fvckmarrysylus

Only you and he were at the dining table, the silence broken only by the sound of cutlery touching ceramic. You deliberately avoided his gaze, focusing on cutting the meat on your plate. He had cooked the meat, and it tasted exactly like the one you used to eat as a child.

Something's on your mind.

He spoke, his tone an undeniable judgment, not a question. He put down his knife and fork, leaning slightly forward. The cuffs of his white shirt were neat, revealing a metal Star Alliance insignia on his wrist.

You felt exposed but insisted stubbornly.

No, just thinking about next week's mission report.

The lie was too flimsy. You knew better than anyone that you would never be distracted before a mission.

He didn't argue, just watched you quietly, his purple pupils like a bottomless vortex, capable of sucking away all your justifications. He reached out, took your water glass, and refilled it for you.

Don't put up a front.

He spoke the coldest words with the most gentle action. He was always like this, using rationality to build a retreat for you, yet using action to dismantle all your defenses.

You felt a tightness in your chest, the powerlessness of being seen through by him, mixed with a longing you dared not admit. You wished he would press further, forcing you to say those suppressed words.

You never used to lie to me.

He said slowly, his voice sounding like a sigh, and like an accusation.

You put down your knife and fork with a harsh scraping sound.

How do you want me to answer? you asked him, a heat in your tone that you hadn't noticed.

He leaned back against the chair, resuming his aloof male deity posture.

I know you've been avoiding me lately.

You clenched your fingers. Yes, you were avoiding him. Avoiding the focus in his eyes, avoiding the shiver his accidental touches caused, avoiding the feeling that your affection for him had long surpassed the boundary of sister.

That's just because—

Because we live too close, he completed the sentence for you, his voice chillingly steady.

You remained silent. You knew it wasn't just a matter of physical distance.

He suddenly stood up, walked to your side, and leaned over. His presence instantly enveloped you.

What I want to fill is not the distance in your life.

His voice was extremely low, carrying a naked, destructive aggression. His large hands braced on both sides of your chair back, trapping you in his shadow. You felt your skin starting to heat up, the humid reaction deep inside your body clamoring.

Caleb, stop it, you whispered.

A flicker of something you had never seen—almost pain—crossed his purple eyes. He didn't touch you, but used that oppressive proximity to make you feel like every inch of your body was being filled by his invisible desire.

He retreated again, picked up his glass from the table, and took a sip of water.

I just want to know if you're also starting to... be afraid.

He didn't give you time to answer. He sat back down and continued cutting the meat on his plate, as if the preceding conversation had never happened. But the precision and ruthlessness of his cutting motion let you know that the fear had long been seen through by him.

It was a ball at the starport. As the commander, he had to attend. As his accompanying personnel, you were also there.

You were talking to a strange DAA liaison officer. He was amusing, telling stories about nebulae, and you were laughing.

You heard footsteps behind you.

Caleb walked up to your side. He was in a black uniform, his epaulets gleaming with cold silver in the light. He didn't look at you, nor did he look at the liaison officer.

Time to go.

He only said these three words, his voice deeper and colder than usual.

The liaison officer froze for a moment, then immediately saluted.

Yes, Commander Caleb.

He turned and walked away. You watched his retreating figure, feeling slightly annoyed.

We still have ten minutes.

You turned to face him, finding a thin layer of frost in his purple eyes.

Ten minutes for what?

Our agreed departure time. You tried to remind him that his behavior was a bit rude.

Change of schedule.

He reached out and grabbed your wrist. The movement was precise and authoritative, but the pressure was well controlled; it didn't hurt, it just made it impossible for you to pull away.

He pulled you through the noisy crowd toward the exit.

You were being dragged by him, your wrist enveloped by his scorching heat. His steps were quick; you almost had to trot to keep up.

Caleb, could you let go?

You protested in a low voice.

No.

He didn't look back.

You're hurting me, you said with more emphasis.

He stopped in the shadows of the exit. He finally let go of your wrist.

Before you could rub it, he raised his hand again, gently rubbing the spot he had grabbed on your wrist with his calloused thumb pad. That warmth and soft touch instantly dissolved your previous dissatisfaction.

I didn't hurt you.

His voice was light, as if he were talking to himself.

I just... didn't want you standing there.

Why? you asked.

Too loud.

His answer was so restrained and rational that you couldn't find any room for counter-argument.

He's just a liaison officer, we were just talking about nebulae.

You still tried to explain.

He looked up, his purple pupils looking especially deep in the dim light. His gaze didn't rest on your face but went past your shoulder, as if looking through you toward the direction of the liaison officer.

I know.

He stated a surprising fact in an almost calm tone.

But you laughed for too long.

You were instantly speechless. That wasn't jealousy; he would never admit it was jealousy. He was simply using the simplest, most commander-appropriate reason to protect his possession from unnecessary gazes.

You felt your whole body trembling, not from the cold, but from his extreme, unacknowledged possessiveness.

The starship had launched, leaving the planetary orbit and entering the pre-jump preparation phase. You stood beside Caleb, looking out the window, waiting for the distorted light band.

The last time you said you had seen our ending.

You finally asked the question you had suppressed in your heart for a long time.

What is it like?

He didn't answer. He simply raised his hand and turned your body to face him. He gently cupped your cheeks with both hands, his cool fingertips forming a stark contrast with your warm skin.

Do you truly want to know?

His voice was deep, carrying an unspeakable weariness.

Yes.

You met his gaze, knowing that at this moment, he wouldn't arm himself with restraint and rationality anymore.

You will cry.

He stated. Not a question, not a prediction.

You will be in immense pain. All your sense of security will be destroyed. You will hate me.

His thumb gently rubbed your cheekbone, the pressure making it impossible to evade. You felt your eyes heat up, but you didn't cry.

And then what.

And then, I will lock you by my side.

He suddenly smiled, an extremely small, self-mocking smile.

By any means. With my status, with your attachment, with your need for me. I will make sure you can't escape.

He paused, the coldness in his eyes receding, leaving only a burning, almost desperate desire.

I will make you completely belong to me.

This wasn't a declaration of love. It was a judgment. He had predicted all the pain, but he still chose this path.

All your muscles tightened. You felt a tremendous pressure, like a black hole, pulling you toward him.

You reached out and gently touched the vein on his neck. The pulse throbbing there was fierce and real.

What about you, Caleb.

You asked.

What is your ending?

He closed his eyes, his forehead lightly resting against yours. His breath was close enough to touch, yet felt separated by a layer of ice.

My ending is watching you cry.

He opened his eyes, the purple pupils filled with the reflection of the stars and an unspeakable, profound sorrow.

But it will be worth it.

He suddenly tightened his grip on your cheeks, then lowered his head, covering your lips with an aggressive force. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a brand confirming ownership. You tasted a faint metallic tang on his lips, unsure if it was blood or gunpowder smoke.

The moment you felt completely out of control, he released you.

The jump has begun.

He said calmly, as if everything that just happened was your hallucination. He turned and returned to his commander's position.

You looked at his straight back, knowing you had no retreat left. He had foreseen the destruction, yet he chose to bring you aboard this starship destined to sink. And you, willingly stayed.

It was three in the morning, and the entire spaceport was enveloped in a heavy silence.

You were awakened by a hurried knock at the door. You practically jumped up to open it.

Caleb stood outside. He wasn't in uniform, just a black undershirt soaked in sweat and military trousers. His hair was plastered messily to his forehead from intense exertion.

You saw a palm-sized patch of blood spreading on his undershirt near his side.

He raised a hand and pressed a finger against your lips.

Shh.

His movement was swift. In your speechless astonishment, he slipped into the room, braced his arm against the doorframe, and closed the door. His actions betrayed an extreme level of suppression.

You're hurt. Your voice was barely a whisper, trembling uncontrollably.

Don't make a sound. It wasn't detected. His tone was calm, even carrying a hint of impatience.

He walked to the center of the room, turning his back to you, giving you no chance to examine his wound.

Get me gauze and disinfectant. Under your bedside table.

What did you do?

Training. High-intensity. He answered briefly.

You walked toward the bedside table, but your eyes were fixed on his back, on the soaked undershirt. You noticed the muscles across his entire back were tensed like granite, a stiffness born of pain.

You retrieved the first-aid kit and returned behind him. You raised your hands, tentatively reaching to touch the undershirt at his lower back.

Don't touch me. His voice was low, commanding.

You stopped your movement, but you didn't withdraw your hand. You held your fingers suspended above his spine, feeling the high temperature transmitted through the fabric.

Take your shirt off.

He paused. It was short, but long enough for you to hear your own breathing.

Then he reached down, grabbed the hem of his undershirt, and yanked it up. The rough rasp of fabric against skin was a sound of violent urgency.

You saw his lower back and side abdomen were sliced open by a long, deep wound. It wasn't a scrape; it looked more like a deep cut from a sharp blade. The edges were a gruesome purple, clearly indicating it had been hit by some kind of energy weapon.

This was not caused by high-intensity training.

You gasped sharply.

He stood there, the perfect lines of his back muscles faintly trembling from the pain. His breathing was heavy, a suppressed panting. He stood with his back to you, exposing all his distress and blood to your eyes alone.

You've seen it. Now, don't ask. Treat it.

You placed the gauze and disinfectant on the floor, then raised your hands and gently placed them on his sides. You didn't touch the wound, just gave him stable support with your palms.

Why didn't you go to the medical officer, Caleb? You asked softly again.

They'll make a record, he replied concisely. I don't want a record.

He didn't want a record. He didn't want anyone to know he had sustained such a severe injury during this high-intensity training. He offered this vulnerability, unique to a commander, only to you.

What do you take me for? You felt a hot sting in your eyes, but you fought back the tears.

He didn't turn around, but his head tilted back slightly until the back of his skull gently rested against your forehead.

I wish you weren't my sister, he repeated in a low, quiet tone.

You stopped talking and began to treat the horrifying wound with disinfectant. Your hand was steady, like a professional nurse.

Your fingertips touched his hot skin, mixing the metallic smell of blood with the humid heat of sweat.

You felt all his muscles tense. At the moment you applied the disinfectant, he let out a sharp, suppressed groan, completely trapped in his throat.

You lowered your head and pressed your lips against the skin of his shoulder blade.

Bear with it, you whispered, the words almost a caress.

He rubbed his head lightly against your forehead, an act of extreme, private dependence.

Only you. Only at three in the morning, in this unrecorded room, did he allow himself to be seen by you, touched by you, and saved by you.

He had entrusted his wound and his secret to you.

You were sitting on Sylus's desk, fiddling with one of his Protocore cores—a priceless object that only you would dare to treat so casually.

There was a commotion outside; several high-ranking Onychinus executives were arguing, their voices carrying unease and instability through the heavily soundproofed walls.

You had just finished an extremely tough negotiation, successfully stabilizing several allies who were on the verge of defection. You used aggressively strong methods, even deploying the Evol intimidation he taught you. Now, you were exhausted, your whole body trembling slightly.

Sylus pushed the door open. He saw you sitting in his spot, leaning against his chair back, spinning the Protocore. He didn't mock you as usual; he just quietly closed the door.

He walked up to you, said nothing, but raised a hand and gently brushed the stray strands of hair from your cheek. His fingertips were cool from years of contact with weapons.

You did well, he finally said, his voice calm and direct.

My methods were a bit dirty, you said, a trace of self-criticism in your voice. You hated the feeling of controlling others, but for Onychinus, you had to.

Boring things, kitten, he leaned in slightly, his red eyes full of approval. You need to embrace your power. You simply used what you should have.

He offered you no extra comfort or moral critique. He simply acknowledged your power.

You felt your cheek cradled by his warm, calloused palm. The heat of his thumb ironed out the fatigue and discomfort in your skin.

You don't look like an ally today, you challenged him, trying to provoke annoyance.

He just smiled, a smile without mockery, but with a deep, profound affection you had never seen before. He said nothing more, only leaned down and sealed your mouth with a deeply possessive kiss.

This was not a tender kiss. It was a declaration of ownership. He kissed you hard, carrying the bitter scent of cigar and Protocore, as if punishing you, and yet also rewarding you.

The kiss was long, to the point of feeling suffocating. Your hands dropped, and the Protocore core fell onto the desk with a faint thud, but neither of you cared. You tightly wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling the tension and power in his muscles.

When he finally let go, both of you were gasping for breath. He pressed his forehead against yours, looking at you up close, his bright red eyes displaying unconcealed confidence and control.

I don't need to apologize, he whispered, his breath ragged. I just need you to remember that you and I are the same, and I know you. You crave this power.

He replaced all sweet words, all false comforts, and all apologies with this action. He simply showed you your truest self: like him, you were a person who sought thrill and embraced power. You liked this feeling; you liked him.

The air still smelled of antiseptic. This was his private medical bay, and you stood outside, looking at him through a transparent layer of reinforced glass.

He was asleep, his messy silver hair scattered on the pillow, the red glow of his right eye faded, leaving only tired bloodshot veins. This was the third day of your cold war. The cause was a stupid tactical error; you thought he was too reckless, he thought you were boring.

You took a pen and quickly signed several documents on a data pad concerning the subsequent transactions and cleanup work. Your movements were quiet, but as you signed the last stroke, the pen tip snapped from excessive force.

You better not break my next pen, kitten.

He didn't open his eyes, his voice low and hoarse, as if squeezed from deep in his throat.

You stiffened instantly, your fingers tightly gripping the broken pen. You hadn't expected him to wake up.

You're awake. Your tone was calm, like two business partners discussing the weather.

Did you think I was asleep, so you could indulge your impatience? He slowly opened his eyes, the red pupils carrying a hint of his familiar mockery.

I'm just cleaning up the mess you left, you put the data pad on the table, your voice laced with undisguised sarcasm.

He didn't get angry; instead, he smiled. The smile was slight, carrying a trace of helpless indulgence.

If I recall correctly, he propped himself up slightly, allowing you to see the bandages on his chest, it was you who yelled two days ago that 'boring things have zero patience from me.'

You were speechless. You had indeed said that. You had used his words to sting him, but now he was using them to counterattack.

I just don't like seeing the leader of Onychinus, you turned away, not looking at him, laid up here over a minor injury.

A minor injury. He repeated, his voice carrying a dangerous seduction. Did you not see my right eye glowing? Did you not see the exploding Protocore? Did you not see that I almost...

He didn't continue, but the unyielding rage, the refusal to back down, was clearly visible in his red eyes.

You took a deep breath, knowing you couldn't keep up the facade. You turned back, took two steps, and stood by his bedside.

If you're so reckless again next time, you looked at him, your tone softened but still carrying a hint of threat, I won't clean up your mess again.

His gaze suddenly softened, showing a tenderness that only appeared when you were alone. He raised his hand, reaching for you. You didn't move, just watched him quietly.

I'm injured, his voice was low, as if asking for a special privilege. Shouldn't you order me around more and tell me to rest properly?

You felt your resolve melt; the anger had crumbled at the sight of his injury. You took his outstretched hand, and warmth spread from his palm.

You bastard, you muttered under your breath, then buried your face in your clasped hands.

You didn't need to apologize. Neither did he. This action, this moment of vulnerability where only he could make you break your principles, was the best form of reconciliation.

A small black velvet box is tossed through the air, tracing a parabola. You scramble to catch it. Inside sits an uncut gemstone. Dark red. In this light, it looks like a coagulated eye of blood, or perhaps a dangerous energy core. This thing... looks expensive. And volatile.

"Passed by an auction. Thought the color was tolerable."

Sylus leans back on the sofa, toying with a modified handgun, speaking as casually as if he just threw you a piece of candy. He glances up, his gaze flicking between your eyes and the stone.

"Don't make that face. It's not hazardous materials... provided you don't count its ability to level half a city block."

Seeing your hand tremble, he laughs low in his throat, clearly entertained.

"Kidding. It's a high-purity energy crystal. Only you can use it."

He stands up, walks over to you, and tips the stone up with his fingertip to catch the light.

"Expensive rock. Still not as pretty as your eyes, though."

2:00 AM. The holographic screen on the desk is still flickering. The dense rows of data are making your head spin. The lock clicks. No knock. The door just swings open. Sylus walks in holding a paper bag, carrying the chill of the night air on his coat. Looks like he just dealt with some trouble of his own. Seeing your lights still on, his eyebrows shoot up.

"Still at it? Trying to turn into a panda, or are you plotting to usurp the throne of 'workaholic'?"

He tosses the bag onto your desk. The aroma instantly overpowers the bitterness of your stale coffee. It’s those hot pastries you have to queue for at midnight. He rounds the desk and spins your chair around so you face him. He plants his hands on the armrests, trapping you between the chair and himself.

"Eat. Then sleep."

You start to argue that you have files to finish. He reaches out and swipes the holographic screen off. Silence.

"That boring trash can wait until tomorrow. Right now, your time belongs to me."

The rain in the N109 Zone always smells acidic. It hits your skin, ice-cold and biting. No umbrella. You’re stuck huddled under the eaves, looking miserable. A pitch-black sports car tears through the rain curtain and screeches to a halt in front of you. The window rolls down, revealing a face that clearly says, Are you an idiot? The door pops open. The second you sit inside, a suit jacket retaining body heat is thrown over your head, blocking out the chill. The heater is blasting, creating a different world from the gloom outside. Sylus doesn’t drive off immediately. He leans over, brushing your dripping bangs aside.

"If the leader of Onychinus found out his partner doesn't even know how to dodge rain, he'd laugh his head off."

His mouth is toxic, but his hands hand you a dry towel. He watches you dry your hair, his gaze obscure under the dim dashboard lights. His fingers ghost over your cheek. Cool fingertips.

"Dry off. Dare to catch a cold, and you're dead."

Surrounded by the clinking of champagne glasses and fake pleasantries. This kind of event absolutely sucks. You swirl the wine in your glass, bored out of your mind, feeling like your smile has fossilized on your face. Suddenly, a hand lands on your lower back. Even through the fabric of your evening gown, the heat is scalding. Sylus has drifted over from somewhere, his other hand in his trouser pocket, tie loosened, wearing a look of utter impatience.

"Tsk. Listening to these old fossils is practically hypnotic."

He leans close to your ear. His warm breath dusts the shell of your ear, carrying the faint scent of tobacco and expensive wood. He’s complaining, but the tone sounds like a flirtation. People nearby cast inquiring glances. He shoots a look back, red eyes narrowing slightly. That inherent predator's pressure sends their gazes scurrying away in panic.

" The air in here is trash. I can't stand it."

He takes the glass from your hand, deposits it randomly on a passing waiter’s tray, and—without caring if it causes a scene—grips your wrist to drag you out.

"Come on. Let's go some where less boring."

The smell of antiseptic is stinging your nose. The room is terrifyingly quiet, save for the slight sound of a cotton swab dipping into medicine. Sylus sits opposite you, eyes lowered, deftly tending to the scrape on your arm. The usual nonchalance is gone from his red pupils, replaced by a gloom that makes your heart race in a bad way. He is actually angry. It’s not a deep wound—just a scratch from a mission mishap—but the air pressure around him right now is more suffocating than a gang shootout. You want to pull your hand back, just to break this awkward silence. Your finger twitches, and he clamps down on your wrist immediately.

"Don't move."

His voice is cold enough to freeze water. He glances up, sweeping over you, a dark red glow churning in the depths of his eyes.

"Is playing the hero fun? Or were you expecting me to say 'good job'?"

He winds the gauze around your arm. The final knot is tied with impossible gentleness, a complete contradiction to the venom in his words. He sighs, thumb brushing the edge of the bandage.

"Hurt yourself again, and I’m locking you in the base. I mean it."

The roar of the engine is nearly shattering your eardrums. The neon streams on either side are stretched into blurry blocks of color, retreating frantically into the past. Too fast. The wind cuts your cheeks like knives. You have no choice but to bury your face into the broad back in front of you, arms locking in a death grip around his lean waist. The cold, hard leather and the body heat seeping through it are the only safe harbor in this hyper-speed world. The bike banks sharply. Your knee almost scrapes the asphalt. The terrifying weightlessness makes your arms tighten reflexively.

"Hah."

His short laugh carries on the wind, the vibration passing through his body to yours. He doesn’t slow down. He guns the throttle. Maniac. But then, one of his hands leaves the handlebar to cover yours where they clasp at his waist. He pats your hand reassuringly, then interlaces his fingers with yours, locking them down tight. The strength flows from his fingertips, as if to say: As long as I’m here, this isn’t falling. It’s flying.

"Open your eyes. Look ahead. The view isn't bad."

Sweat stings your eyes as it slides down your temple. He gives you absolutely no room to breathe. The wind hits your face first, and you instinctively raise your arms to block, but a second later, a brute yet precise force knocks you off your feet. The world spins. The dull thud of your back hitting the training mat hasn’t even faded when a shadow looms over you. Sylus is kneeling on one knee at your side, one hand planted by your ear, looking down at you. There’s no killing intent in those red eyes, only that teasing look that makes your teeth itch.

"Too slow, Kitten."

He leans down, the black tip of his gloved finger tapping the side of your neck, right where your pulse is hammering from the exertion. You’re pinned. You lost. Yet the way he looks at you is like he’s admiring a rare artifact. That intense sensation of being completely controlled crawls up your spine.

"What was that hesitation? Afraid you’d hurt me?"

The arc of his smile widens, dripping with mockery and a little bit of... anticipation?

"Use some force. I told you, if you want to wield power, don't expect me to go easy on you."

The curtains aren’t pulled tight enough. That murky, piercing morning light unique to the N109 Zone slices right across the carpet. You want to turn over, but you can’t. There’s a heavy arm thrown across your waist, a dead weight that makes you breathe with careful deliberation. Doesn't this guy usually vanish like a ghost? A rustle of fabric comes from behind you, followed immediately by a low chuckle vibrating through a chest wall, hot breath drilling right into the nape of your neck.

"Awake?"

Before you can even answer, the arm tightens, scooping you backward until your spine is flush against a wall of warm, hard muscle. The tips of his silver hair prick at your skin, tickling your neck maddeningly. You try to push him away to get ready for the day, but the moment your hand touches the back of his, he flips it. His fingers, roughened with thin calluses, trace the artery at your wrist with agonizing slowness. Like he’s checking a pulse. Or just playing with a toy.

"Five more minutes. The boring shit outside isn't going anywhere."

His voice is wrecked with sleep, carrying a laziness and petulance you rarely hear. Your heart skips a beat. In the core of this dark zone filled with illegal trades and violence, five minutes of peace is a luxury that feels like a trap. But you don't move. Fine. Since he’s actually here, you might as well stay in bed with the big cat for a little longer.

The air was heavy with the scent of expensive cigars and the faint ozone residue after the release of Evol energy.

You pushed open the rooftop door, and the night wind immediately rushed in, blowing your trench coat. Sylus was leaning against the railing, his back to you, the city lights casting a stark, cold silhouette around him. He held a terminal that emitted a weak glow, like a dying red star.

"I thought you wouldn't come, kitten." He didn't turn around, but his voice clearly cut through the wind.

You walked over to him, looking down at the chaotic yet prosperous night view of the N109 sector below. Silence enveloped you both. This silence was different; it lacked the usual sharpness and probing, holding only a heartbreaking exhaustion.

"You're worried," you stated simply, your voice soft.

The terminal in his hand dropped to the ground with a faint clang. His right hand slowly lifted, his fingertips still carrying the residual heat of Evolved energy.

"I'm worried?" He turned around, his bright red eyes looking straight into yours. In the darkness, you saw the skin around his right eye was slightly red—a sign of excessive Evol use.

"Your right eye," you reached out, intending to touch, but stopped half an inch away. "You used power you shouldn't have."

"It's my power," he roughly grabbed your wrist, the grip so strong it felt like he might crush you, yet he loosened the force at the last second, just holding on tight. "I need to embrace my power, just like you always taught me."

"And the cost?" You didn't pull away, letting him hold you, your wrist feeling the rough calluses of his thumb pad.

"The cost..." he repeated the word, his gaze shifting, falling on the distant lights.

"I can't fall," he finally spoke, his voice like sandpaper. "If I fall, Onychinus will be torn apart by those hyenas. You will..."

He trailed off, not saying the word. But you understood. You knew he meant "you will lose everything" or "you will lose protection."

"You're afraid I'll leave," you finished the sentence for him, every word deliberate and heavy.

Sylus's gaze instantly constricted, like a cornered beast. He released your wrist, lifting his hand instead, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. His fingertip was cold, but his eyes were scorching.

"...Maybe so," he whispered, all confidence and mockery gone from his tone, leaving only a raw, heartbreaking honesty.

He spoke that sentence in an incredibly slow and hoarse manner, as if it cost him all his strength. This was more devastating than any fierce argument. This was the part of him, deep down, he least wanted you to know.

You extended your arms, wrapping them around his waist, burying your face in his chest. You felt his hardened muscles stiffen for a moment, then finally relax, as if shedding the weight of the entire N109.

"You and I are the same, Sylus," you whispered, closing your eyes. "I won't let you fall."

This time, he didn't mockingly call you kitten. He just tightened his arms, holding you closely against his broad chest.

The conference room lights were always stark white, suffocating. You pushed a glass of ice water, filled only halfway, toward him. Sylus didn't even glance at it. He was looking at the holographic financial statements, which were entirely encrypted diagrams of Protocore flow.

Silence. Only the faint hum of the holographic projection and the minuscule sound of ice melting in the glass. This silence was more unsettling than any argument. You sensed something was wrong; he was too calm, as if planning a massive purge.

"The recent delivery had a hitch," you broke the silence first, your voice echoing in the empty room with a deliberate distance.

He finally looked up. His messy silver hair gleamed coldly in the light, and his red eyes seemed to be scanning you, not looking at you. His hands were clasped, resting on the table—a classic, commanding posture.

"I know," he said, only two words.

"So?" You raised an eyebrow, attempting to provoke a reaction. "Did N109's defenses have a breach, or have you been too absent lately, making them think Onychinus is wavering?"

He smiled, a familiar, condescending curve of the lips.

"Order me around more, kitten." His tone was full of mockery, yet his eyes were cold. "You look angry. Are you worried about me?"

You didn't answer, just stared at the ice water. You knew he wanted you to speak, to admit your internal fear of the Empire's collapse, or more privately, your concern for his safety. You would never give him that satisfaction.

"I simply dislike seeing boring things," you said, deliberately using his favorite phrase. "One breach could lead to the collapse of the entire Protocore chain. I don't have the patience for messes."

"Good." He leaned forward, a movement that carried an immediate sense of dominance, forcing you to subtly lean back. He didn't touch you, but his presence had already invaded your territory.

"You don't just dislike boring things," he continued slowly, every word a deliberate probe. "You dislike losing control. You and I are the same; you crave control over everything, including my whereabouts, my decisions, my..."

He paused intentionally, his gaze fixed on your face like a hook. You felt your heart start to race, and you clenched your fingers to combat the quickening pulse.

"You know perfectly well that you are the best lure," you retorted, your voice low but every word charged with challenge.

He didn't deny it, just smiled again. It was a knowing, satisfied smile.

"Yes," he said, like granting a final confirmation to the prey. "And you, you need to embrace your power to sink your teeth into me, the hunter."

He finally picked up the glass of water, twirled it in his fingers, and then drank it down. The sound of ice hitting the glass seemed to declare the end of this silent provocation; he had won, and you had succumbed to your own emotions.