#xavier angst

and whether they are blind to your feelings, consumed in their quest to reunite with mc, or simply incapable of truly seeing you, they’ll never choose you.

still, you remain, tethered to their side through every heartbreak.

but when you find out your cycle of reincarnation is finally ending, you keep it to yourself. is it selfish? perhaps. but your heart is weary, your love is stretched thin, and you know that if your devotion was never returned before, it never will be.

so when you finally slip away—cradled in their arms during a mission, surrendering your soul to the ocean at a seamoon ceremony, or resting among a field of datura flowers—they mourn you. of course they do. tears will fill their eyes as they whisper your name into the silence.

but some part of them knows you’ll come back.

you always do.

they’re certain you’ll return just as you always have, and that soon enough you’ll be smiling beside them again, teasing them like nothings changed.

you always return as yourself—changed in small ways, perhaps, but still marked by the beauty spot beneath your eye or the gentle brown of your gaze.

your face may shift with each timeline, but the faint scar along your arm from protecting him from wanderers or the wound over your heart always remains.

it’s all a quiet testament of your love.

so when the next cycle comes, and they cannot find you in a scattered crowd of villagers, when they don’t sense your presence in a university hallway, when they wait for you to find them in a game of hide and seek on a playground—the one right next to your father’s house—or amongst the last remaining lemurians who reside in verona, they begin to question it.

they start to wonder.

where were you? what’s taking you so long to come back to them?

where is the one who knows them best? the girl who shares every memory, who understands their purpose, who feels their pain more deeply than anyone else?

simply put—

where are you?

but the truth is painfully simple.

you are not here.

not anymore.

your soul is finally at peace, and alongside it, your love.

or maybe, somewhere in the world, you still exist.

maybe you grew up wrapped in the warmth of a loving family. maybe you still remember the warnings of hunters past and steer clear of those forbidden no hunt zones.

maybe you attend college, or perhaps you open a flower shop in a city where no one knows your name.

maybe every night you dream of a life you have never lived, with a man whose face you have never seen.

maybe you are sitting right beside them, by the sea or on a park bench, laughing at a joke you just told, while he absentmindedly takes your hand in his.

and maybe when you wake with tears drying on your cheeks, you’re confused, unable to understand what it all means.

but dreams fade the longer you remain awake, and slowly, you return to your life.

you feed your cat. you take out the trash. you spend a tuesday afternoon tackling a week's worth of laundry.

you live through mundane, ordinary moments.

you meet up with old colleagues for brunch, talking to your mother on the phone while waiting for the next train. you reply to the messages of a man you matched with online and let him take you out for a drink or two, thanking him at the end of the night for the fun you had.

the next day, you pass by a mural painted by a well-known artist from whitesand bay, leaving you so awestruck that you take a quick snapshot to post on your moments page before continuing on your way.

you arrive at akso hospital, stepping into the lobby to find the rest of your family sitting anxiously for news of your niece’s birth. you sit beside them, praying for the time to pass more quickly, absentmindedly reading the framed research credits of a 28-year-old cardiac surgeon hanging on the wall nearby.

and when you return home that night, head stuck in the clouds, swiping at the hundreds of photos you took of your sister's baby girl, someone stops you in the street.

their eyes—sky blue, violet-gold, or cotton-candy—search your face with overwhelming relief, haunted by a grief that feels centuries old.

“i’m so glad i found you again,” they’ll whisper as their arms wrap around you, the embrace tight enough to keep you from pulling away so easily, but gentle enough not to steal your breath.

“i missed you so much. where have you been?”

you freeze, fear rooting you into place as a voice inside urges you to fight, to punch, to kick, to scream—anything to break free from the arms of someone you don’t know.

you tense, and they feel it immediately. they notice your stillness, your lack of recognition, and finally, they let you go, albeit slowly.

their hands settle gently against your shoulders, smiling with a softness you have never seen directed to you, and they ask again:

“where have you been?”

you force yourself backward, taking three deliberate steps to create space between you, your left hand already searching your purse for anything to defend yourself with.

and with quiet uncertainty, you ask:

Sylus

Something strange was happening in your life.

Every morning when you arrived at work, there were your favorite flowers waiting on your desk, accompanied by a small note wishing you a good day. At first, it had been… cute. Thoughtful, even.

But that feeling didn’t last long.

That same evening, there had been another bouquet. Another note. This one commenting on your day. That was when it started to feel wrong. By the third day, the notes had shifted from observant to unsettling. The anonymous sender began mentioning things they shouldn’t know, small details about your routine, conversations you’d had, people you’d spoken to. By the end of the week, the tone had twisted completely. The sweetness was gone, replaced by something sharp and possessive. One note raged about you talking to your male colleagues. That was when “cute” became “creepy.”

You told yourself it had to be a prank. Something stupid. Someone trying to get a reaction out of you. That explanation felt safer than the alternative.

But the flowers kept coming. Twice a day. Without fail. And the notes only got worse. You considered going to the police. More than once. But every time you thought about it, doubt crept in. There were no direct threats. Nothing concrete. Just… discomfort. Obsession wrapped in pretty paper. You were afraid they wouldn’t take you seriously. For a brief moment, you thought about telling Sylus. But you dismissed that just as quickly.

Yes, you spent time together. Yes, there was something between you. But your relationship wasn’t at the point where the leader of Onychinus would drop everything over anonymous flowers and unsettling notes. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

So you decided to wait it out.

Maybe whoever was doing this would get bored due to your lack of a reaction and stop.

Right now, you were walking down the street with your headphones on, music turned up loud enough to drown out the city noise.

It probably wasn’t the smartest idea to be out this late at night. But you had run out of your favorite juice, and you had never been particularly good at resisting small cravings. A quick stop at the nearest convenience store couldn’t be that dangerous.

Or so you thought.

But as you walked, you couldn’t shake the feeling crawling up your spine. Like you weren’t alone. Every time you turned around, there was no one there. You quickened your pace, but the unease only clung tighter.

You were close to your apartment complex when you made a mistake.

Until then, you had stayed on the well-lit streets, surrounded by passing strangers and the glow of storefronts. But fear clouded your judgment now, and all you wanted was to get home as quickly as possible. To lock yourself inside your apartment and call Sylus. He would be waking up soon, and the thought of hearing his voice felt like the only thing that might calm your nerves.

So you cut through a narrow, dark alleyway to save time.

Your second mistake was leaving your music on.

You barely had time to register the movement before someone grabbed your arm and yanked you backward. Your breath caught. Panic seized you whole, freezing your body in place as your mind screamed at you to fight, to run, to do anything.

Then something black and metallic slammed into your attacker.

Mephisto.

The bird tore into the man with furious precision, claws and beak driving him back until he cursed and let go of you. He staggered, trying to shield his face, and when he turned to flee, Mephisto broke away without pursuit, circling back to you instead. The bird landed on your shoulder and for a second you could’ve sworn he was almost cooing.

A few unsteady steps later, your vision blurred.

As if the world was painted over in red.

And suddenly Mephisto was gone from your shoulder, warm hands wrapping around you. You gasped and thrashed weakly at first, still trapped in the terror of those first few seconds, until a familiar voice brushed against your ear.

“Easy,” Sylus murmured. “It is just me.”

You stilled. Slowly, you looked up, blinking until his face came into focus.

“S-Sylus…”

His expression shifted the moment he saw you clearly. Raw, immediate concern that made something in your chest ache. His hands tightened around you.

There was a brief silence between you. Then his eyes swept over you, searching.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, and for once, there was no smugness in his voice at all.

You swallowed, trying to catch your breath. “I… I don’t think so.”

His jaw flexed. His gaze flicked toward the alley behind you, and something dangerous sharpened in his expression, but when he looked back at you, the edge of his voice had gone quieter, rougher.

“What happened?”

You hesitated. “Someone grabbed me.”

The words changed him.

Not instantly. Sylus rarely reacted in a way anyone else could easily see. But you felt it in the way his hand tightened at your waist, in the way his breath caught just slightly before he forced it steady again.

He lowered his head for a moment, pressing his forehead lightly to your temple.

That tiny gesture nearly undid you.

“You should have called me sooner,” he said, and the softness in it made your throat tighten.

“I was going home,” you murmured. “I just wanted to get inside.”

Sylus stayed silent for a beat too long. Then, in a voice uncharacteristically quiet, he asked, “Did he touch you anywhere else?”

You shook your head.

And then you said it, still trembling, mind still frayed by what happened. The words just slipped out before you could stop them.

“I’m not yours to lose, Sylus.”

He went completely so still that it was frightening. For one suspended moment, there was nothing. Not a word, not a breath. Then his hands shifted, not letting go, never letting go, but changing in a way that made your pulse stumble.

One palm settled more firmly at your waist. The other rose to your cheek, thumb brushing once beneath your eye with devastating tenderness, as though he wanted to wipe away every trace of fear from your face.

When he spoke, his voice was low and uneven, the polished confidence stripped away just enough to reveal how deeply your words had hit him.

“You are right,” he said.

The answer made your chest tighten.

Sylus looked at you like you had struck something fragile in him by accident. Like your words had shaken him in a way he would rather die than admit to anyone else.

“You are not mine to lose,” he repeated softly.

His thumb still moved against your cheek, slow and absent-minded, but his eyes had gone darker.

“You are not an object,” he said, as if he needed to make that clear to both of you. “You are not something I own.”

His hand at your waist tightened, grounding you to him.

“But you are mine to love,” he added, voice roughening at the edges, “and I am not sorry for that. Even if we haven’t defined that thing between us yet.”

The words landed so tenderly they hurt.

You stared at him, shaken all over again, and Sylus’s expression softened just enough to make your heart ache. He leaned in, brushing his nose briefly against your forehead before pressing a slow kiss there, lingering as if the act itself could steady both of you.

When he pulled back, his red eyes were still fixed on you, still full of that same fierce, shaken devotion.

“If anything ever comes near you again,” he said quietly, “you call me immediately.”

His hand slid into your hair, gentle but possessive, anchoring you against him.

“And if you ever think you have to face something like that alone,” he continued, voice dropping lower, “I will remind you exactly how wrong you are.”

He held you a little closer, as if he could keep the world from touching you by force of will alone.

This time, when he spoke again, there was no sharpness left, only certainty.

“You are not mine to lose,” Sylus murmured. “You are mine to keep.”

Caleb

You were on a plane back to Linkon from your short vacation in Goldwood City. The cabin lights had dimmed slightly for landing, and through the window, you could already see the city glowing in the distance.

You pulled out your phone and quickly texted Caleb.

You: Landing soon. See you.

The reply came almost immediately.

Caleb: Got it. Already at the airport. Waiting.

A small smile tugged at your lips as you tucked your phone away and shifted in your seat. The flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom, instructing everyone to fasten their seatbelts. You checked yours one last time and tried to settle in, silently hoping the descent would be over quickly. Your ears always hurt during takeoff and landing, like the pressure was trying to pop your eardrums from the inside. You just wanted it over.

Then…

A deafening BANG.

The entire plane lurched violently.

Your head snapped toward the window just in time to see flames licking out from the engine, thick smoke trailing behind it. Your stomach dropped.

“Brace! Heads down!” a flight attendant shouted.

Your mind lagged behind your body. Your heart slammed against your ribs as you folded forward, hands over your head, just like they’d shown in the safety briefing you never paid attention to.

The aircraft hit the runway hard.

Not a smooth landing, a slam. The impact jolted through your entire body as the wheels screeched against the runway. The plane skidded forward, shuddering violently, metal groaning under stress. Your body snapped forward despite the seatbelt. Your forehead struck the seat in front of you with a dull crack. Pain burst across your vision. Before you could even process it, something heavy came crashing down on your right shoulder. The overhead compartment had burst open and someone’s carry-on slammed into you.

White-hot pain shot up your neck.

Your vision went black for a few seconds.

When awareness returned, it came in fragments.

Alarms blaring. People screaming. The sharp scent of burning fuel. You couldn’t think straight. Your head throbbed, your shoulder burned, and the world tilted at a nauseating angle. Passengers rushed past you, scrambling for the exits. You stayed frozen in your seat. Someone grabbed your arm, steady hands, firm but careful.

“Come on. Move.”

You didn’t recognize the voice. Your legs moved because you were guided, not because you told them to. You stumbled down the aisle, disoriented, barely aware of the emergency slide until you were pushed toward it.

Then you were falling.

Air rushed past you as you slid down, your shoulder screaming in protest.

Strong arms caught you at the bottom.

For a second, everything stilled.

Apples.

That familiar scent cut through the chaos like a lifeline.

You tried to look up, but your vision swam too much to make out his face.

“Colonel,” someone reported nearby, voice sharp and professional. “Evacuation complete. No fatalities.”

And then darkness swallowed you whole.

You woke to bright lights. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled your lungs. You tried to sit up. Your head spun violently, and a sharp pain pierced through your shoulder, forcing a groan from your throat.

“Don’t move.”

The voice was immediate.

“C-Caleb…?” you mumbled, squinting.

“Yes.” He stepped closer, his silhouette coming into focus. “Stay still.”

Everything after that blurred into examinations. Doctors, questions, lights in your eyes. Your injuries were explained to you. Mild concussion, heavy bruising.

Eventually, they left.

And Caleb stayed.

He stood by your bedside, arms crossed, jaw tight, the tension in him barely contained.

“A flock of birds struck the engine on approach,” he said flatly. “Engine failure.” His voice hardened. “They should have stabilized the descent better.”

You frowned weakly. “Caleb…”

“Amateurs,” he continued, venom slipping through. “They had a full empty runway and still hard landed. Sloppy.”

You let out a slow breath, already exhausted. He had been like this since you woke up. Tense, pacing, replaying the incident in his head like he could undo it.

“Caleb, the pilots did what they could,” you said quietly. “No one died. That’s what matters.”

“No,” he snapped.

The word cracked through the room.

“They didn’t,” he continued, voice low and dangerous. “You got hurt.”

Your patience snapped.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” His eyes locked onto you, sharp and unyielding. “What if it had been worse? What if I lost you?”

Something in your chest twisted, but irritation flared stronger.

“I’m not yours to lose,” you shot back, teeth gritted. Even if you’ve spent a lot of time together, you haven’t actually defined your relationship yet.

“You’re right,” Caleb said after a long, tense silence, his voice quiet in a way that was somehow worse than shouting. He stepped closer to your bed, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, close enough that his shadow fell over you like a shield.

“You’re not mine to lose,” he repeated, slower this time, his gaze fixed on yours with unsettling intensity. “But you’re mine.”

Your breath caught. Caleb’s jaw clenched once. He looked angry still, but underneath it was something far more dangerous, something raw and shaken and fiercely protective all at once.

“I don’t care if that sounds selfish,” he said, voice roughening at the edges. “I’ve spent too long learning how to hold on to what matters to me. And you…” He stopped, swallowed once, then looked at your shoulder as if the sight of even that small injury offended him personally. “You are what matters.”

His hand came up, hovering for a second before settling carefully against your uninjured side. But the possessiveness in the gesture was unmistakable. Anchoring. Claiming. Reassuring himself that you were still here.

“You don’t get to tell me to be less afraid for you,” he murmured. “Not after this. Not after I saw that plane falling with you on it.”

His thumb brushed once over your arm, almost absentmindedly.

“Next time you fly anywhere,” he said, low and absolute, “you tell me first. I will fly you there and back myself.”

That should have sounded like an overreaction. With Caleb, it sounded like a vow. He leaned down until his forehead rested against yours, his voice dropping. “I’m not asking because I want permission,” he said. “I’m telling you because I am not letting the world take you from me.”

Rafayel

Rafayel was busy attending one of his own exhibitions for a change. Though somehow, despite being surrounded by critics, patrons, and admirers, he still found time to bombard you with dramatic messages about how terribly abandoned he was.

Rafayel: You are so, so cruel. Rafayel: Left me here to suffer among vultures who don’t understand art. Rafayel: Thomas says I need to “socialize.” I think that qualifies as psychological torture.

You snorted softly and typed back:

You: Yeah, yeah. I’m cruel. But at least I’m on a luxury cruise while you’re stuck entertaining your admirers.

You sent the message and tucked your phone away with a smile.

Honestly, it felt nice to take a vacation for once. No work. No responsibilities. No chaos. Just the endless ocean stretching around you and the gentle sway of the ship beneath your feet.

If only you knew how quickly the ocean could change.

One moment the sea had been calm and glittering beneath the evening lights of the cruise ship. Waves rolled lazily against the hull while soft music drifted from the upper decks. The air smelled faintly of salt and expensive perfume, warm wind brushing against your skin as you leaned against the railing.

Then the wind shifted.

Cold.

Sharp.

Dark clouds swallowed the horizon at alarming speed, devouring the stars one by one. The cheerful chatter around you faltered. Somewhere nearby nervous laughter broke out as the ship groaned beneath your feet, the deck tilting almost imperceptibly.

Then lightning split the sky.

A deafening crack followed immediately after, thunder so violent it rattled through your bones.

The ocean no longer looked inviting.

It looked alive. Hungry.

Massive waves rose in the distance like moving mountains, their peaks frothing white beneath flashes of lightning. People started rushing inside.

The crew’s calm smiles had vanished completely.

“Please return to your cabins immediately…”

The announcement cut off abruptly as the ship lurched violently sideways.

Screams erupted around you.

You slammed into the railing hard enough to bruise, fingers scrambling desperately for purchase as freezing seawater crashed over the deck. Rain poured from the sky in thick, blinding sheets.

Another, bigger wave hit.

You barely had time to gasp before your feet left the ground entirely. Your hands slipped off the railing and the deck vanished beneath you.

Then the ocean swallowed you whole.

The cold was unbearable. It punched the breath from your lungs instantly as saltwater flooded your mouth and nose. Darkness churned around you violently alongside debris, shattered wood, luggage, broken glass. You couldn’t tell which direction was up anymore. Panic clawed through your chest as you kicked desperately, lungs already burning. When you finally broke the surface, you choked violently, dragging in ragged breaths while monstrous waves tossed you around like you weighed nothing at all.

The cruise ship already looked too far away. Somewhere in the darkness, people screamed. Then even that disappeared beneath the roar of the ocean.

Another wave crashed over your head, dragging you under again. Your limbs already felt heavy from the cold. Rain battered your face every time you surfaced, leaving you gasping and blind.

Then your hand hit something solid.

Wood.

You grabbed it instinctively. A broken piece of debris. Maybe part of the deck. Maybe shattered remains of a lifeboat. Barely large enough to keep you afloat, but enough. You clung to it desperately, nails digging into soaked wood as the current carried you farther and farther away from the wreck.

Away from the lights.

Away from the screams.

Away from everyone.

By the time the storm finally weakened, there was nothing around you except endless black water stretching in every direction beneath a clearing sky.

No ship.

No rescue boats.

No land.

Just you.

Alone.

Floating beneath cold, distant stars.

You didn’t know how long you drifted. Minutes? Hours? Your mind couldn’t tell anymore. The cold had sunk deep into your bones. Your fingers were numb. Every breath hurt.

And slowly, horrifyingly, the truth settled in.

You were going to die here.

Soon your arms would give out. Soon you wouldn’t have the strength to keep holding on. The ocean would pull you under, and no one would ever know where you disappeared to.

Maybe it was desperation.

Maybe delirium.

Maybe simply the final, irrational hope of someone who did not want to die.

But suddenly, through the haze clouding your thoughts, you remembered an old story. Before long voyages, a captain of a ship would offer a few drops of blood to the ocean, asking it for mercy. Asking it to spare the lives aboard and guide them safely home.

Your piece of wreckage was not a ship.

But maybe…

Maybe you could still count as its captain.

Worth a try, wasn’t it?

After all, you didn’t have anything left to lose.

Your trembling fingers fumbled weakly for the sharp edge of splintered wood jutting from the debris. You hissed softly as you pressed your palm to it, opening your skin just enough for blood to appear. Dark crimson dripped from your hand into the endless black water below.

Please.

The thought was barely coherent anymore.

Please let me go home.

Don’t claim my life.

Your blood vanished beneath the waves.

Somewhere back in Linkon, Rafayel was bored out of his mind, forced to mingle with patrons and admirers who seemed far more interested in his looks than his art. He smiled when he had to, said the right things when expected, and tried not to look as annoyed as he felt.

But every few minutes, his attention drifted back to his phone.

He kept checking for new texts from you.

Nothing.

Again and again, he unlocked the screen, expecting at least a single message, some teasing reply, anything. Instead, there was only silence. The longer it went on, the more irritated he became. Oh, he would absolutely guilt-trip you over this later. He would make you listen to every dramatic complaint, every wounded sigh, every accusation that you had abandoned him to suffer among people who did not appreciate him properly.

And yet somewhere at the back of his mind, unease began to settle. Because yes, he knew he could be a little much. He knew he was dramatic, clingy, and prone to exaggeration. But you never ignored his messages before. Not like this.

His smile thinned.

He checked his phone again. Still nothing. The patrons around him blurred into meaningless noise as a faint tension crept into his chest. It was annoying, irrational even, but he could not quite shake the feeling that something was off. Rafayel stared at the darkened screen for a moment longer, his fingers tightening around the phone.

And then everything changed.

He heard ocean waves, and the sound was getting louder. Rafayel even looked around, wondering whether the background music had been changed to the sound of the sea and whether something had happened to the volume. But no, everyone else seemed exactly the same, as though they had not heard the ocean growing louder with each passing second. Soon the roar of the waves drowned out every other sound. Rafayel felt as if he were running out of oxygen. His chest tightened painfully. Barely acknowledging the people around him, he excused himself and slipped away through the back exit, hoping the fresh air would help.

It did not. The ocean kept roaring in his ears. But now it sounded… like begging. Like the ocean was trying to tell him something. Blood.

Suddenly he tasted seawater and blood in his mouth. And at that moment something powerful and ancient began rising from somewhere deep inside him. Something he usually tried to hold back. Something that now was tearing its way to freedom, drawn by blood and ancient ritual, long forgotten by the people.

Without thinking, Rafayel ran. Towards the ocean, that kept calling its god. Towards you, who unknowingly invoked something that would change your relationship forever.

By the time Rafayel reached the shoreline, he was breathing hard, his usually blue-pink eyes glowing deep blue beneath the moonlight. The waves crashed violently against the shore as though the ocean itself had become restless waiting for him.

For a brief moment, Rafayel just stood there, breathless. Then scales shimmered across his skin, glowing markings bloomed on his body as he stepped into the water. And the ocean recognized him instantly, welcoming him home.

You asked the sea for mercy. And the Sea God answered your prayer.

You were floating in the ocean, barely able to hold on to the piece of wood beneath you. Your vision was blurring, consciousness slipping away little by little. Then your fingers grew too weak to keep their grip on the soaked, cold wood, and they slipped. Fear flared through your mind. But your body was too heavy, too cold, too exhausted to react as you slowly sank toward the dark water below and the horrifying, painful death that waited there.

Before you could fully go under, before the waves could close over your head, strong arms wrapped around you and pulled you up, keeping your upper body above the water. You squinted, trying to make out your savior, but your vision refused to cooperate. All you could see were glowing deep blue eyes.

“Idiot,” you heard a familiar voice, though you could not remember who it belonged to.

Then you felt yourself pressed against something warm. You clung to that heat, your consciousness slipping further away. The last thing you remembered was the feel of warm lips against yours as you were pulled fully into the water.

When you opened your eyes again, you were lying in a hospital bed, the soft hum of medical equipment filling the room.

Slowly, carefully, you turned your head. Rafayel was sitting quietly beside your bed, sketching something in his sketchbook.  As if feeling your gaze, he raised his head and stared at you. Then he slowly stood up and walked toward your bed. Uncharacteristically quiet, he reached out and gently brushed the locks of hair away from your forehead. Then he leaned down and pressed his forehead against yours.

“I could’ve lost you,” he murmured quietly.

“I’m not yours to lose,” you croaked, your voice hoarse. Internally you were bracing yourself for the dramatic meltdown of an offended artist, but to your surprise Rafayel just smiled and straightened, ignoring your words.

“Here.” He reached for the glass of water and helped you drink it.

Then he got up and walked toward the door. You looked at him, trying to place his reaction. That was not the Rafayel you knew. Not the one who would have thrown himself dramatically across your hospital bed and demanded twenty apologies and endless affection.

“I’m not yours to lose,” you repeated, surprising even yourself.

Quietly, so quietly that you could barely make out the words, Rafayel muttered under his breath, “Then you shouldn’t have bound yourself to me.”

“What was that?” you asked, looking at him suspiciously.

“Nothing. I’ll go tell the doctors that you’re awake.”

You watched suspiciously as Rafayel exited your room. But you did not see the small smile on his face. Your words had already lost their meaning. Because the second your blood spilled into the ocean, a god had accepted your offering. And now he will not let go.

Zayne

After a hard day at work, you decided to treat yourself to something sweet. You went into the nearest café and ordered a milkshake and a dessert topped with fresh strawberries.

You dug in the second the sweet treat was placed on your table.

As you chewed on a strawberry, enjoying the sweet juicy burst, a feeling that something was wrong crept up your spine. You swallowed, than paused, the sensation turning strange. An odd tingling spreading across your mouth. You cleared your throat and washed it down with a big gulp of milkshake.

But it didn’t go away.

As you kept eating, the tingling only worsened. The back of your throat and the roof of your mouth began to itch. You tried to swallow, but it became difficult, as if your throat were filling with wet cotton.

Dread settled in.

You pushed the plate away, but it was already too late. Your breath hitched, then broke into a violent cough. Your hands flew to your throat, nails scraping at your skin as you tried desperately to draw air in.

The sounds around you became muffled, distant. Your vision narrowed. Your legs felt like jelly. You reached for the table to steady yourself, but your grip slipped as you began sliding down the chair.

I can’t breathe!

One final panicked thought shot through your mind before everything went black.

You woke with a gasp, instantly disoriented. Panic flared as you jerked upright, only for pain to pierce through your arm. You winced, letting out a small, involuntary whimper as you looked down. A needle sat in your arm, attached to an IV drip. Blood had pooled slightly around the insertion point.  Nausea hit instantly.

“Careful.”

A familiar voice cut through the haze. Hands entered your line of sight, steady and precise, adjusting the IV before you could pull away. Your head snapped aside immediately, unable to watch.

Zayne was beside your bed.

Calm. Composed. Focused.

When he finished, he looked at you with an unreadable expression.

“Wh… what happened?” you asked quietly.

“Severe allergic reaction to strawberries,” he said flatly. “You went into anaphylactic shock. Paramedics arrived just in time.”

You swallowed, carefully easing back against the pillows, exhaustion settling into your bones like lead. There was a lingering fear. Your own body had nearly killed you over something so small.

“I’ve never had an allergy before,” you mumbled.

“Wrong.”

Zayne’s voice sharpened slightly.

“It is documented in your medical file that you had an allergic reaction in childhood.”

“It was minor,” you tried to argue weakly. “And it never happened again. I thought it was a mistake.”

Zayne exhaled through his nose and rubbed the bridge of his glasses.

“It still happened. Allergies, however minor, must be taken seriously. You could have died.”

His gaze flicked to you.

“And I could have lost you.”

The words landed heavily and something in you bristled at that. The words escaped your mouth before they registered in your mind.

“I’m not yours to lose.”

The air in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

Zayne looked at you for a long moment. Then he adjusted his glasses slowly.

“You are my patient,” he said evenly. “And I would prefer you remain alive rather than arrive in my care in critical condition.”

He turned without another word and left the room. The door closed softly behind him.

Zayne walked down the corridor in silence until he reached his office. Then he stopped and exhaled. He loosened his tie slightly, removed his glasses, and sat down at his desk, but he didn’t open the file waiting there.

Instead, he pressed his elbows to the surface and held his head in his hands.

Of course you weren’t his.

He knew that. He had always known that whatever this was, whatever fragile, undefined thing had been building between you, had no name yet. Neither of you had the courage to address it. Something more than friendship.

The temperature in the room began to drop. The glass on his desk fogged at the edges. Papers stiffened as frost crept along their corners. The faint hum of the air system deepened as ice began forming along the vents.

Zayne didn’t notice.

A thin layer of frost spread outward from him, covering everything in ice. It crawled in delicate branching patterns up the furniture. Ice began growing from the ceiling; all plants now were locked in an ice prison. Ice crystals were growing all around him.

 “Dr. Zayne.”

A hand grabbed his shoulder.

Greyson.

Zayne blinked once, slowly lifting his head.

“What happened here?” Greyson asked carefully.

Zayne stared at the frozen mess for a long moment. He didn’t even notice when his Evol started to act up.

“I was… thinking.”

Greyson’s eyes flicked to the ice covering the room.

“Well,” he said, far too amused, “at least the transplant wing will be thrilled. They have a big amount of unmelting ice now.”

Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling a headache creeping in.

And somewhere beneath the exhaustion, beneath the cold still clinging to his skin, one thought remained stubbornly intact. You were alive.

Xavier

You ran faster than you ever had in your life. Your lungs burned. Your legs ached so badly it felt like they might give out beneath you at any moment, and your vision had already begun to blur at the edges. You barely knew where you were going anymore. You only knew one thing.

You could not stop.

You must not stop.

Because you were not running for your own life. You were running to save the children you had left behind.

It had started as an ordinary day. Just a simple, normal day.

Then the defense systems failed.

Metaflux fluctuations spiked. Wanderers appeared. Panic spread almost instantly, and in the confusion, you had found yourself in a local park with a group of children and nowhere to hide. There had only been one Wanderer in the area, but that had still been one too many. There had been nowhere to hide. No shelter. No time.

So you made a choice.

And now you were running.

You could hear it behind you, the heavy predatory sound of pursuit, the ground shaking under each terrible step. You knew you could not outrun it forever. You had no training. No Evol. No chance, really. Small, ordinary you against something made to kill.

You just needed to keep it away from the children for as long as possible.

Your breaths came out ragged, uneven. Your chest ached like it was being crushed from the inside. Every muscle in your body protested, threatening to give out.

You were slowing down.

You knew it.

And so did it.

The sound behind you grew louder.

Closer.

You didn’t even realize what you had tripped on before your body hit the ground hard. Pain exploded through your knees and palms as skin scraped against rough pavement. The impact knocked the air from your lungs. You barely had time to roll before the creature behind you let out a roar and lunged forward.

A small, broken sound slipped from your throat. Not quite a sob. Not quite a scream. Something in between. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t need to.

You knew.

This was it.

You had already accepted your fate the moment you started running. There had never really been a way out, had there?

Your only regret was that you had not been brave enough to tell Xavier…

A blinding flash of light tore through your vision. The roar cut off mid-sound and something heavy slammed into the ground with a force that shook the air.

Silence followed. Your ears rang. You blinked against the brightness, stunned, dazed, your whole body shaking. Then the light faded and you turned your head.

Your breath caught.

Xavier stood there. His usually calm, almost distant composure was gone. His hair was slightly disheveled, his breathing uneven. And his eyes. His eyes looked almost black. The blue you knew so well had been swallowed whole by something stormy and wild, something so intense it made your chest tighten.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then Xavier took one step toward you. And another. And then whatever had been holding him upright seemed to fail. He dropped to his knees directly in front of you, not gracefully, not carefully, but as if the strength had gone out of him the second he saw you on the ground. His forehead came to rest against your shoulder.

Your breath caught. He did not say your name. He did not ask if you were hurt. He simply stayed there, motionless, like he had been bracing himself for a different ending and had not yet recovered from finding you alive.

Your hands hovered for a second before instinct took over. You wrapped your arms around him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his clothes, holding on.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. The silence felt strange, thick with everything he was not saying. Your heart was still pounding from the chase, from the fear, from the shock of seeing him arrive in time. Then, quietly, his voice broke the silence.

“I could’ve lost you.”

The words were barely more than a whisper, rough and unsteady in a way you had never heard from him before. Something twisted in your chest. Maybe it was the adrenaline still flooding your veins. Maybe it was the lingering fear, the exhaustion, the confusion that always came with him, his distance, his silence, the way you could never quite tell what you meant to him.

“I’m not yours to lose.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you felt it. The shift. Xavier went completely still. Like something inside him had completely stopped. Your breath hitched. Slowly, so slowly it almost hurt to watch, he lifted his head from your shoulder. His hands, which had been gripping your clothes, loosened. Not letting go, but no longer holding on as tightly. He didn’t move away, but something had changed. And for a second, you wished he had shouted. Anything would have been easier than this.

Because there was no anger in his expression. Just something… hollow.

“I see.”

The words were soft. Too soft. Xavier looked at you like he was trying to understand something fundamental, something important. Like he had just been handed a truth he didn’t know how to hold.

“I didn’t mean…” you started, but your voice faltered under the weight of his gaze.

“You’re right,” he said quietly, cutting you off.

That was worse. So much worse. Because he wasn’t arguing. He wasn’t pushing back. He was accepting it.

“You’re not mine,” he continued, his tone calm, almost clinical, but his eyes betrayed him. There was something fractured there. Something struggling to stay contained. “I don’t have any claim over you.”

Your chest tightened painfully. That wasn’t what you meant.

“Xavier…”

“But I almost watched you die.” He exhaled slowly, like he was forcing himself to stay composed.

“I felt it,” he continued, quieter now. “Fear. The moment I realized you were in danger.” His fingers curled slightly against his knee. “And I was too far.”

Your throat went dry.

“I got here as fast as I could,” he said. “And it still almost wasn’t enough.”

Silence stretched between you.

“Do you know what that feels like?” His gaze didn’t leave yours.

“It’s not about ownership,” he said. “It’s not about whether you’re ‘mine.’”

His voice faltered just for a second.

“It’s about… knowing that there is someone in this world whose absence would...” He stopped and swallowed. Then tried again.

“…would leave nothing behind worth staying for.”

Your heart stuttered.

“That’s what I meant,” he finished quietly. “When I said I could’ve lost you.”

You hadn’t expected him to sound like this.

Xavier closed his eyes briefly, like he was gathering himself, pulling all of that emotion back under control where it belonged. When he opened them again, the storm was still there, but quieter now. Contained.

“I won’t say it again,” he said, almost gently. “If it makes you uncomfortable.”

That hurt more than it should have.

He finally pulled back just slightly, enough to give you space, but not enough to truly distance himself. Not enough to let you go completely.

“But don’t mistake what I feel,” he added, voice low. “For something as simple as possession.”

His hand lifted, hesitating for just a moment before it settled carefully against your arm. Not gripping. Not trapping. Just there, grounding.

“I don’t need you to be mine,” he said softly.

A pause.

“I just need you to stay alive.” And somehow, that felt far more intense than anything else he could have said.

He was supposed to return from a mission today. One of the many that took him away. It had been a week since Xavier had left for the mission. A week of quiet apartment nights, of imagining the precise moment he’d return, of pacing around the small space like a nervous conductor waiting for the orchestra to begin.

You set out his favorite dishes, meticulously prepared: slow-roasted pork with a glaze of honey and soy, seared steaks with garlic butter, a delicate tray of fried appetizers, and bread fresh from the oven. You had even arranged a small dessert table—dark chocolate truffles and a pie you had baked yourself, slightly burnt at the edges, but still perfect in your eyes.

The gifts were lined up on the low table by the couch. There was the old Game Boy you’d found at an auction online with cartridges of games you know he would love. and alongside it, you’d created two custom consoles—one for each of you, with personalized skins and engraved initials. You remembered how he had once teased you for being “ridiculous with gifts,” and you smiled, knowing how much he liked them.

Every surface in the apartment bore evidence of your effort. The coffee table was cleared to make room for snacks, candles flickered in strategic corners, and a playlist of songs you knew he liked hummed softly in the background. You even left the lights dim, imagining him stepping through the door to find the whole place transformed into a small, cozy sanctuary just for the two of you.

The clock ticked louder than usual. Every creak in the apartment made your heart leap. You checked the door—again. The key in your hand felt heavier by the second, as though it carried all your anticipation. Maybe he’d teleport in. Maybe he’d just turn the knob, smile at you, and sigh that quiet, boyish “I’m here” that made your chest flutter.

And you waited.

You glanced at the clock for the hundredth time, checking the minute hand like it could somehow speed things along. The apartment smelled like home—or at least your version of it. Minutes stretched into hours.

At first, it was excitement. You paced lightly, smoothing out the wrinkles on the tablecloth, adjusting a stack of napkins, straightening the Game Boy next to the custom console. Then it shifted—slowly, imperceptibly—to anxiousness. The apartment suddenly felt too large, the silence too loud. Every creak of the floorboards, every faint thump from the city outside, made you startle. Had something happened on the mission? Was he… hurt? You knew it was normal for him to be MIA. And yet… you had hoped, for today, he might break the pattern, just for this one night.

Your hands trembled slightly as you picked up your phone.

You tried to shake off the thought and called him.

No answer.

You tried again, slower this time, your thumb hovering over the call button as if hesitation could change the result. Still, silence.

Panic began to prick at the edges of your composure.

You reached for your phone with a shaky hand. His line went straight to voicemail. Twice. Three times. Your stomach twisted.

You sighed, trying to force calm into your voice, and called Jeremiah. The line clicked alive, and his familiar, grounding presence filled your ears almost immediately.

“Hey,”

“Hey, Jeremiah...? Have you heard from Xavier?”

“Not really…Everything okay?”

You exhaled shakily, biting your lip. “I… I just wanted to check if Xavier got back. I…I…”

“What’s wrong? You sound tense…”

You took another shaky breath, the tension of hours finally spilling out. “I… I set everything up. Food, gifts… the apartment. And he’s not here. I can’t reach him.”

“Hey, hey,” Jeremiah soothed, as if he could hear the storm raging in your chest. “Okay, slow down. Maybe he’s just running late. You’re safe at home, right?”

“Yes…” you muttered, your hands gripping the edge of the counter. “I… I cooked his favorite meals. I set up the Game Boy and the consoles… I just wanted to surprise him…”

“Sounds like someone’s been waiting too long,” Jeremiah hummed softly. “He’s probably fine. Missions get complicated, you know that. Don’t let your mind spiral. But hey… maybe you could come over here for a cup of tea. Calm your nerves a little? It’ll be okay.”

You hesitated, your thumb hovering over the screen. Then, reluctantly, you nodded to yourself. “Okay… maybe I should.”

“Yeah,” Jeremiah agreed. “I’ll make some tea, you can sit, breathe. It’ll be fine. He’s Xavier. He’s… thorough, but he’ll be back. I’ll make sure you’re settled, and maybe we can try reaching him together.”

You hesitated, glancing around the apartment. The sight of the carefully arranged candles, the plates laid out with precision, the little console you’d set up—all of it made your chest ache. “Yeah… maybe I need that,” you admitted.

Jeremiah’s laugh was warm. “I’ll make it worth your while. And we can give him a hard time together.”

You moved through the apartment with shaky hands, extinguishing the candles one by one. The soft golden flames flickered in protest before dying out, leaving the room dim and quiet, the shadows retreating to the corners. The last thing you wanted was to cause a fire in his apartment. The quiet of the apartment, the scent of roasted meat and chocolate lingering in the air, had shifted from comforting to suffocating. Every minute without him felt like the walls themselves were closing in.

You began packing some of the food into a tote, neatly packing the containers. It was the least you could do for troubling Jeremiah with your anxious overthinking, your panicked call and now your company. A part of you felt guilty for burdening anyone, even him. You arranged the dishes carefully, the heavy aroma of garlic, honey, and roasting meat clinging to the containers.

You added a folded cloth napkin on top and then, almost unconsciously, slid Xavier’s keys into the bag.

Standing in the center of the apartment, you exhaled slowly. Every part of you—the worry, the anger, the quiet ache of disappointment—was coiled tight in your chest. Finally, trembling fingers hovered over your phone. You pressed Xavier’s number.

Your heart thudded violently as it rang.

“Hello?”

The voice that answered was low, husky with sleep, and it made your chest unclench slightly despite yourself. That soft, almost-boyish tone had always been a balm for your nerves. Relief and worry tangled together, knotting in your stomach.

“Xavier,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady, “where are you?”

For a moment, there was silence, save for faint sounds behind him. Then a soft, familiar voice cut through.

“…Where do you want to eat tonight?”

Lina.

Your stomach dropped. Your heart skipped, a harsh, twisting ache settling in your chest.

“Uh—okay, hold on, I am on a call…” Xavier murmured, more focused now, his voice steadying, prioritizing your line.

You swallowed hard, trying not to let the sharp sting of jealousy and hurt overwhelm you. But every word, every small movement in the background made your chest tighten.

“Xavier,” you whispered, trying to anchor yourself, “I… I need to know. Where are you?”

“Uh… I’m just checking out of the hotel after my mission.” he murmured, still sleepy.

Your mind raced. Mission complete? Already? Your fingers clutched the phone as the blood drained from your face. “When… when did the mission complete?” you asked, voice breaking even as you tried to hold yourself together.

“Last night…” he started, and you didn’t let him finish. Your mind had already made the leap. He hadn’t come home. He hadn’t come to you. Instead, he had stayed out, celebrating with someone else—or at least being near her. Your mind filled in the silence with everything you feared. The careful, meticulous plans, the hours spent waiting, the meals, the gifts—all of it rendered irrelevant by the simple fact that he hadn’t come home.

“It’s… it’s our anniversary today,” you choked, your voice raw and tight. “I was waiting for you… worried about you… and now you’re not even here.”

“—I—”

“No!” you snapped, cutting him off. Anger and hurt crashed over you in a wave. “I don’t want to hear you out. Your mission was over yesterday…”

There was a pause on the line, longer than usual, filled with a heaviness that made your chest ache.

“I… I’m sorry. I’m on my wa—”

“Don’t,” you interrupted sharply, the hurt finally lashing outward in words. “Don’t even bother. Just… don’t bother coming here.”

And before he could say another word, before he could explain, apologize again, before the world could shift back even slightly, you hung up.

The phone felt heavy in your hand, like a stone carved from disappointment and betrayal. You stormed out of the apartment, shoving your tote over your shoulder. The elevator descended slowly, each ding echoing like a drumbeat in your chest.

Lina. The name sent a sharp twist of jealousy and worry through you. You had heard things, fragments of stories Xavier had never fully explained: he wasn’t from Earth, not entirely, and in his past, there were threads of connection between him and Lina, a different Lina. Now, she was the Deepspace hunter who had always seemed… somehow entangled in Xavier’s life. The connection he and Lina had, something neither of them fully acknowledged, at least not in this life. But it was enough. Just enough to let the insecurity fester, to make your chest ache with the unfairness of it.

He had gone on this mission and had been gone so often. You knew Xavier’s world was complicated, dangerous, full of rules you didn’t understand. But the thought that he might have chosen to spend even a fragment of his time with her on a day like this, even in some harmless way, made your stomach twist. And still… still, you loved him. You loved him enough that it hurt to imagine him elsewhere while you had been waiting, heartsick and full of hope.

The streets were alive, neon flickering against the damp asphalt. You didn’t slow. You didn’t pause to consider where you were walking. The subway station was crowded, but your movements were frantic, almost reckless. The train roared into the station, metal screeching against rails. You shoved yourself into a car just as the doors slid shut. Your chest ached, and every minute that passed without Xavier’s presence felt like a shard in your ribs.

At first, the ride was uneventful. You gripped the tote tightly, trying to quiet your shaking hands. But then the train lurched violently. The lights flickered, and a siren blared. “Metaflux anomaly detected,” a mechanical voice announced, flat and unnerving. “Security measures activated.”

Your breath hitched.

A ripple of panic moved through the car. Sparks shot from overhead panels, and the sudden vibration made you stumble against a railing. Then, through the flashing red lights, figures appeared. Wanderers. Your heart slammed in your chest. You weren’t a hunter. You weren’t prepared. The doors screamed as someone—or something—thrashed against them. Glass cracked under impact.

You ducked instinctively, clutching the tote to your chest as a Wanderer lunged at another passenger, knocking them into the metal frame. Your breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. Panic threatened to overwhelm you entirely. The anger and heartbreak from Xavier’s absence turned into pure, raw terror.

You tried to call out, tried to move, but the crowd surged around you. Every step felt like a lifetime, every sound a metallic echo in your panicked mind. Sparks rained from the ceiling, acrid smoke burned your throat, and somewhere in the chaos, a piece of your tote ripped. The containers inside crashed to the floor, smashing open.

Your fingers clenched, your nails digging into the strap, trying to hold onto something familiar. You weren’t sure if it was hope or just stubborn survival instinct, but you weren’t letting go.

The train jolted again, violently this time, sending you sprawling against the shoulder of a stranger. The car shuddered and groaned like it might tear itself apart, and the crowd around you began to panic, pressed together in a mass of limbs and muffled screams. You tried to steady yourself, tried to take a breath, but the space was impossibly tight. People shoved past each other, bodies colliding, and your chest felt as if it were being compressed by a vise. Panic clawed at your chest. You couldn’t breathe. The press of bodies around you was suffocating.

A man fell in front of you, tripping over the scattered debris, and you stumbled with him. The crowd didn’t stop. Feet crushed against your shoes, your ankles twisting. You caught yourself against the wall, gasping, but another surge of people slammed against you. You were pushed to the floor, crawling on hands and knees, the metal of the train biting into your palms.

Your chest tightened so fiercely it hurt to inhale. The air smelled of fuel and burnt metal, sweat and panic mixing in a nauseating haze. Your head spun, the world tilting. You felt yourself slipping into that dizzying, detached sensation—where panic numbs the body just enough to make you aware of every ache, every cut, every scrape, and yet you can’t move fast enough to save yourself.

Your phone, wedged against your tote, skidded across the floor. A boot came down on it. The screen cracked, jagged lines spiderwebbing across the glass. Your fingers shot out to catch it—but someone’s heel landed on your hand instead. Pain shot up your wrist, a hot, searing spike. You screamed, muffled by the pressing bodies, and tried again, reaching desperately for the broken phone.

And then it rang.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You froze, trembling, the chaotic noise around you fading into a singular focus. The phone you had been avoiding since leaving the apartment—the one call you didn’t want to take—was ringing now, its cracked screen lighting up with Xavier’s name.

Your hand throbbed where it had been stepped on, blood prickling along the skin, but your fingers curled around the phone anyway. You barely noticed the heat of the panic pressing against your lungs, barely noticed the chaos of bodies and sparks and smoke around you.

Somewhere in the haze, the mechanical voice’s warnings were drowned out by screams, shouts, the wet thud of bodies falling and scrambling over each other. Your vision blurred, the world tilting and spinning. The crowd surged once more, a tidal wave of panic and fear, and you were swept along in it, blanking out for a moment as the pressure crushed against your chest, making it impossible to think, impossible to breathe.

And still, the phone in your hand continued to ring. Xavier’s name, insistent, unrelenting.

XAVIER'S POV

Xavier gripped the edge of the passenger seat, the hum of the engine beneath him barely registering. Lina drove, her hands steady on the wheel, though her voice cut through the tense silence with relentless admonishment.

“You shouldn’t have ignored your injuries last night. You could’ve gone to a professional—really,” she scolded, eyes flicking toward him, concern layered under irritation. “Sleeping it off wasn’t going to fix anything, Xavier. And now you missed your anniversary—”

“Lina,” he cut her off softly, his voice clipped but calm, almost neutral, though the words vibrated with focus. “Not now.”

She raised an eyebrow, incredulous, but he didn’t care. His attention was elsewhere, directed entirely toward you. Lina’s voice faded into the haze of his focus. He needed to hear your voice.  Every word was a background hum to the tight coil of panic gnawing at his chest. You. Your face, your hands, the thought of you waiting, alone, angry, hurt. He had called again and again, each attempt going straight to voicemail.

“Of course, she isn’t picking up, she’s hurt and angry!” Lina stared at Xavier pointedly before focusing on the road.

He finally gave in, dialing Jeremiah. The line clicked, and then the familiar calm voice came through.

“Xavier, where the hell have you been?” Jeremiah’s tone was immediately sharp, worry threaded beneath the surface. “Your girlfriend was worried sick!”

“I’m on my way, I know. She’s mad at me…” Xavier said evenly, though his jaw tightened. “Check on her for me… please…”

Jeremiah’s voice faltered slightly, concern pressing against his words. “She was heading to Philo, my shop… tea to calm her nerves… She was so worried because you wouldn’t answer.”

Xavier’s teeth clenched audibly. She was on her way to Jeremiah? So, he could comfort her? Hell no. Not on his watch. “I’m on my way there. Don’t worry. Just… keep her there until I reach. Don’t… Don’t tell her I am coming…”

The car hummed as Lina continued to ramble how stupid Xavier was and that he should probably make it up to you, grovel or something.  Xavier tuned her out, still focused on calling you. The radio was like white noise to him. But Lina frowned as the RJ spoke about something.

“Xavier… Xavier...!” Lina’s voice cut in, tinged with irritation but laced with urgency. “Xavier, there’s a huge metaflux overload in the subway tunnels. Wanderers are swarming.”

His chest tightened, pulse spiking. “Which tunnel?”

“West Garden Station.”

“Book it. Now.”

“But—­”

“Now. Lina!”

Minutes later, Xavier materialized above the wrecked train, the air thick with the smell of fuel and burning metal. Below, chaos had erupted: hunters clashing with Wanderers, sparks flying from damaged conduits, the screech of metal-on-metal echoing in the tunnel.

Lina was already in the fray, moving with lethal precision, her figure darting from shadow to shadow. Xavier’s eyes scanned, the glow of his Evol barely contained behind his calm, neutral exterior. He hoped, prayed, that you weren’t here. That you hadn’t wandered into the chaos. Xavier teleported, his body shimmering into the chaos below. Sparks of energy lit the dim tunnels as Wanderers lunged at him, and he moved fluidly, almost unnaturally fast, disposing of threats with precise, lethal force.

He teleported from car to car, calling out your name, each step, each jump, calculated yet frantic. He dispatched Wanderers that got in his way. Every step, every impact he absorbed from stray Wanderers, every motion of his hands sending enemies sprawling—it all fed the panic twisting in his gut.

He tried calling you again. Voicemail. Nothing. His stomach twisted, clenched, a cold fire of desperation and fury coursing through him.

Then, from somewhere deeper in the car he currently was in, a faint vibration echoed against steel. Muffled, faint, almost imperceptible over the chaos. Xavier froze. His eyes narrowed, scanning.

A bloody hand. Wrapped around a phone with a hanging bunbun charm. His heart slammed into his ribs.

Your phone.

He moved instantly, teleporting across the few feet between him and the hand, his eyes wild as he brushed aside debris and knocked aside a Wanderer with a swift motion. His fingers pressed to your wrist. Pulse. Slow, but alive.

Relief clawed through him, thick and overwhelming, and he allowed himself a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Gently, reverently, he lifted you into his arms, cradling your injured body against his chest. Your weight was featherlight and heavy all at once, the reality of your survival crashing into him like waves.

“Shh… shh, I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice low, soft, every word imbued with the terror and love coiled in his chest. “It’s me. It’s okay. You’re safe now.” The weight of you pressed against him, and a part of him cursed himself for every second you’d been alone, every second he’d failed to be there.

The world narrowed to your breathing, your pulse, your presence. He teleported out of the subway car, each step a blur, each flicker of space bending as he carried you away from the chaos and into safety.

---------------------------

Time blurred.

Time stretched thin, almost elastic, as Xavier held your hand as you lay on the hospital bed. Every fiber of his being screamed with the knowledge that you had been alone in the chaos, exposed to danger he had failed to prevent. The mission had left him bruised, fatigued, and slightly battered—minor injuries he had stubbornly insisted on sleeping off rather than revealing to anyone, least of all you. He had not wanted to worry you. He had assumed that he could recover quietly, as he always did, and be present for you afterward.

But now you were here and he realized the magnitude of his miscalculation. His chest felt like it had been hollowed out and refilled with lead. Calm, neutral Xavier was gone; underneath, a storm raged. He had failed you. Failed to protect you, failed to share his burden, failed to honor an unspoken promise: that he would be there. And now, in the sterile white light of the hospital, with the distant hum of machines and antiseptic cutting the tension, the storm only intensified.

He shook his head slightly, trying to suppress the internal chaos. No. Not now. Focus. She’s alive. She’s here.

But every shallow breath you drew, every weak movement of your fingers as you stirred, shredded him a little more.

Your first whimper of pain, barely audible but sharp enough to pierce through the fog of his thoughts, yanked him upright. His head shot toward you instantly, eyes scanning your face for the source of discomfort.

“It’s okay,” he whispered immediately, voice low and soothing, a rare warmth threading through the calm neutrality he usually maintained. “You’re going to be okay.”

In his other hand, almost awkwardly, he held a small book—its worn cover titled Caregiving Basics, something he had snatched up earlier, frantic, thinking of the small ways he could support you even in this sterile, alien environment. His calm exterior cracked as he studied you, the way your breathing caught in small, fragile increments, the way your fingers twitched as if reaching for him without strength.

“Xavier…” your voice was weak, shaky, and laced with relief.

He leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “I’m here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” His thumb stroked lightly across your wrist, memorizing the warmth of your skin, grounding himself in the proof that you had survived the chaos.

He moved silently sitting on the edge next to you. Every movement was measured, slow, as though the gentlest touch could break you or him. His fingers brushed your hair from your damp forehead, smoothing it back with reverent care.

“I didn’t want to miss our anniversary… The mission ended and there were some… injuries I—I didn’t want to worry you,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I thought… I could sleep it off. I didn’t realize… I wasn’t thinking. I should have… I should have—” He exhaled sharply and paused, swallowing the weight of his guilt. “I am sorry... I know it means a little… but…”

You swallowed, feeling your own tension slip away as the fear and anger from the phone call earlier dissolved in the warmth of his presence. Sheepish, you whispered, “I… I shouldn’t have yelled at you…”

Xavier’s hand cupped your cheek gently. “Shh… your anger was valid, you didn’t know…” he murmured, tilting his head to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “You scared me.”

Your own voice cracked, a mixture of exhaustion and relief. “You scared me too when you didn’t answer… I thought…”

“I know,” he said, a hint of anguish threading through the neutral tone. “Jeremiah told me everything. You were worried. I… I can’t—” He trailed off, swallowing against the guilt coiling in his chest. “I am sorry. I am so so sorry.”

You exhaled shakily, guilt and relief mingling in the same breath. “I… I overreacted, I guess.”

He shook his head again, smiling faintly despite the tension in his chest. “No. You were worried about me, which is… normal. Which is… right.” He lowered himself carefully to lean against the headboard, despite the sterile sheets and the beep of monitors that reminded him of the reality of your vulnerability. “I wasn’t here for our anniversary… for the first one. And now… now you’re hurt. And I… I hate that I wasn’t here.”

You pressed closer. “How are you, though? You were hurt too…”

He gave a faint, boyish shrug, neutral expression masking the tremor beneath. “I’ll sleep it off,” he said lightly, though the tight set of his jaw betrayed the lingering pain. He shifted closer, nestling against your side, letting his warmth and weight settle around you despite knowing the nurse might scold him later for sleeping next to you.

His arms wrapped around you, careful yet possessive, a steady anchor in the haze of your exhaustion and fear. His voice softened as he murmured against your hair, “Next time you’re mad at me… you take it out on the giant bunbun plush, Okay? He can handle it... Don’t… don’t hold it in. Don’t… take it out on yourself.”

You let out a weak laugh “I… Okay.” You exhaled slowly, letting the tension leave your body in tiny, shuddering breaths. The anger, the fear, the jealousy, the heartbreak—all melted into the quiet of the room, cocooned by his presence.

Xavier buried his face against your hair, holding you. “I am sorry… I’ll do better… for you…for us...” He would make up for this. He would never let you feel unsafe again. And for now… that promise, unspoken but understood, hung between you in the quiet hospital room.

You murmured, almost half-asleep, “Xavier…”

“Shh... sleep… I am here.”

And for now, as your breathing slowed, mingling with his calm presence. Neither of you spoke for a long moment, the weight of fear, guilt, relief, and love pressing in layers. And as Xavier tightened his hold just slightly, whispering, “I love you… and I won’t let go,” And for the first time since the chaos, you let yourself sink into him, into the warmth, into the quiet promise that the world could tear itself apart, but he would always find you.

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Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus Version | Caleb Version

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