#Operation Tempest

[themattress]

The legacy of Operation Tempest lives on!

[ask-missparker]

—Mockingbird -> Looking Too Closely

- In the universes where she never got her powers and needed to do something to make herself stronger, she didn’t just become The Tempest…but underwent her mentorship of aunt Bobbi Morse—Mockingbird…

-> Amelia ‘Mia’ Morse (Parker)

~~

Instead of facing up to the bad she seen—the betrayal, heartbreak and humiliation—she ran away from them and drowned herself in other water. Drinking, driving and other activities to avoid the storm she was experiencing.

~~~

She reached a point where she realized the booze and heat wasn’t enough. She wanted to do better and fight back, hurting the criminals in the city and fire growing to guard the flames, protecting people from harmful circumstances.

~~~~

And when Bobbi decided to step back for a while, she decided to take the plunge and start a new path.

She did not just being The Tempest.

Becoming a half-time student and working as Mockingbird now.

~~~

“You have a light inside of you, similar to your aunt and a ranging nature that I always had..but at the end of the day, just be yourself.” Arron replied holding her in place.

~~~~~

“If you’re gonna stand there and tell me that I’m not strong enough or tough enough, then please don’t.” Mia added pausing in front of the punching bag.

~~~~~~~

“I was swinging around in the back and saw the spirt you have, this kindness—you use against your foes.” She said looking at Luna as she sat on the couch drinking a cold beer.

~~~~~~~~

Dressed in a skin tight suit and mask if needed on the field. However, black jeans, boots and a gray tight shirt while wearing her classic rings. That’s her go-to outfit of choice. Of course, her earrings and necklaces are a must.

~~~~

This toughness, kindness and compassion behind the facade she built upon her journey. A fierce sweetness and determination towards her loved ones no matters what the outcome.

~~~

“It doesn’t matter how many time you fall on the mat, it matters whether you get up.” Mia replies to Liane with an encouraging gentle smile.

~~~~~

“Sometimes you have to learn to control that anger and suspicion towards a certain point…instead surrender to letting others helping you or them taking the lead…weather you like it or not.” She says to Rick during a group conversation.

~~~

“Look, baby, you convinced yourself that everything you been through took away your humanity.” Mia said looking at Nikolai softly, “But I think because of humanity you made it through.”

Nikolai shook his head gently, “Love, not right now…I already feel bad about myself…”

“You wouldn’t have survived, much less come out the other end a good man, somebody who wants to do good…if you didn’t have a light inside of you.” She replied continuing her words kindly.

He paused hearing that as his expression softened. His light.

~~~~~

Research, weaponry and acrobatics. The basics, as she argues in using her smarts and voice before ever using her fists.

~~~~

When it comes down to it, her family and friends always come first. No matter the cost, she will try and make do with what she’s got to offer a better deal. As long as they’re okay at the end of the day, she’s fine.

~~~~~~~

She’s not afraid to admit when someone is better at something than her and more than willing to allow them to take the lead.

~~~~~

“I’m a hot mess..” She said looking at herself in the mirror.

~~~

Mia will make mistakes, misjudgments, misfires and other things along the way. So you can scream, yell at her and or fight the girl all you want—she will take it with a grain of salt.

Even manipulated into thinking she is making the right decision here.

But do note that she is kicking herself for it, even if it wasn’t her fault.

~~~

At the end of the day she will always be there.

~~

~~~

~~~~

Let me know what you think! Maybe our universe that she doesn’t have her powers or maybe she does? Your choice! 🫵

- @gcthvile @meiramel l l @aidanxsophxoxo @blueboirick @wizzzardofoz z z @finlayholmes @ethan-lensherr @elzabeth-stark k @marvelsfavoriteuncle @sci-fi-lexcon @ask-starrk @therealdaydreamstark @luna-d-marsh @rickb-chaos @the-x-ladiesofnyc @trulysummersprivate @missstrawbs2001 @purpleprincessonfyre

[admiringlove]

a tempest gilded in ruin - part two.

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

↬ summary: gojo satoru was a storm—reckless, untouchable, and wholly unwilling to be bound by duty. you, the viscount’s daughter, were everything he was not—poised, dutiful, the perfect noble. an arranged marriage should have been nothing more than a cold alliance, but nothing with gojo was ever simple. by day, you wage a quiet war of sharp words and tense silences. by night, you are drawn into a far more dangerous game. one of courtly intrigue, betrayal, and a conspiracy that could shatter all you know. for a while, you both pretend it’s only politics, only necessity. but gojo has never been one for rules, and when the line between duty and desire blurs, you’ll find that some battles aren’t meant to be won. they’re meant to be surrendered to.

↬ genre: jjk x regency era au; bridgerton au; arranged marriage au; drama; romance; angst and then fluff; slowburn basically; happy ending i promise but it takes angst to get there.

↬ warnings: nsfw; alcohol; mentions of pregnancy; mentions of fencing; corruption kink lowkey; mirror sex; carriage sex; p in v; oral (fem receiving); fingering; angsty !!!! etc

↬ word count: 25.5k.

↬ note: part two to my brain child. @gojover ily forever and always :3

↬ navigation: part one, jjk masterlist.

Present, Highgrove House.

It has been three days.

Three long, cloistered days since the masquerade at the Marquess Ieiri’s estate—the night when the chandeliers glimmered like stars and the music was so lovely it almost made you forget the weight of your own name. Since the ball ended in silence, in whispers, in scandal. Since the paper came.

You sit at your writing desk, spine straight, hands still, the air around you thick with the scent of lavender oil your mother insisted be applied to calm your nerves. As if perfume could unwrite disgrace. The window is open, but the curtains are drawn, and a breeze stirs the edges of the paper resting in front of you like a ghost just beginning to wake.

You haven’t touched it since that morning. Haven’t dared to. You’ve just been staring. Staring at the crisp, expensive print of the Quill, like it's something foreign, alien, capable of betraying you simply by existing. You remember how it was delivered. Silver tray, linen gloves, a footman with eyes politely turned down, even though you knew he'd already read it. Everyone had.

Your mother hasn’t spoken to you in full sentences since. Her disapproval is quiet now, but no less punishing. It lives in her eyes. It lives in the hallway, because you are not to go out of your room. It lives in the drawing room, where she receives no guests. Where she smiles thinly through closed windows when carriages pass by.

Shoko and Utahime came yesterday. Loyal, warm, loud-mouthed girls who still believed this could be mended. They brought flowers and lemon cake, but your mother turned them away after tea, with all the calm and cruelty of a hostess shooing away the stench of something rotten. “She is resting,” she said. “She’s not to be disturbed.”

But you were listening from the stairs. You wanted to be disturbed.

You are a pariah now. A woman no longer whispered about in curiosity, but in caution. The type of girl mothers point out at parties so their daughters know what not to do. And it’s not even because of what you did—it’s because of how it looked. Because you left the ballroom. Because he followed. Because no one else was there to confirm anything, and so everyone assumes everything.

The Duke of Six Eyes. And you. On a balcony. Alone.

You lower your gaze to the article again. It lies open on your desk like a patient on the operating table. You know every sentence. Every phrase. You know the rhythm and the scorn, the barely-concealed venom beneath the lace of polite language. The words had come easily. Too easily.

Let us hope wedding bells come before the ruin does.

That line alone had traveled faster than any carriage. Mothers had gasped. Fathers had frowned. Daughters had clutched their fans, eyes alight with hungry joy. Because it wasn’t about you, not really. Not to them. It was about what you represented: the unraveling of someone prettier, smarter, better. You, the girl who had once worn the season like a crown. And now here you were, being eaten alive by your own myth.

You press your palms to your thighs. Try to breathe. Try to pretend you hadn’t written it. That someone else had.

But that’s the cruelest part, isn’t it? Because you did. And no one knows.

You try to console yourself with the notion that, perhaps, this is the better outcome. That in the grand scheme of things—reputation tarnished, invitations rescinded, your mother pacing the drawing room like a woman betrayed by fate—at least no one suspects you’re the Phantom. No one could imagine that the girl locked inside her home, disgraced and discarded, had ever penned those biting words, that she had whispered scandal into the ears of the ton with the sharpness of a dagger dressed in velvet.

This is the lesser evil, you tell yourself. Over and over.

And yet, it still pricks. The silence. Gojo’s silence. His absence. Three days have passed, and not a single letter. Not a flower, not a raven, not a knock on the door. You don’t even know what you would say if he did come. Whether you’d scream at him or fall to pieces in his arms. Whether you’d admit that you kissed him and then wrote about it in the third person, hoping to save yourself by damning the memory.

Your mother watches you like she’s watching the slow ruin of a once-favored gown, threads pulled loose by foolish fingers. She doesn't shout. She doesn't need to. Her silence is a punishment sharper than words.

And the only one who tries—truly tries—is Yuji. He comes in with arms full of pastries from the corner bakery and jokes that don’t land, and makes exaggerated attempts to dance with the footman until you almost laugh. Almost. But even he doesn't know what to do with your grief. You see it in his eyes. In the way he holds your hand a second longer than needed, as if to say he wished he knew how to fix this.

But he doesn’t. No one does. Because they don’t know what you've done. They don’t know who you really are.

That evening, the silver glints dull beneath the candlelight as you reach for your water glass. But the dining room is oppressively quiet. It has been like this for the past few days—each meal a silent, calculated exercise in civility. The clink of forks against porcelain. The hesitant lifting of soup spoons. The sharp, faint scratch of your father’s knife slicing through roast.

And then your mother clears her throat.

It is not a gentle clearing, not a casual sound to free her voice—it is sharp, intentional, a prompt. A summoning. She looks at your father, a subtle incline of her head, a tightness in her jaw. He sets his cutlery down with just a little too much force, and clears his own throat in response. Yuji pauses with his bread halfway to his mouth. You look between them, your stomach a knot. You know something is coming.

“We are hosting a fête at Hyde Park,” your father says finally. His voice is careful, practiced. “This coming weekend.”

You blink, looking at him. He does not meet your eyes—his gaze already returned to his plate, as though what he has said is trivial, administrative.

You glance at your mother. “What about the Duke?” you ask slowly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“The Duke and your father had a verbal agreement,” she replies with clipped precision, each word knotted with cold disdain. “After this ridiculous scandal, we must salvage what we can.”

Your mouth parts, your brows knit. “That’s not fair,” you say, voice shaking slightly now. “You and I both know it. The ton won’t believe anything unless we make it feel true. There must be appearances, affection, connection. Not just obligations. If we make it look romantic—”

Your mother slams her glass onto the table. Not hard enough to break, but hard enough to make you jump.

“But it isn’t romantic, is it?” she spits. “It isn’t real. I raised you better than this. Better than to slip away with a man in the dark, to a balcony, with no chaperone. God knows what the two of you did there.”

“We spoke,” you hiss. “That’s all. He... he listened to me. Which is more than I can say for either of you.”

The silence after is electric. Yuji shifts slightly in his seat, uncomfortable. Your father says nothing. Your mother stares at you like she doesn’t recognize you. Her voice, when she speaks again, is laced with something curdled and sharp.

“How dare you speak to your mother like that?” she says, rising to her feet. Her hands are trembling against the tablecloth. “You go to your chambers this instant.”

You stand, slowly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. You place your fork and knife down on the plate, too carefully, almost shaking. The china shudders beneath the weight. You turn, leaving the room without another word, your heart pounding in your throat.

You take the stairs two at a time, not because you're in a hurry, but because you can’t trust yourself to walk with dignity. Your fists clench at your sides. Your eyes blur. You refuse to let the tears fall here—not where they can see. The door slams behind you harder than intended, echoing like a slap across a cheek. You glance back just once—Yuji’s eyes meet yours from down the hallway. Not your parents’.

Never your parents’.

And then the room is quiet. Too quiet. The only sound is your breath, shallow and uneven, and the faint echo of your shame.

You’ve been lying still for hours now. The curtains are half drawn, and the sky beyond your chamber window is starless—an inky, unbroken dark. You don’t cry. Not yet. Instead, you keep your gaze fixed on the linden tree outside, where the swing sways gently in the night wind. You think of everything and nothing. You think of the column you finished earlier: a benign, delicately worded piece about the upcoming fête, a light-hearted nod to a young gentleman’s garden proposal. You wrote it slowly, methodically, because it was easier to write about someone else’s happiness than to wonder why your own had been so quiet these past days.

Because he hadn’t written. He hadn’t come. Gojo Satoru, who made entire rooms feel too bright with his presence, had gone completely silent.

You try not to dwell on it. Because if you do, you will spiral. You will remember the way his breath caught when he said your name. The way his hands trembled just slightly when they touched your waist. The way he said goodbye without saying goodbye at all.

So you don’t think. You simply lie there.

Until the sound comes.

A sharp, sudden thunk against the glass. Not loud, but just wrong enough to set your whole body on edge. You sit up too quickly, a jolt of alarm running down your spine. And then it comes again, more urgent this time. You push the blankets aside and cross the room barefoot, your dressing gown whispering across the floor behind you.

You ease the window open, the old hinges creaking like something wounded. And there, in the yard, under the silhouette of the linden tree, you see him.

Satoru. The Duke. His white hair glints faintly in the moonlight, and he is standing just where the tree splits, beside the swing your father had once ordered strung up when you were six. You remember tugging at his sleeve and saying you wanted to fly. Now, all you feel is the dizzying weight of having fallen.

He looks up, and when he lifts his hand, something in your chest unknots.

You lean out, voice hoarse from disuse. “What are you doing here?”

“Did you not get my letters?” he calls, brows drawn together, voice tight with something frantic and raw. You freeze. “What letters?”

His jaw clenches, and then he exhales a breath of near disbelief. “Dear God, how cruel is the Viscountess?”

A pause. A beat. And then, "Can you come down?"

You don’t answer. You nod, once, and pull the window closed.

You move on instinct, quietly opening your chamber door and making your way down the corridor. The house is still. The air is heavy. You step softly, your bare feet silent on the stairs, your heart anything but. You don't bother with shoes. You don't bother with a shawl. The only thing that matters is getting outside. Getting to him.

When you emerge from the side door into the courtyard, the world feels unnaturally quiet. You pass the swing, still moving slightly, as though it had been disturbed only moments ago. He turns the second he sees you, and his entire posture softens. The tension in his shoulders vanishes. He looks like he’s been holding his breath since the night of the masquerade.

And then, his voice. Gentle, almost boyish in its tenderness. “Are you alright?”

You stop a foot away from him. His eyes flicker over your face, searching for something. An answer, a wound, a sign. But the wound is deeper than that. So is the answer.

“Do you want me to lie or tell you the truth?” you ask quietly, the words barely breaking the hush of night. You don’t wait for an answer as you walk toward the swing. It creaks faintly as you settle onto it, the ropes groaning against the branch overhead. You don’t look back to see if he follows. You assume he won’t. You expect him to stay standing, half in moonlight, half in shadow, because that’s where he belongs—half-truths, half-promises, always somewhere in between.

But then you feel the shift. A weight beside you. The warmth of him, close but not quite touching.

“I’d never want you to lie to me, darling,” he says softly. That word again. Darling. As though nothing between you has unraveled. As though you are still exactly what you were before the Phantom—you—wrote that damned line. Before the ton decided you were a ruined woman.

You keep your gaze fixed ahead. Past the swing. Past the tree. Past the soft swell of earth where the grass folds in on itself. You do not trust yourself to meet his eyes. You do not trust yourself to remember how to breathe if you do. But you glance anyway.

He’s already looking at you, as if he never stopped. His eyes are patient. Not pleading. Not angry. Just quietly, achingly, there. You exhale, unsteady. “I was terrified,” you whisper. The admission is small, but it tastes enormous.

He doesn’t flinch. “Understandably so,” he says, voice gentle, like something carried in cupped hands. “I sent you four letters the first day.” A pause. “When you didn’t reply, I sent five more the next. And three after that. I thought... perhaps your mother confiscated them in case the Phantom could find out.”

“Twelve letters?” you ask, your voice catching on a smile that wants to live but can’t quite find room in your chest. “In three days?”

He shrugs, the motion elegant and deliberately careless. “Call me smitten.”

“Are you?”

That stops him. Or maybe it unmoors him. You’re not sure which. He turns his body slightly toward you, not all the way, but enough that the side of his leg brushes yours, barely, like an afterthought. His lashes dip with the breeze, and for a moment, it’s just breath between you. Breath and silence and everything you haven’t said.

“Aren’t I?” he says finally, low, certain.

You swallow. The words hang in the air like condensation, like something half-solid. You look away again, the weight of it too much. “How did you get into the courtyard?” you ask, if only to say something.

He hums, brushing his shoulder against yours, an answer without force. “It’s not hard to bribe a footman,” he says, almost smiling. “Especially when you’re a Duke.”

There’s a beat. Then you speak again, without looking at him. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I did,” he says. “Because if you asked me again—‘Are you?’—I would still say it. Again and again. Aren’t I?”

And this time, when you meet his eyes, you don’t look away.

You purse your lips, fingers knotting loosely in the folds of your dressing gown. The words leave your mouth more bitter than you mean them to. “My parents are throwing a fête at Hyde Park this weekend. We have five more days of suffering until the ton shifts its feeble attention from my ruined reputation to my mother’s tireless heroism. Apparently, she's saving me from becoming a harlot.”

The air stills between you. The kind of silence that thickens before it breaks.

Satoru smiles faintly, more rue than warmth, and then exhales, slow and shallow. “And what am I to do at this fête to make them believe I’m hopelessly taken with you?” His voice is gentle, but there's a tension running under it. The kind that suggests he’s speaking past the question, asking something much deeper.

You glance at him, arching an eyebrow. “You're hopelessly taken with me?”

He flinches, barely, as if it wounds him. Feigns indignation a second later. “Darling,” he says, softly and steadily now, “a man wouldn’t write you twelve letters in three days, send flowers chosen for meanings he researched himself, or sneak into your courtyard under a watchful moon—during a scandal, no less—if he didn’t…”

He falters. Just long enough for the truth to slip past his guard. His voice softens again. “If he didn’t love you.”

You go still. The words hang there. Fragile and too large for the space they occupy. You blink once, slowly, trying to breathe through the tightness blooming in your chest. He doesn’t look away. His gaze holds steady, clear and unyielding.

“You...” You breathe, not quite able to finish the sentence. “You love me.”

There’s a half-second where something flickers in him, as if he hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud. He blinks, his lashes wet from the wind. And then he laughs. A dry, breathless thing. “I didn’t intend to say it like that. Quite anticlimactic, isn’t it?” His lips twitch into something resembling a smile, but it’s laced with nerves. “I imagine this is not what you pictured when you asked me for a proper courtship.”

You don’t speak. Not at first. You sit there, staring at him—at this man who is all contradictions, who carries titles and expectations and yet stumbles through love like a boy. And something inside you shifts, just slightly, just enough.

You reach out. Not with words, but with your hand, gentle against his sleeve. His eyes meet yours again, and this time, they’re wide with something vulnerable, something almost childlike.

“I didn’t want perfect,” you whisper. “Just honest.”

He watches you for a long moment before he speaks, his voice hushed with something brittle, like he’s afraid it will shatter the stillness between you. “I’m sorry,” he says, “for following you into the balcony that night.”

It’s said gently, but there’s an edge to it. Guilt tangled with longing, remorse tinged with hope. You turn to look at him, fully now, and for a beat, you don’t respond. You’re watching his profile, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitch as though unsure of what to do with themselves. As though he wants to reach for you, but won’t unless you allow it.

And then, finally, you smile. It blooms slowly. Tentative at first, then warm, then utterly full. “It’s no matter,” you whisper, your voice thick in your throat. “I wouldn’t have known what it felt like… to kiss the man I love if you hadn’t followed me onto that balcony.”

There’s a silence so sharp it almost hurts. It draws itself tight between you. His head turns, slowly. His eyes widen. Not dramatically, but just enough for you to see the shift. The full weight of your words lands on him like a sudden gust of wind, catching him off balance. And you see it clearly: the disbelief, the hope, the fear that he has misheard. That he’s allowed himself to believe too much.

He stares at you, his breath visibly trembling as it escapes him. “I hope you know,” he says finally, voice hoarse, like it’s caught in his throat, “I stopped breathing for a moment when you said that.”

You laugh, softly, but it’s not mocking. It’s trembling at the edges. “I hope you know,” you say, drawing your knees up to your chest, hands curled at your ankles, “I couldn’t breathe either. Not when you said it first.”

And then, the tension dissolves. Not all at once. Not like a string snapping, but slowly, like a pressure valve being loosened. Like the breath you’ve both been holding for far too long is finally allowed to exhale.

He leans forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours, the tips of his fingers brushing against your knee. There’s no rush to kiss, no sudden swell of music. Just the knowledge that something sacred has passed between you. It's irrevocable. It's something neither of you dares name again too quickly, as if saying it once was enough, and more than enough.

The next afternoon, Gunter's Tea Shop in Berkeley Square, London.

“The Phantom released the article about the Viscount's fête this morning,” Utahime says, her voice low and tightly clipped. “At least that wretched wench didn’t say anything outrageous about you this time.”

You press your lips together and dip your spoon delicately into the small glass dish of rose ice cream, letting the cool pink mound dissolve slowly against your tongue. You nod, pretending to mull over her words when in truth, you are thinking only of the ink that stained your fingers when you wrote those vile words about yourself—how it refused to come off in the morning, how your name looked so sharp and elegant in print.

Two tables away, your mother laughs too brightly with Shoko’s and Utahime’s mothers, a hand fluttering to her chest like a pale moth. They sit beneath the sage green awning, teacups in hand, surrounded by other women in shades of cream and lemon, and the occasional gentleman in fitted coats who glances over with a kind of casual, habitual curiosity. You are used to it—the way they look at you. Not with desire, not anymore, but with expectation. As if waiting for a performance to begin again.

“I still can’t believe she praised you so thoroughly at the start of the season and then... that. Out of nowhere,” Shoko says, swirling her tea idly as she watches you with eyes that miss nothing. “At this point, I almost want to know who she is. Just so I can send her horse dung. Or spill milk through her letterbox.”

You nearly choke on the ice cream. The spoon clangs gently against the glass, and both girls look up, though neither seems overly concerned. You recover fast enough to avoid suspicion. The laugh you offer is thin. “I don’t think I’d want to know anything about her. The less I know, the better.”

“How utterly boring,” Utahime murmurs, plucking a raspberry from her plate and inspecting it before placing it in her mouth. “I’d send her a dozen letters lined with the purest vitriol. Maybe lace them with perfume and powdered rage. She also mentioned that bit about me slipping in the ballroom and Nanami catching me.” Her gaze flicks to you, narrowed. “That was hardly newsworthy.”

Shoko sets down her teacup with a small, decisive clink. “Any word from the Duke?”

You straighten slightly. “Yes,” you say, voice light but careful. “He appeared in the courtyard last night. Bribed the footman. He’s sent twelve letters in the last three days.”

“Twelve?” Utahime repeats, eyebrows raised.

You nod once, ice cream melting untouched now. “My mother apparently intercepted them.”

Shoko’s smile is slight but sharp. “Your mother is slowly becoming just as cruel as the Phantom.”

You swallow hard, as if you do not understand what she does not mean. The dark little crease folded into her words like a pressed flower between pages. But you do understand. And worse: it makes sense. In that terrifying, private way that truths only you know often do.

You lean forward, elbows lightly touching the edge of the linen-covered table. Your voice drops into something more fragile, more deliberate, and both girls respond the way they always do—Shoko arching a brow with amusement barely disguised as detachment, Utahime still too earnest to pretend she isn’t hanging on your every breath.

“There is… one more thing.”

Their shoulders tilt inward. You close your eyes, just for a moment. It is not for dramatic effect—it is, rather, the only way you can steel yourself. Your breath catches in your throat like a ribbon being drawn tight.

“He said he loves me.”

The words are small, almost shy. But they land like an aria. Utahime gasps. Not shrill, not childish—but loud enough that three heads turn in unison. Your mother, resplendent in lavender silk, squints suspiciously in your direction. Shoko’s mother says something behind a teacup, and your mother forces a laugh. But the tightening at the corners of her mouth betrays her.

You shoot Utahime a withering look. Shoko, without glancing away from you, reaches beneath the table and delivers a sharp, practiced pinch.

Utahime’s mouth snaps shut. You exhale, a whisper escaping with the next revelation. “I said it back.”

For a moment, they both stare at you. Neither scoffing, neither doubting. Just quiet, giddy awe. As if they know the gravity of such a thing. As if they understand how rare it is to say it and mean it, to hear it and believe it.

Shoko leans back, amused. “You’ve grown into such a bold woman,” she says, mock-reverent, and lifts her teacup in a tiny, invisible toast. “'Hime, if you so much as squeak again, I will kick you hard enough to knock your stocking garters out of place.”

“I’m trying,” Utahime mutters through clenched teeth, reaching for her cake with something close to desperation. She stabs her fork into the raspberry cream and takes a resolute bite.

You laugh then—quiet, contained—but it feels real.

After half an hour, your mother begins her retreat, masked in the practiced grace of social obligation. She is making excuses artfully, to remove you from the crowd, from the warmth of laughter and companionship, from the subtle but undeniable attention you’ve begun to draw again. She murmurs something about needing to visit Hatchard’s—to collect your father’s volumes on parliamentary history, and, pointedly, to procure something poetic for you, as if that might remind you to behave like a girl worth writing sonnets about.

You smile at Shoko and Utahime. Not joyfully, not even convincingly, but enough to satisfy the performance of it, then bow your head politely to their mothers, whose eyes, you feel, have never quite left your figure.

Then you are in the carriage, and your mother’s voice, once syrupy and social, sharpens like a knife. “What were you doing in there?” she hisses, the words so bitter they practically blister. “Laughing? Gossiping? While I’m out here sewing together the scraps of your reputation?”

“We just talked,” you murmur, gaze fixed on the passing blur of shops and parasols outside. The glass is warm where the sun catches it. You imagine being anywhere but here. Your mother sighs, long and theatrical. And begins a tirade you’ve heard so many times the syllables barely register. Something about your fall from grace. Something about dignity and self-control. Something about how you were once the season’s prized possession, and now you are something dulled, tarnished, unworthy of the settings once offered to you.

But you are not listening. You are thinking of last night. Of the Duke. Of the wild, impossible thing he said with his hands still trembling and his breath uneven—I love you. And worse: how you said it back.

At Hatchard’s, she strides ahead, elegant and exacting, giving orders at the counter about your father’s precious editions. “Wait here,” she commands, not glancing back. You nod dutifully, already drifting away.

The shop is dimly lit toward the back, dust moats caught in the slant of early afternoon light. You move without thinking, fingers trailing across the worn spines—books of sermons, scandal, feminism, philosophy.

And then, a glint of silver. A figure that is lean, familiar, almost out of place among the cracked leather bindings. You freeze. And in that suspended breath between recognition and response, the quiet, heavy weight of anticipation settles into your bones.

“I had a footman stationed at the ice cream parlour while passing it en route to the palace this morning,” he says absently, eyes trailing the gilded spine of a Byron edition. “Saw you and the Viscountess by the window. Thought it wise to orchestrate a timely appearance. For her benefit, of course.”

You stifle a laugh, glance to your left and right to ensure no familiar eyes linger, and step closer. The air between you tightens—not scandalous, not improper, but something soft and secretive all the same. Your shoulders brush as the two of you face the towering mahogany shelves like confidants in quiet rebellion.

“One might say you’re an impertinent fellow of ill repute,” you murmur, turning your attention toward the philosophy section. Your fingers find a new bound Mary Wollstonecraft book—A Vindication of the Rights of Woman—and you lift it with care, your gaze lowered to its burgundy cover.

Behind you, he chuckles. “You’re alright?” he asks, voice gentler now. You nod, but it’s a brittle thing. “If you consider bearing witness to my mother’s theatrical lament on my fall from grace, how I was once a diamond of the season, and now I’m Icarus mid-plummet, then yes. Perfectly alright.”

“She’s rather fond of dramatics, isn’t she?” he says, turning to look at you fully now. His eyes flit to the book in your hands. “I never took you for a radical.”

“Everyone should be a radical, Your Grace,” you reply quietly, lifting your chin. “And if reading this makes me one, then I’m already behind on my studies.”

He smiles at that, something glinting in his expression. Half pride, half awe. “I see now why your mother despises when you act of your own volition.”

“And yet,” you say softly, “I’m still standing.”

A beat. And then: “I have a copy of all her writings. Wollstonecraft’s. If you’d like, I can send them over. Via footman, of course.”

You blink, startled by the offer. By how casually he makes it, as though sharing sacred texts were a simple thing. Your heart hitches. “You do?”

He nods, as if it costs him nothing to hand you entire revolutions.

And just when you are about to say yes, just when the softest edges of something warm begin to settle in your chest, you hear her voice.

“Your Grace.”

You turn, too fast. Eyes wide. Breath caught. Your mother appears from between the shelves like smoke rising from scorched silk—elegant, composed, but furious in the way only a woman with power over your life can be. Her eyes cut to Gojo with a diplomat’s charm, all surface and calculation. But when they land on you, the temperature drops. It is the kind of stare that sears beneath the skin.

“Viscountess.” Gojo inclines his head with just the right measure of politeness and ease. “I was merely informing your daughter that I’d be sending along a few books she seemed fond of. We appear to share taste in authors.”

You swallow hard. Too hard. The muscles in your throat tighten against the tension stretching in your chest. You feel yourself retreating inward while their voices float past you, muffled, distorted. Something about politics. Something about propriety. The sound of your own heartbeat begins to blur their words. You are still trying to breathe when Gojo’s shoulder brushes yours so gently it might have been imagined.

“I had something to ask of you, my lady,” he says then, and though he looks at you for a breath of a second, it is your mother he addresses. His voice is calm, almost careless. He is playing a long game, you realise.

“Yes, anything,” your mother replies, sweet as overripe fruit, while her fingers curl tighter around the parasol in her hand, as if she might strike you with it if no one were watching. Her smile holds.

Satoru’s gaze drifts back to her with diplomatic patience. “I wondered if we might take supper at my estate before the fête. I’ve been hoping to speak with the Viscount—your husband—but my schedule at the palace has kept me from paying a proper visit.”

There’s a pause. A tiny, ruptured silence in which you realise just how much this means. How calculated the ask is. How public, how binding.

Your mother blinks. Visibly thrown. She gathers herself in the space of two breaths. “I would need to ask, Your Grace. The fête requires all our attention at present.”

“Of course,” Gojo replies smoothly, tucking a hand into his coat pocket. “But do consider it. It would mean a great deal.”

You see the moment her mind shifts. When she begins to weigh the proposal for its implications, its potential, its danger. And then: “Very well. I shall speak to my husband.”

“Splendid,” he says, and offers that smile. That smile—the one that turns the tide of every ballroom he enters and has the heart of every woman in the ton.

Your mother turns to you then. Something clipped and polite leaves her mouth. Something about how it is late, how you must go. She takes your arm with the practiced grip of control masked as care. You nod, too stunned to protest, feet following without meaning to.

And just as the threshold nears, just as the scent of old paper and pipe tobacco begins to give way to carriage smoke and rain-slick cobblestone, you look back.

Satoru is still there, framed in the hush of mahogany shelves. He lifts the Wollstonecraft from your hands like a keepsake, not a book. Then, with maddening calm, he winks. And you leave, as your heart pounds like thunder beneath silk.

THE VEILED QUILL Volume II, Issue XII Walks and Whispers Between Pages

My dearest gentle readers,

Though the Season presses forward with its usual rhythm of dances, dinners, and decorum, this particular week has proved most diverting. And not for reasons your chaperones would approve.

Let us begin with a scene that could have been lifted from a sentimental novel: on Monday afternoon, none other than Mr. Nanami Kento—staid, solemn, and as serious as any eligible bachelor can be—was observed calling on Miss Iori Utahime at her family residence. Yes, calling. One might argue it was a simple gesture of civility, but we are not in the habit of reporting mere civility, are we? Are we to expect a courtship announcement soon? Or is this simply a case of a baron’s daughter charming a man of fewer words?

And on Tuesday, if you were fortunate enough to stroll through Hyde Park before the hour grew too warm, you might have spotted Mr. Geto Suguru—that ever-pensive gentleman with the air of a tortured poet—walking beside Lady Ieiri Shoko, daughter of the Marquess. The two were seen in hushed conversation, walking chaperoned by the lake. While neither party is a stranger to intellectual pursuits (and, one imagines, complex inner lives), this particular pairing has not gone unnoticed. Are we witnessing the quiet beginning of a romance?

But nothing—not even the potential entanglements of society’s sharpest minds—has caused quite so much ink to flow as the return of the Viscount’s daughter.

Yes, dear readers. She has reappeared.

After days spent in discreet withdrawal following that unspeakable scandal, the former darling of the ton was seen in the public eye once more, making her entrance not in ballrooms or drawing rooms, but at Gunter’s Tea Shop—a choice cunningly poetic. Seated beside the aforementioned Miss Utahime and Miss Shoko, the trio appeared shockingly at ease, laughing over rose-flavored confections and whispering secrets so thrilling that even this Phantom burns to know them. (What did they say between bites of raspberry cake? Were those secrets sweet, or devastatingly bitter?)

And yet, dear reader, this is not where the tale ends.

No sooner had the daughter of the Viscount re-emerged than she was whisked away by her mother—who, in a fit of theatrical duty, dragged her to Hatchard’s in Piccadilly under the guise of purchasing political readings for her husband and poetry for her daughter. But what poetry, I ask, could possibly compare to what transpired there?

For as fate would have it, His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, was already present there. Sources say his carriage arrived no sooner than fifteen minutes before the Viscountess took her daughter there.

That’s right. The Duke—elusive, dazzling, dangerous—was seen among the shelves just before the Viscountess arrived with her wayward charge. The two—our scandal-touched lady and His Grace—were together once again. And when she emerged? The very same lady who once held all of society's hearts in the palm of her glove? Dazed. Distant. As if touched by lightning or haunted by something only she, and perhaps the Duke, could name.

What occurred in those hushed book-lined corridors? What was said? What was felt? Did the Duke offer her consolation? Or temptation? Whatever the answer, one thing is certain: the Season just became far more interesting.

With ink-stained fingers and a heart attuned to secrets, Phantom.

You wear a cloak that night—midnight blue, hood drawn, hem grazing the stone like a hush. In your gloved hands rests the latest issue of The Veiled Quill, its contents still warm from ink. You'd just written it. The house is silent. Ladies of the ton are meant to be dreaming by now, tucked beneath canopies of silk and embroidered virtue. But you are wide awake, each step down the stairs as soundless as sin.

The courtyard is damp with moonlight. You move quickly, past the clipped boxwoods and sleeping roses, to the waiting carriage hidden behind the garden wall. No lanterns. No insignia. Just an old, nondescript cab driven by a footman who knows not to ask questions. You pay him enough for it, anyway.

London slips by in a blur of cobblestone and gaslight. Southwark lies across the Thames—far enough from Mayfair, far enough from the Crown's watchful eye. Far enough from genteel society that no one would even think that this is where your secrets lie. Its streets stink of sweat, smoke, and secrets. This is where your printing press lives. Nestled between a tavern and a forge, behind a crooked sign that never bears your name.

You hand over the last issue, neatly folded. The printer, a wiry man who smells of tobacco, presses a pouch of your earnings into your palm without a word. He knows better. You count the coins by feel, because ever since the scandal, your earnings had almost quadrupled.

By the time you return, dawn is still a rumor. You step out two streets down from your house, pulling your cloak tighter. Your hair is unpinned. Your cheeks bare. In your plain cotton dress, you look nothing like the daughter of a Viscount. And that is the point.

Men pass you in the misty dark—some weaving home from gaming halls, others from beds not theirs. They do not see you. Not really. At best, you are a maid. At worst, a curiosity. But never a danger. Never the storm behind the scandal sheets.

There is a narrow cobblestone street you turn onto, slick with the memory of rain and lined with oil-lanterns that flicker like half-breathed secrets. The hem of your cloak catches against your ankle as you walk, quickly, quietly, alone in the way only women can be when they are trying not to be noticed. You barely register the figure behind you until you feel the tap against your shoulder.

You flinch. And then you freeze. Because it is him. Lord Nigel Berbrooke. His eyes are glassy, his breath thick with drink. “Thought it was you,” he slurs, teeth yellowed under the dim gaslight.

You feel your spine go taut. Nigel Berbrooke is a man of deeply unpleasant reputation. Older than most eligible bachelors, and yet more infantile in his sense of entitlement. You remember the way he cornered women into dancing at Utahime’s ball, how he refused to take no for an answer. How he had asked you more than once that night. You had declined each time. You hadn't spoken of it. Not to your mother. Not to Utahime. You had wanted to preserve the memory of your first dance with Satoru, not tarnish it with Berbrooke's presence.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, m’lord,” you say, quick to adjust your voice into something meek. Small. Working-class. Your gaze darts, calculating. Escape routes, light, witnesses. The street is quiet. A carriage rattles past on the far side.

Berbrooke steps closer. You step back.

But his hand is fast. He grabs your arm—tight, unrelenting—and your body goes still. “The daughter of the Viscount,” he sneers, too loudly. “Out for a moonlit stroll, is it? Gone to meet your Duke?”

Your stomach lurches. You tug at your arm, but he doesn’t let go. He reeks of brandy and sweat, and something older, something rotted. Panic scratches its way up your throat. His grip tightens, and he begins to speak again. Vulgar things about balconies and what might have transpired there. Your vision blurs. Your breathing shortens.

You don’t think. You simply react. Your knee finds the soft of his stomach and drives upward. He wheezes, collapses forward with a grunt. You stumble back, barely registering the sharp stop of a carriage just ahead.

Two figures leap down. Moving fast. Familiar.

Satoru reaches you first. His hands are cupping your face before you realize it’s him. His touch is careful but firm, thumbs warm against your cheekbones. “I knew it was you,” he breathes, eyes wide with something that looks frighteningly close to fear. “What in God’s name are you doing out so late at night?”

You blink, still breathless, the panic clawing at your lungs as you try to make up a lie. “I went out for a walk,” you say, voice tight, fragile. “It felt... it felt suffocating at home.”

“You know better than to leave your courtyard,” he says, his voice softer now, but still edged with tension. “You could’ve sat on the swing. Cleared your head that way.”

Suguru steps past you, his eyes hardening as they fall on Berbrooke’s groaning form. “Are you hurt?” he asks, gentle.

You shake your head. “He just... grabbed me. Said things about me and—”

You look to Satoru. His jaw clenches. Suguru doesn’t ask for more.

“What were the two of you doing out?” you ask, trying to collect yourself, to change the subject.

“Club,” Satoru replies, almost too quickly. He glances at Suguru. “I’ll walk her home. Suguru, deal with this poor excuse of a man, will you? Wait for me in the carriage. I won't take long.”

Suguru nods, and gives you a look—one part reassurance, one part apology—as he moves to drag the lord out of sight.

Satoru slips his arm around yours, his pace slow, deliberate, every movement saturated with concern. “I keep finding new things about you,” he murmurs.

You glance at him. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all.” A smile flickers across his lips, crooked and soft. “I’m even more smitten.”

“You are,” you say, voice quieter now, the fear beginning to settle into a tremble. “Such a tease.”

“A tease you said you love, nonetheless,” he replies. Then, more seriously: “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Just shaken,” you murmur. “I thought the cotton dress would be enough. I thought he wouldn’t recognize me.”

Gojo’s eyes trail down the length of your cloak. “It’s the silk,” he says gently. “No maid would wear a silk cloak, my dear. Though you do play the part well. No one would have noticed, except Nigel Berbrooke. He's a lecherous man.”

You exhale. “Oh.”

His grip tightens on your arm. Warm, anchoring. You're nearing the back gate of your home. The iron is cool beneath your gloved fingertips as the courtyard stretches before you, bathed in the faint light of a gas lamp swaying gently in the night wind. You pause, cloak curling around your ankles, the weight of the evening pressing into your bones.

"I suppose this is it," you murmur, voice feathering out into the quiet.

Satoru stops beside you, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders drawn with restraint. You want to say something. Ask him what happened in Hatchard’s earlier. You want to bury your face in his chest and confess how your hands still tremble. But instead, you wait. Hoping. Maybe he’ll say something first. Maybe he'll linger.

“I don’t want to leave you like this,” he says, and there’s something raw in the way his voice cuts through the hush.

“Like what?” you ask, blinking up at him.

His jaw clenches slightly. “Hurt.”

You force a smile, small and crooked. “I’ll be alright. I just... I can’t believe I hit him.”

At that, he laughs. A startled, quiet laugh that still feels like it shakes the stars loose overhead. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to muffle the sound, but his shoulders still tremble with it. You can’t help it—you laugh too, albeit breathlessly.

And then, silence. But not the cold kind. The kind that stretches softly between two people who’ve begun to understand each other. Satoru looks at you, eyes gentled. “You’re much, much more than just the Viscount’s daughter,” he says. “I hope you know that.”

You can’t speak. Not immediately. The words settle in your chest like warmth from a hearth after a long frost. So instead, you step forward. One breath, then another. And then your arms are around him—soft cotton sleeves brushing velvet lapels—your head pressed to his chest, where his heart is beating far too fast for someone so composed.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He holds you close. “Whatever for?”

“For being there,” you murmur. “For being here.”

Two days later, Highgrove House.

It is late in the evening when Gojo Satoru arrives.

Tomorrow is Saturday, and the garden fête is scheduled for Sunday afternoon. The house is still, lamps dimmed to a golden hush, and you are in the drawing room, seated beside the fire with Yuji at your side. One of the books His Grace had promised—the very same Mary Wollstonecraft, finely bound—had arrived just yesterday, and you'd been reading it aloud to your brother before a rustle in the doorway makes you both look up.

“His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, has arrived, miss,” the maid announces.

Yuji perks up instantly. “D’you think he’s brought his brother?”

“It’s do you, and he has,” you correct gently, closing the book and setting it on the low table between you. “And I don’t know. I hope so. You’d like him, I think. His name’s Megumi. He’s your age.”

“You told me,” Yuji says, already tugging at his coat to neaten it, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeve. You smile at his eagerness.

“You look very handsome,” you assure him. “If I were a twelve-year-old boy, I’d absolutely want to be your friend.”

“That’s great consolation,” he says dryly, “coming from someone who’s good at fencing, horse riding and pall-mall.”

“Exactly,” you reply, rising and smoothing the folds of your skirt. From the hallway, you hear voices. Your father’s clipped, courteous tone, and the unmistakable lilt of Gojo’s. You take Yuji’s hand and step into the corridor.

Satoru stands tall in the foyer, the picture of composed elegance, all wintry hair and effortless charm. He is speaking to your parents with the easy grace of someone who has nothing to hide and everything under control. Beside him stands a boy, black-haired and blue-eyed, quieter in stature and presence, his gaze lowered to the polished floor. So unlike the Duke. And yet, unmistakably kin.

You glance down at Yuji, giving his hand a small encouraging squeeze. “Go on,” you whisper. “Introduce yourself. Maybe the two of you will be great friends.”

Yuji nods, swallowing his nerves before releasing your hand and stepping forward. You follow, casting a soft, searching smile in Satoru’s direction. He bows his head ever so slightly in return—calm, unreadable, collected. As if nothing has shifted. As if everything has unfolded precisely according to his own private design. As if the chaos of the past weeks has been nothing more than a prelude he anticipated all along.

And you, despite everything, trust him enough to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, he’s right.

When the six of you settle into dinner and have only just finished the first course—an almond soup delicately spiced, accompanied by poached fish and its garnishes—you notice it. A shift. Subtle at first. The change in Satoru's tone when he turns to your father. It is not unkind, but it is unmistakably deliberate. His posture straightens, a certain stiffness entering his shoulders, and his voice loses its usual lightness.

You glance over just as you're breaking your bread roll, and catch it. The flicker in his eyes, the way he glances down at his lap, as if preparing for war rather than dinner. The maids move soundlessly between chairs, clearing plates with practiced ease. The air tightens.

"I must admit," Satoru says, tone formal but softened by a trace of humility, "I’ve come here this evening with something of an ulterior motive."

You still. Your mother lifts her wineglass to her lips, eyes narrowing faintly. Your father sets down his knife and fork, attention now fully focused. Across the table, Yuji and Megumi have taken to whispering, clearly fast friends already, blissfully unaware of the shift in atmosphere.

"Ulterior motive?" your father repeats, arching a brow. His voice is calm, but it rings like a bell in the stillness. "And what might that be?"

Gojo doesn't hesitate. "We'd spoken, briefly, of marriage. Informally, yes, but earnestly. I'm here tonight to make my intentions plain."

The servants begin to lay out the second course—roast venison, its juices glistening, followed by pigeon pie, soufflés, and a new round of gleaming cutlery. Yet no one reaches for a fork.

Satoru presses on as though the entire table has not gone silent. As though the air is not pulled taut between expectation and propriety.

"I believe," he says, carefully, clearly, proudly, "it is time we put an end to the whispers. The scandal, as it were. I've come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage."

You pause. The air in the dining room stills, despite the low clink of cutlery and the rustle of napkins. Your eyes move slowly. First to your father, then to your mother, and finally to the two boys at the other end of the table, who’ve gone entirely silent. Yuji’s eyes are round with awe, flicking between you and Satoru as if he’s accidentally wandered into a play. Megumi, more composed, simply watches his brother with a dark, unreadable gaze, then glances once at you.

Your father says nothing at first. He seems to weigh the moment in his head, brow furrowed—not out of anger, but as if turning something over in his mind. Something unsaid. Something unresolved. And then, finally, he speaks. “I don’t see why not,” he says, quiet but firm.

It should feel like relief, but it doesn’t. Gojo grins then, quick and boyish—triumphant in the way of someone who’s just executed a clever move on a chessboard—and turns to you as though to confirm the checkmate. You try to mirror it, to offer back the expression he wants, but all you can manage is a soft, uncertain smile. A twitch at the corner of your mouth. The tiniest scrunch of your nose. Confusion creeps up your spine.

Then Gojo continues, this time to your father. “My father knew the Archbishop of Canterbury personally,” he says, voice smooth, even, practiced. “We can arrange for the license swiftly. I could speak to him, if expedience is preferred, of course.”

“Lovely,” your mother says at once, almost too quickly. Her voice lilts upward, hopefully. And there it is: the shift in tone. As if she’s just remembered that marrying a Duke’s heir erases scandal, clears reputations, sets everything straight.

You say nothing. Because what is there to say? Gojo speaks again. “We shall have the license in a matter of days,” he announces, his tone tipping slightly toward command. “Preparations for the wedding can be made, I assume?”

He speaks with such certainty now, such composure, that you feel, absurdly, as though he’s rehearsed it. As if this evening were a script and he knows every beat, every line. You wonder if he’s always this calm when negotiating outcomes that affect other people’s lives. That affect your life.

It unnerves you. Not the proposal. Not the dinner. But the ease. The precision. The sheer confidence of it. You can’t decide whether to admire him or recoil.

You listen quietly as the dinner continues—soufflés arriving, plates cleared, wine glasses half-drunk. You play the part of the composed daughter, the future duchess, but your mind is elsewhere. Picking apart the pieces of him that you thought you knew. Wondering what else lies beneath that smile, that grace, that armor of polished charm.

And later, much later, once the servants have cleared the table and the doors to the parlor have been shut—you find yourself outside. The evening air is cool, soft, still edged with the scent of crushed lavender and stone warmed by day. The garden is dappled with dusk. You and Gojo stand near the courtyard, half in shadow, watching the boys—Yuji and Megumi—laughing as they take turns pushing one another on the swing.

They’re just children. Careless. Weightless. You, on the other hand, feel the full heft of everything that just transpired pressing like a hand to your spine.

“How is it,” you ask, voice low, “that you can so confidently, so easily, dictate what you want from others and receive it without resistance?”

Satoru’s brows knit, but not out of annoyance. It’s curiosity. He turns toward you, his eyes pale and searching in the twilight. The golden light of the garden lanterns flickers softly over the lines of his face. “What do you mean?” he says gently.

You glance up at him, then away, toward the swing where Yuji’s laughter is fading. The boys are slowing now—less shrill joy, more tired amusement. “It just felt like… you and my parents were speaking in a room I wasn’t in,” you murmur. “Like I was sitting beside you all and somehow still not quite present.”

He exhales. It’s soft, careful, as if he knows he’s treading somewhere delicate now. “Trust me, darling,” he says, “I was waiting for you to speak. For you to stop me, if you wanted to.”

You shake your head slowly. “It’s all right. I suppose I should’ve expected this. Mother will take the fête as an opportunity to make an announcement about the wedding.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks, quiet but not unkind. “To be married? To me? Does it not make you happy?”

“I am happy,” you say, lifting your eyes to meet his. “Delighted, even.” But your voice betrays you—too soft, too even, too polite. You glance back toward the children. “It’s just… I never thought it would happen this way. Not through scandal.”

He hums faintly, a note of regret in his tone. “If it’s any consolation,” he begins, “I’m sorry for following you into the balcon—”

“No,” you interrupt gently. “I don’t regret it.”

He grins, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve made that quite clear.”

The moment stretches, quiet and not entirely uncomfortable. Then he steps back a little, brushing down the front of his coat. “I should leave. The sun’s gone, and I’ve got appearances to keep with the Archbishop in the morning.” He glances sideways at you. “I wrote him this morning. About our… situation.”

You blink. “So you knew my parents would jump at the offer for the expedited license.”

“I did,” he confesses, a note of guilt tucked behind the smile. It’s not smug, not quite. Just certain. Just planned. You nod, slowly. The smile you offer isn’t warm. It’s the kind of smile one gives upon solving the last riddle in a long line of riddles. “That’s what I thought. I keep finding out more about you than I bargained for,” you murmur. “It’s terrifying, in a way.”

“I had the same feeling,” he says, lips curling, “when I saw you knee Nigel Berbrooke right in the corner of Grosvenor Square.”

You almost laugh. He calls to Megumi then, and the moment fades—replaced by the sound of feet on gravel, of the boys returning with flushed cheeks and wide grins.

“Can I visit my sister often once you’re married?” Yuji pipes up as the four of you enter the house. The light indoors feels warmer than before, too bright. Too staged.

Satoru laughs, ruffling Yuji’s hair. “You can visit Megumi and I, too. Whenever you like.”

Yuji beams, then turns to Gojo as though just remembering. “Did you know she plays chess? And that she's great at pall mall? Oh, did you know she can fence?”

Gojo lets out a laugh now. Loud, full-bodied. “Trust me,” he says, “she can do far more than just fence.”

And later, when the Duke and his brother have gone—when the house has quieted and the laughter of dinner has faded into memory—you find yourself in the parlor again. Yuji chatters beside you, dreaming aloud of the escapades he’ll have as the Duchess’s brother. You nod, smile where you should, tease him gently. You walk him to his bed, tuck him in, promise him summer rides and borrowed hounds and library keys. You press a kiss to his forehead and bid him goodnight.

Then you retreat to your room. You set pen to paper, intending to finish the article you began yesterday. You write a single line about the fête, then stare at it for too long. Eventually, you set the pen down. It’s late. The fire’s burned low.

You lie in bed, hands clasped over your stomach, and think of your parents’ expressions at dinner. Not startled. Not overwhelmed. Just... prepared. Just ready. As if they’d known all along. As if Gojo had handed them the lines to read.

It sits heavy in your chest.

You are delighted. You are engaged. You are on the cusp of a future some women would kill for. And still, you can’t shake the feeling that somewhere, behind it all, a conversation occurred that did not include you. And it unsettles you.

Late afternoon of Sunday, Hyde Park.

It is astounding, what your mother can do when she sets her mind to something. This is not merely a fête champêtre. It is a declaration. A staking of territory. A performance, curated down to the last spun sugar petal and silk-draped pavilion. And it has Hyde Park—no, the entire season—in its palm.

Your family arrives half an hour before the invitations permit. It is early enough to watch the event take shape, late enough that the magic has already begun to settle. Enough for your mother's watchful eye to make sure everything is up to the mark. You step from the carriage, feet sinking just slightly into the trimmed grass, and it takes you a long moment before you can do anything other than simply stand. Breathe. Take it in.

The Parade Grounds have been transformed into a dreamscape. Tents and pavilions bloom across the green like ivory flowers, their silken walls rippling in the breeze. Musicians tune their violins on a raised dais in the centre, the light catching on the brass fittings of their flutes. Fortune-tellers settle into their tents with velvet-draped tables and cards worn to softness. Puppeteers test the wires of their painted marionettes, hands moving with the delicacy of surgeons. Pavilions with refreshments like champagne, ice-cream, sugared strawberries, and pies and cakes are blended into the lot of the rest like a beautiful painting.

Lanterns, hundreds of them, are strung from poles and trees, not yet lit, but already trembling with anticipation. By dusk, they will burn like stars. It is beautiful. Not the fragile, private sort of beauty one tucks away—but a theatrical kind, curated to be admired. To be envied.

You walk slowly across the grounds, your gown catching slightly at the knees. It’s a soft pastel blue muslin, airy enough for a day on the lawn, but intricate where it counts—lace tracing the collar and hem, tiny pearl buttons running down your spine. Your mother insisted on this shade. Said it would make you stand out just enough: an echo of the sky, a suggestion of innocence, but unmistakably tailored for attention.

Lawn games are cordoned off by rope garlands—pall mall, lawn archery, and some whimsical game involving hoops and ribbons you don’t even recognize. Musicians drift between the setups like well-dressed ghosts, their instruments resting against their chests like lovers. There is movement everywhere—an elegant chaos. You think, briefly, that it all feels too perfect.

And then you remember the reason behind it. Your engagement will be announced today. To the Duke.

The thought rushes through you like wind. A thrill. A knot. You clasp your hands at your waist, feeling the fine tremble of anticipation settle under your skin. This will be the most talked-about event of the season. Perhaps the next, too. Of that, you are certain. And it is your name they will whisper behind fans. Your mother’s triumph. Your family’s rise.

Your story—beginning, here. In full view.

You hardly have time to name the miracle of it before the crowd begins to pour in. An endless stream of silk, laughter, and social ambition. Lords, barons, and the finely powdered elite of London arrive in carriages and on foot, their presence declaring the event the apex of the season. It is, you realize, too perfect to be anything but deliberate. Everyone has come.

The gentlemen drift toward the card pavilions like moths to candlelight, already leaning over hands of whist and hazard, murmuring their wagers beneath the pluck of lute strings. The ladies—lace-gloved and flushed—gather at the fortune-tellers’ tents, giggling as their futures are read in cryptic symbols and feathered cards. Children are spellbound before puppet stages and in pall mall, their laughter lifting into the air with the scent of sugared pastries and lemonade. The entire world has converged here, in Hyde Park, under your family’s name. All of London, is here.

“I cannot believe your mother did this in a week,” Shoko says beside you, one brow raised in something between disbelief and admiration. The three of you stand tucked beneath the awning of a lemonade stand near the musicians’ dais, where a lively tune hums beneath the swell of conversation. The lemon in your cup tastes like a dream—sweet and tart and fleeting.

“I can’t either,” you murmur, still wide-eyed, still unsure how to take it all in. “I almost wish I weren’t the host, just so I could wander and enjoy it properly. But I know she’ll come to collect me any moment now, drag me off to meet half the peerage.”

“How tragic,” Utahime says with a faux pout, raising her glass. You narrow your eyes at her, amused. You open your mouth, close it again. Then, a breath. The words come out quiet. “I have to tell you something. Before it's announced.”

Shoko stills. Utahime’s brow furrows slightly. You glance between them. There’s something in Shoko’s expression already, something knowing, even wicked. She sets her cup down delicately on a side table and folds her arms with too much casualness.

“I am engaged,” you say. “To the Duke.”

Silence. A moment suspended in air, stretched thin. Utahime blinks once, twice. Her mouth falls open slightly. Shoko only smiles.

“Congratulations,” she says at last. “You’re going to be the wealthiest duchess in London.”

You groan, rolling your eyes. “That’s not the point. I just—” You hesitate. “I don’t know. It might be the scandal, but I’ve had this pit in my stomach all evening. Something feels off.”

“Well,” Utahime says quietly, unusually tempered, “He did the decent thing. A scandal always weighs heavier on the woman, anyway.”

You nod slowly, lips pressed together. The moment passes, melts into something easier, something lighter. Conversation shifts, laughter returns. But not for long.

Your mother appears, glowing, and whisks you away. You catch only the briefest glances of the crowd, of your friends, of the festivities still in full swing. You’re passed from one conversation to another, introduced to a daisy chain of barons, counts, viscountesses—faces whose names blur at the edges. You're charming and gracious, just as you've been taught. But it drains you. Every compliment is a cut; every polite chuckle a rehearsed deflection.

It’s only after what feels like an hour and a half of curated smiling that you spot a glimmer of silver. Across the lawn, near the champagne pavilion, stands Satoru. He is unmistakable, even among the cluster of tall men and expensive coats. His hair catches the last remnants of sun like snow under candlelight. He’s surrounded by familiar faces—Suguru, Nanami, and others you recognize at once—but it’s him you focus on. Him, who hasn’t looked your way once.

You stay by your parents, trying not to show the fatigue that pools in your feet, in your jaw, in your chest. You imagine Yuji somewhere far off, shrieking with laughter as Megumi scowls at a lawn game or scampers after a puppet. It comforts you.

And then you quietly step away. Slipping between groups, down toward the edge of the fête where the pie and pastry tent waits. It’s quieter here, easier. The smell of spiced apples and butter fills the air, and you breathe in as if you haven’t tasted air in an hour.

“Look at you,” a voice drawls behind you. “Unchaperoned. Again.”

You smile, turning to him. “And look at you, following me while I’m unchaperoned. Again.”

Satoru steps toward you with that grin—the boyish, maddeningly pleased-with-himself one—and wraps his arms around you without hesitation. You let him. The tent is empty but for an older woman arranging pastries with tender focus, unconcerned with royalty or reputation.

“You look beautiful in blue,” he murmurs, his voice low near your ear.

“I wore it for that very reason,” you reply, unable to stop the smile blooming across your face.

Gojo glances around, his expression shifting. Still playful, but with a note of caution. His gaze sweeps the tent: the older woman arranging lemon and cherry tarts has her back turned, wholly immersed in her task, and the rest of the fête stretches just far enough to grant them a rare sliver of privacy.

Then, without fanfare, he leans in and brushes his lips against yours.

It’s not a dramatic kiss, not the kind poets string sonnets from, but it unravels you in its simplicity. Quick, secret, a punctuation mark rather than a full sentence. Still, you feel it. All the way down. It is the kind of kiss that feels like a promise kept. He pulls back just as easily as he leaned in, his expression unreadable for a moment. And then that grin returns, tugging at the corners of his mouth, softening him.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all evening,” he says.

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. He takes your silence for what it is—something between stunned affection and aching anticipation—and presses one last glance to your hand before he slips back into the crowd.

Time moves oddly after that. It doesn’t speed up, exactly, but it begins to blur. You find your way back to the center of the parade grounds, the sky now fully dark above Hyde Park, where lanterns float like tiny stars strung between trees. The air is cooler, but the excitement thrumming in the crowd keeps it from chilling. You spot Shoko and Utahime near the ring toss stall and slip back into their orbit as naturally as if you’d never left.

You laugh, truly laugh, as Utahime flings her final ring and narrowly misses the wooden peg she’s aiming for. “You’re absolutely hopeless,” you tease, watching Shoko collect a small paper prize for herself—a folded fan painted with florals.

“I’ll have you know,” Utahime mutters, “I let Shoko win. She looked like she needed the morale.”

You're about to reply when something cuts through the air. The music stops. It dies not with a jarring crash but with a soft, deliberate diminuendo, as if the musicians were told to lay their instruments down slowly, one by one. Like a curtain falling at the end of an act.

You freeze.

All around you, people are turning. Faces lift. Heads angle toward the central dais where the string quartet had been playing only moments before. The effect is like a tide: all at once, the sea of conversation ebbs, leaving only a hush thick with expectation.

Your mother steps up onto the dais, flanked by your father. Their expressions are composed, practiced—faces made for portraiture and politics. Your father’s voice is the first to rise. You feel it before you hear it, the anticipation threading into your spine, a quiet and inevitable dread.

It’s time. The announcement is about to be made. And somehow, impossibly, you're not ready.

You search the crowd for him—your eyes scanning beyond the flushed cheeks and swirling silks, past the clamor of card tables and puppet shows, beyond the lords in powdered coats and the ladies in florals—as if you could summon steadiness in the shape of a man. And then, there he is.

Gojo stands at the edge of the dais, tall and immaculately composed in deep navy. The silver of his hair glints beneath the lanterns strung like stars between trees. His gaze is already on you. Of course it is. He nods once, slow and certain. And something inside you stills.

"It's happening," you whisper.

“Go,” Shoko murmurs, voice lower than the hush that’s fallen over the crowd. “Make the most of it. Go. Rid yourself of this ridiculous scandal and present yourself as the Duchess-to-be.”

You hesitate. You feel the weight of your name before it is ever spoken, the pressure of your title before it has been officially given. Then Utahime presses a warm hand to the small of your back for a gentle, grounding push.

You inhale, and then step forward.

Your feet move before your thoughts do, weaving through a sea of murmuring guests, muslin and satin brushing against your skirts as you pass. You are walking toward a future already being written by someone else’s hand. Toward a dais that gleams beneath lanternlight, toward a father whose face betrays nothing and a mother whose tears have been perfectly timed.

Gojo is waiting for you at the bottom step. He offers his arm. His fingers brush your glove as you take it. And then, together, you ascend. The dais is high enough that it feels like a reckoning. The musicians have fallen silent. The air is charged now—still, brittle, like glass waiting to break.

Your father clears his throat and raises his glass, his posture the kind that comes from years of hosting, of ruling from parlors and private dinners. “My lords, ladies, and honoured guests,” he begins, and his voice is practiced, warm, unshaken, “this spring has brought with it more than sunlight and blossoms. It has brought my household a most… unexpected delight.”

A ripple of polite laughter spreads, though it is laced with curiosity.

Your gaze flits across the lawn to the hundreds of faces, eyes fixed on you. You cannot see your brother or Megumi among them, but you imagine them somewhere near the puppet tents, unaware of the consequences of this moment. The nausea threatens you again, rising from somewhere deep and quiet, but Gojo is beside you, unmoved, hands clasped behind his back like he’s been born for this. When you look at him, he is already looking at you. And when he blinks reassuringly, it is like a balm.

“It is with great pride,” your father continues, “and no small measure of astonishment, that I announce the engagement of my daughter…”

He gestures to you. There is an audible swell of breath from the crowd.

“…to His Grace, Gojo Satoru, the Duke of Six Eyes.”

The lawn erupts. Gasps, applause, chatter—voices tangling with one another in a crescendo of disbelief and fascination. Your name flies from mouths like confetti. The match is a triumph. The scandal has been rewritten into something desirable. You are not ruined. You are beloved. You are desired. You are his.

Your mother dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, already performing the part of a sentimental parent, though you’ve never known her to cry unless there was an audience to receive it. Your father raises his glass higher, nodding with a smile that only barely touches his eyes. The musicians begin again, a stately waltz, and suddenly the fête transforms. This is no longer a party. It is a coronation.

And you? You are the Duchess-to-be.

THE VEILED QUILL Volume II, Issue XIII From Folly to Fête

My dearest gentle readers,

The Season wears on, and with each passing week, it becomes more evident that propriety is but a delicate veil—and some among us would do well to remember how sheer that veil truly is.

Let us begin, regretfully, with an incident that one wishes could be brushed away like errant crumbs from a silk tablecloth. On Wednesday evening, Lord Nigel Berbrooke—yes, that Berbrooke, of the unfortunate hairline and even more unfortunate manners—was seen in a most unbecoming state at the upper corner of Grosvenor Square. After an evening of drink at one of those gentleman’s clubs where very little gentleness is ever in practice, he was observed harassing a maid, poor thing, who was merely trying to see to her business without being cornered by a stumbling peer. One needn’t be a woman of high society to know: a title cannot soften a man's character, and all the coin in Mayfair cannot erase behaviour as coarse as gravel. A note to all mothers: do not let your daughters wed a man whose respectability is stitched only to his coat.

But enough of men whose presence is as welcome as last season’s hemline. Let us speak, instead, of something divine.

The fête champêtre held this past weekend by the Viscount and Viscountess at the Parade Grounds in Hyde Park was nothing short of legendary. There are events, and then there are moments—and this, dear reader, was a moment. A vision in silk tents and silkier rumours, with the sound of waltzes drifting between lanterns hung like moonlight on string. There was champagne that sparkled like diamonds, wines that warmed like affection, and refreshments more decadent than any secret whispered beneath a fan.

And if one may abandon objectivity for but a moment—this author must confess a particular fondness for the ring toss tucked beside the dais. A charming, utterly diverting little affair. And let us not forget the pastries at the far edge of the lawn. (This author certainly returned for seconds. Possibly thirds. Do not ask.)

Alas, there was no time for the fortune-tellers, whose tent brimmed with silks and mystery. A true shame. This Phantom had quite hoped to learn whether scandal or sentiment lies ahead. But let us speak of something more fateful than fortune.

For while the fête itself would have been enough to keep the ton buzzing for months, the Viscountess had one last waltz up her sleeve. Just as the final gold thread of sunlight gave way to evening’s velvet, a hush fell upon the crowd. The Viscount raised a glass. The musicians quieted. And in that breathless hush, it was announced: the engagement of His Grace, the Duke of Six Eyes, to none other than the daughter of the house.

Yes. That daughter. The same young lady who has danced, withdrawn, and returned to society in a swirl of rumours and restraint. Now, she is to be Duchess.

What a triumphant turn of events. What a coup. What a game.

For who among us suspected the Viscountess would answer scandal not with silence, but with spectacle? With beauty, with orchestration, with the most dazzling alliance of the season? And yet here we are, watching the curtain fall on speculation, and rise on certainty.

This author, who has watched the highs and lows of their courtship with an ink-stained heart and cautious hope, is glad—genuinely glad—to see the pair united at last. They stood atop the dais like two characters pulled from a sonnet, their expressions unreadable but their bond unmistakable.

Let the poets scribble, the gossips gasp, and the Season spin onward. This couple, it seems, has already found their story.

With admiration (and perhaps a little envy), Phantom.

The next three weeks unfold like a fever dream, equal parts lace and tyranny. Your mother, possessed by a singular vision, insists on a wedding ceremony “proper enough to make even royalty envious.” You recall her words precisely—how she said them with her mouth full of sugared plums and her eyes alight like a general waging war. “No only daughter of mine shall be married off intimately. We will be making it grand.”

And grand it becomes. Fittings upon fittings. Layers of silk and tulle, endless consultations with the modiste, who eyes your figure like a sculptor assessing marble. There is no time to think, let alone write. The quills remain mostly untouched, save for four rushed columns and some letters to Satoru you managed in a haze of candlelight and exhaustion. The rest of your hours are spent with your mother, overseeing seating arrangements, breakfast menus, guest lists, flower orders, and learning that hosting a ball as a future duchess is not a matter of preference, it is proof. Of stature. Of ability. Of survival.

You choose the fabric yourself, of course. Something ethereal. A blue so pale it becomes a rumour of white in the light. The modiste called it moonmilk. Said it would arrive the night before, perfectly pressed, wrapped in muslin, a ribbon pinned to its bodice like a secret.

The ceremony is to be held at St. George’s, Hanover Square. The breakfast will be at the Six Eyes Estate, arranged by Satoru himself. He wrote to you last three days ago. His letter is thoughtful, brief. “I do not expect a reply. I imagine you are being devoured by gowns and spectacle. I am being devoured by longing.”

And so the night before the wedding comes. You wear your softest ivory silk dress robes, the kind only meant for nights where sleep seems like a betrayal of time. In your hand is the cravat pin he gave you, small and gold, now dulled by touch and memory. You sit by the window. The box containing your wedding gown lies nearby, gaping open like a soft-mouthed promise. You reach in, touch the lace—like spun sugar, like breath. You look outside, to the swing in the courtyard. To your desk. Then you stand, move to the cabinet beneath, and pull it open.

There lie the quiet spoils of your secret: pouches of coins, neatly tied, the sum of months spent in disguise. The Phantom. Every ounce of ink-stained effort has led to this. And now, all of it must come with you. You do not know how. But it will. Your life—your dresses, your books, your horse, your fencing kit—is about to be moved piece by piece to a house that is not yet home.

You do not sleep. You cannot. Instead, you watch the sky tilt gently from night to dawn, the blue bleeding into gold. Your maid, Agatha, rushes in with the first light, surprised to find you already upright, silhouetted at the window like some lonely patron saint of anxiety. She mutters something about tea and biscuits. That your mother insists everything begin early. That the water is already being drawn for your bath—lavender, rose petals, and sandalwood steeping into warmth. That your hair must be washed and bound with care. In case the Phantom is watching, she says with a wink. In case she is to write about the Duchess-to-be.

And for a moment, you wonder if she knows. And if she does, whether she approves. You sip your tea in silence. And the city readies itself for the wedding of the season.

Hours later, seated before the mirror, you look like a bride but feel like a stranger to the word. Silks the color of moonlight—barely blue, more the shade of milk steeped in twilight—pool around you. Your hair is pinned with sapphires and a certain pin, your wrists with diamonds. It is all too fine, too formal, too far from the girl who once wrote under candlelight and tasted freedom in ink.

Your mother has finally allowed Utahime and Shoko to your side, though not without dramatic protest. They burst through the upstairs corridor like wind through opened windows, all breathless smiles and wide eyes. For a brief second, it makes you laugh. But the moment is fleeting, swept away by the inevitability of the hour.

Then the carriage. Your father sits across from you, his hands gloved, his posture formal. But his voice, when he speaks, is not.

“I hope you know,” he says, “this was my only way of ensuring you married well in your first season. You could have done it on your own, but I had my reasons.”

You look at him. And, for the first time in a while, you understand. “It’s alright,” you say quietly. “I like him. I truly do. I think... it ended up being for the best.”

He blinks at you, once, twice, and clears his throat. His gloved hands fold tighter. “It is time.”

When the church doors open, the world sharpens. You see nothing but him.

Not the rows of nobility, not the whispers fluttering through silk fans, not the parish priest waiting by the altar. Only him, at the far end of the aisle. In full military dress, medals gleaming at his chest, and two hairpins tucked boldly near his lapel—the ones he stole from you that he never gave back. You smile without thinking. And when he sees his cravat pin in your hair, he smiles too, just slightly. His lips curving up at the left corner, like a secret passed only between the two of you.

You walk the aisle like one moving through water. Slow, dreamlike, distant. The priest speaks: “Dearly beloved...”

And after that, you hear nothing. Only the sound of your heartbeat, and the shape of his name in your mind. Vows are said, rings exchanged—gold, warm when he slips it onto your finger. In the vestry, you sign your name alongside his. Beside you, your father and Suguru sign too, witnesses to the quietest revolution of your life.

You are wife. You are Duchess. And though your hand trembles slightly, your signature is steady.

The wedding breakfast is a pageant of civility and careful joy. You are gracious, poised, every inch the duchess society expects you to be. But behind your smile, there is a secret truth: you are still learning what this all means.

Later, finally, the carriage. Your husband beside you. Your new home ahead. And the rest of your life—undecided, unspoken, unwritten—waiting just beyond the window.

You do nothing of consequence during the day. You tour the estate on Satoru’s arm, your hand clasped in his when no one is looking. You kiss him—softly, quietly—beside doorframes and between corridors, in corners the help dare not turn. The library is your weakness, and he knows it. He shows you the shelves first—where he keeps his favorites, bound in blue cloth and smelling faintly of cedar—and then, a little alcove, tucked behind a narrow ladder. There lie your favorites, arranged as if he has known your mind long before he ever held your hand. You kiss him there, too. Longer, this time.

Dinner is simple, for once. Roast duck, rosemary bread, and spiced wine. You think you are content—until the letter arrives. Stamped with a seal you don’t recognize, handed over with hushed voices. “From the Palace,” he says, rising quickly. You blink, watching his silhouette disappear past the parlor door. He does not return for nearly an hour.

In his absence, you busy yourself. You learn the rhythms of the house. The butler, standoffish at first, warms when you mention fencing. The Duke, he admits, was once obsessed—used to practice at dawn in the old hall before lessons. You store that detail like treasure. The housekeeper is more reluctant, her replies tidy and measured. But when you ask about Satoru’s mother, her face softens. “She preferred the country,” she says. “He lived here with his father, mostly. Genius child, but too quiet for it.”

And then, unasked, unprovoked: “The previous Duchess passed of fever. His Grace was barely four.”

Your chest tightens. You imagine him, alone in this grand place of carved marble and echoing stairwells. Then you remember Megumi.

“But... Megumi is twelve,” you say slowly, at the threshold of your chambers. “That’s well after her passing.”

The housekeeper hesitates, then lowers her voice to a breath. “The late Duke’s by-blow. But hush, your Grace, he is the Duke’s brother in all but blood. He raised him. That is what matters.”

You nod, and say nothing more. The matter is closed. You retreat into the quiet hush of your bedchamber, where Agatha is already laying out your robe. The one familiar face you insisted accompany you to your new life. She buttons you in, her fingers deft and gentle. You glance out the window just in time to see the Duke’s carriage pulling into the courtyard.

When he walks in, he looks like something unravelling—gloves off, cufflinks half-undone. You nearly startle.

“Is something the matter?” you ask. He stills, then shrugs it off too casually. “No. Just a few papers. Palace bureaucracy. Nothing worth troubling you over.”

You walk toward him, slow and careful, undoing the other cuff for him. “I’ve never seen you anxious,” you murmur. “Not truly. You’ve always been so… composed. Charming. So utterly sure of yourself.”

He laughs quietly, remembering. “You saw me flustered the day you kicked Nigel Berbrooke into the street like a rogue from the Peninsula.”

You smirk, helping him out of his coat. “I was too preoccupied to notice, your Grace.”

He winces, theatrically. “Don’t call me that. Not now. Not here. I am just Satoru to you. No titles. No masks.”

Then he sighs, dragging the cravat from his throat and tossing it onto a table. He steps closer, the air between you thinning. “We're married now, and yet the most affection I’ve received are a few stolen kisses.”

“I...” you begin, but falter. There’s something about the way he says it. As if he’s genuinely uncertain. “That’s all I know how to do.”

His brow arches, amused and something softer. “That’s all you know how to do?” he echoes, voice lilting. He sinks into the armchair by the fire, pulling off his boots, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. You swallow as he rises again. He crosses the floor with quiet, unhurried steps. His hand comes to your face—not possessive, not urgent. Just reverent. His fingers trace your temple, brushing a loose curl behind your ear.

“The Viscountess surely is cruel,” he says lowly, “keeping you in the dark for so long.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, but the question dissolves. The warmth of his palm has scattered your thoughts. And then, with the gentlest tug at your robe, the satin slips to the floor. Only your gown remains. It feels like the beginning of something you’ve been circling for years.

He steps closer, slow as dusk. His breath brushes your forehead before his lips press to yours. They're warm, sure, almost trembling with restraint. You kiss back instinctively, but it feels as though you are chasing something he’s already running from. Still, he lets you catch him. Or perhaps he slows down just enough to be caught.

His mouth grazes the edge of your jaw, then your ear, then lower. A scattering of kisses down your throat, each one igniting something unfamiliar. You're not sure whether it's embarrassment or anticipation. He draws you backwards until your knees meet the edge of the bed, and when you stumble slightly, more from dizziness than misstep. He catches you, hands strong at your waist. You’re not hurt, but your heart races all the same.

"Tell me you've touched yourself, at least," he murmurs, voice husky. "That one doesn’t take anyone’s guidance."

You blink up at him, the question foreign, almost impolite. "Touched myself?"

Your brow furrows. Not in modesty, but confusion, honest and childlike. He exhales, not in disappointment, but awe. It’s tender, the way he kisses your forehead. As if to apologise for the question. As if to promise you'll never be left behind again.

"You haven’t?" he asks. You shake your head.

"I don't understand," you whisper.

He doesn’t mock you. He doesn’t smirk or tease. Instead, he helps you lie back, careful as ever, as if you’re made of glass. You feel something between anticipation and fright—like standing on the edge of something beautiful and vast, not knowing how deep the fall will be.

He trails kisses lower now. Along your collarbone, the hollow beneath your throat, and then to the swell just above your chest. Every press of his lips sends sparks under your skin, so much so that the first sound you let out—soft, breathy, involuntary—startles even him.

"It feels good?" he asks, and you nod quickly, eyes wide, glassy.

"I... I don’t know how, but yes."

"Shhh," he soothes, brushing his lips against yours, reverently slow. Then, his hand trails lower. Over your stomach. Down further. And when he finally reaches between your thighs, when his fingers just barely brush where you're most sensitive, your breath hitches. His touch is featherlight, and he speaks while his fingers ghost over your bare folds.

"This," he says, gaze locked with yours, voice low, "is what I meant."

And when your thighs part instinctively, as if your body has answered for you, he smiles. Half gentle, half rogue. As though you’ve just let him into a sacred place.

His finger slides upward, tracing a delicate path along your slit, and the soft sounds that escape you make your eyes widen in startled delight. The slickness of it all catches in your throat, and you search his gaze for something. He finds it easily, a mischievous glint lighting his eyes. His finger finds a sensitive bud, and the sudden touch makes you jump, thighs instinctively closing, but he holds them open with a firm weight that makes your heart twist.

His arm rests against your upper thigh, the hem of your dress riding far too high to be considered proper. You have never been like this before. Never felt such a wild, unfamiliar fire. And yet, it is as if this is exactly where you are meant to be. The pad of his finger moves with increasing urgency against your bud, setting every nerve alight. Your blood rushes fiercely to your cheeks and pools between your legs, your back arching of its own accord, desperate to draw nearer to him. Your breath hitches, and you gasp his name over and over. Like a hymn, or a whispered prayer.

He chuckles softly, knowingly. “This is how you learn to pleasure yourself,” he murmurs. “You touch where it feels good, especially between your legs. I imagine your breasts are sensitive, too, if you’ve never explored them like this. And you keep touching, keep seeking, until you come. Until you reach a crescendo—a pinnacle that frees your mind of doubt and untangles every knot in your body.”

You grasp his shoulders, gasps spilling from your lips as you reach the peak, just as he had described it.

“I know, darling. I know,” he murmurs teasingly, and with those words, every knot in your core unravels, every doubt in your mind dissolves, every weight in your body lifts. You feel as if you are floating, weightless and free. You don’t notice when his hand slips away until your eyes flutter open, coming down from your high, and find him standing at the edge of the bed, watching you with a look that promises delicious sin.

“Come closer,” he commands softly. You obey without hesitation, dropping to your knees at the bed’s edge. His hands cup your face with a tenderness that makes you feel fragile and cherished all at once. His fingers nimbly undo the hooks of your dress, the speed making your eyes widen in surprise. Then, with care, he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to it before sliding your arm through the sleeve. The other follows, and the dress slips from your frame as if it had never belonged there.

You swallow hard as his gaze roams over you—lingering on the swell of your breasts. He says nothing at first, only caresses your cheek. His eyes dark and intense, sending heat pooling deep within you, the same place he touched moments ago. Your lips part, and his expression shifts, expectant, waiting for your voice.

“I want you,” you confess, breath trembling. “I don’t know what it means to want you, but I do. All of you.”

A shaky breath escapes him. “You don’t know what you’re asking, but you still want it?”

You nod, and he chuckles softly before taking your hand and guiding it to his breeches. “Undo them for me.”

You blink, surprised. “You mean take them off?”

He grins playfully, and you comply. As you do, you notice the bulge pressing against the fabric—unmistakably urgent, almost uncomfortable. You touch it hesitantly, unsure what to expect, and he winces.

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

“Keep going,” he urges, voice low and breathy. “I like it. Keep going.”

You peel away the last barrier of clothing, and he springs free—long, thick, veined. It’s more than you imagined, but you follow his lead, your hands exploring as he instructs. You stroke, you caress, obeying every whispered command, until his sounds mirror your own—moans, gasps, low grunts—until he shakes his head and pulls your hand away.

“L-lay back.”

In seconds, he is upon you, parting your thighs, pressing kisses to your lips and wherever he can reach. His hands find your breasts, and you return his hunger with equal fervor, cradling his face in your hands.

“More,” you plead, arching your back as he buries his face in the valley between your breasts. “I want more.”

He pauses, positioning himself above you, his gaze softening. “Are you sure? We can stop now, if you’d like—”

“I am sure,” you whisper. “I want you—”

Without hesitation, he enters you, and it feels unlike anything you’ve ever known. Your heart swells, your body overwhelms, and the gasps that escape feel as natural as breathing—terrifying and right all at once. He pulls back, then thrusts forward again, sending stars across your vision as your back arches involuntarily. He moves steadily, up and down, again and again, each motion a delicious torment. You cling to him, whispering his name between moans. His grunts grow louder, pace quickening, skin slapping against yours in a rhythm that sets your senses ablaze.

The crescendo builds again, the undoing you crave. Eyes closed, he cups your face, pressing his forehead to yours as his pace accelerates. Your faces nearly touch, lips parted but not meeting. He stares deep into your eyes, breath ragged, before murmuring, “F-for me, it happens the same way.”

“The pinnacle,” you gasp.

He nods, voice rough. “Unlike you, however,” he grunts, “When I come, I ejaculate.”

“And what does that entail?” you ask breathlessly, as he pulls back slightly to look at you. Your blush deepens under his gaze as it drifts over your breasts and flushed cheeks while he continues his steady rhythm. He laughs softly—not mockingly, but warmly.

“It’s how a woman becomes pregnant. If I do it inside you.”

“O-oh,” you whisper, swallowing hard. He slows just a fraction, panting. “I’m close.”

“So am I,” you admit, feeling yourself unravel further, the knots in your stomach loosening, fraying at the edges. His pace slows, but the intensity only deepens. The sound of skin meeting skin grows louder, more urgent. You feel it—an overwhelming need to hold him, to keep him inside you forever.

And then it happens again. But this time, it feels warmer, fuller, more profound than when it was just his hand. You feel him twitch inside you, the two of you releasing in tandem. He moans your name, forehead pressed to yours, as if you are the very prayer he utters.

When he pulls away slightly, the two of you share a soft, breathless laugh.

In the weeks that follow, you move through the world as if through gauze—dutiful, poised, every smile measured. Your mother basks in the social currency of your title, gathering compliments like pearls on a string. You accompany her, watch the other mamas whisper and envy and flatter, all of them under the illusion that she orchestrated your fate with the Duke. You say nothing. You nod when appropriate. What use is truth to people so fluent in fiction?

You write, of course. The Phantom still breathes beneath your skin. Your newest column, delicate and saccharine, reads: This author has it on good authority that the Duchess looked divine on her wedding day. And that His Grace, upon seeing her, smiled so sweetly it might’ve given the ton a collective toothache.

The estate is yours now, or at least it behaves as if it is. The staff take to you with the kind of slow, sturdy fondness earned rather than assumed. You ask the butler for history, the housekeeper for stories. You learn the creaks of the halls, the way the morning light falls over the courtyard. You walk with purpose, like a woman trying to believe the ground beneath her belongs to her feet.

You try, once or twice, to speak to Megumi. He is polite, reserved, rarely reactive. It’s not coldness. It’s watchfulness, a kind of quiet calculation. And so, you wait. You plan the ball with your mother and the staff, ask about musicians, arrange the refreshments with an exactness that makes the housekeeper blink in approval.

It’s a Friday afternoon when you drift to the library, exhausted but restless. And there he is.

Megumi sits curled sideways on a sofa, a book open in one hand, long legs stretched comfortably along the cushions. He doesn’t notice you at first. You say nothing as you wander to the shelves and pull down a weighty volume—The Monk, by Lewis. You move toward the window, settle into the light like it’s a familiar friend.

You don’t miss the way his eyes flick to the cover.

“I didn’t know you liked Lewis,” he murmurs. His voice is dry but curious.

You raise a brow. “For that, you’d have to speak to me.”

He closes his book slowly. “What else do you read?”

“Wollstonecraft,” you say, glancing at him. “Radcliffe. And yes, I like Austen.”

“Of course,” he says. “I’ve heard all women do.”

“She writes brilliantly,” you reply. “If you've read her, you'd know. And it's not just women. She's better than half the men paraded through the canon.”

He grins then, truly grins. “You have taste.”

You let the smallest smile slip. “I have more than just taste, Megumi. Want to put that to the test?”

The sound of soft laughter at the door makes you turn.

Gojo leans against the frame, arms folded, an unreadable expression just beneath the familiar amusement on his lips. “I would advise against challenging my wife, Megumi. You’re not nearly clever enough to win.”

Megumi smirks. “She was just about to lose.”

Gojo steps into the room. He doesn’t touch you, but he stands close enough to be felt. “Don’t be so sure,” he says, eyes still on you. “She tends to surprise. And you, brother, are twelve.”

You feel his gaze linger a moment longer than necessary before he turns away, joking lightly with Megumi about the arrangement of the shelves and how the boy seems to have claimed a whole corner as his own. But even when he’s across the room, you still feel the weight of him.

That night, in your shared bedchamber, the laughter has long since faded.

You sit at your vanity, unpinning your hair slowly, the soft scrape of the comb the only sound in the room. Gojo enters quietly, not with the dramatic flourish he often employs, but with something more subdued. Thoughtful.

“You like Megumi,” he says after a beat, tone mild.

You glance at him in the mirror. “I do. He’s clever. Kind, even if he tries to hide it.”

Gojo’s eyes narrow slightly, though he doesn’t move. “He talked more with you than he did with me in the last few weeks.”

“Perhaps you should read Lewis,” you offer, tone light but not unkind.

He chuckles faintly, walking behind you. His hands rest on your shoulders, firm and warm. “Perhaps I should.”

For a moment, nothing is said. The air is thick with something you don’t yet name. His thumbs press into the muscle of your neck, a tender pressure. You close your eyes. You let him touch you.

You catch his reflection in the gilded mirror, and your breath catches sharply as your eyes meet his—Satoru. The name tastes like a secret on your tongue as you say it.

"Hm?" he murmurs, bending with a languid grace to press a kiss just where your shoulder curves into your neck. The sensation is exquisite, a sudden, exquisite ache blooming within you. Your eyes flutter half-shut, heavy with desire, and you turn to brush your lips against the sharp line of his jaw. He sheds his coat with careless urgency, the fabric falling away as if impatient to be discarded.

Before you can gather your thoughts, he has you pinned against the wall, the cool plaster a stark contrast to the heat radiating between you. His hands move with a fevered haste, peeling away your dress as if it were a mere barrier to the communion he craves. Your thighs part beneath his touch, trembling, and a soft moan escapes you as he sinks to his knees.

You watch, breath caught, as he lifts your dress with one hand, his gaze rising to meet yours. An unspoken claim, as if you are the axis upon which his world turns.

“Satoru?” Your voice is fragile, a whisper on the edge of surrender. But before you can brace yourself, his tongue finds you; hungry, desperate, as if he has wandered a desert for months and you are the oasis. It laps your cunt and circles your clit with a devotion that steals your breath and weakens your knees.

You arch, clutching the edge of the vanity to anchor yourself, one hand gripping the polished wood, the other tangling in the thick strands of his hair.

“Satoru,” you gasp, voice trembling, “Please... don’t stop. It feels too good. Too much.”

He smirks against you, the vibration of his satisfaction pressing into your skin. You feel the swell of his pride, the fierce possessiveness that makes him hold you by the hips as he remains kneeling before you, as though you are the very thing he has long been denied.

“I’m going to come,” you breathe out, voice trembling with a mixture of awe and surrender. “I didn’t know it could feel so... oh.”

You dissolve into him as his tongue slips deep into your cunt. He giggles low against your skin, the sound vibrating in you, and it nearly breaks you to remain upright. His voice, husky and intimate, murmurs into the depths of you, “You can’t just—”

“Can’t I?” he replies, pulling back with a slow, deliberate grace. Your dress, reluctant as if mourning its loss, slips down to its rightful place when he releases the hem, and you whimper softly. His smile is wicked, a devil’s promise as he presses a gentle kiss to your lips. You hate the taste of yourself on his tongue. At how sweet it is, and it only stokes the fire, leaving you craving more.

You gaze at him, eyes glazed with a heady intoxication, and he brushes the stray drool from the corner of your mouth with a tender finger. “As much as I would adore keeping you awake until dawn,” he says, voice teasingly low, “I cannot exhaust you entirely in the first month. I fear you might grow weary of me.”

“I could never,” you whisper, breath still ragged, your chest rising and falling beyond the confines of your neckline. His eyes soften, just for a moment, before he pulls you close by the waist. You look up at him, heart pounding, as he says, “Here.”

He moves toward the vanity, a few deliberate steps, and pushes the stool aside. He guides you to stand before the mirror. You blink, catching your reflection—eyes meeting his through the glass once more. But now, you look undone. Less a lady of society, more a woman laid bare by desire. It is slightly unbecoming, wildly improper, yet you revel in it. You like seeing yourself this way, transformed by him. He sees it too, because his voice drops to a whisper, “You are something else. But you're mine. All mine.”

“You as well,” you retort, a mischievous spark lighting your gaze. “You are all mine, too.”

He chuckles, dark and amused. “Jealous, are you?”

You shake your head firmly. “No. Merely staking my claim, as befits a Duchess.”

His hands settle on your back, commandingly warm, fingers splayed across the expanse of your bare skin as he slowly undoes your dress. It falls away with surprising ease this time. He inhales sharply, a shaky breath betraying his restraint, before his hands roam to your nipples needily. The playfulness has vanished; now, he needs you with a raw intensity that leaves you breathless.

He sheds his breeches with haste and bends you forward. You gulp, shuddering as he enters you like this. You watch yourself in the mirror—your breasts bouncing with every thrust, his pupils dilating in rapture, his body making sounds that are equal parts grunt, moan, and whimper, all for you. It inflates your pride, a delicious arrogance, as if you hold dominion over him.

You yelp, breath catching as he pulls you back upright, continuing his relentless pursuit while standing. Your eyes widen in surprise, but hunger simmers beneath the shock. You pivot halfway, lips crashing against his with a feral hunger. His hands spread wide across your chest, gripping you with a fierce possessiveness that borders on pain—sharp, intoxicating, like the burn of port sliding down your throat, searing yet exquisite after a moment. Your half-lidded gaze and ragged moans confess everything; you are on the precipice of coming, and so is he.

“I can feel it,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire. “Almost there, aren't you? You’re quite transparent, darling.”

“Shut up,” you grunt, a whimper escaping as his hand pinches your nipple with sudden, merciless insistence. Eyes closed, you surrender to the symphony of sensation—his hands on your breasts, his length buried deep within your cunt, his breath hot against your neck, his voice a low caress, his chest pressed firmly to your back. The more you dwell on it, the closer you spiral toward the edge.

He grunts into your ear, lips trailing kisses along the sensitive skin, and then it happens. The world narrows to the exquisite clenching of your body against him—against the veins of his cock, the tip pressing mercilessly against your cervix. Your core tightens, gripping him with a fierce, repeated rhythm as your entire frame trembles. And then, you feel him releasing inside you with a shuddering surrender.

You remain locked in that trembling embrace, panting, eyes drawn to the mirror where your reflection entwines with his. He holds you with a desperate tenderness, arms wrapped tight around your waist as his face buries itself in your hair. His breath is ragged against your neck, and your gaze softens.

For all his strength—Gojo Satoru, the man who devours you with such ferocity—there is fragility here. Though he has just claimed you utterly, there is something vulnerable in the way he closes his eyes and clings to you, as if you are the very air he needs to breathe.

And then it strikes you. The Gojo you know is a different creature entirely. Confident. Jovial. A master of wit and flirtation, as if life itself depended on his charm. Ever adorned with that infuriating smirk, so composed that every lady of the ton still whispers his name as London’s most coveted bachelor.

But tonight, you realize it with a shock. You do not know this man at all.

There is nothing particularly remarkable about the ball you host—not in the way society defines remarkable. It is exquisite, of course. Lit like a painting, gilded in every corner, with flowers perfuming the air and crystal glinting off every surface. But you’re tired of it. Tired of society and its pageantry, tired of the performance. Your mother goes on about appearances and honeymoons and duty. You nod, you smile, you dance. You watch Satoru disappear into his study with Suguru for ten minutes and return as if nothing happened. But you know better now. You can read him.

Later that night, while he checks in on Megumi, you sit in bed and think of all the things you have learned about him, and all the things you still haven’t. When he returns, you pretend to be asleep until he presses a kiss to your temple, tenderly quiet. You open your eyes and reach for him.

"You seemed upset when you came back," you murmur. He raises a brow. Waits.

"You left to speak with Suguru. In your office. Is everything alright?"

He blinks. “I didn’t expect you to notice. It’s nothing.”

"You’re the one who said you keep finding new things about me,” you whisper. “Why is it I feel I hardly know you at all?”

He exhales slowly. “It's nothing. A document won’t clear through. I’m looking for a way around it.”

"Can I help?" you ask. He shakes his head. “Not really.”

You card your fingers through his hair. “I’ve been exploring,” you say. He hums, eyes half-closed, waiting for you to continue.

"There are paintings in the drawing room. Your mother’s.”

“She was good,” he says, turning toward you fully now. “She painted. Played pianoforte. Taught me how to ride. To speak. To think. Refused to let a blasted governor near me. Said she wanted to know what I was becoming.”

“You must miss her.”

“Every fucking day,” he says simply. “As much as I hated my father, I loved her.”

You still. “You hated him?”

He stiffens. A beat of silence. Then, “Forget it. Tell me when Yuji’s coming next. I’d like to see him.”

That night, you don’t sleep. You rise before dawn and write, ink staining your hands as you sign your name as the Phantom once more. By sunrise, you’re dressed, prepared, and smiling again.

The months pass like breath. Days folding into one another with dizzying, golden repetition. You and Satoru move like clockwork: breakfast, duty, desire. He touches you constantly behind closed doors, between conversations, in the dark, and often in daylight. You let him. You welcome it. Sometimes it’s gentle, sometimes it’s rough, but always it’s worshipful. You start to wonder if it is his way of apologizing—for what, you don’t yet know.

You begin to bond with Megumi. He softens around you, especially when you bring books or speak of poets he’s only just begun to admire. Yuji visits often, and his presence feels like a memory of something easier. You tend to your duchess duties—entertaining the wives of foreign dignitaries, inspecting the kitchens, reading reports. You make appearances in town. You host teas. You smile.

But something hollows. Slowly, stealthily, as if dug by a spoon from the inside. There is a pit in your stomach that no wine or laughter can fill. Something unnamed. It stirs when you hear Suguru’s voice through the study door. When Satoru smiles just a little too easily. When silence settles between you after the pleasure is gone, and nothing is said at all.

You do not name the feeling, but it grows. Like a storm swelling in the distance. Like an ache you will eventually have to reckon with.

A few weeks later, with Satoru gone to the palace for some diplomatic affair, the house feels quieter than usual—emptier, though not lonelier. You’re curled on the parlor settee, half-lost in the novel he brought you, some token gesture to distract you from the silence blooming between you. Megumi is with his governor. There is no company to keep but the book in your lap and the ache that has been growing in your chest since before you could name it.

You're just about to turn the page when the butler enters and announces, “Lord Geto Suguru has arrived, Your Grace.” You blink, surprised. A smile curls faintly across your lips.

“Send him in,” you murmur, rising slightly.

He steps in moments later, breathless and urgent as though the world has ended, but his expression softens when he sees you. “Hi,” he says, almost sheepishly.

You smile wider, if only to push away the unrest in your chest. “Hi. Come to see my husband and not me, I presume?”

“Something like that,” he offers, bowing a little as he crosses the room to sit. “I don’t mind spending time with my old friend, though.”

“The old friend you haven’t written to since her wedding,” you tease, though your voice is light, practiced. “Seems you preferred me as a debutante.”

“Don’t say that,” he replies quickly, with genuine affection. “You know I never could. You’re like a sister to me.” A beat. “How have you been?”

You hesitate. The silence stretches, hangs. You could say everything. You could say nothing.

“I’m the same as I’ve always been,” you say instead, quiet. He narrows his eyes, then tilts his head, not fooled. “You’re angry with him.”

“No,” you say, too quickly. “Not at all.”

“You are,” he insists, gently. “Is this still about the contract?”

You pause. “Contract?”

“Yes, the one he and your father signed. The one to keep your father’s seat and to secure Satoru’s inheritance.” He says it like it’s common knowledge. “Though there’s a complication now—he’s been chasing down the notary ever since—wait.”

He stops. His eyes narrow again, before widening. “You didn’t know?”

You blink. “Keep my father’s seat at court...?” you echo, your voice louder than you mean it to be.

He sits upright, suddenly aware. “Satoru said he’d told you. Before the wedding—”

“Suguru,” you interrupt, your voice low but steel-threaded. “Explain. All of it.”

He looks at you then, and something in his face breaks. The guilt, the shame. He’s folding into it. And now you understand, how fools are made not by ignorance, but by trust.

“Satoru’s father was cruel,” he says slowly. “Raised him like a prisoner after his mother died. Tuberculosis, they said, though Satoru just called it wasting. His father never let him live, never let him feel. And in his will, he wrote that Satoru could only inherit at twenty-five if…”

“If?” Your voice is a whisper.

“If he marries. And sires an heir.”

There is a ringing in your ears. A coldness at the base of your neck. You feel the edges of your world tilting. “And my father?” you manage.

“Your father’s mistakes almost cost him the magistrate,” Suguru says, still not meeting your gaze. “Satoru saw it unravel. And so he... he made a deal.”

You exhale, slow and long. “He married me,” you say, voice flat. “Gave my father protection. Took a wife for an inheritance.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“I think you should leave,” you say quietly, rising from the lounge. “It was lovely having you, my lord.”

You do not watch him go. You sit back down only after you hear the door shut. You do not cry. Not yet. There is still too much to unravel before the grief can even begin. When Satoru returns that evening, the house is quiet. You’ve already retreated to your bedchambers, the light dimmed, the curtains drawn. You lie still beneath the covers, feigning the deep quiet of sleep. The housekeeper had passed along the lie without question—lightheadedness, perhaps exhaustion. A long day. Soup had been left on your nightstand. You hadn’t touched it.

He enters quietly. You feel the shift in the mattress, the creak of polished floorboards. Then the weight of his hand, gentle against your forehead, as though measuring something deeper than fever. His lips press to your crown with that practiced tenderness you once believed was instinct rather than performance. His hands rub soothing circles along your sides, warm through the thin linen. He murmurs something—your name, maybe. A prayer. A hush meant only for the sick and beloved.

You should soften. But instead you lie still, breathing steady. Pretending. And beneath the layers of blanket and silence, guilt blooms. You shouldn’t feel guilty. You remind yourself that.

Shouldn’t you be the one owed remorse?

Shouldn’t he have felt it when he let you fall in love with him under false pretenses? When he danced with you at that first ball—so attentive, so sweet—and didn’t think to mention the contract your father signed behind your back? When he smiled at your skirt in Utahime’s garden, saying he didn’t know how to speak to you, when in fact he knew precisely how to weave the web?

And wasn’t it too convenient, too perfect, that he followed you onto that balcony? That he kissed you? The thought clenches something hard inside your chest. You feel it rise like bile. You think: he knew. He must have known exactly what would happen, how quickly duty would follow affection. How clean the trap would spring shut.

You close your eyes tighter, swallowing thickly. His hand lingers on your waist, and all you can think is how expertly he has always known how to hold you.

The next few weeks are agony in silk and lace. Your mother insists on appearances. Says the London season has had its fill of your marital bliss, and it is now time to retreat—just the two of you—to Limitless Hall, the sprawling country estate that belongs to the title you now carry like a weight across your chest. A honeymoon, she calls it. A reward. A blessing. You nod and say yes, and wear the dresses she picks, and sign the letters addressed to "Her Grace," and you avoid your husband as best you can.

But even that is its own kind of torment.

Because pretending is a game you’ve grown good at, but never with him. It is hell to dodge his gaze. Hell to say you're tired when you're not. And it is hell—true, visceral hell—to lie beneath him and pretend it doesn’t make you feel everything when his mouth finds your breast, when his hips snap forward, when his voice rasps out your name like it’s the only prayer he's ever known. To bite your lip and not cry out when his breath fans your throat, when he worships your body like it belongs to him and you alone. When he says, hoarse and raw, “There is nothing I love more than being inside of you.”

It isn't the inheritance that hurts. Or the condition tied to it. You understand selfishness. Ambition. You understand needing to survive. What you cannot forgive—what burns through your chest like frostbitten fire—is that he didn’t tell you.

Because you loved him. Foolishly, fully. You still do. And that is the tragedy of it all. That love makes a fool of both of you. Because deep down, you understand: had you never written that column, you’d never have married so soon. Had you said nothing, done nothing, waited… maybe he would have told you. Maybe you’d have found out the truth slowly, from him, without contracts or obligations or shame.

Maybe, in another life, there would have been no trap. No balcony. No bargain sealed in ink and silence. So you pretend. You keep pretending.

You don’t flinch when he tells you he loves you. You smile when he calls you brilliant for suggesting Megumi stay with Yuji for when the two of you will retreat to the countryside. You laugh when he says he can’t wait to spend forever with you. And you don’t let your voice shake when he presses a kiss to your fingers, or when he draws you in close and murmurs that Limitless Hall will be perfect. That the two of you deserve this. That you’re his everything.

You don’t tell him that that—more than the lie, more than the contract—is what hurts most of all.

A week passes in silence and silk. A week of aching contradictions, of your body wrapped in his sheets, your limbs entangled with his, your mind aching with truths that he, at last, begins to share.

He tells you things he’s never told anyone. Of how he was raised at Limitless Hall while his father lingered in London, always out of reach. Of his mother’s slow unraveling, her health waning while his father watched—unmoved, preoccupied with bloodlines and legacy. Of Megumi’s mother, a woman his father ruined, cast aside, left to die bearing his child. Of the argument that fractured what little remained between them, of the promise Satoru made as his father lay dying: that Megumi would be his ward, his brother, his heir.

He apologizes quietly, without drama. Says he never meant to hurt you. That Megumi will remain first in line, and that he cannot change that. You only nod, and smile gently, placing a hand to his cheek. “I would have done the same,” you tell him, and you mean it. He calls you an angel and falls asleep beside you, breathing softly into your collarbone.

The next day, he returns home lighter, glowing. “It’s all done,” he says. “Everything here in London. We can begin the preparations.”

So, you do. You go home first—your old one. You speak with your mother and with Yuji, make arrangements for Megumi’s stay. Your mother acquiesces easily now. She rarely denies you anything since your rise in rank.

“But will it be alright, truly, if I stay here?” Megumi asks, just as you're about to leave. You kneel slightly, pressing your palm to his cheek with practiced ease. “You’ll be just as happy as I was, growing up with Yuji. I’ll write to you three times a week, and next time, perhaps the two of you can come with us.”

He shifts, frowning. “No, I meant—”

“You meant, is it alright to stay where only my brother knows you?” you finish, voice gentle. “Trust me. I’ll make sure of it. And if you have any trouble with my mother, well, I’ll handle her for you.”

You wink. He smiles. And just like that, you’re back at the estate, the soft click of carriage wheels forgotten by the time your footsteps echo along the polished floors. You’re in the corridor of the Duchess’s antechambers, gathering books, letters, and a few quills from your personal writing desk. A familiar silence blankets the space, until it’s broken.

You push open the door.

He’s standing there, framed by lamplight, a pouch of silver coins in one hand and something far worse in the other. A page. Thin, cream-inked, and damning. The look on his face is neither fury nor shock—it is betrayal in its purest form, so deep it roots itself in the set of his jaw, the stunned slack of his lips. “It’s you?” His voice is strained. “The Phantom is... my wife?”

Your eyes flick to the page in his hand, your stomach dropping, lungs collapsing into themselves.

“Satoru—”

“No.” His voice cracks, shakes, recoils. “No. I truly believed it could be anyone but you. I thought...” he laughs, brokenly, “I thought the way you looked that night. So betrayed. So wounded. Out by the swing, you were ruined, I thought. And it turns out, all of it—all of it was a lie? Was I a lie?”

Something hollows inside you. Slowly. Carefully. Then fills with heat. You freeze, just for a moment. The wind has gone from your body. But when you speak, it’s not with shame. It’s with a soft, terrifying calm. “And what of your deception, Your Grace?” Your voice is dangerously low. “Duke of Six Eyes. Gojo Satoru?”

He laughs, bitter now, clutching the piece of parchment in his hand tightly. “What lies?” he snaps. “I have done nothing but love you. Everything you asked, I did. You asked me to court you. I courted you. You asked me to write, I wrote. You wanted flowers. God, I sent you the damn flowers—”

“What I wanted was truth,” you cut in, your voice suddenly cold, slicing. “And what I received was a man who needed his inheritance. Who bargained for his bride like she was currency. Who shared a bed with her solely so he could sire an heir to secure his standing. ”

He stares. Breathing hard now. The coin pouch slips from his hand and crashes to the floor, the silver scattering like bones at your feet. As if there is nothing left to fight for.

“You made sure my father didn’t lose his judgeship. You made sure I was paraded around with you, easy to catch, easier still to wed. You calculated every word, the kiss, every flower.”

“I loved you,” he says again, and this time it sounds like a plea.

“No,” you stand your ground. “You needed me. And you never told me why.”

There is a ringing silence in the room, interrupted only by the scattered coins still rolling gently to stillness across the wooden floor. He’s staring at you, mouth parted, chest rising and falling as if words might yet come. But none do.

You wait. One second. Two. Five.

He does not move. He does not say anything. And somehow that is the thing that shatters you more than anything said between you tonight.

You turn. You do not speak. Your slippers are near-silent on the carpet, but the rustle of your skirts sounds deafening in the stillness. You walk out of the Duchess’s study as if walking out of a fever dream, your limbs trembling with the weight of all you’ve just learned—of all you’ve lost. There’s a hollowness blooming in your chest, tight and terrible, threatening to undo you right there in the hallway. He does not come after you.

You do not look back. Because if you do, and he is still standing there, you might fall to your knees. He does not come after you, he does not come after you, he does not come after you.

You do not ring for help. You do not tell anyone where you're going. You simply walk. Out the hall. Through the grand front doors of the Six Eyes estate. The butler calls after you faintly, confused, but you wave him off.

The night air bites at your skin. You don't care. Your hands shake as you call for the carriage and give your family’s address in a voice that barely sounds like your own.

And the worst part is that he does not chase you. He does not come after you. Not even once. And that is what makes it excruciatingly painful.

That night, when you walk into Highgrove House, your mother shrieks.

The way she gasps at your state—your half-undone hair, your expression, your silence—is almost theatrical. She rushes to you with a flurry of questions. Why you aren't packed, why you're not on your way to the countryside, why you look like you've been to hell and back.

You don’t answer. Not a word. In the parlor, Megumi and Yuji go still when they spot you. Yuji rises halfway from his seat, brows creased. Megumi looks at you like he's trying to figure out what happened, like he's trying to read something in your face. But there’s nothing. Not grief, not rage. Only absence. You walk right past them. Straight to the study. You close the door behind you. Lock it. You wait for the clink of the lock to register with the footsteps behind you and then silence. Just you and him.

Your father.

He sits at the desk, pen frozen above a page. You don’t look at him yet. Not immediately. You inhale. Once. Twice. Then you turn.

“When were you going to tell me?” Your voice is low. Controlled. Thick.

He blinks slowly. “I thought… I thought he would have told you. Before the wedding. That you knew.”

“You thought I knew?”

There’s no tremble in your voice now, just steel. “You didn’t think to ask me yourself? You didn’t think that your daughter deserved to know she was being sold off like property so you could keep your judgeship? What am I, a broodmare?”

“That is not the only reason—”

You laugh. Bitterly. “Oh no. Certainly not. You also thought he’d make a good match. Because, what? Because of his name? His estate? You thought I’d be content to be wanted for everything but who I am?”

“You said you were fine with it. In the carriage,” he says, desperate now. “You said you were—”

“I said I’d marry him,” you cut in, sharply. “Because I had no choice. Because I thought there was a chance it was love. Or something like it. I didn’t know there was a contract. A transaction.”

Your father exhales, heavy and old. “It was a good match. You’ve gone up in rank. You’re a Duchess. You have power. For a woman of your wit, your education, that’s no small thing.”

“But not because I chose it. That’s what matters,” you say, voice quieter now. More dangerous. “You should have told me. All of you should have.”

He pauses. Then, almost brokenly: “I’m sorry.”

You stare at him.

“I thought you were better than this. A better man. A good man,” you say. “But in the end, you’re just like the rest of them.”

You turn on your heel. The door clicks open. Your mother stands just beyond, hand hovering in the air as if she’d just been about to knock. She says nothing as you pass her. Yuji and Megumi rise, both watching you in a stunned kind of silence. You don’t look at them. Don’t give them anything.

You climb the stairs. You open the door to your old bedroom and shut it behind you. And this time, you don’t just close it—you slam it. Letting it echo. Letting it speak for you.

A week passes. Then another. You write a column about a ball you didn’t attend, inventing details about the color of the lady’s gown and the exact note the violinist missed. The gossip is cheap: some debutante without dowry, trying to entrap a second son before the season ends. It’s exactly what people want to read.

You remain at Highgrove House. The world believes you’ve gone to the countryside for your honeymoon. Only your family, and Shoko and Utahime, know the truth. No letters come from Gojo. Not one. He doesn’t appear at your doorstep, doesn’t write, doesn’t send a single flower or verse or scrap of himself.

“You must go back,” your mother insists one morning, as you come down for breakfast, hair pinned and face bare. You pick up your teacup, sip slowly, and then glance over at her. “Mother,” you say, voice thin but not without edge. “As the Duchess, I command you to stop urging me to return. And I would ask that you use my title, not my name. It is improper.”

She blinks. Her mouth opens, but then closes again. She says nothing more.

The days pass in muffled repetition. You read until your eyes ache, write until your wrist cramps, and in between you sulk in corners like a ghost that hasn’t made peace with the world. At night, after dinner, you sneak off to the courtyard with Megumi and Yuji to fence. You move fast and silent and precise, so that if anyone sees, it will be nothing more than a blur. You read aloud to them after. Tuck Megumi in. Pretend it doesn’t hurt to see your old life stretched out before you, still whole, without you in it.

It rains tonight. Heavy and thick, slapping against the windows like it’s angry too. You sit in the parlor long after the candles have burned low, watching the swing sway in the stormwind. You’ve thought of cutting it off more than once. But Yuji still uses it. That’s the only thing that stops you.

A throat clears behind you. You don’t turn. “Are you here to tell me to go back to the estate too?” you murmur.

“No,” your father says, and the familiar sound of pouring liquid follows. “That’s your mother’s job.”

He walks over with two glasses. Hands you one. Sits beside you. You eye the drink suspiciously, then take a sip. It burns too fast, too loud, too bitter. You cough, a little.

“That is as ghastly as my relationship with the Duke,” you mutter. Your father laughs. It’s soft, worn. When the sound fades, he speaks again, gently. “I should have told you from the beginning. But it isn’t easy to tell your daughter that her father’s about to lose his place in the world. That everything you built could vanish overnight. I still have the land, yes. But I am not just a lord. You know that.”

You keep your eyes on the window. “It’s alright,” you mumble.

“No. It isn’t,” he replies. “And you haven’t forgiven me.”

You say nothing. He continues. “But that’s alright, too. In time, perhaps you will. Or not. I’ll make my peace with either. I came to say one thing.”

You turn your head toward him, slowly.

“One day, when you’re older, when your hands tremble and your pride begins to rot inside your chest, you’ll make a decision that hurts someone you love. You’ll think you’re doing the right thing. Or the only thing. You’ll try to justify it, and you won’t be able to. And your child—your brilliant, furious child—will hate you for it.” He pauses, eyes on the fire now. “And in that moment, you’ll understand. That love is not made up of right choices, or even honest ones. It’s made up of people who come back. People who are willing to stand in the wreckage and ask to be forgiven.”

You stare at him, breath caught in your chest.

“If the Duke returns,” he says softly, “then don’t rob him of the chance to be that kind of person.”

He stands then, says he must rise early for the magistrate. Wishes you good night, tells you not to sit here too long, his voice worn and resigned. The door clicks shut behind him.

Still, you do not move. You remain there, in the armchair, staring through the misty glass at the swing swaying gently in the rain. Your body feels like it doesn’t belong to you anymore; your limbs weightless, your chest heavy. And then you stand. Quietly. Without thinking. You step out of your shoes, let the silk hem of your dress fall limp around your ankles, and walk barefoot to the door.

Your lady maid gasps behind you—“Your Grace!”—but the sound fades behind the groan of the door as it opens.

Rain meets you like an old grief. Cold, piercing, and relentless. It bites into your skin, soaks you in seconds, strips you of the pretense you’ve been wearing like armor.

You make your way to the swing. Sit down with a soft, defeated sigh. Water pools into the folds of your dress, clinging to your body like sorrow. You bow your head. Close your eyes. The rain is merciless, but it is real. Honest in a way nothing else has been for weeks.

Time passes. You don’t know how long. But then, the rain above you quiets. Only above you. The sky is still crying. But you are not. You open your eyes. An umbrella. And behind it, him. Satoru.

Soaked through, hair flattened to his forehead, water running down the sharp lines of his cheekbones. He’s holding the umbrella above your head like a vow, letting himself drown.

“Why are you here?” you ask, softly. Flatly.

“To take you back home. So we can go to Limitless Hall,” he says. As though it’s already decided. As though your heart will fall into step behind his voice like it always has.

“We aren’t,” you whisper. “I feel colder with the umbrella. Put it away.”

He pauses, watching you. And then, without argument, he folds it shut. The rain returns. Full. Immediate. Honest.

“Why are you really here?” you ask again, your voice nearly lost to the wind.

He swallows, once. “I couldn’t stand it,” he says. “The house without you. The silence. I know what I did. I know what I didn’t say. But I—” he falters, as if there are no words that will suffice, “—I couldn’t breathe without you.”

You turn away. “And what if I say no? What if I can’t forgive you?”

He nods, once. “Then I will wait. Until you can.”

A pause. And then, quietly, he says, “I didn’t come here to take you. I came here to ask.”

“Really?” you say, sharp and bitter, your voice cracking against the rain. “Because so far it just seems like you want me to play the perfect Duchess. Have me in your bed, give you heirs, secure your fortune.”

He flinches, visibly, as if you’ve struck him. Still, he moves closer. Rain slicks through his hair as he lowers himself beside you on the swing, the wood creaking beneath both your weight and the unbearable silence that stretches between.

Then, quietly, “You forget that you lied too.”

“I lied to protect myself,” you murmur, a tremor slipping into your voice. “I am the Phantom, yes, but I never lied about loving you. I never once lied about that.”

He turns, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Are you saying I didn’t? Love you?”

You look at him, truly look. At the water dripping from the tips of his lashes, at the shiver in his breath, at the hollow behind his ribs that you know, without being told, mirrors your own.

“Is that truly what you believe?” he asks, breathless now. “That I haven’t been in agony? That I haven’t been waking each morning and hating myself for not telling you sooner? You do not know the torment of every day that I live without you.”

Your throat tightens. The wind cuts through your soaked gown, and yet the ache inside is worse.

“Do you think I wasn’t in pain?” you say, staring ahead, blinking through the downpour. “Do you think I enjoyed being here, pretending? Every second without you is a second I spend pretending I know how to breathe. You are in every thought I have. Every breath. You are the reason I am sitting here, in this storm, not knowing what is to become of us. Of our marriage.”

He swallows. The sound of it feels louder than the rain.

“Then why won’t you come back?” he asks, voice low. “Why won’t you come home to me?”

Your gaze drops to your lap. Your fingers curl, trembling.

“Because you lied,” you whisper. “You stood in front of me, kissed me, promised me the world. And not once did you tell me that our marriage was a transaction. That I was a means to an end.”

Silence again. Then: “Say the word,” he breathes, “and I will give it all up. The title, the estate, my name. All of it. I will sign everything over to Megumi and we will go to Limitless Hall and be nothing more than husband and wife. No titles. No heirs. No obligation. Only us.”

You look at him. His voice shakes, but his eyes hold nothing but stillness. Steady. Certain. Blue like summer light through cathedral glass.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says. “And I am sorry. But I did not lie when I said I loved you. I do. I love you in every way a man can. I love you when I’m beside you. I love you when you’re not there. I love you when I hate myself.”

You inhale, a slow, stunned breath, as the thing inside you—whatever grief that curled around your spine like ivy—finally, finally cracks. Rain bespeckled gems upon his skin bring his beauty into every clearer definition, and you see it. You feel it.

“Satoru,” you murmur, voice too soft to hear. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have written what I did about us. I-I didn’t know what else to do.”

He shakes his head, already leaning in.

“I don’t care that you wrote it,” he whispers. “You could write a thousand more. I’d read every one of them, if it meant you were still mine.”

And then, slowly, reverently, he leans in and kisses you—rain-drenched and desperate, a kiss full of apologies and promises, a kiss that is not a fix but a beginning. You fall into it. Because there is nothing else left to do.

“Satoru—”

“N-no,” he interrupts, shaking his head with a desperate urgency, pulling you into a fierce kiss within the confines of the carriage. His hands tangle in your hair and slip beneath the damp fabric of your dress. “I need you. I miss you.”

Earlier, he had insisted on returning home at once, and you had found yourself unable to refuse. Now, you kiss him back with equal fervor as his fingers tug your sodden dress downward, exposing skin kissed by rain and longing. His lips trail fevered pecks along your collarbone, growing more reckless as he reaches the upper swell of your breasts. His hands grasp them boldly, and you gasp.

“What are you doing? The driver will hear us—”

“Let him,” he growls, voice thick with need. “I pay him well enough. I’ll give him more for his silence.”

“S-Satoru?” you breathe, eyes wide and shimmering. He whispers the words between heated kisses, as if uttering them might ease some ache deep within. “I love you. I burn for you. I am yours, forever and always. It is torture to be apart from you.”

He pulls you closer, settling you onto his lap with a soft yelp. Your hands cup his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, the wet strands of hair clinging to his skin. His grip tightens on your hips as he kisses you hard, maddeningly, and you respond by trailing your fingers along his face. His hands slide down your sleeves, damp from the rain, and drag them lower until your breasts spill freely from the dress’s confines. A low moan escapes you as your lips find his jaw, his neck—devouring him piece by piece.

He undoes his breeches with swift urgency, then returns to your lips with a slow, tender kiss before withdrawing to bare himself fully. His hands lift your dress higher, already gathered at your thighs.

“Satoru,” you whisper, breathless, as he enters you. The sensation is full and warm, encompassing and right, as if every moment before this was merely a prelude. His hands cradle your face, compelling your gaze to meet his. His eyes are like ocean shores, sea foam dancing with every breath; warm sunlit currents with a depth that pull you under as he thrusts upward, kissing you senseless.

It is maddening. It steals your breath away. It feels so utterly right that you wonder if you have ever truly belonged anywhere else—here, in this carriage, scandalous and exposed, rain tapping a steady rhythm against the windows, while he claims you in every way possible.

You marvel at how blue can burn with such fierce heat until your gaze locks with his eyes. He is breathtaking, a living tempest of beauty and desire, and you cannot help but roll your hips with abandon as he thrusts into you with a desperation that threatens to shatter your restraint. Your moans spill freely, careless of the driver’s ears or any prying eyes. You gasp softly as his lips find the tender swell of your tits once more, then drift lower. You arch back willingly, offering him better access, and his mouth envelops your nipples, warm and insistent, as you ride him with fevered urgency. It feels like heaven incarnate.

He watches you with eyes glazed and wild, as if your naked form is the most bewildering sight he has ever beheld. You are soft beneath his touch, your breasts flushed and warm as his kisses trace the valley between them. There is a vulnerability in his gaze—a raw, unguarded longing that you cannot resist.

“I love you,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his as you move with fervor. “I love you so much.”

“I see that,” he murmurs, laughter soft and low, pinching your nipples with one hand while gripping your hips with the other. “I’m going to come, you know. You’ve kept yourself away for far too long. I can’t help it.”

“You can’t help it?” you tease, feeling the twitch of him deep inside you. The warmth floods every nerve, every thought, electrifying your senses. The ache of weeks apart has made this moment so tangible, so desperate. You murmur his name into his ear, nipping playfully, and he groans, pulling you closer. Your breasts press against his soaked coat, and his grip tightens in your hair. “Make me come. Fuck yourself on my cock.”

You gasp, breathless, as one of his hands slides lower, fingers seeking, until the pad of his thumb circles your clit. It is messy—pathetically messy and raw with need, but you live for it. You obey, bouncing wildly on him, rocking the carriage with your fervor as he spills his seed inside you. You watch him tremble, but you do not relent. You keep moving, keep riding, until your body spasms uncontrollably, your stomach fluttering with butterflies, your skin aflame, and your mind dissolving into a blissful haze.

The carriage rocks to a halt, the wheels hissing against wet gravel, but no one knocks. No one calls out. The drivers must have heard everything—how could they not?—but they say nothing.

You laugh, breathlessly aching, still straddling him in the cramped dark of the carriage. His hands are warm against your back, buttoning your gown again with a clumsy reverence, as if dressing you were an act of worship. The bodice sticks to your skin where his mouth had once been. His hair is mussed. His heartbeat still hammers beneath your palm like a war drum. It is steady, unrelenting, and devoted.

He touches your face with both hands now. Thumb at your cheekbone, fingers cradling the curve of your jaw as though you might dissolve between one blink and the next.

“What did you even do these last few weeks?” you ask, quietly, as your fingers draw idle patterns on his chest. It’s not teasing, not really. It’s the question of a woman who wants to know if he missed her with the same intensity that she missed him.

“I sulked,” he says, voice hoarsely low. His lips brush yours between syllables, like the words ache to leave him. “I reread every article you ever published. And I kept reading the newer ones you wrote and released while you were gone. I sat on the settee in the library where you used to read to Megumi. I tied a swing to the linden tree in the garden, so when you came back, it might feel a little like home. I cried. I sulked. I was unbearably miserable.”

You smile, forehead pressing gently to his. His breath is sweet with the sharpness of wine and desperation. He breathes you in like you’re something holy.

“I yearned for your presence,” he continues. “And now... now I have you on top of me, glowing. The world has found its axis again. Everything is where it should be.”

You scoff, but it’s soft, full of affection. “'The world has found its axis again'?”

He nods, brushing your damp hair back behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. “It has. Now that you're here.”

“Does that mean,” you murmur, lips ghosting across his cheek, “you’ll finally take me to Limitless Hall?”

“I’ll take you anywhere you want,” he says, without hesitation. “Anywhere you ask. Even if the world burns behind us, I will follow you. I’ll build you a home on its ashes.”

His fingers find your chin and tilt your face to meet his, eyes wild and clear. “I’m never letting you go anywhere again.”

“Never? Is that a promise, Your Grace?” you whisper. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just breathes the words into your mouth as he kisses you again—slow, reverent, trembling: “It’s not a promise. It’s a vow.”

THE VEILED QUILL Volume III, Issue I A Blooming of Secrets and Springtime Hearts

My dearest gentle readers,

Another Season begins. How swiftly the world turns. The countryside, with its dewy mornings and rose-laced winds, has offered this author a most peaceful respite. But even amidst the loveliest of meadows and the most fragrant of orchards, one finds that serenity can only satisfy for so long. For what is tranquility without a touch of scandal to season it? This author returns to Mayfair with ink at the ready and ears tuned sharply to the whispers behind every fan.

Why, none other than the Duchess of Six Eyes herself.

Yes, it is Her Grace who offers the first invitation, and society has been all aflutter since. After all, a woman who once moved through ballrooms as an enigma now stands at their helm. If she’s inherited even a hint of her mother’s celebrated flair for fête and flourish, this author wagers the night will be one to remember.

Of course, a new season brings with it new whispers. One can hardly ignore the epistolary bond blooming between Mr. Nanami Kento of Hastings and a certain marquess’s daughter. Just friendship, you ask? Perhaps. But a friendship that has weathered a year of travel, distance, and longing glances exchanged across ballrooms is hardly a trivial thing.

And speaking of matches: Nigel Berbrooke, last season’s most unlikely groom, is now a married man. His bride? A young lady of the ton whose courtship years were long and fruitless—until now. While this union may lack the sparkle of romance, it serves as a reminder that sometimes, settling is simply surviving.

But not all tales are so quiet.

Lady Shoko, Lady Utahime, and the Duchess herself were seen promenading in Hyde Park just this week, their laughter mingling with the scent of roses and rain. The trio, once heralded as the most promising of their debutante year, now stand together in something even more precious: enduring friendship. A lesson, perhaps, that womanhood is not forged in marriage but in who we choose to walk beside.

And now, dear reader, for the loveliest whisper of all. The Duchess of Six Eyes is with child.

There is no scandal in this news. No sharp turn or twist. Only something quietly radiant. A love that once began in shadows has softened, bloomed. Her Grace is said to be in excellent health, and the Duke—who has, at last, exchanged restless wanderings for a settled life at her side—is said to be utterly besotted.

For a couple who began as a tempest gilded in ruin, they have become the season’s finest portrait of devotion—steady, luminous, and achingly sincere. Their story is no longer one of survival, but of sanctuary. Of two hearts choosing, again and again, to remain entwined.

How rare it is to witness love unfold not in spectacle, but in steadiness. In letters tucked into breakfast trays, in gardens newly planted, in gentle hands resting on rounded bellies. In futures not demanded, but chosen.

Let us commence this season, then, with a bit of hope. For happy endings. For new beginnings. And for love, in all its quiet, remarkable forms.

With quill in hand and heart ever listening, Phantom.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[edenesth]

04. The Phantom — By Order of the Black Pirates

An 'Ice On My Teeth' Comeback Special Series

Pairing: gang member!Yeosang x fem!reader

AU: gang au

Word Count: 20k

Summary: Mysterious and elusive, the Black Pirates' intelligence expert is known for his sharp instincts and unparalleled skill in espionage and reconnaissance. But when he crosses paths with a woman who surpasses him in both skill and wit for the first time, his confidence begins to waver. As she outsmarts him at every turn, he finds himself unexpectedly drawn to her, eagerly anticipating each challenge—because the thrill of being near her is something he never expected to crave.

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Trigger Warnings: violence, manipulation, abuse, blood, murder, language, contains dark themes in general

SERIES MASTERLIST | ATEEZ MASTERLIST

"Well? You bailed on the Prestige Asylum mission and left Yunho to handle it solo—so what's next? Got some grand plan, or are you finally taking a break?" San asked, one brow arched in curiosity as he lounged across the desk from the Phantom, who was currently sifting through a thick stack of documents.

Yeosang smirked, barely sparing his brother a glance as he flipped through the files Jongho had dug up for him. "A break? You know I have no interest in dull things like that. I've already found myself a new mission. Yuyu's doing just fine without me—the last thing I need is to play the third wheel to whatever awkward tension he's got going on with his precious Dr Prude."

"A new mission?" San repeated, leaning in with interest. "What kind of mission?"

Yeosang tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully. "You've been awfully curious about what everyone's up to lately. What's gotten into you, Sannie? Or could it be your little withering flower—"

"Don't." San's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, his sharp glare cutting across the room. "Don't ever call her that again. And this has nothing to do with her." Without waiting for a response, the Tempest pushed back his chair and stood. "Forget it. If you don't want to tell me, fine. I'll leave you to it."

The Phantom sighed, guilt tugging at him as he watched his brother turn away. "It's a series of heists," he finally muttered, tossing the files onto the desk for San to see. Artefacts, gold, and rare treasures. "Hongjoong hyung already gave me the green light. Figured it's time we expanded our collection."

"Good luck, Yeo."

Thrilled to finally have something of his own after spending so long assisting with his brothers' missions or acting as the Captain's go-to informant, Yeosang dove into his meticulously planned heists. Unlike the rest of the crew, who were either chasing volatile targets or caught up in messy affairs of the heart, he was certain his operations would go off without a hitch.

After all, he was the Phantom—the master of locks, the ghost in the shadows. No vault had ever kept him out, no trap had ever slowed him down. High security, tight patrols, complex encryption—none of it mattered. He could slip through fortresses like smoke through cracks.

So naturally, he expected his missions to be the cleanest. The smoothest. The most successful. With his contribution, he was confident he'd help Hongjoong restore the Black Pirates' reputation in the underground scene in no time.

But things... didn't go as planned.

He thought he was fast. He thought he was invisible. He thought he was untouchable.

Until now.

The Black Pirates' latest intel reveals a string of high-profile heists—artefacts, gold, and precious rarities vanishing without a trace. The only thing left behind? A calling card, marked with a signature so elegant, it almost mocked him.

Yeosang—an expert in espionage, surveillance, and silent infiltration—has never been outplayed. His instincts, his pride, his entire reputation were built on being the smartest one in the room.

But this thief? She doesn't leave footprints. Doesn't leave room for mistakes. Doesn't follow any pattern.

For the first time, he feels it: the sting of being bested. And worse—he's intrigued.

The room was cold and silent, save for the faint echo of the Phantom's boots against marble floors as he stepped into what should've been a locked, high-security vault.

He froze.

Empty.

Not a single artefact remained—not the ancient relic he'd been tracking for weeks, not the encrypted lockbox he'd expected to crack, nothing.

Just like the last time.

And the time before that.

His jaw tensed as his eyes swept the chamber, instinctively scanning for the only thing she ever left behind. And there it was—placed delicately on the velvet pedestal where the artefact should've been.

A single white rose, petals unbruised, impossibly fresh. Tied to its stem was a narrow strip of paper, curled slightly at the edges. He plucked it off with a sigh, already knowing what it would say.

"Sorry, I got here first. Better luck next time. xoxo"

The note was signed off, as always, with a seductive lipstick print in deep crimson, the faintest trace of rose and something spicier—sandalwood, maybe—lingering in the air around it.

Yeosang let out a slow breath, rubbing his temples before muttering a quiet, colourful string of curses under his breath.

"Not again."

This was the fifth mission she'd intercepted. Five high-profile jobs. Five flawless thefts. No alarms. No forced entry. No noise.

And each time—the rose. The note. The kiss.

A part of him simmered in frustration. Not at the loss—that was irritating, sure—but at the fact that she was winning. Beating him at his own game.

But another part? That part laughed.

A soft, breathy chuckle escaped him despite himself as he reached for the delicate rose, brushing a thumb along the curve of the note. Without thinking, he lifted the flower to his nose.

It was ridiculous, he knew. Who carries a fresh rose into a high-security vault just to leave it behind? Who plans their thefts with such finesse and style, just to gloat—just to tease him?

Who the hell was she?

Yeosang lowered the rose, an amused smile tugging at his lips. "You're nothing if not consistent," he murmured to no one, folding the note neatly and tucking it into his coat pocket alongside the last two.

He didn't know her name. He didn't know her face. But her message was loud and clear: Catch me if you can, Phantom.

And now, more than ever, he wanted to.

Not for the artefact. Not even for the mission.

But for the thrill of the chase.

Because someone had finally managed to make the master of shadows feel like prey.

And he liked it.

You smirked from the shadows, concealed in the narrow gap between steel support beams and the cold stone of the vault's inner frame—your favourite vantage point.

There he was. The infamous Phantom of the Black Pirates. So sharp. So calculated. So smug. And yet, here he stood, blissfully unaware that you'd been watching him the entire time.

You leaned against the metal, arms crossed, quietly savouring the sight of him lifting the rose to his nose like some smitten fool. You had to bite back a laugh. He always did that like clockwork.

Honestly, you were starting to wonder if he looked forward to finding your little gifts. He never shouted. Never raged. Never trashed the room in frustration. No—he smiled. He chuckled. He took the rose with him. Every time.

Adorable.

But that wasn't going to save him.

Not tonight.

He'd gotten here barely three minutes after you'd finished the job, as if he almost had a chance. But close calls didn't count in your world. You were always faster. Always cleaner. Always ahead.

Still, you weren't heartless. Well… maybe just a little. With a quiet sigh, you turned toward the door, fingers brushing lightly over the emergency control panel you'd rigged earlier on your way in. You tapped a single button.

The alarm shrieked to life.

Red lights bathed the room in an urgent glow, sirens echoing through the vault's thick walls. A mechanical whir signalled the lockdown beginning—steel gates lowering, magnetic locks sealing.

You didn't even glance back to see his reaction. You could picture it perfectly in your mind: the narrowing eyes, the shift in posture, the way his jaw would clench just slightly—not from fear, but from anticipation.

This wasn't sabotage. Not really.

You were just… levelling the playing field.

After all, you'd stolen his treasure—the very thing he came for. It was only fair to give him a little something in return. A challenge. A thrill. A taste of danger.

You smiled to yourself as you disappeared down a hidden shaft leading out of the building, your coat fluttering behind you like a wraith in the dark.

Consider it my apology, Phantom.

You might've taken his prize… but you're leaving him something just as sweet: a reason to chase you harder.

And deep down, you knew he would.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The front doors of the Black Pirates' mansion creaked open, and Yeosang stepped inside, limping slightly. His coat was torn at the hem, boots scuffed with soot and dirt, and a fresh cut curved along his cheek—just beneath his birthmark. Blood had dried there, crusting into the corner of his jaw.

It was well past midnight.

He was hours late. And from the way he staggered through the hall, he clearly hadn't taken the quiet way home.

The Captain's office door was ajar, light spilling into the corridor. He didn't even knock. Just pushed it open and let it swing behind him. Hongjoong looked up from his desk instantly, rising to his feet the moment he saw his brother's condition. His sharp gaze scanned the limp, the bruise forming under his eye, the smug—but exhausted—tilt to his mouth.

He didn't waste time on pleasantries.

"Was it her again?"

Yeosang let out a breathy laugh, dragging a hand through his tousled hair as he collapsed into the nearest chair without invitation.

"Who else?" he muttered, voice laced with both irritation and reluctant admiration. He pulled the torn glove from his hand and tossed it onto the desk. "I walked into the vault not five minutes after she left. The damn rose was still cold."

Hongjoong grimaced. "And the alarm?"

Yeosang gave him a look. "Triggered. Locked me in. No exit points. No ventilation escape. Had to improvise."

A beat of silence passed between them.

"How bad?"

The younger man winced, rolling his shoulder. "Jumped three floors. Landed on a moving patrol truck. Limped two kilometres until I hijacked a bike." He gestured vaguely to the gash on his cheek. "Guards had sharp aim tonight."

Hongjoong sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That's the fourth mission she's hit before you."

"Fifth," Yeosang corrected, eyes narrowing faintly as he reached into his coat and pulled out the familiar note. He held it up between two fingers like a trophy—and an insult. "She switched her lipstick shade this time. Cherry red. Thought I wouldn't notice."

He tossed the note onto the desk with a bitter chuckle, and the Captain stared at it. The mocking message. The perfect handwriting. The damn lipstick kiss.

"You know this isn't a game, right?" Hongjoong said quietly. "If she's targeting the same objectives we are, it could mean someone's feeding her our intel."

Yeosang shook his head, eyes unfocused, lost somewhere between frustration and fascination. "No. She's not working for anyone. Not like that. She's… playing with me."

Hongjoong raised a brow. "You sound flattered."

Yeosang gave him a flat look—but couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. "I'm furious."

"Uh-huh."

"She left me a flower, hyung. And a trap."

Hongjoong folded his arms. "And you kept the flower, didn't you?"

The Phantom didn't answer. Just reached into his coat again and carefully withdrew the white rose, only slightly wilted from the heat of the chase. The scent was still there. Hauntingly familiar.

He stared at it for a long moment.

"She wants me to find her."

"You sure?"

Yeosang smiled—slow, dangerous, amused. "If she didn't, she wouldn't be leaving me clues."

The gang leader's gaze hardened. "Then find her. Before she starts aiming higher."

Yeosang nodded slowly, still holding the rose between his fingers. "Oh, I will." And for the first time in years, he didn't care about the treasure anymore. He just wanted to see you.

Just you wait, little vixen.

The thrill of the chase still buzzed under your skin as you stepped through the reinforced steel doors of your hidden base. The adrenaline was fading, replaced now with the familiar calm that came after a perfect job.

Your coat slipped from your shoulders as you moved through the dim corridors—your heels quiet on the marble floor, the scent of the rose still faint on your gloves. The aura of mischief, the flirtatious game, the playful smirk—all of it faded the moment you reached the tall double doors of the main chamber.

This was not the place for indulgence.

You pushed open the door.

The room was bathed in warm firelight. Shadows danced across the stone walls, flickering with each crackle of the flames. And there, in his usual place, sat him—your boss. An imposing figure in a tailored suit, swirling a glass of brandy with the kind of poise that came from power long held and rarely challenged.

He didn't look at you as you entered. He never did, not at first. Just sat there, one leg crossed over the other, gaze fixed on the fire as if it whispered secrets only he could hear.

"I take it the mission was successful," he said at last, voice deep, unbothered, like he already knew the answer.

You stepped forward with purpose, spine straight and voice steady. "Yes, sir. Every single piece of artefact the Black Pirates had on their radar is now in our inventory. Undamaged. Untraced."

A satisfied smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth. He took a long sip of brandy, savouring it. Then, still staring into the fire, he asked: "And the most important part of the mission?"

Your lips curled into a small, secret smile. The real objective. The reason he'd chosen you for this series of thefts. "I'd consider it a success," you said, folding your hands behind your back. "The Phantom didn't seem too disheartened. If anything… he looked thrilled. I may have stolen his target, but I gave him something in return."

A pause.

"In return," you continued smoothly, "he was gifted an exciting escape mission. Complete with locked doors, a ticking clock, and the satisfaction of surviving something no one else could've walked out of."

Now, your boss finally turned his head—just slightly. You could feel the weight of his gaze settle on you like a cloak. Measuring. Evaluating. Approving.

"You continue to entertain him."

You inclined your head. "He's easy to read—and surprisingly fun to provoke."

"Good." He leaned back, swirling his glass again. "Keep him interested. The longer he plays, the deeper he'll fall. And eventually…"

"He'll jump right into the trap we've set for him," you finished for him.

"Exactly."

He raised his glass in a toast to the flames.

And in that moment, you were reminded: this wasn't just about treasure. It never was. This was a game layered in shadows and misdirection—and the Phantom was slowly being lured into the centre of it.

The chase was far from over.

And you? You were just getting started.

But so was he.

The mansion was quiet at this hour. Most of the crew had already turned in, and the halls were dim, lit only by the soft flicker of sconces along the walls. But Yeosang's office remained lit—warm, golden, and undisturbed.

He sat at his desk, a fresh line of stitches hidden under a bandage on his side, and a thin strip of gauze just below his cheekbone. The in-house doctor had worked quickly, wordlessly. She knew better than to ask questions when any of the members came back from a mission looking like that.

His fingers hovered over his files, schematics and intel on the pages, but his gaze was elsewhere. Drawn—again—to the modest vase at the corner of his desk.

Five white roses sat there now.

Each one carefully preserved. Each one taken from the scene of a stolen mission. Each one yours. The latest bloom—barely beginning to wilt—stood tallest, its petals still holding that soft, ghostly scent. A scent that was slowly becoming too familiar.

He should've thrown them out. Should've scoffed, torn the notes, and incinerated every last petal. But he didn't. Because for some reason… they made him feel alive. Driven. Sharper than ever.

He leaned back in his chair, studying the flowers like they held answers, like they were puzzle pieces in disguise.

This was no ordinary rival. No opportunist thief. This woman was deliberate. Precise. And you had him dancing on the edge of his own ego. He told himself it wasn't personal. Not like Hongjoong's situation. Or Seonghwa's. Or Yunho's, definitely.

This was different.

He wasn't being distracted. He was refocused.

Because catching her—outwitting her—wasn't just about getting back the treasures. It was about proving he was still the best at what he did. Still the Phantom. And if he pulled this off? If he could trap her, the one ghost even he couldn't touch?

It would be his greatest triumph yet.

He pulled up the latest map on his file—an exclusive auction rumoured to feature another item the Black Pirates had been eyeing. Word had already spread that the underground elite would be attending.

He knew you'd be there. You could never resist something like that. And this time… He would be waiting.

No roses. No lipstick. No escape.

Just you—and him—and a reckoning long overdue. A slow smirk formed on his lips as he went through the blueprints. "Let's see how well you dance when the trap's already closed," he murmured.

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The underground auction had been whispered about for weeks now—an exclusive event, tucked away behind a labyrinth of security and secrecy. Invitations were coded, locations encrypted, and only the highest bidders in the criminal world were welcome.

Naturally, you had found your way in.

You'd already acquired the encrypted access, memorised the floor plans, rehearsed your entrance and exit routes until you could walk them blindfolded. Another night, another prize.

You were nearly ready—dressed in sleek black, your hair pinned just right, tools concealed and steps silent. You fastened the final clasp on your utility belt when you heard it: A soft knock on your door.

Your breath hitched. You knew that rhythm.

The moment the door cracked open and he stepped into your room, you straightened instantly, spine taut, arms behind your back. Always alert in his presence. Always prepared.

The middle-aged man walked in slowly, eyes scanning your setup with cool approval. Then came the flick of his finger—the subtle signal that meant relax. You obeyed immediately, allowing your shoulders to drop, though your heart still raced.

A gentle smile curved his lips, warm enough to melt the steel cage around your chest. "You know how crucial this mission is, yes?" he asked, his voice like velvet. He moved to stand beside your table, picking up a small tool and turning it in his fingers with idle curiosity. "What you're stealing tonight isn't just another valuable relic. It's a key. A key that will unlock a hidden treasure—something the Black Pirates have been desperate to acquire for years."

You nodded, swallowing the flicker of pride in your throat. His voice was always calm, measured. And when he spoke of trust, of importance, it always filled you with fire.

He stepped closer now, placing the tool down and turning toward you fully. His hand came to rest lightly on your shoulder. The warmth of that touch seared through the fabric of your suit.

"You know I reserved this mission just for you, yes?" he said, softer now. "You're different from the others, kid."

You blinked. Your chest fluttered.

"Do well tonight, and…" He paused, smiling deeper—something almost fatherly. Almost. "You'll finally get to call me Father."

Your heart stuttered.

That word—it struck something raw and desperate within you. The part of you still trapped in the memory of a rain-soaked alley, cold and afraid, abandoned with nothing to your name but a broken past and a stolen future. He had taken you in and given you purpose. Raised you. Trained you. Moulded you into what you are now.

Your voice didn't waver when you answered, "Yes, sir. I will not let you down."

He smiled again, the pride in his eyes glowing like it never had before. To you, it was warmth. You didn't notice the way his smile lingered too long, or how his gaze flicked past you momentarily, distant and calculating. You didn't see the shadows shifting behind his approval.

Because to you, his recognition was all that mattered. And tonight, you would earn it. You picked up your mask, slipped it on, and left without a second thought.

I won't let you down, Father.

The auction hall glowed like gold beneath the chandeliers—opulence dripping from every corner, every guest draped in luxury and shadows. The air was thick with wealth and deception, masks hiding more than just identities.

Yeosang leaned against the upper balcony rail, dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit with a silver half-mask hiding the sharp cut of his cheekbone. No one would recognise him as the Phantom tonight—at least, not until it was far too late.

Below, the auctioneer's voice echoed through the chamber, bidding rising for a centuries-old dagger—just a taste of what was to come.

He didn't need to look at the blueprint tucked in his back pocket; he had memorised the layout hours ago. Every exit. Every ventilation shaft. Every camera blind spot. He had Jongho monitoring the perimeter, San blending in as a buyer, and Wooyoung stationed near the vault, ready to block any attempt at retreat.

But Yeosang wasn't watching the stage.

He was watching the crowd.

Waiting.

Anticipating.

His gloved fingers tapped a silent rhythm against the marble railing, his gaze sweeping over masks and gowns and whispers. His heart beat with an unfamiliar tempo—half thrill, half tension.

After five stolen missions, he had finally stopped chasing shadows. He knew your patterns now—how you circled the scene first, how you blended in with the elite, how your every step was artfully calculated yet deceptively casual. You were unpredictable. But he was precise. And tonight, he trusted his gut.

"Movement near the west stairwell," Jongho's voice crackled softly in his earpiece. "Slim build. Doesn't match the guest list. Looks like she's heading toward Vault C."

Right on cue.

The Phantom's lips quirked. Not quite a smile—more a silent acknowledgement.

He moved swiftly, cutting through the crowd without so much as a glance. Past flirtations and fine wine. Past relics and red velvet drapery. Every step was fueled by anticipation. He had waited so long for this moment—not just to see your face, but to finally outwit you.

Yeosang reached the hallway leading to Vault C and slipped into position, pressing himself into the shadowed edge of a pillar. The vault entrance was just ahead—unguarded for the moment, exactly as planned.

This time, he had set the trap.

And you were walking straight into it.

He steadied his breathing, eyes locked on the hallway, counting the seconds. Ten… Nine… Eight…

Then he saw you.

For the first time—not in glimpses or illusions, not in whispers of perfume or the curl of a mocking note—but truly. Clad in sleek black, your mask elegant, your movements effortlessly fluid, like you belonged to the darkness itself. You scanned the hallway once, graceful and confident, and his pulse surged.

So it's you.

There was something maddeningly satisfying in seeing you like this—real, tangible. Beautiful, yes, but dangerous. Focused. He let you get close. Closer. Just a few feet from the vault when—

Click.

The floor under you shifted just slightly. A trap panel. Subtle, but enough. Your weight had triggered it.

You froze.

Too late.

Yeosang stepped forward from the shadows, his voice calm, almost amused. "Expecting someone else tonight?"

You turned sharply—and for the first time, your eyes met. The infamous Phantom and the bearer of the white rose finally stood face to face, seeing each other clearly at last.

His gaze glinted with smug satisfaction as he added, "Took me a while, but I'd say the wait was worth it."

Your breath hitched—but only for a second.

He was unfairly beautiful.

Even under the low lighting and behind that silver half-mask, you could see the sharp lines of his face, the calculated calm in his eyes, and that slight tilt of his lips—infuriatingly self-assured. You hated how easily he wore that smirk. How, even now, standing between you and your goal, he managed to look like he was the prize.

And yet… you couldn't look away.

You hadn't expected him to be this striking up close. All the reports, the files, the rumours—they never quite captured this. Yeosang, on the other hand, looked just as stunned. If only for a heartbeat.

You noticed how his eyes briefly widened—taking in the black ensemble that clung to your form like smoke, the soft glint of your earrings, the way your lips were painted the same deep red as the lipstick on every note you'd left him.

He inhaled slightly, and you saw it—the way his breath stuttered, ever so subtly. So the great Phantom wasn't so unreadable after all. The realisation gave you a flicker of satisfaction. But you didn't have time to savour it.

Focus.

Your boss' words echoed in your mind—"This isn't just another relic. It's the key to a greater treasure. Do not fail me." The vault loomed just behind you. Your objective was so close… but so was he.

"Didn't anyone teach you it's rude to spy on a lady?" you finally spoke, recovering with ease, your voice smooth as silk as you tilted your head slightly, letting your eyes trail over him with calculated curiosity.

"I've never been good with manners," he replied, his tone still casual, but his stance sharp, ready. "Besides… I think you like the attention."

You smiled sweetly. "Flattery? From the Phantom himself? I'm flattered." You took one step back—close enough now to touch the vault keypad. His eyes flicked to your fingers, then back to your face.

"Don't," he warned, stepping forward.

You raised a brow, hand hovering just an inch away from the code input. "Or what? You'll trap me like I was trying to trap you?"

There was no humour in his eyes now. Just steel. "You won't win this time."

You exhaled through your nose, almost a laugh. "You sure about that?"

In a blink, your free hand flicked something from the inside of your sleeve—a smoke pellet. You dropped it at your feet. Yeosang cursed as the thick white smoke exploded instantly, clouding the hall in seconds. You moved fast, flipping backwards from the keypad, rolling low, using the dense fog to shift direction.

But he was fast too.

Faster than you expected.

A strong hand closed around your wrist just as you tried to slip past him toward the west corridor. You both froze mid-motion, hidden by the smoke but locked together—his grip firm, your balance thrown off just enough.

You were both breathing hard now. Inches apart.

"Nice trick," he muttered near your ear.

"Likewise," you whispered, jerking your wrist hard and twisting your body. You knew the exact angle to dislodge his grip without hurting either of you—but just enough to slip free.

His fingers slipped from your skin.

You were already gone.

By the time the smoke cleared, you were nowhere to be seen.

Yeosang stood in the corridor, alone again. The vault untouched. A faint trail of your perfume still lingering in the air. But on the floor, just by the corner of the hallway, lay another white rose. This one had no note. He stared at it for a moment before letting out a breathless laugh.

You were good.

But now… he was better.

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You ducked into the narrow alleyway between two crumbling buildings, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. The adrenaline that had carried you this far was starting to wear thin, replaced by something far heavier—frustration.

You pulled off your mask and ran a hand through your hair, exhaling sharply. "Damn it," you muttered under your breath, leaning against the cold stone wall behind you. "Damn it, damn it."

This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go.

You had planned every move—timed every step, memorised every route, even anticipated his presence. You knew he'd be there. You'd even wanted him to be there.

But you hadn't counted on them.

You cursed again, louder this time, drawing a startled hiss from a nearby alley cat. You didn't care. You'd meant to slip back in after shaking him off, get to the relic before he recovered from the smoke. Maybe even lift it right out from under his nose, again—a poetic twist to an already entertaining game.

But you'd only made it to the edge of the auction grounds when you saw them. The others.

The towering figure who could crush bones with his bare hands—the Anchor. The silver-tongued negotiator whose charms could talk secrets out of shadows—the Charmer. And of course, the unpredictable storm himself, the one they called the Tempest, known for levelling entire black market routes in a single night.

He didn't come alone this time.

The realisation hit like a slap across the face.

For the first time since your missions began, a cold tendril of fear curled in your chest. You weren't just up against the Phantom anymore. You were staring down half the Black Pirates' elite. And even you had to admit—that was a gamble not even you were arrogant enough to take lightly.

You slid down the wall into a crouch, breath ragged, hands trembling against your knees. You'd never retreated like this before. Never had to. But the odds tonight? They weren't just stacked against you—they were practically carved in stone.

You shouldn't go back.

You couldn't go back.

But…

Your boss' words echoed in your mind, thick with that false warmth you'd always craved: "You're different from the others, kid. Do well in this mission, and you'll finally get to call me Father."

Your jaw clenched.

After all these years—after everything—you finally had a chance at a real place by his side. You couldn't return empty-handed. You couldn't throw away the one mission that had been reserved just for you.

He trusted you.

He believed in you.

And you…

…You needed that belief to mean something.

Slowly, you stood again. The cool night wind wrapped around you like a whisper of warning, but you ignored it. If you were going to fail tonight, you'd do it trying. No more clever escapes—just you against them. You cracked your neck, threw your mask aside, and adjusted the twin daggers hidden beneath your sleeves.

Let's see how determined you really are, Phantom, you thought bitterly, starting your silent path back toward the auction grounds.

Finally. The relic was finally in his hands.

Smooth. Cold. Priceless.

After weeks of preparation and months of frustration, Yeosang closed his gloved fingers around the artefact with a rare sense of victory. But that sense didn't last long—not when a shift in the air tugged at his instincts, honed sharper than any blade.

From his vantage point in the upper chamber, he tilted his head, scanning the corridor where Wooyoung stood on lookout. The Charmer's brows furrowed, then he lifted two fingers, signalling movement.

"How many?" Yeosang asked quietly, eyes narrowing.

Wooyoung didn't look back, keeping his gaze trained on the hallway's shadows. "Just one. Light steps… I think it's your girl again."

Yeosang exhaled sharply, though it came out more amused than annoyed. Of course, you weren't done. Of course, you'd come back. He should've been frustrated. Instead, he found himself smiling—just a little—at your persistence.

"You're relentless," he muttered to no one, tucking the relic safely into a pouch before turning to his brother. "Take this," he said, handing over the prize. "I'll deal with her. You head for the eastern escape route. The auction officials will be back soon to do inventory. If they find this missing, it'll blow our cover."

Wooyoung raised an amused brow, securing the artefact under his coat with a smooth flick of his wrist. "Right. But let's not pretend this is about the mission anymore."

Yeosang shot him a flat look.

Wooyoung grinned wider. "Just say you can't bear to leave without seeing her again."

"Oh, fuck off, Woo."

"Have fun~" he sang quietly, already slipping down the exit path.

Now alone, Yeosang rolled his shoulders, adjusting the fit of his coat. His heart was beating faster than it should've. Not out of fear—no, it was something far more dangerous.

Anticipation.

The kind that buzzed under your skin, knowing someone was coming for you. Someone clever. Unrelenting. Beautiful. Dangerous.

The moment he had longed for—dreaded, even—was approaching again. This time, he wasn't going to let you disappear into the smoke. This time, he would be the one setting the trap. And this time, he'd finally see the fire in your eyes, not through the lens of security footage or vanishing shadows—but up close.

He waited in the shadows, body taut with anticipation, every sense tuned to the footsteps growing nearer. He expected a flourish, a sly grin, maybe even a flirtatious remark dripping with overconfidence. That was how this game had always gone—push and pull, banter and brilliance.

But when you finally emerged into view, everything inside Yeosang came to a halt.

No mask.

No smug smile.

No elaborate, dramatic entrance.

Just you—eyes wide, chest heaving, and tears. Actual tears. Big, fat ones that carved glistening trails down your cheeks as you stumbled toward him. For a moment, his mind couldn't process what he was seeing. All he could think was how they said a woman's tears were her greatest weapon. He never believed that crap until now.

He didn't move. Couldn't. His hand instinctively twitched toward his back pocket—but hesitated.

Then you spoke, voice trembling and ragged.

"Please… I—I'm sorry for everything I've done so far. But I—look, I have no choice in this, alright?" you cried, eyes locking onto his with a desperation he couldn't ignore. "If I don't clear this mission tonight, I might not live to see the day again."

That struck him.

Harder than any blade.

You took another step forward, your expression cracked wide open with fear. Raw. Human. Nothing like the cunning ghost that had danced through every security system he'd built.

His fingers twitched again, uncertain, reaching for the weapon behind him—but you saw it. Panic surged through you, and before he could react, you lurched forward, collapsing into him.

He caught you instinctively, his arms wrapping around your trembling frame as you sobbed into his shoulder. His mind screamed trap—but his body refused to let you fall. The warmth of your body, the shuddering breath against his collar—it all felt too painfully real.

"Please…" you whimpered again, and something inside him frayed.

That moment was all you needed.

A swift flick of your wrist, and the needle hidden in your sleeve slipped between your fingers. Your hand darted up—and with frightening precision—you pressed the tip just beneath his jawline.

A barely audible hiss. A faint click.

The sedative surged into his bloodstream.

Yeosang's breath hitched, his grip on you tightening involuntarily for a fleeting second before his legs gave out. His body went slack in your arms. "So long, Phantom," you whispered coldly.

Then you shoved him off.

His body crumpled silently to the floor, landing in a heap of black leather and stolen breath.

Without missing another beat, you tore off into the hallway, chasing after the route Wooyoung had taken with the relic. You didn't even allow yourself to look back.

Not at the man who had once scared you.

Not at the man who had unknowingly softened you.

And certainly not at the man who now lay unconscious—because of you.

But despite the cold victory blooming in your chest… something didn't feel right.

Not anymore.

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You bolted down the marble corridor, every step echoing off the polished floors like gunfire. Your breathing was ragged, but your eyes were sharp—locked onto the prize that glinted faintly under the lights in Wooyoung's hands.

The relic.

You'd come too far. Endured too much. Betrayed too deeply. Tonight couldn't end in failure. Not when the meaning of your entire existence hinged on it.

You tightened your grip on one of your daggers and shifted your weight, judging the distance. He was fast—but not untouchable. You zeroed in on the sweet spot between his shoulder blades. One clean throw could stop him. Just one.

You inhaled—

Threw—

"Duck, Woo!"

And missed.

That voice—too close, too powerful.

Then something collided with you like a freight train.

SLAM.

The world blurred as you were pinned, back crashing against the stone wall with a hard, breath-snatching impact. Your eyes darted up—wide, panicked—and met the calm, unwavering stare of Jongho.

The Anchor.

His grip was like iron, unmoving and merciless as he wrenched your second dagger from your hand and twisted your wrist until it stung. The cold kiss of your own blade now hovered dangerously near the base of your throat, trembling against your pulse as he held it there with terrifying ease.

Fuck.

You'd been so focused on the Charmer, so distracted by the aftertaste of Yeosang's damn scent still lingering on your shoulder, that you'd forgotten the one thing he always reminded people of too late: never underestimate the Black fuckin' Pirates.

You caught a blur in your peripheral vision—Wooyoung, slipping through a door at the end of the corridor, the relic safe in his hands.

Gone.

No—

Gone.

You let out a shaky breath, bitter and seething.

"I don't suppose saying 'oops' would cut it?" you muttered, forcing a smirk despite the sting of failure biting at your ribs.

Jongho didn't smile.

His stare didn't waver.

"You should've stopped while you were ahead."

Your mind raced. You let your head rest back against the cold wall, not in surrender—but calculation. Think. Think. You weren't out of cards yet. He was stronger—undoubtedly so—but even the most solid anchor had weak spots.

And lucky for you, men shared a universal one.

You shifted slightly, feigning weariness, watching carefully as his grip loosened just a little. Just enough. His body language said it all—he thought he'd won.

That was his mistake.

In a flash, you struck with your knee, driving it right where the sun doesn't shine. Jongho's breath left him in a grunt as he recoiled. That was your cue. You dropped low, slipping out from under him, your body hitting the floor and rolling as you twisted around, hand darting for the dagger in your boot.

One hit. One clean hit anywhere would buy you time.

You rose with the blade and spun—

Only to be caught mid-motion by another body slamming into yours from behind. Bigger. Heavier.

Strong arms coiled around you like steel cables, locking your limbs before you could react. A sharp twist to your wrist sent your dagger clattering to the ground with a metallic clang.

Shit.

And then you felt it—the cold press of steel against your temple. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are?" came the low, venomous growl behind you. The voice of a man whose reputation made grown criminals sweat.

The Tempest.

"Had you been a man, you'd already be dead," San hissed, voice like thunder against your skin. "I try not to harm women… but I can make an exception for you."

You stilled, breath catching, rage and frustration rising like bile in your throat. You were so close. You could still see the exit Wooyoung had used in the corner of your eye. So close, yet now impossibly far.

Oh, I'm so fucked...

Yeosang's breath came out ragged as he fought the numbing haze clouding his mind. His legs felt like lead, his limbs sluggish, but his thoughts were sharp—sharp with frustration, disbelief… and something else he wasn't ready to name.

"For fuck's sake…" he muttered, weakly laughing to himself as he leaned against the wall for balance. "She got me. Again. When… will I learn…"

His hand moved slowly to the side of his neck, fingers brushing the tiny prick left behind. His head throbbed, but he shook it violently, willing the sedative to leave his system. He staggered forward, one step at a time. The mission was technically over. He should've headed for the exit. Should've disappeared before the auction officials came swarming in.

But instead—he followed you.

He couldn't explain why.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was something else entirely—but every step he took screamed a single truth: You wouldn't survive his brothers.

By the time he reached the hall where the confrontation echoed off the stone walls, his vision was blotting at the edges. But he saw enough. Jongho was doubled over, groaning with one hand braced against the wall, eyes sharp and filled with venom. San stood tall and steady, one arm tight around your body, the other pressing a gun to your head—finger already flicking the safety off.

But it was your face that truly stopped Yeosang cold.

You weren't struggling. You weren't bluffing or mocking or smirking like usual. You were still. Resolved. Eyes open, mouth parted slightly, a single tear trailing down. Like you'd accepted it. Like you knew this was how it would end.

And suddenly, everything you'd said before came rushing back—"If I don't clear this mission tonight, I might not live to see the day again."

It could've been a lie.

Should've been a lie.

But his gut twisted anyway.

And he didn't care if it was stupid, or reckless, or a complete lapse in judgement, he took a shaky step forward, his voice hoarse and broken but clear enough to cut through the tension.

"No… let her go."

San didn't move at first. His eyes flicked sideways, gun still pressed against your skull. "You're awake," he said coldly, not lowering the weapon. "Didn't think that little jab would wear off so soon."

Yeosang dragged in a breath, forcing his shoulders to square. "She's not a threat right now. Just let her go."

Jongho snarled from the side, "She nearly gutted me, hyung."

"And I didn't say forgive her," Yeosang snapped, the steel slowly returning to his tone. "I said let her go."

You blinked at him, lips parting in disbelief.

He shouldn't be doing this.

Not for you.

Not after everything.

And yet there he stood—between you and the storm—his eyes never leaving yours.

You didn't know what happened after that. Everything blurred. Voices rose. San cursed. Jongho groaned. And Yeosang—he had started to fall again, the sedative dragging him under once more.

You moved. Instinct? Desperation? You weren't sure.

But in the end, none of it mattered.

Because you'd failed.

And when you finally returned, hours later, you were already on your knees the moment you stepped into the room, head bowed low, fingers clenched so tightly into your palms that you felt your nails pierce skin. The scent of blood—your own—was faint, but grounding. The only thing keeping you from shaking apart completely.

You didn't dare look up.

You didn't dare speak.

The fire crackled in the hearth, deceptively warm. Mocking, almost.

Your boss hadn't said a word since your return. And that silence… it was worse than shouting. Worse than punishment. It was disappointment—the one thing you never wanted to see in his eyes. Not from him.

And you had failed him. You'd promised. You'd vowed not to come back empty-handed. But you had.

You failed the mission.

You let the Phantom get to you.

You got caught.

Even now, you weren't sure which of those three things enraged him the most.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm.

Too calm.

"Well," he said, swirling his brandy as he stared into the fire, "I trust you don't need me to tell you what's next." Your stomach plummeted. You wanted to beg. Plead. Something.

But that wasn't allowed.

You weren't a child anymore.

You weren't allowed to cry.

The double doors behind you opened with a thunderous clang, and your heart seized as the sound of heavy boots approached—his most trusted men. Your worst nightmares. "Time Out Room," he ordered without looking at you, "until further notice. Perhaps that'll teach you that making empty promises… is bad."

The men grabbed your arms, hauling you up, and though you didn't resist, your body trembled. You stared straight ahead as your feet were dragged backwards, your mind spiralling with dread.

The Time Out Room wasn't just a punishment.

It was a lesson.

And no one ever came out the same.

You told yourself you could endure it.

That this pain was temporary. That you'd earn his trust back. That one day, you'd sit beside him—not kneeling like a pawn.

But as the doors to the chamber slammed shut behind you, the cold darkness wrapped around your spine like chains, and for the first time in years, you weren't sure if you believed that anymore.

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The ceiling above him was an uninspiring shade of white—bland, clinical, too bright for the pounding in his skull.

Yeosang stared at it anyway, as if the plaster might suddenly give him the answers he didn't have.

The infirmary was quiet, save for the soft beep of machines and the distant hum of life elsewhere in the mansion. The sting at his neck had dulled into a persistent throb, the last remnants of that damn sedative finally bleeding out of his system.

But the weight in his chest? That hadn't left.

He replayed it all—again.

The mission. The trap. The way your mask had been gone. The tears. Your voice, small and trembling. The please that had cracked something open in him he hadn't even known was there.

And the way you had fallen into his arms.

Only to betray him.

Again.

He sighed harshly, throwing an arm over his face, as if darkness would drown out the memory of your scent on his jacket or the tremble in your voice when you said you had no choice.

He should be furious.

He was furious.

But more than that—he was confused.

"So," came a voice from the doorway, quiet but sharp as a blade. "Why'd you let her go?"

The Phantom didn't move. He didn't have to. He knew that voice. And the weight of it. His leader didn't speak without reason.

Yeosang slowly lowered his arm and closed his eyes. "I didn't," he said flatly. "She drugged me."

Hongjoong stepped into the room with a soundless sort of grace only a leader of his calibre could manage. He didn't speak, just waited.

"I… miscalculated," Yeosang muttered after a beat. "Thought I had her read. She came in crying. Maskless. Threw me off."

Excuses. "She got to you."

"I was off-guard," Yeosang snapped, more to himself than the Captain. "But that's on me. I was… careless."

Another pause.

Hongjoong exhaled through his nose. "You know damn well that's not what I asked, Yeo."

Yeosang's jaw ticked as he turned his head away from the Captain's gaze. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter. "Because… it didn't feel like an act. Not all of it. The fear was real. Her desperation. The way she looked at me—she meant it. At least some of it."

Silence stretched again. But this time, it was different. He could feel the gang leader thinking, and that was always more dangerous than when he spoke.

"So," the Captain said at last, eyes narrowing, "you believe the enemy has a soft spot."

"I think," Yeosang said carefully, "she's being used. And if that's true, then we're not just dealing with a skilled thief. We're dealing with someone who doesn't know how to get out."

Hongjoong studied him for a long moment before speaking again. "Then maybe," he said, voice heavy with layered meaning, "you shouldn't wait for her to come back next time." Then he turned on his heel and left without another word.

And Yeosang, still staring at that stupid ceiling, felt the first flicker of something even more dangerous than anger.

Resolve.

And so he returned to work.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the Phantom had been the first to arrive. No flurry of footsteps behind him. No shadow flitting past his peripheral vision. No scent of sandalwood teasing the edges of his senses.

Just silence. And the prize.

The relic gleamed under the low light of the Captain's office, sitting in the velvet-lined case like a trophy. One he had secured. Alone.

He set it on Hongjoong's desk without a word. The gang leader looked up, offering a pleased nod. "Efficient," he said simply. "Exactly the kind of momentum we need."

Yeosang inclined his head, murmured a clipped "Yes, hyung," and turned to leave before the moment could stretch too long.

That was the first time. The first mission after the auction where you didn't show. No white rose tucked into the vault door. No playful taunt written in sweeping script with a smudge of lipstick in a different shade this time. No chase.

He'd told himself it was a fluke. Maybe you were regrouping. Maybe your boss had assigned you elsewhere. Maybe you were waiting.

So he pushed forward.

One heist after another. More treasures acquired, more enemies bested, more praise from the Captain. The Black Pirates were thriving. Their inventory glittered with artefacts, gold, secrets—everything they had set out to gather when he had first pitched this operation to Hongjoong. And he delivered, exactly as promised.

He should've felt unstoppable.

He should've felt proud.

Instead, every time he slipped into the shadows to begin another mission, he found his senses sharpened not for danger—but for you. Always listening for that sigh you made when you barely missed a step. Always scanning for the glint of your daggers. Always waiting.

But there was nothing.

Not a whisper.

Not a trace.

The world felt duller without you in it.

By the fifth job, he had grown used to it.

By the seventh, it was starting to ache.

He sat alone one night in the corner of the library, the spoils of his most recent success catalogued and locked up. A quiet buzz of celebration echoed faintly in the distance—some of the younger crew tossing cards, drinks clinking. Wooyoung had tried to drag him into the festivities earlier, flashing his usual grin.

But Yeosang hadn't moved.

He stared down at the pages of a book he wasn't reading, jaw tight, fingers drumming against the worn table surface.

What was the point of winning if no one was keeping score?

No one was matching him move for move.

No one was slipping through his fingers with a smile and a wink and that damn rose tucked behind their ear.

He was winning.

And it never felt more like losing.

But more than anything, he wondered about the possibility that your words had been true. That you hadn't lied. That you might not have lived to see another sunrise if you failed that mission.

Could that be why you'd vanished?

Could you be… gone?

The thought twisted in his chest like a blade, but just as quickly, he scoffed at himself. Why should this bother him? He wasn't like the others—emotional, sentimental, easily swayed. He was the Phantom. Sharp. Precise. Unshakable.

This wasn't grief.

This was just boredom.

He was restless because the game was over. The thrill was gone. The challenge had evaporated.

Yes, that was it.

He told himself this lie over and over again until it sounded like truth. To fill the void, he aimed higher—proposing increasingly impossible heists, each more dangerous than the last. A fortress in the sky. A vault beneath the sea. He didn't care. He needed something to set his blood on fire again.

The brothers protested, of course. Mingi was the loudest, San the most sceptical. Even Wooyoung had narrowed his eyes and asked, "You trying to die or something, Yeo?"

But in the end, they'd relented—like they always did—silently pledging their support with muttered curses and weary loyalty.

And now, he stood at the edge of his latest mission—breaking into the royal vault itself. The jewel of an empire. A feat even the Black Pirates once deemed untouchable.

Until now.

He moved through the layered security with elegance and efficiency, each locked chamber, each coded seal falling like dominoes before him. It was working. This was the high he'd been chasing.

Until it wasn't.

Because as he passed through the final set of laser grids, his senses locked onto something else—something far more jarring than the alarms he'd bypassed.

A scent.

Soft, familiar. Sandalwood.

His heart missed a step. His hands froze mid-motion. It couldn't be. He whipped his head toward the far end of the hall, where moonlight poured through the stained glass and bathed the room in pale colour. And there—half-shadowed, half-bathed in light—was a silhouette.

You.

Not a dream. Not a ghost.

Just you.

Everything roared back at once—heat, thrill, fury, relief. The mission? Forgotten. The prize? Irrelevant.

Because suddenly, all meaning returned.

You shot him a smirk, voice laced with that familiar teasing edge. "Right on time, Phantom. Looks like you're finally learning. But don't get too comfortable—this win won't be yours."

He couldn't stop the grin that tugged at his lips, adrenaline already coursing through his veins. "Oh, is that so? We'll see about that, princess."

And just like that, the game resumed.

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Yeosang was back. Or so he told himself.

Back to scaling impossible heights, slipping through security like smoke, cracking codes with that old gleam in his eyes. The thrill had returned—so had the pace. So had the challenge.

And so had you.

He'd catch fleeting glimpses of you during these encounters: the sly curl of your lips, the taunting glint in your eyes, the whispered "better luck next time" as you disappeared through skylights or back alleys. It was all there—the chase, the tension, the rush.

Almost.

The first time he saw you again, there'd been something off. A half-second delay in your movement, like your body lagged just behind your usual rhythm. You'd wrestled the relic from its pedestal with your usual finesse, but the Phantom, sharp-eyed as ever—noticed your hand trembling as you clutched it. And then the red. A faint stain blooming under your jacket, spreading slowly like a secret unravelling.

He'd let you have the win that night.

The second time, mid-heist, as you vaulted over the maze of laser lines, your shirt rode up ever so slightly—and he spotted it. The shadow of a bruise, dark and blooming against your ribs. His steps faltered. Just a little.

You still beat him, of course. Smug as ever with a wink over your shoulder. But that bruise stayed in his mind longer than your words did.

Then came the third. He noticed the limp before you even broke into a run. Barely there, expertly masked—but not from him. You moved like someone holding their breath through pain. Gritting through every step. The sweat clinging to your brow had nothing to do with exertion. That night, he didn't even try to beat you. Just followed.

He never said anything. Never called it out.

But it lingered.

A whisper in the back of his mind louder than any of your teasing words: Something's wrong. And no matter how hard he tried to push it aside, it only grew louder with every heist.

"Well?"

The word cut through the air like a blade.

You dropped to one knee, arms outstretched as you presented the prize, its polished surface glinting under the cold light of your boss' quarters. "It was a success, sir."

A pause. Then a scoff, sharp and bitter. You didn't dare lift your eyes, but you felt the heat of his glare like fire against your skin.

"You think this is the success?"

Your breath caught.

"You know your real purpose out there."

Your head bowed further, hands curling tight around the prize in offering, as though your grip on it could deflect his disappointment. Of course, you knew. You'd never forgotten. Kang Yeosang was the mission. Not the jewels. Not the ancient scrolls or stolen artefacts. Him.

The Phantom.

The untouchable.

The monk among wolves.

No vices. No weaknesses. No distractions.

Not until you.

And that had been the point.

Infiltrate his walls. Crack the shell. Expose the heart—if it even existed—and bring it back to your boss in a box made of proof and vulnerability. That was the job. Always had been.

You'd told yourself that every step of the way. When you studied his patterns. When you timed your entrances. When you perfected that smirk that you knew irritated and intrigued him. At first, he was nothing more than a blueprint to analyse, a challenge to conquer.

But after that night...

The memory still stung like a healing wound.

You had betrayed him. Lied to his face. Drugged him, left him behind, and still, he let you go.

He'd stood between you and the gun you'd earned with your own treachery, bloodied and half-conscious, and still he told his brothers to let you go. Something shifted in you that night. You didn't want it to. You didn't ask for it. But the fracture had begun, and no matter how hard you tried to tape it over with pride and purpose, it wouldn't stop bleeding.

Still, what choice did you have?

You forced the corners of your lips to lift. Not a real smile—just a flicker of one. The kind you'd learned to wear like armour.

"It's looking good, sir," you said evenly, even as something tightened in your chest. "The Phantom seems to be letting me win." Letting. The word tasted bitter on your tongue. And worse, you knew there was truth in it.

A silence followed. Thick. Measured. Then the slow curl of a smile tugged at your boss' lips. Cold. Knowing.

"Good," he murmured. A flick of his fingers dismissed you, but his voice chased after your retreating steps. "Looks like the walls around his heart aren't so impenetrable after all. A man is still a man. Keep doing what you're doing."

You rose to your feet carefully, each movement deliberate—like your bones remembered the Time Out Room too well to tremble.

You turned, walked out, head held high, but something inside you still faltered. Because he wasn't wrong. Yeosang was changing. He hesitated more when you crossed paths. His eyes lingered longer. His aim wasn't always as sharp. Sometimes... he let you go. Just like that.

Your mission was working.

So why didn't it feel like winning?

You told yourself it didn't matter. That you'd keep going until your boss was satisfied. Until your bruises faded. Until Yeosang stopped letting you win.

Until you figured out why, despite everything, it was starting to feel like you were the one being dismantled.

Piece by piece.

You stepped into the Time Out Room with steady feet, but your insides twisted with every step. It was cold—always cold—and smelled faintly of iron and old pain. You hated that you were starting to recognise the scent. Your fists clenched and unclenched at your sides.

The boss said until further notice.

And somehow, you knew that wouldn't be anytime soon. Because this time… you weren't sure you hated what you were doing to him as much as you hated what all of this was doing to you.

The men were already waiting—your punishers, your reminders, your keepers. Their expressions unreadable. Efficient. Cruel.

They didn't speak as they began. They didn't need to. Each hit was practised. Measured. Designed to bruise, not break. Not too much. Just enough to scar.

You shut your eyes and endured.

As always.

You'd told yourself this pain was a path. That suffering was the way forward. That it would be worth it when the Phantom fell and your boss finally looked at you with pride instead of passing disinterest.

Remember who you are, you told yourself.

It's just another target, you said again and again.

This is loyalty, you whispered inside, trying to swallow down the bitter taste rising in your throat.

When it ended, you got up slowly. Bloodied lip. Ringing ears. Shoulders heavy with bruises, but not broken.

Never broken.

You walked out of the room with your chin raised and your mind reset. You would take him down. Until the next heist. Until the next smirk. Until the next time you came face to face with Yeosang—and forgot what you were fighting for all over again.

It was becoming an endless cycle.

And yet, you had no other choice… but to keep going.

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The moon loomed high above the old city museum, its pale glow slicing through the mist that curled around the gothic arches and stone gargoyles perched along the roofline. Inside, the halls were dimly lit by flickering sconces, and the only sounds were the echo of dripping pipes and the low hum of the ancient heating system groaning to life.

The target: an empress' gemstone—said to have commanded kings and bent empires to her will. Kept in a velvet-lined glass case, guarded by nothing more than a heavy lock, a sleepy security guard, and a few well-placed pressure plates along the marble floor. No lasers. No biometric sensors. Just the kind of old-school security you could feel under your fingertips.

You were already inside, the musty scent of old books and waxed floors grounding you as you slipped through the main hallway in silence.

Every movement ached.

Your ribs burned with each breath, your thigh pulled tight with every step, and your wrist throbbed from the last time-out session. But your expression stayed steady as ever. This wasn't your first job under pressure. And it wouldn't be your last.

At least, that's what you told yourself.

Then you felt it—the air shifted. A breath behind you. A shadow where there should've been none. Then, his voice, smooth and low like the jazz playing from the gramophone downstairs. "Was starting to think you forgot our little tradition."

You didn't turn right away, just let a smirk curl the corner of your mouth as you adjusted your gloves. "Ah, Phantom," you said like a greeting, your voice light and sharp, "late as ever."

Yeosang stepped into the amber light spilling from the stained-glass windows, trench coat brushing his legs, black gloves tucked into his belt. A flat cap cast half his face in shadow, but his eyes—his eyes were sharp. Too sharp.

He looked you over like a man inspecting a crime scene. "You're slower tonight."

You raised a brow, forcing yourself not to favour your left leg. "You always this observant, or just when I'm about to win?"

"I'm saying…" he stepped closer, voice dipping to something quieter. "You're hurt."

You hated the way those words dug under your skin. So you did what you always did. You offered him a slow, sly grin, brushed invisible dust from your coat, and said with a glint in your eye, "Try and stop me then."

And then you ran.

Your boots thudded softly on the carpeted floor as you ducked behind statues, slid down bannisters, and threw open the door to the main exhibit.

Behind you, the chase echoed like a dance—his steps steady, unrelenting. But this time, it wasn't just about the gemstone anymore. For him… it was about uncovering what you were hiding beneath that smile.

And for you… it was about pretending you could still outrun everything breaking inside.

Fuck me, it hurts...

The alley behind the museum reeked of soot and old rain. Smoke curled from nearby chimneys, mingling with the metallic tang of blood already drying against your ribs. Your boots hit the cobblestone in uneven rhythm, coat sticking to your skin as you moved through the fog. The velvet pouch beneath your coat was secure.

The cost of getting it? Still bleeding.

Not much. Just a reopened cut along your ribs, soaked through the linen bandage that did a piss-poor job of holding you together. But you didn't stop. Not yet. The mission came first. It always did.

But your steps slowed when you heard him—steady, deliberate. "Thought you were faster than that." Yeosang's voice cut through the fog like a knife, smooth and low, tinged with quiet frustration. He emerged from the shadows.

You didn't bother to turn fully. "Following me again, Phantom? Didn't think you liked easy wins."

"You're not making this easy," he muttered. "Not when you look like you've barely made it out alive."

You let out a soft laugh, hollow and dry. "You should see the other guy."

He didn't smile. "I'm serious."

You turned just enough for him to see the shadows beneath your eyes, the bruising that makeup couldn't quite hide. "Don't look at me like that," you said, tone sharpening. "You wouldn't understand anyway."

He took a step closer. "Try me."

You smiled then—but bitterly. "Greatness doesn't come without pain. If I want to be acknowledged… truly acknowledged… then I have to earn it. That's what you don't get. Some of us don't get handed power. Some of us bleed for it."

His jaw tensed. "Is that what you call this? Earning it?"

You looked away.

"You think I've never bled for anything?" he asked, voice quiet but edged. "You think I was born into this with a silver dagger in hand?" He scoffed to himself, shaking his head. "I've seen what that kind of hunger turns people into. That's why I made sure I'd never be like that."

You frowned, caught off guard by the emotion simmering beneath his words. And then the silence came—heavy and charged, the kind that clung to the bones.

His gaze met yours, deep and unreadable. The longer he looked at you, the harder it became to remember what you were even doing here. What side you were meant to be on.

Your breath caught. And that's when you knew you had to go. You shoved him—not hard, but enough to startle—and turned on your heel. "Just stay out of my way, Phantom." Your voice cracked just a little. Enough for him to hear it.

And then you were gone, coat whipping behind you as your silhouette vanished into the fog and firelight, leaving him standing alone in the alley with nothing but the echo of your retreat and the bitter taste of something he wasn't ready to name.

The door to his room creaked open, but Yeosang didn't bother with the light. He moved on autopilot—coat slung over the back of a chair, gloves discarded carelessly onto the floor—before heading straight into the bathroom.

The cold tap groaned as he twisted it on, water splashing into the basin. He stared at his reflection, jaw tight, blood smudging his cheek where you'd managed to get a lucky cut in.

Another failure.

Another missed shot.

And yet, as Hongjoong's voice echoed in the back of his mind from earlier—sharp and unimpressed, "So she slipped through again? You're slipping, Yeo."—he hadn't flinched. He hadn't flinched, hadn't defended himself, hadn't cared.

At least… not about the mission.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the sink. His eyes, sharp and weary, met his own reflection. He hated this. He hated you. He hated that he didn't.

Once—years ago—he would have understood your desperation.

Born into a house that barely qualified as one, he had spent his earliest years chasing love the way children chase kites—hopelessly, with bleeding hands and skinned knees. His father, a failed revolutionary turned drunk, had instilled in him nothing but bruises and bitterness. His mother—once a brilliant violinist—had withered under that roof like a flower trapped in frost, taking her own life when Yeosang was twelve. And him? He was nothing more than a disappointment in a boy's skin.

He remembered the way he used to sit outside his parents' locked bedroom door, whispering apologies he didn't even understand for things he didn't do, hoping they'd let him in. Hoping they'd say something. Anything.

They never did.

And so he stopped hoping. Stopped asking. Stopped enduring pointless beatings. And somewhere along the way, he'd decided that love was for fools. Love was for the naive. Love was a leash waiting to be yanked. All it ever did was hurt.

The streets were cruel, but at least they were honest. It became his teacher, and the underground, his home. He fought, stole, bled his way through alley fights and black market rings until he was noticed by the right person—the Captain. Hongjoong hadn't promised love. Only purpose. And that was all he needed. That was all he wanted—structure, loyalty, silence where affection used to be.

And it worked.

It worked for years.

Until now. Until you.

He slammed the faucet shut, water dripping off his chin. His chest heaved slightly, though he wasn't sure if from rage or regret. Probably both. "You burned that version of yourself," he muttered, staring into the mirror with cold determination. "You buried that boy."

But why, then, did he see the boy staring back at him now?

Why did it feel like he was slipping?

You were never meant to matter. You were a mark. A rival. A name on the board. And yet—your words wouldn't leave him.

"Some of us bleed for it."

You bled, alright. He'd seen the bruises. The limp. The hidden agony you covered with smiles. And still, you pushed forward.

Just like he once did.

And now, he couldn't stop seeing himself in you. That terrified boy begging to be seen.

He grabbed the towel and scrubbed his face hard. He hated that he was starting to care. Because caring was the first step to needing. And needing had once broken him.

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You slammed the door shut behind you with a force that rattled the frame, disregarding the relentless pain pulsating throughout your body. The prize was in your bag. Mission complete.

And you hated every second of it.

You should've been proud. You should've been thrilled. The Phantom had let you go again tonight. No chase. No clever trap waiting to outwit you at the last second. Just that infuriatingly concerned gaze of his, calm and knowing as he watched you go.

And you'd walked away. You walked.

As if you hadn't spent months training to best him. As if you hadn't spent your whole life preparing for this mission. As if you hadn't begged to be the one assigned to him.

You dropped the satchel onto your desk with a thud, the stolen artefact clinking faintly inside, and stared down at it with clenched fists. You hated that your reflection in the glass surface looked so hollow.

What the hell was wrong with you?

This was success. This was what you wanted. This was what you were meant to want.

And yet all you could feel was rage. Rage at the way he looked at you. Rage at the way he let you go again. Rage at yourself—for feeling this way in the first place.

You sat down heavily, elbows on your knees, head in your hands. A bitter laugh bubbled up your throat before you could stop it. "Why?" you hissed into the silence. "Why are you doing this?"

You didn't deserve kindness. Not from him. Not after everything you'd done. The lies. The manipulation. The little games. The way you wormed your way into his blind spots.

And still… he kept letting you go.

Surely he had already figured out that you were up to no good. He was the Phantom of the Black Pirates after all. He saw through people like glass. So why was he playing along?

The more you tried to rationalise it, the more it all slipped through your fingers like smoke.

Was it pity?

You flinched.

Was it some twisted sense of mercy?

Or was he simply tired of fighting?

That one made your stomach twist the worst.

He had been your challenge. Your perfect, untouchable opponent. He made you feel alive. Made your mission feel like it meant something. And now he was... softening.

For you.

For you, of all people.

And it made you feel sick.

Because you weren't worth it. You weren't worth the warmth in his eyes, the way he seemed to see through your mask and still… hesitate.

And the worst part? You knew exactly why this anger clawed at your chest, why it left you trembling and breathless every time you thought of him. You were afraid. Afraid you didn't want to destroy him anymore. Afraid that somewhere along the way… you'd started to care.

But you couldn't let that be true.

So you locked your jaw, wiped the tears you hadn't realised had fallen, and stood. You still had a job to do. You were not going to fall for the enemy. Not when you'd bled and clawed your way here. Not when you'd already been broken for this mission. Not when this was all you had left.

You'd end this. You had to.

Before he saw too much. Before you forgot how to walk away. Before this mission became something else entirely.

You reminded yourself, with clenched teeth and a heart you swore was steel, that Kang Yeosang was your target. Nothing more. You were not here to feel, to hesitate, to hope.

The next heist would be the start of your distance. The cold line drawn in silk and deception.

The ballroom was bathed in gold and smoke, jazz humming low beneath the soft clinking of champagne flutes and the hollow laughter of men in suits too expensive for their character. Tonight's prize—a priceless family heirloom belonging to the reclusive conglomerate boss hosting the soirée—rested somewhere within the estate, heavily guarded and rumoured to be worth enough to fund a small country. But you moved through it all like silk—graceful, elegant, untouchable. No one questioned your presence. Not in that platinum white dress, not with that disarming smile, and certainly not with the invitation forged with such precision, even the host himself might be fooled.

The white rose nestled behind your ear was an afterthought. Or so you told yourself. It wasn't until your path curved toward the grand staircase that your eyes locked with his.

Yeosang stood at the far end of the room, flanked by a few of the richer patrons he'd long since outgrown. In a tailored black three-piece with a silk cravat tied at the throat, he looked every bit the elite he was pretending not to be. His eyes found you with frightening ease—always had—and the glint in them told you he'd recognised you instantly, despite the disguise.

You didn't falter.

Not a flicker. Not this time.

With a turn of your head and a slight arch of your brow, you simply walked on. Past him. Past the ache. Past the game you didn't want to play anymore. Not a smirk. Not a wink. Not even the satisfaction of a witty jab.

He could barely believe it.

For a moment, he just stood there. Like a statue carved of disbelief. He turned slowly, watching as your white silhouette glided through the crowd like smoke he couldn't catch.

Only the soft familiar trail of sandalwood hung in the air where you'd stood, and that single white rose glinting in your hair like some cruel farewell. He hated how it twisted something deep in his chest.

You weren't supposed to haunt him like this. But damn it… you did. His jaw clenched. No teasing tonight. No tug-of-war. Just ice where fire used to be. It unsettled him more than it should have.

He didn't hesitate. Without so much as a word, he veered off from his intended path and slipped down one of the side corridors, silent as a ghost. He knew where the target was kept—the master suite above the third landing, past the reinforced gallery wing. You'd be there. Of course you would. You always were.

And yet tonight, everything felt... off.

He took the back stairwell, avoiding the guards with practised ease. Every step he took, the memory of your expressionless face looped in his mind. No mask of flirtation. No sly amusement. No you.

Just a vision in white with no warmth in your eyes.

What are you doing to me...

By the time he reached the gallery doors, he no longer cared about the heirloom. He needed to see you. To look you in the eye and ask—what the hell is happening to us?

And somewhere deeper still, a quieter question clawed at him.

Are you trying to protect me... or yourself?

The gallery was quiet, tucked deep within the mansion, far away from the function. Hidden behind walls of velvet and gold, it was a vault in all but name—lined with ancestral paintings, ivory-framed mirrors, and ornate vases under spotlights. And in the centre of the room, poised atop an intricate pedestal encased in glass, sat the prize of the night: a priceless family heirloom. Known to have been handed down for generations, it shimmered with legacy and wealth, too revered to be replicated.

You slipped past the last set of red beams like liquid shadow, breath even, body graceful, each movement practised to perfection. You'd done this a hundred times before. But this time, something in your chest was heavier.

Then came the sound you were waiting for—footsteps behind you, soft but unmistakable. You didn't turn, didn't offer him your usual smirk or tease. Only cast a cold glance his way before continuing, moving with efficiency, not flair.

Yeosang stopped at the threshold, his breath catching slightly—not from exertion, but something more hollow. You looked radiant, like a ghost from some other world, white silk catching the dim lights just enough to remind him why he hated crossing paths with you. Because you made it hard to stay numb.

No teasing remark. No smirk. No challenge.

Only silence.

And the sandalwood scent clinging to the air between you. It shook something loose in him. Frowning, he took the shortcut he knew by heart, skipping the usual dance. He had no patience for games tonight. He reached you just as your fingers curled around the heirloom, lifting it with ease. You didn't flinch. Didn't look up. Just held it out toward him, still not meeting his eyes.

"Here for this, Phantom?" you asked, voice cool.

"I guess I am, princess," he said as he stepped forward—but didn't take the prize.

You arched a brow. "Well? It's right here. Aren't you going to take it? You know you don't have to go easy on me."

He scoffed, folding his arms, though tension was already gathering in his shoulders. "You know damn well I never have to."

"Then why aren't you completing your mission yet?" you asked, voice sharp, accusatory. "Have you forgotten what you're here for? What you began this series of heists for? What would your leader say about this? Is he okay with you letting him down again and again?"

Yeosang blinked, thrown by the sudden venom in your tone. His lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came out. He just stared at you, confused and bothered.

You shoved the heirloom into his chest again, harder this time. "You've grown so boring, Phantom. You used to be so challenging because of your spirit. But now? You've gone soft. It's pathetic."

His brows furrowed, but he didn't move away. He let your hand stay pressed against him, even when it lingered just a second too long. Even when your fingers trembled.

You hated that your throat threatened to tighten, but your voice didn't waver. "Don't forget who you are. Don't overthink it. This is all just a game."

But he didn't speak. He only looked at you—really looked at you—and the silence between you thickened, like fog before a storm.

You tore your hand away with a shaky exhale, trying to retreat into words that hurt less than the truth. "Go back to how you were. Go back to being the man who didn't care. The one who never hesitated. The one who only focused on the prize. He was stronger. Better. Safer."

"For who?" he asked quietly, breaking his silence.

You stilled. The answer sat on your tongue, heavy and aching. For me. But you swallowed it down, letting a bitter, hollow laugh escape as you looked away. "Doesn't matter."

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, stepping closer. His voice had dropped lower, more intimate now. You could feel the heat of his body just inches away, the air between you tightening like a wire. "You're pushing me away like it's going to fix something."

You met his gaze again, and this time, there was no shield—only rawness. "Because it's the only way you'll live."

That startled him. He leaned in instinctively, one hand brushing your arm in a gentle touch you almost flinched away from. Almost. But you turned the softness into venom again, a reflex you'd perfected. "You're just a job, Phantom. I'm only here to win. So stop making things so damn hard."

He moved in closer, slowly, deliberately, until your back was nearly touching the wall behind you. His hand ghosted over your waist before settling there, anchoring you in place, not forceful, but steady. "I don't believe you," he said, voice almost a whisper.

"You don't have to," you whispered back.

His forehead grazed yours as you both breathed the same air, a heartbeat apart, and for a second, you let yourself stay in that moment. Let his touch hold you. Let the war fade.

But then you pulled away—forceful, panicked. "You need to forget whatever this is," you said, backing up. "I don't want your pity or concern. You think you're the only one who's fought through blood and pain to get where you are? You don't know what it's like to claw your way to a place that might finally mean something."

"I do," he said. "I've been there."

"No," you snapped, eyes gleaming now. "You are loved. Respected. You have your brothers. You don't know what it's like to be beaten into shape and told you're nothing until you prove your worth with your own blood."

He stepped forward again, brushing his fingers lightly along your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "And what, so you think letting them keep breaking you makes you strong?"

You flinched at the softness in his voice. It was almost worse than anger. You looked away, blinking hard. "One must endure if they want greatness. It's all worth it in the end."

"Bullshit."

You blinked. That wasn't what you expected.

"Strength isn't letting them destroy you and calling it progress," Yeosang said, his voice louder now, eyes burning. "I used to think like you. Thought that if I earned enough, bled enough, maybe my parents would finally look at me like I mattered. But they never did. I chased that for years, and I lost myself in the process. That's why I stopped. That's why I chose this gang. Because here, no one fakes love. No one hands it out as a reward."

You froze, his hand still warm against your cheek. The silence stretched between you. You didn't want to care. Didn't want to need him. But the way he looked at you—

You gulped, panic rising. You were forgetting your purpose again.

So you did the only thing you could think of. You shoved him back, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to break the moment. "I don't want to play this game anymore," you said, voice tight. "Let's stop pretending. Just take the prize, Phantom. Let's go back to being enemies. It was simpler that way."

Yeosang didn't chase you.

Not because he didn't want to—but because, for the first time, he knew this game had never been a game at all.

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The old Graymoor Archives loomed in the mist like a relic of its own—stone walls darkened by soot and decades of secrets, its iron gates twisted with vines and rust. Once a fortress, later a wartime prison, now a confidential storage site reserved for relics that governments wanted buried. There were no visitor entries. No maps. No traces.

But tonight, that changed.

Your target: the Blade of the First Flame, a royal heirloom said to have ignited a revolution. A blade soaked in legend and power—priceless, protected, practically unreachable.

Except, you had a plan.

Every move you'd made over the past months had been leading here—each forged document, each hand shaken, each identity worn like a mask. You'd sold lies as easily as you breathed. Every blueprint stolen and studied until your mind ran through corridors in your sleep. You knew this place better than its architects.

And this prize—this was the one.

The one that would rewrite your future.

You were certain: no successful mission could ever outshine this. Not even the one involving the Phantom.

If this went right—if you walked out of this fortress with the Blade in hand—it would be the pinnacle. It would prove your worth once and for all. It would make your boss untouchable, and you, finally, irreplaceable. The years of scars and sacrifice would have meaning. You would rise.

No more time-outs. No more blood in the name of loyalty. No more whispers behind closed doors about whether you could deliver.

This was it.

It had to be.

Meanwhile, in the shadows just outside the perimeter, Yeosang waited. His eyes were fixed not on the vault, not on the prize—but on the one person he couldn't stop thinking about. You.

He'd seen enough. The way your boss operated, the way you were always sent on missions no one else would survive—there was a pattern. One final glorious job. One last push.

Then disposal.

He clenched his jaw, a sick feeling brewing in his gut. You thought this heist would make you indispensable, finally free from being used and punished. But Yeosang suspected the opposite. That your boss had saved this prize—the impossible one—for last. A way to wring every last ounce of brilliance from you before cutting you loose.

Before making sure you never rose high enough to threaten him.

Yeosang didn't know when exactly his mission had shifted. When watching you had become protecting you. But tonight, if you walked into that vault thinking the Blade was your ticket to freedom—he had to make sure you walked out again. Alive. Intact.

Whether or not you ever forgave him for it.

Almost... there.

You were seconds away.

Each breath came sharp, ragged, as crimson bloomed from a fresh gash slicing across your side. Blood trickled down your leg from where one of the retractable spikes had scraped your thigh—fast, vicious, and entirely uncharted in the blueprints you'd studied for weeks. This wasn't supposed to happen.

None of it was.

The Blade of the First Flame glinted ahead, sitting cold and proud on its pedestal, guarded by a vault far more lethal than you'd been led to believe. Pressure sensors, hidden blades, pulse-reactive wires... and now, seemingly sentient traps that activated with no clear trigger.

Every step forward had cost you something.

A sliver of flesh.

A jolt of pain.

A piece of doubt.

You clutched your side, barely holding yourself together, gritting your teeth as another pressure plate hissed beneath your feet. Nothing happened. For now. Still, your vision blurred.

Shit.

You weren't even sure if you'd make it out of this one.

And then—

"Don't touch it." His voice. Kang Yeosang.

You froze. Not from surprise—somehow, you expected him. Like a shadow you couldn't shake. Like a memory refusing to fade. But not now. Not when your body felt seconds from collapsing and you were already questioning if you'd make it out alive.

You didn't turn.

You didn't want him to see you like this—weak, trembling, bleeding. "How poetic," you rasped. "Arriving just in time. Again."

He stepped further into the vault, his eyes sweeping over you like a storm, his expression crumbling as he caught the bloodstains, the way you favoured one leg. "What the hell happened to you?"

You forced a smirk through the pain. "Turns out the rumours were true. It is impossible."

"And yet here you are," he murmured. "Still trying."

"I'm close," you said, voice low, strained. "I just need a few more seconds."

"No. You need to stop."

You finally turned.

And Yeosang's expression twisted—raw concern bleeding through the cracks of the Phantom's usually unreadable mask. "I know why you're here," he said. "I know what your boss promised you."

"Then get out of the way and let me earn it," you hissed.

"You think this blade is your key to freedom?" His voice rose with disbelief. "You think bleeding out in a vault is how you prove your worth?"

"If that's what it takes," you shot back. "I'm not like you, Phantom. I have to endure. If I want power. If I want recognition."

"You call this recognition?" he snapped, taking a step forward. "You're just a pawn to them. A piece. And when they've used up your brilliance, they'll leave you bleeding in some other vault. That's not power—it's a death sentence."

Your eyes locked on his, fury clashing with something softer in his gaze. "I endured worse than this to get where I am," you said bitterly. "So don't lecture me about survival."

His tone lowered, sorrowful. "I chased love like that, too once. My parents, the people I thought were family. I bent until I broke, all just to be seen. It left me empty."

He stared at you—no mask, no shield.

Just a man who didn't want you to die.

"I swore I'd never let anyone break me again," he added, softer now. "Don't let them do it to you."

You looked away, unable to hold his gaze anymore. Your arm was shaking now, and the edges of your vision were darkening. But still, you reached for the pedestal.

Forget him. I'm already this close.

One more step, maybe two—if your body could still obey you. The pedestal stood just ahead, glowing faintly beneath the deadly web of light sensors and unpredictable, ever-shifting traps. The Blade shimmered in its resting place like it was laughing at your pain, at your desperation. Your vision swam. Your knees buckled.

"No! Don't move!" Yeosang's voice ripped through the air like a shot.

You didn't need to look to know he was charging in. "What are you—" you started, but the words never finished. A new trap sprang from the floor—razor-thin wires whipping out like vipers, slicing toward you so fast that even blinking felt too slow. But you never felt the blow.

Because he reached you in time.

You gasped as his arms wrapped around you and you were yanked roughly into his chest—his body turning, shielding you as the wires slashed through the air. You heard the sound first.

Then the warmth. Then the blood.

"No," you whispered in disbelief.

He grunted, holding you tighter despite the searing pain you felt in the tremble of his arms. Time slowed. It was happening again. He was holding you. Protecting you. But this time, it wasn't a trick, not a ploy from either of you. It was real.

Your thoughts blurred back to that first night—the first true encounter between predator and prey—when you'd cried fake tears, trembled like a lost thing, and he'd fallen for it. He had let you. Had held you. But this… this was different.

No more deception. No masks. Just your body trembling for real in his arms, and his blood dripping down for you. "Let me go," you choked out weakly, trying to push at his chest with your failing strength. "Yeosang, let me go before you get yourself killed."

He didn't budge, only smiling at the sound of you saying his name for the very first time. Perhaps he finally understood how his brothers had felt. Seems he was just another lovesick fool like them after all. His hand only gripped the back of your head, pulling you tighter against him. "Not this time," he muttered, jaw clenched. "I'm not letting you fall alone again."

Your vision blurred for another reason now.

Tears, hot and ashamed, slipped past your lashes before you could stop them. No one had ever protected you like this. Ever. Not your comrades. Not your handlers. Not even the man you called "boss"—the man you once so desperately wanted to call Father. He only ever measured your worth by your pain. Your failure was discipline. Your success was silence. His affection? A ghost you chased your whole life, too afraid to admit it never truly existed.

And yet… you'd still bled for him. Still called every scar a badge of loyalty. Still told yourself that one day, he'd look at you and say, you've done well.

But he never did. He wouldn't.

You knew it now.

But you'd been too afraid to let go—because what else was there to live for?

Until Yeosang.

Until now.

"Why… why would you do this?" you whispered into his shoulder.

His voice was low. Shaky. Honest. "Because someone should have done it for you a long time ago."

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You had never run from a mission before.

Not once.

But here you were—bleeding, gasping, half-held upright by the man you were meant to destroy—racing against the fading strength in your limbs and the echo of alarms to escape the vault.

You didn't look back.

The Blade stayed behind, sealed in a cage of death traps and your shame. You'd given up the prize. And still, you didn't care. You'd made it out. With Yeosang. But you didn't make it far.

The doors blew open to the night.

And he was there.

Your boss. Flanked by his monsters—the two right-hand men who'd known every weak spot on your body since you were a teenager. The ones who etched every punishment into your bones like scripture. You stopped dead.

The Phantom moved instinctively, slightly in front of you, protective even as he swayed on his feet.

"All those years I invested in raising you…" the man said, almost wistfully, shaking his head. "I should've known you'd betray me one day." His words were calm, but the rage behind them coiled like a whip. "Couldn't even secure the Blade," he went on. "And here you are—fraternising with the enemy."

Yeosang's jaw clenched. "She's more loyal than you ever deserved."

The boss finally acknowledged him, gaze cool and cutting. "So, the infamous Phantom of the Black Pirates does speak. Pity that voice wasn't enough to win battles lately. All those losses. A shame, really. I had hoped for more from you."

"And I had hoped a man who hides behind fists wouldn't be so predictable," Yeosang shot back coldly. "I guess we're both disappointed."

Your boss' expression darkened. "You got smitten, that much was clear. But I never expected her to fall for you," he added, glancing between the two of you with mock pity. "How… disappointing."

He sneered, stepping closer. Your stomach twisted. "I guess," he continued coolly, "that just makes your disposal easier." With a flick of his hand, the right-hand men moved. You stiffened—ready to fight despite your wounds—but instead of attacking you outright, your boss held up a hand to stop them. His lips curled.

"Or…" he said smoothly, "you could finish the job."

Silence. Cold and deafening.

He took another step, his voice nearly coaxing. "Deliver the Phantom. I'll forget tonight ever happened. Walk away now, and you're on your own. You know what that means."

Your blood ran cold. You were wounded. So was Yeosang. There was no guarantee you'd survive being on the run. And part of you—the part that had spent years surviving the only way you knew how—hesitated. That instinct to obey. To submit. To live.

Your eyes flickered uncertainly.

Yeosang saw it.

He didn't beg. He didn't move. He simply looked at you and said, softly but with unwavering strength, "You don't owe me anything. But you do owe yourself a life that isn't dictated by fear."

His voice broke something in you. Your lip trembled as your hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, his blood soaking into yours. He held you steady, gaze unflinching. You hated that this was happening. Hated that it had come to this.

And in that fragile, suspended moment… you didn't notice the right-hand men slowly reaching for their guns. Your boss watched, smirked. "Still so easy to manipulate," he murmured. "You think he's going to save you from what you are? From what I made you?"

Click.

Yeosang moved first.

But so did they.

One of the right-hand men lunged for his gun, the other drawing his blade—chaos erupted instantly. Before they could strike, a piercing alarm shrieked through the compound. A blinding floodlight cut across the courtyard, and then—

"FREEZE!"

A dozen voices. Boots thundered across the concrete. Flashbangs lit up the night. The Graymoor Archives' private security had finally arrived, their rifles raised and shouts echoing through the smoke. "Security breach in Vault Sector C! All units respond!"

Gunfire cracked the air.

"Move!" Yeosang barked, dragging you behind a concrete barricade as bullets whipped past your head. You barely registered the pain anymore—your limbs were numb, your ears ringing. It was chaos, pure and absolute, and you didn't know how you were still alive.

But he didn't let go. He hauled you forward as the two of you weaved through the mess of shadows, bodies, and fire, until the front gates loomed through the haze.

You didn't think you'd make it. But then, a sleek black car screeched to a halt in front of the gates. The back door flew open.

"Get in!" a familiar voice roared.

And just like that, you saw him. The Tempest. You could've cried. Not because you were happy. Not entirely.

You never thought you'd be glad to see San again—not after the last time. Not after he'd pressed a gun to your head, unwavering, steady, like you were nothing but a stain to be wiped clean. His fingers had been on the trigger, ready to end you then and there. The only reason you were still breathing was because his brother had stepped in at the last second. His voice. His mercy.

And yet, here he was now—saving your ass. Well, more like his brother's. But you were grateful nevertheless.

Yeosang didn't hesitate. He pulled you inside with him, and the moment the door slammed shut, the car shot forward like hell was behind it. Which, for once, wasn't an exaggeration.

You collapsed against him in the back seat, limbs trembling, blood sticking to the leather, your breath catching in your throat.

He said nothing.

You said nothing.

But his arm stayed around you, firm and steady. Like he wasn't letting go.

Not this time.

The next thing you knew, the gates creaked open to a world you never thought you'd enter alive. The Black Pirates' mansion loomed before you — all imposing stone and thick shadows and centuries of buried secrets. You'd heard whispers of it before, in hushed tones and half-truths. Enemy stronghold. Death trap. No return.

But now, bathed in moonlight and strangely silent, it didn't feel like a battlefield. It felt like a sanctuary.

You didn't remember crossing the threshold, only the weight of Yeosang's hand at your back as he helped guide your stumbling steps. Blood left a trail behind you — both his and yours — but no one said a word about it.

Inside, it was quieter than you'd expected. Dim, but warm. Not what you imagined from the most feared gang on the continent.

And then you were in the infirmary.

They didn't treat you like a prisoner. No chains. No accusations. Just a bed, warm light, and hands that worked carefully to patch up every inch of your broken body. You winced, silent, biting your tongue through every stitch.

The Phantom lay on the next bed, close enough to touch. He kept glancing at you. You didn't return the look. Not once. You stared at the ceiling. The corner. Your bloodstained hands. Anywhere but him.

He knew why. You could feel it in the way he fidgeted — unusual for him — with the edge of his blanket, lips parting more than once before he finally worked up the nerve to speak.

"Are you okay?" His voice was low. Careful. Like if he was too loud, you might shatter again.

You didn't answer.

He tried again. "You've barely said anything. Since we got in the car. Since the vault."

Still, nothing.

The words clawed at your throat, but you couldn't make yourself speak. You were scared that if you did, you'd break. You didn't know how to explain the storm in your chest — not to him, not to anyone.

He shifted, wincing as he sat up despite his injuries. "You're safe now," he said softly, his voice hoarse. "You don't have to shut me out."

You closed your eyes. Safe. You'd never really known what that word felt like before. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe that's why the silence felt safer than his kindness — because if you let yourself believe this was real, if you let yourself feel it… you weren't sure your heart could handle the break that would come after.

"I'm fine... I just—"

You didn't mean to speak. You really didn't.

But something about the way Yeosang looked at you—bruised, bandaged, bloodied, and still soft with concern—tugged too hard at the thread holding you together. "I didn't think I'd make it out." Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He froze. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, pain flickering through his expression as he shifted to rest his elbows on his knees, facing you. "I did," he said gently. "I never stopped thinking you would."

You let out a bitter laugh, quiet and shaky. "I almost took the deal."

The words hung heavy in the space between your beds. He didn't flinch. Just waited.

"I... considered handing you over. Letting them take you," you admitted, eyes focused on the fresh white bandage around your palm. "Not because I wanted to. But because I was scared. Because that's all I've ever known. Choosing survival. Even if it meant losing something that mattered."

Yeosang's voice was softer now. "But you didn't."

You swallowed. "No. I didn't. Because for once, I wasn't scared of dying. I was scared of being without you."

That made him go still. The air seemed to shift.

"I've lied to you so many times," you whispered. "Used you. Let myself believe that keeping you away was protecting you. But all I did was hurt you—and myself. You saw through me from the start, didn't you?"

"I saw you," he said, his voice breaking just a little. "Even when you were hiding."

You finally looked at him then. Not a glance. Not a flicker. A look. Full and aching. And he met it with something stronger—something steady, unwavering, real.

"I don't know how to be good," you murmured, the tears sliding down without your permission. "I only know how to survive. And it's always been alone. But… I don't want that anymore."

Yeosang reached out with his bandaged hand and rested it over yours—gentle, patient, asking nothing. "You don't have to be good," he said. "Just be here. With me."

And for the first time in your life, you let yourself want that.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The Captain's office was far too quiet.

You sat rigid in the leather chair, back straight despite the pain in your ribs, feeling more like an intruder than a guest. Yeosang sat beside you, close but not overbearing, and when Hongjoong finally looked up from the papers on his desk, you braced yourself.

"Are you…" he began slowly, eyes piercing, "working for the White Serpents?"

You didn't hesitate. "No." You shook your head. "The Snow Syndicate. That's who I've been working for."

You caught the flicker in the leader's expression—the way his shoulders slumped, the corner of his mouth twitching in disappointment. But beside you, Yeosang let out a breath you didn't realise he'd been holding. He was relieved. You hadn't lied. Not about this, at least.

"But…" you continued, voice quieter now, "I believe they've struck some sort of deal with my boss. I've only heard about the White Serpents in passing. And then… next thing I knew, I was given this mission. To target the Phantom."

The room fell still.

"I thought I heard something… about Yeosang being the only one left."

Jongho, who had been leaning against the bookshelf behind Hongjoong, straightened slowly. His face hardened. "So this does have to do with the White Serpents then," he muttered, more to himself than anyone. "We've been tracking them down for years."

Wooyoung, who'd been silent for once, let out a low whistle. "Damn. That explains why they were always a step ahead. They weren't just using pawns. They were using Syndicates."

"I suppose," the Anchor continued, "it's a good thing we have you on our side now."

That's when the fear began to creep in. You bit your lip, lowering your gaze. What if they'd made a mistake letting you in? What if you had nothing useful to offer?

Then you felt it. Yeosang's hand brushing over yours. You looked at him. The way his thumb gently moved against your knuckles was barely perceptible, but his eyes—his eyes said everything. It's okay. You don't have to prove anything. Not to them. Not to me. Just tell your truth.

You inhaled shakily and looked up again. "I… I don't actually know anything about the White Serpents," you admitted, voice quiet with shame. "My boss never let me in on anything bigger than the mission I was assigned. He said I didn't need to know."

Silence blanketed the room. No judgement.

But the heaviness was real.

You forced yourself to meet Hongjoong's gaze again. "But I do know about the Snow Syndicate. At least them. Maybe we could go after them instead. Would that help?"

The Captain stared at you for a long moment, expression unreadable.

Then, just slightly, he nodded. "That would help a lot." And just like that, you'd gained something you'd never expected in enemy territory.

Approval.

The mansion's back terrace was empty.

The others had dispersed to follow up on the intel you'd shared, leaving you with Yeosang in the quiet dusk. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and woodsmoke, the kind of peace you weren't used to. Maybe never had been.

You stood at the balcony's edge, gripping the stone railing, eyes fixed on the horizon. Your shoulders ached—not from the wounds, but from the weight of everything unsaid.

He leaned beside you, close enough that your arms nearly brushed. His presence was like a whisper against your skin—warm, unassuming, steady. Neither of you spoke at first. Then—softly—he broke the silence. "You did well in there."

You didn't answer. Your throat felt too tight. After a beat, you murmured, "I didn't tell them anything useful."

"You told them the truth," he said, turning slightly so his shoulder lightly bumped yours. "That's more than most do."

Your hands curled tighter around the railing. "I was raised to deceive, Yeosang. Raised to manipulate. And when I finally had something real… I nearly traded you for a second chance at survival."

He was quiet. The breeze lifted a strand of your hair, and before you could react, his hand gently tucked it behind your ear. "But you didn't," he said.

You looked at him, and your breath caught. The fading light caught in his eyes—steady, calm, and painfully kind. You hated how much it shook you. "I almost did," you whispered, your voice crumbling all over again. "I hesitated."

"You're allowed to," he replied. "Survivors hesitate. It's how we stay alive."

You didn't realise you were crying until he reached up again, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek—slow, deliberate, almost reverent. His hand lingered against your skin longer than it needed to.

"I'm scared," you admitted, blinking through the blur. "I don't know who I am without them. Without orders. Without needing to earn someone's approval just to exist."

Yeosang stepped closer. Not invading—just… there. "You're someone who walked away from everything you knew," he said, voice low and steady. "Someone who chose to protect the person you were supposed to destroy."

He reached for your hand. Not forcefully. Just an offer. You hesitated—but only for a second—before lacing your fingers through his. His palm was warm, solid. Real.

"Someone who's still standing," he added, "despite every reason not to be."

You shook your head. "You make me sound braver than I am."

"No," he said, gaze fixed on yours, "I make you sound exactly as brave as you are."

You turned to him fully now, overwhelmed. His hand never left yours. "Why do you keep believing in me?" you asked.

"Because," he murmured, "you're not the only one who used to survive by following orders. I know what it's like… to want out and not know how. To hurt someone because you thought it was right. Or because it was the only thing you were allowed to do."

You stared at him, every part of you unravelling.

"I'm still figuring it out too," he said. "But maybe we don't have to do it alone anymore."

Your breath hitched. It was too much, and not enough. "I'm not good at this," you whispered.

"Neither am I," he replied, and a tiny, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Then, without thinking, your hand came up to rest against his chest, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of his shirt. "Thank you," you said. "For being here. For not giving up on me."

Yeosang didn't answer with words. He simply leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours—gently, quietly—eyes closed, as though just the contact between you was sacred.

It wasn't a kiss. But it felt like one. And for the first time in your life, closeness didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a beginning.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

Preparation began the very next day.

You found yourself spending long hours in the meeting room of their mansion, surrounded by blueprints and surveillance photos, your finger tracing paths you once took blindfolded. Every corner of the Snow Syndicate's base, every shortcut and security measure you remembered, was laid bare on the table under the sharp gazes of the crew.

Some of them didn't trust you yet, and you couldn't blame them. Jongho, ever the tactician, challenged each piece of intel you gave, questioning every detail. But you never faltered, answering each test with quiet confidence. Even when Wooyoung's eyes followed your every movement, sharp and sceptical, you stayed steady.

Seonghwa and his partner were the first to show subtle signs of acceptance. The Gentleman had passed you a water bottle during a particularly long session without a word, and you nodded in silent thanks. Yunho pulled you into a sparring match one afternoon, clearly testing your mettle. He didn't go easy. You didn't want him to. You blocked and countered until your arms ached, but you stayed standing. And when he finally offered a hand to help you up from the mat, you took it with something close to a smile.

But Yeosang—he was your constant.

He was never far. Whether you were hunched over files late into the night or mentally reeling from memories stirred by old maps, he was there. Sometimes he didn't say anything at all. He didn't need to. A brush of fingers as he passed you a pen. A shared glance that said, "You've got this." A hand on the small of your back when it all became too much.

Even the dining hall, once a battlefield of sideways stares, began to feel less cold. At first, you sat in silence. Then the occasional murmur. Then, one evening, a laugh—small, involuntary—at something Yeosang whispered, and the tension eased slightly around the table. You were still the outsider, but no longer the enemy.

Then, at last, came Hongjoong's quiet nod. "It's time."

You led them in.

Father, I'm home.

The compound hadn't changed.

Your footsteps echoed down its hollow halls, your eyes darting to each corner that used to mean home. You guided the crew through a rear passage you'd used in emergencies. A route you had memorised like a prayer.

But something felt wrong. The air was too still. Too quiet.

The grand marble hall you once knew was in shambles. Furniture overturned, walls cracked, the polished floor smeared in streaks of dried blood. But not a body in sight. You drew your weapon, breath shallow. The others moved in formation behind you.

"This wasn't recent," Seonghwa murmured, stepping cautiously over a broken chandelier.

Heart pounding, you pushed forward.

And then—you saw it.

His office. The place where you knelt so often. The place where orders came cloaked in patience and poison.

Your boss was there.

Seated in his favourite leather chair, slumped back, mouth ajar, lifeless. The drink he always held—the crystal glass only he was allowed to use—was still clutched in his hand, tilted slightly as if he'd just taken a sip.

You stepped forward slowly, your stomach twisting. Yeosang appeared at your side, eyes sweeping the room before dropping to the body. He bent slightly, carefully plucking the small piece of paper stuck beneath the glass.

His voice cut through the heavy silence.

"Better luck next time, pirates. – WS."

Time seemed to freeze. You stared at the words. At the mocking loop of those final initials.

WS. White Serpents.

A chill ran down your spine. It wasn't grief that made your legs tremble. It was the realisation that this wasn't retaliation.

It was bait.

A message meant to be found. And the White Serpents had just painted a target on every one of your backs. The weight of it settled in your chest like a curse.

When the others began combing the scene, voices rising in alarm or fury, you barely heard them. Your gaze had been fixed on the glass in your boss' limp hand. You didn't remember how you got back to the mansion. Just that everything between the discovery and now blurred into a silent fog.

And now…

You didn't know how long you'd been sitting there. The moonlight spilt in through the half-drawn curtains, casting long, silver streaks across the floor of your room in the Black Pirates' mansion—the one they'd offered without question. A place that had once been enemy territory… now the only place you could breathe.

And yet, you felt like you were suffocating.

Your arms were wrapped around your knees as you sat on your bed, shoulders hunched, lips pressed together tightly. The tears had come without warning. At first, you thought it was just exhaustion. Then maybe grief. Then guilt. Maybe it was all of it.

You'd led them into an empty stronghold. Given them hope. And what had you found?

A message. A corpse. And a bigger storm coming.

A sob clawed its way up your throat before you could swallow it down. You turned your head into the pillow, wiping angrily at your cheeks, as if hiding the tears might undo the pain that came with them. But they kept coming, traitorous and warm.

You didn't notice the door creak open. Didn't hear the soft footsteps until the bed dipped slightly at the foot. You flinched, startled—until your gaze landed on him.

Yeosang.

He didn't say anything. Just met your eyes from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning gently against the mattress. There was no judgement in his face. Only that quiet strength, that soft warmth you'd grown to crave. "Hey, there."

When he offered you the smallest smile—tired, but reassuring—your composure crumbled.

You didn't think. Didn't hesitate.

You lunged forward, throwing your arms around his neck, burying your face into his shoulder. He caught you instantly, pulling you into his lap, holding you so tightly you thought maybe he was the one who needed this just as much. "I'm sorry..." you choked out between breaths, clutching his jacket. "I'm so sorry."

He shook his head and pressed his lips to your hair. "Don't be, princess," he murmured against your temple. "It's okay."

You clung to him tightly as he gently rocked you, his voice low and steady like the ocean after a storm.

"We knew the White Serpents had been targeting us all along anyway. This isn't anything new," he continued, his hand soothing along your back. "Sure, getting to the Snow Syndicate might've helped… might've made things a little easier, perhaps. But it's fine."

He leaned back just enough to look you in the eye, brushing a tear away with the back of his knuckle.

"We'll get through this. Together. Hm?"

You nodded slowly, lips trembling as your forehead fell against his. He stayed like that with you—no pressure, no demands.

Just him. Just this.

And for the first time since that cursed vault, you allowed yourself to believe it.

Together.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

"The job's done, sir. The Snow Syndicate's been wiped out. The Black Pirates won't find a single thread leading back to us."

The man exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing as he glared down at the Phantom's file. With a sudden slam, he shut it—rage bubbling up for the first time in a long while. "So… he does have a weakness now. But at what cost?" His tone turned bitter. "The Snow Syndicate were such loyal dogs all this time. And look at what he's made us do."

His subordinate shifted uneasily, then gestured to the next file laid out on the table. "True… but maybe this just exposed their incompetence. Cutting them loose might've been a blessing in disguise. Besides, this gives us the perfect chance to shift focus."

"To the Tempest?" the man asked, his mood already shifting.

The subordinate gave a nod. "Yes, sir."

That did it. A slow grin curled on the man's lips as he slid the new file toward himself, fingers drumming once before he flipped it open. His eyes lit up, excitement flickering in them as he read the first few lines.

"Well, well," he murmured, biting his lip, relishing what he saw. "This one's practically gift-wrapped. No effort needed. The weakness is already in place…" He chuckled, low and cruel. "And the best part? She won't be around much longer anyway."

His grin widened.

"This might just be the best one yet."

Y'all, I'm so sorry this took like a million years to complete. Work has been and still is crazy. I'm sick and am still tRYING TO RECOVER FROM THE DAMN NEW ALBUM. My apologies. I hope this one was decent and met expectations because I struggled a little midway through *sobssss*

Thank you for reading, and as always, let me know your thoughts! <3

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[chezzywezzy]

Yandere Edward Cullen (4/8)

WC: 3k

R was doing her late-night job of chatting up some rich and married man in his fifties while studying the following Sunday. The money flow kept coming as he begged to “see more,” but R was typically advised by coworkers to just keep a stash of lingerie, bikini, and blanket pictures that told a story and if they actually paid a lot of money, maybe reveal a bit more. In a way, Playboy was a scam to the typical middle class income males. It was always the millionaires and billionaires that got the full experience, seeing as they didn’t need to waste time in donating only a couple hundred dollars at first.

Another thousand rolled in, displayed on her second computer screen. She eyeballed it for a moment before clicking to attach an image. The computer suddenly froze before both screens went black. Not even a second later, the entire house was shrouded in darkness.

“Shit…” R muttered. Without the sound of her typing and clicking, she could firmly zone in on the howling wind and rain outside. She hadn’t heard any thunder, but the wind itself was strong enough to send a tree billowing over a nearby power line. 

R wandered downstairs with her emergency flashlight she had in her desk for occurrences such as this. She internally praised herself for how adult and mature it felt to prepare for what-if circumstances.

She opened a blind and surveyed it around outside. Although it was foggy, R noticed that the dim lamppost down the street was still functioning. She assumed nothing of it, considering it probably had a totally different operating system, but it made her curious none the less.

R decided to brave through it and put on her best raincoat. She wanted to see what exactly had happened.

R almost immediately whelmed with regret and she could barely get the back door open. Rain spat at her, almost painfully so, and she covered herself with her arm blocking the way. She meandered, fighting against the tempest weather, until reaching the power box.

It would hardly open with her strength, but she managed. Her flashlight ran over the box. Nothing had been tampered with, except for  very clear rips of the three wires that sprung from them. The tear hardly seemed from scissors, but wires were strong. Bare human hands could hardly do something like that.

Shivers rolled down her spine and she was quick to pack up her things and stay in a brightly lit motel that evening, despite the horrible weather.

~~~

The next morning, R arrived to school with dark under eyes. Things were becoming weird in the little town of Forks. Too many coincidences. The open windows, the power box, the feeling of an intense gaze no matter where she was. R was certain it was a stalking situation. Even if it hardly was directly harmful, last night’s incident felt threatening, as though a possessive man had put a stop to her work in the midst of it. 

She chatted with Jessica briefly, explaining that she had a rough night and was a little scared for her safety because of strange things happening around her house. Fully expected, Jessica offered her place to stay the night, and said they can make a girl’s day out of it. Of course, she agreed, but made sure Jessica promised to keep them both on task as they planned to campaign for student council together. Angela was invited, but she said she would rather keep her stake in the treasury.

She slouched in her seat in O-chem, avoiding eye contact with a clearly concerned Edward. He kept gulping down his words, but class came and went. Afterwards was when he finally spoke up.

“I… I hope you’ve been taking care of yourself,” Edward stated carefully, trailing after R as she maneuvered to her next class. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Due to last night’s spook, R hardly had a chance to think about Edward, but something stirred suspicion but also an internal voice that rejected such suspicion. She halted in the hallway and turned to face him. Fellow students blurred past as R reluctantly made eye contact.

“I… guess not,” R mumbled so quietly that she was certain he couldn’t hear, but he nodded anyways. R did not reject his carefully placed shoulder rub. “I think I’m being stalked. It’s been going on for a while, and…”

Her mind scampered around to all the evidence. The tampering in her home when she was away. The window opening at night. The power box. A part of her tried to make sense of blaming it on Edward, but it felt too peculiar - they had hardly known each other and he never knew where she lived when these occurrences had begun, but all hallucinogenic and coincidental evidence, as bizarre as it was, pointed to him.

Edward’s eyes squinted in empathy and he gave R’s shoulder a squeeze. “Have you reported it to the police yet?”

“I reported the most obvious event last night, but without fingerprints or cameras or anything else, they can’t do much,” R admitted , sinking toward the man.

“That’s… unhelpful.” The man chose his words cautiously, enveloping her in a tight hug. The hall was rather empty. “You… you do not think it’s me, do you? I hardly meant to startle you Saturday —“

R tore away glaring at Edward defeatedly. “I do, Edward, and that’s what scares me. Because I have no idea how.”

Edward almost seemed embarrassed, yet his expression hardly gave away the correct answer. “But why…? I understand Saturday, but I was genuinely just in the area —“

“That just seems too impossible,” R exclaimed. Edward immediately shushed her, and despite her mind screaming to retaliate, he pulled her into the empty O-chem classroom. “I mean, I see you in my sleep, my house is acting like it’s haunted, and somehow you’re so fast and so strong, but it isn’t even humanly possible —“

Edward shushed her suddenly, pressing her carefully against the lab table, so gently that it was as though not to mess with a hair on her body. R’s mind was so extremely confused because Edward was so caring and so polite - if he was the stalker, surely he could have just asked her out from the beginning, knowing how irresistible he is. But none of this started until after they made eye contact and became closer. And she saw Edward several times, as though he was a phantom, but ghosts were not real.

“You see me in your sleep?” 

Under other circumstances, she would have blushed and felt embarrassed. But she sensed a shift in the mood, as though Edward was suddenly melting into her. R was not sure why she talked to him about it in the first place. However, she rationalized that if Edward was the stalker, he was too careful to get caught in the first place, or would bend to her pleas and misery.

“Not like - that…” R almost felt out of control as her heart swelled with a sense of adoration and trust in the man. It did not feel like her own emotions, but could not fathom where else they would come from. Edward made intense eye contact before sending a glance to the doorway and back. R noticed someone there, but only for a brief moment. 

Edward traced the outline other jaw passionately. “May I… try something?”

R gulped, heart beating disproportionately. She felt sick in the stomach - from fear or from attraction, she could not distinguish. She nodded ever so slightly. It was easy to anticipate as Edward slowly pulled forward, cupping her cheeks. His skin was so, so cold, almost burning. She clamped her eyes shut.

His lips were just as cold but with a bit more softness to it. He pressed so gently into the kiss that it felt more like a skim or a brush, and she would have never guessed this was a kiss without context clues. R stayed stationary before Edward suddenly increased intensity - his lips pressed harshly and moved, and with a sudden heave, he effortlessly placed her on the lab table. R felt an immediate reciprocation to the  heated make-out, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him by his hair to decrease distance. Their bodies pressed together flush, and R experienced the trembling sensation of his entire frozen body.

Edward painted a fluid tenseness, as though he was cautiously climbing a cliffside - following so many procedures, but still being aware of the uncertain doom that lay beneath. His hands tangled into R’s hair, scrunching it gently between his fingers, as his other clung to her hip to keep the woman steady. 

Despite her body rejecting such a chill, she grasped at his bicep and ran her fingers firmly through his well-maintained hair.

R suddenly opened her eyes and came to a realization of what she was doing. She attempted to push the man right off of her, but Edward hardly seemed to notice as he kept weaving their lips together. It took her punching his chest that he suddenly pulled away, panting, while a glaze of adoration washed over his bright red eyes.

“You - your eyes,” R gasped, wiped her mouth. “How are they red? They were just…”

“Fluorescents,” Edward rasped, looking away.

“Your strength and speed —“

“The gym.”

“Do not bullshit me, Edward! I… I have to go —“

He caught her arm on the way out, eyes pleading. She twisted and turned to escape while he hardly budged, but relinquished hold and watched as she went. She went straight home after that, feeling unsafe near his location. An electrician was coming by in the afternoon, and that felt quite safe. Instead of delving into her studies like one would hope when taking difficult stem classes, she sat there staring at her blank computer screen. When the electricity is fixed, she immediately took to google.

Nothing human came up. The results of vampirism were the first, and Edward fit the bill in so many ways: the speed, the strength, his voice, his missed days when sunny, his eyes, his diet or health disorder, his consistently untouched lunches, his alluring demeanor…

Except who could she even tell to begin with?

Her phone suddenly rang from downstairs and she ran to grab it. She leaned against the counter, suddenly feeling as though her world had turned upside down. Everything no longer felt like a coincidence, but a damnation to hell. 

“Angela,” R gasped. “How are you?”

“Hey, where are you? You weren’t in class or at lunch - Jess and the boys are all worried, especially all the creepy shit that’s been happening to you.”

“I went home for the day to take care of the electricity,” R sighed. “I think I know —“

A freezing hand suddenly clasped down on her shoulder. A silent scream tore through her lungs, and she knew who it was. Who it had always been. She gulped and could feel his frosty breath on the nape of her neck. She backtracked.

“I think I know what happened last night, so it isn’t a big deal - um, electrician said that an animal got into the… power box.”

“What? That’s crazy! Do you still want a girl’s night?”

R could feel the brooding answer from behind her. “Um, well, Can we do it over the weekend? I feel rude, but I have a lab report I need to get done tonight all of a sudden and also working on the stu-co campaign more… I’m just swamped.”

“I totally understand.” Angela relayed the information to Jessica, who was sat beside her. Jessica exclaimed quickly. “It makes sense. God, stem is the worst, huh?”

They made some more small talk, but R made it short, feeling Edward’s gentle hands roam across her back and arms. She felt defeated as she hung up the phone. Her body began trembling from fear and cold. She did not turn around. She did not need to, worried her heart would become conflicted again, despite the sudden knowledge that Edward could not be human.

“I want you to look at me,” Edward whispered. “Please.”

R slowly turned and pressed herself against the island, casting her gaze to the ground and shriveling up as much as possible. Edward’s finger delicately pressured her chin toward him, and he almost seemed wounded at her reluctant glances.

“It is not what you think,” he insisted. “I feel… protective of you.”

“You’re some sort of… monster, though!” R exclaimed, trying to maintain her sanity in that moment. “You’re not human. What the hell are you?”

Edward seemed to take offense, but was quick to answer. “A vampire.”

“Is this the part where… where you kill me?”

Edward seemed appalled at the suggestion, taking a couple stumbling steps back. R could even go as far to say that he was having some sort of identity crisis as the man felt the sudden sting of naivety and rejection. 

“I would never hurt you,” he insisted, his voice cracking. R had never seen the man with such a shattered expression. It made a feeling of sudden guilt and remorse well, but R swore he had been manipulative from the start. “I would never… I love you.”

“Why? You don’t even know me!” R shouted angrily, overwhelmed from the amount of information hidden that was suddenly being revealed. “You know nothing about me! You’ve been stalking for god knows how long and you think that means you know me?”

“You think I haven’t tried to tune out your thoughts, or stop my nose from smelling your scent, or my eyes for seeking you out the moment you enter a room?”

“My… my thoughts…?” R felt a sudden rush of nausea. All she could think about was how trapped she felt. In every biological twist, he had her overpowered. Perhaps he did know her better than she knew herself, and the thought terrified her. 

“I - all vampires have a special ability when turned. Mine was, unluckily, a power one,” Edward explained exasperatedly. “I… I didn’t choose this lifestyle nor this power.”

“You have a twisted notion of love then. Love someone of your own… caliber.”

Edward furrowed his brows and clamped his hands on her shoulder. His hands were firm yet not painful, and even as R squirmed, his hold did not change. “You think I chose this? Why would I ever wish this lifestyle on a woman I loved, a human, and a famous one at that?”

R fell silent as a few tears escape from fright. Was he —

“I do not want you to be like me… But even so, I hope you can understand that me - my family - we’re not like the others. We’re… vegetarians. We only drink the blood of animals, not humans. There are many that are not that way, but…”

“You don’t understand,” R cried. “You may be nice for your species, but you are still a creep. You’ve been watching me sleep, you’ve been stealing my things, you’ve been following me - god knows what else —“

“I wanted to protect you - you live such a vulnerable lifestyle —“

“And it’s mine to live, Edward,” R insisted in panic, wrenching away from his grasp. “The funny thing is, you could have just been a normal guy. I had a crush on you, as I’m sure you knew, until you started being all weird and manipulative. Instead you had to make my mental health turn to shit and make me paranoid of everything! A creature like you… Don’t pretend you weren’t leaving me hints of you - making eye contact, leaving windows open, tampering with my stuff and coincidentally showing up places you shouldn’t have been. You’re probably some fucking freak that gets off of terrorizing girls like me!”

Silence fell over the household. Edward seemed appalled by R’s deduction. He was stunned, clasping at his heart. His eyes watered, letting R’s cruel words sink in. His eyes suddenly furrowed in anger. Absolutely nothing was going according to plan. He was sure that if he pleaded innocence and made himself look like the anti-hero, she might’ve understood, but… she was right. He had done all that, and even out of his twisted notion of love, no other reasonable suggestion would have been inferred. 

He was struck back into reality by the slamming of the front door. He knew if he could not silence her with his love and adoration and truth, not only to protect his family’s identity but to keep the girl he loved so much, he had to silence her with fear.

[wilsonology]

house md characters as my little pony characters. cause like. why not

gregory house: discord

both are manipulative, irreverent, and cause problems on purpose. they thrive on destabilizing the people around them just to see what happens. but deep (deep. like deep) down, there’s a soft spot. and they both get wildly defensive if anyone suggests they care.

james wilson: fluttershy

empathetic, conflict avoidant, constantly trying to help dysfunctional creatures (cough house slash discord). fluttershy literally takes care of wounded animals. wilson takes care of wounded. um. women. both are kind to a fault, and both have that surprising backbone that shows up once in a blue moon

lisa cuddy: twilight sparkle

both are overachieving, hypercompetent, type-a control freaks. they’re like. “if i don’t micromanage literally everyone in this hospital/magical kingdom, the entire thing will collapse.” they’re organized, responsible, and stubborn, but also have a secretly chaotic streak that slips out when things get too stressful (or when house pushes every button she has).

allison cameron: applejack

applejack is honest, dependable, and the moral backbone of her group — cameron is the same!! she wants things to be good and right. she’s dependable, sincere, and will stand her ground if her principles are being stepped on — but sometimes takes herself (and her ideals) a little too seriously.

robert chase: rarity

rarity gets dismissed for being vain and shallow, but actually she’s creative, hardworking, and generous in her own way! same with chase. people underestimate him because he’s pretty, posh, and occasionally a suck-up — but he’s got depth, ambition, and sharp instincts. both are stylish & a little dramatic

eric foreman: princess luna

luna isolates herself. foreman isolates himself. both struggle with feeling fundamentally different from the people around them. luna’s whole thing is “i don’t fit in with the others, i have to hold myself to a higher standard,” which is basically foreman’s entire life. they both balance bitterness with a genuine desire to do the right thing, and they’re both more sensitive than they’ll ever admit.

thirteen (remy hadley): starlight glimmer

starlight is sarcastic, guarded, and deeply afraid of intimacy. she keeps people at arm’s length because she’s scared of getting hurt (hi thirteen). both are competent, capable, and devastatingly smart — but their whole arc revolves around learning to let people actually matter to them.

chris taub: rainbow dash (but in denial about it)

taub wants to believe he’s cooler than everyone else. he projects arrogance. flirts too much. and leans on humor to hide the fact that he’s actually deeply insecure. rainbow dash does the same thing. both need constant reassurance that they’re talented, valuable, and not secretly failing at life (+ also chronic smug face lol)

lawrence kutner: pinkie pie

kutner is pure chaos. but like. the friendly, loveable kind. pinkie’s randomness isn’t that far off from kutner randomly shooting himself with a taser just to see what happens. both are energetic, fun, and bring levity to a group that desperately needs it and when they’re gone, it hits hard.

amber volakis: tempest shadow

amber is sharp, driven, and willing to do whatever it takes to win. tempest has the same edge — all armor, no vulnerability… until the cracks start to show. both operate like lone wolves because they’ve convinced themselves that needing people = weakness. but once someone gets past the walls… oh, it’s so over

stacy warner: princess celestia

celestia keeps discord vaguely in line! stacy keeps house vaguely in line! both are elegant, poised, and deeply self assured. both carry that weird bittersweet sadness of having loved someone who will never quite be easy to love.

[halfmoonshines]

**this takes places during Thunderbolts*, WILL have spoilers*

Bucky Barnes x F! Reader

summary; Bucky receives the call from Mel to come and find the ragtag bunch that just escaped Valentina; he struggles with what to do. But you've always been there to help him.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿

I feel my brows pinch together in worry when Bucky's shoulders stiffen, my coffee paused just before my lips. I can only hear his part of the conversation, but he seems incessant about something.

"I don't do that anymore." His voice comes out gravelly, and my cup is discarded on the island between us. Something big was happening.

He mumbles something else and hangs up, his phone hitting the counter with a bit too much force. He still doesn't turn to look at me.

"Jamie." I say it quietly, looping around the middle of the kitchen and coming to stand at his side. My hand raises to rest on his taut shoulders and I can feel him twitch just slightly beneath me. He's stiff, and when those eyes finally look up to meet mine there's a storm raging in them.

Just when I think he's going to pull away, like he would in the early days of our relationship and something rocked him like this, he steps toward me instead. Arms banding themselves around my waist and his head dropped to my shoulder, I hold him close to me. I just listen to his breathing, and wait for him.

"There's a situation." He says finally, pulling away from me and showing those tempest eyes. "Valentina tried to trick her ghost operatives into killing each other and when that didn't work, they escaped. I need to bring them in." Bucky started tidying the mess we had made during dinner, keeping his hands busy. "I arrest them, they testify against her, and everyone's happy. Some assassins are behind bars and Valentina finally gets impeached." He stops fidgeting and heaves a sigh, head dropping back, eyes closed.

My hand goes to rest on the one he has splayed across the counter, but he doesn't open his eyes.

"Are you sure that's what you want to do?"

Bucky's eyes blink open and he looks at me, confused. "Of course. I'm a congressman now, doll. Even apprehending them is way beyond my jurisdiction. I need to try and put them through due processes. Let the law handle it."

I can see it, the uncertainty in his face and the muscles of his jaw working against the words he's saying, like they taste bad.

"I think that, maybe, you're afraid the law won't handle it justly." I proceed carefully, not wanting to upset him farther. "Weren't you telling me a few days ago that Natasha's sister was one of Valentina's assets?" Bucky had always talked about Natasha and Steve like they hung the moon. A former Red Room assassin, Natasha Romanoff was everything that Bucky strives to be. Better. Someone who faces their mistakes head on, and works through them. Apologizes for them. Dies for them, though he never glorifies that, I know that he respects it on a level I could never understand.

His silence is the answer I need.

"Do you think it's fair? That Yelena would be behind bars but you get to go to the next congressional meeting?" His eyes snap to mine, a glacier blue burning against my own. I wasn't trying to hurt him, but make him understand these complicated emotions I know were cementing him in place right now.

"I've done my time, babe. Yelena has showed no signs of changing her life around. She's still killing people, just for a different organization." He pulls his hand out from under mine and walks to the fridge, putting his half empty water in there to retrieve later.

The light of the refrigerator cuts a stark image of him in our kitchen; this man in his newly pressed dress shirt, metal arm glinting in the low light. This was a new Bucky; one of many that I had seen, and I wasn't convinced that this was the one he felt most comfortable being.

I follow him, hands coming up to rub small circles along his back as he shuts the fridge door. "Certainly we can't compare the CIA and the Red Room?" Quietly, I do. But that won't help matters here. "How do we know that she isn't trying to turn over a new leaf in the only way she knows how? You had a support system, Buck. She has nothing."

He doesn't say anything and we stand like that for a moment. His hands braced on either side of the fridge, I can see indents forming there where he's squeezing just a little too hard. A war raging in him that I don't control. There's no ceasefire to be called; he has to reconcile with himself.

He turns to be abruptly and pulls me against him. I feel his cool hand at the back of my head before he draws me forward, lips melding to mine with a bruising force. When he pulls away, there's a new resolve there. He's made his decision, whatever that may be.

"I'm going to go and get them." He pauses for a moment, worrying his lip between his teeth. "But I think I'm going to talk to them first. Try to gauge what they're thinking. Maybe you're right."

I smile as he pulls away from me, holding his hand in mine as long as I can before he's across the room heading to change.

"But if I find an excuse to hit Walker, I'm taking it." He throws over his shoulder, a small smile as a gift to me.

My laugh is light. "I would expect nothing less."

I'll be staying up tonight, as long as my already tired body would let me, to be sure that I'm awake when he gets home. His demons in tow and uncertainty in every step. It's nights like this that he'll need to be reminded how far he's come; who he is now.

I want nothing more than that.

[dolcettamagica]

𐙚˙⋆.˚ 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞

gangleader!sukuna x reader, modern au

tags: possessive & obsessive sukuna, choking, lowkey stalking translations: piccola - little one/baby notes: listen to "salvatore" by lana del rey wc: 1.7k

In the dimly lit underbelly of the city, where shadows whispered secrets and alleys told tales of violence, there existed a figure feared and revered in equal measure: Sukuna Ryomen, the enigmatic leader of the most dangerous gang. His name struck terror into the hearts of those who dared oppose him, while his charisma drew countless souls into his fold.

Sukuna was a man who commanded respect without uttering a word. His mere presence exuded power, his icy gaze capable of silencing even the boldest of adversaries. With a network spanning the city's underworld, he held dominion over illicit trades, clandestine operations, and the very pulse of criminal activity.

Yet, amidst the chaos and the conquests, there was one enigma that eluded Sukuna’s grasp: a woman whose allure ignited a fire within him. You, a mysterious beauty with a spirit as untamed as the flames dancing in the night. You moved with a grace that defied the chaos around you, a silent tempest in the midst of the storm.

From the moment Sukuna laid eyes on you, he knew you were unlike any other. You were not bound by the rules of his world, nor swayed by the promises of power and wealth. Instead, you remained an enigmatic force, unyielding and unattainable.

Driven by an insatiable desire, Sukuna sought to possess you, to unravel the mysteries that shrouded your existence. He offered you riches beyond measure, a throne by his side where you could rule the underworld together. Yet, each offer was met with a gentle refusal, as you remained steadfast in your independence.

Frustration festered within Sukuna's heart, a tempest of emotions that threatened to consume him whole. He was a man accustomed to getting what he desired, yet you remained beyond his reach, a tantalizing mirage in the desert of his ambitions.

Despite his best efforts to suppress the yearning that gnawed at his soul, Sukuna found himself inexorably drawn to you, like a moth to the flame. He watched from the shadows as you moved through the city, a silent guardian cloaked in mystery.

In the depths of the night, when the city slumbered and dreams took flight, Sukuna found himself haunted by visions of your captivating gaze. You were the one anomaly in his meticulously crafted world, the one puzzle he could not solve.

And so, amidst the chaos and the conquests, Sukuna Ryomen, a formidable leader, found himself ensnared by the one thing he could not possess: the heart of a woman who danced beyond his reach, a forbidden desire that burned brighter than any flame in the darkness.

In the depths of his lavish office, Sukuna sat with unwavering determination, his gaze fixed on the phone before him. His frustration simmered beneath the surface, a molten rage that threatened to erupt at any moment. With a swift motion, he seized the device, his fingers dancing across the screen with a commanding presence.

"Where are you, piccola?" he typed, each word a declaration of his unwavering dominance. "You cannot hide from me forever. I will find you, and when I do, you will answer to me."

There was no room for hesitation in Sukuna's messages, no trace of the desperation that had once plagued him. Instead, his words dripped with authority, each message a demand for her submission.

"Do not test my patience" he continued, his tone brooking no defiance. "You belong to me, and you will come to me willingly. There is no escape from my grasp."

With each message sent, Sukuna's resolve hardened, his determination driving him forward with unrelenting force. He would not be denied what was rightfully his, not by anyone, especially not by a woman who dared to defy him.

"Tell me where you are," he commanded, "I will not ask again."

But still, there was no response, no sign of surrender. Anger flared within Sukuna's chest, a wildfire of fury that threatened to consume him whole.

"If you think you can hide from me, you are sorely mistaken," his words a warning laced with venom. "I will tear this world apart to find you, and when I do, you will regret ever crossing me, piccola."

With a final message sent, Sukuna leaned back in his chair, his eyes burning with a fierce determination. He would not rest until you were in his grasp, until you bowed before him in submission. For in Sukuna Ryomen's world, there was no room for defiance, only dominance and control. And he would have it all, no matter the cost.

As Sukuna's fingers hovered over the screen, poised to send yet another commanding message, the door to his office swung open with a forceful creak. In strode one of his most trusted lieutenants, a figure cloaked in shadows and whispers, bearing news that ignited a spark of hope within Sukuna’s hardened heart.

"Boss," the subordinate – Toji – began, his voice low and deferential, "we've received word. She... she's in Miami."

The words hung heavy in the air, a tantalizing promise of victory amidst the tumultuous storm of Sukuna's emotions. Without a moment's hesitation, he rose from his seat, his movements swift and decisive.

"Prepare the jet," he commanded, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "We leave immediately."

There was a sense of urgency in Sukuna’s tone, a hunger that burned brighter with each passing second. Miami beckoned like a siren's call, its neon-lit – ruby, blue and green, neon too – streets promising the chance to reclaim what was rightfully his.

As his subordinates scrambled to fulfill his orders, Sukuna's mind raced with thoughts of the woman who had eluded him for far too long. He could almost taste the sweet victory that lay within his grasp, the moment when you would finally bend to his will.

With a steely resolve and a heart set ablaze with determination, Sukuna embarked on his journey to Miami, a man possessed by a singular purpose: to capture the one who dared to defy him and to assert his dominance once and for all.

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting its golden rays upon the pristine sands of the Miami beach. Among the throngs of sun-seekers, Sukuna strode with purpose, his eyes scanning the shoreline with a predatory intensity. And there, amidst the azure waves and the gentle sway of palm trees, he spotted you.

You laid upon the sand, a vision of beauty that stole the breath from Sukuna's lungs. Clad in a bikini that left little to the imagination, you exuded an aura of confidence that only served to fuel his desire. Your bronzed skin glowed beneath the sun's warm embrace, your tousled hair cascading like silk upon the sand.

With measured steps, Sukuna approached, his gaze never wavering from the woman who had haunted his every thought. He stood before you now, a towering figure clad in shadows and sinew, his presence commanding the attention of all who dared to gaze upon him.

"Piccola," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "You cannot hide from me forever."

There was a flicker of defiance in your eyes, a spark that ignited the flames of desire within Sukuna's chest. But he would not be deterred, not by your beauty nor by your resolve. He had come too far, fought too hard, to let you slip through his fingers once again.

"You belong to me," he declared, his words laced with a possessiveness that bordered on obsession. "And now, you will come with me."

But you remained unmoved, your gaze steady as you met his with a defiance that stirred something primal within him. You were a challenge, a tantalizing puzzle that begged to be solved, and Sukuna was more than willing to rise to the occasion.

“I was working on my tan, boss.”

"Working on your tan," he repeated, his voice betraying none of the turmoil raging within him. "In Miami, of all places."

There was a subtle tension in the air, a silent battle of wills as you and Sukuna locked gazes. Your defiance sparked a flicker of admiration within him, even as it fueled the flames of his frustration.

"Indeed," you replied, your tone cool and composed. "Is there a problem with that?"

Sukuna's jaw clenched, a silent testament to the storm of emotions swirling beneath his stoic facade. He had come too far, searched too long, to be met with such casual indifference.

"No problem," he finally replied, his voice a low growl. "But I must insist that you accompany me. We have unfinished business, you and I."

Your lips curved into a sardonic smile, a glimmer of amusement dancing in your eyes. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, boss. I have many businesses, all of them quite finished."

Sukuna's patience wore thin, his frustration bubbling to the surface like molten lava. He had pursued you across oceans and continents, faced down countless adversaries in his quest to claim you as his own. And yet, she remained as elusive as ever, a tantalizing enigma that refused to be solved.

"Enough games, piccola," he snapped, his tone cutting through the air like a knife. "You cannot hide from me forever. Sooner or later, you will bend to my will."

The tension crackled between you like electricity as Sukuna's hand shot out, seizing you by the throat with a force that bordered on violence. His grip was firm, unyielding, a silent declaration of dominance that sent a shiver down your spine.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to stand still as you stood locked in a primal embrace, your gazes locked in a fierce battle of wills. But beneath the surface, a different kind of energy simmered—a raw, unbridled desire that pulsed between you like a current of electricity.

Your breath came in ragged gasps as Sukuna's grip tightened, his fingers leaving imprints on your skin like branding marks. And yet, there was no fear in your eyes, only a smoldering heat that mirrored his own.

With a low growl, Sukuna leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear with a tantalizing promise. "You cannot resist me, piccola," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "You were made for me, and you know it."

A shudder ran through your body as you felt the heat of Sukunas breath against your skin, your pulse racing with a heady mixture of fear and excitement. You knew that you were as drawn to him as he was to you—a dangerous truth that sent a thrill coursing through your veins.

“You will always belong to me.”

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Masterlist 3

Key:

Fluff ☕️

Spice 🍵

Angst 🫖

Smut ✨

Requests: OPEN

Note: I do write for a lot of people, if you request something I will try to fulfill it! I'll also update this as I go, but please enjoy my work! dividers by @saradika-graphics

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Call of Duty

Task Force 141

John “Bravo-6” Price

TBA

Johnny “Soap” Mactavish

Paint Me Like One of Your French Girls ☕️✨

This Means Something ☕️

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Sleep Love, Disney’s Not Going Anywhere ☕️

Sleepless, But Safe ☕️

Blood and Vows ☕️✨🫖🍵

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

TBA

The Boys (141 & Poly 141)

Behind Closed Doors ☕️

The Things We Almost Lose ✨☕️🫖🍵

Hold Still, Sweetheart ✨☕️🫖🍵

Red Alert ☕️

The Flame in You ☕️

Beneath the Black Flag ☕️🫖

No One Touches Her 🫖☕️

Camcorder Chronicles ☕️

Callsign: Mimic ☕️🫖

Divine Intervention 🫖☕️✨🍵

Come Get Your Girl ☕️🍵

Operation: Get Our Sergeant a Date ☕️

Dead Silent ☕️🫖

Poison in the Algorithm ☕️🫖

Daddy’s Little Defender ☕️🫖

Mock Exams ☕️

Series

The Crimson Tempest

Chapter 1 ☕️🫖

[themattress]

Pokémemories: Operation Tempest

With the release of the Black 2/White 2 games, Pokémon: Best Wishes was rebranded as Pokémon: Best Wishes Season 2, which featured a story arc set between Ash's 8th badge and the Unova League taking place in East Unova that proved to be one of the best in the entire anime, combining the continuation of Team Rocket's plan to conquer Unova through gaining control over the Forces of Nature with the late Takeshi Shudo's original idea for the story with Celebi after it was to come out of the GS Ball, in this case with Meloetta, the cute spritely songstress Mythical Pokémon of Gen V. And it all culminated in a two-parter where Team Rocket launched Operation Tempest, their self-described greatest mission in history.

There are many things that make Operation Tempest amazing. There's the pay-off to all the arc's build-up, the intensity of the action and stakes, the pitch-perfect atmosphere. There's the fact that you like and care about Meloetta, which makes her being placed in distress so effective. There's the way that it cribs structure and plot beats from the banned "Team Rocket VS Team Plasma!" two-parter so that they don't go to waste. There's Cynthia's involvement. There's the total reimagining of Abyssal Temple and the Reveal Glass into something out of H.P Lovecraft. There's motherfucking Giovanni himself finally battling Ash and his friends!

And there's these climactic 4 minutes. All these years later, they're still beautiful to behold.

Fun fact: this two-parter was actually advertised as Team Rocket's send-off, as in their potential goodbye from the whole anime. In actuality, they were already set to return in Best Wishes' third and final year, and it was whether they would stay on past that was in question with the anime's producers, thus testing the waters with this marketing ploy. Viewer response showed they were still popular and thus they were kept, but if this had actually been the end for them I would have been totally satisfied, as they would've definitely gone out with a bang.

[dapper-lil-arts]

Okay, if we’re operating under your (correct) that Tempest is a turbo virgin, that raises an even more interesting question…

What the heck would happen if she hooked with Twilight? Seems like a no-win scenario there.

"Finaly, I get a big muscle mommy that can serve me right and teach me how it's DONE! TAKE ME!!" "princess. I don't know what sex is."

[forlorn-crows]

On the topic of new ghouls, I have a little bit of a 'hear me out' for the new ghoulette's name so . . . hear me out:

Nike

As in winged victory, Nike. No not the shoe company. Yes, this one:

Nike in mythology was the winged goddess of victory, daughter of Pallas and Styx (the infernal River Styx, if you will). Not only does she represent victory and triumph in war, but in all things---a "mediator of success between gods and men" [x].

─ ⊹ ─ ⊹ ⊱꒰☆꒱⊰ ⊹ ─ ⊹ ⊱꒰☆꒱⊰ ⊹ ─ ⊹ ⊱꒰☆꒱⊰ ⊹ ─ ⊹ ⊱꒰☆꒱⊰ ⊹ ─ ⊹ ─

If you've seen any clips of (who we presume to be) the unmasked ghoulette, you've seen that she's a powerhouse of a vocalist, very strong in her technique. Nike is often depicted in flight, or preparing to, which lends itself to the element (or one of the elements) attributed to her as a vocalist in the context of Ghost, which is air. Melodies and harmonies soaring above. She's also, from what I can tell, the other ghoulette opposite Aurora with the big skeleton bat wings.

In a way, the choosing of ghouls is always a competition, but a friendly, peaceful one, which Nike heralds. Cumulus, her predecessor, most likely would not see her as a threat, but a worthy opponent. If it's true that this ghoulette is replacing her, we'll all have our own headcanons as to why Lus chose not to tour. But to be able to summon and/or mentor someone as skilled and dedicated as she, is a victory for her as well.

The goddess Nike is often depicted as carrying a palm branch or laurel wreath, symbolically bringing and carrying victory to others [x].

With the beginning of a brand new era, she brings with her that symbol of triumph and prosperity, even when the rest of the band is widely succesful before her. But it is the first appearance of Papa V, Perpetua, so maybe this ghoulette brings just that extra shred of confidence and luck along with the rest.

Cumulus: She's a strong one. I think she should have a name to match.

Some further discussion under the cut:

I know there have been some names tossed around here and there, Tempest and Nimbus being two I've seen a lot. And I'm still a proponent of waiting until we know and have seen more about her. How she acts, interacts. What her presence as a whole is like. Not that name determines these factors, but it is how we as a fandom have (mostly) been operating all these years.

I'd love to have a more open conversation than the last time new ghouls were introduced. Yes, it came as a shock to lose Sunshine and Aether (him especially so, since we had more of an understanding of the unmasked Sunshine's plans prior to the Re-Imperatour), so there was some scrambling there. But the Skeletour is still about a month away, with the release of Skeleta even further than that. Some people want to talk about it now, some people don't, and I understand both. I'm just throwing something out there, as I haven't felt super strongly about any particular name until I thought about this one!

Definitely let me and others know what you think x

[ninibeingdelulu]

mello x female reader fanfic please

The only one who understand ✧

Plot: You have to care of his injured hands, since you’re the only one he don’t seems to loathe.

A/N: tyy for requesting,I made it quite long (I love Mello🙈).

The fortified sanctuary's hectic ambiance assaulted your senses the second you slipped back through the concealed entrance.

A cacophony of enraged shouts and visceral clatters erupted from every direction amidst the disorienting smokescreen of frenzied bodies scattering haphazardly underfoot like panicked rodents.

Grunting curses laced the stale air already thick with undertones of sweat, gunpowder and lingering cigarette haze.

Each booming impact and deafening crash colliding throughout the labyrinthine corridors reverberated exponentially more jarring than the last ricocheting against your rattled equilibrium.

It didn't require much investigative prowess to deduce Mello had predictably detonated into another hellish tempest once again thrashing a path of destruction throughout their illicit headquarters.

The volatile blond tempering every waking breath with constant reminders of his sworn vengeance against Near while pursuing that insatiable obsession to crown himself the true successor surpassing L's sacred legacy...

Sure enough, the first henchman stumbling within reach instantly recognized you gripped your sleeve yanking you directly into the ensuing chaos sweeping through their stronghold.

Their coarse raspy shouts strained against the cacophony struggled conveying intel about Mello raging ballistic yet again pummeling anything within reach while berating the whole incompetent crew over their latest "intolerable failure" chasing down potential Kira leads that could help thwart Near.

Until eventually the tantrum crescendoed into the unhinged maniac turning those pistol-whipping fists against his own physicality thrashing against every available surface amidst a frenzy of indiscriminate impacts until that unmistakable crimson liquid began splattering across his immediate radius.

"Just go talk some damn sense into that lunatic before he decimates the whole goddamn place!"

The grunt spat venom-laced demands punctuated by another tooth-rattling clang in the distance.

"You're the only one crazy enough he'll actually listen to instead of putting a fucking bullet between your eyes..."

True enough.

Throughout the countless weeks since becoming embroiled within Mello's ultra-clandestine syndicate operation, you'd cultivated an inexplicable rapport with the unstable wildcard harboring tempestuous complexities rivaling the most virulent hurricane season.

While the rest of his enlisted underlings cowered under the unrelenting brunt of those psychopathic tirades and physical outbursts on an almost daily cycle, somehow Mello left you largely untouched whenever his metal instabilities detonated.

Almost like he intuitively sensed any attempts to direct that scorching tempest your way would be met with an immovable force absorbing the impact rather than recoiling in fear.

Either out of calculating pragmatism assessing the futility after your first few indifferent brushes with those demonic bellows...or potentially recognizing shards of that same jagged internal shrapnel lodged within your own calloused essence resonating against those manic frequencies - you'd never really invested much thought deciphering the unspoken détente arising between you both.

Most days it simply existed lingering in the background behind those evasive glares and minimal exchanges required between two strangers bound by shared circumstance pursuing their own shadowy agendas.

Nothing more, nothing less - just the unspoken rules observed out of mutual indifference rather than genuine kinship.

Of course, that dynamic abruptly transformed whenever Mello erupted yet again unleashing those ungodly furies with even more ballistic intensity than usual.

Where his go-to lieutenants knew better than courting that explosive volatility's blast radius themselves, instead redirecting you towards diffusing those pressurized tensions threatening to rupture the entire syndicate apart through sheer centrifugal forces alone.

Your boots thumped across the reinforced steel grating resonating against every immobilized soul cowering under whatever futile shelter from Mello's path of destruction by the time you reached that familiar threshold outside his personal quarters.

Cautiously extending your knuckles against the cold slab you initiated the requisite succession of coded rapping signalings before easing the barrier open inch-by-inch.

"Mello, it's me..."

You murmured evenly keeping your tone deliberately hushed despite straining against the eardrum-pounding roars shuddering through every supportive crossbeam.

The shadowy silhouette towering past six feet instantly whipped around piercing straight through you from across that lightless chamber.

More sounds erupted reverberating against your ribs like shockwaves detonating directly behind that shrouded outline undulating with each strangled inhalation raging against whatever internal vortex still consumed every iota of Mello's essence.

Until a single gnarled fist suddenly slammed down splintering the heavy oaken desk's reinforced surface signaling that same rapt focal point now gravitating your direction with unmistakable intensity.

Even before any true details crystallized Mello's omnipresent perfume of melding tobacco resin and dark chocolate immediately smothered your sinuses simultaneously triggering a euphoric blisswave correlated with inhaling the mere ambrosial traces surrounding that masculine presence alone.

Physical sensations subconsciously registering beyond just his visually imposing specimen beneath those apocalyptic leathers concealing taut musculature undulating with each sinuous movement.

Despite the abyssal darkness veiling his striking features under those tousled blonde hair, the second those emerald daggers flashed into sharp focus drilling straight into your psyche's core something instinctual stirred to visceral awakening beyond just the typical detached placidness required during these outbursts' aftermaths.

Something primal and ancient roiled against those scorching radiations searing across your exposed meridians shattering every remaining pretense keeping those protective barriers upright.

At least until the full reality slammed home precisely what caused Mello to detonate into his latest raging furor this time unleashed against his own physicality.

"Your hands, Mello...oh fuck, what did you do?"

You muttered weakly in dismay tracking the thick crimson rivulets still oozing a fresh spiderweb of intricate tributaries across the backs of his knuckles speckled with mottled contusions already purpling the surrounding tissue.

The subterranean baritone emitting from his larynx rumbled seismic-grade frequencies rattling directly through your core nearly causing you to crumble under the inexorable gravitas.

"I've done nothing to deserve the time wasted worrying over anything so insignificant."

His lethally contemptuous rasp corroded any remaining self-composure away into atomic vapor particles along with the last vestiges restraining your own deep-rooted instincts.

Pupils blown wide you immediately closed the proximity chasm separating you both without conscious navigation permitting your impulses to seize the controls untethered from rational faculties.

"Insignificant to you maybe...but not to me. I'm not just going to stand back and watch you self-destruct whenever another inner demon you can't contain possesses you into violence."

You snapped with startling vehemence, already retrieving the medkit lashed around your shin before unzipping the storage pouches scouring for the necessary disinfectant swabs and gauzes.

Remaining hyperfocused through the flickering peripherals tracking his imperious silhouette rigid like a statuesque pillar appraising your sudden shift into unfamiliar dominance with an unspoken curiosity even amidst this latest eruption's chaotic maelstrom still encircling you both within its shadowy epicenter.

Despite the constant looming threat of triggering another powder keg detonation you refused to shrink under that oppressive umbra's scrutiny practically seething the contemptuous disregard for anything resembling self-preservation.

Instead doubling down upon stabilizing Mello's talons into your grasp before methodically dabbing their lacerations with the sterilizing solution triggering that sharp intake of breath fracturing the stiff facade momentarily.

"Why the fuck do you even care at all?"

He growled through gritted dentals straining under the sting's potent stinging allowing you to complete the field dressings against his other hand now.

"None of you mewling curs grasps the full stakes or reasons driving this crusade in the first place!"

You instantly halted meeting his pyroclastic glare directly without flinching away from the radioactive fury threatening to incinerate you at any second like damned souls tempting Hellfire's roiling oblivion up close.

A series of rapid blinks sluggishly tamped down the rising embers threatening to reignite your own internal inferno awakening from slumber at last after Mello's latest incendiary provocation...

"You're right - I don't understand whatever personal retribution possesses you into pushing everything toward these explosive breaking. But it’s maybe because I just don’t want to know.”

The shrouded lair's stifling ambience thickened into a dense miasma permeating every exposed surface while you instinctively held Mello's seething glare locked within your own.

Two disparate yet intrinsically carved souls simultaneously drinking deep from the other's darkest wellsprings momentarily exposed amidst this latest eruption.

Tension crackled against every ion reverberating between you both amplifying exponentially with each passing nanosecond.

Until eventually your defiant breaths steadied enough to puncture the loaded silence catalyzing Mello to finally break first.

"You really don't fear pushing any of my buttons at all, do you?"

He sneered in that distinctive raspy baritone simultaneously fascinating and petrifying in its lethality.

"Even knowing full well the kinds of primal savagery I'm capable of unleashing without hesitation."

His defined jaw clenched fractionally tighter enhancing each subsequent word's razor-edged enunciation slicing through the densely charged atmosphere.

"Yet here you remain unflinching while the rest scurry like cockroaches instead of honoring the reasons behind what fuels my relentless pursuit for justice against a world crumbling under its own corruption and depravity."

You imperceptibly gulped forcing down the electrified pulses igniting across your dermis from the scorching intensities radiating off Mello's magnificent towering specimen in such perilously close proximity now.

Still you refused ceding even an iota of faltering resolution keeping your vocals modulated towards an evenness defying the inferno singeing away the last vestiges of self-restraint.

"I don't understand whatever haunts the darkest recesses of your psyche propelling these obsessions to attain vindication at all costs."

You stated softly while unconsciously caressing the fresh dressings swaddling his pulverized hands stained with the evidence.

His piercing emerald orbs ignited brighter than any starburst you'd ever witnessed coring straight through into your essence's deepest marrow while both bodies slanted imperceptibly closer again.

Magnetically drawn into reigniting these raging pulsations coursing between your polarized charged fields once more.

"However I do comprehend the pain lying behind those cathartic outbursts all too intimately after enduring my own similar methods failing to purge those internal demons from my core."

You inhaled sharply maintaining eye contact while Mello's incendiary glower bored deeper dissecting each syllable.

"Recklessly lashing out against whatever targets are convenient for unleashing the full force of those turbulent tempests doesn't eliminate the hurt fueling them. It only propels perpetuating darker cycles consuming everything and everyone still possessed by those untamed torments."

The faintest flicker danced across his irises momentarily fracturing the obsidian mask's density with something unreadable yet distinctly...human?

Resonating against your own vulnerabilities before Mello regained that facade siphoning the potency back under ironclad subjugation immediately.

His nostrils flared fractionally while slowly rearing up until the imposing frame radiated down at you like an indomitable fortress's ramparts eclipsing everything else into insignificance by comparison.

That penetrating smolder remained affixed scorching away layer-by-layer until both essences bled together again forged solely through the primal fire's merciless crucible alone...

"You really don't fear me at all, do you....?"

The raspy whisper materialized directly against your ear's sensitized shell detonating shockwaves rattling every gaslit ganglion again.

Mello's muscular silhouette blotted away any remaining light bleeding through the chamber's partitions until just that singular immense corona remained glowing behind your retinae now.

Lording over everything with an intensity seizing away all self-possession spiraling your descent into purely instinctual compulsions alone surrendering to the unyielding gravitic force drawing you both closer...closer...until...

The scalding friction of his rough fingertips impacted your jaw trembling through the delicate musculature leaving smoldering trails in their wake while your irises rolled back overwhelmed by such potent sensory overload.

They traced upwards towards those angular crimson-kissed contours lingering within the crest before his forehead crashed against yours sending fractal sunbursts detonating outward against the rapidly contracting peripherals.

"You are the only one who doesn't run away petrified whenever I tear off the final mask restraining my most primal nature..."

He snarled under scorched breath dripping directly between your rapidly shallowing gasps.

"Instead you challenge the beast by refusing to submit or break no matter how intensely I provoke you towards unleashing your own inner demons in turn. Perhaps that is the real justice we both ultimately crave most of all..."

You bit your lips, eyebrows furrowing slightly at the sudden proximity of your bodies. Then, something snapped in him, realizing he let his emotions shown. Again.

First anger then, God he didn’t even know why, with you vulnerability.

He simply inhaled sharply, before storming out of his private room. Leaving you alone, your mind racing with questions you knew you will never have the answers.

[armoredisopod]

Arknights Thank You Celebration 2024 PVs

New Operators

Figurino, 5* Merchant Specialist

I have a lot to learn, and right now, i'd like to start by making a new suit.

Crownslayer, 6* Welfare Executor Specialist

"Crownslayer", that's the name we're familiar with, let's keep it.

Vulpisfoglia, 6* Pioneer Vanguard

I appreciate the acknowledgement. But you know this means in the future the people who are hunting me for bounty will come to Rhodes Island first. Will that be fine?

Lappland the Decadenza, 6* Limited Mech-Accord Caster

Is this your way of trying to get me to settle down, or do you also think this game needs more excitement...

I just can't guess you, no wonder i like your trust in me!

2 new operators to the voucher shop

Contrail, 4* 巡空者 (Air Patrol) Specialist

Philae, 5* 本源铁卫 (Primal Protector) Defender

Operator Outfits Update

Total of 6 new outfits, 2 new additions for the Cambrian brand, 1 new addition for the Epoque brand, 2 new additions for the Test Collection brand and 1 new addition for the 0011/Tempest brand

Cambrian

At the Warm Velvet Corner - Warmy

Travel Freely - Sussurro (Login Event)

Epoque

Il Segreto Della Notte - Texas the Omertosa (21 OP)

Test Collection

Allmind As One - Executor the Ex Foedere (24 OP)

The city lights up. I can sense everyone's presence, and everyone's absence. We are together——— as one "Laterano".

Diversity Oneness - Virtuosa (24 OP)

Please stay, Sankta. Please tell me, is the Laterano of now a place that is connected to the rest of the land?

0011/Tempest

Ignis Fatuus - Lessing

Lessing's outfit will be up for sale during Zwillingstürme im Herbst Retrospect

Announced outfit reruns

Young Branch - Muelsyse

Red Countess - Skadi the Corrupting Heart

Operator Modules Update

All the new operators (except the red cert shop ops) being part of branches with modules immediately get their modules

FUN-X module base effect increases the starting damage of Lappland the Decadenza's drones to 35% of her ATK

SOL-X module base effect gives Vulpisfoglia +8% ATK and DEF when blocking

EXE-X module base effect makes it so retreating Crownslayer refunds 80% of her current DP Cost

MER-X module base effect reduces the DP drained by Figurino's trait effect

Ritualist Supporter branch gets 1 module type

Lessing gets his second module

DRE-Y module base effect allows Lessing to survive a single fatal blow, healing back to full and gaining +30 ASPD at the cost of -60% Max HP, this effect only activates once per deployment

Angelina and Rosmontis get Integrated Strategies specialized modules

These modules' effects are unknown at the time of writing

Events and Stories

I Portatori Dei Velluti, a Siracusa side story event

Put on your masks and dresses, the show is about to begin in the streets.

Come on, don't be boring - you're probably the least "Carnival" of the bunch!

Stronghold Protocol, limited time autobattler gamemode, opens during the third week of I Portatori Dei Velluti

Zwillingstürme im Herbst Retrospect, scheduled after I Portatori Dei Velluti

Operator Archives update for Lessing, Jieyun, Schwarz, Sora, Totter and Vigil

Misc Stuff

New QoL changes

Added the ability to have preset base loadouts that you can easily swap between

Added the ability to instantly send every exhausted operator into dormitories with one button

Max Sanity cap increased by +45

Refilling sanity using Originite Prime will refill 135 sanity regardless of level/max cap

Added the ability to instantly move to required lower materials when crafting and a button to move back the higher tier material that required it

Mountain, Kafka and Pinecone added to recruitment

Bagpipe's [Queen, No.1] outfit will be available in the certs shop to players that don't have it

Livestream Stuff

Showcased Lappland the Decadenza, a hyper offensive 6* Mech-Accord Caster with potent self buffs and powerful debuffs

First talent makes her stronger the longer she stays on the field, getting the following buffs in order: increased drone damage cap, ability to inflict Silence, gains more drones

Second talent increases the initial SP of all [Siracusa] operators when she's in the squad

Skill 1 has a passive effect that immediately gives her an additional drone, when the skill activates she gains ATK, releases her drones to attack enemies and her drones will attack idling enemies anywhere on the field

Skill 2 expands her attack range, increases her ATK, gives her more drones and releases her drones to attack enemies randomly within range, her drones have a chance to inflict Panic

Skill 3 increases her ATK and gives her more drones, then releases special drones that actively seek out and hunt enemies, the special drones inflict Panic upon reaching a target and locks onto them; enemies near the drones will have decreased movement speed and take Arts damage every second

Showcased Vulpisfoglia, a 6* Pioneer Vanguard with a strong battlefield presence

First talent makes her attacks deal additional Arts damage for a few seconds after the first time hitting them

Second talent increases the natural DP regeneration by a small amount and lets her recover HP when she hasn't taken damage for a few seconds

Skill 1 is a power strike skill that makes her next attack deal Arts damage and generate some DP, this skill can store charges

Skill 2 lets her immediately deal Arts damage in an area in front of her, Slows the hit enemies and generates some DP. If the enemies were already under the effects of Slow they will be Stunned instead, this skill can store charges

Skill 3 immediately generates DP, expands her attack range, increases her ATK, gives a massive decaying ASPD boost, allows her to attack enemies equal to block count and each attack briefly Stuns the hit enemies. If she defeats any enemy during the skill she will gain Camouflage at the end of the skill that lasts until the next skill activation

Showcased Crownslayer, a 6* Executor Specialist with a unique disruptive kit

First talent sprays a smokescreen on the 8 surrounding tiles around her during skill duration, reducing the Physical and Arts Hit Rate of ground enemies in those tiles

Second talent lets her deal increased Physical damage to enemies that have not landed a hit on her

Skill 1 gives her increased ATK and some amount of Physical and Arts Dodge

Skill 2 stops her from attacking upon deployment, makes her less likely to be attacked and increases the amount of Physical and Arts Hit Rate the smokescreen decreases, when skill ends she will deal a certain % of ATK as Physical damage to all enemies within range

Skill 3 increases her first talent range, gives her Invisibility and sets her Block Count to 0, every few seconds she will appear to attack an enemy within the talent range dealing a certain % of ATK as Physical damage and Stunning them for a few seconds

Showcased the event mechanic, a fireworks machine that will apply effects on a number of tiles around it when activated

While the machine is active, operators on those tiles will take periodic damage and cannot be healed but will not have their HP go below 1, enemies on those tiles will take constant damage

Players can additionally customize which tiles will be affected by the fireworks machine and have it apply additional bonus effects in the event menu

Showcased Contrail, an experimental 4* of a neat new branch 巡空者 (Air Patrol), a Specialist branch that consists of operators that have 2 Block Count and utilizes the new status "Takeoff"

Takeoff: Does not block ground enemies and will not be attacked by ground enemies, can block aerial enemies

S1 makes her takeoff immediately upon deployment, expands her attack range, increases her ATK and gives her some Physical Dodge

S2 makes her takeoff when activated, expands her attack range, increases her ATK, lets her attack 2 targets at once and is able to attack an additional aerial enemy and her attacks inflict Slow to aerial enemies

Showed footage of the new base loadouts feature

Work rooms and Dormitories are now in separate tabs

You can set up to 3 loadouts for each individual room and press a button to immediately swap out exhausted operators, there is also a button to immediately do this in every room all at once

Showed the button that immediately sends all exhausted operators into the dorms

Teased even more base QoL features planned for the next Sui sibling event update

Expanded the Reception Room and added the ability to decorate it

Added activity rooms, operators assigned to this room can be manually controlled and move around the base

Announced the ability to register your birthday, players will receive gift furniture on their set birthday and operators have special birthday voicelines

Announced the ability to have a list of rotating assistant operators that change every day

Announced the ability to make loadouts for the main menu background/UI theme/assistant operators for quick switching

SSS will get a skip feature, uses the same PRTS Proxy Cards used for annihilation skip

The older SSS maps will become playable again

Stronghold Protocol, limited time autobattler gamemode

In the gamemode the player will have to prepare their squad and operators before each battle, the player can hire additional operators and have multiple copies of them deployed or combined into a higher tier of that operator

Players can hire reserve operators should they lack usable units and also hire up to 8 friend support operators

Teased the next event involving Thorns and the history of alchemy in Iberia

Announced some kind of mini game collection "Poly Vision Museum"

Announced the second expansion update for IS#5

A 5th ending exploring the story of an alternate universe Amiya

The ability to share seeds of runs you completed to other players, completing a seeded run will not unlock higher difficulty/new relics/etc

Max difficulty increased beyond 15

New starting squads

New collectibles and thoughts (IS5 gimmick items)

Teased Arknights anime season 3 [RISE FROM EMBER]

Announced U-Official mini series

Announced Ambience Synesthesia 2025: Best Song Award, the song lineup featured in the concert will be decided via community polling

INVESTIGATED TERRA lore video covering the history and development of Originium on Terra and the technology that sprouted from it narrated by Kal'tsit

[essektheylyss]

I think Orym is a fascinating character in a way that is often underappreciated, because he is fundamentally a soldier, he was trained as a soldier, and that's... not a bad thing? It has no moral indication, and certainly doesn't imply that Orym is going dark. In fact, in the current circumstances, Orym acting as a soldier is very important and may actually get them through this in one piece.

I do feel that this aspect of his character is frequently approached in the fandom as an afterthought or even swept under the rug, or flat out viewed as a flaw to be overcome (especially given the overall landscape of military conflict in the real world), but being a trained soldier is not inherently indicative of specific morality or ideology. I think it's a judgment that also gets levied against paladins, because, much like any organized forces in fantasy are equated with modern militaries, fantasy worship is equated with Christianity (sometimes in the guise of 'organized religion' with all of its problematic connotations). It's incredibly black and white, and it doesn't fundamentally make sense in much of Exandria, but in this case especially.

You cannot fundamentally map the Tempest Blades onto any real life military, because the task of the Tempest, and Ashari culture as a whole, is protection against both extraplanar threats and also the malicious or misguided intentions of those on the Material Plane trying to fuck with the elemental planes. This is distinctly different even in universe from, for instance, Caleb, who was trained as an assassin in the name of nationalism, or Yasha, who was trained to be a leader in the name of tribalism.

And these two threats that the Ashari are tasked with resisting are both frequent, credible, and existential! Failing at this task is liable to have major sweeping repercussions for the rest of Exandria! It is highly probable that a soldier with Orym's training is expected to need to make incredibly difficult decisions in defense of the common good at more than one point in their life—decisions that would make every person who laughs at the premise of the trolley problem shit their pants.

And crucially, Orym wants his friends to get out of this. He has in fact already promised his entire life to ensure that they do, because he also fundamentally needs them to be able to do what they came for, without hesitation, because the singular mandate that he has devoted himself to is protecting the Material Realm from extraplanar threats, and regardless of the fact that the rest of them do not have the same training, that is also the task that the Hells have chosen.

If Nana Morri can get the Hells out in one piece, regardless of what choices they make, then their personal risk doesn't matter. I imagine that Orym isn't going to tell them that, because given the scope of the threat, there's not necessarily a guarantee that Morri can make that happen, so the rest of the Hells have to make the choice themselves to take the risk and trust that the others have their backs. And in the end, if Orym has to live with that no matter which way fate plays out, he will. He's already had plenty of practice.

They're at war, and that's how soldiers operate. Because when they're behind enemy lines, it's the only way missions get completed and they have a chance of making it back alive.

[inezisa]

Tempest the bat! The oldest sibling of my knuxouge kids :)

Some details about him below:

Background: Tempest is the eldest child of Knuckles and Rouge. While his siblings, Garnet and Onyx, embraced their roots atop Angel Island, Tempest drifted toward the sky and never came back down. He chose the mainland, where city lights drowned out ancient shrines. By day, he performs under dimmed spotlights in neon lounges, known for a voice that sounds smooth as silk. But by night, he disappears into shadow, a ghost in the dark alongside Nova, the only other soul who seems to understand what it means to be half of something and never whole. Nova and Tempest met when they were young adults, during a classified operation under G.U.N.'s radar. Nova was quiet and coiled like a trap, and Tempest, cocky and silver-tongued, should have annoyed her. But he didn’t. Something about their dynamic made them really connect. Over time, they became a duo of myth, Team Umbra's necessary shadows, cleaning up what the heroes couldn’t afford to stain their hands with.

Personality: Tempest is a free-spirited contradiction, flashy but withdrawn, smooth-talking yet difficult to pin down. Through outwardly charm, Tempest can be reckless, especially when the job gets personal. He masks his guilt with humor and his fear with fire, always searching for something shiny enough to distract him from what he lacks.

Aspects: - Hybrid Instincts: Though built like a bat, Tempest fights like an echidna. He’s fast, slippery, and knows when to duck, but when he lands a punch, it leaves a crater. His technique blends his mother’s agility with the force of his father’s lineage, though he rarely admits the latter. - He's an underground singer and enjoys his job. - Tempest is a mamma's boy at heart. She taught him the thrill of the heist, and how to survive in a world that doesn't know what to make of him. - Tempest has a fascination of shiny things.  - He has a fraying relationship with his father. Although Knuckles loves him dearly, they don't see eye to eye. Tempest would rather live his life not involved in Echidna culture, where Knuckles argue its his duty to keep alive the duty of an echidna warrior.

@sonic-fankid-showdown