#mooreverse

Prologue

They say Mercy City wasn’t built. It was bargained for. Bribed into existence. Bought in blood.

And somewhere between the stacked high-rises and half-lit corner stores, a man began rewriting the rules—one bullet, one body, one breath at a time.

He’s called Killmonger.

Not by choice. By fear.

No one knows where he came from. No records. No face. Only stories. And scars.

They say he walks like silence itself. Dresses in black like grief. That his boots sound like warning shots when they hit the ground. That he only shows up when Mercy’s worst men think they’ve finally bought the world and buried their sins deep enough not to smell.

Then he appears. Quiet. Focused. Masked.

There’s no monologue. No symbol in the sky. Only wreckage. Only men with broken jaws and bleeding teeth. Only secrets ripped from hard drives and corruption hung out like laundry.

Some say he’s ex-military. Others swear he’s a ghost. A myth. A whisper born from the city’s regret. But those who’ve seen him know the truth:

He’s real. And he’s always watching.

He doesn’t save the city. He saves the girl on the bus. The dealer’s scared little brother. The night nurse walking home alone. The city can rot.

And now? Now he’s watching her.

The mayor’s wife.

She doesn’t know it yet. But the mask moves for her now.

And Mercy? Mercy’s about to find out what happens when a man with nothing left to lose sets his eyes on the one thing he can’t have.

The air in Mercy City always smelled like heat and something broken—gasoline, piss, old money, and ambition. Thick enough to taste. Heavy enough to sit on a man’s chest like a warning. The city didn’t wake up—it came to, like something that blacked out and wasn’t sure who it killed the night before.

The gala was held in the old opera house off Eastmore, a place too historic to demolish and too haunted to properly restore. Outside, black Escalades lined the street like teeth. Inside, champagne flutes clinked over soft jazz and whispered favors, men in suits laughing too loud, women in gowns looking over their shoulders, and somewhere in the middle of it all—stacked higher than the skyline—stood Elias Moore.

Red velvet suit. No tie. Fresh cut. Gold rings. A glass in one hand, a devil’s smirk in the other. His face was everywhere tonight—posters, screens, billboards lit in blue and white that read: REBUILDING MERCY. ONE VOTE AT A TIME.

He didn’t write that slogan. PR did. He hated it. Said it sounded like a fuckin’ band-aid on a bullet wound. But it tested well with white donors uptown, and Stack knew how to shut up when the money was green enough.

From the balcony, you couldn’t hear what he was saying but you could feel the pull. Stack didn’t talk like a politician. He didn’t talk to people—he talked through them. Smooth, reckless, profane. He flirted with every sentence. He cussed on camera and dared them to bleep it. He made mothers clutch pearls and daughters slip phone numbers in his wife’s purse when she wasn’t lookin’.

Mercy stood near the edge of the ballroom, away from the crowd, her bare shoulders lit gold by the chandelier above. Her gown was black, sleek, high at the neck and low at the back, a quiet fuck-you to the women who came overdressed and tried too hard. She never tried. She didn’t have to.

A man brushed past her. The cologne stung. Another offered a drink. She waved it off. She was watching Elias onstage. Not admiring. Calculating.

He looked like a god. He acted like one. But Mercy knew better.

He could kiss babies and slap backs, and five hours later, he’d be on the phone with some judge’s wife, asking how her throat was doing after that weekend in Baton Rouge. Stack hadn’t changed. He’d just upgraded his front. Deep down, he was still that country boy who used to run girls through strip clubs and sell dreams to millionaires who should’ve known better.

And she was the one thing he never finessed. He didn’t pick her—he chose her. Made her his. Told her, “You gon’ be the reason I don’t burn this city to the ground.” She believed him once. Maybe still did, on quiet days.

But the city was getting hotter. People were getting bolder. And something in Elias’ eyes lately told her he smelled war coming.

Her spine stiffened.

Security was changing. Details moved different. Men with new faces started watching her from across the room. One on the stairs. One pretending to talk on the phone. The energy shifted.

She didn’t like it.

Stack stepped down from the stage, a round of applause chasing him like a worship song. He found her fast, palm slipping low against her waist like property, leaning in close.

“You eat yet?” he asked.

“Not hungry.”

“You lyin’. Your stomach get mad at parties.”

“I said I’m fine, Elias.”

He narrowed his eyes. Smiled anyway.

“Don’t say my name like that,” he whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like you forgot what it tastes like.”

Mercy didn’t blink. Just tilted her head.

“You think you’re cute.”

He grinned, close enough for her to feel the heat off his breath.

“I know I’m cute. Question is, why you still married to me if I wasn’t?”

Before she could answer, his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen once. Smile gone.

Then—just like that—he turned serious, hand tightening at her waist.

“We gotta go. Now.”

“I’m not leaving. You just got here—”

“I said now, Mercy. Ain’t askin’.”

He waved over one of the new guards—tall, dark, built like a threat.

“This him?” Mercy asked, low.

“Yeah,” Stack said. “He ain’t security. He’s… insurance.”

The man didn’t speak. Just nodded once and stepped into place beside her.

Mercy looked him over. Tactical black from head to toe. Combat boots. Thick gloves. Face covered by a matte black mask, eyes half-hidden but watching everything. Stack leaned close again.

“Callin’ himself Killmonger,” he muttered with a smirk. “Like he somebody comic book villain.”

Mercy blinked, amused. “That’s… cute.”

“I mean—really, though. These niggas runnin’ ‘round in the dark like trauma wrapped in a tech suit. Y’all too old to be playin’ Batman with PTSD. And at least that motherfucker wore a cape.”

Killmonger didn’t react. Just turned slightly, placing himself between her and the growing noise from the back exit.

Elias kissed her cheek once. The heat of his mouth lingered. He whispered, low.

“Listen to him. Don’t talk too much. He don’t say shit, but he hear everything.”

Mercy met the man’s eyes through the mask. He said nothing. He just stared. Like he already knew her name. Like he’d already said it—out loud, in the dark, a thousand times. And outside, sirens screamed like something had already gone wrong. Stack slammed the elevator button with the heel of his hand like it owed him something.

“Swear to God, these niggas keep playin’ like I won’t bring the whole damn block down just to prove a point,” he muttered, jaw tight. “Mercy sittin’ pretty in front of cameras while motherfuckers plottin’ on her like she ain’t got a whole warlord standin’ next to her. That’s the shit that piss me off.”

He stormed out onto the private floor of his city office, long after the gala crowd had thinned and the wine had stopped flowing. Still in his velvet suit, collar open, hands twitchy. No entourage. Just tension. Behind him, quiet and exact, Killmonger followed. Mask on. Boots soft against the marble. No sound but his breath.

“Shit’s been bubbling for weeks,” Elias muttered, unlocking the door to his office and throwing it open. “Little threats, coded talk, new money floatin’ through places it don’t belong. But a hit? On her?”

He turned, looked straight at the masked man.

“Walk me through it again.”

Killmonger didn’t hesitate.

“Someone wired seven figures to a ghost account two days ago. Same account used in four other verified hits. This one tagged your wife’s schedule. Not yours.”

Elias stared.

“And you just got that information how?”

Killmonger didn’t answer. Didn’t shift. Just stood still in the center of the office, all that matte black gleaming under soft light. Elias rolled his eyes.

“Right. Forgot I hired a fuckin’ mime.”

“You didn’t hire me,” Killmonger said, voice low and razor-clean. “Yet.”

Stack smirked despite himself. “You right. But I’m about to.”

He walked around to his desk, poured a finger of bourbon, then waved it lazily in Killmonger’s direction.

“Let’s be clear. I don’t need no hype man. No dramatics. You show up, give me a headline like my woman’s on a hit list, but don’t tell me where the fire’s coming from. What I do know? You handled three names on that list like it was nothin’. Didn’t even break stride.”

He sipped.

“I respect that.”

Killmonger didn’t move. Stack set the glass down.

“But if I’m gonna keep my wife alive and my name clean, I need someone with no leash. You understand what I’m sayin’? I don’t want no damn bodyguard.”

“Then don’t call me one.”

Elias nodded slowly. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

He stepped in closer, real close, studying the way the light bent off the curve of the mask. Killmonger didn’t flinch.

“I need a ghost,” Elias said. “Somebody they can’t bribe, can’t follow, can’t trap. I need the kinda shadow that makes a motherfucker lose sleep just knowin’ you in the city.”

“You already got that.”

“Do I?”

Killmonger tilted his head, that visor catching the light just right.

“If I wasn’t here, your wife wouldn’t be.”

Elias froze. Just a tick. But he didn’t argue.

Instead, he nodded, stepped back, and pointed a finger like punctuation.

“Alright then. You on. No contracts. No check-ins. But you keep her alive, and I’ll owe you the kind of favor most men dream of cashin’. You fuck this up, I bury you so deep the devil’ll need a shovel.”

Killmonger gave no reply.

Stack grinned. “I like you. Even if you do look like the off-brand version of every billionaire’s wet dream. What, y’all order these ‘vigilante fits’ in bulk? Ain’t even got no cape, at least Batman had the decency to commit to the bit.”

Nothing. No laugh. No twitch. Elias sighed. “Tough crowd.”

He grabbed his keys. “Come on. Time to make it official.”

Mercy stood barefoot in the penthouse, silk robe draped over brown skin like moonlight wrapped in sin. Hair up, lips bare, glass of neat whiskey in hand. When the door opened, she didn’t turn.

“You’re back early.”

Elias strode in, keys tossed on the counter. “You know how I feel about early. Time is a construct when your name’s on the buildings.”

She turned then—and saw the shadow behind him. Same mask. Same boots. Same pressure in the air. She blinked. Once.

“Didn’t know we were throwing slumber parties now.”

Elias grinned, kissed her cheek, poured himself a drink. “That’s your new shadow.” Mercy looked Killmonger over. Slow. Methodical. Like she was reading a language written in body heat and silence.

“And I didn’t get a say in this… why?”

“You’re too pretty to be unguarded. You know that.”

“I’m also too smart to be blindsided.”

“Mm,” Elias hummed, sipping. “Maybe. But you married me, so that’s debatable.”

Killmonger stood silent, just behind her periphery. Still as death. Mercy felt him, not with her eyes—but with her spine. That subtle ache that says you’re being watched by something you don’t understand yet. She turned.

“Gonna say something? Or do you just breathe heavy and flex?”

He didn’t answer.

Elias chuckled from across the room. “He don’t talk much. That’s what I like about him.”

“I bet.”

She looked again—closer this time. Not at the mask. But at the stillness behind it. She didn’t know who he was. But she knew this—he wasn’t here for the money. And whatever kept him quiet wasn’t loyalty. It was purpose. She swallowed that thought with the rest of her drink. Elias’ phone rang. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, sighed.

“City Manager. Gotta take this.”

He stepped out, down the hall, doors hissing closed behind him. The silence between Mercy and Killmonger landed hard. She didn’t look at him at first. Just walked slowly toward the edge of the foyer, where the windows spilled the city’s lights across her skin. She turned around, arms folded. “Why are you really here?”

A beat.

“To keep you breathing.”

Her breath caught—not enough to show, but just enough to feel. She studied him. No face. No name. No expression. But her pulse was rising. And something in her body whispered: This is not protection. This is a warning with hands. She didn’t look away. And neither did he. The house was too quiet. Not peaceful—quiet. Like a mouth closed over secrets.

Erik Stevens sat barefoot in the center of his million-dollar fortress, shirtless in black sweats, skin still damp from the cold shower he hadn’t even noticed taking. The living room spanned half the house—floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, state-of-the-art surveillance equipment on the other. The walls were clean, the floor polished concrete. No pictures. No warmth. No memories. Just space.

The tech lit up around him in pale blue. Touchscreens blinked alive with city feeds, encrypted communications, facial tracking, GPS intercepts. Erik moved through it all like he was born in it—fingers sliding, tapping, muting, enhancing. Every window on the screen showed Mercy City. Street corners, subways, alleyways. Corruption caught in 4K.

He wasn’t looking at the city tonight. He was looking at Elias Moore.

Stack’s campaign records were spotless on the surface. Donations clean. Property records buried under five LLCs and an offshore trust. But Erik had done this dance before. People always left fingerprints when they thought nobody was watching. Strip club receipts mixed with nonprofit funds. Security footage from a club Elias swore he’d shut down. A list of paid-off reporters, half of them still working with a mic in hand. He zoomed in on one document. Slashed lines through “entertainment expenses.” Large, round numbers listed under “consulting.”

He scoffed. “Still running girls,” he muttered.

But it wasn’t Elias that made his jaw clench.

It was her.

The next screen lit up—photos of Mercy Moore at different events. Public footage. Old interviews. Charity appearances. Gala coverage. He clicked one still frame from the opera house. Her eyes. The way she looked at her husband like she was trying not to flinch. Erik leaned back in his chair, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He watched her move across a room full of people who wanted to touch her, take from her, claim her. And she walked like she owed no one her warmth. He hated that. He hated how much he watched her. He pulled up another file. Not government issued—his file. Compiled with care. Notes, timestamps, routines. Mercy didn’t move like someone protected. She moved like someone trying not to wake whatever beast was watching her. His fingers hovered above the screen, then closed the file.

Time to suit up.

The basement level of Erik’s house looked nothing like the top. Here, everything was black steel, tactical drawers, walls lined with weapons and gear. He stripped in front of the full-length mirror without ceremony. Sweatpants hit the floor. Skin flexed under old scars. He moved like muscle memory. Pulled on the black compression shirt, tactical long-sleeve over it. Cargo pants, fastened and loaded. Combat boots, thick-soled and tight-laced. Gloves last. Then the mask. Always the mask.

He paused a moment, staring at his own reflection—face still visible, eyes cold. Then the mask slid down. Killmonger was home. He walked through the biometric door, silent, invisible to every system except his own. The garage opened. The black SUV purred awake. The house didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t need it to.

The sun hadn’t fully risen when Mercy stepped into the kitchen, silk robe brushing against her ankles, her eyes still soft with sleep. The penthouse was still. Stack was gone—probably barking into some phone, two cities away from actually caring what time it was. She moved quietly. Not because she needed to. But because he was already there. Killmonger stood near the far window, back to her, facing the skyline. Still as stone. Masked. Dressed for war like it was just another day. She hated how aware of him she was. Didn’t mean she stopped watching. She poured coffee without speaking. The mug clinked louder than it should’ve. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush. Just carried it to the table, sat down, and pretended he wasn’t right there. Watching. Listening.

Her robe slipped a little lower on one shoulder. She didn’t fix it. Didn’t look at him. But her skin buzzed. She moved through the space like usual—checking the day’s agenda, flipping through her tablet, scrolling the news. But something about it felt off. Killmonger hadn’t moved. At all. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

“You always stand that still?” she asked casually. “Or is that part of the whole mask mystique?”

“Still is safer.”

His voice, rough silk. Not loud. But sharp enough to slip between her ribs and stay there. She sipped her coffee. Set it down slow. “Well, let me know if blinking becomes a security risk. I’ll leave the lights off.”

He didn’t answer. She stood. Walked past him toward her closet. On the way, their arms nearly brushed. Almost. His head turned just a little, tracking her. She didn’t look back. Inside her closet, she paused, staring at her earrings. She hadn’t put any on. She never forgot earrings. Later that morning, Mercy descended the stairs toward the car, leather heels tapping sharp against concrete. The driver opened the back door, umbrella in hand. She nodded once. Slid inside. Then everything broke.

Two men rushed from behind a column. One grabbed the driver. The other moved for her door. But Killmonger was already moving. She didn’t even see it—just heard it. The thud. The choking sound. The sickening crunch of a jaw cracking under pressure. By the time she turned her head, both men were on the ground. One groaning. The other out cold. Killmonger stood over them. Breathing steady. Adjusting his glove. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to.

She stepped into the car without a word.

Rain ticked against the windows like secrets trying to get in. Mercy sat beside him, quiet. Hands folded in her lap.

“You always this good at showing up when I don’t ask?” she murmured.

He said nothing. But the silence said enough. She looked out the window again, but her knee brushed his. Neither of them moved. And for the first time, she wondered what his face looked like when he thought of her. The car ride back to the Moore estate had been silent.

Mercy didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. Didn’t glance toward the shadow in black seated beside her. She just sat with one leg crossed over the other, one heel gently dangling from her foot, watching the rain drag itself down the window like it was too tired to fall all the way. Her knee still burned where it had brushed his. That heat hadn’t faded.

Now, two hours later, she was cinched into a gold silk dress that shimmered like it was poured over her, and the straps at her collarbone tugged against the softest part of her throat with every movement. She looked perfect. Untouchable. Like money could cry if she told it to.

The fundraiser was already loud—moody jazz, crystal clinks, red velvet, and politicians with too many teeth. It was hosted in the east wing of the Moore estate. Stack had the whole damn wing remodeled just for nights like this—events designed to make him look benevolent while the liquor flowed fast and the cameras stayed on the rich. Mercy stood near the tall windows, wine glass in hand, nodding politely as some councilman’s wife tried to impress her with a sob story about public school grants. She wasn’t listening.

Her eyes kept drifting. Killmonger stood near the wall opposite her, behind two tall potted plants, completely still. Same mask. Same black gear. Same arms crossed like he didn’t have a single fuck left to give. He wasn’t looking at the guests. Not really. He was watching her. Every time she shifted her weight, he shifted his stance. Every time she tilted her head to listen to someone else, she felt his gaze follow the curve of her neck. She told herself she imagined it. Then she turned—quick, sudden, sharp—and caught it. His head didn’t move. But his eyes were already on her. Not wandering. Fixed.

Mercy turned back slow, throat tight. She took a sip of wine, even though her mouth had gone dry.

“You alright, baby?” Elias asked, coming up behind her and pressing a wide palm to the small of her back.

She forced a smile. “Of course.”

He leaned in, breath smelling like whiskey and confidence. “Good. I need you to charm that donor over by the fountain. He got deep pockets and a history of writin’ big checks when he think he got a chance to fuck the wife.”

Mercy side-eyed him. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

Stack grinned. “Ain’t no threat. Let him dream.”

She rolled her eyes but walked toward the fountain anyway, her steps smooth, slow, deliberate. The man was already halfway through his second bourbon and too eager. Grey suit. Rolex. Smile with teeth that didn’t match the tan.

He took her hand too fast. Held on too long.

“You are even more stunning up close, Mrs. Moore.”

She smiled politely. “Thank you. Enjoying the fundraiser?”

“Not as much as I’d enjoy getting you away from it.”

Her jaw flexed. “Bold.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I know you’re married. But I also know how… lonely political marriages can be.” She tried to pull her hand back. He didn’t let go. Then the pressure changed. Mercy felt it first—a shift in the air. Like heat moving in. Killmonger was beside her without warning. No sound. No signal. Just presence. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t touch the man. He just stood there. Silent. Too close. The donor’s face changed. Killmonger turned his head just slightly. Just enough to meet the man’s eyes through the mask.

He didn’t say a word.

But the man dropped Mercy’s hand like it burned.

“I—I should check on the catering,” he mumbled, already stepping away.

Killmonger didn’t move. Didn’t even watch him go. His eyes were already back on her. Mercy stared at him, chest tight. He didn’t blink. She spun on her heel and walked fast, heels clicking like a countdown against the marble, breath caught somewhere between rage and something hotter. The balcony was dark, lit only by city glow and the spill of music through the half-cracked door. Mercy gripped the railing, breathing steady through her nose. She hated that man for touching her. She hated Elias for making her deal with it. And she hated that when she felt someone behind her, her heart skipped—not with fear.

But with expectation. She turned before he spoke.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” Killmonger said, voice like gravel soaked in honey. Her arms folded across her chest. “You follow me now?”

“You walked out.”

“I don’t need a shadow.”

“You need silence.”

She stilled. He stepped closer—not enough to touch. But enough for her to feel the heat of his body under the gear.

“You always watch people like that?” she asked.

“Only when they’re not safe.”

“I’m not in danger.”

“Not yet.”

She laughed, soft and bitter. “You talk like you’re reading a prophecy.”

“I talk like someone who’s seen what happens when men look at women like that man looked at you.”

Mercy swallowed.

The city behind her was loud. The night air was warm. But everything felt quiet. She turned her body slightly toward him.

“You don’t blink. You don’t flinch. You barely breathe.”

He said nothing. Her eyes dropped to the black mask. It didn’t move. Didn’t shift. And yet, she could feel it staring straight through her.

“I don’t even know what you look like.”

“You know enough.”

She didn’t respond.

She didn’t know what she was feeling. Not exactly. But it was starting to bloom in her chest like something sharp and velvet-soft at the same time. A sound behind them. Stack’s voice, calling her name from inside. Mercy turned. Looked at the door. Then back at Killmonger. He was already gone. Like he’d never been there. But she could still feel the heat of his presence clinging to her skin like breath that hadn’t been released. The silk sheets whispered when she turned.

Mercy lay in bed—midnight ink all around her. The blackout curtains, the darkness, the warmth of the sheets, all of it blurred into something heavy and close. She shifted again, arms tangled in the bedding, the lace of her nightgown twisted at her hip. She was warm. Too warm. Her breath came shallow.

In the dream, she wasn’t in bed. She was outside. On a rooftop maybe. Somewhere high. Somewhere open. The wind moved across her skin like hands, and everything smelled like rain and smoke.

She wasn’t cold. She felt watched. But not threatened. Protected. There was someone behind her. She didn’t see him. But she felt him. Close. Big. Quiet. His breath moved against the back of her neck like it had been there all night and only just now let itself be felt.

She turned—but only halfway. He was still behind her. Still inches away. She could hear the sound of his gloves tightening. She didn’t speak.

Neither did he. But her body did. Her pulse raced. Her chest rose. Her mouth parted like it knew something her brain didn’t. She backed into him—slow, uncertain—and his hands came down to her waist, heavy and sure. They didn’t touch skin. Just fabric. But it felt like the world opened up under her feet. In the dream, she wasn’t Mercy Moore. She wasn’t a politician’s wife. She wasn’t performing. She was just a woman. Being held. Her hands found his wrists. She didn’t pull away. She leaned back. He moved with her. She turned into him, finally. Still masked. Still silent. His eyes locked on hers.

Her hand came up—slow, trembling. She touched the side of his mask, her fingers brushing the edge like she could trace his name through it. He didn’t stop her.

She whispered, “Say something.”

And he did.

Just one word.

“Mine.”

Then he kissed her.

No hesitation. No fear. Just pressure. Mouth to mouth. The kind of kiss that folds time. That presses you flat and wakes your blood up. His hands didn’t grope. They held. Firm. Wanting. Certain.

She kissed him back like she’d been starving for it. Like her mouth had waited its whole life for this one shape, this one taste, this one man. Her fingers slid up the back of his neck. His gloved hand cupped her jaw. She moaned softly, lost in the way his breath filled her lungs like he belonged there. The wind rose. The city faded. There was only him. His mouth. His body. His name, which she didn’t know, and didn’t need. Because her soul already did. She woke up gasping.

The sheets were tangled around her thighs. Her neck damp with sweat. Her hand clenched in the blanket like she was still holding something. The bedroom was still dark. Still quiet. Stack wasn’t home. Her chest heaved. She ran a hand down her body. Her skin was on fire. She closed her eyes again. But the feeling didn’t fade.

She still felt the kiss. Still felt the gloves. Still heard that voice say, “Mine.”

And she didn’t know if it scared her more… Or if she wanted to dream it again.

The sunlight was syrup-thick, slipping through the slats in the blinds and laying gold across the sheets like it had something to confess. Mercy stirred first, her body waking before her mind. The heat pressed against her from behind—warm breath on her neck, a hand already low on her hip, palm flat against bare skin.

She didn’t need to turn around. Stack always woke up hard and hungry. His hand slid lower, groaning softly as he pulled her hips back into him.

“Mornin’, baby.”

His voice was low. Sleep-rough. That particular kind of husky men only get when they’ve got a plan for you before you’ve even opened your eyes. Mercy stretched just enough to let her nightgown ride higher on her thighs.

Stack kissed her shoulder. Bit it.

“You feelin’ needy or generous this mornin’?” he murmured.

“Whichever one keeps you quiet,” she whispered back, smiling.

He chuckled—dark and slow.

“You talk that shit now…”

His hand slid between her legs and found her already soft and wet. He inhaled. “Goddamn. Always ready for me.”

He flipped her onto her back in one move, mouth on hers before she could answer. No warm-up. No hesitation. Just mouth, tongue, grip. His kiss was greedy, like he hadn’t touched her in weeks. Mercy moaned against his lips, wrapping her legs around his waist as his hips settled between her thighs. He was already thick and pulsing when he pushed in.

And God… it was good.

It always was.

Elias didn’t fuck her like a husband. He fucked her like a man still trying to make her fall in love with him every time. His rhythm was relentless but controlled. Every stroke deep. Every grip tight.

He kissed her throat, bit her collarbone, slid his hand under the back of her thigh and lifted it for better angle.

Mercy gasped. Her eyes fluttered. But she wasn’t seeing him. She was seeing black gloves pinning her hips. She was seeing a mask over her. She was hearing the word mine in a voice not rough with love—but heavy with claim. Elias moved faster, hips snapping, sweat starting to sheen across his chest.

“You feelin’ me?” he growled, breath stuttering.

“Yes,” she breathed.

“You know I love this pussy. Say it. Say who it belong to.”

Mercy’s hands dug into the sheets.

Her mouth opened. And she moaned, “Elias.”

But her mind whispered his name. The kiss. The weight. The gloves.

She came like she always did—with her husband deep inside her and someone else’s shadow pressed against the wall of her mind.

Later, while Stack was in the shower, humming some old soul song like a man with no sins, Mercy walked barefoot toward the hallway. Her robe dragged behind her, hair still damp with sweat, thighs still sore.

She paused at the front door. There, on the floor beside the security console, lay a single glove. Black. Tactical. Left hand. It didn’t belong there. She bent down slowly. Picked it up. Thick. Heavy. Warm to the touch like it still held a pulse. She should’ve turned it in. Should’ve told Elias. But she didn’t. Mercy stood there for a long time with the glove in her hand, staring at the door like it had whispered something. She brought it to her bedroom. Tucked it in the drawer beside the bed. Didn’t speak. Didn’t think. Didn’t sleep.

Across the estate, in the dim hum of the private surveillance room, Killmonger leaned back in the black leather chair, arms folded across his chest, legs wide, still in full gear.

The screens bathed him in cold blue light. His mask sat on the desk beside him, forgotten for now. He didn’t need it here. Not while watching.

One screen showed the bedroom. He’d watched it all.

The way Elias touched her. The way her body moved. The way she came with her mouth gasping that man’s name. But her eyes? Her eyes were closed. Tightly. Too tightly.

Killmonger’s jaw flexed. His breath was slow but deep, nostrils flaring as the scene played over again—Elias kissing her shoulder, Mercy’s body arching, the sweat on her neck. The sounds were off, but he didn’t need them. He could feel her reactions. Count her breaths. Know the difference between surrender and escape. He exhaled hard through his nose. Sat forward. Elbows on knees. His hands twitched. And still, he watched. He didn’t blink until the footage jumped forward. Stack gone. Shower running. Mercy alone now, robe clinging to her like a secret. She walked toward the front door. Bent down. Picked it up. His glove.

Killmonger’s lips parted just slightly. His head tilted.

She stared at it like she could feel the heat still on it. She didn’t call security. Didn’t throw it out. She took it back to the bedroom. Opened her drawer. Tucked it inside. Kept it.

That’s when he smiled. Wide. Slow. Dark.

Like the game had just shifted and he was the only one who knew it. He sat back again, still watching her. Still breathing deep. She hadn’t washed her hands. She hadn’t closed the drawer. She didn’t even realize… She’d already started choosing him. And he wasn’t planning to give her a way out. The front doors creaked open just after seven.

Killmonger stepped into the Moore estate like he owned oxygen. The matte black mask cloaked his face in shadow, expressionless, eyes unreadable. His boots hit the marble with weight, every step exact—controlled like muscle memory. The air changed the second he entered. Softer. Tenser. Like the house knew to behave.

He didn’t speak.

Just shut the door behind him without a sound.

All black. Tactical pants. Fitted long sleeve layered under gear Elias never had the clearance to ask about. Gloves already on. A sleek tablet under one arm.

He moved like shadow made flesh.

Stack was in the living room, pacing and yelling into his phone.

“I don’t care what it cost, just find a fuckin’ organ that works and get the choir some suits that don’t look like they was snatched off barbershop mannequins—”

He turned. Caught the movement.

Paused.

“Well damn. The spirit of death himself,” Elias muttered. “Right on time.”

Killmonger nodded once. No words.

He walked over to the glass table, set the tablet down, and opened it. City schematics flickered to life—streets, exits, escape routes, digital map glowing red and blue.

He pointed at the screen.

“New driver today. Route changed. Decoy vehicle staged two blocks east. If anything jumps, she stays in the primary car. You ride in the backup.”

His voice came low through the mask. Filtered, but clear. Heavy. Confident.

Elias blinked. “Goddamn. You eat today or just meditate in the dark and scare angels?”

Killmonger didn’t respond.

“Yo, is it me, or this nigga talkin’ more lately?” Elias smirked. “I’m almost concerned.”

He turned, just as Mercy walked in.

She was draped in cream silk and quiet power. Hair pulled back. Earrings glinting. Soft makeup that made her cheekbones look sharper. The kind of woman who made rooms feel unworthy.

Her eyes met the mask.

Just for a second.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even nod this time.

But she felt it anyway. That stare crawling over her skin.

She walked past him like she didn’t feel heat trail in her wake.

But her pulse skipped once.

She knew it did.

They were in the car fifteen minutes later.

Killmonger behind the wheel. Stack up front, legs wide, scrolling through phone calls he didn’t plan to return. Mercy sat in the backseat behind Killmonger, long legs crossed, gaze calm. But her fingers? Resting too still on her clutch.

“Yo,” Elias said suddenly, not looking up. “You talkin’ more. I’m serious.”

Killmonger adjusted the rearview. Said nothing.

“You get some pussy recently or somethin’? You got that glow. Like you snuck out last night and told a bitch your name was Marvin.”

The silence thickened.

Killmonger didn’t laugh.

Didn’t react.

But Mercy shifted in the back.

Her knee brushed the seat.

She stayed quiet.

Elias chuckled to himself. “Shit, maybe you a silent lover too. That’s how they do it now, huh? Whisper nothin’, wear a mask, then disappear before breakfast.”

Killmonger’s voice slid low, mechanical through the filter. “If I ever disappear, it won’t be before breakfast.”

Elias turned, eyebrows raised. “Oh. Oh. Okay, okay, my bad. My man said he don’t eat cereal, he serve full-course warnings.”

Mercy hid her smile in the window reflection.

Outside, the clouds were thickening. Gray. Swollen.

She caught his mask again in the rearview—expressionless, quiet, still watching.

And something in her gut knew:

This wasn’t just a church visit. This was a storm.

The church loomed like an accusation.

Old stone, rain-streaked and grumbling under the weight of its own history. The cathedral sat on Holloway and 9th—wedged between a shut-down shelter and an abandoned nunnery. Stack had plans to gut and rebuild it as part of his “Mercy Rises” initiative.

Mercy hated that name.

She hated the way he used hers to sell redemption to a city too bruised to believe in it.

The photo-op was staged like a baptism.

Cameras.

Flashbulbs.

Choir robes pressed and pinned. Politicians standing shoulder to shoulder with fake smiles and folded hands. Elias in his gray overcoat and white turtleneck, charming the press like he hadn’t just called one of them a “dusty bitch with a camera fetish” two weeks ago.

Mercy stood off to the side in a long navy trench, heels echoing on the wet cathedral tile. Killmonger stood behind her, motionless, masked as always.

Every time thunder rolled outside, the stained-glass windows rattled like bones in a box.

The interview ended. The flashbulbs dimmed.

Then the storm dropped hard and fast—black sky, sideways rain, power lines shaking. The city went hush.

The power inside the church flickered once.

Then failed.

Only the soft glow of old votive candles lit the room now, little fires trembling in glass jars.

Someone yelled something about waiting it out.

The crowd thinned. Some ran for the vans. Staff scattered to coordinate.

Stack had somewhere to be.

He grabbed Mercy by the arm. “You good? They sending a backup car in ten.”

“I’m fine.”

He looked past her at Killmonger. “She yours ‘til I get back.”

He kissed her cheek fast. Left.

Just like that.

And now it was just them.

The cathedral doors groaned shut behind the last of the team.

Rain hammered the stained glass. Thunder curled down the stone halls like a growl.

Mercy walked slow along the pews, trailing a hand along the worn wood, her footsteps soft in the silence. The candles cast gold shadows across her face, making her cheekbones sharper, her lips darker.

She spoke without turning.

“Why’d they name you Killmonger?”

A pause.

Then his voice behind her.

“They didn’t.”

She stopped. Looked over her shoulder.

He stood near the altar steps. Tall. Still. Mask gleaming faint in the low light.

“So what’s your real name?”

Silence.

He didn’t answer.

She let a small breath go. Turned back. “Right. Forgot. Mystery is part of the look.”

A crack of thunder split the silence.

The candles swayed.

Mercy touched the edge of the marble altar, fingers cold.

She didn’t know why she said it—but it slipped out like breath under pressure.

“I don’t feel safe anymore.”

She said it quiet.

Raw.

Not to him, really. Not for sympathy. Just… out loud.

But he heard it.

And then he was there.

Close.

Closer than he’d ever stood.

His presence folded over her like heat.

She didn’t flinch when he reached out.

One gloved hand lifted slowly. Careful. Like she was made of something fragile and flammable. His thumb brushed just beneath her eye.

He wiped something away—mascara, maybe. A tear she didn’t know she’d shed.

His hand lingered longer than necessary.

Still, they didn’t touch skin.

But God, it felt like it.

Mercy’s breath caught.

Her eyes lifted.

And even behind the mask, she could feel him watching her like he was searching for something buried in her bones.

“Why’d your parents name you after the city?” he asked, voice low, not mechanical now—intimate.

She blinked.

“I was born in the east ward. During a riot. City was burning two miles down, and my mom said she wanted to name me after something that needed saving.”

Another pause.

Then he said, “She did.”

Mercy’s jaw twitched.

They were standing too close now. The air between them too thick, too charged, too honest.

She should’ve moved.

She didn’t.

She leaned forward—

Not enough to kiss.

But enough to feel how close it would be.

Enough to know how easy it would be to ruin everything.

She whispered, “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”

He didn’t move.

“Then stop lookin’ back.”

Another crack of thunder.

And from down the hall, a door slammed.

Voices.

The spell snapped.

Mercy stepped back first.

He didn’t.

And that silence between them stayed burning—like the last candle in a room full of smoke.

The car ride back from the cathedral was quiet.

But not the peaceful kind.

Mercy sat in the backseat, staring out the window. Her reflection stared back—lips slightly parted, pulse still stuttering in her throat.

Every time the car shifted lanes, her shoulder brushed the back of Killmonger’s seat.

He didn’t react.

But she knew he felt it.

She wanted him to.

Stack sat next to her, humming something off-key, texting with someone he’d lie about later. He didn’t notice the way she adjusted in her seat. The way she pressed her knees forward. Closer. Closer.

Not touching.

But almost.

The next morning, the rhythm changed.

Killmonger opened the door for her like always. But she didn’t breeze past him like before.

She paused.

She stood in the open doorway, eyes dragging up his frame slow—boots to gloves to mask.

“Good morning,” she said, voice velvet-thin.

He nodded.

“Morning.”

Their voices were quiet. Private.

Elias yelled something down the hall, already late, already annoyed.

Killmonger stepped aside to let her pass.

But this time?

She brushed his arm when she walked by.

On purpose.

And when his head turned slightly—just enough to follow her walk—she didn’t hide her smile.

That afternoon, she sat in the backseat again. Legs crossed, one heel slipping off her foot, her scarf loose around her throat like she wanted someone to fix it.

Killmonger glanced at her in the mirror once.

Then again.

She caught it.

Didn’t blink.

“I think I dropped something,” she said, voice low.

Elias looked up from his phone. “What?”

She shook her head. “Not you.”

She bent slightly, reached toward the floor, fingers slow. Her scarf slipped further. Killmonger didn’t speak. But his grip on the steering wheel got tighter.

She stayed down a second too long.

When she sat up, their eyes met in the mirror.

A heartbeat passed.

Then another.

She looked away first.

Later, in the penthouse lobby, Elias got a call and stepped into the elevator early, waving over his shoulder. “Y’all take the next one.”

The doors closed.

Mercy turned to Killmonger.

He stood with his hands behind his back, face still hidden.

She stepped into the space beside him.

Close enough to share breath.

She whispered, “Do you ever get tired of watching me?”

His voice came slow, thick through the modulator.

“No.”

She exhaled. “Not even when I make it hard?”

“I like hard.”

She looked up at him, heart thudding.

Then the next elevator dinged open.

They didn’t move for a second.

Then she walked in.

He followed.

No one spoke.

But the silence said everything.

That night, she left her scarf on the armrest of the backseat.

He picked it up.

Held it.

Didn’t fold it.

Didn’t turn it in.

Just stared at it in his hand for a long, long time.

The rain had been steady all evening, ticking against the glass like a countdown nobody could stop. The penthouse was quiet, wrapped in warm gold light, the kind you could almost mistake for peace if you didn’t know better.

Mercy sat curled on the left arm of the L-shaped couch, barefoot, robe draped soft around her thighs. A glass of wine balanced in her hand, untouched. Her eyes were on the screen, but her attention was elsewhere. Elias was sprawled across the other side of the couch, still in his dress shirt from the day, top button undone, tie tossed over the cushion like it owed him money.

The news was playing an interview on loop—footage from outside the downtown mayor’s office. Elias on the steps, giving one of his signature off-the-cuff soundbites while cameras swarmed like gnats. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read:

MAYOR MOORE FACES HEAT FOR HIRING MASKED VIGILANTE “KILLMONGER”

A clip rolled: Reporter: “Mr. Moore—some say you’ve undermined your own platform by bringing in a known violent actor as your wife’s protection detail. What do you say to citizens who feel less safe with Killmonger on your payroll?”

Elias chuckled, even now, from the comfort of his couch. “Same thing I said then,” he said toward the screen. “Y’all afraid of him ‘cause you can’t tell him what to do.”

He sipped his drink. “That’s why I like him.”

Mercy didn’t laugh.

Her eyes flicked across the room.

He was sitting in the kitchen—legs wide, posture casual, but everything about him sharp enough to draw blood. Killmonger, in his mask and gear, gloved fingers scrolling through blueprints on a digital tablet. Boots planted. One knee bouncing slow, steady, like a clock he kept in his own chest.

He hadn’t looked at the screen once.

But he was listening.

Always listening.

The light from the stove flickered just enough to catch the gloss of his mask.

Mercy turned back to the screen.

The interview continued.

“We’ve had rumors that Moore and Killmonger don’t always see eye to eye. You’ve been publicly critical of vigilantes, Mr. Mayor. What changed?”

The camera cut back to Elias, smug in the rain, hand on his heart like a preacher.

“Difference is—I trust him with what matters.”

Mercy didn’t blink.

She stood up slowly. “I want tea,” she said, voice low.

Elias waved a lazy hand. “You want me to send someone—?”

“I got it.”

She padded barefoot across the wood floor, the hem of her robe whispering behind her like smoke. She passed behind Killmonger’s chair and her hip just barely brushed the edge.

He didn’t flinch.

But she felt the shift in the air.

In the kitchen, she opened the cabinet slowly. Reached for the mug on the highest shelf. Stretched up—just enough. She could feel the robe part slightly along the back of her thigh.

Still no movement.

She reached for the kettle. Clicked it on.

Silence wrapped around them like cotton.

She glanced over.

He still hadn’t looked up.

Still scrolling. Still reading.

But his knee had stopped bouncing.

She leaned against the counter. Let the steam rise.

“That interview made you famous,” she said quietly.

His voice came slow through the modulator.

“I was famous when I put the mask on.”

She sipped her tea. “Why wear it inside?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Then—

“‘Cause inside’s where the real threats live.”

She turned.

He was watching her now.

Head tilted slightly. Mask reflecting candlelight and quiet violence.

She walked closer. Mug still in hand. No armor but her breath and bare legs.

“You always watching me,” she whispered. “But do you actually see me?”

He leaned back in the chair—just a little. Enough for tension to snap like elastic.

“Every second,” he said.

The silence that followed was long. Thick.

Mercy’s throat worked. Her hands tightened around the mug.

He tilted his head again. A breath deeper this time.

Then—

“You still got my glove in your drawer.”

Her breath caught.

He didn’t move.

Just let the weight of it sit there between them. That reminder that even when she thought she was alone—he knew. Even when she hid something, even something small, he saw.

Her voice dropped to almost nothing.

“You shouldn’t know that.”

“Didn’t need cameras,” he said. “You held it like it meant something.”

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

The air between them grew hot. Stifling.

Every part of her felt exposed.

And he didn’t reach for her. Didn’t touch her.

Just existed. Fully. Heavier than gravity.

She stepped in closer, now barely a breath away.

“You like watching me, huh?”

“Don’t gotta like it,” he murmured. “It’s a habit now.”

She swallowed hard.

Behind her, Elias called out from the couch, voice lazy and distant.

“Mercy! They re-runnin’ that clip where I cursed out the councilman. Come see this shit!”

She jumped slightly.

Stepped back.

Breathless.

Killmonger didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just let her leave the heat of the kitchen like a woman walking out of a fire she wasn’t sure burned her—or branded her.

She sat next to Elias.

He threw his arm around her. Pulled her close.

She didn’t speak.

On the TV, the screen showed her husband smiling for the cameras.

In the kitchen, Killmonger leaned back in the chair again.

Still.

Silent.

Watching her.

Watching everything.

The night had teeth.

Not the kind that bit—just the kind that grazed skin slow, like a warning. Like the air itself knew something was coming.

Mercy stepped out of the glass-walled office building and into the private car waiting under the covered awning. She didn’t shiver, but the wind caught the hem of her coat and lifted it like a secret. The silk of her dress clung tight to her hips, black and understated, with a slit so high it wasn’t modest—it was precise. Meant to make a man wonder. Meant to make a man look.

Killmonger opened the door without a word. She slid in without looking at him. Not at first.

The leather seats were cold. The interior smelled like iron, leather, and the faintest hint of clove from whatever he wore under that mask. He got in. Started the car. Didn’t say shit. For five blocks, they rode in silence. Then Mercy shifted her legs. Crossed them slow. Let her heel drop, like an accident. When they pulled up to Moore Tower, he got out and opened her door. She stepped close enough that her shoulder brushed his chest on the way out. Not an accident.

He swiped the elevator key. The doors slid open. Mercy stepped in. He followed.

And the air sealed around them like a locked secret. He didn’t stand behind her tonight. He stood beside her. Right there. Right at her heat. Right where she could smell him.

She pressed her floor. He didn’t press his. The elevator glided upward, slow enough to feel like a dare. Mercy didn’t turn her head — just her voice.

“You’ve been quiet tonight.”

His voice came through the mask low and rough.

“You’ve been loud.”

Her smile curled. “That a complaint?”

No answer.

Only the sound of their breath mingling in the small metal space.

She turned toward him fully now, leaning back against the mirrored wall, letting her robe slip open enough for him to see the rise of her breasts under silk.

“You always watching me,” she said softly. “But do you actually see me?”

His head tilted. Then she stepped right into him. Close enough her tits brushed the front of his vest. Close enough his breath hit her lips through the mask. Close enough she could feel his dick getting hard in those tactical pants. She dragged her palm up his chest, slow as honey, until it rested just under his jawline, fingers grazing the edge of the mask.

“I still have your glove,” she whispered.

His breath hitched — just a little. Not enough for anyone else to catch. But she wasn’t anyone else. Her lips hovered against the mouth of the mask.

“What do I have to do,” she breathed, “to have your mask?”

Everything in him snapped. Not wild. Not sloppy. Just decisive. Killmonger grabbed her waist, dragged her against him, and pressed her back into the wall with a force that knocked a tiny gasp out of her. Her hands flew up to his vest, clutching fabric, holding onto him like she’d been falling for weeks. He didn’t kiss her with lips — the mask stayed on but he kissed her with need, with intention, with the kind of hunger that made her knees tremble.

His hands explored her hips, her ass, the curve of her thigh — greedy but controlled, gloved fingers gripping her through silk. Her breath shook. His chest pressed hard against hers. She could feel his dick now thick, hard, straining pressed against her lower belly through fabric and armor. She lifted her leg against his hip, opening herself for him, inviting him like a sin whispered in the dark.

He didn’t ask permission. He just answered the call. His hand slid beneath her dress, and she gasped, her head hitting the wall as his fingers found her pussy already wet for him.

“Fuck—” she breathed, not bothering to hide it.

He growled low through the mask, a sound that vibrated right down her spine. And then he pushed his hips forward. Not graphic. Not brutal. Just enough for her to feel the heavy pressure of him pressing right against the heat of her pussy through the thin barrier of her panties. Her whole body shivered.

“Please,” she whispered, voice cracking open. “Don’t tease me.”

He didn’t.

One rough pull of fabric.

One slow, devastating push of his hips —

And suddenly he was inside her.

Mercy’s breath shattered.

Her fingers clawed into his shoulders as her back arched off the wall, silk falling open around her like it was bowing to the moment.

“Fuck—Killmonger…” she gasped, biting her lip hard enough to shake.

He held her up with one strong arm, his other hand gripping her thigh so tight she’d feel the fingerprints tomorrow. He didn’t talk. Didn’t have to. His body told her everything the hunger, the claim, the fury, the possession.

The elevator kept rising, slow and steady, humming like it could feel them. She moved with him, hips rolling, breath hitching, her cheek pressed to the side of his mask now because she was too gone to hold herself up. Her pussy clenched around him — hot, wet, hungry, and he shifted his stance, burying himself deeper.

Mercy moaned into his neck. Raw. Unfiltered. Honest.

The elevator dinged. Her floor. Neither of them stopped. He held her tighter. She whispered his name again. The doors didn’t open.

He must’ve locked them. And Mercy? She didn’t care. Not when he was inside her like that. Not when her whole body was trembling on the edge. Not when she felt him throb deep and answer every frantic beat of her heart. There was no city outside the elevator. No marriage. No logic. Just him. Just her. Just the heat that finally broke loose. And a mask she planned to earn.

The sun didn’t rise so much as it peeled back the night. Pale and unforgiving.

Mercy woke tangled in sheets that smelled like sweat, silk, and a mistake she couldn’t undo. Her legs ached. Her lips were sore. Her panties were missing. The dress she’d worn last night—slit up the side, silk clinging to skin like memory—was bunched around her thighs like some kind of confession.

She sat up.

Her hands were trembling.

The mirror across the room caught her reflection like a snitch. Hair wild. Shoulder bare. Lips swollen. Eyes still dark with the kind of hunger that didn’t fade just because the body was done.

She stood.

Walked to the mirror in slow steps.

She didn’t recognize herself. Not all the way.

The woman in the glass looked… fed. Touched. Owned.

But the space beside her in bed was still cold.

She looked down.

No messages.

She opened her texts. Her call log. Nothing.

Not even a blocked number or a “you good?” Nothing.

Her hand slipped between her thighs, instinctive, slow. She winced. Still sore.

Her fingers came back wet.

“Fuck,” she whispered.

The door opened.

She flinched hard backed away from the mirror as if it bit her.

Elias.

Of course.

He stepped in casual, early, bags under his eyes and a coffee cup in each hand. His tie was loose, jacket slung over his shoulder.

“Damn, baby. You look like last night.”

She forced a smile. Pulled her robe tighter.

“Didn’t expect you this early.”

“Missed you,” he said. “Campaign’s startin’ to feel like prison. You still make it smell like freedom in here.”

He leaned in to kiss her.

She turned her head at the last second.

He paused.

Pulled back just enough to squint.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” she lied, too soft, too quick.

He sniffed her neck.

Brows drew together.

“You smell different.”

Mercy’s throat dried.

“Perfume sample they gave me at the charity thing.”

He looked at her a second too long.

Then shrugged. “It’s nice. But you don’t need it.”

She smiled again.

Fake this time.

They went about the morning like normal people. Eggs. Toast. He read headlines out loud. She nodded. Laughed once at something she didn’t hear.

But her body was elsewhere. Her thoughts were locked inside chrome elevator walls and gloved hands and the sound of her own moan when he—

No.

She stood fast. “I need air.”

The surveillance room was empty.

No sign of him. No trace of boots. The monitor was still warm, though—like he’d been there and ghosted.

She scrolled the feed.

No footage from last night.

The whole block of time? Erased.

Her heart thudded low in her chest.

She checked the hallway cam.

Nothing.

The elevator?

Clean.

Too clean.

He wiped it.

She sat in the chair, breathing like someone had stolen the oxygen from the room.

The only thing that made it real was the ache between her thighs.

Evening crawled in slow. The sky turned the color of bruised peaches. The city lights blinked alive one by one, like gossip starting to spread.

Mercy stepped out onto the balcony with a cigarette she didn’t remember buying.

She lit it. Inhaled.

Coughed.

Didn’t care.

The smoke made her eyes water.

She whispered into the wind, “What the fuck did I do?”

No answer.

Not until later.

Across the city, deep in the hills beyond Mercy’s skyline, Erik Stevens sat in a room made of glass and silence.

His compound was buried in trees, protected by top-level encryption and automated defenses no one knew existed. Inside, the walls glowed faint blue from the light of twenty monitors.

He didn’t need all the screens tonight.

Just one.

The one with her face on it.

She was asleep. Or pretending to be. Curled toward the empty pillow. One hand under her cheek, the other beneath the pillow.

He knew what was there.

She hadn’t washed it.

Didn’t hide it.

Still wearing his name.

Erik sat back, knuckles still bruised from earlier—some low-level hitter who thought Mercy was a pawn and Stack was soft.

He’d made sure that man would never touch anything again.

He hadn’t contacted her.

He couldn’t.

If he did, he’d go back. And if he went back, he wasn’t stopping this time.

He turned off the feed.

Leaned his head back.

Tried to exhale her.

Didn’t work.

She was in his blood now.

The room was dark when Mercy’s phone lit up.

She blinked awake, squinting at the glow.

No number.

Just a file.

She hesitated.

Tapped it.

The screen filled with her own body.

Her voice. Her moans. Her fingers clawing a black vest.

She gasped.

It was them.

Elevator walls.

Gloved hands.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, her mouth open, hips moving, his breath ragged through the mask

She dropped the phone.

Stared at it.

Chest heaving.

The screen went black.

Then flashed again.

One word.

Just one.

More.

It’d been three days.

Three long, slow, fucking silent days.

Mercy sat in the backseat of the armored SUV with her legs crossed, fingers drumming against her thigh. Outside, the city blurred by in grays and smog. Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet.

He wasn’t there.

Killmonger hadn’t shown since the elevator.

No goodbye. No check-in. No lurking in shadows or standing by the door in that mask like her sins had grown legs.

Just gone.

And she felt it.

In her bones.

In the place between her thighs that stayed swollen with memory.

Elias glanced at her from the passenger seat. “You good?”

She nodded.

Didn’t answer.

Because what the fuck was she supposed to say? Yeah, I’m fantastic. Just thinking about how I let a masked stranger fuck me stupid in the building you paid for while his name was on my lips and his dick was inside me.

Yeah. That wasn’t gonna fly.

They were headed to a campaign lunch—some garden atrium PR thing with cameras and white folks who didn’t know where Mercy City even began. She barely listened as Elias briefed her on who to greet, what to say, how to smile like the bulletproof Black woman they needed her to be.

She wasn’t listening.

Her phone was in her hand. Glove still in her bedside drawer. She hadn’t moved it.

She didn’t want to.

It still smelled like him.

Like leather and something dangerous.

She stepped out onto the atrium patio when it hit.

Not a sound.

A feeling.

Goosebumps up her spine. A sting in her teeth.

Then—

Pop. Pop.

Gunshots.

Loud. Echoing.

Screams.

Chaos broke open like a dam.

Mercy ducked low. Kicked her heels off. Ran.

Blood hit her leg. She didn’t know whose.

She turned a corner—and there he was.

Shooter.

Black vest. Rifle.

He saw her.

Lifted the barrel.

She couldn’t move.

Couldn’t even scream.

And then—

The air ripped.

A blur of black slammed into the man from the side, dragging him down with bone-snapping speed.

Killmonger.

The mask. The boots. The gloves.

He was back.

He rose slow, blood dripping down his arm. A blade in one hand, her name in his eyes.

“You hurt?”

She shook her head, chest heaving.

He stepped closer. Scooped her up.

Like she weighed nothing.

And he was gone again—out the back, away from the cameras, carrying her through fire like she was his.

Hospital lights hummed overhead.

Mercy blinked awake under a white blanket with a blood pressure cuff digging into her arm.

Elias sat by the window, jaw tight, phone in hand.

She shifted.

He looked up. Eyes wild.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

She nodded.

He walked over, bent down, kissed her forehead.

But she wasn’t thinking about Elias.

She was thinking about the blood on that mask. The way Killmonger had looked at her when the knife dropped. Not like she was in danger.

Like he was.

Because of her.

She turned toward the door.

He wasn’t there.

Not this time.

⸻

That night, Elias sat alone in his study. Tie undone. Whiskey sweating in his glass. The TV played muted footage of the assassination attempt on loop.

Then his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it.

No name. No number. Just a file.

He stared for a long second.

Tapped it.

The video filled the screen.

Her.

Him.

The elevator.

The silk of her dress riding up.

His gloved hand around her throat.

Her body trembling, lips parting—

“Killmonger.”

She said it again.

Louder.

Shameless.

Desperate.

Elias watched. Every second. Every movement. Until the screen faded.

He leaned back in his chair.

No expression.

Just a long breath through his nose.

Then:

“…Bet.”