emotions.

And Set hungers. Always for chaos. Always for unmooring the world.

Vernon wishes this dig had worked out. He'd been hoping to find something here to unbind him, but he hadn't been expecting you to be here. When you'd shown up two days ago, Vernon's entire plan changed. You don't like him much - he doesn't blame you - but Vernon's been fond of you for years. Likes your work ethic, the genuine desire to do good, to seek truth.

He'd been like that once. Now he trades in artifacts and secrets to survive, trying to use relics to fund his way out of this mess with Set.

We are one, Set reminds him now. You seek to cut the thread, but it binds us tighter.

I didn't ask for this, Vernon reminds him, rubbing his tattoos. They're bothering him tonight, hot and itchy.

No one asks for divinity. It takes.

Now, Vernon doesn't know what to do. He'd realized Voss' intent to bind a god when you'd found the inscription the day before. After the aftermath with the revenants, he had planned to let you sleep it off and force you to leave in the morning. He had not anticipated you being a pig-headed fool and charging into a temple at night, refusing his help.

He doesn't know why it bothers him so much. He lets you have your assumptions about him. It's better than the truth, not that you would believe him. He saves ancient sites too, redirecting looters and forging documents to return artifacts when he can. It isn't all about stealing like you think it is - he does try. You see none of that, of course. Why would you?

She sees more than you think, Set sighs. Smart girl. I think you are hopeless, though.

Vernon growls and pushes off the wall muttering, "Not now."

He starts toward the camp, intent on packing your things himself. Then, he’d walk back inside the temple and he'd force you out and shove you into a jeep and send you back to Cairo. Karim could drive - he was reliable - and Vernon trusted him not to ask questions.

A tremor stops Vernon cold.

It starts subtle, a vibration underfoot. Then it grows stronger, the ground shuddering as sand shifts in ripples. Dust sifts from the gateway arch and the pylons groan.

Vernon's head snaps back toward the temple. Set surges in his mind, alert and hungry. War awakens. The falcon stirs.

"Fuck," Vernon hisses. He didn't think Voss would manage this quickly, or he wouldn't have let you keep walking into the temple.

He runs.

Vernon plunges back into the darkness, shadows dancing around him. His form flickers as he shadow steps, blinking in and out of existence from one pool of dark shadows to the next, covering ground faster. He hates the feeling of shadow stepping, fading from a physical body to mist and back again, but he suffers it to get to you faster.

Voss and his team burst from a side corridor and spills across Vernon's path. Nadia is leading them, except Vernon realizes it's not Nadia. Her eyes burn gold, pupils slitted, and she thrums with power, a god in a fresh vessel. Vernon recognizes it immediately, reminded of the first time Set stepped into him.

Voss spots Vernon first. "Chwe! The temple is collapsing, let's go."

Vernon ignores him, eyes locked on Nadia. Set roils inside of him, ancient hatred flaring. Brother no more. The ordered one, the betrayer, let me tear him free.

Not yet, Vernon snarls back, but the power in him builds anyway, wind whipping in the corridor.

Nadia tilts her head and smiles. "Voss, did you know you already had a god in your midst? The Crooked Star. How fitting to see you slither here."

Her voice is layered, Nadia's timbre overlaid with a deep rumble that must belong to Montu. She raises a hand and the air shimmers as a spear materializes from nothing, bronze and ethereal, tip glinting. Vernon realizes this is a manifestation of one of her gift, a weapon forged from divine will.

She hurls the spear but Vernon shadow steps sideways, reappearing in a flicker of shadows as he summons storms. Wind howls through the temple, violent and unchecked. Overhead, thunder cracks, the chaos feeding on his frustration and fear that you're hurt or worse. Lightning arches from Vernon's fingertips and slam into Nadia, knocking her back.

The air compresses around her and she summons a shield of air and flame. "You rage, Unmoored one."

"You are a child," Set answers through Vernon, hissing. "I will show you power."

Vernon steps through a shadow, feeling the brief cold of nothingness before he materializes behind Nadia. His fist connects with her back, his enhanced strength crumpling her tactical vest like paper. She spins faster than any human, a khopesh appearing in her hand. The blade sings and Vernon ducks, feeling the heat of the divine weapon as it skims over him, nearly taking his head clean off his shoulders.

Nadia's blows are seismic, each one backed with the heat and power of the sun. He shadow steps mid-swing, flickering in and out, landing hits on her from impossible angles that make her roar in frustration. Set cackles in Vernon's head, the older god trickier and slipperier than his younger family member.

Set is strong, but the storm Vernon commands feeds on him. His anger at you, at Voss, at this cursed bond - it amplifies everything, making the wind in the temple erratic, lightning sparking and exploding against rock. A bolt blasts a column and brings down chunks of the ceiling, sending Voss and the others running while Nadia stays to fight off Vernon.

Set howls in delight, his energy snapping. Rend the falcon!

Nadia presses him, a spear grazing his side, searing flesh. He hisses in pain, but pain fuels the storm as a crackling spear of white lightning forms in his hand. Vernon feels himself start to slip, Set taking over his thoughts and body more fully as the bolt manifests into a solid spear of lightning, his blood singing.

He spins the spear in his hand, beating Nadia back. She might be host to the god of war, but Set is an ancient chaos not easily beaten, and Vernon sees the frustration on Nadia's face as Vernon''s spear catches her across the thigh, burning flesh. She howls, the cavern shaking, rock falling.

The temple is crumbling, he realizes. And somewhere in the temple is you, left behind. Sacrificed, maybe. Dead, maybe.

That single thought cuts through Vernon's rage like a blade.

No, Set protests, surging for control. The enemy is here!

She's more important.

The god recoils. Is she?

Vernon forces the god into submission, drawing the storm inward, coiling it tight. Nadia lunges at him but he shadow-steps away, breaking the engagement.

She laughs, spinning on him. "Cowardice from chaos? How novel."

"I don't have time for you," he growls, stepping into another shadow and turning to nothing.

Set rages as Vernon plunges into the temple, running and jumping deeper. You deny me glory for her?

She's not dying tonight.

The god subsides, grudging but curious. Very well. But the falcon will pay later.

Vernon doesn't disagree. He wants to rip the god from Nadia's skull as much as Set does, knowing that Montu being set out onto the world can't be any good. Especially because Nadia doesn't seem interested in controlling her god the way Vernon controls his.

The temple fights him as he approaches the chamber, the floor shaking and the ceiling caving in. Vernon summons energy, feeling the air around him compress as he thrusts a hand out, blasting a wall of rock with kinetic bursts. Rock flies, the covering choking with dust, but he does it again and again, crackling with energy as he carves his way to you.

His trek is an exhausting combination of shadow stepping through partial collapses and blasting his way through the tunnel, the thunder deafening in his ears. Set is silent, his fascination at Vernon's desperation palpable.

Set has never seen Vernon this eager to save someone. Ever.

Fear eats at him. He should have made you leave the second he knew what Voss was up to. It had been his pride and his desire to let you make your own choices that left you lingering here in this cursed place, and now he knew you were most likely dead.

The thought drives him harder at the wall, blasting through the final bit of collapsed columns and basalt. He has no idea how you'd survive a temple collapse, but he doesn't care. He needs to know. Needs to get to you. Needs to do what he can to right his wrong of leaving you here.

Vernon's side burns from the spear wound Montu gave him, but Set knits the skin slowly as Vernon waits for the dust choking the air to clear. Vernon swallows thickly, waiting and panting as the air finally starts to clear and he can see the inner ritual chamber.

Sand fills most of the space, a sea of golden death. His stomach drops when he realize you're probably in here suffocating somewhere, terrified and-

Light catches his attention. Vernon goes entirely still as red light blazes from a figure standing amid the ruin, crimson and bloody as the light starts to fade behind soot-covered skin.

You.

There's a khopesh in each one of your hands, outstretched and gleaming crimson. Tattoos wind your arms, red and blazing before cooling to a dusky, desert red. When your eyes open, your irises are aflame, pupils stilted like a lion's, glowing like freshly forged gold.

Set's wariness surprises Vernon, the god slithering in his mind. The Eye Unbound, he growls. She who drinks what spills. She who burns the unworthy. Sekhmet.

Vernon doesn't know what that means and he doesn't care. He hardly hears set at all, distracted by the terrifying display before him. You look beautiful, blazing in glory and anger and rage, but most importantly, alive. And then the light fades from your eyes and you blink at him, confused and wincing.

"Vernon?"

It's the last thing you say before your eyes glaze over and you collapse backward.

-

Your entire world is sand. The horizon stretches endlessly in each direction and the sun hangs unnaturally low, rays bleeding over the world like a wounded god. The grains of sand under you shift restlessly, pressing into your skin hot.

Heat simmers in the distance, distorting the air. You sit cross-legged in the center of endless dunes, and no matter which direction you look, the sea of red sands are endless. Timeless.

Across from you, the lioness manifests in a waver of heat. Sekhmet. She's massive, her form towering over you, a monument of divine fury. Her coat gleams gold-red, her fur rippling with power as she settles onto her haunches.

She stares at you and it's unnerving. Her feline features are etched with eons of wisdom, fangs glinting like polished obsidian when she yawns. Behind her, the red sun halos her head, a perfect red disk - a crown.

"You were not ready," she notes. Her voice is a low, resonant rumble that resonates through you, mouth moving to form the words. You stare, entranced. "Unfortunate."

"I didn't exactly have time to prepare," you reply, voice small. You can tell she's disappointed, but it isn't every day you become host to a powerful ancient entity. "I wasn't expecting the power to burn through me like that."

She chuffs, amused. "Mortals rarely do." She shifts, paws sinking in the sand. "I have kept vigil over these places of sealing, the tombs where gods slumber and remain chained. I keep those who should not be here away - a whisper in the wind to deter the greedy, a dream to haunt the foolish. A scorpion slipped into a bedroll under the cover of night."

The scorpion. Your mind flashes back to that morning, the segmented touch against your skin, the careful capture and release. An omen you'd brushed off, feeling silly for thinking of superstitions. Now you know it was a deliberate nudge from the divine, a warning.

"You bled for the truth," Sekhmet acknowledges. "For chasing the thread your mother left behind for you. You are honest. Honesty is good."

The desert around you seems to shift at her words, the red sands undulating. You think of your mother, wondering if this is what she had envisioned when believing there were hidden histories in Egypt.

"What happens now?" You ask the goddess.

"Now you carry me, and I you. We are bound, flesh to flame." She pauses, ears flicking. "Beware the one who carries the Crooked Star."

"Vernon."

"Sutekh. He walks again in the flesh, hungry. He is volatile and is capable of great evil if left to his own devices for too long. Empires have fallen to his whims, rivers diverted, brothers slain for sport. Chaos is his domain."

You think of Vernon and his dark eyes, the way you could see something ancient there, something he fights to keep under the surface. Vernon, who had pulled you from carnage and steadied you through shock. Vernon who had come back for you against all reason, and who had guarded your tent.

Guilt eats at you. You've spent years thinking of him as a spur in your side, an annoying bee that wouldn't stop stinging every chance he had. Now you owe him your life, and you realize perhaps you have been too harsh on him, too cruel.

"Vernon fights Set," you insist gently. "I've seen him do it."

Sekhmet shrugs, the motion a powerful ripple of muscle and fur. "For now. Mortals break under divine weight. Gods endure. We are unyielding."

The sand begins to whirl around you, rising in spiraling vortices that tug your clothes and hair. You feel the dismissal, and when you look up, the lioness is gone, but her voice still carries on the ancient wind.

Remember. Vengeance is a blade with two edges. Wield it carefully.

The red sun flares and you shield your eyes, flinching-

You wake gasping, lungs seizing. You swivel in bed, the sheets sticking to your sweaty skin. It takes a moment to get your bearings, but you realize that you're in the med tent, dim light from the moon outside filtering in.

Outside, the camp is unnaturally silent, a void where there should be a hum of activity. The wind is restless against the canvas tent, snapping in the breeze. Some of the cool air reaches you, cooling your overwarm skin.

Your body aches with a deep resonant thrum. You feel as if your bones have been hollowed and refilled with molten iron, the fire coursing through you new but not unpleasant. You lift your shirt to look at your stomach, cringing at the scar. You touch it tentatively, feeling the warmth behind it, the ridged tissue coiled with power.

Suddenly you become aware of someone else's presence. You look up to see Vernon sitting in a folding chair near the tent flap, elbows braced on his knees. His posture is slumped but alert, his eyes sharp as they stare at you. The moonlight slipping in through the canvas cuts across the sharp angles of his face, panting him in harsh light.

His shirt is torn at the shoulder, bloodstains dried rusty brown. His tattoos seem to writhe subtly in the dim light, and now that you look at them, they make more sense than they ever have: He Who Howls in Open Places. Red One. Unmoored. Crooked Star. Bind and balance, storm and dust.

With new eyes, you see the ritual for what it is - a binding sigil, scoured into Vernon's arms to tie him to Set. You look at your own arms and let out a little gasp, seeing similar markings twist on your arms, but they're a dull red, like blood dried millenia ago.

"You're awake," he observes.

You swing your legs over the cot's edge, the sand floor cold against your feet. Testing your balance, you stand. He moves like he's ready to catch you if you fall, but despite the world tipping, you remain on your feet.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"About 20 hours. It's night again."

Vernon stands and moves the flap open. Moonlight spills in like liquid silver. You notice a cookfire out in front, highlighting scattered medical supplies and materials from the camp Vernon has dragged to the front of the tent for ease.

You step outside and he follows. The night is crisp, the sky above stretching in a luminous river of stars overheard. The camp sprawls out, a ghost city left to just the two of you. Tents sag like deflated lungs, their white canvases stained with and and blood. Deep tire tracks in the sand show that the cars are gone, leading into oblivion. You notice the dark patches in the sand, your gut twisting when you realize it's blood.

"They took the vehicles," he notes. "Drove off eastward toward the old trade routes."

Your stomach twists, guilt and horror mingling as you survey the desolation. You wrap your arms around yourself, the wind tugging at your clothes. "How many dead?"

"Enough."

You look at Vernon - really look at him. The moonlight carves his profile in silver relief, the strong line of his jaw flexing as he grits his teeth in frustration, his eyes flashing in ancient anger. He's been watching over you, alone in this forsaken place, a testament to loyalty you never credited him with.

"I didn't think you'd come back," you admit.

"You're an idiot. Of course I came back. I wasn't leaving you buried under a bunch of rock, though knowing you, you were exactly where you wanted to be."

The joke falls a little flat. His tone is softened around the edges, almost affectionate. It makes your heart do something stupid, and you don't know how to answer as the words hang between you. You feel a shift, your entire perception of him changing in just a day.

"Vernon-"

He tenses. "Don't."

"Alright."

"Let's just make dinner. I'm starving."

Together, you scavenge the items Vernon has dragged to the med tent. You have to go scout for a few, the two of you working together in charged silence. You gather pots, some flatbread that is a little hard, dates in a small sack, a can of tea leaves and a can of stew meat.

The fire is already going, casting a warm glow that pushes back against the night's chill. You sit across from him on a folded blanket, knees almost touching as you watch him brew tea. He hands you a chipped mug, fingers brushing yours briefly. His touch sparks a connection, his fingers lingering briefly before he pulls away and you wrap your hands around it, letting the heat seep into your palms.

Both of you settle, the meat stewing in the pot over the fire. The moon is a bright silver coin in the sky, looking down at the two of you, pale face watchful.

"Tell me how it happened," you say quietly. "With Set."

Vernon stares into the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes. The firelight paints his face in gold and shadow, softening the sharp lines you've always associated with arrogance. Now you see weariness. Vulnerability.

"Valley of the Kings," he murmurs. "Eight years ago. Found a chamber no one had catalogued and I just went in head first. I was arrogant then - still am, I guess. You know what it's like to chase after knowledge and glory though."

He pauses, touching the tattoos on his forearm absently. His fingers trace the ink, as if seeking reassurance.

"Set was waiting. Poured right into me, though I didn't know what was happening. Unlike Nadia, I was not a willing host. Everyone else died. I woke up three days later with these marks and a god laughing in my head."

You listen, guilt turning your stomach over. All this time you'd look at Vernon and see vanity and rebellion. Now you see him for what he truly is - tired under the weight of being a prison for something most people cannot fathom.

"He isn't evil," Vernon says slowly. "Not exactly. Chaos isn't evil - it's change without permission. It's discord and upheaval and it frightens people. But he is not inherently evil, though I suppose many can argue that the results make him so." A faint smile tugs his lips. "We fight constantly. I win sometimes. Sometimes I don't."

"Sekhmet told me to beware him. That you might not be able to contain him."

"Maybe she's right, but I'm pretty stubborn. I've been doing this for eight years and I'm better at it now than I was then." He sighs. "Your turn."

You tell him what happened in the chamber - about the altar, the cold stone against your skin. The way Voss stabbed you in the gut to bleed you out for the ritual. You see anger flash in his eyes then, raw and ancient. Somewhere, thunder rumbles and you cast your eyes up toward a clear sky, wondering how confident Vernon is in his control.

"Her wrath was overwhelming," you admit. "Sekkmet is a lot of things. She's purification through fire, she's war, she's Ra's divine justice. But she is also full of wrath, and it's so at ends with who I am. But I was angry and desperate and afraid of dying."

"No shame in that. Sometimes we want retribution for the things that happen to us."

"Is that what you're searching for? Retribution?"

"More like freedom. Set is alright but it's been a long time since I've had my thoughts to myself."

"He's talkative?"

"Sekhmet isn't?"

You shake your head. You feel her there, watching your conversation with Vernon like a predator, but she keeps her thoughts to herself. She is a hot grain of sand in the back of your mind, subtle but there.

"Must be nice." He grunts, amused. "Set whispers chaos. Tries to push for opportunities to unmake things. Burn it all down and rebuild something new on the ashes. Most days I can tune him out. Some days…"

He shrugs, the motion casual but his eyes hold yours, heavy with a vulnerability you've never seen from him before. Without thinking, you reach toward him, brushing your fingers across his wrist. The contact sparks again, but this time it's literal.

Crimson flame licks down your arm and you jump, watching your tattoos come to life. Lightning dances across Vernon's arm, white-blue and staticky. The flame and lightning meet in a swirl of energy that tingles but doesn't burn, twining like old friends.

Neither of you pulls away, watching with parted lips as the colors shift until they fade. His tattoos burn faint blue, yours dark red, both of you lingering until the tattoos fade and the power vanishes beneath the surface of your skin again.

Vernon's mouth twitches. "He says like calls to like."

Hm, Sekhmet hums, displeased. I'm not so sure about that.

"What about Voss," you ask, drawing your hand back slowly. Vernon frowns. "What do you think he's planning?"

"Power. I just don't understand what."

"When I was in the temple, Voss asked Montu to lead him to Maahes."

That stirs Sekhmet. You feel her uncurl like a feline, her anger sparking as she paces in your mind. You give her a questioning prod and she growls.

My son.

"Oh," you say outloud. Vernon raises his brows, confused. "Maahes is the son of Sekhmet. I forgot. The lion to the lionness."

Traitor, she hisses. Folly. They claim he perfects what I cannot, that he is discipline where I am unchecked.

"Well do you know where they're going?" You wince and look at Vernon. "Sorry, is there a way to not talk to myself when I'm trying to talk to her? This is awkward."

"She can read your thoughts. I just think at Set and it sort of works. Sometimes I talk out loud too, though. Especially when he's pissing me off."

There is a temple deep in Wadi Al-Hitan, Sekhmet hisses. It is where he is bound. Maahes knows the way to Apophis.

You repeat what she said to Vernon. The reaction is instant, his face twisting in anger as his entire body goes rigid. His pupils blow wide and black, lines of white and molten blue crawling along his tattoos. The wind around the fire picks up, whipping sand into spirals that hiss against the fire.

A sound tears out of Vernon, not quite human, not quite animal. It's the howl of the desert storm giving voice, centuries of hatred pressed into a single note. The fire gutters and you instinctually hold out a palm, feeling power radiate through you as you buffet the flame.

"Apophis," Vernon snarls, laced with a voice that isn't his own. "They're going to wake the serpent."

You feel Sekhmet growl, her words coming through you. "Let them try."

Vernon's hands tremble, his knuckles white as he makes a fist. "Set has been Apophis's executioner since the world was new. Every dawn, every night, he drives the spear into the serpent's throat so the sun can rise again. If Voss means to unleash Apophis-"

He cuts himself off, swearing in Ancient Egyptian. The words are strange and guttural in his mouth, spoken with the perfect accent and articulations. The words resonate with you in a different way now than they had before, a language you studied becoming a language you instinctually know.

"Voss wants to be a vessel off Apophis."

"And destroy the fucking world while he's at it," Vernon growls.

Set surges again, a tide of lightning behind Vernon's eyes. The tattoos pulse like living things, wards straining. For a heartbeat, you think he's going to let loose and set the entire camp ablaze in lighting. But he breathes through it, slow and deliberate, forcing the god down by sheer will.

"We cannot let that happen," he murmurs, looking at you. His eyes are his own again, but he looks strainted and tired. "Set likes chaos, but not this. Not at the hand of Apophis."

"We?"

His mouth twitches. "You bailing on me, Stacks?"

Sekhmet's growl is in your voice when you say, "Never."

Vernon nods, grinning at you for the first time since Voss opened the seal to reveal revenants. You smile back, feeling the savage delight of your god as she paces, eager and ready to hunt.

For the first time since Voss stabbed you with that knife, you're not afraid.

You're ready.

-

The sun claws its way over the horizon, spilling molten gold across the dunes. Heat simmers already, distorting the endless sea of sand. Your boots sink ankle-deep with each step you take, the grains shifting as you trek. Your muscles are already screaming, each step requiring effort.

You and Vernon have been walking since dawn, packs heavy with scavenged supplies. You're thankful you have the newfound strength of a god, otherwise you'd never have been able to stuff the packs as much as you have. Water sloshes around in the canteens with each step, your pack stocked full of water, food, and a slim selection of medical supplies.

The medical supplies are a precaution. As evidenced by your recent stabbing, your healing is different now, aided by the goddess who keeps watch inside of you. It's a nice perk - kind of like the fact that you're not out of breath after hours of walking and you're not keeling over - but being the vessel of an ancient entity doesn't make the trek less tiring or the sun less hot.

Barrâmîya lies ahead, a distant smudge on the GPS. The dusty outpost is now your lifeline, though if you can't get a hold of a car you're not sure what the plan is. Wadi al-Hitan is hours away from Luxor, up north in Egypt's Western desert. The Valley of the Whales is vast, and somewhere lies a hidden temple to Maahes, whose location is only known by the gods living inside of you and Vernon.

Vernon walks a pace ahead, keffiyeh wrapped around his head and face to hide him from the sun. His stride is steady despite the heat, and sweat darkens his shirt, clinging to the lines of his back.

"Keep up, Stacks," he calls over his shoulder, smirking at you. "Wouldn't want you collapsing before the sun gets to the worst part of the day."

You roll your eyes but there's no bite in it. Not anymore. His smugness used to grate against you, but now it feels almost comforting. Familiar in a sea of gold and red and endless heat.

"I'm fine, worry about yourself."

"I'm doing great. Set loves the desert."

Sekhmet huffs in your mind, a low growl of disdain. Naive, she purrs. He teases to hide the storm.

You ignore her, focusing on the burn in your thighs as you crest another dun. The sand here is finer, almost silken, slipping away under foot. Wind hisses across the surface, carrying grains that sting your exposed skin like needles. Far off, a hawk circles, its cries loud against the vast silence.

Vernon was right about the sun. It climbs higher, turning the world into a furnace. He keeps you talking though, like he's trying to keep your mind off the heat. It's nice. You tell him about your mother, about how she chased threads of hidden history beneath Egypt.

He pauses on the top of a rise, shielding his eyes against the glare. He smiles, glancing down at you. "She was onto something, I guess. Smart. I see where you get it from."

The heat you feel has nothing to do with the sun. You stop next to him, panting as you both break to take sparing sips of water. "What about you? How'd you get into history?"

"Parents passed when I was a kid - car accident. Uncle took me in. He was a wealthy bastard obsessed with history. He used to drag me to museums and auctions. He was nice, if not a little hyperfocused on his hobbies. He funded my degrees. I thought it was a pretty cool life until Set decided to hitch a ride."

Guilt flickers inside of you. You've judged him for years, only seeing the tomb raider, never the man chained to chaos. "I'm sorry. For um. Well. My assumptions of you the last few years."

We waves it off. "Don't go soft on me now, Stacks. I like the fire."

Your heart does something stupid in your chest, Sekhmet snarling in annoyance. Guard your heart.

The day drags, the sun a hammer pounding relentlessly. Mirages taunt on the edge of your vision, but you both keep moving. Your throat remains parched despite sips of the canteen and exhaustion gnaws as you as the sun dips down toward the late afternoon. Divine energy sustains you, keeping your legs moving when mortal will would fail.

By dusk, Barrâmîya appears. You think it's a mirage at first, but Vernon lets out a sigh of relief and you know it's real. The town is a cluster of low mud-bricked buildings huddled around a well, palms swaying in the breeze. The air cools as you stumble in, the scent of baked earth replaced by spices from a market stall.

Locals eye you warily, two dust-caked strangers staggering in from the desert. Coin speaks louder than questions though, and when Vernon pulls out a wad of folded money, no one looks warily at you again.

The inn you find is a squat structure, walls cracked from the endless sun. Lanterns swing outside in the breeze as the last of the sun dies beyond the horizon. There's only a single room left, and you're both too tired to care. The two narrow cots shoved against opposite walls is good enough for you, a single window letting in moonlight as you collapse on a bed.

Vernon drops onto the bed closest to you, breathing out tiredly. You turn your head to glance at him in the dim light. The room is tiny and though his bed is against the other wall, he's close enough to hear his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest steady. Your eyes trace the tattoos on his arms, inky in the dim.

He catches you looking and smirks. "See something you like, Stacks?"

Heat flushes your cheeks. "Just wondering if you ever shut up."

He laughs. "There's the fire I like."

The room feels smaller as you lie back, staring at the ceiling cracks like ancient veins. Tomorrow, you need to get a car. From there, the wadi. But tonight, you need sleep, despite the fact that the air between you and the man across from you is charged with something new. Just something… more.

-

The sun is a brutal disk of white by the time you and Vernon get into a battered jeep the next morning. Vernon doesn't explain how he had bartered for it - all he'd said was he found a ride as he'd come back into the room before dawn, kicking dust off his boots. You didn't ask, too grateful to not be walking in the blistering heat as he starts the engine with a guttural cough that doesn't sound promising for a lengthy trip.

Inside the car smells like old oil and sun-baked vinyl and the faint smell of storms that you've come to associate with Vernon. He looks tired in the driver's seat, adjusting the rearview mirror, eyes sliding over to you as you buckle your seatbelt.

"Ready?" He asks, voice rough. You nod and make a sound when the vehicle lurches forward, tires spinning in the sound before catching. "My bad."

Behind you, Barrâmîya shrinks to a smudge on the horizon, then nothing. The Western Desert stretches ahead of you, a vast sea of ochre and gold that stretches under a sky so blue you have to shield your eyes to look out the dusty window. Heat rises in shimmering waves, distant rock formations wavering like ghosts in the high-heat of morning.

Hours bleed together as Vernon drives east. There's only a single road that cuts across this part of Egypt, the cars few and far between. Occasionally, the jeep bounces, hitting holes in the road that no one bothers to fix. This far from the main cities, it doesn't matter, but as you near the east coast of Egypt, the road smooths out.

Vernon drives with one hand on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road. You glance at the tattoos peeking from under his rolled sleeves, the ink harsher in the dark light. You look down at your own, the dusty red ink winding in whorls you now understand. Something has shifted between the two of you now, the sharp silences dulling to something softer and far more comfortable. You catch yourself watching the way his fingers flex on the steering wheel, the line of his throat when he swallows, the way his eyes narrow against the glare.

Sekhmet stirs in the back of your mind. Naive, she growls. She seems to favor that word to describe you. He is chaos and wrapped in flesh. Affection is useless.

You ignore her, focusing on the expanding blue of the Red Sea with Marsa Alam rising in the distance. The tropical paradise is at ends with the tension in the car, the desert giving way to a resort town that feels entirely out of place with the violence of the last two days. Vernon says nothing, but the tension in his jaw increases as he turns north to get on the highway and follow the coast.

"What do you think Voss is really after?" You ask eventually, eyes stuck on the endless blue of the Red Sea. "Beyond power, I mean. He has Montu. Why chase Maahes and Apophis?"

Vernon's grip on the wheel tightens. "Apophis is powerful. If Voss can harness that power, he can rewrite the world in his image."

"I don't like that."

"Neither do we."

We. You notice the way he says the word, speaking for him and Set. You wonder how much of Vernon is Set and the other way around. Eight years with a god inside of your head is hard to imagine, even as you feel Sekhmet's prowling silence now. You wonder what it was like for him and what he was like before.

"Set doesn't like Apophis," you note.

Vernon shakes his head. "Set and Apophis have been at each other's throats since the world was new. Set's killed him in many lifetimes. The idea that the serpent could wake under Voss's control is unsettling."

"What was it like for you? With Set, I mean. With Sekhmet it's…" You fight to find words, looking at your hands in your lap, the tattoos dark. "She's always there, but quiet. Sometimes I get the sense that she's pacing, like she's waiting to attack. But it also feels warm. Safe."

"Set's louder. The first year with him was hell, honestly. I'd suddenly get angry and the sky would open up with rain and lightning, or I'd just lose myself to him entirely."

"That sounds terrifying."

"It was. We learned some balance, though."

Unlikely, Sekhmet mutters.

You ignore her. "How'd you do it?"

"I don't fight him head on anymore. Sometimes we have a bit of a fight for control, but ultimately this is my body and I'm still me. When we fight head on, it tires me out and it's easier for him to slip in."

You nod. "Makes sense."

"Some advice - don't ignore her. It's very isolating. Talk to her out loud if you have to. They like being acknowledged and makes them feel less like prisoners and more like partners, even if they're assholes."

Sekhmet huffs in your mind, but there’s a reluctant amusement in it. He is not entirely wrong. Though his god is far louder than I.

You repeat what she says to him and Vernon smirks, glancing at you sidelong. "Set says Sekhmet is stuck up. Old family drama, I think."

The sun climbs higher as the conversation dies out, exhaustion weighing you both down. To the west is an endless landscape of red, to the east, only blue. Vernon's hand brushes yours when he reaches for water, a spark going up your arm. You jerk your hand back, startled. If he notices, he says nothing, uncapping the bottle to take long pulls of water. You catch yourself staring at the line of his throat as he drinks.

By early afternoon you've reached the point of turning west to drive inland again, Wadi al-Hitan still hours away. Your head leans heavy on the head rest, eyes heavy as the jeep ambles. Vernon glances at you, mouth twitching.

"Sleep," he murmurs.

"No, it's okay. We can switch if-"

"Sleep, Stacks. It's been years since Set and I joined, but I remember how exhausting those first few days were. We have about six hours until we hit the Wadi."

"But-"

"Sleep." His tone is gentle, but the way he looks at you brokers no argument. "I need you at your best, yeah?"

Your stomach flutters a little and you nod, sinking down in your seat to lean heavier against the door. The glass is warm on your forehead, the vibrations of the car on the road a constant lull as you close your eyes, trusting Vernon to get you to where you need to go.

The jeep’s engine rumbles low as you drift in and out of uneasy sleep, the road vibrating through the cracked seat and into your bones. The sun has dipped low, painting the desert in deep oranges and blood-reds that bleed across the horizon like an open wound. Heat still clings to you, but you slip into sleep, the world fading.

Black basalt gleams under torchlight, the air thick with myrrh and the crackle of fire from braziers. Vernon stands in the hypostyle hall, shadows clinging to him. He looks different, the blood and dust gone, revealing only the sharp lines of his face that are softened by the firelight. His tattoos glow faintly, the binding wards shifting like living ink as he steps closer, dark eyes locked on you. The space between you shrinks until he's right in front of you, warm breath ghosting across your lips.

His hand comes up, calloused fingers brushing your jaw softly. You shiver and he smiles, tilting his head as his dark eyes drink you in. "You're impossible," he murmurs. "You know that, Stacks?"

You lean into him on instinct, tilting your face into his touch. "Am I?"

He kisses you then. It's anything but soft. Instead, it's hungry and desperate, like he's been holding back for years and the dam is finally broken. His mouth is hot against yours, tasting of salt and desert, his mouth like the static of a storm against yours. One hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair to pull you closer while the other presses against your lower back, anchoring you to him.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours. You moan into his mouth, shivering as you press into him, hands fisting in shirt, the fabric bunching under your fingers. He makes a low sound in his throat in response and presses you against a column, the cold stone a sharp contrast to the heat of his skin and Sekhmet's fire in your veins.

"Vernon," you whisper, voice broken.

He lifts his head, eyes dark and blown. "What do you need?"

Instead of answering, you pull him back to you, kissing him harder, tongues tangling. His thigh slides between yours, the pressure perfect and maddening. Heat pools low in your belly and-

You flinch awake as Sekhmet's roar shatters the dream like glass. Your heart slams against your ribs as you gather your bearings and realize you're still in the jeep, the engine humming. Night has fully claimed the desert, the sky a vast, black dome scattered with stars so bright they look close enough to touch. The headlights of the car cut twin beams through the darkness, illuminating jagged rock formations as Vernon drives deep into Wadi al-Hitan.

Vernon glances at you. "You okay?"

Your face burns. The dream clings to you - his mouth, his hands, the way your body had arched into him. You can still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin. You sit up straighter, pressing your thighs together against the lingering ache, and clear your throat. “Sorry. Bad dream.”

He glances at you, one eyebrow raised, the corner of his mouth twitching in that familiar smug way. But there’s something softer underneath tonight, a quiet concern in the way his eyes linger.

Sekhmet snarls in your mind, Do not let his shadow touch you so easily.

You ignore her, focusing instead on the road ahead. The wadi has closed in around you, towering sandstone cliffs rising on either side, their layered strata glowing faintly under starlight. Wind whistles through the narrow canyons, carrying faint echoes that sound almost like distant howls that make you shiver.

"We're about an hour into Wadi al-Hitan." Vernon has one hand on the wheel, the other on the gear shift, putting the jeep into all-wheel drive. "I can feel Set pulling toward something, but he's a bit vague. I don't think he knows where to go. Does Sekhmet?"

You nod, closing your eyes for a moment. Sekhmet stirs, still irritated from the dream, but she answers with reluctant precision. You see images flashing behind your eyelids: a narrow side canyon that branches left, a cluster of fossilized whale bones half-buried in the rock face, a steep descent into a hidden valley where the cliffs open up.

"Left at the next fork," you murmur when you open your eyes. "Then follow the dry riverbed until the whale skeletons appear on the right. The temple is beyond them off the road tucked into the cliff wall where the light can't reach."

He doesn't question the instructions. He turns the wheel, the headlights sweeping across jagged rock as he navigates off the road and down the narrow track. The path grows rough, loose stones clattering against the undercarriage as the car creaks with every dip. You can see the cliffs clooming closer, the faces carved by years and years of wind and floods.

The closer you get, the more your anxiety coils. The air grows heavier, charged with the same sense of doom you'd felt in Montu's temple. Sekhmet paces restlessly in your mind, her presence a low burn of anticipation and warning. You can feel her fire under your veins, increasing in temperature as Vernon drives.

You think of the Temple of Montu, of the khopesh twisting deep in your gut, of the pain and the fire, the sand raining down on you as you bled out on the altar. That fear morphs into rage, a small fire at first but gradually blooming into something hot and wild as Sekhmet growls, a huntress closing in on her prey.

"You okay?" He asks, the softness in his voice catching you off guard. "You look tense."

"I can feel the rage," you murmur as you stare ahead. "Both mine and hers. Hers amplifies mine."

"Do you want to talk about it?" You hesitate. "You can tell me, Stacks."

The nickname lands differently now, less mocking, more familiar. You feel the pull to Vernon again, and you wonder if he feels it, this thing between you. Perhaps it's only in your head, amplified by the exhaustion and divine fire hiding inside of you.

"I was so afraid," you whisper, thinking back to those last few moments. "It hurt so much and for a while that was all I could think about. Then I started to get cold and all I could think about was that I hoped wherever my mom is, she couldn't see what happened, that she would never know how I was going to die alone and afraid in a collapsing temple."

Vernon's hands grip the wheel, knuckles going bone white as your words fade. You'd never been afraid to die until it was about to happen. Ancient history had taught you how sacred death was, that dying was just another journey and adventure. But in that single moment alone and bleeding out, you realized how terrifying it was, how painful it was to be entirely alone and without help.

"I'm so fucking sorry," Vernon rasps. You glance up at him to see him staring out the front dash, eyes burning. "I shouldn't have left you. I was angry and I was going to pack your things and come get you and- fuck, Stacks. I shouldn't have left you."

You shrug. "I didn't make it easy on you."

"Doesn't matter. I knew it was dangerous and I thought I could just… do it my way. I'm sorry."

He seems to mean it, Sekhmet sniffs. Interesting.

I told you, you think back to her. He's different.

The goddess says nothing as the jeep descends into a deeper canyon, the walls rising higher until they block out most of the stars. The headlights catch on scattered fossils of massive whale vertebrae that are half-buried in the rock, ancient burns turned to stones over millions of years.

"Slow down here," you murmur, sitting up in the car, entirely awake now. "The entrance is just past the largest skeleton. It looks like a natural fissure, but it opens into the temple courtyard."

Vernon eases off the gas, the jeep crawling forward. The headlights sweep across the cliff face, illuminating a narrow vertical crack in the rock that looks barely wide enough for a person, let alone a vehicle. Beyond it, the darkness is absolute.

He kills the engine but leaves the headlights on. The sudden silence is deafening, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and the distant sigh of wind through the wadi. Vernon turns to you, one arm draped over the steering wheel, his expression serious in the dashboard glow.

“Ready?” he asks. His voice is quiet, but there’s steel beneath it. “We go in together. No heroics. If it feels wrong, we get out.”

"I'll listen to you this time."

He smirks. "I'll believe it when I see it, Stacks."

You both step out into the cool darkness, your skin turning to goosebumps. The slamming of the jeep door is too loud, echoing in the canyon before dying down. Vernon leads the way to the stone fissure, which is narrower than it looked from the jeep. You have to turn sideways to slip through, your shoulders scraping against stone as you follow Vernon through the crevice.

It's easier to see in the dark with Sekhmet present, your eyes adjusting easily to accommodate for the lack of light. Her presence flares brighter the moment you cross the threshold, her power a hot coal in your chest as she directs you toward a long corridor with a carved-lion headed sentinel.

"Left," you murmur to Vernon, voice echoing. "Then down the ramp. She said the main hall is lit."

Vernon listens without question. He hand brushes the small of your back for half a second as you step into a large room, steadying you before he moves ahead. He takes the left and leads you down a corridor, both of you silent as you creep along.

Gold light greets you as you step into the main hall suddenly. Golden-orage flames flicker in shallow stone bowls set into the walls, casting dancing light across the walls. The carvings in the wall are pristine here, untouched by the desert wind and protected by the cliffs. You marvel at the reliefs: Maahes in his lion form, devouring enemies, his mane wreathed in solar fire; processions of priests carrying offerings of meat and wine; scenes of the lion god standing behind Sekhmet, both of them pathed in blood.

My deepest pride, the goddess growls. My biggest regret.

The hall is entirely empty. Your boots echo on the flagstones as you step deeper into the main hall. It's warmer, the brazier's heat making sweat bead along your hairline. Vernon stays close, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours and sending sparks through your spine.

"Voss, was here," Vernon mutters. "Brazier's don't light themselves. But where did they go?"

Deeper, Sekhmet urges. Into the heart.

The two of you move together down a wide ramp that spirals gently into the earth. The walls grow closer, the carvings showing lions with open jaws, flames pouring from their mouths, scenes of Apophis writhing beneath Maahes's claws. Your pulse quickens as you walk, feeling Sekhmet's energy pulse in time with yours.

The ramp ends in a grand antechamber. More braziers burn here, their light reflecting off polished obsidian inlays that make the walls look like liquid night. The floor is inlaid with a massive mosaic of a lion devouring a serpent. The air feels heavier, charged, as if the temple itself is holding its breath.

Great stone lion statues on pillars bellow into the night, their faces twisted in anger. You pull up short when you look at them, something in your gut twisting like when you'd seen the falcons outside of Montu's temple. You get the sense of something that ripples down Sekhmet's spine like an angry cat-

Stone grinds. You look up to see the stone lions tearing themselves from the columns, all four of them crashing down to the ground. Dust flies as you and Vernon step back. They're twice the size of natural lions, their bodies made of living basalt veined with glowing red lines of fire. Their eyes burn red as they shake the dust from their shoulders, teeth grinding like rock as they prowl toward you.

"Shit," Vernon swears.

Power floods your veins as Sekhmet surges forward. Your hands burn and you don't even think - you just reach outward with both of your hands, twin khopesh blades manifesting in your grip, their bronze edges blazing crimson. The weapons feel perfectly balanced, humming with Sekhmet's wrath as the lions charge.

Vernon's spear appears in his hands with a crack of thunder, the same weapon you'd seen in Montu's temple crackling with lightning. He surges forward to meet the first lion head on as you challenge another, spinning as one khopesh slashes upward in a blazing arch. The blade cuts through the living stone like it's clay, shearing off a chunk of the lion's shoulder in a spray of sparks and rock.

The guardian roars in rage, swinging a massive paw at your head. You duck under it and drive the second blade into the creature's flank, gritting your teeth as Sekhmet roars inside of you. Flame explodes outward, cracking the basalt apart from the inside, causing the lion to shatter and collapse into rubble.

Vernon is a living storm beside you, shadow-stepping through darkness to reappear behind another lion and drive his spear through its spine. Lightning erupts along the shaft, spiderwebbing across the stone body in brilliant white cracks. The stone lion convulses and fractures, shattering the same way yours had moments before.

The two of you fall into a sync without words as the last two guardians descend, becoming flame and storm. You blast one of the lions with fire, knocking it back before it can get to Vernon before you challenge it head on, ducking as it swipes at you. You spin and bring down both blades on its neck, severing the stone head as Sekhmet's strength burns through you, hot and liquid.

Vernon plants his spear into his lion's side, sending a bolt of lightning that hits the creature with an explosion that leaves your ears ringing. Dust billows thick through the antechamber as you shield yourself from stray rock and dust as Vernon's killing blow finishes. He stands a few paces away, spear dissolving into sparks, chest heaving. His eyes meet yours across the settling dust, dark, wild, and something else.

For a second the air between you crackles with more than divine power, but Sekhmet's growl cuts it short. They're gone.

You nod. "She says they're gone."

Vernon nods once, jaw tight. “Let’s make sure.”

The final corridor is shorter, narrower, lined with carvings of Maahes standing triumphant over Apophis. The braziers here burn lower, as if whatever ritual was performed has already drained them. You push through a last set of massive stone doors that stand slightly ajar, their surfaces carved with roaring lions.

The heart of the temple opens before you, a circular chamber, vast and domed, the ceiling lost in shadow high above. A single massive altar of black basalt dominates the center, its surface still stained with fresh blood and scattered with remnants of ritual. You absently press your hand to your stomach, feeling the heat of where the blade had entered you, the wound that Sekhmet had burned shut.

I am here, she murmurs.

Vernon touches your arm, drawing your attention. His eyes are dark, a storm sparking behind them. "You're not alone." He pauses and rolls his eyes. "Set says you have nothing to fear."

Sekhmet gives a deliberate hmph but you smile, thankful for their presence - even the God of Chaos.

The chamber is empty like Sekhmet said. No Voss. No Nadia-Montu. No Dr. el-Masri or remaining security. Only the echo of your footsteps and the faint crackle of dying flames. The last of Sekhmet's fire fades beneath your skin as you walk through the chamber, the twin blades vanishing from your hands.

"Gone like she said."

You nod, staring at the bloodstained altar. The scent of smoke and iron is thick. You sink down onto the edge of the altar, legs suddenly heavy. Vernon hesitates only a moment before sitting beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch. The stone is warm from the braziers. The chamber feels strangely peaceful after the violence, and for a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Vernon’s voice is low when he finally breaks the silence. “I liked the blades."

You let out a shaky breath, staring at your hands. The tattoos on your arms have faded back to dull red, but you can still feel the fire. “I think Sekhmet did most of the work. Felt like I knew exactly what to do, though."

He huffs a quiet laugh, leaning back on his hands. “Set’s the same. Sometimes it feels like I’m just along for the ride. Other times it feels like we're working together."

The silence stretches again. Vernon settles back and his shoulder presses a little firmer against yours. You glance at him but he isn't watching you, his gaze focused on the dim fire of the chambers. You can feel the warmth of him beside you, the steady rhythm of his breathing. He shifts slightly, his boot scraping against the stone floor.

“I keep thinking about it,” he says, breaking the silence as he stares. “Leaving you in that corridor. I was pissed, and I told myself you were a grown woman who could make her own choices, but I knew better. I knew Voss was planning something bad. I should’ve dragged you out of there kicking and screaming if I had to. I shouldn’t have walked away.”

The words hang in the air between you. You stare at him, surprised at the admission. His jaw is tight, the line of it sharp in the low light, and his hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing once like he’s fighting the urge to clench them into fists. He looks exhausted and it twists something in your chest.

You turn toward him, studying the side of his face. The firelight catches on the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the way his dark eyes reflect the dying embers like distant lightning. He’s always worn that smug, untouchable mask so well, but right now it’s cracked, and you can see the other version of him beneath it, the one who sat guard outside your tent and who kept you grounded in the medical tent after that first night of slaughter.

"It isn't your fault, Vernon." You tentatively reach out, resting your hand on his forearm. The skin there is warm, the ink slightly raised under your fingertips. “I was angry. Stubborn. I didn’t want to listen because I thought you were coddling me and I've spent most of my life chasing after my mom's dream. I made the choice to go deeper. You tried to stop me. Multiple times. I’m the one who ignored every warning.”

He doesn’t pull away from your touch, but his shoulders tense. “Doesn’t change the fact that I left you there to bleed out on an altar. I should have made you listen."

The guilt is eating at him, you realize. It’s weighing on him like the collapsed temple itself, pressing down on his shoulders. You can see it in the tight set of his mouth, the way his free hand flexes against his thigh. This isn’t the smug Vernon who called you Stacks and made you see red. This is someone who’s been carrying too much for too long - Set's chaos, his own secrets, and guilt that you can't even begin to understand.

You squeeze his arm gently, thumb brushing over one of the binding wards. “Hey. Look at me.” He does, reluctantly, dark eyes meeting yours. In the dim light they look almost black. "When have I ever done what you asked?"

He scoffs a little. "I guess."

"You came back. That means a lot to me."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

“Don’t be nice to me just because you understand me better now.” His voice is rough, edged with that familiar tone when he'd been an ass all those years, but there's a vulnerability you feel now that you know how to look for it. "You spent years hating me and you had every right to. You don't owe me comfort now just because you know I'm carrying Set."

You hold his gaze, refusing to look away. “I’m not being nice because I feel sorry for you. I’m saying it because it’s true. And so what if I regret how I treated you. I was wrong. Though, to be fair, I think you were pushing my buttons on purpose."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I was."

You snort. "Why?"

He looks at you for a long moment, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "Liked your fire, and when you were mad at me, it made me feel seen. At least you not liking me was honest."

"I didn't hate you. I just… really didn't like you."

He smirks. “I’ve always been impressed by you, you know. You're incredibly smart and your commitment to the right thing reminds me of myself before Set. I always liked that about you."

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is, the warmth of his body, the way his fingers linger on yours, the dark intensity in his eyes as they drop to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning to yours.

Sekhmet growls but you ignore her, your heart pounding in your chest as you stare at him. "I thought you thought I was naive and stupid."

"Stacks, I think the fucking world of you."

"Really?"

"Mhm." His eyes drop down to your mouth again. "Can I be honest?"

Your heart thuds. "Yes."

"I really want to fucking kiss you right now."

You suck in a sharp breath, your hand on his arm tightening a fraction. Licking your lips, you murmur, "I'm not going to stop you."

Vernon doesn't hesitate. He presses forward, his mouth meeting yours in a kiss that starts slow but quickly deepens, hungry and desperate, like he’s been holding back for far longer than you realized. His lips are warm, slightly chapped from the desert, and they move against yours with a certainty that makes your head spin. One hand reaches up to rest on your cheek, the other sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as he pulls you closer.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, hands fisting in his torn shirt, the fabric bunching under your fingers. The taste of him - salt and something static - floods your senses. Heat blooms low in your belly, and when his tongue brushes yours and you part your lips for him, he groans low in his throat, the kisses turning deeper.

Immediately you think of the dream as you cling to him, the room spinning. Sekhmet is nowhere to be found as you press into him, his hands tangling in your hair, tongue sweeping against yours. You make a small sound and he breaks the kiss, panting.

“Fuck, Stacks,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Tell me to stop and I will. Right now.”

Instead, you pull him back down, kissing him harder, deeper, tongues sliding together in a messy, desperate tangle. He groans into your mouth, the sound low, vibrating through your chest. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, then lower, palming your ass as he hauls you fully into his lap on the edge of the altar. The stone is still warm from the braziers, but nothing compared to the heat of his body pressing against yours.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. He bites your bottom lip and you whine while his tongue darts out to soothe the sting with his tongue. “Watching you glare at me across every dig, every conference, pretending I didn’t want to shove you against the nearest wall and kiss the fucking shit out of you."

Your laugh is breathless, turning into a moan when he rolls his hips up, letting you feel exactly how hard he already is. “You were such an asshole on purpose.”

"Yeah. You're hot when you're mad. And you not liking me was something."

He kisses you again, slower this time, savoring, like he’s memorizing the taste of you. His hands are greedy, sliding under your shirt, the callouses on his fingers scraping across your hips before skimming up your ribs to cup your chest through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble tight.

"Oh," you breathe.

"Yeah?" He smirks, mouth sucking greedily along your jaw. "Been driving me insane for years."

Vernon leans up to peel your shirt off, his eyes hungry as he takes in the sight of you. The scar on your stomach glows faintly red in the low light, and he ducks down to press open-mouthed kisses along the ridged line, tongue tracing every inch.

“Mine,” he murmurs against your skin, the word possessive and rough. "Mine to protect, mine to touch."

He lays you back on the wide basalt altar, the stone warm against your bare back. His mouth follows, worshipping every inch of skin he uncovers. He kisses the hollow of your throat, the curve of your collarbone, the sensitive underside of your breasts. His hands snap the claps in the back and peel the fabric off you, the scrape of it against your skin making you shiver. When he finally closes his mouth over one nipple, sucking hard while his hand palms the other, you cry out, back arching off the stone.

"Fuck," you hiss.

He hums, the vibration shooting straight between your legs. “That’s it. Let me hear you. Finally using that crass language I adore.”

He takes his time, mouth and hands mapping your skin. Your mind goes blank, the feeling of his mouth and hands on you turning you to static. Heat blooms where he kisses, your body feeling the electricity underneath his skin as he plants kisses down your stomach.

A few days ago, you'd never imagine Vernon touching like this. Now that he is, you can't imagine him not touching you. You never want him to stop, never want the heat of his palms to leave your ass or the wet press of his mouth to stray too far. For too long have you watched him, irritated but intrigued, and now that you've tasted him, you don't want to stop.

When Vernon finally moves lower, hooking his fingers in your waistband and dragging your pants and underwear down in one smooth motion, he groans at the sight of you bare and glistening for him.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “So wet already. All for me?”

You nod, breathless. His hands are gentle as he spreads your thighs wide, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thighs while he settles between them. He presses open-mouth kisses down your thighs and you suck in a sharp breath when you feel the heat of his breath on your wet cunt, a thrill going through you.

The first slow, broad lick of his tongue from your entrance to your clit makes your hips jerk and a broken moan tear from your throat. Your hands shoot down to thread in the strands of his hair, twisting in the longer strands near the nape of his neck, nails scrapping on the shorter sides.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he growls, the words vibrating against your folds. “Gonna eat this pretty pussy until you’re shaking.”

The words knock the wind out of you as he presses his mouth to you, slow and messy. His tongue works you open in long strokes, circling your swollen clit before sucking it gently between his lips. Your hips twitch and your eyes squeeze shut as you arch, the feeling so good you can't do anything except squirm in his hold.

Two thick fingers slide inside you without warning, curling just right, the wet sound of him fucking them into you echoing in the temple chamber. He doesn't rush - just sucks messily at you, letting you roll your hips in broken, little twitches into his mouth.

"Fuck," you gasp, laughing as your head presses back into the stone. "Feels so good."

He groans against you. "That's it, Stacks, use me."

You do, hips rolling as he stretches you open while his tongue flicks relentlessly over your clit. The first orgasm crashes over you hard and sudden, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as your walls clamp down around his fingers. He doesn’t stop, grinning as he licks you through it, slow and messy until you're oversensitive and whimpering.

Vernon finally pulls back, lips and chin shining, eyes dark with stormclouds. "You're addicting."

Before you can catch your breath, he’s kissing you again, deep and wet with the taste of you. His fingers never leave you, thrusting slow and deep while his thumb circles your swollen clit. You moan into his mouth, hands fisting in his hair as another orgasm builds fast and overwhelming.

“Come on,” he murmurs against your lips. “Give me another. Want to feel you come on my fingers."

You do, clenching tight around his fingers as you come with a choked cry. You squeeze your eyes shut, breath coming out in choked sounds, colors blooming behind your lids. He swallows every sound you make, kissing you through it until you're boneless and panting. Only then does he pull away, bringing his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean before he kisses you again.

"Need you," he murmurs, the slide of his mouth warm against yours. "Do you want-"

"Yes," you gasp, sucking his tongue into your mouth greedily. He whimpers and you dig your nails into him, pulling at his shirt. "Please."

You help him tear his shirt off as he shoves his pants down, his heavy cock springing free. It's thick and glistening, making your stomach flip because of course the asshole tombraider has a nice cock.

Vernon settles between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance. He grins when you squirm beneath him, lifting your hips in an attempt to push him in. Instead, he rolls his hips lazily against you, smearing your arousal across your pussy as he teases you, laughing while he peppers your face in kisses.

"Desperate," he notes.

"Asshole."

"I like what it gets out of you."

Before you can retort, he pushes in slowly, inch by thick inch, splitting you open with a burn that feels better than Sekhmet's fire. When he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, both of you groan. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer as he drops his forehead to yours, kissing you sweeter than the moment calls for.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel so good. Made for me."

He starts to move then, his lips dipping with slow, deep rolls that drag against you. The pace is deliberate, his cock filling you completely with every thrust. Your nails dig into his back, keeping him close as his thrusts punch the air from your lungs.

But you want more of him.

With a surge of Sekhmet's strength, you flip him suddenly, pinning him down on the stone beneath you. His brows raise, then darken as you press your hands to his chest, keeping him flat as you roll your hips and grin.

"My turn," you whisper.

The new angle makes you both moan, the feeling deeper and fuller now. You start to ride him, slow and grinding at first, then faster, hips rolling as you chase your pleasure. Vernon’s hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise, eyes locked on where you’re joined, watching his cock disappear inside you with every bounce.

"Fuck," he groans. “Riding me so pretty. Take what you need, baby.”

The new name makes you whine. You roll your hips faster, chasing the warm knot in your belly, ignoring the burn in your thighs as you tip your head back, nails digging into his sweaty chest. He sits up suddenly, one arm wrapping around your back to hold you close while the other hand slides between you to rub tight circles over your clit.

“Come on,” he growls against your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “One more. Come on my cock.”

You nod, clinging to him as the orgasm rips through you, sharp and blinding. You cry out, walls clenching around him as you come hard. He growls, keeping you moving until he spills after you, burying his face in your neck.

Vernon falls backward and you collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick and trembling. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as the braziers flicker lower around you. One hand splays across your lower back while the other strokes slow, soothing lines up and down your spine.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The only sounds are your mingled breaths, the soft crackle of the last embers, and the distant sigh of wind moving through the wadi outside the temple. For the first time since Sekhmet burned her way into your veins, the fire inside you feels quiet and content.

Vernon presses a lazy kiss to your temple, his voice rough and low against your hair. “We should stay here tonight. It’s safer than trying to drive out in the dark with Voss and Montu somewhere ahead. We can rest, regroup.”

You nod against his chest, too boneless to argue. “Yeah. Supplies are still in the jeep, though. Water. Food. Blankets.”

“Just a bit longer,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up so he can kiss you again, slow and deep. “I mean it, Stacks. You’re mine to protect now. Not just because of the gods riding us. Because it’s you. I’m not walking away again."

You lean in and kiss him once more before resting your head on his chest. "I know."

Sekhmet stirs inside you, her presence a low, steady burn rather than the usual sharp flare of irritation. She watches the moment with the wary gaze of an old lioness.

He is determined, she notes warily. I think he might burn the world to keep you safe. Perhaps it is not a bad thing. Chaos seems to like you. Beware the love of a God.

And what about you? You ask her.

Beware of me too, child. I burn away the unworthy.

-

Dawn is pomegranate pink when you slip out of the temple's stone fissure, the cool morning air of Wadi al-Hitan not yet burning. You move in easy silence now, shoulders brushing, hands finding each other without thought as you pass Vernon the last of the scavenged supplies. The sky above shifts from pink to rose, to blue, the faint mineral bite of ancient rock still in the air.

You study a map spread out on the hood of the jeep, a pen in your hand as you keep the wind from lifting the paper edges off the metal of the car. Vernon comes up behind you, his arms sliding around your waist without hesitation, chin resting on your shoulder. The casual affection makes something warm bloom inside of you, and you lean back into him, tilting your head to the side so he can see better.

"Find the way?" He asks.

"Yeah. Sekhmet's version of directions isn't as simple as looking at a map." She growls and you grin. "But I think I've got it figured out."

"Good."

"You drove yesterday. I'll drive today."

He hums in agreement, the sound low and pleased, and gives your waist a gentle squeeze before stepping back. “Good. Means I get to watch you instead of the road.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth is genuine. “Flirt.”

"Get used to it, Stacks."

The drive out of the wadi is smoother than the journey in, the narrow track widening as you leave the canyons behind. Vernon rides shotgun, one arm draped along the back of your seat, fingers occasionally playing with the ends of your hair or tracing idle patterns on your shoulder. Every touch feels easy and open, and you catch yourself glancing over at him more than once, catching the soft curve of his smile when he catches you looking.

When the road straightens and you reach over to rest your hand on his thigh, he covers it with his own without hesitation, thumb stroking slow circles against your knuckles.

"This is nice," he says, fingers tightening on yours. "I spent a long time convincing myself the only way to keep you looking at me was to make you angry. Stupid, in hindsight.” He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of yours. “I like this better. A lot better.”

"You're going to keep doing it though, aren't you?"

"Sure am."

Two hours slip by faster than you expect. The landscape changes subtly as you draw closer to the suspected location of Apophis’s resting place, rockier, more fractured, the cliffs giving way to wide, barren plains dotted with strange, wind-sculpted formations that look almost like broken bones. The sky remains clear and mercilessly blue, but the air feels heavier, charged with something unnatural.

Then you see it.

Far ahead on the horizon, a wall of darkness is building, the storm clouds thick and alive. Black and bruised-purple thunderheads boil upward, swirling as lightning flickers inside of them in violent, blood-red forks rather than the usual white. Even from this distance, you can see the sand being whipped into violent spirals beneath the storm.

Vernon sits up straighter, his hand tightening on yours. "The serpent."

His voice startles you and you glances sideways at him, the ancient language rolling off of his tongue as Set speaks through him for a moment. Sekhmet stirs sharply in your mind in response, giving a low warning growl.

The storm grows larger as you drive toward it, the sky darkening rapidly. Wind buffets the jeep, sand stinging against the windshield like tiny needles. Vernon’s jaw clenches, tattoos beginning to glow faintly blue along his forearms as Set rises to meet the threat.

“Pull over for a second,” he says.

You ease the jeep to a stop and Vernon closes his eyes, breathing slow and deep. You feel the shift in the air immediately, your hair standing up on your arms as the energy crackles in the car. The wind around the jeep whips up for a second before it dies down, Set's calming the unnatural storm ahead. Ahead, the thunderheads still rumble, but the lightning lessens and dims to sullen flashes.

Vernon exhales sharply, opening his eyes. Sweat beads on his forehead. “That is all I can do from here. Set is fighting the serpent’s influence, but it is like trying to push back the tide. We need to get closer.”

You nod and put the jeep back in gear, pushing forward through the unnaturally calmed corridor Vernon has carved. The storm still rages ahead, but the path to the temple remains passable.

The site appears suddenly as you crest a low rise, the chaos spread out across the barren plain like a battlefield. Abandoned vehicles sit at crooked angles, doors flung open, some with hoods still smoking. Tents lie half-collapsed or shredded by wind, canvas flapping wildly. Equipment is scattered everywhere, crates overturned and tools spilled.

Dark stains mar the ground in several places, blood both dry and still fresh. The storm’s edge looms directly over the area, thunder cracking like whip strikes, red lightning illuminating the destruction in violent flashes.

“No bodies,” Vernon mutters, scanning the wreckage. “Either they ran or Voss forced them deeper.”

You kill the engine a safe distance away, heart pounding. Sekhmet’s fire surges hotter in your veins, ready. Vernon’s hand finds yours one last time, squeezing tight before you both step out into the howling wind.

The storm presses against the invisible barrier Set has created, but it holds. You feel the vibration of the storm against your small pocket of air, stepping close to Vernon as you both walk in the sand, feet sinking in step by step.

Up ahead, the entrance to the temple of Apophis yawns open, waiting and framed by cabins of coiling serpents. A ripple of anger goes through you as Sekhmet growls, and you feel the heat in your hands, ready to summon fire and weapons if necessary.

Together, you approach the temple, Vernon gritting his teeth with the force of keeping the storm at bay. You touch his wrist and he steadies a little, his focus sharpening as you pause at the temple's entrance, stone serpents hissing down at you.

"Together?" You ask.

"Together," he confirms.

The darkness of the temple swallows you whole and the wind cuts off like a door slamming shut. The air inside of the temple is thick and stale and unnaturally warm, pressing against you with the metallic tang of blood. You don't let it deter you, your footsteps silent as you and Vernon navigate the dark, guided by the eyes of Sekhmet and Set.

Prepare, Sekhmet growls.

Your palms heat as the khopesh blades manifest, burning crimson in your grip. Vernon must have the same instinct, his spear crackling blue in his hand as the air around him pops. Together, you move down the narrow corridor, the walls covered in images of coiling serpents, their eyes inlaid with polished obsidian.

Sekhmet’s presence surges hotter in your veins, a low, constant growl of warning. Deeper. They are close. The serpent stirs.

Vernon's jaw is tight as you walk. His free hand brushes yours for half a second, a silent promise as he surges forward, the passage widening into a series of antechambers. Braziers burn low and erratic here, casting dancing shadows that make the carved reliefs seem alive. You scan scenes of Apophis swallowing the sun, of chaos devouring order, of the world unraveling into endless night - but its the floor makes your stomach turn.

Blood is everywhere. Dried and fresh, dark pools and smeared streaks across the flagstones. Bodies like where they fell - laborers, students, security personnel. Throats are slit, chests are opened in ritual patterns, some with eyes open, others close. The sacrifices number in the dozens, violent and grotesque.

Sekhmet's voice growls through yours, "I drink what spills. We will end this now."

Ahead, the corridor opens into the main chamber. It's a vast, cavernous space carved deep into the living rock, its ceiling lost in shadow high above. A single colossal altar of black basalt dominates the center, its surface slick with fresh blood. Braziers ring the room in a perfect circle, flames roaring unnaturally high and red. In the middle of it all stands Voss, arms raised, chanting in a voice that is no longer entirely his own.

Nadia stands to his right, still possessed by Montu, her body thrumming with solar power. Besides her is another security team member - Tariq, you think. Maahes burns in him now, golden light leaking from the corner of his eyes and manifesting in golden armor made of light on his body.

Apophis is rising. You can feel it in the air, the serpents hiss filling the room as the ground trembles beneath your feet. Red lightning crackles across the ceiling as Voss's chant grows louder and faster, guided by Dr. al-Masri.

Nadia and Tariq turn the second you and Vernon step into the room, Nadia's smile spreading. "The Crooked Star returns."

"Ah," Tariq says. "The Eye Unbound is with him. Hello, mother."

Neither Sekhmet nor Set answer in kind. They surge forward as Nadia lunges at Vernon first, her khopesh blazing as Vernon meets her head-on, spear crackling with lightning. The God of war is fast, each crack of her blade against his spear like thunder, sending sparks flying.

You lose focus on Vernon as Tariq charges you, the might of Maahes powering him with terrifying speed. His eyes burn golden as he chops at you with a short sword. You leap to meet him, your twin khopesh blazing. The first clash of metal sparks, the impact vibrating up your arm and vibrating through your teeth. Sekhmet's strength floods you and you snarl as you press him, making Tariq stumble backward.

He disengages and feints left before striking right, and you barely parry in time. The force sends you sliding back across the blood-slick floor, feet skidding. Pain flares but you dive and roll away from another heavy swing of his sword, charging him as he recovers from the chop. Your khopesh slash across his side, carving deep wounds that sizzle flesh. He roars, Tariq's voice mixed with something ancient and furious, as he retaliates with a roaring breath of fire that makes you leap back.

Across the chamber, Vernon and Montu are locked in brutal combat. Vernon flickers in and out of shadows, spear thrusting with lethal precision while storms rage around him. Nadia counters with blinding light, fire roaring from her palms, blades and weapons manifesting and vanishing as she hammers down on him. The two gods clash in a whirlwind of lightning and fire, the chamber trembling with every blow.

"You are a whelp," Sekhmet growls through you to Tariq and he sneers. "I am the lioness. You are a cub."

He lunges, sword swinging in wide, deadly arcs. You meet each strike with your own blades, flame meeting flame in explosive bursts of light and heat that make sparks rain down around you. Maahes slams his shoulder into you, using his stolen body’s mass to drive you back against a pillar. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, but Sekhmet roars through you. You twist, bringing one khopesh down in a vicious overhead strike that catches him across the collarbone. Golden light pours from the wound like molten metal, and he howls in pain and rage, the sound shaking dust from the ceiling above.

End him, Sekhmet roars.

You press the attack, khopesh flashing, crimson flames licking up the edge of the blades. Tariq catches you once in the side, opening a shallow cut on your ribs that makes you snarl, but you push through, kicking him back and making his arm fly wide for the smallest window of opportunity. You take it, striking with both blades and driving them home into his chest.

He staggers backward, golden light spilling from the wound. His body convulses as the god within fights to stay anchored, and you refuse to let up, summoning fire in your palms. You thrust your hands forward, a rush of white flame scorching Tariq. He screams as you grit your teeth, feeling the flame run through every part of you, your veins heating with divine power.

"We burn the unworthy," you growl, feeling Sekhmet's rage and grief as the fire pours out of you.

Tariq’s body collapses to the ground, charred and smoking as the golden light flickers out. Sekhmet's wrath is edged with sadness, but she doesn't let it overwhelm either of you as both of you pivot to where Vernon drives a spear through Nadia's stomach, his lightning exploding in a blinding flash of white that makes you shield your eyes.

Vernon is storm incarnate, the wind ripping through the chamber and buffeting you as he pins Nadia to the chamber floor. He pulls the spear out, pointing it to the ceiling as he spins it fluidly in his hands again, gathering static before he strikes down again, the crack of thunder so loud that all sound goes out for a moment, your ears ringing as you clap your hands over them.

Nadia’s body goes limp as Montu’s presence flees, leaving her body behind. You stand panting in the carnage, hands over your screaming ears as Vernon leans over her, panting. When he looks up at you, it's not Vernon looking at you, but the blazing storm of Set, seething and angry. For a moment, you're terrified you've lost Vernon to the god, but you see his mouth twitch in a smile before turning to where Voss stands in the center of the room.

Voss's eyes burn gold, his pupils narrowed to serpentine slits. Black scales ripple across his skin in slow, oily waves, spreading from his throat down his chest and arms. When he smiles, his mouth splits too wide, revealing rows of needle-sharp fangs that glint in the dying brazier light. The air around him thickens, heavy with static.

“You dare interrupt the end of all things?” The voice that comes out of Voss is layered with something vast and ancient. "The Crooked Star and the Eye Unbound. How fitting. I will swallow you both before I swallow the world.”

Vernon’s grip tightens on his spear, lightning crackling louder along the shaft. "I am the chaos within the order of the world, I am the protector of disorder, I am Set, the Crooked Star, and I will devour you whole, snake."

You feel Sekhmet surge forward in your veins, her wrath a white-hot flame that sharpens every sense. Your twin khopesh blaze brighter, crimson fire licking up the blades until they glow like molten metal. The scar on your stomach burns in answer.

"I am with you," you growl.

You and Vernon move as one.

Apophis answers in kind, lunging with impossible speed, his black-scaled hands elongating into claws. The air tears as he slashes toward you. You spin left, khopesh flashing in a wide arc that meets his claws in a shower of spitting flame. The impact jars your arms, but Sekhmet’s strength holds you firm. Vernon shadow-steps right, appearing behind Apophis and driving his spear toward the serpent’s spine.

Apophis twists mid-motion, tail-like darkness whipping out to slam Vernon back. The impact sends him skidding across the blood-slick floor, but he rolls to his feet and immediately summons a violent gust of wind that hurls debris and sand into the serpent god’s face.

Your khopesh slash downward in twin blazing arcs as you seize the advantage, and one catches Apophis across the shoulder, carving a deep, smoking gash that leaks black ichor. The other bites into his side and Sehmet's fire pours into his wounds, burning away shadow and scale.

Apophis roars a sound like the world cracking open and backhands you with a clawed fists. Pain explodes across your ribs as you fly backward, slamming into a pillar hard enough that it cracks and collapses behind you.

Vernon is there in a second, shadow-stepping to pull you up roughly while thrusting his spear with the other hand. Lightning chains from the tip, striking Apophis square in the chest. The serpent god convulses, black smoke rising from the point of the impact, but he laughs through the pain, the sound wet and terrible.

"You think you can contain me?"

Apophis spreads his arms, and the chamber erupts. Shadowy serpents burst from the floor, coiling and striking with venomous speed. One lunges for you and you spin a khopesh, severing its head easily.

Together, you and Vernon fall into a perfect tandem, taking on the primordial deity of chaos. Vernon forces openings, blasting Apophis back with air and shadow stepping to draw his attention while you strike from the flank, your blades carving deal, burning wounds that Sekmhmet's fire refuses to let close.

When Apophis turns on you with a barrage of shadow claws, Vernon appears in a flicker of darkness, spear thrusting into the serpent’s side and unleashing a point-blank lightning strike that lights the entire chamber white-blue.

Apophis bellows, the sound ear-splitting. Black ichor sprays across the floor where your blades and Vernon’s spear find purchase again and again. You feel the serpent weakening, his movements growing slightly slower, the golden glow in Voss’s eyes flickering like a dying bulb.

With a roar that rattles your bones, Apophis slams both hands into the ground. The stone floor erupts in a wave of writhing shadow serpents that surge toward you like a living tide. You slash desperately, flame cutting through them in wide arcs, but there are too many. One coils around your ankle and yanks you off your feet.

Vernon’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Stacks!”

He shadow-steps through the writhing mass, spear spinning in a blazing circle of lightning that clears a path. He reaches you, grabbing your arm and hauling you upright just as Apophis lunges again, claws aimed for your throat.

Vernon drops low, sweeping his spear in a wide horizontal arc that catches Apophis across the knees, lightning exploding outward and buckling the serpent’s legs while you leap, both khopesh raised high. Sekhmet's full wrath surges through you in a single, blinding pulse of flame as you bring the blades down, a roar ripping from your throat.

The twin khopesh strike Apophis’s shoulders in perfect unison just as Vernon sends another lightning strike through the god. Divine flame and lightning meet in the middle, and for a moment, there's no sound. Then, Apophis roars, black scales shattering as fractured light spills out of him. His body convulses violently, and for an endless moment, the three of you are locked together.

Apophis finally breaks.

The serpent’s essence shatters outward in a violent burst of black smoke and golden shards that dissolve into nothing before they hit the ground. Voss’s body goes limp, collapsing to the bloodstained floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The golden glow fades from his eyes, leaving only the dull, empty stare of a man who invited a god in and paid the ultimate price.

You and Vernon collapse with him, chests heaving, weapons still glowing faintly in your hands. Sweat, blood, and ichor streak your skin. The braziers flicker lower, casting long shadows across the carnage.

Vernon’s spear dissolves into sparks. He rolls toward you, breathing hard, and reaches out. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight despite the mess covering both of you. You squeeze back, Sekhmet’s fire cooling to a gentle warmth in your veins.

The silence is deafening, only the soft pop of the last dying braziers and the distant sigh of wind through the wadi remain. Blood, ichor, and dust coat everything. Your body feels heavy, every muscle trembling with exhaustion, but Sekhmet’s fire still hums gently beneath your skin, the lioness satisfied.

Panting, you stare up at the ceiling. Your heart is still racing, adrenaline and divine power crashing through your veins in fading waves. The scar on your stomach pulses warmly, a reminder of how close you came to dying on a similar altar not so long ago.

You almost died on that altar in Montu’s temple. You watched people slaughtered for a madman’s ambition. You carried a goddess of vengeance inside you and learned how to wield her fire without losing yourself. And Vernon - Vernon, who you once hated on sight - fought beside you every step of the way.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, unexpected and hot. Not from sadness, but from the sheer overwhelming relief that you are still here. That he is still here. And that there are gods that walk in the world, that beneath the simmering history of Egypt, at the root of it all, your mother was right. There is a magical thread that makes the impossible possible - you'd just followed it to near the end of the world.

A shaky laugh bubbles up from your chest, half-hysterical, half-relieved. You turn your head to look at Vernon. He's already watching you, chest rising and falling rapidly, dust and blood streaking his face. His hair is matted with sweat, a cut on his cheek bleeding sluggishly. But his eyes are soft now, raw with something that looks a lot like awe.

“You’re insane,” he rasps, voice hoarse from shouting over the storm. A tired, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “We just killed a primordial serpent god and you’re laughing.”

"She was right," you pant. "My mom was right."

"Yeah. She was."

He shifts closer, pulling you against his side despite the mess covering both of you. His arm wraps around your shoulders, holding you tight as you turn into a combination of laughing and crying. Sekhmet is quiet inside you for once, her presence a warm, approving glow rather than the usual sharp growl.

You stay like that for a long time, tangled together on the floor of the ancient temple, bodies aching and hearts still racing. Vernon’s fingers thread through your hair, gentle despite the calluses.

"I think," he says eventually. "I would like to go on vacation for a while."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"What about that resort town we passed on the way here?" He asks.

You laugh. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, Stacks. I'm fucking tired."

"Alright. Yeah. A vacation." You pause. "Wait."

He looks down at you, concerned. "What?"

"I think I'm out of PTO soon."

He groans. "Stacks," he grumbles, mouth pressing to yours. "Fuck your PTO."

-

The sun is warm on your skin - not the punishing heat of the desert, but the salted kiss of the beach that makes everything feel soft like the sand beneath your feet. Marsa Alam stretches out in lazy blues and golds, the waves lapping against the white sand while the palm trees sway in the breeze and you curl against Vernon's side in the shaded cabana you claimed this morning.

Vernon's arm is draped around your waist, the heat of his skin slick with sweat. It doesn't bother you, though. You just like being pressed up against him, the familiar hum of Set's lightning just under the surface of Vernon's skin. The scar on your stomach has faded to a faint silver line that still glows faintly when Sekhmet stirs, but today she's quiet. Vernon’s fingers trace idle patterns over the mark through the thin fabric of your cover-up, a habit he has developed that makes your chest tighten with warmth every time.

He looks relaxed in a way you have never seen before, dirty blonde hair tousled by the wind, sunglasses pushed up into it, a half-empty cocktail sweating in his free hand. The tattoos on his forearms have settled into something less volatile now that the storm inside of him is more checked considering Set has learned to behave on most days.

“Another one?” Vernon asks, lifting his glass toward yours in a lazy toast.

You clink your glass against his, savoring the taste of the bright, citrusy drink. “Only if you promise not to steal the little umbrella again.”

“No promises, Stacks. I like how it looks in your hair.”

Annoying, Sekhmet sighs. Good thing he fights well and looks at you like you are the only sun worth rising for. Perhaps I do not entirely hate him.

You smile against Vernon's shoulder and murmur the compliment to him. He chuckles and brushes his lips against your ear to murmur, "Tell her I'm growing on her. Like mold."

Sekhmet huffs, but you feel the faintest flicker of amusement from her like a lioness who has decided the annoying jackal is tolerable after all. It makes you grin, glad that she no longer fights you about him every step of the way.

The two of you lean back, tangled up on the cabana as he runs his fingers through your hair, stealing sips of your drink. You watch as two guests stroll by their voices catching your attention as they laugh.

"… swear it's true!" The guy says to the girl. "Some guy in Cairo is claiming he’s the actual Anubis. Like, full-on jackal-headed visions, guiding lost souls or whatever. People are calling it the new cult of the dead. Wild, right?”

His companion laughs, covering her mouth. "What a lunatic."

You and Vernon both go still.

Your eyes meet over the rims of your glasses. Vernon’s grin spreads slow and wicked, the same crooked smile that used to infuriate you and now makes heat pool low in your belly. “Anubis, huh?”

You feel Sekhmet stir with interest. The Jackal has always been a meddler. But a worthy one.

You set your glass down, already reaching for Vernon’s hand. “We were getting bored anyway. Three weeks of peace is plenty.”

He laughs, low and delighted, and pulls you up with him. Sand clings to your legs as you both stand, the sea breeze tugging at your clothes. The resort stretches behind you in perfect, sun-drenched luxury, but the pull of the red sands is stronger now, older and deeper, calling you back to the desert.

Vernon tugs you close, one hand sliding to the small of your back as he kisses you slow and sweet, tasting of rum and mango. "Ready, Stacks?"

"I am, Crooked Star."

CIRCUIT DE BARCELONA-CATALUNYA | 2025 POST-QUALIFIYING 307.236 KM | 66 LAPS

The Catalan sun is a white-hot coin in a flat, cloudless sky. It's a good day for racing, the asphalt hot as a skillet with visible heatwaves. Despite it only being qualifying, the grandstands are filled, rows of red-and-yellow flags whipping and snapping. You can see them over the pitwall, screaming as cars fly by.

Sweat gathers at the small of your back, sticky and uncomfortable. You love Spain - love the smell of bougainvilleas and hibiscus - but it's sweltering in the garage where you're tucked away with no breath of wind.

You can taste the salt and hot rubber on every breath, the smell of grease and exhaust wafting in. The smell clings to the Mercedes polo like a second skin, and faintly, you think how nice it would be to shower right now.

A shower has to wait, though. Your eyes are fixed on the screen in front of you, helmet on your head with one ear pulled off so you can hear the roar of the engines and the distant metallic shriek of a socket gun.

The times on the TV flicker, each tenth of a second clawed back and lost back and forth. On your screen, Joshua is hunting pole position like a wolf that can smell blood while Seungcheol hunts Joshua.

Right now, Joshua holds the fastest time in Q3, flying around the curve of Turn 3. He's on his fastest and his last lap of the session, but Seungcheol's time is a heartbeat away trying to scrape past Joshua to claim pole.

You watch, fingers clutching your tablet as Joshua flies down the straight, something sparking. You can barely breathe, eyes focused on Joshua as he finishes his lap. He's the fastest of the day on the grid, but Seungcheol is flying as he nears Turn 10.

It happens in slow motion as the rear steps out and the car oversteers. Despite knowing he's chasing your brother, your heart squeezes as the tires lose grip and Seungcheol fishtails and goes wide.

Half the garage detonates as Joshua locks in for pole position while the other half deflates as Seungcheol loses his speed and destroys the lap. Both Ferrari cars fly past as he corrects himself and finishes out the last of his time, securing P5.

Someone shakes you on your shoulders as they go by. You give them a smile but it feels too tight as you peel the headset off, cutting off Joshua's exhilarated laugh. You're happy for Joshua - you are. But there's a sting at knowing how defeated Seungcheol is going to be, a tiny part of you winching at the mistake.

Mistake.

You both seem to be making a lot of those, recently. Some bigger than others. You try not to think about that night in Monaco, though. Thinking about it takes you down a dangerous path you don't know how to walk, and you'd prefer to just ignore it. Pretend it didn't happen.

So you do exactly that. You dodge Seungcheol - which, as busy as you are, is easy - and you keep your head down, burying yourself in work and going to lunch and dinner with your brother and keeping sponsors and media happy. It's the only thing saving you from the confused and frustrated looks the other Mercedes driver has been giving you across the paddock at every opportunity.

You begin the walk in the hot sun toward the press conference room in lockstep with Mercedes media team, head down looking over requests and questions. You hardly hear her as she speaks, your mind still stuck on the slipping end of a Mercedes car that doesn't belong to your brother. You know Seungcheol will be livid, and you're equal parts anxious and empathetic.

The press conference area is a zoo of cameras and buzz of voices. A handle from Mercedes is already with Joshua who sees you and grins bright as the Spanish sun. You grin back, shooting him a two finger salute before pointing to a distant corner you'll be standing and monitoring. He gives a wave back, heading toward a seat between Kim Mingyu and Lee Seokmin, P2 and P3 respectively.

You linger toward the edge of the media scrum, watching as the press conference kicks off in full. It's nice to see Joshua at the top again, all smiles and fluent Spanish, charming the crowd the way he always has.

Despite feeling like he's the number two driver, Joshua has always been better with the media than Seungcheol. There is a charming but clinical precision to the way Joshua presents himself, every answer measured, every microexpression practiced. You think of the mock interviews you used to give him when you were kids, mouth twitching. He was born for this, despite his challenges.

The back of your neck buzzes as someone steps into your orbit, the smell of oil and cedar hitting you. A shiver threatens to slither up your spine and you stiffen, knowing immediately who it is.

"Hi," he murmurs, warm breath ghosting the shell of your ear briefly.

You barely turn your head a fraction of an inch to look at him. He's still in his race suit, the top rolled to the waist and tied. His hair is damp under the team hat, exhaustion written all over his face. Your heart twinges, noting the dark circles, the frustration pinched in the corners of his mouth.

"You're supposed to be doing interviews," you murmur, turning back to face forward.

"I did mine. Avoiding me again?"

You swallow. "I've been-"

"Busy. Yeah. Heard that line before." He shifts and his arm grazes your elbow briefly as he leans against a pillar. You can feel the heat radiating from him, your heart racing. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hurt."

It feels like a knife to the ribs. You feel his words land, a physical thing. For a second, you don't know what to say. You stare as Joshua laughs at something a reporter says, bright and careless.

Your eyes flick around but no one is watching you. "This isn't the place for this conversation."

"Fine, let's go somewhere else."

"Cheol."

"I don't mean right now." He pushes off the pillar and leans forward, hand quick. You feel something slide into your pocket and jolt, but he's already moving away. "Room 2418. If you want to talk, come find me. If you don't I'll leave you alone. Promise."

Before you can react, Seungcheol is gone as quickly as he came. You turn to look at him but he's already gone, pressing through a sea of bodies watching the presser. You feel your stomach sink, the weight of the room key burning in your back pocket like a brand.

Breathing shakily, you look back at the stage where Joshua is listening to Mingyu answer something, his mouth permanently affixed in a grin. You're so happy for him - you are. Spain is a good track for him, and starting on pole gives him a great chance at winning tomorrow.

So why don't you feel as happy as you should?

The key card is heavy in your back pocket, burning through denim. You don't dare touch it, trying to ignore it. But every time you move - walking to the paddock, sitting down to take a video conference - you feel it there, a tiny piece of plastic that has no right to be so invasive.

You spend the rest of the afternoon on autopilot, barely able to think straight. You manage to get through media debrief in the hospitality suite while Joshua recaps his lap in soundbites. You even manage to get through a call and remind Joshua that he's due to mention a partner in tomorrow's pre-race interviews.

But as soon as the sky begins to turn indigo and the sun begins to bleed orange across the track, you know the clock is winding down. You feel every tenth of a second like a qualifying lap, the meter going down down down until you have to make a choice.

Joshua finds you outside of the motorhome. He's traded the race suit for a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled and jeans, hair still damp from a shower. He grins when he sees you, slinging his arm around your neck as he pulls you toward the cars.

"Dinner to celebrate. There's a place on the beach that apparently has amazing paella."

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. "Can't. I've got some calls to finish up. Time difference shit."

He squints at you. "You've been weird."

"I'm always weird."

"Yeah, well, the weirdness has increased. Is everything okay?"

"For sure. Just tired, the season is long."

"Hmm." He flicks your forehead and pushes you toward the open door of your car. "You're a bad liar. Don't stay up too long, yeah?"

He jogs toward another one of the cars, members of the team waiting for him. You give them a wave, feeling like a stone has dropped low in your stomach. You slip into your car to take you back to the hotel, feeling the press of the room key as you sit in the leather interior.

Outside, the world melts. You watch it with your forehead pressed to the cool glass of the window, villas and buildings stretching out on either side of the winding rows. Splashes of bougainvillea and hibiscus pour over walls and distant trellises, a world full of color you barely register on the drive.

It's dark by the time you're back in your own room. You stand there with the curtains open, the city glittering below. You don't turn on the lights as you begin to pace, phone in one hand, the other pressed over your pocket.

Cursing, you storm off to the bathroom to take the longest shower of your life. The water doesn't burn the desire out of you no matter how high you turn up the temperature. It doesn't wash away the way you feel even though your fingers and toes prune, begging to dry off.

Waterlogged and feeling no better, you blow dry your hair even though you're not going out. You do anything to distract yourself - iron clothes for the next day. Make some phone calls. Answer some emails. But you eventually run out of things to do and your jeans stare at you from the floor.

You know the room key is in there.

Monaco feels like a mistake. Or, it feels like it should be a mistake. The panic you'd felt when Joshua started calling you while you were still in bed with Seungcheol had been real, the guilt enough to make you panic while Seungcheol watched you with unreadable eyes and a guarded expression as you dressed.

But the feelings were just as real as the panic. You'd felt the sheer joy of getting to have him, the relief of touching him. It felt right to be with Seungcheol - righter than anything else in your life. But you know it's supposed to feel wrong.

Still. Still.

Seungcheol just wants to talk. You could do talking, maybe sort this out. Tell him that can never happen again, because no matter how right it felt, he wasn't made to be with you. Or you weren't made to be with him. You're not sure the semantics matter, but you know it'll never work, because you'll never be able to choose between him and family.

And they always want you to choose.

You're moving before your brain catches up. You snatch the key card from your jeans and slip it into the pocket of your shorts. The hallway is cold when you slip out, closing the door quietly. There's no one around to catch you - not that anyone would think it was weird that you were leaving your room anyway.

Your heart ricochettes against your ribs as you get onto the elevator and punch the 24th floor. As it ascends, you can't help but remember the last time you did this - the way he'd told you to tell him to stop, the way he kissed you and pressed you against the elevator wall.

A shiver ripples through you. You fight it off as the elevator opens and you move into the hall, pulse thrumming. The hallway is silent, carpet absorbing your steps as you near his door. 2418 is at the very end of the corridor, far from the elevators.

You stop in front of the door and stand there, key card in hand. You lift the card then lower it. Lift it again. Your hand is shaking when you finally tap it against the reader and the light goes green, the lock clicking softly. Swallowing thickly, you open the door and slide through the gap.

It's dim inside, the room lit only by a single bedside lamp. Seungcheol is in bed, leaning against the headboard with a book in his lap. Your pulse jumps when you see him. He's shirtless in sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair messy. He looks up at you in surprise and snaps the book shut.

"You came," he says, voice rough. The relief that floods his face is so raw you feel uneven. "Hi."

Carefully, you enter the room. You don't go over to the bed - it feels too dangerous. So you linger near the couch, watching him swing his legs off the bed as he sits up. He doesn't get up, his eyes clocking the distance you keep between you.

"That can't happen again," you murmur, wrapping your arms around your middle. It's cold in his room, the chill seeping in. "What happened in Monaco can't happen again."

He stiffens. "Okay. Tell me why."

"Because he's my brother. Because you're teammates. Because if anyone were ever to find out, it would be a mess in the media and fuck things up for you both again - for me."

"I don't care what the fucking media thinks-"

"I do!" Your voice cracks. "And it isn't just the media and Joshua. It's you."

His face shutters, expression becoming guarded. "What do you mean?"

"How long until you try to make me choose again? How long until you're asking me to pick between you and family?"

He sighs. "I already said I was wrong for that."

"What if it happens again? Or what if Joshua does it?" You sniff, feeling your throat tighten. "Do you know what it's like for the two of you to jockey me? To treat me like I'm one of your races and not a person?"

For a few moments, Seungcheol is quiet. He watches you with that steady expression of his and it makes you want to scream. Not in anger but in agony, because you can see the softening of his expression, see the way he does get it. The way what you're saying makes sense to him.

Seungcheol starts to stand and you take a step back. He holds his hands up in a white flag, trying not to scare you off. You eye him warily and he just stands, watching you with dark eyes.

"I know," he says softly. "I know. It isn't fair. Never was. You have spent your entire life dedicated to your brother and at times, me. All I'm asking is what you want. Because if you do want me, if any part of you wants this-" Seungcheol flicks his fingers between you. "- I will make it work. I'll go at your pace. I'll wait until you're ready. I will never make you choose again."

"Cheol."

"I'm serious. I cannot fathom pretending I don't love you anymore. I cannot stand the stilted conversations and being iced out. I cannot stand not getting to hear you tell me I'm braking too late or that my push pace was shit."

Love. He says the word so easily, like he has no idea that your heart catches on it and runs with it. You stare at him, opening mouthed, pulse hammering. He takes one slow step toward you, palms still raised like you're a spooked animal about to bolt.

"I'm done pretending," he says again, quieter this time. "I hate acting like I don't notice the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching. Done pretending I don't have the hoodie you stole from me in 2017 folded in my suitcase cause it still smells like you."

Your lungs stutter. He keeps walking toward you and you let him until his feet almost brush yours. The air between you smells like cedar and hotel soap, the air charged as you lift your eyes to meet his.

"I love you." The words land between you. "I love you and I will not make you choose me or your brother because I want you to choose yourself. I have loved you since we were sixteen and you fell asleep on my shoulder during flights. Since you let me fall asleep on yours at the Canadian Grand Prix."

Your eyes burn. You blink hair, but the tears come anyway. He softens when he sees them. "And I'm sorry that you're crying because I love you."

You make a wounded sound, that's stuck between a sob and a laugh. "You idiot. You can't just - say all of that and expect me not to cry."

"I know." He lifts a hand, slow enough that you could dodge if you wanted. You don't. His thumb brushes the tears away from your eyes. "I love you enough to want you to choose whatever you want. Even if it isn't me. But I need you to hear it, in case any part of you does want this-"

"Of course there is," you choke out. The confession immediately makes you feel lighter and you chase the feeling, needing to get the words out. "I've always wanted this. But I don't think that it works."

"Do you want to try?"

 The question hangs between you like a live wire, sparking and humming with possibility. Seungcheol stands so close that you can feel the warmth rolling off his bare chest, his thumb still gently brushing the last of your tears from your cheek. His eyes are steady, patient in a way that makes your chest ache. He’s not pushing. Not demanding. Not forcing you to choose. He's just asking.

You swallow hard, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. You think of the docs in Miami, of Monaco, of the way his mouth felt against yours in the elevator. The terror of watching Joshua's car slam into the barrier while Seungcheol fought for the win - years of being the buffer, the manager, the sister, the peacekeeper - never just you.

You think about the little girl who used to chase two boys around karting tracks, handing them water bottles and yelling lap times from the sidelines. You think about who you are now, exhausted from carrying everyone else’s dreams, from managing schedules and emotions and rivalries that were never supposed to fracture the way they did. You think about all the nights you lay awake wondering what your life would look like if you stopped orbiting Joshua and Seungcheol and started chasing something yourself.

"I…" Your voice cracks, throat dry. You clear your throat and try again, steadier this time. "I do. I want to try. For me."

The relief that floods Seungcheol’s face is immediate and devastating. His shoulders drop, the tension bleeding out of him as though he’s been holding his breath for a year. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I don’t know how the hell we’re going to figure this out. I don’t know how to do this without blowing everything up. But I want to try for once. I want to do something because I want it."

Seungcheol’s hand slides from your cheek to cup the side of your neck, his thumb stroking along your jaw. “We’ll go slow. Your pace. No pressure. No ultimatums. I swear it.”

You nod, even as fresh tears slip down your cheeks. He catches them with his lips this time, soft, reverent kisses pressed to the corners of your eyes, your temples, the bridge of your nose. When his mouth finally finds yours, it’s gentle. But the moment you lean into him, fingers curling into the warm skin of his waist, the kiss deepens.

Seungcheol tastes like toothpaste and hotel water and something undeniably him. You sigh into his mouth, letting him pull you closer until your bodies are flush. His free hand settles at the small of your back, guiding you as he walks backward toward the bed. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, he sits down and tugs you with him so you’re straddling his lap.

“Still okay?” he whispers against your lips, giving you every chance to stop.

"Yes."

His hands roam slowly, mapping the curves of your waist and hips over the thin fabric of your shorts and t-shirt. You rock experimentally against him, feeling the hard line of his cock already straining against his sweatpants. The friction sends a spark of heat through you, and you do it again, deliberately this time.

Seungcheol groans low in his throat. “Fuck."

You smile into the next kiss, bolder now as your hands slide up his chest and over the firm planes of muscle until your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. He tilts his head to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours in a slow rhythm that mirrors the way you're grinding on his thigh.

He shifts you slightly, flexing his thigh beneath you and you gasp at the sudden pressure against your pussy. Even through the layers of fabric, the sensation is enough to make your head spin. Seungcheol notices immediately and grins, one of his large hands gripping your hip to encourage you to move more.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice rough with want. “Ride my thigh, baby."

Heat floods your face at the words, but you don’t stop. You roll your hips again, slower this time, savoring the drag of fabric against your clit. Seungcheol watches you with dark, hooded eyes, his free hand slipping beneath the hem of your t-shirt to trace warm circles over the bare skin of your lower back.

You're already wet, soaking through your panties as you roll your hips, lashes fluttering. The friction builds steadily and you whimper into his mouth. He swallows every sound you make, kissing you like he's trying to make up for lost time.

His other hand drifts lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. He doesn’t push them down though, instead pushing them just enough to the side to slide his fingers past the edge of your underwear. When his fingers brush against your cunt, you both moan, panting into each other's mouths when you break apart.

“So wet already,” he rasps. “All for me?”

You nod frantically, hips stuttering against his thigh. “Cheol."

“I’ve got you.”

Two thick fingers glide through your wet pussy before circling your swollen clit with perfect pressure. Your head falls forward, forehead pressing to his as you pant against his lips, shivering. It feels so good, heat blooming in your stomach as you chase the feeling, two of his fingers sliding slowly into your entrance. He keeps his strokes steady and slow, building you up without frantically rushing you.

Every stroke sends a wave of pleasure up your spine and you clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the skin as you rock harder against his thigh. You feel your orgasm building low in your stomach, tight and inevitable.

Seungcheol kisses you again, messy and deep, swallowing your whimpers as he works you, his thumb circling your clit. You’re trembling now, thighs tightening around his as you chase the building pleasure.

"That's my girl," he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “So fucking pretty like this. Taking what you want. Let me feel you come.”

The words tip you over the edge and your orgasm crashes through you. Your hips jerk against his thigh as waves of pleasure roll over you, clenching around his fingers while he keeps moving them gently, drawing it out until you’re shaking and oversensitive. He presses soft kisses to your neck, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach while you come down.

You’re still panting, forehead pressed to his collarbone, when his alarm suddenly blares from the nightstand. The sharp, insistent tone slices through the hazy afterglow like a bucket of cold water. Seungcheol curses under his breath, reaching over blindly to silence it without letting you go.

“Shit. Sorry,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “That’s my stupid sleep reminder. Team physio has me on a strict schedule this weekend.”

You let out a breathless laugh, still boneless in his lap. “Of course you have an alarm for sleep.”

“Gotta keep the machine running.” His arms tighten around you, one hand still resting possessively on your hip. “Stay with me tonight?”

The question is soft, almost hesitant, like he’s bracing for you to pull away again. But the thought of leaving this room, of going back to your own cold bed and the swirling thoughts that always wait for you there, feels unbearable right now.

You nod against his chest. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

Seungcheol sighs in relief. He carefully maneuvers you both until you’re lying down, pulling the covers over you. You curl into his side instinctively, one leg draped over his, your cheek pressed to the steady thump of his heart. Seungcheol reaches over to switch off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. His fingers trace lazy patterns up and down your spine, soothing and grounding. You listen to the rhythm of his breathing, feeling the last remnants of tension drain from your body.

“I meant what I said,” he whispers eventually, lips brushing the top of your head. “We’ll figure it out. No rush. No choosing. Just us, however that looks."

"I know. I believe you.”

Seungcheol’s arms wrap more securely around you, pulling you impossibly closer. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his skin, the familiar scent of him - it lulls you, your eyelids growing heavy as sleep pulls at you.

“Night, baby,” he murmurs.

You manage a quiet hum in response, fingers curling loosely into his side. For once, you’re not thinking about Joshua, or the team, or the media, or what tomorrow’s race will bring. You’re not calculating risks or managing expectations. You’re simply here in Seungcheol's arms, and you finally fall asleep peacefully.

-

CIRCUIT DE BARCELONA-CATALUNYA | 2025 RACE DAY 307.236 KM | 66 LAPS

The morning light filters through a gap in the heavy hotel curtains, warming your face as you frown, waking slowly. The second warmth you feel is coming from behind you, a solid body pressed to your back and heavy arms wrapped around you, one thigh slung over yours.

For one perfect, suspended moment, everything feels right. No paddock tension, no media scrutiny, no brotherly responsibilities clawing at the edges of your mind. Just the quiet weight of him, the faint scent of his skin and last night’s hotel soap.

Then reality crashes in.

Your eyes snap open fully. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 7:42 AM. Race day. Barcelona. You are late.

“Shit,” you whisper, heart instantly jackrabbiting.

You have a dozen things scheduled before the drivers even head to the garage - strategy briefings, sponsor check-ins, media coordination, Joshua’s pre-race routine. You were supposed to be up at 6:30 at the latest. You try to extricate yourself without waking Seungcheol, but the moment you shift, he tightens his hold instinctively, a low, sleepy rumble vibrating against your shoulders.

"Five more minutes," he croaks.

“We don’t have five minutes,” you hiss, half-laughing, half-panicking as you peel his arm off. “Cheol, I’m so late. I have to go.”

He cracks one eye open, taking in your disheveled state and the urgency on your face. Understanding dawns quickly. He sits up on one elbow, hair adorably mussed, the sheet pooling low around his hips. The sight is distractingly tempting, but you force yourself to focus.

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, but you’re already scrambling out of bed, hunting for your bra and shorts. "Sorry, I should have set an alarm for you."

“No time. I need to get back to my room, shower, change." You look in the mirror and hiss. "My hair is a mess."

Seungcheol swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, crossing the room in two strides to catch your wrist gently before you can bolt. “Hey. Breathe."

"You're right, sorry. But I really have to run. Joshua’s probably already wondering where I am.”

He nods, expression softening. He leans in and presses a quick, firm kiss to your forehead. “Text me when you can. And good luck today. Both of you."

You manage a small smile, squeeze his hand once, and then you’re slipping out the door with your shoes in hand, padding barefoot down the carpeted hallway. The elevator ride to your floor feels eternal, and by the time you burst into your own room, your phone is already exploding.

You snatch it off the charger. 14 missed calls. 27 new messages.

You hit Joshua’s name first as you simultaneously kick off last night’s clothes and turn the shower on full blast. The call connects on the second ring.

“Where the hell are you?” Joshua’s voice is sharp with worry. I’ve been calling for twenty minutes. You never sleep through alarms. Are you sick? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine," you insist, hopping on one foot while trying to wrangle a clean towel. “Overslept. Badly. I’m in my room now, jumping in the shower. I’ll be ready in fifteen, tops.”

“Fifteen? We’re supposed to leave for the circuit in twenty. The car’s waiting downstairs."

"Well I need fifteen, Josh."

He pauses, and you can practically hear him narrowing his eyes the way he does when he knows you’re skating around something. “You sound out of breath. Were you running? Did you go for a run this morning without telling me?”

"No, I'm just rushing you idiot. Let me get ready!"

The shower is the fastest, most utilitarian one of your life and you leave your hair wet as you pull on a Mercedes polo, team issued pants, and comfortable sneakers. You grab a protein bar from the minibar on the way out, and you manage to get to the elevator with three minutes left to spare.

Your phone buzzes again as the elevator descends and when you look down, you can't help but smile.

Seungcheol: Hope you made it out okay. Love you.

Your heart does something terrifying as you re-read it. You're happy - genuinely, stupidly happy in a way that feels entirely dangerous. You feel out of sorts too, though, like your carefully constructed world has tilted overnight and you're still trying to find your footing.

You fire back a quick reply while speed-walking through the lobby, chewing your lip to hide the smile the entire time.

You: Made it ok. Love you too.

Joshua is already waiting near the entrance, arms crossed, looking every inch the polished driver in team gear with a cap pulled low. His eyes scan you the moment you appear, taking in your slightly flushed cheeks and the way you’re still catching your breath.

“You look like you sprinted here,” he says. “Seriously, what’s up? You’re never late. Not like this.”

Both of you head to the team car, the driver already waiting for you. You slide into the backseat, buckling up as the car pulls away from the hotel. Barcelona's streets are already buzzing with fans in team colors and flags waving from balconies.

“I told you, overslept," you insist. "Phone was on silent. Won’t happen again.”

He studies you for a long moment, the kind of big-brother scrutiny that used to make you confess to stealing his snacks as kids. “You sure that’s all? You’ve been kind of distracted since Miami if I'm going to be honest with you."

Your stomach twists. Just a lot on my plate. Sponsors, media requests, keeping the narrative straight between you two after that interview. The usual circus.” You force a smile and nudge his knee with yours. “Focus on the race, okay? Pole position. You’ve got this. I’ll handle everything else.”

“Fine. But we’re talking later. No dodging.”

The drive to Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya is mercifully short, the car weaving through traffic as fans stream toward the gates. Support races are already underway or wrapping up, the air thrumming with anticipation for the main event. You feel that familiar sense of excitement for Joshua, nerves for the team, and now something new and fluttery when you think about Seungcheol.

By the time you reach the paddock, the Mercedes garage is a hive of controlled chaos with mechanics swarming the cars, engineers hunching over laptops and staff coordinating interview slots. The smell of hot rubber, fuel, and polished carbon fiber hits you and helps you slip seamlessly into manager mode.

Joshua heads off for a quick physio session and final driver briefing while you hover near the hospitality area, answering emails and fielding questions, but your mind keeps drifting. Every time you catch a glimpse of black team polos or hear a familiar low laugh, your pulse jumps.

Seungcheol is somewhere in the garage too, no doubt going through his own pre-race rituals, but you don't seek him out, knowing it's too risky in the daylight with everyone watching.

The morning blurs. Drivers’ parade, more media, team photos, final strategy notes. Joshua is focused, locked in, the way he gets before a race. You stick close, offering the usual encouragement, the two-finger salute that’s been your ritual since you were kids and he returns it with a grin that doesn’t quite hide his own underlying tension.

You feel happy and light in a way you haven't in months. Still, you feel like you're living two lives in one body: the competent, protective sister and manger, and the woman who spent last night in Seungcheol's lap, coming apart under his hands while he whispered that he loved you.

It's hard to reckon with, but you force yourself through lunch, picking at a salad and barely tasting it while Joshua reviews notes with his race engineer. Your phone buzzes again under the table.

Seungcheol: Saw you from across the paddock earlier. You look good in the team kit. Professional. Hot. Seungcheol: Thinking about how you sounded last night. Trying very hard not to think about it during briefing. Failing.

Heat floods your face. You type back quickly under the table.

You: Stop. I’m working. You’re going to get us both in trouble. Seungcheol: Worth it. Good luck kiss later? Quick one. Promise I’ll be careful.

Your stomach flips. You don’t reply immediately, but the promise lingers as the afternoon wears on with the usual race day cadence. The grandstands fill steadily in the distance, the Catalan sun high and merciless as it turns the asphalt into a shimmering heat haze.

Autopilot is your best friend as you navigate your duties and answer phone calls, and by the time you're in the garage and coming alive for the race, you're blinking like you've just woken up from a dream, unsure how you got here.

Joshua looks sharp and focused as you talk him through his notes, squeezing his shoulder, same routine as always. He nods and kisses you on the head before rolling his shoulders and heading over to talk to his engineer, keeping his limbs loose.

You feel a light tap on your elbow then, barely there. You turn slightly to see Seungcheol passing behind you, seemingly on his way to his room in the garage. His expression is neutral and professional, but when he looks at you, his eyes are dark. He tilts his head toward the hall that leads to the drive rooms before he turns and vanishes down them.

Your heart leaps. You wait a beat, then follow at a casual pace, pretending to check something on your tablet.

The hallway is quiet, dimmer, the roar of the circuit muffled. Seungcheol is waiting just around the corner, out of sight. The moment you step close enough, he gently pulls you further in, one hand on your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck.

“Hi,” he breathes, voice low and warm, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His hair is still slightly damp from whatever prep he just finished, and he smells like his cologne mixed with the garage. "Doing okay?"

"Hi," you whisper. "I think so. We shouldn't-"

“I know. Ten seconds."

Before you can overthink it, he leans in and kisses you. It's soft at first, then deeper, a searing reminder that he's serious about this - about you. His lips move against yours with quiet hunger, tongue just grazing yours before he pulls back, forehead resting briefly against yours.

"Be safe," you murmur. "Please."

"I promise." He steals one last soft peck, then steps back, putting professional distance between you again. His eyes linger, dark and full of too many things to name here. “See you after.”

He slips out first, rejoining the controlled chaos of the garage like nothing happened. You follow a moment later, heart racing, lips tingling and a stupid smile on your face as he jogs to the car and pulls on his balaclava before the helmet, hopping into the seat.

Arms crossed, you watch the formation lap unfold under the blazing sun, the two Mercedes cars gleaming as they roll out from the grid. Joshua starts on pole, the car flowing easily through sector one as the rest of the drivers form up behind him. Seungcheol cruises in P5, but you know even from there he's lethal. He's always driven better when he has something to prove.

You stand in your usual spot near the monitors, headset snug over one ear, tablet clutched tight. Wonwoo lingers nearby, but he says nothing, just as focused on the start of the race as you are, watching the red lights flicker down until it's lights out.

Joshua gets a perfect launch, maintaining the lead into Turn 1 while the field bunches up behind him. Seungcheol makes an aggressive move on the inside of the long run to the first corner, dispatching one of the Ferraris and slotting into P4 almost immediately. Your heart squeezes in victory, your hands tightening on your tablet as you watch them drive, the sound of radios crackling with their voices coming intermittently.

The first ten laps are relatively clean, Joshua defending easily while managing his tires with clinical precision. Behind him, Seungcheol is on the hunt, gaining inch by inch as he closes the gap on the cars ahead. By lap 15, he's already in P3, running an orange McLaren down brutally.

You can’t help stealing glances toward Seungcheol’s side of the garage whenever the cameras cut to his onboard. His focus is absolute, hands making minute corrections through the technical sector two. The car looks sharp today with better balance than yesterday, and you feel a spark of pride as he extracts everything he can out of the car.

Guilt is there too. You’re supposed to be wholly in Joshua’s corner and you are, but your heart has always been big enough for both of them, even when it hurts a little.

Mid-race pit stops begin. You watch with laser-like focus as Joshua boxes on Lap 22 for fresh mediums, rejoining just behind the McLaren as the undercut works in his favor. Seungcheol stays out a lap longer, pushing hard on older tires before diving in. When he rejoins, the gap has narrowed dramatically.

The tension thickens. You shift your weight from foot to foot, chewing the inside of your cheek. The sun beats down mercilessly, turning the garage into a sauna. Sweat trickles down your spine beneath your polo while you watch the monitors as Seungcheol begins a relentless chase.

Lap after lap, he closes in. By lap 35 the gap is under a second and the garage is both electric and nervous. A 1-2 win would be fantastic for Mercedes, but they've been here before when their drivers blew the lead and crashed into one another, sacrificing position for the win.

“Come on, Josh,” you mutter under your breath. “Hold him.”

But Seungcheol is on a mission and by Lap 42, he gets a strong run out of the final chicane and uses DRS down the main straight. Joshua defends the inside into Turn 1, but Seungcheol feints and switches late, forcing Joshua to cover. You hold your breath as they sweep into a complex turn, inches apart from one another at 300 km/h.

Joshua holds the lead out of the turn and you let out a breath, heart hammering. The team debates whether to ask for a position swap if the tires dictate it, but both drivers are pushing too hard for anyone to intervene lightly. You remember Suzuka. Singapore. The crashes. Your stomach knots tighter.

Seungcheol doesn’t let up. He tries again on lap 48, diving deeper into Turn 1, but Joshua slams the door shut as sparks fly from Seungcheol's front wing when he clips the curb on the exit. The crowd roars, watching the two Mercedes fight hard, but cleanly.

The final stint becomes a masterclass in driving. You watch as Seungcheol chews into the gap between him and Joshua, setting the fastest lap of the race thus far. Joshua’s engineer urges tire management while Seungcheol's pushes him to attack, both of them on entirely different strategies.

Turn 1 comes up again and the entire garage holds its breath as Seungcheol goes for the outside into the turn, forcing Joshua wide. They exit side-by-side again, but Joshua throws away tire strategy, climbing forward faster as he pushes the car to the absolute limit.

You grip your tablet so hard your knuckles ache, watching as they fight through the last lap, Seungcheol trying everything he can to claw past Joshua until the checkered flag is waving and you're letting out a shaky breath, light-headed from not breathing.

Joshua crosses the line first, a hard-fought victory that sends the Mercedes garage into an explosion of chaos. Mechanics cheer, high-fiving and clapping one another on the back while Seungcheol crosses just behind Joshua. It's a strong double podium for Mercedes, but you know Seungcheol will be frustrated.

The podium ceremony is electric, Spanish flash waving wildly in the grandstands as Joshua sprays champagne from the top step, grinning brightly. Seungcheol stands on the second step, hair damp with sweat and champagne, clapping politely. Then, to the visible surprise of everyone - including you - Seungcheol steps over during the celebrations and extends his hand to Joshua, pulling him into a firm, back-slapping hug.

The garage around you goes momentarily quiet before erupting in murmurs. You blink, stunned. It’s the most genuine public gesture of sportsmanship between them in over a year. Joshua looks momentarily thrown, patting Seungcheol’s back awkwardly before they separate. The cameras eat it up, and you can already imagine the headlines.

Post-race media and debriefs blur together in the usual whirlwind, Joshua fielding questions about the defense, tire management, and the intense battle with Seungcheol. Seungcheol is polite in his own press conference, praising the car and the team while admitting he gave it everything. The atmosphere in the Mercedes motorhome feels lighter than it has in months with points in the bag and double podium with no fights.

It's weird, but good,.

You’re still riding the high of Joshua’s win when he finds you in the hospitality suite later, freshly showered and changed into team polo and jeans. His hair is still damp, cheeks flushed from the podium champagne and the heat.

“Nice drive,” you tell him genuinely, pulling him into a quick hug. “You held him off like a champ. That battle in the middle stint was insane.”

“Yeah, it was.” Joshua’s smile is bright but there’s a thoughtful edge to it. He glances around, making sure no one is within earshot. “Did you see that on the podium? Him shaking my hand, clapping me on the back like we’re best friends again?”

You nod, keeping your expression neutral even as your pulse quickens. “I saw. Surprised everyone.”

“It was weird. Good weird? Maybe. But after everything, I don't know. Whatever. Don't make any plans tonight, okay? We're having dinner. I want to talk."

Your stomach drops a little. “Talk about what?”

“Everything. You’ve been off. The lateness this morning. The way you’ve been dodging questions."

"I'm fine."

He softens slightly, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re my sister first, manager second. I need to know what’s going on in your head. No blowing me off this time.”

You force a smile. “Okay. Dinner. Just us.”

He seems satisfied for now and heads off to do a quick sponsor appearance. You exhale shakily once he’s gone, pulling out your phone to see there’s already a text waiting.

Seungcheol: Everyone thought it was weird that I hugged him huh Seungcheol: I was feeling nostalgic. It was fun. Seungcheol: Plans later?

You bite your lip, thumbs hovering.

You: That was a hell of a drive. Very proud of you both. Dinner with Josh tonight.. he wants to talk. Will update you later. Seungcheol: Okay. Call me after. Let me know what you need from me. Love you.

The words burn as you stare at your phone, repeating them in your mind over and over again. Love you. Love you. Love you.

-

CIRCUIT DE BARCELONA-CATALUNYA | 2025 POST RACE 307.236 KM | 66 LAPS

The restaurant Joshua chooses sits tucked away in a quiet corner of Barcelona’s Eixample district, far from the noisy tourist crowds and the lingering post-race energy near the circuit. Ca L’Enric is unassuming from the outside with terracotta walls and a simple wooden door, but inside is full of soft golden light and dark wooden panels and shelves of aged wine.

You and Joshua sit at a corner table beside a tall window that opens onto a small private courtyard garden strung with delicate fairy lights. The evening air drifting in is still warm from the day’s heat, carrying faint hints of salt from the distant sea. Joshua orders a bottle of good local red without glancing at the wine list, intimately familiar with Spain and the list of wines here.

With win in hand, both of you lift your glasses, smiling as you tap them together with a shallow clink.

"To the win," Joshua says. "And to not crashing into my teammate."

You snort, sipping the wine. "Today was incredible. That's the kind of race dad would have been yelling the entire time."

The mention of your father settles over the table, heavy and solid. Joshua’s eyes soften, and he nods, leaning back in the chair as he blows out a heavy sigh.

"Yeah, he would have loved today." He chews on his lip. "He always said Barcelona was one of the best races on the calendar. Remember how he used to stand in the garage with that old clipboard and timed sectors by hand?"

The memory of your father - tall and steady with a presence that could command a room - rises sharp and vidi. He had poured everything into both boys’ dreams through karting and Formula 2. Losing him left a hole nothing has ever fully filled. You've tried - god you've tried - but you're not him. You don't know how to be, and you're not sure that you want to be.

“He would have been shouting strategy over the radio even if they told him not to,” you reply, voice thick. “Then he’d drag us all out for late-night calçots or whatever was in season and lecture us about tire management over dessert.”

“Exactly. He’d probably tell me I left a little too much room on the outside in Turn 4, though.”

The conversation flows naturally from there into the race itself, Joshua recounting everything in perfect detail. You listen intently, offering small strategic mentions you noted during his drive. He takes them in stride like he always has, not shying away from your recommendations or strategy. For a while, it feels easy. Familiar. Just the two of you breaking down the day the way you always have.

"Speaking of the race," Joshua says as the server brings over crispy tender grilled octopus sprinkled with paprika and olive olive, "That thing on the podium with Cheol was weird right?"

You keep your face carefully neutral, focusing on drizzling oil over a slice of warm bread. "Weird how? Surprising, I get. Media loved it though. Fans too."

"Sure. But it felt off. We haven’t had a civil moment like that in over a year. Not since Singapore really went to shit.” He pauses, chewing thoughtfully. “I keep replaying the crashes. Suzuka last year. Singapore the year before. Every time we get close, it gets worse, you know? He drove hard again today and I guess I kept waiting for him to crash into me."

You set your fork down, choosing your words with care. The old habit of playing buffer kicks in automatically, even as your own heart pulls in conflicting directions. “He’s always driven like that, Josh. Aggressive. All-in. It’s what makes him good. Today was no different, you were just the better driver."

Joshua’s gaze sharpens. “Since when are you playing devil’s advocate for him?"

"I'm not playing devil's advocate. I'm reminding you that you used to feed off each other on and off the track. Would it be so terrible to get back to that?"

"I'm sorry, are you saying it would be nice if we were friends again?"

The question lands like a precise jab to the ribs and heat creeps up your neck. Internally, your stomach twists at the memory of waking up wrapped in Seungcheol’s arms this morning, the taste of his desperate kiss in the hallway.

“We used to be friends," you point out. "All three of us. It would be nice if some of that could come back. Not exactly the same as it was, obviously. But less hostile maybe. The team suffers when you two are constantly at each other’s throats. And honestly? It’s exhausting watching you both tear into each other when I know how much you used to mean to one another.”

“We’ll never be friends again. Not like before. He made that clear when he told you to choose in the middle of the garage after he put me in the wall."

"Josh-"

"No." He leans on the table, eyes flashing. "You don't come back from that. In fact, hearing you say this is even crazier. What changed?"

His question hits hard. The quiet, stolen joy you have been carrying since last night dims under the weight of cold reality. Joshua’s certainty that there is no path back, no possibility of reconciliation makes the secret you're keeping even worse. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat.

"Nothing," you lie. "I'm just tired of all the anger, I guess. It's been years of this. I thought today might be a small step to healing. That's all."

The mains arrive at that moment and you're so relieved you could get on your knees and thank the server. The food smells incredible, but the growing tension has stolen most of your appetite. You push pieces around your plate while Joshua continues, his voice lower but no less intense.

“Talk to me. Really talk," he urges. "You’ve been weird for weeks. Oversleeping this morning, disappearing after quali yesterday, dodging my questions. And now this sudden softness toward Cheol? I know you better than anyone. What’s going on with you?”

The question opens a floodgate you have not fully prepared for. You take a slow sip of wine, letting the rich, earthy notes steady you. You don't know what to do. All you know is you can't tell him about Seungcheol - won't tell him about Seungcheol. Not yet. Not after hearing the finality in Joshua's assessment of their relationship.

“I’ve spent a lot of time being your manager,” you say finally, your voice quiet. “Since Dad passed, I stepped into that role completely. Making sure you have everything you need, fighting for your seat, handling sponsors, media, and all the drama between you and Seungcheol. I don’t regret it, Josh. Not for a second. You’re my brother. But.."

"But what?"

"Sometimes I wonder if there's anything else out there for me. I never really had the chance to try. Everything has always revolved around the next race, the next season, keeping the dream alive for both of you."

Joshua sets his fork down slowly. His brow furrows, a mix of surprise and defensiveness crossing his face. For a while, he's silent, staring at you from across the table, brows pinched, eyes dark. You don't eat - don't know how to, under that gaze.

Finally, he says, "You make it sound like I forced you into this or like I've been holding you hostage. Is that how you feel?"

"No, Josh. That isn't what I mean."

"Then what do you mean?"

"I was so young when it started, and then Dad got sick, and suddenly I was managing schedules and contracts while barely figuring out my own life. I don’t regret supporting you. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. But I’ve never had real space to figure out what I want outside of all this. Does that make sense?"

"Not really, no."

You sigh in frustration. "What part is confusing?"

"The part where you want out."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. You stepped into Dad’s shoes because you wanted to. Because you’re good at it. Now you’re making it sound like I’ve been selfish for letting you.”

“That’s not fair,” you whisper fiercely, eyes stinging. “I’m not blaming you. I’m just… being honest for once. About how I feel. About how heavy it all is sometimes. You asked me what's wrong. I'm telling you."

A heavy silence falls over the table as your lamb gets cold. The server passes by a single time, sensing the tension before he pivots and darts away. Outside in the courtyard, the fairy lights sway gently in the evening breeze, casting dancing shadows across the stone path.

“I don’t want you to feel trapped," Joshua says eventually. "But this is all I've ever known too. Hearing you talk like this is scary."

"I'm sorry."

The rest of the meal passes in strained silence. You both pick at your food, the earlier warmth of shared memories replaced by a heavy, uncomfortable tension that lingers in the air long after the plates are cleared. When the check comes, neither of you fights over it the way you usually do. The walk back to the waiting car is quiet, the Barcelona night suddenly feeling cooler than it should.

By the time you reach the hotel, the happiness you felt this morning has dimmed. Joshua throws a wave goodnight, clipped and tired as he heads off, leaving you feeling stranded at sea.

You head to your room alone, the door clicking heavily behind you. You lean against it for a moment, eyes closed, letting the cool wood press into your back. The silence inside the room is almost suffocating after the heavy conversation at dinner. Your chest feels tight, your stomach still twisted from the argument with Joshua. You wonder if you should have told him about Seungcheol, if you should've just put it all out on the table.

No. Joshua doesn't do good with change. At least not all at once. He can barely chew on the idea of you being unsure if this career is what you should be doing long term, much less the idea that you're in a relationship - sort of - with Seungcheol.

You kick off your shoes and drop your bag on the chair by the desk. The room is dimly lit by a single lamp you left on earlier, Barcelona's city lights glowing faintly through the half-drawn curtains. You cross to the bed and sit on the edge, phone heavy in your hand. Your thumb hovers over Seungcheol’s contact for several long seconds before you finally tap it and bring the phone to your ear.

He answers on the third ring, his voice low and warm. "Hi, baby."

The simple endearment makes your eyes sting. You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Hi. Are you alone?”

“Yeah. Just got back to my room a few minutes ago.” There’s a rustle of fabric on his end, like he’s settling back against the pillows. “How was dinner with Josh?”

"Not great."

Seungcheol is quiet for a beat, reading the tone in your voice immediately. “Talk to me. What happened?”

“We started off fine,” you say softly. “Talking about the race and dad and stuff. He brought up the podium with you today and said it felt weird."

I figured it might. I wasn’t trying to make a big statement. I just felt like it was old times, I guess, I don't know. It was a good fight."

“I know that,” you whisper. “But he didn’t see it that way. He started talking about Singapore again. Suzuka. All of the crashes. I suggested that maybe progress is good and how I miss you guys being close and he did not like that."

"Didn't like it how?"

"Didn't like that suddenly it felt like I was going easy on you and thought it was weird I was trying to recommend being friends again."

Seungcheol stays silent for a moment. You can almost picture him running a hand through his hair, jaw clenched the way it does when he’s processing something difficult. You hear him shift on the other end, blowing out a sigh.

“What did you tell him?” he asks eventually.

“I said we used to be friends and that it would be nice if some of that could come back, even if it's not the same. He shut it down hard, Cheol. Said you two will never be friends again after what happened in Singapore and after you… you know."

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I really fucked that night up, didn’t I?”

You don’t answer right away. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you stare at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” Seungcheol says. “I hate that you’re stuck in the middle again. That’s the last thing I want.”

"He's just stubborn. I think he hides behind the anger because the hurt is so bad. After that, the conversation kind of spiraled. He asked about me oversleeping and how distracted I've been and I was honest about struggling as his manager."

"What did he say?"

“He thought I was saying I regret supporting him. That I want out. We ended up arguing about it."

Seungcheol is quiet for a long moment. You can hear him breathing, steady but heavy. Then, "Do you want me to come over?"

"No," you murmur. "Everything just feels really out of balance right now. Hearing your voice is nice, though."

“You know I meant what I said last night, right?" The softness of his voice makes your throat tighten. "About not making you choose. About wanting you to figure out what you want. If you need space from the manager role, from constantly putting everyone else first I'll support that. If you need space from me, if you don't want to do this, I'll support that too."

It makes you cry. You hear him make a sound on the other end of the phone, like hearing you cry breaks something in him. He murmurs your name softly, the ache in his voice evident as you sniff into the phone, wiping your eyes.

"Sorry, you're just," you sniff again. "Stop being nice."

"You want me to stop being nice?"

"Yes!"

He hums. "I'll think about it. What do you need, baby?"

"I don't know. I guess I'm just scared. But I don't want to do the space thing with you. I really don't. I know that."

"Okay. Then we'll just figure it out a little at a time, okay?"

"Okay."

After a while, the conversation drifts into softer territory. He teases you gently about how fast you ran out of his room this morning. You laugh despite everything, telling him he’s lucky you didn’t trip in the hallway. He promises to set an alarm the next time, and the promise of next time warms you.

Eventually, Seungcheol’s voice grows softer. “You should try to get some sleep. Tomorrow’s another long day of travel."

“Okay.”

“I love you. We’ll figure this out. Whatever it takes.”

“I love you too,” you whisper back.

You stay on the phone a little longer, listening to each other breathe until your eyes grow heavy. When you finally hang up, the room feels a little less empty.

-

SMALL CHAPEL OUTSIDE LOS ANGELES | LATE 2021

Rain falls steadily outside, each droplet clinging to the trees and the sea of black umbrellas heading into the chapel. It's not the dramatic downpour of Suzuka or Miami, but it feels heavier. The air smells of wet earth, damp stone, and the faint sweetness of the white lilies arranged in heavy clusters around the altar.

Inside the chapel is warm but somber. Soft, grey light filters through the stained-glass windows, casting muted colors across the polished wooden pews. Candles flicker on tall stands, their flames trembling slightly with every quiet movement. The scent of melting wax mingles with the heavy perfume of flowers and it feels suffocating.

You sit in the front pew, shoulder pressed tightly against Joshua’s. Your black dress feels too formal, too stiff against your skin, and your hand is twisting fiercely with your brothers, knuckles aching with how hard he squeezes your hand. He hasn't let go since you've arrived. Neither of you speaks much - words feel inadequate. You've already said your piece to begin the funeral, and now it's just the murmured words of the pastor and old friends of your father.

Joshua’s eyes are red-rimmed but dry for the moment, his jaw locked in that familiar way he gets when he is trying desperately to hold himself together. He wears a simple black suit, the tie slightly crooked because he wouldn't let you fix it earlier. You lean your head against his shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the rain that clung to his coat. He has always been your constant. Even as kids, when your father dragged him karting, Joshua was the one who made sure you had snacks, who let you ride on his back when you got tired, who kept you entertained on long trips.

Your father’s casket rests at the front, closed and draped with a simple white cloth and a single wreath of green leaves and white roses. Photos of him line the altar. You can barely look at them, honestly, but you remember each one in clear detail: him smiling proudly in the pit lane with young Joshua and Seungcheol in their karting suits, him with an arm around your shoulders at your high school graduation, him laughing in the garage with grease on his cheek and that clipboard always in hand.

Your father was the steady heartbeat of your world, a man who taught Joshua how to brake late and trust his instincts, who taught you how to read telemetry and st and tall in rooms full of powerful men. A man who believed so fiercely in you and his boys that he dedicated his life to you.

A quiet sob escapes you. Joshua immediately turns, wrapping his free arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer. "I've got you."

Seungcheol takes your other hand and rests it on his thigh. He arrived quietly and slid into the pew without a word, but the moment he sat down, his presence became an anchor. His broad frame is tense beneath his black suit jacket, dark hair neatly combed though a few strands have fallen forward.

The three of you sit together like you once did years ago in hotel rooms and airport terminals, a unit knit by grief. For a brief second, it feels like the old days, when the three of you were inseparable and your father was the steady heartbeat keeping you all together.

When it is time for eulogies, Joshua stands first. He reluctantly releases your hand, but Seungcheol’s hand stays wrapped around your fingers, grounding you while your brother walks to the front. Joshua’s voice is steady at the beginning, but it wavers as he speaks about the man who taught him everything.

“He gave us everything,” Joshua says, eyes flickering to you and Seungcheol. “And he never asked for anything back except that we chase our dreams with everything we have.”

When Joshua returns to the pew, his legs seem unsteady. You rise immediately and pull him into a tight hug so he can bury his face in your shoulder. Seungcheol stands and grips the both of you, pulling you both into his chest, arms holding you as close as possible with the same steady grip you've always known.

After the service, as people begin to file out into the rain, the three of you linger near the entrance. Joshua keeps one arm around your shoulders while Seungcheol stays close on your other side, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back as you step outside.

The drizzle has eased into a fine mist as the three of you form a small protective bubble from the world with your umbrellas.

"You're the only family I have left," Joshua says, looking at you and then to Seungcheol. "Both of you. It's us until the end, okay?"

Both of you nod and Joshua takes a deep breath, like the confirmation is what he needed to hear. As the rain continues to fall softly, you remain between your brother and Seungcheol, the three of you united in grief and whatever comes next.

-

SILVERSTONE CIRCUIT | 2025 POST-QUALIFYING 306.19KM | 52 LAPS

A grey sky hangs low over Silverstone, a shifting canvas of dark purples and gray that threaten rain. The air is heavy with the scent of damp grass and hot rubber as you cross the wet pavement and enter the hospitality suite on autopilot, tablet clutched in one hand. The suite is bustling with people and staff, the air conditioning too cold against your rain-damp skin. Outside the windows, the paddock is alive with movement as Mercedes prepares for its home race.

The past few weeks have been a delicate balancing act. Since Barcelona, you and Seungcheol have barely had any real time together. Stolen moments are all you can manage, quick brushes of hand in hallways, stolen kisses in a media room that's empty, a single sweaty night at the hotel in Austria. Each meeting leaves you buzzing with warmth, but the fear of what you're doing always lingers.

It also makes things more complicated. The more energy you pour into trying to ensure you have brief moments with Seungcheol, the more the cracks start to appear in everything else you do, especially with Joshua.

The list doesn't make you proud. A forgotten sponsor call, a missed minor media scheduling adjustment in Hungary, a late show to a briefing because you were trying to get dressed in a hotel room after a morning shower with Seungcheol that went far too long.

Joshua has noticed. The easy rhythm you once shared has gone strained and brittle, each conversation and meeting with your brother stiff and tense in the way only siblings who are fighting can fully understand.

Today's qualifying didn't help. Joshua had finished qualifying with a solid P4, but it isn't good enough for the home race and it certainly isn't good enough for him. His post-qualifying interview had been uncharacteristically sharp and clipped, and he'd snapped at a reporter who pressed him about team dynamics with Seungcheol.

You spot him the moment you step deeper into the hospitality suite, standing near the back, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stares out at the circuit with a stormy expression. His hair is still damp from the quick shower after quali, and the lines around his mouth are drawn tight.

You approach carefully, eyeing him warily. "Josh."

He turns, and the look he gives you is equal parts exhaustion and frustration. “There you are. Finally.”

The tone stings. You set your tablet down on a nearby table. “I was handling the media fallout from the interview. It wasn’t great, but we can spin it. You were just being honest about the pressure.”

“Honest?” Joshua lets out a short, bitter laugh. “I sounded like an asshole. And you weren’t even there to pull me out of it in time. That’s your job, right?”

"I'm not your PR team nor am I your baby sitter. You know how to handle media. Don't take it out on me. I was dealing with other things."

“That’s the problem lately,” he says, voice rising slightly. A few heads turn in your direction before politely looking away. “You’re never where I need you to be. You forgot the sponsor briefing in France. You were late to a call yesterday. If you're going to hate being my manager, fine, hate it. But don't fucking suck at it."

"I don't hate being your manager, you ass," you snap back. "I'm doing my best here. The season is long. Everyone is tired. I'm juggling a lot. I told you. Don't throw it back in my fucking face."

"Well it's hard to tell if you just don't give a shit anymore. Is this about what we talked about in Barcelona? About you feeling lost? Because if you’re pulling away, at least be honest with me.”

His words cut deep, reopening the wound from that tense dinner. You open your mouth to respond when a familiar voice cuts through the tension from behind you. “Easy, Josh.”

Seungcheol appears at the edge of the conversation, still in his team polo, hair slightly tousled. He must have come straight from his own media duties. His presence is instinctive, and it sends a jolt through you. He steps closer, positioning himself slightly between you and your brother without fully blocking either of you.

"You guys are arguing in front of literally everyone," Seungcheol says. "You don't need to raise your voice at your sister."

Joshua’s expression hardens instantly. "Stay out of this, Choi. This doesn't remotely concern you."

“I’m not the one raising my voice at her after she’s been running herself ragged for you all weekend. She’s not your punching bag.”

“Funny coming from you,” Joshua fires back, stepping forward. “The guy who’s been making her life hell for over a year. Now you want to play knight in shining armor? Give me a break.”

Engineers and staff exchange uneasy glances, pretending to focus on their laptops while clearly listening. You stand frozen between them, heart pounding. It's like everything is happening in slow motion again, the same arguments, you between them.

“Enough!”

Elias König’s sharp voice cuts through the room like a knife. The team principal strides over from the other side of the suite, his polished demeanor cracking with visible irritation. He places a firm hand on each driver’s shoulder, physically separating them.

“My office. Both of you. Now,” Elias orders, voice cold and authoritative. “We do not do this in front of the team. Not today.”

Joshua glares at Seungcheol one last time before storming off. Seungcheol hesitates, his eyes finding yours for a split second, filled with apology, before he follows. Elias shoots you a concerned look.

"I know," you sigh, running a hand over your face. "I don't know what to do with them."

"You are doing the best you can." He turns. "My turn to do the best I can."

You remain rooted to the spot, fists clenched at your sides, fury bubbling hot in your veins. Livid does not even begin to cover it. At Joshua for lashing out. At Seungcheol for intervening when you didn't ask him to. At yourself for letting the cracks widen in the first place.

The ride back to the hotel is agonizingly lonely. You sit in the back of a team car by yourself, the English countryside blurring past the tinted windows under the darkening sky while you scroll on your phone, wincing. It's just like old times, snippets of the tension between Mercedees being leaked and blasted online.

Sources say Mercedes garage tension is boiling over again. Looks like podium love from Spain didn't last long.

Old wounds reopening at Silverstone? Home race is bringing the drama for Mercedees.

You scroll through them with trembling fingers, each stupid comment and post feeling like another crack in a fragile world you're trying to hold together. The secret moments with Seungcheol have come at a cost. You are giving pieces of yourself to him, and the pieces you once gave so freely to Joshua are slipping through your fingers.

Tears prick at your eyes as the car pulls up to the hotel. The weight of your father’s absence feels heavier tonight, the memory of sitting between Joshua and Seungcheol at the funeral flashing unbidden in your mind. Back then, things hadn't been easy but they hadn't felt like this.

You just don't know what to do.

-

SILVERSTONE CIRCUIT | 2025 RACE DAY 306.19KM | 52 LAPS

Strong wind snaps across the Northamptonshire countryside, carrying the sharp scent of fresh-cut grass and damp asphalt. The grandstands are packed with fans with Mercedes flags and chanting, uncaring that the sky promises cold rain.

You stand in the garage, headset clamped over one ear, tablet clutched in both hands like a lifeline. Your stomach has been in knots since last night’s blow-up in the hospitality suite. Joshua has barely spoken to you this morning, the pre-race ritual completely absent. He moved through his preparations with a cold, focused intensity that left little room for you, though you'd tried to approach. He'd simply brushed you off and you let him. Race day is more important than getting what you have to say off your chest.

The distance hurts more than you expected.

Seungcheol, on the other hand, has been sending you careful, soft glances whenever he thinks no one is watching. A quick brush of his fingers against yours when he passed you earlier, a soft nod of encouragement when you look at him, at a loss of what to do.

The formation lap begins. The two silver Mercedes cars roll out with Joshua starting from P4, Seungcheol from P3 after a strong qualifying recovery. The crowd roars as the field lines up on the grid. You watch the monitors with your heart in your throat.

Then its lights out.

Seungcheol gets a strong start, diving aggressively into Turn 1, capitalizing on hesitation from Red Bull in front of him. Joshua holds position cleanly but is already fighting for space in the tight midfield pack. From the very first lap, it is clear Seungcheol is on point today, working the leaders as he chases them down.

Lap after lap, Seungcheol climbs, the crowd screaming as the silver arrow slices through the wind. By lap 12 he is in the lead. The radio crackles with his engineer’s calm praise, but you can hear the barely-contained elation in Seungcheol’s voice when he responds.

“Car feels incredible today," Seungcheol notes. "Let's go for it."

Joshua’s race, by contrast, begins to unravel. He struggles with balance in the high-speed sections, losing time on corner exits. A slow pit stop on lap 18 drops him further back, and by lap 31, disaster strikes. Joshua’s rear tires lose grip on a patch of wind-blown grass and he spins on a quick right hand turn, the Mercedes snapping sideways before slamming into the barrier with a crunch.

You suck in a gasp, but Joshua is already reporting that he's okay before you can let it back out. The car is done, though, and your heart sinks as you watch him climb out on the monitors, helmet on, shoulders rigid with anger. He storms back toward the garage on foot, refusing the ride. You want to go to him immediately, but you stay grounded to your spot.

Joshua says nothing to you when you enter the garage. You start to walk toward him but he shoulders past, going down the hall with his helmet still on before he slams the door of his room. You swallow, unsure if you should follow him. Wonwoo shoots you a soft look and shakes his head, a rare moment of pity from Seungcheol's manager.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol is in command of the race. He defends the lead masterfully, managing his tires with clinical precision while still pushing when needed. When he crosses the finish line in P1, it's no surprise. The garage erupts in cheers, mechanics clapping each other on the back, jumping and shouting as the race comes to an end.

The team starts to empty out, heading to the podium to celebrate. You stand there, unsure of your place without Joshua. It's Wonwoo who taps you on the elbow and beckons you, shrugging his shoulders as if to say what else are you going to do? You give him a small, grateful smile and walk with him, the silence for once not charged with annoyance.

Seungcheol’s car slows on the in-lap, weaving slightly as he celebrates, fist pumping out the cockpit. When he finally pulls into parc fermé, he practically launches himself out of the car to run to the team as they swarm him over the barriers, cheering. He jumps into the sea of black shirts, screaming with pure, unfiltered joy, hugging every mechanic he can reach.

You smile, crossing your arms over your chest as they let him go to head up for the podium ceremony. You don't expect it when Seungcheol pivots, ripping off his helmet to tuck it under his head and job right toward you. For a split second, the world disappears. The elation of his face, raw, bright and uncontrollable, overrides everything else as you grin at him.

Before you can react, before you can even process what is happening, Seungcheol cups your face with both hands and kisses you. His lips are warm, tasting of salt from the sweat, and for a single, blissful section, you forget where you are and let him kiss you, your hand going to his race suit briefly.

Then reality crashes in.

Seungcheol pulls back suddenly, eyes wide with shock as he realizes what he has just done in front of the entire garage, the cameras, the world. His hands drop from your face like he has been burned.

"Shit," he sweats. "Fuck oh shit fuck, I wasn't thinking. I'm so sorry."

The world turns to the chaos of cameras flashing, phones snapping photos and reporters buzzing. Among the noise, you stand frozen, heart hammering so loudly you can barely hear anything else. our lips still tingle from the kiss. Seungcheol looks at you with raw panic and regret.

"I'm sorry," he says again, the terror real.

"It's okay," you whisper, though it's really not. "Podium. Now."

He nods, giving you a final look before he turns and jogs toward the podium. You barely have time to process before you are walking back into the main garage on shaky legs, hand covering your mouth as you try to process the weight of what just happened. Seungcheol hadn't even thought about what he was doing, so happy that he'd just instinctively done it.

You can't blame him. But you feel the storm in the garage before you even turn the corner, the crackling energy of your brother planted in the middle of the garage waiting for you when you walk in, still in a daze. The moment he sees you, his expression twists into something raw.

“What the fuck was that?” he demands, voice loud enough that several mechanics find somewhere else to be.

"Josh-"

"After everything? There is no fucking way."

"Let me explain!"

"There is nothing to explain. He takes everything from me! Sponsors, fans, attention, wins. My sister. That's why you've been a fucking disaster, oh my god."

The garage descends into complete chaos. People pretend to work but are clearly listening. You feel heat flood your face, a mix of embarrassment, guilt, and rising anger.

“He didn’t take me,” you snap back, voice shaking but growing louder. “I chose this. I chose him. Because for once in my life I wanted something that was mine. Not yours, not the team’s, not Dad’s dream. Mine."

"Oh for fuck's sake."

"Why can't you get that?"

“Because he always wins!” Joshua shouts. “He wins on track, he wins the crowd, he wins the narrative, he wins you. Do you have any idea how it feels?"

"Yes!" You screech. "Because I never win! I give up everything all the time to benefit everyone else and I'm losing all of the time! So yes, I know how it fucking feels, Josh. I was mad too. I was upset with him too. But I'm tired of hating someone who was - is - family to us."

"He is not our family. I am your family."

“You hide your hurt with hate!” you scream, tears spilling over. “Every time something goes wrong, you turn it into anger at him instead of dealing with it. You push everyone away, including me. I have spent my entire life choosing you, protecting you, managing your career, and the one time I choose something for myself, you act like I’ve betrayed you!”

The argument escalates into pure screaming. Joshua is red in the face, years of pain and anger pouring out of him. Gone is the collected, perfect racer everyone knows. Gone is the polished golden boy of Mercedes, replaced with the angry, hurt driver who has done nothing but shove his feelings down down down.

Seungcheol walks in, still flushed from the podium, champagne soaked and glowing with victory. You and Joshua pause, looking at Seungcheol as he freezes. His face falls when he sees the look on your face and he swallows, straightening his shoulders.

"Josh-"

"You couldn't help yourself, could you?" Joshua asks, shaking his head. "Had to take one more thing from me. That's all you do, Choi. You take and you don't care what it fucking costs anyone else."

Seungcheol steps forward, hands raised. “Josh, I didn’t mean for it to happen like that. I was caught up in the moment-"

“You’ve been caught up in trying to steal my sister for months. Congratulations. You finally got what you wanted.”

The two men start shouting at each other, old wounds reopening in real time, both of them yelling over each other as you begin to scream at Joshua for overriding your feelings. It's a childish display - you know it is. But you're tired of bottling up how you feel for the sake of everyone else and it pours out of you, the exact mirror to Joshua.

“ENOUGH!”

Elias König’s voice booms through the garage like thunder, making you all flinch as he storms in. Everyone freezes - even the other mechanics from other garages who have been watching the spiral in Mercedes garage.

“All of you," Elias orders, pointing a finger at the three of you. "Out of my garage right now. I don’t care where you go, but you will leave this space immediately. Sleep on it. We will deal with this tomorrow when cooler heads prevail. This is not how we conduct ourselves at Mercedes.”

Mechanics and engineers scatter quickly. Joshua glares at both of you one last time, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. "Fuck this."

Without another word, he storms out of the garage alone, shoulders rigid, refusing to look back at you. The sound of his footsteps echoes harshly before disappearing into the paddock noise. You stand there, chest heaving, heart hammering. Seungcheol hesitates only for a second before moving toward you. He gently takes your arm, his touch careful but insistent.

“Come on,” he says softly.

You don’t resist. You let him guide you out of the garage, his hand steady on your lower back as you both slip through a side exit away from the worst of the cameras. The British evening air feels cold against your face, the distant roar of the crowd still celebrating Seungcheol’s home win echoing faintly, but all you can hear is the sound of your brother’s broken voice accusing you of betrayal.

Seungcheol leads you toward one of the team cars waiting in a quieter area. He opens the door for you and slides in after, telling the driver to head straight to the hotel. Once the doors are closed and the car begins moving, the full weight of what just happened crashes over you.

"I'm so sorry," he says, turning toward you. “I wasn’t thinking. The win, the adrenaline… I saw you and everything else disappeared. I never meant to put you in that position.”

You squeeze his hand tightly. I know. But Joshua is devastated. He thinks you’re taking everything from him. Sponsors, fans, wins, me. It's… I didn't know he felt that way."

"I didn't either. I hate that this is hurting him."

You lean your head against his shoulder as the car winds through the Silverstone countryside. The guilt, the love, the anger, and the exhaustion swirl together until you feel raw and hollow.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” you whisper. “He stormed out without me. He wouldn’t even look at me.”

Seungcheol presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his arm wrapping around you. "It's time I talked to your brother. For now, just weather the storm, alright?"

"Yeah," you murmur hollowly. "I guess."

- KARTING TRACK SOMEWHERE IN THE COUNTRYSIDE | 2017

The late afternoon sun hangs low over the karting circuit, painting the asphalt in warm gold and long shadows while the distant buzz of karts still practicing on the main track mixes with the sound of crickets starting their evening chorus. This is one of the smaller, regional tracks the three of you frequent. It's nothing glamorous, but it's a simple layout with tight hairpins and a long back straight to make good practice.

It's a warm summer evening, and right now, you and your brother are in the middle of a full-blowing screaming match behind the awning of the sleeper van your dad rented for the weekend.

“I told you to lift earlier in Turn 6!” you shout, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Your cheeks are flushed with anger and the exertion of running back and forth all day. “You went in way too hot again and spun it! That’s the third time today!”

Joshua throws his helmet down on the folding chair with a loud clatter, his racing suit half unzipped, hair sweaty and sticking up in a bunch of different directions. “Maybe if you actually timed the sectors right instead of daydreaming, I wouldn't spin out!"

“I wasn’t daydreaming!” you snap back. “I was dealing with the stupid timing app that kept glitching because you spilled an energy drink on the tablet yesterday!”

“That was an accident!”

“Everything's been an accident with you lately!”

The fight has been building all afternoon. Joshua has been off his game, pushing too hard and making sloppy mistakes, refusing to listen to feedback from both you and your dad. You have been exhausted from trying to keep up with both boys’ schedules, schoolwork, and helping your dad with logistics. The smaller frustrations have snowballed into something bigger, the way they always do when the two of you are tired and stressed.

Seungcheol leans against the side of the van a few meters away, arms loosely crossed, watching the two of you with a familiar mix of amusement and concern. His own karting suit is still zipped to the top, helmet tucked under his arm. Even at seventeen, he already carries that quiet confidence that makes people listen when he speaks.

Joshua gestures sharply at you. “You’re supposed to be on my side, not acting like Dad’s second-in-command all the time!”

“I am on your side!” you yell back. “That’s why I’m telling you what you’re doing wrong! If I just clapped and said oh yeah great job Josh every time you spun it, you’d never get any better!”

“You always think you know best!”

“Because sometimes I do!”

The words hang in the air and Joshua's Joshua’s face twists with hurt and anger. For a moment, it looks like he might say something even meaner, but instead he just turns away, shoulders tight, breathing hard.

You feel the sting of tears behind your eyes but refuse to let them fall. This is how you and Joshua fight, loud and honest and sometimes, brutally direct. You've been doing it since you were little - he pushes, you push back harder.

Seungcheol pushes off the trailer and walks over, sighing. He stops between the two of you, not quite in the middle, but close enough that both of you have to acknowledge him.

“Alright,” he says calmly, voice low and steady. “Both of you, take a breath.”

Joshua glares at him. “Stay out of it, Cheol.”

“I’m not staying out of it,” Seungcheol replies evenly. “You two are fighting like this is the last race of the championship and someone cheated. It’s just practice. On a random Tuesday.”

“He’s not listening to me,” you mutter, wiping at your eyes angrily.

“And she’s acting like I’m an idiot who can’t drive,” Joshua shoots back.

Seungcheol sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He hates stepping between the two of you, but he's always been good at it, this being a buffer between siblings when fights get too heated. He's a natural leader, and he's good at diffusing the tension.

He turns to Joshua first. “You went in too hot. She’s right about that. But she could’ve told you without sounding like she was scolding a little kid.” Then he looks at you. “And you’re doing too much. You’re trying to be the timer, the strategist, the manager, and the sister all at once. He’s not going to hear you when you’re this wound up.”

Both of you stay silent, breathing heavily, glaring at the ground. Seungcheol steps closer to Joshua and places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once. Joshua melts a little, the fight going out of him as he nods at his best friend.

"You know what you're doing, Josh," Seungcheol murmurs. "But you’re also stubborn as hell. Sometimes you need to listen when she tells you something. She's trying to help."

When he turns to you, its hard not to pout. Seungcheol's gaze softens, doing something to your stomach that feels like butterflies when he smirks, shaking his head. "You're allowed to be tired, but we're a time. It's not just you versus the world. Josh is on your team too."

The tension in your shoulders slowly loosens. Seungcheol has always had this effect, grounding both of you without taking sides. Joshua kicks at a pebble on the ground, still sulking but no longer vibrating with anger.

Finally, he looks at you. "I hate when it feels like you're disappointed in me."

“I’m not disappointed,” you say quietly, voice thick. “I’m scared you’re going to hurt yourself pushing like that. And I hate watching you spin when I know you can do better.”

The anger drains from his face, replaced by exhaustion and something vulnerable. He steps forward and pulls you into a rough hug, arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders. You hug him back just as hard, burying your face in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your hair. “I know I’ve been an ass today.”

“You have,” you mutter, but there’s no heat left in it. “But I’m sorry too. I was being mean instead of helpful.”

After a long moment, Joshua pulls back but keeps his hands on your shoulders. His eyes are serious now, the kind of serious he only gets when it’s just the two of you.

“I know I rely on you too much,” he says quietly. “You do so much for me. Sometimes it feels like you’re the only person truly in my corner. Like no matter what happens on track, you’ve always got my back. So when you're on the opposite side, it feels terrifying."

"I'm always in your corner, even when we're disagreeing. Even when you’re being stubborn and I’m being bossy. That doesn’t change. I’m your sister first. Always. I might get frustrated, I might push you because I want you to be better, but I will never not be on your side.”

Joshua’s eyes glisten. He nods once, swallowing hard, then pulls you into another tight hug. Seungcheol steps closer and ruffles both of your heads affectionately, breaking the heavy moment with his usual easy warmth.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” he teases lightly. “Now can we please go get some chips from the corner store before your dad comes over here and yells at us for fighting?"

You roll your eyes, but the familiar banter feels like coming home. The three of you start walking toward the corner store together, you in the middle, Joshua on your right, Seungcheol on your left, shoulders bumping, voices already rising in playful arguments about lap times and who owes who snacks.

Like that, the fight is over. Easy and simple, the three of you against the world.

-

OXFORD, ENGLAND | 2025 TWO DAYS AFTER SILVERSTONE

The rain has been falling steadily since yesterday, a soft, persistent drizzle that turns the world outside your window into muted greens and grays. Your apartment in Oxford is quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional distant sound of traffic on the wet streets below. It's a nice place, a two-story apartment with tall windows overlooking a quiet residential street lined with bicycles and overflowing window boxes. You like the calm here during the season, but sometimes you miss the ocean spray of Los Angeles, a place that feels light years away.

Today, the calm feels suffocating. You haven't spoken to Joshua in two days. Not since the screaming match in the Mercedes garage at Silverstone. Not since he stormed out alone while you left with Seungcheol. The silence between you is heavier than any argument you have ever had, and you don't know how to bridge the gap. You'd called him a single time yesterday, but he hadn't picked up. You were almost glad, cause you weren't sure what to say.

Headlines and social media clips have exploded since Seungcheol’s impulsive kiss after his home win. You try to avoid the headlines, but they're impossible to miss. Mercedes Teammates' Sister Caught in the Middle. Secret Romance or Public Breakdown at Silverstone?

Your name is everywhere, photos of the kiss circulating alongside old images of you and Joshua together, and worse, old clips of you and Seungcheol, every interaction you've had since you were teens under scrutiny. You've spent hours fielding damage-control calls from the Mercedes PR team, trying to keep sponsors calm while your personal life implodes in public, all while enduring the silence from your brother.

Seungcheol's absence is just as bad, though he's far from silent. The team has kept both drivers under tight media control and separate schedules since the incident, but he's been your lifeline through texts and late-night phone calls, dropping you sweet messages that make you smile through the distress. You cling to those messages like a raft in rough water, but they cannot fix the growing chasm between you and your brother.

The glass of wine in front of you is empty. It did nothing to dull the stress, but it doesn't matter. You have insane amounts of work to get through while you sit on the floor at your coffee table. Meeting agendas, sponsor contracts, media schedules, and damage-control notes are spread out in messy piles around you. You've been trying to work and stay productive as a distraction, but it's been borderline impossible.

Your phone buzzes with another notification. You ignore it and instead, open your email, hoping for something routine to distract you. To your surprise, something does as you click the email open, scanning it.

Subject: Opportunity - Executive Role at Apex Management Ms. Hong, I hope this email finds you well, despite the understandably turbulent few days in the paddock. My name is Elena Moreau, and I'm the founding partner of Apex Management, a new venture launching later this year. We are building a specialized management company dedicated exclusively to motorsport athletes with a focus in Formula 1, Formula 2, IndyCar, and emerging talent across other smaller, local series. After following your work closely over the past several years, we believe you would be an exceptional fit for a senior leadership role within our organization. Specifically, we are looking for someone to serve as Head of Manager Development and Portfolio Strategy. In this position, you would: - Design and lead training programs for new driver managers, teaching best practices in media relations, sponsor management, crisis handling, and long-term career planning. - Oversee a portfolio of high-profile drivers, providing strategic guidance at the highest level. - Help shape the overall direction of the company, creating systems that genuinely support drivers beyond race weekends - addressing mental health, personal branding, financial planning, and work-life balance. - Your hands-on experience managing a top-tier Formula 1 driver through complex team dynamics, intense media scrutiny, and high-stakes sponsorship environments makes you uniquely qualified. We are particularly impressed by how you have balanced fierce advocacy with genuine care, which I believe are qualities that are rare in this industry. - We understand the current timing is sensitive. This is not a formal offer yet, but we would love to discuss the role in more detail at your earliest convenience. The position would allow significant flexibility, including the possibility of continuing select private client work if desired. Please let me know if you are open to a confidential conversation. We are very excited about the possibility of bringing your expertise to Apex and helping us continue to overtake the competition. Best regards, Elena Moreau Founding Partner Apex Driver Management

You read the email twice, heart beating faster with each pass. It's an incredible opportunity you don't expect, the kind of role that would let you step out of the shadow of being Joshua's Manager-Sister and into something that is entirely your own. You could train others, build systems, shape how the next generation of drivers are supported. You could finally use every hard-earned skill you have developed, not for just one person, but at a larger scale.

For a few quiet moments, you let yourself imagine it. The freedom. The challenge. The chance to build something meaningful instead of constantly putting out fires.

Then the guilt crashes in.

How could you even consider leaving Joshua right now? After Silverstone? After everything that has happened? After your father trusted you to take care of him? You rub your temples, staring at the email until the words start to blur. A sharp knock on the front door jolts you out of your thoughts just as you think you're going to throw up.

Your heart leaps into your throat as you clambour to your feet. You're not expecting anyone, and you wonder if its. Mrs. Kindkaid again asking if you've seen her cat Pumpkin, which you have not. It isn't your fault Pumpkin likes to escape Mrs. Kinkaid's stuffy apartment and-

It's Joshua.

He stands in front of the door, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark hoodie, shoulders slightly hunched against the rain. You unlock the door without thinking, yanking the door open to get him in and out of the cold rain, not wanting him to catch a cold before Hungary.

"Get in," you order. "You cannot get sick right now."

He sighs, stepping out of the rain and into the warmth of your apartment. He shakes the rain from his hoodie, lowering the hood to reveal damp hair. Joshua looks at you for a long moment, eyes searching yours, and the silent stretches for a moment.

"Can we talk?" He asks finally. "I'm not here to fight."

You nod and he strides into the living room, familiar with the space. Though you only live here during season, Joshua has been here plenty of times, often preferring to crash here after a meal made by you to staying at his own apartment.

Joshua stands in the middle of your living room, eyes scanning the mess of papers and your open laptop before finally settling on you. His expression is tired, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, but there is no anger left in them.

“I’m sorry I ignored your call,” he says quietly, voice rough. “I needed time to think. Everything happened so fast at Silverstone, and I didn't know how to handle it."

You nod slowly, pushing off the door. “I’ve been going out of my mind. Two days of silence from you is hard."

He winces. “I know. I’m sorry.”

You gesture toward the couch. “Do you want to sit?”

He sits on one end of the couch while you take the floor again, knees pulled up to your chest, the familiar position somehow comforting. For a long moment, you both just breathe.

“I didn’t mean to scream at you like that,” Joshua starts, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Seeing him kiss you in front of everyone felt like the last piece of control I had was ripped away. Like he was taking you from me too."

“I know it looked bad. But Cheol didn’t plan that. He was high on adrenaline after the win. He saw me and… yeah. He apologized. It was just… poor timing, I guess. I wanted to talk to you first."

Joshua nods slowly, staring at his hands. “I believe you. But it still stung. Because for years now, it’s felt like he’s always winning. And I keep losing pieces of what used to be mine. What used to be ours.”

The raw honesty in his voice cracks something open inside you. Tears prick at your eyes as memories flood in, all the late nights in hotel rooms when you were kids, the three of you dreaming about Formula 1, your father’s proud smile watching both boys on the podium together.

"I'm not something he's taking, though. I'm a person. I chose him. Not to hurt you, but because for the first time in my life, I let myself want something that was just for me.”

I know that now. I’ve been thinking about what you said in Barcelona about feeling lost." He looks up, eyes watery. "About how you’ve spent your whole life being my manager, my protector, my sister. Carrying everything after Dad died. I’ve been so focused on my own pain, on the rivalry with Cheol, that I stopped seeing how much you were carrying. How much you’ve given up for me.”

You'd do it again in a heartbeat. Everytime you've chosen him, every race, every crisis. Joshua is your brother, a constant in your life that you'll never turn away from. He's the only family you have left beside Seungcheol, and the thought of him thinking you regret your choices or that you resent him eats you alive.

You reach out and place your hand over his. “I don’t regret it."

"Thank god."

"It's hard, but it isn't awful. It's just… heavy. Seungcheol sees me for me. Not a sibling, not a manger, not a rival. Just me."

Joshua nods. "I think I get that now."

"You know I'll always be in your corner, right?" You ask, a tear spilling. "Even when we disagree. Even when I’m angry. Even when I’m choosing something for myself. That doesn’t change. You’re my brother. You’re my family. Nothing and no one can take that away.”

Joshua’s shoulders tremble. He pulls you up from the floor and onto the couch beside him, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug. You bury your face in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with rain.

"I know," he sighs. "I know. I was mad and I'm an idiot and I know."

You stay like that for a long time, the rain continuing its steady rhythm against the windows. Eventually, Joshua pulls back just enough to look at you. There is something hesitant in his expression now.

"What?" You ask.

"Seungcheol came to talk to me."

You blink, surprised. “He did?”

Joshua nods. “He showed up at my hotel room that night. I almost slammed the door in his face, but he wouldn’t leave. He said we needed to talk."

Your heart stutters. “What did he say?”

“He apologized. Properly. Not just for the kiss, but for everything. Singapore. The crashes. The way he handled things. He told me he’s been in love with you for years, that he tried to ignore it because he didn’t want to ruin our friendship or the team dynamic, but he couldn’t anymore.” Joshua lets out a shaky breath. “He said he knows he’s hurt me, and he knows he’s taken things from me on track, but that he never wanted to take you. He just couldn’t keep pretending he didn’t love you.”

"Oh."

Joshua laughs. "Oh, she says. Our best friend of over a decade confesses his love for her to me, and all she has to say is oh."

You slap him on the arm and he laughs, holding up his hands to defend himself. You let your hands drop in your lap, wondering how long Joshua made Seungcheol stand outside of his hotel room door. Seungcheol hadn't even mentioned he was talking to Joshua, which is something you'll be sure to pinch him for later.

“I’m not totally innocent in all of this,” Joshua admits. “I’ve been carrying so much anger toward him that I stopped seeing clearly. I pushed him away first in some ways. I let the rivalry consume everything. And you were right, I’ve been hiding my hurt behind hate instead of dealing with it.”

"Sometimes I'm right."

He snorts. "Yeah, I've heard that before. I think above all I missed my best friend. I miss the guy I used to kart with. The one who stayed up all night with me dreaming about Formula 1. I don’t know if it’ll ever be the same again, but I want to try."

You feel a wave of relief so strong it makes you dizzy. “Really?"

"Yeah. Even if he's annoying."

"Can't argue with you there." He sighs, giving you a look. "What now?"

"As your brother, I want the best for you. And after listening to Cheol talk about how much he loves you, I realized that the best for you might actually be him. I’ve known he was in love with you since we were kids. I told myself he would never do anything about it, and I didn’t want to upset the dynamic between the three of us. But I see now how it was eating away at him."

You let out a shaky laugh through your tears. “You’ve known this whole time?”

“Yeah,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I made it harder for you.”

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper. “For not being honest with you sooner. For letting the secrets build up.”

You lean forward and pull him into another hug, staying wrapped like that for a long moment before you glance at your laptop and you see the email open from Elene Moreau. You hesitate for a second, indecision flicking through you, then you decide to take the leap.

"I want to show you something," you sniff, leaning to grab the computer. "got an email today. From a company starting a new management firm specifically for motorsport drivers. They want me for a senior role. Training new managers, overseeing big portfolios, shaping how drivers are supported beyond the track.”

"No shit? Show me."

You do, elated that he meets it with genuine excitement, immediately flooding you with questions you don't know how to answer. It makes you laugh, both of you sliding to the floor to start looking up the company and what they do. It's impressive, for a start up, and though its something new and foreign, you feel a familiar excitement ignite inside of you, the promise of something that could maybe be yours.

"You should reach out to her," Joshua says eventually.

“Really?"

“Really.” He smiles, small but genuine. “You deserve to have something that’s yours. And if it means you’re not managing me full-time anymore, we'll figure it out. You've carried me long enough."

Joshua pulls you into one final, tight hug. For the first time in days, the weight on your chest feels a little lighter, and Joshua feels less like a client and more like your brother.

"Thank you," you murmur into his shoulder.

"Of course. You're my sister. I want the world for you."

-

CIRCUIT DE SPA-FRANCORCHAMPS | 2025 NIGHT BEFORE THE RACE 308.052 KM | 44 LAPS

Cool air kisses the back of your neck, the earth scent of pine and rain heavy in the Belgian countryside. The air is misty just outside the private restaurant tucked away in a converted stone farmhouse, the exposed wooden beams and soft lighting make it feel warm despite the weather. Team Mercedes fills the space with loud laughter and cheering, shadows dancing in the low lights, a fire crackling in a stone hearth near the end of the table.

Seungcheol pours your wine from your right, leaning around you to listen to what Joshua is saying, brows raised. The rest of the team marvels, pleasantly surprised at the ease with which the three of you have decided to operate tonight.

"Car felt good," Joshua says. "Is that new wing of yours helping?"

“Yeah, it does. Feels more planted on the exit. Your car was fast today. Think it'll do good on wet pavement if it rains tomorrow?"

"Yeah I think so."

You watch the exchange with quiet hope blooming in your chest. It's stilted and careful, but it's real talking with no shouting and no tense accusations. Just two teammates acknowledging each other’s driving on one of the most demanding circuits in the world. The sight makes something tight in your chest finally begin to loosen.

Seungcheol’s hand finds yours under the table, his fingers lacing through yours, thumb stroking slow circles against your skin. He doesn’t hide it. When Elias glances over, Seungcheol doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lifts your joined hands and presses a soft kiss to the back of yours, right there in front of the team. Your cheeks warm, but the quiet smiles and knowing looks from a few senior engineers feel surprisingly kind rather than something bad.

Joshua notices but doesn’t comment. Instead, he raises his glass slightly toward both of you. "To a clean race tomorrow."

Seungcheol clinks his glass against Joshua’s without hesitation. “To a clean race.”

The dinner continues with lighter conversation, stories from past races, jokes about the notorious weather, and even a few shared memories from karting days that make both men laugh. It is not perfect an awkward pause or two blooming between the two as they re-learn one another. But it feels nice.

By the time dessert arrives, everyone is loose with wine, Seungcheol's arm resting across the back of your chair, his fingers occasionally playing with the ends of your hair. Joshua watches the casual affection with a complicated expression, but there is no anger in it anymore. Only quiet acceptance mixed with lingering melancholy.

When the team begins to disperse, Seungcheol leans close to your ear. "Come back with me tonight? I've missed you."

You nod, heart fluttering. “Yes.”

The ride back to the hotel is quiet, the card winding through the misty Ardennes roads, headlights cutting through the light fog. Seungcheol keeps his hand on your thigh, thumb tracing gentle patterns through your dress, and though the touch is simple, it sends warmth curling low in your belly.

Joshua wishes you both a good night, giving Seungcheol a single, narrow-eyed glance that says be nice to my sister before he vanishes up the elevator. Seungcheol smiles, pleased at this - pleased that it can be so easy now. You are too, feeling lighter than you have in months.

Once inside his hotel suite, the door barely clicks shut before Seungcheol pulls you into his arms. He kisses you slowly, his tongue lazy and hungry all at once, pouring weeks of stolen moments and restrained longing into every brush of his lips. His hands slide down your back, pulling you flush against him.

“I’ve been thinking about this for days,” he whispers against your mouth. “Just you and me. No cameras. No screaming.”

You melt into him, fingers threading through his hair. “Me too.”

He walks you backward toward the bedroom, kissing you the entire way. He peels away your layers of clothing as he goes, the drag of his fingers on your sensitive skin maddening, sending a shiver up your spine. When you reach the bed, he lays you down carefully, his body covering yours as he kisses down your neck, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses across your skin.

You push gently at his shoulders until he rolls onto his back and he looks up at you with dark, hungry eyes, letting you straddle him with a wicked grin. You kiss your way across his chest, your teeth scraping skin, listening to him moan lightly when your tongue darts out to sooth the sting of your teeth. His skin is salty beneath your tongue, muscles jumping as you kiss down his stomach, singing to the floor between his thighs.

"You don't-"

The words die in his mouth when you palm him through his pants, squeezing his firm cock while your other hand unzips his pants. He helps you pull them off, his thick thighs twitched as you lean forward eagerly to drag your tongue up the underside of his shaft.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, hand going to the back of your head, not pushing but holding on, like he's trying to ground himself.

You take him into your mouth slowly, savoring the heavy weight of him on your tongue. You work him with long, deliberate strokes, licking, sucking and hollowing your cheeks as you take him deeper. Your lips stretch around him, the pinch at the corner of your mouth a sign that you're stretched to the limit, drool leaking from the corner of your lips as you work him.

“Fuck, baby. You eel so good,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “So perfect for me.”

You hum around him, the vibration making his thighs tense. You take your time, drawing it out until his breathing is ragged and his hand tightens gently in your hair. Eventually, he tugs you up gently, eyes blazing.

"Kiss me," he whispers, pulling you on top of him.

You do, tongues tangling as he sits up and shuffles you into his lap, his slick cock pressing against your heat. You groan, rolling your hips, feeling him slide against you, cockhead bumping your clit with each pass. He makes a wrecked sound before reaching between you, guiding the head of his cock to catch on your entrance, hesitating only a second before he presses in and you both gasp into each other's mouth.

Once he’s fully seated, he wraps his arms around you, holding you close in his lap. He rocks up into you with slow, deep rolls of his hips, grinding against that perfect spot inside you with every movement while you cling to his shoulders, forehead pressed to his.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your lips. “So much.”

“I love you too,” you whisper back, rolling your hips to meet his slow thrusts.

He's deep, each stroke of his cock making you see stars, dizzy as you roll your hips into him, chests pressed together. His hands roam your back, your waist, your thighs, grounding you as you suck in a sharp breath, the pleasure nearly overwhelming.

Seungcheol shifts you both without warning, turning you on your side until he's behind you and one of his arms wraps around your waist while the other slides under your neck. He presses in again, the slide wet and hot, making you arch back into him, lashes fluttering. His thrusts remain slow while he presses wet kisses along your shoulder and the back of your neck.

“You feel incredible,” he groans, voice low in your ear. "So fucking warm and tight."

You moan softly, pushing back against him, lost in the steady rhythm. His hand slides down to circle your clit with perfect pressure, drawing out your pleasure until you’re trembling in his arms. When you finally come, it's with the sound of his name in your mouth as you clench around him, squeezing hard. It makes him follow you shortly after, his hips stuttering before he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you.

You stay like that for a long time afterward, trying to catch your breath, the room spinning. The room is quiet except for your shared, slowing breaths and the distant sound of rain beginning to fall on the Belgian countryside, the maddening thoughts and spiralling finally coming to an end.

"I finally feel happy," Seungcheol murmurs, voice sleepy. "You make me happy."

"You make me happy too."

Seungcheol presses a kiss to the back of your neck before drifting to sleep with you in his arms.

-