hachiko-au

[hachiko-au]

sorry for lying but i will not be finishing prince!gojo or even posting anything this weekend. i suddenly started receiving an influx of hate friday night and i've lost all motivation to post tbh.

i appreciate anyone who takes the time out of their day to read my stuff but for my mentals im gonna stay off for a while and focus on myself. thank you.

[hachiko-au]

At Your Service Pt. 3

⟡ Word Count: 16.2k words

⟡ Tags: boss!Sylus x housekeeper!reader, fem reader, dubcon, drinking, suicidal thoughts, attempted suicide, kidnapping, stalking, degradation, spitting, nicknames like doll, sweetie, sweetheart,

⟡ Summary: Your life is falling apart. Yes, you've left one mans hell behind, but reality is quick to knock you back down on your feet. Faced with no other way, you consider your last option...all while Sylus struggles to come up with ways to get you to come back to him.

Maybe the universe had made a mistake. Maybe it was punishing you for slipping through its fingers. For surviving when you weren’t supposed to. The shame of existing when everything in your life screamed that you shouldn’t be here anymore was unbearable. A curse stitched into the seams of your skin. Every breath you took felt like defiance in a world that never wanted you. And in that moment, it became so clear: maybe it was time to stop running from it. Maybe you should just give the universe what it had always wanted from you—your soul. Maybe then, if you died, everything would finally stop hurting.

⟡ AN: Hi!! Sorry this took so long! I decided to flesh out the plot a little more and give you guys just one extra chapter. (aka I wrote too much to just do one chapter LOL). So this fic will end in part 4! I just love this fic so much! A little tw if you struggle or have struggled with suicidal thoughts! Pls be safe!! Next part will be less angsty and more smutty hehe.

Tag list for this fic is full sadly!! Sorry to anyone that wanted to be added! :(

Enjoy! I spent many days and nights on this. Im gonna sleep for days now (｡>﹏<)

@leiaglamela @shia247 @hyphensei @hummingbirdoooo @beaconsxd @zoezhive @syluslover1 @mmeerraa @webmvie @calebsbabyapple @mysterios-hoe @ymrai @sinstae @sylvieisoffline @blcknebula @wooasecret @chososlvrr @deathlycrow @joshazraelian @mcdepressed290 @sylusqt @harbingers-lullaby @dummiebunny @rachelaishi @dilf-destroyer-04 @rjreins @thelittlebutton @rie-star @blcknebula @zoezhive @theplaid-wearingmoose @chaotictsumu @ni3rdem1se @certainduckanchor @suicidollz @shi-thats-kiera @marliisastarfrfr @ikesimpleton @chososlvrr @seventeen-x @maiznamai @sabage101 @xanhnax @uchihabucketlist @rubylescent @joshazraelian @teary-eyed-egg @writteninlunarlight-years @sylusgirlie7 @finalgirlfanatic

twt/x | ao3

Read the other parts on my masterlist!

Sylus wasn’t one to panic. In fact, he prided himself on his ability to keep cool no matter the circumstances. Strategy, restraint, control—those were his trademarks. Even in chaos, he thrived. It was one of the reasons people feared him. There was always a plan, a backup, an edge that kept him grounded when others faltered.

But that composure cracked the moment his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He was seated near the front of a high-stakes auction, surrounded by the silent, simmering tension of powerful men and women bidding discreetly behind masks and digital paddles. The room was dimly lit, every surface polished to excess. Velvet-lined chairs. Crystal glasses. Shadowy security stationed at every exit. A rare and powerful weapon was rumored to be unveiled tonight—something nearly mythical, lost to time and blood and buried history. He had waited weeks to take a seat in this room. He hadn’t come all this way to be distracted.

Still, something unfamiliar tightened in his chest.

He felt the single buzz in his pocket and instinctively ignored it. But it lingered in the back of his mind, like a whisper he couldn’t quite make out. Something about it felt different. The weight of it settled in his chest, heavy and slow-burning. He didn’t know why, but it stuck with him.

Sylus shifted slightly, subtle enough not to draw attention, and slipped his phone from his pocket. He held it low in his lap, thumb unlocking the screen out of habit. He expected a routine update. One of the twins checking in. A shipment arrival. A simple confirmation.

Instead, it was your name.

The moment he saw it, his entire body stilled. His breath caught. His pulse began to quicken in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline or the auctioneer’s rising call.

He hadn’t heard from you since you'd vanished. Not a single message. And now here it was—your name lighting up his screen. Hope surged in his chest before he could suppress it. Maybe—finally—you were ready to talk. Maybe you were coming back to work. Maybe you missed him?

But then he read the message.

Two words.

"I quit."

They glowed against the screen like a slap to the face. Just two words, sharp and clean, carved straight into him. For a long second, Sylus just stared.

The room blurred. The droning voice of the auctioneer became a distant hum. The subtle movements of the bidders, the gleam of weapons on display—all of it faded into the periphery. All he could hear was the echo of those words in his head and the growing roar of blood rushing past his ears.

His grip on the phone tightened.

Something was wrong. This wasn’t you trying to provoke him. He knew your tone. Knew the way you normally sent a message. And this one was too sharp. There was no dramatics in that message, no play for attention. It read like someone who’d truly given up.

And for the first time in years, Sylus felt it—panic.

Quiet. Gnawing at the edge of his carefully constructed calm. He rose without a word, chair scraping softly as he stood. Let the weapon sell.

He had somewhere more important to be.

He ordered his driver to speed up, urgency creeping into his voice as they barreled through the streets toward Onychinus’s base. The city lights streaked past the tinted windows, tall buildings twisting into a blur, but Sylus barely registered any of it. His mind wasn’t on the road—it was on you. That message. Just two words, but they echoed louder than a scream.

What did you mean you quit? Didn’t you need the money? He had offered you a package most would dream of. Tripled pay. A fast track to financial freedom. A car to get you out of that rundown apartment. It wasn’t charity—it was calculated, but generous. He had made sure of that. So why the hell would you walk away?

His fingers tightened around the phone in his hand. There had to be more to it. Had something happened? Had someone pushed you? Or was this about him? Had he gone too far?

The thought gnawed at him, unsettling. Sylus was many things—ruthless, commanding, manipulative when he had to be—but careless wasn’t one of them. He thought he had read you right. Understood you. He thought he could reel you back in.

Grinding his teeth, he unlocked his phone again and called Luke, needing answers.

The line rang once. Twice.

Sylus's jaw flexed as he waited, each second stretching like wire pulled taut.

Finally, Luke picked up.

"Yes, boss!" Luke’s upbeat tone spilled through the speaker, light and casual, utterly mismatched to the pressure building in Sylus’s chest.

"Is she there?" Sylus asked, voice tight and clipped, barely more than a growl. He was already bracing for the answer he didn’t want to hear, but something in him still held on to the hope that you might be there.

"Uh... Lira? Yeah, she’s here—"

"No," Sylus cut in, his patience thinning to threads. His voice sharpened, cold steel beneath the words. "The housekeeper."

A beat of silence followed. A slight shuffling noise through the line—maybe Luke shifting in place, maybe him realizing too late that this wasn’t a casual check-in. The weight of the question finally landed.

"Oh! Her! Um…I’m not sure. She wasn’t here when we got back. There’s a mess in the kitchen, by the way. Lira said she knocked over some cleaning water. Do you want me to clean it up?"

Sylus’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the phone until his knuckles whitened. A mess in the kitchen. Cleaning water. From Lira. That didn’t sit right. Not one bit. Lira never touched anything that would require her having to work. She certainly wouldn't be cleaning anything. So just how had it gotten in a place it could be knocked over?

A bad feeling coiled low in his gut. He could feel it rising, slow and sickening. 

He hung up without saying goodbye or answering Luke's question.

The unease in his chest didn’t just linger—it clawed deeper with every passing second. A cold pressure built at the base of his spine, an instinctual warning that something had gone horribly wrong. By the time the car screeched to a stop in front of the Onychinus's base, Sylus didn’t bother waiting for the driver to pull into place. He opened the door mid-motion, stepping out before the vehicle came to a full halt.

He didn’t take the elevator. Didn’t greet the guards at the front. Didn’t pause to compose himself. In a blur of red and black mist, he dissolved from the street and reappeared directly in the living room.

The sudden burst of energy made Lira jump where she sat perched on the couch, legs crossed, scrolling lazily through her phone. She looked up sharply, clearly startled by the abrupt appearance.

"Hi, Sylus! How’d the auction go?" she chirped, her voice sugarcoated and bright. She tossed her phone aside, standing up quickly and moving toward him with a bounce in her step. Her arms reached up to wrap around his neck in an affectionate greeting, clearly playing up her charm.

Sylus returned the hug, but his touch was light—detached. His posture remained stiff, his focus elsewhere. His sharp eyes flicked around the room like searchlights, scanning every corner for a sign of you. Your shoes weren’t by the door. Your jacket wasn’t on the hook. The air lacked the faint scent of the shampoo you used or the quiet rustle you always made when moving through the rooms.

Nothing.

You weren’t there.

"I heard you spilled something?" he asked, his voice calm, low, and laced with quiet force. He wasn’t making small talk. He wasn’t here for polite conversation.

Lira blinked in surprise, then gave a light, airy laugh. "Oh, that? Yeah. I guess I did. Just knocked over some cleaning stuff by accident. My elbow slipped," she added with an apologetic shrug, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "It was kind of a mess, but no big deal. I think one of the twins is cleaning it up right now."

Sylus watched her carefully. Every movement. Every inflection. She was trying too hard to sound casual, too quick with her explanation. He could see it—the faint tightness at the corners of her eyes, the slight shift in her stance. She was lying.

He didn’t feel like entertaining Lira’s games right now. So he pressed her.

"Cleaning stuff? Was the housekeeper here earlier?" Sylus asked, his tone deceptively calm, but his eyes locked on her with unnerving intensity, the kind that made people forget how to breathe. He didn’t blink. Just stared like he could see through her skin.

Lira's expression twitched. Her cheerful facade faltered for the briefest second, lips pulling into a tight, annoyed grimace at the mention of you. That reaction alone told him more than he needed. She tried to recover, but the damage was already done.

"Er, yeah. I kinda got some on her and she got like so mad at me," she said with a scoff, arms crossing defensively. Her tone sharpened. "What a bitch. Don’t think she’s coming back."

Sylus’s fist curled tightly at his side, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain. That sounded...unlike you. Very unlike you. You didn’t lash out, even when provoked. You swallowed things. Endured. You held your breath until the moment passed, even when it hurt. He knew that about you—how much you took without standing up for yourself. Hated how quietly you hurt. For you to have snapped, something must have seriously gone wrong. And he had a sinking feeling he knew who had caused it.

"Is that so?" he murmured, voice dropping an octave, deeper now, colder. "Did she seem alright?"

Lira rolled her eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth as if this entire conversation were beneath her. "She washed whatever got into her eyes out. She’s probably not blind...I don’t know," she said, casually inspecting her nails like the outcome meant nothing to her. Her tone was flippant, dismissive, and callously unconcerned—far too casual for someone potentially responsible for a serious injury.

It was painfully clear she didn’t care. Not about the mess. Not about you. Not about anything beyond her own amusement.

"Don’t tell me you actually give a shit about some random housekeeper?" she added with a mocking tilt of her head, as if the very notion was laughable. Her eyes gleamed with smugness, and her voice dripped with disdain, like she knew exactly what she was doing—trying to needle him into a reaction.

Sylus’s jaw flexed. He forced his features to remain smooth, impassive. The storm inside him stayed carefully caged behind a mask of cool indifference. He couldn’t afford to let her see it.

In her eyes? The words echoed in his skull, loud and brutal. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. His mind began assembling images, each more infuriating than the last. You, blinking through stinging pain. Your eyes red and watering. Your small hands trembling as you tried to wash it away. Had you cried? Had you screamed? How much had it hurt?

His fists tightened at his sides. Something cold and ugly began to crawl beneath his skin.

He knew Lira. Knew her manipulative streak. Her vanity. Her need to dominate. And you? You had been quiet. Polite. Meek. An easy target. Of course Lira saw you as disposable. It was never an accident. Not with her. She’d done it to provoke you.

The fury brewing in his chest was becoming harder to ignore.

He’d review the cameras later. Every frame. Every moment. If even a fraction of this had gone the way he imagined, Lira would regret it.

Then something on the floor caught his eye. A small glint of glass. A reflection where there shouldn't have been one. He stepped forward, his movement calm but filled with quiet purpose. Kneeling, he reached out and picked it up—and the breath caught in his throat.

It was your phone. Or rather, the one he had bought for you. The sleek device he had carefully picked out among hundreds of others, just for you. Now, it lay shattered. The screen was fractured into a web of cracks, the casing scuffed and bent. It hadn’t just fallen. It had been thrown. Or dropped in a moment of panic.

His grip around the phone tightened as he slowly rose to his feet. He turned it over in his palm, brushing his thumb over the broken glass. Something inside him went cold.

Behind him, Lira watched. Silent now.

He didn’t turn to face her right away. He felt it wasn't a good idea, given the fact he was picturing Lira's skull cracked open on his pristine marble floors.

"Of course not, love," Sylus said smoothly, slipping the phone into his pocket with deliberate calm. His voice was level, but there was an edge beneath it, a chill that hadn’t been there before. "I’m just disappointed she won’t be able to work anymore. She was quite the worker. Reliable. Quiet. Cleaned very well. A shame she’s probably blind now."

Lira snickered softly from behind him, clearly pleased with his response. Her arms slipped around his torso with the confidence of someone who believed they still held control, pressing herself close like nothing was wrong, like she hadn’t just admitted to possibly blinding someone and didn’t care. Her voice slithered against his back like a silk scarf soaked in venom. "Then let’s move on. Maybe hire a guy next time. She didn’t clean that well."

Sylus gave a low chuckle, perfectly rehearsed. Smooth. Hollow. He made sure the sound was just the right volume, just the right tone to pass as indulgent. Inside, his stomach was twisted with rage.

He finally turned, his body uncoiling like a panther in slow motion as he faced her and returned the embrace. His arms wrapped around her gently, his posture warm and relaxed. But his fingers flexed once at her back, and behind her, his eyes had hardened into something sharp and merciless. Ice in his veins. Stone in his chest. His smile had vanished the moment her face was out of sight.

From her angle, she couldn’t see the glare carved into his features, the boiling calculation simmering just beneath the surface. She didn’t see the pulse ticking sharply in his jaw, or the way his muscles stayed too tense beneath the fabric of his suit. This game had gone on long enough. Too long. And if she thought she’d gotten away with anything—if she thought her smugness meant safety—she was sorely mistaken.

Time to step up the act.

Win her over completely. Make her feel secure, untouchable, wanted. Let her bask in his attention and believe she had power—right before he pulled it out from under her and watched her fall.

He pulled back just enough to flash a smile, one of his most convincing. Dangerous in its subtlety.

"I feel awful you had to wait so long for my arrival," he said, brushing a loose strand of her dark hair from her shoulder with fingers that didn’t tremble despite the storm inside him. His voice was soft but steady, a low hum of reassurance that masked a growing hunger for bloodshed. "Why don’t we get you something nice to wear for our next date? Something that turns heads. Something expensive."

Lira beamed at the sound of the word expensive, oblivious. Her eyes sparkled with delight, exactly as he expected. She was already dreaming of dresses, shoes, handbags—all distractions.

The bait was set.

Soon, she would learn what it meant to cross a line that should never have been crossed. To hurt something he considered his. And when that moment came, there would be no signal, no dramatic gesture—just swift, calculated ruin. Only the crushing realization that every compliment, every gift, every smile had been part of a carefully layered trap.

He ordered Mephisto to track you down the moment they stepped out. All it took was a single look—no words, no motion, just the subtle narrowing of his eyes. Mephisto, perched near the archway, caught it immediately. The crow tilted his head once, an eerily human gesture laced with intelligence and loyalty, before lifting into the air.

His wings moved in deliberate silence, slicing through the dusk with practiced ease. Mephisto vanished into the descending night like smoke caught in reverse. Sylus didn’t bother watching the direction. He didn’t have to. The bond between master and creation was deeper than flesh or blood. Mephisto would find you.

And yet, unease prickled at the base of Sylus’s neck throughout the entirety of the date.

He turned his attention to Lira, who had already resumed her gleeful hunt through the store like a child set loose in a candy factory. All the while, Sylus played the part of the attentive, indulgent date, letting the corners of his mouth curl up just enough. His posture was relaxed, his eyes kind. It was all a lie.

"This one compliments my eyes, right? Or maybe the green one? It matches that silk dress I wore last month. You remember that one, right, Sylus?" Lira held up handbag after handbag, her voice high and sweet, an endless stream of self-centered noise. She swiped them from the shelves without care, letting price tags flutter like confetti.

Sylus nodded absently, offering the occasional hum or murmur of agreement. But his mind had splintered far from this store, far from the garish clutches of designer excess. He wasn’t thinking about handbags or colors or eye-matching fabrics. He was thinking about you—your silence, your absence, your pain.

Every minute that passed without Mephisto’s signal twisted deeper into his gut. A slow, cold knife made of worry and fury. What if you were hurt worse than he thought? What if you'd left entirely? What if he had been too late?

He had all the money in the world. His fingers could pull the trigger on a purchase without a thought. Normally, twenty grand on a handbag was nothing. A whim. An indulgence. But now? Every swipe of his card stung. Every gift he handed to Lira felt like betrayal—not of her, but of you. The one who never asked for anything. The one who flinched when touched too suddenly, who worked quietly and tried to disappear.

Spending money on the woman who had hurt you—who had lied to him, disrespected him, and taken pleasure in making you feel small—was a grotesque ritual. One he had to endure to maintain the act. But it grated on his nerves like sandpaper on raw flesh.

Because she had harmed something he valued.

And that was something Sylus did not forgive.

He wore the mask of charm. He kept up the performance. Let her twirl and simper and babble about her next outfit while his mind sharpened every detail of what she had done. He didn’t even flinch when she leaned in to kiss his cheek, whispering something flirty about how generous he was. He smiled. Played the role. But inside, the storm was building.

All he needed now was a signal. A location. Coordinates. Proof that you were safe. That you were still somewhere he could reach.

You were all he could think about.

Even as Lira twirled in front of mirrors and held up garment after garment, all Sylus could see was the image of your red, tear-stained face burned into the back of his eyelids. The sound of your sobs echoed in his ears like a haunting refrain. Every giggle from Lira grated against him like nails dragging across glass. It tore him to shreds.

The only thing anchoring him was the hope that Mephisto would come back with something—anything—that would lead him to you.

He couldn’t focus. He couldn't stop imagining the scene.

Sylus excused himself from Lira with the best lie he could conjure—something about a urgent work call,—and slipped away down the corridor without waiting for her response. She didn’t question it. Why would she? She was too busy picking the most expensive items to put on his card. He moved fast, weaving through racks of overpriced shoes and glittering jewelry displays, ignoring the confused looks of staff as he passed.

The longer he stayed near Lira, the more bile rose in his throat. He ducked into a quieter wing of the boutique, somewhere out of her line of sight. He couldn’t stop thinking about it—the way she'd casually brushed off the incident, the way she'd smiled. It was gnawing at him so much he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t pretend. He needed answers. He needed to see it for himself.

With a few secure taps on his phone, he accessed the base's private surveillance network. He keyed in his credentials, pulled up the timestamp from earlier that day, and began scrubbing through the footage. The knot in his gut, already tight, twisted harder with each second that passed as the video buffered and loaded on the small screen.

He cycled through hallway after hallway, the footage shaky and pixelated on the phone, nothing, nothing, until finally—

There it was. The kitchen. He slowed the footage, heart pounding like a war drum. There you were, hunched low on the ground, silently scrubbing the floor. You looked small. Smaller than he remembered. Worn down, your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear. Every movement was robotic, joyless, your face blank and drained. There was no spark in your eyes. Even from the grainy angle, he could see the shadows beneath them.

His stomach dropped as Lira walked in. She moved with that same fake grace she always wore like perfume—cloying and nauseating. She opened the fridge, plucked something out, and turned.

And there it was.

He froze the frame. Her elbow extended, too far, too precise. The bucket tipped with an elegant arc that was far too controlled to be an accident. He resumed playback.

The contents splashed across your head, dousing your shoulders, soaking your clothes. You jumped, startled, eyes wide as you stumbled back toward the sink. He watched, horrified, as you clawed at your face, trying to rinse the chemical mix out of your eyes. You were panicking. Crying. Gasping. And all the while—

Lira stood there.

Arms crossed. Smirking. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t offer a towel. Didn’t move. And then—she laughed.

A cold, dismissive little giggle that made Sylus’s hands curl into fists at his sides. The sound echoed in the silent room like a slap to the face. His vision swam in red for a brief moment. He leaned forward, jaw clenched so tight it ached. He wanted to break something. Anything. Her, preferably.

Then came the worst part.

You didn’t fight back. Didn’t yell. You simply bolted—scrambling out of the frame like your very survival depended on it, your legs barely carrying you as you staggered down the hall. He watched, frozen, as tears streamed down your face, your whole body wracked with sobs so fierce they seemed to consume you. You looked like a ghost, a wraith of the person he remembered—barely holding yourself together as you collapsed beneath the weight of whatever finally broke you.

Humiliation had etched itself into every corner of your posture. And the silence with which you endured it only made it worse—like you didn’t even believe you were worth defending. Like you’d decided it was easier to vanish than to speak.

He had thought you were healing. Thought maybe—just maybe—you’d given him another chance. That fragile step through the front door of the penthouse, your hesitant gaze, your soft voice—it had felt like hope. Like redemption.

But now it was all dust.

Because of her.

Lira had twisted the story, of course. Lied like it was second nature. Told him you were the one who snapped, who overreacted. But this footage—this brutal, undeniable truth—told a different story. You hadn’t been dramatic. You hadn’t even been angry. You had just been hurt.

And Lira had laughed.

The sight of it made something inside him snap. Rage, cold and precise, coiled in his chest like a blade slowly turning. His blood pounded so violently he could feel it in his teeth. This wasn’t just irritation. This wasn’t annoyance.

This was fury. Real, violent fury.

Sylus had never felt such a strong need to hurt someone before. Much less a woman. His anger was so obvious that even Lira, who normally didn’t notice small changes in his mood, saw something was off when he came back to talk to her. To avoid raising suspicion, he told her that one of their competitors had intercepted a critical weapons shipment, delaying a major deal and throwing his schedule into chaos.

It wasn’t until after the outing, as he stepped out of the car and into the dim glow of his private elevator, that Mephisto returned. The mechanical bird landed silently on his shoulder, claws clicking gently against the fabric of his coat. Sylus didn’t even flinch.

With a soft whir and a flicker of light, Mephisto’s singular glowing eye projected an image in front of him—a brief, stuttering hologram flickering like a ghost in midair.

His heart nearly stopped.

It was you. You were stepping out of a battered ER facility tucked away on the outskirts of the N109 Zone. You clutched a handful of small packets—ointment, gauze, cheap painkillers—and your free hand was wiping at your eyes.

Your eyes were still red, still swollen, still visibly hurting in that grainy projection—and it struck Sylus like a punch to the chest, stealing the air from his lungs. That you had made it all the way to the ER by yourself, clearly in pain, and now leaving with nothing but a few low-grade packets of ointment and gauze, was almost too much to bear. The guilt rushed him like a wave. He had been out shopping, parading around with Lira on his arm as if she hadn’t just been the cause of your agony. He had smiled. He had pretended. He had let himself be distracted by a performance he no longer had the stomach for. And all the while, you had been enduring this alone. He could see the fatigue in the slump of your shoulders, the way your hand trembled as it wiped at your eyes. The image burned itself into his memory, a bitter reminder of where he should’ve been and what he should’ve done. That moment undid him more than any enemy's betrayal ever had.

You had been reduced to walking into one of the worst medical centers in the district alone. Those ERs were notorious—underfunded, overcrowded, and run by scam artists who used outdated tech and pushed overpriced treatments. He knew this. Everyone knew this. The only people who went there were the desperate.

You had been desperate. Probably had gone to this one to save money since you no longer wanted to work for him.

And he hadn’t been there.

He should’ve been comforting you. He should’ve been beside you the second it happened. But instead, he’d let Lira talk his ear off and dragged out the charade, all while you suffered.

Coupled with the fact that he had hurt you in his office—sent you screaming and crying after the two of you had come so close to something real, something intimate—the guilt gnawed at him, relentless and raw. It wasn’t just a lapse in judgment. It was a collapse of everything fragile that had been slowly built between you. He had crossed a line—one he’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t. And in doing so, he shattered something he couldn’t rebuild with simple apologies. The sound of your voice—panicked, shaking—still rang in his ears like a ghost he couldn’t exorcise. Every memory of your tear-streaked face, your trembling hands pushing him away, returned in vivid flashes, worse than any nightmare he’d endured before.

Since then, he had moved through his days like a man made of ash. Outwardly composed, inwardly burning. Every moment of your absence stretched time thin. He found himself pacing in the dead of night, replaying conversations that never happened. Imagining how he could have said something—anything—that might have kept you from bolting out of his life again. He went over the same mental scripts a thousand times, but the guilt remained, heavy and immovable. None of the imagined words seemed right. None of them matched the depth of the damage.

And the worst of it was the look in your eyes when you left. That look—it spoke of wounds older than him, pain that he had only added to. Seeing him with Lira had cut you deeper than he’d expected. It hadn’t just made you jealous. It had confirmed something awful for you, something that told you not only could he not be trusted, but that you were never anything more than temporary in his world. And then, after you’d gathered enough courage to return, Lira had gone further. Had physically hurt you. Humiliated you. And he hadn’t been there to stop it.

He would make this right. And he knew exactly how to do it. He just needed time. 

The projection flickered in the air before him, casting pale light against the sleek steel walls of the elevator as it hummed its way upward in silence. His eyes tracked your every movement as you walked slowly into a nearby convenience store. Your figure looked small beneath the buzzing lights of the entrance, your shoulders hunched, head down, the weight of everything you were carrying clearly still pressing down on you. And then—you disappeared through the sliding doors, swallowed by the ordinary glow of artificial lights and low music. The image paused mid-frame, the last sliver of your figure frozen in time.

Sylus exhaled, the breath leaving his lungs in a slow, unsteady wave. He stared at the last frame of you until the projection dimmed and vanished, Mephisto beginning to groom his feathers.

From that day on, he watched you.

Mephisto became his eyes, tailing your every step with silent precision. Sylus couldn’t risk reaching out—not yet. He didn't want to risk making things worse before everything was in place. So he did the only thing he could: observe. When the base was quiet and the lights were low, he reviewed the footage. It killed him—watching you from a distance, unable to speak to you, unable to hold you. But it was necessary.

He had your broken phone dissected and data mined by one of his engineers, not just for intel, but to learn more about you. It was invasive, he knew that, but he needed to understand the pieces of your world you wouldn’t let him near. You didn’t text anyone, unsurprisingly. No family. No close friends. But your browsing habits told him more than words ever could. The music you played late at night, the shows you watched, sometimes on repeat. The food deliveries you favored. The kinds of clothes you lingered on when shopping online. It painted a picture of someone lonely, private, careful.

He watched you shop for groceries with your head down. Watched you lie on benches in public parks, arms folded beneath your head, eyes toward the sky like you were asking the universe for something—anything. Watched you fall asleep on your sofa, your face turned toward the window. And he saw you cry. A lot. Quietly, bitterly. Like you were trying not to make a sound, like even your sorrow had to be hidden.

But at least your eyes looked better now—less raw, less swollen. The redness that once rimmed them like bruises had faded to a dull pink, and the frantic blinking he saw in earlier footage had slowed. You still shielded them from harsh artificial lights, still winced when the dry zone wind picked up near the vents or between buildings, but you weren’t constantly dabbing at them anymore. It was a small mercy, a tiny fragment of recovery he clung to like a lifeline in the midst of everything else unraveling.

Still, you never once came near Onychinus. Not even close. You avoided it like a scar you couldn’t bear to touch. And that hurt more than he could admit. He wasn’t just watching your life unfold.

He was watching it unfold without him.

There was one night where Sylus actually had enough time to sit and watch Mephisto’s feed in real-time. The base was quiet, his responsibilities temporarily stalled, and for once he wasn’t surrounded by the constant noise of demands and decisions. He was alone, tucked in the corner of his private quarters, the room dim except for the soft glow of a single reading lamp. A glass of untouched whiskey sat on the table beside him, the condensation forming slow, lazy trails down the crystal. He didn’t even notice it anymore. His focus was entirely on the screen in front of him.

Mephisto’s lens adjusted with a soft, mechanical whir, zooming in on the grainy outline of you sitting on a concrete bench outside your apartment complex. The N109 zone was unusually still that night—no sirens, no distant shouts.

You were holding something in your lap. He squinted at the screen, leaning in. Cans? At first, he thought maybe you were just out there eating alone, which stung more than he’d expected. But then he noticed the labeling, the shape. His brow furrowed as you reached into your satchel and pulled out a small, battered handheld opener. Cat food. You had several cans of it, lined up neatly in your bag like you’d planned this.

He watched, transfixed, as you cracked open the first can, the hiss of the seal breaking lost to the silent feed. Then the soundless feed shifted as shadows moved.

Out of alleyways. From beneath rusted cars. Across the broken pavement.

Cats.

They came running. Maybe ten or eleven of them. Scrappy, wiry little things with torn ears and patchy fur—survivors of the N109 Zone just like everything else that refused to die. And yet, when they reached you, there was no fear. You laid the open cans down side by side on the bench and sidewalk with the care of someone who’d done this before, who knew their names even if you’d never spoken them aloud. You touched each of them like you meant it—stroking backs, scratching behind ears, whispering words Mephisto couldn’t record.

You had clearly been putting all your newfound wealth to good use.

And then—

You smiled.

It wasn’t big. But to him, it was luminous. Gentle, unguarded, and beautiful in a way that struck him dumb. The corners of your mouth lifted like a fragile sunrise breaking through the storm cloud of your silence, and for a heartbeat, the world felt soft again. It was the kind of smile he could have stared at for hours—the kind that made his chest tighten with the sharp ache of longing. He hadn’t seen it in weeks. Maybe longer. But now that he had, it felt like breathing after being underwater.

Sylus froze. His hand hovered over the control screen, muscles locked in place, breath caught in his chest like a knife wedged between his ribs. That smile—it wasn’t for anyone. Not for him. And yet, how he wished it had been. Wished it had been prompted by the thought of him, that maybe some tiny part of your heart had softened while thinking of something he'd done right. But it wasn’t. It was real because it was yours. Untouched by him. A flicker of who you were beneath all the pain, all the bitterness he had helped create. A piece of you that still had warmth to give despite everything. Despite him. And he ached to be worthy of it.

It hit harder than he expected. Made his throat tighten, made his heart pound with something that wasn’t quite guilt and wasn’t quite longing, but some painful combination of the two. Because in that moment, you weren’t crying. You weren’t haunted. You weren’t braced for someone to hurt you again. You were just...alive. Still capable of kindness. Still capable of love.

He missed that smile so much it physically hurt. And he hated himself a little more for being part of the reason it was gone in the first place.

It hurt so much, in fact, that he got reckless. The weight of that one smile—the one not meant for him—broke past every barrier of restraint he’d built up over the past few weeks. That moment haunted him. It reminded him of what he’d lost. And somewhere in that ache, a dangerous thought took root.

This was his chance.

He could see you in person. Try again. Maybe say something that would make you smile like that—except this time, because of him. Maybe, just maybe, he could remind you of something good, lead you gently back toward forgiveness. Would you blame him? The distance was killing him. Watching you from the shadows wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

So he got up and moved. The next day, he bought out the entire stock of cat food from the nearest pet shop—every brand, every flavor. The clerk looked at him like he was unhinged. Maybe he was. He didn’t care. He loaded it all into a sleek black duffel bag and made his way down to the bench—the bench you always sat on when feeding the strays.

And then, he waited.

The wind in the N109 Zone was dry, biting as it swept through the alleyways. He pulled his coat tighter and sat down, feeling the cool concrete seep through his clothes. His heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape. He almost laughed at himself—Sylus, who had faced down kings, mercenaries, warlords, and wanderers without flinching, now sat breathing heavily like a nervous schoolboy.

And all it had taken was a girl.

He waited so long on that bench, he started to question whether you were even coming today. The hours bled together in the dim haze of the N109 Zone’s artificial glow. The longer he sat there, the colder the concrete felt beneath him, and the more his anticipation twisted into quiet dread. He leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning every shadow, every alley, every passerby—hoping, wishing.

And then he noticed them. The stray cats.

They lingered near the edges of the buildings, cautious and silent, peeking out from behind trash bins and crumbling brick corners. Their eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, tracking his every movement. It was clear they were hungry—ribs showing, tails flicking anxiously—but just as clear they didn’t trust him. He was a stranger. And predators in this zone were never scarce.

Still, they watched.

He shifted the duffel bag at his feet and unzipped it slowly. His fingers found one of the cans near the top—chicken flavor. You’d fed them that once. Maybe they’d remember.

With a small breath, he cracked the seal. The soft hiss of the lid releasing echoed quietly in the stillness of the night, sharp enough to make one of the braver cats dart forward. Then another followed. Then another. Within seconds, Sylus found himself surrounded.

A growing circle of thin, meowing cats closed in around him, some dragging along their kittens, all staring up at him with a mix of desperation and curiosity. He placed the open can down gently, then another, and another, spacing them out in a neat row at his feet like he’d seen you do. The cats hesitated at first, sniffing cautiously.

Then—chaos. A flurry of movement as they dove in, yowling and pawing, tails swishing with excitement.

One of them, an orange tabby missing an eye, wandered closer than the others. It circled him once, sniffed the air, then pressed its scrappy little body against his leg. Sylus blinked in surprise. The tabby looked up at him with its one good eye, wide and glassy.

"Mew!"

The sound was soft but insistent. Almost demanding.

Sylus chuckled. Cats didn’t usually take to him. He was too still, too cold, too unreadable. Even animals could sense that. But this one had no fear. It rubbed against his shoe like he belonged there. He could see now—he finally understood—why you came out here night after night. Why you fed them. Why you stayed, even after everything. Surrounded by these fragile, feral creatures, it was hard not to feel something warm.

For the first time in weeks, the corners of his mouth genuinely twitched upward.

He reached down slowly, careful not to scare the orange tabby away, his fingers hovering just above its scruffy head. The cat's single eye blinked up at him, trusting and unafraid, and in that fleeting instant, Sylus felt something shift inside him. He was just about to brush his fingers behind its ears, indulging in the fragile peace of the moment, when a sound tore through the stillness.

"S-Sylus?"

The voice was unmistakable—soft, cracked, hesitant. Yours.

It hit him like a blow to the ribs.

He froze, the motion dying in his hand. His breath caught. His heart thudded once, then seemed to stall entirely. The tabby looked up at him, puzzled by his sudden stillness, but Sylus didn’t notice. All he could hear was the tremble in your voice. All he could feel was the air shift behind him.

For weeks he had watched you from a distance, rehearsing in his mind what he might say if this moment ever came. But now that you were truly here, standing just steps behind him in the flickering light cast by the streetlamps outside your apartment complex, every word he'd ever imagined seemed to vanish.

He turned from his position on the bench to face you, slowly rising to his feet. And there you were—standing just a few feet away, eyes wide with disbelief, mouth parted slightly as if caught mid-thought. You clutched a crinkled bag of cat food to your chest, the branding on it different from what he was used to seeing you carry. Ah. That explained it. You must have walked farther than usual tonight, probably to a different store. That was what had taken you so long.

He tried to keep his voice even, casual. Like his heart wasn’t hammering in his chest.

"You're late," he said lightly, attempting a crooked smile. "I was starting to think you weren’t showing up at all."

You didn’t smile back. Instead, your eyes flicked to the duffel bag near his feet, the one still half-open, revealing the stacks of cat food cans nestled inside.

You exhaled, clutching your own bag tighter.

"Well…this at least explains why there wasn’t any cat food at my usual store..." you muttered, voice dry with irritation but layered with confusion. You weren't directly talking to him. More to yourself as you glued your gaze to the ground.

There was a pause.

He wanted to say something—anything—that would make this moment lighter. But before he got the chance, you suddenly dropped the bag of cat food you were holding.

Your body began to shake, the first sob slipping from you so abruptly it startled him. Your hands flew up to cover your face, shoulders hunching as you folded in on yourself. The sound of your crying wasn’t gentle. "Why?" you cried out, your voice hoarse and cracking under the weight of something deeper than frustration.

"Why can’t you all just leave me alone?"

Tears seeped between your fingers, catching what little light glowed from the apartment windows above, shimmering like glass on the verge of shatter. And Sylus froze. His breath hitched, legs rooted in place, stunned by the sight of you unraveling in front of him.

Still, he moved. A single step forward. His voice dropped to something tender. "Sweetie, I just wanted to—"

But you cut him off like a whip crack, snapping your head up with a look that pierced through him. Your eyes, red-rimmed and soaked, were wide with something bordering terror. You stumbled back, voice rising into something he didn’t think you were capable of.

"No! I won’t let you trick me again. I won’t let you ruin even this for me!"

You motioned around to the scraggly cats that had gathered, now startled by your cry. "These cats are all I have! Leave!"

There was so much packed into your scream—grief, betrayal, loneliness. The echo of your voice bounced off the buildings, raw and fractured, louder than anything he’d ever heard from you. Louder than anything you’d said even when Lira had humiliated you. And that was what made it real.

He had broken something in you. Something precious. Something that had once trusted him.

He stood there, helpless. Stupidly helpless. His usual calm dissolved into something brittle and uncertain. He’d come here thinking he could fix it with an appearance, a gesture, a shared memory. He’d brought the cat food like some peace offering, like this was something that could be solved with tuna and a half-hearted apology.

But this wasn’t fixable. Not in one night. Not with words. You were hurting in a way he hadn’t prepared for. And the awful thing was, he knew he was part of that pain.

"Calm down," he murmured, lifting his hands in a quiet surrender, trying not to spook you more. His voice was low, deliberate, barely more than breath. "I just wanted to see how you’re doing. You quit so suddenly...I didn’t even get to say goodbye."

He paused, swallowing the guilt swelling in his throat. He inhaled through his nose slowly, like maybe it would help him hold himself together.

"I’m sorry. About Lira."

The words left his mouth and immediately felt useless, too soft and too late. They floated in the space between you like ashes, meaningless against the storm you had just unleashed. It was all he could really offer in the moment. He still couldn't explain anything.

You wiped your face with your sleeve, trembling from head to toe. Your breaths came in jagged gasps, like you were barely holding yourself together. He couldn’t help but notice how much you reminded him of the stray cats circling at your feet—skittish, wounded, unsure if they should run or lash out. But even now, some of them nudged their heads against your legs as if sensing your pain, trying in their own small, quiet way to comfort you.

You looked up at him with eyes that burned, bloodshot and fierce. Your voice was cracked but full of fury when you spat, "Oh yeah? Did she break up with you? So you've come to offer me more money to use my body one last time?"

The accusation hit harder than any physical blow could have. Sylus froze for a beat, stunned by the raw boldness in your tone. You were trembling, but your glare was unflinching. He hadn't expected this. He thought you'd cry, maybe even yell—but not this unflinching, wounded rage. Not words that carved right through him.

"Nonsense," he said quickly, his tone trying and failing to remain calm. "I've never once used you. That has never been my intention. I'm trying to show you otherwise."

He stepped forward, slow and measured, but you recoiled like his shadow alone was poison. You took several steps back, your whole body shaking as tears streamed freely once more.

"Fuck you!" you cried, voice rising into a scream that cracked at the edges. "Dirty, lying disgusting man! I can't believe I ever let you touch me!"

And then your words became venom, spat with a bitterness that made his chest tighten.

"Rot in hell—with Lira!"

For a moment, all sound dropped away. The street seemed to still. Even the cats froze, as if stunned by the power in your voice.

You suddenly took off running, the soles of your shoes slapping against the pavement, arms tight against your sides as if trying to outrun the weight of your own pain. You didn’t even look back—not once. Sylus could’ve chased after you. He could’ve reached you in seconds if he wanted, easily caught you, wrapped his arms around you, held you close until all your fury cracked and spilled into sobs against his chest. That was what he wanted. More than anything. To take away the storm inside you. To prove—somehow—that you still mattered to him, that he hadn’t just watched Lira hurt you and get away with it.

But he didn’t move.

He just stood there, rooted to the pavement, heart thudding in his ears as he watched you disappear around the corner. The sound of your footsteps echoed briefly in the distance, then faded entirely.

He exhaled slowly, the breath long and quiet, filled with something that felt dangerously close to defeat.

With heavy limbs, he bent down and opened the rest of the cans you'd brought, the branding still bright and unfamiliar. One by one, he lined them up next to the ones he’d already set out, creating a neat little offering for the cats. A silent gesture. Something you would’ve done. Something that, in its own small way, felt like penance.

The cats began to gather again, cautiously at first, then more freely, drawn to the scent and the quiet. He sat back down on the bench, not speaking, just watching them eat—your ghosts curling around his ankles, your absence hanging heavy in the still night air.

And Sylus sat there, speechless. He had prepared for distance, for rejection. But not this. Not hatred. Still, beneath the sting of your words, something else clung to his chest like a thorn: guilt. Not because you were wrong—but because, somewhere deep down, he feared you might be right.

There was truly only one way he could fix this. Sylus knew it as surely as he knew the weight of the guilt sitting like iron in his chest. He would do anything at this point—anything—to prove to you that he wasn’t the monster you thought he was. Not just some cold, calculating manipulator. The mission, the protocore, the weeks of strategy and precision—all of it suddenly seemed meaningless.

Screw the mission. This had to end. And it would. Soon.

Your words haunted him. They came back to him at night like echoes in an empty room, brittle and sharp: "Rot in hell with Lira!" "I can't believe I let you touch me!" The memory of your voice, so raw and choked with pain, became the fuel that drove him forward.

He didn’t wait.

He gave the twins their orders with little room for questions. Clear out Onychinus's basement. Reinforce the walls. Install restraints—sturdy ones. A bed. A functioning toilet. Privacy. Enough space to keep someone short term.

They didn’t ask why. They never did. They just obeyed.

And as the preparations continued in secret, Sylus played his role above ground with clinical precision. He got closer to Lira, tolerating her presence like poison he needed to swallow. She laughed easily, curled up against him in expensive clothes he bought to keep up the act. She genuinely seemed to believe they were getting serious. She babbled about vacations, about jewelry, about which mansion they might share someday.

It turned his stomach.

But Sylus smiled, played along, even kissed her on the head when necessary. Each touch was calculated. Each compliment a blade hidden in silk. It was a performance, and he hated every second of it. But it was necessary.

Because soon, he would be done pretending.

Funnily enough, he received the final confirmation that everything was ready the moment he returned from one of those wretched weekend getaways Lira had dragged him on. A remote estate in the quieter sector, where she’d posed in swimsuits for pictures while he sat by the window, checking Mephisto’s surveillance updates on your movements. 

The text came in as he stepped out of the car:

"Project complete. Basement secured bossman!"

A dark satisfaction bloomed in his chest.

It was time.

"That was sooo fun. We should do that way more often!" Lira giggled, the pitch of her voice cutting through the air like champagne fizz. She let go of her suitcase with a dramatic flair, dropping it right in front of one of Sylus's men, who wordlessly stepped forward to grab it. Lira didn’t even look back. She was already making her way toward Sylus, hips swaying, lips curled into a sugar-sweet smile. When she reached him, she threw her arms around his neck like she’d done it a thousand times before—like he belonged to her.

Sylus beamed down at her, the image of the doting boyfriend, all slick charm and impeccable polish. "I’m starting to think your definition of 'fun' is testing my tolerance for overpriced cocktails and sunburns," he quipped, his grin laced with just the right amount of flirtation to keep the illusion alive.

Lira laughed like it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard, light and airy, her lashes fluttering as she gazed up at him. "You love it," she purred, leaning in so close he could smell her perfume—something floral, expensive, cloying. It made his stomach churn.

But he didn’t flinch. He played along, like he always did.

Then, without warning, her expression shifted. The lightness in her eyes dimmed, replaced with something more intimate, more deliberate. She took a small step back, her hands sliding down his arms. "I've been thinking," she began, voice lowering as if confessing a secret. "I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. And I really want you to meet my dad. He’s on Itiwa Island and—"

The words were out before she realized. She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening. Her lips parted, and for a beat, she looked like a child who’d just blurted out something they weren’t supposed to say.

"Oops! Oh well," she said quickly, waving it off with a flick of her fingers and an exaggerated grin. "I want you to meet him anyway! I really feel...serious about you. Which is crazy for me??? Ha!"

Her laughter came again, forced now, high-pitched and shaky. She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked away, suddenly shy, like she realized she’d given too much.

Sylus’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew. He chuckled as if touched by her words, but inside his mind snapped to a razor focus. Itiwa Island. Finally.

He could almost hear the last pieces clicking into place, a sharp, satisfying snap that echoed in the quiet recesses of his mind. This was it—the final thread pulled loose, the curtain ready to fall. The endgame wasn’t just near. It was unfolding, and Lira, in her arrogant, oblivious way, had delivered it to him gift-wrapped. Not just information, but the excuse he’d needed. The final justification. He no longer had to pretend.

He had spent weeks lying through his teeth, letting her believe he cared, touching her like it meant something. Every fake smile, every forced compliment—it had all been worth it for this. And now? Now he could stop pretending. Now he could break her. Watch her finally understand just who she'd been playing house with. The timing wasn’t just perfect—it was divine. She had no idea that her last laugh had already come and gone.

He gently kissed her forehead, murmured something smooth, and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She leaned into him like a satisfied cat.

"Can we kiss? Like…actually kiss this time?" Lira whispered, her voice trembling just enough to betray the desperation beneath her coquettish tone. She licked her lips slowly, her hands rising to cradle Sylus’s face, fingertips brushing his jawline as she leaned in. Her breath was warm and sweet with anticipation, her eyelids fluttering half-shut. She clearly believed this moment was hers.

Sylus didn’t flinch. He remained still, unmoving as stone, letting her get close—dangerously close. His expression was unreadable, save for the faint tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitched at his sides. The silence stretched between them like wire, taut and sharp.

Then, with a sudden and deliberate motion, he lifted his hand—not in tenderness, but with calculated disdain. His palm met her face, and he shoved.

Hard.

Lira stumbled backward, the force catching her completely off guard. Her heels scraped across the gravel as she lost balance, arms flailing before she crashed to the ground with a sickening thud. A jagged stone tore into her knee as she landed, slicing through skin and drawing blood. She let out a sharp cry, her voice echoing across the empty lot.

“What the hell, Sylus?!” she screamed, genuine pain mingling with disbelief as she clutched her leg. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Sylus took one slow step forward, then another. He loomed over her now, a dark figure lit only by the harsh yellow streetlight above. Shadows carved into his face, and the crimson gleam in his eye burned like a warning flare. The heat of restrained rage radiated from him, curling beneath his skin like smoke.

His voice cut through the silence, low and cold. "I would never kiss garbage," he said, eyes narrowing with disdain. "Not in this life or the next."

He let the words hang in the air, heavy and final. Lira stared up at him, wounded both in body and pride, utterly stunned.

Lira's face twisted from shock into something far more volatile—raw fury. Her eyes blazed as she stumbled backward, her voice rising, shrill and wild with disbelief. "Just wait until my father hears about this. You'll regret this!" she screamed, her voice cracking under the weight of panic. She clearly believed her threat still carried weight, that the name of a man who had been hiding from him would still make Sylus hesitate.

Sylus gave a slow, cold chuckle, one devoid of humor. Her bravado was almost adorable in its desperation. With the lazy flick of his fingers, he summoned his men forward. She had just signed the last page of her own story. How sweet that she still thought anyone feared her father, a man too cowardly to show his face, too weak to stick around to protect even his own daughter.

"I don’t think anyone will be hearing from you for a very long time," he said, his voice smooth and clinical, like a scalpel. It lacked any trace of anger—just cool, final certainty. He gave a small, precise gesture to the guards without even looking at them. "You know where to put her."

Lira’s arrogance melted like wax under fire. The transformation was immediate and absolute. Her posture wilted, her face drained of color, and her breath caught in her throat. Her lip quivered as she took several shaking steps back. "Wait! Sylus, I’m sorry, okay? I love you. Please, we can just—"

But her plea broke into a shriek as one of the guards reached for her. She exploded into a frenzy, lashing out in blind terror. Her arms flailed, nails slashing at air, at flesh, at anything she could reach. She kicked and screamed, her voice growing hoarse as she struggled against the inevitable. She clawed at their uniforms, at the pavement, trying to anchor herself to something—anything—that might save her. But nothing did.

"Love? You don't truly love anything or anyone but yourself" Sylus scoffed.

As they dragged her toward the looming shadow of Onychinus, her screams echoed down the cold corridor of the night. Each one felt like a jagged shard of glass, cutting through the still air. Her sobs were unhinged, feral—nothing like the composed, flirtatious woman she had been just minutes before. That woman was gone now, stripped bare by fear.

Sylus watched with detached precision, his expression unreadable. Not a flicker of guilt or hesitation crossed his face. There was no satisfaction in his eyes, no gloating. Just cold execution. This wasn’t simply vengeance, not in the way most would define it. This was justice. This was what needed to be done.

He turned slowly, the sound of her cries dimming behind him. The streetlight caught the gleam of his red eye as he stepped away. She had underestimated him. Now, she would learn the cost—stripped of her dignity, silenced, and erased from the equation. And soon, her father would join her. Sylus now had everything he needed to move forward, and with Lira out of the way, there were no more barriers. No more distractions. He would hunt Adan down, rip the location of the protocore from his throat if needed, and finally bring this long chase to an end.

And for Sylus, this was only the beginning of his true intentions. Prove just how much you meant to him. Every move he made from here on out would be for you, and he wouldn’t stop until you saw the truth with your own eyes.

This couldn't be happening. You felt like your whole world was coming apart.

"Robert. C'mon… you can't be serious? Raising my rent right now? Of all times?" you pleaded, your voice thick with frustration and barely contained panic. You sat across from your landlord in his cramped, smoky office, the harsh fluorescent light flickering above. The air was stale with the scent of old carpet and cigar smoke, making your stomach turn.

Robert took another long drag from his cigar, leaning back in his squeaky leather chair, eyes half-lidded with boredom. He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift toward the ceiling in lazy curls. Then he gave you a crooked, almost smug smile. "Nothing I can do, sweetheart. Costs are going up. Maintenance fees, utilities, taxes—it all adds up."

You stared at him, disbelief churning in your gut. "But I just need a little more time. I’m almost out of here. This hike is going to set me back several months."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced or simply indifferent. "Shouldn't be an issue for you though, right? Didn’t you get that new job at an office?"

Your heart sank. You hesitated, gripping the sides of your chair so tightly your knuckles went white. The lie you had let him believe—the one that had bought you a little breathing room—was turning against you now. You shut your eyes for a moment, trying to suppress the surge of hopelessness rising in your chest. You had no job. Not anymore.

You should’ve known he’d do this. He’d waited, watched. The moment he sensed your income had changed, he’d pounced. And now here you were, no leverage, no stability, and no way to stop what was coming next.

You knew better than to try and argue with him. In a place like this, where nothing was regulated and everything could be bought or coerced, arguing would only give him more reason to push harder. Anywhere else, what he was doing—raising rent out of nowhere, leveraging fear—would be considered highly illegal. But this was the N109 Zone. The rules here were unwritten, and those with power played the game however they wanted.

Robert was not an understanding man. He didn’t see tenants—he saw numbers, dollar signs, opportunities to squeeze. And if those numbers cried or pleaded? That just made it more entertaining. You could practically feel the satisfaction radiating off him as he watched you squirm. He was probably getting off to your tears.

You wiped your face roughly with the back of your sleeve, forcing your emotions back into the dark corner where you usually kept them. You grabbed your bag and stood up on unsteady legs.

"Alright. I'll...get it to you soon," you said, voice low but firm enough to end the conversation.

Robert let out a low chuckle as you turned to leave. "There’s other ways to pay if you fall on hard times, sweetheart. You know where to find me."

Your entire body tensed, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You stormed out, your footsteps heavy with rage, shame, and the choking need to get far away from the stench of his cigar smoke. You didn’t stop walking until you were outside, gulping down the thick, industrial air like it was fresh. At least it didn’t reek of him.

Men. Were there any redeemable qualities about them? This was the question you had been turning over and over in your head these past few weeks, like a stone rubbed smooth by restless fingers. You'd clawed your way out of one man’s hell, thinking you were free, only to find yourself squarely in another's grip. Though in truth, you'd been caught in Robert's trap since the very moment you signed that damn lease. You just hadn't known it yet. He’d been waiting like a vulture, circling slowly until you were weak enough for him to swoop in.

Now here you were—jobless, cornered, and trying to calculate how long you could hold out before everything fell apart. You didn’t want to touch your savings. That money was supposed to be your escape plan, the key to somewhere far away from this godforsaken city, somewhere clean and quiet where no one knew your name. Not Robert’s next rent check. Not the almost two thousand dollars he now demanded each month.

You could already feel the tightrope snapping beneath your feet. Rent. Utilities. Food. All while the job listings you scoured were either dead ends or dangerous scams. It was all piling up, a slow avalanche that was starting to crush your chest a little more each day. You'd probably accumulate more debt if you didn't do something soon.

You needed another job. Something, anything, to keep you afloat until you could disappear for good. But the thought of starting over again, of reentering the endless loop—filling out the same tired applications, smiling through interviews that felt more like interrogations, pretending you were competent and cheerful while your insides were screaming—made your stomach twist with dread. Still, what choice did you have? If you didn’t find work soon, you’d have to crawl back to the same people who broke you just to survive at your old job.

And that was something you refused to do. No matter what it cost, you would find another way.

Sylus briefly popped into your head, uninvited and unwelcome, like a phantom from a dream you couldn’t shake. His face, his voice, the way he used to look at you—intense, like he could see through you—tried to claw its way back into your thoughts. But you shoved it down hard, burying the memory as deep as it would go. No. You wouldn’t go crawling back. You had quit. For good. Whatever he was trying to do near the cats that day didn’t matter anymore. You didn’t want to know why he had waited for you or what was going through his head.

The truth was, seeing him had cracked something open inside you—raw, confused emotions that surged up like floodwaters, catching you off guard. You had barely managed to hold yourself together before it all came pouring out. So you did what you thought would protect you. You screamed. You raged. You hurled words like knives, each one designed to cut, to drive him away before he could reach the soft, unguarded parts of you again. And it worked.

Had you meant any of it? Not really. The pain in his eyes had lingered in your mind ever since, a weight you carried even as you told yourself it was necessary. But the truth was, he hadn’t come back. You hadn't seen him on that bench again. And maybe that’s what hurt most. Maybe that was the final confirmation you didn’t want—proof that this really was the end.

Your chest ached at the thought that it might have been the last time you'd ever see him. The last time his voice would reach your ears, the last time his eyes would lock with yours. That he had finally gotten the message and walked away for good. A quiet voice inside you whispered that maybe—just maybe—you should’ve heard him out. That maybe, beneath whatever games he played, he had actually come to apologize, to explain. To try. But the louder voice, the one that had grown calloused and cynical, reminded you why you couldn't afford to believe in that.

That voice told you this was what standing up for yourself looked like. It was messy, brutal, and it didn’t come with a warm sense of closure. It came with silence. Loneliness. And pain. But it was still freedom.

Even if it hurt.

You kept telling yourself it was for the best. You needed to grow stronger. To stop giving men like him the benefit of the doubt. To stop thinking that kindness and power could ever coexist in someone like him. You needed to protect what little fragments of yourself still felt whole. You repeated those thoughts like a mantra, whispering them in your head when it got too quiet, reciting them like a prayer every time his name tried to creep into your mind. Again and again, until the sting dulled. Until the memories blurred. Until the lies you told yourself began to feel almost true.

You did some mental math and sighed. As much as you hated to admit it, feeding the cats every day had honestly been setting you back. The cost of all that food wasn’t negligible—not anymore, not when every credit counted. Not that you regretted it. Those scrappy little strays had been there for you long before any of this money came. Before Sylus. Before the chaos. They had kept you company in the loneliest nights, soft bodies curled around your ankles, gentle purrs offering a strange sort of comfort that no person ever had.

And it felt right—necessary, even—to give back. To give them some real food instead of scraps or half of whatever leftover dinner you'd managed to scrounge up. You remembered the way their eyes lit up the first time you brought out full cans, how they meowed and rubbed against your legs like you were some kind of savior. You had smiled then, genuinely, the first in what felt like ages.

But now things were different. Now they weren’t hunting for themselves anymore. They relied on you—completely. And that reliance was starting to weigh on you. Every trip to the store chipped away at the funds you were supposed to be protecting. Every mealtime was a reminder that the little comfort you had created was beginning to turn into yet another responsibility you couldn’t afford.

You'd have to figure out something, and soon. Maybe find a food bank, or a vendor who could give you scraps. Maybe someone in the neighborhood could help. Anything to stretch the time you had left. Because if you couldn’t make this work…then you weren’t just failing yourself anymore.

You were failing them too. But what was new?

You had always been a failure.

As the days passed and the job hunt began in earnest, you hated the realization you’d come to… you missed having a phone. Really missed it. You’d never been able to afford one before Sylus, so you hadn’t known what you were missing. It had just been another luxury that existed on the other side of an unbridgeable gap. But now, stripped of that convenience after briefly tasting it, the void felt impossibly large. You couldn’t check listings on the go, couldn’t respond to opportunities quickly, couldn’t map routes or compare wages, or even distract yourself from your own spiraling thoughts. The world moved faster without you, and you felt stranded in the dust.

God, job hunting the manual way sucked. You walked from building to building until your legs ached and your shoes pinched. You wore your best face, the most polite smile you could muster, and still it felt useless. You had learned about applying online after contemplating quitting a few times while working under Sylus. You’d even bookmarked a few promising sites back then, telling yourself you’d figure it all out eventually. But now? Now you were stuck in analog hell, wasting precious time, energy, and what little pride you had left.

It wasn’t just exhausting—it was humiliating. Each rejection didn’t come with a polite email or a form letter. It came face-to-face, often with someone who wouldn’t even meet your eyes. The eye rolls. The impatient glances toward the door. The irritated sighs. And the most soul-sucking one of all—the dismissive, offhanded phrase that seemed to follow you everywhere.

“Just apply online. What are you doing here?”

The words burned more each time you heard them. Hearing them in the middle of rush hour, with people brushing past you like you were invisible, only made the sting sharper. Each rejection was like a slap, loud and public and unkind. It didn’t matter how nice you were, how hard you tried. To them, you were just some clueless idiot holding up the line.

You didn’t cry—not out in the open. But your jaw clenched harder each time. Your chest got tighter. Every time you walked out of a shop, you felt the weight of failure settle deeper into your body like bricks in your pockets. You kept telling yourself it would get easier. That someone would give you a chance. But the truth was, this was harder than you thought it would be. And you had already thought it would be hard.

You were running out of options, and worst of all, you were starting to wonder if you’d made a mistake. If maybe, just maybe, you’d pushed away the only thing keeping you afloat. But no. No. You couldn’t go back to that.

Could you?

It didn’t get better. In fact, it got worse. The job hunt went from humiliating to downright terrifying. And the one time you actually managed to land an interview—of all places—it was at some rundown building tucked between a boarded-up market and a broken streetlight that flickered like a warning sign. You had been so desperate that you ignored the signs, walked in with shaky hope. But the moment you stepped inside, your stomach turned.

The room smelled like mold and something vaguely metallic. There was a couch in the middle of the room, stained with mysterious fluids you didn’t even want to begin identifying. It wasn’t even near the desk. Just…placed in the center like it was waiting for you. The man who greeted you didn’t even rise from his seat. He just motioned lazily to the couch and smirked.

You didn’t even hesitate. You turned right around and walked out with your hands covering your eyes, as if doing so could erase what you had seen. Your heart raced the entire way home. You didn’t even know what the job was for. He hadn’t said. You hadn’t asked.

You weren’t sure if you felt more disgusted or defeated. That was the only scored interview you’d gotten all week. Maybe longer. And it had been a trap—plain and simple.

By the time you made it back to your building, you didn’t even go inside. You sat down on the cold concrete steps, head in your hands, and just let the silence press down on you.

You had no other choice.

You had to go back to your old job.

You hesitated outside the familiar chipped blue door of the diner, your fingers tightening around the strap of your worn-out bag. The smell of fryer oil and burnt coffee hit you instantly—nostalgic and slightly nauseating. It was the same scent that clung to your clothes during every shift. Every step closer made your stomach twist tighter, each footfall echoing louder in your ears. You could already see your old coworkers through the windows, wiping down tables, chatting like nothing had changed. The fluorescent lights above them buzzed faintly, the sound oddly grating. Your throat felt dry.

You pushed the door open, and the bell above it gave its usual mechanical ring—tinny and tired. A few heads turned at the sound. One of your old coworkers gave you a cautious half-smile, the kind that barely touched their eyes. Another looked away quickly, suddenly fascinated by the buttons on the register. You tried to return the gesture, but your smile came out thin and brittle, like it would snap under pressure. You forced yourself to the counter, heart pounding.

"Hey...is Selene in?" you asked, trying to keep your voice calm, steady. But the slight quiver in your tone betrayed you.

A tense silence settled over the diner. The clinking of silverware paused. Even the distant sizzle from the kitchen seemed to dull. Finally, someone nodded stiffly and disappeared into the back without a word.

It didn’t take long.

Selene emerged like a storm. Her heels clacked against the tiled floor with sharp, deliberate precision. Her expression was unreadable, carved in stone and cold as ice. She stopped in front of you, arms crossed over her chest, and for a brief second, you held onto a tiny, desperate hope that she might actually listen. That maybe she’d let you explain. That maybe time had softened her.

But then she spat—right at your feet.

"You’ve got some nerve coming back here," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. "You’re not welcome. You never were. So don't even fix your mouth and ask for a job."

The words hit harder than the spit. You opened your mouth to respond, to defend yourself, to finally say all the things you had held in—but the words caught in your throat like barbed wire.

You knew exactly why she treated you this way. Why you’d been fired so suddenly. Her husband, Scott—also a line cook at the diner—had been creeping on you since your first week. Little comments made in hushed tones, his eyes lingering far too long, the way he’d brush past you when there was clearly enough space. You’d always dismissed it, trying to maintain peace, trying not to cause waves. You’d told him no, pushed him away politely, then firmly. But when he finally cornered you one night by the walk-in fridge and you told him off for good, something shifted.

The next day, Selene had dragged you into the office. Her face had been like stone then, too. "I don’t want homewrecking whores working in my establishment," she’d said with icy finality.

What she really meant was: she didn’t believe you. Or worse—she didn’t care. Maybe it was easier to believe the lie. Or maybe she just wanted to believe it.

You stood there, frozen in the aftermath of her cruel dismissal, her spit glistening on the dingy tile between your shoes. You looked up at her face again, at the loathing in her eyes. Then, slowly, you turned. You walked out into the street, back into the noise and smog and blinking signs of the N109 Zone. You didn’t cry. You wanted to. But your body refused. It was all too familiar.

Still, it burned. God, it burned. Your chest felt hollow, like your ribs had been scooped out with something dull.

Maybe you were right to think the world didn’t want you. Maybe it never had.

You leaned against the nearest rusted street sign, your body trembling as you slid slowly to the ground. The chill of the metal against your back did nothing to numb the ache blooming in your chest. You shut your eyes tightly, as if that alone could block out the weight of the world pressing down on you. But it didn’t. It only made it heavier, louder, more suffocating. The world kept spinning, indifferent to the pieces of you crumbling inside.

What was the point?

What were you even fighting for anymore? Scrambling through humiliation after humiliation just to end up here—alone, jobless, and shattered. You had clawed your way through fear, through power games and manipulation, just to be spit back out like you were worthless. You gave your trust, your time, your body. And what had you received in return? Used. Spat at. Toyed with like you were nothing more than a means to an end, a passing amusement in someone else’s story.

Sylus. Lira. Robert. Scott. Selene. Your parents.

Every name carved a new wound in your soul. Each face, a cruel reminder of how far you'd fallen. Of how no matter how hard you tried to climb, someone was always waiting to push you back down. You weren’t even sure who you were anymore—just a hollow thing shaped by what others wanted from you.

You remembered that alley. The one you had barely escaped from. How cold the concrete felt beneath you as the men laughed and circled. The gleam of a blade, the reek of sweat and breath and malice. The feel of his knife cutting through your clothes. You remembered the certainty in your heart then—that this was it. The end. But somehow, you had survived. Sylus had saved you. And now, for what?

To be broken again. To crawl your way back to something that felt safe, only to be reminded it never truly was.

Maybe the universe had made a mistake.

Maybe it was punishing you for slipping through its fingers. For surviving when you weren’t supposed to. The shame of existing when everything in your life screamed that you shouldn’t be here anymore was unbearable. A curse stitched into the seams of your skin. Every breath you took felt like defiance in a world that never wanted you.

And in that moment, it became so clear: maybe it was time to stop running from it. Maybe you should just give the universe what it had always wanted from you—your soul.

Maybe then, if you died, everything would finally stop hurting.

A few days had passed in a haze of indecision and quiet desperation. You kept to yourself, spending your time among the stray cats that lingered near your building, trying to find solace in their warm, soft bodies. They were the only living things that didn’t expect anything from you, didn’t lie or manipulate. Just existed. And that made them easier to be around.

But no matter how long you sat with them, no matter how many times you ran your fingers through their fur or watched their ears flick toward distant sounds, nothing changed your mind. There was a stillness inside you now—a resignation that had settled like dust in your bones. Nothing was getting better. Nothing was going to change. The world had made that perfectly clear.

With trembling limbs and tears already welling in your eyes, you dragged yourself down cracked sidewalks to the nearest corner store. Each step felt heavier than the last, your chest tight with emotion you couldn't name, not really. Grief? Rage? Exhaustion? Maybe all of it, tangled together like barbed wire.

The dingy fluorescent lights flickered overhead as you pushed open the door. The little bell above it chimed out a tinny, emotionless note. Inside, the store smelled of stale air and old linoleum. The girl at the counter barely spared you a glance, her eyes glued to a magazine she clearly wasn't reading. "Welcome," she muttered in a flat, lifeless tone.

You didn’t respond.

You wandered toward the shelves, eyes glazed over, unsure where to begin. Your fingers hovered over the rows of alcohol bottles lining the back wall. You had never drunk before—never seen the appeal. But today wasn’t about appeal. Today was about escape. Forgetting. Quieting the noise that had grown too loud inside your head and ridding yourself of this world forever.

Labels blurred in your vision, your tears now threatening to spill. You had no idea what you were even looking at—brown bottles, clear bottles, red and gold labels promising warmth or fire or numbness. It all looked foreign.

You just stood there, frozen in front of shelves lined with vices, trying to find the courage to pick one. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, something inside one of those bottles could dull the ache that had taken root in your soul.

You jumped as someone suddenly appeared next to you, the unexpected presence snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts. A child? No older than ten or eleven, with messy hair and dark circles under his eyes. He wore a torn hoodie, oversized sneakers, and had the street-hardened expression of someone who'd grown up too fast. He barely acknowledged you, just glanced up, rolled his eyes like you were in his way, and reached down to grab a bottle of cheap whiskey from a lower shelf—clearly one he was familiar with.

Anyone else might’ve reacted with shock, disbelief even. But in the N109 Zone, this was routine. Children strolled into liquor stores like it was a corner market, picking up cigarettes or alcohol on behalf of their parents—or for themselves. There were no laws here, no enforcement. Just survival, any way you could manage it. If you could pay for it, you could drink. You watched the kid shuffle off, bottle in hand, without a word or glance back.

You sighed, feeling a fresh wave of exhaustion settle in your chest. The sharp fluorescent lights overhead made everything feel sterile and unreal. Your fingers traced along the glass necks of the bottles until you found one with the highest alcohol content you could find. You didn’t know if it would even taste good, and frankly, you didn’t care. You just needed it to work.

Gripping it tightly, you clutched it to your chest like a lifeline and made your way toward the register, your footsteps slow and heavy, like you were wading through water. The dull thud of your shoes on the floor echoed in your ears, matching the rhythm of your heartbeat.

You don't know why, but you end up turning around and buying out the whole shelf of that alcohol. Maybe it was the pressure building in your chest or the numbness crawling in behind it, but something compelled you to do it. It’s not like it mattered, right? You had the money—at least, for now. And who was going to stop you?

No one cares about you.

The girl at the counter looked at you with an almost pitying sort of confusion, like she could instantly tell this was your first time. Her eyes lingered on your face, maybe trying to gauge whether she should say something. But she didn’t. Instead, she sighed, scanned each bottle slowly, and finally rung you up with an almost mechanical "Have a good night."

You barely responded. Wobbling slightly under the weight, you wrapped your arms awkwardly around the box they gave you—seven heavy glass bottles clinking together inside like a cruel lullaby. Every step outside felt like a challenge, your arms aching, the corners of the box digging into your palms. The wind blew through your jacket, biting at your skin, but it didn’t feel like anything. Just one more discomfort to ignore.

You eventually make it home, the door creaking open louder than usual in the silence. You kick it shut behind you and make your way to the kitchen table, where you carefully lay out each bottle one by one. The labels blur slightly as you stare down at them. An army of glass and liquid. Your fingers twitch over one of the caps, but you don’t open it. Not yet. For now, you just stand there in the dim glow of your apartment, staring at the lineup like you’re trying to convince yourself that one of them might offer something close to peace.

You struggled to open the first one, your fingers fumbling with the cap as your nerves and frustration worked against you. The seal resisted at first, stubborn and tight, but eventually you managed to wring it open with a strained twist and a sharp click. The scent hit you immediately—a sharp, punishing wave of bitter herbs and alcohol so strong it nearly made your eyes water. You instinctively gagged, recoiling slightly as the pungent aroma clawed at your nostrils.

"What the hell is this?" you muttered, coughing into your sleeve. You turned the label over, squinting to make sense of the small print. Absinthe. 47 percent alcohol level. Your stomach twisted. Surely this would aid in your journey to drink yourself to death.

With a shaky breath, you tried to steel yourself, pinching your nose and lifting the bottle to your lips. You took a deep swig straight from the neck, forcing the liquid down, without pause. Instantly, your throat ignited with a fire so fierce it felt like swallowing acid. You doubled over, sputtering and choking as the bitterness coated your tongue.

"Ah! Aghck!" you coughed, the liquid spraying from your mouth and soaking your shirt in a streak of cold, sharp-smelling alcohol. Your eyes watered, chest heaving as you gasped for breath. It tasted like cleaning supplies and punishment. 

You stood there trembling, staring at the bottle in your hand, wondering how people made a habit out of this. Surely there were better ways to forget your problems? But still, you held onto it. You weren’t done yet.

You hated living more than you hated the taste and the burn—and that was saying something. So you used that hatred. You clenched your teeth, ignored the fire clawing down your throat, and forced yourself to finish your first real swig of the absinthe. It was vile, bitter beyond belief, but you swallowed it down like a punishment you’d earned.

You stood there, blinking, surprised at how little you felt in the moment. No dizziness. No numbness. Just the horrific aftertaste coating your mouth like burnt herbs and regret. You scoffed bitterly. So this was it? So much pain for so little payoff? Maybe you just needed more.

So you did. You drank more. You searched the cabinets until you found an old, dusty cup—maybe from a diner or just a mismatched glass. You didn’t care. You poured a generous amount of the green liquid in and downed it. Then another. And another.

At first, you felt fine. Still in control. Still upright. The room was solid, your breathing calm. Then your heart started to race. The thumping in your chest accelerated like you’d just been sprinting down the block. Your limbs began to feel heavy, like you were sinking into the floor. The edges of your vision softened, blurring the lines of your kitchen into a swirl of murky colors.

You reached for the counter to steady yourself, missed, and nearly toppled over. The world tilted violently. Your knees buckled, and you crumpled to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. Everything spun, the ceiling melting into the walls, the walls into the floor. Your body felt too far away, your thoughts slurring, slipping through your fingers.

And then—just black.

You awoke a bit later, blinking slowly, the world swimming in and out of focus. Your body felt like lead, limbs sluggish and unresponsive as you struggled to sit up from the cold, hard floor. Every joint ached, your head pulsed, and your mouth was dry like sandpaper. Groaning, you glanced to your side and saw the bottle you’d been drinking from. It wasn’t even halfway empty.

And yet, you felt like you were dying.

Your heart pounded in your chest like a warning bell, loud and erratic. You could feel your pulse thrumming at your temples, your wrists, your neck—too fast, too hard. Panic bloomed in your chest as a sickening heat flushed through your body. A sharp, twisting pain coiled in your stomach like a hot wire tightening and writhing beneath your skin.

You cried out, a strangled sound torn from your throat as your body convulsed with the pain. Your vision blurred as you clutched at your abdomen, crawling across the floor in a desperate, pitiful attempt to get to the door. Each movement was agony. You were drenched in sweat, your shirt clinging to you like a second skin.

You reached the doorframe, collapsing just short of the knob. You could barely lift your hand. Your fingers twitched against the floor, nails scraping wood. "H-hhwalp..." you croaked, voice barely more than a whisper, the word distorted by pain and tears.

You were so stupid. So reckless. You didn’t want to die like this.

But the world was fading fast around you.

You reached again, weakly, for the doorknob—your last hope flickering like a dying flame.

By some miracle, you manage to swing the door open, your trembling fingers finally gripping the knob and wrenching it sideways. The door creaks open with a groan, and you lurch forward, barely staying upright as you stagger outside into the hazy, grimy air of the corridor. Each breath is sharp, like inhaling fire and rust. "H-halp..." you whimper, your voice thin and fractured, the edges of your vision clouding into black. The world spins around you like a broken carousel, lights smearing across your vision like spilled paint.

You don’t last long on your feet. Your knees buckle and you collapse hard onto the rough concrete, the impact jarring every bone in your already aching body. The ground feels colder than you expect, like it wants to swallow you whole. Your head pulses violently, each beat hammering against your skull as if your brain is trying to escape. You cry out again, the pain overwhelming and unrelenting. Your body shakes uncontrollably. But then, through the chaos and haze, you feel a warm hand on your shoulder.

"Well well, what do we have here? Can’t hold your liquor, huh?" a man’s voice jeers, laced with sharp amusement.

You look up, eyes swimming with tears and disorientation. The world is a blur of shadows and streaked lights, but even through your muddled senses, you recognize the face looming over you.

Robert.

You don’t care who it is anymore. You just want help. You want the pain to stop. You want a hospital, a doctor, anyone with clean hands and sterile tools who can reverse whatever hell you’ve poured into yourself. Your mouth barely forms the words.

"Rober...help me..." you slur, your head lolling to the side as you try and fail to sit up. Your limbs are bricks. Your thoughts, fog.

Robert chuckles, the sound low, greasy, and self-satisfied. He clearly finds amusement in your collapse. "Oh, no worries, doll. I’ll help you," he says smoothly, but there’s something behind his voice that sends a fresh wave of dread through your sluggish mind.

You barely have time to register the shift in gravity before Robert scoops you up into his arms. The movement is clumsy, jarring, and you feel every tremble in your muscles react in protest. The world lurches violently around you, your stomach flipping with the sudden upheaval, nausea cresting at the back of your throat. Then it hits you—his smell.

It's nothing like Sylus. There’s no warm cologne or expensive leather—just the sour stench of sweat, cheap cigar smoke, and the faint metallic tang of alcohol-soaked clothes. It’s repulsive. It settles into your nose like oil in water, impossible to ignore, and so intimately invasive it makes your stomach tighten even more.

A deep-rooted fear creeps up your spine. Something about being in his arms, against that reeking shirt, sends every alarm in your body ringing. You want to scream, to fight, to claw your way out. But your body no longer responds. Your limbs go slack. Your heart races in futile protest. The dread is overwhelming, but there's no time to register it.

Your eyes flutter once, twice. A weak yelp escapes your lips before your vision blurs to nothing and the world collapses into blackness again.

[hachiko-au]

I love how he canonically lets MC put stickers all over him 👀 anyway, i genuinely am curious which sanrio characters we associate with the LIs. I think sylus would be Kuromi??? I’m not sure

[hachiko-au]

bestfriend ؛ caleb secretly jerking off to your pretty voice

he’s sprawled on his bed, the sensual darkness of the room and the glow of his phone casting shadows as he scrolls to your name, his thumb hesitating before hitting call.

his other hand’s already in his sweatpants, gripping his already hard cock just thinking about you, he shouldn’t want this but badly does.

“hey!” you light voice crackling through the phone, and it hits him like a spark, his breath hitching, hand moving slow, stroking himself, his eyes fluttering shut.

“miss me already, caleb? It’s barely been a week.” your tone’s teasing, unaware of the effect you’re having, and he groans softly, low, trying to keep it quiet, his heart racing.

“fuck, yeah, i miss you,” he says, voice a little strained, his hand moving faster, the sound of your voice making him throb, his hips shifting on the bed.

“been thinkin’ about you, pipsqueak,” he adds, his breath obviously uneven as he strokes the thick of his tip, slowly shamelessly imagining your face.

you laugh softly, the sound sending a jolt through him, his grip tightening, groans muffled as he presses the phone closer to his ear.

“aw, caleb, you’re so sweet,” you say, and he can hear you moving, maybe settling on your couch, the faint rustle of fabric making him picture you, relaxed, unaware of how you’re unraveling him.

“what’s got you all acting like that? miss my pretty face or something?” he bites his lip, his hand moving faster, cock leaking, his breath hitching, a low, whiny groan slipping out before he can stop it.

“shit, you have no idea.” he mutters, almost a growl, his eyes squeezed shut, your voice painting vivid images in his mind.

“caleb, you okay?” you ask, his voice sounded wrong, too wrong. “you sound… weird. you good over there?”

“yeah, im—im fine.” his breathe hitched, his hand never stopping, the sound of your voice pushing him closer.

“just—keep talkin’ pipsqueak, please?” he says, his hips shifting more as his cock throbbed under his hand, your voice the only thing he needs right now.

[hachiko-au]

OKOK i have a couple ideas for requests like we talked about but theyre all very different so im going to send them separately. this first one im sending, i dont know if your smut requests are open, or if i shouldve sent them to your other acc, but here it is anyway.

im a SUCKER for sex pollen and those types of things so, hear me out, established relationship, peter comes back from a mission and basically just NEEDS reader, blah blah blah, smut ensues. if this is a miss feel free to ignore i have two others im sending your way 😘

hahahaha ok I don't think this ended up being as smutty as you were hoping, but I had so much fun writing it so thank you for indulging my current hyper fixation!

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader after he's infected with sex pollen [1.2k words]

CW: my thought is when oscorp was breeding their mutant bugs and stuff they had a powder/aerosol to encourage breeding?? anyways, no actual smut but it's discussed through out and then gets pretty explicit at the end, potential 18+ content, NSFW

You’re saved from having to pretend to be asleep at the sound of your bedroom window creaking open as Peter slips in, wasting no time to pull the mask off of his head. You find it hard to fall asleep without him anyways, let alone on nights that he’s on patrol, so his presence is a welcome sight. 

“Peter?”

“Hey,” he lets out quickly, his tone taking on a quality you can’t quite place, “hey, hi, holy shit you’re awake, hey.”

“Hey.” You return, propping yourself up and reaching over to turn on the lamp at the same moment Peter trips over a pile of books by the end of the bed. “Did you get to Oscorp in time?”

“Yup, yeah. Yes, I did.” He responds breathlessly. “Hey, lovely. Hi baby,” he greets again, nearly tripping over himself a second time as he comes to kneel by the edge of the bed, biting the fingers of one of his gloves in order to pull it off. 

“Good, I- whoa.” 

You’re startled by the intensity in Peter’s brown eyes; pupils nearly fully eclipsing his irises as he stares at you desperately, his mouth pinched in discomfort. 

“What happened?” 

A nearly hysterical laugh leaves his lips, seemingly frustrated at the question though not at your asking it. The hand he has on your elbow remains gentle but you hear the wood of your bed frame splinter beneath his other fist as he groans, lowering his head as he takes some steadying breaths that all sound shaky to your ears. 

“I don’t know what else they can possibly have in those basements to surprise  me anymore – fucking biochemical warfare – one of the drums exploded; there was this- this, I don’t know, powder or fumes in the air; it was everywhere.”

“Are you alright?” You ask urgently, sitting up fully and swinging your legs over the side of the bed; Peter quickly makes room for you so that he’s stationed between your thighs.

“No, sweetheart, I am very much not alright right now. I’ve never been less alright than I am at this very moment, actually.”

Debatable, but you don’t argue. 

“Are you hurt?” You interrogate, your hands automatically starting at the juncture of his neck and shoulder before they start their typical journey over the plains of his lean muscles in search of injuries. They’re stopped short when Peter grasps your wrists.

“Peter, stop. Let me help you.”

“I don’t- that’s not- I’m not hurt, that’s not what I need.” He manages.

You let out a helpless laugh, feeling borderline hysterical yourself as you look at your boyfriend incredulously; his brows dipping inwards in a silent plea that you can’t decipher. “What do you need?”

“You.” 

“What is going on right now?” It’s not said like a question; a rhetorical statement falling from your lips as you shake your head as though rattling your brain might make it work again.

“Please, please.” He whispers, begging as he inches as close to the edge of the bed as possible, hands gentle as he begins to rove the contours of your body. “I need you so bad, I’m losing my fucking mind.” 

“I- what?”

“I’m sorry - I know, I know. I’m sorry. You were asleep. I’m sorry, but I need you, Y/N.”

The puzzle finally begins to slowly come together when you hear the sound of spandex sliding against cotton, and you come to realize that Peter is actually rutting into the side of the bed. 

You make to say something but all that leaves your mouth is a breath; Peter whimpers at the sound as though it burns. 

“Peter?”

“Y/N I need to fuck you so bad and like right now, right this instant, or I swear to God I think I might die. Or explode. Or explode and die; no survivors, multiple casualties.” 

It escapes your lips without your permission, and slapping your hand over your mouth does nothing to combat the look of complete and utter betrayal that spreads across your boyfriend’s face.

“You’re laughing at me.”

It’s not a question, but you answer him anyway, shaking your head as a giggle manages to squeeze through the spaces between your fingers. Peter may be painfully horny, but he isn't stupid, and you can see the outline of his tongue where it pokes into his cheek which signals that he’s onto you.

“You’re laughing at me. Great; real nice, babe. Awesome.” He scoffs, fighting and failing against a laugh-turned-groan of his own as he continues to scold you. “I’m so hard that I’m pretty sure my dick is going to snap right off and you’re laughing at me.”

There’s no hiding your laughter now, reaching out to take each side of Peter’s face; warmed pink, eyes glassy, and his bottom lip swollen from where he’s been gnawing at it. 

“I can’t believe a boner is going to be what finally takes Spiderman out.” He muses aloud miserably, closing his eyes at the way your cool fingers feel near his temples as a sheen of sweat glistens along his hairline. “Tell the press it was something cool, okay? Like, like an alien that I stopped from eating a school bus full of children or, or- or maybe a giant can of Raid.” 

You shake your head at your boyfriend’s soliloquies and lean in to rub your nose against him, startling him out of his spiral before you press your lips to his. 

“I’m not going to let a boner take you out, Peter.” You murmur against his lips, hands weaseling their way behind his neck to help him out of his suit. “What do you need?”

“You.” He almost keens as he all but rips his arms out of the suit and moves to push the rest off, leaving him in his boxers that are strained and growing damp.

“Okay,” you breathe, forcing your eyes away from the way his muscles shift as he pulls his boxers off and exposes his – as described – painfully hard cock, red and drooling as it bobs against his lower abdomen, “okay, and you sai- you said it was a powder?” 

You manage to get the rest of your question out despite the way Peter sets upon your lips like his job is to devour you whole, ridding you of your pajamas as he goes.

“Yeah, yeah. Like-” a kiss “-it was like a powder,” a nip “or maybe an aerosol?” 

He’s no sooner working on sucking a mark into your neck, hoisting you up onto his hips and forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist as you suppress a surprised yelp. 

“Okay, okay. Why don’t we fuck in the shower then, huh?” You hiss as you force him away from your jugular, intent on getting this out before things get too carried away. 

He’s groaning into the opposite side of your neck and immediately makes for the bathroom – carrying you about as though you weigh nothing – and groaning again when you squirm under his touch.

“Fuck you’re so smart and beautiful and perfect and hot I want to put so many babies inside of you.”

“Jesus, Parker!”

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[hachiko-au]

pervy roommate!caleb who tells you about going on a date with another girl — just so he can ask you for advice on how to treat a girl in bed. you’ve known him for years, grown comfortable with each other since moving in together, it would be odd for you to decline. yeah it would be a little awkward but you’ve helped each other out many times no matter how embarrassing the situation may be. giving him a few pointers shouldn’t be so bad.

pervy roommate!caleb catches you by surprise when he asks for a more hands on lesson. don’t get him wrong, the tips you gave him were useful. like if she tells him to keep going, don’t speed up. but how will he really learn anything if he doesn’t practise first? practise makes perfect, right? and how could you say no? he’s your best friend. best friends help each other out.

pervy roommate!caleb who has to contain his grin when you actually agree to help — but can’t hide the way his cock jumps when you do. the idea of his hands and his mouth on you, the idea of having you squirm under his touch just consumes him.

pervy roommate!caleb who obeys everything you say. whether it’s starting slow, flattening his tongue when he licks up your slit or when you beg for him to speed up his slender fingers thrusting inside of your cunt. he’s a quick learner. curling his fingers in all the right ways, just like you taught him to. and every time you tell him how good he’s doing, your words trailing of into a long whine, god, he could cum right then and there.

pervy roommate!caleb eventually says, almost too casually, that he might as well fuck you at this point — just to make sure he’s got everything right. you think he’s joking as you chuckle in response, but the way his eyes linger on you says otherwise. is this even for the date anymore? you wonder.

you’ve already let him touch you, already shown him a side of yourself that not many people get to see, lying beneath him in a such a vulnerable position. would it be so wrong to go the extra step?

pervy roommate!caleb who fucks way too well for someone who supposedly needed advice. his grip on your hips is hard as he pulls you into every thrust he gives you. sounds of skin slapping echoes of the walls. he’s big and he knows how to use it — confident. too confident for a guy who claims he’s practicing for someone else.

the truth is, he isn’t practising. he made it all up. there is no girl and there was never date. he lied, and used it as an excuse to get in your pants.

his teeth graze your skin, biting back at the confession that he’s wanted this for as long as he could remember. a hand snakes between your bodies to meet your sensitive clit, thumb rubbing against it in deliberate circular motions — coaxing you toward another orgasm. eyes focused on your face like he needs to see the exact moment you fall apart.

his rhythm stutters when your walls clench around him, your back arching as you break with a guttural moan. his thrusts grow desperate, messy. it’s not about practise anymore. it never was.

꩜ masterlist !

🏷️ @ashirelle @littledarlingsthings @wynxoxo @dalmoonchi @kiyadeleine @sayoko-ou @sweetcalebb @partycityyyyyyy @sylusexual @rafascutie @colonelpantysniffer @oakimiuy @lyricelli join taglist here!

[hachiko-au]

is the jjk community dead or am i just bad at writing those characters....

[hachiko-au]

this is the best thing I've ever read

Phone sex operator Sylus, except you pay him to whisper dirty fantasies to you along the lines of:

"I took out the trash and put a new bag in the bin."

"Your laundry is folded and put away. Go put your feet up and have a glass of wine. You deserve it."

"Filled up your gas tank and washed your car."

"I called your boss and told him you're taking time off tomorrow. Rest up...you'll need it when I get there."

[hachiko-au]

i'm gonna be so fr w everyone... i started writing my own original book which i'm gonna be focused on for the time being. i'm unsure when my next fic will come out as i don't have a lot of free time and am wanting to focus on creating my own thing. i appreciate all the support and it is crazy my main now has over 2k followers. really truly appreciate all the support. i started my main blog around this time last year and the growth and love i've received means a ton.

enough sappy shit. keep on being horny y'all. never change 🫶

[hachiko-au]

Mark keep looking at me with your puppy eyes im so close

[hachiko-au]

i dont get cuteness aggression i get sexiness aggression and i need to beat the FUCK out of mark

[hachiko-au]

my art twitter (follow me!)

my commissions

[hachiko-au]

omg also aot. i need jean kirstein between my THighhs

on a haikyuu and final fantasy kick currently bc im a WHORE who can't stick to one fandom

[hachiko-au]

on a haikyuu and final fantasy kick currently bc im a WHORE who can't stick to one fandom

[hachiko-au]

ohhh this is THEE post

EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT I’M A GOOD GIRL OFFICERS

[hachiko-au]

no invincible tomorrow i want to die

[hachiko-au]

RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]

Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?

 It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity. 

You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.

The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony. 

After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place. 

This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.

After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it. 

Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had  always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.

In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.

But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it. 

You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.

You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.

Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.

Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way. 

And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.

You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.

Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.

Not that it really mattered.

You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.

You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.

With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway.  Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.

The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.

A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.

It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.

And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.

He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.

You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.

You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes. 

As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything. 

So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.

You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness. 

You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention.  The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure

His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark. 

He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.

It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would. 

His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.

Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.

Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.

Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.

That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—

—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter? 

…

You decide to send him a letter. 

It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.

It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness. 

Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.

Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.

You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.

You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement. 

For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him? 

You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.

You press the pen to the paper. 

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’ 

A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.

Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).

You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.

You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.

Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.

Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.

You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.

But still…

 You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.

Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.

You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.

And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is. 

The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.

Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.

Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.

By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago. 

You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.

At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—

BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE

The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.

The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:

“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”

Your stomach tightens.

Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.

For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet. 

After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.

Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.

Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.

You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.

The studio audience laughs on cue.

You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine. 

It doesn’t. 

When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot. 

By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.

You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.

You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.

After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.

Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.

You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it. 

Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.

You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.

Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.

You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all. 

Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.

The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.

You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.

But as you straighten,  the air feels different.

Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating. 

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.

You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you,  arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.

You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you. 

Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.

Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.

You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.

Your eyes flick back to him.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.

You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just silen—

“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.

Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline. 

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.

He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.

His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.

And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.

All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.

You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure. 

It’s addicting.

Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.

“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”

He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”

The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees. 

“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.

 “Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”

You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.

“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”

You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?

“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”

Yeah. You were that desperate. 

You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”

He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”

You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.

You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug. 

He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.

“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants.  “Ever felt a cock that big before?”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”

He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes. 

“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.

He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”

Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before.  “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.

“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs. 

He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.

Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.

“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you. 

“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.” 

“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”

He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”

“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”

“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”

A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.  

He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”

Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.

Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering.  “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”

You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..

He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”

He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.

He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him. 

Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 

"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.

No underwear. A Right dog, he is. 

Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.

“What’d y’want?”

You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.

How could he even fit inside of you?

You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.

He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?

“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”

“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”

“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.

“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”

“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.

He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.” 

You could slap him. 

He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”

He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”

He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.

“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”

You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him. 

He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts,  “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.

He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.

“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.

 “Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long. 

He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before  shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.

“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,

“Say it.”

“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”

“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder,  caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.

“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”

You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”

You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”

At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure. 

Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you. 

The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to  “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own. 

A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.

 “Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.

Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment. 

“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls.. 

You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried. 

Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house. 

He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”

“for a first-timer.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”

You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.

“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”

The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.

His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.

“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.

He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.

You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.

Two cops.

Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.

“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”

The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”

You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”

They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.

“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”

“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.

You shut the door.

Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.

“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.

The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.