#sanderson cod

Pure-blood vampires were supposed to be dying out, that much Judas Sparks knew with a certainty that felt older than memory itself. Before the long sleep took him, their numbers had already thinned to something fragile, something whispered about rather than seen. Legends instead of rulers. And yet, here he was, awake again, drawn violently back into the world not by time’s gentle passage, but by something far more deliberate. Something hungry. Something calling his name through the marrow of the earth itself.

Kyle Garrick, his servant, though the word had always sat wrong in both their mouths, had been the one to summon him back. A hybrid, balanced precariously between monstrous power and human restraint, Kyle had waited years for Judas to rise again. He had asked, pleaded, demanded even, for his master to return to the living. But Judas had never stirred. Not for five years. Not for ten. Not even for twenty. Until that afternoon.

The blood moon had hung heavy and swollen at the highest point in the sky, painting the world in a violent, crimson hue. The air had trembled with the sound of distant howls, werewolves calling to something ancient, and the frantic screech of birds scattering from the trees. And beneath it all, creeping through the unseen spaces between shadows, they had come. Shadows drawn not just to darkness, but to him. To his blood. To what he was. Or perhaps, more dangerously… what he could become. Pure Shadows did not rise without consequence, and something in the balance of power had shifted enough to make Judas Sparks worth hunting again.

When his eyes opened, it was not with confusion, but with awareness sharpened to a blade’s edge. Brown laced with a deep, unnatural red, his gaze fixed immediately on the ceiling above him, stark white and almost offensively clean. He could see everything, the delicate drift of dust particles suspended in the air, illuminated by thin ribbons of sunlight slipping through sheer curtains. The light touched his skin without burning, only warming, brushing over his pale, tanned complexion like something testing his existence.

Like it wasn’t entirely sure he belonged among the living again. The bed beneath him shifted as he sat up slowly, the silk sheets whispering against his skin, folding and creasing as though reluctant to release him. There was a heaviness in his limbs, not weakness, never that, but the weight of time itself settling back into place. Twenty years of stillness, undone in a single breath. Judas exhaled softly, controlled, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet met the floor with quiet certainty. No hesitation.

No disorientation. Only calculation. With a measured motion, he reached up and parted the sheer curtains draped around the bed, the fabric sliding smoothly beneath his fingers. The room beyond revealed itself in slow increments, as though he were reacquainting himself with a world that had continued on without him. Jackson, Mississippi, his domain once, though now it felt like something distant, altered in ways he could already sense but not yet see.

He moved toward the door with unhurried grace, each step deliberate, silent. His hand settled on the handle, fingers curling around it with quiet strength. For a brief moment, he paused, not out of uncertainty, but awareness. Something was different. The air itself felt heavier, charged with the presence of forces that had not dared move so boldly before. The house was silent in a way that pressed against the ears, thick, unnatural, wrong.

Judas stilled just beyond the threshold, his senses sharpening instinctively, reaching outward into the stillness. And then he heard it. Breathing. Not one. Not two. Four. Slow. Steady. Alive. His brows furrowed, a faint crease forming between them as the realization settled in. Only he and Garrick were permitted within these walls, no exceptions, no intrusions. The air shifted around him as something colder slipped beneath his skin, something instinctive and territorial. In the span of a heartbeat, Judas moved.

A blur of motion carried him down the staircase, his presence barely disturbing the air as he descended. The wood didn’t creak beneath his feet; it didn’t dare. He rounded the corner sharply, then slowed with sudden precision, each step softening into something quieter, more deliberate. Predatory. He stopped just at the edge of the wall, pressing into the shadow it cast, listening again. Measuring. Calculating.

And then, A hand seized his wrist. The movement was swift, controlled, and undeniably strong. Judas was pulled forward and down in one fluid motion, his back arching sharply as he was dipped low, caught off guard for the briefest fraction of a second. A hiss slipped past his lips, sharp, instinctive, dangerous, but it died just as quickly. Brown eyes met his. Familiar. Grounding.

“Garrick?” Judas breathed, and the edge in his voice dissolved into something softer, something touched with quiet disbelief. The tension in his body eased, though not entirely, never entirely. His gaze searched Kyle’s face as if confirming he was real, that this wasn’t some lingering illusion from the depths of his long sleep. The shift in him was subtle but unmistakable. Where there had been sharpness, there was now something gentler, threaded with confusion and something unspoken beneath it.

Kyle Garrick didn’t release him immediately. Up close, the difference in him was clearstronger, steadier, something forged in the twenty years Judas had been absent. His grip remained firm, grounding, as if he needed the contact just as much. “Judas…” Garrick exhaled, his voice unmistakably British, low and roughened at the edges like he hadn’t quite decided if this moment was real yet. “You’re finally awake.”

There was a pause, just one, where the weight of those years hung heavy between them. Then, softer, almost disbelieving, he added, “Took your bloody time, didn’t you?” Gaz’s grip loosened, though not entirely gone, as he steadied Judas and guided him upright again. There was something careful in the way he did it, not out of fear, but out of respect for the shift in balance that had just occurred. Judas was awake now. Truly awake. And that meant everything had changed.

“I’m sorry for invitin’ people over,” Gaz muttered, his accent curling around the words as he glanced toward the adjoining hall. There was a hint of something almost sheepish beneath his usual composure. “Didn’t have much choice. I’ll introduce you, yeah?” Judas didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on Gaz, searching, weighing, calculating. Then, slowly, one brow arched, sharp, suspicious, but not outright displeased.

“…Alright.” The single word was smooth, measured. Permitting. Gaz gave a small nod and turned, guiding him around the corner and into the hall. Judas’s presence entered the space before his body fully followed. It pressed outward, cold, ancient, unmistakable. The room itself seemed to still in response. Seated across the hall, on soft blue ottomans arranged with too much casual comfort for Judas’s liking, were three men.

Waiting. Watching. The first one drew the eye immediately, a rugged British man, easily in his forties, with a presence that spoke of long years and longer wars. His face was weathered, carved by experience rather than age alone. A thick, scruffy beard and mustache framed his jaw, and beneath the brim of a worn khaki boonie hat, sharp blue eyes locked onto Judas with quiet intensity. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just observed. Measured.

The second sat beside him, posture looser but no less dangerous. Scottish, unmistakably so. His build was athletic, coiled with restless energy, and his short dark hair was cut into a rough mohawk that only added to the edge he carried. Blue eyes flicked over Judas, quick and assessing, like he was already mapping out how fast things could go wrong, and how he’d respond if they did. The third was… different. Younger. Late twenties, maybe.

Blonde hair fell slightly into his face, framing features that were softer than the other two, less worn, less hardened. His brown eyes were wide, almost doe-like at first glance, but there was awareness in them. Kindness, yes, but not weakness. He watched Judas with quiet curiosity rather than challenge, as though trying to understand him instead of measure him. Judas took all of this in within seconds. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every flicker of tension in their bodies.

His gaze returned to Gaz, voice low and edged with something faintly dangerous despite its calm. “You’ve brought soldiers into my home.” It wasn’t a question. It was an observation. And beneath it, A warning. Gaz didn’t look away. Not even for a second. His eyes held Judas’s with a quiet steadiness that bordered on defiance, but beneath it, softer, more fragile, there was a silent plea. Listen to me. Just this once, listen before you decide.

“This is John Price,” Gaz began, his voice level, controlled, gesturing toward the older man with the boonie hat. “Captain of Task Force 141. Dark Horse Hybrid.” Price gave a slight nod, nothing exaggerated, nothing submissive. Just acknowledgment. His sharp blue gaze never left Judas, measuring him in the same way Judas had already measured him. Gaz shifted slightly, continuing, “Beside him, John MacTavish. A Sergeant. My mate.”

The Scottish man’s posture changed at that, subtle, but there. A grounding presence. His eyes flicked briefly to Gaz, something protective flashing through them before settling back onto Judas. “Werewolf hybrid,” Gaz added. MacTavish didn’t speak, but there was a faint curl at the corner of his mouth, something almost challenging, like he wasn’t entirely bothered by the tension filling the room. “And him, Gary Sanderson. Sergeant. Another werewolf.”

The blonde man inclined his head slightly, offering something quieter than the others, less guarded, but no less aware. His brown eyes lingered on Judas with a careful kind of curiosity, like he was trying to understand rather than confront. Gaz exhaled softly before continuing, tone shifting, more personal now, more deliberate. “I invited them here because… I wanted to tell you I found my mate.” There was a pause.

A small one, but it carried weight. “And,” he went on, voice tightening just slightly, “because they’re looking for someone. Name’s Simon Riley. Used to be their Lieutenant. A Pure Shadow.” That, at least, stirred something faint behind Judas’s otherwise composed expression. Gaz noticed. “He cut ties after a man named Vladimir Makarov killed one of their own,” Gaz continued, quieter now. “Went off-grid. Hunting him. Haven’t seen him since.” Judas lifted a single finger.

Not abruptly. But not angrily. Just enough to stop him. “That’s enough, Garrick.” His voice was smooth, controlled, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop with it. Judas turned his head slightly, gaze sliding past Gaz and back to the three men seated across from him. Evaluating again. Reassessing. Then, almost lazily, he asked, “Why is this my concern?” There it was. The line. The boundary.

Gaz’s jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line as he turned away, stepping toward the window. Light filtered across his face, but it didn’t soften him. If anything, it made the tension in his expression more visible. “They want help finding him,” Gaz said, quieter now, but no less firm. A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, “I may have… mentioned… that you can tap into people’s memories.”

Silence. “And,” Gaz added, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, voice dipping just slightly, “that you used to be a U.S. Naval Captain.” Another pause. “…F-22 fighter pilot. Operator.” That did it. The air shifted again, sharper this time. Judas didn’t move immediately. But something in him stilled in a way that felt far more dangerous than motion. Slowly, very slowly, his gaze returned to Gaz. There was no softness in it now. “…You told them,” Judas said quietly. Not loud. Not explosive. But far worse.

Measured. Each word placed with deliberate precision. “You volunteered my abilities… and my past… to strangers.” The word lingered. Strangers. His head tilted just slightly, eyes flicking once more toward Price, then MacTavish, then Sanderson. When he looked back at Gaz, there was something colder there now. Something ancient. Something that remembered exactly what it meant to be exposed. “How generous of you.”

No raised voice. No outward anger. Just a thin, razor-edge calm, the kind that always came right before something broke. The shift in the room was subtle, but Judas caught it instantly. Movement. From his peripheral, the Scottish man rose. Not rushed. Not aggressive. But deliberate enough to draw attention. Judas didn’t turn immediately, he simply allowed his gaze to slide toward him, slow and assessing, as if deciding whether the interruption was worth acknowledging.

MacTavish stepped forward just enough to close the distance without crossing into outright disrespect. There was a tension in his posture, something restrained beneath the surface, like a wolf holding itself back from baring its teeth. His blue eyes met Judas’s, steady, unflinching. Then he spoke. “Listen-” his voice came rough and warm, thick with a Scottish accent that curled around every word, grounding it in something human despite everything else in the room. “Ah ken ye don’t know me… an’ ye’ve nae reason tae trust me.”

He lifted his hands slightly, not in surrender, but in honesty. Open. Real. “An’ maybe ye dinnae want tae get mixed up in this. Fair enough.” A breath. Then, softer, but heavier, “But please… for the love o’ Saturn, help us.” The words landed differently than the others had. Less calculated. Less careful. There was something raw in them, something that didn’t belong to strategy or rank. MacTavish took another small step, just enough for the light to catch fully on his face.

“My bonnie-” he glanced briefly toward Gaz, something fond and fierce flickering there before he looked back at Judas, “-he’s spoken real high o’ ye.” There was the faintest hint of a smile then, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Said ye’re a charmer. Said ye’d help.” The room went quiet again after that. No one moved. No one spoke. Judas regarded him in silence, his expression unreadable, but his gaze… sharp. Searching. Weighing not just the words, but the intent behind them. Then, slowly, his head tilted. “…A charmer?”

(Jude’s a little egomaniac when it comes to his appearance! (^_-) Judas echoed softly, voice smooth as silk, though something darker threaded beneath it. His eyes flicked, just briefly, to Gaz. Then back. “And here I thought Garrick knew better than to sell me so cheaply.” There was no immediate refusal. But there was no agreement either. Only that same dangerous calm, and the unmistakable sense that Judas Sparks had not yet decided whether Simon Riley was worth the trouble… or if the men standing in his home were.

Soap’s brows shot up instantly, zero hesitation, zero survival instinct. “Oh no, he was goin’ on about how he’d hit that as-” He didn’t get to finish. Gaz launched. One second he was standing, next he’d closed the distance entirely, slamming into Soap and clamping a hand firmly over his mouth. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, MacTavish!” The momentum nearly sent them both crashing straight to the floor, but they didn’t fall.

They stopped. Abruptly. Held. Judas’s hand was planted squarely against the middle of Soap’s back, fingers splayed wide, steadying both men with effortless strength. The ease of it was almost insulting, like holding up two fully grown soldiers required nothing from him at all. For a moment, everything froze. Soap blinked, eyes darting sideways, suddenly very aware of the warm hand at his back, of just how close Judas was behind him.

Gaz, still half-draped over him, glared like he might actually commit murder this time. Judas, however, Judas looked amused. Not just amused, pleased. A slow, dangerous kind of triumph curved at the edges of his mouth as his gaze settled on Soap. “No, no…” Judas murmured smoothly, voice low and laced with something almost playful now. “Let him finish.” His fingers pressed just slightly more firmly into Soap’s back, not forceful, just… grounding. Intentional.

Soap swallowed hard against Gaz’s hand, eyes flicking between his mate’s murderous glare and the ancient predator casually holding him upright. Gaz’s voice dropped, sharp and warning: “You better not, MacTavish. A pause. Then, through clenched teeth, “I was drunk.” Soap made a muffled sound against Gaz’s palm, eyes narrowing slightly before he huffed, shifting just enough to try and pry himself free.

When he finally managed to speak, his voice came out rough, thick with that unmistakable Scottish lilt, defiant despite the situation. “Whit? Ye were!” he shot back, words tumbling fast. “Dinnae act like ye didnae go on a whole ramble ‘bout him.” His eyes flicked back toward Judas again, just for a second, something curious, something bold flashing there. “Sayin’ he’s all mysterious an’ dangerous, an’ that ye’d-” Gaz’s hand clamped harder.

“Finish that and I will end you.” Soap huffed again, muffled, but his eyes were grinning now, reckless, entertained, completely unbothered by his own poor decisions. Behind him, Judas let out the faintest breath of a laugh. Low. Soft. Interested. “Oh, I do hope he does,” Judas murmured. And just like that, The tension in the room had shifted. Not gone. Never gone. But twisted into something far more dangerous, and far more interesting.

Judas released them without ceremony, his hand slipping away from Soap’s back as though the moment had already lost its novelty. He stepped back, unhurried, untouched by the near chaos he’d just effortlessly controlled. The room seemed to exhale with the distance he created. He moved to the opposite ottoman, soft blue, positioned just where the sunlight spilled in through the sheer curtains. The fabric of blue, white, and gold shifted gently in the breeze, casting moving patterns of light across his skin.

Judas lowered himself into the seat with quiet elegance, crossing one long leg over the other as though he were settling into a throne rather than a living room. For a moment, he said nothing. He simply sat there, hands folding neatly in his lap, posture relaxed, expression almost serene. The sunlight brushed over him, catching in the faint red undertones of his eyes, softening something that otherwise felt ancient and untouchable.

Then, finally, “Why,” Judas began, voice smooth and even, “should I help your mate’s team, Kyle?” The name was deliberate. Personal. A quiet reminder. Gaz straightened, one hand settling firmly on his hip as he met Judas’s gaze without hesitation. His chocolate-brown eyes held steady, unwavering, refusing to bend under the weight of that calm, predatory stare.

“Because, Hotshot,” Gaz replied, his British accent sharpening just slightly around the nickname, “I asked you to.” A pause. “And I know you will,” he added, quieter now, but far more certain. “Even if you don’t want to.” Silence stretched between them. Not empty. Charged. Judas’s lips pressed into a thin line, the faintest shift betraying that the words had landed exactly where Gaz intended them to.

His gaze lingered on him, longer this time. Deeper. Then, with a soft exhale that almost resembled resignation, “You know me too well.” There was no bite to it. No real resistance left. Just truth. And somewhere beneath it, It wasn’t hesitation that settled over Judas. It was inevitability. The decision had already been made long before the words left his mouth, etched somewhere deep beneath pride, beneath irritation.

Beneath the quiet resentment of being volunteered. Judas Sparks did as he pleased… but when it came to Kyle Garrick, pleased had always been a flexible thing. He shifted slightly on the ottoman, the movement subtle but deliberate as he straightened his posture. The languid ease from moments before sharpened into something more formal, more commanding. Sunlight still brushed across him through the sheer curtains, but now it framed him differently, not soft, but sovereign.

Authority settled over him like a second skin. “First of all,” Judas began, voice smooth, composed, leaving no room for interruption, “I accept this mission to find your man.” There it was. Final. Binding. A faint pause followed, not for effect, but for weight. “Second,” he continued, lifting his gaze to the three soldiers before him, “you will follow my rules.” The temperature in the room seemed to dip again, that quiet, ancient power threading through his tone, not raised, not forced, but absolute.

“All of them.” His head tilted just slightly, eyes narrowing a fraction as he looked between Price, Soap, Roach, and this man Simon Riley’s absence like he could already see the man they were chasing. “Do I make myself clear?” The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was acknowledgment waiting to take shape. And it did. John Price stood. The movement was steady, grounded in years of command that mirrored Judas’s own authority in a different form. He stepped forward without hesitation, closing the distance between them until he stood directly in front of the ancient vampire.

For a moment, the two men simply looked at one another. Leader to leader. Predator to soldier. Then Price extended his hand. “Crystal,” he said, voice low, firm, carrying that unmistakable British grit. No resistance. No argument. Just acceptance, and expectation. Judas regarded the offered hand for half a second longer than necessary. Not out of doubt. But out of habit. Then, finally, he reached forward. Their hands met, firm grip, unyielding. A contract without paper. An agreement without signatures.

And just like that, Judas rose from the ottoman with the grace of someone who owned every inch of the space, letting the soft light of the afternoon drape over him like a cloak. Every movement was precise, deliberate, commanding attention without effort. He stood tall, long legs shifting just slightly as he positioned himself in front of them, the air around him charged with a quiet, unyielding authority.

He let his gaze sweep across the three men, Price, MacTavish, and Sanderson, before settling back on Gaz. There was no theatrics, no drawn-out preamble. Just calm, absolute control. “Rules,” he began, voice low and smooth, carrying that subtle danger that made ears prick and hearts steady at the same time. His hands fell to his sides, relaxed but precise, like a predator measuring its surroundings. “One: do not hide information from me. At any point. Ever.”

He paused just long enough for the weight of that statement to settle, letting it sink in, letting them understand exactly what it meant to lie to Judas Sparks. “And two…” His lips curved into the faintest, sharp smile, enough to unsettle without meaning any true malice. “…Let’s go kick ass.”

The words landed with effortless authority, more than a suggestion, an order coated in inevitability. The room was quiet after that, every man processing the fact that they had just willingly stepped into a game far larger than themselves. Judas’s brownish-red eyes glinted softly in the sunlight, a mixture of amusement, challenge, and promise. The hunt had begun.

Judas sank to his knees in front of Gary Sanderson, smooth and deliberate, the motion unsettlingly calm. He slid the gloves from Gary’s hands, fingers brushing the man’s skin for a moment longer than necessary before clasping them gently but firmly. Closing his eyes, Judas leaned in slightly, letting his body sag forward as if the act of connection itself demanded it. Gray began to creep into his skin, pallor spreading like frost, and a subtle tension gripped the air. Gary stiffened under his touch, but didn’t pull away, his instincts telling him to trust, or at least not to resist.

Inside Gary’s mind, Judas appeared, not as he was now, but as a vision layered over memory, stepping into a theater of recollections replaying with relentless clarity. Faces, movements, tactical calls, and fleeting glances swirled in slow-motion repetition. Then one stood out: a man at the back of the memory, around 193 centimeters, tactical gear covering him from head to toe, a skull-patterned balaclava hiding his face, a headset clinging to his ear. The figure seemed frozen, like the memory itself had paused in anticipation.

Judas moved closer, methodical and deliberate, and the vision responded, the masked man slowly turning toward him as if sensing the intrusion. Then suddenly, everything shifted. The memory cracked, and Judas found himself elsewhere entirely. He was in a bed that wasn’t his, soft and unfamiliar, with a thick brown throw blanket pulled over him. Naked, undercovers, the man beside him was absorbed in a thick book, utterly unaware of Judas’s presence.

Without hesitation, Judas’s hands were around the man’s throat, weight and intent pressing downward. “Who are you?” His voice was sharp but quiet, a razor of command and curiosity all at once. Dull blue eyes met his, wide with shock, startled but not frantic. The man’s mouth opened, words forming, but the vision dimmed, muffled as if sound itself had been stolen from the scene. Light faded, contours softened, and the memory dissolved, leaving Judas blinking in confusion.

He was back in front of Gary. The man’s brown eyes searched his face, hands moving in careful, deliberate motions, sign language. ‘Are you okay?’ Judas’s eyes opened fully, the edge in them tempered by a flicker of disorientation. He released Gary’s hands slowly, letting them fall to his lap, but the weight of what he had glimpsed lingered in his mind. The field of memory had shown him more than he wanted, or maybe exactly what he needed.

Gary’s expression remained cautious, confused, but patient. He didn’t speak, only waited, silent in the tension that hummed between them, offering space for Judas to collect himself. Garrick was immediately at his side, moving with a practiced urgency that betrayed both worry and familiarity. “You’ve never acted like that before, Jude,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “Are you okay? You… you don’t look so hot.”

Judas’s skin gleamed with a damp sheen, more like sweat than anything else, catching the stray sunlight in thin, unsettling rivulets. His eyes, once that characteristic brownish-red, had deepened to a dark, almost liquid red, molten and hungry, reflecting a danger that pulsed beneath the surface. Garrick’s chocolate-brown gaze flicked quickly to Price, his mate, and Gary, reading their subtle tension before he made a decision. Without waiting for protest, he ushered them from the room.

“He just went into a bloodthirst,” Garrick muttered quietly over his shoulder, voice heavy with concern and a touch of awe. The door clicked shut behind them, the outside world cut off as if sealing a fragile, volatile moment inside. Garrick dropped down to the floor, knees brushing the carpet, and positioned himself beside Judas with care. His hands hovered over Judas’s shoulders, cautious, respectful, waiting for permission that didn’t come.

He offered his wrist slowly, deliberately, a silent plea for connection, but Judas recoiled, sharp and instinctive. “No,” Judas breathed, the word low, edged with restraint and authority. He sank closer to Garrick, pressing his forehead against the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest. The closeness was grounding, but Judas’s fingers dug into his own thigh in lieu of taking from Kyle, a tense anchor to remind himself of limits. “You know I don’t like feeding from you,” he murmured, voice muffled against Kyle’s chest, dark red eyes closing briefly.

Even in this near-frenzy of need and bloodlust, there was control. A rule. A line that Judas Sparks would not cross, not even for the man beside him, his friend, his anchor, the one person whose blood he would never take lightly. Kyle’s hand stayed steady on Judas’s wrist, gently guiding without forcing, offering support without breaking that fragile barrier. For a moment, the room held still, the quiet punctuated only by the soft, uneven breaths of a vampire balancing on the edge of hunger and restraint.

Judas didn’t fall into bloodthirst often, but when he did, it was never careless. Never reckless. It was a battle of control, one he had fought for centuries and won more often than not. Even now, with that dark hunger clawing at his insides, he held the line. Barely. He exhaled slowly against Kyle’s chest, grounding himself in the steady rhythm of another living being. The scent alone, warm, alive, threaded with something uniquely Kyle, should’ve made it worse.

It should’ve pushed him over the edge. But instead… it anchored him. Because Judas had rules. He didn’t drink from humans. Not unless there was no other choice, and even then, he made damn sure they didn’t turn. Didn’t die. He refused to be the reason someone’s life ended or twisted into something monstrous. That line had been drawn long ago, carved deep into what little morality a Pure Blood vampire could claim.

Animal blood was out of the question entirely. He hated it. The taste, the texture, the way it sat wrong in his system, it was beneath him in a way he never bothered to justify. So he simply… didn’t. Judas Sparks was, by all definitions, a picky drinker. And somehow, He survived it. He’d tested that limit once. Pushed himself further than most vampires would dare. Three years without feeding. Three years of slow, controlled starvation just to see if he could endure it. He had. But it came with a cost.

Four pounds. It sounded insignificant, laughable, even, but not for a Pure Blood. Their bodies weren’t like humans. Their tissue, their muscle density, it was unnatural, preserved in a state that didn’t degrade easily. Losing weight at all was… wrong. Impossible, by most standards. And yet he had. That alone told him everything he needed to know about what blood meant to his kind.

His fingers tightened slightly against his own thigh as the memory flickered through him, grounding himself again in the present. Kyle. There was a pattern there too. Every time Judas had edged close to bloodthirst, every single time, Kyle offered his wrist. At first, Judas had misunderstood it entirely. Thought it was reckless. Self-destructive. A death wish dressed up as loyalty. But it wasn’t. Kyle Garrick didn’t want to die. He wanted to help. More than that, he wanted connection.

Not romantic. Not twisted into something else. Family. A bond. Something deeper than words or proximity. In their world, blood wasn’t just sustenance, it was linkage. A way to tie two beings together so that pain, distress, even emotional fractures didn’t go unnoticed. So that neither of them would ever truly be alone in their suffering. Kyle wanted that. Wanted to be close enough to feel when Judas was breaking. And Judas refused.

His grip loosened slightly, breath evening out as he stayed pressed against Kyle’s chest, eyes still closed, still burning that deep, dangerous red beneath his lids. “No, Garrick…” he murmured again, quieter this time, but no less firm. Because to Judas, that line meant something different. Feeding from Kyle wasn’t just survival. It was crossing into something permanent. And for all his control, all his discipline, That was one line Judas Sparks wasn’t ready to cross.

That line wasn’t small. It wasn’t just about feeding, or control, or even trust. It was everything. If Judas crossed it, if he bit Garrick, and Garrick returned it, there would be no barriers left between them. No distance. No separation of self. Kyle wouldn’t just understand Judas… he would experience him. See what he had seen. Hear what he had heard. Feel, everything. And Judas Sparks carried centuries of it.

Pain that didn’t fade with time, only settled deeper into the bones. Wars. Loss. The slow, aching erosion of everyone he had ever known. The kind of loneliness that didn’t scream, it just sat, quiet and suffocating, until it became part of you. The torment of being something ancient in a world that kept moving forward without you. Kyle would feel it all at once. Every fracture.

Every moment Judas had ever broken and stitched himself back together in silence. And that wasn’t even the part that frightened Judas the most. It was the other things. The things he never said out loud. The longing. Buried beneath all that control, all that discipline, was something almost painfully human. A quiet, persistent ache Judas had never fully rid himself of, the desire for something more than survival. Something more than power. A mate.

Not in the biological, binding sense his kind understood, but someone. Someone chosen. Someone who stayed. A family. Children. A life that didn’t revolve around bloodshed and control and outliving everyone he ever dared to care about. It was a fragile want. One he barely acknowledged even to himself. And if Kyle bonded with him, Kyle would know. Not as a thought.

Not as a confession. But as a feeling so raw and consuming it would leave no room for misinterpretation. Judas tightened his grip slightly against his own leg again, grounding himself as that truth pressed close. Because Kyle… Kyle would feel the absence of it too. The doubt. The quiet, gnawing question that Judas had carried for longer than he cared to admit, Was he even allowed to have that? Or was he too far gone?

Too old. Too broken. Too steeped in everything he’d become to ever have something as simple… and as impossible… as a life. That was the real reason Judas refused. Not because he didn’t trust Kyle. But because he did. And he refused to drag him into that kind of weight. Refused to let someone as alive as Kyle Garrick drown in centuries of darkness that were never his to carry.

So instead, Judas stayed where he was, forehead pressed to Kyle’s chest, breathing slow, controlled, fighting the hunger and the pull and the bond that hovered just out of reach. Silent. Steady. Holding that line, even if it was tearing him apart to do it. They stayed like that, still, grounded, breathing together, as time stretched and softened around them. It felt longer than it was, like the world outside had paused just long enough to let Judas regain control.

In truth, it had only been twenty-something minutes, but the tension in his body had slowly unwound, the violent edge of bloodthirst dulling into something manageable. Something contained. Judas’s grip on himself loosened first. Then his breathing steadied. Then, finally, he let go. Not abruptly. Never abruptly. He lifted his head from Kyle’s chest, the movement slow, deliberate, as if testing whether the hunger would surge back if he created distance.

It didn’t. Not fully. It lingered, low and watchful, but no longer clawing at his ribs. From beyond the door, a voice broke through the quiet. Muffled, impatient, unmistakably whining. “Gaz, ye alive in there or what?!” Judas exhaled faintly through his nose, something almost resembling amusement flickering across his features. Of course it was him.

He shifted back onto his feet in one smooth motion, rising with that same effortless grace that made everything he did seem… intentional. Controlled. As if the moment of weakness had never happened at all. Then he turned, and extended his hand. A silent offer. Kyle didn’t hesitate. His fingers wrapped around Judas’s, grounding, familiar, and Judas pulled him up with ease, steadying him once he stood. For a brief second, neither of them let go. Something unspoken passed between them.

Rain fell in a quiet, steady drizzle, soaking through the fabric of his jacket and clinging to the broad line of his back. It didn’t bother him. Cold rarely did. He stood beneath the dim glow of a flickering streetlight, its weak halo barely cutting through the darkness, casting long shadows that stretched and shifted with every passing car. His eyes were distant.

Not unfocused, never that, but far away, like his mind was somewhere else entirely, replaying things he refused to name. His legs stretched out in front of him, boots planted firm against the slick pavement, the damp fabric of his pants pulled tight over muscle as he leaned back slightly against the metal bench. He needed a cigarette. Badly. And tea. Strong. Hot enough to burn.

Something to ground him, to cut through the static buzzing under his skin. His phone sat heavy in his hand. The screen lit briefly, casting a pale glow across his face before dimming again as he stared at it, unmoving, unreadable. Nothing waiting for him. Good. He flipped it closed with a quiet snap.

A pair of headlights appeared in the distance, growing brighter as they approached, cutting through the rain in long, blinding beams. The bus. Right on time. He stood before it arrived. Not in a rush. Not hesitant. Just… done waiting. The vehicle slowed, brakes hissing softly as it pulled up to the stop, doors folding open with a mechanical sigh. Warm light spilled out onto the wet pavement, an invitation.

He didn’t move toward it. Something in his gut twisted, tight, sharp, immediate. He’d learned a long time ago not to ignore that feeling. It had kept him alive more times than he could count. So he listened. Without a word, without a second glance, he turned away from the bus as it idled there, waiting for a passenger that would never come.

His boots hit the pavement with quiet, steady thuds as he moved down the dark sidewalk, hands slipping into his jacket pockets. The rain followed him, soaking deeper, heavier now, but he didn’t slow. Didn’t look back. He just walked. And walked. And walked.

The moonlight slipped from his shoulders the moment he turned into the alleyway, swallowed whole by shadow and brick. The world narrowed there, tight, dim, suffocating in that familiar way he didn’t mind. Darkness had always suited him better than open streets and wandering eyes. Voices echoed behind him. Loud. Slurred. Careless.

A group of teenagers lingered near the alley’s mouth, their laughter sharp and obnoxious, cutting through the quiet like broken glass. Drunk. Reckless. The kind that thought the world owed them something simply because they existed in it. He didn’t look at them. Didn’t acknowledge the whistles, the crude remarks tossed in his direction like they meant anything.

Catcalls bounced uselessly off his back, as ineffective as rain against stone. His pace never faltered, boots striking the cracked pavement in slow, even rhythm. He had no time for idiots. No patience for boys pretending to be men, with their heads shoved so far up their own arrogance they couldn’t see anything beyond it. Their words were predictable. Hollow.

Driven by nothing but cheap thrills and even cheaper thoughts. Pathetic. His jaw tightened slightly, the faintest shift beneath his skin. They thought everything was about desire. About bodies. About taking what they wanted without thought or consequence. Like the world existed purely for their indulgence. Disgusting.

His lip curled faintly, a quiet, instinctive sneer tugging at his expression before it vanished just as quickly as it came. He wouldn’t lower himself to that. Wouldn’t ever reduce himself to something so… small. He wasn’t desperate. Not for attention. Not for touch. Not for anything that came that easily and meant that little.

The alley stretched on, darker the further he went, the noise behind him fading into nothing more than distant static. The air grew colder, heavier, wrapping around him like something familiar, something he understood. The hotel room door shut behind him with a quiet click.

He didn’t relax. Didn’t even pause. His eyes moved immediately, sharp, methodical, sweeping every inch of the space with trained precision. The bed was first. He dropped his bag near the door without looking and moved straight for it, hands checking beneath the frame, along the seams of the mattress, fingers pressing into corners most people wouldn’t think twice about.

Nothing. He moved on. Dresser. Drawers. Lamps. The cheap painting on the wall, tilted slightly, checked behind it, then set back into place. His boots were silent against the carpet as he crossed the room again, slower this time, more thorough. Every vent, every shadowed edge, every possible blind spot. Paranoia didn’t keep you alive.

Preparation did. By the time he finished, the room sat exactly as it had before, but now it had been cleared. Safe enough. Satisfied, he exhaled quietly through his nose and turned toward the latrine. The light flicked on with a soft buzz. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, the sound muted but final. The mirror caught the edge of his reflection, just barely, enough to register, not enough to linger. He ignored it.

Always did. His hands moved to his jacket first, peeling it off slowly, the fabric heavy and damp from the rain. It dropped somewhere behind him, forgotten. Then his shirt, clinging slightly to his skin before he pulled it free. Piece by piece, methodical, unhurried. Boots. Socks. Belt. Each item discarded with quiet indifference. Until there was nothing left.

The harsh bathroom light washed over him, exposing every line, every scar, every inch of a body built for endurance and survival. There was nothing soft about it. Nothing careless. It was a body shaped by years of training, of violence, of pushing past limits most people never reached. And still, He didn’t look.

The mirror sat directly in front of him. He turned slightly, just enough to avoid it entirely. It wasn’t that he thought he was ugly. He didn’t agree with that, not really. He just… didn’t like his face. Didn’t like what it represented. Didn’t like the memories tied to it, the person staring back when he did look. It was easier not to. Easier to focus on everything else, the mission, the next step, the next target.

Something useful. Something that made sense. So he kept his gaze away, shoulders squared under the sterile light, jaw set in quiet defiance of something he would never say out loud. Because some things, You just didn’t confront. Even if you should. He turned the handle without hesitation, twisting it all the way toward heat, though he didn’t wait for it to catch.

The pipes groaned faintly before the water came rushing down, cold at first, sharp, biting, but he stepped in anyway. The chill didn’t faze him. He leaned forward, bracing one hand against the tiled wall, forehead resting against the cool surface as the water cascaded over him. It soaked through instantly, running in steady streams down his back, tracing every line, every scar, every mark carved into him over years that refused to be forgotten.

Slowly, the temperature shifted. Cold gave way to warmth, then heat. It spread across his skin, turning it faintly red where the water struck hardest, seeping into muscle and bone, loosening tension he hadn’t even realized he was carrying. His shoulders dropped just slightly, breath evening out beneath the steady rhythm of the spray.

But relief didn’t come easy. It never did. The pull of stitches made itself known the moment the heat settled in, a tight, subtle strain beneath his skin. Healing, but not healed. His jaw tightened faintly, a reflex more than anything, and he pushed past it like he always did. Pain was expected. Pain was manageable. Pain was nothing new.

His hand moved blindly to the small, packaged soap resting on the ledge. He tore it open with quiet efficiency, the scent hitting him almost immediately, mint. Clean. Sharp. Grounding. He worked it into a lather without thinking, movements automatic, controlled. Over his arms, across his chest, down his sides, methodical, thorough, like everything else he did.

The scent clung to him, cutting through the sterile feel of the room, replacing it with something colder, clearer. Something easier to focus on. The water continued to fall, steady and unrelenting, washing everything away in its path, dirt, blood, the remnants of travel and tension. But not everything could be washed off.

Some things stayed. Buried beneath skin. Locked behind silence. He didn’t dwell on it. Didn’t allow himself to. Instead, he stayed there under the spray, head still bowed slightly, letting the heat do what little it could while the rest, everything deeper, remained untouched. (I figured out I don’t like shower scenes)

He shut the water off with a quiet twist of the handle, the sudden silence almost deafening after the steady rush. For a moment, he just stood there, water still dripping from his body in slow, quiet trails, the heat lingering on his skin even as the air began to cool around him.

Then he stepped out. The tile was cold beneath his feet, grounding. He reached for a towel without looking, dragging it across his skin once before wrapping it low around his waist, the fabric catching on the lines of his hips. His movements were efficient, automatic, like everything else he did. No hesitation. No wasted time.

He didn’t look at the mirror. Not even once. The bathroom door opened with a soft creak as he stepped back into the room, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the floor. His bag sat where he’d left it, untouched, waiting. He crossed the space in a few strides and crouched down, unzipping it and pulling out what he needed, fresh clothes, basic supplies, things that kept him functional.

He dressed quickly. Clean. Dry. Presentable. Ready for something that wasn’t coming. When he was done, he moved to the bed and sat down, the mattress dipping slightly beneath his weight. His arms came to rest loosely against his stomach, fingers lacing together without thought as he stared ahead at nothing in particular.

And then, His mind started. Where was Vladimir Makarov? The question hit first, sharp and immediate, cutting through everything else. It looped, replayed, twisted into different angles, different possibilities. Locations. Patterns. Mistakes. Missed chances. Why hadn’t Price called again?

That one lingered longer than he liked. It pressed in, quieter but heavier, carrying something he refused to name. Had they stopped looking? Had they given up? Or had Price decided it wasn’t worth it anymore, he wasn’t worth it anymore? His jaw tightened. Why this? Why that?

Why now? Why him? The questions stacked, one on top of another, faster and faster until they blurred together into something overwhelming, something loud. Too loud. His thoughts stopped being structured, stopped being useful, turning into noise that filled every corner of his mind without mercy. Why? Why? Why? Why!?

He moved suddenly, rolling onto his side and burying his face into the pillow like he could suffocate the thoughts, like he could press them out of existence if he just held still long enough. It didn’t work. It never did. His body curled in on itself instinctively, drawing tight, arms pulling in, shoulders hunching slightly as if bracing for something unseen.

The tension didn’t leave, it just coiled tighter, sharper, pressing inward instead of out. He was tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixed. The kind that settled into bones. Into thoughts. Into everything. He was tired of fighting. Tired of running. Tired of carrying everything alone like it didn’t weigh anything when it felt like it was crushing him from the inside out.

And for a moment, just a moment, The thought slipped through. Quiet and fragile. He wanted a hug. The idea felt foreign. Almost wrong. But it stayed. Just… someone. Anyone. To wrap their arms around him, grounding him, reminding him he was still here, still something more than a weapon pointed at a target. Please.

The word didn’t leave his mouth, but it echoed loudly in his chest. Please. His eyes burned before he even registered it, tears slipping free despite everything in him that resisted it. They tracked silently down his temples, disappearing into the pillow beneath him. He wiped at them quickly, almost aggressively, like he could erase the evidence, like it hadn’t happened at all.

It didn’t matter. No one was there to see it anyway. The room stayed quiet. Still. Empty. And eventually, Exhaustion won. His breathing slowed, tension loosening just enough as sleep finally dragged him under, pulling him into something deeper, something heavier. For once, He didn’t fight it.

Judas had been awake far too long. The glow of his phone cast a pale light across his face as he scrolled, searched, refreshed, again and again, like the answer might suddenly appear if he just tried hard enough. Every database he could access, every buried archive, every whisper of a name, Simon Riley. Nothing.

Not a trace. It was infuriating. A man like that didn’t just disappear. Not completely. Not unless he wanted to. And that, more than anything, grated against Judas’s nerves. The idea that someone could slip so cleanly through the cracks, leaving behind no thread to pull on, no shadow to follow. “Unbelievable…” he muttered under his breath.

His thumb hovered over the screen one last time before he let out a sharp groan and dropped back onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath him as he stared up at the ceiling like it had personally offended him. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. His head turned slowly toward the open window, the faint night air slipping through the curtains, brushing against his skin.

It did little to calm the restless energy buzzing beneath it. With a frustrated exhale, he rolled over and grabbed his phone again. His thumb hovered over Kyle’s contact. He hesitated. Kyle was probably with his mate. Busy. Distracted. Not in the mood to deal with Judas’s irritation at three in the morning. So he scrolled instead.

Down the list. Names, numbers, some familiar, some not. And then he paused. Brows furrowing. “…What the hell?” There it was. Future Husband. Judas stared at it like it had personally offended him. He did not remember putting that in his phone. He definitely did not remember saving someone under that name. And yet, there it was.

Curiosity won. He tapped the contact and hit call before he could think too hard about it, lifting the phone to his ear as he rolled onto his stomach, legs kicking idly behind him against the mattress. It rang. And rang. And rang. Judas almost hung up. Then, A click. “Hello?” The voice was rough. Low. Thick with sleep. British. Judas stilled. There was something about it, something grounded, something heavy.

Like gravel and smoke and something deeper underneath it all. His teeth pressed lightly into his lower lip. “…Why is your contact name Future Husband?” Silence. A beat too long. Then, A quiet, dangerous shift. “Is this a fuckin’ prank?” The voice had changed. Still rough, but sharper now. Awake. Alert. Judas rolled his eyes, though there was the faintest flicker of annoyance in them.

“No, it’s not a prank,” he shot back. “If it was a prank, I wouldn’t have your number, jackass.” A soft tsk came from the other end. And then, The line went dead. Judas blinked. His jaw dropped slightly as he stared at his phone like it had betrayed him. “…Did he just—” He scoffed, offended now, sitting up abruptly. “Fuck you then!”

The words snapped out of him before he could stop them, even though the man was no longer there to hear it. He tossed the phone behind him carelessly, not even bothering to see where it landed as he pushed himself off the bed in one smooth motion. Restless. Irritated. Wide awake.

He crossed the room and grabbed a cigarette from his pack, tapping it lightly against the box before slipping it between his lips. A flick of the lighter, Flame. Inhale. The burn settled into his lungs, familiar and grounding as he exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the air. Judas leaned against the open window, one arm braced against the frame as he stared out into the night.

The city stretched below him, quiet, distant, unaware. His mind, however, refused to settle. That voice lingered. Annoyingly so. Rough. British. Half-asleep and already irritated, He huffed softly, shaking his head as he took another drag. “Future husband,” he muttered under his breath, lips twitching faintly despite himself. Ridiculous. And yet… He couldn’t quite stop thinking about it.

Judas stood there a while longer, the cigarette balanced lazily between his fingers as smoke curled up into the night air. The city below was quiet, dimly lit, distant—nothing like the restless energy buzzing beneath his skin. He took another slow drag, eyes half-lidded as he exhaled through his nose, watching the thin streams disappear into the dark.

His tongue brushed over his bottom lip, then the top, a small, absent habit as his thoughts circled back, again, to that voice. That man. He clicked his tongue softly, flicking ash out the window with a sharp snap of his fingers before bringing the cigarette back to his lips. He should’ve asked for a name.

The realization hit him late, and it annoyed him more than it should have. Judas wasn’t the type to forget details, especially not voices like that. Distinct. Grounded. Irritating in a way that lingered. He groaned quietly, tipping his head back for a second. “Smooth, Jude. Real smooth.” Another drag.

Then, without much thought, he pulled the cigarette from his lips and pressed the burning end briefly against his tongue. A sharp, quick hiss of heat, gone just as fast as it came. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just flicked the now-dead cigarette out the window like it meant nothing. The glass slid shut with a soft click. Silence settled again.

Judas exhaled slowly before turning away, running a hand through his hair as he headed toward the bathroom. The light flicked on, illuminating the sterile space, and he paused just inside the doorway, eyeing the tub like it had personally offended him. There was no way he was getting into that without cleaning it first. Who knew who had been in there before him.

Humans were disgusting on a good day, and he wasn’t about to marinate in someone else’s poor hygiene choices. He moved with purpose, grabbing what he needed, soap, a rag, anything remotely usable, and got to work. Scrubbing the porcelain down thoroughly, paying attention to every edge, every curve, every spot that might’ve been overlooked. Methodical.

Precise. Only when he was satisfied, completely satisfied, did he straighten, inspecting his work like a man judging a battlefield. Clean enough. Finally. Judas reached for the faucet, turning it on and letting the water begin to fill the tub, the steady rush echoing softly in the room as steam slowly started to rise. He felt like he might actually relax.

The quiet Judas had just settled into shattered instantly. The shrill ring of his phone cut through the room like a blade, sharp and invasive, dragging him out of the fragile calm he’d barely managed to build. In a blink, he was gone from the bathroom doorway, his movement so fast, reappearing at the bed as his hand snatched the phone off the sheets.

His eyes flicked down to the contact. Annoyance flared immediately. He answered anyway. “Hello, this is-“ A voice slid through the speaker, low, deep, and roughened at the edges like gravel soaked in honey. “Hola, cariño.” Judas froze. Not physically, his body stayed poised, still, but something in him halted. His breath caught in his throat out of pure instinct, despite the fact he didn’t need to breathe at all.

His fingers tightened slightly around the phone, knuckles paling just a shade. “How the hell.” he cut himself off, irritation snapping back into place like armor. “Didn’t I block you?” A soft laugh answered him. Breathless. Amused. Like this was all a game. “Cariño,” The man drawled, voice thick with that infuriating confidence, “you do realize I have connections, sí? Blocking me doesn’t mean much when I can still reach you whenever I want.”

Judas’s lip curled, eyes narrowing as he began pacing the length of the room, bare feet silent against the floor. “Well, delete my number, Sage.” Another laugh, quieter this time, but no less irritating. “No.” Judas stopped mid-step, jaw tightening as his patience snapped clean in half. “I’m hanging up, jackass,” he said flatly, already pulling the phone away from his ear. “Lose my number while you’re at it.”

But before he could end the call, “I know who you’re looking for, princesa.” Silence. Not the peaceful kind. The heavy kind. The kind that presses into your chest and waits. Judas didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t even blink. Slowly, he brought the phone back to his ear, his expression no longer annoyed, no longer bored.

Sharp now. Focused. Dangerous. “…You’re lying,” he said quietly, though there was no real conviction behind it. Just a test. A warning. On the other end, Sage hummed—low, pleased. “Am I?” Judas’s free hand curled at his side, nails biting faintly into his palm. “You don’t know anything about what I’m doing,” he replied, voice colder now. Controlled. “So whatever game you think you’re playing.”

“Simon Riley.” The name hit like a gunshot. Everything in Judas went still. Completely still. His mind, usually so quick, so fluid, blanked for half a second before snapping back with violent clarity. Every piece of information Price had given him, every detail, every tone, every unspoken worry, All of it collided at once.

His eyes darkened, red bleeding deeper into the brown as his grip on the phone tightened just enough to make it creak. “…Say again.” This time, his voice wasn’t annoyed. Wasn’t sarcastic. It was quiet. Deadly quiet. Sage exhaled slowly on the other end, like he’d been waiting for this exact shift.

“I know where he is,” he said, softer now, but no less certain. “What he’s doing. And more importantly… why your little military friends can’t find him.” Judas’s heart, if it had been beating, would’ve been pounding. Instead, there was just that hollow, electric tension crawling under his skin.

“You don’t get to dangle that in front of me,” Judas muttered, eyes flicking toward the window, toward the dark outside like he could already see the path forming. “Not unless you’re ready to back it up.” A pause. Then, “I always back it up, cariño.” Judas’s lips pressed into a thin line. “…What do you want?”

“Te deseo… You know that.” The words slithered through the phone, soft and dangerous, carrying years of history Judas had tried, and failed, to bury. There was a pause, just long enough to feel intentional, before Sage’s voice dropped quieter, heavier. “Sabes que te extraño. Sabes que todavía te amo. Sabes eso.”

Judas’s lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line. “And you know what you did to me,” he shot back immediately, voice sharp enough to cut. “You know exactly what you did. And you know I will not, never, get back with you.” He began pacing again, faster now, agitation bleeding into every step.

“I hate you,” he added, quieter but no less venomous. “And you know that, Sage. So stop trying to sweet talk me.” Silence answered him. Not empty, no, thinking. “I hate that you’re so smart, hermoso.” The pet name landed like a spark to dry fuel. Judas’s grip tightened around the phone, the glass giving a faint, strained crack beneath his fingers.

“Jude.” It was automatic, the correction, sharp and immediate, his jaw locking as he spoke it. “Give me what you have,” he said, cutting through anything else Sage might’ve added. His tone flattened, stripped of emotion now. Focused. “I want the information.” A low hum came through the line, contemplative.

“You know it doesn’t work like that, hermoso.” Judas’s fangs pressed against his gums, a dull ache building as irritation flared into something more dangerous. He could feel it creeping under his skin, violence, instinct, the urge to end this instead of entertain it. “One date.”

The words left him clipped, forced, like dragging glass across his own throat. On the other end, Sage inhaled slowly, approval threading through the sound. But Judas knew him. Knew exactly what was coming next. “Make it two… and a night with you.” Judas stopped pacing. Completely still.

His brow twitched downward, frustration flashing hot and immediate as something ugly curled in his chest. For a split second, he considered hanging up, considered smashing the phone, walking away, finding another lead. But there wasn’t another lead. And they both knew it. “No.” Flat. Immediate. Final.

Sage exhaled sharply, irritation bleeding through now. “Then we have no deal, perra.” The insult snapped something. A hiss tore from Judas’s throat before he could stop it, his control slipping just enough for instinct to take over. Without thinking, he sank his fangs into his own wrist, hard enough to break skin, to ground himself in pain instead of rage.

Copper filled his mouth. Sharp. Familiar. He pulled back after a second, breathing unnecessary but heavy all the same, eyes burning red in the dim light. “…Alright, fine,” he muttered, voice rough now, edged with fury and something dangerously close to resignation. “Fucking asshole…” A pause. Then, quieter, defeated in a way he’d never admit out loud.

Hours passed. The sky hung low and dark, heavy with incoming rain. Smoke curled upward in slow, lazy spirals, mixing with the bitter stench of cigarette ash that burned at the back of Judas's throat. The past two weeks had been shit. No point pretending otherwise. And he still hadn't talked to Kyle about the bite. He could feel it too, the irritation bleeding through the bond, steady and persistent, like a pulse he couldn't quite tune out.

Judas ignored it. Took another drag instead, letting the smoke sit heavy in his lungs before exhaling slowly. His legs crossed loosely as he stared out over nothing in particular. The door behind him opened. Judas didn't look. Kyle dropped down beside him anyway, close enough to crowd his space, and without asking, plucked the cigarette straight from his fingers.

He leaned back, one arm slung over his stomach, dragging in a slow breath like he owned the damn thing. Judas's jaw tightened. His gaze shifted away, fixing on the distant skyline instead. Silence stretched. Then, "You've been ignoring me," Kyle said, voice quieter now, eyes flicking up toward the sky. "Why's that?" Judas huffed under his breath. "I haven't been ignoring anyone. Don't know where you got that impression."

Kyle turned onto his side, propping himself up just enough to look at him properly. "I'm not anyone, Judes." His voice dropped, something firmer underneath it. "I'm a hell of a lot more than that." Judas didn't answer right away. Instead, he stretched his legs out, then shifted, lowering himself beside Kyle. His head settled against the man's stomach like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I know that, Garrick."

"Then fucking act like it," Kyle shot back immediately. That hit. Judas went quiet for a second, eyes half-lidded as he stared up at the sky. "How?" he muttered finally. "How, Kyle?" His voice was lower now. Rougher. "I don't like connection. I don't like getting attached, and I sure as hell don't know how I'm supposed to act like whatever it is you want from me." he exhaled sharply, jaw tightening, "When I don't even understand it."

Kyle pinched the cigarette from his mouth and crushed it out beneath his boot before reaching up to smooth the furrow between Judas's brows, thumb dragging gently down his cheek. Judas softened the tension in his face as best he could, leaning forward when Kyle pressed their foreheads together. "I know, Judes. I'm very sorry."

Judas's brows pulled together again and he leaned back slightly. "Don't apologize for something that doesn't—" Kyle cut him off by covering his mouth with his hand. "Just be quiet." Judas immediately licked his palm, and Kyle recoiled with a look of pure disgust. "Fucking hell, Jude, that's bloody nasty." Judas only laughed as he pushed himself to his feet, water droplets scattered across his arms like silver specks.

Rain suddenly hammered against the roof, heavy enough to shake the windows. Judas immediately caught Gaz's hand and tugged him inside before the storm could soak them both through. The door slammed shut behind them just as Soap came stomping into the room. "For fuck's sake, Gaz is drivin' me insane," he groaned, already mid-complaint.

Roach looked up from where he was sitting, blinking at him with a flat expression that practically screamed, Why are you telling me this? Soap ignored the look completely, throwing his hands in the air. "No, because listen." Gaz crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "MacTavish." Soap immediately wilted at the tone, turning slowly to meet his lover's disappointed stare. "Aye, but, Bonnie..." he whined weakly.

Kyle's hand settled on his hip, unimpressed. Soap huffed dramatically before letting himself slide down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, arms folded and lower lip pushed out in a miserable pout. Kyle rolled his eyes with a sharp smack of his lips. "Alright, fine." Judas loosened his hold on Kyle's arm, watching with quiet amusement as the British man strode over to his sulking Scottish lover and grabbed him by the wrist, hauling him back onto his feet.

Judas gave a low whistle. "Yeah~ go make some mini Kyles's and MacTavish's." Kyle shot him a look filled with absolute horror and disbelief. "Judas, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Soap, meanwhile, nearly choked. "Whit?!" Judas only grinned wider while Kyle groaned and immediately dragged Soap out of the room before either of them could say another word.

As soon as the werewolf hybrids disappeared from the room, Judas felt Roach's stare settle onto him like weight against his skin. The two of them hadn't been alone together since the airport bathroom stall, since bruised breaths and stolen kisses in cramped silence. Judas knew exactly why Roach was looking at him like that. The younger man pushed himself to his feet and strode over, folding his arms across his chest.

Judas tried to ignore him. Roach didn't let up. A rough hand gently caught Judas's chin, turning his face. "Look at me, please, Judas." If there was one thing Judas liked about Roach, it was that he never pushed too hard. He was careful. Respectful. He carried restraint in everything he did, like he was always terrified of making someone uncomfortable.

Slowly, Judas lifted his eyes to meet his. Roach's expression softened almost instantly, relief flickering across his features as his thumb brushed lightly over Judas's cheek. "Thank you." The air between them felt unbearably thick, heavy with everything left unsaid. Then Roach looked away first. "I found my mates the other day." Judas went rigid.

His stomach twisted sharply as he instinctively tried to pull back, but Roach's hands immediately caught his hips, tugging him close again before he could fully retreat. "Don't pull away from me," Roach murmured quietly. Then suddenly Judas was being lifted. A startled sound slipped from him as his arms instinctively hooked around Roach's shoulders, fingers tightening there while tension locked through his entire body.

He had no idea what the sweet, painfully patient man was trying to do. "Sanderson, what are you doing?" Roach didn't answer immediately. The couch cushions dipped beneath Judas's back, and he instantly tried to push himself upright again, only for Roach to place a gentle hand against his chest and ease him back down with surprising care. Then Roach kissed him.

The moment their lips met, something inside Judas splintered apart. Weeks of isolation. Loneliness. The aching, relentless hunger for touch. Every wall Judas had built around himself cracked wide open all at once. Heat rushed through him so fast it almost hurt, tangled tightly with raw emotion, and he kissed Roach back immediately, desperate, starving, reckless with how badly he needed it.

Time vanished around them. Hands wandered without hesitation. Fingers skimmed across skin. Their kisses shifted between slow and consuming, greedy and breathless, like neither of them knew how to stop once they'd started. Eventually Judas's legs slid into the space between Roach's parted thighs as they tangled together across the couch, breaths warm and uneven against each other's mouths.

A soft moan broke from Judas when Roach's lips dragged slowly down his throat, sending a sharp shiver through him. But the second Roach's fingers caught the hem of his shirt, beginning to lift it, Judas shoved himself off the couch so fast it startled them both. Roach blinked up at him, half-undressed and visibly confused, while Judas stood several feet away already, breathing hard like he'd just escaped something dangerous.

Roach slowly pushed himself up from the couch, still breathing unevenly. "Did... did I do something wrong?" Judas whipped around so fast it almost looked painful, shaking his head immediately as his fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his jeans. "No! No, you didn't, I just..." He swallowed hard, voice stumbling over itself. "I'm not in the right headspace, and... you found your mates. That's, that's a good thing. I'm happy for you."

Roach's brows pulled together softly as he lowered himself onto the arm of the couch, watching Judas carefully. "So I did make you uncomfortable?" Judas let out a frustrated groan and bent forward, dragging both hands over his face. "No, not you." His voice came out muffled between his palms. "Just... bad things. Things I don't like talking about. Or telling anyone." Silence stretched between them for a moment.

Then Roach stood slowly and crossed the space between them with careful steps, like he was approaching something fragile. He lowered himself in front of Judas and wrapped his arms around him gently but firmly. Judas's entire body locked up instantly. Every muscle went rigid beneath Roach's touch. Minutes passed before the tension finally began to melt away piece by piece, his shoulders loosening first, then his shaking hands.

Slowly, Judas sagged forward until his head rested against the upper of Roach's chest. A tear slipped free before he could stop it, sliding silently down his pale, sun-warmed cheek. The rain only grew heavier outside, pounding against the windows and roof hard enough to drown the silence between them. It matched Judas perfectly now, raw, violent, impossible to hold back.

He cried freely into Roach's chest, face buried against Gary's shoulder as he tried to smother the sounds of it. His fingers clutched tightly into the fabric of Roach's shirt while the werewolf simply held him there, one hand rubbing slow circles into his back without a single word. Minutes melted together. Then an hour. Eventually the sobs faded into shaky breaths.

Judas finally pulled away first, wiping harshly at his face with the heel of his palm before clearing his shredded throat. He stood slowly, straightening his spine, rebuilding every wall piece by piece right in front of Roach's eyes. "Thank you." And just like that, the calm returned. Quiet. Stubborn. Cocky. Like Judas had shoved every crack back beneath the surface and dared the world to notice them again.

Judas didn't want Roach seeing him as fragile. Weak. Emotional in any way that mattered. So he buried it all deep inside himself, down into that jagged, rocky pit where violent waves crashed endlessly against stone and unseen hands moved pawns across the ruined board of his life. Slowly, Roach rose to his feet and leaned in, intending to kiss him, but Judas turned his head at the last second so Gary's lips brushed only against his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Gary," Judas murmured softly, fingers fidgeting absently with Roach's hand before letting it slip away. Then he turned and walked off slowly, leaving Gary Sanderson standing there alone, wondering what thoughts were truly hiding behind Judas's guarded eyes.

Judas barely made it halfway down the hall before the floor beneath him seemed to dissolve. One second he was walking. The next, he was falling. Darkness swallowed him whole, endless and suffocating, an empty abyss without light, without sound, without anything except the violent drop of his own body through nothingness.

Panic slammed into him instantly. Then the hands came. They burst from the dark and seized him without warning, pinning him down against the cold void beneath him. Judas thrashed violently, kicking and twisting with every ounce of strength he had, but the grip on him never loosened. Relentless. Inhuman.

White mist curled around his body in slow spirals, wrapping tighter and tighter as something warm began draining from him. Blood. His blood. The feeling ripped a strangled gasp from his throat as weakness spread through his limbs. Hunger clawed violently inside him, sharp and unbearable, his body screaming for the liquid being stolen away.

A voice echoed somewhere in the abyss. Distant. Familiar. Judas’s frantic eyes darted through the darkness searching for someone, anyone, but there was nothing there. Only blackness swallowing everything whole. His thoughts started slipping apart at the edges, growing sluggish and distorted.

Why couldn’t he breathe? Why was everything getting darker? Then a face appeared above him at last, blurred and shifting like smoke. “Judes, pequeño gatito… you finally reached out to me.” (little kitten) The voice purred softly, poisoned with satisfaction. “Sabía que no podrías resistirte a mí.” (I knew you wouldn't be able to resist me.) Judas’s entire body locked up. Fear struck so hard it felt physical.

He jerked violently beneath the hands restraining him, scrambling backward desperately, but another grip suddenly closed around his throat. Tight. Choking. Forcing him still. The darkness pressed closer around him as the unseen figure tightened its hold, trying to drag him down deeper into the abyss beneath them. Trying to make him belong to him.

Then suddenly, It stopped. Everything stopped. The crushing hands vanished. The abyss fell silent. Warmth flooded violently back into Judas’s body, blood rushing through his veins so hard it hurt. He gasped sharply as feeling returned all at once, overwhelming and burning. Then he was on his stomach. It was really cold.

His skin looked almost translucent beneath him, veins faint beneath gray, sickly flesh. Sweat clung heavily to his body while freezing breaths spilled from his mouth in pale clouds of mist. He could barely see. The world around him blurred and warped at the edges as he dragged himself weakly across the ground, fingers clawing uselessly forward.

His limbs felt too heavy. Too small. Still, Judas forced himself upright and stumbled blindly ahead. Then strong arms caught him. Lifted him effortlessly. A scent wrapped around him instantly, smoke buried deep into fabric fibers, like bonfire ash after rain. Pine. Leather. Clean laundry detergent underneath it all. Cold air and something achingly familiar.

Safe. Judas melted against the stranger before he could stop himself, shivering violently as another cough tore from his throat. His body felt tiny. No. He was tiny. A child again. Small trembling hands. Hollow ribs. Fear carved deep into fragile bones. And the man holding him, his savior. The only warmth in a freezing world.

But it vanished just as quickly. The arms disappeared. And suddenly Judas was falling again. Ice-cold water swallowed him whole before slamming him hard into wet sand. He gagged violently as grit filled his mouth, coughing and choking while panic ripped through him. Sand scraped across his tongue as he spat frantically, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve.

His vision spun. Darkness crept in again. Then his eyes rolled back and his body collapsed bonelessly into the shore beneath him, sinking slowly into the sand as if the earth itself was swallowing him whole. Gone. Then, his eyes snapped open. Bright light stabbed painfully into them. Judas let out a weak whine and squeezed them shut again before slowly forcing them open a second time.

Everything swam out of focus at first. White ceiling. Buzzing light overhead. A room. He turned his head weakly. Kyle was asleep in the chair beside the bed, curled tightly against Soap’s chest with tear tracks still staining his cheeks. One of Soap’s arms rested protectively around him while his head lolled awkwardly against the wall.

“…MacTavish?” Judas’s voice came out shredded. Hoarse. Barely audible. Soap’s head snapped up instantly. “Whit!?” He jerked so fast he nearly dropped Kyle trying to stand. Kyle startled awake immediately, blinking blearily before his eyes landed on Judas. And then he broke. “Judes?” Kyle launched himself forward without hesitation, nearly tackling Judas off the bed as he buried his face hard against the vampire’s shoulder.

His body shook violently with fresh sobs. Judas stared blankly for a second before awkwardly patting his back. “…Who died?” he rasped weakly. “Why are you crying?” Kyle made a broken noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob before clutching him even tighter.

“You did, bitch!” he choked out. “Gary found you after something happened and he wouldn’t say what! You weren’t breathing! Like, not even vampire breathing, and I don’t even know how that works!” Soap reached over carefully and started prying Kyle back before he crushed Judas entirely.

“Awright, Bonnie, tha’s enough, ye’re gonnae smother the poor bastard…” Kyle shoved him hard enough to make Soap blink in surprise. “Fuck off, John!” The room went silent. Judas slowly turned his head between them before lifting a weak hand and smacking Kyle’s hand with absolutely pathetic strength.

“Do not talk to your mate like that,” he muttered hoarsely. “You hear me? Now apologize.” Kyle stared at him in disbelief. Then immediately shook his head. “Hell no.” Judas shot Kyle a sharp glare before slowly forcing himself upright. The movement alone made his stomach twist violently.

A low groan dragged out of him as he doubled over, one hand clamping tightly over his abdomen. “I’m gonna be sick.” He barely finished the sentence before he rolled off the edge of the bed. His legs gave out instantly. He would’ve hit the floor hard if the man standing in the corner hadn’t moved fast enough to catch him. Judas didn’t even protest.

Didn’t have the strength to. He just sagged into the arms offered to him, limp and unsteady, like a sick child being carried without question. The man lifted him easily and moved him toward the bathroom, steady and quiet, like this wasn’t the first time he’d had to deal with something like this. Judas’s head lolled against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded as nausea clawed at him from the inside out.

The bathroom light flickered on. Cold tiles. Sterile air. Too bright. He was set down carefully beside the toilet. The second his feet touched the ground, his body betrayed him completely. Blood came up fast. Thick and dark. Judas froze mid-heave, staring at it like his brain refused to process what he was seeing. His hands shook as they braced against the rim of the toilet, knuckles white, breath uneven and sharp.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the distant ticking of a clock outside the room. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Somewhere beyond the bathroom walls, voices murmured, Kyle, Soap, someone else, but they didn’t register properly. Just noise. Distant and unimportant. Judas swallowed hard, throat burning, then slowly reached forward and flushed the toilet.

Watched it all disappear. Like it meant nothing. Like it was nothing. Then he sat back heavily on the lid, elbows resting on his knees, staring down at the floor as if it might give him answers. The door clicked softly behind him as the man left. Silence settled in again. Too heavy. Too tight. Judas dragged a hand over his face, exhaling shakily.

His body felt wrong, hollowed out, like something had been taken and never returned. After a moment, he forced himself upright again. Slowly. Unsteadily. His hand hovered near the door for a second before he closed it and locked it with a flicker of thought. It took more out of him than it should have.

His knees wobbled. “Fuck…” He steadied himself against the sink, breathing through the dizziness before finally turning toward the shower. Small. Tight. Steam-ready. Perfect. His fingers trembled as they found the handle. He turned it. The pipes groaned in protest, rattling through the walls like something old and tired being forced awake.

Then water came alive in uneven bursts before finally settling into a steady stream. Hot steam began to fill the space almost immediately. Judas stood there for a moment longer than necessary. Just staring. Then, slowly, he stripped. Clothes hit the floor in a limp pile. He stepped into the shower like he wasn’t entirely sure he was supposed to be there.

Warm water hit his skin, and for a brief second, he just stood under it, motionless, letting it run down his face, shoulders, chest. His hands moved absently across his body as if he was trying to confirm he was still real. Then he paused. Frowned. His fingers lingered at his sides. “…what the hell?” He tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing deeper as he slowly ran his hands up his waist again.

Once. Then again. His expression shifted. Confusion first. Then disbelief. Then something sharper. “No,” he muttered under his breath. “No, no, no, please tell me I’m imagining this.” His hands moved more deliberately now, pressing lightly along his sides, up his torso, down again like he was trying to correct what his senses were telling him.

His breathing picked up. Faster. Uneven. “Please,” he whispered to himself, voice cracking slightly with frustration. “Please, please, please…” Then he stopped completely. Slowly, reluctantly, he looked down. A beat of silence. “Kyle.” The name came out suddenly, sharp enough to cut through the running water. There was a pause. Then, “KYLE!”

The shout echoed through the bathroom and out into the medical room. Everything outside went dead silent for half a second. Then chaos. The door practically exploded open. Kyle stumbled in first, half-panicked, half-ready to fight something. “What?! What’s wrong?!” His eyes snapped down, then up. Then up down. Silence stretched. His eyebrows slowly rose.

“…oh.” Judas stood rigid under the water, glaring at him like he might actually commit murder through sheer willpower alone. Kyle’s lips twitched. Not helpful. Not helpful at all. He bit the inside of his cheek like he was physically fighting a reaction. Judas’s eye twitched. “You’re no help,” he snapped immediately.

Kyle exhaled through his nose, still staring like his brain was trying to process what it was seeing. “Aye, well…” “Get out.” “Hold on.” “Get. Out.” Kyle finally looked away, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right, so, uh…” He cleared his throat. “…when did you get a fanny and tits?” Silence. The water kept running. Judas stared at him. Unblinking.

Dangerously still. Kyle immediately took a step back. “I’m just askin’ don’t look at me like that.” “You’re no help,” Judas repeated, voice tight with pure disbelief and irritation. Kyle lifted both hands defensively. “It’s a fair question!” “It is not a fair question!” “It kinda is when I walk in and—” “OUT!” Kyle snorted under his breath, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Alright, alright, princess.” That did it. Judas reached over and turned the water off so sharply the showerhead shuddered. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it tightly around himself, and stepped out with wet hair clinging to his face, eyes blazing. “I am a man, Garrick,” he said coldly, each word deliberate. Kyle blinked. Then, very slowly, held up a finger like he was about to argue. “…aye, alright.”

The helicopter blades were already spinning when they stepped out onto the tarmac. Loud and violent. Wind tore at them, whipping fabric against skin, carrying the sharp, suffocating scent of fuel and heated metal, strong enough to cut through even Judas’s heightened senses. It burned at the back of his throat. And beside it, a older man Judas didn’t recognize. Relaxed posture. Easy.

Like chaos was something he wore instead of survived. “Ah!” the man called over the roar, grin wide. “You must be the famous one, hm?” Judas stared at him for half a second. Measuring. “Who’s this?” Soap barked out a laugh immediately. “Aye, that’s our ride, mate!” Price didn’t slow. “Nikolai. He’ll get us there.”

Nikolai dipped his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I fly. You try not to die. Yes?” Judas blinked once. “Great.” They boarded fast. Strapped in. The helicopter lifted within seconds, the ground dropping away as London stretched beneath them, gray, sprawling, restless. Inside, it was loud, but controlled. Soap leaned forward, already grinning. “Alright, lads, let’s go find ourselves a ghost, aye?”

Gaz rolled his eyes, smiling faintly. Judas didn’t smile. He watched. Listened. And Felt. Because something about this, Felt wrong. “Two minutes!” Nikolai called. Price stood. “Positions!” They moved. The second the helicopter dipped low enough, they jumped. Concrete slammed into Judas’s boots, impact snapping through his body.

Cold air hit hard, wet, heavy with the scent of salt and rust. Wapping. “Spread out,” Price ordered. “Stay sharp.” They moved through shadows, weaving between crates and rusted structures that groaned under age and neglect. Everything felt watched. Everything felt, Wrong. Judas slowed.

“…He’s here.” A shift. A flicker, then a sudden movement. A figure dropped from above and suddenly Soap was down, hitting concrete with a curse ripped from his throat. “Bloody hell!” Gunfire cracked, echoing through the docks. But there was nothing to hit. “Contact!” Gaz shouted. “Negative visual!” Price snapped. Judas didn’t follow the chaos. He stilled.

Closed his eyes, and felt. The shadows bent. Pulled, then he moved. Faster than human, then they collided. Hard. Not controlled, and definitely not clean. It was biolent. Judas drove him into a metal wall with bone-shaking force, the impact ringing out like a gunshot. Metal dented under the hit. Up close, there he was. Tall. Broad.

Clothes soaked through with rain. And those eyes, cold. Sharp and Tired. Judas didn’t hesitate. He moved again, forcing him down, pinning him hard, legs locking tight around his hips, weight centered, hands gripping, controlling. For a second, there was a stillness. Heavy and charged. “You’re hard to find,” Judas muttered. The man didn’t thrash.

Didn’t panic. He just looked at him. And that, was wrong. Why isn’t he fighting, “I do not want to be found.” Low. Controlled. Steady. Judas’s grip tightened instinctively. “You are getting in my way,” Ghost continued, voice calm despite the position, despite the weight pressing him down, “and I’m not gonna have that any further.”

Something in Judas’s chest shifted. That voice, why, “You shouldn’t have tried.” Judas’s lip curled slightly, and then he bit him. Fangs sinking into flesh. A soft grunt left Ghost, barely there, more breath than pain, and then, Judas was gone. Flung. Not pushed. Thrown.

His body slammed into a brick wall hard enough to crack it, dust and fragments breaking loose on impact. The force snapped through him, but he was already moving before it settled. Back on his feet. Back in it. He lunged. They crashed together again, fists, elbows, bone meeting bone.

Judas struck first, fast and brutal, one, two, three hits driving into ribs, into shoulder, into jaw, Ghost didn’t fall. He absorbed. Shifted. Countered. A sharp hit to Judas’s side knocked the breath from him, another caught his shoulder, twisting him, Judas snarled, grabbing, slamming him back again, Pinning.

Driving him down. Punch after Punch, after Punch, “Stay, down!” But Ghost moved with him. Not against. With. And suddenly, Judas wasn’t on top anymore. The world flipped. Concrete hit his back hard enough to rattle his skull, And then, Hands. Around his throat. Tight. Unforgiving. Squeezing.

Judas’s eyes widened, fingers snapping up, clawing at Ghost’s wrists, trying to break the hold. It didn’t budge. Didn’t move. Ghost leaned over him, weight solid, knees pinning his arms just enough to limit leverage, grip tightening, Crushing. The pressure built fast. Too fast. Air cut off. Vision tightening. Why can’t I, Judas bared his teeth, biting down hard into Ghost’s hand, Blood.

A reaction of nothing. That grip only tightened. Unrelenting. Cold eyes locked onto his. Watching. Not rushed. Not panicked. Like he knew exactly how far he could push this before it ended. Judas’s chest burned. His lungs screamed. Something in his mind fractured, Why isn’t he stopping, Why is he looking at me like that, Something snapped.

Judas forced himself to meet his gaze, and his eyes went black. Pitch. Veins darkened, blood spilling from his eyes, his nose, his ears. A violent, unnatural surge. Ghost’s expression didn’t change, but his body moved, and suddenly he was thrown. Ripped away like something had detonated between them, his body slamming across the concrete.

The pressure vanished. Judas collapsed forward onto his hands and knees, choking, gasping, dragging air into lungs that refused to cooperate. Blood hit the ground in thick drops, dripping from his face, his ears, his nose, his throat burned. His body shook. He coughed, hard, more blood spilling from his mouth as he tried to breathe, tried to steady.

Behind him, nothing. No footsteps. No presence. Gone. Again. Judas stayed there for a second too long, breathing ragged, hands trembling slightly against the concrete. “…Shit.” “Where is he?!” Soap shouted. Judas didn’t answer immediately. Because his mind, Wasn’t on the team. Wasn’t on the mission. It was stuck on, that moment.

The weight of him. The way he’d been pinned. The way those hands had wrapped around his throat. Controlled. Precise. Unyielding. Judas swallowed hard, throat protesting. “…He’s not here anymore.” Price’s jaw tightened. “He was.” Judas pushed himself up slowly. “Yeah.” A pause. Quieter, “…He let me catch him.”

And worse, he let me think I had control. The helicopter was loud. But Judas barely heard it. Because all he could feel, was Ghost’s hands around his throat. All he could see, those eyes. And all he could hear, “I do not want to be found…” Judas’s fingers twitched against his thigh. “…You shouldn’t have tried.” That voice. That exact tone, something in that moment clicked. That call.

Half-asleep. Rough. British. “…Future Husband.” Judas went still. Simon Riley. Ghost. The same. His heart kicked hard against his ribs, uneven, wrong. His fangs ached. Not hunger. Something else. Something sharper. Something that made his chest feel too tight. Too aware. “…You’ve got to be kidding me,” he breathed. “Aye?” Soap leaned forward. “Ye say somethin’, mate?” Judas didn’t answer.

Because his mind was still there, pinned. Held. Watched. Not as prey. Not as a target. But as something, Interesting. Judas leaned back slowly, staring out into the dark. His throat still burned. His pulse still wasn’t steady. And his body, still remembered exactly what it felt like to be under him. And to be under him. “…You slipped,” he murmured. But it didn’t feel like a win. It felt like, awarning.

And now? Now it wasn’t just a mission. Now, It was personal. The helicopter touched down. The mission was over. But whatever that had been? That wasn’t. Judas stood slowly, boots hitting the metal floor with a dull thud. His body had already recovered. His breathing was steady. His strength back where it should be. But something deeper, something quieter, had shifted.