#Seamless LED Wall

[shivam-video]

Immersive Viewing Experience through Our LFD WALLS – At Few of Our Recent Events

An LFD is typically a display product that has been built specifically for professional environments to deliver content to a wide audience, such as digital signage. This is distinguished from small format displays such as desktop monitors that are used for personal interaction.

Important features and specifications to consider in LFD Wall :

Size : The size chosen should be correct for the application and environment, taking into consideration factors such as viewing distance and readability as well as overall visual impact.

Resolution : Contributing to the overall image quality, generally the higher the resolution the better, although the native resolution of source content also needs to be considered. Higher resolution means greater detail and an improved viewing experience and is sometimes a requirement such as with medical imaging.

Brightness : The brightness of the display is increased to overcome higher levels of ambient light, however there is a trade-off between brightness, contrast and color reproduction which is important when considering brand image. The market for higher brightness displays has increased recently as advertisers attempt to attract customers from outdoor spaces such as the High Street. This allows retailers and advertisers to replace print with digital posters and make the most of their real estate; something not possible with cost effective alternatives such as projection.

Color : There is a natural trade-off between brightness, contrast and color reproduction. As brightness increases it becomes more difficult to resolve detail in darker content and vibrant colors may wash out, becoming whiter. It’s important to note if the main function of a display is to overcome daylight conditions then being able to read images is usually more important than achieving exact color reproduction. Improvements in LED backlight technology are however dramatically reducing the trade-off so that quality in all environments can be maintained. These improvements also allow HDR standards to be implemented across the panel, so detail can be maintained in dark areas.

Connectivity : Connectivity allows devices such as laptops and video conferencing systems to interface with the display, so should be considered for both new builds and when retrofitting into a legacy environment. Rich connectivity will accommodate a range of sources and provide the ability to utilize a modern LFD even in environments that may be using an existing infrastructure.

What’s the best way to allow viewers to interact with an LFD?

Users can interact remotely with an LFD using IP asset management software. Screen mirroring also allows for peer to peer connectivity with compatible phones, tablets and laptops such as Windows 10 devices.

Touch functionality offers an additional hardware layer, allowing users to directly interact with the display through touch or a stylus device. Technologies include Infrared which is cost effective, Projective capacitive which is suitable for retail environments and In-Glass IR for natural handwriting. Touch enabled software can be pre-installed using embedded technology such as interactive whiteboard software or using a separate PC with touch interface.

Know More About :-

1. Creative Edge LED Cubes for Events and Exhibitions

2. More than 17+ Booths at Auto Expo 2023 by SHIVAM VIDEO

[multific]

Between Trust and Betrayal

Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: When Simon Riley uncovers your hidden motives while working with Task Force 141, his trust in you shatters.

Your steps echo down the corridor of the safe house. 

You entered the room with coffee in your hand. 

The makeshift server hummed beside you, the glow of the monitors casting shadows on the walls. 

You had just cracked a crucial file for Task Force 141, but the tension in the air was noticeable. 

Simon Riley, or Ghost, as everyone called him, was watching you.

“You’ve got fast fingers,” he muttered, leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed. 

His mask didn’t soften his piercing gaze.

“Years of practice,” you replied, trying to focus on the screen.

But you could feel it. 

His distrust. 

Simon was a man who valued loyalty above all else, and you were hiding something he couldn’t put his finger on.

It wasn’t until two weeks later, during a mission in Prague, that everything fell apart.

The objective had been simple: infiltrate a high-security building and extract intel. 

But when Simon reviewed the files you recovered, his voice cut through the comms like a blade.

“Where the hell did you get this?”

The pressure in his tone froze you. “From the server, like we planned.”

“This isn’t their data, it’s mine,” Simon growled. “You’ve been digging through my past.”

Back at the safe house, Simon cornered you in the briefing room. 

His mask was off, revealing a hardened expression that left no room for escape.

“Start talking,” he demanded.

Your throat tightened. “It’s not what you think.”

“Then enlighten me.” His voice was low, dangerous.

“I was looking for someone,” you admitted. “Someone who hurt my family years ago. The trail led me to your file.”

Simon’s jaw clenched. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I didn’t think I could.” You met his eyes, your voice faltering. “You wouldn’t have let me stay.”

"Stay away from me." he said before turning and leaving you.

For the next few days, Simon barely spoke to you, his cold demeanour like a wall. 

But when the enemy you’d both been chasing launched a surprise attack, Simon’s instinct to protect you overrode his anger.

Pinned down in a firefight, the two of you found yourselves relying on each other again. 

As bullets flew, Simon barked orders, his voice steady.

“Stay close!” he shouted, shielding you as you made a dash for cover.

When the dust settled, you were both shaken but alive. It was Simon who helped you to your feet, his grip firm.

“We’re not done talking,” he said quietly.

Later that night, in the quiet of the safe house, Simon finally asked the question that had been eating at him.

“Why didn’t you trust me?”

You hesitated. “Because I didn’t think you’d believe me. I thought I’d lose this chance, to help, to make things right.”

He studied you for a long moment, then sighed. “You should’ve told me. But…” His voice softened. “I get it.”

You blinked, surprised. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “We’ve all got ghosts.”

The corner of his mouth twitched in the faintest of smiles, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Was that a joke?”

“Don’t push it,” he replied, but his tone was lighter now.

When the final mission came, the two of you worked like a seamless unit. Simon’s trust in you was cautious but growing. 

By the time the enemy was neutralized and your past laid to rest, Simon’s hand lingered on your shoulder.

“Good work,” he said, his voice low.

“Thanks to you,” you replied.

His gaze softened. “Don’t screw this up again.”

It wasn’t a declaration, but it was enough, a truce, a step forward. 

And as Simon walked beside you into the aftermath, the bond between you felt stronger than ever.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[masterwolftfs]

THE ATTIC CLEAR OUT: THE BEAR PELT

"Old unwanted bear pelt. Good condition. Contact for details." The ad had been sitting on his saved browser tabs for days before @thisdamnedwierdinternet finally caved and sent a message. He’d been planning a Viking cosplay for an upcoming convention—something rugged, primal, powerful - and the idea of draping himself in a real bear pelt instead of some cheap faux fur had his pulse quickening. The response came almost immediately: "Come by tonight and it’s yours." The address led him to a weathered cabin on the outskirts of town, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. An old man with a grizzled beard and knowing eyes handed him the pelt without a word. The moment his fingers brushed the thick, coarse fur, a shiver ran up his spine. It was warm, soft, and the golden-brown hide was heavy in his arms. "Wear it well," the owner had murmured, before shutting the door.

The whole drive home, he couldn't help but keep thinking about the pelt, finding himself so eager to try it on. It only made sense then, that upon getting back home, he immediately ran to his room, spreading the pelt over his bed and running his hands across it. The fur was dense, strands thick and soft yet slightly coarse, and irresistibly touchable. The sensation of the skin on his hands rubbing against it was incredible, and he could already picture and feel it draped on his shoulders, the ultimate finish to his Viking warrior look. As if mad with anticipation to wear it, he stripped down to his boxers, the cool temperature of his room cauisng goosebumps to ripple across his skin, before lifting the pelt and settling it over his shoulders. The weight was perfect, grounding even. It made him feel stronger, like some mantle of primal strength. He shifted, the pelt's warmth seeping into his skin, the sensation causing him to tingle and itch slightly. At first, the feeling was just a faint prickle between his shoulder blades, uncomfortable like static electricity. But it soon slowly spread, a creeping heat sinking into his muscles, an uncomfortable sensation not unlike pins and needles. He instinctively flexed, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. Had his shoulders... always been this broad? His reflection in the mirror against his wall caught his eye, making him freeze.

His frame was wider, or at least, the top half was. He looked bulky under the pelt, his chest clearly wider than before, looking almost comical compared to his still regularly sized lower half. His pecs were defined, a shelf jutting out above his gut. A gasp escaped him as the tingling wrapped around his sides into his core, causing his gut to solidify into a solid set of abs, defined and rock hard. "The fuck-" His voice was deeper, rougher. As he heard it, his head spun slightly, as if the sound of his own voice was doing something to his brain. Hadn't he always had a voice this deep? No, surely not, he'd remember it... right? But he did remember it, didn't he? His voice being deeper than everyone else's since high school, puberty hitting him early and causing that deep, gruff tone to be his main defining feature throughout his high school and college years. Well, that and his bulk of course.

The pelt almost pulsed against his skin, feeling like an extension of himself. It's furs seemed to wriggle into his pores, forcefully injecting him with testosterone, masculine energy, and... his hair was growing? A golden-brown carpet was spreading across his chest, looking almost seamless with the pelt against his bare flesh. It was thick, coarse, spreading in waves across his body, undulating outwards from where the pelt touched his skin. His arms darkened with the same dense pelt of fur, as they pulsed, and flexed, growing into two cannons of pure muscle. Heh, he thought. That's what you get for working out daily. Working out? He didn't go to the gym? Nah, he didn't. He lifted AXES and SWORDS and ARMOUR, like a REAL WARRIOR. The words echoed in his brain, in that same deep gruff voice he'd always had. Each one sent a shiver through him, the words cementing themself into reality, making sure they made themselves known to be fact.

His waist widened, his pelvis growing with raw power, his cock growing, pulsing, pleasure coursing through his body. It wracked his brain with even more waves of energy, thoughts, sensations, memories. His legs surged with power, becoming tree trunks of pure muscle. Perfect for carrying a true warriors weight, he thought. His feet surged, easily doubling in size to support the new pillars his legs has become. What was happening to him? He couldn't tell anymore. His jaw squared, stubble quickly growing out into an impressive manly beard (only REAL men have beards after all, he thought), and his face sharpening and growing more rugged and weathered. His hair itched, his hair thickening, worthy of a cheiftain like him. A cheiftain, he thought? But the title seemed right, as if his. He scowled, confused as contradicting memories and thoughts battled for control. Ultimately, the warrior would win, it was more worthy after all, especially with the pelt still injecting that addicting power straight into him, supercharging this new identity.

He gasped, his body thrumming with raw, endless power. He flexed, feeling his new strength, his stance instinctively shifting into something more dominant, predatory. His scent filled the air, earthy, musky, intoxicating. It smelt of home, of nights spent drinking horns of mead, hours of sparring with his men on the battlefield, of proving time and time again why he was the one in charge, the chief. His hand instinctively groped his cock, taking little stimulation to coax out a load, his cum splattering the mirror before him. It was a shame to waste his superior Viking seed on mere pleasure, but he deserved it after all, being the Chief was hard work. He flexed again, feeling the new personality completely devour the old, his new identity taking over forevermore. The pelt on his shoulders shifted, puppeting his movements, controlling him. It was him, and he was it. Forever.

[heliosunny]

Hello! Would you write for fyodor with a reader that is a princess or just royal and they both start falling for each other yet it is forbidden but that doesn’t stop them from sneaking around. And of course fyodor has a plan to keep her all to himself.

Yandere!Fyodor x Princess!Reader

The first time you met Fyodor Dostoevsky, he was merely a poet, an enigmatic figure cloaked in shadow and silver-tongued words, whispering verses of longing and loss beneath the ancient arches of the palace gardens

You had been drawn to him as if he were a figure plucked from one of the tragic romances you so adored, his ink-stained fingers clutching crumpled parchment, his violet eyes gleaming with unspoken wisdom. He was not like the noblemen who sought your hand with empty flattery and golden promises. Fyodor's words were spun from something richer, something darker. And despite every warning, you found yourself sneaking away from the gilded halls of your royal lineage to meet him again and again.

He was no noble, merely a wandering poet, at least, that was what you had been led to believe. But love, reckless and blind, cares little for consequences.

You and Fyodor had dreamed of escape. On moonlit nights, he would hold your hands between his own, pressing urgent kisses to your knuckles as he whispered of lands beyond the palace walls, places where titles held no weight and love could be free.

"One day," he had promised, "we will leave all of this behind. Just you and me, my love."

But your family had learned of your secret affair before you could run. They locked you away, confining you to the highest tower, where no letters could reach you and no visitors were allowed. You had screamed, pleaded, cursed them for taking away the one thing that had ever felt real. Yet, no one came to your aid.

Days passed in solitude, and despair crept in like ivy, curling around your lungs, suffocating you. You had begun to believe that Fyodor would never reach you, that perhaps he had already abandoned your foolish dream of escape.

And then, one night, he found you.

A shadow at your window, a whisper against the silence. You had barely registered the sound before the locks to your door clicked open as if by magic. And there he was, standing in the dim candlelight, violet eyes alight with quiet triumph.

"How—?" your voice was hoarse from disuse, from grief.

He merely smiled, pressing a finger to your lips. "Did you think any wall, any door, any force in this world could keep me from you?"

He held out his hand, and you took it without hesitation.

The escape was seamless. No guards to stop you, no cries of alarm. It was as though the palace itself had conspired with him, bending to his will. When you finally stepped past the gates, you turned to Fyodor, breathless, your heart thundering with exhilaration.

"How did you do it?"

His hand tightened around yours. "A strategist never reveals all his secrets, my love."

Still, beneath the euphoria of freedom , something gnawed at you. The eerie ease of it all. The absence of pursuit. And the way Fyodor had smiled, knowing and patient, as if he had seen this moment long before it ever happened.

But love is blind, and you chose not to see.

Yet, beneath the poetry, beneath the gentle brush of his lips against yours, there lurked something else. Something unnerving.

The first time you sensed it was the night you asked him about his past.

"A poet does not dwell in the past, my love" he murmured, fingers grazing your wrist with delicate precision. "Only in the present, in the fleeting beauty of the now."

You frowned, searching his face for something, anything—that hinted at honesty. "But surely, Fyodor, everyone has a past. Where were you before you came to the capital?"

A slow smile curled his lips. "Do you not think it more romantic to imagine? Perhaps I was once a prince of a fallen kingdom, or a soldier who abandoned war for poetry. Would you love me more if I told you I was tragic?"

You laughed softly, but the unease remained. His answer was playful, but it was not an answer.

Over time, the unsettling moments grew.

One evening, you were discussing an upcoming royal engagement that had been arranged for you. "The Duke of Volkov is an honorable man," you said, more to convince yourself than anyone else. "Perhaps he will make a good husband..."

Fyodor leaned closer, his fingertips brushing your chin as he tilted your face toward his. "Do you truly believe that, my love?" His voice was quiet, but there was an edge beneath the softness. "Or is that what they have told you to believe?"

You hesitated, and he seized the moment.

"A gilded cage is still a cage," he whispered. "And I would rather see you free."

The next morning, you awoke to hushed whispers and frantic servants. The Duke of Volkov had mysteriously vanished. His carriage had been found overturned near the river, but his body was never recovered. When you told Fyodor of the news, his only response was a knowing smile and a lingering touch to your wrist.

"Fortune favors the bold, my love. Perhaps fate has made its decision."

Another time, you arrived at your secret meeting place to find him waiting, despite the fact that you had told no one of your plans. "How did you know I would be here?" you asked, wary.

He chuckled, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. "A poet understands his muse better than she understands herself."

Still, you ignored the chill creeping into your spine. You ignored the way he knew things he shouldn't, the way he would disappear for days only to return with veiled reassurances. You ignored it because love is foolish, and in the depths of your naivety, you had convinced yourself that you were still in control.

Until the day you were locked away. Again. For attempting to escape with that very same poet.

Your family had confined you to your chambers, guards posted outside, ensuring you would not escape. Days passed in suffocating silence. Yet, even within your gilded prison, he found a way to reach you. Unlike before.

One evening, as you sat by the window, a small velvet pouch was slipped through the bars. Inside, nestled within folds of dark silk, was a single note written in his elegant script: Patience, my love. Even the strongest locks can be broken. Alongside it, a small silver key, a promise.

And then, just like the promise, he came for you.

You awoke to the sound of the lock clicking open, and there he stood, a shadow against the moonlight, violet eyes gleaming with triumph. "Come, my love" he whispered, extending his hand. "It is time."

You hesitated for only a moment before grasping it. Yes, you hesitated.

As he led you through the darkened corridors, his grip firm yet gentle, you realized that this, this was real. Not poetry, not illusion, but love made tangible by action, by the lengths he had gone to free you. And when he pulled you into a stolen embrace beneath the night sky, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, you felt your heart yield entirely.

"I told you," he murmured against your skin, his voice filled with longing. "You were never meant to be theirs. You belong to me."

You clung to him, both in fear and in love, knowing that whatever lay ahead, there was no turning back.

Until the day you tried to leave him. He held too many secrets from you. You can't love such man.

You had made your decision in the dead of night, slipping past your guards and donning a commoner’s cloak. The plan was simple: flee the palace, seek sanctuary in a neighboring kingdom, and forget the man who had made your heart race with both love and fear.

But as you reached the gates, a familiar voice halted you in your tracks.

"Going somewhere, princess?"

Your breath caught. Fyodor stood there, his violet eyes dark with something unreadable, his frame shrouded in the moonlight.

"Fyodor... I-"

"Shh." He took a step forward, and despite your instincts screaming at you to run, you remained frozen. "Did you truly believe I would let you go so easily?"

He reached for you, and though you flinched, he only took your trembling hands in his own. His grip was firm, unyielding.

"You don't understand," you whispered. "This isn't right. I need to be free."

"Free?" His smile was indulgent, but there was no humor in it. "My dear, you were never free. The moment you chose me, you chose this."

You were always the prey. His prey.

[inkedtae]

the underground ⇾ bgc. [M] | PART II

⎡ In a city fuelled by greed and ambition, secrets are a currency. Yet here you are, gambling yours away on a captivating smile.⎤

⬅︎ PART I

⌁ pairing; boxer!chan x curvy!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; boxing au, s2l, angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 14.6k

⌁ summary; You’re just a runner. So why the hell are you straddling the lap of an undefeated boxer, massaging his chest and whispering secrets you have no right knowing? Oh, yeah— ‘cause he’s hot.

⌁ warnings; dark themes: mentions and depictions of graphic gang activity, abduction, possession and distribution of drugs, addictions, use of deadly weapons, violence, blood, gore, and death threats, explicit sex: dom!chan, sub!reader, daddy kink, size kink, multiple orgasms, ruined orgasm, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, overstimulation, degradation, dirty talk, handjob, thigh riding, spanking, face slapping (m. receiving), rimming, fingering, edging, manhandling, gun play, anal play, cum play, spit play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

❥ prefer ao3? keep reading here

❥ i want to give special thanks to jen ( @anobodyslove ) for being so patient with me and reading this monster of a fic over! 💕 and @awrkives for the most amazing banner! 💗

❥ this is a continuation of the original post as the overall word count exceeds the character limit on tumblr posts. this is not an official part 2, but rather the second half of the one shot.

!! the following story contains mature themes, including mentions and graphic depictions of racketeering, gang activity, weapons, drugs, violence, blood, gore, and death threats. please do not read nor interact if these themes cause you discomfort !!

Your vision blurs, head spins. Movements slow, you sit yourself up. The zip-ties, previously binding your wrists and ankles, have been removed. So have your platform ankle boots, fish-netted feet brushing against the fur of your coat. Willing your sight back, you screw your eyes tight, blinking until your vision finally clears to take in the room.

A masterpiece of modern elegance, the room is a blend of minimalist design that indulges comfort. It is expansive, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows to offer a panoramic view of the Crimson Heights skyline below. You shuffle yourself off the comfortable bed, eager to get a closer look. The red lights of the city twinkle back at you and cast a soft, ambient glow throughout the space. You’ve never seen the city from such a height, swallowing thickly.

In the reflection of the glass, beyond your haphazard image of dried tears and ruined lipstick, the bed you have only just climbed out of summons your attention.

Draped in the finest linens with a dark charcoal-grey duvet and plush pillows arranged neatly, it must be king-sized in order to fit  the extensive space of the room. The headboard is a stunning work of art in itself—made of dark walnut wood, with soft leather inlays that give the room a sleek, masculine impression. The bed sits on a low, streamlined platform, reinforcing the room's minimal yet luxurious aesthetic. And, on either side of the bed, are matching nightstands, both topped with geometric lamps that are made of brushed steel and frosted glass.

Your eyes fall to the polished, dark hardwood floors. A rich, handwoven wool rug in deep, muted tones lays over it, warming the room and offering texture underfoot. You catch the gleam of the recessed lighting overhead, installed in the high, coffered ceilings. You lift your gaze and take in each panel. An awed sigh leaves you at the sight of the meticulously crafted slots, indirect LED lighting embedded into the coves to cast a sophisticated, layered illumination.

Against one wall stands a sprawling built-in wardrobe. The seamless doors are made from smoked glass and brushed steel accents. And, to the left of the bed, a small seating area invites relaxation, consisting of a sleek leather armchair and a low-profile marble coffee table. A few books rest upon it, alongside a single crystal whiskey tumbler, hinting at quiet, contemplative moments probably spent here.

You wander further around the room, spotting a door that leads to the master ensuite bathroom in the corner. It’s visible through frosted glass sliding doors. You debate on going in, curious to see what breathtaking architecture it will offer.

But then the walls captivate your attention, or rather the art that hangs from them. Large intricate pieces, each one probably chosen for its muted palette and contemporary feel, enhance the understated luxury that defines the room. The only splash of colour comes from a vase of white orchids resting on a sleek dresser, their delicate petals standing out against the otherwise neutral tones.

You resist reaching a hand out and tracing rigid lines of dried paint.

“I don’t give a shit,” you hear Chris growl on the other side of the black door.

You stiffen.

This is his room, you realise. The heart-wrenching events of the night return to you in a fast wave, flooding you with the same shame and anger that plagued you in the van.

As quietly as you can, you rush back to the bed for your coat and dig through the pockets for your switchblade. However, both are empty of your belongings, not even your lipstick remains. If you really are left without a weapon, you know what you must do.

Scooping up your coat and boots, you make your way to the door. It was one thing to be caught tangled in a bright dressing room with witnesses. It’s another to be cornered alone in his room. If he has a view of the city this marvellous, he must be tightly connected to within Stray Kids. You cannot, will not, subject yet another gang to your reckless behaviour. It will be best for everyone if you just leave. Besides, Vinny is probably worried sick about you, having witnessed you kidnapped.

“Call him,” Chris orders, his loud voice a bit clearer as you open the door. “Tell him she’s safe.”

You look up and down the long corridor. It is just as exquisite as the bedroom. Grey walls, remarkable artwork that looks to be of Korean origins. The hardwood floors extend beyond the room too, covered by a narrow carpet of lavish Persian design.

The left side leads to a number of rooms, one of which has the door wide open. Warm light seeps into the hallway with the natural grace of the sun, momentarily disrupted by shifting shadows. You don’t need to hear his voice again to know Chris is in there, the oversized silhouette of his frame confirmation enough.

You feel a grin involuntarily spreading on your lips.

“Good, you’re up,” a familiar voice says behind you.

Turning, you meet an unfamiliar face. Features nearly feline, the indigo haired man stands on the other end of the hall, compromising your path to the exit. He crosses his arms over his chest, dragging his gaze over your frame, attention lingering on the coat and boots clutched to your chest.

“And we were worried you’d try to run,” he jokes, though his face is void of friendly notions.

That stern dryness of his tone, sharpness of his voice triggers a memory.

“Shut up,” he had hissed before informing you that Vinny was alive.

“That’s what you do, right?” he asks. “You’re a runner.”

You narrow your gaze. “You say that like it’s some secret.”

He flashes a knowing smirk, as if well aware of your secrets. What is more astonishing, however, is the way that suggestive grin resembles Chris’s. It lacks his charisma and cynicism, and that flicker of darkness, dimming whatever light might have snuck through with indications of loss and trauma. So while the one before you is a good copy, it is not perfect. Those onyx eyes gleam of playful interest, twinkling with subtle notions of hostility instead.

You wonder if he learned it from—

Chris says your name.

The speed in which you turn to answer his call is downright disgraceful. Shame heats your chest, spreading up to your cheeks. Your instincts scream at you to avoid his gaze, to focus on anything other than that teasing smile he’s trying to bite back, but you find yourself helpless, unable to tear yourself away.

He must have showered, the smears of lipstick and splattered blood gone. His hair is pushed back, displaying his forehead. And his handsome face is on the way to recovery. Though his bruises still look tender, the cut on his brow is all clean and bandaged. Leaning against the doorframe, he wears a black shirt, that still emphasises the large muscles of his biceps, and a pair of matching sweats. You didn’t think it was possible for someone to look just as good clothed as they do half-naked.

“Come’ere,” he beckons before tonguing his cheek. The twinkle in his gaze is enough indication that he knows you’ve been checking him out.

I need to go, you know you should say.

Your body has a mind of its own though, diminishing your voice, shackling your sanity and nudging you towards him. Completely compelled by the pull of his charm, you obey, only stopping once you’re pressed against his buff chest again and cranking your neck back to maintain his enamoured gaze.

“Let me get these out of your way,” he smiles, voice a mere notch above a whisper.

No, thank you. I have to go.

His fingers brush yours, prickling goosebumps along your arms.

You release your tight grip. He hands your things to the man you met in the hallway. Barrier of your belongings removed, you fully lean into him.

Grin widening, Chris cups your cheek and rubs his thumb against your chin. “You know, I resent the fact that you think I’m dramatic,” he mumbles, inches away from your lips. “I just like making statements.”

“And what statement were you planning on making by abducting me?”

His eyes darken, swirling with sinister intent. As if remembering he had an agenda beyond seducing you, Chris’s soft caress on your chin becomes a tight grip. He forces your lips onto a pucker, using his new hold to guide you into the room and shove you into the nearest chair.

You softly grunt upon the impact. Chris clenches his jaw to suppress a smirk. You know that you’re fighting your desire based on the fact that you do not deserve to have it fulfilled, being the treacherous person you are. But why is Chris suddenly shoving down his sexual urges? He didn’t have any qualms about using them to lure the truth out of you before.

The magnificent state of the office disrupts your thoughts. It maintains that same elegant, minimalistic aesthetic of his bedroom. Tall windows that offer views of the pier, gleaming hardwood floors decorated with luxurious, handwoven carpets of varying muted shades, all working together to become the backbone of comfort and professionalism within the room.

In front of you, Chris leans on the large, polished walnut desk. You notice a sleek laptop, and a few notepads and pens, all of which are neatly arranged. An ergonomic leather chair looms over the desk and you find that you are thankful he is not sitting on it, knowing you’d be incapable of enduring his scrutiny from such a position of power without wrestling the overwhelming urge to touch yourself.

In one corner, a small lounge area features a plush velvet sofa in a deep navy hue, flanked by a glass-top coffee table. A handful of his friends, including Seungmin and the icy-haired man from the dressing room, occupy the space. The other side, by the wall of windows, linger the remaining few, including the man who took the position of his coach in the recent match and the one you met in the hall.

The artwork in the office does not resemble that of his room, or even the corridor. It is more abstract, sometimes broken up by black and white photos of himself in the ring. He barely breaks a sweat in each photo, clenching hard around his mouth guard as he glares at his opponent. A championship belt is framed and pinned behind his desk too, under a collection of trophies and gold medals.

You wonder how many people have been invited here, blessed to witness the wonders held within these walls.

“I need to know everything,” Chris says, pulling your attention away from the layout of the room.

You furrow your brows. “I told you everything.”

Chris crosses his arms over his chest. “Word for word,” he clarifies, voice void of the softness it once cradled.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Disappointment lances around your heart, ensnaring your high-hopes like barbed wire. You thought he was making a statement of affectation or, at the very least, interest. You thought that his body was reacting to yours as well, that he felt your pain within a shared kiss, understood your damage within an exchanged breath. You thought that maybe he just wanted to see you again and didn’t know how, his efforts extreme but he is a Stray Kid after all.

You now understand the forced meeting for what it really is— an interrogation.

Told you so, a little voice in your head gloats. If you put up a fight and ran when I told you to, you wouldn't feel this way.

Sucking on the insides of your cheeks, brows knitted and eyes reverting to the floor, you shake your head and humorlessly laugh at your desperate short-sightedness. You’re no better than Aiden in the ring, flailing yourself around for a chance to be accepted somewhere, anywhere.

Perhaps this is for the best. You were going to ruin his life at some point anyway, possessing the damned knack of cursing him with your existence as you had done with the others that have come before him, friends and lovers alike.

So, with an exasperated sigh, you begin your tale, thinking back to everything you overhear in the alleyway. You give him a detailed description of Mickey, his features and breaking voice as Andy threatened his life. In greater detail, you describe what Andy looks like, from his messy crew cut to the nasty scar on his forearm. You describe his voice and his manner of speaking, the jittery bounce in his step as he lets his impulsive thoughts win and presses a knife to Mickey’s throat.

Chris nods along. Every so often, one of his friends shifts their weight or adjusts their position in their seats. You notice a few of them captivated by the floor whenever you mention Mickey and you can’t stop yourself from wondering who he was to them before he was outed as a traitor. Was he merely Chris’s coach, or really part of his inner circle?

“And you?” Chris asks when you finish.

You shrug. “What about me?”

“What makes you a traitor?”

You didn’t think such a question would summon tears, not after how much time has lapsed since you last called Vince, Danni and Andrea your friends. Yet, your eyes water. Jaw clenched, you narrow your gaze at him. Insults perch on the tip of your tongue, prepared to fire upon your frustrated command, but your despair holds your vicious voice hostage.

Blinking, you look down at the expensive hardwood floors. Breathing deep, you muster enough courage to quietly answer, “Delusions.”

“I need details,” Chris clarifies. You can hear the annoyance drenched in each grunted word.

You look over your shoulder at his friends. Tense, they stare with carefully neutral features.

“It’s a long story.”

“I got time.”

“The answer is no.”

Chris reaches behind him. He pulls out a black handgun, the letters SKZ scratched on the side of the barrel and aims it at you. “I think you should reconsider,” he says, chambering a bullet.

You cannot help smiling at the sound of the cocked gun, like a toy in his huge hand. You relax back in your seat, and tilt your head. Gesturing his hand upward, you advise, “Higher if you’re aiming for my head. You’ll only shatter my collarbone from this angle.”

Features flinching with confusion, Chris looks between you and his gun. He quirks his head to the side as he schools his expression once more, poking his tongue against his cheek.

“Are you stupid or suicidal?”

“A lot of people would argue both.”

The slightest impression of a smirk flickers on the corner of his lips. It's quite endearing, really—the way he tries so hard to stay focused, yet can't help but be distracted by your charms. You smirk for him instead, once miserable eyes now filled with playful defiance.

He takes a step closer, then another and another, until the cool barrel presses against the centre of your forehead. You try not to moan from the kiss of cold steel upon your skin, the proximity of his lips hovering over yours.

“Reconsider,” he orders in a whisper.

Sultry eyes, half-lidded and drowning in lust, you shake your head. Originally, shame shackled your truth. You didn’t want him nor his friends to lose respect for you, unsure if they even possess any for you at all. But now, all you want is to see how far he will go with his trigger, with you.

Chris moves the gun to your right temple, dragging the cold tip of the gun against your warm skin.

You bite your lip and shake your head.

He peers down at you with a lust-ridden gaze that mirrors yours and leans on the arms of your chair. He slides the gun down your cheek, along your jawline then finally pushes it firmly under your chin.

Your eyes roll, head tilting back.

“How about now?” he whispers. His voice is deep, heavy with lust as he breaths over your face.

Voice as breathless and even weaker than his, you practically whine, “No.”

Somewhere in the distance, you hear Seungmin mumble, “This is what I was telling you.”

“Shut up,” someone else replies in a quiet hiss. “I’m watching something.”

“It’s fine. Minho’s recording,” the one with the deepest voice reassures.

Chris pushes himself off the arm of the chair, uncocking his gun and removing it from your head.

You can’t help the dissatisfied sigh that escapes you at the loss of contact.

Turning to his friends, Chris demands, “Get out.”

“You’re ruining my footage,” Minho, the one you met in the hall, scolds, looking at Chris through his camera phone.

Chris merely points to the door. They sigh, grumbling protests as they shuffle out of the room. He shuts the door behind them and makes his way back to you.

“Listen,” he starts, wiping his nose with his wrist. He leans back against his desk again, meeting your gaze.

You press your thighs together at the sight of him all spread out along the edge of the grand desk.

He continues, snapping you out of your horny thoughts, “I want to fuck you senseless. I want you to take that little top off again and shove your tits in my face.”

Swallowing thickly, you sink into your chair, flushing at the confession.

“But before I ravish you,” he says, unable to fight off a smile, “I need to know what you did that made one of the most powerful families in Crimson Heights, levy such a steep price on your head.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. “It’s stupid, Chris,” you try to argue. “And childish.”

Gaze supplying tender understanding, Chris ever so sweetly encourages you to share with a gentle nod of his head. “Tell me everything,” he repeats, this time as a plea rather than demand.

Licking your lips, you confess, “And I don’t regret it. Before I tell you what happened, I need you to understand that I would do it again.”

At this, the compassion in his gaze wavers. Nonetheless, he sets the gun down and waits for you to begin.

You draw in a shaky breath, and upon the exhale, you explain, “Vince was flirting with me. I didn’t know it at the time, but at a certain point, it became obvious. He started to touch me more, and would find reasons to get me alone. We both lost someone ‘cause of overdoses and I guess it was a topic of bonding? I thought it was just as friends. He clearly had a different idea.”

Chris furrows his brows. “Does he have a girlfriend?”

A tight lipped smile momentarily tugs on the corners of your mouth. “Yeah, Danni,” you confirm. “That’s how I met him. She was like my best friend. We accidentally met while knocking over the same liquor store. She wanted the booze and I wanted the cash. It worked out perfectly.”

You chuckle quietly to yourself at the memory. Chris allows a small smile to break through his assertive expression in response.

“Anyway, one night we were supposed to meet up by the pier. But, Danni wanted to stay in for the night, which she of course told us after we already got there, and she was Andrea’s ride so neither showed up. Vince and I got to talking about the people we lost— his was more recent than mine. I thought he just needed some more support. He looked devastated at the time.

But then he reached for my thigh. I didn’t push it off right away because I couldn’t believe he was touching me like that. And I guess he took that as a sign that I liked it. He moved his hand further up my leg and leaned in.” You pause to swallow your disgust, the memory panging your heart with anxiety.

Chris sharply exhales. “Please tell me you pushed him into the sea,” he says, tone laced with anger.

“I wish,” you dryly chuckle. “No, I went to shove his hand away, but Danni showed up after all, after Andrea begged her for the ride. She saw my hand over Vince’s and how close both were to my crotch and just lost her shit. I tried to explain but she hit me and I figured running home would be easier. And they followed me. They banged on my door all night, flip flopping between wanting to just talk to kill me. I waited until they were gone to run to Vinny’s.”

“So, she thought you were trying to fuck her boyfriend?” Chris asks, laughing at the obscurity. “Half the port is being gambled away because of some horny piece of shit and his stupid girlfriend?”

You can’t help smirking, yourself, the stupidity not at all lost on you. “No, that is just some context for why I…” You trail off, crossing one leg over another and taking another deep breath.

Chris raises a brow, only to hiss in pain.

“Careful,” you warn, earning a slight smile, before resuming your story.

“They went around the city slandering me. It got bad enough that certain gangs wouldn’t let me in their territory, worried I’d be more trouble than I was worth. At one point, I was confined to my apartment— Vinny suggested that laying low might help minimise the accusations. Everyday I spent alone, I would think about that night at the pier. I would wonder what Vince told them on their way to my apartment to make them so vile and murderous towards me. I knew both girls for nearly five years, and it killed me to know that in all that time, they really thought I was capable of such disgusting behaviour.

I was seething alone for almost three months, replaying that day over and over. I thought about what I would have said if I stayed and fought back. I thought about kicking Vince right in his tiny balls and punching Danni in the face until all her teeth fell out. I came up with a new way to torment them every single day I was locked away.”

“What was your favourite?” Chris asks, the allure of a fond smile settling on his lips.

You carefully meet his gaze and answer, “Bullets. I thought about lining them up and shooting their brains out. I wanted to see them with half their face still intact, the rest splattered all across the pier.”

Chris shares your tranquil smile, falling silent to let you continue.

“At a certain point, I wasn’t thinking straight. Or maybe I finally found clarity— I don’t know,” you shake your head, sitting up in your seat. “I knew that Vince’s father owned a fleet of boats on the pier. ”

Realisation instantly sparkles in his big, brown eyes.

“I snuck out and studied the crew’s shift rotation for two weeks. I found out that by Christmas Eve, there would be a skeleton crew and no one would be on the boats. They were only planning on securing the perimeter. So I set my plan in motion. I syphoned some gas, stole a pack of matches and set them all on fire. I shouted my name as the crew rushed to put it all out. I wanted them to know it was me, the person they exiled, who burned them to the ground. I needed them to know it.

The weight of what I had just done didn’t hit me until I got home and realised I couldn’t stay there. So I packed up some essentials, and ran to Vinny’s instead. Turns out there was an astronomical amount of coke on those boats. The bounty was placed within the hour.”

Chris sucks in a breath as you finish. “I see,” he hums, reaching for his gun again. “Stand up.”

You eye the firearm. “Are you going to use that?”

“Are you going to make me repeat myself?”

Jaw tight, you uncross your legs and stand. You look up at his towering 6’9 frame from your 5’8 position. Hands moving on their own accord, you grip onto his shirt, right by his hips, and press yourself firmly against him.

His clothed erection pokes at your stomach. You wonder how long he has been throbbing for you. Which part of your story made him this hard? The shared rage against Vince’s sliminess? The festering resentment? The violence? The retribution? You noticed his posture remained still, expression plain, but his eyes gleamed with something like pride.

“You’re so pretty when you’re following orders,” he murmurs, luring your attention. Before you can answer, he fiercely jams the barrel of the gun against your cheek .

You cannot stop a loud, whiny moan from tearing through your throat. The moment that cool tip digs into your skin, your arousal pools, eyes roll back. Your grip on his hips tightens and toes curl into the soft carpet beneath you.

“No, no,” he tuts, applying more pressure. “Open your eyes.”

You obey.

Chris peers down at you over the bridge of his nose, desires casting shadows in those brown eyes at your compliance. He grinds the barrel further into your skin, tilting slightly to watch your face contort under its cold pressure.

You lean into it, maintaining his lust-lost gaze.

“Take off your shorts.”

Looping your thumbs into the waistband, you make a show of wiggling your hips to push off the tiny short-shorts. You kick them aside once they fall to the floor.

Chris first smirks at the swish of your hips, but then tongues his cheek in sexual frustration at the sight of your panty-less crotch.

“Laundry day,” you shrug, feigning innocence as you peer at him under your lashes.

“My new favourite day,” he smiles before cupping you.

Your hips grind into his hand, legs slightly spreading for his wide fingers. Knowing he wants you to maintain eye contact, you do your best not to roll them back at the light, slow friction. 

Voice already trembling, you moan, “Fuck.”

He puts some force into his languid ministrations as he opens his mouth and arches his brows, hinting at you to mirror his actions. The condescension of his expression makes your hips buckle, clit throbbing for more stimulation.

God, he’s so perfect.

If you continue, if you let him bed you, ravish you as he previously put it, you’ll eventually regret it. You’ll wish you left when you had the chance, or at least thought you did. You know you can’t stay here. Your heart already bursts with infatuation, wetness collecting at his meticulous attention. If you stay, you will end up hurt and disappointed, all alone again with nothing but a knock-off fur coat and switchblade to console you once everything is said and done. Or worse— he will be the one hurt, dying or dead, plagued by the curse of your reckless existence.

Right now, Chirs exudes success, reputation built on the brute force of his powerful fists and swift footwork. He has friends who respect him enough that he doesn’t need to repeat himself when he speaks. He has the support of the most nefarious gang in Crimson Heights, prepared to defend him, stand for him.

You can’t ruin that. In fact, you refuse to do so.

So why are you standing on your toes, leaning into his broad chest for stability and rolling your hips into his calloused hand? Why can’t you tell him to stop, instead echoing his movements as he silently requested?

The moment you part your lips, Chris slides the barrel into your mouth. Swirling your tongue around the cool metal, the taste of gun powder bitter on your tongue, you loudly moan and eyes rolling back.

He tsks, pulling your head back down using his grip on the gun. “Eyes on me,” he reminds through gritted teeth.

Oh? Is it a performance he’s after?

You recall his words— I like to make a statement— and wonder if he is waiting for you to do the same thing.

Hollowing your cheeks, you pretend to suck on the barrel, careful not to swallow more fumes of explosive powder than humanly capable. You bob your head back and forward, enchanting him with your most innocently lustful eyes.

A certain darkness diminishes the sweet tenderness that often glimmers in his gaze, even when he is sinfully intrigued by your shameless desire. Once a chocolate brown, swirling with smug delight, now a deep umber, whirling with lethal ecstasy. He feels it— the power of a mighty gun, the weight of life and death confined within sleek, curved edges of a silver bullet.

Fear and pleasure collide in your gut, becoming a force of thrilling anxiety.

What if the safety isn’t on? What if he fires?

Your mind laps around the questions, hips desperately jutting into his palm, as you trebly whine around the gun.

Chris removes his arousal-glistening hand from your crotch to wrap it around your neck. You shiver at the slimy sensation of your excitement against your skin. He pulls out the gun with more force than necessary at the squeaky whine you sound upon the lost contact. Your hips, still desperate to chase a release, fidget against him, much to his sinister amusement.

Pointing the gun to your temple, he shuffles and shifts your position so your back faces the desk instead. Then he shoves you against it by the grip on your neck.

You stumble back with a breathless yelp, the tail of your spine ramming against the expensive wood. Upon the impact, body buzzing with signals of pain and pleasure alike, you choke out a gratified giggle.

The clatter of objects on the desk falling from the force of his shove, the sound of your stricken surprise, flashes fear in his gaze. But then the melody of your laughter tumbles and tunnels his vision with carnal hunger. A vicious smile stretches on his supple lips, tongue flicking out to lick the corner of his mouth, like a famished predator upon trapping its prey.

You lift yourself up onto his desk as he approaches, immediately spreading your legs as a way of welcome. He appreciates the gesture, sliding the barrel of the gun along your breasts and stomach, then down between your drenched folds. Chest to chest, lips on lips, you exchange hissing breaths and curses. You grip onto your shoulders as he wraps his free arm around your waist, hugging you firmly against him. He’s caged you in, his body too large to move around now, even if you wanted to (or so you tell yourself, while feverently rolling your hip in tandem with his wrist.)

Terror knots in your gut, right where your climax builds. You wonder if his finger is still on the trigger. If he gets too excited, if he loses his concentration, if he ever so slightly shifts his finge—

“Kinky, little whore,” he croaks, picking up the pace. He then mimics the pitches of your waver voice and mocks your pouty expression, cooing, “You like that, yeah? You like my gun rubbing against your wet cunt, baby girl? Hmm?”

The patronising tone is reason enough to tremble, nails piercing skin as your scratch along his strong shoulders. His filthy words and ravenous gaze, however, have you releasing your scarring grasp to pull off your shirt and arch your back.

An approving growl resonates from his chest, attention now trailing down to your bouncing breasts.

“Lean back.”

Heat floods your face, your neck, your chest. You place your hands behind you and do as you’re told while his arms slither from around your waist to grip onto your hip, firmly sinking his fingers into your supple curves. Heart rapturing from the amorous attention, you fight off a smile. And the darkness that once brewed in your lungs, twisting around your ribcage as you rue your existence, dwindles with every salacious stare.

Other men have been passionate, but hasty. Eager to chase their own highs, they merely used you as a means to a satisfying end. Their hands would only roam if they required a better grip on your hips and eyes mostly screwed shut while they thrusted to an unsteady pace. It was mediocre at best, often having to think of your own turn ons to not fake an orgasm.

Chris deliberately studies your features, instead. He sips on your bare body like he might die if he does not memorise every roll, curve and fold. More than that, he revels at the sight. He croaks throaty moans and hisses when your hips stutter against the gun, the stimulation momentarily confounding your senses.

Your insecurities wane, allowing confidence to flourish in their stead. Even your self-loathing cowers under the judgement of his wanton gaze. You suddenly cannot remember why you needed to leave before. You can’t understand how a thought like that could enter your mind. Never do you want to leave him.

“I feel you clenching,” he notes, voice raw with authority. “Do you want me to fill it up for you?”

Your breath hitches, body quivers. Gaze flitting down to his erection, brutally evident in his black sweats, you moan, “Fuck, yes!”

He smirks and you already know he won’t give himself up that easily.

“Beg.”

Voice tangled in deplorable desperation, you keenly plead, “Please, please, please fuck me! Pl-ease,” you take a moment to swallow thickly, hoping to compose yourself enough to continue. “I don’t th-think I can cum without you.”

His smirk widens at that.

You pick your next words carefully, voice wavering. “Only you could r-really make me fe-feel it in the m-mo-morning.”

Jaw flexed, he softly growls.

“P-pretty ple-ase?” you add with a pout.

He tongues his cheek, hiding a smile, but does not reach for his waistband.

You part your lips to beg more, prepared to offer your soul if that’s what it would take to feel him inside you. Instead, an ear-piercing shriek escapes.

“Oh, god!”

Your voice breaks, peaking at a near whistle from the abrupt sensation of the barrel pushing against your tight, needy walls. Jaw slack, you look down and watch as your core engulfs the gun, clenching tightly around the arousal slick metal. Even after being shoved against your clit for so long, it still feels cold.

Chris chuckles darkly as you breathlessly mewl, the sight of the gun disappearing in you all too erotic. “Is this what you wanted?” he taunts, raising a cocky brow. He hums in mocking agreement with your hurried nods.

Between the thrusting gun and his belittling behaviour, you’re not sure you possess the capabilities to endure him for much longer.

“Ch-chris,” you attempt to warn, risking a glance back down at that barrel ramming into you.

His finger is on the trigger, force powerful enough that even the slightest pressure could set the firearm off.

Your toes curl, nails claw against the rich wood of the desk. The continuous friction, steady, speedy and strong, encourages the coiling of electrified excitement deep in your gut.

So, so cl—

A devastated cry tears through your throat as the sudden loss of contact. Your eyes snap open (you don’t even remember screwing them shut), and you glare at him.

“You fucking asshole!” You seethe, pushing yourself up from your leaned back position. You obeyed every order, leaned into every touch and embraced every vicious word only to have your orgasm ruined.

Chris dismisses your icy eyes, slowly dragging his tongue over the barrel of the handgun. His eyes radiate sexual satisfaction as he savours your taste.

“Oh, sorry,” he chuckles, offering you the tip of the gun, “Did you want to clean it up for me?”

You are not a violent person— not unintentionally anyway. So why do you wind your hand back and whip it against his cheek?

Chris moans upon impact, twisting his head with the slap, as if embracing it.

You gasp, hopping off the desk and clamping a hand over your mouth only to remove it seconds later to apologise.

“Chris, I’m—”

He advances towards you with a fierce groan. Seizing you by the waist, he forces you against him and latches onto your lips. His hands slide down to grip onto your rear, kneading fistfuls of your plump cheeks. Both hands suddenly release your ass to smack back down against it and squeeze.

You moan into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck as your guilt disappears.

His tongue puts up more of a fight this time, but is nowhere as aggressive as the rest of his actions, half-heartedly wrestling yours simply to delight in the wet and warm sensation. He yields to your rhythm eventually, muttering against your lips, “Do it again.”

You rip yourself away in pure confusion, brows knotted. “What?” you heave, as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Hit me again,” he demands, voice rough and raspy.

Your gaze bounces around his healing wounds, remorse resurfacing.

Chris must have read the guilt on your face, endearingly tilting his head at your hesitation. “I’m a big boy,” he smirks. “I can take it.”

That breathy, throat voice and haughty tone seems to be enough of a trigger because you smack him again before you have a chance to second-guess yourself.

He moves with the hit again, groaning as he grinds his erection against your stomach. Sucking in a breath with a sharp hiss, Chris tosses the gun to the floor. You brace yourself for the firing round, shoulders shooting to your ears. However, the gun does not go off. You narrow your gaze to find the clip missing, wondering when the fuck he slipped it out and how he managed to do it so silently.

The shuffle of fabric redirects your attention back to Chris. You’ve been so absorbed by the fear of triggering the gun, you hadn’t realised he untangled himself from you to take his clothes off.

His torso is as glorious as you remember, buff, broad and boasting with robust strength. Then he pushes off his sweats and your jaw slackens. Your gaze first lingers around the three-lettered tattoo of his gang on his left hip. SKZ – the ‘K’ coloured red. Then, as he shoves the pants down, his cock monopolises your attention. You knew he would be wide, the impression of him alone previously leaving you shaken. But you did not expect him to be as long, easily measuring at around eight and a half inches.

Your bottom lip whimpers and a hand comes up to steady it as you gawk. Saliva dampens your fingers. You lick your lips, wipe your chin and tentatively sneak a glance at his face, hoping he didn’t catch you shamelessly drooling.

That smirk widens as your eyes meet. “I need to be inside you,” he pants before closing the distance between you with a tug of your body into his.

You can’t agree more, biting back your own smile as you cup his face. “I need to ride you,” you reply just as affectionately.

Dripping with dominance, you thought he would ignore your request and bend you over the desk. Instead, he back pedals towards the chair you originally sat on, and commandeers it.

The sight of his muscular thighs has you biting your lip. You seat yourself upon him, just like you did in the dressing room. You know you can just lift your hips, align his length and begin bouncing. However, as you gaze down at his staggering size, pre-cum oozing from the tip, the urge to spit on it overrides your thoughts. You gather saliva and splatter it over him, earning a croaky groan.

You moan through a bitten lip in reply.

Wrapping a hand around him, you gasp at the fact that your fingers are unable to meet. Your core dampens.

Chris spits down on his length too, rubbing your thighs as you jerk and twist your wrist.

“You’re really big,” you shyly comment, maintaining a sluggish pace.

Just as sincere a smile hovers over his lips before he presses them against yours again.

Emotion bursts through your chest, desire unable to remain restrained. In hurried movements, you release your hold on his cock and lift your hips to finally accept the fullness he offers.

Chris helps you, aligning himself for you to easily sink down. He wraps both beefy arms around your waist as you gasp into his mouth. The kiss momentarily breaks, noses smushing together amidst blissful hissing.

You rest your arms on his shoulders to hug his head close, fingers tangled in his hair. You tug on the ends as he pushes between your tight walls. You move slowly, thankful for his steady grasp on you, inching further downward only to rise back up a bit and do it again. Inch by inch, you find a way to accommodate his girth, all the while whining his name.

“Just let go,” he whispers. His hold on your waist tightens, referring to the concentrated control you’ve adopted. “I’ve got you, baby.”

His delicate tone unravels your composure. You relax into his touch and find that he really does have a good grasp on you. He maintains your slow movements, acknowledging that you still need time to adjust. You wonder if it was the lack of speed itself, the crumpling pleasure etching your features, or how you’re tensing oh-so tightly around him that tips him off. And as he lifts and lowers you upon him, groaning between shared breaths, you realise that it really doesn’t matter what the reason was.

Clarity settles— Chris tunnels his vision when it comes to you. Within a night, he has noted your sexual boldness, recklessness, and affinity for guns. He knows you like to be harshly handled, tightening his grip only to roughly release it. He lets you strike him back, knowing you like to act out and does not only encourage it, but embraces it. He observes your features, searching for particular indications of pleasure to focus on or circle back to when he thinks you can take it again. Beyond that, he provides a space for vulnerability that does not centre around pity but rather a shared rage.

As you look at him now, hissing moans through gritted teeth and quivering lips, you cannot help but allow his words to splinter your previous philosophy. Perhaps it is not your existence that is cursed, but rather the world. Perhaps Crimson Heights is the beckon for misfortune— a city of survivors and casualties. You do not cause death; you simply outrun it. And when catastrophe rumbles the foundation of your life, claiming your family or friends, you do not need to feel guilty. Life ebbs and flows, grips and lets go— just as Chris does when he unwraps his arms around your waist, to grip onto your hips.

“That’s my slutty little girl,” he praises before grazing your chin with his teeth. “Arch your— Yes! Lean into me.”

A frail whine is all you can muster as he becomes more daring with the pace, speeding up.

Breasts glued to his chest, your back arches the way he instructs and you feel the hammering of his heart against yours. You cup his face. Your thumb brushes over the bruises on his cheek.

“Y-you know ex-actly what I n-need,” you whimper, internally cringing at your lust laced stutter.

A prideful smile plays on his lips. His grip tightens with newfound confidence as he uses your encouragement to experiment with the possible indication of fully submerging himself into you.

The moment your cheeks smack against the muscles of his thighs, an ear-piercing scream rips from your throat, heavy with delirious delight. So deep, so fucking full, he reaches far to stretch you wide. You doubt that you’d be able to tighten around anything other than his length again, hole now completely adjusted for his cock only.

“Like that?” he questions, voice still swirling with mockery. “Is that what you needed?”

You quickly nod, unable to find your voice.

Chris lifts and drops your hips with renewed force, ordering, “Speak.”

“I like that!” You confirm. “I love that!”

Grunting and growling in satisfaction, Chris decides that your hips do not give him the best leverage as he grasps on your rear instead. His fingers sink into your voluptuous cheeks, surely marking your skin, as he guides the rolls and rises of your thrusts.

You squeal, throwing your head back at the waves of excitement lapping over you. “Yes, yes, yes,” you pant before looking back at him. “Is this how you like it?” you ask, gaining confidence with every shudder sigh he expels. “Does this drive you c-crazy?”

Chris breathes a chuckle, mumbling, “You most definitely do,” before pressing his lips to yours.

Euphoria envelopes you, coursing through your veins and rattling your bones. You immediately submit to his rhythm, already content with the warmth of his lips on yours and taste of his tongue. Satisfaction swells, throbbing your clit upon the build of your climax. As emotion shines through the cracks of your armour, delirious delight flourishes.

You break the kiss with a breathless giggle, allowing the pleasure to travel from your core though your limbs. The base of your spine, centre of your chest, tips of your fingers, toes and ears, your nerves dash and dance with a degree of joy you did not believe you were capable of ever feeling. You cannot help your laughter between breathless moans.

Chris, voice croaky and deep with lust, joins you. He playfully nips at the skin under your jaw then peppers the light sting with kisses, laughing all the while.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he revels in whisper.

Your giggles waver upon the sincere emotion flooding his eyes.

You clench. “Chri—”

“You feel so perfect around me,” he groans, cutting you off. “It’s like your body was made for me.”

Whimpering, all playful humour darkening within your bones into desperate ecstasy, you can’ help but squeeze tighter, the knots of your high becoming more and more undeniable.

Your voice rises in pitch as you moan,“Use me however you want.”

His hips snap up to meet yours with a dark, loud groan.

You jolt from the force, body shaking. Panting whines tumble from your lips as your grasp on his hair tightens. Over and over, he sinks you down on him as he rams himself into you, meeting you halfway. Your breasts bounce against him, only encouraging his aggressive speed as he shoves his face between the valley.

The brutality of the force, the pace is unbearable. Toes curling, core gripping, you stutter through your next intake of air. All at once, a wave of satisfaction crashes over you. Muscles tense, you stiffen with a shrill cry of his name and gush, gush, gush your release. Your eyes roll back, jaw slack as he wraps his arms around you to keep you upright.

As he did in the dressing room, Chris peers up at you from between your full breasts. He offers a pleased smile before leaning back against the chair. Now, with you laying on top of him as your orgasm ripples through you all— dazed and drooling, Chris grinds your hips down into his. His own muscles flex, skin flushing. Through gritted teeth, a deep moan emits from the base of his throat.

His cock twitches. His release shoots, warm and erratic, filling you so well, you already feel it smearing around your folds.

Face buried in the crook of his neck, you whine his name quietly at the sensation. “Fuck, yes,” you moan, circling your hips around his. “Fill me up just l-like that!”

You swear you feel another shot of his cum, the wet sloshes of arousal slick with every grind of hip on hip.

After watching Chris endure seven rounds of boxing, with his composure still intact and sweat barely breaking, you should have known better than to think that he was done with you. He doesn’t even take a moment to catch his breath. Still heaving, he stands.

You wrap yourself around him, holding on tight. Has he forgotten that he is still deep inside you or does he not care, simply eager to continue using you? You moan from the new angle all the same as he walks you back into his room.

“You don’t need a break, do you?” he asks after kicking the door shut behind him. He grips onto your waist and rips you off his torso with a forceful shove. “Hmm? No break?” he teases.

A cross between a grunt and whine fills the room as you land on his bed with a little bounce. Before you can reply, he yanks you to the edge of the bed by your ankles. You yelp your pleased surprise, unable to fight back a giggle as he turns you over on your stomach. He pulls your hips up to roughly guide you into a downward dog position. Knees on the bed’s edge, face smushed into the soft duvet, your backside is now perfectly exposed for him.

His tongue slips between your folds, lapping the mess of your mixed climaxes with a deep-chested growl. The vibrations resonate upon every overwhelmed nerve ending around your core. You cannot deny the wiggle of your hips and strained mewls of distress from the overstimulation.

“Stay still,” Chris orders, voice muffled. His hot breath, the tenor of his voice all directed towards your overused hole, only further your squirms.

You want more of him, need more, but the unrelenting stimulation of his lapping tongue, slurping and groaning, makes you tremble. You find yourself attempting to crawl away from his mouth only to be harshly pulled back.

Chris wraps his arms under and around your thighs, locking you in place.

“Just where do you think you’re going, darling?”

You whine incoherently.

He mocks you, pitching his voice and mimicking your unstable syllables.

Your desire pools at your core all over again, eyes water. “Too much,” you whimper into your fist, overwhelmed by the all too desperate yearning to stop yet still continue. “Its—”

Chris groans, cutting you off. “We taste so good, baby,” he murmurs against your heat. “This might be the closest I get to heaven.” He then pulls himself away long enough to look at you over the full curve of your cheeks. “Wanna try?” he asks with a smug smirk, face glistening from the smear of your combined orgasms.

You flush, nodding.

He dives back in to slurp on your sex. Then he grabs a fistful of your hair and gently, despite the rough grasp, pulls your back towards his chest. You tilt your head back for him, parting your lips. He smiles at how quickly you’ve caught onto his intentions and spits the cum into your mouth.

Your pussy quivers upon the bittersweet taste, eyes fluttering shut. You moan your delight upon swallowing.

Chris takes the advantage of your proximity, stealing another quick kiss before using the grip on your hair to shove you back onto the mattress. He adjusts the position of your hips again but does not dive down between your folds this time. Instead, he grabs fistfuls of your cheeks and spreads them apart.

You hear the throaty gathering of salvia and then the splatter of spit before feeling the warmth of it upon your tightest hole. Heat scorches your skin with humiliation from his laughter when you clench.

You part your lips to say his name, ask what he’s doing when his tongue reappears, circling your hole. A breathless gasp sounds instead.

Chris transfers more of your wetness to your tensing hole, scooping the cum with his finger and rubbing it against you. “Shh, shh,” he hushes as you whimper and wiggle in his grasp. “Relax, babygirl. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

You lean back into him upon his soothing tone. You’ve never touched yourself there, never let anyone else do the same, certain they would only hurt you. From the way Chris takes his time however, you can tell he knows what he’s doing.

“You have the cutest fucking asshole,” he chuckles before spitting over it again.

Gratification tickles the darkness looming in your chest, allowing you to giggle in response and push yourself back against his finger.

“I mean it,” he says, misunderstanding your acceptance for teasing protest. His fingers then glide between your folds, down to your clit. He twirls the pad of his middle finger around the bundle of nerves, then spreads the folds as if to take a better look at your cum-leaking hole.“You have the prettiest pussy too,” he groans before his tongue dives, reaching farther inside than you expected.

Pride blossoms, boastfully overpowering all your emotions and triggering a loud, moan of approval. “Please don’t stop,” you beg while attempting to writhe out of his grasp.

Chris pulls himself away long enough to laugh at your conflicting movements. He quietly hums, content with himself, as he smacks each cheek halfheartedly, like you made a joke and he’s nudging you because of the wit and humour. You can’t help joining him, wiggling your hips in his hands with every slap.

There have been times where you felt at ease, perhaps even happy under setting suns and sneaky nights on the roof with your foster siblings. Watching a fusion of magenta and maroon cascade in the sky, as the sun disappears behind the Crimson Heights horizon, has been the image you conjure on cold, lonely nights between nightmares and distant gunshots. But being here with Chris, bent over and exposed from angles no one else has ever witnessed, absolute contentment engulfs you. Like a warm, tender hug, his patient presence nurtures your soul and caresses your darkness. And it feels natural as if the universe conspired to ensure that you do have at least one moment of true happiness amongst the death and betrayal.

He brushes your hair from your face, pulling you from your thoughts. You shyly meet his gaze to which he smirks. His hand then trails from the naps of your neck to the base of your spine, drawing you away from the memory of your trauma.

“Stay with me, yeah,” he coos.

You nod.

Is it your sudden silence? Is that what indicated that you’ve let your mind wander off? Though, you do remember moaning between giggles. Maybe you had a distant look in your eyes. Maybe you stopped responding to his touch. Does it even matter? Because whatever it was, whatever you did, he saw it.

He sees you.

Chris kisses each cheek before spreading them again. You feel his tongue on your heat, swirling once, twice then dragging up. You moan loudly, pushing yourself further into him. But his tongue does not return to your needy pussy. Instead, he circles the edge of your tightest hole.

You clench, whimpering.

He licks, chuckling.

His hands rub your cheeks, silently soothing your tense muscles. You try to lean into his calm, but the feeling of his warm tongue twirling around the rim of your hole is much too stimulating to ignore.

“More please,” you find yourself whining, fisting the sheets beneath you. “I-I need more.”

Chris presses a wet kiss upon your puckering hole before replying, “Take a deep breath for me.”

You draw in a long breath and release it.

He gives it another kiss, spit on it then orders, “Again. Take your time with it, baby.”

The pet name prickles your skin with goosebumps, face flushed as you inhale deeply and exhale slowly.

You can’t see him with his face between your cheeks, but you swear he’s smirking as he praises, “Good girl.”

A giggle was meant to be your only reply. Instead, his tongue pushes through your hole and you moan in a voice so unlike yourself, so innocent and weak.

“Daddy!”

Chris growls, tightening his grip on your rear with one hand, while the other harshly rubs your dripping core. Slobbering, slurping, he bobs his head, in and out, up and down, shoving his tongue between your tense walls. His fingers are relentless, playing with your clit in quick, forceful waves only to abandon the bundle of nerves all together. He pushes them into your pussy instead. Three long fingers draw in and out of you to the rhythm of his tongue.

Moans meek and breathy, you writhe under his onslaught of pleasure. That pet name is on the tip of your tongue again, but you refrain from using it, clenching your teeth instead. You’ve never called anyone that and have even judged the people you know who have said shit like that during sex.

It feels so right when thinking about Chris, when feeling his tongue attempt to breach through your tight hole. If anyone was to embody that mindset of a Daddy, it would be Christopher Bahng. Chris with his tall, towering frame. Chris with his commanding voice. Chris with his charismatic confidence.

“Daddy,” you whine again despite your futile attempts.

He hums in question, tone oh-so condescending. Your nerves burn from the wetness of his tongue, the pace of his harsh fingers. You thrash into the sheets, further smothering your face in the soft duvet and screaming out your pleasure.

“Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Your voice is muffled, hips ramming back against him with every plea.

Chris merely moans in reply, as if delighted by the sinful taste of you. He continues his dual stimulation, insatiable tongue bouncing in and out of your untested hole. His fingers curl, over and over and over right where you need him most.

Turning your head to the side, cheek pressed against the mattress again, you gasp for air and cry out your new favourite name, “Daddy! Fuck, yes, yes, yes!”

His breath staggers as you hear him chuckle, but you don’t care. He can laugh himself hoarse if he wants. You just need him to continue, your orgasm building all over again. Toes curling, eyes rolling, you quake and claw at the sheets, desperate to get a hold of yourself.

However, Chris, upon feeling you clench particularly tightly around his fingers, pulls himself away.

A sexually frustrated sob tumbles out of you at the all too sudden loss of contact. Your orgasm falters at the lack of stimulation. Once again, he has dangled you over the edge. Fury surges through you, propping yourself up on your elbows and glaring over your shoulder at him.

“Why do— Ah!”

Chris grips onto your hips, pushes himself back into your core. He rams his hips into yours, holding enough force to knock you off your elbows, cutting you off.

“Mmm, I can’t get enough of you,” he groans, voice husky and deep.

You whimper in response, all words actively being fucked out of you. No one can even stand you, yet he ploughs into you, eager and deliberate, and still craves more of you. That realisation alone could coax another bone-bending orgasm out of you.

Apart from the first, initial thrust, you do not feel his hips smack against yours again. Instead, Chris restraints himself, offering moderate, yet fast thrusts. He still reaches deep, still stretches you out oh so deliciously, but you can tell he’s holding back.

And it ignites your veins with anger. You refuse to have him spoil yet another orgasm rattle you into calling him ‘daddy,’ only to then half-heartedly fuck you.

“Please fuck me,” you beg before echoing a version of his previous words. “I’m a big girl, Daddy. I can take it.”

Chris growls lowly under his breath. “You’ll get hurt,” he warns.

You cannot fight back your smile. “Good.”

The impact of his thrust upon your reassurance is so powerful, the bed shifts forward. You hiccup his name and hiss at the sting of skin on skin. Vigorous momentum grows with every mighty thrust of his hips. You feel your entire body jiggle, shaking with the squeaking bed.

“You have no idea,” he begins, breathlessly growling, “how fucking beautiful you look right now.”

He has no idea how many times you’ve been told the opposite.

“Show me how beautiful you think I am.”

His cock twitches. You swear you feel it quiver deep inside you.

A gasp so erotic, so pornographic escapes you at the sudden sensation. Clenching, you’re eager to feel it again, to feel him release his warm, thick arousal, especially so soon. You’re already giddy with pride, preparing to tease and mock him for becoming undone upon a few simple words.

Instead, Chris pulls himself out with a croaky groan. He’s heaving, breathes staggering as he swallows thickly. “Move up to the pillows, baby. Lay back for me.”

You slowly push yourself up, sitting down on your ankles. Just as breathless, you peer at him over your shoulder. His hair is tousled, face glistening with your excitement as he slowly jerks himself to the sight of you so messy and dirty.

“Was it something I said?” you ask in your most innocent voice.

Chris tightens his jaw.

A shiver dances along your spine at his silence. You give him one last once over, shamelessly letting your gaze linger around his erection, before leisurely crawling towards the pillows. Your legs already ache. You feel it most around your thighs and hips, bones stiffen and muscles tight from the exposing angle.

The fluffy pillows and duvet melt around your sweaty skin, engulfing you in a cocoon of comfort. Your eyes flutter shut, embracing the chill of the cool silks. The sheets in your tiny apartment are scratchy and rough, and prior to laying here, you had thought it was the most comfortable fabric a thrift store could sell, which is why you stole them.

The bed dips. You open your eyes to watch as Chris crawls over you, spreading your legs to welcome him. His face hovers over yours. You cup his cheeks, grazing your thumb over his lips.

He lowly groans. His nose brushes yours as he leans down for a kiss. You think it was meant to be quick, just a tiny peck before he buries himself in you again. But the taste of your lips proves to be intoxicating, or perhaps he felt the spark you did when your lips touched. He indulges in another kiss, then another. Even one longer than the last, Chris eventually integrates his tongue and forces you to taste yourself.

Heaven, hell, the worlds collide. Purely sinful, his tongue subjects you to his pace, swirling around yours slowly. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he wants you to savour the bittersweet taste of your orgasms and holes.

Your lips part with a wet smack, breasts heaving. Chris pushes himself back to sit on his ankles. He lets his attention trail down your curves, ogling your rolls and fullness. He pants like a dog, mouth agape and saliva leaking from the corners at the mere sight of you.

People tend to either discard or objectify you. One look at your figure and you are either invisible, disgusting, or a drunken mistake that awakens a shameful desire for fuller frames. Your mother told you it would happen when she noted your curves for the first time. She told you that you’d be nothing in a bigger body, that no one will want to be seen with you. A part of you always wondered if that’s why she opted for heroin, knowing she too had curves and rolls at one point in her life. 

It doesn’t really matter because the sentiment snared your consciousness. You noticed how many people ignored your presence the moment you walked into a room or the sudden distaste of those who did happen to acknowledge you. Every wrinkled nose, every avoided gaze only reinforced your mother’s philosophy.

And here Chris sits, bare and breathless, leering over your naked body. Ravenous, lascivious, he devours every full inch of you, eyes drowning in lust. You suddenly cannot recall the words your mother once spat, the dejected feelings that bruised your pride when you walked into a room. All you know now is Chris— obsessive, gluttonous, shameless Chris and his insatiable appetite for everything that you are.

He blinks repeatedly, as if pulling himself out of his thoughts. You bite your lip and wonder what you must look like, staring back at him. You know your liner is smudged and lipstick smeared. You know your hair is a tangled mess around you. You know your skin gleams of sweat, hot to the touch from the exhilaration of submitting to him. You know your core is a mess of spit and cum.

Chris reaches behind you. The sweaty scent of leather, sandalwood and amber secretes from the pits of his arms hovering inches away from your nose. You inhale deeply through your nose and wet your lips. Chris’s attention flickers down at the sound of your heavy sighs. You flush under the subject of that knowing smirk.

“Lift your hips for me?” He asks, voice deep and delicate.

You do as you’re told and he slides one of his plush pillows under you. The new angle provides better support to your lower back. You shift yourself further into his comfortable mattress with a pleased sigh.

“Better, yeah?” Teasing amusement twinkles in his eyes, brows quirked as he tries to fight off a prideful smile.

You suppress your own, and nod. “Are you going to fuck me now?” you ask, exaggerating the breathlessness of your feminine voice.

His eyes darken.

Perhaps, you proudly think to yourself as he takes your bait, if he is desperate enough, he’ll finally let me cum.

Chris traces the span of your shoulders, down to the fullness of your breasts and the curves of your waist. He drags his hands over your stomach and trails his eyes to your pelvis. He traces the lines along your heat only to redirect his callous fingers to your thigh before he can reach the place you need him most.

You clench, hips instinctively rolling forward. You mentally curse at your desperateness, your ploy to rile him up into a lustful rage crumbling as your body betrays you.

He barely even smirks, as if expecting your body to react to his touch like that. “I was fucking you,” he corrects, taking his hard, throbbing cock into his big hand.

You watch as he thumbs his tip and the space between his brows creases. Swallowing a moan, you wiggle in place and bite your lip. Your nerves impatiently buzz through your veins, and you resist the urge to arch your back to their desperate will.

He continues to slowly jerk himself as he watches you stiffen only to squirm seconds later. “Now,” he starts, leaning over you. He aligns himself, tonguing his cheek. Tip teasing your clenching core, he whispers, “I am going to ruin you.”

The weight of the crude promise resonates deep in your gut, gathering your arousal at the entrance of your needy heat. You grip onto his shoulders, features already crumpled in desperate pleasure, and dig your nails into his smooth, pale skin.

You gasp a whine as he emits a throaty groan, pushing in, in, in. You begin to understand the purpose of the pillow beyond simply comfort. The leverage of your hips provides a new angle to explore, his length shoving its way to your most sensitive spot. And he does not even allot time to adjust as he first did in his office, moving quickly to bottom himself out in you. His weighty balls rest against your rear, burning your face with the thought of sucking them. You finally give into your body, too needy to continue to police its movements, and arch your back into his chest.

Chris, hands on either side of your head, grabs your wrists and pins them above you. He growls as his thrusts take off. The force of his hips continuously shifts the bed forward. The headboard slaps against the wall, the pounding of wood on plaster so loud, it almost drowns out your squealing moans. Even the mattress whines, springs shrieking under the rhythmic bounce of your colliding bodies. Perhaps the closest rival to the noise of the bed, however, is the sharp slap of skin on skin. Your rear and thighs tremble from the powerful smacks, sensitive skin stinging all too exquisitely.

Pain highlights pleasure. In addition to the sting of his skin on yours, the tight grip of his strong hands around your wrists, aches from joint to bone. Tears gather in your eyes, the friction of his pulsating erection against your wet, tense walls all the more sweeter in light of the consistent pain.

A series of hissing profanities leave his full lips and you open your eyes to find he is drunk on the sight of your erotic features. Your tears slide down along your temples as a sob hiccups through your throat, clashing with the moans you shamelessly release.

His vicious dominance falters. Letting go of your wrists, Chris leans himself down on his elbows and affectionately nestles his nose against yours. You like the softness of his touches, the tenderness of his most mundane gestures, like the brush of nose on nose or the exchange of heavy breaths.

However, you were promised ruin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you question, voice harsh even with breaking into a whine near the end.

Chris furrows his brows. Something about your tone triggers even more might behind his thrusts. It takes everything in you to not arrogantly laugh at how quickly he  shifts from ferocity to concern to anger.

You push against his shoulders. Chris yields to your silent request, flexing his jaw and knitting his brows in quiet confusion. His hips do not hesitate once, though. They continue to forcefully shake your body, breasts and rolls bouncing with the bed.

Once Chris is leaning on his hands again, you strike him across the face.

“Mmm, fuck,” he groans, voice hushed and husky. Dark fury engulfs his features as he snaps his attention back on you.

You slap him again, and again, and again until your hand radiates heat, nerves stinging from the impact. His cheek is a bright red, jaw tight as he looks down at you.

You lift your other hand to smack him only to have him seize both your hands with one hand. You yelp at the swift motion and attempt to break free. You figure it wouldn’t be too hard, considering he is only using one hand to pin both of yours, but find that one hand is all he needs. Your wrists barely budge from their place over your head.

“My turn,” he purrs, red-stained face bright with amusement.

You clench your jaw, steeling yourself for the impact of his hand against your face, only to feel it upon your right breast. You curve yourself further into him with a loud, whiny gasp. Your nipple stings, coaxing tears as he does it again and again. He gives the left one the same amount of attention, smacking against the heavy curves over and over.

Core tightening with want around his cock and breasts burning with a feverish ache, you wail, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

Your voice breaks, sobs of incessant pleasure overwhelming you. He’s so, so big and so, so ruthless. You barely catch your breath with every thrust, let alone every slap of your breast or pinch of your nipple. He clamps your taut nub between his thumb and the edge of forefinger to squeeze and twist. You fall into a state of devilish delight, embracing the pain like a warm hug.

Chris, perhaps growing tired or just wanting to be closer, releases his grip on your shoulders and gives your chest a break. He falls back on his elbows and catches your lips in his. He swallows your sobs, your uncontrollable moans as he ram-ram-rams into you. The strength behind his thrust is ever so prominent, even his heavy balls smack against your rear, the pain watering your mouth.

“You wanna cum, baby?” he mutters against your lips in hushed tones. The depth of his voice slithers along your spine.

You keenly nod, tears splitting freely from your eyes. “Yes, yes, yes!” you whine between tumbling sobs. “P-please?”

He rests some of his weight on you, stunting your breathing. You now wheeze through moans and pants.

“Please what?”

His voice is a cacophony of primal growls and feral snarls, resonating against your chest right down to the marrow of your bones.

A whine of a syllable begins and falters under the combined weight of his frame and relentless hips. His dominance may demand your reply, but still shackles your voice, your very consciousness with every brutal thrust.

“Use your fucking words, you little slut or I swear to God, you won’t cum for the rest of the night!”

His threat sends a tremor through your entire being. But that voice, that croaky, hissing voice of pure power, curls your toes and rolls your eyes back. You clench tightly, forcing your orgasm back.

“Dad-dy!” You scream, voice breaking mid-way through into hysterical sobs, body overpowered by pain and pleasure alike.

A gratifying groan grumbles from the depths of his gut and you cannot hold yourself back any longer. Your muscles stiffen, legs lifting high to the ceiling with pointed toes and nails scratching at his biceps. Your jaw clenches, bouncing body trembling as a ripple of your release rushes over you.

Chris falls over you, his full weight now crushing you as he too tenses all over. The suffocation only heightens your orgasm, the waves of ecstasy now swelling into typhoons of rapturous bliss. Your mind spins, vision dims and sound muffles as you finally release around him.

Your lungs fight for air, the restriction becoming all too fatal. You swat at his biceps, attempting to gasp for air as you catch distant throaty groans between deliberate, harsh thrusts.

It takes him a handful of seconds, but Chris eventually realises his mistake, rushing to hold himself up on his elbows again.

You gasp upon the first breath of air, heaving as you eagerly consume mouthfuls of oxygen.

Chris mutters quiet apologies, voice nearly wavering as he tucks his face in the crook of your neck and peppers the soft skin with tender kisses. He’s careful about dispersing his weight on you, even as his muscles tremble from the struggle of holding himself up. He shifts his balance to his knees as his thrusts decrease in speed and power eventually stopping all together.

You let your eyes flutter shut, your mind floats as your orgasm continues to cascade over your consciousness. Your limbs fall limp onto the mattress, full chest heaving with heavy pants and whines. It’s not until Chris pulls himself out that you finally feel your combined cum leak out of you again and you realise he came too, probably when he lost his balance and fell on top of you.

You feel the bed dip beside you, but cannot hear anything beyond the rush of blood in your ears. If you try hard enough, you might be able to catch the muffled squeak of the mattress, or the creak of the wooden frame. However, transcending into a state of pure euphoric bliss, all thoughts swirling around a phantom boxer and his towering build, you cannot dwell on the sounds of the fading world around you.

Rough hands delicately caress your face. A trail of kisses start on your lips. Full, plush lips move down your neck, collarbone, valley of your breasts, stomach, left thigh down to the knee, then back up to the right thigh down to the knee. They take their time with every press against your sweat-slick skin, each one just as wet and tender as the last.

There is another shift beside you and strong arms pull you into their embrace. You allow them to cradle you into a buff chest. The distant pound of a hammering heart beats to the same fast pace as yours. Those strong hands brush your hair back as they pet your head.

You’re not sure how long you laid there or when you made it into the bath, sitting between two muscular thighs as those calloused, yet gentle hands lathered shampoo into your hair.

The warm water grounds you back into the present. You squint your eyes open to a dark wood slatted ceiling, finding that your head is tilted back as a detachable shower head washes the shampoo out of your hair. You take a moment to inhale deeply, letting the notes of vanilla sandalwood remind you of where you are.

The water shuts off, the steel shower head returns to its place on your right, and you right your head to take a look around the bathroom. Spacious, the room radiates sophistication and calmness. Walls clad in dark grey and black, polished chrome fixtures, and a deep, freestanding bathtub, room enough for two, you cannot help but feel a sense of luxurious serenity. The lights are hidden behind the crevices of the room, warm and soft in their illumination. You wonder if he purposely designed the room to reel himself back to reality after a match.

Chris clears his throat, the sound soft and subtle as if he is worried he might scare you.

The possible implication furrows your brows. You peek at him over your shoulder before twisting your torso to face him.

“Are you…” he trails off, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Alright?”

You’re not sure how to decipher his hesitation or the oddly shameful look in his eyes.

“Of course,” you reply.

His eyes narrow ever so slightly, as if he doesn’t believe you.

“Are you hurt?”

The question finally registers the faded red of his cheeks where you slapped him and the pink lines along his biceps. You swallow thickly as remorse tightens your chest.

“Are you?”

A ghost of a smirk hovers over his lips. He leans forward to comb some conditioner through your hair.

“I’ve never been better.”

“What…happened?”

You chew on the inside of your cheeks. You know what led up to this moment, but cannot fully place what happened between your orgasm and the bath. Your past sexual endeavours usually remain in one position and location. Chris has moved you between three rooms now, his office, bedroom, and bathroom, and tested your endurance in multiple positions in a single night.

Did you pass out? Were you sleeping?

“Have you heard of subspace?” Chris continues upon the furrow of your brows. “After sex, when some people in more submissive positions orgasm, they might get put into a certain euphoric headspace. You might not feel pain or even be in your body. Some people completely pass out,” he explains before reaching for the shower head again. Tapping the bottom of your chin with a single finger, he gestures for you to tilt your head back again. “Others,” he continues as he watches your hair, “are conscious but unresponsive.”

“Like I was?”you ask, eyes fluttering shut to prevent the sting of soap.

He hums in confirmation. “Do you remember anything?”

You shrug. “You were kissing me,” you pause, swallowing thickly, “and then I remember feeling you hug me.”

“Do you remember saying anything?”

Your eyes shoot open. Moving your head away from the spray, you meet his gaze again.

He bites back a sheepish grin.

“If you’re messing with me,” you begin, gritting your teeth. “I’ll—”

“Save your cute threats,” he teases, cutting you off. He rinses the last of the conditioner out of your hair, adding, “I’ll tell you what you said.”

You nervously gnaw on your lip waiting for him to continue. When he turns off the shower head and puts it back in its spot, you think he would finally say something. Instead, he pumps some body soap into a washcloth and lathers it up.

“Well?”

“I never said I would tell you now,” he chuckles.

You splash water at his chest, oh so tempted to scoop more directed at his face but decide against it when you catch that dark, daring gleam in his eyes.

“You’re an asshol—,” you mutter, cutting yourself off before a moan slips as the cloth scrubs against your skin.

Chris smirks, features unamused as if he’s used to this sort of reaction. How many other women has he washed in here after a particularly rigorous night?

The question fosters a flame of envy, and sears through the flesh of your heart.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask. You try to ignore the way he dips between the valley of your chest, then circles under to rub and squeeze the soap around your breasts. Your body betrays you again, however, back arching into his touch.

Chris furrows his brows. “I fucked you senseless and you expect me not to take care of you?”

You blink, baffled by not only his tone, but his words. Your cheeks burn at the realisation that he did indeed thrust every last one of your senses out of you. What’s more peculiar is that, even after all that, he didn’t kill you. He didn’t cram you into a cab and send you on your way, high on your orgasm and unable to fight back.

“I lied to you,” you dryly chuckle. “I told you I was commissioned.”

His smirk widens, hinting that he might still believe that after what just happened in his office and bedroom.

You roll your eyes. “I- You’re a Stray Kid,” you try again. “Isn’t killing what you do?”

Chris scrubs down your shoulders and back, then your arm, lifting it up as he replies, “Yes.”

A shaky breath escapes you as he drags the soapy cloth across the pit of your arm.

“You saved my life,” he adds, moving onto your other arm. “I had a rat in my gang and you helped identify it.”

Your spine stiffens.

His gang?

Chris flashes you a cautious look under his brows, tonguing his cheek.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. “You’re the leader of Stray Kids?”

Chris nods, submerging the cloth under the warm bath water to drag it along your thighs.

Does he want to have sex again? Is that why he’s keeping you alive? You don’t really mind, you just need to know because his hands are dangerously close to the apex of your thighs and he is telling you information you do not need to know and, in fact, have no right to know. It’s the kind of information that can possibly remove the bounty on your head.

“You once told me information you didn’t need to,” Chris explains as he gently cleans the previous mess he made between your legs.

Curling in your lips, you suppress a moan.

“You didn’t need to tell me your name, but you did. So I’m telling you something I don’t need to as an act of good faith.”

“I didn’t take you for the religious type.”

“I tend to get religious on top of the right woman.”

You press your legs together, squishing his hand.

He laughs, scorching your chest and cheeks with embarrassment.

You push his hand away from your core with an annoyed huff. You don’t have time for this. Though you are not in pain, your body is still exhausted. You just want to get back in his comfortable sheets and finally sleep this enough night off, if not go to your own bed.

“Do you want to go again?” you suddenly ask. “Is that what all this is about?”

Chris quirks a brow. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

A submissive, desperate part of you whines at his belittling tone and implication. If you wanted to, you most definitely could endure another round. However, you catch its outrage before it can make itself known beyond the knotting of your brows.

“So what then?” you ask.

Chis wrings out the cloth and tosses it aside. “I don’t like being indebted to anyone. You saved my life. I’m going to save yours,” he states matter-a-factly. “You are now under Stray Kids protection. You will have round-the-clock surveillance and train to learn to defend yourself properly against threats should your security fail.”

You blink.

Protection?

You remember thinking of Chris as your protector when he was touching you, but even then, riddled with lust, you knew it was only a fantasy. You are not worthy of protection. You are barely worthy of friendship. You almost lost Vinny. How can he really think you are worth saving?

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Right,” he nods, tone descending in depth as his gaze sharpens. “Because I will be protecting you against the bounty.”

You scoff. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s not up for debate.”

“It’s my life.”

Chris casts you a look of sarcastic confusion. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re eager to end it,” he practically sneers.

You tuck your chin into your chest, averting his stern glare. “You don’t know what you are getting yourself into,” you mutter as a means of warning.

I’m damaged. I’m broken. I am not a life saver.

“A life for a life— That is the rule of the city,” Chris reaffirms. “You saved mine. I am saving yours.”

You fall silent. Keeping your attention locked on the black, marble floors, you let him wash all the soap off. You are not going to argue with the leader of Stray Kids, not tonight anyway, not as exhaustion is slowly claiming you, one limb at a time. 

Fuck it— If he wants to fulfill this delusional debt of his then that is his problem. You warned him. You tried to fight this. When he eventually realises that you are more trouble than you are worth, you will gladly laugh and tell him you told him so.

“My bed or the spare’s?” he suddenly asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“What?”

“Do you want to sleep in my bed or the one in the spare bedroom?”

“Um,” you start as Chris grabs a towel. “Am I allowed to go home?”

“Of course,” he nods, “ I can get Seungmin and Felix to take you.”

You wonder which one is Felix before tentatively meeting his gaze. “Do you want me to sleep in your bed?”

Chris suppresses a little smile with a bite of his lip. His eyes do not gleam with their causal mischief or amusement, rather a hint of adoration— if you squint. “I would sleep better if you did,” he confesses, voice dropping an octave.

And so you find yourself in one of his shirts, the fabric barely brushing over the full curve of your rear, under layers of soft, silk sheets. Behind you, Chris wraps a strong arm around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. You can feel the beat of his heart against your back, feel how it echoes the race of your own.

You want him, want this so badly you can feel the aching desire deep within your bones. But the fear of shattering his world, of absorbing him and everything that matters to him into your vortex of ruin, shackles you in place.The red lights of Crimson Heights illuminate the room. As you watch the city, his steady breath fans against the nape of your neck. Mind exhausted, body slowly aching, you allow yourself to lean into him just this once and shut your eyes.

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other reader. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

[kanroji-san]

LURE

The ecological crisis had reached its peak.

The seas, once teeming with vibrant life, were now darker, dirtier. Plants withered. Creatures perished.

But what of those who lived beneath the surface?

The ones with voices like song and blood touched by magic—

What of the underwater dwellers?

---

The sea grew darker as they descended—past the coral gardens, past the glowing kelp forests, past the trench where no sunlight dared reach. Then, beyond a curtain of shimmering bioluminescent strands, the palace emerged like a memory half-forgotten.

The Hall of Tides was carved from the bones of a leviathan—its ribs arching high like cathedral vaults, echoing the whispers of ancient songs. Walls pulsed with faint, living light, as though the sea itself breathed in time with its queen. Veins of pearl and obsidian laced the floor, forming a luminous sigil beneath the waterlogged steps that led to the throne.

It wasn’t a throne of gold. No—that would have been too easy, too mortal.

Her throne was forged from shipwrecks—splintered wood, rusted anchors, shattered harps, and bones bleached by salt. It rose like a crown of ruin, surrounded by drifting jellyfish whose glowing tendrils danced like veils.

And there she sat.

The Siren Queen.

Queen Nereida.

---

Her hair flowed like a storm’s tide—long, silky, midnight blue with threads of teal and silver. It shimmered with a soft, bioluminescent glow, moving with an unseen current. Fin-like extensions curved from her head, seamless and regal, as if she was born from the ocean itself.

Her eyes were glowing icy blue, piercing and deep—there were no whites, only swirling light and shadows, like the gaze of something that had seen too much.

Her skin was moon-pale with a bluish sheen, radiant and glasslike. Her face was sculpted—high cheekbones, a graceful jaw, and lips that rarely smiled. She looked carved by sorrow and crowned by silence.

Her attire was armor made of sea—fitted turquoise and indigo scales on top, with sleeves and draping sea-silk below that moved like wild kelp. Pearls, coral, and crystals hung from her wrists and throat, her headpiece glimmering like a constellation caught in a tidepool.

She rubbed the bridge of her nose, tired.

Another report. Another casualty.

It was the third time her people had turned on one another—driven mad by hunger.

She didn’t know what to do anymore.

Beside her stood Virel, her loyal advisor.

His pale golden-blonde hair floated around him like sunbeams underwater. His aquamarine eyes sparkled with warmth and mischief, even now, though there was pity in them as he watched his queen. His silver-white tail shimmered with soft iridescence, and his chest was wrapped in pearl and crystal chains. Regal, yes—but not cold. Virel always felt like sunlight after a storm.

Her Majesty was clearly already calculating a way forward.

But then—

A deafening boom echoed through the chamber.

The great doors of the Hall groaned open, and every eye turned.

Three figures swam through the threshold, parting the court like a current.

At the center swam a dark figure: a merman with jet-black hair cascading down his shoulders and piercing silver eyes. His obsidian tail shimmered with violet undertones, like a trench catching dying starlight. His muscular form gleamed faintly, but it was his presence that chilled the water—unreadable, ancient, commanding. He wore barbed crystal, raw silver, and bone-white pearls. His finned ears twitched, catching every sound. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

To his right was a younger-looking male. He had a sun-brushed chest and a mane of ocean-blue hair. His golden eyes gleamed with cunning, despite his soft features. A tail of frosted scales glimmered behind him, translucent like sky reflected on water. Chains and pearls hung from his shoulders and wrists like royal ornaments—beautiful, and calculated.

And beside them, the smallest of the three—a girl.

Her skin gleamed like pearl. Her silver hair flowed in liquid waves. Her tail sparkled with starlight, and her rose-quartz eyes flicked around nervously, lingering on the queen. Gilded rings hung from her long, elven ears, and her sea-silk gown floated like mist around her. A mermaid. Young. Uncertain.

Together, the trio swam forward—and bowed low.

“Greetings to Her Majesty.”

Nereida looked at them with faint disinterest, tapping her fingers on the armrest.

Then she raised a single hand.

“Rise, children.”

They straightened in unison.The Queen glanced at them and returned her gaze to the black-haired man.

"You became really bold to interfere with my meeting, M!Y/n."

"My apologies, my Queen, for this gesture. But I am here to ask you for your favor."

Nereida was silent for a few seconds. Her eyes narrowed, and her voice cut like ice.

"Meeting is over."

The ministers didn’t dare argue. They bowed quickly and disappeared into the shadows of the hall. Silence descended, broken only by the soft bubbling of currents and the hum of magic that pulsed faintly through the pearl-inlaid walls.

Nereida reached for her scepter beside the throne, rising with measured grace. Her hair floated behind her like a dark veil, and her jeweled crown shimmered with the weight of ancient authority.

She stood before him, cold eyes fixated on his face.

"My favor?" she repeated.

M!Y/n straightened, unfazed. His voice was calm, yet laced with urgency.

"There is unrest spreading through the waters. The scarcity of food is driving both mermaids and sirens to the edge. Our songs grow desperate. If this continues, there will be no kingdom left to rule."

Nereida said nothing, her fingers tightening around the scepter.

"Caelis, Ravelle, and I want to go to the surface," he continued. "As idols. To lure. To feed. To survive."

Nereida’s eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, something flickered in her expression—fear, perhaps.

"You want to expose yourselves in a world that now hunts the unknown? Have you forgotten Huntr/x? Those demon-slayers won’t hesitate to gut you."

Caelis swam closer, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "We’ll be careful. We won’t sing until necessary. And Ravelle's illusion weaving is nearly flawless now."

"It's suicide," Virel's voice echoed from the shadows. The Queen’s advisor stepped into the light, frowning. "They won’t make it a day without drawing suspicion."

"Then go with them," Nereida said, her tone absolute.

Virel’s jaw clenched. "My Queen—"

"You’ll pose as their manager. Make the connections. Guide them. Protect them."

He inhaled slowly, defeated. "As you wish."

Nereida raised her hand, summoning three glowing amulets formed from coral, pearl, and starfire. She held them out.

"These will anchor your human forms. Do not lose them. If they shatter, you will revert—and humans are not kind to what they do not understand."

M!Y/n took the amulets, his eyes calm but alight with something ancient. Hunger.

---

The moonlight kissed the ocean’s surface, turning the waves into silver glass.

Four figures stood at the shoreline, clothed in sleek black, their reflections human.

Ravelle giggled softly, her eyes glowing faintly violet. "The stars are so... different from here."

Caelis tilted his head, eyes closed, listening. "I can hear them. Warm blood. Fast hearts. They're close."

"First night," M!Y/n murmured, slipping his hand through his midnight-dark hair. A wicked grin touched his lips.

They turned toward the beach trail, where a small group of humans wandered, laughing and unaware.

As the group of strangers passed by the shadowed dunes, they felt a chill.

Four beautiful strangers stood under the moon, their smiles slow, eyes gleaming like predators in the dark.

It had begun.

Words: 1544

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 25/?)

Ironic, isn’t it? Something engineered to kill now holds the power to heal.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 11K

Warnings: disease descriptions, "death", delusions about dead people, blood and violence, allusion to human experiments, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 24

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Felicia's laughter rang through the room like a broken bell—sharp, piercing, almost dissonant, as if it didn't quite belong. And yet, to him, it was melodic in its own twisted way. It curled around his mind like a lullaby long forgotten, remembered only in dreams. It didn't matter that it was too loud, too strange. It was hers. And for Silco, that was enough.

Her hands, impossibly warm, gripped his with a kind of reckless confidence as they spun across the old ballroom floor. Dust rose with every step, dancing alongside them in the slivers of light that spilled through shattered windows. The chandelier above them hung crooked, glass teardrops long since fallen, like the shattered remains of a memory. In the far corner of the room sat the orchestra—silent, abandoned. 

Violins with snapped strings. Trumpets with bent bells. The cello, split in half like a body left too long to rot. And yet... the music played on. It filled the air, thick and haunting, as if conjured from the walls themselves. It shouldn't have existed, not anymore. But nothing about this moment obeyed the laws of reality. Or time. Or logic.

He let her lead.

It was strange, to surrender. To give up control so freely. But there was grace in her steps, precision in her madness. She guided him like a maestro, like she had done once in another life. His boots scuffed across the floor in perfect counterpoint to her bare feet, and he followed her movements with the focus of a soldier—but in truth, he felt more like a child again. A student learning something new.

And then he saw them—in the mirrors that lined the walls. Not as they were now, but as they once had been.

Silco's reflection met him with a face unmarked by pain. No scar splitting his face, no eye forever burning with Shimmer. His long hair was tied back into a loose bun, the strands soft and careless, with the familiar fringe still falling across his forehead. A face that hadn't yet seen betrayal. That hadn't yet chosen violence. A man who still believed in something.

Beside him, Felicia remained untouched by time. She always would. Time hadn't claimed her—at least not in the same way it had claimed him. She laughed in that mirror too, but it was less sharp, more real. No echoes. Just her, forever young and free.

She looked at him with familiarity deep, unwavering. There was no fear in her eyes. No suspicion. No resentment for the things he had done or the man he had become. Only that steady, knowing gaze—soft and ancient in its understanding. It was trust. It was love, but not the kind that demanded possession or confession. It was love that simply was. Elemental. Unshakable. A bond forged not through romance, but, through shared silence and unspoken truths.

He returned the gaze with a softness that surprised even himself.

Then, with a grace so seamless it could've been orchestrated by the gods, Felicia surrendered the lead. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Her fingertips relaxed in his grip, the weight of her presence shifting ever so slightly—an invisible transference of power. It was not submission. It was trust, again. A quiet offering.

Silco moved.

He stepped forward, guiding her now. The rhythm didn't change, but the tempo of his breath did. He led her through the ruined ballroom like it was sacred ground, each movement instinctual, like he had done this a thousand times before. And gods, if the universe would allow it, he would do it a thousand more.

Then, without thinking, he spun her.

It was smooth. Almost too smooth. As if time itself bent to allow the motion.

The lights overhead flickered. A mechanical stutter. The chandeliers sputtered like candles in a dying wind. The phantom orchestra groaned—violins screeched out of tune, brass wailed, the percussion cracked like bones. For a heartbeat, the entire dream trembled.

And then he caught her.

He pulled her back toward him, sharp but certain, and her body collided with his—her back to his chest, her warmth melting into him like it had always belonged there. The lights steadied. The music fell back into its ghostly rhythm. The world, once again, was still.

But something had changed.

Felicia had changed.

He didn't notice it immediately. At first, it was just a flicker—a question unspoken in the curve of her spine, in the way her breath hitched as it touched his neck. But then his hands, still holding her waist, realized what his mind had not yet caught up to.

The frame pressed against him wasn't familiar in the way Felicia had always been—sharp elbows, strong shoulders, always slightly too thin. This woman was softer, more fluid, curved in ways Felicia had never been. Her scent had changed too. Still faintly floral, but not the same wildflower fields from his past. This was headier. Heavier.

This wasn't his friend. This wasn't the girl who once made him laugh when laughter still felt like an option.

This was his lover.

They caught each other's gaze in the mirror.

She stood there in all her ethereal glory, draped in the white dress he had given her on the day of the masquerade ball. The fabric shimmered faintly in the dim light, like it was woven from moonlight and silk, clinging to her with an elegance that felt otherworldly. She looked like something out of a memory that never quite belonged to him—too perfect, too radiant, like a relic of a life he had only glimpsed in dreams.

And beside her—reflected in the glass—still stood the younger version of himself. His clothes were worn, unrefined, almost pitiful compared to her elegance. A street rat in rags standing beside a goddess. But she wasn't looking at his clothes. She wasn't measuring their disparity.

She was looking at him. His face. His eyes. As if trying to see what lay beneath them. There was no judgment in her gaze. Only curiosity and something gentler, almost tender.

He felt it like a knife.

She would have adored this younger Silco. The one still capable of gentleness. The one not yet twisted by betrayal and necessity. He would have adored her too—cherished her with a reverence the older version of him had been too hardened, too tired, to maintain. The older Silco had used her. Weaponized her loyalty. Allowed her to become collateral in a war she never asked to fight.

But this version... this boy, barely hardened by the world... he would have held her like she was something sacred.

His lips found her neck—not in lust, but in reverence. His breath moved slow and deliberate against her skin, drinking in the scent that lingered there. His hands tightened at her waist, drawing her closer until there was no space left between them, no breath that didn't belong to both.

For a moment, he stayed like that—silent, still, suspended in a fragile pocket of time where he was hers, and she was his.

He wanted to stay there. He wanted it more than he wanted control, more than he wanted vengeance, more than he wanted the freedom he had built in Zaun with blood and fear. But the music called them back.

So he moved.

Another spin, gentle this time. He let her turn beneath his arm, her dress sweeping the dust from the floor like a painter's brushstroke. And when she returned to him, their positions mirrored the beginning. Her hand in his. Her body once again yielding to his guidance.

But his leadership didn't last long.

Just as the transition of power had been seamless when Felicia passed it to him, so too was its return—so subtle it could have gone unnoticed by anyone not paying close attention. One moment, he was leading. The next, he wasn't. Her steps grew surer, her rhythm stronger, and suddenly Silco found himself following again. He resisted at first—of course he did. 

Authority wasn't something he gave up easily. It had been torn from his grasp too many times for him to part with it willingly now, not when it had been handed to him so deliberately by Felicia. He fought for it in the only way the dance allowed—subtle shifts of weight, intentional missteps, gentle pressure on her waist, his hand tightening in hers.

But she responded with equal determination.

Their dance became a disguised struggle, a silent war waged through movement and breath. A rebellion masked by grace. There were no missteps, no breaks in rhythm—just the undercurrent of tension that grew between them, pulsing through each turn, each pivot. It was a power struggle painted as poetry. A conversation that required no words.

But in the end, there was only one victor.

Him.

By sheer force of will, or maybe because some part of her chose to yield, Silco reclaimed control. His hands steadied her hips, his stride grew sure once more, and she—whether by submission or design—followed. They moved together in perfect sync, their reflections spinning across the mirrors like memories made flesh.

And then—silence.

The final note of the phantom orchestra rang through the air like a dying breath, reverberating through the bones of the ballroom. It echoed into stillness, and there they stood—centered in the ruins, in the quiet aftermath of music that had never truly been real.

She looked up at him.

Her eyes, wide and unblinking, met his with something that felt older than time. Devotion. But it wasn't the kind that lifted or healed. It was the kind that consumed. That burned from the inside out and left nothing behind but ash and memory. A look that meant everything and nothing all at once.

A look that meant love.

Not the gentle kind. The destructive kind. The kind that hollowed men out.

Silco leaned in slowly, the weight of the moment thick in his chest. He didn't know what he was reaching for—a kiss, a confession, a surrender—but it didn't matter. His lips were just a breath away from hers when something shifted.

Her body collapsed.

No sound. No cry. Just her knees giving way beneath her, like the strings had been cut.

He caught her instinctively, arms closing around her as they both crumpled to the ground. Her weight pressed into him—heavier now, limp, wrong. His hand found her back, then lower, searching for the shape of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest. But there was none. Then he saw it.

The blood.

Dark and blooming through the white of her dress like ink spilled across a page. Spreading from the center of her chest in slow, cruel tendrils. A dagger, buried deep, the hilt barely visible beneath the crimson that soaked her.

Silco lifted his gaze, and there—waiting for him in the cracked, dust-veiled mirror—was himself.

Not the version that had danced. Not the boy with soft features and wild hair. No. It was him. The man he had become. Older. Hardened. Scarred. His good eye burned beneath the weight of sleepless nights and poisoned dreams, staring back with that familiar, detached indifference—the same look he gave the world when he no longer had the strength to care.

But that wasn't what chilled him.

It wasn't the expression. It was the hand. The reflection's hand gripped the dagger's hilt.

Not floating above it. Not reaching toward it. Holding it. Firmly. Like it had always belonged to him. Silco's heart stuttered. He blinked, hesitating before looking down, dreading what he already knew. And there it was. His hand. Flesh and blood. Wrapped tightly around the hilt, buried deep in her chest.

His hand. 

His hand thrusting the dagger into her heart.

He had killed her.

Silco awoke with a gasp, the kind that steals all the breath from your lungs and replaces it with fire. His body jolted upright, spine stiff, shoulders heaving. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The world around him—the walls, the ceiling, the cold metal of the room—felt too still. Too real. As if the dream had chased him back into the waking world and refused to let go.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, the sound of his breathing loud against the quiet. He ran a hand down his face, the tips of his fingers trembling. Sweat clung to his skin, cold and damp, soaking the collar of his shirt. His heart was still racing. The memory of the ballroom echoed behind his eyes, the taste of phantom music still on his tongue.

And worst of all—his fingers still remembered the sensation. That damned sensation.

The weight of her. The warmth of her blood. The stillness of her body. The softness of her dress. He could still feel the way her head had slumped against his chest, dead. He exhaled slowly, forcing his body to obey him again. To ground itself in the reality he had carved for himself. But yet...

That dream had teeth.

It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last. It was always her. Always his dove. Twisting her way into the corners of his mind, appearing not as the lover she had once been, but as every version he had failed—as the proof that even in his most peaceful moments, he could not be trusted with love. Not without ruining it. Not without claiming it and breaking it and burying it.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, letting the chill of the room settle into his bones. Sleep had abandoned him. Slipped through his fingers the moment he had closed them around that dagger.

Guilt. Maybe that was what this was. The old stories always talked about guilt like a chain, dragging behind you. But Silco knew better. Guilt wasn't behind him. It lived in his chest, in his fingers, in his reflection.

Whatever peace he might've found in sleep—it was a lie. A trap. And like all traps, it had sprung when he was most vulnerable. He stood, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. There would be no more rest tonight.

And that was fine.

The world didn't stop turning just because ghosts came to dance.

[...]

"Do whatever she asks."

That was the command Silco had given Marcus, in response to a particularly desperate letter the man had sent weeks ago. A pitiful plea wrapped in official tones, asking for guidance, for help, for anything—as if Silco didn't already know what the real concern was. As if he hadn't felt it the moment he read her name on the page.

It had been a damn rollercoaster. The memory of that strange encounter with the figure from Noxus still left a bitter taste in his mouth. There was something about that thing—too calm, too knowing—that unsettled Silco more than he cared to admit. And yet, the true storm began only after. That damned meeting was the beginning of the end of his patience. She was there. Close enough to reach and he couldn't do anything.

It took every ounce of discipline not to send a team to retrieve her, to tear down the pristine walls of Piltover and burn them to ash if it meant getting her back. But no—he kept his end of the bargain. So he waited. He watched. And with each passing day, he felt the rot of absence settle deeper into his bones.

Three weeks. Three long weeks since the confirmation. And now he was beginning to understand what people called longing. A pathetic word, really. Poetic, romanticized. But the truth of it was anything but beautiful. It was corrosive. It hurt. He hated how much it hurt.

All he had of her were Marcus's letters—meandering, overly cautious updates filtered through layers of cowardice—and a few stolen reports from the Stillwater guards he had quietly bought. 

When word reached him that she was masquerading as some kind of enforcer, a shadow operating under the banner of the same institution that had once hunted her, he'd known then that he couldn't rely on Marcus alone. So he made sure his own eyes were on her—indirectly, of course. Hidden. Quiet. The way he know to be when survival depended on being unseen.

It wasn't just Piltover that worried him—it was him. Her old master. The one who'd molded her, twisted her into a weapon and that he would do anything to get back what was once his. Silco hadn't forgotten him because he was there, and Silco knew better than anyone that he would not sit idly by. Not once he realized his prized creation had returned, hidden in plain sight.

For now, the arrangement with that Noxian organization still held. Fragile, unspoken, but intact. His dove was alive—safe, even, in some twisted way. That mysterious figure from Noxus, seemed to be playing a deeper game. Silco couldn't tell if the they intentions were strategic, protective, or just the movements of a bored puppeteer with too many strings at his disposal. 

Maybe they wanted the founder of the Institute to look elsewhere—to hunt ghosts in the dark, to chase theories and whispers while the truth remained hidden. If so, Silco could only be grateful. He didn't care how it worked. As long as she remained untouched, unseen, unclaimed.

Silco was many things, but naive wasn't one of them. He didn't trust the Noxians, not truly. But he knew leverage when he saw it. And for now, they were a shield. A necessary evil.

But even with all the politics and paranoia swirling around him, only one thing had him genuinely enraged. One thing that made his blood boil with a fury he could barely suppress. Her. The pink-haired brat. The one who was supposed to be dead.

She had haunted his past like a specter and when she vanished, Silco had made it a point to confirm it. He had demanded blood, demanded proof. Marcus had looked him in the eye and sworn—sworn—that the girl was gone. That chapter was over.

Except it wasn't.

Now, years later, the same child had returned not as a corpse, but a grown weapon. Breathing. Moving. Protected and not by just anyone—but by her. The woman he loved. The only person in all of Zaun, in all of the underworld, who had ever truly seen him for who he was—and stayed. And now, she had wrapped herself around the one thing that should have never come back.

He didn't even know what was worse: that the girl was alive... or that his dove had taken to guarding her like some loyal hound, ready to bare her teeth at anyone who got too close. Even him.

It was betrayal, and it wasn't. He couldn't blame her, not entirely, not after everything he'd done. She was loyal to Vander, then the loyalty passed to the damn pink-haired brat.

Silco had confronted Marcus the moment the report landed on his desk. Threw it at the bastard's feet. Called him a liar to his face, venom in every word. Marcus, for his part, had paled like a ghost, stammered some excuses.

Silco didn't care.

The damage was done. The past wasn't buried—it was walking.

Sending assassins after her would be the equivalent of painting a bright red target across his own chest—no, his soul—and Silco knew exactly who would be the one to pull the trigger if it came to that. His little dove. His sweet, broken masterpiece. If she even suspected that he had anything to do with harming that girl, there would be no begging, no talking her down from the ledge. Not this time. She would aim straight for his heart and she wouldn't miss.

All he could do now was hope. Hope that Violet's body would give in to whatever sickness clung to her. Hope that the illness that had taken root weeks ago would finish what he had started long before. Because as long as she lived, she was a threat. Not to Silco directly—no, he not fearing her fists. But to the fragile, volatile balance he'd built atop lies and broken pieces.

There was still one person who didn't know. One person who must not know.

Jinx.

If she even suspected her sister was alive...

He didn't let himself finish the thought. He couldn't.

She trusted him. Through everything, through the fire and madness and years of silence, Jinx had clung to his words like gospel. Vi is gone. That had been the truth he'd fed her, over and over, until it had become a part of her very identity. He'd ripped out her past, rewritten her pain, and filled the hollow space with purpose—his purpose. He didn't do it out of cruelty. He did it because she needed it.

But if that truth ever resurfaced? If that fragile thread snapped?

Jinx wouldn't hesitate.

Her loyalty ran deeper than blood, more powerful than logic or reason—but it was not blind. Silco knew her mind too well. The chaos, the echoes, the fire. All it would take was a moment—a whisper, a face in a crowd—and the illusion would crumble. And when it did, she wouldn't come asking questions. She'd come with bullets and bombs.

For now, he would let her play her little game. Let her wear the mask of a guardian, let her cling to that hollow hope that she could save the girl. If that was the path—the trial—that thing from Noxus had spoken of, then so be it. Silco didn't believe in fate, not in the romantic sense that she used to whisper about late at night when she still trusted him. But he believed in design. In cause and effect. In inevitable descent.

And if the only way she would ever come to accept the truth of what she was—what she had to become—was through disappointment, then he would allow her that heartbreak. He would let her feel the sharp edge of betrayal, not his, not this time, but the betrayal of her own ideals. He would let her bleed for them.

Because maybe the pain of his betrayal hadn't been enough. Maybe it had wounded her, but not deep enough to sever the last threads that tied her to Vander's lies. But death? Real death—the kind that doesn't leave room for second chances, that doesn't flinch when she screams—that might do the trick. If she had to watch that girl die, to see her own hands stained with the guilt of failure, perhaps then, finally, she'd stop running from what she truly was.

Silco took a long drink of whiskey, the liquid searing down his throat, but it didn't bite the way it used to. The burn barely registered anymore. He couldn't decide if that was a mercy or another kind of slow punishment he'd carved out for himself in her absence.

He'd been drinking too much. He knew it. Everyone around him knew it. But no one would dare say a word. He told himself it wasn't because of her, that her absence hadn't carved a hollow into his chest, that the liquor wasn't just a poor substitute for the voice he missed hearing in the stillness of his office. But lies have a way of curdling when spoken too often—even to yourself.

He stared down at the paperwork before him, documents that meant the difference between survival and collapse for half of Zaun. His signature scrawled across them in quick, practiced strokes, efficient as ever. But the truth was, his heart wasn't in it. Not anymore. Not without her sitting across from him, challenging his every word, mocking his seriousness with that glint in her eye that said she understood him better than anyone ever had—and still chose to stay.

Until she didn't.

Silco set the glass down a little too hard. The sound echoed in the room, sharp, final. The whiskey bottle was half-empty, the way it always was these days. He told himself it was just a phase. That once she came back—and she would—things would steady. The world would right itself. She'd see things clearly then. She'd see him clearly.

A sharp knock echoed through the room, its rhythm clipped. Sevika's voice followed immediately after—blunt and efficient, as always.

"Singed requests a meetin." she called from the other side of the door. "Something about the new scientist."

Silco let out a slow breath through his nose, already grateful she'd skipped the small talk. With Sevika, he didn't have to endure the pleasantries or preambles that so many others wasted time with. She spoke in facts, and facts were easier to manage.

"Let him in."

The door opened, the dim light of the hallway spilling briefly into the room before being swallowed again by the ever-present haze that lingered around his office. Sevika entered first—tall, composed, always a presence that demanded attention—and behind her came Singed, quiet as a wraith, moving with that same eerie grace that had always unsettled those not used to him. The doctor held a letter in one hand, delicate in contrast to his gaunt, scarred fingers. His expression was unreadable. It always was.

Sevika didn't move any further once she stepped inside. She lingered by the door, waiting—always waiting—for a cue. Silco didn't speak, merely lifted a hand and gestured toward the worn sofa off to the side. She obeyed immediately, walking over with those heavy steps of hers and settling down without protest.

Singed moved next, taking a seat with slow, measured control. No dramatics. No wasted energy. And then, with the same calm detachment he always wore like a second skin, he dropped the letter he carried onto the desk between them.

Silco let the silence stretch for a few moments longer, his fingers tapping absently against the side of his chair. Then, without shifting his gaze from the now-open letter in front of him, he spoke, his voice low and even, though edged with something sharper.

"If I recall correctly... you once told me you hadn't received a satisfactory response from Viktor regarding our proposition."

There was a beat of stillness, the kind that hung heavy in the air—not tense, but thoughtful. Singed tilted his head slightly, the motion slow, like he was sifting through memories. Then he answered, voice measured and clinical, as always.

"That was accurate... until this morning." He paused, letting the weight of that hang between them before continuing. "A letter arrived. From Viktor himself. He has agreed to join the research."

Silco's brow arched with deliberate slowness, the sharp line of it a clear sign of his surprise. He turned his head just enough to regard the doctor more fully, studying him through narrowed eyes. This wasn't what he'd expected—not in the slightest.

In his mind, Silco had already mapped out two possible futures: one where he'd be forced to coerce the scientist into cooperation, using whatever leverage became most effective, and another where—should persuasion fail—Viktor would simply become another obstacle to eliminate. A regrettable loss, but not an irreplaceable one. That he had chosen to accept, and without resistance, was not a piece that fit neatly into any of Silco's designs.

"Just like that? He accepted without demands? No conditions? No hesitations?"

"None." Singed replied simply. "He offered no terms. Merely confirmed his willingness to collaborate."

Silco's eyes narrowed further, and he leaned back in his chair once more, his thoughts turning inward like storm clouds rolling over the skyline of his mind. He didn't trust easy victories. In Zaun, nothing ever came without a price. Nothing. And people like Viktor—ideologues, dreamers—were especially dangerous when they gave in without resistance. It meant they already had their own reasons. Their own plans.

He glanced again at the letter on his desk, then toward Singed, whose expression remained maddeningly impassive. Silco hated that. Not because he thought Singed was lying—no, the man had proven too valuable, too consistent for that—but because with him, truth could be just as unsettling as deception.

"And you find that curious, I assume." Silco's tone wasn't quite a question.

Singed inclined his head ever so slightly. "I anticipated resistance. Perhaps negotiation. At the very least, a set of stipulations. But there was nothing of the sort. It's... uncharacteristic, even for him."

Silco's gaze drifted to the shadows dancing along the far wall of the office, the low flicker of the chemical lamps casting everything in sickly greens. His mind turned over the possibilities.

What did Viktor want? More importantly—what did he think he could gain by saying yes so quickly?

This wasn't charity. This wasn't desperation. It was something else.

"No one enters a pact without expecting something in return." Silco muttered, mostly to himself, then focused again. "Keep him under close observation. If he starts working, I want records of everything. Research logs, formulas, conversations. I want to know what he's doing and what he's thinking."

Singed gave a slight nod. "Already in place."

Of course it was.

Silco exhaled slowly and turned his eyes once again to the letter. For now, fortune had smiled on him—unexpectedly, perhaps, but undeniably. Viktor's presence could accelerate things. Add legitimacy. Resources. Vision. But Silco had lived too long in the depths of betrayal and blood to believe in gifts that came without strings.

And if Viktor had none...

That only meant the strings were hidden and Silco would find them. Or cut them first.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

[...]

Hours before.

The moon hung high, brilliant and full, casting silvery light across the iron bones of the bridge. It felt like it was watching, like it was meant to witness this exact moment—an unspoken rendezvous under its quiet gaze. Below, the river murmured softly, the gentle lapping of waves against stone pillars composing a rhythm, a steady heartbeat to the charged stillness around you.

The wind teased your hair, strands dancing wildly across your face, some catching on your lashes, others brushing against your lips like whispers. You didn't move much, only turned your head slightly toward the voice that had cut through the silence.

He didn't feel like a stranger, even though this was the first time you'd truly seen his face. Maybe it was the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the way his angular features seemed both striking and fragile. 

His skin was pale, like parchment in moonlight, and his eyes... his eyes were what held you. Deep, knowing, like he was always calculating—like you were a variable in a complex equation and he'd just solved it. Those eyes studied you with a quiet intensity, the kind that might have belonged to a scientist observing the final stage of an experiment.

But what truly gave him away was the cane.

He looked at you the same way you looked at him—like recognition had bloomed in some dormant part of your memory, and now it was impossible to ignore.

Then came that smile. Subtle. Crooked. One corner of his lips tugging upward just enough to be noticed, as if he had solved something only he was aware of.

"I barely recognized you in this enforcer uniform." 

He said, voice calm, but with the casual edge of someone who practiced sounding unbothered. There was something peculiar in his accent, too—an intentional mimicry of Piltover refinement, yet it didn't quite cover the undercurrent of Zaun in his tone. It was too clean. Too studied.

You didn't answer right away. You were still cataloging every piece of him, every flicker of movement in his expression. Even his posture was a puzzle. He stood like someone who had never truly relaxed. Not entirely.

"It's good to see you again, Baroness."

That damn title

"That title doesn't belong to me anymore."

He inclined his head slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening just enough to acknowledge your words. He didn't argue. He didn't push. That alone earned him a sliver of your trust.

"Then..." he said carefully, tone shifting to something more thoughtful, almost curious, "How should I address you?"

You spoke it.

Your name.

Just your name.

He repeated it slowly, almost experimentally. The way it left his lips, wrapped in that deep accent smoothed by his time in Piltover, made it sound unfamiliar but... pleasant. Gentle, even. There was a cadence to it you hadn't heard before. Maybe it was the way he rolled the syllables, or the softness he laced into it like a scientist being careful not to disturb a volatile compound.

There was charm in the way he said it. Subtle, unintentional. And yet, despite that, it still didn't compare.

Because when he used to say your name—when Silco said it—it was different. That was something else entirely. His voice wrapped around it like it owned it. He didn't just say your name, he claimed it, gave it meaning, used it like a knife or a promise, depending on the moment. There had always been something dangerous about it when it came from his mouth. Something sacred. Something ruined.

But that chapter was closed. That part of you was buried beneath too many layers to resurface now. Still, the comparison crept in uninvited, and you hated that it did. You shook it off, grounding yourself in the present. In the man in front of you.

"I'm Viktor, madam."

You noticed it then—something you hadn't registered before. His silhouette had emerged from the shadowed edge of the bridge, the side that sloped downward into the darker veins of Zaun, not the glittering arteries that led upward into the polished, proud heart of Piltover. You hadn't questioned it in the moment—perhaps a part of you didn't want to—but now, the realization lingered like a bitter taste at the back of your throat.

Your body acted on instinct. You stepped away from the edge of the bridge, your boots clicking against the steel in a rhythm more determined than you felt. You turned your back to him, not out of rudeness—but as a shield. A silent declaration that the conversation was over before it even began. That this, whatever it had been, had lasted long enough.

You began your walk, heading back toward Piltover. Toward Stillwater. Back to duty. Back to the cold, predictable structure of a world that made more sense when emotions weren't clouding it. Back to Violet....

But of course, Viktor wasn't the kind to let someone walk away so easily. Just as the distance between you grew—enough that your footfalls had begun to echo in solitary rhythm—his voice sliced through the air.

"I know about you."

You froze.

It wasn't a threat, or a boast. He said it like a fact. A line drawn cleanly across the night sky.

Your breath caught for a moment, chest rising slowly as you turned your gaze just slightly over your shoulder. You didn't face him fully—didn't want to give him that satisfaction—but you stopped walking. Silence rushed in to fill the space between his words and your next move. The river below murmured, a steady undercurrent of noise against the sudden stillness in your head.

He hadn't moved. Still standing at the edge where shadows touched his feet, his form half-draped in moonlight, half claimed by the dark. Like he didn't belong fully to either world.

"You know about me?"

"Yes." The word was clipped, but not cold. There was something beneath it. Something careful. "And not the fantasy version where you were Silco's delicate bride."

His eyes found you again, and it was like a pressure against your ribs. Like he saw through the layers you had so meticulously built.

"Immortality is something impossible to achieve through science, but magic was also impossible, and Jayce and I achieved it. Just like you did." Viktor rambled. "The impossible is just a step that humanity is not yet sure how it will achieve, but it will eventually."

You clenched your jaw. This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go.

You turned fully to face him now, your boots whispering against the metal surface of the bridge. There was no rush. You weren't sure if you were walking toward a conversation... or toward the end of one. A thousand possibilities tangled in your mind as your eyes stayed locked on his. Was this the beginning of a negotiation—or a murder?

You stopped just a few feet in front of him. "Let me guess... Singed or Silco told you about me?"

Viktor didn't flinch. He simply inclined his head, a small nod confirming everything you had already begun to suspect.

Strangely, you didn't feel anger. Not like you expected to. No white-hot fury or betrayal, just... resignation. Calculation. It made sense. Of course it did. You could almost see the path unraveling behind you, the twisted logic of it all. Singed was a thread that tied too many things together.

Silco had taken an interest in Viktor long before the chaos unfolded between you two. You remembered that night at the gala vividly, how Silco's eyes lingered on the boy with the cane, how he'd spoken of genius like it was a commodity to be harvested.

And now, without you, Silco would be scrambling. Desperate. He'd squeeze whatever brilliance he could out of anyone left standing. Viktor wasn't an ally. He was another tool Silco had picked up in the hopes of creating something... someone... new. Someone like you.

"He's using you." you said softly, not as an accusation, but a truth laid bare between the two of you. "Just like he used everyone else. You're skilled, intelligent... disposable."

Viktor's gaze didn't waver. If anything, the corners of his mouth twitched upward, not in amusement—but in understanding. Acceptance.

"I know."

"Then if I were you... I'd run. Get as far away from him as you can. If you know this much about me, it's only because Silco allowed it. As long as you're useful to him, he'll keep you breathing. But the moment you're not—" You didn't finish the thought. You didn't have to. The implication hung heavy in the air. "People who know too much don't get to live long in his world."

There was a long silence, and the sound of the river below seemed louder in its wake. Then Viktor replied, voice soft but unwavering:

"I am aware of that."

Something in the way he said it chilled you. Calm. Almost fatalistic. Like a man who had already considered death and decided he could live with it.

"So that means..." you narrowed your eyes, "You agreed to work for him."

He tilted his head slightly, and for a heartbeat you thought he might confirm it. But instead, with the same unshakable calm, he answered:

"Absolutely not."

"Then why the hell are you still alive?"

"I didn't really accept working for him, but I didn't say no either."

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking your head slowly in disbelief. Not mockery, but something heavier—exasperation, maybe. Or incredulity. As if the mere idea of someone telling Silco they would think about accepting his offer was so far removed from reality that it bordered on suicidal. Silco wasn't the kind of man who tolerated ambiguity. He didn't deal in "maybes." You either belonged to his game, or you didn't play at all.

"I can't tell if that's cleverness or sheer stupidity." 

The words leaving your mouth before you could soften them. Your tone was sharp, laced with something cold and urgent. But it wasn't cruelty—it was honesty. This boy, for all his intelligence, for all his articulate restraint and sharpness of mind, clearly didn't know what kind of monster he was dancing with. 

"Silco isn't patient, Viktor. That man, he doesn't wait for people to make up their minds. He twists them. Breaks them, if he has to." You took a step closer, your boots scraping lightly against the metal of the bridge. "You still have a life ahead of you. A long one, if you don't throw it away dealing with devils like him."

That was when Viktor laughed—but not out of amusement.

It was dry. Cracked. Hollow. A sound that held no real joy, just resignation. He adjusted his grip on his cane, fingers curling tightly around the polished metal, and for the first time tonight, you noticed the tension in his posture. The way his shoulders dipped slightly. The stiffness in the way he shifted his weight. Maybe it was pain, physical or otherwise. Maybe both.

"I don't." he murmured, almost too quietly.

You frowned, caught off guard. "Don't what?"

Viktor didn't look at you right away. His gaze was somewhere distant, past the river, past the spires of Piltover, locked on something only he could see. When he finally turned his eyes back to you, they were no longer calculating—they were honest in a way that made your throat tighten.

"I don't have a long life ahead of me."

And just like that, the night around you shifted.

The cold wind wasn't just cold anymore—it felt sharp, invasive, like it was slicing through the space between you. You stared at him, the weight of those words crashing into you, sudden and unforgiving. That wasn't what you expected to hear. Not from him. Not tonight.

"Oh..." you breathed. It was the only thing that came out, because your mind was reeling, scrambling to make sense of it. Of him. "I'm sorry."

Viktor only shook his head, a faint, tired smile tugging at his lips. 

"Don't be. My condition it's degenerative, rare and incurable." he explained with the detached cadence of someone who had repeated these facts too many times to too many people, until the words lost all weight. "I've calculated the odds. If I'm lucky, a few more years. If not... less."

"Is it something you were born with?" you asked, your voice softer now, but the weight of the question hung thick in the air.

Viktor didn't flinch. He didn't look away or shift uncomfortably. Instead, he answered with a kind of practiced ease, as if the truth had long ago become part of his identity—woven into his bones alongside the pain.

"Since birth. The condition progressed as I grew. The older I became, the more aggressive it got. Every doctor in Piltover has given their verdict, no cure, only management. A slowing of the inevitable. Nothing more."

The honesty in his voice pierced deeper than you expected. It wasn't just that he was sick—it was the way he said it. Not with bitterness, but with familiarity, like someone who had lived side by side with death for so long it had become a companion. An unwanted one, but one he had learned to coexist with nonetheless. You hesitated. Something pulled at your thoughts, twisting them into darker, sharper places.

What would a man with a fate like Viktor's be willing to trade for the faintest hope of salvation? The answer came before you even finished the question.

"Silco promised you a cure."

It wasn't an accusation. It was a realization. A truth that tasted like metal on your tongue. Viktor didn't hesitate—not even for a breath. The words slipped from his mouth like scripture. Like something he had recited to himself a thousand times before daring to believe it.

"Your regeneration... if studied correctly, with precision, with diligence... it could become the foundation for a universal cure. At least, that's what Singed's early experiments suggested. A form of continuous healing, cellular restoration that resists infection, rebuilds tissue faster than it can decay. It renders you immune to sickness. Even the most violent injuries mend in seconds. And now—" he paused, a flicker of awe, or maybe fear, crossing his features, "Not even death can reach you."

You scoffed, though the sound lacked any real bite. It was more reflex than conviction—an attempt to mask the fact that you were genuinely trying to recall if you'd ever been sick. Not bruised, not scraped—sick. An illness. A fever. Anything beyond surface-level wounds that healed too quickly to be normal.

And the strange part was... you couldn't remember a single instance. Not one.

The more you turned the thought over in your mind, the more unsettling it became. It was as if you'd lived your whole life encased in something not entirely human, something... protected. A body untouched by disease, untouched by what usually haunted people sooner or later. It was a realization that sat heavy in your chest, cold and quiet like the first breath after diving too deep underwater.

But that realization came with another—like a domino falling into place behind the rest. A cure. Not for you. From you. A universal cure. One that could change everything for people like Viktor, like Violet.

"A universal cure..." you said slowly, not fully believing the words even as they left your mouth. "You really think that's possible... from my blood?"

Viktor's eyes remained steady on yours. There was no mockery in them, no exaggeration—just truth, however painful or bold it was.

"Medicine isn't exactly my field." he admitted, one corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile, "But I can't ignore what Singed's early studies suggest. Your immune system respond to infection in a way I've never seen. Not destroy it, neutralize it. Integrate and override it."

You swallowed, the weight of those words pressing down on you. "And you think it could help you? Or at least ease your symptoms?"

Viktor paused, then nodded slowly. "I believe it could. If we could isolate the core structure of your immunity, if we could replicate it... then yes. Maybe not a cure completely, but it could be a kind of stabilizer."

The wind picked up, swirling around you like the city itself was holding its breath. You turned your face away for a moment, blinking hard as your thoughts scrambled to keep up with the implications. It wasn't just about you anymore. It was about possibility. And the path forward was tangled, but not impossible.

"Do you really think you can do this?"

"I wouldn't waste my time chasing an illusion. My time is... finite and I can't deny that seems to be... my best chance."

"To survive?"

"To fight." Viktor corrected, firmly. "To fight against my body. Against time. Even if the outcome is already written, I still want to write the middle. I still want to try."

A fair reason in your opinion.

"And how long do you think it would be possible to make a prototype cure?

Viktor tilted his head slightly, expression sharpening with focus as if already turning over the question in his mind, calculating probabilities behind those keen eyes. He hummed thoughtfully, the sound soft but grounding. 

"Hm... depending on how the research evolves, how the cells respond, how the tests go, perhaps a few years. That's the best-case scenario."

Years.

The word struck like a stone in your gut, pulling the air from your lungs. Violet didn't have years. You weren't even sure she had months.

Violet's condition had worsened rapidly in the last few weeks. Her body was giving out, her breathing had turned shallow and uneven, and there were days where her voice was barely more than a whisper. And no matter how hard she tried to hide it, you could see it—death lingering at the edges, inching closer every day. Her fire was still there, but the body housing it was losing the strength to hold on.

"There's this girl. She's in the same situation as you, but I doubt she has years. Maybe months if I'm lucky." 

Your voice cracked slightly, and you hated it. You weren't used to sounding desperate. But here you were—stripped bare by the weight of helplessness.

"If this cure is possible and it could save her... I can't wait years for a prototype. I'll help you. Whatever you need, blood samples, tissue, observation, I'll be your lab rat if that's what it takes. I don't care, just tell me it'll make a difference."

He watched you for a long moment, silent. Processing.

The gears were clearly turning behind that worn, brilliant face, but this wasn't just about science anymore. This was about promises, lives, guilt, hope—all tangled together.

"It's possible." he said slowly, voice almost cautious. "If your body continues to respond the way Singed's research suggests, and if we can collect enough consistent data..." He paused, his expression softening. "Yes. We could accelerate the process. But I can't offer you certainty. Only a chance."

"That's all I need."

You extended your hand toward him, trying your best to appear steady, like this was just another negotiation. But inside, your heart was a storm. Your fingers trembled slightly, and not from the chill of the wind slicing across the bridge. You weren't scared of him. You were scared of hope.

"Do we have a deal?"

Viktor stared at your outstretched hand. For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he reached forward, fingers slightly stiff with effort, and gripped your hand in his. His grip wasn't strong—not in the way you were used to—but there was a kind of quiet resolve behind it. A dignity that had nothing to do with physical strength.

"Deal." he said. Then, after a breath: "In fact... what would you say to starting the sample collection tonight?"

You blinked.

"Tonight?"

He offered a tired but determined smile. "There's no time to waste, is there?"

And in that moment, you saw it again—that flicker of stubborn life inside him, fragile yet unyielding. Viktor wasn't going to let death have the last word. Not without a fight. And now, you weren't going to let it have Violet either.

"Then lead the way, Viktor."

[...]

Viktor's apartment was larger than you expected—but not in the way that screamed wealth or excess. It lacked the ornate extravagance you'd come to associate with typical Piltovian residences: there were no gilded fixtures, no handwoven drapes, no artistic clutter just for the sake of appearances. Everything in this space had a purpose, a function, a reason for being exactly where it was. If you looked at it objectively, it was rather spartan—minimalistic, practical to a fault.

But the lab...

The lab was another story entirely.

It spilled over from what might've once been a dining area, or maybe a sitting room, but now it served only one purpose: to house Viktor's mind in physical form. Organized chaos—that was the only way to describe it. Every surface was claimed by papers, stacks of parchment covered in formulas and theories, some crisp and newly written, others crumpled and speckled with dried ink. Dozens of mechanical parts lay like discarded bones of unfinished creations, alongside delicate tools and wires that snaked across the table like veins of some greater machine waiting to be born.

There were ink pots scattered in illogical places—on bookshelves, on the floor, even balanced precariously on the edge of a half-open drawer. Quills rested beside pliers. A worn whiteboard dominated one corner, filled with complex equations and diagrams, some hastily crossed out, others emphasized with frustrated underlines. Your eyes had scanned it slowly earlier, trying to make sense of it, but the only word you could confidently pick out amid the storm of variables and abstract notation was Hextech.

That word, at least, you recognized.

The faint scent of oil and iron mixed with the delicate aroma of chamomile now wafting from the teacup Viktor had pressed into your hands. You hadn't expected that gesture—a quiet offering, warm and steady—but perhaps you should have. It was exactly like him to care in precise, practical ways.

He was currently moving through the room with an almost impatient grace, searching through one of his old cabinets with the kind of distracted determination that came from knowing exactly what he was looking for and not quite remembering where he had placed it.

You had offered to help, of course. It felt wrong to just sit while he rummaged around on your behalf. But Viktor had simply waved you off with a tired shake of his head and guided you firmly into a worn chair near the lab table before disappearing into his own thoughts again.

So, now, all you could do was watch him.

Watch the way he moved—slightly uneven, but never clumsy. He favored his cane more heavily now, you noticed, and every step was deliberate. He muttered to himself occasionally in a soft, accented rhythm, pulling open drawers and scanning their contents with the frustrated focus of a man whose mind was ten steps ahead of his body.

The walk to Viktor's apartment had been strange, to say the least.

Not because of anything he said—he barely spoke, really—but because of how the world seemed to react to the two of you moving through it together. You were still wearing the Enforcer uniform, and even though your face wasn't exposed enough to give you away, people still stared. They didn't look at you with suspicion, though. No one seemed alarmed or afraid. It was more like... confusion. Like the image of an Enforcer walking beside him—the assistant to Heimerdinger—didn't quite make sense.

And it didn't help that it was still early, the streets not fully awake yet. Vendors were only beginning to open their shops, warm bread smells drifting lazily into the fog. The city wasn't loud yet, but it watched. It noticed.

The walk had been largely silent. Not tense, but purposeful. A handful of words exchanged—he'd mentioned his work under Heimerdinger, how the professor was brilliant, if not occasionally too cautious. You'd nodded, unsure of how much he wanted to share, unsure of how much you wanted to ask. The only other time he spoke was when you arrived at his apartment, where he casually mentioned he'd be writing to Singed soon, to inform him of his decision.

There hadn't been much detail in that either. Just that he'd made up his mind. Viktor, it seemed, was a private man.

Now, in the relative quiet of his apartment, the tea still steaming gently between your fingers, you found your voice again.

You blew across the surface, trying to cool it, though more out of habit than necessity. The question had been resting at the edge of your mind since he mentioned the name Silco, and now it finally broke through.

"If you don't mind me asking." you said, keeping your tone even, "What exactly did Silco offer you? What kind of research would you have been involved in?"

Viktor didn't answer right away. He was still standing near the lab bench, one hand resting lightly on the edge, fingers tapping out an unconscious rhythm against the wood. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes—he was always weighing thoughts before turning them into words.

"Something also related to your regeneration." he said, finally turning toward you. "But not in terms of healing."

You blinked, intrigued—and slightly unsettled. "Then what?"

"Singed was vague. As he often is. But he did mention that Silco was interested in pushing your threshold, extending your limit, as he called it. Increasing the duration and frequency of your regenerative state... to the point where your recoil becomes negligible. Or at least, manageable."

You took another sip of the tea, not because it was particularly good—it had already gone lukewarm—but because the simple act of drinking gave your hands something to do while the storm started turning behind your eyes. Your mind was already racing.

What the hell was Silco planning?

It wasn't hard to guess. He was never the type to invest in something unless it served his own agenda. You weren't naïve enough to believe his interest in your body—your mutation—had anything to do with your well-being. If anything, your escape had probably solidified it: you weren't his asset anymore, and that made you dangerous. Unpredictable. And Silco hated things he couldn't control.

Of course he'd want to replicate you. Build his own army. Shimmered soldiers who couldn't feel pain, couldn't bleed out, who would heal through wounds like they were nothing. Monsters cut from your bones and sculpted in his image of power.

Your stomach turned at the thought.

The tea felt bitter now on your tongue.

You had to get Violet and Powder out of Zaun—soon. Before Silco had the chance to finish whatever nightmare he was crafting in the shadows. Before he built others like you. Worse than you. Before he unleashed something no one could stop.

The clink of Viktor setting something down on the bench pulled you slightly from your thoughts, and then his voice came—quiet, almost contemplative, but not hesitant.

"Why did you leave Zaun?"

You glanced up, startled slightly by how sudden the question was, though in hindsight, maybe it was fair. You asked him something and now it was his turn. You exhaled through your nose and set the teacup down, a little harder than you meant to.

"Simple." you said, voice edged and flat. "The research Singed showed you? The experiments? I had no idea they even existed. I didn't know about the mutation. Didn't know what the hell they did to me until it was already too late."

You poured yourself more tea, even though you had no desire to drink it. You needed something—anything—to keep you grounded.

"They didn't ask. They didn't explain. They just did it. Like I was a lab rat, so I ran..." You took another slow sip, keeping your eyes low, the burn in your throat a welcome distraction. "Seemed like a good enough reason to you?"

Viktor paused mid-search, his hands hovering above the contents of the drawer. Then, slowly, he turned his head to glance over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable at first—those sharp, golden eyes catching the low light like glass—but after a second, you saw something faint in them. A subtle crease between his brows. A flicker of something that might've been pity, but not in a cruel way. It wasn't condescending. If anything, it felt like he'd understood a little more of you than you intended to show.

"I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter anymore," you replied, shrugging as you leaned back slightly in the chair. "What's done is done. There's no undoing it."

Your tone was light, but there was a weight in your chest that tea couldn't quite chase away. You looked at him again, deciding to continue the rhythm the two of you had somehow fallen into—a quiet exchange, like peeling back layers without really trying to.

"You seem to know a lot about my abilities." you raising an eyebrow. "But did Singed tell you anything else about me?"

Viktor didn't answer right away. Instead, he let out a thoughtful sound and returned to his task, shifting his cane aside just long enough to reach into a lower cabinet. He gripped a heavy box with both hands, his muscles tensing subtly beneath his shirt. The strain was evident, but Viktor was meticulous in how he carried it—refusing to let the effort show in his expression. Not out of pride, you suspected, but out of habit. Like someone who had spent a long time refusing to be defined by his limitations.

He carried the box to the table with careful steps, setting it down beside you before sinking into the chair just across. Only then did he speak again, fingers running gently along the edge of the box as if steadying himself.

"If you're asking whether I know where your abilities come from, then I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you," he said, his voice level, honest. "Singed kept many details from me and unless you decide to tell me yourself, which I suspect you won't, I'll likely never know."

His gaze flicked up to meet yours briefly, not demanding, not accusing—just open. Accepting. He didn't press. That was something you were beginning to appreciate about Viktor: he asked without expectation. And when you didn't give, he didn't punish you with silence or judgment.

He began unlatching the box, and you watched his long fingers work over the metal clasps, each movement precise. You could hear the faint clink of tools and components shifting inside.

And then, unexpectedly—

"You and Silco." Viktor began, his tone still calm but more curious now. "You seemed... close at the masquerade. Was that relationship genuine? Romantic? Or was it simply contractual?"

You blinked, startled by the sudden shift—but only for a moment. He wasn't trying to provoke you. He was just... observing again. Curious. Perhaps trying to understand you in the same way he tried to understand a formula on a page.

You took a slow sip of your tea before answering, the bitterness of it making you grimace. The drink had cooled just enough to be tolerable now, though it still tasted sharp.

"I love him."

The words hung in the air between you. Not soft. Not heavy. Just... there. Viktor's brow lifted, his head tilting slightly, not unlike a scholar reevaluating a hypothesis.

" 'Love'?" he echoed. "Wouldn't it be more accurate to say 'loved'?"

"When you scientists finally figure out how to erase feelings, do me a favor and let me know." You setting the cup down with a soft clink. "Maybe then I'll finally get this damn emotion out of me once and for all."

The words hung in the air like smoke—bitter, lingering. You didn't really expect a response. But after a beat, Viktor let out a short laugh. Not the polite, practiced kind. This one was genuine, from somewhere deeper.

"Perhaps not even science can resolve that." he said, a flicker of something warm in his voice. "Human emotions are far more volatile than any second-rate experiment. Unpredictable. Inconvenient. Stubborn."

You couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at your lips. "Stubborn is putting it lightly." You leaned your elbow against the edge of the table, propping your head against your hand, your eyes narrowing just a little with curiosity. "Tell me something then, Viktor. Have you ever been in love?"

He didn't answer.

Not immediately. But you caught the slightest shift in his posture—the way his hands stilled over the open box, his eyes momentarily dropping, like the question had touched something he usually kept buried under equations and theories. And that silence? That silence said everything.

You smiled, half amused, half smug. "Ah, so you have."

Still nothing from him, though the corners of his mouth tightened ever so slightly—either in protest or resignation.

"Oh, come on..." your tone was lighter now, teasing. "I told you who I love. It's not like I'm going to run around Piltover spreading your secrets. Besides, if you're going to be poking around in my bloodstream for some miraculous cure, the least we can do is get to know each other."

There was a pause, as though he were weighing the emotional cost of honesty. And then, with a sigh that felt more like surrender than confession, he finally spoke.

"My research partner." he said quietly. "You met him. At the masquerade."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Jayce?"

He gave a small nod, barely perceptible.

You sat back a little, surprised—but only for a moment. Now that you thought about it, it made sense. The glances they exchanged across the ballroom. The subtle tension, the kind that only exists between people who've been orbiting each other for too long without ever colliding.

"Wow..." you breathed. "Didn't see that coming."

Viktor gave a rueful chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "It wouldn't have worked. It was never... mutual. Not the way I hoped. He's with Councilor Medarda now. Or, at the very least, they're becoming something."

You let out a low whistle, resting your chin against your palm again. "Medarda..." you said with a touch of awe. "Gods, she's gorgeous."

"I know." Viktor replied simply, and though his voice was soft, there was no jealousy there. Just acknowledgment. Like someone quietly accepting that the stars had aligned for someone else, not for him.

But you didn't like that sense of finality. Not entirely.

"You don't know what the future holds." you said, more gently this time. "And you don't know how he really feels about you. Maybe it's not over. Maybe the two of you get to live that cliché, you know, the one where the brilliant minds, best friends for years, suddenly realize it was love all along."

Viktor gave a skeptical hum, but you noticed how he didn't immediately shoot it down. He just stared at the contents of the box for a moment longer before he started taking things out of the medical kit inside. "I don't put much stock in clichés."

"Maybe not." you murmured. "But some of them exist for a reason."

Viktor didn't respond to your last comment. Not verbally, anyway. He simply rolled his eyes in that quiet, exasperated way and let out a short sigh, returning his focus to the task in front of him. He resumed organizing the tools on the table—syringes, vials, gauze, bottles—and you watched in silence as he moved with the same precision he applied to everything else.

He was methodical, almost surgical, in the way he handled the sterilization process. Each instrument cleaned, checked, set down on a fresh cloth in perfect order. There was a rhythm to it—careful, almost reverent. You found yourself quietly impressed, despite yourself. For someone who claimed medicine wasn't his field, he was far too comfortable with the tools of it. Part of you started to suspect that might've been a lie of convenience—or maybe just an old truth that had evolved with necessity.

You were lost in that thought when his voice broke the silence again—low and calm, as always. It took a second to register that he had asked something.

"Hm?" you blinked, turning your eyes back toward him. "What was that? Can you repeat it?"

He didn't look at you immediately—still adjusting a few needles into a tray. But his voice was clear. "The little girl you mentioned on the bridge... She's your daughter?"

There was no hesitation in your reply.

"Yes." you said, the word sharp with certainty. "But I have two. The other one is still with Silco."

The moment those words left your mouth, you felt the weight of them settle into the room like a cold draft. Viktor's entire demeanor shifted.

His hands stilled mid-motion. His brow furrowed, and for the first time since you'd walked into his apartment, he abandoned his careful rhythm. His eyes lifted to yours slowly, something deeper than curiosity flickering behind them—concern. Genuine. Immediate.

"Kidnapped?"

"No, he's her father."

You knew full well what that would imply—especially without context. That both girls were Silco's biological daughters. That you and Silco had once built a life, a family, together. And maybe, in some fractured, bloodstained way, you had. But you didn't correct Viktor. You didn't feel the need to clarify that truth. Let him assume what he wanted.

It was easier that way. Fewer explanations of the troubled relationship with Vander, Silco and the girls.

"When Violet is healed, I'm going to get Powder back and I'll take them both somewhere far from here. Far from him."

You could hear the strain in your own voice now—the tension sitting just beneath the surface like a dam about to break. You didn't want to think about how many times you'd played that plan over in your head, how many nights it had been the only thing keeping you from drowning.

Viktor didn't interrupt. He just watched you, those sharp amber eyes scanning every nuance of your expression like he was decoding something far more complex than an equation.

"Do you have contact with the girl? The one who's with Silco?"

You shook your head, bitter and resigned. "Not since I left Zaun."

The silence that followed stretched long and tense. Viktor hadn't moved. His gaze was still locked on you, but it had shifted—no longer analyzing, now... searching. Like you were a puzzle with one missing piece and he was trying to figure out where it belonged.

And then, without warning, something changed.

His expression sharpened. The gold in his eyes lit up—not metaphorically, literally, like a filament catching fire behind them. You recognized that look instantly. It was the look of a mind clicking into motion.

"I think... I know how to help you reunite with your daughter."

Part 26

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Our boy finally made his appearance! After all these setup chapters, he’s finally stepping into the plot. Keep in mind, this is Act 1 Viktor from Season 1—still "healthy", still sharp, and not yet drowning in existential dread. The Hextech is still in its research phase, so Jayce isn’t exactly the Golden Boy of Progress just yet. Also… what did you all think of Silco’s dream, huh? Next chapter comes with a special narration. Any guesses on who it’ll be?

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[everwhovian]

what remains. | Hwang brothers

(warnings: squid game typical violence, character death)

Part 1 | next part | masterlist

Part 38: Sabangchigi

They were herded through a narrow corridor – white walls, white ceiling, white light that buzzed faintly overhead. Clinical. Unforgiving. The kind of place designed to erase sound and thought alike.

The corridor opened suddenly.

And the game room waited.

It was vast. Cavernous. The ceiling stretched higher than the dormitory, too high to see where it ended. Spotlights hung like suspended stars, casting long, dramatic beams across the space. The floor was matte gray, clean and seamless, stretching out like a stage before them.

But what caught In-ho’s eye was the center of the room.

A platform.

Raised. Square. Suspended slightly above the ground on mechanical arms that looked far too delicate for what they held. Four flat quadrants divided the square each marked by a subtle symbol carved into the surface. The edges were slightly elevated, forming low ridges. Nothing dramatic. Nothing flashy.

But it wasn’t there by accident.

In-ho slowed.

Beside him, Young-il craned his neck, staring at the structure with open curiosity. “Looks like some kind of playground,” he muttered. “Weird-ass jungle gym.”

In-ho didn’t answer.

He was already studying the layout. The spacing. The railings above. The cameras embedded in the far walls. The control booth behind tinted glass.

Too deliberate. Too clean.

The guards ushered them to the perimeter of the platform, splitting them up in quiet rows by pairs. In-ho and Young-il stood near the north edge. Others followed suit, moving into lines without knowing why, just obeying the unspoken choreography of survival.

No one fought it.

Not yet.

Because so far, nothing had told them they were meant to turn on each other.

Not yet.

Young-il glanced sideways. “You ever see a game like this before?”

In-ho didn’t look at him. His eyes were locked on the corners of the platform. On the slight give beneath the surface as weight shifted. On the subtle tilt that came when one of the guards stepped onto it and stepped off again.

A balance test.

He felt his stomach twist.

“No,” he said quietly. “But I don’t like it.”

The voice hadn’t spoken again. The rules hadn’t been read. But every part of In-ho’s body buzzed with warning. His instincts, long-honed, were already pulling threads together.

They’d been told to pair up.

They’d been led here.

And something about the stillness in the air felt too sharp. Too expectant.

Like the room was waiting for someone to fall.

The guards moved again. Silent as ever, but the meaning was clear.

Sit.

It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be.

One by one, players obeyed.

In-ho lowered himself to the ground slowly, knees folding with the ease of instinct – not comfort. His hands rested loose over his thighs, every muscle coiled, watching. Young-il dropped down beside him with a soft exhale, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, eyes on the pale platform ahead like it might answer the questions no one had asked yet.

The room was quieter now. Not peaceful – just waiting.

Then the lights changed.

A mechanical hum rolled through the ceiling – low, electric – and four beams flicked on, one by one, casting angled spotlights across the platform. Harsh circles of light, too clean to be warm. The room dimmed around them, shadows bleeding out toward the walls, and everything else – the bodies, the breath, the tension – seemed to tighten in response.

In-ho didn’t shift. But his eyes narrowed slightly.

He had a bad feeling.

It had been building since the moment they’d stepped into this room – maybe since the night before. A feeling he knew too well. One that clung to the back of his neck and settled behind his ribs.

He’d felt it before undercover raids. Before charges were filed that couldn’t be walked back. Before orders came down that tasted like regret.

The calm before cruelty.

The voice returned.

“Welcome to your next game.”

No fanfare. No chime. No pretense of kindness this time.

Just those words.

That voice.

Still smooth. Still calm.

Still the same one that had told them to find a partner five minutes ago.

“The next game is Sabangchigi. The game will proceed shortly.”

A murmur rippled through the room – confusion, mostly. Heads tilted. Bodies tensed. A few players looked around as if that might clarify something. It didn’t.

In-ho’s mind reached back automatically. Childhood. Concrete yards. Scuffed shoes. A game of quadrants – kicking, dodging, defending space. It came back in fragments. Blurry rules, the echo of laughter, someone shouting “Chigi!” across school pavement. But that wasn’t what this was.

Not here.

Not now.

He knew it even before the voice said the next words.

“You have entered the quadrants. Four teams have been selected to play simultaneously.”

In-ho’s stomach twisted – just slightly.

He didn’t move.

Each word landed like a footstep in snow.

“Each team is composed of two players.”

Partnered. The word wasn’t said, but it echoed anyway.

“When the round begins, each pair will enter their assigned quadrant. The objective is to eliminate your opponent by any means necessary.”

The word opponent hit harder than the rest.

Because it meant that the person you’d chosen to stand beside – the one you’d sat beside, made promises to – was the enemy now.

Beside him, In-ho felt Young-il go very still.

There it was.

The trap.

In-ho closed his eyes for just a moment.

Not long. Just long enough to breathe.

He’d known. Somewhere deep down, he’d felt it the moment the voice said partner. But the cruelty of it – the elegance of the manipulation – still found a way to twist in his chest.

The room around them fractured fast. Voices rose. One player shoved away from their partner. Another grabbed someone else’s shirt and screamed “You lied!”

Young-il flinched hard beside him. In-ho didn’t.

He was used to this part. The aftermath of truth. The breaking.

He kept his eyes forward. On the quadrants. On the lights. On the way each pair would be funneled forward – not just to fight, but to betray.

Because that’s what this was.

Not a test of strength.

Not a game.

A betrayal made mechanical. Expected. Required.

He glanced sideways.

Young-il was still breathing shallow, fingers twisted in the fabric of his track pants. His lips were pressed into a tight line. His eyes were wide, locked on the body now being dragged away.

In-ho reached out – not visibly. Just enough for his fingers to brush against the younger man’s sleeve.

“If neither player is eliminated within five minutes, both will be terminated.”

Silence.

Not the stunned kind that fell like a blanket.

This silence landed like a noose.

In-ho felt it in his spine – a sharp pull, like the floor had dropped out from under him and only memory was keeping him upright.

A two-player game. One winner.

In-ho barely registered the rules. Didn’t hear the full explanation. Because the moment the announcement was made, the moment Young-il turned to him – hope flickering in his eyes, trust still clinging to the edges –

“We’re…” Young-il’s voice barely cracked the space between them. “We have to play against each other?”

He didn’t say it like a question. Not really. It was softer than that. A whisper wrapped in doubt, fraying at the edges like an old thread coming undone.

And his eyes – God, his eyes – they were still full of something that shouldn’t have been there. Not anymore.

Trust.

Still searching In-ho’s face like maybe he’d shake his head. Like maybe he’d say, No. We’re different. They wouldn’t make us do that.

And for a second, In-ho wished he could lie.

Just once.

Tell the kid something easy. Something stupid. Something soft.

But the words never came.

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

He just looked at him.

Really looked – and saw the exact moment that trust cracked.

Not shattered. Not yet.

But fractured.

Hairline.

Silent.

Spreading.

Young-il looked away first. Just for a second. Eyes down. Shoulders too still.

Like he already knew what the answer was.

And In-ho – he looked straight ahead. At nothing. At the too-white walls. The unmarked tiles. The corner of the room where blood would probably end up.

For days, they’d fought side by side. Shared food. Shared silence. Slept under the same piggy bank ceiling and kept each other alive without ever speaking the word friend.

And now?

Now they weren’t partners.

They were opponents.

By design.

And the worst part?

Young-il had never picked anyone else. Never hesitated to choose him. Even now, even when it was obvious, even when the truth was pressing down on both of them like a weight they couldn’t escape –

He’d looked at In-ho and thought: Safe.

And now?

Now In-ho had to figure out how to become the thing he’d promised he’d never be again.

They watched in silence as the first players took the platform.

One threw the marker, hopped twice, landed – and then the tile crumbled beneath his weight. The sound was clean and cruel. The fall was fast. No second chance.

Another pair didn’t even play. One turned the moment the rules were done, grabbed his partner by the collar, and shoved. The body hit the edge, tipped, vanished. A scream that never had time to finish.

In-ho didn’t look away.

Beside him, Young-il stiffened.

His fists were curled white-knuckled against his knees. His chest rose too fast. Too shallow. Every breath a stutter, like he wasn’t sure whether to keep breathing at all.

‘He’s scared,’ In-ho realized.

Of course he is.

And that’s what broke something inside him.

Because he already knew. Knew how this would end. Knew what the rules demanded. Knew what it meant for two people to enter a game designed for one.

And still – he shifted closer. His shoulder pressed lightly into Young-il’s. Not hard. Just enough.

Reassurance.

False. Pointless. But instinctive.

His hand came up and hovered just a moment – not touching, but there – before dropping again.

He wanted to tell him it would be okay. That he had a plan. That they’d get out.

But he didn’t speak. Wouldn’t.

Because they both knew.

Still – In-ho stayed close.

Still – he offered the illusion.

Because some lies were easier than the truth. And sometimes, even when it wouldn’t matter, you reassured the scared kid beside you.

Because that’s what you did when someone looked at you and believed you could keep them safe.

Even if they were wrong.

And then the voice echoed again.

“Quadrant One. Players 132 and 062, step forward.”

The voice rang sharp across the chamber – not loud, but cutting. Final.

In-ho didn’t move right away. He felt the weight of it land first. Not just the words. Not just the numbers. The truth inside them.

His number. 132.

The kid’s. 062.

Young-il turned his head at the same time. His eyes found In-ho without effort. They always did. Even now. Even when they shouldn’t.

Their names hadn’t been said. But the numbers were worse. Numbers turned people into objects. Easier to erase.

And now it was their turn.

In-ho stood.

Every part of him followed like it had been trained to. Shoulders tight. Spine straight. His face gave nothing away. But inside, the current was rising.

Young-il rose beside him, silent, and together they moved – one step at a time, past the others, through the parting crowd.

In-ho saw the blood too late to avoid it – a dark smear across the floor where the previous players had fallen. Pushed. Collapsed mid-struggle. It hadn’t been cleaned.

It wasn’t meant to be.

The smear led toward the platform. It disappeared just before the steel edge began.

He didn’t look at it again.

He didn’t let himself linger.

He couldn’t afford to feel it now.

The platform was raised slightly from the floor, supported by metal arms and gears that hissed quietly beneath the weight of the game. It wasn’t unstable – not yet – but it was alive. The tension in the frame buzzed like a breath held too long.

They ascended.

The board stretched out before them – long, symmetrical, and wrong in all the ways that mattered.

It was Sabangchigi. Almost.

Just enough to twist something deep in In-ho’s gut – the shape of a memory bent into something colder, crueler. Childhood sanded down to its sharpest edges.

Two mirrored boards, one on either side of a raised central tile. Each side flared out from the middle like wings – tiles 1 through 8, laid in staggered rectangles and crossing diagonals. A grid of numbered promises, none of them kind.

And at the center: tile 0. The home square.

In-ho’s eyes tracked the layout automatically. A starting tile directly beneath his feet – 1 and 2. Then the run of it. The marker would be thrown ahead, landing on a tile somewhere in the spread. The player would hop to that tile, one foot only, retrieve the marker, and then continue – landing finally on tile 0.

If they made it, that tile where the marker had landed was theirs. Claimed. Locked.

And then came the real test.

Because after the home tile, they’d switch.

The next round would send them into enemy territory. Onto their partner’s board – a mirrored set of steps now rigged with death. One misstep. One forgotten path. One claimed tile beneath your foot… and it was over.

And that was the best-case scenario.

Because some hadn’t even waited for the pattern to play out.

Tile 0 wasn’t just the shared midpoint. It wasn’t a pause.

It was a choice.

One place. One moment. Both players landing there before the next round began.

Some had used it to catch their breath.

Others had shoved.

And the worst part?

That option was baked into the rules. Expected. Allowed.

In-ho exhaled slowly. The light above buzzed faintly. The platform vibrated beneath his sneakers with the hum of gears that hadn’t started moving yet.

It looked like a game.

But it wasn’t.

It was a narrowing path with a countdown baked into every tile. And sooner or later, that path would end – with one of them standing.

And one of them gone.

The gears beneath them groaned.

A low, mechanical sound rolled beneath In-ho’s sneakers – not loud, but heavy. Like something old shifting beneath weight it had carried too many times.

Then the platform lifted.

It rose slowly, the pistons engaging with a soft hiss, elevating the platform many meters above the floor. Not high enough to seem deadly. But high enough to be.

In-ho’s muscles tensed instinctively. He didn’t move his feet, but he could feel the faint tremble beneath the surface as it settled – the slight tilt of the platform that made balance harder than it should have been. Just enough to throw you off if you weren’t paying attention. Or even if you were.

He shifted his weight experimentally. The tile beneath him gave – a whisper-soft dip, then steadied.

Beside him, Young-il stood tall on his end of the board. He didn’t fidget. But he didn’t hide the way his eyes moved either – taking in the tiles, the angles, the edges. Searching. Thinking.

In-ho exhaled through his nose. Short. Measured.

The voice returned.

“Player 062 will begin.”

The marker sat at Young-il’s feet – a smooth black disc, shaped like river stone. It looked harmless in the sterile light, but it wasn’t. It was weight. It was choice.

Young-il crouched to pick it up. His fingers closed around it slowly, like he was bracing for something heavier than it was.

Their eyes met.

Young-il didn’t speak.

He just gave a tiny shrug – barely a movement – like he was saying ‘here goes nothing’ without trying to pretend it was fine.

Then he threw.

The marker arced clean through the air – no wobble, no hesitation – and landed two tiles forward, just off-center on his side of the mirrored board

The sound it made was soft. A dull click on the smooth tile surface.

The tile didn’t shift. Didn’t sink. Just… waited.

Young-il took a breath. Rolled his shoulders once. Then he raised one foot.

In-ho’s chest tightened.

Young-il hopped forward – first to the center tile, then onward. His form wasn’t perfect. His balance wavered slightly, but he corrected it fast.

He landed on the marked tile.

And for a second, the whole platform seemed to hold its breath.

But it held.

There was no click. No shift. No sign of weakness.

Young-il’s weight landed, pressed, rebounded. He picked up the marker and continued forward. He landed solidly on the home tile, chest rising with a quiet puff of air – maybe a laugh, maybe a curse. It didn’t matter.

He was safe.

A breath punched out of In-ho’s chest before he could catch it. He didn’t let it show. But it had been there. That sharp, sour knot that only loosened once the worst hadn’t happened.

Young-il turned, breath quick from the landing – but steady.

And then he grinned.

That same crooked grin he always gave In-ho when he pulled something off. The kind that said ‘see, I’m not just a reckless idiot.’ The one he’d flashed after beating the timer in Round Two. After every half-lucky, half-stupid survival stunt he pulled that somehow worked.

It was bright. Boyish. Almost smug.

And for a second, In-ho felt it tug at the corners of his own mouth. Reflex, almost. Familiarity.

But then –

It faded.

Not all at once. Not like a light switch. Just a slow, uneven drop from the edges. A twitch of the lip. A shift in his eyes.

Because they both remembered.

This wasn’t just a game of skill.

It wasn’t just a matter of who landed where.

It was a countdown. A sentence. A choice neither of them had agreed to make – but one that had already been made for them.

One of them would walk away from this board.

The other wouldn’t.

Young-il’s grin faded completely now. His shoulders lowered just slightly, and his gaze didn’t flick away this time.

He met In-ho’s eyes and didn’t blink.

And In-ho saw it – the understanding. The apology. The fight already beginning behind the quiet.

He didn’t return the grin.

He just nodded once.

In-ho crouched slowly, joints bending with the weight of everything that couldn’t be said – and when his hand closed around the marker, it felt wrong somehow. Too light for what it carried. Too smooth. Like it should’ve burned or bled or cracked in his palm with the truth of what it meant. But it didn’t. It just lay there, quiet and harmless, waiting to be used.

He rose to his feet with practiced calm, with movements that gave nothing away. The noise of the room receded until all he could hear was the faint shift of his own breath and the solid echo of his boots on the platform.

He didn’t throw high. Didn’t aim for a distant tile. Just tile 3 – forward, direct, safe enough to seem reasonable, far enough to be a challenge.

The marker cut through the air, a clean arc that spun once before tapping against the designated square. It made no sound of danger. No crack. No shift.

The silence held.

And In-ho moved.

One foot lifted. He pressed forward – not in a rush, not with fear, but with the cautious precision of a man who knew that certainty was a lie and gravity could be cruel. He hit the center tile first, and then launched again toward the marked tile. His balance wavered only slightly, a flicker of adjustment in his shoulders – then solid ground beneath him. The tile didn’t buckle. Didn’t whisper. It held.

He crouched, retrieved the marker, turned.

The same hop back – one-footed, precise, sharp. Tile 0. Then home.

His landing was soft, silent. The game accepted it with no fanfare.

Only then did he look up – and saw Young-il waiting at the center, already stepping forward.

Back to tile 0. Back to the place where the two boards met.

Back to each other.

That was the pattern now.

Round by round.

They circled the center like a shared heartbeat – always returning, always facing one another again, like gravity itself kept pulling them back toward the one place they shouldn’t linger.

In-ho’s jaw locked as he stepped onto the home tile once more, eyes flicking across to the opposite side of the mirrored board. The surface stretched out ahead of him like a challenge, every tile now more dangerous than the last. Each square they hadn’t touched yet pulsed with possibility – not of victory, but of endings.

Young-il passed by him again, brushing his sleeve just faintly, and began the next round. This time on In-ho’s board.

Not a word between them. Not a gesture. But the rhythm of the game continued. A throw. A hop. Another tile claimed.

And again, they met at center.

Round after round. Step after step. Neither faltered. Neither forced a move. Neither betrayed the fragile line of trust still stretched between them like an old rope – fraying now, strained by time and design, but somehow not yet severed.

Other players hadn’t lasted this long. Not as pairs. Not as people.

Some had struck before the first tile was claimed – desperate, teeth bared, willing to kill before the game could even ask it of them.

Some had waited until the switch – a single shove on the home tile as their partner turned their back.

And some – the worst of all – had played beautifully, perfectly, all the way until the final tile, and then hesitated. Cracked. Broken by the weight of having to choose.

But not them.

Not In-ho. Not Young-il.

Each tile that disappeared beneath their steps was another delay, another breath, another refusal to become what the game wanted.

But it couldn’t last.

The board was nearly full now. Only a few tiles remained. Every path had been taken, every hop measured, every risk accounted for – and the platform beneath them began to hum with new energy, as if the machine itself was becoming impatient.

Then it happened again.

They landed on tile 0 at the same time.

Opposite ends of the mirrored cross.

Both of them standing on the home tile.

Again.

Face to face.

But this time, the air between them was different.

In-ho stood still, eyes fixed on the kid in front of him – not just watching, but memorizing. The way his chest rose and fell. The way sweat clung to his hairline. The way his shoulders tilted slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to brace for pain or for mercy.

And Young-il hesitated.

His breath caught in his throat, shallow and uneven. His fingers flexed once at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His stance widened instinctively, not in preparation to attack, but as if trying to ground himself – like the floor might vanish beneath his feet if he didn’t plant himself fast enough.

He looked at In-ho.

Not as an opponent. Not as a rival.

As him. The man who’d stood between him and danger. The one he’d sat beside at dinner, shoulder to shoulder. The one who’d promised to look after his brother. The one he had chosen.

And in his eyes – wide, uncertain – there was still trust.

Still belief.

Still hope.

In-ho felt it like a punch to the ribs.

For the first time in the game, he didn’t know what to do.

Every instinct screamed at him to act – to finish this, to survive – but his body stayed still. Tense. Locked.

Because he saw it again.

The resemblance had always been there. He had noticed it from the beginning.

Too young. Too familiar.

Jun-ho’s age. His height. His build. The way his mouth twitched up in a grin, even when he was scared. The way he threw himself into things, trusting that someone would be there to catch him.

Jun-ho had looked at him like that too.

When he was a kid. When he was a teenager. When he had needed someone to believe in.

For one second, a trick of the light, a trick of the mind – it wasn’t Young-il standing there.

It was Jun-ho.

His baby brother, staring at him with wide eyes, confused, betrayed.

In-ho forced himself to blink. His hands clenched into fists at his side.

In that moment, Young-il wasn’t Young-il.

He was a memory.

A flicker.

A younger brother staring at him from across a tile.

Not the man Jun-ho had become – not the detective, not the officer, not the voice behind a badge – but the boy he had once been.

Nine years old. All scraped knees and tangled hair, trailing behind In-ho like a second shadow. Always asking questions. Always needing to be near. Always believing his big brother could fix anything.

And In-ho felt his chest seize, his breath shallow, the platform beneath him suddenly too narrow, too sharp, too cruel.

Young-il swallowed hard. His lips parted, like he wanted to say something. And for a terrifying moment, In-ho thought he would call him hyung.

Instead, Young-il stepped forward.

Not fast. Not with violence. Just one slow, almost apologetic movement – like he was hoping In-ho would stop him. Like he was still waiting for permission. Still waiting for this not to be real.

His hands stayed loose. Open. No fists. No fight.

Still trusting him.

Still believing.

Like Jun-ho had.

In-ho’s throat tightened. Something cracked in his chest.

This was a kid. A kid with a baby brother and a photo folded up in his pocket. A kid who grinned crookedly when he survived, who whispered ‘there you are, finally’ like it meant something, who sat beside In-ho on the dormitory floor like they weren’t strangers.

A kid who had looked at him like he was safe.

And still, he stood there.

Waiting.

Trusting.

God, he looked so much like Jun-ho.

And that was the moment In-ho forced the thought to break.

No.

Not a kid.

Not a brother.

Not someone’s family.

Not someone who’d laughed beside him. Not someone who’d begged him to look after a child. Not someone who reminded him of home.

Just a number.

Just 062.

He had to believe that.

He had to strip everything else away – the name, the voice, the memory of a crooked grin – until all that was left was a number printed on a uniform.

That was how you survived.

Not by remembering. Not by caring. Not by seeing them.

But by erasing them.

062. That’s all he was now.

In-ho took a step forward.

The board tilted beneath the shift in weight. The lights above burned white against his skin. He didn’t blink.

062 stepped forward too.

And in the silence between them, something fragile tore itself open.

A gasp – barely a breath – slipped from Young-il’s mouth. His hands twitched once. Then again.

And then, like something inside him snapped, he lunged.

Fast. Not graceful. Not trained. Just raw panic and instinct and the animal will to live.

A fist collided with In-ho’s ribs, too fast to block. He staggered back, balance faltering.

Another hit. The edge of a hand. A shove.

Fingers gripped his collar. Pulled.

The platform rocked. Beneath their feet, one of the tiles gave a warning groan – metal stressed under pressure, waiting to punish one wrong move.

062’s hand shot toward him – gripping the fabric of his shirt, trying to shove him off-balance.

In-ho stumbled. His heart thundered.

This is it.

This is where it ends.

For one terrifying moment, In-ho thought he would fall.

His blood ran cold.

No.

Not here.

Not like this.

Yuna. The baby. Jun-ho. His stepmother.

Their apartment. The small, cluttered living room where Jun-ho would throw his feet up on the couch until their mother smacked him with a newspaper. The tiny balcony where Yuna had stood one evening, the fading sunlight catching on the bracelet circling her wrist. The light scattered across her skin as she turned toward him, her laughter soft, her smile warm – like the last golden rays of the setting sun.

Not like this.

In-ho’s hands moved before his mind could catch up, fingers curling into 062’s collar. Reflex. Training. Muscle memory honed by years of survival and violence.

He grabbed 062’s shirt. Twisted.

The kid slipped.

For half a heartbeat, his hand latched onto In-ho’s sleeve.

Not to strike.

But to hold on.

Like Jun-ho had.

Every single time he’d needed him.

Every time the world had gotten too loud or too sharp. Every time he’d reached for his brother in the dark, whispering his name. Every time he’d said don’t let go and believed it meant something.

And In-ho – for just a second – almost reached back.

Almost grabbed him.

Almost saved him.

But mercy didn’t survive here.

And neither did brothers.

He let go.

062’s eyes widened. Not in fear.

In recognition.

He knew.

He knew it was coming.

He didn’t scream a name. Didn’t plead. Just fell.

Quiet.

Then a flash of motion.

A scream. High. Sharp. Cut short by impact.

Gone.

Just like that.

The platform steadied beneath him.

He refused to look down. He refused to look at the boy’s face. He refused to acknowledge the scream in the back of his mind, the voice telling him he had just killed someone who could have been Jun-ho.

He had hesitated.

Just for a second. A breath. A flicker of something human in the machine.

And it had almost killed him.

That single pause – that heartbeat of guilt, of recognition – had cracked the armor he’d spent years building. Had let in the face of a boy who trusted too easily, who smiled too brightly, who reached for him like a brother. Like family.

It had nearly cost him everything.

In-ho’s jaw clenched tight as he forced his fingers into fists, curling them until the tremble stopped. Nails bit into skin. Good. Pain meant control. Pain meant something real.

He dragged in a breath – slow, measured – and let it out through his nose.

Then he did what he’d always done.

He buried it.

Packed it down into the part of him that didn’t flinch anymore. Sealed it behind orders, behind duty, behind survival.

One more player gone.

That’s all.

One more body added to the ever-growing silence. One more name unspoken. One more weight he wasn’t allowed to carry.

One more step toward the end.

He didn’t think about the grin. Or the photo in Young-il’s pocket. Or the promise he’d made to check on a little brother who would now grow up never knowing what happened.

He didn’t think about the way Young-il had looked at him just before falling – not with hate, not with fear, but with something far worse.

Understanding.

He didn’t think about the fact that he’d seen Jun-ho’s face reflected there.

And if – when – he closed his eyes that night, and that face stared back at him in the dark…

If he heard Young-il’s voice again, laughing low beside him during a quiet dinner, or whispering “Hyung…” into a room where no one else listened…

If the sound of it caught in his throat like a splinter he couldn’t remove…

No one would know.

Not the guards. Not the cameras or the cruel people who watched or the shattered quiet left in the boy’s place.

Not even Jun-ho.

Because In-ho had survived.

He had won this round.

That was what mattered.

That was the only thing that could be allowed to matter.

And if it wasn’t?

Then he would lie to himself until it was.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

(A/N: I'm so sorry 😭😭 this chapter is the reason why it took so long for me to update... I didn't want it to happen...💔)

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[d-z20]

The Ballad of Agatha Harkness Chapter 9

Summary: Rio tries to continue her work but is finding something has shifted within her.

Warnings: death, Rio being an emotional (almost) wreck

Words: 1.9k

A/N: Of course Agatha is all Rio can think about when she's just trying to do her job. This should be the final chapter before get to see them together for the rest of the story :)

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Death’s Dilemma

The fog rolled in thick, cloaking the world in a shroud of grey as Rio stepped lightly into the crumbling remains of an old infirmary. The building was more of a makeshift hospital, hastily constructed with wooden beams and patchy, smoke-stained canvas walls. Inside, the smell of damp earth mingled with the sharp, metallic tang of blood and the sour stench of illness. Low moans and the occasional wheezing cough echoed in the silence, a chorus of suffering that only the dying can produce.

Rio moved unseen among the rows of narrow, straw-filled cots, her presence a ripple in the air, colder than the November chill that seeped through the cracks in the walls. The room was dimly lit by flickering candles, their flames fighting a losing battle against the encroaching darkness. She trailed her fingers along the coarse fabric of a blanket, feeling the warmth of a feverish body beneath it. Her touch is imperceptible to the living, but to those on the brink, it is a gentle invitation, a beckoning toward the next world.

Tonight, she was not here to judge or to condemn. Her role was simply to guide, to be the hand that led them away from the agony of their final breaths. A young boy, no more than ten, stirred in his sleep, his face slick with sweat. His chest rose and fell with laborious effort, each breath a struggle. Rio paused beside him, her expression softening. There was no fear in his features, only a strange serenity, as though he’d already begun to see beyond the veil.

Her hand brushed against the weathered wood of the bed frame, then slid down to her side, where her weapon hung—a mix between a Jambiya and a Karambit, sleek, deadly, far from the scythe depicted in myths. Its blade was forged from a dark, almost obsidian-like metal. The design felt ancient—a weapon not crafted by mortal hands but by something far older. The hilt looked like a knarled tree branch, curving gracefully, nestling perfectly in Rio’s palm as if it were made for her grip alone, every line and contour a seamless match to her delicate fingers. It looked like it could cut through reality itself, the edge so fine it seemed to blur against the air.

It wasn’t just a tool for her duty; it was part of her, an extension of the shadows she commanded. The blade pulsed faintly with a cold, unsettling energy, a constant reminder of its purpose. It was a weapon designed for intimate strikes, for the silent, final moments when life and death brushed fingers. And tonight, its presence felt heavier than usual, as if it sensed her inner turmoil.

Rio twirled it absently, the tip glinting as it caught the light, reflecting a fractured glimpse of her own face—beautiful yet haunted. It was almost ironic how the dagger, cold and unfeeling, seemed to know her better than she knew herself.

Across the room, another patient lay—a frail, elderly woman with thinning grey hair and a face carved with deep lines from a long life. Her breathing rattled like dry leaves in the wind, the familiar, final note of a life’s melody. Rio knew without looking that her time was up. Usually, she would have ended it then, a slice of the blade releasing the soul from its mortal coil. But tonight, she hesitated.

The woman’s lips parted, and though her eyes remained closed, her expression was one of peace, laced with a wistful sadness. "Please... just a little longer,” the woman croaked, her voice barely more than a breath.

Rio felt a twist in her chest, a sensation she struggled to name. Sympathy. It was foreign to her, an emotion she had no business feeling. She had witnessed countless pleas like this and heard the desperate bargaining for just a few more moments. She knew time was not hers to give; it upset the natural order of things. And yet she found herself stepping back, the dagger held loosely at her side, the edge no longer threatening.

The woman’s breathing steadied, if only slightly. Her fingers twitched, as though reaching for something invisible, something only she could see. Rio stood there motionless, granting her those extra moments despite every instinct honed over millennia telling her to finish the task. It felt monumental—this small mercy she had never given before.

Finally, when the time came, Rio lifted the dagger with reverent grace. The blade cut through the air, leaving a faint, shimmering trail, as though it were slicing through the very fabric of reality. She stroked the woman’s cheek with the back of her hand, a gesture softer than a whisper. The woman’s soul slipped free with a sight, looking around with quiet confusion. Rio offered her a gentle smile, kind and understanding, as she guided the soul onward. It was a simple act, but tonight it felt different. Heavier, somehow.

“You’re different,” a small voice said.

Rio turned her head sharply; the boy’s spirit hovered beside his motionless body. The boy’s eyes seemed to see right through the mask Rio wore. His voice is gentle, his gaze knowing.

Rio forces a smile, dismissing the notion with a flick of her hand. “Nonsense,” she replies smoothly. “I am as I have always been.”

The boy just smiled—a small, enigmatic smile that makes Rio feel exposed in a way she hadn’t in centuries. Rio watched the boy’s spirit fade, but his words lingered, a needle pricking her long-held detachment. She had always been gentler with souls, she realised. In life, humans were so full of hatred and bitterness, weighed down by the scars they inflicted on one another. But in death, they were stripped bare, small and vulnerable like children. The souls she ferried seemed so different from the people they had once been; it was as if death was a balm that smoothed away the jagged edges of their lives.

The room was quiet again, filled only with the faint rustle of the wind against the old walls. Rio clenched her fist, trying to dispel the restless feeling gnawing at her. Thoughts of Agatha crept in, unwanted but persistent. It had only been a few days since their kiss, but the memory clung to her, an echo she couldn’t silence.

With a frustrated huff, she stepped away from the beds, her form dissolving into shadow as she moved towards the door. The fog outside was thick, swirling like smoke, and as she slipped into the night, she felt the tug of the river calling to her—a place where the veil between life and death thinned.

Rio stepped through the veil, emerging at a riverbank shrouded in mist as dawn began to creep over the horizon. Pale light shimmered on the surface of the water, casting an ethereal glow across the landscape. It was a place she often retreated to, a sanctuary where the rushing water drowned out the noise of her thoughts. The last remnants of moonlight danced on the surface, casting shimmering ripples that mirrored the turmoil within her. She lowered herself onto a large rock, her fingers tracing patterns in the dirt as she stared into the water. For once, there is no smirk on her lips, no playful glint in her eyes. Here in the solitude of this place, the weight of her thoughts pressed down on her like the river’s current, constant and inescapable.

The river had always been a place of clarity for her, a palace where she could feel the boundary between worlds. But tonight, it offered no answers. Only more questions. She dipped her fingers into the water, watching the ripples spread. “What is this feeling?” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the sound of the current

She scooped up some water in her palm, staring into her own flickering reflection. It shifted between her beautiful, serene visage and the hollow-eyed, skeletal form of Lady Death. “You’re losing yourself,” she whispered to herself, half in fear and half in wonder. It wasn’t a complete loss of self but a change—an unsettling new understanding of the emotions she had spent eons observing but never experiencing.

Rio tried to laugh, but it came out empty. For the first time, she felt the urge to connect rather than merely pass through. Agatha... Agatha had done this to her, brought these feelings bubbling to the surface. It wasn’t just curiosity or a passing infatuation. It was a pull she couldn’t resist, a connection she didn’t fully understand but is desperate to explore. It was terrifying in its unfamiliarity.

The connection she feels to Agatha is undeniable, and that’s the part that scares her. It’s been there from the beginning, from the moment she was drawn inexplicably to the child’s birth. She had watched from the shadows, then whispered her guidance unseen, and then finally revealed herself. 

Rio had always assumed that her connection to Agatha was a fleeting thing, a curiosity born of watching a life unfold from its fragile beginning. She remembered the first time she saw Agatha’s spirit flicker into existence—how she had hovered unseen in the shadowed corner of the room. At first, it was just another life she was bound to oversee, an interest that would wane as Agatha grew, lived, and eventually died. But something had shifted when she watched Agatha defy death—deep and imperceptible, like a fault line cracking beneath the surface. She had planned to leave once she knew Agatha was free, to return to the shadows where she belonged. It was supposed to be a game—light flirting at best, nothing more.

Instead, she found herself wanting to stay, wanting to see the woman Agatha had become and to be a part of her story. It was shocking—this yearning that made her feel exposed, as though Agatha could see the parts of her that she kept hidden even from herself. It wasn’t just about protecting Agatha anymore; it was something deeper, something that made Rio’s chest ache in a way she hadn’t ever felt.

Rio hadn’t meant for this connection to grow, hadn’t imagined it could transform into something that felt so undeniably real. She was Death, after all—detached, unfeeling, a constant presence who slipped in and out of lives without leaving a trace. But now, each encounter felt like a rope wrapped tightly around her, pulling her closer to Agatha. It’s ridiculous, impossible even. But the feeling was there.

“Damn it,” Rio mutters to herself, raking a hand through her hair. It falls back into place, as dark as the shadows that cling to her like a second skin. She stands abruptly, as if movement might shake loose the thoughts tangled in her mind. Her dagger materialises in her hand without a command, a familiar weight, comforting in its simplicity. 

It’s a reminder of who she is. What she is. She isn’t meant to feel this way—conflicted, yearning. She has a job to do.

If she was to understand these feelings, she needed to see Agatha again. She took one last glance at the river, as if seeking its silent blessing. Then, with a deep breath, she stepped through the veil, disappearing into the night with a swirl of shadows. She wasn’t sure if she was running toward something or away from it. But either way, she couldn’t stop herself.

The riverbank was left empty and still, save for the whisper of wind that seemed to carry her name into the darkness.

Next Chapter >

(it's going to be an emotional confrontation and we all know what happens when these two get emotional...)

[nanabrainrot]

Perversion, Immersion [Pervert!Roman Roy]

Roman Roy discovers the magic of deepfakes, filtering through more and more images of you. He’s lucky you’re an entertainer at heart.

Warning! This piece is NSFW! It contains a dominating female reader and a perverted Roman. Dub-con due to nonconsensual use of her face in deepfake pornography. Praise kink, humiliation kink, and mixed signals.

WC: 1599

Part I | You are reading Part II | Part III

Part II

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The industrial revolution and its consequences have been a disaster for mankind. The advancement of technology served as a grim reminder that Roman would not be increasing in his addiction and obscenity since you had found out about it: the existence of deepfakes had only exacerbated this progression in depravity. Masturbation is natural, occurring in all facets of life where self-pleasure can set off dopamine receptors; the problem in humanity is the structure of manufactured morality. Ignorance is bliss reigns true but the lingering feeling of adrenaline as his camera roll started to become full of the public images of you.

LinkedIn, Facebook, Instagram, your youth had led you to being tech savvy and your beauty had led you to indulging in regularly posting pictures of yourself. Classy, but suggestive. Most photos of you were perfectly posed, half-lidded eyes and a little grin but not too big. Feeding them into the websites provided him this constant pleasure: your face projected on the porn star.

Enough angles fed made it seamless. It was no longer the porn star’s face, but yours. The mouth ajar and knit brows but the voice - the voice was too far off. It was maddening. What did you sound like moaning? Not that he would likely ever be able to get that comical assembly of moans and grunts that were restricted to the world of porn for the sake of theatrics. And everyday the collection grows, the number of porn stars with a body like yours are not in short supply. The amateur videos really add to the authenticity of it as he downloads it to his phone, sending the file in his emails before trying to delete the evidence. Or not. You really didn’t seem give a damn that he was basically fantasizing about you.

You don’t seem bothered now too.

“What’re you staring at like that for?”

His skin goes cold, pores erupting into goosebumps and hairs standing on end. No fear, just adrenaline.

It’s you.

Your face edited with that stupid website. Face covered in a load of cum as you looked up at the camera with lips wrapped around the bulbous tip of a dick. Silence.

Quiet. Stillness.

Until the first noise rips out of you: a real authentic snorting laugh. You stumble back with your head back - like a hyena - snorting and trying to breathe as tears well from the lack of air as you wheeze at Roman fumbling over his words and trying to rectify the frozen screen yet again. A vein pulses in his head as he starts to randomly pound buttons and mutter a string of curses at the frozen screen before you regain your composure with a grin.

“You’re a photoshop pro, Roman? Or did you master it to beat it to this pic of me?” you scoff smiling as you leaned back against the wall.

“No - just, you fuckin’ uh - this is a chick who just kind of, um - oh my god, y’know what? Fuck is your issue it’s just a pic as a joke and you literally fell for it -“

“A joke? Me sucking dick is a funny joke?” you snort, struggling to hold back a laugh as the vein pulsed in his head harder.

“Hysterical. You don’t get comedy and it’s not even you - just some uh chick who looks like you. You think you’re only chick who looks like that in the world?”

“Roman, I don’t have any nudes out there. Camera shy,” you start, drawing closer to him with little clicks of your heels, “and that ‘chick’ has the mole near my eye.”

He glances back at the screen before immediately drawing back to whip back and view your face - over and over. He looked like he’d break his neck like that.

“What? If you wanna see me suck dick you can just ask me.” His face simultaneously drains of blood and flushes all at once, dick confused if it should get hard or stay shy and soft in his trousers.

“What?”

“What do you mean what? I know you heard me,” you drawl, “do you not want me to suck it?”

“I do! I mean, uh,” he coughs leaning back to look cool and collected, “I do… but not, um, today. Y’know, I like to test the waters? I’m a verbal guy you just keep that chatting and it’ll be your dick audition. Since you’re literally craving it if you’re offering like that -“

“Then take out your dick.”

Quiet.

“I don’t uh - want you to watch me,” he choked, “talk to me, c’mon, start that dirty shit since you’re so horny like that-“

“Take out your dick. You stupid or something? Why do I need to walk you through unzipping and taking your dick out?” You rolled your eyes but seemed to oblige, walking toward the door where your phone was on a table by. Back to him, you leaned over - round ass taunting him in the tight fabric of your skirt. Garters on display.

“I’m not even gonna look at you, since you wanna be a baby about it… probably don’t wanna see your nasty dick,” you scoff and start scrolling through your phone as your knees lightly shifted weight to weight to make your ass move a bit. It’s enough to spark the little shame that he loved to make him start palming himself through the trousers.

“Tch, you stroking your dick to my ass? Good,”

Hard breaths. Harsh huffs. Fiddling with the flesh to reach orgasm at a sight. Because you couldn’t be bothered to let him touch you. Too good to be soiled by a disgusting, sorry man like himself.

“You wish you could touch me, don’t you?”

A huff.

“Yeah…”

“Don’t even fuckin’ try. You’ve been a creep,” you huff, “stuffing pics of me into some website to jack off to.” Your ass taunted him, probably fleshy under the tight pencil skirt. Untouched by him, undeserving of touching it.

“Say it. Say you’re a creep,” you scoff.

Breath hitching, the way you play him like a fiddle, has the veins of his cock throbbing and his balls tightening uncomfortably. If he came too fast, you’d laugh. If he didn’t come at all, he’s a brick with a dick. Takes too long to cum? Roman can’t cum off a pretty broad and you could scoot off and tell everyone Roman’s as close to gay as an old Rome orgy. The way you suddenly stand straight has him anxious - reeling at fast movements and change as he always had.

You turn on your heel, that stone face meeting his eyes. The statuesque positioning only serves to make him reel more internally, softening just a little at the way your face returning to its natural stoic expression; he was starting to miss that coy girlish giggle you did when you saw his screen frozen again in the grim series of misfortunes called his life.

He gets hard again as you draw closer, slow strides and the sound of your kitten heels scraping the floor as you come closer with your hands fiddling with the buttons of your professional workwear that always screamed “office minx�� with the way the buttons were always a little spread and trying to free your tits from its confines.

“You’re cute. Do me a favor since I’m being so nice to a creep like you,” you coo sweetly like glazing your malicious half-hearted words in icing to make it palatable. If you’d called him a simmering piece of dog shit and stepped on his balls, he’d probably harden the same anyway.

Two pieces of clothing sit on his desk, ragdolled by gravity and no longer clinging to the owner but still reeking of your perfume. Something halfway between girlish and womanly, it has a floral note that Roman breathes in clearly from where he is now: suckling at your tit.

Your eyes closed, soft huffs of minty breath from those puffy peppermints on your desk, cooing and petting his head like a puppy. Those nails scratching at the back of his neck; it’s a gentle movement that leaves him reeling, leaves his cock twitching and balls tightening drawing closer and closer and closer -

“Good boy, good boy… not so creepy, you’re so good… you can cum, baby boy,” you coo.

The sensation is different. Used to his ejaculations being spurred by the feeling of being talked down to, when he spills to you pressing soft kisses to his hairline it feels too close to intimacy.

And intimacy was debilitating.

The spent on his hands is warm and he is naming 4 things he can touch as just: cum, cum, cum, and cum. You slip back on your bra and button-up (a tad more wrinkled than it was earlier) and the wafting scent of your perfume is contaminated by the musk of his cologne.

Your eyes are stone again and your face unchanged. Mellowed with time and that time was only seconds. The sweet sugar of your voice spills through his hands like sand and he wishes it was more solid, like a horse wanting a sugar cube after a subpar trick. You stink of him as you mutter goodnight, grabbing the bag and leaving once you had your fill, and your silhouette lost in the hallway as his office door clanks shut.

The only evidence that you were here at all is the bit of chapstick, strawberry and $3 and generic, still sticky on his hairline.

The taste of sugar depletes and his mouth feels dry. Can tomorrow come any quicker? Any quicker than him?

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

THANKS FOR READINGGH FOLLOW FOR PART 3 THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE POSTED AT NOON ON THE DOT BUT HAD TO BE POSTED LATER BC MY WIFI BLEW OUT NO ONE GET MAD 😭

EDIT 9/9/23: PART 3 IS UP N LINKED THANK YOU MY FELLOW AMERICANS

[thoughtfultalenacho]

Discover Stunning False Ceiling Design Ideas with Livspace Interior Design

Source- Livspace website

Imagine stepping into a room where everything feels just right- the lighting is perfect, the space feels more open and stylish. The magic happens not on the walls or furniture, but in the ceiling. Welcome to the world of false ceilings!

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Source- Livspace website

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I wanted a sleek and minimalistic false ceiling design to make my living room look  contemporary and classy. These false ceiling designs shown by Livspace emphasised on clean lines, geometric shapes, and seamless integration with the surrounding space. The Livspace interior designer also incorporated recessed lighting or LED strips, which created a soft and inviting ambience that harmonised with the overall decor.

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Source- Livspace website

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Source- Livspace website

Livspace offered me various options to create an outstanding ceiling design, including wood, metal, and gypsum. They help me choose the perfect combination of materials and textures that align with my taste. Many material options, from rustic reclaimed wood to sleek and modern metal finishes, are available with Livspace, allowing me to achieve a harmonious blend of materials and textures. All these combinations add a charming touch to my false ceiling design for the living room.

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[valhallafemme]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑴𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓

*Tuscany, 2004*

How many nights have I watched her, this doppelganger I've become? Watched as she surrenders to his touch, to the fire that consumes her whenever his skin meets hers? Watched as she loses herself in the altar of his flesh, forgetting for a moment the weight of her lies, the burden of her deception? Too many to count now.

The villa holds our secrets like a confessional. Its stone walls have witnessed every transformation - from Emily to Lauren, from target to lover, from spy to mother. Earlier today, those same hands that worship her body so reverently were teaching Declan about weapons, about survival. The same lips that trace fire across her skin had been singing our boy to sleep with Irish lullabies. The duality should shatter the spell, but somehow it only deepens it.

Sometimes Declan's footsteps in the hall bring us back to reality - the soft pad of small feet seeking comfort from nightmares. In those moments, we transform instantly from lovers to parents, and the seamlessness of this transition terrifies me more than any passion. The way Ian's eyes hold the same intensity whether he's claiming her body or protecting his son.

The true madness isn't just in their physical communion - it's in the morning after, when Declan crawls into our bed with nightmares, when we build blanket fortresses and sing about cats that always come back, when we become the family that neither Ian nor I ever thought we'd have. That's the real fever that consumes us both - Lauren and me, until we can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

My mind reels with images of them - the sweat-slicked dance of their bodies, the primal relentlessness of his thrusts, the rapture glazed over her face as she shatters around him again and again... I've become a voyeur to their passion, a silent witness to the erotic poem they write in purple and gunpowder.

Oh, I've felt her ecstasy as affirmation, her climax a benediction to their sinful communion. Heard her cries of rapture echo through the halls of this fortress, a siren song that stirred the very air, and stirred in me a loyterian envy for the frenzy she knew in his arms. The way her skin bloomed freesias under his ardent touch, as if the very blood beneath hurried to meet his caress.

In those moments, I am not the agent, the spy, the keeper of secrets. God help me, I am her. A woman undone, unmade, reborn again and again in the conflagration of their love. Taken, claimed, possessed. Owned.

I've watched them climb the heights of Eros, their coupling a symphony of damp, wanton flesh and guttural, husky whispers. The air heavy with the coital musk of their mating, the obscene slap of flesh against flesh ringing in my ears. I've been the silent audience to their erotic theater, to the candy-colored spills of his seed splattering her skin as if marking her, branding her his.

He was a virtuoso of vice, master of every tender sinew, each sensitive nerve ending that led to her unraveling. His every touch, every kiss, every whisper was a sculpture chip, hewing her to the shape of his desire. He made a temple of her flesh, an altar to his worship. And she stood rapt before him, eyes blazing with a fever of devotion as he plundered her, conquered her, possessed her so completely.

I should not have watched so hungrily, felt the prick of envy at her flesh-bound rapture, the twist of longing for the onslaught of his passion upon my own skin. But I did. Damn me, I did. I played the spymistress, the unspoken third in their erotic bloodshed, the silent witness to their licks and kisses, their bites and caresses.

And I burned with it, ached with it, yearned with it - for their love, their need, their all-encompassing, soul-crushing obsession with the flesh of the other.

It was a fever, a madness, an unholy euphoria that consumed them both, that ate them alive and left them reborn in a welter of sweat and satiated flesh. And I was the silent priest, the unseen celebrant to that communion, that carnal sacrament of lust and desire.

I have a confession to make. I did not mind it, I did not mind it at all... I minded it too well. For in watching their love, their passion, I was reminded of the truth I had long denied. That beneath this mask, beneath this persona, beneath the steel-edged woman I had forged myself into, I too was a creature of flesh and blood and bone.

I too craved to be touched, to be tasted, to be devoured. I too yearned to be held, to be conquered, to be possessed by a love as fierce and unyielding as Ian Doyle's lust. I too hungered to surrender to the flame, to be consumed in its fiery crucible and reforged into something wilder, something freer, something more... alive.

But that was a hunger I could not afford to satisfy. Not now. Not ever. For I was here to fulfill a purpose, to complete a mission, to raze this empire of violence and death to the ground. And to do that, I had to become the one thing that could tempt Ian Doyle to let down his guard, to place his trust in the tender hand of treachery. I had to become the woman in the moonlit window, the mother to his son, the lover who would one day become his Judas.

I am Emily Prentiss, and I cannot afford a heart. Not now. Not ever... But damn me, I do not mind it. I do not mind it at all... Even knowing the destruction to come. Even knowing how completely this love will shatter us all. Even knowing that every moment of passion, every family breakfast, every bedtime story brings us closer to the inevitable end.

Because some fires are worth the burning.

Some love is worth the destruction.

Some families are real even when built on lies.

The night air carries freesias from the garden where Declan plays, where I teach him goofy French words against his father's wishes, where we pretend at normal despite the weapons hidden in lilac bushes and the guards at every gate. In our bed, Ian stirs, reaching for me in sleep. Tomorrow I'll send another report to my handlers. Tomorrow I'll add another betrayal to my growing list. Tomorrow I'll remember my purpose.

But tonight, I watch Lauren love him.

Tonight, I let myself burn.

Tonight, I forget who's real and who's pretend.

Until the end comes.

Until truth claims its due.

Until duty destroys everything Lauren has built.

But not yet.

Not tonight.

Tonight, we burn.

Yours,

Until time comes for us.

Her.

𝑻𝒖𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒚'𝒔 𝑩𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑬𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒔

(...)

[rentzeasyblog]

Read Frequently Asked Questions & Photos On Renting LED Wall

Gallery Images are for representation purpose only. Actual product may vary from the depicted image. Frequently Asked Questions What is an LED Wall? An LED wall is a large display screen made up of numerous LED panels. These panels combine to create a seamless, high-resolution visual experience, ideal for events, concerts, conferences, and advertising.

[shiorihyugawrites]

Tides of Fate

In a world where powerful creatures known as sirens come to the shores of Paradis, the scouts are thrust into an unexpected alliance—one that is sealed through an ancient and seductive bonding ritual. Each siren has chosen a mate, and through their connection, the scouts are granted extraordinary powers.

As the bonds grow Mikasa’s jealousy threatens to unravel her. But the real danger lies not just in broken hearts, but in the lurking threat of Marley and those who seek to capture the sirens for their gain.

Power, desire, and duty collide, forcing the Scouts to navigate new emotions and alliances in ways they never imagined. Through danger, love, and sacrifice, the tides of fate will decide if their world will rise or fall. (Eren, Levi, Floch, Jean, Armin, Connie, Bertholdt, Reiner x OCs

Chapter 48: The Price of Freedom, the Promise of Peace

The silence in the aftermath of battle weighed heavily as the scouts regrouped, exchanging weary nods and silent glances. Their mission had shifted. The next phase—the reason they had fought so fiercely—was to free the captured sirens, Marley’s prisoners forced into unnatural bonds for their soldiers’ gain. Their path took them deep into Liberio’s military district, to the hidden underground facilities that intelligence reports had indicated were holding sites. Each of the scouts moved with grim determination, led by Levi, whose resolve was as solid as ever despite his visible injuries.

Levi’s voice was low but authoritative as he addressed the scouts and sirens accompanying him. “Keep your eyes open and stay alert. These facilities are heavily guarded. We don’t know what kind of conditions we’ll find them in.”

Eren, still catching his breath from the recent battle, exchanged a solemn look with Luna, who stayed close by his side. She gave a slight nod, her gaze determined. Even with her injuries, she knew she had to be there when they rescued the sirens. “We’re ready,” she said, and he could feel the strength behind her words. He knew that freeing these sirens mattered deeply to her and the other sirens who had fought alongside them.

The scouts moved down a series of narrow corridors, each turn taking them deeper underground. The air was damp and heavy, and the further they went, the more unsettling the atmosphere became. The once-sterile walls were now streaked with grime, and the harsh smell of antiseptics mingled with the faint, metallic tang of blood. This was no place for any creature, let alone sirens stripped of their freedom.

Finally, they reached a reinforced steel door, guarded by a handful of Marleyan soldiers. The guards’ eyes widened at the sight of the scouts and their siren allies, clearly unprepared for a full assault this deep in their facility. Before the soldiers could sound any alarms, Levi signaled for his team to advance. With swift, deadly precision, the scouts incapacitated the guards, their movements seamless from years of combat training together.

Aria stepped forward, her eyes fierce as she examined the thick door before them. “This must be it,” she murmured. The sirens’ collective presence felt like a beacon, a promise of safety that reached beyond the door.

Hange approached the control panel beside the door, her brow furrowing as she tried to override the lock. “Let’s see… should be straightforward, but they’ve definitely got this on a high-security setting,” she muttered, fingers moving deftly over the keys. A soft click, and then the door gave a low, metallic groan as it slid open.

The scouts stepped back as the door slowly revealed a dark, cramped room beyond. Levi entered first, followed closely by Luna, Aria, and the other sirens. The sight that awaited them made their stomachs twist.

There, huddled in the shadows, were more than three dozen sirens, shackled and barely clothed, their eyes hollow and wary. The dim lighting revealed bruises and scars, signs of mistreatment and neglect. Some of the sirens flinched at the sudden light, raising their bound hands to shield themselves, while others turned away, as if unable to process what was happening.

“Oh god…” Armin whispered, his voice choked with horror. He had seen many things on the battlefield, but nothing like this—nothing that felt so inherently wrong. His hands clenched into fists as he looked at their sunken eyes and frail forms.

Luna’s eyes filled with sorrow and rage. She stepped forward, her voice trembling but gentle. “You’re safe now,” she said, her words barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

The sirens huddled closer to each other, confusion etched across their faces. They were terrified, too scarred by their experiences to immediately trust these newcomers. They’d learned to associate every figure who entered that room with pain and suffering.

Seeing their fear, Levi stepped back, motioning for Luna, Aria, and the other sirens to take the lead. He knew that only familiar faces could begin to break through the walls these sirens had built around themselves.

Luna took a deep breath and stepped forward with Aria, Sera, and Bria close behind. They moved slowly, their hands held out to show they meant no harm. “We’re here to help you,” Luna continued, her voice steady and soft. “We’re sirens too. We’ve come to bring you to safety, back to Paradis.”

At the word “sirens,” a few of the captives lifted their heads, their eyes widening as recognition began to dawn. They scanned the faces before them, realizing for the first time that the women standing in front of them were indeed sirens like them, not their captors or tormentors.

A frail, young siren at the front, no older than twenty, lifted her shackled hands slightly. “You… you’re really here to save us?” Her voice trembled, thick with disbelief.

Luna nodded, her own eyes welling up as she met the young siren’s gaze. “Yes. We’re taking you away from here. You won’t have to endure this anymore.”

Another siren, her face gaunt and eyes hardened from suffering, looked around the room. “But… the soldiers, they…” Her voice broke as she struggled to find the words. “They forced us to… they made us bond with them.”

Bria stepped forward, her voice gentle but fierce. “You’re free from that now. The ones who hurt you are gone, and no one here will force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

The sirens exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from fear to cautious hope. One by one, they allowed themselves to believe, to trust that maybe, after all this time, they had found salvation.

Hange, who had been watching from the back, spoke up. “We’ll get you out of those chains. Just give us a moment.” She turned to Levi and signaled to the other scouts. “Let’s get these shackles off them.”

Levi nodded, his face set in a grim expression as he helped distribute tools to break the sirens’ chains. As the scouts worked, Luna, Aria, and the others comforted the captives, offering reassuring touches and quiet words of encouragement.

One of the older sirens, her face lined with weariness, finally met Luna’s gaze. “We… we didn’t think anyone would come,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “We thought we’d be trapped here until we… until we were no longer useful.”

Luna placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, her eyes filled with empathy. “You’re not alone anymore,” she said softly. “We’re going to get you to safety, to a place where no one can hurt you ever again.”

As the last of the shackles were removed, the freed sirens exchanged hesitant smiles and whispers, the reality of their rescue slowly sinking in. Some cried, others clung to each other, and a few simply stared in shock, still processing the fact that they were finally free.

Levi, his expression steely, gave a nod to the scouts. “Let’s move. We’re not out of here yet, and Marley isn’t going to be happy when they realize what’s happened.”

The sirens stood, some leaning on each other for support as they gathered the strength to follow. They looked to Luna, Aria, and the other sirens from Paradis as their guides, their protectors. The trust was fragile, but it was there, a faint glimmer of hope in their eyes.

As they made their way back through the corridors, Levi glanced over at Aria, his face softening slightly. She caught his gaze, giving him a small nod of gratitude and understanding. They had fought for this—for the freedom of those who had been forced into bonds they hadn’t chosen. This was more than a mission; it was justice.

In the distance, Eren, Armin, Mikasa, and the others waited, their expressions resolute as they prepared to escort the rescued sirens to safety. Eren’s gaze softened when he saw Luna, pride and relief in his eyes as he watched her lead the captives forward.

Armin looked at the freed sirens with a gentle smile. “We’ll protect you. You’re safe now.”

Mikasa nodded, her expression softened by the sight of their fragile, traumatized faces. “You won’t have to go back there. Ever.”

The scouts moved with a mixture of urgency and relief as they led the freed sirens from the underground holding cells up to the airship, where medical support was already waiting. The once-silent halls of the facility now echoed with footsteps, murmured reassurances, and the quiet sobs of sirens who were still processing their newfound freedom.

“Careful now,” Hange said gently, guiding one of the more fragile sirens, a woman with a haunted expression and deep cuts along her arms. “We’ll get you somewhere safe—somewhere they can’t reach you.” Her voice was steady, as if assuring herself as much as the woman in front of her.

Levi moved alongside them, eyes scanning their surroundings. Even with the battle raging, he remained vigilant, his gaze flicking over every corner and shadow. “Let’s keep moving,” he said sharply to the scouts. “We’re still deep in enemy territory.”

As they neared the airship, a quiet murmur rippled through the crowd of freed sirens. Standing at the entrance were the other sirens from the sanctuary and Caspia, Melody, Solara, and Rue—alongside a few remaining scouts. The freed sirens’ eyes widened with recognition and relief, and many staggered forward as if drawn by an invisible pull toward the other sirens. The sanctuary sirens opened their arms, drawing them into gentle embraces, murmuring words of comfort and reassurance.

Solara stepped forward, her gaze intense yet soft. She touched the shoulder of one trembling young siren who looked up at her with tear-streaked cheeks. “You’re safe now,” Solara whispered. “You’ll never have to see those soldiers again.”

The young siren let out a shaky breath, nodding, her eyes brimming with gratitude and disbelief.

As the sirens began to settle onto the airship, Hange coordinated with the medics, ensuring each siren received attention for their injuries. “I want every wound checked,” she instructed, her voice ringing with authority. “And make sure they’re hydrated—God knows what they’ve been through.”

Rue moved to help with a few of the injured, her own expression mirroring the compassion she felt. She glanced up to see Reiner standing nearby, watching her with a worried expression. He met her gaze and gave a small nod, his eyes filled with relief to see her helping the others, though his concern hadn’t lessened.

“Reiner,” Rue said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “Be careful.”

“I will,” he promised, squeezing her hand gently. He knew his next mission would be dangerous, but seeing Rue safe gave him the strength he needed.

Bertholdt, Jean, and Connie soon joined Reiner, each of them prepared for what was next. They exchanged determined looks, understanding their mission without needing to say much. They were tasked with hunting down any remaining siren hunters—no matter where they might be hiding.

Jean slung his gear over his shoulder and gave Connie a nod. “We finish this here. No one gets away.”

“Right,” Connie replied, his usual lightheartedness replaced by a steely resolve. “They’re not laying a hand on any more of them.”

As Reiner, Bertholdt, Jean, and Connie set off on their mission, Levi turned to Hange, Armin, Mikasa, and Eren. “Time to take the final step,” he said, his voice grim and focused. “The Marleyan generals will try to run, but we’re not letting them get away.”

Eren’s fists clenched, his eyes narrowed with determination. “They’re cornered,” he muttered. “They have nowhere to go. It’s time they face the consequences.”

The group moved out, weaving through the devastated Marleyan compound. The echoes of previous battles lingered around them—the smell of smoke, the shattered buildings, and the silence of an empire brought to its knees. Each step they took was a reminder of the destruction they’d wrought, but it was also a reminder of the lives Marley had destroyed in their relentless pursuit of power.

As they neared the war room, Armin glanced at the others, his usually thoughtful expression replaced by a hardened resolve. “They know we’re coming,” he murmured. “They must be desperate now.”

Levi’s face was impassive, though his eyes blazed with determination. “Desperate men make stupid mistakes. That’s what we’re counting on.”

The entrance to the war room loomed before them, and they could hear hurried footsteps and panicked voices on the other side. The Marleyan generals, it seemed, were already preparing to flee. Levi glanced back at the others, nodding silently as he took the lead.

With a swift kick, Levi forced the door open, his presence radiating danger as he stepped into the room. The Marleyan generals froze, their faces drained of color as they saw the scouts standing before them, weapons drawn and expressions merciless.

“Going somewhere?” Levi’s voice was low, but the threat in it was unmistakable.

One of the generals stammered, his eyes darting toward the open window as if considering escape. But Mikasa moved in front of him, her stance as solid as a wall. “You’re not getting away,” she said coldly, her gaze piercing.

Eren stepped forward, his expression a mixture of fury and satisfaction. “Your naval fleet is gone. Your soldiers surrendered. You’ve lost everything.”

The head general, his face twisted with anger and fear, spat at the floor, his voice trembling. “You… you devils don’t understand! Marley is a force that can’t be destroyed by a few rebellious soldiers!”

Armin, calm but resolute, replied, “It’s over. Marley’s reign ends today.” He glanced around the room, his eyes flickering with sympathy for the captured sirens, who were finally safe. “You’ve caused so much suffering. It’s time to answer for it.”

Hange’s eyes gleamed as she looked at the generals, her voice sharp and uncompromising. “We’re not here for revenge. We’re here for justice.”

Another general sneered, struggling to muster his pride despite the obvious fear in his eyes. “And you think you’ll find justice by slaughtering us? Marley’s legacy will live on. Others will rise to take our place.”

Levi’s patience was wearing thin, and he took a menacing step forward. “This isn’t a negotiation. You can surrender now and spare yourselves the pain. Or you can resist and see what happens.”

The generals exchanged panicked glances, their confidence faltering under Levi’s glare. One by one, the realization dawned on them—they were outmatched, and any attempt at resistance would be futile.

Finally, one of them dropped his weapon, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “We surrender,” he murmured, his voice hollow.

Hange stood at the forefront, her posture firm, eyes blazing with the unmistakable fire of conviction. Surrender was not enough; she wanted more than just words of capitulation from these men.

“Your verbal surrender means little to us,” Hange began, her voice sharp and unyielding. “If we leave here with only empty promises, nothing stops Marley from rearming, rebuilding, and attacking Paradis again, or resuming their vile practices against the sirens. No—if we are to have peace, it must be formalized, signed, and sealed.”

One of the Marleyan generals glared at her, his lips pursed in defiance. “And what do you expect of us? To grovel before you? To hand over our sovereignty?”

Hange didn’t waver, stepping closer, her expression one of steely resolve. “I expect you to understand that this is the price of the atrocities Marley has committed. You have raided, enslaved, and tortured. Not just humans, but the sirens who sought peace beneath the sea, whom you forced into bonds and treated as tools. Your empire has taken without consequence, but those days are over. We are demanding reparations for the damage you’ve caused—to Paradis and to the sirens.”

The room went silent, each Marleyan general exchanging uneasy glances. They were aware of the precarious situation they were in. Their forces were decimated, their fleet destroyed, and their once-feared titan shifters lay defeated. They had no choice but to accept the terms of the scouts and Paradis.

One of the generals clenched his fists, jaw tight, but he spoke up with resignation. “Very well. Marley will send a delegation to Paradis within the next few weeks. We’ll draft the formal terms of peace and reparations. You’ll have your treaty.”

Hange nodded, her gaze steady, though a flicker of relief softened her features. “Good. Make sure that delegation arrives, or there will be consequences.” She glanced toward Levi, who had been silently watching, his piercing gaze promising that he, too, would be waiting for any sign of duplicity from Marley.

With the terms set and the peace treaty agreed upon, the scouts made their way back to the airship. The Marleyan generals and soldiers watched in silence as the scouts, the victors of this grueling battle, left their empire behind.

As the scouts boarded the airship, a sea of faces greeted them—faces of the freed sirens who now filled the vessel, nearly two hundred of them in total. Many were exhausted, their expressions etched with fear, hope, and uncertainty. They huddled together, some in small groups, others leaning on each other for comfort, still adjusting to the idea that they were free.

Luna, standing at the forefront of her pod, looked over the assembled sirens with a gentle but determined expression. She glanced to her side, where Aria, Bria, Rue, Caspia, Solara, Sera, and Melody stood beside her, each one of them sharing in her conviction.

Luna cleared her throat, her voice rising above the hum of the airship’s engines. “To all of you who have suffered under Marley’s rule, who have been hunted, enslaved, and forced into unnatural bonds—we are here to tell you that your suffering is over. You are free now. You will never have to live in fear again.”

The sirens looked at her, some with tears in their eyes, others with disbelief. Aria stepped forward, her voice warm and inviting. “In Paradis, there is sanctuary. You’ll find peace there, and protection. We’ve fought to make it a place where no one will harm you again.”

Bria, her hand resting reassuringly on one of the younger sirens, added, “You’re not alone. We’ll be with you every step of the way. And you’ll be safe.”

A murmur of gratitude and relief rippled through the sirens. Some exchanged glances of hesitant hope, while others reached out to hold hands, feeling the warmth of unity and freedom for the first time in years.

Among the scouts, Eren watched Luna with admiration. His face softened as he took in her strength and grace, the way she had stepped into her role as a leader not just for her pod but for all the sirens. He walked over to her, reaching out to hold her hand, his eyes filled with pride. “You did it, Luna. You’re leading them to something better.”

Luna turned to him, her gaze unwavering. “We did it, Eren. This wouldn’t have been possible without all of you. I’m grateful—for everything.”

Nearby, Levi observed Aria, his protective instincts barely suppressed. He was exhausted, his injured knee still throbbing, but seeing her alive, strong, and encouraging the freed sirens, filled him with a fierce sense of pride. When Aria noticed him, she stepped over and took his hand, her fingers warm and grounding against his skin.

“You held up your end,” she whispered, her eyes filled with affection. “Now it’s time for us to look forward.”

Levi squeezed her hand, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. But I’ll be watching, just in case Marley forgets their promises.”

The airship began its journey back to Paradis, the night sky stretching out before them as a vast, uncharted future. Inside, the scouts and sirens settled into a quiet peace, knowing that the horrors of Marley were now behind them. As they crossed the ocean, Hange, Armin, and the rest of the scouts took turns checking on the sirens, ensuring they had food, water, and any medical attention they needed.

Hours later, as dawn began to light the horizon, the faint outline of Paradis came into view. The relief on the sirens’ faces was palpable. Many of them leaned closer to the windows, their eyes wide as they took in the sight of their new home—a sanctuary where they would be safe, loved, and protected.

Once they landed, the sirens disembarked, greeted by a warm welcome from the people of Paradis. Luna, Aria, Bria, Rue, Caspia, Solara, Sera, and Melody led the freed sirens into the waters of Paradis, their movements graceful and filled with purpose. They whispered words of encouragement, guiding the freed sirens into the gentle waves, where they could finally feel the comforting embrace of the ocean.

Standing on the shore, the scouts watched as the sirens disappeared beneath the surface, knowing that they had fulfilled a promise—one that went beyond their own survival and reached into the very heart of what it meant to protect and to save.

Levi, his gaze locked on the water, felt Aria’s hand slip into his. He glanced at her, a rare softness in his expression. “We did what we set out to do,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Aria leaned her head against his shoulder, her voice a whisper. “And now they can live freely. Thanks to you, to all of you.”

In the days that followed, the sirens integrated into the waters of Paradis, forming a new community alongside the scouts and people of the island. There was still much work to be done—rebuilding, healing, and navigating the aftermath of war—but they faced it together, bound by a shared vision of peace and protection.

And as the sun set over Paradis each night, the sirens’ song could be heard, a hauntingly beautiful melody that filled the air, a reminder of their resilience, and the bonds they had forged through hardship and hope.

…

In the peaceful lull that had settled over Paradis, a feeling of stability emerged as word spread that the long-feared Marleyans had finally conceded defeat. For the first time in their history, Paradis and the sirens held a semblance of peace—a fragile balance, but peace nonetheless.

Two weeks had passed since the climactic battle that left the Marleyan forces in shambles and a fresh treaty on the horizon. The once-hostile shores of Paradis, previously guarded and wary, now welcomed the waves with a new purpose. Sirens swam freely, occasionally approaching the shoreline, their shimmering tails and gliding movements a mesmerizing sight for the curious eyes of Paradis’ citizens. For the people of the island, it was as though the myth had become reality, but now it was their reality, and there was beauty in it.

In the capital square, bustling with soldiers, scouts, and civilians alike, people began to gather as they caught sight of an approaching convoy of Marleyan ships. This wasn’t an invasion fleet, though—this was Marley’s delegation. Armin, Hange, and Levi stood waiting at the gates, all with a different purpose in their gaze. Eren and Mikasa stood further back, observing closely, prepared to leap in if needed.

The Marleyan diplomats, dressed in muted, formal uniforms, carried an air of reluctant submission. Their eyes were wary, and they cast uneasy glances at the sirens visible near the docks. Luna, Aria, and the rest of their pod, joined by a few newly arrived sirens, floated just off the shore, watching the Marleyans with keen, unblinking eyes.

One of the leading Marleyan diplomats, an older man with graying hair and a stiff gait, cleared his throat, preparing to address Hange and the Paradis officials.

Hange stepped forward, crossing her arms. “You’re here to fulfill your obligations,” she stated bluntly, her eyes sharp. “This isn’t a mere handshake. I expect you to make good on Marley’s promises for peace and reparations.”

The diplomat shifted, visibly uncomfortable under her steady gaze. “Yes, we understand,” he replied, his voice low. “We’re here to sign the treaty as agreed. Marley acknowledges the… the sovereignty of Paradis and its protection over the sirens.”

Luna’s pod watched from the water, their presence silent but potent. Levi, standing beside Hange, kept his eyes locked on the Marleyan delegation, his expression unreadable.

Hange took a step closer to the diplomat. “Good. Because Paradis isn’t interested in half-measures. You’ll officially recognize our waters as a sanctuary for all sirens, and we expect full reparations for the destruction Marley caused.” Her voice was steady, each word carrying weight. “We’ve all sacrificed more than enough for this.”

The diplomat nodded, his gaze momentarily dropping to the ground. “Our leaders understand,” he murmured, voice tight. “We… we will honor this agreement, as outlined.”

Armin joined the conversation, his tone gentler but no less firm. “And you understand that should Marley fail to uphold its end, there will be consequences,” he said. “This treaty means nothing without action.”

There was a long silence as the Marleyans processed the gravity of their situation. The official pulled out a scroll—the treaty—and extended it toward Hange. She took it, her eyes scanning the document, ensuring every clause, every word, was exactly as discussed.

Finally, she nodded, satisfied. “Good,” she said, her voice quieter but resolute. “Then let’s make history.”

The diplomat handed her a pen with trembling fingers, and Hange signed her name in bold strokes at the treaty’s end. Then, the Marleyan diplomat did the same, each letter of his name etched in resignation. With the final stroke, the treaty was sealed.

As the scroll was rolled up, an air of relief settled over the group, yet tension still lingered like a shadow. The past couldn’t be erased, and both sides knew it.

The sirens in the water exchanged glances, their eyes meeting with silent understanding. Luna’s gaze lingered on Eren, who was standing a bit apart from the others, and she gave him a nod, one that he returned with a faint but genuine smile. They knew that peace wasn’t guaranteed, but this was a start—a fragile, delicate beginning.

Luna turned to the other sirens gathered beside her. “This is our home now,” she said softly. “We’re safe here. We’re welcome.”

Aria drifted closer to the shore, her gaze fixed on Levi. There was pride in her eyes, mixed with relief. “We’ve fought for this,” she said to him, her voice barely carrying over the waves. “And now we can finally start to live.”

Levi’s expression softened as he watched her. “Yeah,” he replied gruffly, though the tenderness in his gaze spoke volumes. “We can.”

As the Marleyan delegates prepared to leave, Hange, Armin, and the rest of the scouts turned to watch the ships depart. The crowd began to disperse, whispers of cautious hope filling the air. The sirens slipped back beneath the waves, gliding toward deeper waters to reclaim their sanctuary, now with a sense of freedom they hadn’t felt in generations.

In the days that followed, life in Paradis began to adapt to the sirens’ presence. Scouts and soldiers continued their routines, but now, the coastline was filled with life—shimmering tails and graceful dives, siren voices blending with the sounds of waves, a gentle reminder of the peace they’d all fought so hard to secure.

And, as promised, the sirens came and went freely. For the people of Paradis, this coexistence was new, strange, but as time passed, acceptance grew, and the sirens became a natural part of the island’s life—a new chapter in a story that, just weeks prior, had seemed impossible.

For the scouts and the sirens, this was more than just a truce. It was a chance to rebuild, to heal, and to find hope again.

…

A few days later Levi was sitting on the shore with Aria nestled comfortably in his lap, found himself slowly accepting this new reality—a reality where he didn’t have to plan the next attack, anticipate the next loss, or fight tooth and nail for survival. For the first time, the thought of peace didn’t feel like a distant, unreachable dream.

Aria’s hands slipped through his hair, her fingers light and teasing as she braided a few strands and undid them again, a smile tugging at her lips. Levi, still nursing an ache in his knee, leaned back slightly, letting himself relax. He could feel the sand beneath him, cool and gritty against his fingers, and the rhythmic crash of waves was almost hypnotic.

“You look so serious,” Aria murmured, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Levi glanced down, smirking faintly. “Just thinking… hard to believe we’ve actually won.” He let out a low sigh, his eyes distant. “After everything we went through… it’s over. At least, for now.”

Aria’s face softened as she took in his words. She knew what it meant for him, the weight of so many years of battle and loss finally lifting, even if just a bit. She brushed a hand gently against his cheek, her thumb tracing the faint scar that ran along his jawline. “You deserve to breathe, Levi,” she whispered. “To rest.”

He leaned into her touch, and for a moment, they were silent, both wrapped in the quiet relief of having survived. But soon, Aria’s mischievous smile returned, her eyes glinting with something playful.

“So, Captain,” she purred, her fingers resuming their gentle play in his hair. “What’s next for the famed Levi Ackerman, now that he’s got the chance to retire?” She leaned in close, her voice a murmur. “Maybe you’d consider giving me a few babies?”

Levi choked, caught off guard, and his serious demeanor cracked as he gave her an incredulous look. “Babies?” he repeated, brow arched, though he could see the teasing gleam in her eyes.

Aria chuckled, entirely unbothered by his surprise. “Yes, babies,” she replied smoothly. “I’m serious, Levi. I think we’d make some beautiful kids. Don’t you?”

He let out a huff, though he couldn’t hide the way his lips twitched into a small smile. “Beautiful? You think a kid with my scowl and your attitude’s gonna be easy to deal with?”

Aria laughed, her head falling back as she took in the sight of him, so relaxed and unguarded. “Come on, Ackerman, you don’t think they’d be little angels?” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Imagine it… little versions of you running around, scowling and training with those intense eyes of yours.”

A strange warmth settled over him at her words. The idea was… strange, something he hadn’t really allowed himself to imagine. But here, with Aria in his arms and the weight of battle finally lifting, he found himself thinking of it. Maybe, just maybe, he could have that—a family, a life not defined by war. His hand moved up to touch her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin as he looked at her with an intensity she knew well.

“You really want that?” he asked, voice low and serious, his gaze never leaving hers.

She nodded, her own gaze softening. “Yes, Levi. I do.” Her fingers drifted to rest over his heart. “We’ve both lost so much. I want to build something with you, something that’s ours… something that’s real.”

He swallowed, a flood of emotion rushing through him, and his hand moved to clasp hers, a silent answer in his firm grip. They stayed like that for a moment, eyes locked, each understanding what lay behind the other’s gaze. Slowly, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that spoke volumes—a kiss that held promises, hopes, and dreams of a future he hadn’t dared to think about until now.

…

A short distance away, Luna and Eren were floating in the water, bathed in the gentle glow of the fading sun. Eren’s arms were wrapped around her as they drifted, his fingers tracing idle patterns along her waist. Luna, resting her head against his shoulder, felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, each beat a reminder of their survival.

“You know,” she murmured, breaking the comfortable silence, “I thought about you every day while we were away. Wondering if I’d come back and see you again.”

Eren tightened his hold on her, his eyes intense as he met her gaze. “I never doubted it,” he replied, his voice filled with conviction. “You’re stronger than anyone gives you credit for, Luna. And I… I don’t want to lose you. Not now, not ever.”

Luna smiled, reaching up to press a kiss to his cheek. “You won’t,” she assured him. “We have a future, Eren. One we’re going to fight for.”

He smiled, his eyes softening as he leaned down to capture her lips in a tender kiss, the salty sea air mingling with the warmth between them.

…

Nearby, Floch and Bria stood at the water’s edge, Bria laughing as Floch tried, and failed, to keep his balance in the shallow waves. She splashed him playfully, her laughter ringing out, and Floch grinned, pulling her into his arms and twirling her around.

“I can’t believe it,” he said breathlessly, his eyes bright. “We really did it, Bria. We won.”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his. “And we get to start over. Together.”

He held her close, his gaze filled with unspoken promises, and she smiled, knowing they had a lifetime ahead of them.

…

Elsewhere along the shoreline, Reiner held Rue close, his hands moving gently along her shoulders as if grounding himself in her presence. Rue, her eyes closed, took a deep breath, savoring the feeling of safety and warmth that Reiner’s embrace brought.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, his voice tinged with concern.

She nodded, her hands reaching up to rest over his. “More than okay. We’re here, together. That’s all I need.”

Reiner smiled, a rare, genuine expression that softened his usual stoic features. “Then that’s what I’ll give you. Whatever it takes.”

They shared a quiet kiss, their embrace a promise to protect each other through whatever lay ahead.

…

Further down the shore, Jean and Solara sat on a cluster of rocks, watching the waves roll in. Solara’s hand was intertwined with Jean’s, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Do you think things will stay peaceful?” she asked, her voice quiet.

Jean looked down at her, a soft smile on his lips. “I think we’ll make sure of it. We’ve been through too much to let anything ruin this.”

Solara smiled, squeezing his hand. “Then I’m with you, Jean. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.”

…

Connie and Caspia were splashing around in the water, both laughing as they playfully shoved each other under the waves. Connie grinned, his eyes alight with joy as he watched Caspia’s laughter.

“You’re pretty good at this whole ‘relaxing’ thing,” he teased.

Caspia rolled her eyes, but her smile was warm. “Only with you, Connie. Only with you.”

…

Armin and Melody stood on the shoreline, holding hands as they watched the waves crash against the rocks. Melody glanced up at him, her expression thoughtful.

“Do you ever think about the future?” she asked softly.

Armin looked at her, his gaze warm and steady. “All the time. And I want you there with me, Melody. Every step of the way.”

She smiled, her heart swelling with affection, and they leaned in, sharing a gentle, lingering kiss.

…

Bertholdt and Sera were seated a bit further up the shore, close enough to the water to feel the spray on their faces. Bertholdt’s arm was wrapped around Sera, his thumb gently rubbing circles on her shoulder as they sat in comfortable silence.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he murmured. “To finally have a chance to live peacefully.”

Sera looked up at him, her eyes soft. “It’s what we’ve fought for, Bertholdt. And now, it’s our time to enjoy it.”

They shared a smile, knowing that they’d come a long way to reach this moment.

…

The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the couples scattered along the shore. They were a mix of scouts and sirens, of humans and legends, united by a shared struggle and a hard-won peace. For now, they could relax, laugh, and dream of a future not defined by fear and loss.

As the final rays of sunlight faded, Levi held Aria a little tighter, her words about children echoing in his mind. The idea was unfamiliar, even strange, but he found himself considering it. For once, he had a chance to think about life beyond survival.

And as he looked around, seeing his comrades and their mates enjoying the rare peace they’d earned, Levi felt something close to hope settle in his chest.

~

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