#salemwrites

(1) The Crow & the doctor

🔊 Opening BGM

The bass of the entrance music rattled through the arena, shaking the floor beneath every step. The crowd’s roar rose in waves, feverish, electric, thousands of voices crashing together until the very walls trembled. Spotlights slashed across the ring, violent bursts of white and crimson that blinded and thrilled in equal measure. This was the fight everyone had come for. The main event. Semifinales of the boxing Championship.

At the betting counters, it was bedlam. Credits slammed onto tables, fists pounded, shouts overlapped, bets leaping from a hundred to a thousand in seconds. But nearly every hand put their money on the same name.

The sound inside was deafening, a mix of chants, whistles, and the drunken hum of adrenaline. Security struggled to hold back packs of rabid fans, their faces painted, their throats raw from screaming. On the big screens, the fighters’ faces lit up—one, a man known for grinding his opponents to dust before the third round. To bet against him was to bet against gravity itself. When his name was called, the arena detonated. 

The Crow.

He emerged in black and red, his stride sharp, coiled, lethal. The Crow didn’t wave. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough—scarlet eyes like a predator sizing up prey, a thin smile promising carnage. Tonight was about more than blood. It was about staying undefeated. Winning was all he cared about, he needed to secure his entry in the finales. Everything else was secondary.

The announcer’s voice ripped through the smoke and a fog of shouting, calling out the fighters' names. The air was filled with the sweat and anticipation of thousands. The familiar, intoxicating perfume of liniment, leather, and stale beer hung in the humid arena. The bell rang.

The Crow moved like a weapon honed to perfection. His opponent, sensing the immediate danger, tried to weather the storm. He ducked low, desperately shuffling his feet to keep distance, but The Crow was already in his space. The opponent jabbed wildly that The Crow slipped with a bored lean of his head. He tried a massive, looping hook, aiming for the temple, but The Crow simply leaned back on his heels, letting the wind of the missed punch ruffle his hair. 

Loud of the speaker, the feral commentary of the jury were igniting the match. “And there’s the speed, folks! He’s just too fast. His footwork is perfect, turning every counter into a deadly blow. The other guy can't even touch him!”

The crowd’s roar was a single, hungry creature, feeding on the sight of the other fighter, who stumbled and reeled under the merciless assault. One final, brutal uppercut snapped the opponent’s head back. The referee threw himself between the men, ending the round with a premature bell. 

Round seven. The opponent, driven by sheer survival instinct, charged out, trying to overwhelm The Crow with aggression. He threw everything he had. But The Crow was relentless, merciless and methodical. He easily rolled past the assault, his head a blur of movement. His jabs were sharp, snapping his opponent’s head back.

“The opponent is throwing haymakers, but Crow is just rolling his shoulders, making him look amateurish. It is amazing to follow.”

His trainer, Coach Lev, leaned over the ropes, his face split by a wide, nervous grin. He screamed over the din: “Stay smart! Wear him down! No risky moves! Victory first!”

But the trainer’s words were a whisper against the roar in his The Crow’s mind. He could feel the victory thrumming in his veins. The arrogance thrummed in his veins. He wanted to end this as fast as he could. He wanted the knockout now.

“And there it is! He's ignoring the corner! He’s going for the kill! This man does not want to win on points!”

He lunged. His opponent’s fist was a blur of leather and hate, a blur that ended in a detonation of pain. A sickening crack, a sound like breaking bone amplified a hundred times, echoed in the sudden silence of his skull. The world tilted. A hot, viscous stream of liquid traced a searing path from his nose, down his lip, and onto his chin. He could taste the coppery tang of his own blood, and it was a flavor of rage. The crowd shrieked, half in horror, half in ecstasy. 

“Oh, the champion is down! No wait—he’s not down! He took a shot! A clean shot right to the nose! But he’s standing! And he’s smiling and bleeding?!”

He lifted his head. Crimson dripped from his chin, splattering on the mat, and he smiled, a grim, bloody slash in a face of fury. That’s when the referee, a stoic man with a tired face, stepped between them. He held up a gloved hand, calling for a pause in the chaos. He looked at The Crow, his eyes scanning the ruin of his face. “Do you need a break? Medical assistance?” he asked, concerned. In the background he could hear the coach scream and wanting to top attend his champion. 

The Crow simply looked at him. “No,” he said. The referee’s face remained impassive, but a flicker of understanding passed in his eyes. He gave a sharp nod and stepped back allowing the fight to continue. He tore back into the fight, ignoring the sting, feeding on the pain. Adrenaline surged through him. Normally he wouldn’t see red but he wasn’t in the mood today to go easy. So every strike was full with intention to win, until his opponent buckled beneath the weight. Then came the final blow. The man crumpled as if some had cut strings of a puppet. His body was unconscious before it even hit the canvas. The referee’s hand sliced through the air: K.O.

The arena erupted. A storm of noise and adoration crashed down on the ring as the referee waved his arms, signaling the end. The Crow stood in the center of the ring, blood painting his grin.

“And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen! The definitive winner of this grueling semi-final match, advancing to the final round of Linkon Boxing Tournament: The Crow! What a performance! Not even eight rounds and his match is over! It’s amazing, Nova. I didn’t expect him to keep fighting while bleeding like that. That kind of focus, that ruthlessness... that’s what champions are made of!”

"That’s right, he definitely never disappointed anyone…” 

The commentary faded into a muffled hum. The door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the last vestiges of the arena’s chaos.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Coach Lev’s voice cracked like a whip as he followed his champion into the locker room. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury “I told you, no risky moves! I told you to wear him down! You were a single punch away from losing the whole damn thing!”

The boxer pressed a wad of paper towels against his bleeding nose, shrugging with maddening calm. “I was thinking about winning.” He pulled the towels away and looked at his coach. “And I won. Why are you so angry?”

“Angry?” Coach Lev’s face was flushed, hands twitching like he was ready to rip out what little hair he had left. He was a study in compact fury. He stood barely five-foot-six, yet the dense muscle packed onto his small, wiry frame made him look like he could still go three rounds—a man well-tried for his age. What little hair he had left clung in sparse, very grey patches around the temples of his almost bald head. His face was a roadmap of past struggles, dominated by a small, crooked nose that was permanently angled slightly to the left. Clearly a souvenir from his own boxing days before he retired to the corner.

“Sylus, for fuck’s sake! You need to stay in the game—listen to me for once! We have a fashion deal in three weeks and now your nose…”  He gestured wildly at Sylus’s face, at the paper towels soaked with his blood.

“Relax…” Sylus waved him off with a careless smirk. He leaned back on the bench, ignoring the pain and the furious man in front of him. “My nose will be healed by then.”

Coach Lev drew a sharp, furious breath, ready to scold Sylus until his ear also bled. In all his years of coaching, he’d never had such a stubborn student. And even if his champion was already in his late twenties, he sometime act like a fucking child. Lev’s reply was cut short, his mouth still open around the last word, as the door opened again. A colder presence stepped inside.

“I’m not sure three weeks will fix stupidity.” The voice was edged with disapproval. He set his medical bag down on the bench beside Sylus.

“Ah… Dr. Zayne. Glad to see you.” Sylus’s grin widened, blood still streaking his teeth.

Zayne’s green eyes didn’t soften. “Sadly, you’re the only one enjoying this. As your physician, I would’ve preferred not to watch your nose break in real time.”

“Scared of a little blood, Doc?” Sylus teased, his tone mocking.

Zayne didn’t answer. Instead, he snapped on a pair of latex gloves with sharp precision. “Let me see.” He reached out, fingers firm but careful as he probed the injury. Sylus hissed, jerking slightly. “Careful.”

Zayne muttered “It’s broken,” sighing as though the weight of dealing with Sylus drained the life out of him. “Come to the hospital. Now. You’ll get proper treatment there.”

The coach just watched, his hands on his hips, his face a mask of exasperation. “You can’t do this to me,” he said, not content to simply reprimand his star fighter. “You’re a brand, Sylus. Brands don’t go around getting their faces rearranged in the ring.”

Sylus almost rolled his eyes. “Can’t you just patch me up here, doc?”

Zayne leveled him with a look sharp enough to cut steel. “If you want an infection to keep you company in bed, by all means, let’s do it your way.”

Sylus chuckled, a low, amused sound that rumbled in his chest. “You always know how to talk sweet to me.”

The coach groaned, throwing his arms in the air. “Godmit, this isn’t a comedy show! Sylus, sit still. Zayne, just fix him before he bleeds out on the damn floor.”

“You too loud,” Sylus said again, eyes glinting as he leaned a little closer to Zayne. “Doctor Z wouldn’t let that happen. He cares too much.”

Zayne’s gloves squeaked as he tightened them, his expression unreadable. “What I care about is not wasting my time watching you self-destruct. Though it’s becoming a hobby.”

Sylus smirks. For a beat, the room went quiet except for the muffled roar of the crowd still raging outside. The coach muttered something under his breath and began pacing, too preoccupied with his own frustration to notice the current crackling between fighter and physician.

Zayne finally pressed the gauze against Sylus’s nose firm. “Hold still.”

Sylus hissed again, biting back a laugh. “Gentle. I’m going to think you are actually enjoying hurting me.”

Zayne’s eyes flicked up to meet his, cool and sharp. “If I were enjoying it, you’d already be unconscious.” His hand stayed on Sylus’s face a second too long before he pulled away.

“What a special kink, doc.” 

Zayne had managed to stop the bleeding, but it didn’t buy Sylus much freedom. With one gloved hand still stained faintly pink, he shoved the stubborn boxer straight into the passenger seat of his car. Sylus protested the whole way, while in the back, the coach barked into his phone. Screaming at managers, sponsors, anyone unlucky enough to answer at that hour of the night.

By the time they reached the hospital, the adrenaline of the fight had dulled into exhaustion. After scans, paperwork, and a very vocal argument with the admissions nurse, Sylus was finally tucked into a private room. He shifted against the pillows. “Do I really need to stay? I’d prefer to be at home.” His tone was pure complaint, like a child refusing vegetables.

It hadn’t been an easy battle. For a solid hour he had argued insisting he didn’t need “babysitting” for a broken nose. But then Zayne had fixed him with a single, icy stare. And just like that, the Crow sat still.

Sylus grumbled under his breath, glaring at the ceiling. “You know, most doctors try asking their patients nicely.” Sylus lay sprawled against the stiff pillows, arms crossed behind his head, his red eyes half-lidded with boredom. The bandage across his nose looked almost comical against the smugness still curling his lips. Zayne had fixed his nose in a blink of an eye, after applying local anesthesia. He forced Sylus nose back into place, the fighter’s body tensed but he didn’t make a sound. Zayne didn't answer, he was still filling up a few charts.  

Now the floor outside was quiet. No more footsteps, no more fans trying to sneak in, no more nurses bustling around. Even his coach had finally left, muttering about meetings and sponsorship calls, leaving behind the faint echo of his frustration. The private room was quiet now, save for the steady beep of the monitors and the noise of the hospital ventilation.

From the moment Dr. Grayson suggested to Coach Lev to get Dr. Zayne on the team, Sylus knew he wasn’t the kind of man who’d be impressed by victories or crowds. Zayne wasn’t a fan, not even a friend. He was more like a cold wall of ice, impossible to get through no matter how hard you tried. And maybe that’s why Sylus enjoyed pressing against it.

Through every fight, every injury, every bandage wrapped a little too tightly, their relationship had been a dance of sharp words and colder silences. The doctor was the only one who didn’t flinch at Sylus’s bravado, and Sylus found a certain satisfaction in being the one person capable of cracking Zayne’s cool exterior, if only to reveal the simmering annoyance underneath. For the past three years, their interactions were a predictable ritual: a pre-fight lecture from Zayne on staying safe and a post-fight argument about Sylus’s latest injury. This time, however, Zayne hasn’t said anything else. 

Until one day.

The heavy bag swayed like a pendulum. The dull thwack of gloves against the heavy bag echoed through the space. Sylus was drenched, shirt clinging to his skin, his body vibrating from the rhythm of the punches. He was in his flow until the door cracked open. Sylus continued only to glance over his shoulder. Zayne stood just inside the entrance, medical bag in hand, his expression as cool and impassive as ever. A familiar challenge ignited in Sylus’s blood. He saw the doctor’s eyes fall to his bruised knuckles, then to the heavy bag. Zayne stepped in with a folder tucked under his arm, his expressions were pure detachment.

Sylus smirked. “What’s this, Doc? Decided to finally watch me work? Can’t say I pegged you for a fan.”

Zayne set the folder down on the nearest bench, ignoring the clearly provocative tone. “Your blood work is clean. Recovery times are where they should be. No restrictions.”

“You could’ve just mailed that,” Sylus drawled, sweat dripping down his jaw. “Or made me drag myself to your office like a good little patient.”

For a moment, Zayne’s greenish eyes flicked up, unbothered. “The coach insisted. Very desperately, in fact. He wanted me to make sure you listened to the doctor’s orders, since you apparently don’t hear anyone else.”

Sylus laughed as he reached for his water bottle. “So you’re my babysitter now?” He tilted the bottle back for a long drink only for the cap to slip loose. A cascade of ice-cold water splashed down his chest, soaking his shirt, dripping over every line of muscle. Sylus froze, blinking, droplets streaming down his jaw. So much for being cool. A faint blush crept up his neck. His glaze went flat in annoyance. 

To his utter shock, the doctor actually huffed out a laugh. Zayne found it utterly amusing that this big, intimidating fighter was so flustered over a simple blunder, trying to be the cool kid even when only he was watching.

“Ohhh,” he drawled, eyes glittering. “Did I just hear a crack in the glacier?

Zayne quickly regains his composure, clearing his throat. He doesn't look back at the boxer, and leaves through the same door he came in. “Next check-up is in two weeks. Don't be late.”

Now, some time later, that same man was the reason he was trapped in a hospital bed. The door clicked shut, and silence swallowed the room. Zayne had finally left, but not without his parting gift: “If you reopen the wound, I’ll make sure you regret it.” Sylus laughed to himself, touching his bandaged nose with care. Typical Zayne. Threats sharper than any scalpel, colder than ice. And yet… Sylus turned on his side, dragging the blanket up over his shoulders. 

“Cold bastard,” he muttered into the pillow, eyes finally slipping shut. Sylus let himself drift, the phantom image of Zayne’s smirk following him down into sleep.

“Charming,” Zayne said dryly, suggesting he found the scene neither charming nor remotely acceptable. He scanned the room, his eyes tightening with an almost physical disgust. He finally located a small, clean-looking section of the kitchen counter and set his medical bag there with cautious reverence.

The place looked like a battlefield: empty boxes stacked haphazardly, half-crushed protein shake containers on the counter, clothes scattered across the floor. To Zayne, whose world demanded precise order, the sight of this chaotic apartment was an affront to logic. Truth be said, Zayne’s own apartment was a study in minimalist perfection, and any apartment would look like a fucking mess to his eyes.

Sylus groaned, instantly on the defensive. He darted forward, snatching a pair of socks off the couch and stuffing them into a corner. “You didn’t need to come up.” His voice was quick, almost embarrassed, as he shoved a balled-up pair of boxers under the cushion.

“I promised your coach I’d take care of you,” Zayne replied, unbothered, scanning the room once more. Beside all the junk, Sylus apartments were definitely impressive. Modern lines softened by the weight of old-world taste. Dark wood framed the space: walnut shelves stacked with worn books, glass decanters catching the amber of the low light. A long leather sofa stretched across the open living room. Near the windows, heavy curtains in charcoal velvet pooled on the ground, swallowing the daylight. 

Sylus followed his gaze, then muttered, “Did he pay you extra?”

Zayne didn’t even blink. “See it as a way to make sure you don’t get yourself into trouble.”

Sylus let out a sigh, sinking onto the arm of the couch with his arms crossed. “So you are babysitting me.”

“Call it whatever you want,” Zayne said, already rolling up his sleeves as he started stacking boxes into the recycling bin. Sylus stared at him for a long moment, unsettled. In all the years of cold stares and clipped words, this was the first time Zayne had stepped into his apartment. 

“You’re bleeding again,” Zayne said instead, his voice crisp as he nodded toward the faint streak of crimson seeping from beneath Sylus’s bandage. He reached into his bag, pulling out fresh gauze and alcohol wipes. Sylus groaned, tilting his head down as Zayne stepped closer. “Sit.”

Sylus didn’t move immediately, instead he put back on his provocative smirk. “You enjoy bossing me around, don’t you?”

Zayne didn’t humor the question. He simply pressed the gauze firmly against the injury, making Sylus hiss sharply. “If you confuse following medical advice with being bossed around, that says more about you than me.”

Sylus chuckled low. Their eyes met, close enough now that he could catch the faint scent of aftershave on Zayne’s skin. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Zayne’s fingers were this time a bit more gentle as he secured the fresh, white gauze over the bridge of the fighter’s nose.

“Stay still and do not move.” Zayne ordered. The command landed flat and cold, but Sylus obeyed. He slumped onto the couch, legs stretched out, hands resting uselessly on his thighs. The gauze taped across the bridge of his nose tugged whenever he moved his face, but that wasn’t what bothered him.

Zayne moved through his wreck with efficiency. Now and then asking where he should put this or if can throw that away. Sylus shifted, he wanted to help out since it wasn’t fair that his doctor was cleaning up his place but every time he even thought about getting up, he was cut down by a single sharp glance. Those green eyes pinned him in place harder than any punch he’d ever taken.

Sylus realized something in that moment. He hadn’t had an injury this bad in years. Maybe some bruises, an open lip or even his eyebrow were badly hitted. But somehow, since Zayne had started to work with him… he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to bleed this much. Could it be… he was truly worried? The thought curled deep inside his chest, twisting tighter as he tracked Zayne’s movements. It was still a total mystery for him why Zayne had even accepted the job. 

Sylus had heard from Coach Lev the essential details: Zayne had his own prestigious department in the city hospital, but he gave that up to open his own small practice. But he still helps out from time to time in the city hospital. Sports medicine wasn’t even his field. It seemed the doctor hadn’t just been looking for a job; he’d been looking for some major change in his life, and for some unfathomable reason, he’d landed here, in the middle of Sylus’s chaos.

The silence stretched, broken only by the crisp, tearing sound of Zayne opening a fresh garbage bag in the kitchen. Sylus, bored and increasingly curious about the man who was now cleaning up, finally broke the quiet.

“Doc,” he said lazily, making weight in his chest with mockery, “do you have a girlfriend?”

Zayne froze mid-movement. Sylus tilted his head, waiting, eyes glinting with curiosity. He probably has someone. Why wouldn’t he? Zayne was everything a woman would want. Sylus had seen enough women glance at him in the hospital corridors. Someone had to have gotten through. For a flicker, Sylus felt a weight twist in his chest.

Zayne didn’t even look at him as he set down the washed up glasses, and went back to rearranging the mess.

“That is none of your concern,” Zayne replied, his voice flat, but the subtle refusal to call the question unprofessional only stoked Sylus’s curiosity further.

Sylus just hummed softly in response. “So, no now. What about ever?” Sylus pressed. He watched the taut line of Zayne’s jaw. Zayne turned his back sharply, grabbing the garbage bag with a rustling noise that sounded violently loud.

“I am currently preoccupied with ensuring you do not reopen your facial trauma,” Zayne stated. “My personal life does not, and will not, affect your ability to follow my instructions.”

Sylus simply grinned, recognizing the defensive wall Zayne was throwing up. “It doesn’t. But you're here, cleaning my trash and going through my stuff. At least I want to know a bit more about my help hand.” He paused, letting the statement hang. “So which is it, Doc? Girlfriend or not?” Zayne took a slow, visible breath, letting it out through his nose. He kept his back to Sylus. 

“No,” he clipped out. Sylus watched as Zayne crossed the kitchen, pulled open the fridge, and leaned in. A beat of silence then Zayne’s voice carried across the room. “Can you tell me what kind of bullshit you’re eating? I recall being very clear about your diet.” Zayne pulled out an army of half-empty protein shakes, mismatched Tupperware with suspicious contents, and a box of something that had clearly expired last week. “I’m honestly impressed you can still perform at this level while filling your body with this.” 

Sylus smiled. “I don’t eat like that all the time. Only before hard fights. And I have followed your instructions.”

Zayne didn’t argue further. He simply gathered the chaos in his arms and dumped it all unceremoniously into the trash. “I’m going to buy proper food. I’ll take your keys with me.”

“Be my guest,” Sylus drawled, waving a lazy hand toward the door, his smirk firmly in place.

Zayne didn't acknowledge the wave. He paused by the door, his posture straight and unyielding. “Rest,” he said with no room for debate, in a flat command. The door clicked shut behind him before Sylus could even muster a comeback.

“No girlfriend, huh?” he murmured, almost to himself. The words rolled out low, half-smirk, half-thought. But then the grin faltered and his features hardened. “Fuck…” he exhaled. “This isn’t good.”

By the time Zayne finally made it back, his shoulders ached from the weight of plastic bags cutting into his hands. Traffic had been brutal, and the city at night was as restless as ever. He let himself in with Sylus’s keys, already preparing a list of things he’d need to lecture him about. But the apartment wasn’t the same mess he’d left.

The worst of the clutter was gone — laundry piled into a basket, bottles stacked by the door, the counters cleared. It wasn’t spotless, but it was closer than he expected. Zayne’s first instinct was to reprimand his patient for ignoring the order to rest. He had been clear enough. But the words caught in his throat before they could form. Because Sylus was asleep on the couch, the dim glow of a single lamp softened the sharp edges of his face. A book rested across his chest, its spine half-open like he’d drifted off mid-sentence. And a pair of glasses sat neatly on the coffee table. His head had lolled slightly to the side, silver hair falling into his eyes.

For a moment, Zayne stood frozen in the doorway. He should wake him. He should keep the professional distance he had always enforced. But something about the stillness, the quiet rhythm of Sylus’s breathing, the rare softness of him made Zayne set the bags down slowly in the kitchen.

A blanket was draped over the back of the couch. Zayne pulled it free and shook it out. He moved carefully, lowering himself to one knee beside Sylus. 

The fighter didn’t stir. Zayne hesitated for a moment. Still he caught the dark circles beneath Sylus’s lashes — proof of too many nights spent training instead of sleeping. The sharp line of his jaw. The faint crack in his lips, careless hydration, another risk ignored. Zayne paused over them. 

He should know better. The swirling feeling in his chest and light anxiety in his heart. Persevering the distance of professionalism should come first. But seeing the amount of blood… The way it had poured across Sylus’s face down on his gloves. The way his heart had clenched when he realized just how bad it could’ve been. The words slipped out before he could stop them, almost unconscious.

“…You scared me.”

It was so quiet he thought it might vanish into the lamp’s hum, but the figure on the couch shifted. The book slid off Sylus’s chest with a soft thump. Red eyes blinked open, hazy at first, then sharpening as they focused on Zayne kneeling right there beside him.

“What… did you just say?” Sylus’s voice was rough with sleep, but the edge of curiosity in it was unmistakable.

Zayne straightened too quickly, the blanket slipping from his hand as if it had burned him. “Nothing.” His tone was sharp. “Go back to sleep. I’m going to cook.”

A faint grin tugged at Sylus’s mouth as he stretched lazily, letting his head sink back into the couch cushion. “You sound like my girlfriend,” he muttered, eyes already closing again. The line landed somewhere between mocking and tender, as if even he couldn’t decide what he meant by it.

Days blurred together like rounds in a fight. Sylus healed, the swelling easing, the bruises fading. And though he insisted more than once that it wasn’t necessary, Zayne still showed up. Every day. Sometimes before work, dropping off new bandages. He never stayed long. Just enough to make sure Sylus wasn’t bleeding, wasn’t skipping meals, wasn’t breaking rules. 

After more than a week like that, one rainy night, Sylus found Zayne standing there once more at his door. Normally, the man was a picture of control: shirt perfectly ironed, tie knotted just right, hair perfectly done. But tonight?

Tonight the tie hung loose, crooked against his collar. His shirt was wrinkled, and the faint scent of strong, stale coffee clung to the fabric beneath the faint hospital tang. Is that coffee or dry blood? He looked less like a doctor and more like a man who’d been dragged through hell.

Sylus bit back the instinct to smirk, to jab, to say “Man, you look terrible.” The silence stretched. His gaze dropped quickly from Zayne's face to the soaked floor and his chest swelled instead, as he stepped aside and let him in.

Zayne shivered. His eyes were half-lidded, fixed on some point in the distance. “You look like you haven’t slept in three days” Zayne blinked slowly, the exhaustion in his eyes seeming to pull the color from them. He tightened his grip on the handle of his bag, trying to reassert his control. 

“Heavy rotation at the hospital. Just let me check your nose so I can leave.”

Sylus moved quickly, gently taking the medical bag from Zayne’s hand and setting it on the floor. “Sit down, Zayne. Now,” Sylus ordered.

“No—” Zayne’s voice was flat, roughened at the edges. 

“Shut up and sit.” The fierce competitor in him was suddenly quiet. Sylus away and returned with a glass of water and towel, placing it silently on the coffee table.

“I should leave” He moved to rise, but Sylus pressed a hand to his shoulder and pushed him back down.

“No way, Doc. You’re too tired to drive.”

“I can’t stay here,” Zayne muttered, already shaking his head.

“I’ve got enough space.”

Silence stretched between them. Zayne’s eyes stayed shut, as if the fight to argue wasn’t worth it anymore.

“…”

“Not trying to pick a fight,” Sylus muttered, leaning back with a crooked smile, “but I should make sure my doc doesn’t kill himself by falling asleep in his car.”

Zayne exhaled long through his nose, the kind of sigh that usually meant I surrender. Which was all the opening Sylus needed. Before Zayne could string together a protest, he found himself herded down the hall with a firm hand on his back, shoved unceremoniously toward the bathroom.

“Shower. Change. Bed.” Sylus’s voice left no room for negotiation. 

Zayne caught himself on the doorframe, glasses askew from the push, blinking in disbelief. His reflection in the bathroom mirror only made it worse. Yeah, the last day was rough. Did I just get bossed around by my patient?

The steam still clung faintly to Zayne’s skin when he finally recovered some life in his eyes. He was wearing the spare pajamas Sylus had somehow dug out of nowhere. They fit far too well for something he supposedly “just had lying around.”

Sylus steered him down the hall with a hand at his back. The absurdity of it: him, the physician, being manhandled by his own patient was almost enough to make him protest. And still he remained quiet, too tired to argue with the stubborn boxer. Sylus gestured inside like a host at a five-star hotel. “Bed’s all yours, Doc. Sleep before you pass out on my floor.”

Zayne stood there, stunned for half a second, but Sylus didn’t give him the chance to argue. A light shove sent him toward the mattress. “Good night, Doc.” The words came out warm, brushing against his mind somehow Zayne felt a shiver trail down his spine. Before he could gather his scattered thoughts, he stood alone in the quiet room, blinking at the space. How had he ended up here? And why, for the first time in years, did he feel the faint, terrifying pulse of something close to peace?

The night pulled him under faster than he expected. One moment, Zayne was lying stiffly in Sylus’s bed, staring at the ceiling like he could not allow himself to rest. The unique scent of the bed, a mix of clean cotton and a faint, masculine musk that was distinctly Sylus’s. The next, he was drifting into a warm pleasant dream. He didn't know who or what he was clinging to in the dream, but he let the honey coated sensation wash over him. 

Morning light spilled through gauzy curtains. A faint crackle of jazz drifted from the living room, the lazy trumpet notes curling through the air, mixed with the scent of breakfast; butter melting over still-warm bread from the corner bakery he adored, ripe fruit cut into uneven slices, coffee rich enough to taste in the air. Everything felt gentle. “Good morning.” The blurry sound of a voice came, close enough for his breath to stir against his skin. A kiss brushed his cheek. Hands rested on his shoulders, calloused and firm that pushed him down into the soft, yielding warmth beneath him. The presence was a thrilling contradiction: someone who could tease him in the dark, drive him insane with a single look, and still make him feel… safe. 

Loved.

The heat of this phantom body against his own was a yearning he knew he shouldn't follow, but his entire being was a hollow vessel waiting to be filled. Zayne leaned into it, against every rule he had ever set for himself, against every wall he had built. He let the warmth seep into the cracks. The formless haze began to coalesce, and he glimpsed colors so vivid they pierced the melancholic atmosphere.

Silver. A strand catching the light, gleaming like frost in the morning sun. Red. Sharp eyes that pinned him in place, even in the blur of the dream, staring down with a gaze that held an undeniable heat. Zayne’s chest tightened as he leaned forward, lips parting, ready to whisper his name. 

The first silva stuck on his tongue as the warmth faded quickly as if someone had snuffed out a candle on a dark night. The image of those sharp eyes and the silver hair dissolved as a new sound ripped through the dream’s humid silence.  A female voice cut through, sharp as glass, immediately dragging Zayne to the edge of a cliff. And when he was cornered she spoke “You’re incapable of love. Work is everything for you. I can’t do this anymore. I hate you!” The slam of a door reverberated through his skull. 

The ground beneath him split open with a violent crack, making Zayne fall into the abyss. Lights blinked, fluorescent and harsh. A thousand alarms screamed. The sound of his own breathing was ragged, distorted, overlapping itself in panicked gasps. the noise was shaping itself into his name, shouted from somewhere close. “Doctor Li!” Voices blurred into static. Words tangled. His chest clenched tighter, too tight, too tight… He couldn’t breathe. He tried to speak, to call a name, but his voice broke, lost in the chaos. “Zayne…” A voice curling around the chaos, sweet laughter spilling in delicate strands. It should have been warmth, comfort yet it tangled with the horror. The sweetness melted into a poison. The laughter rose and bent into something distorted, cruel, echoing in his mind until he couldn’t tell if he was the one screaming. 

As he stops falling snowflakes drifted past, delicate against the black, melting on his skin. So cold. It's always so cold. It sank into his chest, numbing his limbs, freezing the air in his lungs. “You wish…” The darkness shifted, and suddenly he was standing in a devastated world, empty and lonely. Nothing but a sheet of white stretching forever, snow covering everything in silence. He wanted to cry, but even his tears felt frozen. The sound of cracking ice echoed somewhere in the distance, jagged and hollow. Everything was dizzy, spinning, tilting. “Before the snow stops…” The whiteness thickened, swallowing everything. The cold pressed closer, suffocating.

Zayne jerked awake, breath tearing from his chest like he’d been pulled out of deep water.  The ceiling came into focus in fragments. For a long moment, he simply lay there, chest heaving, listening to the city’s quiet pulse beyond the window. He dragged a hand over his face, pressing his palm against his eyes until colors bloomed behind them. “…Not again.” Zayne sat up slowly, the sheets clinging to his skin, the panic slowly receding, leaving a cold, oily film of dread behind. The bedside lamp cast a faint halo across the room, enough to outline his shoes by the door, his jacket folded neatly over the chair. He stared at them too long. Quietly, he swung his legs off the bed, standing barefoot on the cool floor. He should leave. Before the warmth of this room, this feeling seeped deeper into him. Before the lines blurred… But as his hand touched the door handle, he hesitated. On the other side of the wall, the faint rhythm of Sylus’s breathing carried from the couch. His fingers tightened on the cold metal. Why did his chest feel so heavy?

When Sylus woke up the next day, Zayne was gone. The next few days felt strange. No more showing up with groceries, no more staying until the apartment grew quiet and Sylus drifted off on the couch. He came only when it was strictly necessary, in and out with the same clipped efficiency he always showed. 

One evening, when Zayne finished checking the bandage, Sylus leaned back on the couch and smirked, though his tone was softer than usual. “You know, Doc… it was kind of nice having you around every day.” For a second, he thought he saw something flicker in those green eyes, hesitation, maybe. But then the wall slammed back into place. Zayne straightened. “Your nose is healed enough for that photoshoot. Makeup will cover the rest.” That was it.

Sylus forced a laugh, tilting his head with mock arrogance. “Right.”

The photoshoot was supposed to distract him. Bright lights, cameras, assistants fluttering around with makeup brushes and bottled water all the chaos Sylus usually thrived in. He slipped into his public skin easily enough: The Crow, undefeated, untouchable, cool smile for every shot. 

With that last visit, Zayne had declared him healed. The balm would take care of the rest, but the bandage was no longer necessary. And just like that, they slipped back into their patient-doctor dynamic. Sylus wasn’t happy about it. He’d asked Zayne why he always left so early in the morning, and the answer had been brief, distant. Work. Sylus could tell there was more behind that clipped word. 

Sylus leaned back in the studio chair as the photographer adjusted the lights, running a hand through his hair with a low exhale. Isn't this the first time I feel like this... He’d been alone long before Zayne, and he’d be fine long after. And now, sitting under a thousand-watt light with makeup dusting his cheekbones, all Sylus wanted was for the damn shoot to end so he could go back. He huffed under his breath, almost laughing at himself. Even if I did try anything, he doesn’t look like someone who’s into guys… or into relationships at all.

And maybe that was fair. People were exhausting. Greedy, stupid, selfish, always clawing for something, always taking more than they gave. Sylus knew that truth better than anyone. Zayne wasn’t like that, even if he looks like he keeps everyone at arm’s length. When it came to helping others, he always put himself last. It was infuriating, self-destructive and yet, Sylus felt the corner of his mouth curve into something softer.

“Come on, boy, hit it harder!” Coach Lev barked, voice sharp enough to cut through the roar of Sylus’s breath. The gym echoed with the thud of leather against leather, the metallic rattle of chains as the heavy bag swung back and forth. Sylus drove his fists into the bag again, each strike harder than the last. His red shirt clung to him, soaked through with sweat, the fabric molding against the carved lines of his torso. Sweat dripped down his temple, tracing along his jaw before falling to the mat. “I need more concentration,” Lev snapped. “Come on, come on!” Sylus’s breath grew uneven, shoulders heaving as he pushed into another flurry of punches. Still, his rhythm faltered because his mind wasn't locked on the bag. It wasn’t easy to catch it, but his coach saw it. “Where’s your head, huh? Focus!”

Truth was Sylus knew exactly where his head was. Hunting down the thoughts that refused to leave him. The memory of quiet evenings in his apartment, of an icy doctor who had somehow made himself at home there. The warmth of Zayne’s presence, the rare cracks in his composure. Ridiculous. He should stick to women, to one-night stands, the easy fixes that never asked for more. That’s what he’d always done. And yet… nothing had felt as natural as the sound of Zayne’s voice in his space. Where the hell are you, Doc? His fists still. The bag swayed slowly and Sylus dropped onto the bench, grabbing his water bottle and taking a long swallow, his gaze slipping toward the far wall.

Lev stepped closer, arms crossed. “Gonna talk to me? What is this? Two and a half weeks off and you forgot how to box?”

Sylus clicked his tongue, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Of course not.”

“Then…?” Lev pressed.

Sylus tilted his head back, gulping more water. He didn’t answer. Lev sighed, shaking his head. “We’ve got ten days to get you fit. Ten days. You’re going to defend that title. Champion of the year again. So whatever’s eating you, clear it.”

Sylus capped the bottle with a snap. “Sure, old man.” Sylus was still stewing. Coach Lev hated being called that. He started fussing, grumbling under his breath about respect and discipline, but Sylus barely heard him. Lev swallowed his frustration, knowing his champion wasn't paying attention to the fuss he was making anyway. Lev would have loved to know where his star fighter’s head actually was right now. 

“Hey—River, come here!” Lev barked. Across the gym, a tall, lanky kid dropped his jump rope and jogged over, still breathing heavy from drills. Barely nineteen, maybe twenty, his frame was wiry but promising, long arms, quick footwork. Lev had pulled him up from the juniors, grooming him for the light middleweights. The boy looked between them nervously, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Spare with him,” Lev ordered.

“Coach?” River’s eyes widened, darting from Lev to Sylus. The Crow. The undefeated champion. Twice his weight in muscle. It felt more like being thrown into the lion’s den than sparring.

“Don’t worry,” Lev said, clapping him on the back. “Just show him that new move. He needs to wake up a bit.”

River’s throat bobbed. “Y-Yes, coach.” Sylus glanced up at the kid in front of him. Tall, sure, but still green. Fear written all over his face. And Lev thinks this is what I need? But Lev wasn’t wrong. His head wasn’t in the game. Maybe a little push would bring him back. The boy raised his gloves, stiff but determined. Sylus stood slowly, rolling his shoulders, the smirk tugging faintly at his lips.

“Relax, kid,” he said, slipping into a stance. “I won’t eat you alive.” River didn’t look convinced. Both tapped gloves, the sharp smack echoing in the gym, and circled into motion. 

Sylus remembered being a bit like River when he first stepped into a gym just like this one, trading street scraps for structured savagery. He’d been a wild thing, raw power and no technique. That wildness, tempered by Lev’s relentless discipline, was what had propelled him from a hungry kid to a four-time consecutive champion.

Luxury and prestige had come fast, crashing into his life with the sound of roaring crowds and snapping camera shutters. The apartment with the city view, the tailor-made suits, the endless stream of expensive and forgettable evenings. But Sylus found his truest pleasures in quieter things: the easy comfort of his leather jacket, the late night bike rides and the dedicated pursuit of his jazz vinyl collection. 

“Keep your guard up, River. Light on your feet,” Coach Lev called, arms crossed.

Sylus slipped into rhythm with an easy sway, his eyes fixed on the boy. His jab was lazy at first, a feint, but enough to make River flinch. River tried a quick cross, awkward but earnest. Sylus blocked it with ease, lips curling into a smirk.

“Not bad,” he said, then darted in with a tap to the side of River’s headgear, light but deliberate. “But you’ll have to be faster than that.”

River grit his teeth, adjusting his stance, while Lev barked, “River, don’t square up—move, move!”

Sylus chuckled under his breath, circling. “Come on, show me something.”

“Sylus…” Lev’s warning cut across the mat. 

Sylus flicked his gaze toward the coach, grin widening. “Let me have some fun.”

Lev pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re giving me a headache.”

He let the kid throw a jab, blocked it with ease, then tapped his ribs in return. River regrouped quickly, breath coming hard, but there was something in his stance now, less hesitant. “Good,” Lev barked from the side. “Don’t let him play you. Move!”

River feinted left, then threw a quick one-two and ducked under, slipping close enough that Sylus had to tilt his chin back to avoid the hook that followed. For the first time, his smirk faltered. Just for a heartbeat. The glove whistled past his jaw, missing by inches. Sylus caught the kid’s wrist, redirected the momentum, and tapped his chest to end the exchange.

“Break.” Lev clapped once. Sylus stepped back, lowering his guard. River was panting, sweat dripping, but his eyes lit with stubborn fire.

A slow grin spread across Sylus’s face. “Huh.” He wiped his brow with the back of his glove. “Almost had me with that last one, kiddo.”

River blinked, startled, then broke into a shy, disbelieving grin. Coach Lev snorted. “Don’t get cocky, River. You’re not ready for the big leagues.” But even he couldn’t hide the faint note of approval in his tone.

Sylus rolled his shoulders, smirk tugging again. “Not bad.” He glanced at Lev. “Looks like you’ve got something here.”

River tugged at his headgear, still catching his breath, but his grin was boyish, unguarded. “Man… sparring with you, it’s… it’s crazy. I wanna be like that one day. Champion.”

Sylus smirked faintly, tossing his gloves onto the bench. “Big words, kiddo. Champions take more than a few tricks.”

River nodded eagerly, eyes shining. “You even have a private doctor. Must be cool, huh, like being friends with him also?  The words hit sharper than expected. Friend, huh? Sylus gave a low huff, grabbing his towel to hide the way his jaw clenched. “Yeah. Something like that.”

River, oblivious, laughed under his breath, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Man, I’d kill to have someone like that in my corner.” Sylus didn’t answer. He just smiled, though the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. He focused instead on the familiar ritual of untaping his hands. The rough gauze and sticky tape came away slowly, revealing the slightly bruised skin beneath. 

He couldn’t quite understand why Zayne had simply not showed up anymore. His job was done, though how things were going so well. It took Sylus by surprise. The doctor was usually infuriatingly reliable. Even when Sylus sent him annoying, borderline inappropriate messages; half-teasing, half-flirting; Zayne would at least reply with an irritated emoji. Sylus’d become accustomed to Zayne’s intrusions at his place, and their unexpected closeness was growing. Did he do something wrong? He would wait anymore, he should pay the doctor a visit. 

In a modest corner of the city, where the streets were narrow, the buildings worn, and most of the working class lived, stood Zayne’s clinic. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside: a simple sign above the door, a few potted plants by the entrance. Yet, for the people here, were genuinely happy that such a good doctor had arrived; it felt like a small victory for them. The first time Sylus had visited, he’d been surprised by the simple location but quickly realized why Zayne chose that part of the city; his solemn vow to help people was all the clinic truly needed.

Now, the silence of the afternoon lay heavy in the clinic, broken only by the soft tap-tap of fingers on a keyboard. It was quiet, almost austere, cream walls, warm wood trim, a faint scent of paper and disinfectant lingering in the air. Behind the reception desk sat a young woman, her blouse neatly pressed with the shine in her eyes and polite smile. The secretary looked up from her desk as she heard the footsteps. The second she realized who stepped through the door, her cheeks colored, fingers fumbling slightly over the keyboard. She was visibly nervous. 

“Oh, Mr. Qin,” she said quickly, straightening in her chair. She smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear as if she’d been caught off guard. Her gaze flickered up and down, not subtle in the least, lingering on his silver hair, the cut of his coat and the black helmet in his hand. A shy smile tugged at her lips. “Your next appointment is in a month.” Sylus looked over to the consultation room, and the young woman followed his gaze. “Oh, Doctor Li isn’t here today,” she added quickly, trying to recover her composure. 

Sylus leaned an elbow on the counter, the corner of his mouth twitching in faint amusement. He knew being handsome had its benefits, and he wasn't above using it for something practical, especially when he wanted quick answers. “Do you know where he went, sweetheart?” Sylus wasn’t in the mood to stretch the conversation. He hadn't seen Zayne in days, and the quiet, unexplained absence gnawed at him. The girl blinked, flustered again. She twisted the pen in her fingers, chewing at her lip as though debating how much to say. Sylus let the silence stretch for only a beat, then leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a seductive tone “Would you be so kind and tell me?” Her blush deepened instantly. She swallowed hard, before finally leaning closer, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial hush.

“He… he went to see her.” Her eyes softened, sympathy shining through the fluster. “Another year has passed.” She paused looking down. “He probably needs a friend today.” 

“You’re right. Would you remind me where…?” She scribbled quickly on a slip of paper, her handwriting looping unevenly in her haste, and slid it toward him. “Thank you, darling,” he said softly before turning on his heel and leaving the clinic. 

Sylus stared down at it, brows tightening. When he finally stepped outside, the words circled in his head. The drive was short, but it stretched like an eternity. He pulled his bike up beside a familiar black car. A cemetery?

Navigator: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 - Final

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Taglist is open for the second part, the ones who I already tagged doesn't need to comment :)

(2) Dinner & Wounds

🔊 Opening BGM

Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, Sylus walked past the gates. The silence of the place settled immediately. Willow trees bowed low over narrow paths, their long, sweeping branches swaying gently in the faint, mournful breeze like dark green drapery. Stone markers rose on either side, endless rows carved with names and dates.

He didn’t know exactly where he was supposed to look. Zayne, in all their intense, adversarial sessions, had never spoken a single personal detail. Was he visiting family? Or an old friend? Sylus remembered, vaguely, that Zayne had served in the military, perhaps he was here for a fallen comrade.

Gravel crunched under Sylus’s boots as he walked slowly along the narrow path. A cold wave of self-reproach washed over Sylus as he took in the sheer scale of the cemetery. He realized how little he truly knew about the man who now occupied so much of his mind. So many years of professional interaction, and yet, he felt a sting of guilt for not caring earlier. He had, perhaps, noticed Zayne in some moments, more reserved and icier than ever. His hand inside his coat pocket slowly curled into a fist. Friend? He could start there. He had to start somewhere. The vast, quiet field of the dead seemed to demand that he approach the living with more depth and sincerity.

Sylus looked around the quiet, hallowed grounds. He had never had someone to grieve for here. Even with his life constantly displayed on every gossip magazine and sports column, few people knew the quiet endurance he had practiced, the silent struggles he had before Lev finally took him under his wing. In this vast place dedicated to loss, Sylus felt a strange, quiet solitude. He turned a corner, the rows of markers stretching endlessly ahead. 

Sylus slowed, then stopped a short distance away. The familiar, rigid figure standing before a headstone. Zayne was dressed entirely in black and a small, neat bundle of white flowers resting at the base of the grave. Unwilling to intrude on such a private moment of grief, Sylus stayed where he was. He could see Zayne’s lips moving as they formed a faint, heartbreaking smile. It was only after that private, ghostly expression faded that Zayne seemed to return to the present. He straightened his shoulders, and as if sensing another presence. Zayne’s eyes lifted from the inscription on the stone. They traveled across the peaceful cemetery grounds and landed, directly on Sylus. The faint, sad smile vanished as if it had never been there. In its place was the familiar, cold mask Sylus knew so well.

The silence of the cemetery followed them back to the parking lot. Two cans clattered into the tray of the vending machine. Zayne handed one over without looking, the metal warm against Sylus’s palm. They stood side by side, steam curling into the cool air.

“Then,” Zayne said at last, his voice low but steady, “what were you doing here?”

Sylus took a slow sip, letting the heat linger on his tongue. He glanced sideways at Zayne. “Nothing special.”

The lie hung between them. Zayne exhaled, the sigh carrying more weight than the steam rising from his coffee can. “That girl should’ve kept her mouth shut…” His tone was flat, but the edge of irritation was unmistakable. He knew Sylus was here because he was looking for him. “Will you not ask why I’m here?” Sylus gaze moved on the hill beyond the parking lot, where the willows bent low over. The late evening breeze tugged faintly at his hair.

“No,” he said calmly, Sylus finally turned, meeting his gaze for the first time since they’d left the graves behind. “She said you might need a friend. So, I’m here.”

“You’re a terrible choice for a friend.” Sylus huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk.

“Probably,” he admitted.

The silence stretched. Zayne shifted his weight, his eyes fixed also on the dark shapes of the trees beyond. He felt the familiar, painful tug-of-war: the need to keep the wall up, and the unsettling comfort of Sylus’s presence right beside him. Zayne took another long breath. “I was visiting my former fiancée…” 

Sylus straightened a little, the casual warmth from the coffee leaving him. The silence that followed was laced with genuine sorrow. Zayne didn’t look at him, staring straight ahead into the gray afternoon light. “Life was… effortless with her,” he continued with a brittle tone. “She made it easy. She was everything that I, regrettably, am not. However, I was incapable of providing her what she needed the most. We got into a terrible fight and she ended the engagement. She left, hurt and angry. And I… I went back to the hospital to work…” His jaw tightened so hard the muscles jumped beneath his skin. “Hours later… he was involved in a traffic accident and passed away.”

Zayne had fallen madly in love with that sweet woman, in a way he never thought himself capable of. The first time their eyes met was in the little pastry shop where he picked up his weekly order: macarons, cookies and the special tart of the week. That winter afternoon, the entire shop seemed to shift when she walked in. The cold melted away beneath the warmth of her smile. The boxes of sweets in his hands suddenly seemed far less appetizing compared to the brightness standing across from him. It was love at first sight, though he hardly dared admit it. Seeing the hesitation in his eyes, she smiled again, softer this time, and wished him a good afternoon after picking up her order.

By some twist of fortune, their paths began to cross more often. Chance meetings turned into short conversations, short conversations into lingering moments, until slowly, carefully, they became friends. And then, inevitably into lovers. For the first time in his life, Zayne allowed himself to live in a dream. To come home to laughter, to warmth, to the tender gravity of being loved. Being with her filled a part of him he hadn’t known was empty. But fairy tales never last forever. As time passed, cracks appeared in the perfect picture. Long shifts at the hospital turned into longer nights. Incompatible schedules wore thin. Days blurred into weeks where he barely came home at all. The sweetness faded. And so did she.

Sylus remained speechless for a long, silent moment, entirely unprepared for the sudden vulnerability Zayne had laid bare. Sylus tightened his grip on the coffee can, choosing his words with care. “I am profoundly sorry to hear that.”

Zayne shook his head immediately, a sharp, dismissive motion. “Don’t be,” he stated, devoid of emotion but heavy with conviction. “It was my fault.”

Sylus frowned, crimson eyes narrowing. “How…?”

“I couldn’t save her.” The confession fell like a weight between them. Sylus studied him for a long moment, while Zayne hesitated to talk about that day or not, while he replayed it for a million times in his mind. 

Zayne had been doing his ordinary rounds that day, though nothing about him felt ordinary. His chest was still hollow from the fight, from the ugly sound the suitcase made clattering through the hall as she stormed out. How had things gone so wrong?

“I hate you.”

He’d stood there frozen, hands trembling, unable to breathe. There had been so many things he wanted to say — don’t go, I didn’t mean it, please — but his voice had abandoned him, like she had. The words cut him into a million pieces, and yet he had remained composed, on the outside at least. He sighed, bracing himself against the sterile corridor wall. This was going to be the hardest shift of his life. He knew in his state he shouldn’t be anywhere near an operating table. But in the hospital, there was no room for heartbreak. He exhaled shakily, forcing himself to move. Patients still needed him.

Now the hospital lights burned too bright, and every sound grated against his nerves. The laughter from the nurses’ station felt cruel. The smell of disinfectant made him nauseous. He finished his last patient with automatic words, not hearing himself speak.

He walked into his office, for a long moment, he just stood there — staring at the empty chair across the room, the one she used to sit in when she waited for him to finish paperwork. He thought he’d known pain before. This was different.

A soft knock broke the silence, before a familiar figure came into the office. “Zayne? I haven’t seen you in the meeting. Everything okay?” Dr. Greyson’s voice carried a mix of concern and kind of surprise. Zayne looked up from the monitor, his eyes unfocused, the blue glow washing his face pale. For a second, he didn’t even understand the question.

“Which—?” He blinked. Then it hit him. The meeting. He’d completely missed it. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Shit… the department meeting.”

Greyson stepped into the room. “You look pale.” 

“Thanks,” Zayne muttered, forcing a dry laugh that didn’t sound like him. “Guess I forgot.”

“Forgot?” Greyson frowned, studying him. “You never forget anything.”

Zayne leaned back in his chair, eyes darting to the corner of the room where her jacket used to hang. “Yeah. There’s a first time for everything.”

Greyson hesitated, the tension heavy in the air. “You sure you’re alright?”

Zayne’s throat worked before he answered. “Yeah.” The word came out rough, hollow. “Just tired.”

Greyson didn’t buy it. “You look worse than tired, Zayne. Did something happen with—”

“Don’t.” He cut in. Zayne pushed back his chair, moving fast. “I’m going to the ER,” he said. “They probably need some help.”

“Zayne…” But he was already walking past him. Greyson stood there for a moment.

The ER was loud, like always. Zayne kept his focus tight, clinging to the motions like they were the only thing keeping him upright. He moved from station to station, answering nurses, checking vitals, stitching a gash on a teenager’s eyebrow.

“Got into a fight,” the nurse murmured beside him.

“Yeah,” Zayne replied absently, voice flat. “Looks like he lost.” He smiled faintly at the kid but his hands trembled for half a second before he steadied them. The boy winced as the needle went in. Another siren wailed in the distance until it stopped nearby. “Ambulance incoming,” someone called out. Zayne finished the stitches, and left the boy in the nurse’s hand. He stripped off his gloves, tossed them aside, and grabbed a new pair. Moments later, the double doors burst open. Paramedics rushed in, their voices overlapping. 

“Child, female, seven years old! Broken femur, unconscious!” The Paramedics pushed through with a small body on the stretcher, monitors beeping wildly. “A car accident. Another victim is coming in.” 

“Box Two!” the ER chief barked. Zayne’s heartbeat blurred into the din of the ward. He watched, detached, as everyone moved with automatic precision, following the standard protocol. Finally some action. A crisis where logic was paramount and personal grief was irrelevant. He could put his mind completely off the fight, off of her, and off of the paralyzing weight of the break-up. He could bury himself entirely in the immediate, desperate work that lay ahead.

“Dr. Zayne…” Dr. Greyson rushed into the ER before he could reach him and the doors flew open again. Another stretcher was pushed in. 

“Female, twenty-eight. Tried to save the child from being hit by a car. Severe head trauma, multiple broken bones.” For a breath, he couldn’t move. His vision narrowed, the sterile light overhead tilting, and still the stretcher rolled forward. All he could hear was the echo of her voice from hours earlier. 

“I hate you.”

The sound pressed in, unbearable. His chest seized. “Dr. Zayne!” Greyson’s voice sounded distant, muffled, like underwater.

“Dr. Zayne? Doc?” Sylus voice brought Zayne back from these immersive thoughts. “You look pale. Was wrong?” 

“Nothing…” Zayne dismiss it.

“Probably you did the best you could.” Zayne’s head turned slightly, his expression shifted hardening in an instance, daring Sylus to repeat that. For a long moment, Zayne’s mind formed a dozen denials that only got caught in his throat. He should argue and correct him. He should tell him that the blood of his beloved was on his hand and clothes that night, every detail of how he tried to save her life. Sylus watched him for a beat, then huffed softly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You know,” he drawled, tilting his can toward Zayne, “for someone who’s supposed to be my doctor, you’re terrible at following your own advice.”

Zayne’s gaze flicked up, wary. “...?”

Sylus smirked faintly. “You tell me to rest, eat right. Judging by the dark ring under your eyes, you haven't taken care of yourself.” Zayne gave him a flat look, but there wasn’t real opposition to his words. Just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost a ghost of a smile. Sylus grinned wider, satisfied. There he is.

Zayne gave a faint huff. “Didn’t realize my patient had turned into my mirror.”

“Someone has to hold you accountable, Doctor.” Sylus finished his coffee. “Guess I’ll have to keep an eye on you, too. Even the great Dr. Li needs a babysitter.” Sylus pushed himself off the vending machine, crushing the empty can in his hand before tossing it into the bin. “Come on,” he said. “I invite you to dinner.”

After that night, something between them shifted. The banter and arguments didn’t vanish if anything, they still clashed over every little thing but underneath the sharp words was a soft closeness. Zayne saw past the fighter’s swagger to the thoughtful, surprisingly patient man who collected old music. Sylus, in turn, discovered the dry wit and quiet depth beneath the doctor’s rigid formality.

Sylus knew that passing that cold wall, it would take more than a nice dinner and probably more time but he was willing to wait. There was also no guarantee that Zayne would ever be interested in him in that way, but for now, this hesitant step from “doctor and patient” to “friends” was enough. He was simply happy to be standing closer to the light.

On the calendar, circled in red, was the date of the final match. The countdown had begun. Sylus threw himself back into training with his usual ferocity. Mornings started with runs through the quiet streets, afternoons in the gym hammering heavy bags until his knuckles ached. And the evenings reviewing footage of his own past fights and the movements of the man he’d face in the ring. Every detail mattered and weakness was a weapon. 

Coach Lev kept him stocked with the usual reports: reach, footwork, favored punches as Zayne dropped by after nearly every training session or even in the mornings. Sylus would find Zayne already waiting outside ready to jog beside him. Sylus was intensely amused to realize that Zayne was actually better at running than him, setting a brutal, steady pace that left the champion fighting to keep up. 

Evenings were warm with the faint crackle of oil from the pan, the smell of garlic and herbs drifting through the apartment. Zayne stood at the stove, with several recipe books open. On the counter, neat containers waited to be filled: grilled salmon rich in omega-3s, steamed broccoli dusted with sesame seeds, and roasted sweet potatoes — slow carbs to fuel endurance. Zayne’s calculated balance of protein, complex carbs, and iron. No sauces. No sugar. High protein. Controlled fats. 

“It feels good to be back to training,” Sylus said, his voice loose with satisfaction as he stretched on the mat in the middle of the living room. His arms lifted above his head, joints popping, spine arching before he folded forward with a low exhale.

Zayne gave a noncommittal hum, stirring the pan. “I hope you don’t miss the broken nose,” he said dryly.

Sylus chuckled, dragging a hand along the bridge of his face before touching the tip of his nose lightly. “Don’t worry, Doc. Gonna be careful.”

The words were tossed casually, but Zayne’s eyes lifted all the same. His gaze caught on the long lines of muscle shifting across Sylus’s back; the definition carved by weeks of training, the ripple and flex with every stretch, almost feline. His eyes traveled meticulously the broad arc of those shoulders, the powerful slope of his spine, and the sharp taper of his waist into the low-slung training shorts. Sylus was more than just strong; he was breathtakingly, unfairly beautiful. “Doc,” he drawled, “if you keep staring, dinner’s gonna burn.” His fingers tightened subtly on the spatula before he forced his gaze back to the pan.

Zayne stiffened almost imperceptibly. “I was making sure you don’t tear a muscle,” he replied evenly. Sylus’s lips parted in a lazy grin. Without a word, he crossed to the counter stealing one of the steam broccoli from the container. Zayne just shook his head smiling for himself.  Sylus plucked a bottle of red from the rack, and uncorked it with practiced ease. The liquid poured a dark ribbon into two glasses. “You shouldn’t drink,” Zayne said, not looking up as he prepared the two plates with their dinner.

“Just a bit,” Sylus replied smoothly. “Not going to get drunk. Besides,” he added, moving closer to Zayne caging him casually against the counter with his body, as he whispered. “I’ve got someone here to keep an eye on me, don’t I?” Zayne finally glanced up, turning his head to see Sylus over his shoulder. Sylus caught the flicker in those green eyes.

“I don’t drink.” Zayne stated.

“Is that so?” Sylus smirked, stepping back just enough to allow Zayne room to maneuver. “A shame. It’s actually very good.” He set both glasses on the table anyway. “I’m going to change.” Zayne watched Sylus walk away, his gaze tracking the athletic line of the boxer’s back. When Sylus disappeared in his room, Zayne let out a breath. He could feel his heart rate had perceptibly increased. Sylus surely was playing with his mind like always, using that effortless charm and sheer physical presence, likely just to torture him for no good reason at all.

In any case, even if Zayne would have entertained the simple idea that Sylus was actually trying to flirt with him, he wouldn't have gotten it. Zayne was definitely not good at this. Even back then, with his late fiancée, it had taken several months of overt signals and patient explanation for Zayne to finally take the hint that she was interested in him romantically.

Zayne placed the arranged dinner plates absently on the table, his mind still caught in the proximity and heat of the moment before.

“Missed me?” Sylus whispered right behind Zayne’s ear. The doctor jumped mentally, but his years of surgical training instantly clamped down, allowing him to place a flawless poker face over his panic. “No,” he stated flatly, sitting down. 

“Huh... that”s unfortunate,” Sylus replied, his amusement palpable even before he took his seat across from Zayne.

Dinner passed in the steady rhythm of conversation. Zayne mostly listened, something that came naturally to him, but he had to admit, Sylus was far more cultivated than he’d assumed at the beginning. The man who swaggered through press conferences and sparring rings alike could quote philosophers, discuss market shifts, or deconstruct the moral decay of corporate systems. All with the same easy charm he used to provoke him during checkups.

Zayne found himself responding more, matching his pace, throwing in questions. Sometimes Sylus’s phrasing was playful, dangerously so, words layered with double meanings that made Zayne’s pulse skip before he could disguise it behind a dry remark. 

By now, Zayne has realized that his own apartment felt sterile, almost impersonal but Sylus’s place, though… felt like a home. Soft lighting. The flicker of candles. A cozy sofa that seemed to swallow you whole. Stacks of books and half-finished notebooks resting on the table. Even the faint scent of coffee, spicy and leather clinging to the air gave the place a strange comfort.

“You read Kafka?” Sylus asked, lips curving around the question like he already knew the answer.

“A few times,” Zayne replied, sipping his water to hide his smirk. “Didn’t know boxers were into existentialism.”

Sylus’s grin widened. “I like challenges.” Zayne’s eyes lifted, catching the weight behind the words. Sylus leaned back, savoring the last of his wine while Zayne took out a small box from the fridge. Inside sat a lemon tart, golden, delicate, and perfectly arranged picked up from his favorite patisserie on the way to Sylus place. Special of the week, written neatly on the sticker. “Doc…” Sylus set down his glass. “Isn’t it unfair to eat that in front of me?”

Zayne didn’t even spare him a glance. This was the moment of the week. “I don’t think so,” he said flatly, already cutting a precise slice with his fork.

Sylus hummed, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “Actually, you’re quite the sweet tooth, aren’t you?”

“I just enjoy good patisserie,” Zayne replied as a faint smile ghosted his lips. The fork touched his tongue, the glorious taste of the lemon tart’s sweetness and acid eased every tension in his body. Sylus caught the rare softness flicker across his face like sunlight through glass. Zayne’s fork moved and cut the tart into perfect, even pieces. It was such a Zayne thing to do. When the doctor lifted another bite to his lips, Sylus snatched the fork out his hand and stole the bite. Zayne froze mid-motion.

“Mmh.” Sylus chewed, smirking and then he blinked once, twice, his expression twisting. “Is really sweet.” 

Zayne straightened, flush rising along his neck slightly coloring his ears. “It’s not that sweet,” he said defensively. What Sylus didn’t know was that the patisserie-shop made Zayne’s tarts a little differently, a private arrangement. Weekly order, Dr. Li. Extra sugar, just as you like it. Sylus licked the rest of the custard from his lips. Zayne went back to eating, trying to ignore the amused glint in Sylus’s crimson eyes.

“You measure protein to the milligram, but you drown yourself in sugar.”

Zayne’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Sugar is a simple carbohydrate that is metabolized rapidly, supplying necessary glucose for optimal cerebral function. I’m simply maintaining cognitive efficiency to perform my duties.”

“I can see that,” Sylus murmured. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “I don't think I’ve ever met someone so dedicated to the balance of the human body, only to maintain such a perfectly unbalanced life themselves. It’s actually kind of beautifully ironic.” 

Zayne shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think so,” he deflected quickly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It’s hardly anything to praise.”

“You think so? Umm… In my eyes it is,” Sylus were practically staring at Zayne. The silence stretched as Sylus’ expression shifted. “You know…” Sylus began, almost lazily. Zayne looked up, wary, chewing the cake slowly. “I like you. A lot.”

Zayne froze, mid-bite, then choked violently, the piece of cake halfway down the wrong pipe. He coughed, eyes watering, grabbing the nearest glass and downing it in a single, desperate gulp. When Zayne finally lowered the glass, clearing his throat, realization flickered across his face, the faint sweetness on his tongue, the unmistakable taste of wine.

“Well, well… look at that.” Sylus tilted his head, smirk deepening. He nodded toward the empty glass. “Was it good?”

“I don’t think that’s a wise choice,” Zayne said finally, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “I’m not that likable.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” he murmured. Sylus didn’t let Zayne off the hook, he leaned forward slightly. “If I like you, I like you. It’s simple.”

Zayne’s jaw tightened. “Nothing about it is simple.”

Sylus didn't back down. He kept the intensity steady, pushing gently but firmly for the truth. “Then enlighten me,” he said softly. “Why isn’t it?”

“Because you and I operate from fundamentally different premises. Also I think you confuse fascination with genuine attachment. What you perceive as liking is merely the novelty of something outside your usual scope. You’ll get tired of it.”

Sylus let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh. “Novelty fades? Fascination is fleeting. But curiosity about the true nature of a person is the hallmark of sincere interest,” Sylus countered smoothly. “And if I were merely intrigued, Doctor, I wouldn’t be sharing even a meal with you. Besides,” Sylus lifted his chin, his crimson eyes holding Zayne’s with an unnerving tenderness, “even if you’re the man of logic, I suspect you understand the illogical heart better than you let on.”

The faint, persistent color that had been creeping up Zayn’s neck finally reached his cheeks, dusting them with a soft, reluctant blush. He cleared his throat and for several minutes, Zayne deflected and the two continued their argument, or rather, their dance of push and pull. With every minute, the alcohol worked on Zayne, making him progressively drunk and increasingly funny to watch. Sylus were highly entertained as the man unraveled before his eyes. His words came slower, his sentences tripped over themselves, tangling in the wrong order as though he’d downed the entire bottle instead of a single glass. One moment he was rambling about some complicated medical procedure, the next he was muttering about childhood winters and his grandfather’s garden. Sylus slid a glass of water across the table every so often just to keep Zayne from collapsing outright.

“You’re adorable like this, Doc,” Sylus drawled, enjoying the undeniable victory in their verbal sparring. However Zayne, the empty water glass dangling almost lazily from his fingers, turned toward fully and blinked with those slightly unfocused green eyes. The formality had slipped, replaced by a sudden, devastating honesty.

“You are so secure about liking me, Sylus. If you feel so much, why do you still call me Doc? We knew each other for so long, and still you are the one who keeps the distance.” His words cracked visibly on the last part. Zayne’s lips parted again, his expression tightening, instantly regretting the vulnerable admission and desperately wanting to take the words back. In that exact instant, Sylus’s eyes widened and softened. Sylus saw Zayne who was fighting against his own feelings, exposed and slightly clumsy. He is so adorable.

Sylus propped his elbow on the table, resting his check on his head. This man is going to kill him at his rate, and as if it was a spell he said:

“Zayne…” 

The doctor didn’t answer, only met his gaze through the haze of warmth and wine, his eyes glassy but clear enough to show everything he couldn’t put into words. It made Sylus rise from his seat without even realizing it. He took in every detail, drinking it in: the faint pink spread across Zayne’s cheeks, the slight slack in his posture, the way the hard edges of his face had melted, and his eyelids were hanging lower. All from a single glass of wine. Illegal, Sylus thought, that expression should be illegal. No one else should see Zayne like this. He’d make damn sure of it.

The thought burned through him and before he could think twice, his hand lifted and tilted Zayne’s chin upward. Sylus bent, closing the distance in a single heartbeat, and pressed his mouth to Zayne’s. The kiss landed soft but scorching, tasting the richness of red wine, the rough notes of fruits and incredibly sweet lemon note on Zayne lips. Zayne inhaled sharply against him but Sylus didn’t pull back. He pressed closer, tilting Zayne’s chin even higher. Zayne’s hand went up uncertain at first, finding the fabric of Sylus’s shirt. 

Sylus’s pulse leapt. The teasing smirk he’d worn earlier was gone. The doctor’s lips parted under his, breaths mingling in a heated rush, and suddenly the distance they had guarded so carefully collapsed like it had never been there at all. Zayne raised to his feed. Sylus’s mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smirk. His thumb brushed along Zayne’s jaw as he leaned closer. “I’ve never seen you lose control…” His words lingered against his skin before his teeth caught Zayne’s lower lip, biting just enough to draw a sharp breath from him.

Zayne’s response was immediate. He caught Sylus’s mouth again, and a harsh deep whimper came from Zayne as he tangled his tongue with Sylus’s one. When he pulled back, his voice was hoarse, eyes burning with a clarity that cut through the haze of wine. “You wanted to see me like this?” Sylus laughed softly against him, pleased, before swallowing his mouth in another hungry kiss. The clink of glass echoed over the table as one of them knocked a glass down. 

They stumbled toward the sofa until Sylus pushed Zayne down against the cushions, pinning him with the weight of his body. The hard length pressed against him through the thin barrier of their pants made Sylus hiss, his own cock straining, throbbing with every shift of their bodies. He palmed Zayne through the fabric, savoring the way the doctor arched against the touch, breath ragged, all his rigid composure shattered under him.

“Fuck…” Sylus muttered, biting at Zayne’s jaw. Zayne groaned as their hips ground together. Sylus drank it greedily the sound of Zayne unraveling beneath him. He could feel the edge of surrender in every movement, every gasp, and it only drove him harder, hungrier, ready to take him further…

And then the shrill buzz of a phone shattered the moment. The vibration rattled across the coffee table, the screen lighting up with the hospital’s insignia. Sylus broke the kiss with a sharp tsk, forehead pressing to Zayne’s as his crimson eyes burned with frustration. The phone rattled again, insistent. Zayne shoved Sylus light away and snatched the phone off the table. 

“Dr. Li.” Zayne stood near the window with hair disheveled, shirt half untucked, still breathing but his tone dropped instantly into its usual clipped precision. Sylus leaned back on the sofa, licking the taste of Zayne on his lips. The call dragged on, ten… maybe twenty minutes. Sylus lost count. Zayne paced the length of the living room, phone pressed to his ear. His Instructions rattled off like clockwork: medications, schedules, protocols. When he finally ended the consultation he let out a long sigh, shoulders sagging as he lowered the phone. Sylus tilted his head. What a fucking ability to mask. Sylus smirked faintly to himself. Was he even drunk? Or does he just choose when to be? Either way, it only made him want him more.

“I should leave,” he said quietly.

“Stay...” The silence stretched. “I’m not going to bite you…” he drawled playful. “Not unless you want me to.” The tease cut through the heaviness, but it didn’t erase it. If anything, it twisted the tension tighter. Zayne’s lips pressed into a line. Sylus tilted his head, as he added softly, “So? What’s it gonna be?”

Zayne’s lips curved, not quite a smile, more the ghost of one. He shook his head slowly, exhaling through his nose. “You never know when to quit,” he said, his voice dry.

Sylus’s grin widened, satisfaction glinting over his face. “Why would I,” he murmured, “when I’m finally getting somewhere?”

The soft rustle of clothes with the rough edge of breath, faster, heavier, until there was nothing left but heat and closeness. Bodies pressed together, mouths meeting in hungry, uneven rhythm. Sylus wasn’t sure if Zayne had ever laid with a man before but from the way he kissed, the way his hands gripped and pulled, it seemed to be very much to his liking. So Sylus took the lead. Guiding him through the haze, coaxing the doctor past hesitation until Zayne’s breath broke in a gasp. 

Sylus tugged his own shirt open, the snap of buttons echoing faintly in the room as he pulled the fabric down and off, shirtless his hands immediately found the few buttons Zayne had left undone on his own dress shirt during the frantic exchange. Sylus slipped his fingers inside the starched cotton, deftly pushing the material down Zayne’s shoulders. Revealing the pale, sensitive skin of Zayne’s collarbone and the delicate curve of his neck. Sylus lowered his head and began to press hot, seeking kisses along the newly exposed skin.

For Zayne, Sylus’s touch was terrifying, the warmth in it, the softness even when the kisses were so demanding. A kind of tenderness he hadn’t let himself believe in for years. He knew why he was letting it go this far. He knew the danger of it. The fear clawed at him, whispering warnings from the corners of his mind, but another part of him didn’t want to stop.

Sylus’s fingers moved down, passing the open pants and boxer, closing around Zayne’s hard cock. The world narrowed to that single, breathtaking point of contact. Zayne let out a strangled sound, half-gasp, half-sob, as Sylus’s thumb brushed the sensitive tip. This heat, this terrifying, all-consuming heat, was exactly what Zayne wanted, needed to burn away the cold, quiet guilt that lived perpetually in his chest. He arched his back, pressing himself fully into Sylus’s palm. He felt the familiar, frantic rhythm of his desire escalating, pushing him toward the edge. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to let the raw sensation override the relentless whisper of memory. 

Sylus leaned in, his lips brushing Zayne’s ear. “Let go, Zayne. Let me have you.” The words were an irresistible demand, echoing in the empty chamber of Zayne’s own perceived unworthiness. He didn’t deserve this release, this pleasure, this new chance at a warmth he’d destroyed once before. 

You’re incapable of love. 

The adrenaline of panic flooded his system, the cold reality of his past sins rushing in to meet the promise of his current joy. Zayne gasped, his whole body going rigid, the rising heat of his arousal instantly replaced by a paralyzing, icy fear. He pushed up with a sudden, panicked strength, catching Sylus off guard.

“Stop!” He shoved against Sylus’s chest, his own hands trembling as they scrambled to pull up his shirt and clumsily push his trousers back up over his exposed, desperate body. Sylus recoiled, utterly confused, his eyes wide and full of shock. He was still half-over Zayne, his own desire visible, straining against the confines of his pants.

“What’s wrong?” Sylus moved aside to let Zayne breathe. His crimson eyes caught the light, worry flickering through the fire.

Zayne’s hands were shaking too violently to properly fasten his trousers, and he didn’t care. He needed distance. He needed air. He needed to be anywhere but under the scrutiny of those demanding eyes. “I can’t. I…” His breath hitched, the simple effort of speaking agonizing. He avoided Sylus’s concerned gaze, looking instead at the door, the only escape route. “This... this is inappropriate. This is a complete violation of… every boundary.” The words were rote, the clinical phrases of a professional drowning out the desperate cries of the man beneath. 

“Zayne, you’re trembling. Look at me.” He reached out, but Zayne flinched violently away. “Okay, I won’t…”   

“I shouldn’t have allowed it to go this far. I…” Zayne’s voice broke. He couldn’t articulate the truth, that the terror of feeling something again was too great a price to pay for this temporary, stolen pleasure. He reached for the door handle.

“Zayne, wait!” Sylus’s voice was sharp, his face etched with confusion, hurt, and a simmering anger. “Talk to me” Zayne met his eyes for a split second, and in that moment, the ancient guilt of the man who thought he deserved nothing was laid bare. 

“You should look for another doctor,” he whispered. He pulled the door open and bolted leaving Sylus completely stunned. For a few seconds, Zayne just stood there in the hallway before he walked fast out. He fumbled with the lobby door, finally bursting out onto the street and into the immediate, cold shock of the rain. Heavy downpour that instantly plastered his shirt to his back and soaked the hair he’d just run his hands through.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, the remnants of Sylus’s touch still ghosting over his skin. He pressed a hand to his chest. It did nothing to steady the pounding beneath it. His lungs refused to cooperate, dragging in shallow, stuttering gasps that only made it worse. Breathe. You know how to fix this. In. Out. But his own training slipped right through his fingers. He loosened the collar of his shirt, trying to get air, but it didn’t help. His chest still felt too tight, like the air wasn’t reaching deep enough.

What had he done? Zayne walked fast, almost stumbling, his vision swam, narrowed down to a tunnel of light and pavement. He stopped abruptly beneath a streetlight. Water droplets slid down from the metal awning above, splashing against his shoes. 

A piercing, steady piiiiiiiiii filled his ears, drowning everything else. His previous, terrible thought of “finally some action” returned with devastating clarity. How could he have thought like that? The sound pressed in, unbearable. His chest seized. “Dr. Zayne!” Greyson’s voice sounded distant, muffled, like underwater. “Zayne!”

They wheeled her in fast, the gurney streaked with red. His gaze locked onto the silver chain nestled amidst the dark blood on her neck: the necklace, the one he’d bought for her last Christmas. Blood matted her hair, ran in dark rivulets down her temple, soaking into the collar of her coat. Her face was barely recognizable beneath the swelling and lacerations, glass still glittering in the wounds. Her body was broken in too many places at once. His lungs dragged in air unevenly, before something in him snapped back into place. 

“Box One,” he ordered sharply. His voice didn’t betray the storm clawing up his throat. His hands, though, shook just faintly from the effort of holding them still. “I’m taking her.”

Greyson grabbed his arm, voice urgent. “Zayne—no. You can’t—”

“How long has she been down?” Zayne cut him off, releasing himself from Greyson’s grip. “Call neurology. She’ll need a CT immediately. Also someone from Trauma. NOW!”

And with that, he pushed through, refusing to let the weight of recognition slow him down. The room was chaotic. Alarms wailed, the noisy piiiiiii of the monitor cutting through every order shouted across the sterile air. Nurses rushed to prep lines, to press gauze, to suction. Zayne pressed gloved hands to her chest, the fabric beneath already soaked scarlet, and began compressions with relentless precision. 

“She’s still bleeding too much. Where is Neurology?” Zayne’s voice cut through the din, steady but clipped, his hands moving with mechanical precision as he clamped down on the wound.

Greyson shoved in behind him, voice sharp. “Zayne, leave. You can’t attend her—”

“I’m doing my job,” Zayne snapped, already stripping his gloves off and snapping on a fresh pair. His voice was flat, almost eerily calm, but his eyes burned.

Greyson grabbed his arm again. “This isn’t just a patient, and you know it—”

Zayne ripped free. “Help me or get out, Dr. Greyson.” The room froze for half a second, the weight of the words hanging heavy under the shriek of the monitor. Nurses exchanged tense glances, waiting for orders, their hands trembling above trays of instruments. His gaze was locked on the mangled face before him, the blood pooling too fast, the oxygen mask fogging shallowly against her lips. Greyson exhaled sharply, frustration cutting through his restraint. “Fine.”

And the chaos surged forward once more. Time bent. Stretched. Every second dragged like an eternity. Zayne’s world narrowed to the rise and fall beneath his hands, to the rhythm of compressions, to the endless rotation of gauze and clamps slick with blood. The monitor shrieked one last time, the jagged green line stuttering, then flattening into a steady, merciless tone. Piiiiiiiiiiiii.

“Adrenaline!” Zayne barked. He turned to the nurse, hand outstretched. “Now.” The syringe slapped into his palm, the plunger ready. He injected it with practiced speed, his voice hard, controlled. “We’re going to bring her back.” The team moved around him, but every sound was drowned beneath the pounding in his ears. Her face was pale, too pale. “Charge to two hundred,” he ordered, his voice cutting through the noise. “Clear.” The body on the table jolted, lifeless again the moment after. Zayne’s throat tightened, but he didn’t stop. “Charge to three hundred. Again!” Another jolt. Nothing.

“Zayne—” Greyson tried again.

“Pupils fixed,” a nurse whispered, voice small, as though afraid to say it out loud.

Zayne’s chest heaved. “No. Again.”

Greyson’s tone hardened, pressing. “Zayne.”

“Again!” Zayne roared, his voice cracking at the edges, fury and terror bleeding through at once. “She deserves—” His hands shook as he pressed down on the compressions himself, teeth clenched. “Come back. Don't leave me.”

Greyson caught his wrist mid-compression, grip iron-strong. “Enough. She’s gone.”

Zayne’s head snapped toward him, eyes wild. The monitor sang its long, merciless note. Piiiiiiii. Greyson’s glaze softened, almost breaking. Zayne’s hands stopped. He knew it, when he saw that amount of blood… He couldn’t… How couldn’t he…? He failed… twice today…

“Time of death. 21:34.” he stated, with a distant tone, as if the response came out of an automatic confirmation system. He could hear his own blood rushing chaotically through his ears. His gaze was locked downward, fixed on the trauma bay table: the drying blood, the horrifying stillness of her form. A paralyzing wave of guilt and sheer terror washed over him, rushing into every nerve, making him feel like he was dying right there beside her. 

For one terrible moment, his knees nearly buckled. He could feel himself falling into a deep void. He wasn’t aware of the nurses efficiently clearing the trauma bay or the Chief stepping away. Only one person remained: Greyson watching him with quiet concern. As one single, perfect tear rolled down Zayne’s cheek, he reached out a trembling hand toward the cold, still body on the table. The pain was pulled out from the deepest, most terrified corner of his heart as he placed a soft kiss on his forehead. And with that his face hardened into the mask he’d wear for years to come.

Zayne saw his reflection in the rain puddles, drops dissolved the vision of her into his own reflection, whispering and piercing his heart with the cold accusation: You killed her. Zayne closed his eyes, his throat burning. 

“I know…” Time passed and even after three years, the wound hadn’t closed. Maybe it never would.

“Zayne!” Zayne squeezed his eyes shut. No. Please. Not now. A moment later, Sylus was there, his hair plastered to his forehead, shirt also soaked through. Sylus took two careful steps and stopped, standing a foot away. Zayne could only gasp, a thin, wheezing sound. He shook his head violently, asking almost to be left alone. “Look at me, Zayne.” Sylus insisted, gentle now. Slowly, agonizingly, Zayne lifted his head. His eyes were wide and unfocused, glazed with fear and unshed tears, and Sylus felt a sharp pang of guilt—this was a man who was genuinely terrified. Sylus took a slow step closer, holding his ground. His voice remained gentle. “You don’t need to tell me what’s wrong. You don’t owe me an explanation for anything.” Sylus extended one hand, palm up, in a gesture that was both open and non-threatening. He didn’t reach for Zayne, just offered the hand as an anchor. “But can you trust me in taking care of you right now? Just for the next few minutes. Can you let me help you breathe?” Zayne stared at the outstretched hand, unable to process the offer. Sylus repeated, his voice dropping to a low count. “In… and out. I’ve got you.”

Finally, with a broken sob, Zayne reached out to Sylus’s palm, the heat of his skin was a shocking contrast to the chill of the rain. Sylus, with excruciating slowness, stepped closer until he was right in front of Zayne. Then, with soft purpose, he drew Zayne forward, pulling the doctor's shaking body against his own chest. Sylus wrapped his arms tightly around Zayne, tucking the doctor’s head securely against his shoulder. Zayne crumpled into the solid warmth, letting the last, desperate shakes work their way out of his body.

“Okay. Let’s get you warm,” Sylus murmured into his wet hair.

—

The sun was up when Zayne woke, alone in the room. He lay still for a moment, the memory of the night before. He sat up, finding his trousers and shirt neatly folded on the nightstand, clean and pressed. The fabric was crisp, completely devoid of the night’s dampness. Beside the clothes was a small, neat note. Zayne picked up the note, a soft, wistful smile touching his lips. “He really is…” He trailed off, unable to complete the thought. Kind. Attentive. Too good.

Coffee is in the kitchen. I went out. Take the time you need. S.

Sylus wasn’t going to push nor demand answers or force a confrontation. He was giving Zayne an out, a clean escape. And Zayne, bound by his old wounds and the conviction that he didn’t deserve this unsolicited grace, felt both relief and a profound, aching regret. An hour later, Zayne stood in the kitchen in clean clothes feeling still strange from last night. He left the note exactly where he found it. The apartment remained silent. He walked out, pulling the door shut behind him.

Navigator: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 - Final

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(3) His biggest Fan

A few days blurred into a grueling cycle of sweat and exhaustion, and the final match was now only three days away. Sylus was sparring in the gym, driving River back toward the ropes. He ducked under a wild swing and countered with a precise, rattling body shot. He was just circling back when coach Lev returned from a long, hushed conversation outside on the phone. Lev’s expression was tight, concerned. Sylus immediately stopped. He gave the young boxer a playful punch on the shoulder. “Don’t forget what I taught you,” He began to remove his boxing gloves. “What’s wrong, Coach? You look like your wife finally left you,” Sylus quipped, attempting to lighten the sudden gravity in the air.

Coach Lev lifted his phone, giving a grimace of disgust. “No, no... worse.” He lowered his voice, his eyes fixed on Sylus. “Did you have a fight with Dr. Zayne?”

Sylus stared at his coach, the half-peeled glove dangling from his hand. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t finish pulling them off; the weight of the sweat-soaked padding suddenly felt like lead dragging at his wrist. His own breath felt trapped behind his ribs. “What happened?” 

Lev just shook his head, the grim look deepening. “He just quit.” Sylus’s breath stalled. His pupils shrank in sharp distress, the world narrowing to the space between them. Not a single word came—he could only keep staring at Lev, frozen. “Dr. Zayne resigned. Effective immediately. I just got off the phone with the commission’s medical liaison. I’m scrambling now to find a replacement physician for the final in three days and you know how hard it is to get someone licensed this late.” Lev sighed, runned calloused hand over his almost non-existing grey hair. “Look…” he paused again, not knowing how to place it. Even if Zayne didn’t say a word about Sylus, Lev knew that something was off. “I don’t know what happened between you two, Sylus, but whatever it was, it clearly ran him off the rails. The commission is furious, and frankly, so am I. Still, we need to stay focused.” He jabbed a finger toward Sylus’s chest. “Keep the training intense and your weight under control. We don’t need any other problems before this match. Clear?”

“Yes, Coach.” Sylus muttered.

The coach’s words about focus and control fell on deaf ears. For the next twenty-four hours, the final match was the last thing on Sylus’s mind. He called Zayne’s personal phone repeatedly. The first few times, it just rang out. Then, it went straight to a generic voicemail box that hadn’t been set up, the number had been deactivated or the phone simply turned off. Growing more agitated, Sylus drove to the private Praxis. But when Sylus reached the small brick building, he found the front door locked and dark. A brightly colored, laminated poster was taped squarely over the glass panel. 

CLOSED DUE TO EXTENDED VACATION. 

Please contact a nearby medical center for urgent matters.

Sylus stood on the sidewalk, the clean, impersonal language of the sign making his blood boil. He slammed his fist against the door frame, a low growl escaping his throat. Was it really a good idea to look out for Zayne? Sylus was sure that what happened the other day, the panic attack, made him go back into this shell. Fuck... he thought. Did I push my luck? Sylus thought about everything, from the dinner, to the kiss, to the quickly escalating situation. What made him..? His brain worked at insane speed and then Sylus shook his head. No, it’s not up to me… I shouldn’t pressure him… but… what if he is not okay?

Sylus turned on his heel and walked back to his car. He didn’t start the engine right away; instead, he rested his forehead on the steering wheel, trying to organize the chaos in his mind. The Praxis was a dead end. He could try Zayne’s apartment, but if Zayne didn’t want to be found… Sylus took a deep breath to soothe his nerves. The cemetery, the park... he was running through a mental checklist of the few places he knew Zayne frequented, a meager list that underscored his sudden realization: he knew so little. And still one place came to his mind as he pulled his head up from the steering wheel, his gaze settling on his phone. Sylus typed an address into his navigation system. 

The bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside. Warm notes of cinnamon and toasted sugar swirled through the store, dense enough to be tasted on the tip of his tongue. A young barista was wiping down the counter, looking bored. Sylus scanned the small seating area. A few customers were hunched over laptops, but Zayne wasn’t there. Sylus approached the counter, disappointed. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice measured. “I’m looking for a friend. He comes here often. Dark hair, early-thirties, he’s a doctor.”

The barista, a young woman with bright pink hair, looked up with mild interest. “Sorry man, this place is full of them, you need to be more specific.” Sylus sighed, irritation flickering beneath the surface. His patience was wearing dangerously thin, but he forced himself to stay calm. He tried again, offering a smile so strained it made the hairs on the young woman’s arms rise. She stiffened, clearly unsettled, awkward, maybe even a little intimidated. If he weren’t so fucking hot, this would be way more scary, she thought, right up until Sylus spoke again.

“He always looks cold… He is a regular” Sylus pressed but then sighed again as pulled out his phone and quickly searched for a picture of Zayne. Somehow, he couldn’t decide which one from the album was best. Over the past few weeks together, he’d managed to take several photos of him: Zayne cooking, reading, lost in quiet tasks. Most of them were blurry, slightly out of focus. All because Dr. Zayne hated having his picture taken, though he’d clearly grown tired of trying to stop Sylus from doing it anyway. After a moment of scrolling, Sylus placed the phone on the counter and pointed at the screen. “Did you see him?”

The girl glanced up at Sylus, then back down at the picture. Her expression shifted instantly, eyes lighting up, posture relaxing, a wide smile spreading across her face. “Oh, isn’t it Doctor Sweet tooth?” She laughed. 

Sylus’s heart gave a sudden, hard thump. “Was he here?”

“Yesterday” she said, pointing a thumb towards the back. “He was in the corner booth for a while, just drinking tea. Didn’t even get a pastry, which is kind of strange for him. He seemed... kind of upset, actually.” Relief and unease tangled sharply in Sylus’s chest. He gently glanced at the phone, seeing Zayne’s familiar, almost unperceivable smile. “Did he... did he say anything? Where was he going?” 

“Oh, not really,” the girl replied brightly, her attention now fully on Sylus. She leaned a little on the counter. “Quiet than usual, though. When he was leaving, he came up and handed me a twenty. Said, and I remember this because it was funny, ‘Keep the change, and don't tell anyone you saw me.’” For a moment, a fleeting shadow of trouble crossed her expression. She quickly pressed a hand over her own mouth, her eyes widening slightly. So much to don’t tell anyone. Her eyes drifted thoughtfully back to the picture. A moment of silence settled between them, broken only by the hiss of the espresso machine behind her. “Is he your boyfriend? I didn’t expect Dr. Sweet tooth to have a partner. He always seemed so focused on… his medical stuff.” She offered a quick, sympathetic frown. “I’m sorry if you’ve run into problems with him, though.”

Sylus felt a cold wave wash over the initial warmth of relief, he picked up his phone, trying to keep the panic from showing. “Thank you,” Sylus managed, dropping a 100 bill onto the counter. “If he comes back, please, do not mention me. Not a word.” Sylus’s gaze, intense and unyielding, left absolutely no room for misunderstanding. The girl shivered again, a faint tremor running down her spine. Messing with a character like this was certainly not on her to-do list. She nodded quickly, snatched the bill from the counter, and without a second thought, she stuffed the unearned cash deep into her apron pocket. Sylus turned immediately, heading for the door. 

She watched Sylus disappear down the road, the silence in the small shop seeming louder for a moment. She nodded to herself, processing the intensity of the moment. What a strange situation. She brushed it off with a slight shoulder shimmy as she walked toward the back of the store, rounding the counter. She knocked twice on the unmarked wooden door near the storage shelves and slipped into the small, windowless office. She sighed, closing the door softly behind her. “It was like you said.”

The man with startling green eyes, seated at a cluttered desk, set down his now-empty teacup with a tiny, satisfied clink. A wave of exhaustion seemed to lift from his shoulders. “I didn’t expect him to come here so quickly. Thank you, and sorry for the trouble.”

“No worries,” she said, leaning against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “But he seemed very upset. Really upset. You should make peace with him. He looked like he was about to cry.” Zayne flinched. The remark struck a tiny, fierce blow against his chest, causing an immediate, incredible spike of guilt that nearly made his hands tremble. He forced himself to remain steady. 

Sylus had reached his car, parked only a short distance from the store awning, his hand already reaching for the door handle. He was focused and almost lost in his mind. Where should he look next? Then, a voice cut through the street noise behind him. “Sylus!” He froze. Not now. Another fan who recognized him on the street? He definitely didn’t have the time for this. He pulled up his mask of cool indifference and tried to ignore the voice, his hand moving purposefully to unlock the car. “Sylus. Wait…” The voice was closer now, slightly breathless. A car horn blared in protest as the person ran carelessly across the traffic lane. What the actually hell?

“It’s me, it’s me... Fuuu,” A tall, slightly skinny man stumbled to a stop beside him, adjusting a pair of thin-rounded glasses perched on his nose. “Hey.” Sylus finally turned, his expression carefully bored and indifferent, assessing the frantic figure. He recognized the coat—someone from the university hospital. “Sorry, I don’t have time for…”

“Wait, wait,” the man interrupted, holding up a hand. “My name is Greyson. Dr. Greyson. I work— worked with Dr. Zayne and… I’m a friend. I have seen a few of your matches; you know, the big ones. I started to be a fan, actually…” Sylus was still glaring at him annoyed. Greyson cleared his throat, trying to regain his professional composure. “Anyways, you’re probably looking for him, don’t you?”

Sylus didn’t know what to say. He vaguely remembered seeing Greyson around Zayne’s lab or office a few times but it was always very brief. He kept his expression, though his gaze was more piercing than before. “That’s my business,” Sylus stated flatly, leaning slightly against the car door, his body language communicating that the conversation was over. 

“I know, I know… But, look,” Greyson seemed to struggle with what he was trying to say, his gaze darting nervously around the bustling street. He took a shaky breath, then, as if finding some courage, he looked up, meeting Sylus’s hard stare. “Zayne isn’t the one who would say a lot about his private life, I know that, but I’ve known him for a while now and… I hadn’t seen him so alive for a long time. We don’t see each other much socially, but I have noticed that he has changed.” Sylus remained utterly still, in the exact same position, his hand hovering over the car handle, projecting an air of pure, cold efficiency. “For good,” Greyson rushed, trying to fill the oppressive silence. “After she died…”

“Enter,” Sylus commanded, his voice low and sharp.

“What?” Greyson blinked rapidly.

“Enter the car. This is no place to talk” Sylus repeated, pushing off the door and opening it with a definitive click.

“Right,” Greyson said, visibly relieved to be out of the public eye. He practically dove into the passenger seat, fumbling slightly with the door before pulling it shut. Sylus got in, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb smoothly and quickly, merging into the traffic flow without a word. He glanced once at Greyson, his eyes narrowed in intense scrutiny.

“Start from the beginning,” Sylus finally instructed, his voice grave.

—

BGM Song

The air in the arena was a thick, vibrating blanket of sound. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a monstrous swell of anticipation that suggested this time, the bets had escalated far past the usual mark. Fans were in a frenzy of screaming, applauding bodies, waiting for the final, crowning moment of the championship.

In the commentary booth, the voices were smooth, excited, and slightly amplified. “They were electric at the weigh-in just an half-hour ago, Lux, shooting death glares at each other, barely separated by the officials! This weight class is personal for both of them.” The other commentator chuckled. 

“That’s right, Nova, that’s right. This is going to be another amazing night, and we certainly hope we don’t see so much blood again!”

The sharp edge of the arena’s noise muffled as you moved further down the corridor toward the locker rooms. The hallway was a frantic hub of activity: people rushed past, checking last-minute details—gloves, wraps, water bottles—before the final could start.

Coach Lev finally entered the dressing room, shrugging off the sponsors and organizers he’d been dealing with. He looked tired but keyed up. “How’re you doing, kiddo?” Sylus moved quickly, putting something in his bag. Lev pulled a stool up right in front of Sylus. He was already fully dressed, encased in his striking red shorts and matching robe, ready to step out at any moment. He looked up, his expression strained and annoyed. “Yeah, not a kid anymore.” Lev leaned in, trying to penetrate the champion’s focus. “I want you to listen to me this time, okay?” He held Sylus’s gaze, demanding full attention. “No need to go berserk. Don’t rush him. Take your time. Fair and clean punches. We want to win this. Do not let him provoke you.”

“I have seen how he insults the others,” Sylus muttered, chewing distractedly on a protein bar. He didn’t finish the thought, just shrugged. His mood was dragging the floor, even breaking it and moving down the center of earth if not to hell itself. 

Lev sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Hey, you can’t be upset just because doctor Z isn’t here, so focus, my boy.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened, and he avoided eye contact, staring intensely at the red tape on his fingers. “I’m focused.”

Lev sighed again, his expression softening from professional intensity to something almost paternal. “Listen, you’re a grown man, and you can tell me to fuck off and mind my own business, but I’ll say this anyway: Love is not easy.” Sylus’s attention snapped up, a mixture of offense and genuine shock in his eyes. Lev cut him off with a firm shake of his head. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve raised two kids and watched them stumble through shitty first loves. Also I know you better than you think. Whatever chaos you have with him, you put it on ice. You deal with it after you’ve secured this title. Understood?” Lev clapped his hands together once. “Now move your ass.”

Sylus felt a flush of heat rise on his neck, thoroughly embarrassed by the coach’s unexpected venture into personal advice. He quickly forced a cool, non-chalant facade back into place. “Yeah, whatever, Coach,” Sylus replied, shutting down the conversation. 

—

The bell for the seventh round echoed through the arena, a dull clang barely audible over the cacophony of the crowd. This fight was a brutal, relentless grind. The scoreboard confirmed it: the points were tight, separated by a hair’s breadth on all three judges cards. Each of the preceding rounds had been a furious, restless exchange of leather and sweat.

Sylus moved off his stool, his legs feeling heavy, his lungs burning. He was locked in a physical and mental war. He could see Coach Lev’s mouth moving, but the shouts from his corner—and the screams from the frenzied crowd—were all being swallowed up by a steady, insistent piiii in his right ear. It was a high whine provided by the massive blow he’d taken in the fifth round.

Shit! Shaking his head slightly to clear the ringing. He was struggling in some spots; Duran was fast, unpredictable, and fighting with a desperate intensity that matched Sylus’s own need to defend his title. The difficulty just sharpened his focus, making Sylus want to win even more. This struggle, this grueling physical test, felt cleaner, easier to manage than the emotional turmoil Zayne had left him in.

Around the midpoint of the round, Duran, made a feint, then clipped Sylus on the ribs before dropping his hands to make a mocking gesture. The cocky, arrogant showboating pissed Sylus off. 

The bell for the ninth round hadn’t even sounded, but the two fighters were already pulled to the center by the referee for final instructions. The seconds in both corners were shouting, pulling off head guards and spitting buckets, but the air between Sylus and Duran was bloodlust. Duran, buoyed by his performance and fueled by a cheap, malicious streak, leaned in close to Sylus. His breath was hot and reeked of adrenaline and mouthwash. He waited until the referee, satisfied with the distance, stepped back before signaling the start of the round.

“Tell me, shitty Crow,” Duran sneered, his eyes glittering with malice. “Is it true that you fuck your doctor?” Sylus eyes went instantly dark, the professional boxer receding completely, replaced by a murderous expression. The exhaustion and pain vanishing beneath a mask of pure, glacial rage. “Or was your cock not enough for him?”

Sylus took one ragged step, violating the personal space between them, his posture that of a predator sizing up a dying deer. Duran had already whispered a few venomous words to him during the weigh-in. To add insult to injury, Sylus had discovered a photograph of Zayne and himself, soaked in the rain, among his stuff. Of all the moments a paparazzo could have captured, it was this one, when Zayne was at his most vulnerable. In the shot, the tears Zayne was letting out were thankfully not visible, but the desperate way Sylus was holding him left little to misinterpretation.

In that moment, Sylus had embraced Zayne as close as he could, letting him cry out everything he needed to release. The sound of Zayne’s raw sobs had physically hurt Sylus. He had been unable to erase that desperate grief. So, the next morning, hoping it was for the best, he had left early—trying to give Zayne a necessary break from the intense weight of emotion.

Son of a bitch.

This was a complete and utter blackmail attempt, calculated to destabilize before the biggest fight of his career. The picture was harmless and Sylus were more angry about Duran trying to fuck him up then about the picture itself. It doesn’t matter if the world knows that he loves a man, in fact, he would gladly scream that truth from the highest rooftop and make damn sure no one ever dared lay a finger on Zayne. Duran believed he could use Zayne as leverage, definitely a cheap tactic but it worked.

“Say another word, and I will rip your jaw off your skull and feed it to the crowd, you toxic piece of shit,” Sylus said clearly. 

The referee stepped in, alarmed, as the air between the two fighters suddenly crackled with something far more vicious than competitive spirit. He placed a hand on each man’s chest, but Sylus’s stare was so murderous that the referee felt a legitimate chill. “FINISH HIM, CROW!!!” a man’s voice tore through the unified roar of the audience. “LEAVE HIM ON THE CANVAS!” another voice bellowed from the stands, immediately followed by another: “TEAR HIM APART, CROW! TEAR HIM APART!” From the commentator booth high above the ring, the frantic strom of words barely kept pace with the scene below. 

“Oh, this is insane. The referee, he’s got his hands full, and I don’t think he even knows what to penalize here.”

“Duran found the one button you don’t press, and the Crow is gone.”

“I can feel the heat from here. The energy in this building just spiked to a frightening level. Duran is smiling, he got the reaction he wanted but I see the tremor in his hands. He woke a beast. He’s trying to maintain that arrogant sneer, but he just saw the devil in Sylus’s eyes.”

“The referee is trying to get them to touch gloves. They will not. They cannot. Folks, forget the sport. Get ready for the storm.”

The crowd is in a frenzy and the tension is unbearable. The bell rings. 

ROUND 9.

Sylus lunged, completely abandoning their strategy, his movements fueled by the cold fire of rage Duran had sparked. He was a red blur of controlled violence, driving Duran back with a relentless flurry of power shots. The crowd noise was a sustained roar, an earthquake of passion and lust for blood. The commentators were nearly speechless, their voices ratcheting up in speed and pitch as they struggled to keep pace with the chaotic fury unfolding. Duran, desperate and cornered, saw his moment. As Sylus closed in, focused entirely on delivering a punishing hook, Duran ducked low and countered with a sweeping uppercut. It was a blatant, almost illegal blow that caught Sylus right under the jawline. 

Sylus’s body went instantly slack. He didn’t drop, but he staggered backward, his vision swimming, until he crashed hard against the ropes. The thick cables momentarily kept him upright, but his knees buckled. The referee, furious, immediately stepped in, his arms already wrapped around Duran. He forcibly pulled Duran back toward the neutral corner, shouting a sharp warning about fouling.

The entire arena turned on Duran; the crowd was booing him mercilessly, a sustained, angry chorus. Duran merely leaned on the turnbuckle, smiling faintly, completely ignoring the venom aimed his way. He knew he’d landed the crippling blow, legal or not.

Sylus hung against the ropes, his breath ragged. Blood was filling Sylus’s mouth from his broken lip and trickling down his jaw. His mind felt dizzy, swimming in a nauseating fog. He could see Coach Lev’s frantic, shouting face, his mouth forming the shape of his name, but the sound was distant, far away, swallowed by the relentless, piercing piiii in his ear and the booming noise of the enraged arena. All that mattered, all that anchored him, was the cold, hard memory of Duran’s taunt. He had to finish this. He had to win… 

...The thought dissipated in a moment, like smoke in a strong wind.

Do I really need to win?

The adrenaline evaporated, leaving his limbs feeling like hollowed-out stone. What was the meaning behind all this relentless violence, all this effort, the blood and the years of sacrifice? What would happen after? If Zayne wasn’t there, if Zayne didn’t want him—if he had pushed him away with his desperate need for space… In that moment, standing on the threshold of combat, even the formidable Sylus felt a terrible, unexpected shaft of weakness, a chilling whisper of despair. He gave a sharp, self-contemptuous huff in his mind. How pathetic…  

A blinding white light exploded in Sylus’s vision. It felt distant, like staring into the sun. Then came the shock of cold water splashed across his head and neck, pulling him violently out of the dizzying fog. “Can you hear me?” The voice sounded reverberated, as if coming from the bottom of a well. Sylus’s eyelids felt impossibly heavy. He tried to focus. “Sylus...?” Someone was speaking, but he couldn't bridge the gap; he was adrift on a jagged sea of pain, watching the shore recede. “Hey? Hey!” The voice was closer now, more insistent. His vision slowly stitched itself back together, focusing first on a wall of black fabric. A silver glint of metal caught the light—the frame of glasses. Below that, an impeccably tied tie hung perfectly straight. He was looking at the new ringside doctor, but something about it... was hauntingly familiar. Then the person leaned in, his face seemed to express a complicated feeling but most of it was frustration. “Didn’t I tell you to not give me more work?” Sylus blinked slowly. He heard the words, the familiar annoyed tone, even through the insistent ringing in his right ear. He wasn’t supposed to be here. It made no sense. A weak, delirious laugh escaped his chest. I must be hearing things. “What’s so funny, idiot?” The voice snapped.

“You’re… here…” Sylus slurred, the two words heavy with last days of frantic searching and agonizing worry. Zayne pressed a cloth firmly to the gash on Sylus’s temple.

“You took a heavy shot, Sylus. I need to make sure you’re lucid.” Zayne’s fingers were gentle as they checked the swelling around Sylus’s jaw.

“I’m fine,” Sylus mumbled, trying to push the hands away, fueled by a confused mix of relief and a lingering, childish anger at Zayne’s sudden reappearance.

Coach Lev shoved his way past Zayne, his face tight with controlled rage. “What did I tell you? Fucking…” He took a deep, shaky breath, fighting to keep his voice down. “Do you think you can win, Sylus?” Sylus didn’t look at Lev. His gaze was anchored entirely on Zayne, the intensity immediately filling the space. Lev’s eyes darted between the two men, picking up on the charged atmosphere. “This is the absolute worst timing to solve your problems.” Zayne ignored the coach completely and moved closer to Sylus, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “Can you continue?” “I… don’t know.” Sylus said in a defeated tone. “Maybe,it will be better if I don’t win.” Zayne’s face wrinkled, and his gaze darkened instantly. That phrase, carelessly tossed into the tense air, struck Zayne with the same visceral horror as if he were mid-surgery and heard one of his assistants would have said: It’s not necessary to monitor the patient’s blood pressure. The consequence of such negligence would lean to an immediate and catastrophic scenario. Ignoring the primary metric for systemic health, guaranteeing a failure cascade that would lead to death if the patient’s heart experienced even a minor arrhythmia or a sudden, non-rebounding drop in pulse pressure.

Zayne felt a suffocating silence momentarily descend, a pocket of stillness amid the arena’s roaring chaos. The referee aggressively approached the three men, demanding an answer—assessing whether Sylus was still fit, mentally and physically, to continue the bout.

“Please, give us a moment,” Zayne requested coldly, still holding Sylus’s burning gaze.

Coach Lev, recognizing the shift, debated whether he could interject anything useful. But this was no longer a tactical problem; it was a matter of lovers at war. He decided to buy time, loudly challenging the referee's urgency as the official started to become more insistent about either continuing the match or disqualifying Sylus.

“Do you not wish to win?” Sylus lowered his gaze. “Why—?” Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hope that the reason you don’t want this title is me, Sylus. I—” Sylus didn’t let him finish the sentence. He cut in, his eyes hard and unwavering. He caught Zayne’s wrist and, with a sudden, sharp tug, pulled him inward until their chests almost brushed. When Zayne was close enough for their breath to mingle despite the din, Sylus whispered. 

“Then… be my reason to win.”

Zayne’s eyes widened, and finally settled on a hesitant, profound acceptance. “We will talk,” he stated. “However, right now, if you can fight, you need to do it. I know you can win.”

The sound of a genuine, slightly delirious laugh escaped Sylus, chasing away the pain for a moment. His eyes brightened, a spark of his usual playful arrogance returning. “Can I peg you as a fan now?” he teased. 

“I have always been your biggest fan.” A ghost of a smile finally touched Zayne’s lips.

Zayne rose to his feet and held out his hand, waiting. Sylus traced the lines of Zayne’s palm with his eyes, a shy, fleeting smile softening his features as he shook his head. He reached out, his fingers sliding against Zayne’s. That simple touch, Sylus felt the tension in his chest finally loosen. If Zayne had come all this way to watch him, to believe in him, then there was nothing left to doubt. That gentle faith, held captive between their joined hands, was all the fuel he needed. For Zayne, for that gentle faith held between their palms, Sylus would win.

—

The bell rang and the round resumed, and the arena erupted into electric chaos. Sylus let the first exchange look messy, a half-wild hook, a sloppy step. Sylus’s left jab was a half-hearted push, his right cross lacked the familiar snap and torque, pulling wide and off-target. He threw a three-punch combination, and every single shot was sloppy and utterly ineffective. Across the ring, Duran was in his element with a smirk that was equal parts arrogance and genuine pleasure, he easily slipped the slow, looping punches. Duran’s lips glistened, having been licked clean after every successful evasion, his eyes gleaming with a predatory intensity.

“Oh oh, The Crow seems to have a problem here, could this be a turn of table? The footwork is gone, the combinations are nowhere near The Crow we know! He looks compromised! Will Duran have an easy win?” the commentator bellowed, the confusion in his voice palpable, tinged with a thrilling sense of an upset brewing.

Coach Lev was nothing more than a ball of pure stress. His already sparse grey hair seemed to be receiving a vigorous, self-inflicted torture session as he ran his hands through it repeatedly, rubbing his scalp raw. He was leaning so far over the ropes, he looked ready to tumble into the ring. “Sylus! Move your head! Shift the weight! Anchor your jab, dammit, anchor it!” Zayne felt the noise vibrate in his own chest. He just exhaled through his nose as an imperceptible frown creased his brow. He tried to look past the sloppy boxing.

Duran landed a sharp, clean left hook to Sylus’s ribs. Sylus staggered, a grunt escaping his lips, but he didn’t drop his guard entirely. The very second Duran’s eyes glazed over with that familiar, self-satisfied gleam. It was the opening Sylus needed. Duran was confident he would win with the next swinging hook. As Duran unleashed the haymaker, instead of stumbling backward or trying to block, Sylus performed a low, sudden half-duck and side-step. Duran’s massive glove whistled past Sylus’s ear, missing by a hair’s breadth. The resulting momentum of Duran’s committed swing, combined with the missed target, caused Duran to spin slightly off-balance. Sylus didn’t hesitate. He came up from the duck with a sudden, short, and surprising left hook to the body, targeting the floating ribs. Duran’s triumphant expression dissolved into a grimace of shocked pain. He instinctively clutched his side, his momentum halted, and his composure shattered.

In the corner, Coach Lev’s hands froze mid-air. “That’s River’s move! What the hell!” he gasped, followed by a wild, desperate shout of encouragement: “YES! Push the pace! Keep it on him!” Zayne, who had been analyzing Sylus’s decline, let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. A faint, almost-smile touched his lips. You’re sneaky…

The match pace immediately shifted from a slow, agonizing execution to a furious, restless scramble. Duran staggered under the assault as the commentators shouted over the roar, unable to keep pace. Sylus drove him into the ropes, punishing the body with ruthless focus, ignoring every attempt to clinch until one final, devastating right sent Duran reeling. 

The bell’s final ring did nothing to silence the arena. The crowd was a deafening wave of sound, a mix of ecstatic screaming and exhausted cheering. In the ring, both men were spent, barely able to stand on their own. Sylus leaned heavily on standing next to the referee, with sweat, blood, and water running together. He barely spared a glance for Duran, his eyes sweeping the ringside until they found Zayne.

Moments later, the focus of the entire arena shifted to the center, where the announcer stood with the sealed envelope. This was the moment of excruciating tension. The match had been too rough, too close, with too many swings in momentum for any clear victory call. Every fan, every bettor, every corner man was holding their breath. The announcer, a massive man in a tuxedo, finally seized the microphone. He waited dramatically, letting the sustained, frantic roar of the crowd ebb just slightly before his voice boomed over the speakers.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! After eleven grueling rounds, we go to the judges’ scorecards!” He read the first sentences, ratcheting the tension to an almost unbearable level. “The winner of this year, Linkon Heavyweight Champion is…!” The arena went absolutely ballistic. Sylus didn’t need to hear the name. He just wanted to go out of here and talk to Zayne. “The Crow, Sylus Che!”

Sylus’s arm was yanked into the air by the referee, but his eyes were still on Zayne, who was smiling a fully undeniable expression of pride and relief. The title was secured—his fifth time. 

—

After the thunder of the arena, the quiet of the locker room felt suffocating, like being buried in dry sand. Sylus was already stripped of his gloves and robe, sitting heavily on the sofa as Zayne hovered over him. Zayne’s movements were precise but his hands were trembling almost imperceptibly as he worked to clean the gash over Sylus’s brow and press ice to the swelling on his cheekbone. 

“You took an unnecessary risk,” Zayne stated, his voice dropping an octave. He was scowling at Sylus, his expression as severe and unforgiving as a father chastising a reckless child. He leaned forward, his hands steady despite the internal tremor, and dabbed a sterile wipe against Sylus’s split lip. “That uppercut could have ended your career. You were completely unstable for a minute.”

“Were you worried, Doc?” Zayne’s eyes flashed with a dangerous, cold fire. Without a word, he increased the pressure on the wound with the gash. “Ah, ah…” Sylus caught his wrist and tugged him closer, just enough to close the distance between them, his eyes pinning the doctor. Zayne froze, his breath hitching as warmth crept up his cheeks, a faint blush betraying what his composure refused to show. They looked at one another for a long moment. Exchange where reassurance, doubt, longing, and devotion passed freely between them. Sylus didn’t know where they stood; his mind was at peace knowing that at least he had returned for this final fight. 

Coach Lev barged in, his face beaming, overflowing with euphoria. He was loudly shooing away with a couple of security guards, persistent few reporters who had managed to sneak past the main blockade. “Get out! You heard me! Let the man breathe!” Lev crowed, then turned to his champion. Seeing the scene of Zayne leaning slightly over Sylus, practically on his lap, with Sylus’s hand gripping Zayne’s and his other arm around his waist, Lev wanted to hit both. How careless! What would have happened if one of the reporters had caught them in such a close position... Another thing on his to-do list for later. Lev felt his headache getting worse, but it didn’t matter at that moment; they had won, everything else could come later. He gave Zayne a meaningful look. “You two have five minutes. I’ll come back to take Sylus to the interviews.” Lev stood for a moment before the door. “Five-time champ!” He winked quickly at both, and closed the door. 

Zayne finished applying a butterfly closure to the cut above Sylus’s eye. He packed his medical kit aside but Sylus stopped him. “Zayne,” Sylus began. “I have no intention of demanding an explanation. At this moment, I am prepared to be whatever you require.” He hesitated, his thumb moving lightly over the fragile architecture of Zayne's wrist. “Not hearing about you… was... an immense trial of patience.”

Zayne stared down at the point where Sylus’s hand rested on his wrist. His breath caught, shallow and uneven, as the rigid control he’d carried since stepping into the ring began to fracture, hairline cracks spreading through it. He lifted his eyes again and found Sylus watching him. There was no challenge in his expression now. Only a softened, almost sorrowful look, bare and unguarded, as if he were asking for something without daring to name it.

Heat bloomed across Zayne’s face, a faint flush betraying him as their closeness erased the rest of the world. The handle of the medical bag slipped from his fingers and hit the ground. And in what was a blink of an eye and also an eternity in his mind. Zayne’s clean, starched shirt brushed against Sylus’s sweaty chest. And in that hushed, breathless stillness, before thought could return or reason reclaim him, Zayne bent forward and pressed his lips to Sylus’s.

The kiss began softly, almost tentative, Sylus exhaled and the space between them vanished again, feeling the overwhelming warmth of each other’s lips. Zayne shifted closer, drawn forward as if by gravity itself, until he was fully straddling Sylus’s lap. Sylus let out a surprised breath that was immediately devoured by Zayne’s mouth. His arms moved instantly, coming around Zayne’s waist. His hands gripped the small of Zayne’s back, crushing him into place and holding him there, exactly where he belonged. 

After a moment, just when Zayne had had enough, he pulled back just to gasp against Sylus’s lips, his eyes tightly shut. “I need you,” he admitted, the words ragged and raw, a complete dismantling of his defenses. “I have… tried to deny that.” Sylus, understanding the monumental effort it took for Zayne to break his silence and initiate that contact, handled the moment with an unexpected, educated grace. His hands moved slowly to cup the sides of Zayne’s face, his touch exquisite in its care. Though the sudden shift of Zayne’s position drew a sharp, brief wince of pain from Sylus.

“Careful” Sylus hissed, his whole body was hurting a lot more than he wanted to admit. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you” Zayne whispered immediately, pulling back slightly, his eyes wide with concern and shame.

“It’s fine. It’s nothing,” Sylus insisted, brushing Zayne’s hair back from his forehead. He kept his voice low. “Would you like to come home... with me?”

“After you deal with the interviews?”

“How boring,” Sylus murmured, leaning in to steal one soft kiss. “I was thinking more about running away with you now.”

"You really enjoy torturing Coach Lev,” Zayne teased as a soft smile finally broke through. “Do the interview first,” He knew how much Sylus despised the public-facing duties, but those duties were necessary. “You know you have to.”

Sylus let out a frustrated growl, a sound vibrating deep in his chest that Zayne felt right through his thighs. “You are entirely too responsible for my current state of mind,” he complained. Zayne was ready to pull back, to remind him of the time, but the moment Sylus’s mouth found him again, that thought dissolved. Sylus shifted, deepening and his tongue surged forward, a molten stroke that instantly met and tangled with Zayne’s. A choked sound of pure pleasure escaped Sylus’s throat. 

When he finally, regretfully, broke the kiss, pulling back just an inch so their foreheads touched and their breaths mingled. Zayne’s lips were swollen and damp. Sylus’s eyes tracked the movement of Zayne’s tongue sweeping over his own mouth. “Don’t go far. Wait for me,” he asked, before he forced himself to release Zayne.

—

The post-match excitement was a fever dream of noise and lights, but the moment they slipped out of the arena and into the relative quiet of the city night, the focus narrowed entirely. They barely made it three steps inside Sylus’s apartment before the control Zayne had maintained for the past two hours snapped completely. He just reached out, his hand finding the back of Sylus’s neck, pulling him in with a fierce, possessive urgency.

Zayne pinned Sylus against the nearest wall, his body pressing flush against the heat of Sylus’s, demanding a response. The sound of their mouths connecting and the ragged, broken breath Sylus gasped out was the only sound in the plush silence of the apartment. Zayne was relentless, his hands roaming over Sylus’s chest and shoulders, searching for the solid feel of him.

During the interview, Sylus had been a master in evasion, leading the reporters exactly where he wanted them to go. But then Duran interrupted, screaming about the low trick Sylus had used. Sylus, definitely not in the mood for his opponent’s tantrum, had simply leaned back, waiting for security to haul him away.

“He is fucking a man... he has a lover…” Duran had screamed, wild-eyed, and Sylus had only looked bored. “There, that doctor!” Duran had pointed directly at Zayne, who was waiting calmly to the side. Every single soul turned around to look at that so-called lover. Not even three seconds later. The reporters had gone feral. “Mister Sylus, is that true?” someone had asked. “Is it an official relationship?” another had pressed fast. “How did you fall in love with him?” Others had spun to Zayne, but he had merely looked at them, his cooled temper and dismissive gaze cutting off any attempt to ask him anything.

“They’re equally scary,” a man had whispered. “Yeah... maybe that’s why they match so good.” Coach Lev tried to redirect the conversation and avoid answering any other questions about those two. 

Now, that carefully maintained composure shattered. Zayne’s mouth descended with a sudden, devastating force, echoing the violence of the crowd and the recklessness of Duran’s outburst. Zayne growled against Sylus’s lips, his hands tearing at the immaculate fabric of Sylus’s shirt.

“You dismissed them,” Sylus breathed, the air instantly hot between them. “So easily... so you.” The thought of Zayne’s effortless cool in the face of chaos made Sylus’s blood run hotter than any victory.

The kiss deepened instantly, tongue plunging in, a fierce, wet search and capture, mimicking the tension and release of the match itself. Sylus arched back against the wall, his entire body responding to the sudden, gratifying weight of Zayne’s desire.

“Careful,” Sylus managed to rasp, the word a warning and a thrill, as Zayne’s fingers brushed a particularly sore spot on his ribs. He let out a sharp hiss, the pain quickly overshadowed by the pleasure of Zayne’s frantic attention. Zayne didn’t stop. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and hungry, and let out a short, shaky laugh. He shifted, biting down lightly but possessively on the vulnerable skin of Sylus’s neck. A deep moan crushed through Sylus’s chest, followed by a deep laugh. “Let me shower first.”  he managed, though his hands were already tangling in Zayne’s hair, contradicting every word.

“Do it after.” Zayne snapped. 

“Zayne…” It was a protest in name only. 

“I need you…” Zayne’s whisper was a ghost of a sound against the sensitive skin of Sylus’s neck. Sylus didn’t argue again. Sylus gripped tighter, he drove them both down the hallway, the world narrowing to the friction of skin and the staccato rhythm of their breathing. Their movements were clumsy, fueled by a feral impatience that couldn’t wait for a bedroom. Behind them, a trail of discarded championship red and black professional wear lay tangled on the floor.

Zayne pushed his hips forward, grinding that brought the hard ridge of his cock into punishing contact with Sylus’s own straining hardness beneath the thin fabric of the boxer’s shorts. The lust flooding his every sense is overpowering.

They landed side-by-side, quickly rolling onto their backs and sides, their legs instantly intertwining, a seamless knot of muscle and heat. The world had narrowed to the space of the mattress, the scent of their skin, and the urgent pressure of their bodies against each other. Zayne’s body is built like the gods themselves blessed him, his skin smooth and flawless, muscles in all the right places. 

Sylus slowed the pace, letting the demanding urgency drop away for a moment. His hand moved deliberately, tracing the contours of Zayne’s lower back, reveling in the heat and the tactile reality of the body straddling him. He ran his palm over every expanse of hot skin belonging to his adorable doctor.

“Are you sure about this?” he whispered. 

“I am,” Zayne affirmed with a soft, beautiful smile bloomed across his face. Sylus was amazed about the sight he had before him. Zayne’s usually precise black hair was delightfully tousled, several dark strands clinging damply to his forehead and partially obscuring his eyes. The pink blush of arousal spread vividly from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. 

“Very well,” Sylus murmured, and with a fierce pull, he tore the thin cotton boxers from Zayne’s body and flung them across the room, freeing the hard, straining length beneath. “Look at that,” Sylus whispered, his hand working steadily along the hard cock in his grip. “Does it feel good, Zayne?” Zayne groaned, his back arching helplessly into the touch, his hands gripping the sheets tightly. “I see,” Sylus murmured as his other free hand trailed upward, brushing across his chest. When his fingers found Zayne’s nipple and teased lightly, the sharp gasp that tore from the doctor’s throat made him grin. “Sensitive, are we?” Sylus purred, twisting just enough to draw another sound from him. The answer came in the form of an unrestrained moan. Sylus leans down to take it in his mouth playing with them, just to earn even more of that sweet sound. He began to stroke Zayne faster, forcing him to cry louder from him. Zayne’s cock twitched and pulsed in Sylus’s relentless grip, growing harder. He was dissolving, completely stripped of his composure, feeling the build-up like an electric current running through his veins.

“Sy... lus…” he gasped out, his eyes squeezed shut against the intensity. 

Sylus’s mouth curved into a wicked smile. He momentarily paused the powerful strokes, letting the sudden, aching absence send Zayne spiraling. “Should I stop?” he teased, his voice a low, gravelly promise of greater things. “Or do you need something more?”

“No…” said Zayne, shaking his head slightly, his eyes half-lidded. “However, I must confess, I never…”

Sylus immediately intervened, placing a kiss gently over Zayne’s trembling lips. “No worries, I will guide you,” he murmured, his voice softening with sudden, exquisite tenderness. “Tell me if something hurts, okay?” 

“I’m very aware about how it works,” Zayne insisted, his voice slightly muffled but holding a note of pride. “I did my research.”

Sylus let out a huff of laughter, his shoulders shaking slightly. “Of course you would do that.  Let’s put your knowledge to good use, Zaynie.”

“Zaynie?” Zayne questioned, the nickname catching him off guard, a small, endearing furrow forming between his brows even as the desire coursing through him threatened to overwhelm.

—

Sylus’s hand had abandoned Zayne’s front, focusing instead on the tight, trembling entrance. Sylus’s fingers were stretching Zayne, moving with care. The tick lubrication was spread generously all over Zayne’s entrance and slicking the fingers Sylus was steadily adding. He was clawing at Sylus’s forearms, his grip fierce, his breath hitching on continuous, choked moans. His hips bucked instinctively, a reflex driven by the conflicting sensations of intrusion and mounting need. Sylus wanted to bury himself inside him right away but he knew that without proper preparation, it would only end in a very unpleasant experience for Zayne.

Sylus’s jaw tightened with the effort of control and the pure visual pleasure of Zayne’s surrender. He leaned in, his lips brushing Zayne’s ear, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that cut through the haze of desire. “How much did your research involve?” Sylus drawled, adding another finger slowly and deeply, eliciting a sharper cry. 

“Aren’t you an expert in this?” Zayne gasped, unable to form a coherent response. Sylus chuckled, watching the physical signs of Zayne’s undoing. Sylus’s cock was rock-hard, the angry red tip demanding attention, a bead of pre-seminal fluid glistening down the shaft. Zayne’s face was something to be admired: cheeks flushed red, ears pink, his breathing heavy and uneven.

“Sylus... it’s fine... Try it…” Zayne murmured.

“Sure?”

“Yes…” He withdrew his fingers just enough to line his hardened tip up at Zayne’s slick, prepared entrance, already wrapped in a condom. He didn’t push yet, but let the heat and the size of him press against Zayne’s sensitive tissue, eliciting a sharp, helpless intake of breath.

“Ready?” Sylus asked, letting the friction linger for another agonizing second before Zayne finally commanded, “Do it.” Sylus pushed slowly inside. Zayne gasped, his body seizing around the invasion. He felt dizzy, overwhelmed, and impossibly hot.

“Fuck…” Sylus muttered, the word a heavy exhale of how perfectly right this felt. He pulled back a millimeter, then pressed forward slowly, testing the boundary. The rhythm began to deepen and quicken, the careful control melting into consuming demand. They were a chaotic knot of motion and sound: the wet slap of skin, the groan of the bed springs, the ceaseless exchange of kisses, gasps, and moans. Sylus hammered into Zayne, the world shrinking to the point of friction and the exquisite pressure building with every thrust.

Sylus’s smile was savage as he heard the curse tear from Zayne’s lips, amplifying the pleasure. “Even you can say things like that,” he mocked, his breath coming in ragged pants, but he avoided the protest he knew was coming by immediately crushing his mouth down on Zayne’s. He was shaking violently beneath Sylus. “I’m going to…” Sylus started, with the hand that was braced on the mattress, he reached down. His fingers found Zayne’s straining, rigid cock and closed around it, beginning to add his own firm, rhythmic stimulation to his furious internal thrusting.

Zayne’s eyes snapped fully open, instantly glassy and filled with half-formed tears of pure, unbearable sensation. He tried to process the dual attack on his senses, the simultaneous, overwhelming pressure.

“Wait…” Zayne managed to gasp out the word with frantic, futile protest that Sylus ignored completely. Sylus’s hand worked faster, perfectly timed with the brutal depth of his strokes. Zayne cried out and his whole body arched violently off the bed as a massive, shuddering wave of orgasm ripped through him. He pulsed in Sylus’s grip, his fluids coating Sylus’s hand, his consciousness briefly lost to the sheer force of the release.

Sylus watched Zayne shatter, his own control disintegrating with the sight and the feeling of Zayne's body seizing tightly around him. The whimper that Zayne released was the final trigger. His thrusts became one last, impossibly deep plunge, his hips slamming down hard. His own climax hitting him seconds apart from Zayne’s. He spilled inside the condom with violent intensity. 

Sylus rolled carefully to the side, maintaining a practiced smoothness despite his lingering tremor. He pulled Zayne immediately with him; he didn’t let go, securing Zayne tightly against his chest. Their legs were hopelessly tangled beneath the soft sheets, their skin slick with a mixture of sweat and the residue of their frantic desire. Sylus buried his face in the damp, fragrant tangle of Zayne’s black hair, breathing in the scent of him and the room.

He waited until Zayne’s rapid breathing began to settle into a soft, steady rhythm before moving again. With a sigh of deep contentment, Sylus gently loosened his grip just enough to slide off the bed. He rose, retrieved a small clean cloth from a nearby shelf, and then headed toward the small en suite. He paused to strip the used condom and than saturated the cloth with comfortably warm water, wringing it out carefully. When he returned, he sat on the edge of the bed and gently began to tend to Zayne.

He ran the warm, soothing cloth over Zayne’s forehead, wiping away the film of sweat, then down his collarbone, and finally, with exquisite tenderness, cleaned the sensitive, aching parts of Zayne’s body, using the heat to gently ease the throbbing.

“How do you feel?” Sylus whispered. He paused his ministrations, cupping Zayne’s jaw and turning his face so their eyes met. “Any lasting pain. Tell me honestly.” Zayne blinked slowly, and managed a hazy smile and leaned into the careful warmth of Sylus’s hand. 

“I’m fine.” Sylus finished wiping the last vestiges of sweat and desire, then gently pulled the soft sheets over Zayne’s body, tucking him in like a precious jewel. He settled back down, spooning himself against Zayne’s back and holding him securely, resting his chin on the crown of his head.

Zayne shifted slightly in the warmth of Sylus’s embrace. Even though the raw physical contentment was profound, the knot of anxiety that had driven him to hide remained stubbornly tight in his chest. “Sylus, we should talk,” Zayne murmured against the pillow.

Sylus groaned softly. “Do you want to do it now? I was just about to fall asleep holding you.”

“If it is not too much trouble,” Zayne replied, his tone earnest.

Sylus sighed, the sound resigned but gentle. “Then go ahead. I hear you. Take your time.” Zayne stared up at the patterns the fading light made on the ceiling, gathering his thoughts, his gaze distant. He started the painful recitation, beginning with how he first met her. He spoke of falling in love with a depth and certainty he hadn’t known was possible, of the ease with which they had moved in together, the seamless planning of a whole life ahead. He described the small, nervous moment when he knelt to ask her to marry him, the vacations they had booked, the dreams they shared for a future full of quiet domesticity. He laid out their hopes and their fears—all of it built, brick by fragile brick.

And then, he spoke of how all that hope had shattered in no time at all. He explained the events surrounding the catastrophe—how it happened because of him, because of the unpleasant realities that spilled over from his work into his life. Zayne didn’t spare himself in the telling, detailing the moments of carelessness and misjudgment he believed led to her loss. The guilt he still carried was a tangible, malignant thing, lying so close to him that sometimes he genuinely couldn’t breathe.

Sylus let Zayne pour his heart out, offering the terrible facts without commentary. His only response was physical: his hand remained steady, softly caressing Zayne’s side, his thumb moving a slow, comforting rhythm across his skin. He gave Zayne the space he needed to find the strength to continue, allowing the quiet weight of the tragedy to fill the room before gently encouraging him to go on.

Zayne’s voice finally faltered, trailing off into a painful silence. He turned his head slightly, his cheek pressing into the smooth pillow. “When I first recited the Hippocratic oath, I truly believed I would become a good doctor. I believed I would save many people, including the one I had hurt before, until that fight with her… I couldn’t save her. Do you really think she will ever forgive me? If something like this happens again, if I can’t save you from the injury in the ring. I’m certain it would be the greatest regret of my life.” 

Sylus remained still as he heard those words coming from Zayne. The confession of fear, the depth of guilt, and the terrifying, explicit connection Zayne drew between his past failure and Sylus’s safety, he couldn’t quite decide if he felt happy or sad. 

Days before, when he talked with Greyson, the doctor hadn’t mentioned anything about how she died, only dancing around the subject. Greyson had focused instead on how Zayne was before with her, how he changed without her, and how, with him, Sylus, a new, warmer side of Zayne had hesitantly bloomed. Greyson had carefully shielded Sylus from the full, devastating context, likely because he knew that Zayne would eventually open up to him. 

Sylus drew a long, careful breath. He lifted his hand and tenderly wiped a stray tear from the corner of Zayne’s eye with his thumb. “Zayne,” Sylus whispered, his voice gaining a hard, resolute edge. “Look at me.” He waited until Zayne’s tormented green eyes focused on his own. “What happened to her was a tragedy. You fulfilled your part by loving her, by fighting for her, and by trying to save her. She would never want you to carry this guilt, especially not if it costs you your own peace.” Sylus continued, his grip tightening protectively around Zayne’s waist. “I know that the pain of her loss will still be with you… And you do not have to put it away for me. You can say whatever is on your mind. I’ll always listen. Rest if you’re tired, cry if you’re sad. Don’t do any of it if you don’t want to.” Sylus brushed the hair back from Zayne’s temple. “I’ll be here. Every step of the way. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I do not deserve you” Zayne mumbled, his heart tightened into a painful, beautiful knot at the weight of Sylus’s devotion. Sylus let out a rich, soft laugh, what a sweet melody that seemed to wrap around Zayne like a blanket.

Zayne watched him, wondering for the thousandth time: How did I fall for him? In what quiet, unnoticed moment had his heart finally turned toward Sylus and found its home? The days he had spent fleeing from these feelings had been a cold, hollow nightmare. 

That loss had made him freak out in a dozen different ways. He had felt the sharp sting of guilt for even entertaining a new spark of life. For wanting to be happy once more, for craving the proximity of Sylus’s heat. Even now, Zayne’s mind was a tangled garden of doubts, a feeling he knew he wouldn't be able to shake completely for a very long time. But as Sylus pulled him just a fraction closer, Zayne realized that Sylus knew it, too.

—

The seasons bled into one another in a blur of shifting light. The rhythmic drumming of autumn rain, the howling ferocity of winter storms, and the silent, heavy blankets of snow until finally, the soft, persistent warmth of spring arrived to stay.

The sprawling apartment overlooking the city skyline had undergone a quiet transformation. Now, alongside the gleaming, heavy metal of boxing trophies, stood the delicate glass of medical awards and framed certifications. The shelves groaned under the weight of new volumes, creating a library where technical surgical texts leaned comfortably against worn biographies of legendary fighters.

Evidence of their life together was everywhere, a silent “set of two” in every corner. On the nightstand, two pairs of glasses lay entwined atop a stack of books. In the bathroom, a double set of toothbrushes stood in a single holder, and two plush bathrobes hung side-by-side on the door like. The boxer’s once “dark” lair had been permanently illuminated. The gloom had been chased away by the bright, steady presence of a doctor who filled the halls with terrible jokes and an even better heart.

The familiar black car was parked once more outside the cemetery gates. Two men walked side-by-side along the winding stone path, one carrying a fresh bouquet of flowers, the other holding a small bag of traditional offerings.

“Are you nervous?” Sylus asked softly, his voice barely a murmur against the rustle of the spring leaves. He glanced over at his partner, searching his face.

“No…” Zayne trailed off, a small, serene smile playing on his lips. “If anything, I’m excited.”

When they reached the grave, they both bowed in unison, paying a deep, silent respect to the woman who had once been Zayne’s whole world. Together, they worked in a comfortable rhythm, clearing the stone and placing the offerings down with care.

“Hey, it’s me. And Sylus,” Zayne started. His voice was steady now as he began the quiet ritual of updating her on his life.

At first, Sylus had accompanied him, staying back by the car to give Zayne his privacy. But eventually, the day had come when Zayne reached back for him, leading him to the headstone and introducing him as his partner, his new love. He had stood there then, hoping for a blessing from the heavens. Now, on this brilliant, sun-drenched day, Zayne wanted to ask for one more.

“I’m going to get married,” Zayne breathed out, the words floating like a vow into the air. “I know... I know it happened fast. But…” Beside him, Sylus reached out and took Zayne’s hand. His thumb moved slowly, softly brushing over the silver ring Zayne was already wearing, a promise of the life they were about to build. The cold weight of the past had finally been replaced by the warmth of a hand that wouldn't let go.

“I love him.”

A/N That's it. It took me a while and still think I could have done much more out this story, special now that I watch Heated Rivalry (no the same story but... yeah, I do my best here) Hope you enjoyed and see you at another SnowCrow story or any other.

BACK TO MASTERLIST

You could almost see his face through the words, those big puppy-dog eyes, all golden retriever sadness, looking down at you with that soft tilt of his head. Your cheeks burned at the thought, and you ended up doing exactly as he asked.

When he pulled up in a rented car to pick you up, his grin was wider than the horizon.

“Do you have everything?” he asked.

You straightened up and gave him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

He laughed, warm and bright. “That’s my good pipsqueak,” he teased, ruffling your hair with a playful pat.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or do I just trust you blindly?” you asked, leaning your head against the window, trying not to smile.

Caleb grinned, his teeth flashing. “Trust me blindly, obviously. That’s half the fun. Besides…” His voice dipped, teasing. “You look really cute when you pout. Makes me want to stop the car just to pinch your cheeks.”

You gasped dramatically. “Don’t you dare, Caleb!”

“Oh, I dare,” he said, steering with one hand as his other swooped over to lightly squish your cheek. You swatted at him, giggling.

“Focus on the road!”

“Relax, pipsqueak. I can drive with my eyes closed if you want.”

“Caleb!”

He laughed, that warm, sun-soaked sound that made your chest feel lighter. You turned away to hide your blush.

Caleb pull over to the spacecraft port, where his aircraft was waiting. He grabbed your bagged and lead you to inside.

You buckled yourself in, watching Caleb go through his pre-flight routine like he’d done a hundred times before—checking gauges, adjusting knobs, flipping switches. His brows furrowed in concentration. You absolutely absorb how light hits his face. Dancing over his eyelashes, painting that beautiful nose and contouring his dry lips. How many times have you told him to use balsam?

“You know…” you said, leaning back with a smirk, “it’s kind of hot when you get all serious like that.”

He froze for a second, then glanced sideways at you, a grin tugging at his lips. “Oh yeah? Should I wear aviator shades next time?"

Laughing, Caleb reached over and tugged gently on your seat belt strap, making sure it was snug. “All secure. Don’t want my favourite passenger flying around the cabin.”

You arched a brow. “You do know I’ve been in this plane plenty of times, right? I know how seat-belts work.”

“Yeah, but I like finding excuses to lean closer.” His words brushed over your skin almost as much as his breath did. So close, the distance of a kiss, you feel the pull and need to do so. Butterflies make their way in your chest, you sigh low and your eyes lit relax. You swore the air itself thickened, shimmering in the sunlight that poured through the cockpit windows.

Caleb’s gaze dipped briefly to your lips before darting back up. He swallowed and with that, the brief tension in his violet eyes were gone. He winked before pulling on his headset.

“Ready to chase the sun with me, pipsqueak?”

Takeoff was smooth, the small plane tilting up into the sky. The city shrank beneath you until there was nothing but clouds and sunlit blue stretching forever. You pressed your forehead to the glass, watching how the cotton clouds moves under you.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed.

Caleb stole a glance at you, his voice softer this time. “Yeah. Sure is.”

You pressed your palms against your knees, trying to steady the pounding in your chest. Why were you so nervous? You’d already kissed him. You’d already given yourself to him, on his birthday, no less. That night had been real, messy, tender in ways you hadn’t expected. And yet… everything still felt so new. So delicate. Like every step forward had to be earned all over again.

Even after your last vacation, when you’d worn that new bikini just for him—he hadn’t been able to look at you. His face had gone red, ears burning as he’d stammered some excuse about, “You’ll catch a cold, pipsqueak. Put on something warmer.” You’d laughed then, but your heart had squeezed at the same time. Stupid Caleb!

Now, here in the sky with him, the same shyness lived beneath every teasing word.

Once the plane levelled out, Caleb flicked a few switches, then leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Autopilot’s on,” he announced, unbuckling his belt and stretching before standing. “Want a snack?”

You tilted your head, curious, as he rummaged through a small duffel tucked behind his seat. He came back holding a pack of chocolate bars, looking way too pleased with himself.

“I knew I couldn’t trust you to pack the important stuff,” he teased, waving one.

You laughed, snagging it from his hand. “Excuse you, I would’ve packed snacks if someone had told me the destination beforehand.”

“That would’ve ruined the surprise, pipsqueak.” He smirked, unwrapping his own bar and plopping down beside you instead of back in his seat.

You nibbled on a piece, savouring the sweetness, but when you glanced at him again, Caleb was staring at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“What?” you asked.

He leaned in slowly, voice dropping into that a teasing tone. “You’ve got a little something…” His finger hovered near his own lips. “Right here.”

Your cheeks burned instantly, and you swiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. “Better?”

“Nope.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Still there.”

“Where?” You fumbled, wiping again.

Caleb’s grin widened as he leaned even closer, violet eyes locking with yours. “Let me.”

Before you could protest, he brushed his thumb gently against the corner of your mouth. The warmth of his skin lingered, sending sparks down your spine. He didn’t move away right away either, his face so close his breath mingled with yours again.

For a heartbeat, you swore he was going to kiss you. But then he pulled back with a playful wink, popping another bite of chocolate into his mouth. “Got it,” he said smugly, leaning back like nothing happened. You want to kill him. How can he be like that? Change of strategy maybe if you play a bit coy, you can...

“Caleb,” you whispered, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “You don’t have to hold back...”

His breath hitched, and for a moment the silence stretched between you. “I’m trying... not to mess this up, pipsqueak.”

“Caleb…” you whispered. “Don't you like kissing me?”

His eyes met yours, full of something fierce and unguarded, yet he still hesitated. His lips parted, his gaze dropping to your mouth before snapping back up again, like he was afraid to take what he wanted.

His jaw tensed, a shaky laugh leaving him. “If I kiss you now…” He swallowed. “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

Your heart thundered. His hesitation burned like static in the air, and you couldn’t bear it any longer. Before he could lean in, you closed the gap, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was sure and entirely yours.

You poured all of it into him: that you wanted this, that you had no regret, that you wanted to keep this delicate, fragile, precious thing between you. Caleb froze for a fraction of a heartbeat. His lips were parted, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes shimmered with something you couldn’t quite put into words.

But then all the restraint snapped like a rope pulled too tight. He kissed you back with a sudden intensity that made your breath catch, his hands framing your face, pulling you closer as if the small space of the cockpit wasn’t enough.

Your seat-belt pressed against you as he deepened the kiss, his lips hot, hungry, yet still achingly tender. It was overwhelming, how much he gave, how much he demanded in return. You clutched at his shirt, tugging him nearer, and he chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips.

His hands slid from your cheeks to your waist, tugging you closer until the seat-belt strained. With a huff, he unbuckled you in one quick motion, and before you could even think, you were pulled across the narrow space and into his lap.

“Caleb—” you tried, breathless, but he swallowed your words with another kiss, deeper this time. His fingers threaded into your hair, holding you steady as if he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance.

You clung to him, heat flooding your chest and pooling low in your stomach, until your lungs screamed for air. When you finally pulled back, panting, he chased after you. Pressing one more lingering kiss to your swollen lips, then another against your jaw.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, Caleb only grinned against your skin, brushing his lips to the corner of your mouth. “Pipsqueak,” he whispered, “if you keep looking at me like that, we’re not making it to the getaway.”

You laughed, shaky and breathless, but kissed him again anyway.

Before you could reply, his strong arms swept under you. He lifted you from his lap with ease, your breath catching as he carried you down the short aisle. The steady hum of the plane surrounded you, but all you could hear was the pounding of your heart and the uneven rhythm of his breath.

He laid you down on the sofa, the leather cool against your back. The last streaks of sunlight poured through the side windows, painting him in molten gold as he hovered over you.

The world dissolved into soft moans and gentle, desperate gasps as your mouths moved together. Caleb’s touch roamed carefully, reverently, his hand sliding over your waist, tracing the curve of your hip as though memorizing you. His lips left yours only to trail down your neck, leaving sparks in their wake. His hand tangled with yours, fingers lacing tight, while his other palm pressed against your back, urging you closer, merging you against him until there was no space left between.

The fading sunlight bathed you both, gilding the moment in warmth, soft and golden, yet burning with passion too strong to hide.