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mavphorias · 8 days ago

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A Dragons Claim

Word Count: 10.9k

Tags: dragon!sylus x fem!reader, cunnilingus, breeding, creampies, biting, slight injury, some bleeding, courting rituals, mating rituals, sylus has two cocks :333

Summary: Sylus begins to act strange and you think he may have caught some sort of illness. He's strangely warm, irritable and eating more. However this "illness" turns out to be more intense than you could have ever imagined... (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )

"You're wrong," he murmurs, voice husky and edged with something raw. "You’re fertile. I can smell it on you." You freeze. His lips ghost just beneath your ear as he continues, tone smooth and reverent. "Your scent is different now—sweet, ripe, like fruit at the peak of bloom. The warmth of your skin, the rhythm of your pulse...your body sings to mine in ways you cannot hear. But I do." His hand tightens at your waist, possessive, anchoring you to him like you might drift away otherwise. The heat in his eyes is no longer just desire—it is intention, it is instinct honed over centuries, it is him answering a call your body didn’t even know it had made. "You're ready. Now," he growls, the final word laced with a quiet sort of reverence, as if he were speaking a truth ordained by something far older than either of you.

AN: Okay so, this fic was SO fun to write I may have gotten a little carried away hehe. This was a little bit out of my comfort zone but I am so happy with it!! Plus it was about time I did a oneshot for dragon!sylus. After what he went through he deserves as many babies as he wants ;(

Enjoy!!

Sylus had been unusually irritable lately, and it wasn’t just in the way he grunted or snapped when spoken to—it was in everything. His eyes seemed sharper, flicking around like he was constantly on edge, and his tail, which normally lay relaxed behind him, had developed a twitchy, agitated flick. He wasn’t acting like the level-headed fiend you’d come to know and love.

Even he seemed aware of the shift; there were moments he paused mid-sentence or mid-motion, as if catching himself acting out of character. When he returned to the cave after hunting, he couldn’t seem to keep still. He paced the stone floor in restless circles, ran his claws along the wall, muttered to himself under his breath. His whole body seemed to vibrate with pent-up energy, with something unspoken roiling beneath the surface.

His appetite had doubled, maybe even tripled. He devoured whatever meat, vegetables, or fruit he managed to scavenge or hunt for the both of you, sometimes not even bothering to sit down before tearing into it. He would eat so quickly it was like he hadn’t tasted food in days, and when he was done, he still looked unsatisfied. It was primal, instinctive, like something inside him was demanding more than he could give it.

And then there was the heat.

He’d started to feel noticeably warm to the touch, which was strange for a reptile. The first time you noticed it was when he brushed past you, and you flinched, startled by the heat radiating off his skin. Since then, it had only intensified. Whenever he hugged you, lingered too close, or let his fingers graze your arm, you felt it—his body running hot, almost feverish. It was unnerving. And his touches had changed too. They weren’t violent, but they carried a kind of hunger, an urgency that hadn’t been there before. He gripped a little tighter, held on a little longer. Like proximity alone wasn’t enough to settle whatever storm was brewing inside him.

It worried you terribly. Was he getting sick? Could dragons even get sick? The question gnawed at your thoughts, carving out little pits of anxiety in your chest no matter how often you tried to push it away. The heat that seemed to bleed from his skin, the sharp glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, the unpredictable mood swings and restlessness...it all felt off. Like something inside him had shifted, and you didn’t know if it was something natural or something dangerous. You'd never seen him like this. He wasn’t just irritable, he was volatile. Every movement held tension, like he was wound too tightly and one wrong word might snap him in two.

You knew better than to voice your concerns aloud. Suggesting he try any kind of human treatment would go over about as well as trying to leash a wildfire. He’d scoff, roll his eyes, and brush you off with a dismissive sigh. Sylus was proud, fiercely so. Stubborn as a stone wall, and not exactly someone who tolerated being fussed over. An illness? He'd laugh at the implication.

Still, you couldn’t just sit back and watch him burn from the inside out.

So the next time he finally dozed off—after hours of pacing, mumbling under his breath, and tossing scraps into the fire like they’d wronged him personally—you waited until his breathing evened out and his face slackened. He lay sprawled out on the nest of furs you’d both piled near the hearth, the orange firelight casting shadows across his angular features. One arm was thrown loosely over his chest, the other curled slightly beside him. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that looked almost peaceful. Almost.

You moved with painstaking care, the cool, damp cloth in your hand trembling slightly from how tightly you gripped it. Your feet barely made a sound against the stone floor as you approached, every step deliberate. When you reached his side, you crouched slowly, heart hammering so loudly you were sure it might wake him before you even got the chance to touch him. You leaned in, gently pressing the rag to his brow, hoping the cold would cut through the heat pouring off of him like he was lit from within.

For a brief moment, you felt relief. He didn’t stir. Maybe, just maybe, he would sleep through this.

But then something shifted.

Without warning, a firm pressure clamped around your wrist. You gasped, flinching, and the rag slipped from your fingers. Your gaze dropped, heart stalling in your chest, as you realized his tail had slithered around your arm in one smooth, silent motion. Like it had a mind of its own.

His eyes snapped open a second later, glowing faintly in the dim light, red pupils slitted and sharp. He looked at you without blinking, like he’d known what you were sneaking up on him the entire time.

"And what exactly do you think you're doing?" he murmured, voice husky with sleep and something else—something darker. There was a flicker of amusement there, curling at the corners of his lips, but beneath it was something far more intense. Possessive. Primal. Like he wasn’t just waking up, but awakening to something deeper.

You swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. Your heart thundered against your ribs like it wanted to escape.

You opened your mouth to answer, but the words caught in your throat, stuck somewhere between nervousness, concern and something you couldn’t name.

"I'm helping you, silly. You're sick," you mumble, voice soft but threaded with a note of stubborn concern. Your lips purse, irritation flickering across your features as you glance down at the thick coil of his tail still looped possessively around your wrist. "Now let go of me," you add, trying to sound firm despite the tremor in your voice.

To your surprise, he does. The tension releases almost instantly, the pressure around your wrist vanishing as his tail retreats. You exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, rubbing at your skin where the warmth lingered.

"I am not unwell," he says after a pause, voice rich and steady, threaded with an unmistakable certainty. "Only mortals burn with fever."

You frown, eyebrows drawing together in quiet frustration. "Yeah, but... you've been acting really strange lately," you reply, your voice lowering, touched now with genuine worry. "You’re restless, snappy, and you never eat this much. I just...I want to make sure you’re okay. That you’re not hurting."

The confession slips out before you can think better of it. You stare at him for a moment longer, searching his unreadable expression for some crack, some tell that might confirm or deny what your instincts have been screaming.

And then you move, slow and tentative, inching closer to him as if drawn by an invisible force. When you rest your head lightly against his chest, you feel the heat radiating off him in waves, hotter now than it had been earlier. His body is solid beneath you, unmoving, as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. The sound of his heartbeat thuds against your ear, rapid and deep, like a distant drum.

You think, for a moment, that he might relax.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his entire frame stiffens. There’s a flash of tension through his shoulders, and then his tail moves again—but not with the idle instinct of before. It wraps around your waist in a slow, deliberate spiral, the grip firm but not cruel. He lifts you effortlessly, his strength startling in its subtlety, and then plants you down several feet away from him.

You blink, stunned, arms still half outstretched in the air where you had been.

The new distance between you is not just physical. It feels like a chasm, sudden and inexplicable, heavy with all the things he won’t say. You sit in silence for a heartbeat too long, the echo of his rejection ringing in your chest like a hollow bell.

He avoids your gaze, eyes cast to the fire, jaw clenched tightly.

"Hey! You can't ju—" you begin, voice raised in disbelief, frustration bubbling over—but the look he gives you stops you dead in your tracks. It's not angry or loud, but it carries a quiet authority that slices through the air like a blade. His eyes flash with a warning, cold and unreadable.

"Silence, love. Sleep on the other side of the cave tonight," he says, each word deliberate, clipped. There is no room for negotiation in his tone. It’s final. Commanding. His eyes close again, as if your protest doesn’t deserve his attention. Like the matter is already settled in his mind.

The dismissal stings more than you expect.

It hits like a slap, raw and disorienting. You reel back a step, mouth parting slightly as you try to process the flood of emotion that crashes down on you all at once. Hurt. Confusion. Anger. They churn in your chest, thick and suffocating. What the hell? All you had done was try to help. You had stayed up, watched over him, worried yourself sick, and this was how he repaid you? By pushing you away like a child being told to go to their room?

Ugh. Stubborn. Always so impossibly, frustratingly stubborn.

Your jaw tightens as the ache behind your eyes starts to burn. He didn’t get to do this. Not after everything. If he thought you were just going to walk away, tuck yourself into the far corner of the cave like a scolded pet and let him suffer in silence, he clearly didn’t know you as well as he should.

Because humans don’t give up on the ones they love.

"Sylus!" you bark, louder this time, anger sharpening your voice. You stomp across the stone floor toward him, every step punctuated by the slap of your feet and the pounding of your heart. "You know I’m not doing that! I’m not going to just curl up in the corner like you didn’t just say that to me!"

He says nothing, but you can see his jaw twitch. That slow, deliberate breath leaves his nostrils again—heavy, controlled. Tired. Still, he doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t look at you. It’s like he's deliberately trying to sever whatever invisible thread connects the two of you.

You press your palms into your thighs, trying to ground yourself, fighting the overwhelming desire to scream. "What is wrong with you? Just talk to me! Look at me! Say anything!"

But all you receive is silence. Stubborn, infuriating silence.

Your fists tighten at your sides. The cold cavern air suddenly feels stifling.

Fine. You could be stubborn too.

Without thinking, you finish crossing the cave, heart pounding loud enough to drown out your better judgment. Every step echoes with stubborn purpose as you close the gap he created between you. You don't hesitate. You don’t ask. You simply act—climbing over him, swinging a leg across his large body, and settling yourself squarely atop his waist. The furs beneath you shift and rustle, but he doesn’t stop you. His brow furrows slightly, the only sign he even notices, but otherwise, he remains infuriatingly still.

Still silent. Still distant.

You lean down slowly, hands braced on either side of his torso, and fix your gaze on his face, searching for some flicker of emotion—anything to tell you he’s still there beneath the silence. The heat rolling off of him is overwhelming up close, like standing too near a smoldering hearth. It curls around you, prickling your skin, quickening your breath. The air feels thick, heavy with unspoken things.

"Sylus..." you murmur, your voice low, raw with feeling.

No response.

"Sylus! I know you can hear me!" you bark, sharper now, frustration rising with each second he continues to ignore you. Your heart twists painfully.

Still nothing.

You sigh, the sound long and defeated, your chest aching with the weight of his silence. Carefully, gently, you lower your forehead to his, hoping maybe the closeness will shake something loose. His skin burns beneath yours, unnaturally warm.

"I just want to know what’s wrong with you," you whisper, voice so quiet it nearly disappears in the cavern's stillness. "Guess your species are terrible communicators."

Still, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t open his eyes. But you feel it—something in him coiling tight, like a rope being pulled taut. He may be still, but he’s not unaffected. Something inside him is shifting, stirred by your proximity, your touch.

Acting on instinct and desperation, you close the small distance between your mouths and press a kiss to his lips. It’s meant to be fleeting, a soft reassurance. But it lingers. Longer than it should. Your lips stay, pressed gently to his, drawn in by the heat, the subtle shape of his mouth, the restraint that pulses beneath his immobility. Your eyes slip closed as your hands move—one cupping the side of his jaw, the other resting on his chest, feeling the erratic beat of his heart.

Then you feel it. A breath. Deeper. Shakier. His chest rises and falls faster.

And in a blink, the world flips.

One moment you’re above him, tethered by warmth and hope—the next, you’re on your back, the furs catching your fall as a gasp escapes you. "Ah!" The air leaves your lungs in a rush. Your eyes fly open to find him hovering above you, strong arms braced on either side of your head. His large body cages yours in completely, heat surrounding you like a second skin.

His eyes are open now. And they are glowing.

There is something feral in his expression—not cruel, but ancient and wild and hungry. His gaze drags across your face with a depth that makes your breath hitch. Every inch of him is tense, restrained, as if holding back something that wants very badly to be unleashed.

He still hasn’t spoken.

But he is no longer ignoring you.

"You're making it very difficult to control myself, love," he growls, his voice like gravel softened by heat, thick with restraint and something darker coiled beneath it. The words roll over your skin just moments before his lips do. His breath fans against your neck—a warning, a promise—before he dips his head, and you feel the sharp, precise puncture of his teeth sinking into your skin.

This isn’t a playful nip. This isn’t a teasing show of dominance. His bite breaks the surface, deliberate and deep. You feel the sharp pain bloom instantly, a white-hot flash that steals the breath from your lungs. A gasp escapes you—startled, raw—and your hands fly up to clutch at his shoulders. Your fingers dig into him as your back arches against the sensation. Warm blood trickles down your shoulder, and your skin tingles where it flows.

You weren’t unfamiliar with Sylus's biting. He'd always had a possessive streak that came through when things turned intimate or emotional. But this—this felt different. It felt desperate. Like he was trying to root himself in you. Like something inside him was slipping, and you were the only thing keeping him from losing his grip.

His mouth lingers at your neck, his lips now parted just slightly. You feel the tremor in his breath before his tongue slips out and glides across the bite. Slow. Deliberate. He licks away the blood he’d drawn, and the pain dulls under the hot, wet press of his mouth. In its place comes a deep, spiraling heat that blooms low in your belly, tightening your grip on him.

"S-Sylus..." you breathe, barely able to form the words. Your voice trembles. "If you were just...er, in need—you know I would've helped you ages ago."

Still, he doesn’t answer.

You feel the way his body stiffens slightly against you. His hand slides up along your side, slow and controlled, as though he’s still deciding what to do with the storm inside him. Then, he leans in again and presses his lips gently to your neck, just beside the wound. This time, the touch is less claiming and more conflicted—like he's trying to soothe something in himself rather than stake another claim.

He stays there for a long moment, breathing in the scent of your skin, your blood, your closeness. You feel the tremble in his chest where it presses against yours, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch as though resisting the urge to hold you tighter. The cavern feels impossibly still around you, as if the very walls are holding their breath.

At last, he lifts his head. His eyes meet yours, and for the first time tonight, he looks completely unguarded. They glow faintly, with a trace of something wild, but it’s the emotion in them that catches your breath—raw, aching, afraid.

"It's more than that," he says, his voice rough and frayed at the edges. Not defensive. Not ashamed. Just...honest. Like every word costs him more than he knows how to show.

You stare at him, heart hammering, throat tightening.

Oh no. It's bad news, isn't it?

The thought slams into you with the force of a crashing wave, stealing the air from your lungs. You blink rapidly, trying to keep your vision clear, but the sting in your eyes wins. Tears begin to well, hot and fast, blurring the edges of your world as your chest tightens with dread. Something in his voice, in the way he looked at you—it had to mean something terrible. Something irreversible.

"What is it? Please tell me you're okay!" you blurt out, your voice cracking and shaking as panic rises up your throat. Your hands cling tighter to him, desperate and trembling, fingers curling into the fabric of whatever covers his back. As if somehow, your grip could keep him from slipping away. As if love alone could hold back whatever awful truth he was about to reveal.

Sylus blinks, visibly startled by your sudden burst of emotion. The intensity in your voice clearly catches him off guard. His eyes, once glowing with wild tension, soften slightly. His expression shifts—no longer hard and guarded, but touched with a flicker of something else. Something gentler.

Wordlessly, he draws you closer. His arms wrap around you more securely, with purpose now. Not to restrain, but to reassure. His hands press to your back, his warmth enveloping you like a cocoon. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low and deliberate. A slow drag of velvet.

"No need to fret," he murmurs. "All is well."

You pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes wide, your breath caught halfway in your lungs. Your heart pounds in your ears. There’s a moment of suspended silence where you brace yourself for the real answer.

"It's just mating season."

You freeze. Your body goes still, and your mind... blanks.

Of all the explanations you had been preparing for—a curse, an ancient affliction, some kind of irreversible breakdown of his control—that had not even crossed your mind.

Mating season?

You blink once. Twice. And then the realization crashes over you, dragging with it a rush of relief and a sudden, absurd clarity. The heat, the irritability, the pacing, the biting, the overwhelming hunger—both physical and something deeper. It all made sense now. It fit together like puzzle pieces you hadn’t realized you were holding.

You let out a breathless huff, lips parting as the tension begins to unravel inside you.

And then you laugh.

A full, startled, ridiculous laugh bubbles up from your chest and bursts free before you can stop it. It catches you completely off guard, but you can’t hold it in. The absurdity of it all—the sheer contrast between what you imagined and what it actually was—breaks something loose in you.

You double over slightly, pressing your forehead into his collarbone as your shoulders shake with the sound. It’s laughter born of relief, disbelief, and the strange, heady rush of realizing everything isn’t falling apart.

Sylus stares down at you in silence, his eyes narrowing slightly. Clearly, he doesn’t find your reaction particularly amusing. If anything, his expression deepens into a look of resigned irritation, as if this wasn’t quite the response he expected.

But still, he doesn’t pull away. His arms stay around you, anchoring you to him, the heat of his body steady and real. His tail curls lightly around your leg, a quiet, instinctive motion. Protective. Possessive.

And despite the glare he levels at the top of your head, there’s no real venom behind it. He lets you laugh, lets you melt the fear from your chest with every shaky breath, until your voice begins to soften again.

Eventually, you lift your head, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

"Is something humorous?" he asks, his voice low, edged with a faint note of offense, though there is no true malice behind it. His eyes narrow slightly as they study your face, as though trying to decipher the cause of your sudden laughter. But even in his quiet suspicion, his arms never loosen their hold around you. If anything, he draws you closer.

You shake your head quickly, the laughter dying in your throat as a rush of guilt creeps in. "Honestly, you had me scared" you say, your voice softening, breaking slightly at the end. "I really thought you were going to die on me."

That doesn't seem to ease him. He exhales through his nose in a deep, low grunt—not dismissive, but something closer to acknowledgment. The sound vibrates against your body, a warm, strange comfort. Then, with a fluid, instinctive movement, he adjusts your positions. His strength is effortless as he shifts, guiding you until you're lying beside him on the furs, your body drawn into his larger frame like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

His arm curls around your waist, securing you against his chest. It isn’t just for comfort—there is something possessive in the gesture, protective, as if he’s anchoring you there by will alone. The heat of him envelops you entirely, bleeding into your limbs until the cold stone floor feels like a distant memory.

"Does this mean..." you begin, your voice barely more than a whisper. But the thought drifts before it finishes, scattered like leaves on the wind. You have so many questions tumbling through your mind: What does this mean for him? For you? Is this temporary? Instinct? A sign of something deeper? But they all blur at the edges, softening under the pull of exhaustion.

Your body is finally registering the toll of the night. You had stayed up far too late, keeping vigil while Sylus paced, brooded, fought himself in silence. You hadn't let yourself rest until he did. Now, the weight of sleeplessness pulls at your limbs like gravity, and your eyelids feel impossibly heavy.

Outside, the first blush of morning glows gently. Sunlight begins to pour through the narrow cracks in the rock that serves as the cave’s natural door. The pale beams stretch across the stone floor like golden fingers, warming the air with soft radiance. The quiet sounds of the wilderness beyond stir faintly, muted by distance—birds beginning their morning calls, wind rustling through high branches.

Sylus doesn’t answer your unfinished thought. He merely presses closer, lowering his head to the crook of your neck. His breath fans across your skin in slow, even waves, and the low, rhythmic sound that rumbles from his chest is unmistakable. A purr. Deep and velvety. Content.

The sound settles into your bones, a vibration that eases the tightness from your shoulders and lulls the last frayed edges of fear from your heart. There is something incredibly grounding about it—like being cradled by the earth itself. One of his hands rests on your waist, fingers spread, as if silently promising that you are safe, that he will not let go.

You close your eyes, breathing in the scent of smoke and warmth and him. Despite the adrenaline, despite the questions that remain unanswered, your body begins to let go. Your thoughts drift. His purring fills the quiet like a lullaby spun from heat and breath and unspoken devotion.

Sleep takes you gently.

And you surrender to it, wrapped in Sylus’s arms, as the light of a new day filters through stone and silence alike.

As the days passed, you began to notice other, more subtle changes in Sylus's behavior—the kind of shifts that spoke not just of mood, but of instinct, of ritual. Of purpose.

It started gradually. At first, it was the gifts. Sylus had always brought you little trinkets here and there—a gleaming stone from a riverbed, a silver ring once forgotten in the ruins of some fallen estate, or a flower pressed flat and preserved between scraps of parchment. But now? Now he returned from his ventures with arms full of treasure.

You began to receive things that looked as though they had been pulled from the vaults of kings. Gemstones the size of your knuckles. Necklaces heavy with gold and set with fire-bright opals. Crowns, actual crowns, one with a missing jewel that he promised to "replace shortly." Delicate filigree bracelets and earrings of such craftsmanship that you wondered if they had come from the hands of mortals at all.

You accepted them, of course. How could you not? They dazzled the eye and stirred something deep within your chest—awe, gratitude, wonder. And then there was the way Sylus looked at you when you accepted each piece. The way he watched your reactions with quiet intensity, hunger and satisfaction warring in his gaze as your fingers traced the contours of every offered treasure.

"Is this suitable to your liking, beloved?" he would ask, voice a rich hum in your ear. There was always a thread of tension in his tone, a need that ran deeper than pride.

You’d smile and nod, sometimes laughing softly at the extravagance, sometimes whispering thanks as you leaned into his warmth. That always seemed to satisfy him. His shoulders would relax, his tail would curl in closer around you, and a low purr would rumble from deep in his chest.

And the gifts didn’t stop with jewels and gold.

His hunting habits changed too. Where once he had returned with modest catches—a brace of rabbits, a string of fish, the occasional deer—now he came back with trophies that left you reeling. Massive elk, towering wild boars with tusks the length of your forearm. Game that would feed you both for weeks. And then, one evening, he returned dragging behind him the largest bear you had ever seen.

Its massive body sprawled across the cave entrance like something out of legend. Thick fur matted with snow and blood, claws that could gouge stone. You stood frozen in the firelight, staring at it, unsure whether to marvel or panic.

Sylus merely stood beside it, chin slightly raised, one clawed hand resting on its flank like a proud hunter presenting a trophy.

"For you," he said simply, as if it were nothing.

You had blinked at him, stunned. "Sylus, I...I don’t even know how to cook that."

He grinned, utterly unbothered. "Then I will learn."

The gifts. The feasts. The constant nearness. The careful watching of your every reaction. You had thought it was simply Sylus being more open, more affectionate in the wake of your recent closeness.

You were trying not to overthink it. Truly, you were. Every part of you wanted to believe that all the changes were just instinct, affection taken to a slightly obsessive level. You’d chalked up the treasure hoarding, the feasts, the increased proximity, the way he hovered just a little too closely sometimes—all of it to simple fondness. Maybe even a primal form of love. But nothing could have prepared you for what awaited you after returning from a brisk walk one particularly chilly afternoon.

The moment you stepped through the threshold of the cave, you froze in place, heart lurching with confusion.

Sylus had completely transformed everything.

Gone were the scattered, mismatched piles of pelts, the half-organized piles of gold, the signs of his usual indifference to comfort or aesthetic. In their place was something deliberate. Thoughtful. Nest-like. The entire back of the cave had been cleared and restructured, centered around an enormous bed of furs that had been meticulously arranged. It looked almost ceremonial in its care.

The old sleeping area had been expanded, padded with thick layers of fur and hide—including the bear pelt from the beast he had dragged home days ago. It now lined the center of the nest, skinned, cleaned and softened into a thick, luxurious base. Softer animal hides had been layered on top, and the perimeter was reinforced with woven branches, dried moss, and feathers, creating a barrier of warmth and comfort.

It wasn’t just for practicality. It was beautiful.

There were little details everywhere. Smooth stones from your favorite riverbank placed in a pattern near the fire pit. Bits of dried herbs—the ones you loved for tea or the scent they gave when burned—tucked into the seams of the bedding. A string of beads you thought you’d lost was now nestled between two thick furs, as if it had been intentionally displayed.

You stood there for several seconds, mouth slightly open, completely unprepared.

"Sylus..." you breathed, your voice caught somewhere between awe and bewilderment. "What’s the meaning of all this?"

He looked up at you from where he knelt, smoothing out the bear fur with surprising tenderness. His expression was completely unreadable. Calm. Focused. As if this were the most natural thing in the world. "You were shivering at night," he said simply. "This will keep you warmer."

That might have been enough for anyone else. Practical. Logical. An easy excuse.

But his eyes told a different story.

He watched you too closely. Not just to gauge your reaction—but to savor it. There was something ancient and yearning behind the glow in his eyes, something that vibrated in the silence between his words. He was waiting. Not for your thanks, but for your approval.

Noticing your lack of response, Sylus's expression begins to shift. The warmth in his eyes dims, replaced by something sterner, more guarded. His tail flicks once behind him—a sharp, agitated motion that echoes his growing unease. He straightens his spine, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

"Do you not like it?" he asks, his voice quieter now but unmistakably tense. There’s something beneath his words that makes your chest tighten—disappointment, certainly. But also something rawer. Doubt. Hurt. The faint tremor of vulnerability from someone unaccustomed to feeling exposed.

Your eyes widen, and guilt rises quickly in your throat. You hadn't meant to be silent for so long. You were simply overwhelmed—by the effort, by the meaning behind it all. But now, seeing the shift in his posture, the way his eyes avoid yours, you realize how that silence must have come off.

You quickly close the space between you, reaching out instinctively. Your hands lift to cradle his face, palms warm against his heated skin. You guide his gaze back to you, gently but insistently, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. His eyes flicker up to meet yours, searching your face as though still bracing for rejection.

"No," you say softly, firmly, your voice thick with emotion. "I love it. I really do. It's beautiful. I just...I don’t understand why. You don’t have to do all this. The gifts, the meat, the rearranging—I was already happy. I was perfectly content with how things were before."

Sylus doesn’t recoil. Instead, he leans into your touch just slightly, as though the reassurance eases something deep in his chest. The tightness in his shoulders begins to uncoil, and the tension etched into his brow softens. A quiet exhale escapes him, almost inaudible.

"You laughed," he murmurs after a moment, his voice roughened by something too ancient to be called simple sorrow. "When I spoke of mating season. I assumed then that you deemed me unworthy as a mate—ill-fitted to claim or keep one such as you."

You blink, taken aback. The memory of that moment resurfaces—your burst of laughter, the disbelief, the release of tension you hadn’t realized he was carrying so heavily. It hadn’t been mockery. But now, you see how it must have been received by someone like Sylus—a creature whose understanding of humor, especially human levity in the face of instinct, is limited by centuries of solemn tradition and a worldview where gestures hold more meaning than words.

"So...the jewels? The meat?" you ask gently, your voice cracking slightly as realization begins to sink in.

He lets out a low, almost frustrated huff, glancing to the side. His tail curls around one of your ankles without thought, anchoring you to him in a quiet, possessive motion. "To prove I can provide for you," he says simply. "And for our offspring that I hoped you'd bear."

The words hit you like a wave, your breath catching in your throat. Your heart swells and shatters at once, a knot forming deep in your chest. He really wanted a baby with you? To form new life? With you??

Because that was it, wasn’t it? This powerful, ancient creature—so feared, so composed, so unreadable to others—was doing everything in his power to show you his worth. Not by demanding your affection or asserting his claim, but by showing you how he could build a life around you. Make a place for you. Prepare for a future, one you hadn’t even considered yet.

He had rearranged his entire world to make space for you in it. Courted you to prove himself just as many of his species had done with their mates.

You looked at him now with new eyes, your throat tightening as you caressed the edge of his jaw.

"Sylus...you don’t have to prove anything to me. I never doubted your strength. I never doubted you for a single second. Sometimes humans laugh when we feel relieved. That's all."

You notice that he seemed to perk up ever so slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. His posture straightened by a fraction, the glow in his eyes shifting with something new—not quite relief, but intrigue. A subtle ripple of tension unwound in his shoulders, though he tried to mask it.

"Mortals laugh when they feel better?" he asked, voice low and gravelly, as if the question itself was unfamiliar. There was a curious tilt to his head, the tone almost scholarly—as if he were cataloging your species' behaviors like one would study a rare flame.

You nodded, giving him a gentle smile. "Yes. Laughter is...a release. I wasn’t mocking you, Sylus. I was relieved. It meant you weren’t dying. And...I think you would make a wonderful mate. And father. To our baby."

His grip on you suddenly shifted, tightening with sudden purpose. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that grounded you firmly against him—possessive, almost reverent. His pupils expanded rapidly, red irises eclipsed by black. A primal heat surged behind his gaze, burning steady and intent. You felt the growl in his chest before it even reached his lips, a low, rumbling vibration that poured through your body like a tremor.

"Then...you accept?" he asked slowly, the words thick with restrained emotion. "You will take my seed into you? You would bear my offspring?"

Your heart skipped a beat—no, several. Blood rushed to your cheeks, and you could feel your pulse hammering in your throat. He said it with such conviction, with none of the coy hesitations or evasive phrasing you were used to. Just truth. Raw and full of meaning. The ancient kind of promise that didn’t ask, but waited.

You hesitated, swallowing hard. "I mean...I do have my doubts," you admitted, fingers curling against his chest. Your fingers graze the edge of his scales. Your voice trembled slightly under the weight of his gaze. "I don’t think I’m strong enough to carry children of yours. Dragons are...different. Your children, they’d be massive, wouldn’t they?"

You tried to laugh. It came out tight, nervous. A shaky sound that barely carried.

But Sylus didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. Instead, something deeper flickered behind his eyes—a hunger, yes, but also certainty. Purpose. Legacy.

A low, pleased growl rolled from the depths of his chest, his breath warm against your skin. You gasped as you felt his tail move, the strong, silken muscle winding slowly up your leg. It caressed your skin with practiced control, the movement deliberate. Purposeful. The hem of your dress lifted inch by inch under the teasing weight of his tail.

"Nonsense," he growled, and this time his voice was like smoke and stone. "You are more than capable. I would never choose a mate who was not capable of the task. Your body, your spirit, your frame—they are all sufficient. More than sufficient."

His claws ghosted over your hips, drawing you in closer, like a hunter gathering something sacred. You felt the heat of him, not just his body but his intent, his longing, the centuries of instinct that pulsed just beneath his skin.

"I'm not even sure if it will work..." you murmur, your voice laced with uncertainty. "Humans only ovulate for a short time. If that window's already passed—"

Sylus moves before you can finish. His body leans into yours with quiet purpose, and in an instant, the air shifts between you. His breath ghosts over your neck, warm and steady, and you shiver as his nose traces the delicate line of your throat. The movement is slow, deliberate—not just intimate, but instinctual. He inhales deeply, the sound low and resonant like something ancient stirring in his chest. The rumble that follows isn’t quite a growl, but it thrums through you like thunder beneath the earth.

"You're wrong," he murmurs, voice husky and edged with something raw. "You’re fertile. I can smell it on you."

You freeze.

His lips ghost just beneath your ear as he continues, tone smooth and reverent. "Your scent is different now—sweet, ripe, like fruit at the peak of bloom. The warmth of your skin, the rhythm of your pulse...your body sings to mine in ways you cannot hear. But I do."

His hand tightens at your waist, possessive, anchoring you to him like you might drift away otherwise. The heat in his eyes is no longer just desire—it is intention, it is instinct honed over centuries, it is him answering a call your body didn’t even know it had made.

"You're ready. Now," he growls, the final word laced with a quiet sort of reverence, as if he were speaking a truth ordained by something far older than either of you.

Your breath catches, your face flushing as your heart pounds against your ribs. You can feel the heat rising in you, pooling low, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

You search his face for doubt, but find none. Only certainty.

So, you were ovulating, and he could smell it—and worse, he wasn’t just aroused by it; he was called by it.

You feel your nerves ease, if only a little. Sylus was dependable—fierce, steady, and impossibly sure in the way only something ancient could be. For all his intensity, he had never once let harm come to you, had never faltered in his protection. And now, with the weight of everything shifting between you, that truth brought the smallest measure of calm. If he said he would keep you safe, you believed him. If he said he would protect the life growing between you, you knew it to be a vow etched in something deeper than words.

The idea of having a baby had once seemed distant, more fantasy than reality. Something soft and quiet that belonged to another version of your life, another world entirely. But now? Now it felt inevitable. Natural. Fated. Like every step had led to this moment, and all that was left was to lean into it.

He wanted this with you. You could see it in everything he did: the nesting, the offerings, the way he curled around you at night like a guardian warding off the dark. His every action had been leading here, even if you hadn’t recognized it at the time. And though nerves still fluttered in your chest like a thousand wings, the deeper truth remained. You wanted it too. You weren’t entirely prepared, not yet, but you were ready to say yes.

You looked into his eyes, your heart thundering, and gave a small but certain nod. "Okay. I accept."

Those three words changed everything.

It was as if a switch had been flipped inside him, something primal and powerful released from its cage. You barely had time to react before he swept you off the ground with effortless strength. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he cradled you against his chest, his expression focused, almost reverent. In mere seconds, he had crossed the room and laid you gently down on the massive bed of furs he had so meticulously prepared—his gift to you, his offering.

The nest was impossibly warm, soft and inviting, wrapping around your back and shoulders like it had been waiting for this moment. You could feel the heat of his body above you, the power in his frame held taut just beneath the surface. He hovered for a breath, eyes raking over you, and then his tail moved—snaking up one leg, coiling slowly with deliberate grace.

The fabric of your dress tightened as his tail looped beneath it, and you barely had time to gasp before you heard the slow, purposeful sound of it tearing. With practiced precision, his tail shredded the fabric, peeling it away from your body with a hunger that had been restrained for too long. Each thread undone was like a silent declaration: mine, mine, mine.

You felt a rush of cool air against your skin, and your breasts were exposed to his gaze. You could sense his eyes on you, drinking in the sight of your bare skin and hardened nipples, you felt a shiver run down your spine. Your breasts bounced slightly as you shifted, and you could feel his gaze following the movement, his eyes hungrily taking in every detail.

You instinctively tried to shield yourself, your arms moving to cross your chest, but he was quicker. His tail wrapped around your wrists with gentle but unyielding strength, keeping you exposed beneath him. Vulnerable. Claimed.

He leaned in closer, breath hot against your skin, and you felt it hitch as he studied you like something sacred. There was a deep rumble in his chest, not quite a growl but something more ancient—a sound of possession and awe.

"This will not be gentle," he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel smoothed by fire. "But do not fret. I will take care not to hurt you, beloved."

His words settled over you like a brand, searing into your skin. There was something sacred in them, a promise forged not in softness, but in strength—and devotion.

And the way he said it, with such conviction and tempered need, made your breath stutter and your fear crumble, replaced with something far more powerful:

Desire. Acceptance. Surrender.

His voice was a low rumble, "I want to see you. All of you." His eyes met yours, seeking consent, respectful despite the fierce hunger within. You nodded, your heart still pounding, but the fear was gone, replaced by a strong lust you didn't know you had.

He reached for the remnants of your dress, his touch gentle yet firm as he pushed the rest of the fabric off you. It slipped down your body, leaving you bare except for your undergarments. His breath hitched, his gaze roaming over you, worshipful and hungry.

"You're beautiful" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Like a dream I never dared to have." He leaned down, his lips met yours, a soft, tender kiss that belied the intensity of his gaze. It was a question, a request for permission to explore further. You responded, your body melting into his, your lips parting to deepen the kiss. He tasted of smoke and spice, a heady combination that made your head spin. His claws, those large, warm claws, traced the curve of your neck, your shoulders, your breasts, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

You gasped, breaking the kiss, your body arching into his touch. He smiled, a slow, predatory smile that sent shivers down your spine. "I want to hear you," he whispered, his breath hot on your ear. "I want to hear every sound you make, every gasp, every moan." He captured your mouth again, his tongue delving in, exploring, tasting. His hands continued their journey, tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, the soft flesh of your thighs. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your undergarments, pulling back to look at you.

He slid the underwear down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. You felt a shiver of anticipation and vulnerability, but the heat in his gaze, the raw desire, kept you from feeling exposed again. He stood up, his tail unwrapping from your waist, and you missed the contact instantly. But he was back in a moment, his hands on your knees, gently pushing them apart.

He knelt down, his gaze still locked with yours, and you felt a jolt of surprise and excitement. His rough claws traced up your inner thighs, his touch feather-light, sending shivers through you. You could feel the heat of his breath on you, and you squirmed, your body aching with anticipation. He smiled, a slow, knowing smile, and leaned in.

His long tongue found your aching bud, hot and wet, and you gasped, your body arching off the pile of furs. He made a sound, a low growl of pleasure, and the vibration sent waves of sensation through you. He gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he explored you, his tongue and lips driving you to the edge. You could feel the pressure building, your body coiling tight, and you grasped the furs beneath you, your knuckles turning paler.

"Thank you for agreeing to give me the gift of new life" His gaze held you captive, even as his tongue continued its torturous, delightful dance. You felt a flush spread across your body, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and arousal.

But you didn't look away. You held his gaze, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body writhing with each flick of his tongue. He groaned, the sound vibrating through you, pushing you closer to the edge. You could feel it, the pleasure building, coiling tight like a spring ready to snap. "Sylus," you gasped, his name a plea on your lips.

He growled in response, his fingers digging into your thighs as he redoubled his efforts. The room spun, the golden light blurring around you. Your body tensed, every muscle coiled tight, and then, with a cry, you shattered. Waves of pleasure crashed over you, drowning you in sensation. You felt Sylus's claws on you, steadying you, his tail wrapping around you, holding you close as you rode out the storm. When the world came back into focus, you found yourself cradled in Sylus arms, your body still trembling with aftershocks. He was looking down at you, his eyes soft with concern and something else...a deep, profound satisfaction.

As you finally noticed the absence of his usual belt, your eyes widened in shock. There, at you waist, were not one, but two substantially sized cocks, side by side, both throbbing with desire. You could've sworn he only had one before?? A wave of heat rushed to your face, and you felt a surge of panic. You tried to wriggle free, to create some distance, but Sylus's grip only tightened. He growled, a low, primal sound that sent shivers down your spine, as you managed to shift into a crawling position. But your brief moment of triumph was short-lived.

With a swift move, he grabbed you around the waist, pulling you back towards him. You could feel his hot breath on your neck as he forced you face down onto the soft furs, his body pressing heavily against yours. "You cannot run from this," he rasped, his voice thick with lust and determination. "Be still." The fear that had been lurking within you surged back, filling every fiber of your being. You knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that there would be no escape. Not this time. Not until he had marked you, claimed you, bred you. His need was too great, his desire to leave his seed within you too strong to change your mind now.

As Sylus began to push his first cock into you, you felt a searing pain and a sense of being stretched to the limit. You realized, with a jolt of fear, that he hadn't been lying when he said this wouldn't be gentle. His cock was like a battering ram, forcing its way into your tight pussy with a ferocity that left you breathless. He let out a fierce growl of pleasure, pushing himself as deep as he could possibly go inside your walls.

He pumped feverishly, his hips moving with the strength and power of a beast. You groaned, your voice hoarse and barely audible, as your pussy was forced to take the pounding he was giving you. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure that left you gasping for air and gripping the fur beneath you.

His cock was huge, and it felt like it was tearing you apart, stretching your walls to the limit. You felt like you were being ripped in two, your body struggling to accommodate the size and strength of his thrusts. But Sylus didn't seem to care, his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure as he pounded into you with reckless abandon.

You were at his mercy, unable to escape the torrent of sensations that he was unleashing on your body. Your mind was a jumble of pain and pleasure, your body torn between the pain of his thrusts and the thrill of being taken by a creature so powerful and dominant. You felt his second cock rubbing itself between the rounds of your ass.

As Sylus continued to pump into you, his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure, he leaned in close and whispered in your ear.

"You'll never want for anything, beloved," he growled, voice low and reverent, thick with the weight of promise. It wasn’t just a statement. It was a vow. An oath carved from the bones of instinct, older than memory and heavier than gold. His breath was hot against your neck, his words brushing over your skin like fire.

"Not once," he continued, a possessive rumble threading through each syllable, "not once you're full with my children."

There was no shame in his tone, no hesitation. Just certainty. Purpose. He spoke like a dragon made flesh, a creature built for legacy, for claiming, for protecting what was his with unrelenting devotion. His hand traced your side as he spoke, the motion slow and reverent, as if feeling the space where new life would soon grow.

"Yes...yes give me as many children as you want Sylus, I want them all..." you begged, feeling yourself beginning to drool into the furs.

Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it seemed to have a profound effect on Sylus. His eyes flashed with a fierce light, and his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure.

Without warning, he pulled his cock out of you, the sudden withdrawal leaving you feeling empty and uneasy. But before you could even catch your breath, he flipped you around, his hands grasping your hips and pulling you back onto his cock. You felt him shove his cock balls deep inside you once again, the sudden invasion making you gasp with shock and pleasure.

You were stretched to the limit, your body struggling to accommodate the size and strength of his thrusts. But Sylus didn't seem to care, his face twisted in a mask of pleasure and desire. He pumped into you with a fierce intensity, his hips moving with a rapid, pounding rhythm that left you breathless and gasping. You felt his second cock sliding in harmonious rhythm across your stomach as he continued to pump the other inside you.

Sylus's movements grow frantic, each thrust more desperate than the last. The heat builds between you, an unstoppable force that drives you both to the edge. His breath hitches, and you can feel the tension coiling in his muscles, ready to snap.

With a final, forceful thrust, he slams deep inside you, a low groan ripping from his chest as he cums. The heat floods into you, a searing wave of release that leaves you both gasping. As he rides out the last pulses of his climax, he leans forward, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. The bite is sharp, claiming, sending a shock through your body that mingles with the aftershocks of his release.

You're both slicked in sweat, your chests rising and falling in a staggered rhythm as you cling to each other, trembling and utterly spent. The cave around you is dense with heat and the scent of exertion, the air thick enough to drink. Your skin is flushed, tingling, every nerve alight from the intensity of what has just passed between you. You feel the large amount of cum he shot inside you begin to spill out, making your thighs stick together. It’s hard to tell where your body ends and his begins—his warmth wraps around you like a living cocoon, steady and ever-present.

Every breath you take is his, pulled in from the narrow space between your mouths, and every exhale becomes a shared offering. His body is heavy over yours, enveloping, protective. You’re still reeling, caught somewhere between bliss and disbelief, when Sylus leans down and claims your lips in a kiss—fierce, unrelenting, yet reverent. It isn’t rushed. It’s deep, meaningful, and possessive in a way that leaves your heart pounding anew.

"Can you help me up?" you whisper, voice trembling, your limbs aching with fatigue. You lift a shaky hand, fingers brushing the fresh mark on your shoulder. The skin there is tender and warm, a physical memory of him etched into your flesh.

Sylus pulls back just enough to look at you, a small smile touching his lips. There’s affection in his gaze, but it’s layered with something else—something feral, possessive, unwavering. You blink at him, puzzled by the look he gives you, your breath catching as your body anticipates an answer.

"We aren’t finished, beloved" he murmurs, his voice like a caress wrapped in iron. The timbre of it thrums through your bones. He motions to his other member, still throbbing with need on your stomach. "I still have seed stored. I told you this would not be brief. We won’t be done until I am certain—utterly certain—that my seed has taken root."

The words wash over you like a second wave of heat. You feel it building again—not fear, not even hesitation. Just the slow, inevitable rush of anticipation. Your breath shudders as he presses closer once more, and the look in his eyes makes your heart stutter. He is so sure. So devoted. So...inescapably yours.

This isn’t just instinct anymore. It isn’t mere biology. It’s a vow, an offering, a claiming that comes from something sacred and ancient within him.

And as his lips brush against your throat, his tail curling possessively around your thigh again, you know one thing for certain:

Sylus isn’t finished.

And this becomes abundantly clear as he pushes his second cock inside you.

The next two days blur together in a haze of heat and aching limbs. Sylus is relentless—a creature driven by instinct and obsession, bound not just by desire but by an instinctual need to claim and secure what he now considers his. The cavern is filled with the sounds of breathless gasps, low growls, and the slick sound of bodies tangled in devotion and purpose.

There is barely a moment to rest. He presses into you again and again, each time with a ferocity that leaves you trembling, breathless, dazed. He rarely lets you catch your breath before pulling you close once more, whispering possessive promises into your ear, vowing over and over that he will not stop until he knows that his seed has taken root.

Still, there are brief breaks. Moments when he leaves to hunt, returning with food to replenish your strength. He never brings back just a meal—he returns with offerings: rare fruit, tender meats, things he’s sure will sustain and strengthen you. His eyes scan you for any signs of weakness, worry carved into the lines of his face even through the veil of lust that constantly clouds him.

One such time, you had tried to redress yourself, more out of instinct than shame. But when he returned and found you clothed again, his eyes darkened, the low sound of displeasure vibrating in his chest. He had stalked over to you, roughly tearing the garments off of your body, scattering them on the stone floor in pieces.

"Sylu-"

"No," he murmured, his voice low and rough, "You are to remain bare for me. Ready. Always."

And with those words, he had taken you again roughly, until the floor was soaked in his cum, as if to remind you that your body was his haven now—a vessel for something sacred. And this continued hourly, even when you had just awoken from a nap. He simply would spread your legs and begin pumping himself inside you. You welcomed this of course, figuring he was just following what his instincts were telling him to do.

Eventually, his frenzy began to slow. The fire that had once consumed him now burned low and steady, replaced by a quieter, more reverent form of devotion. Weeks passed in a blur of rest, warmth, and gentle touches, and then came the shift—he began to note that you smelled different. His sharp senses detected it before you felt a thing. He would murmur it against your skin, nose pressed to your neck or your belly, voice thick with wonder.

"You carry new life," he’d whisper.

At first, you rolled your eyes and laughed it off, teasing him for being so certain. You didn't want to get your hopes up. But soon, you began to feel it too—a flutter, faint and flickering like butterfly wings deep within. The first time it happened, you froze, a hand going instinctively to your belly. Sylus noticed immediately, his head snapping up, eyes wide.

"Did you feel it?"

You nodded slowly, hand still pressed to the gentle curve of your stomach. He was elated. Absolutely overcome with joy. He knelt before you and kissed your belly with a soft, contented purr rumbling from deep in his chest, his tail wrapping protectively around your ankles.

True to his word, he kept his promise. You never wanted for anything. He hunted only the best for you, brought the juiciest fruit, the most nourishing roots. He prepared meals with painstaking care, even if he didn’t eat most of it himself. When your back ached or your feet swelled, he massaged you with surprising tenderness, his large hands easing every knot and tension from your tired limbs. At night, he curled around you like a shield, his wings a blanket of protection, whispering soft things in a language you didn’t always understand.

Eventually, your clothes grew too tight to wear. Your belly swelled gloriously with life, and you gave up trying to force yourself into fabric that no longer fit. You wandered the cave freely, naked and glowing, your hands always resting protectively on your rounded stomach. Sylus didn’t mind in the slightest. He thought you looked divine.

Even in the later stages of your pregnancy, when walking made you tired and your body ached from the weight of his child, he still looked at you with hunger in his eyes. He remained ever ready to fuck, though now with more patience, more gentleness to not hurt you or the baby. His touches were slow, reverent, his need no less intense but guided now by something softer—an unshakable adoration.

To him, you were more than his mate.

You were the future of his lineage. A living miracle he worshiped with every breath.

He was awoken one morning by the soft, fragile sound of you whining beside him—a breathy, instinctive noise that sliced through the quiet like a blade, shattering the peace of dawn. Instantly, he was alert, his senses snapping into sharp focus. In one smooth, practiced motion, he propped himself up on one elbow and leaned over you, red eyes scanning your body with fierce, frantic protectiveness. His hands hovered inches from your skin, as though afraid to touch and yet desperate to find the source of your distress.

When he found no visible wounds, he moved lower, his tail curling around your leg and lifting it gently. What he saw next made him still completely—and then smile, slow and reverent. A sheen of clear fluid glistened at your thighs. His chest swelled with emotion, and a warm, knowing glow filled his gaze.

It was time.

His breath caught in his throat, and the world seemed to narrow around this one miraculous truth. He leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours, and gently shook you awake, voice husky with emotion. "Wake, beloved," he murmured. "The hour is upon us."

What followed was the longest, most grueling day and a half of your life. The cave became a sanctuary of primal sound and sacred pain—the sharp edge of your cries echoing off the stone walls, the slow, rhythmic cadence of your breathing, and Sylus’s steady, grounding presence through it all. The space that had once been a den of passion now transformed into a place of birth and bond, of new beginnings.

He had prepared for this, of course. He always did. A nest of soft animal pelts had been lovingly arranged just days prior, thick and warm and perfectly layered to support your aching, straining body. You lay upon them, your skin damp with sweat, hair plastered to your temples, your belly tightening again and again with each new contraction. The pain was searing, unforgiving, your body fighting for every inch of progress.

And Sylus never left your side. Not for a moment.

He positioned himself behind you, his body acting as both cradle and shield. His larger frame curved protectively around yours, arms curled reverently over your middle, claws softened and carefully restrained so they wouldn’t harm you. He rubbed slow, grounding circles into the swell of your belly, the weight of his presence a balm against the storm.

His lips brushed your shoulder often, murmuring affirmations and praise, voice a low, calming purr that vibrated through your bones. His tail coiled gently around your thigh, anchoring you when you trembled. Whenever you cried out or whimpered in agony, he was there—not panicked, not shaken, but steady. Fierce.

"Breathe, my love," he whispered again and again, the words threaded with admiration. "You’re strong. So strong. You were made for this."

There was never a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He watched you with awe, holding space for your pain and your power, never wavering. His devotion took on a quiet intensity, every touch purposeful, every breath synchronized with yours. When you broke down in tears, sobbing through another wave of pain, he kissed your temple, held your hand, and wrapped you tighter in his warmth.

He treated you like something sacred—not just the mother of his child, but the miracle who bore his legacy. There was reverence in the way he touched you, in how he shifted with you through every hour, how his purring grew louder as your contractions deepened. You were his whole world in those moments, and he made sure you felt it.

As the hours stretched into exhaustion and time lost all meaning, he remained your constant.

And when the sharp, piercing cry of a newborn echoed through the cave, Sylus felt the breath leave his lungs entirely. The sound struck him like thunder, powerful and sacred, and his eyes locked on the sight before him: you, cradling the small, wriggling form against your chest. You were slick with sweat, flushed from exertion, but your smile—soft, exhausted, and full of wonder for your new baby—was the most radiant thing he had ever seen.

He moved toward you reverently, as if approaching something divine. But as he leaned in closer, a deep instinct stirred within him, passed down through countless generations. His tongue flicked out ever so slightly, and his body tensed with the urge to clean the newborn himself—the way his kind had always done.

You caught the motion and gave him a knowing look, gently placing a hand on his cheek. "No licking," you whispered with a tired laugh. "That’s not how we do it."

It took some convincing, his instincts hard to quiet, but he eventually yielded, watching with wide-eyed fascination as you showed him the human way. Warm cloths, gentle strokes, soft murmurs of comfort.

He knelt beside you, silent and attentive, absorbing every detail.

And though he did not get to perform the ritual of his bloodline, he found something just as profound in learning yours.

Together, you welcomed new life in a way that blended two worlds into one.

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mavphorias · 8 days ago

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GUYSSS OMFG RAFAYEL IS SO INOVE WITH ME I GOT HIM IN THE FREE 20 PULLS 🥳🥴🥰💋❤️‍🔥🤣😂😭😭😭😭😭😭 HE CANT BE SERIOUS OHHHH MY GOD MY BABY ISTG XAVIER AND CALEB RUINED MY LIFE MADE ME LOSE INTEREST IN THIS GAME BUT RAFAYEL DECIDED TO FIX MY WHOLE LIFE THANK YOU SO MUCH RAFAYEL I WILL NEVER STOP LOVING YOU MY BABY MY ANGEL ahhhhhhhhahahahahhahahahahah

#l&ds sylus #lnd sylus #lads x reader #love and deepspace fanart #li shen #love and deepspace x you #qin che #lads xavier #lads rafayel x reader #lads zayne

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mavphorias · 12 days ago

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His Watchful Eye Pt. 21

Word Count: 23.5k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, manipulation, coercion, tw for rape, ptsd, panic attacks, caleb appears, nicknames like pipsqueak, kitten, sweetie, honey

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh @eliasxchocolate @nozomiaj @yuuchanie @sylus-kitten @its-regretti @starkeysslvt @yarafic @prince-nikko @iluvmewwwww75 @someone-somewheres-stuff @zaynesjasmine1 @honnylemontea @altariasu @sorryimakira @pearlymel @emidpsandia @angel-jupiter @hwangintakswifey @webmvie @housesortinghat @shoruio @gojos1ut @solomonlover @mysssticc @elegantnightblaze @mavphorias @babylavendersblog @burntoutfrogacademic @sinstae @certainduckanchor @ladyackermanisdead @sh4nn @lilyadora @nyumin @kiwookse @anisha24-blog1 @weepingluminarytale @riamir @definitionistato @xxhayashixx @adraxsteia @hargun-s @cayraeley @palomanh @spaceace111 @euridan @malleus-draconias-rose @athoieee @shddyboo @lavcia

AN: Hi guys! I know its been a minute since such a scene has been included so just an extra warning that there is noncon in this chapter! Stay safe pls!! Also some of you had some questions about whether MC will fall for any other love interest that appears, so I just want to say Mc has no romantic or sexual feelings for Caleb, just as she had no romantic feelings for Zayne or Rafayel when they showed up. I just felt it made sense for him to have a significant part in the plot considering they grew up together. Any romantic feelings she has is solely focused on Xavier and Sylus in this story! Just wanted to clear that up in case anyone got confused! Ty :3

“It’s her father, isn’t it?” You said nothing, but your shoulders stiffened, and that was enough. “Screw him,” Caleb continued, his tone sharper now. “Seriously. Whatever happened, he's clearly abandoned you. Left you to figure it out on your own. You don’t have to keep searching or struggling. You both can have a home here.” He leaned forward slightly, sincerity ringing through every word. “With me.” He meant it. You could see it—no bravado, no games. Just the raw earnestness of someone who wanted to do the right thing for someone they still cared about. And maybe that’s what made it worse. Your hands started to sweat, palms clammy as anxiety crept up your spine like a slow, cold hand. You curled your fingers inward, trying not to shake. He didn’t know.

Check my masterlist for the other parts!

You felt like nothing was real.

One moment, you had been on the verge of tears, your voice cracking in the vitals records office beneath the clinical fluorescence of the overhead lights, desperately trying to piece together a life where you and Sylvia could both be free. The clerk had looked at you with sympathy, yes—but it was the kind of sympathy reserved for people drowning in their own chaos. You had no address. No papers. No destination. You had been scrambling just to make it from one hour to the next.

And now?

Now, you were in a car.

A warm car. Heated seats humming softly beneath you. The windows rolled down just enough to let in a gentle breath of winter air. The hum of tires against pavement a strange, calming rhythm under your feet. It smelled faintly of leather, cologne, and something that reminded you of pine. And in the back seat, tucked safely into the car seat, was Sylvia. Her tiny form rose and fell gently with sleep, bundled in the soft blanket.

And at the wheel—

Caleb.

A man who, by every rule of logic, every memory of fire and destruction and goodbye, should not have been breathing.

You couldn’t stop staring at him. Every few seconds your eyes would dart to the rearview mirror, or the curve of his profile as he turned the wheel, or the shape of his hands gripping the leather. You kept waiting for him to disappear, for the car to dissolve into smoke, for the world to tilt and drop you back onto the sidewalk outside the records office, heartbroken and sobbing.

But he didn’t vanish.

He was right there.

"How many times are you gonna pinch yourself?" Caleb laughed, tossing a glance at you in the mirror, his voice light, almost teasing.

You blinked down at your arm, realizing with a start that your fingers were still gripping your sleeve, caught in the act of pinching. You let go like it burned and turned to look out the window instead, cheeks flushed with heat. You hadn’t even realized you were doing it.

It was easier to stay quiet. To lose yourself in the motion of the road, the blur of buildings and trees and traffic signs. To pretend, even just for a second, that the world was okay. That this was normal. That your life hadn’t imploded and left you breathless in its wake. The low hum of the engine soothed something deep inside you. Sylvia’s soft breathing anchored you. But none of it made sense.

“I just…” you murmured, voice raw, catching in your throat. “You’re supposed to be dead. I must be dreaming.”

“You could say I was,” Caleb said, his voice casual, but his eyes flicked toward you with something softer, heavier. “Didn’t take, I guess.”

You shook your head slowly, biting your lip. The joke wasn’t funny. Not to you. Not when you’d spent endless nights grieving him. Not when you’d whispered his name into pillows soaked with tears, praying that he hadn’t suffered. Praying that wherever he was, he wasn’t in pain.

The silence stretched.

You looked back at Sylvia, heart clenching as you watched her squirm lightly in her sleep. Even with Caleb in the front seat and a moment of calm settling around you, the questions clawed their way back into your mind.

How was he alive?

Where had he been?

Why now?

Why did it feel like, even in this surreal moment, everything was about to fall apart again?

Nothing was fine.

But for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, a thin thread of safety wound its way around your ribs. It wasn’t security, not really. But it was something. A promise. A fragile sense that maybe—just maybe—you didn’t have to be alone anymore.

Something almost felt safe.

And that was terrifying in its own right.

You had a million questions crowding your mind, each one elbowing the other for space, but none of them could find their way to your mouth. They piled up like traffic behind your teeth, heavy and stalled by disbelief. So instead, you sat in silence—shell-shocked, emotionally paralyzed, your hands cold in your lap despite the warmth of the car. Your eyes flicked between the dashboard and the man in the driver’s seat, who should have been dust and ash. Your breath felt caught somewhere in your throat, stuck between a scream and a sob.

It wasn’t that you weren’t happy to see him. No, that wasn’t it. Deep down, a part of you ached with relief. The sight of him—the curve of his jaw, the cadence of his laugh, the way his hands still gripped the wheel like he was built for steadiness—it was like coming home. But the rest of you—the louder part—was afraid. Terrified, even. That this was some kind of cruel joke. That maybe you’d finally cracked and this was all in your head. The idea that Caleb was actually here, alive and real, seemed too fragile to hold. Like one wrong word might break the spell and leave you in pieces again.

You were balancing on the edge of hope and horror, and neither felt stable. Better to just go with the flow for now before unraveling any mysteries.

Caleb, ever observant, seemed to pick up on your inner storm. His voice broke through the silence like sunlight through storm clouds. "Did you see that woman’s face when you said `You’re alive?' he laughed, the sound warm and familiar in a way that made your eyes sting.

You looked up at him, the corners of your mouth twitching into a weak, uncertain smile. “Yeah,” you said softly, voice still frayed from earlier. “It was a good thing I came up with that lie about you being in the attack with me…”

He snorted, nodding in approval. “Smooth save. Pretty sure her brain short-circuited.”

You gave a soft huff of air that was almost a laugh, but the tension didn’t lift. Your eyes fell to your hands again. There were so many things you wanted to say. To ask. Where had he been? Why fake his death. What had he gone through? Why hadn’t he found you sooner?

But still none of it came out.

Your throat locked tight, as if the questions themselves were too dangerous. Too sacred. And if you asked them now—if he answered—you weren’t sure your heart could take it.

"Ehh..."

Sylvia’s soft, restless whine from the car seat behind you was the first sound to cut through the haze that had settled in your chest. You turned instinctively, your hand already moving, gently stroking her soft hair to soothe her. She blinked slowly, her tiny lashes fluttering as her eyes opened halfway, still glazed with sleep. Her fussing faded under your touch, and her lips twitched into something almost like contentment. That small reaction—so pure, so undeserved—tugged at something deep and fragile inside you.

Your fingers lingered in her hair a little longer, like you were trying to memorize the feel of her, brand it into your memory before the world shifted again.

You turned back to the front, eyes drifting once more to Caleb. As if your brain had finally caught up to the moment, a fresh rush of disbelief surged through you. Caleb. Alive. Driving. Not a hallucination. And you were here, somehow, in a world that still had him in it.

He hadn't asked any questions yet. But you knew he had them. God, he must’ve had dozens.

After all, you had a baby in tow. You weren’t in Linkon. You weren’t on any assignment. You were living out of a beat-up car, with dark circles under your eyes, trauma stitched into every movement, your clothes wrinkled and worn from weeks of running. You were the definition of a red flag right now.

And still, he hadn’t said anything about it.

It wasn’t like him not to pry. Not to crack a joke or dig with teasing persistence. That silence said more than words ever could—maybe he was giving you space? Letting you collect yourself. Letting you choose when and if you were ready to speak.

The thought made your chest tighten with gratitude.

But still, your gaze flicked to the rearview mirror. You couldn’t help it. The car. The one you’d left behind in that parking lot. Caleb had promised it would be handled, that one of his guys would tow it to a secure location until you were ready to deal with it again.

But the thought nagged at you.

That car had been your shelter. Your shield. Your cocoon when the world outside was too hostile to face. You’d driven it through storms, slept in its back seat when Sylvia wouldn’t stop crying, spilled breastmilk on its floor mats. It smelled like desperation and stale snacks and newborn sweat. It was disgusting and broken and home.

And now it was gone.

Or at least, not with you.

The back of your throat tightened. You told yourself it was stupid to get emotional over a piece of metal and upholstery, but that car had meant survival. And you’d lost so many things already—you couldn’t lose that too.

Your fingers curled slightly in your lap. You didn’t say anything, not yet. You just sat there, letting the weight of everything hover in the stillness between you and Caleb, trying to ground yourself in the fact that—for now—you were safe. Right?

“We’ll have to take my jet the rest of the way. Hope you got over your fear of heights!” Caleb said, casting a glance in your direction with that same crooked smirk he used to wear when you were kids—only now, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You blinked at him, the words barely registering at first. Jet? Your brows lifted before you could catch the reaction, and your head turned slowly, like your brain was trying to catch up with your body. He owned a jet now?

Jet—as in private aircraft? Caleb?

Your Caleb?

The same Caleb who used to beg Grandma to drive you both to school because his bike had a flat tire again, and once duct-taped the soles of his shoes back on because he used his savings from dogwalking to buy you the new pairs of shoes you were wanting. You stared at him, trying to align that boy—the one who used to eat cereal straight from the box on the kitchen floor at 2 a.m.—with the man sitting in front of you now, dressed very nicely, driving like someone who had nothing in the world to run from.

How many versions of Caleb were there now? And how many had you missed?

You didn’t say anything at first. You couldn’t. Your brain was still doing somersaults, flipping back and forth between the past and this unfamiliar present. So you did what you always did when the feelings were too big to name—you rolled your eyes. Not with irritation, but with the kind of self-protective sarcasm that had once made you both laugh under the blankets after Grandma had gone to bed.

“I’m more worried about her,” you muttered, your voice quieter, more grounded as you reached back automatically to check on Sylvia. Your fingers slid beneath the edge of the blanket and gently adjusted it over her chest, tucking her in a little tighter. She didn’t stir, her breaths slow and even, but still your heart twisted. The idea of her ears popping mid-flight, of her tiny face scrunching up in pain with no way to understand what was happening—it gutted you.

“She’s never been on a plane before.”

“Don’t worry, Pipsqueak,” Caleb said, waving one hand like he was swatting away a fly. “The cabin’s pressure-stabilized. She won’t feel a thing, I promise.”

You nodded slowly, but didn’t quite relax. Not because you didn’t want to trust him—but because trust didn’t come easy anymore. Not after everything. Not with Sylvia in the picture. There was too much at stake now. You weren’t just responsible for yourself anymore.

And then the name hit you.

Pipsqueak.

God. That name. It hadn’t been spoken in years.

It rolled off his tongue so casually, like no time had passed. Like he could just reach through the space between now and back then and pluck that version of you back into existence.

But it didn’t feel casual to you. It felt like a gut punch wrapped in nostalgia.

Because Pipsqueak didn’t belong to the person you were now. It belonged to a girl who had climbed trees barefoot, who had raced him down the hallway to call shotgun, who snuck junk food into the house because Grandma said sugar stunted growth. Belonged to the girl who sat beside Caleb on the roof when neither of you could sleep, pointing out constellations with chipped fingernails and whispered dreams. That version of you had been young and fierce and full of fire, long before trauma and survival had hollowed her out and filled her with something colder.

You weren’t her anymore.

You hadn’t been her since the first time you ran. Since you started sleeping in shifts and counting canned food like currency. Since the first time Sylvia screamed and you didn’t have a clue what to do and thought you might throw up from the sheer weight of it all.

But it was clear Caleb wasn't the same little boy either.

You looked over at him, more carefully this time.

Caleb was clean-cut now. Sharp jaw, newer clothes, posture like someone who’d spent a lot of time trying to stand taller than his past. But there were tells—little ones. The faint crease in his brow. The way his fingers tapped anxiously against the steering wheel when he thought you weren’t watching. That edge behind his jokes. The ghosts still lingered.

Neither of you had made it out whole.

You looked away before the memories swallowed you whole, your hand drifting down to Sylvia’s tiny cheek. Her warmth anchored you. Her soft breaths pulled you back into the present.

For now, she was safe. For now, you were in a car with someone who had once been your entire world, who still knew your middle name and your worst habit and probably remembered the way you liked your toast. For now, you could pretend this was normal.

For now, you could pretend this new version of Caleb—with his jet and secrets and unreadable eyes—was still the same boy who used to sneak you extra pancakes and call you Pipsqueak like it meant something sacred.

Neither of you said much else. The silence hung in the space between you like thick fog—unspoken words pressing at your lips, but none of them quite right, none of them quite safe. The weight of everything that hadn't been said settled heavily in the air, dense and unmoving. What was there to say? Too much, and all of it too tangled to unravel right now. Every sentence you might’ve spoken felt too fragile, too prone to crumbling under its own emotional weight. Silence, uncomfortable as it was, felt safer. Cleaner. A truce carved out of restraint.

In a strange way, you were grateful for the jet. Not for the speed or the luxury of it, but for the sheer, unapologetic distance it offered from Sylus. Even if it was temporary, even if he’d still live in your head rent-free for a while longer, there was something deeply comforting about physically putting space between yourself and everything you couldn’t yet face. A few hours of altitude between you and the weight of everything that had happened. You didn’t have to look back. Not yet. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A buffer. A breath.

The drone of the engine had settled into a low, steady rhythm—soothing in its own way. You watched clouds slide past the window for a while, your thoughts drifting in and out of coherence, like pieces of a dream you couldn’t quite hold onto. Eventually, without meaning to, you slipped beneath the surface of sleep. Your head tilted, your eyes closed, and the world faded away.

You didn’t even realize you’d dozed off until you felt a light tap on your knee, delicate but insistent enough to pull you out of the haze.

"Hey," Caleb’s voice stirred you gently back to consciousness. It was soft but grounded, laced with that practical warmth he always carried. He was half-turned from the front seat, one hand still out from tapping you, the other braced casually on the seat back. "We're here. Just grab the baby—I’ve got your stuff."

You blinked, bleary-eyed, and sat up straighter, trying to orient yourself. The car had stopped. The window beside you now showed a blur of unfamiliar buildings and muted light filtering through an overcast sky. You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, your muscles still heavy with sleep.

"Oh! Thank you…" you murmured, your voice still touched by that soft post-nap haze. It came out quieter than intended, wrapped in surprise and a thread of embarrassment. You turned your attention to Sylvia, who was still snoozing in her car seat, her tiny hands curled into fists.

You unbuckled her with care, every movement measured and quiet, not wanting to jostle her awake.

Caleb had already moved toward the trunk. True to form. Just like you remembered. There was something reassuring about the way he moved—efficient, no-nonsense, always one step ahead when it came to practical things. He slung the bags over his shoulder like it was nothing, sparing you the trouble without needing to be asked. He hadn’t changed in that way. Still Caleb. Still quietly, stubbornly helpful.

You stood there for a moment, watching him work, Sylvia curled against you, and felt a flicker of something—gratitude, maybe. Or just the strange comfort of familiarity in a world that didn’t feel like yours anymore.

The process of getting on Caleb’s jet was shockingly smooth—almost unreal in how effortless it all felt. Then again, it was his jet. His rules. There was no need to wrestle your way through crowded terminals or suffer the usual travel-day gauntlet of TSA screenings and endless lines. No security conveyor belts demanding you strip down your dignity piece by piece. No plastic trays, no pat-downs. Just a private hangar, a silent set of staff moving like clockwork around you, and the unspoken understanding that everything had already been taken care of. Caleb simply offered a few clipped words to the crew and a nod, like royalty checking into his estate.

You followed him as he led the way down a private runway, the rhythmic crunch of your shoes against the pavement echoing under the vast sky. The heat from the tarmac shimmered in soft waves around your feet, making the air feel thinner, dreamlike. And then, as you rounded a corner and the jet came into full view, you slowed your pace, your breath catching in your throat.

It looked like something out of a high-end magazine spread or an action movie—sleek and purposeful, its metallic silver body gleaming like liquid light under the filtered afternoon sun. A single stripe of midnight-blue curved down its side in a minimalist arc, subtle and elegant. Its windows were tinted so dark they looked like polished onyx, and the stairway was already lowered as if the jet had been expecting you personally.

You couldn’t help but let out a low breath, your eyes wide. "This is yours? Like...actually yours?"

Caleb gave you a side glance, his mouth tugging into a familiar half-smirk. "You sound surprised."

"I am," you said, not taking your eyes off the jet. "The last time I saw you, you were driving that beat-up car that only started if you begged it and hit the dashboard twice."

The last time you saw him was in a burst of flames.

"Hey," he said with mock offense, raising a brow. "That car had character."

"It had a death wish," you shot back, your voice full of disbelief. "Pretty sure it stalled just from looking at a hill."

He chuckled. "Yeah, well. Turns out the car was just shy. Needed a little love."

You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress the laugh bubbling up. "Right. Shy."

"Exactly," Caleb said smoothly, already climbing the stairway like he belonged in that world. He paused a few steps up and looked back down at you, one hand braced on the railing. "You coming, or are you going to stand there and fall in love with the plane?"

You gave the jet one last sweeping glance—the polished curve of its nose, the pristine angles of its wings, the seamless shine that made it look more like art than aircraft. You adjusted Sylvia carefully in your arms; she stirred faintly but didn’t wake.

With a soft exhale, you nodded and followed Caleb up the steps.

The interior met every expectation and then some—cream-colored leather seats, warm wood paneling, soft lighting that made everything glow like golden hour. It smelled faintly of something clean and expensive, like fresh linen and vanilla.

You weren’t sure what was waiting at the other end of this flight—what conversations, what challenges, what healing or hurt—but for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a sliver of relief. Of air. Of something untangled.

The inside of the jet was just as luxurious as the outside—maybe even more so. You stepped into the cabin and immediately felt like you’d crossed an invisible threshold into another world, one far removed from the chaos, noise, and exhaustion you’d been living in lately. It was quiet in the kind of way that made your ears ring a little, like luxury had its own gravity.

The lighting was soft and golden, like perpetual sunset casting a warm glow over everything it touched. Wide cream-colored leather seats were arranged in a staggered formation, each one more like an armchair from a high-end hotel than anything you’d ever seen on a commercial flight. Every seat had its own console and polished wood side table with built-in touchscreen panels, chrome fixtures, and tiny storage drawers.

The carpet underfoot was a plush gray so thick your footsteps made no sound. Subtle overhead lights twinkled like stars, embedded into the cream ceiling panels, while small windows filtered in natural light through polarized glass. Even the air smelled expensive—crisp, with a hint of something floral and fresh, like linen mist. Built-in compartments disappeared seamlessly into the cabin walls, leaving everything tidy and curated to perfection. There wasn’t a single scuff mark or fingerprint in sight.

You paused at the top of the steps and just… stared, wide-eyed. "Wow," you breathed out, barely above a whisper. "This is insane."

Caleb turned around with that familiar crooked smirk of his. "Better than coach, huh?"

You snorted, your lips twitching despite the awe. "You think? This looks like something a billionaire would use to run away from their problems in style."

"What do you think I’m doing?" he teased.

The space was mostly empty apart from the seats, a few sleek tables, and a refreshment bar tucked at the rear, stocked with bottles and glassware that caught the light just right. Everything had that untouched, carefully maintained look—like the jet wasn’t just a mode of transportation, but a symbol.

It had been a long time since you’d flown anywhere. Long enough that your body reacted before your brain could catch up. The buzzing in your limbs wasn’t just nerves—it was the tightball of anticipation, a kind of vulnerability stirred by the idea of flying again. You took a deep breath and looked down at Sylvia, still cradled against you. She was awake now, her big eyes blinking slowly, peacefully.

You followed Caleb down the narrow aisle as he gestured toward one of the larger seats. He placed a hand lightly against the backrest, as if offering it like a proper host.

"Here," he said gently, helping you ease into the plush leather. He didn’t say much else, but he didn’t need to. His presence was steady, calm. He made sure the seat reclined without sticking, adjusted your footrest, and moved Sylvia’s baby bag into an overhead compartment without being asked. Small things, but they steadied you more than you expected.

You sat back and tried to breathe normally. The hum of the engines was so faint you almost forgot they were running. The quiet was comforting at first, but as the minutes stretched, your mind began to wander. You glanced down at Sylvia. She was quiet now but would need to be changed and fed soon. You swallowed hard, the idea of handling that in front of Caleb making you shift uncomfortably in your seat. It wasn’t just the act itself—it was the intimacy of it, the vulnerability, the reminders of how much things had changed.

Just as your thoughts began to spiral, Caleb stood up and made his way to the front of the cabin, past the bulkhead and toward the cockpit.

"Gonna talk to the pilot?" you called after him, blinking as you tried to make sense of what he was doing.

He paused in the doorway, looked over his shoulder with a glint in his eye—and then pulled something out of his jacket.

A pilot’s cap.

He slipped it onto his head with a theatrical little tilt. "I haven’t talked to myself since I was a kid, Pips," he said with a wink. "Don’t be silly."

You just stared. Your mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. "Wait...you’re flying this thing?"

Caleb gave a soft chuckle and disappeared into the cockpit like it was no big deal, like you hadn’t just found out that your ride through the clouds was being personally flown by someone you once saw get stuck trying to parallel park at sixteen.

You sat in stunned silence, clutching Sylvia closer. She looked up at you with that calm, curious expression babies had when they sensed something strange was happening. You weren’t sure whether to be impressed, horrified, or both.

Probably both.

Sylvia began to fuss right before the plane started to move, her soft whines piercing the serene quiet of the cabin. You felt her small body shift against you, tiny fingers clenching and unclenching as her restlessness grew. With a quiet murmur of reassurance, you shifted in your seat, gently picking her up by the armpits and adjusting her in your lap so she was sitting in a new position, facing outward to take in the soft, ambient glow of the jet’s lighting.

Her little legs kicked against your thighs, and you could feel the tension in her body—restless and searching for comfort. You bounced your knees lightly, hoping the motion might soothe her, but her unease lingered.

You glanced around the cabin, your awe at the luxury around you temporarily eclipsed by the more immediate reality of having a fussy infant in your arms. The pristine elegance—the rich leather seats, the gleaming wood accents, the hushed air of wealth—suddenly felt a little less impressive. You dug through the diaper bag for a fresh diaper and a soft blanket, your hands moving quickly but carefully.

Balancing Sylvia in your lap, you began to change her diaper as discreetly as you could. The wide seat helped, its buttery-soft cushions giving you just enough space to manage the awkward angle. It wasn’t the most dignified moment, but you’d gotten used to that by now. Motherhood didn’t wait for convenience. You kept one eye on the cabin door that led to the cockpit and the other on Sylvia’s wriggling feet.

Once she was clean and dry, you gathered her back into your arms, wrapping the blanket loosely around her and beginning to feed her. Her fussing eased into quiet suckling, the tension in her body gradually fading. You rocked her slightly, syncing the motion with the subtle vibrations of the jet’s engine beneath your seat.

Even as your hands stayed busy, your mind wandered—inevitably—to Caleb. You pictured him seated in the cockpit, hands steady on the controls, posture confident, eyes scanning gauges and readouts with the same sharp focus you remembered from years ago. Maybe he was humming softly to himself, something rhythmic, a habit he'd had when he was deep in concentration. You wanted to see it. You wanted to witness him in that moment—so completely in control, so competent—but you told yourself not to interrupt. He was flying a jet, after all. Best not to distract the pilot.

You still couldn't quite believe this all. The cracks were starting to form in your mind. Yeah, it was easy to just go along with this. Pretend you didn't have a million questions but you felt like you were about to sob any second from it all.

The jet began to taxi, the movement smooth and steady, but as it picked up speed for takeoff, a sudden jolt of turbulence bounced through the cabin. You gasped quietly, instinctively wrapping your arms tighter around Sylvia. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t cry—just made a small uncertain noise and tucked her head into your chest. The turbulence only lasted a few moments, the bumpiness quickly smoothing into a steady, level glide as the jet ascended into the sky.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your muscles slowly unclenching.

Sylvia finished the milk with a few soft gulps, her lashes beginning to flutter as sleep started to tug at her once more. You wiped her chin with a small cloth, adjusting the blanket around her once more, tucking her close into the crook of your arm.

"There we go," you whispered, brushing your fingers gently along her forehead. "See? Nothing to be scared of. Just a little rumble. Your first flight. Pretty cool, huh?"

"Ah..."

She blinked slowly, her gaze unfocused, mouth slightly parted. Her hand wiggled near your collarbone, searching for something familiar to hold onto.

"I mean, not that you’ll remember this," you added with a soft laugh. "But still. Big day for you. A jet, even. Not bad for someone who’s barely mastered neck control. You’ve got some high standards to live up to."

She made a soft grunting sound, somewhere between interest and complaint.

"Yeah, I know," you said with a sigh. "You didn’t ask for all this. It’s just happening around you. Same, kid. Same."

Her hand curled lightly against your chest, warm and impossibly small.

"Bet you didn’t know your mom used to be scared of flying," you said, lowering your voice even more. "Still kind of am, to be honest. But I guess that’s what happens when you’ve got someone to protect. You do it anyway. Even when it feels like too much. You just…keep going. I feel like I'm on autopilot. Nothing surprises me anymore. Hell, I still feel uneasy about being your mom. "

Sylvia shifted, her breathing deepening, her body relaxing completely against yours. You leaned back in your seat, the plush cushion cradling your spine, and rested your head against the window.

She wasn’t at the stage yet where she reacted to much. No words, no laughs, no mimicked sounds. It made talking to her feel strange sometimes, like tossing words into a void and hoping they landed somewhere meaningful. You felt the awkwardness creep in occasionally—was this silly? Did it matter?

But you kept talking. Because she was listening, even if she couldn’t show it yet. She could feel your tone, your breath, the warmth in your voice. And maybe, someday, she’d remember it not as words, but as comfort. As presence.

Or maybe you just needed to say the words out loud. Up until this point she had been your only company. And its not like you could suddenly vent all this to Caleb. You had to remind yourself that you were still here, still trying. That the fear didn’t win. That something inside you was still strong enough to carry both of you forward.

So you whispered to her until she slept, your words quiet but steady, carried softly through the cabin like a lullaby meant for both of you.

The rest of the flight went smoothly, the cabin wrapped in a quiet stillness that made it feel like time had slowed down. After Sylvia finally fell asleep, the gentle hum of the engines faded into a soft, constant murmur—almost like a lullaby in the background. You felt yourself melt into the comfort of the wide leather seat, the plush cushions cradling your tired frame. The golden cabin lights had dimmed just enough to cast everything in a warm, dreamy haze, and with Sylvia breathing softly against your chest, it didn’t take long for your own eyelids to grow heavy.

Your fingers idly traced the edge of her baby blanket as you reclined the seat a little farther, nestling into it as far as you could without disturbing her. It was the first moment in days—maybe weeks—where you felt remotely at peace. Somewhere between consciousness and sleep, you drifted, your mind floating untethered. Thoughts of the past, of Sylus, of Caleb at the controls drifted in and out like soft ripples.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. But exhaustion won.

The jolt that woke you was sudden, sharp—a thump and a rumble beneath your feet as the jet's wheels kissed the tarmac. Your body reacted instantly. You lurched forward, nearly smacking your forehead against the cold window beside you. Heart racing, you blinked rapidly, trying to remember where you were.

"Ugh," you groaned under your breath, reaching up to rub your eyes with one hand while steadying Sylvia with the other. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her small fists twitching beneath the blanket. You yawned, jaw cracking with the force of it, and sat back, momentarily dazed.

It hadn’t been a long flight—at least, not in actual time. But in your body, it felt like you’d slept through a pocket of stillness carved out just for you. You still felt tired, foggy around the edges, like you’d only just dipped beneath the surface of real rest and been yanked back too soon.

You stared ahead, letting your senses catch up. The soft overhead lighting, the elegant silence of the cabin, the gentle rocking motion as the plane slowed—everything felt strangely familiar now. Like this place, this jet, had become its own little cocoon. You weren’t sure what to do next. There was no flight attendant giving instructions, no passengers rustling around you, no urgency.

So you just pressed the button on your seat, listening to the quiet mechanical hum as it slowly unreclined to its upright position. You adjusted Sylvia gently, making sure she was still snug and warm, her little head nestled just beneath your chin.

And then, you waited.

It didn’t take long. Footsteps padded softly over the carpeted aisle, and soon Caleb appeared from the cockpit, still wearing that damn pilot’s cap. He looked annoyingly well-rested, a slight sheen of effort on his skin, but not a hair out of place. The cap was tilted back in his hand, and his expression had that smug glow that told you he was absolutely waiting for your reaction.

"So," he said with an easy grin, leaning casually against the armrest of the seat in front of you, "how’d I do? Would you say...five stars? Maybe even a glowing review? 'Pilot was easy on the eyes, kept turbulence light, snacks were mid-tier, but landing was theatrical—10/10 would fly again'?"

You snorted, half amused and half groggy, a slow smile tugging at your lips. "I don’t know. I might have to knock off a star for that landing. I nearly got catapulted into the overhead bin."

Caleb let out a laugh, pretending to clutch his heart. "Harsh. That was a textbook landing. You just sleep like a corpse."

"You say that like it’s a bad thing," you muttered, shifting in your seat and stretching your back. You felt the familiar pinch of stiffness from sleeping in a less-than-ideal position, but compared to what it could’ve been, it wasn’t bad.

He stepped closer, peeking down at Sylvia with a softened gaze. "She sleep the whole time?"

"Eventually," you said. "She wasn’t thrilled at first. Had to do the whole routine—changing, feeding, coaxing. But she passed out somewhere over the clouds."

He nodded, then smiled. "Classic baby stuff. She’ll be a pro in no time."

"I’ll be lucky if I survive her becoming a pro."

Caleb chuckled and straightened up, then extended a hand to you, the same hand that had flown you across the sky just moments ago. "Come on, co-pilot. Let’s get you two off this bird before you give me a one-star review."

You took his hand, rising slowly from the seat with Sylvia still tucked securely in your arms. Her head lolled against your shoulder, warm and drowsy. You glanced once more around the cabin—this strange little haven in the sky—and felt something catch in your throat.

You didn’t know what came next. The world outside was waiting, probably still complicated and messy and too big. But for now, you’d landed.

You and Caleb exchanged casual conversation as he led you away from the sleek, humming jet. The tarmac stretched wide under a cloudless sky, and just ahead, a striking structure captured your attention—a gleaming building of sharp angles and flawless design. Its mirrored glass façade caught the sun like a blade, sending dazzling flares across the pavement, forcing you to shield your eyes as you approached. The air was crisp with altitude, clean and cool, wrapping around you like a fresh breath after confinement. A breeze tugged gently at your clothes and hair, as if the city itself was reaching out to greet you.

Caleb moved with an easy confidence, his posture relaxed but purposeful. You noticed the way others looked at him—not just with familiarity, but respect. Deference. One of his men, dressed in understated tactical black, stood beside a vehicle so polished it looked poured from obsidian. The car was sleek and understatedly powerful, exuding a quiet luxury that didn’t beg for attention—it commanded it. In the backseat, Sylvia’s car seat had already been installed, precisely and securely, its presence an unspoken reassurance that Caleb had thought ahead. You hadn’t even needed to ask.

You eased Sylvia into place, adjusting her carefully before sliding into the seat beside her. The soft click of your buckle was oddly grounding. Caleb glanced at you through the rearview mirror, offering a quick but sincere smile. “Your things will be delivered shortly,” he said. “They’re being handled.” His voice was calm, confident, and somehow grounding amidst the surreal shift in scenery.

He started the engine with a quiet purr, and the vehicle glided forward with barely a whisper of resistance. The road climbed steadily, winding upward into the heart of the city.

Your heart thudded with nervous anticipation, each breath tight with emotion. It wasn’t fear—at least not exactly—but the overwhelming sense that your world was about to change, and drastically. Caleb began pointing out familiar features of the landscape: landmarks, districts, old stories you faintly remembered from conversations long ago. You listened, nodding, but your attention was drawn outward—your eyes devouring the city with silent awe.

Skyhaven was a marvel of impossible engineering and artistic grace. The entire city floated, cradled high above the world, perched like a crown among the clouds. Towering structures spiraled upward with organic elegance, crafted from strange, shimmering alloys and ultra-clear glass. The sunlight painted everything in surreal gradients—blush pink, molten gold, soft lavender—while the skyline shifted with every curve in the road.

The architecture wasn’t just advanced. It was alive with intention. Roads weren’t merely functional—they danced in graceful curves, linking neighborhoods like silver threads through a tapestry. Suspended bridges arced through open air, connecting terraces filled with life: vines spilling over stone, flowers blooming in impossible colors, trees with leaves that shimmered faintly with bioluminescence.

People moved with purpose but no urgency. On translucent skywalks and in open plazas, they sipped from ceramic cups, browsed open-air markets, laughed beneath the gentle spray of fountains that spilled like liquid crystal. Hovercrafts glided soundlessly between levels, their soft lights blinking in harmony, maintaining rhythm in the city’s slow, serene pulse.

It was beautiful in a way that unsettled you—too perfect, too distant from the world you knew. Skyhaven felt like a dream captured in glass and gold, like a city lifted from the pages of a story and somehow made real. And now, it was yours to enter.

A city above the world. Alive, luminous, and waiting.

Caleb gestured casually out the window as the sleek vehicle moved smoothly along the suspended roads of Skyhaven. His voice was easy, relaxed even, as if nothing unusual had happened earlier.

“Over there’s the Grand Spire,” Caleb pointed, nodding at a towering structure with spiraling glass panels glinting softly in the afternoon sun. “They’ve got the best view of the whole city from that observation deck. Maybe we’ll go sometime?”

“Maybe,” you said softly, barely registering what he was actually pointing out. Your thoughts were elsewhere entirely, spinning in tight, anxious circles. The image of Caleb standing at the vital records office wouldn’t leave your mind. What had he really been doing there? He was that voice you had heard right? Had he truly stumbled upon you by pure coincidence—or had he been deliberately watching you? Could he be trusted?

“And down there,” he continued with enthusiasm, seemingly oblivious to your distant responses, “is Skyhaven’s central plaza. Great place for concerts and festivals. Pretty sure you'd like the food stalls—they have amazing pastries.”

You forced yourself to nod, but your throat felt tight, the words sticking painfully as you murmured another half-hearted reply, “Yeah, sounds nice.”

Every innocent glance, every friendly gesture he made suddenly felt suspicious. Your heart raced with unease, your pulse hammering in your ears. Was your anxiety purely trauma-driven paranoia? Were you being irrational, or were your instincts finally alerting you to something real—something dangerous?

“Ah, over there is the Archive,” Caleb said, his tone slightly softer, almost reverent as he gestured toward an imposing building with tall, arched windows. “You can find practically anything there—records, old manuscripts. Vital documents,” he added, his voice briefly catching your attention.

Your gaze shot sharply to him at the mention of records, breath hitching painfully in your chest. Was that deliberate? Was he testing your reaction?

You quickly dropped your eyes, fingers tightening around the edge of your seat, forcing a neutral voice. “Interesting,” you muttered flatly.

Caleb gave you a brief sideways glance, brows knitted faintly in confusion, but he let it pass without comment, turning his focus back to driving as you struggled internally. The paranoia, the unanswered questions—they gnawed at your mind relentlessly, turning every small kindness he showed you into another reason to doubt his true intentions.

“We'll be at the house shortly,” Caleb finally said, his voice slicing gently through the thick fog of silence that had settled uncomfortably between you. He tried to smile, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards softly, but it never quite reached his eyes. Instead, his gaze remained troubled, distant, as though he were carefully treading the line between reassurance and apology. He felt the tension just as acutely as you did—how could he not? The space between you both was filled with a storm of unspoken words, confusion, mistrust, and unanswered questions, all ready to burst at the slightest provocation.

You gave him a weak nod, eyes briefly meeting his before swiftly turning away, afraid your swirling suspicion and anxiety might spill over, betraying how utterly confused and terrified you felt inside. Your hands gripped the edge of your seat, knuckles pale from the pressure, as you forced your attention to Sylvia, who was thankfully still blissfully unaware, sleeping soundly as if nothing had happened.

When Caleb had first appeared at the vital records office, swooping in at the exact moment you'd desperately needed someone—anyone—to help you, he'd felt like a miracle. At that moment, you’d clung to him without hesitation, driven by the urgent need to escape immediate danger. Caleb, the boy who’d shielded you countless times, who’d once sworn he would always protect you. His familiar presence had been the lifeline you'd instinctively grabbed onto.

But now, after hours spent sitting beside him, listening to his easy yet careful conversation, your mind had begun to unravel, spinning with nagging doubts and relentless paranoia. Had you been too desperate, too reckless? Had you blindly placed your trust in someone who'd been a stranger for years now, just because he'd once been apart of your childhood?

Your stomach churned painfully at the possibility that you'd made a mistake, that you'd been careless in trusting so easily again. But it didn’t make sense—this was Caleb, the very same Caleb you'd grown up alongside, the one who'd protected you from bullies, who'd walked you home when the nights got too dark. The Caleb you’d known had always been safe.

Yet that only complicated things further.

If Caleb was truly safe, then why had he disappeared? Why had he faked his death, vanishing completely from your life, leaving behind nothing but grief and unanswered questions? What had he been doing at the vital records office, at precisely the moment you'd found yourself there? Could it really have been mere chance, a cosmic twist of fate, or had he been deliberately watching, waiting for the perfect moment to approach you?

Your thoughts circled chaotically, a vicious, exhausting loop. Your fingers trembled slightly as you stared at the city passing outside, the gleaming structures and lush terraces of Skyhaven suddenly blurring into meaningless smears of color. Each heartbeat grew more rapid, each breath more labored, as anxiety twisted sharply in your chest.

Why hadn’t he sought you out sooner? If Caleb had truly cared, if he truly was safe, then why had he let you struggle alone for so long, enduring pain and isolation without a single word or sign that he was alive and well? It didn't make sense.

You stole another careful glance at him, studying the relaxed yet cautious way he navigated the hovering vehicle. Caleb seemed calm, unaffected even, while you sat beside him in quiet turmoil, battling questions that felt impossible to ask aloud. Your confusion was tinged with guilt—how dare you doubt him?—but the fear felt justified, too deeply rooted to ignore.

As the vehicle wound along the graceful, elevated roads, drifting gently toward Caleb’s home, your thoughts twisted further inward, forming knots too tight to unravel alone. Trusting him had felt easy at first, natural even. Now it felt dangerous, like blindly stepping toward the edge of a precipice, unsure if the next step would hold firm or crumble beneath your feet.

Your heart sank at the realization that you knew nothing anymore. Caleb might have saved you, but he had also left you drowning in uncertainty. The once comforting silence now felt suffocating, filled to the brim with secrets and unspoken truths.

The remainder of the drive stretched out before you like an endless road, wrapped thickly in an uncomfortable, heavy silence that neither you nor Caleb dared break. Instead, the quiet was only gently interrupted by Sylvia's soft, innocent murmurs and coos from the backseat, filling the oppressive atmosphere with moments of lighthearted innocence.

“Mmnh… gah,” she cooed sleepily, small fingers flexing and unflexing in mild restlessness. She drew in a breath, sighing sweetly as if having a conversation entirely with herself. “Blegh…mmm,” Sylvia continued, her soft, whimsical voice drifting up through the tension in the air like bubbles rising to the surface of still water.

You glanced over your shoulder, offering a tender smile at her small form, relieved by the familiar comfort her presence provided. Sylvia was blissfully unaware of the tension crackling between the two adults in the car, entirely consumed by her innocent musings.

“Ah-gooo…eh…eh,” she chirped, an impatience beginning to edge into her tiny voice as her small hands reached upward, grasping at nothing in particular.

You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips despite the churning anxiety deep in your stomach. You leaned back slightly, gently soothing, “Almost there, sweetheart,” your voice little more than a whisper. You hoped the softness of your words concealed the tremors caused by the uncertainty clenching your throat.

At your quiet reassurance, Caleb briefly turned his head, eyes darting sideways to catch a fleeting glimpse of your face. His gaze lingered only for a second, long enough for you to notice the hesitation etched into his expression, before he returned his attention to the road, jaw tight, eyes fixed firmly ahead. Neither of you ventured a word. Instead, the silence grew again, heavier now, broken only by the hum of tires on smooth pavement and Sylvia’s occasional sighs and murmurs.

Finally, after what felt like hours rather than minutes, Caleb eased the sleek car from the wide main road, guiding it effortlessly onto a private driveway that uncurled gracefully through an impeccably maintained landscape, drawing you closer toward your destination. You straightened slightly in your seat, your heartbeat quickening in anxious anticipation.

As Caleb slowed the vehicle, your breath caught sharply in your throat. Your eyes widened as the impressive mansion emerged fully into view. It loomed majestically ahead, sprawling outward like a fortress born from elegance itself, cloaked in deep, cool shades of grey stone and accentuated subtly by delicate veins of white marble. The sun traced golden paths across the building’s façade, making the polished surfaces gleam softly, shifting fluidly from silver to pearl as the daylight played against it.

The mansion’s tall windows, trimmed neatly with darkened frames, rose grandly upward, glistening and reflecting the drifting clouds overhead, creating a surreal impression that the estate itself hovered effortlessly among the skies. Ornate moldings framed every arch and window, meticulously carved patterns intertwining like the vines that cascaded down from elevated terraces. Each doorway stood imposingly tall and arched, their dark, polished wood surfaces inlaid with intricate brass details, beautiful yet strangely intimidating in their grandeur.

Surrounding the estate were expansive gardens so perfect they seemed more like paintings than living spaces. Symmetrical hedges were impeccably sculpted into precise geometric shapes, lined along polished stone pathways that wove through lush flower beds overflowing with blooms of every color imaginable. The air seemed fragrant with hints of lavender, roses, and something delicate and sweet you couldn’t quite name. At the center of the circular driveway sat a magnificent fountain carved from marble, water sparkling brilliantly as it cascaded gracefully from the outstretched hands of an elegant sculpture, catching the sunlight and scattering tiny rainbows across the manicured grass.

Caleb slowly brought the car to a halt directly before the mansion’s grand entrance. He killed the engine with a swift, practiced motion, plunging you both once more into the silence. This quiet felt different now—charged with a blend of awe, anticipation, and a nagging anxiety you couldn't shake.

You stared at the estate, eyes unblinking, mouth slightly parted in disbelief at the sheer opulence. Caleb’s home was more than just impressive—it was intimidating, beautiful yet distant, seemingly reflective of the man himself. A stranger to you now, in many ways. Even the familiar boy you’d once trusted implicitly seemed impossibly far away, replaced by a man who surrounded himself with wealth, secrecy, and uncertainty.

You gripped the edge of your seat once more, heart pounding unsteadily against your ribs. A thousand questions raced through your mind as you gazed upon the mansion. It was both a sanctuary and a fortress, welcoming but secretive. And for the first time since you'd stepped into Caleb’s world again, you wondered genuinely whether you truly belonged here—or if you'd just stepped into something you weren’t at all prepared for.

"Home sweet home! Come on!" Caleb said, his voice suddenly infused with forced cheerfulness, starkly contrasting the tension that had suffocated the car moments earlier. His attempt at enthusiasm seemed strangely jarring, like sunlight breaking abruptly through storm clouds.

You hesitated for a brief moment before slowly getting out of the car, your legs unsteady beneath you. Carefully, you leaned into the backseat and unbuckled Sylvia from her car seat, gently lifting her against your chest, and reaching in once more for the diaper bag slung haphazardly beside you. The cool evening breeze brushed lightly across your skin, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine as you straightened and took in the sight of the sprawling mansion once more. Such overwhelming luxury—so much excess—made your heart pound with nervousness, unease settling deeply within your bones.

Living with Sylus had left deep scars, a lasting fear of houses overly grand or imposing. The echoes of your past lingered, whispering anxieties that tightened your chest and quickened your breath. You closed your eyes for a moment, willing the fear away, taking several careful, slow breaths to steady yourself.

“Hey, you good?” Caleb asked gently, noticing your hesitation. His voice was softer now, tinged with quiet concern.

“Yeah...yeah, I’m okay,” you lied softly, swallowing down the lump in your throat as you forced a reassuring smile. You shifted Sylvia carefully in your arms, pressing her gently against your shoulder as you approached the elegant porch alongside Caleb, who watched you closely, saying nothing else for now.

He pressed his finger into the biometric lock beside the doors. The heavy doors opened with a hushed, almost reverent sigh, welcoming you into the expansive interior of his home. Immediately, you found yourself surrounded by opulence—marble floors gleamed softly beneath a chandelier dripping with tiny crystal teardrops, walls painted in delicate shades of dove grey, accented tastefully by touches of silver and ebony. Everything looked perfectly placed, yet oddly cold.

"This is nice..." you murmured in awe, stepping slowly across the polished floor. You meant it, yet couldn’t help but feel something unsettling about the stark emptiness. The vast interior was beautiful, undeniably luxurious, but utterly devoid of warmth. A chill hovered over the space, shadows stretching quietly in corners untouched by the pale glow of the lamps.

Caleb flicked on another set of lights, illuminating a wide staircase curving gracefully upward to the second floor. He offered a small, awkward smile, shrugging slightly as if embarrassed by your reaction.

"Thanks, pips," he said gently, rubbing the back of his neck. "Though, honestly, I’m not here a whole lot usually. Guess it does seem kinda…empty.”

You bit your lip, unsure how to respond, and began wandering further inside, your footsteps echoing softly on the marble floor. Caleb followed closely behind, his presence both comforting and strangely unsettling, a shadow you couldn't quite shake. Sylvia stirred gently in your arms, and you adjusted your hold instinctively, kissing the crown of her tiny head.

Caleb cleared his throat awkwardly, breaking the uneasy quiet as you moved toward the main hall.

"There’s six bedrooms upstairs. You’re welcome to choose any of them for you and, er—" Caleb paused abruptly, suddenly realizing he hadn't yet learned your baby’s name. His face flushed slightly with embarrassment, eyes flicking quickly away and then back again, hesitant.

"Oh, her name is Sylvia," you said quietly, your voice warm and affectionate, a soft smile curving your lips as you gazed lovingly down at your daughter. The moment felt oddly grounding in the midst of all the uncertainty, the simple act of naming her filling you with comfort.

"Sylvia," Caleb repeated softly, testing the name thoughtfully, offering a small, genuine smile. "That’s beautiful. It suits her."

For just a fleeting instant, the guarded edge in his eyes softened, revealing a glimpse of warmth that felt painfully familiar—like a ghost of the Caleb you had once known.

Yet even as your heart tugged gently at that familiarity, the questions remained unanswered, the tension still lingering in every careful step, every uncertain glance. The mansion around you seemed to swallow your voices, absorbing the warmth of the moment into its vast, elegant emptiness.

"Caleb…I..." you began softly, your voice cracking painfully as the words died in your throat. The sudden wave of emotion caught you off-guard, a rising tide of grief, anxiety, and overwhelming relief swelling within your chest. You didn’t even realize tears had begun falling until you felt their warmth trickling slowly down your cheek and onto your neck, soaking into the collar of your shirt.

Caleb’s awkward expression quickly melted into genuine concern, his brows knitting tightly as he stepped closer. He reached out instinctively, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, guiding you softly toward the massive couch in the spacious living room. You allowed yourself to be led, clutching Sylvia protectively to your chest as your body shook uncontrollably, each breath growing heavier, more painful.

The moment your knees touched the plush cushions, your strength unraveled entirely. A sob ripped itself free from deep inside you, the sound raw and desperate as you finally let the barriers you'd carefully constructed crumble away. Caleb didn't hesitate—he sat immediately beside you, his arms wrapping gently but firmly around you and Sylvia, pulling you both safely into the shelter of his embrace.

You sobbed openly, unashamedly, into his shoulder, the flood of emotions overwhelming you completely. The relief of finally seeing him again, the unbearable paranoia, the uncertainty—it was all too much, every tangled thread of emotion finally breaking free in a torrent of tears.

Sylvia, thankfully oblivious, nestled quietly against your chest, making tiny comforting noises as if sensing your distress.

"You were dead," you choked out through your tears, your voice muffled against Caleb’s shirt, the fabric becoming damp from your tears. "I saw the smoke and the flames…I can't pretend anymore. I can't—"

Your voice broke again, lost in another harsh sob. The memories were vivid, sharp, and painful, burning images you'd buried deeply, suddenly surging violently to the surface.

Caleb sighed deeply, the heaviness in his chest clear as he held you tightly, gently rubbing your back with one steady hand, murmuring quiet, soothing sounds. His other hand softly cradled your head, his fingertips gently threading through your hair as though desperately trying to ease your pain.

After a long, heavy moment, he gently tilted your face upwards, looking down at you with sorrowful eyes. With the sleeve of his shirt, Caleb carefully wiped away your tears, his thumb grazing your cheek tenderly.

"Look," he whispered, his voice quiet and strained with emotion, "we shouldn't talk about that right now. You're barely holding it together as it is."

Your breath hitched slightly, an edge of frustration flickering sharply in your chest. He had deflected your plea for answers, sidestepping the issue with practiced ease. You wanted to push, to demand clarity and truth, but exhaustion tugged heavily at your limbs, dulling your resolve. The energy to fight had temporarily drained away in the wave of tears.

Caleb gently cupped your cheek, catching your gaze, concern clear in his eyes as he continued quietly, "Your stuff is here. Do you want to unpack? And…well, I ordered more stuff for you and Sylvia, too."

You blinked slowly, still foggy from the emotional upheaval but sharply aware of the careful way he'd shifted the subject. You wanted answers more than anything, but right now, you lacked the strength to press further. The grief, frustration, and vulnerability had drained your fight, leaving you feeling hollow, fragile.

With a soft, resigned sigh, you relented, shoulders slumping slightly in quiet acceptance. "Sure," you whispered hoarsely, nodding tiredly.

Caleb offered a gentle, sympathetic smile, clearly relieved that you'd accepted his temporary peace offering. Slowly, he stood, helping you gently to your feet while you still clutched Sylvia protectively, your heart aching fiercely within your chest.

Yet, even as you moved toward unpacking, doubt lingered stubbornly in the back of your mind. Caleb had rescued you, welcomed you into his home with warmth and care, yet beneath his comforting presence remained a veil of secrecy and unanswered questions—ones you knew would inevitably surface again.

As promised, Caleb let you freely choose the rooms for yourself and Sylvia. The mansion had felt overwhelmingly large at first, the endless hallways and cavernous spaces almost swallowing you whole. But after exploring briefly, you settled on two adjoining bedrooms near the end of a softly lit corridor, each room elegantly decorated yet still warm enough to ease some of your anxieties.

Despite the comfort of having Sylvia close by, the thought of her sleeping alone, even just one wall away, still sent anxious chills down your spine. Your stomach twisted nervously as you gently laid her down in the bed located in the smaller room beside yours. You took a step back, pressing a hand to your chest as if trying to physically steady your fluttering heartbeat. Maybe this separation would actually be good for you—giving you some mental and emotional breathing room after months of constant closeness and vigilant care. Still, it felt terrifyingly new, like taking an uncertain step into dark water without knowing how deep it might go.

You took another calming breath, quietly murmuring reassurance to yourself, What’s the worst that could happen? She's safe. You glanced back at Sylvia, watching her small chest rise and fall rhythmically in peaceful sleep, and slowly your pulse began to calm.

Just as your tension began to ease, Caleb’s voice broke through the quiet from behind you, casual and slightly sheepish, carrying a note of uncertainty you hadn’t heard from him before.

"So…I'll admit," he began, stepping carefully into the room carrying several large cardboard boxes stacked precariously in his arms, obscuring his face. "I don't exactly know a whole lot about babies." He paused awkwardly, setting the boxes down carefully near the doorway and giving you a hesitant, almost apologetic smile. "But while we were on the plane, I went ahead and ordered some things that seemed like they might be useful."

You stared at him for a moment, eyes widening in shock and disbelief—not only at the sheer volume of items now crowding the doorway, but also at the lightning-fast speed with which they'd arrived. The boxes seemed to multiply endlessly as Caleb brought in more from the hallway, stacking them methodically. You tried to mask your surprise, though it must have shown clearly on your face.

Caleb noticed your stunned expression and shrugged, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. "Express shipping," he offered by way of explanation, chuckling softly as if embarrassed by his own extravagance. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. Thought maybe it’d make things a little easier for you."

A quiet warmth bloomed in your chest, gratitude mixing strangely with lingering suspicion and unease. The overwhelming generosity Caleb displayed was unfamiliar territory—so different from the strained conditions you'd grown accustomed to under Sylus's oppressive control. Sylus had generous yes, but only to the extent of what he wanted you to have. Or wear. Or eat.

It had only been when you got pregnant that he had started offering you more choices. Seeing Caleb so freely provide felt almost unreal. It reminded you again how dramatically your circumstances had changed in just a few short hours, and how little you actually knew about Caleb’s new life. Clearly, wealth was not a concern for him, yet it was still startling to witness firsthand.

Stepping forward hesitantly, you reached for one of the boxes, gently running your fingers along its cardboard edge, curiosity briefly overpowering your lingering anxiety.

"Thank you, Caleb," you said softly, your voice sincere but quiet, feeling simultaneously grateful and overwhelmed by his generosity. "You didn’t have to go through all this trouble."

Caleb gave you a careful look, his expression gentle yet thoughtful. "It's no trouble, really," he assured you softly. "If it makes things even a tiny bit easier for you both, then it's worth it."

The kindness behind his words warmed you, despite the lingering uncertainty, and for a brief moment, you allowed yourself to believe things might be okay again—at least for tonight.

You stood quietly by the doorway, holding your breath as Caleb began carefully unpacking the boxes he'd brought in, his movements methodical yet oddly gentle as he worked. His attention settled first on the largest box of the bunch, and he knelt beside it, sliding out the contents carefully. A crib, you realized immediately, feeling a swell of emotion that tightened your throat and quickened your heartbeat. Something about seeing Caleb so earnest and focused on setting up something for Sylvia stirred both gratitude and a touch of sadness deep within your chest. It felt surreal, almost impossible after everything you'd been through, that someone would be this genuinely thoughtful and concerned—especially someone you'd believed lost for so long.

Caleb paused briefly, glancing up at you from his position on the floor, holding up the large flat piece of the crib's base. A flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes as he gestured toward the parts laid neatly beside him. "This crib is okay, right?" he asked softly, his voice carefully gentle, as if worried about upsetting you. "It meets all the safety standards. But if you had something specific in mind for her, it's no problem at all—I can easily get something different."

You swallowed softly, shaking your head slightly and smiling, though you feared the smile might waver under the weight of your complicated feelings. The very thought that someone might question if something was good enough for Sylvia struck you deeply—especially after weeks of paranoia, trying to conserve most of your money for a new future, having to question everything.

"No, Caleb, this is perfect," you said softly, your voice nearly breaking with honesty. You cleared your throat and pushed on, your tone lighter but tinged with lingering sadness. "She's slept in her car seat…on my chest…in cribs far older than this one. I'm sure she'll be fine with just about anything at this point."

You tried your best to smile, to reassure him—and yourself—that things were okay now, or at least they would be. Still, your words hung between you both heavily, a quiet acknowledgment of the difficult road you'd traveled to get here. Caleb seemed to pick up on the depth behind your statement, the small flicker of pain passing briefly through his eyes before he quickly masked it again with an easy grin.

"Great!" he replied, his voice lighter now, attempting to lift the mood gently. He began unpacking screws and tools, spreading them out carefully around him. "I'll get started putting it together right now. It shouldn't take me too long. I promise I'm not as terrible at this kind of stuff as I probably seem."

His playful humility made you smile genuinely this time, a small bubble of warmth rising in your chest. It felt strangely comforting to see Caleb fussing quietly, carefully organizing small wooden panels and hardware with meticulous precision. For a moment, things felt almost normal, almost safe.

You glanced toward Sylvia again, noting how peacefully she lay nestled against the soft blankets you'd tucked her into. Her tiny body had already settled into a deep, undisturbed sleep, her small chest rising and falling in a gentle, rhythmic pattern. Caleb followed your gaze, his own expression softening instantly as he watched her quietly from his place on the floor.

"Looks like she’s already passed out," Caleb whispered gently, a small, tender chuckle escaping his lips. He shook his head slightly, amused yet undeniably touched by the sight of Sylvia's innocent slumber. "Guess all this moving around and new environments wore her out."

You nodded slowly, breathing deeply to steady yourself. Your heart swelled with affection and gratitude—though the lingering shadows of worry and uncertainty remained ever-present, quietly waiting in the background. Still, at this moment, with Sylvia peacefully asleep and Caleb diligently working to create a comfortable space for your daughter, you allowed yourself to lean cautiously into a fragile sense of safety and hope.

Caleb glanced back up, catching your thoughtful gaze, his own expression shifting subtly into something more earnest and serious. He seemed about to speak, perhaps to finally address the many unspoken things lingering between you—but instead, he simply smiled softly again, returning quietly to assembling the crib. It felt intentional, this careful avoidance of deeper truths.

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the bed, quietly watching him work, each soft metallic click and gentle shifting of wood a comforting, grounding rhythm. Caleb seemed determined to help you find stability here, and even though unanswered questions still tugged at the edges of your mind, tonight at least, you felt a fleeting sense of peace.

You gently touched the side of your daughters face. She stirred only slightly, letting out a soft little sigh, her fists curling up beside her face. You lingered for a second, brushing your fingers along her fine hair, then turned your attention to the boxes Caleb had left stacked neatly beside the bed.

One by one, you opened them, and with each ripped seam and folded flap, your astonishment grew. It was more than just thoughtful—it was excessive in a way that almost made your throat tighten.

Baby monitors—two of them, one basic and one smart with a camera feed. Neatly folded bundles of brand-new baby clothes in soft, breathable cottons and gentle pastels. Clothes, soaps and other necessities for you. Diapers in what had to be every available size. Wipes, ointments, thermometers, baby-safe soaps and lotions, a full infant first-aid kit complete with a tiny nasal aspirator. There were multiple packs of onesies, tiny socks still clipped together in matching pairs, and even a baby blanket. He’d thought of everything, even things you wouldn’t have thought to ask for.

You sat on your heels, staring at the small mountain of care items around you, overwhelmed. Gratitude rose up in your chest, tangled with guilt and confusion. Caleb, who hadn't known Sylvia existed until hours ago, had done more in a single day than most people in your life had in months. You hadn't felt this cared for since you let Clara.

And yet…

You glanced over at him as he knelt beside the half-built crib, screwdriver in hand, brows drawn in concentration. Something about his profile in the warm bedroom light made you ache. You swallowed and stood slowly, dusting off your hands.

"Truly," you began quietly, approaching him, "you didn't have to buy all of this, Caleb." You hesitated, voice dipping a little. "I'm only here till I get the documents sorted. I feel like I owe you now."

Your words seemed to freeze the room.

Caleb’s hands stopped mid-motion, the screwdriver hovering just above a screw. It was only for a second—barely even noticeable—but you saw it. Felt it. The hesitation. He didn’t look at you. Didn't say anything at first. You almost opened your mouth to apologize, worried you'd said something wrong, but before you could, he spoke again. His voice was light—too light.

"Don’t be silly,” he said with a small chuckle, resuming work as if nothing had happened. “It’s always better to overprepare than underprepare. Besides…” He glanced at you with a playful smirk, the edge of his mouth tugging up. “If you end up liking it here with me sooo much and decide to stay, I’ve gotta be ready, right?”

His tone was teasing, like he was trying to make it a joke—but the weight behind the words wasn’t lost on you.

Now it was your turn to fall silent.

You looked at him closely, watching the way he focused again on the crib, how he purposefully avoided meeting your gaze. You wanted to smile, to laugh it off with him, to let the moment pass. But you couldn’t. He didn’t get it. How could he? He hadn’t asked. Not once. Not what you’d been through. Not what you were running from. He hadn’t even seemed curious.

“Caleb,” you said, your voice low and steady now. “I really can’t stay here forever.”

The words sat between you like a dropped stone in water, rippling outward.

He didn’t stop working this time, but his movements slowed, and the smile he’d worn just moments before faded completely. You didn’t want to hurt him—but pretending like things could go back to the way they were, like you could just slot yourself into this picture-perfect mansion and start over without reckoning with the weight of what you’d lived through—that wasn’t fair to either of you.

“I’m sorry,” you added quietly, meaning it.

And maybe, for the first time since you arrived, a little bit of truth settled into the room.

He sighed, long and quiet, and placed the screwdriver down with care, the soft clink of metal on wood sounding far louder in the stillness of the room. Then he looked at you—not with his usual guarded calm or teasing grin, but with something raw and open, like he’d finally peeled back a layer of whatever mask he’d been wearing since the moment you reunited.

"Look," he began, his voice low, careful. "I was going to wait to ask until you were settled, but..." He paused, searching your face as though hoping to read your answer before you even gave it. “It’s her father, isn’t it?”

You said nothing, but your shoulders stiffened, and that was enough.

“Screw him,” Caleb continued, his tone sharper now. “Seriously. Whatever happened, he's clearly abandoned you. Left you to figure it out on your own. You don’t have to keep searching or struggling. You both can have a home here.” He leaned forward slightly, sincerity ringing through every word. “With me.”

He meant it. You could see it—no bravado, no games. Just the raw earnestness of someone who wanted to do the right thing for someone they still cared about. And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Your hands started to sweat, palms clammy as anxiety crept up your spine like a slow, cold hand. You curled your fingers inward, trying not to shake.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t understand that you hadn’t been abandoned—you’d escaped. That you hadn’t been left behind—you’d run, because staying would’ve meant losing yourself entirely. And you hadn’t come here hoping to start a new life—you’d come here because there were no options left. You were hiding. From Sylus. From the people he had watching. From the life that had nearly eaten you whole.

You weren’t staying because you didn’t want to get anyone else tangled in that web—not even Caleb. Especially not Caleb.

Your chest tightened painfully. You wanted to tell him the truth. You really did. But how do you explain that kind of fear? That kind of damage? That your every decision these days was shaped by survival, not comfort or hope?

You swallowed hard, your voice shaky as you tried to begin. “Caleb, I…” You hesitated, pressing your lips together. “It’s not that simple.”

He blinked, his brow furrowing slightly, concern bleeding into his expression. You could see the questions rising again behind his eyes, all the things he hadn’t asked yet.

You looked down at Sylvia, still sleeping peacefully on the bed, her tiny body curled like a comma. How could you protect her and still be honest? Could you really have both?

“I’m grateful. Truly. But this—this is just temporary. It has to be.” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “You just need to understand…this isn’t forever.” You paused again, feeling the pressure build in your chest. “I’m afraid I’ll drag you into something you can’t get out of.”

Caleb’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent, listening.

You took a breath and looked at him, eyes stinging. “I wish I could say more. I just can't get anyone else wrapped in my mess."

The room fell silent again, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. Caleb didn’t move right away. But something in his face shifted—his expression no longer just concerned, but as if he was quietly pondering something.

"Alright, alright. You don’t have to tell me," Caleb said, his voice light but laced with something quieter beneath it—something that still lingered in the space between you. He reached over and gave your hair a quick, familiar ruffle, his touch gentle, though you stiffened slightly from the unexpected contact.

He didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t let on.

"I’m almost done with the crib," he continued, shifting back into motion, picking up the screwdriver again. “Why don’t you start putting her clothes in the dresser over there? I’ll throw away the tags. you take off.”

You blinked, almost baffled by how quickly he let the conversation drop. One second you’d been teetering on the edge of something sharp, something fragile—and the next, he’d pivoted so casually it left you blinking in place. The tension hadn’t fully left the room—it hung there, thin and ghostlike—but his sudden shift in tone was, admittedly, a relief.

You nodded quietly and moved toward the dresser, opening its smooth, polished drawers and beginning to place the neatly folded baby clothes inside. The scent of clean fabric and new cotton wafted up, oddly soothing. Caleb gathered up packaging and tags without another word, moving around the room like he was trying to keep the air light.

And then, almost as if to test the waters, he spoke again.

“Remember when gran finally upgraded your bed, but couldn’t put it together? She said her arthritis was too bad and had me do it.”

You glanced over your shoulder, lips tugging upward instinctively. “God, yes.”

“I swear I was on my hands and knees all night trying to figure that mess out,” he said, grinning now as he worked. “You passed out on the couch before I was even halfway done. And you were so damn excited when I woke you up in the morning.”

You laughed softly, the sound genuine despite everything. “Yeah, because I thought I was finally gonna sleep like royalty.”

Caleb smirked. “You did, technically. Even if the headboard was backwards.”

That made you snort. “Yeah, don’t think I forgot about that.”

He chuckled, clearly pleased to have pulled you into the memory, even for a moment. “I was so proud of myself until you pointed that out.”

You shook your head, smiling as you tucked a pair of soft lavender onesies into the drawer. “You were lucky I didn’t tell Grandma. She barely noticed.”

“I should’ve gotten a medal for effort,” he shot back, tossing a wad of packaging into the trash. “Or at least some orange juice.”

The two of you settled into a comfortable rhythm, the conversation meandering through old, safer memories like a trail of breadcrumbs leading you both back to something you used to be. It didn’t erase the tension or the questions still looming in the back of your mind—but for now, it gave you room to breathe.

By the time the two of you finished setting up half the nursery—taking frequent breaks to feed Sylvia, change her, and calm her when she grew fussy—the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the mansion in soft shadows and warm amber light. The sleek overheads in the hallways flickered on automatically as evening fell, illuminating your quiet journey through the house with a gentle, muted glow.

Sylvia had her dinner first, followed by a quick bath in the basin Caleb had set up in your adjoining bathroom. She splashed a little, as she always did, sleepy but content, her soft coos bouncing off the tiled walls. You were especially relieved to finally have new clothes for her—ones that fit. She’d grown faster than you expected, outgrowing onesies before you even realized they were tight. Now, wrapped in a fresh sleeper printed with tiny pink stars, she looked peaceful, clean, and safe.

Getting her to sleep was another matter entirely.

You spent nearly an hour pacing slowly around the nursery, rocking her against your shoulder, her body warm and squirmy as she fought off sleep with the stubborn will of a baby who just didn’t want to miss anything. You whispered lullabies, patted her back gently, made long slow circles by the crib, and shushed her over and over. At long last, her little limbs relaxed, her head slumped against you, and her breathing evened out. You eased her into the crib like she was made of glass, holding your breath the whole time, then carefully adjusted the baby monitor beside her and turned on the white noise machine with a low, oceanic whoosh.

“Finally…” you whispered, tiptoeing out of the room like a thief, cringing at every floorboard creak until the nursery door clicked quietly shut behind you.

Your body ached with exhaustion. You hadn't even gotten the chance to change out of your day clothes, much less take a shower or rest. Still, your stomach growled in protest, and the overwhelming scent of something savory hit you like a wave as you padded barefoot down the stairs.

“Caleb,” you called out, your voice low but hopeful. “I wanted to ask if there was anything to ea—oh!”

You froze in place as you rounded the corner into the kitchen.

The kitchen itself was a masterpiece—gleaming marble counters, glass-fronted cabinets lit from within, and a double oven you were fairly certain could roast a whole deer. But that wasn’t what stopped you. It was the spread on the island counter.

A full meal had been laid out, warm and waiting like something from a dream. A perfectly roasted herb-crusted chicken sat in the center, skin crisp and golden, steaming gently in the soft kitchen light. Surrounding it were elegant side dishes in gleaming ceramic bowls: creamy garlic mashed potatoes swirled with butter and chives; roasted carrots and parsnips glazed with honey and a hint of thyme; a vibrant salad made with mixed greens, pomegranate seeds, candied walnuts, and crumbles of goat cheese; a cast-iron skillet filled with buttery cornbread; and a pot on the stove simmering with what smelled like a rich, savory gravy.

You stared at it, slack-jawed, completely thrown off by the sheer care and coordination that had gone into making it. Your body, starved and tired, nearly buckled at the thought of eating something warm, fresh, and lovingly prepared.

Caleb turned from the sink, drying his hands with a dish towel, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “I wasn’t sure what you were in the mood for,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t just cooked a small feast. “So I went with a bit of everything.”

You blinked at him, still trying to find words. “Did you…make all of this?”

He shrugged, looking far too casual. “Of course. Do you doubt my skills?”

You shook your head slowly, your voice soft with disbelief. “Caleb… this is…”

He gave you a tired but proud smile. “You’ve got to keep your milk supply up right? Least I could do was make sure you didn’t go to bed hungry.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosened, if only a little.

You smiled reflexively, grateful beyond words for the food—but just as you reached for a plate, Caleb stepped in, his fingers curling gently around your wrist.

“Let me do it,” he said warmly. “Just tell me what you want, pips.”

There was that nickname again. His voice was soft, familiar. His eyes full of fondness. Anyone would have found it sweet. Caring, even.

You mirrored his smile, polite and composed, but deep inside something cold began to ripple beneath your skin. You didn’t pull away immediately.

“Caleb, it’s fine,” you said, keeping your voice light as you gently tried to free your hand. “I can get my own plate. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

You shook him off with a small flick of your wrist, subtle but clear. He let go without resistance, still smiling like he hadn’t felt the shift in your tone, or worse—like he had, and was ignoring it.

You reached again, your hand brushing the edge of the porcelain plate—only to find that it wouldn’t move. It stuck to the counter, as if bolted in place.

Your brow furrowed. “What the…”

Then you saw them—faint, silvery arcs in the air, like rippling strands of light bending in patterns only you and a few others in the world would recognize. The gravity pull streaks, barely visible, humming quietly around the plate’s edges.

Of course.

You turned your head slowly to look at him. And there he was, leaning casually against the counter, a knowing grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Ha ha, Caleb,” you said flatly. “Very funny. But I am really hungry.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Then just let me do it, silly” he replied, still smiling like this was nothing, like it was a sweet callback and not something vaguely suffocating. “I always made your plate when we were kids, remember?”

You inhaled slowly. Sharp. Controlled. But your chest tightened anyway.

There it was.

The tilt. The subtle shift in the room. That invisible thread pulling tighter around your ribs. You knew this feeling. You knew it too well. The warm voice. The gentle insistence. The way someone could steal pieces of your autonomy while smiling the whole time.

It wasn’t fair—Caleb wasn’t Sylus. You were sure his intentions weren't cruel, but they were familiar. And right now, that was enough to send you spiraling,

You saw Sylus’s face flash in your mind—eyes full of patience, arms always a little too helpful, hands always exactly where you didn’t want them.

You clenched your fist under the counter. Your nails dug into your palm. It was just a plate. It wasn’t about the plate. You reminded yourself of that.

“Now,” Caleb said brightly, picking up a serving fork, oblivious—or pretending to be—to the quiet storm flickering across your face. “What do you want first?”

You smiled. Or at least, you pulled your lips into something that looked like one. A practiced mask.

“Potatoes,” you said, voice breezy, almost chipper. “Please.”

He beamed. You watched him turn back to the food, humming softly as he scooped generous portions onto the plate, the streaks of gravity dissipating as he lifted it.

And all the while, you stood there, smiling through the tightness in your chest, wondering how long it would take before the quiet, polite mask you were wearing began to crack.

Caleb plated the food exactly the way you’d asked—carefully, almost dutifully—passing it to you with brisk precision. The dish was still steaming, buttery potatoes curling around the edges of the roast chicken, the aroma rich and savory. To anyone else, it would’ve been a small, comforting gesture. Maybe even sweet.

You forced a smile, grateful but reeling, your fingers tightening around the plate as if it might anchor you. The panic hadn't crested completely yet, but it was rising steadily beneath your skin. Your chest was too tight. Your thoughts too loud. Each breath felt like you were dragging air through a narrow straw.

You kept your face neutral. Calm. Just tired, you told yourself. Just overwhelmed from the day.

You hoped he didn’t notice.

“Hey, so,” Caleb began, drying his hands with a towel, his voice light, hopeful, trying to bridge the distance between you. “I was wondering if you wanted to play a game, maybe watch something while we eat, or—”

“Actually,” you cut in, softer than you meant to, trying not to sound as sharp as you felt. “I’d like to eat in my room.”

He paused. His face changed—his smile faltered for a second, not quite falling away, just…hesitating.

“I still have a lot to unpack,” you continued quickly, eyes dropping to the food in your hands so you didn’t have to look at him. “And I…I need time to decompress from today. A lot happened.”

You sucked in a slow breath through your nose and held it, trying to steady your pulse, trying to ignore the shaking in your chest. It wasn’t the food. It wasn’t Caleb. Not really. It was the moment. The forceful kindness. The gravity trick. The easy way he had kept control of the plate—like it was a harmless gesture, a callback to your childhood, and not a tiny theft of choice. You knew he probably didn’t mean it that way, but that didn’t matter to your body. Your body didn’t care what he meant.

What your body remembered was Sylus. The way he’d do everything for you, smiling the whole time. The way he’d keep you from lifting a finger, unable to do much without his permission or watchful eyes.

You couldn't live like that again.

And now—here, with Caleb—your brain knew this wasn’t the same. Caleb wasn’t Sylus. Caleb didn’t tower over you. Caleb was just trying to be nice. But the feeling was the same. The dissonance made it worse.

Still, you couldn’t tell him that. You couldn’t find the words. The thought of trying to explain that such a small thing—a plate—had triggered a trauma response made your stomach twist with shame. You didn’t want to see confusion on his face. Or pity. Or worse: defensiveness.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him. He’d done all of this—fed you, welcomed you, bought things for you and Sylvia—not because he wanted to harm you, but because he cared. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. That it didn’t unravel something inside you.

“I just need a little time,” you added quietly, as if that might soften the sudden distance.

Caleb took a half step toward you, concern flickering in his eyes. “Are you sure? I mean, I can—”

You lifted your hand automatically, not sharply, but with finality. A gentle wall.

“It’s fine,” you said again, a little firmer now. “I’m just tired.”

He stopped. You saw the way his shoulders deflated just slightly, how his mouth pressed into a flat line. It wasn’t anger—just disappointment. Not at you, maybe, but at the invisible wall you’d just built between you.

There was a beat of silence, and then you offered a quick, practiced smile.

“Thank you for dinner,” you said, already turning away. “Goodnight.”

Your feet moved quickly, almost too quickly. Not quite running, but more than walking. You clutched the plate to your chest, fingers curling into its edges so tightly it hurt. Each step felt like your body was trying to outrun your own spiraling thoughts. You just needed to be away from him. From the kitchen. From the memory that had pressed itself into your ribs like a bruise.

As you reached the stairs, just before the sound of your footsteps overtook everything else, you heard his voice behind you—quiet, unsure.

“…Goodnight then.”

You didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. You didn’t trust yourself to.

You made it to your room, locked the door gently behind you, and leaned against it, finally letting your head fall back with a long, trembling breath. The food still steamed in your hands. But now it felt heavier than ever.

You barely made it through the door before the plate in your hands nearly slipped.

The room blurred—walls bending slightly around the corners of your vision, your breath coming in jagged bursts. You set the plate down on the nearest surface with a trembling hand and stumbled toward the bed, your legs no longer sure they could carry you upright. The moment your knees hit the mattress, everything cracked open. You buried your face into the blanket and cried—ugly, gasping sobs that shook your entire body.

You didn’t mean to cry. You didn’t want to. You’d promised yourself you’d hold it together until you were alone. But even alone, you weren’t safe from the memories clawing their way to the surface.

You pressed your fists into your eyes, willing it all to stop, but the tears kept coming. It was like your body had been holding onto them all day, just waiting for a door to close. And now they spilled out in waves. The sheets grew damp beneath your cheek. Your breath came in shuddering hitches.

Eventually—when the sharpest edge of it dulled just enough—you reached for the plate, telling yourself to do something normal. Eat. Focus. Keep moving.

You forced yourself upright, still trembling, and began to eat. Shaky hands, uneven bites. The food was probably delicious—Caleb had gone out of his way to make it, after all—but your taste buds were drowning under salt. Not seasoning. Tears. They fell steadily, silently, splashing onto the mashed potatoes, streaking down your cheeks and over your lips.

You chewed through it like your life depended on it.

It felt grotesque—this mixture of comfort and collapse. But you didn’t stop. Maybe if you kept chewing, kept swallowing, you’d crowd out the voice in your head. The one that was whispering he’s still here. The one that remembered the exact way Sylus used to gently take things from your hands, the way he’d feed you when you were too anxious to eat, saying things like “Let me take care of it, honey. You don’t need to think.”

And it had felt good, hadn’t it? Safe, even.

You hated that part the most. Not the fear. Not the damage. But the fact that some part of you missed it. Missed him. Missed the stability he created by stealing every ounce of control from you. Every time you cracked, every time you stumbled under the weight of your new reality, Sylus had been there to smooth the surface. To hush the panic. To reset you.

It was like being held underwater by someone whispering lullabies into your ear. Who brings you up for air, only to drown you once more. They keep doing it enough that you start to be thankful for the moments that they bring you back up.

And now? Now you were free. He wasn't here to fix it, to soothe the shakes or force calm back into your bloodstream—and your body hated it. Your chest screamed for it. The part of you he rewired to crave his hands.

You hated it. But missed it all at the same time.

Even here, miles away. Even in another man’s house. Even with someone familiar.

Yeah you were beyond fucked up.

You shoveled the last forkful into your mouth like it might hold the unraveling back for one more second, chewed furiously, swallowed hard. It wasn’t enough. It didn’t help. You dropped the plate unceremoniously to the floor and curled in on yourself again, the bed pressing up against your shins as you folded, folded, folded.

You collapsed forward in a pile of gasps and tears, clutching your chest as if that could stop the way it hurt—tight, clenching, seizing. You grabbed the pillow and shoved it over your head to muffle the sound, to make the room feel smaller, darker, safer.

“He’s not here,” you whispered against the fabric, voice breaking. “He can’t come here. He can’t. He won’t.”

But your body didn’t believe you. Your lungs kept misfiring. Your brain kept showing you his face, like a film on repeat. Smiling. Calm. Soft.

“Stop it,” you whispered. “Stop…”

You squeezed your eyes shut, curling tighter under the pillow, your breath coming in desperate little gulps.

You’ll never see him again, you told yourself, over and over. You’ll never see him again.

But a part of you didn’t believe that either.

The tension, the tears, the panic—your system couldn’t hold it anymore. You cried until your whole frame shook, until your limbs felt numb and heavy, until your throat burned and your eyes swelled. It didn’t even feel like crying anymore—it was like bleeding from the inside out.

You barely registered when you lost consciousness. There was no drifting off, no calm descent. One second, you were shivering in a spiral of exhaustion and grief, the next your mind had flickered off like a dying lightbulb.

What followed wasn’t rest. It was murk. A thick, dreamless space you floated through, weightless and untethered. There were impressions—heat on your back, the murmur of distant voices, the phantom pressure of a hand brushing your hair—but none of it made sense. It all bled together into a muddled blur of memory and sensation.

Then your body began to stir.

You woke slowly, groggy and disoriented, your head heavy and your lashes sticky with dried tears. You rubbed at your sore eyes, swallowing against a dry, aching throat. For a moment, your brain struggled to catch up. You weren’t sure where you were—or when. Everything was a soft haze.

Then the confusion cleared just enough to make out the shape of the room.

Your stomach dropped.

The blanket beneath your hand wasn’t the one from Caleb’s mansion. It was smoother. Denser. Familiar in a way that made your skin crawl. You blinked more rapidly, taking in the sharp lines of the furniture, the dark design, the scent of sterilized air laced with a faint trace of cologne you hadn’t smelled in what felt like forever.

No.

The walls were the color of wet stone. The floor was polished to a mirror shine. The fireplace. The tall bed with its sleek black headboard, the high mirror across from it, the sharp gleam of chrome on the drawer handles—it was all exactly as you remembered.

Sylus’s room.

You sat up fast, panic swelling before you could suppress it. Your breath caught painfully in your throat, and your body turned cold despite the warmth of the bedding.

"Please...not again,” you whispered, your voice hoarse, barely audible in the dense quiet.

Your eyes locked on the door across the room—the only exit.

You stared at it, heart hammering.

A shared dream again, maybe? That wasn’t new. You’d experienced it before, been pulled into his space even while asleep. If the emotional bond ran deep enough—if the door was still cracked open—he could reach in. Even from miles away. Even if you were trying not to think about him.

You tried to steady your breathing, tried to tell yourself it wasn’t real.

Then the doorknob shifted.

Your breath hitched hard. You felt the cold stab of adrenaline, not in your chest, but lower—in your gut. That primal sense of run, even though you had nowhere to run to.

The knob turned slowly, deliberately, like whoever was on the other side knew exactly what they were doing. Knew you were watching.

You didn’t think. Your body acted on instinct—an old, well-worn one. You dropped back into the bed, rolled toward the far side, and pulled the blanket up to your shoulders. You shut your eyes tight, forcing your body into stillness. The only thought that came to you was desperate and absurd: Maybe if he thinks I’m asleep, he’ll think this is his dream. Maybe he’ll leave me alone.

It made no logical sense, but it was all you had. Sylus had made it clear he knew when you weren't really sleeping.

Your breaths came slow, shallow, measured. Your heart pounded so loudly it made your ears ring, and you wondered if he could hear it too. You focused on stillness. On silence. You tried to make your body limp, heavy, at ease. You were a girl asleep. That’s all.

You heard the door creak open.

The sound was quiet, but in this silence, it sliced through you.

The footsteps that followed were soft, precise. Barefoot. Unhurried. You could picture them without opening your eyes—those long, calm strides. Always calm. Always in control. That alone terrified you.

He approached the bed. Closer. Closer still.

Then he stopped.

No greeting. No command. No pet name laced with ownership. No cryptic remark or smug sigh. Nothing.

Just silence.

You felt him standing there, his presence thick in the air, oppressive and electric all at once. You wanted to flinch. You wanted to scream. But instead, you stayed still, trying to convince even yourself that you were asleep. That this was all just a dream. That any second now you’d wake up in Caleb’s mansion, and Sylvia would still be safe, and your chest wouldn’t feel like it was being squeezed from the inside out.

But he was there.

Watching.

You tried to keep your breathing steady—slow, even, shallow enough to sell the lie. Every muscle in your body fought against the instinct to bolt, to brace, to scream. You could feel the tension in your limbs, the static buzzing just beneath your skin. You told yourself again and again: Don’t react. Don’t give him anything.

But then you felt it.

A shift in the air. A weight leaning over you. The soft press of fingers against your shoulder, just enough to rock you gently.

“Good morning, kitten,” he murmured, voice low and syrupy smooth. That same damn tone—warmth poured over steel. “You know what time it is.”

You opened one eye slowly, cautiously, as if you were peeling it back into a nightmare. You stared up at him, disoriented at first, the sight of his face so familiar that it made your stomach churn. His expression was calm. Too calm. His eyes held a patient glint, as though you were a child sleeping in too late and not someone who’d fled him like he was a fire.

What the hell did he mean, you know what time it is?

Still half-curled on your side, you slowly rolled onto your back, your spine tense, your hands clutching the blanket without realizing it. The panic you’d kept at bay started to return in sharp waves as you met his gaze—steady, unreadable, unforgivable.

“Don’t fucking touch me, bastard” you hissed, the words slicing out of you before you could think to soften them. You jerked your arm away from where his hand had rested on your shoulder, flinching like he’d burned you.

His smile didn’t falter. Not even a flicker. That same calm, maddening curve of his lips, as if everything you did was expected, forgivable, even charming in its defiance.

That only made your skin crawl more.

He straightened up slightly, clasping his hands together in front of him, the picture of composure. “I know these past few days have been hard,” he said, his voice still maddeningly soft, like this was a conversation you’d had a hundred times before. “But I won’t tolerate any fighting today.”

You blinked, your face twisting in disbelief. You stared at him as if he’d just grown a second head.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you snapped, sitting up now despite the alarm pounding in your chest. "I haven't seen you in forever!"

Your eyes scanned the room again, half-expecting it to morph around you. Your brain raced to make sense of it. Was he trying to gaslight you again? Was this a loop? A game?

He didn’t answer. Not right away. He just stood there, watching you like someone observing a particularly stubborn animal—tenderness in his expression, but with an undercurrent of warning. Of control. That same suffocating sweetness you remembered all too well.

He let out a sigh, then got onto the bed and started unbuckling his belt. Your eyes widened, and your heart raced as you instinctively began to struggle. "No! What the actual hell, Sylus, stop!" you yelled. "Don't use this as an opportunity to rape me again you sick fuck!!"

Your resistance halted when he quickly seized both of your wrists and leaned in closer. You were frozen with fear. "I'm trying to be gentle today, so please stop," he said, sounding more exasperated than angry.

Gentle today? What? Did that mean...your mouth opens in realization. This isn't a shared dream. It was a memory. In your early days of captivity with Sylus. When he was very insistent on "breeding" you daily, several times a day. He often used force, but this particular morning he had been very gentle.

This was your own mind. A memory you had tried so desperately to rid yourself of, had come crawling to the forefront. You begin to sob. You were having a nightmare. Relieving one of your worst moments.

Which meant there was no escaping. This would play out as it always had. Sylus seemed satisfied with your sudden lapse in movement, as he began to pepper small kisses across your neck.

"Sweetie, don't cry. It won't hurt as bad this time I promise" Sylus coos gently, before slipping a finger into the hem of your underwear. You were frozen as he pulled them past your butt, and eventually discarded them on the floor. You hadn't even realized you weren't wearing pants.

"D-don't please..."

Sylus gently shushed you, and you tensed as you felt a warm finger begin circling your clit. The intense waves of pleasure you felt were electrifying and you again began to struggle again.

"I'm not doing this! Let go of me!" you yelled, using your free hand to push against his face. He sighed again as a red mist wrapped around your wrists, pulling your arms over your head. The grip was tight and warm, almost painfully so. You cried out, fresh tears streaming down your face again. Despite your protests, his fingers continued to work on your sensitive spot, and he started to slip a finger inside your now wet folds. You groaned as waves of pleasure surged through your body once more.

“Does that hurt?” Sylus asked, his voice low and steady, laced with that same gentleness he always wore when he was doing something cruel.

His hand cupped your chin—not harshly, but firmly, guiding your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes. The touch was deceptively tender, but the power behind it was undeniable. It made your skin crawl, made your breath come out in tight, uneven sobs.

Your hands—still suspended above your head with that sickly red mist, wrists straining under invisible pressure—throbbed with pain. Your fingers had gone numb. You whimpered, trembling from the hot ache and the rising terror in your chest.

“Y-yes,” you choked out, your voice wet and broken. “Please… let my hands go.”

He tilted his head slightly, like he was pondering his next move. His expression remained calm, measured. Too calm. That was what made it worse—the lack of rage, the way he treated your pain like a conversation.

“Then,” he murmured, stroking his thumb once along your cheek, “are you going to behave?”

You swallowed around the knot in your throat, chest heaving. The words caught somewhere between your ribs and your pride, but the pain was too much. The helplessness. The fear.

“Yes,” you whispered, eyes full of tears. “I’ll behave.”

He stared at you for a long moment, as if searching for even the smallest flicker of defiance in your eyes. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him. The pressure around your wrists loosened instantly, and the mist evaporated like smoke, vanishing without a trace.

Your arms dropped to your chest, limp and heavy, and you gasped in relief. The freedom stung as the blood rushed back into your fingers, but the ache was nothing compared to the weight that had been lifted. Your shoulders shook with silent sobs as you cradled your arms close to your chest, trying to catch your breath, trying to ground yourself in the moment.

Sylus’s fingers, warm and deliberate, curled around yours, interlacing with a slow, practiced ease. His other hand remained steady pushing another finger in and out of you, a gentle pressure that belied the tension crackling beneath the surface. You tensed immediately, your breath catching in your throat, your whole body going rigid as you instinctively tried to pull away—but he didn’t stop.

Your whimper escaped before you could silence it, soft and instinctual, like a warning to yourself. But there was no escape. It felt good. Even for just reliving a memory it felt exactly the same. Shame crept up and you felt your face getting warm.

He leaned in, and his voice came low—measured, sweet in tone but wrong in every possible way. “You make it very hard to be gentle, kitten,” he murmured, brushing a kiss across your lips before you could flinch away. It was soft, deceptively so, a contrast to the raw ache in your hands and the weight in your chest. His smile hovered just after, patient and expectant. “Tell you what…no more fighting me,” he said gently, “and this will be the only time this happens today. Okay?”

You already knew how this went.

The script never really changed—just the tone, the setting, the subtle reshuffling of his words. But the bones of it, the bargain, were always the same. He offered control dressed as kindness. Compliance cloaked in calm. And you—drained, desperate—were expected to accept it.

You had learned not to hesitate.

So you didn’t.

Your head bobbed quickly, instinct overriding reason, and your throat tightened around the sob clawing its way up. “Yes,” you whispered first, the word catching. You swallowed hard, forcing down the fear, the shame, the heat burning behind your eyes. “Yes,” you repeated, louder this time—pleading, broken, automatic. "Please just be gentle.”

You hated how you sounded. Had you sounded this desperate when this actually happened? You weren't sure.

Tears slipped more freely now, tracing hot lines down your cheeks as your voice cracked into silence. Your whole body trembled—not from pain this time, not exactly—but from the surrender. From the ritual of it. The exhausting necessity of giving in. The part of you that still wanted to believe the more obedient you were, the faster it would be over.

He nodded, stopping his movements and removing his fingers from inside you. You watched in shock as he licked the remnants of your essence from his fingers, then began undoing his belt again. You were wet enough now.

"Good girl. Lay still and this will be over before you know it".

You lay there frozen as he lifts your dress to expose your breasts. It wasn't long before you felt the burning ache of his cock spearing itself into your folds, stretching to accommodate his size. It still hurt, you weren't sure if it was ever not going to, but your slickness did help quite a bit. He groans in pleasure as he pushes himself into your body, slightly pulling back and then pushing in again.

"Shit..."

It happens the same way. The ache gives way to pleasure, your squeezing his hand as if your life depends on it and your moaning with him. Your body betrays you. Your mind betrays you. Mind numbing pleasure sears itself into your core. He pumps his cock into you faster, and you feel your brain begin to melt as he hits that spongey part within your body. Your breasts squeeze together as he holds you closer. You both become one.

"It hurts..."

You hate it. Your body loves it. You climax. You sob. He rubs your tears from your face with his thumb.

"Shh, its okay. You're doing so good, honey. I'm close, I promise."

It ends with hot, creamy liquid burying itself within your womb, and sweet sick promises of a new life being whispered in your ear.

"You'll see very soon just how happy you can be".

No...no!

You frantically thrash beneath the covers, breath coming in sharp gasps, heart racing like a jackhammer in your chest. When you finally manage to pry your eyes open, you're back—Caleb's spare room. You shiver violently, sweat cooling on your skin. Nightmare again. Another one. Even here, even in the safest place you could possibly be in, they follow you.

You sit up slowly, arms wrapped tightly around your torso as if to hold yourself together. For a moment, you just breathe. Tears are already sliding down your cheeks, warm and quiet. You wipe at them with the back of your hand and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, pressing your feet to the carpet. It's soft, grounding, but the tremble in your limbs refuses to fade.

You stand and shuffle toward the bathroom, eyes blurry with sleep and emotion. The tiled floor sends a chill up your legs, but you welcome it. Something real. Something solid. You sit down on the toilet, the cold seat a small shock to your senses. Everything is slow and disconnected—muscle memory pulling you through motions your mind hasn’t caught up to.

Then, you glance down.

A giant, darkened spot blooms in the middle of your underwear, unmistakably damp.

You freeze.

Your first thought is confusion. A small jolt of panic hits your stomach. Did you pee yourself? It wouldn’t be the first time—not lately, your body was still recovering from giving birth. But no. You hadn't woken in a soaked bed. The sheets were dry. Your thighs weren’t sticky, the fabric not clinging with that awful familiar weight. It’s localized. Contained. Different.

And that's when your breath catches.

Your mind scrambles, fumbling through memories of the dream. The edges blur, slippery as oil. There had been fear—yes, fear. You’d been powerless again, frozen while Sylus hovered over you, ripping away your autonomy once more. Claiming your body as his. That same choking dread had sunk its claws into your spine. But then—something had shifted.

No. No, no, no. That couldn’t be right.

But the evidence is in front of you.

Your stomach turns violently, as if rejecting the realization before it can fully settle. You shake your head hard, almost like you could rattle the thought out, dislodge it before it roots.

Had you actually...enjoyed that? That grotesque, warped thing masquerading as a dream?

You can’t breathe. You suddenly feel like you’re floating outside of your own skin, like your body has betrayed you in the most obscene way possible. What kind of person—what kind of victim—reacts like that? Your heart pounds against your ribcage like it’s trying to escape. The shame is a physical thing now, thick and suffocating, like a weight pressing into your chest.

It wasn’t a nightmare. Or it was, but your body hadn’t understood that. It had responded.

A wet dream instead?

A sound escapes your throat, something between a sob and a gasp. You slap both hands over your mouth, but it’s too late. Tears blur your vision, your breath hitching in short, helpless gulps. You feel like you’re rotting from the inside out.

You’re disgusting. You’re wrong. You're broken.

How could your body react like that to him? After everything he’d done? After everything he’d taken?

You feel like you're going to throw up. The air feels thick. Too thick. Like trying to breathe through wet wool. You curl in on yourself without thinking, arms wrapped around your knees, head pressed to your thighs, like maybe you can collapse into a space small enough to disappear entirely.

Your thoughts won’t stop. What if it happens again? What if this means something worse? What if you’re not really a victim at all—what if you’re complicit in your own nightmares?

You shake harder. Tears pour freely now, soaking the collar of your shirt.

It wasn't supposed to feel good.

You know, on some level, that it isn’t your fault. That it’s probably just your body reacting instinctively to certain sensations—some automatic, unconscious response to sexual stimuli. That’s what bodies do, right? That has to be it. It has to be. Because the alternative is too frightening to face. But that rational voice inside you is barely a whisper, drowned beneath waves of confusion and self-loathing. You don’t recognize yourself anymore, and the weight of not understanding this new version of you—this stranger living in your skin—is becoming unbearable.

You hop in the shower quickly, as if trying to scrub all the horrible thoughts away. The water is hot—almost too hot—but you welcome the sting. You lather shampoo into your hair with too much force, digging your nails into your scalp like you can claw the memories loose. You scrub your arms, your legs, your chest, over and over until your skin is aching and raw. It’s not about getting clean. It’s about feeling something else. Anything else.

You don’t know how much time passes. Minutes? An hour? The bathroom fills with steam, thick and heavy, clinging to every surface. You clean and scrub until the exhaustion settles deep into your bones, until your thoughts finally grow dull and hazy around the edges. When you finally turn off the water, you’re lightheaded and weak, limbs trembling slightly beneath you.

Seems Caleb has a good water heater—you never ran out of hot water.

You grope around blindly for a towel, the fog blurring your vision as much as your tired eyes. Wrapping it around yourself, you step in front of the full-body mirror. The glass is fogged, but you wipe it down with your palm, revealing your reflection piece by piece.

Your body…it had changed.

You realize, with a strange jolt, that you haven’t really looked at yourself since giving birth. Not properly. Not like this. The last time you examined your reflection this closely, you were heavily pregnant, body swollen with life. Now, the bump is gone—mostly. Your belly has deflated, but there's still a soft protrusion that wasn't there before.

You’ve lost quite a bit of the baby weight. Stress, probably. Poor nutrition. Skipped meals. Your hips are still wider. Breasts firm with milk. Everything feels a little out of place—familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

It’s not terrible. You still look like you. Just…different.

You remember reading in one of the baby books that it can take up to a year for the body to return to "normal," whatever that means. You’re not sure if this new shape will ever feel like home again. or if it'll even stay. Maybe you would eventually return to "normal". As much as you could anyway.

You get dressed in a long, comfortable shirt and slip into a fresh pair of underwear. You were thankful you didn't seem to be bleeding much anymore. The fabric is soft against your skin, still warm from the dryer. You realize you hadn't brough the clothes Caleb bought you in here. There aren’t any clean pants nearby—just a couple of ones you’d already worn this week—and after a moment of frustrated searching through the small stack of folded laundry, you give up. No one else is around. You’ll be in the house, just for a bit. It’s fine. You tug the shirt down as far as it will go, more for comfort than modesty. Its almost to your knees. Should be fine until you can grab some pants in a bit.

You step toward the bathroom door, towel still draped over your shoulders, drying your damp hair with lazy, tired motions. The steam from the shower clings to your skin like a second layer. You twist the knob, still half in your head, and swing the door open.

Then freeze.

Caleb is sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched slightly forward, gently rocking Sylvia in his arms. Her face is scrunched, her mouth pulled into a frustrated whine. Her tiny fists punch the air, and her legs kick as if warding off an invisible foe. Caleb is murmuring something softly under his breath, his movements tentative and gentle, like he’s afraid of doing something wrong.

Your chest tightens. You could've sworn you had locked the door?

He looks up, and the moment he sees you, his entire face lights up. His worry melts into relief.

"Hey! Sorry to just walk in," he says, giving you an apologetic half-smile. "I heard her crying from the hallway and figured you were sleeping. I thought maybe I could soothe her, give you a little more time. She seemed hungry, though, so I came in here."

You feel a jolt of panic snap through you like a rubber band stretched too far. The breath leaves your lungs in a stuttering rush.

“No—Caleb, please put her down!”

Your voice comes out louder, harsher than you meant, and the room seems to go still. His smile falters, confused. You’re already moving before he can say another word. The towel slips from your shoulders and lands in a heap on the floor as you rush across the room, hands outstretched.

“Just give her to me!”

Your heart is pounding, a chaotic rhythm that drowns out rational thought. Visions flare up unbidden—images of things going wrong, of Sylvia slipping, of her getting hurt, of hands that aren't yours doing something wrong. But deeper than that is something even worse: the fear that Sylus will find out. That he’ll somehow know another man held her, touched her, cradled her so gently like he never would. And if he knows, he’ll be angry—not at you but at Caleb.

You don't even want to imagine the horrible things Sylus would do to him.

Caleb’s eyes go wide, and he lifts his hands in surrender as you reach him. He says nothing, just instinctively transfers the baby into your arms with slow, careful movements. Sylvia lets out a protesting little squawk as the transition jostles her.

“Okay, okay—it’s alright,” Caleb says quietly, his voice filled with concern. "She’s okay. I was just trying to help."

You clutch Sylvia to your chest, holding her as tightly as you dare. Her body fits against yours like she belongs there, like she’s always belonged there. She lets out a soft sigh, her flailing limbs settling. The fussing tapers off to little hiccuping breaths, and soon she’s quiet again.

You press a trembling kiss to her forehead, eyes fluttering shut. You’re still shaking.

There’s a long pause.

Caleb is silent, his hands now folded awkwardly in his lap. He looks at you like he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he should. The tension in the room crackles softly, a quiet hum beneath the stillness.

“I didn’t mean to overstep,” he says finally, his voice cautious. “I just thought maybe I could help. You looked like you needed rest.”

"Y-you can't... if he finds out you even breathed the same air as her he'll—" Your voice falters, collapsing under the weight of what you almost said. The words die on your tongue, leaving a silence that's louder than anything else in the room. Your heart races, hammering against your ribs, and your fingers tighten protectively around Sylvia, who stirs softly against your chest. You hadn't meant to say that much—not even close.

Caleb’s eyes narrow slightly, but his voice remains low. "Who?" he asks, the question sharpened with suspicion. "He’ll do what? Her father?"

You don’t answer right away. Your eyes drop to the floor, to a speck of lint you suddenly find fascinating. Anything to avoid his gaze. The air between you thickens with tension.

"Just trust me, please," you whisper, almost pleading. "Leave me to her care, okay? It's for the best."

For a moment, you expect him to nod, to accept it like he did earlier. But this time is different. Something in him has shifted. Caleb doesn’t step back. He doesn’t drop it. Instead, he straightens up abruptly and takes two steps toward you, closing the distance.

"I just can't understand," he says, voice still calm but more insistent now, tinged with something rawer underneath. "You've never kept anything from me before. And now I find you stranded in the middle of nowhere, no ID, no records, no phone—not even a hospital bracelet. And you’re holding a baby that’s, what—a few weeks old? And you expect me to just pretend everything’s fine?"

The words hit you like a slap—not cruel, not intentionally—but real. Honest. Caleb’s always been the one person you could count on to be gentle. But he’s also always been the one who notices everything. He’s not stupid. And he’s not letting this go.

Your throat tightens, but you force yourself to look at him. Sylvia shifts slightly in your arms and lets out a soft sigh, a small reminder that she’s the center of your world now. The only thing that matters is protecting those you care about.

"She's seven weeks. I’m just protecting her and you" you say, your voice barely above a breath. "That’s all this is. That’s all I can do."

Caleb doesn’t move. He watches you carefully, waiting, like he knows there’s more. And there is. There’s so much more. But you can’t let it spill out. You can’t drag him into this mess. If Sylus ever found out—if he even sensed that another man had held his daughter—Caleb could get hurt. And you couldn’t live with that.

"You don’t understand what he’s capable of," you murmur, mostly to yourself. But it’s too late. Caleb hears it.

"Then help me understand," he replies. "Don’t shut me out. You think I wouldn’t want to protect her too? Or protect you?"

Your eyes sting. Your grip on Sylvia tightens, but she’s already asleep, little fist curled near her cheek. The words hover on your lips—I want to tell you. I wish I could. But you don’t say them.

"Just let me do this," you say finally. "Please. For now. That’s all I’m asking."

The silence stretches. Caleb’s face shifts slightly, from confusion to something softer, sadder. He sighs, but the hesitation is still there, written in the set of his jaw.

"You know I can't do that," Caleb says, clasping his hands together tightly. His voice is calm, but there’s something desperate underneath it, something raw and pleading. "If you'd just move in here with me permanently, that would solve all of this. He won't hurt you. He can't hurt you. You know I'd protect you. And her."

He looks down at Sylvia as he says it, his expression softening in a way that makes your chest ache. That softness—it's genuine. There's no doubt in your mind that he believes every word he’s saying. But belief isn't enough. Not when it comes to Sylus. Not when it comes to the kind of danger that lingers like a shadow behind every moment of peace.

You shake your head, jaw tightening until it aches. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. Not really. He hasn’t seen what you’ve seen. He hasn't lived through it, hasn't felt the cold dread of waking up every morning not knowing what the day would look like. He doesn't know what Sylus is capable of when he's even slightly displeased. And if Caleb ever got in his way—if he even touched Sylvia again—

You force the thought away, swallowing hard.

"I already told you, I can't!" you snap, your voice sharp and unfiltered. The frustration explodes out of you like a dam finally giving way. "It would just cause more problems! I already lost you once, I can't go through that again!"

He takes a half-step back, startled, but doesn’t retreat fully. His eyes are still on you, searching, waiting for something he can grab onto. He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re not done. Not even close.

"Besides, you want to talk about my secrets? What about you, Caleb? Huh? Let’s talk about you!" Your voice rises with every syllable, fueled by confusion and betrayal. "I saw you explode. I saw you die, Caleb. I felt the ground shake. I watched it happen. And now you’re just... here? Alive? Like nothing ever happened?"

You take a breath that feels more like a gasp, chest heaving.

"You just conveniently show up in Windsor—of all places—alive and well? Sporting fancy jets and luxury mansions like some kind of billionaire guardian angel? What is this, huh? What am I supposed to believe? That you’re some kind of miracle? That you just happened to show up the second I needed someone the most?"

Your voice cracks again, anger giving way to something more fragile underneath—something scared and overwhelmed. The question you’ve been swallowing down for weeks finally pushes its way out.

"What about that, huh? Why don’t you answer my questions for once instead of dodging every single one of mine like I’m too fragile to know the truth?"

The room feels electric with tension, thick and heavy like the air before a thunderstorm. You can feel your pulse hammering in your throat, your arms tightening around Sylvia’s small body. She stirs slightly in your embrace, murmuring softly, her warmth the only anchor keeping you from spiraling entirely.

Caleb’s face shifts slowly, his mouth opening like he wants to speak—but he hesitates. Something flickers behind his eyes. Not guilt. Not anger. Something more complex. Like he’s weighing whether the truth is even his to tell.

The silence stretches between you, pulsing with all the things that remain unspoken.

You feel it again—that gnawing feeling that something isn’t right, that the Caleb in front of you is the man you knew, but also...not. You can’t put your finger on it, and maybe that’s what terrifies you most. You thought you could trust him. You want to. But how can you, when he’s hiding just as much as you are?

He says nothing at first. Just watches you, the tension stretching so thin between you it feels like the room might snap in half from the pressure. His expression is unreadable, carved from silence and restraint. Then, finally, he sighs. Long and quiet, like he's been holding his breath for hours.

"I guess we all have skeletons in our closet," he says.

You stare at him in disbelief, your lips parting in a breathless huff. That’s it? That’s his answer? That’s all he has to offer after everything you just spilled, after weeks of uncertainty and swallowing back every cry for help? Weeks of unraveling silently at the seams?

What kind of bullshit answer is that?

You feel it rising in your chest—the pressure, the heartbreak, the helplessness. It presses against your ribcage like something alive, like it wants out. Your throat tightens, and your hands start to tremble.

You can’t do this anymore. You can’t. The tension, the secrets, the lies—they’re suffocating. You’re trying to hold it together, trying to survive while keeping a tiny human safe and clinging to the edge of your sanity, and it feels like no one around you is willing to meet you halfway. It feels like no one sees how close you are to shattering.

You just want one person. One. Someone who will be honest. Someone who will stop pretending. Someone who will look at you and see the wreckage and still say, "You're safe. I'm here. I’m not lying to you."

Clara had been that person. Sweet, gentle Clara with soft hands and quiet reassurances. She had been your lifeline when everything else was chaos. But now? Now she was gone. God only knows what Sylus did to her. You wake up thinking about her sometimes, wondering if she’s alive, if she’s okay, or if she was just another casualty of being close to you. The guilt eats you alive.

Xavier, too. God—Xavier. Dragged into the hell of EVERS experiments, brutalized just for trying to help you escape. And what did he get in return? Pain. Silence. Disappearance. He thinks you lied to him. Everyone who tries to help you ends up broken.

You'll be damned in Caleb ends up that way too.

You press a hand to your face, swallowing down the sob trying to climb its way up.

"I’m done," you mutter, voice strained and trembling. You turn away from Caleb and move toward the bed, carefully laying Sylvia down on the softest part of the mattress. You adjust the blanket around her, brushing a fingertip over her tiny cheek. She stirs, sighs, but doesn’t cry. She blinks up at you, clearly too confused with all the commotion to be upset you weren't holding her anymore.

"I can’t stay here," you say, eyes locked on Sylvia’s peaceful face. "This is all eating me alive. I’m not healing—I’m unraveling. And staying here is just...making it worse. I need space. I need air. I need to feel like I’m free, not like I’m still in someone else's trap."

You cross the room, the weight in your limbs making each step feel heavier than the last. Your bag is still where you left it, slumped against the wall. You crouch down, unzip it, and dig around to try and find your envelope of cash.

"No," Caleb says.

You freeze.

The word hits the room like a dropped stone, quiet but heavy. Your spine stiffens. The air changes.

You slowly turn to look at him.

He’s standing taller now, shoulders squared, something simmering behind his eyes. It’s not fury. Not sadness. Not even desperation. It’s something steadier. A line drawn in the sand.

"No," he repeats, and his voice is steel. "You’re not leaving. Not like this."

You scoff. What the hell did he mean by no?

"You won't find that envelope either. It's somewhere safe," Caleb says calmly, like he's discussing the weather. Not an ounce of guilt, not a flicker of shame.

Panic spikes through your chest like a sudden jolt of electricity. Your breath catches, and you lunge for the bag again, and begin tearing through it with trembling hands. You flip it upside down, shake it violently, throw it to the floor. Then you're on your knees, digging—harder, faster. You check the side pocket where you always kept it. Nothing. You tear open the lining. You throw out every item of clothing. You unzip every hidden pouch, check every crease.

Still nothing.

The air seems to get thinner. Your heart slams against your ribcage.

"You asshole!" you scream, whirling on him with a voice so raw it scrapes your throat. Your chest heaves as the words tumble out. "I pawned my ring to get that money!

Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps. Your vision blurs at the edges. The room feels like it’s shrinking, the walls closing in, bending and tilting like the floor can’t quite decide which way is up.

You feel yourself spiraling—fast and hard. Everything inside you starts to slip. Your thoughts crash like waves in a storm, and you can’t catch a single one long enough to think.

"No, no, no," you whisper, stumbling back, your voice fraying like torn fabric. "You were supposed to be different. You were supposed to be safe."

Your voice rises, caught between anger and desperation.

"You’re acting just like him. Please—please, stop."

Tears spill freely now, thick and hot, tracking down your cheeks in heavy streams. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself, rocking slightly, like your own body is trying to shield your heart from cracking wide open.

Caleb steps toward you slowly, hands slightly raised, his movements calm and measured, like he’s trying not to startle a wounded animal. But you don’t feel soothed. You feel cornered.

"Calm down," he says, voice low and maddeningly composed. "I’ll return the money once your documents are here. You don’t need it right now anyway. I’ll provide everything you and Sylvia need."

He takes another step closer, closing the gap between you by just enough to send another pulse of fear through your gut.

"I’m not going to let you be reckless and endanger yourself or the baby. This is the safest place for your right now."

The words land with a cruel chill. Cold steel straight through the ribcage.

You stare at him, blinking, unable to form a coherent thought through the storm of betrayal and confusion ripping through you. Behind you, Sylvia stirs softly, as if sensing your distress. Her tiny body turns slightly under the blanket.

Your voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper. "You had no right to take anything of mine."

But Caleb doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t move. There’s something unsettling in the way he holds his ground—not like someone who’s trying to help, but someone who knows he’s already won this round.

And that terrifies you more than anything else.

You feel the sting of fresh tears, the kind born of helplessness, not rage. You want to scream, but your throat feels tight, your breath shallow. You sink slowly to your knees, still clutching the empty bag like it might miraculously return what’s been taken.

"You can't see it now because of whatever you're battling in your head, but I'm protecting you," Caleb says quietly, his voice low and steady. "If he's really as dangerous as you say, then you absolutely need to stay here. You're being very impulsive."

You flinch as he gently pulls you into an embrace. His arms are warm, steady, secure—too secure. A quiet cage dressed in tenderness. It doesn’t feel like safety. This doesn't feel like the boy you grew up with. It feels like a door quietly closing behind you.

You don’t reciprocate.

You just sit there, stiff in his arms, your face pressed against his shoulder, eyes wide and unfocused. The weight of your body is bone-deep exhaustion, but your muscles stay tense, locked tight like a coiled spring. Tears continue to fall, slow and silent now, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t flinch or move. Just holds you.

You want to scream. To shove him away. To run. To trust. To collapse into someone and finally let go. You want everything and nothing all at once.

And you hate—hate—that he might be right in some way.

Because the truth is, you are locked in a bitter, daily war with your own mind. Your PTSD isn’t just in your head—it’s in your chest, your spine, your skin. It lurks in your muscles, whispering that no one is safe. That no place is real. That even a moment of rest is a trap in disguise. It claws at your reality, distorting every sound, every touch, every kind word into something laced with threat. Every door closed feels like entrapment. Every gentle voice feels like manipulation.

Your trauma-bruised brain doesn’t know the difference between comfort and control anymore. Safety and suffocation have blurred at the edges. You want to believe Caleb. You want to trust him. But part of you is screaming that this is just another gilded cage.

You close your eyes, just for a moment. Just to rest. Just to quiet the noise. Maybe if you shut it all out, it’ll stop.

But your body doesn’t relax. It stays frozen in his hold. Your arms hang useless at your sides. Because no matter how softly he’s holding you, no matter how many promises spill from his lips, it still feels like a trap. Like one more person trying to decide what’s best for you without asking. Like one more decision made for you instead of with you.

You are so sick of people telling you what's best for you.

"Just until the documents get here...?" you whisper, your voice barely audible, as if speaking any louder might break the fragile truce settling over the room. You close your eyes, trying to block out the gnawing doubt that’s coiled itself deep in your gut, trying to make the words feel true even when everything inside you is screaming they aren’t.

"Yes," Caleb replies, his tone soft and steady, almost relieved, like you’ve just agreed to something simple. Like your surrender is peace, not quiet devastation. "It’s for the best."

You want—so badly—to believe him. To believe that he knows what’s right. That this is safety. That this is care, not control. That his arms around you are protection, not boundaries. That his words are a balm, not a leash tightening around your throat.

But he’s still a liar.

Still keeping things from you. Still offering only partial truths, carefully curated phrases, and gentle redirections when you ask too much. He’s danced around every answer with the grace of someone who’s done it before. He’s protecting you—yes. But is he protecting you from the world? Or from the truth?

Or from himself?

You remember the way he looked when you confronted him. Calm. Measured. Like he was already several steps ahead of you. Like he knew he’d find the right words to stop you from walking out that door. That scares you more than anything—how easy it was for him to pull you back in. How much you wanted to stay, even after everything.

You know better now. You’ve learned. Painfully, repeatedly.

So you nod. You breathe. You stay.

But you do not relax.

Your body remains tense even as you curl up with Sylvia that night. Your hand never leaves her. You listen for every creak in the house, every footstep, every shift of breath from the next room. Sleep only comes in fragments, and when it does, it’s light and uneasy.

You’ll sleep with one eye open. You’ll memorize the exits. You’ll keep a backup plan, even if it’s just in your head. You’ll stash essentials in places he doesn’t know about. You’ll practice smiling when he speaks. You’ll say thank you when he brings you things. You’ll pretend to trust him, because pretending is safer than provoking.

You’ll keep your daughter close and your thoughts closer.

You truly can't afford to freely trust anyone.

You’ll watch him. Study him. Learn his rhythms, his moods, the things that make him soften and the things that make him quiet. You’ll map him like a threat, even when he acts like a sanctuary.

Because you have no choice.

Because you refuse to be in someone else's trap.

386 notes · View notes

mavphorias · 12 days ago

Text

His Watchful Eye Pt. 20

Word Count: 21.7k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, tw for postpartum depression, vomit, pain and injury, manipulation, coercion, kidnapping, xavier appears, caleb appears

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh @eliasxchocolate @nozomiaj @yuuchanie @sylus-kitten @its-regretti @starkeysslvt @yarafic @prince-nikko @iluvmewwwww75 @zaynesjasmine1 @honnylemontea @altariasu @sorryimakira @pearlymel @emidpsandia @angel-jupiter @hwangintakswifey @webmvie @housesortinghat @shoruio @gojos1ut @solomonlover @mysssticc @elegantnightblaze @mavphorias @babylavendersblog @burntoutfrogacademic @sinstae @certainduckanchor @ladyackermanisdead @sh4nn @lilyadora @nyumin @kiwookse @anisha24-blog1 @weepingluminarytale @riamir @definitionistato @xxhayashixx @adraxsteia @hargun-s @cayraeley @palomanh @spaceace111 @euridan @malleus-draconias-rose @athoieee @shddyboo @lavcia @wooasecret

AN: Sorry this chapter took forever! I had some health issues pop up. Worrying about my health had started to affect me mentally, and I had no motivation to complete editing. But now, Im feeling a little more energized and decided to finish the next part for my readers! I had originally made this chapter 42k words long and had decided to split it into parts but one of my beta readers suggested for better reading experience, that I split it into two chapters! So enjoy two uploads instead of one!!

"Love is a feeling a monster like you wouldn't know about." The reaction was instantaneous. There was no sound, no preparation. Just a blur of red mist, impossibly fast, and then a large hand snapping tight around his face. Sylus had crossed the room in the blink of an eye, a predator uncoiling from shadow to strike. One of his hands wrapped around Xavier’s throat and jaw, pressing with precise, terrifying force. Xavier’s breath hitched violently, a strangled gasp ripping from his chest as his head was yanked upward. His jaw protested under the weight of Sylus's grip, every bone in his face throbbing as if it might crack apart. His eyes watered instantly. Every instinct screamed to pull away, to fight—but he was restrained, helpless. Trapped. “I wouldn’t push my buttons right now,” Sylus snarled, his voice low, guttural, and thick with restrained violence. The kind of voice that made your blood turn cold. Each syllable carried weight, a slow-dripping venom laced with threat.

Check my masterlist for the other parts!

You drove without direction, tires humming against the half-frozen road as Windsor City slowly blurred around you in a haze of grays and whites. The winter sun, low and anemic behind a curtain of overcast clouds, offered little warmth or light. It merely hung there in the sky like a dying bulb, casting pale, desaturated light over the streets and buildings. Everything outside the car looked lifeless—leafless trees clawing at the wind, pedestrians bundled in layers and hurrying through the cold, and storefronts half-closed as the city dragged itself through another bone-chilling December morning.

The car’s heat wheezed from the vents, barely keeping up with the cold pressing in from every corner. Fog gathered stubbornly at the corners of the windshield, making you swipe at it every few minutes with your sleeve. Your fingers trembled, not from the cold, but from nerves—coiled tight beneath your skin like electric wire. You couldn’t remember how long you’d been driving now. It felt like hours. Maybe it had been. Or maybe your mind was just playing tricks on you, stretching minutes into eternities.

Your adrenaline hadn’t faded. It was still thrumming inside your chest, a low, relentless buzz that made your heart beat too fast and your breathing feel shallow. You were strung tight, like a bow pulled back but never released. Every red light felt like a trap, every passing car a threat. The ghost of that morning still clung to you—standing on that porch, heart in your throat, the weight of your decision crushing you from all sides. Leaving Sylvia there had felt like tearing your own soul in half.

And taking her back had felt like trying to stitch yourself together with shaking hands.

“Haaaah... ehhh...”

In the backseat, Sylvia made a soft, breathy coo. The sound barely rose above the hum of the engine, but it pierced straight through your fogged brain like a needle. Your eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. There she was—curled beneath the blankets you’d wrapped her in, one tiny fist peeking out, her face slack and peaceful. Her little chest rose and fell steadily, mouth slightly open in the kind of sleep only babies and the dead were capable of. Her warmth and fragility, her innocence, made something in you buckle.

It hurt to look at her. Really, deeply hurt.

You’d given her up. You had stood at that porch and walked away. And now here she was, in the backseat of your car, her existence a silent forgiveness you didn’t deserve. How had you done it? How had you ever let her go?

You clenched your jaw and gripped the steering wheel tighter. The leather groaned beneath your fingers. Shame flooded you in waves—thick, choking, unrelenting. You weren’t some rookie who cracked under pressure. You were a Deepspace Hunter, for godsake. You had been trained to track and eliminate high-risk Wanderers across the galaxy. You’d survived deadly missions, solo extractions, and hostile environments that had reduced others to husks. You had fought tooth and nail against Wanderers that tore through entire cities. You had never once hesitated.

And yet a crying infant—your own infant—had sent you spiraling.

The memory of her screaming rang in your ears. The hours without sleep. The sheer terror of not knowing how to comfort her. The voice in your head whispering that you weren’t enough, that you would fail her, that she’d be safer with someone else. It had consumed you. The guilt of yelling at her.

Broken you down until you’d made the unthinkable choice.

And now you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The guilt was a living thing inside you.

But you couldn’t let yourself fall apart again. Not now. Not with her here. Not when you had no room for mistakes.

You squeezed your eyes shut for half a second, breathing through the panic. The cold air inside the car bit at your cheeks, grounding you. You needed to stay clear. Alert. Every second counted now.

You took a huge breath and tried to think logically as you drove, your fingers tightening around the steering wheel as the hum of the road buzzed beneath your tires. The city outside your windows blurred past in streaks of washed-out gray and brittle winter light, the sun barely visible behind a thick layer of cold, suffocating cloud. Your jaw clenched as you turned aimlessly down one street and then another, your heart beating a little too fast, your thoughts spinning like wheels stuck in ice.

You had already abandoned the motel without looking back. That place had begun to feel like a trap anyway—too many routines, too easy to track. It hadn’t felt safe anymore, not after what you’d done. Maybe it never really had been. The idea of staying in one place for more than a day made your skin crawl now.

It had been few days since then. You had decided the best course of action was to just lay low, live in the car in case someone in that house had done some investigating about the strange woman and baby on their porch.

There were too many cameras on the street corners, too many people who might ask the wrong question. You kept imagining Sylus’s voice just behind you, his eyes on your back, his fingers wrapping around your spine. You had no evidence he was near, but it didn’t matter. The paranoia lived inside you now.

You weren’t just hiding anymore—you were surviving. Reacting. Calculating. Scraping together a plan out of broken pieces and adrenaline.

You needed to find a way to get documents. That had to be your next step. Something official. Something real. Something that would hold up to scrutiny if anyone stopped you in a hallway or flagged your ID at a checkpoint. Surely Windsor City had a vital records office—a building where identities were filed away in steel cabinets and forgotten by the world.

It was a long shot, but it was a start. A place to begin forming the edges of a life you might be able to live.

It wasn’t ideal. God, it was the last place you wanted to be—walking into a government office, vulnerable and exposed, where clerks might ask for forms you didn’t have and memories you didn’t want to share. What was your last address? Place of birth? Employer? Marital status? Were there any complications with the birth? You could already hear the questions echoing in your head, each one scraping raw nerves. You hated the thought of giving anything away. But what choice did you have?

It was a step. One you couldn’t skip. If you ever wanted to get on a plane, to disappear into the world without leaving a blinking red trail behind you, you needed paper. You needed proof you and your daughter existed.

You glanced into the rearview mirror again, eyes immediately drawn to Sylvia. She was still asleep, her tiny face soft and flushed, one hand curled into a fist beside her cheek.

She was perfect. Beautiful. Yours.

And still—still—the image of leaving her on that doorstep haunted you. The stroller, the blanket, the note. Her red eyes blinking open as you turned your back. You remembered how it felt to walk away. Like your bones were breaking from the inside out. You had torn and that note into pieces, letting it blow away in the winter wind.

As much as you didn’t want any physical record of her—no footprint, no paper trail—it was too late, wasn’t it? That line had already been crossed. Sylus knew she existed. He’d known for weeks. There was no hiding from that reality now. And while the thought of her name being filed in a database made your stomach turn, the alternative was unthinkable. No identity meant no rights. No school. No protection. No future.

And if you wanted her to live a life that wasn’t shaped entirely by running and hiding, she’d need to be someone. Officially. Legally. Even if every part of that word made your skin itch.

She’d need an identity. A birth certificate. Something that would let her see a doctor without suspicion, enroll in school, walk through life without having to lie about who she was. She couldn’t live as a shadow the way you had. She deserved better than that.

You had to give that to her.

You weren’t doing it for yourself. You were doing it for her. And you’d drag up every painful piece of your own past if it meant giving her a future.

The wheel vibrated faintly beneath your palms as you took a right at the next light, beginning to scan the signs more carefully now. Searching for any street name, any marker that might lead you toward what you needed. You didn’t have a plan yet. Not fully. But you were done driving in circles.

This time, you were going to move forward.

It didn’t take long for you to give up and eventually ask someone where to go. After circling the block a few times and mentally chastising yourself for stalling, you finally pulled into a gas station and walked inside, heart pounding. A middle-aged woman behind the counter, wearing a frayed fleece and tired eyes, looked up. You approached her cautiously, nearly flinching when she made eye contact. But she only offered a polite, tight smile, and when you stammered something about looking for the local municipal office, she nodded and pointed you in the right direction with the kind of quiet efficiency that made it clear you weren’t the first lost soul to wander in that day.

The interaction lasted less than three minutes, but it lingered. As you stepped back into your car and closed the door behind you, you realized you could finally take a full breath. Your chest loosened, like a rubber band slowly releasing its tension. Maybe this would be okay. Maybe you could handle this.

You weren’t nearly as nervous as the last time you’d tried asking for help. Progress, maybe. If you were going to get anything done or get anywhere, you needed to stay grounded. You couldn’t let the gnawing anxiety of small talk and suspicious glances keep eating you alive. Not everyone was out to get you. Not everyone was a spy for Sylus. You repeated those words like a script, like armor, hoping they'd settle your racing thoughts. Whether it was true or not didn’t matter—believing it helped you function.

Still, the paranoia scratched beneath your skin like a rash you couldn’t ignore. Constant, needling, lingering. You were painfully aware of how threadbare you’d become—worn down, brittle at the edges, like a page in an old book handled too many times. You’d definitely need some serious therapy after all this. That thought almost made you laugh. Therapy. Normalcy. Appointments. Schedules. People asking how you feel without it being a trap. The very idea felt absurd, but the ache for it ran deep.

“Okay…drive straight two miles, take a left at the light…then another left,” you murmured, whispering the directions to yourself as if reciting a protective spell. You gripped the steering wheel tight, your eyes darting to every street sign like you expected them to morph into something threatening.

The streets stretched long and cold, each turn making you feel both closer and farther from something that might resemble stability. Finally—after what felt like an entire lifetime spent navigating Windsor’s gridded mess of boulevards and backroads—you saw it.

The building squatted between two taller offices like it had been forgotten, designed to disappear. Pale gray concrete walls, narrow, smoked glass windows, and a battered metal plaque out front that read: Windsor Bureau of Vital Statistics and Public Records. The font was peeling. The air felt colder here, somehow heavier. It matched the dull weight in your chest.

You parked in the farthest spot from the door, half by instinct, half from habit. Always stay near an exit. Always keep your line of sight clear.

“Waahhhhhh!”

Just as you reached down to unbuckle your seatbelt, Sylvia’s cry ripped through the silence. Sharp, raw, and immediate.

Your heart jerked. Panic surged. That all-too-familiar jolt hit you like a switchblade—tightening your chest, punching the air from your lungs. You turned, eyes wide, already reaching for the baby bag in the back.

“Ah…right,” you whispered to yourself. “Have to feed and change you.”

Her wailing continued, loud and furious, her tiny fists flailing as her face scrunched up in agony. You fumbled with the straps of the car seat, your fingers unsteady as you lifted her up and cradled her against your shoulder. Her body was hot from crying, her little breaths hitching. You felt guilt coil like wire around your ribcage.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” you murmured as you pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “You're not gonna wither away, I promise.”

You quickly laid her down across the passenger seat, using a worn blanket to line the space, your hands clumsy but practiced. The cold air made her shriek louder. Your movements felt too slow, too fragile. Your fingers trembled as you undid the diaper and reached for wipes, whispering reassurances to her between shallow breaths.

Each motion felt like it took forever. Her cries scraped at your nerves like claws, making you sweat despite the cold. You worked with robotic focus, pushing past the shaking in your limbs, trying not to snap from the rising pressure of it all. You cleaned her quickly, efficiently, your hands gentle even though your mind was racing.

When the fresh diaper was on, you scooped her back into your arms, cradling her with the practiced awkwardness of someone who had no choice but to learn as they went. You positioned her against your chest and tried not to flinch when she squirmed and twisted.

And then, finally—finally—she latched.

The sound of her rhythmic sucking was like a switch being flipped.

You exhaled hard, your body sagging against the seat in pure, unfiltered relief. Your head rested back, and your arms curled tighter around her. Her warmth pressed into your chest like a heartbeat syncing with your own. The tension drained from your shoulders in waves.

She was feeding. She was safe. You were here. You hadn’t failed—not this time.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away. One thing at a time. You held her close, ran your hand gently across her soft hair, and focused on the steady sound of her breathing, of her swallowing.

Outside the car, the wind moved lazily across the lot, stirring a few scattered leaves. The building waited in silence.

Inside, your world narrowed to one precious, fragile rhythm. Her body against yours. Her trust. Her need.

As Sylvia fed, nestled in your arms with the comforting, fragile weight of her tiny body warming your chest, she stirred slightly. Her eyelids fluttered—long, damp lashes trembling like the wings of a moth—and then, slowly, with a soft squint against the morning light spilling through the windshield, her eyes opened.

They caught yours.

For one suspended moment, the world fell away. The buildings beyond the car vanished. The weight in your lungs, the gnawing ache in your spine, the bitter residue of adrenaline—all of it evaporated. Her gaze, soft and unfocused, wandered across your face, as though trying to recognize you from some distant dream. The red of her irises gleamed like rubies, so startling and vivid that it nearly stole your breath.

Your chest constricted. A dozen feelings swelled inside you at once, colliding in a dizzying storm—happiness so sharp it stung, guilt so deep it rooted in your gut, anxiety that whispered of everything you’d done wrong, and pride so intense it threatened to knock you flat. You had no idea how one look from her could unravel you so completely. She looked so peaceful. So present. So trusting.

Even after the doorstep.

Even after the note.

Even after the moment you’d nearly chosen fear over love.

She was here, breathing quietly, feeding from your body like nothing had ever gone wrong. Like her world had never fractured. Like you had never fractured.

Things between you both were still complicated. Just because you went back for her didn't mean everything was perfect now. But you were managing your emotions with her a lot better. You were becoming less frustrated with her too. There were still so many mysteries to unravel about her, but at the very least...she hadn't warped your mind again. You definitely wanted to avoid that again, so you had been quick to meet all her needs within a timely manner.

Were you doing it out of guilt or true determination to be a better mother? Both? You didn't know.

You realized then—sickly, with a weight that settled deep in your bones—that you still weren’t used to talking to her. To really engaging with her as a person, not a responsibility. A baby, yes—but still a person. A soul. You’d barely spoken to her these past six weeks, almost seven weeks. You had muttered things here and there, halfhearted reassurances, commands out of desperation. But actual words? Connection? You hadn’t given her much of that.

You were too wrapped in survival. Too broken. Too afraid.

But now, sitting in the relative quiet of the car, just the two of you wrapped in warmth, you found your voice again.

“Hi, Sylvie,” you whispered, your voice soft and low, thick with something unnamable. You tilted your head toward her, letting your cheek rest against the top of her head, breathing her in. A soft, tentative smile tugged at your lips. Her skin smelled faintly of milk and that warm, earthy scent unique to babies—like sunlight and life.

You had even gave her a little nickname. It helped when you had something just between the two of you.

Sylvia made a tiny grunt in response, her brows twitching slightly, and her gaze flickered once more across your face. Then, out of nowhere—like a miracle or a mercy—her lips curled into the smallest, most imperfect smile.

It was crooked. Fleeting. Probably accidental.

But it obliterated you.

Your whole soul cracked open. Emotion surged through your chest like floodwater bursting a dam. It was nothing, really. A twitch, maybe. A newborn’s experiment in facial movement. You weren’t even sure how well a six-week-old could focus yet. Most days she seemed lost in her own haze of sensations, unable to fully see or respond to much at all.

But right now? You let yourself believe.

You let yourself believe it was for you.

A smile.

Your breath trembled out of you in a soft, shaky exhale as you reached a hand up to gently cup her cheek, your thumb brushing the faintest smudge of milk from the corner of her mouth. She blinked once, still suckling, completely unaware that she’d just altered something essential in you.

That belief—that impossible, miraculous belief—held you together. It gave you just enough strength to breathe. To sit upright. To think about unbuckling your seatbelt. To carry her into that building that terrified you.

Because if she could still look at you like that—smile at you like that—after everything… then maybe you weren’t too far gone.

Maybe this wasn’t irreparable.

Maybe you could do this.

Just as you were soaking in the sweetness of the moment, letting that rare flicker of peace settle over you like a soft blanket, Sylvia’s little body stiffened slightly. Her previously contented breathing hitched, her limbs tensed, and then she let out a low, gurgling sound that immediately yanked you from your fragile calm. It wasn’t the normal whimper of discomfort—it had an edge to it, a wetness that sent your nerves bristling. Instinct surged through you like electricity. Your arms moved before your brain even fully caught up. You quickly shifted her upright in your lap, your hand moving to support the back of her neck as your other gently patted her tiny back.

She had been drinking far too quickly. You’d felt it—the frantic, greedy rhythm of her feeding, the desperate pulls, the hurried swallows. It had struck you as intense even in the moment, but you’d chalked it up to hunger. She hadn’t eaten much milk earlier and between the chaos figuring out the next steps and the long hours of driving and hiding, you couldn’t blame her. Her hunger had built up like pressure in a bottle, and now her body was protesting the flood.

You murmured to her in a low, trembling voice—reassuring, repetitive noises, something between a lullaby and a prayer—as she stiffened again. You gently rubbed her back in small, slow circles, whispering, "It’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re alright now, just breathe, baby girl."

You reached one hand into the baby bag, fishing blindly for a wipe or burp cloth, anything soft to clean up the thin trail of milk that had begun to bead on her lips. You were still focused on her face, on the tiny gasps she made, on her furrowed brow—when it happened.

Without warning, she jerked forward in your arms and let loose a shockingly powerful stream of vomit. It came out in a burst, hot and wet, and splashed directly onto your chest and shirt with a sickening sound. The sheer force of it startled you so much that your whole body went rigid.

"Shit…" you muttered, breathless and frozen, staring down at the warm, curdled mess soaking through the front of your clothes. The smell hit you a second later—sour milk, stomach acid, and a faint trace of whatever she’d digested. You blinked, stunned, trying to mentally catch up with what had just happened.

Sylvia, on the other hand, looked utterly unbothered. In fact, she seemed relieved. Her tiny shoulders relaxed, her limbs going slack in your arms like all the tension had drained from her. She sighed—an actual sigh—as if she'd just finished a long, exhausting task. Her eyelids fluttered halfway shut, and her mouth opened slightly in post-vomit serenity.

You sat there for a long second, silent, staring at your ruined shirt, the puddle of spit-up slowly cooling against your skin. A strange calmness settled over you, and you weren’t sure whether to burst into laughter or tears.

And then you laughed.

It came out of nowhere—sudden, raw, and breathless. A laugh born of exhaustion, disbelief, and something close to joy. You looked at her peaceful face, at her complete indifference to the chaos she’d caused, and you laughed harder. A genuine laugh. The kind that broke through tension like sunlight cracking through storm clouds.

"Bound to happen eventually… right?" you said aloud, more to yourself than anyone else. Your voice was dry, touched with rueful amusement, but also something deeper—gratitude, maybe. Relief that this moment was normal. Messy, gross, inconvenient—but normal.

Still chuckling softly, you reached back into the bag and pulled out a wipe, then another, and began the careful, resigned process of cleaning yourself up. You wiped her mouth, wiped your shirt, grimaced at the wet patch now clinging to your skin.

Sylvia let out a soft coo and shifted slightly in your lap. Her little hands clenched and unclenched as if she were trying to reach for something.

You exhaled through your nose and shook your head, still smiling despite everything. For all the unpredictability, the fear, the danger—you had her.

And for now, that was enough.

You were grateful, at least, that you’d had the foresight to keep all your things packed in the car. In the chaos of recent days, that simple bit of planning was now saving you from a total breakdown. It made the aftermath easier to handle, even if only slightly. A clean shirt was within reach, tucked into one of the outer compartments of the large canvas bag you’d crammed with every semi-useful item back at the motel—extra layers, diapers, wipes, a few granola bars, and whatever baby supplies you could hastily gather when you'd left. You changed quickly in the front seat, your movements jerky and mechanical, more instinct than energy. Your fingers were cold and a bit stiff as they gripped the fabric, and you shivered as you peeled off the damp shirt, the vomit now cool and sour-smelling against your skin. You muttered under your breath as you tugged the clean shirt over your head, trying not to gag.

Sylvia blinked sleepily in her car seat, her little hands twitching now and then, her expression blissfully neutral—completely unaware of the havoc she'd caused. The mess on the backseat wasn’t terrible, all things considered. Most of it had landed on you and a small patch of the passenger seat. Still, you had to act quickly. A few wipes and a lot of elbow grease later, the worst of it was cleared. The faint smell lingered, though—acidic and sour, impossible to ignore. You cracked the windows slightly, letting in a gust of freezing air that made your eyes water but cleared your head.

By the time you’d cleaned yourself up, redressed, and strapped Sylvia snugly to your chest using the wrap carrier, the sun had crept higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the lot. Mid afternoon, by the feel of it. The cold still bit through every exposed surface of your skin—your ears, the tip of your nose, your fingers through your gloves—but at least the sun was shining. A weak, pale thing, obscured by hazy clouds, but there was still something hopeful about the way it filtered through the brittle winter branches and glinted off the rooftops.

You took a moment before closing the car door, pausing with one hand on the handle. You adjusted the wrap so it covered more of Sylvia’s head, tucking the edges gently around her ears and forehead. The sunlight wasn’t harsh, but her skin was so sensitive, and the cold air sharp enough to turn her cheeks cold. She didn’t fuss at your touch—just squirmed a little and then nuzzled closer into your chest with a soft grunt that might’ve been a complaint or a sigh. Her head rested just under your chin, and the warmth of her against your body grounded you more than you expected.

You let your hand linger at the base of her neck for a second longer, feeling her heartbeat through the layers of fabric. It was a tiny thing—fluttering, steady—but unmistakably strong.

You exhaled slowly and looked toward the building looming ahead.

It was every bit as unwelcoming as you'd imagined. Square and severe, its exterior was coated in a dull shade of municipal gray, the kind that made everything around it seem colder. The narrow windows were tinted to the point of opacity, revealing nothing of the life—or lack thereof��inside. A weather-worn metal plaque, bolted beside the front doors, read: "Windsor Bureau of Vital Statistics and Public Records." The letters were faded and scratched, nearly invisible unless the light hit them just right.

You stared at the sign for a long beat, swallowing hard. This was it. The next step.

You started walking.

Each step toward the entrance felt heavier than the last. Not physically, not yet, but emotionally. Every stride forward meant leaning harder into this fragile, unsteady future you were trying to piece together. You could almost hear your past trailing behind you, whispering doubts, dragging its feet. But you didn’t stop.

Sylvia shifted slightly against your chest, her fingers curling and uncurling as she adjusted herself in sleep. For once, her presence didn’t send your nerves into overdrive. It brought you back to earth.

You stepped into the building and were immediately greeted by a rush of warm air that wrapped around you like a blanket, instantly thawing the sting in your fingers and the stiff tension in your spine. The contrast from the biting cold outside was a small but welcome relief, and your shoulders relaxed just slightly as the door clicked shut behind you. The lighting was a harsh fluorescent glow, casting long, sterile beams over the linoleum floor, but it somehow felt less intimidating than you’d feared. The air smelled faintly of old paper, musty heating vents, and hand sanitizer—bureaucracy in scent form.

Reminded you of the UNICORNS building back in Linkon.

You allowed yourself a moment to just breathe. The silence of the hallway echoed behind you, and with it, the cold, frantic chaos of the outside world seemed to fall away for the briefest of seconds. Here, in this dull municipal bubble, you might pass as just another citizen going about her mundane business.

A single long hallway stretched ahead of you, flanked by grey walls and cluttered bulletin boards with notices and out-of-date posters. The scuffed linoleum floor reflected the overhead lights in dull streaks. Arrows on suspended signs pointed in different directions—"Vital Records," "Marriage Licenses," "Archives." You didn’t hesitate. You followed the signs toward the section labeled Vital Records, adjusting Sylvia slightly against your chest as she stirred, her tiny fingers curling briefly in her sleep before going slack again.

The hallway opened into a modest foyer, a wider space filled with the low buzz of conversation, the rhythmic tap of typing, and the soft hum of copiers and printers working in the background. Several rows of people stood in slow-moving lines before tall glass service windows, each marked by a glowing number panel above. The counters were manned by clerks in light-blue button-ups and name tags, heads bent over keyboards, flipping through papers, or answering questions in tired monotone.

You joined the line near a touchscreen kiosk mounted against the wall, where numbers were being distributed in order of arrival. As you waited, you gently rocked back and forth, pressing your hand instinctively against Sylvia’s back, feeling the warm, steady rise and fall of her breathing through the wrap.

What were you even going to say?

You glanced around the room, heart pounding, eyes scanning for inspiration or some fragment of a believable lie. You couldn’t afford to falter here. Every word you said would be documented, possibly scrutinized if you said too much—or too little. You needed a reason. A story that would justify your lack of documents, of mailing address, of medical records, of anything. You needed something solid, something human, something they wouldn’t question.

Your eyes drifted upward to the small flatscreen television mounted in the corner above the waiting area. The volume was low, little more than a murmur behind the quiet buzz of the room, but the headline scrolling across the screen snagged your attention like a hook in the skin:

"Wanderer Attack Engulfs Eastport — Thousands Displaced in Wake of Sudden Influx of Wanderers. Emergency Services Confirm Partial Evacuation Zone. Local Government Declares State of Emergency."

Footage played silently beneath the banner: smoke billowing into the sky, scorched streets littered with debris, emergency responders hosing down rubble that had caught fire, carrying soot-covered survivors away from the devastation. Aerial shots showed entire blocks of broken remains, neighborhoods reduced to skeletons of what they’d been. Thousands of dead Wanderers littered the streets. Families huddled under blankets in makeshift evacuation centers. The kind of disaster that sent records into flames and people into the wind.

Your breath hitched. Holy shit.

Eastport. It wasn’t far—only an hour or two from here probably?

Your pulse spiked, both from nerves and a spark of relief. It was a tragedy. A very real one. And yet, it could be your salvation.

This was it.

The perfect excuse.

A plausible, well-documented reason to have lost everything—paperwork, identification, official documents. No need to invent something convoluted or fake. This was current, verifiable, and public. A tragedy large enough to create chaos, to make bureaucratic systems glitch. It would explain the lack of consistent medical records for Sylvia. It would explain your missing IDs. It was sad, and chaotic, and it made you someone in need of help—not someone to be suspicious of.

You could say you’d been staying with a friend temporarily in Eastport when it happened. That your apartment building had been stormed by hundreds of Wanderers. That you’d barely made it out. That you’d had no time to grab your things—just the baby and the diaper bag. The rest had been lost in the attack. You were now displaced, like thousands of others. Trying to recover your life, one paper at a time.

Besides. It wouldn't technically be a complete lie. Something very similar happened to Linkon when you were a child. It made you shiver just thinking about it honestly.

Your hand tightened just slightly around the curve of Sylvia’s back. She shifted and let out a soft, sleepy sigh, nuzzling deeper into your chest, unaware of the storm of planning and fear churning beneath your skin.

You swallowed hard, keeping your gaze fixed on the screen for a moment longer as your thoughts fell into place.

The lie was forming—built not out of malice, but necessity. Not fiction, but survival. And it might just be enough to carry you through.

You turned back to the line, took your ticket from the kiosk when it buzzed, and exhaled as you moved to take your seat.

You kept your eyes fixed on the television screen in the corner, trying to distract yourself as the minutes crawled by. The disaster coverage had ended nearly fifteen minutes ago, and in its place was now something drastically more cheerful—a baking competition show complete with overly chipper hosts, colorful kitchen sets, and dramatic close-ups of collapsing soufflés and half-burnt pastries. You didn't really like this particular show. Something about the forced drama of icing disasters and cake deadlines never sat right with you. But today, the distraction was welcome. Even the artificial tension of poorly piped frosting was enough to keep your mind from spiraling into dark places.

Sylvia stirred softly against your chest, her tiny body radiating steady warmth through the wrap. She let out a small sneeze that caused her whole body to tense. You adjusted the wrap slightly, tucking the edges a little closer to her cheek, and eased deeper into your seat.

The ambient noise in the room—shuffling feet, low murmurs, the occasional cough—was muted beneath the sounds of baking commentary and whirring mixers. You let it wash over you, a dull, constant hum that helped blur your nerves.

Until you heard something that didn’t belong.

Voices.

Not the low, tired voices of people discussing forms and documents. Not the customer service tone of a clerk giving instructions. These were sharper, more urgent. Male voices, speaking in hushed tones that carried just enough authority to slice through the ambient fuzz of the room.

“He’s here? Should we secure the building and get everyone to leave?” one voice said, tense and clipped.

There was a pause. Then a second voice answered, steadier. Measured. Unfazed.

“No. He shouldn’t have gone far. Probably hiding in the bathroom. He won’t make a scene. I’ll make sure of it.”

Your whole body tensed. The voice—it scratched at your memory like claws on glass. Familiar in a way that made your skin crawl. You couldn’t place it right away, but the tone, the cool confidence—it lodged itself into your brain like a splinter.

You held your breath, ears straining to pick up more, but the voices faded, swallowed by the hallway behind the frosted glass door labeled STAFF ONLY. Still, the fragments were enough to spike your pulse. A heavy unease settled in your stomach, tightening with every beat of your heart.

Who’s here? you wondered, panic rising in your throat. And why did that voice sound so—

Your thoughts were abruptly cut off by a mechanical chime and the calm, automated voice overhead.

“Number 245, please step forward.”

The words hit you like a jolt. You blinked, disoriented, as if yanked out of a dream. You looked up to see the digital sign blinking a number. that was your number. It was your turn.

You stood slowly, every muscle in your legs stiff and uncertain, your grip tightening around Sylvia instinctively. You adjusted the wrap again, ensuring she was secure against your chest, even though her breathing remained steady and undisturbed. You could feel your palms beginning to sweat.

The walk to the glass window felt longer than it should have. Each step echoed faintly in the tile-floored room, your boots sounding too loud, too deliberate. You passed other waiting faces—some bored, some distracted, others half-asleep—and felt like they were all looking through you.

You forced yourself to put one foot in front of the other.

You tried to focus. Tried to remember the story you were supposed to tell. The reason you were here. The fabricated narrative you’d rehearsed in your head so many times it should’ve felt natural by now.

You shuffled quickly to the designated window, your boots squeaking faintly against the floor. The glass barrier felt taller than it should’ve, imposing and cold under the overhead lighting, but you forced yourself to push through the nerves and meet the eyes of the clerk on the other side. A young woman with warm brown skin and tight curls pinned neatly behind her ears looked up and offered you a bright, practiced smile, the kind that conveyed both efficiency and a touch of warmth.

Her desk was modestly decorated, personalized in the way someone tried to make long hours in a bureaucratic setting feel less sterile. A small potted succulent stood proudly by her monitor, its leaves glossy and thriving. A coffee mug, half full and still steaming faintly, rested beside a stack of neatly organized papers. And right in the corner, propped up beside a tiny calendar, was a framed photograph of her and a little girl. The child sat perched on her lap, both of them dressed in matching summer dresses, their cheeks pressed together as they grinned wide for the camera. The sight tugged at something deep within you—an ache that was equal parts admiration and grief.

"Hi there!" she chirped, her fingers already flying across the keyboard with a kind of fluid, practiced speed that told you she had probably done this routine a thousand times. Her voice had a lilting cheerfulness to it, soft but energetic, and she looked genuinely ready to help. "How can I help you today?"

You took a step forward, shifting Sylvia in her wrap as your hand instinctively came up to rest on the back of her head.

"Hi, um...I’m here to get copies of—all my personal records," you said, your voice quieter than intended, the edges of it raspy with the effort it took to sound composed. It wasn’t exhaustion that weighed on you now, but anxiety. You watched the clerk carefully for even the slightest flicker of suspicion. But instead of narrowing her eyes or pausing with wariness, she nodded and glanced at her screen, fingers continuing their soft clacking rhythm.

"Sure thing," she said with casual ease, not looking up yet. "Do you have any form of ID with you, or...?"

"I...was in the Wanderer attack last week," you interrupted, the lie sitting on your tongue like something half-swallowed. You swallowed hard. "I lost everything. For me and my daughter."

You hoped the tremble in your voice read as emotional trauma rather than nerves from bending the truth.

The clerk paused, her hands stilling over the keyboard. Her brow furrowed, not with skepticism but something gentler—concern, empathy.

"God," she said softly, shaking her head slightly. "I’m so sorry. That must’ve been terrifying."

You gave a slow nod, willing your throat not to close up. Even if it was a lie, the reality you were drawing from—the loss, the fear, the displacement—was all real. Just from another disaster. Another monster. One with a name.

"It was," you whispered.

She nodded again and leaned slightly toward her monitor, tapping a few keys as her eyes scanned the screen. "Okay, we’ll get you and your little one squared away. Don’t worry, you’re not the only person we’ve had in this week from that area."

Your eyes widened slightly, the tension in your shoulders relaxing by a fraction. So the story wasn’t even unusual. You were just another statistic to her, another face among many, and that worked perfectly in your favor.

"Let’s start with the basics. Birth certificate? ID? Social? Insurance records? What do you need replaced specifically?"

You gave a small nod, more confident this time. "All of it, please."

"Alright," she replied, her tone shifting into something more formal now as she began guiding you through the process. "We’ll start with your name and date of birth, then we’ll move on to anything related to your daughter. Just answer as best you can, and we’ll get everything submitted for reissue."

As she began entering your details into the system, you followed her prompts, giving your answers carefully and evenly. The routine helped. The predictability of her questions gave your mind a break from its endless looping of fear and speculation. For the first time in what felt like weeks, you were moving forward—however cautiously.

But beneath the veneer of calm, a single thread of unease remained knotted in your chest.

Because the voice you’d heard in the hallway—that voice still echoed in your mind.

And no matter how normal this moment felt, no matter how helpful the clerk was, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched.

As you began reciting the basics—your name, date of birth, and other simple identifying details—you found your voice becoming steadier with each answer. The familiarity of the information, the rote memory of it, was almost soothing. It gave you something to hold on to amidst the ever-churning uncertainty. You had rehearsed this part in your head countless times while driving aimlessly through Windsor’s streets, while Sylvia slept in the back seat and your hands gripped the steering wheel hard enough to ache. Repetition had turned these facts into a script. You could say them half-conscious now.

The clerk nodded along, her manicured fingers dancing across the keyboard with the precision of someone who could do this job in her sleep. Her eyes flicked occasionally to the screen, then back to her monitor, her expression calm and efficient. There was something almost comforting in her rhythm, in how little she seemed to think twice about what you were saying. No suspicion. No hesitation. Not yet.

But then she paused.

"So I looked you up in the system," she said, her brows pinched slightly in focus as her fingers slowed their pace. She clicked a few more times, scrolling through records, her lips moving subtly as she read silently. "And it seems your last recorded address was in…" Another click. Her gaze narrowed slightly. "Linkon City? Is that correct?"

You felt your breath catch like a hook in your throat. Panic curled low and tight in your belly.

You took in a slow, deliberate inhale, then nodded, fighting to keep your expression composed. "Yes," you said quietly, your voice thin and just above a whisper. "I was staying with my friend when it happened. I was planning on moving down there...that’s why I had most of my stuff with me."

The clerk offered a sympathetic nod, apparently satisfied with the explanation, and resumed typing. Her gentle smile never wavered, and you exhaled softly through your nose, clinging to that flicker of relief. You told yourself she had no reason to doubt you. People lost everything in disasters all the time. Stories got jumbled. Details fell through the cracks. Your narrative wasn’t suspicious. If anything, it was all too common.

"What did you say your daughter’s name was?" she asked, voice soft, still focused on her screen.

"Sylvia," you said, clearing your throat. You instinctively pulled her a bit closer, her sleeping form nestled against your chest, a grounding weight.

"Last name?"

Your stomach tightened into a knot. There it was. The moment you’d been dreading.

You hesitated just a fraction too long. The clerk didn’t seem to notice, but your silence rang loud in your ears. You grimaced but pushed through it, forcing the words out. You told her your last name, almost too quickly. It didn’t sound right—foreign, dissonant—but you hoped it would pass.

The clerk nodded and typed, humming thoughtfully.

"Place of birth?" she asked next, glancing up at you for just a moment before returning to the screen. "Was she born at a hospital? If she had a birth certificate, I should be able to look up her record of birth"

You froze.

The room felt suddenly too quiet, too still. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead grew louder in your ears. A cold sweat prickled at the back of your neck. Your heartbeat began to thud unevenly.

Your mind flashed violently to that night. Clara's house. The Sawshredder outside. The creaking floorboards. The way you’d groaned and writhed on the floor. The burning pain, the overwhelming fear, the way your hands had trembled so badly you could barely hold her when you woke up. There had been no monitors. No nurses. No ID tags or sterile sheets. Just you and her. And the blood. And her first cries.

There was no record. No digital footprint. No hospital signature.

Shit.

Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. The clerk looked up again, blinking in gentle expectation, as though waiting for something routine.

You blinked, your mouth suddenly dry, and you gave a brittle smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The weight of the silence between you stretched unbearably, and you knew—whatever you said next had to be good. It had to hold. Because everything, absolutely everything, now depended on it.

You blinked rapidly, scrambling for something—anything—that wouldn’t raise suspicion. You couldn't afford to freeze now. Swallowing hard, you forced your expression into something resembling calm, even as your mind spun with panic. Sylvia stirred softly against your chest, as if sensing your tension, her little fingers curling into the fabric of your coat.

"She wasn’t born at a hospital," you said quickly, your voice hushed but steady, latching onto the first version of the story you’d rehearsed. "I did get her registered, though. It was...not the smoothest process. They took forever to send me her documents, and honestly, I’m not even sure they ever fully completed the registration. It felt like they were rushing everything—said they were overwhelmed at the time."

You watched the clerk’s expression closely. Her fingers, which had been flying across the keyboard with practiced ease, slowed a bit, her brow knitting as she processed the information.

"That happens more than people think," she said thoughtfully, her voice softening into something close to maternal empathy. "Especially with smaller clinics or during emergencies. I can check the system for partial entries or flagged submissions. If there’s even a temporary file, we’ll find it."

You gave a small nod, forcing a smile despite the sweat beginning to gather at the base of your neck. You could feel it trickling down your spine, cold and anxious. Keep calm, you told yourself. Just keep calm.

But then, just as you thought you were in the clear, the clerk’s fingers paused mid-keystroke again. Her smile faltered slightly as her eyes flicked up to meet yours.

"Wait—sorry, I’m just confused for a second," she said, tilting her head a bit. "You said earlier that her documents were lost with yours during the attack, didn’t you?"

Your stomach dropped like a stone.

Shit.

The inconsistency had slipped past you. You’d been so focused on staying calm, on controlling your tone and your body language, that you hadn’t noticed you were contradicting yourself. The panic that surged through you now was sharper than before, laced with the bitter taste of regret. You should have been more careful.

You let out a small, nervous laugh, raising a hand in a sheepish gesture as if to wave away the error.

"Oh! Silly me," you said, your voice climbing half an octave too high. You forced a breathy laugh to try and smooth it over. "Sorry—I’m still pretty shaken up from the attack. I probably didn’t word that right. I meant—I meant all of our stuff in general was lost. Not the documents specifically. Everything happened so fast, I’ve barely had time to breathe, let alone think straight."

The clerk studied you for a moment, her eyes flicking briefly to the baby snuggled against your chest, then back to your face. The moment hung in the air like a fragile thread, the weight of her silence heavy.

Then she smiled again, the tension in her expression easing.

"No worries," she said, her tone light once more. "Happens to the best of us. Trauma messes with your memory—especially with little ones to take care of. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve heard similar stories just this week. We can get her registered here!"

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from sighing too loudly in relief. That had been close. Too close. You glanced down at Sylvia, who had settled again, her tiny mouth forming a contented "o." Her trust in you, her innocence—it was both a balm and a burden.

But for now, you were still in the clear. No alarms. No scrutiny. The clerk returned to her typing.

She walked you through the rest of the process with practiced, gentle efficiency, her voice steady and calm as she guided you through the checklist of required documentation. A steady stream of questions came your way—some routine, some unexpectedly difficult—and you did your best to answer each one with clarity. Internally, though, you repeated dates and details like a mantra, clinging to them as if they were a lifeline. Sylvia’s birthdate came back to you without hesitation—burned into your body as much as your mind, a moment etched into your bones. You gave it confidently, though your heart was still pounding from the earlier stumble with your story.

When the clerk asked about the place of birth, you said Brunswick. That, at least, wasn’t a fabrication. Clara's house had technically been just outside the town’s limits, and given the rural sprawl of the area, it wasn’t hard to imagine things falling through the cracks. You leaned into that. Small towns didn’t always run on precise systems. Overworked staff, underfunded facilities, patchy digital records—it was all plausible. And that plausibility was your shield.

As the more technical, verification-heavy questions began to taper off, you felt your muscles start to unwind, just slightly. It was subtle, like your body had only just remembered how to breathe again after hours—days—of holding itself rigid. The tension in your neck began to loosen. Your jaw unclenched. Your fingers, once curled into trembling fists, finally relaxed their hold on Sylvia’s wrap. For the first time since stepping into this sterile, fluorescent-lit office, you allowed yourself the faintest flicker of hope.

Sylvia would be a legally recognized person.

Even if something happened to you—if Sylus found you, if you were forced to run again, or worse—your daughter wouldn’t be invisible anymore. She wouldn’t be a ghost in the system. She would have a name. A record. A tie to the world that no one, not even him, could erase. You’d fought so hard for that. Even in your most uncertain moments, that mission had kept you upright.

The clerk glanced over her screen one more time, eyes darting quickly through the final forms before giving a small, approving nod. She smiled again—a warm, tired kind of smile—and pressed one last key with a soft click that felt louder than it should have.

"So, I’ve got everything put down here," she said, her tone friendly but clipped by the weight of bureaucracy. "Unfortunately, we’re pretty backed up right now. Budget cuts and overflow from the Eastport evacuees have really slowed our timelines. So, pickup option won’t be available for these. I’ll need a residential address to send the documents to..."

You blinked.

Residential address.

Your stomach dropped. That wasn’t good. Not at all. Panic flared low and fast in your chest, though you kept your face neutral.

"And," the clerk added, tilting her head slightly in sympathy, her tone softening further, "it’ll be at least three months before the documents arrive. Possibly longer, depending on processing delays."

You nodded, slowly, though your mind was already spinning.

A residential address. Three months. Possibly longer.

You didn’t have an address anymore. Not a real one. Not one you could afford to leave on record. The idea of staying in one place for that long—of anchoring yourself to any location—felt dangerous. Risky. Almost laughably naïve. You’d been moving spots every few days, never lingering too long in one spot. Leaving a trail, even a bureaucratic one, could lead him straight to you.

But this—this was the cost, wasn’t it? This was what it meant to try to pass as normal. To forge a place in the world for your child, even when you were living on borrowed time and fractured nerves. You wanted Sylvia to grow up with a paper trail, with records and identity and rights. You wanted her to have a shot at the life you never had a chance to build.

You swallowed hard, forcing down the panic rising steadily inside your chest. You couldn’t afford to freeze again. Not here. Not now.

You’d figure something out. You had to.

You felt the tears begin to well in your eyes before you could stop them. The tightness in your chest, the pressure building in your throat—it was too much. You hadn’t slept properly in days, hadn’t eaten anything meaningful, your nerves frayed to the brink. And now this? Another obstacle. Another reminder that even the most basic steps forward could slam you back into helplessness. It was all too much.

“I obviously don’t have an address,” you said, the words tumbling from your mouth more forcefully than intended, your voice cracking at the edges. You blinked fast, trying to keep your vision from blurring. “Look—I’m not trying to be difficult. There has to be some other way, right? I can pay. For pickup here. If that’s what it takes, I’ll pay.”

Your voice pitched higher, edged in desperation. It wasn’t loud, but the emotion behind it was palpable—raw and trembling. The kind of desperation that made people lean in with pity or recoil with discomfort. You hated how vulnerable you felt in that moment, exposed and powerless, standing in a sterile office with your baby strapped to your chest and the weight of your past pressing on every breath.

The clerk’s expression softened even more, her brows knitting together as her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She didn’t seem irritated or skeptical—just sad. Understanding, even. Then, gently, she reached to the side and grabbed a tissue from the small box next to her monitor. Her movements were slow and considerate, like she was afraid moving too fast might make you shatter. She passed it to you through the opening at the bottom of the glass.

“I’m really sorry,” she said quietly, her voice laced with genuine empathy. “If there was more I could do for you, I would. I promise. But unfortunately, I’ll need an address to process the request. Otherwise…you’ll just have to come back once you have one.”

You took the tissue with trembling fingers and clutched it in your palm, your grip tight enough to crumple it. You barely remembered to wipe your cheek as the tears spilled anyway, hot and unwanted. One streaked down your jaw and dripped onto the collar of your coat. Your other hand clenched into a fist at your side, your knuckles turning straining as you tried to steady yourself. Tried to keep your knees from buckling under the weight of everything. Tried to keep breathing.

You nodded, the motion robotic, your mind blanking from the surge of stress. You couldn’t afford to fall apart here, in front of strangers, not with Sylvia nestled against your chest, warm and oblivious to the tension bleeding off of you.

“I… I—” you stammered, the words failing to materialize. You didn’t even know what you were trying to say. That you’d figure something out? That this was your only chance? That she didn’t understand what it meant to be on the run from someone like him?

Then, you felt it.

A hand on your shoulder. Firm. Familiar. Too familiar.

You turned sharply, your body reacting faster than your brain, prepared to shake off whatever well-meaning stranger thought now was the time to offer a hug or unsolicited support. But your breath caught the moment your eyes locked onto the figure behind you.

Dark brown hair, slightly tousled. The faintest smile on his face. And those eyes—violet-tinged, unmistakably sharp, framed by the sort of concern that wasn’t just polite but personal.

Your heart stuttered in your chest. Your limbs went rigid.

Your mouth parted, the air thick in your lungs, barely allowing the name to escape.

"Caleb…?"

The name felt foreign on your tongue, like saying it out loud might somehow conjure ghosts. His presence here, in this city, in this exact building, felt like a dream. He couldn't be here. Had you fully lost it now? The smoke...the fire...the heat...he was supposed to be dead.

But there he was.

His hand didn’t leave your shoulder. He glanced at the clerk behind the glass, his tone calm, controlled.

"Go ahead and send that to 4511 Skyhaven Avenue," he said, his voice clear, with the calm conviction of someone used to stepping in, taking charge.

You stood frozen, your entire body caught between disbelief and confusion. Caleb’s voice—steady, familiar—cut through the chaos in your mind like a knife, grounding you and knocking the breath out of you all at once.

Sylvia whimpered and squirmed on your chest, and you clutched her instinctively, your eyes locked on Caleb as if he might vanish the second you blinked.

What the hell was he doing here?

"You're...alive?"

There was no light, no warmth, no sense of time. Only a vast, numb stillness that stretched on without end, like being submerged beneath miles of water, every sound muffled, every thought sluggish and thick. The world—if it existed—was far, far away.

Xavier floated in a formless abyss, a space that wasn’t quiet so much as deafening with its lack of coherence. Sound came and went like faint radio static, warped and distorted beyond recognition. He wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t awake. He lingered in that strange liminal space in between, caught in a fog of fractured awareness. The boundaries of his own body felt blurred, uncertain. Thoughts came slowly, as if through molasses, fragmented and surreal. Somewhere in the background of his mind, he was dimly aware of sensation: flashes of motion, phantom pain crawling up his spine, and bruises he couldn't fully remember getting.

Voices came in and out, like memories from another lifetime—low and masculine, muttering in that warped underwater tone that made it impossible to discern individual words. The cadence was both foreign and familiar, like deja vu teasing just beyond reach. Then the voices stopped. The silence that followed was heavier than the murmurs—oppressive and ringing in his ears, pressing down on him like a physical weight.

Had they left?

Had he died?

Was this death? Not a dramatic end, but something slow and dissolving? A drift into nowhere?

He wasn’t afraid. There was no terror or resistance. Just the cold numb question lingering in the back of his foggy mind. Was this what the end felt like—endless gray, nothingness that neither hurt nor comforted, just lingered?

But then something shifted.

A whisper of sensation returned to him—a creeping awareness that crawled through his chest and down his arms. The gray veil around his mind began to peel back, just enough to let a flicker of the real world seep in.

Cold.

Hard.

A jolt of physical discomfort dragged him back. His cheek was pressed against something rough and unyielding—concrete or rusted metal, damp and freezing. It leached warmth from his skin, chilling him to his bones. His senses flared with sudden urgency. The air smelled sharp and metallic, like cleaning supplies. The longer he stayed still, the more vivid the world became. The ache in his limbs grew sharper. The numb fog began to burn away.

He tried to move. Just a twitch, a flex of his fingers, anything to prove to himself that he was still there. His eyelids fluttered. His jaw clenched, stiff as if it had been sealed shut for days. A sound escaped his throat—a broken, gravelly groan that startled even him. It sounded hollow, foreign.

He tried again.

He managed to shift his arm slightly—but it jerked to a halt.

Chains.

The clatter of iron links scraped against the ground and echoed into the walls. The noise, sudden and sharp, cut through the dullness like a blade. Panic stirred in his chest, low and simmering. He pulled again. The iron bit into his wrists. Pain flared, sudden and searing. The cuffs were tight—too tight—and heavy. His shoulders screamed from the strain, tendons stretched far beyond what was natural. Every small movement was a battle.

Breathing became a conscious act. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Each breath shallow, filtered through clenched teeth and an aching throat. He blinked harder this time. Light—faint and jaundiced—filtered in. A bare bulb, dangling from an exposed wire, swung overhead, casting erratic shadows that danced across concrete walls.

His head throbbed. His vision swam. The floor beneath him was cold enough to make his muscles seize. His body trembled not just from the chill, but from sheer exhaustion.

He lifted his head fractionally, groaning under the effort. His surroundings began to take shape, and for a brief second, confusion furrowed his brow. A basement, yes—but not the mold-infested, mildew-soaked dungeon he expected. The walls were smooth concrete, clean, almost sterile in their presentation. No visible mold, no dark smears of blood or old rust, no stench of decay. The floor was swept, free of clutter or filth. Not what he'd grown used to in his nightmares of captivity.

It was strange—how much worse that made it feel.

There was still no furniture. Just a lone toilet. No hint of humanity or comfort. Just four clean, lifeless walls and a light that buzzed faintly overhead. And he was still shackled like an animal. The cuffs bit into his wrists and ankles with familiar, cold cruelty. There was nothing kind about the room, even in its cleanliness. It was a place made to contain. Not punish—not yet. But to keep. To wait. To watch.

Everything hurt. From his skull to the soles of his feet. His back throbbed, his neck stiff, his wrists blistered. The soreness wasn’t just physical—it bled into his mind, into the memory of what had happened before he blacked out.

Right. He had walked himself to the outskirts of Linkon. Then those twins...

But he was alive. The bitter irony of that fact sank into his chest like a weight. His life had been chosen for him, preserved deliberately, like something kept on a shelf until needed. Not by chance. Not by luck. Someone had made the decision to keep him breathing, to chain his limbs instead of ending them, to watch instead of bury. And that meant only one thing—

He was still useful.

Sylus still needed something from him.

That thought carried more dread than the agony in his bones, more than the raw cold of the floor biting into his skin. Because whatever it was he wanted—it wouldn’t be with mercy. It wouldn’t be with kindness. No one went to this much trouble for a man they planned to let go.

The realization chilled him in a way the concrete never could. Not just physically, but to his core. Every beat of his heart felt like a countdown.

He wasn’t dead.

Not yet at least.

His body felt like it weighed a thousand tons, every limb anchored by exhaustion, pain, and the unbearable stiffness that came from hours—maybe days—of lying in the same position. A dull, bone-deep ache radiated through him, his joints pulsing with inflammation, his skin raw and oversensitive. Time was a blur. For what felt like an eternity, he didn’t even try to move again—only focused on the slow rise and fall of his chest, the rasp of cold air entering his lungs. His face was pressed to the ground, the concrete gritty against his cheek, and each breath brought the sharp scent of dust and disinfectant into his nostrils. It was sterile in a way that unsettled him—not dirty, not grimy, but empty. Intentionally so.

Eventually, through sheer force of will and stubborn instinct, Xavier shifted his weight. It was an agonizing process—his muscles screamed with protest, brittle with disuse, and every tendon felt pulled tight like overstretched wire. He gritted his teeth, sweat beading along his forehead, and began the slow, punishing journey to sit upright. Groaning, he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog that hung behind his eyes like a dense curtain. The overhead light—flickering in uneven intervals—stabbed at his senses, making his vision swim and his head pound.

He leaned onto one hip, trying to adjust, but the movement dragged his arm taut with a sudden, heavy jolt. Chains clinked loudly, echoing through the otherwise silent room. The iron cuff around his wrist tugged painfully at the skin, already rubbed raw. He lifted his arm as far as the restraint allowed, and the weight of the steel links pulled against him with mechanical indifference. The metal was cold and unyielding, too snug to slide over his wrist, too strong to force open. He could already feel the bruises deepening where the cuff dug into the bone. Any attempt to free himself without help—or a weapon—would be an act of self-mutilation.

Then came the ache. Deep, molten, and all too familiar. Something inside him stirred—unwelcome and instinctive. His Evol. It pulsed faintly under his skin like a second heartbeat, responding to his distress with a violent hunger. He watched helplessly as jagged scales emerged along his forearm, their edges gleaming with a faint iridescence. Crystalline shards bloomed alongside them, radiating a cold shimmer that lit the underside of his arm. The mutation brought with it a wave of agony, a boiling heat that surged from the base of his spine to the tips of his fingers.

He gasped sharply, his breath catching in his throat. The intensity of the pain broke him, sent him toppling backward with a thud that reverberated off the clean walls. His back hit the ground and the wind left his lungs. The chains followed him down, clinking in a rattling metallic cascade. He lay there again, his body limp, chest rising and falling in jagged, uneven breaths. Sweat slicked his brow, the warmth doing little to soothe the burning in his limbs. He felt like he was disintegrating from the inside out.

Seconds—or maybe minutes—passed before he dared open his eyes again. This time, he focused. The world returned in slow, deliberate pieces: the sterile concrete floor, the stark white-gray of the walls, the buzz of the bulb overhead. Everything was sharp in its emptiness. No furniture. Nothing but an expanse of cold space designed to contain, not comfort.

And then he saw it.

In the far upper corner of the room, subtle and quiet, almost camouflaged by the pale wall, sat a camera. Its lens pointed directly at him—watching, recording. A single red dot blinked steadily at its center, a mechanical heartbeat pulsing in time with his dread. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of adrenaline coursing through him.

Someone was watching. Had been watching. Probably since the moment he was dumped here.

He stared at the blinking eye for what felt like an eternity, his body frozen, his breath shallow. Anger stirred in his chest, mixing with fear and confusion. It settled in his gut like molten metal, heavy and slow-burning.

So. He wasn’t alone after all.

He was being observed. Studied.

"Get it over with, Sylus. Seems you were intent on killing me in the end anyway," Xavier rasped, his voice raw and ragged, scraping up from somewhere deep within his chest. Every word tasted like blood and metal, each syllable heavy with months of suffering. His eyes drifted shut, the lids leaden with exhaustion, his lashes crusted with sweat and dried tears. The weight pressing down on him wasn’t just physical—it was everything. The trauma. The hopelessness. The haunting repetition of pain. He braced himself for the inevitable: the soft click of the door, the precise footfalls of his tormentor, and finally, the unmistakable presence of Sylus, as cruelly composed as always.

He could picture him already—red-eyed and immaculate, hands folded behind his back, his lips curled in that smug, patronizing smile that always preceded something awful. Sylus never rushed. No, he was the type who liked to savor his victories, to drag them out. And what greater victory than watching Xavier crumble? He could almost hear the bastard’s voice now: calm, deliberate, dripping with theatrical smugness as he justified it all. As if it wasn’t pure sadism masked behind pretty words.

But there was no sound. No footsteps. No movement.

Only silence.

It stretched so long and thick it became unbearable. Even the low buzz of the overhead light seemed to fade into it, swallowed whole by the stillness. There was no key rattling in the lock. No shadows moving under the doorframe. Nothing but the echo of his own shallow, uneven breathing—harsh and rasping in the too-quiet room.

Xavier let out a breathy, bitter laugh that caught in his throat. His chest rose and fell in weak tremors. Of course. It was never that simple. There would be no swift end. No final blow to take it all away. After everything—the pain, the experiments, the dehumanizing silence, the betrayal—there was no mercy left for him. No release. The suffering would simply continue, unbroken, a slow unspooling of days filled with waiting and aching and dread.

His face contorted with pain as he shifted slightly, pulling against the cuffs instinctively before the sting reminded him of their bite. The bruises on his wrists pulsed in protest. He shut his eyes tighter, willing the thoughts away, but his mind wouldn’t let him rest. It spun back, like it always did, to the only image that offered warmth and torment in equal measure: you.

He remembered your face—not the version that was tear stricken when he last saw you, but the version he saw when things still made sense. When you fought side by side. When a future was still possible. He remembered the softness in your voice, the quiet steadiness that could settle even the chaos inside him. He saw you again, holding the baby. His chest twisted violently at the memory.

Were you somewhere in this house?

His eyes snapped open, sudden clarity cutting through the haze like a blade.

Were you and the baby nearby? Just through one of those walls? Could he scream loud enough to warn you? Would you even come if you heard him? Was that why he’d been brought here, not for torture, but for leverage?

His breathing hitched sharply. It felt like something inside him lit up—weak, small, but undeniable. Hope. It was dangerous. It was stupid. No way in hell Sylus would risk any chance that you knew he was here.

He let the thought hang in the air like a fragile thread, afraid to fully grasp it for fear it might unravel. Yet the possibility clawed at his insides. If you were here—if she was here—then he couldn’t give up. Not yet.

Even in chains. Even beaten and broken.

If there was a chance to protect you, to reach you, to somehow undo even a fraction of the damage Sylus had done—he would take it.

His muscles trembled as he shifted again, testing the weight of the chains, biting back another groan. It didn’t matter that he could barely move. It didn’t matter that he was alone and bruised and had no idea what was waiting for him beyond this moment.

He was breathing.

And that meant he still had a chance.

A reason to hold on.

A reason to fight.

So he waited.

There was nothing else to do—no sense of time, no stimuli beyond the fluorescent glare of a ceiling light that buzzed like a low, nagging headache lodged behind his temples. The world had shrunk down to this box, this moment, this airless silence. Xavier lay flat against the concrete floor, every inch of his body weighed down by soreness and bruises, his limbs heavy with fatigue. Sleep came in sputtering flickers, never fully arriving. The light wouldn’t let it. The ache in his spine wouldn’t let it. The chain tugging at his wrist every time he so much as shifted was a leash that yanked him back into this reality before his mind could wander too far.

He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to escape the sterile glare. Behind his eyelids danced fragmented images—flashes of fire, the scent of blood, the sound of you laughing once in the distant past. None of it stayed long. None of it stayed clear. Time passed like fog: weightless, formless, and cruelly slow.

It wasn’t until the low metallic groan of a door opening shattered the stillness that he shot upright, heart hammering. A jolt of adrenaline spiked through his system, sharp enough to override the pain for a moment. The sound of footsteps followed—slow, measured, deliberate. Heavy boots on concrete. The cadence of someone confident. Someone who didn’t have to rush.

Xavier twisted to see, but the chains dug in fast. The metal cuffs snapped against his skin, the linked restraints tugging him short. He hissed, body recoiling against the burn.

"I wouldn't struggle too much," came a voice—smooth, composed, tinged with dry amusement. "Those cuffs are programmed to detonate if removed or broken any other way besides the button I hold here."

Sylus.

Even before Xavier fully turned, he knew.

The voice alone was enough to coil his gut with revulsion. But as his eyes landed on him—on Sylus standing there at the entrance of the cell—it solidified something visceral. The bastard looked almost exactly the same, and yet entirely different. He still wore his signature composure like armor—his coat sharp, tailored, his posture upright—but there were cracks now. Fatigue hung under his red eyes, darkening them. His shoulders, though squared, carried something more than just authority now. Weight. Maybe even regret. But Xavier didn’t believe in it. Not from him.

Sylus held up a small black device between his fingers. Its blinking green light pulsed like a heartbeat.

Xavier stared, breath sharp and unsteady. He scanned the man from head to toe. Same white-grey hair, neat and well styled. Same crimson stare that always seemed to see too much. And yet, there was a stiffness to his stance. A tension that hadn’t been there before. It was subtle, but it was there.

"You’ve certainly seen better days, Sylus," Xavier muttered, voice rough as gravel, thick with disdain. The words tasted sour in his mouth.

Sylus arched a brow, the hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

"Likewise, Xavier," he said coolly, stepping farther into the room. The sound of his shoes echoed with every movement, punctuating the silence. "I suppose we’re both long past silly introductions, aren’t we? Doesn’t take much to see that."

The way he spoke, casual and deliberate, set Xavier’s teeth on edge. He wanted to stand. Wanted to lunge. But the cuffs burned at his wrists, the pain humming louder the more he tried to resist.

Sylus circled him slowly now, never quite closing the distance, like a predator sizing up a wounded rival. His gaze drifted over Xavier's frame with clinical curiosity, pausing at the edges of protruding scales, at the jagged shards still embedded in his forearms.

"You’re deteriorating faster than I expected," Sylus mused. "Though, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You were always somewhat reckless. Becoming EVER's free guinea pig wasn't your smartest choice."

Xavier didn’t respond immediately. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched tight. The pain in his body flared again, but he pushed through it, breathing through his nose. So what? Sylus was here to gloat? To revel in his misery?

"That was simply the price I had to pay to help the girl that I love," Xavier snarled, his voice edged with desperation and fire, words scraping out through a throat still raw from hours—no, days—of silence and pain. His bloodshot eyes blazed with fury, his chest heaving as he leaned forward despite the pull of the chains that dug brutally into his skin. He could feel the cold bite of the cuffs, but he didn’t care. He needed Sylus to hear that.

He needed him to know what love actually looked like, even if it came from a broken body.

"Love is a feeling a monster like you wouldn't know about."

The reaction was instantaneous.

There was no sound, no preparation. Just a blur of red mist, impossibly fast, and then a large hand snapping tight around his face. Sylus had crossed the room in the blink of an eye, a predator uncoiling from shadow to strike. One of his hands wrapped around Xavier’s throat and jaw, pressing with precise, terrifying force. Xavier’s breath hitched violently, a strangled gasp ripping from his chest as his head was yanked upward.

The pressure was immense.

His jaw protested under the weight of Sylus's grip, every bone in his face throbbing as if it might crack apart. His eyes watered instantly. Every instinct screamed to pull away, to fight—but he was restrained, helpless. Trapped.

Sylus’s face hovered mere inches from his own, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable but laced with menace. His right eye burned with unnatural intensity, casting a faint, eerie glow over both of their faces. It wasn’t just fury—it was a promise. A warning.

“I wouldn’t push my buttons right now,” Sylus snarled, his voice low, guttural, and thick with restrained violence. The kind of voice that made your blood turn cold. Each syllable carried weight, a slow-dripping venom laced with threat.

Xavier's limbs jerked uselessly beneath the restraints, his wrists bruising against the chains as he instinctively tried to pull away. But there was nowhere to go. His vision began to darken at the edges, the pressure in his skull mounting rapidly. It was happening again. That same choking force he’d felt back during that first car ride with Sylus—the moment he understood just how easily this man could end him.

It was power. It was control. And it was terrifying.

But just as the edges of his consciousness began to fray, Sylus released him. The sudden lack of pressure sent Xavier reeling, and he hit the floor with a harsh, echoing thud. The chains clattered loudly as his body collapsed, curling in slightly from the force. His back arched in reflex as he choked, struggling to suck air back into his lungs. Each gasp was ragged and painful, like breathing through shards of glass. The burn in his throat was unbearable.

His body convulsed once, twice, before he coughed hard, the sound ripping from deep within. His chest ached with every breath, and his mouth tasted of iron. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the stars from his vision, the light overhead swimming in and out of focus.

Then he heard it.

Laughter.

Low, dark, rich with cruelty—it echoed through the sterile room like a haunting. Sylus’s laugh was deliberate, drawn out, the sound of someone who reveled in their dominance. Someone who wanted his victim to know just how powerless they were.

The sound slithered into every corner of Xavier’s mind, crawling down his spine like ice water. He grit his teeth, fists clenched even within the shackles, as that laughter grew louder, filling the cold void of the basement like smoke.

"How pathetic of you to think you'd ever get the chance to raise my daughter with her," Sylus said, his tone low and deceptively measured. It carried the same cold steadiness he always used to wield power, but this time it trembled at the edges. There was something fractured beneath the surface—tension collecting in the way his jaw flexed with restraint, in the twitch beneath his right eye, in the deliberate control of each word that dripped with contempt. The venom in his voice was no longer just performative. It was personal. Deep-rooted. Raw.

Each word landed with precision, the kind meant to cut more than hurt—meant to scar. Designed to bleed.

Xavier lay sprawled on the floor, struggling to catch his breath, his chest heaving in irregular intervals as he fought to still the trembling in his limbs. His face was damp with sweat, blood matting near his jawline where the earlier chokehold had left its mark. He could still feel the ghost of Sylus’s grip lingering like a brand. Gasping through parted lips, he blinked hard, clearing the blur that refused to leave his vision. Every part of his body ached. Every nerve was screaming.

And yet, through it all, his mind remained sharp enough to catch the implication. Sylus knew. Somehow, impossibly—he knew about the dream. The one where Xavier had held her. You. And Evia. A world that had felt so distant, so unreal, like a fleeting fantasy stitched together by hope and desperation.

How did he know?

It didn’t take much to connect the dots. That cursed eye. That glowing crimson orb that stared too long and too deeply. Sylus’s Evol—Xavier had suspected it gave him insight beyond human limits. Maybe it let him glimpse into thoughts. Or dreams. Or fears. Maybe it was more than just sight—maybe it was surveillance of the soul.

Whatever it was, Xavier understood now that nothing he had imagined—nothing he had hoped—was truly private anymore.

Still, he said nothing. Not out of fear. Not out of submission. But because he recognized something in Sylus’s posture that chilled him more than any threat: unpredictability. The man looked composed, yes. But it was a hollow kind of poise, the kind that trembled at the seams. Xavier could see it in the tightness of his stance, the over-controlled cadence of his breath, the rigid way he stood as if restraining something primal. Rage. Jealousy. Something worse.

The Sylus Xavier had fought before was a strategist. Calculated. Unshakable.

This man? He was volatile.

And Xavier knew better than to provoke a man already dancing on the edge.

He drew in a slow, pained breath, the metallic tang of blood thick in his mouth. He could feel it trickling from his split lip, dripping in uneven lines down his chin. The chains binding his wrists had already rubbed the skin raw, and every movement felt like it peeled another layer away. But worse than the physical pain was the humiliation of being brought so low in front of him—of knowing that Sylus had glimpsed the one fragile piece of peace Xavier had left. And was now poised to crush it.

Sylus stepped forward again, each footfall deliberate, echoing in the sterile stillness of the basement. He loomed over Xavier like a stormcloud given form—his shadow stretching long across the cracked floor, swallowing the light.

"You're lucky you still have purpose," he hissed, the softness of the words belying the danger behind them. "Otherwise, I'd skin you alive for even daring to have such thoughts."

Xavier flinched—not from fear, but from the force of the words. They lashed through the air with lethal grace, razor-sharp and merciless. Each syllable seemed designed to dig into the already-bleeding cracks in Xavier’s mind, pressing down where it hurt the most.

And yet, he didn’t look away. Even battered, bruised, chained, Xavier met his gaze with a quiet defiance. His breath trembled. His body throbbed with exhaustion. But in his eyes was the one thing Sylus couldn’t steal, couldn’t shatter: resilience.

Even if Sylus saw every thought, every weakness—he would never see surrender.

Not from Xavier.

"What purpose?" Xavier choked out, his voice gravelly and hoarse, the words barely making it past the raw, burning tightness in his throat. His muscles trembled from exertion and pain, but he still managed to shift just enough to spit a glob of blood onto the concrete floor at Sylus’s feet. The thick smear hit with a wet splat, blooming into a vivid red against the pale gray surface. He hadn't done it out of defiance, his mouth was simply pooling with blood. Xavier tensed, preparing to feel more of Sylus's wrath.

Sylus stared down at the blood, his expression unreadable at first. But a flicker passed through his crimson eyes—disgust, annoyance, something colder still. His upper lip curled as though Xavier's very presence offended his senses. Then, without warning, Sylus turned his back. It was a calculated dismissal, a move laced with contempt, as if Xavier didn’t deserve the courtesy of his gaze any longer.

“In due time, you’ll find out,” Sylus said over his shoulder. His voice was clipped and deceptively calm, but it lacked the polish he usually wore like armor. There was strain beneath the words, subtle but unmistakable. The way his shoulders tightened with each syllable, the too-careful pace of his breath—he was close to unraveling. “However, my patience has worn thin. I can’t stand to be in the same room as you much longer.”

He strode across the sterile chamber with slow, deliberate steps, the echo of his shoes cracking through the silence like a judge’s gavel. From the inside pocket of his dark coat, he pulled a sleek black phone and raised it to his ear. His other hand twitched slightly at his side, fingers clenching and releasing as if trying to bleed tension out through the knuckles.

“Get down here,” he said flatly into the receiver, voice devoid of emotion. “Feed him. Clean up the mess.”

There was no confirmation, no acknowledgment—just silence as he ended the call and slipped the device back into his coat with mechanical ease. As though it were nothing more than a task being crossed off a list. Then, without another glance at Xavier, he exited the room. The heavy metal door shut behind him with a resounding, echoing thud, followed by the finality of a lock clicking into place. The sound reverberated through the chamber like a sentence being passed.

Xavier let out a slow, shaking breath and slumped back against the wall. His entire body trembled—not from fear, but from pure, crushing exhaustion. His muscles were taut with soreness, and every joint screamed when he moved. Still, a bitter, exhausted scoff bubbled up from his chest. For all the pain, for all the unknowns, at least Sylus was gone. For now.

Finally. Solitude.

The tension that had wrapped around him like steel wires began to loosen, though the cuffs still bit into his wrists. He let his head fall back against the cold stone wall, the surface unyielding but familiar now. The air was thick with the sterile scent of concrete and copper. The dim light overhead buzzed like a warning, flickering faintly.

His mind, though, was anything but still. The question echoed in his skull like a drumbeat: What purpose?

He had expected torture. Had braced for it. Even welcomed it in some small, masochistic part of his heart that believed it would end the waiting, the not knowing. Pain he could handle. Pain was familiar. But this?

Sylus didn’t want to break him quickly. No, this was a longer game. There was strategy in his tone, a measured control in his words. That terrified Xavier more than any threat. Because it meant Sylus had plans. Plans that involved him. Plans that were unfolding in real time.

And he didn’t know what any of it meant.

He exhaled shakily, closing his eyes. What if it wasn’t just about leverage? What if Sylus didn’t intend to kill him at all—but use him? Twist him into something unrecognizable? A pawn? A weapon?

The thought made his skin crawl.

His jaw clenched, and the pain flared across his face where Sylus’s hand had been. Blood still trickled from the corner of his mouth, sticky and metallic, a reminder that the moment had happened. That he wasn’t imagining any of this.

But beneath the haze of pain and fear, something deeper pulsed. Anger. Not just at Sylus—but at himself. For being caught. For being weak. For letting things get this far.

He wouldn’t let it happen again.

Whatever Sylus’s plan was, whatever he intended to do—Xavier would find a way to survive it.

And if the opportunity ever came…he would make damn sure Sylus didn’t walk away from it.

After what felt like hours, the heavy metal door groaned open again, the noise slicing through the sterile stillness of the basement like a jagged knife. The hinges cried out in protest as if they, too, resented the interruption. The sound made Xavier’s skin crawl, but he didn’t move. He stayed exactly as he was—slumped against the wall, one leg half-curled beneath him, the other limp, his breathing shallow and even. Every instinct told him to stay still. To wait. To observe. This wasn’t Sylus. The room didn’t change the way it did when Sylus entered. It wasn’t as suffocating. The air didn’t grow thick with menace.

This presence was looser. Less practiced. Careless.

He risked cracking one swollen eye open just a sliver.

Two figures strolled inside like they had no reason to be afraid of anything at all. Their laughter bounced against the cold concrete, crude and unfiltered, totally at odds with the grim emptiness around them. Boots scraped lazily across the floor as they made their way in, the rhythm casual, their voices pitched just high enough to carry but not enough to echo with purpose. They were comfortable here. That fact alone made Xavier’s blood simmer.

“Luke...does he look dead to you?” one of them whispered in a mocking tone, the edge of his voice curling with amusement.

Xavier could feel the vibration of the man’s footsteps near his shoulder. His head throbbed harder, and he focused on keeping his expression slack.

“Nonsense,” came the other voice, drier and with a hint of sarcasm. “He’s clearly breathing. Boss man didn’t rough him up that bad. Honestly, we probably did worse getting him here.”

That earned a raucous round of laughter from them both. It was loud. Thoughtless. Disrespectful. It grated at Xavier’s nerves, but he willed his body not to react. Not yet.

Then, a sharp nudge to his shoulder—a boot.

“Hey. Time to eat.”

Xavier exhaled slowly through his nose before opening his eyes. The overhead light burned into his retinas, and it took a moment for his blurred vision to adjust. He blinked up at the two men now fully in view.

They stood over him with the easy arrogance of people who thought themselves untouchable. Matching dark uniforms, tactical boots, gloves tucked into belts. One of them—a man with a bird mask—crouched down and shoved a tray across the floor with the toe of his boot.

On it sat a dented metal bowl filled with a grayish mush that steamed faintly, along with a cup of cloudy water. Xavier eyed it without interest. The smell that wafted up was bland, but functional—protein, starch, possibly canned vegetables. Engineered survival food.

“It doesn’t look the best,” the man said with a shrug, beaming like he’d delivered some gourmet dish. “But I can promise it’s a balanced blend. Veggies, meat, and uh... basically everything a person needs to live. I think.”

He paused, clearly waiting for a reaction that never came.

With a small stretch, the man gestured between himself and the other. “I’m Kieran, by the way. This here’s my brother Luke. Figured we’d get properly acquainted since, y’know, this is our third time meeting.”

Xavier stared up at them with blank intensity, his lips parted slightly but silent. His expression betrayed nothing, but internally a sharp jolt passed through him.

Of course. The brothers.

Now, the pieces clicked into place. The masks. The ambush in the woods. The taunting voices, one slightly higher-pitched and manic, the other more grounded but no less cruel. It had been these two. The ones who’d started all of this—dragged him out of his last safe space, beat him down, and delivered him like cargo to Sylus.

Now they stood before him, still masked. Names to go with these hidden faces. Kieran and Luke. He was certain he had already learned their names at some point. Wasn't it you that had told him more about these two? He wasn't sure anymore. Everything was fuzzy. The reminder was nice nonetheless.

A part of him, somewhere deep in the frost-laced pit of his chest, locked that detail away with razor-wire certainty.

He’d remember them. He wouldn't forget again.

He’d remember everything.

"How am I supposed to eat if my wrists are chained?" Xavier grumbled, his voice gravelly and hoarse, thick with exhaustion and barely concealed irritation. He shifted, the effort straining muscles that had long since gone stiff from disuse and cold. The cuffs chafed against his raw skin, their metallic bite unrelenting. Still, he managed to push himself into a slightly more upright position, grimacing as a lance of pain rippled through his back and down his shoulders. Even that small movement felt monumental.

Kieran, now crouching near the edge of the room, paused and theatrically tapped his chin with a finger, adopting a comically exaggerated motion of contemplation. His face flicked toward his brother as if sharing a joke too obvious to put into words.

"Good question," Kieran said with a drawl, dragging out the words like a bad actor in a farce. "Let me think..." He snapped his fingers suddenly, as if struck by divine inspiration. "I guess you could eat it like a dog. Looks like dog food anyway."

Luke, still kneeling a few feet away and casually scrubbing the bloodstained concrete with a grimy rag, perked up at the sound of his brother’s joke. He looked over at Xavier, laughing and raised his gloved hands in mock imitation of dog paws.

"Woof woof!" he barked, twisting his head in a sloppy pantomime of a canine, eyes likely glinting with malicious amusement behind his mask.

Their laughter burst out in harsh, grating peals, bouncing off the sterile walls with a cruel sharpness. The sound was more suffocating than the silence had been. It infected the air with a twisted levity that clashed violently with the grim reality of the room. It wasn’t just mockery. It was sport. It was entertainment at Xavier’s expense, and they were enjoying every second of it.

Xavier didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t lift his head. He let his chin drop to his chest, shoulders hunched forward, as though the weight of the chains were finally dragging him down. But his silence wasn’t defeat—it was calculation. His breathing was slow and deliberate, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles along his neck stood out in sharp relief.

Was this part of the plan? Was this Sylus’s idea of a good time? A psychological breakdown delivered through cruelty and humiliation? Xavier couldn’t shake the feeling that every second in this room was being scrutinized, evaluated. That the pain, the food, even the taunts, were just variables in some twisted equation Sylus was solving. Even his food was grinded into mush. There would be zero sensory enjoyment here, even down to being allowed to chew his meals.

His eyes flicked upward, barely shifting from their downward cast. There it was. The camera in the corner, its red indicator light blinking steadily like a heartbeat. Watching. Recording. Judging.

Sylus was out there somewhere. Watching this unfold from a monitor, probably lounging with that self-satisfied smirk he always wore when he knew he had control. Xavier could almost hear the bastard's voice in his head, dripping with smug superiority.

And what was he now? Some lab rat, stuck in a basement while his captors jeered at him like children poking at something half-dead?

He inhaled through his nose, long and quiet, and clenched his fists again within the confines of his restraints. The metal bit deeper into already inflamed skin, but the pain was grounding. A reminder that he was still here. Still fighting. Still himself.

He could endure this. He would endure this.

“Anywaysss. If you need to use the bathroom, the toilet’s over there in the corner. Just call out. Someone will help you with your, uh... pants. Not me though. One of the other staff. I’m not doing that,” Kieran said as he dusted off his hands, grinning with the self-satisfaction of a man who believed he was the highlight of his own joke. His voice was filled with artificial levity, the kind that grated against Xavier’s ears, like nails skimming across glass. He stretched with a long, theatrical groan, arms arching above his head as if this—mocking a chained man—was just another mundane part of his day.

Luke approached him, snapping something cold and metal across his neck. Ah. Evol sealing neckbrace. Xavier sighed. At least it might keep his Evol under a bit more control.

“Goodnight, Xaviey. Sleep tight!” Kieran added, his tone sugary and high-pitched, voice echoing off the sterile walls with a grating cheerfulness that felt almost grotesque in the stark, metallic gloom.

“Don’t let the Wanderers bite!” Luke sang out behind him with mock enthusiasm, practically skipping after his brother. He slowed just before the threshold and leaned in toward Kieran with a stage whisper, “Wait...isn’t he technically a Wanderer now?”

Their snickers overlapped like the laughter of schoolyard bullies, fading into the corridor beyond as the door swung closed. The thick metal clanged shut with a deafening finality, locking Xavier back into silence.

The fluorescent lights overhead continued their incessant hum, casting a harsh, clinical glow across the room. No shadows softened the hard corners. No relief from the brightness or the cold. It was a kind of prison designed not just to contain a person—but to strip them.

Xavier sat still, chained, silent. The tension from their presence had barely begun to recede, but the echoes of their cruelty lingered. He exhaled shakily, shoulders sagging, eyes drifting toward the plate of lukewarm slop in front of him. The mushy, unidentifiable meal—grayish, gelatinous—sat congealing slightly on the metal tray. Nutrient-rich, maybe. Palatable? Not in the slightest.

It mocked him. Everything in this room mocked him. From the restraints that cut into his wrists, to the food that reminded him he wasn’t even afforded the dignity of utensils. From the hard, flat surface beneath him to the surveillance camera blinking steadily in the corner like a watchful, unblinking eye.

He was no longer a man here. No longer a hunter, a soldier, a friend, or even an enemy. Here, he was a chained beast.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the wave of frustration and nausea crest and fall. His body still ached. The scales pushing through his skin hadn’t retracted. The cold energy within him still pulsed faintly, a constant reminder that something inside him was wrong—fundamentally changed. His very biology had turned against him, and now even eating required humiliation.

He had wanted to scream. Still did, somewhere deep in the pit of his chest. He wanted to rip these chains, tear the room apart, and freeze every last one of them to ash. But the scream wouldn’t come. There was no space left for it. It would only echo back at him, swallowed by the same walls that swallowed his name.

None of that mattered in this moment.

Right now, survival mattered more than pride. More than appearances. If he couldn’t move forward, he could at least endure. And if he could endure, he could plan. And if he could plan, he could escape.

So with grim resolve, Xavier leaned forward, jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line. He glanced briefly toward the camera again—one more time—as if daring it to watch what came next. Then, like the creature they thought he was, he lowered his head and began to eat.

Mouthful by mouthful, he lapped at the food like a starving animal, each bite a new bruise to his dignity. It was cold, chalky, and textureless, clinging to the inside of his mouth like paste. The water wasn’t much better—lukewarm and faintly metallic. But he drank it. Forced it down. Because he had no choice.

Every movement was slow, mechanical, filled with silent fury. He could feel the soreness in his limbs, the sting of the manacles, the ache in his jaw where Sylus’s hand had nearly crushed it. But none of it stopped him.

Every disgusting mouthful gave him just a little more strength. Every swallow, a little more clarity. Because somewhere beyond these concrete walls, there was still something left to fight for.

And he’d be damned if he died in this cage before he saw you again.

Before he made Sylus bleed.

Anger didn’t even begin to describe what Sylus felt—it seethed deeper than mere rage, tighter than frustration. It was disgust, acidic and venomous. The memory of standing in the same room as Xavier clung to him like the stench of blood, thick and sour. He had scrubbed his hands twice already, and now the steaming water from the rainfall shower poured over his broad shoulders and down his spine, but it wasn’t enough to wash away the revulsion coiling in his gut.

He tilted his head back under the cascade, shutting his eyes, fingers pressing into his scalp. Every time he blinked, he saw it again—those flickering remnants of thought buried in Xavier’s battered mind. He hadn’t even needed to pry deep. They had been floating on the surface, plain and raw. Fantasies. Longings. Delusions.

Xavier, dreaming of family. Of redemption. Of her.

The thought of him holding her—his daughter—in his arms, of raising her in some laughably domestic life as if she belonged to him, made Sylus’s stomach churn. His jaw clenched hard, neck tensing beneath the stream. The very idea of Xavier imagining himself as your partner, as his daughters father, was offensive beyond measure.

It had taken every single ounce of restraint not to snap Xavier’s limbs again. Not from vengeance—he'd already gotten that—but from pure disgust. And yet, Sylus had stopped himself. Not out of mercy. Never mercy. But strategy.

As much as he would have liked to break the man further, Xavier’s body—weak and deteriorating—was already near the edge. In his current condition, he was hardly suitable for anything. He could barely move. His Evol was destabilizing rapidly, even while he had been passed out. The evol sealing collar would be enough to keep it in check for now but...he wasn’t bait. Not yet. He was a liability. And Sylus had no use for liabilities.

Still, there were options. A carefully framed image, perhaps. One that showed Xavier just conscious enough, just bloodied enough to be unmistakable. A single photo, slipped into an envelope. Left somewhere you would find it. Just a glimpse to unhinge you.

But to send that image, he needed to know where you were. And that part…that part was still a challenge.

He opened his eyes and turned off the water with a sharp twist. Droplets still clung to his pale skin, steam curling from his chest as he stepped out onto the heated tile. He grabbed a black towel and wrapped it around his waist, the fabric clinging to his hips as he moved with practiced grace into the bedroom.

The room was pristine. Cold. Just like he liked it. Black walls, darkened windows, and shelves lined with weapons and relics of battles past.

He needed a distraction—something sharp enough to slice through the gnawing urge to storm back down into the basement and wring Xavier’s neck until something gave. The bastard had pushed him close to the edge. It wasn’t just the memories Sylus had seen crawling around in that decaying mind—it was the gall of it all. The images Xavier clung to. The fantasy of raising his child. The fantasy of her choosing him. That kind of delusion should’ve been burned out of him long ago when his bones were snapped in half.

But Sylus had been patient. He hadn’t crushed him, not completely. Not yet. There was still use to squeeze from him if he played his cards right.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, pacing the edges of his room like a wolf trapped too long in its own den. Muscles tense. Breath shallow. The sharp, controlled fury that usually simmered beneath his exterior now bristled just below the surface, straining to break free. His reflection in the black glass of the monitor glared back at him—eyes red-rimmed with fatigue, jaw clenched tight, but still burning with that unmistakable glint of control. Fragile, but intact.

That’s when he remembered it.

The bolt.

It struck him with the clarity of a blade to the ribs—small, insignificant in the moment, but impossible to ignore. He pivoted, strides sharp and deliberate, and crossed to the small chest of drawers near the far wall. His fingers yanked it open with a force that made the contents rattle. Inside, nestled between a stack of outdated burner phones and backup weapon chips, sat the tiny piece of metal.

The bolt.

Unassuming. Worn, but clean. Slight corrosion but not much. Not dusty. It looked almost...recent. Found near the front gate the morning he returned from that ride. He had dismissed it initially. Just another loose part, maybe from the garden maintenance bots or one of the older vehicles. But something about it had stuck. Like a thorn under the skin.

He had pocketed it on a whim, almost out of habit. Told himself he’d inspect it later. Then he'd got caught up in affairs with Onychinus and dealing with Xavier's pending arrival.

But now? Now he had time. More importantly, now he had reason.

Sylus stalked to the adjacent couch, sat heavily onto the cushions, bolt still curled in his palm. He reached forward and grabbed the matte-black laptop on the table. It sprang to life the moment his fingers touched the keys, biometric access bypassing every lock in milliseconds.

His fingers moved with quiet efficiency, navigating to the server directory of his estate’s surveillance network. The interface was as cold and clinical as the man himself—window after window of time-stamped footage. He ignored the motion alerts and scrubbed manually. Day by day. Hour by hour.

He wasn't finding anything useful. Just mundane, monotonous footage. The kind that would normally bore him to the point of turning off the system altogether. Grainy clips of his staff entering and exiting the property at their usual hours, security drones drifting lazily across the edge of the estate grounds, and of course, a fleeting shot of himself mounting his motorcycle and tearing down the drive. Nothing suspicious. Nothing interesting. The kind of predictable routine that was supposed to bring him peace.

But tonight, it didn’t. Tonight, it only fueled his irritation. The hum of the laptop’s fan seemed to roar in his ears, the glow of the screen burning into his vision. It was a monotonous loop of nothing. And still, he kept watching. Kept scrubbing through, as if the next frame might contain something—anything—to justify why he had let a loose bolt become a fixation.

It was absurd. He wasn’t the type to obsess over meaningless details. He ruled through power and precision, not paranoia. And yet here he sat, half-naked and damp from the shower, hunched over a screen in the dead of night, hoping a bolt would lead him to some revelation. He exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers twitching toward the trackpad to shut the whole thing down.

But something held him back. A flicker in his gut. A pulse of instinct that he’d learned never to ignore.

So he scrolled forward. Just a little more. One more half-hour block.

And then...

His breath caught hard, sharp enough to sting.

The screen shifted, and suddenly the mundane became impossible. His spine stiffened. The edges of the laptop dug into his palms as his grip tightened involuntarily. There, moving toward the steps of his home, unmistakably real in the camera footage—

Was you.

Clear as day. No disguise. Just you, in the flesh, in the wind, eyes scanning the porch like someone trying not to wake a sleeping beast. Your shoulders were hunched, your pace uneven. And then—

You weren’t alone.

You were pushing a stroller.

Onto his porch.

Of his estate.

Sylus didn’t move. Couldn’t. His fingers stayed locked around the edges of the laptop, his breath shallow. It felt like the world around him dropped into a vacuum—silent, weightless, frozen in time. The drone of the screen was gone. The slight creak of the couch beneath him might as well have been thunder.

His pupils blew wide. His heart thundered in his chest like it was trying to crack open his ribs. This wasn’t something he could’ve prepared for. Not even in his wildest, darkest dreams.

You. And the baby.

He leaned forward so quickly the laptop nearly slid off his knees, eyes narrowing as he tried to see more—to absorb more. You paused at the steps. Your head tilted downward. Your hand hovered over the handle. Your hesitation was palpable, even in silence. The camera angle was angled just enough to obscure the inside of the stroller, but Sylus didn’t need to see it.

He knew. His whole being knew.

That was her.

His daughter.

The one he had only imagined until now. The one he had mourned in silence. The one he had never held.

His gaze locked onto the subtle, telling details—the way your hands shook slightly as you adjusted the blanket over the stroller’s edge. The way your lips moved, like you were whispering to her or maybe to yourself. The way your body swayed on the porch like the very act of being there was threatening to collapse you.

What were you thinking?

What were you whispering?

Was it an offering? A surrender? A cruel test?

He couldn’t know. And the uncertainty drove a spike through the center of his chest.

He watched with aching fingers, knuckles pale with pressure, as you turned away from the stroller. You hesitated—just a beat. Your shoulders curled inward, and your mouth moved like you were whispering something, maybe to her, maybe to yourself. There were no microphones on this camera angle. No way to catch what you'd said. Just the shape of your lips and the way your chest rose and fell like every breath was a battle. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, devouring every twitch of your body, every flinch, every faltering step.

And then you bolted.

A full sprint. Wild. Desperate. Like the act of leaving her behind had torn something loose inside you. Like the pain of it was so unbearable that you couldn’t risk even one more second spent near the weight of what you were doing. The image of your fleeing figure blurred slightly as the camera struggled to track the motion. But Sylus saw it all.

His breath caught in his throat. His chest didn’t rise. He didn’t blink.

Sylus stared, unmoving, as the image played out. He didn’t rewind yet. He didn’t need to. That single moment burned itself into the back of his eyes like a scar. Like it had been carved into the walls of his skull.

You had abandoned her.

And for a moment—just a brief, stuttering second—his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. It felt like being punched by something invisible, something heavy and cold. A familiar chill slid up his spine. That pain, sudden and sharp, twisted into something darker. Why? Genuinely, why had you done this? What had possessed you to bring her here, to his home, only to flee like a ghost in the wind?

Did you resent her? Was it guilt? Was it fear? Had the burden of motherhood broken you? Or was this some sick test—an emotional punishment? No, surely you had no idea he was here.

Why not come to him?

He felt himself spiraling, breathing quickening, the pulse in his throat pounding hard. His jaw clenched so tight he felt the pressure all the way into his temples. His assumptions had been correct. He knew you would fracture. He knew you were nearing your limit. Sharing a dream with you even momentarily had told him that. But this…this act had ripped away every fantasy he’d allowed himself to indulge in about your reunion. The longing in your eyes, the apology, the slow surrender. Gone. Disintegrated like ash.

The reality was far crueler.

You had come to him unknowingly, only to vanish again. Leaving only questions in your wake.

And yet—beneath all of that emotion—another thought screamed loudest:

Where was his daughter?

Because when he returned to the estate that morning, the porch had been empty.

Completely, inexplicably empty.

There had been no sign of the stroller. No cry. No warmth. Just silence and cold concrete.

A baby had not been waiting for him.

Sylus’s spine snapped straighter, and his fingers flew over the keyboard, chest tightening with an anxious fury that made his skin feel tight. He scrolled forward in the footage, jaw set, eyes narrowing as he swept minute by minute, second by second, across the timeline. He combed through each camera, shifted between angles, recalibrated the zoom, and adjusted contrast where needed. He was scanning everything—the porch, the driveway, the shadows at the edge of the frame. Anything. Any motion. Any shape.

Where had she gone?

Who had taken her?

What time exactly did she vanish?

Had someone else known about the drop? Was someone watching you? Following you?

Had someone taken his daughter out from under him while he was gone?

And more importantly—how the hell had he missed it?

His vision tunneled as he scrolled, sweat beginning to bead at the base of his neck. This wasn’t just a failure. This was personal. He had set every trap, tightened every net, and you had still managed to slip through. And worse yet—so had she.

No.

He wouldn’t accept that.

He would find the moment. He would find the frame. He would find the person responsible.

He scrolled forward with eyes like daggers, skipping minute after minute with surgical precision. The footage blurred together in a grayscale haze, just the same still image repeating itself like a nightmare that refused to shift. The porch sat quiet. Abandoned. That damned stroller, tiny and immobile, perched like a ghost on the doorstep. Each time he clicked forward, he half-expected something—someone—to enter the frame. A stranger. A threat. A mistake that would haunt him.

But then—

Movement.

It was small at first. A flicker of motion just outside the lens's periphery. He slowed the playback to a crawl, eyes narrowed and breath caught like a fist around his lungs. You stumbled back into view, breathless, shoulders heaving with the effort of running or perhaps holding yourself together. Your face twisted in agony, jaw trembling as if caught between sobbing and screaming. Even with the grainy filter of surveillance, the rawness of your pain bled through.

The way you collapsed beside the stroller—it was like watching a woman break open. You dropped to your knees so hard he winced reflexively. Your hands fumbled with the blanket as if needing to confirm she was real, still there, still breathing. Then you lifted her, clutched her to your chest with the urgency of someone who had just been dragged back from the edge of a cliff. Your cries were silent through the footage, but Sylus could almost hear them. Like echoes bouncing through his own chest.

You rocked her with trembling arms, your lips moving fast—pleading, apologizing, murmuring some sacred litany only the two of you could understand. You curled your entire body around her, shielding her from a world you’d just tried to abandon her to.

And Sylus watched. Completely still. No breath, no blinking.

You had come back.

The emotions that flooded him weren’t easy to untangle. Relief surged first, sudden and searing like a brand against his ribs. It made his eyes sting, though he refused to acknowledge it. You hadn’t left her. You hadn’t followed through. You had broken—but not completely. Not in the way that truly mattered. He let that fact settle in his chest like a weight he’d been carrying for years had suddenly lightened.

But it didn’t take long for the warmth of that relief to curdle into something darker. Disappointment twisted its claws into his gut. Frustration throbbed hot beneath his skin. Because even now—after everything—he still couldn’t see her clearly. The way you held her, hunched forward, swaddled tightly, made it impossible to glimpse her face. The blanket covered her head entirely. No skin. No hair. No visual anchor. Couldn’t even tell if she had your nose, eyes, nothing. And that mystery gnawed at him like a splinter under his skin.

His jaw clenched as he sat forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. The air felt electric with tension. You were right there—mere feet from his door, your presence bleeding into his reality in a way no dream ever could. You had returned. Held her. Spoken to her. And then what?

So what the hell had you been thinking in the first place?

Had you truly intended to leave her there forever? Had the weight of motherhood crushed you so completely that this—this act of near-abandonment—felt like the only option? Had you convinced yourself she’d be safer without you? With someone else?

The recklessness of it made his blood pressure spike. What if someone else had found her? What if she had rolled off the porch? What if it had rained? What if a dog had wandered up? What if—

The what-ifs piled on like ash after a fire.

He dragged a hand down his face, nails scraping his chin. A groan left his throat before he could suppress it. His anger felt dulled. Muddled by the sheer relief that you hadn’t gone through with it. That you’d come back.

He watched as you gently placed her back into the stroller. Your hands still shook. Your body moved like it no longer belonged to you, like you were some specter haunted by your own choices. And then—

The stroller hit the stair.

It was subtle. Barely a jolt.

But the front wheel caught. Bounced. And a small cylindrical object tumbled from the side and hit the step with a faint metallic clink.

The bolt.

His eyes locked onto the screen.

There it was.

That was the bolt he’d found. The one that had bothered him without explanation. It had come from her.

From you.

The footage froze in his mind like a sacred portrait. A visual confirmation that this had all been real. No hallucination. No misreading. You had been there. With her. At his home.

His heart clenched, aching with a tidal pull of need and disbelief. His head spun with a thousand conflicting thoughts. Rage and yearning. Worry and vindication.

And above all—

The overwhelming, undeniable truth that you were close.

So close.

Despite the sharp rush of relief still humming through his system, Sylus was overcome by something far heavier—grief. It settled into him like a stone dropped into deep, black water. It rippled out slowly, endlessly, touching every corner of his thoughts with its cold ache. He couldn’t shake it. It pressed into his bones, deep and raw, making it hard to sit still, hard to think. You had been so close. Close enough that he could’ve touched you. Close enough that he could’ve taken her into his arms and ended the madness right then and there.

His daughter. His blood. His creation. His future. Right there on his doorstep. A few feet of air, one wall, one locked gate had been all that separated them. He should’ve been there. He should've come back sooner. He should’ve caught you both before you disappeared again.

Instead, he’d returned to silence.

And yet, instead of staying, instead of lingering just a little longer or checking if someone would answer the door, you had turned your back. You had made your decision. You had placed the child you had carried back into a stroller and walked away. Just vanished like a ghost into the fog. Of course, you hadn’t known it was his home. That part was almost laughable in its cruel coincidence. But still, the gesture cut deep. You had decided she was better off with anyone else. Anyone who wasn’t you. Anyone who wasn’t him.

The betrayal cut deeper than he’d expected. It was sharp enough to feel unreal. Disorienting. Like the world had tilted under his feet.

His lips curled into something ugly—something that was almost a laugh but tasted like blood. Cold. Bitter. Hateful. The irony stung. It was almost funny, wasn’t it? That fate, cruel and twisted as ever, had dragged you right back to him. And you hadn’t even realized it. You could have picked any home. Any street. Any wealthy stranger’s doorstep to place her on. And yet, you had chosen his.

As if part of you knew.

As if something inside you—some unconscious sliver of instinct—had remembered who he was. Who she was. Where you both belonged.

If only he had come home just a little sooner.

The thought hit him like a hammer to the chest. A wave of self-loathing curled in his stomach. He’d been distracted. Too caught up in orchestrating Xavier’s capture, in arranging his little play of vengeance, too focused on revenge and punishment and proving a point. And because of that distraction, he had missed the most important moment of his life.

You had given her to him. And he hadn’t been there to receive the gift.

He had been too wrapped up in the past to see the future trying to walk through his front gate.

A quiet snarl escaped him. His grip on the laptop tightened, fingers digging into the plastic casing. The screen groaned under the strain. A thin crack spidered outward from the corner, jagged and white. He didn’t care. He didn’t even feel it. The physical pressure was nothing compared to the emotional one pressing down on his lungs, on his spine, on his very soul.

This wasn’t just anger. This was grief—twisted with yearning, wrapped in guilt, painted with desperation.

How long did you plan to keep doing this?

How long were you going to keep ripping pieces out of him with your absence? How long were you going to dangle the idea of peace, of family, of completion, only to snatch it away like a mirage the moment he reached for it? You were meticulously punishing him without even realizing it.

And yet—

Even after all the chaos and heartbreak and betrayal, after every wound you’d carved into him with your absence, after the sleepless days and the spiraling thoughts and the breathless fury that came with missing you—he still wanted you back.

It was a kind of wanting that didn’t feel survivable. A hunger stitched into his marrow, feral and constant. He didn’t just crave your presence—he ached for it. Like air he couldn’t breathe, like a shadow he couldn’t touch. Every cell in his body screamed for you. For the sound of your voice. For the heat of your anger. For the sharp edge of your defiance. For the hollow silence of your forgiveness.

It was maddening. He had taken you into his life, and now your very absence was draining him.

His soul had been marked by you, branded with your laughter, your fury, your scent, your fear. He could still feel the echo of your heartbeat when he closed his eyes.

You were absence incarnate—and he was drowning in it.

And still, he would tear down cities to have you back in his arms. To have his baby in his arms. Not as images on screen. Not as regrets. But as his.

But he knew better than to act reckless.

His eyes dropped back to the screen, the image frozen on your tear-streaked face as you held the baby to your chest. You were hunched like someone shielding their last flame from the wind, as if she were the only warmth left in your world. You rocked her with trembling arms, eyes squeezed shut like you were praying. Like it was her that could save you.

Maybe she could.

But she wasn’t just yours.

She was his too.

And Sylus had no intention of letting this moment be the end of your story. No. He would rewrite it. He would build it from the ashes if he had to.

One thing was for certain now. As much as it twisted his insides to admit it—even in the privacy of his own thoughts—you were a danger to his daughter. Not in the obvious, violent sense. No, he didn’t believe for a second that you would ever lay a hand on her. That wasn’t your nature. But danger came in many forms, and yours was subtle, buried deep in the cracks of your unraveling mind. In the way your emotions clouded your judgment. In how easily you were driven by panic instead of reason. In the wild, reckless choices you made when fear took hold.

You weren’t well. That much was unmistakable now. And it terrified him in a way few things ever had.

Because even if you loved her with every atom of your soul, love wasn’t always enough. You could still make decisions that endangered her. You could still walk her into disaster. It wasn’t malice—it was instability. You were fragile, volatile, a ticking time bomb with a tender grip on a child too young to even understand what danger looked like. And for Sylus, who had built his world around control, precision, and dominance—your unpredictability was the most dangerous thing of all.

He clenched his jaw, pacing the length of his bedroom like a predator in a cage. He needed something from this. A thread. A hint. A clue. But he knew better than to act impulsively. Not now. Not after watching that footage. If he rushed, if he descended like a shadow over your fragile little world, you might do something drastic. You might disappear completely. Or worse—you might destroy yourself in an attempt to escape.

And that was a risk he would not allow.

This wouldn’t be a violent reclamation.

It would have to be slow. Patient. Surgical.

He would find you. That part was inevitable. A fact written into the foundation of this reality. But once he did, he wouldn’t pounce. He’d observe. Track your every move. Study the new rhythm of your days, your patterns, the cadence of your wandering. He would dissect your choices and pick apart the places you went like puzzle pieces. You wouldn’t know he was there—until the moment he decided to make himself known.

He had planned to nap after his shower. Just a short recharge, a way to clear his mind and reset before his next steps. But rest was a fantasy now. A luxury he no longer had the patience for.

The footage looped again and again.

Each pass pulled him deeper into obsession. Every twitch of your hand, every angle of your shoulders, the silent tremble of your lips—he studied it like a sacred text. Your pain was evident, etched into every motion, and it only fueled the storm inside him. His mind replayed it obsessively, trying to decode you, trying to understand how you could’ve gotten to this point.

You were beautiful in your despair. Terrifyingly so. A shattered version of the person he once held in his arms—and yet still you. Still unmistakably you.

He kept zooming in on his daughter. His child. Frame by agonizing frame. But your grip on her was firm, shielding her like a barrier against the world. The blanket swaddled her tightly, and your body blocked nearly every viable angle. The security camera wasn’t designed for moments like this, and it infuriated him how little he could glean from it.

Still, he tried.

Her head shifted. Her arm flinched. There—a flicker of skin, just beneath the fold of the fabric. He paused the video, leaning so close his breath fogged the screen. It was all he could see.

A finger.

Tiny. Delicate.

Perfect.

Fragile.

His.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

He sat back slowly, eyes burning, chest tight. That single image—the sliver of her existence—meant more than any speech, any confession, any apology you could’ve offered for leaving her. It was proof. It was real. She was real. And she was close.

If only he had come back sooner.

The thought echoed through him like a wound that wouldn’t close. He would trade everything—his power, his rank, the empire he’d built—for just one chance to be holding her now. Rocking her gently in the quiet dark, feeling her tiny breath rise and fall against his chest.

He imagined finding her asleep on the porch, small and soft and impossibly real. It wouldn't have taken long for him to realize who she was. He’d have scooped her into his arms without hesitation, her warmth grounding him in a way nothing else ever had. Orders would’ve gone out within the hour. His men would’ve begun constructing a nursery—no expense spared, no delay tolerated.

He would’ve been there, singing to her in a low, unsure voice. Memorizing the curve of her cheek, the flutter of her lashes, the way her hand might curl instinctively around one of his fingers. He would’ve learned her—every sound, every breath, every small detail in her face.

But he hadn’t been there.

And now, the silence left in his absence felt endless.

Soon, he whispered to himself.

Soon, the ache in his chest would quiet.

Soon, you both would be home.

And nothing—nothing—would take you two from him again.

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mavphorias · 23 days ago

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Advices for this tower? I tried playing it and I got cooked immediately

#wuwa jiyan #wuthering waves rover #slavery week #wuwa rover #wuthering waves #wuwa #cantarella #changli #camellya #rover

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mavphorias · 23 days ago

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Guys is it Me or lads have becomes boring? Don't get me wrong I love the game but lately I have felt like it had become like slavery instead of a game we should enjoy it is hard to get a card and the farming takes alot of time and efforts I honestly don't enjoy it anymore I play it every once in a while not every day like I used to do this started after I lost 50/50 in zayne master of fate myth I only needed one card and I lost hard pity before I lost hard pity on caleb myths too this double losses made me feel like I did not want to play this game anymore it is not a f2p game and don't get me wrong i would want to pay to win but I just can't because of the area I live in but tbh these last few lost made me lose interest can someone please tell me how can I play this game again without feeling like I am wasting my time?

#l&ds sylus #lnd sylus #lads x reader #li shen #love and deepspace fanart #love and deepspace x you #lads xavier #qin che #lads rafayel x reader #lads zayne

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mavphorias · 23 days ago

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The teams I got that they are peak performances and game plays

Now we will wait for carteathia

#wuwa #wuthering waves #wuwa jiyan #wuthering waves rover #shorekeeper #camellya #carlotta #cantarella #changli

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mavphorias · 1 month ago

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Guys I got carlotta after bleeding my hearts out and sweating my hands and ignoring my exams I just want to ask for some advice about her I saw ppl doing insane damage with her my carlotta only did 80k with changli and shorekeeper team I want to know what is the best team for her fro. These teams

And what is the best set for her support is it moonlight or other sets? Here are my building for these characters and please some one tell me the right rotation for her teams I got the new havoc support set for cantarella I forgot it's name

#wuthering waves #wuthering waves rover #wutheringposting #carlotta #changli #cantarella #shorekeeper #wuwa rover #wuthering heights

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mavphorias · 1 month ago

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I hate infold to be f2p in infold games is to suffer

#l&ds sylus #lnd sylus #lads x reader #li shen #love and deepspace fanart #love and deepspace x you #lads xavier #lads rafayel x reader #qin che #lads zayne

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mavphorias · 1 month ago

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I just wanna appreciate the great girl on Instagram who did this kind of eyes pictures with lads...

Cus damn I never knew I needed this....here the code to do it I will sit this as my new wallpaper lol

Her username in Instagram is @/serene_m

#l&ds sylus #lnd sylus #lads x reader #li shen #love and deepspace fanart #love and deepspace x you #qin che #lads xavier #lads rafayel x reader #lads zayne

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mavphorias · 2 months ago

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Eternal Flowers

Myth + Little Red Flower text message + ⭐️⭐️⭐️ memory Taking Control

中文版

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mavphorias · 3 months ago

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His Watchful Eye Pt.19

Word Count: 34.4k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, tw for postpartum depression, suicidal ideations, manipulation, coercion, kidnapping, xavier appears :33

AN: Sorry this chapter took forever! Im getting ready to graduate next month and I feel like a chicken running around with my head cut off ngl LOL. Xavier has finally made his appearance again so enjoy :33

This stupid bolt had been bothering him more than it should. The estate’s gates had been left open that night. A mistake. An oversight born from his restless state, his need to escape his own rabid thoughts. But what if someone had slipped in during that window? What if that bolt wasn’t from machinery… but from something else? Something brought in. Something—or someone—left behind. Sylus had learned a long time ago that the things which gnawed at the back of your mind were often warnings. Quiet signals. Instincts honed by years of survival. He stared at the bolt again. This wasn’t just a stray piece of metal. It was trying to tell him something. He just hadn’t figured out how to read it yet.

Check my masterlist for the other parts!

It was just after 4 a.m., and Sylus was already deep into his fifth glass of whiskey. The bottle sat half-empty beside him, beads of condensation pooling on the table, forgotten. The mansion around him was dead silent, the kind of silence that used to soothe him—once. Now it only made his mind louder.

He hadn’t even meant to fall asleep. His head had hit the back of the leather chair for only a moment, his hand still wrapped around the glass. But when his eyes opened again, he wasn't in the study anymore. He was somewhere else—dark, but not empty. A void. Still, heavy. No sound. No air. Just that strange hum beneath his feet and the impossible feeling of not being alone. And right there, in front of him, was a door. Not just any door—his door. Down to the old burn mark near the bottom, the one he kept meaning to fix. His subconscious must’ve been getting lazy. Or so he thought.

He stepped through without hesitation. He never hesitated. And when he did, it was because something mattered. And when he saw her—you—standing on the other side, wide-eyed and breathless, it hit him like a damn freight train. The dream, the void, the door—it all made sense in that moment. Your face was the first real thing he’d seen in weeks. Not through a screen. Not in grainy surveillance footage. You. Skin flushed. Hair messy. So close he could smell that faint scent of citrus that used to cling to you after you took showers.

He didn’t rush to you—not this time. Every instinct screamed to grab you, hold you, pull you against him and never let go, but he approached you slowly. Measured. Careful. There was something in your eyes—recognition, fear, maybe something deeper. And maybe this was the start of something new. A chance to show you he was trying. Even if it was just a dream. Even if you’d never believe it in reality. He moved slowly, each step deliberate, his voice low and steady when he spoke.

What mattered was how you recoiled when he reached out.

The way you recoiled from his touch—it was instinctual, immediate. Like his fingers were open flame and you’d learned long ago never to get burned again. You held your ground, jaw tight, arms crossed over your chest like a shield you’d reforged too many times to count. He didn’t take it too personally. Not really. It was almost adorable, the way you squared up with him, all sharp eyes and trembling limbs, trying to act like you had control over something neither of you fully understood. When you insisted, voice low and commanding, that he needed to leave—that this was your dream—he had almost laughed. Actually, he did laugh, a quiet, genuine chuckle slipping from his mouth as he tilted his head and watched you try to will him away like some unruly ghost.

That had been news to him. Your dream? He hadn’t realized. He figured it was neutral ground—a strange anomaly caused by the connection between your Aethor cores. A bond neither of you had anticipated, but one that now tethered your consciousness like a red thread stretched too tight. But hearing you say it out loud...it was so you, so fierce and absurdly endearing, that he couldn’t help the fondness that tugged at his expression, even as you clenched your fists like you’d actually fight him in your own mental sanctuary.

You really thought you could make him disappear. And you tried, god, you tried—eyes squeezed shut, fists shaking, as if sheer willpower could erase his presence. But he stayed. Of course he did. His grip on reality had always been too stubborn to dissolve like that, and more than that—you had always grounded him.

The realization that you were both dreaming—sharing a dream—was breathtaking. It wasn’t just a fluke of memory or trauma echoing in his sleep. This was something deeper. Something rare. A phenomenon he’d never experienced, tied to intense emotional bonds and powerful Aethor resonance. It made his blood rush, not with confusion, but fascination. He could feel you in this space—not just see you. The exhaustion bleeding off your skin, the raw edge of your soul, like your body had been hollowed out and left to scrape along survival’s edge. It hurt him. Tangibly. Your fatigue clung to him like smoke, slow and suffocating. And despite how angry you were, how much you hated him, all he wanted was to take that pain away. Just for a second.

He spoke gently, trying to coax the truth from you. Were you safe? He reminded you that you weren’t truly alone. That Sylvia needed stability, and that you needed rest, stability, something. You shook your head, stubborn as ever. Kept spitting nasty words in retaliation with every word he said, but he couldn’t stop. Not when your voice trembled and your lips were chapped and your frame looked too small beneath a shirt he didn't recognize.

Maybe he had pushed too hard.

He didn’t get a warning. One second you were glaring at him, tears caught in your lashes, and the next—you were gone.

Just like that.

Slipped past him like smoke, vanishing through the same door he’d entered from, the space collapsing behind you like you’d never been there at all. Left him standing alone in the dreamworld’s dead air, heart pounding, hands tense, eyes fixed on the closed door like he could still hear the echo of your breath.

He woke with a start, chest tight and eyebrows furrowed. The alcohol had burned its way through his gut, but the ache that lingered in his ribs wasn’t from that. It was from you. From the look on your face. From the warmth of your skin that still lingered in his palms like a ghost. It wasn’t just a dream. It couldn’t have been. Not with how real it had felt. Not with how the Aethor core in his eye still buzzed like a low static hum.

But you had been real.

And you were close.

"Let go of me, you—you freak!"

The words echoed like a gunshot in his skull, a sharp, searing thing that cut through the whiskey haze and dug into the softest, rawest part of him. He hadn’t flinched when you said it—at least not outwardly. He’d held your wrist too gently to leave a bruise, too tightly to let you slip away without saying something, anything. But the second the words left your mouth, cold and loud and full of venom, they burned.

Did you really mean that?

Maybe you did. Maybe you’d always meant it. It wouldn’t have been the first time you hurled words like knives at him, slicing at anything that got too close. You’d spat worse in the past—called him a monster, a mistake, a cage—but that had been then. Before the baby. Before the silence. Before the void of absence that had hollowed out his nights and turned his waking hours into a blur of rage and longing.

He’d thought—hoped—that after everything, you might have missed him. Just a little. That some sliver of the life you had carried inside you, the baby he hasn't gotten to hold yet, might have tethered you to him in some unspoken way. That maybe, in your dreams at least, your guard would drop. That your subconscious would remember the warmth, the safety, the nights where your breath had fallen against his throat like a promise you never meant to break.

But no. You’d looked at him like he was a nightmare made flesh.

He tried to rationalize it. Tried to convince himself it was a defense mechanism, a front—a wall you had to keep intact because you were terrified of what it meant to need him again. It had to be. Because if you truly meant it—if those words came from your soul, not just your mouth—then why had your Aethor reached out to his in the first place?

Shared dreaming wasn’t random. It wasn’t common. It didn’t just happen. Your cores were still intertwined, whether you wanted to admit it or not. And that meant some part of you, buried deep beneath the fear and the hate, had called out to him.

He clung to that. Replayed the scene over and over in his mind, analyzing every blink, every tremor in your voice, every breath you took before slipping away from him again. Because underneath all of it—the pain, the rage, the rejection—was the unbearable, unshakable truth:

You were close. You were hurting. And despite everything you said… You had reached for him first.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t shaken.

The dream had ended over twenty minutes ago, and yet Sylus hadn’t moved from his chair. He sat there in the dim, half-lit space of his temporary office, the whiskey forgotten on the desk beside him, one hand resting limp in his lap while the other tapped absently against the leather armrest. His leg bounced with nervous tension, the kind he hadn’t felt in years—not during stand-offs, not during raids, not even during the first days after you escaped.

His mind kept circling back, dragging him through every second of that dream like a man reliving a car crash in slow motion. Your face. Your voice. The heat in your eyes when you told him to let go. That raw panic—the same panic he’d seen when you left his mansion for good. But this time there was something else there. Something fragile, like guilt, or maybe…regret?

He should’ve sprung into action. That was his plan. Always had been. You were in a motel, he was sure of it now. The cheap furnishings, the texture of the walls, the rattle of a heater somewhere just off-screen—he knew the signs. Knew the type of place you’d retreat to, alone and desperate, baby in tow. He had all the tools. The access. The network. A few database pings, a sift through security cams, and he was closer than ever to finding you again.

So why the hell was he still sitting here?

Why couldn’t he move?

He clenched his jaw and pressed his palm against his temple, teeth grinding with the weight of something he didn’t want to admit. He was afraid. Not of you, never of you. But of what might happen if he cornered you again. Of the way you managed to slip between his fingers like mist, vanishing deeper into the cracks of the city each time. Every confrontation, every chase, had left him further from you than before. And it was starting to gnaw at him, piece by piece, like rot beneath the surface.

He needed to move slow. Smarter. He couldn’t afford another failure. Not when he’d gotten this close.

The idea of you right now—probably frantic, wide-eyed, packing your few belongings in silence while his daughter cried in the background—grated against his nerves like broken glass. You were likely already planning your escape, stuffing bottles and and baby supplies into a duffel bag, checking the windows twice, maybe three times. He could picture it all. You with that panicked, hardened look in your eyes. Holding his daughter like she was some priceless artifact that the he was trying to steal from you.

“This won’t do,” he muttered under his breath, the words dry against his tongue, eyes fluttering shut as frustration tightened across his chest like a vice. The walls of the office felt too close, the air too still. He needed to think—really think—and he couldn’t do that if he stayed here, wasting away in a leather chair, drowning in amber lies and excuses. The whiskey wasn’t helping. It hadn’t helped in weeks. All it did now was dull his instincts and blur the edges of his plans, and he was running out of chances. Running out of time.

He stood up abruptly, the chair sliding back with a sharp scrape across the floor. He grabbed the bottle by the neck, still a third full, the glass cool and smooth against his palm. It sloshed as he moved, rhythmic, mocking. The mansion was silent as he left the office, doors clicking shut behind him with a heavy finality. No staff. No twins.

The few guards that still worked the grounds stayed posted outside, paid to keep their mouths shut and their eyes down. Even Luke and Kieran had relocated—living elsewhere in the city, handling operations remotely. At some point, Sylus had stopped asking them to stay. He didn’t need their loyalty at his back. What he needed was clarity. And you.

He moved through the halls like a ghost, past rooms he hadn’t entered in weeks. Everything was too pristine, too untouched, like a mausoleum disguised as a home. When he reached the kitchen, he flicked on the light and stared at the unnatural stillness. The room was spotless—immaculate in that eerie, clinical way that only came from absence. No dishes. No crumbs. No warmth. He hadn’t eaten much lately anyway. Food felt irrelevant when his mind was constantly racing, clawing through satellite feeds, audio intercepts, distant glimpses of your life he couldn’t quite reach.

He unscrewed the bottle and stood over the sink. For a second, he hesitated—just a second—then tipped it forward. The whiskey spilled out in a thick, amber stream, the scent rising sharply as it hit the steel basin. He closed his eyes and listened to the wet rush of it draining away. Something about the sound grounded him. Final. Wasteful. Cleansing. The noise filled the silence like a confession whispered into the dark. When the bottle was empty, he set it down on the counter without ceremony. No theatrics. Just done.

He wasn’t going to sit around and rot.

He needed air. Movement. A straight line to something real.

And maybe, if the ride was long enough, cold enough, quiet enough—he’d finally see the path forward.

Yeah. Just what he needed.

A ride. A good, hard, fast ride with nothing but wind and open road to cut through the noise in his head. He hadn’t touched one of the bikes in a bit—hadn’t even stepped into the garage unless he needed to bark orders at the mechanics. Most of his time lately had been consumed by one thing: you. Tracking you. Obsessing over you. Replaying every word, every memory, every fleeting moment since you escaped like it was sacred scripture. Before that, it had been even worse.

Those last few months with you, when your body had finally begun to swell with his child, had taken everything from him—every waking second was poured into crafting a life for you. A future. He’d broken you down piece by piece, rebuilt you into something you could survive in, something that could carry the future he had designed. Every breath you took, every craving you whimpered about, every nightmare you tried to hide—he was there. Catering. Controlling. Watching. Loving.

And all of it—every single moment—had been for you.

Even the parts that hurt you.

Especially those.

He could never take those back. He wasn't as proud of them anymore. But they had still been partly necessary. He had just approached everything so wrong. You didn’t understand that yet. But one day, you would. And when that day came, you’d finally see the lengths he had gone to—what he had sacrificed—to give you both something that resembled a life. A future. A legacy.

And you would see the new man that he could be.

Now though, now he needed space. A flicker of that old clarity he used to find at two hundred kilometers an hour, leather tight around his frame, engine growling like thunder under his hands. He grabbed his jacket off the hook, slid on his gloves with muscle memory too long unused, and made his way to the estate door. The moment he opened it, the cold December wind hit him square in the face, rustling through his hair like a slap of reality. It was bitter, sharp—and cleansing.

The two guards flanking the front stepped to attention immediately, both startled, stiff-backed, guns at their sides. Clearly not expecting him.

“Sir!” one of them called out, adjusting his grip on the rifle. “Is everything alright?”

Sylus didn’t even slow his stride. He walked right past them, the weight of his boots deliberate on the stone, and pressed the garage remote without looking back. The massive steel door began to rise, mechanical groaning filling the silence as the dark space beyond slowly revealed itself. Rows of vehicles sat in polished silence, but his eyes found it immediately—his bike, matte black and low-slung, untouched since he arrived.

“You two are dismissed for the night,” he said flatly, eyes locked ahead as the wind curled around him. "Open the gate and leave."

The guards exchanged a glance, quick and uneasy, caught between protocol and their instinct not to push their luck. Sylus had that effect on people—his presence didn’t demand obedience so much as expect it. Still, one of them stuttered as he nodded, shifting uncomfortably beneath the weight of his rifle. “Thank you, sir. Have a good rest of your morning!”

Sylus barely heard them.

The words slipped past him like background static, irrelevant. He was already inside his head, already moving toward the only clarity he trusted: the road. His boots echoed against the concrete floor of the garage as he crossed the dark space with tunnel vision, zeroed in on the familiar shelf where his helmet waited. Dustless. Untouched. Ready. He grabbed it with practiced ease, fingers curling around the matte shell before straddling the bike with the grace of someone who had done this a thousand times. The engine sat silent beneath him, patient, like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

He had his reasons for dismissing the guards. He wasn’t normally reckless, but he needed them gone. When he came back, whenever that would be, he didn’t want to see anyone. No nods, no updates, no small talk or sideways glances. Just solitude. He wasn’t worried about the security. The estate was lined with surveillance and reinforced glass, motion sensors, tech even half the government couldn’t crack.

Besides, if something did go wrong—if someone thought they were stupid enough to breach his home—he could handle it. There was nothing in that mansion he couldn’t afford to lose. Nothing worth protecting more than what he’d already lost. Let them take the art, the liquor, the antique weapons on the wall. None of it mattered.

What he wanted—what he needed—was this.

The sound of the engine roared to life beneath him, deep and alive, and something inside him uncoiled at the vibration running up through the frame into his spine. It was the only voice he could stand anymore. The only thing that didn’t ask anything of him. He revved the throttle hard, the noise ripping through the quiet neighborhood like thunder, and without hesitation, he shot forward—out of the garage, past the empty guards, through the gates.

He left the gate ajar behind him.

Didn’t care.

The wind whipped across his face as he flew down the empty roads, then into the veins of the city, weaving between slower cars like a phantom, clearly pushing past every speed limit with no concern for the flashing traffic cams or the irritated honks behind him. But when you were Sylus—when you were him—rules were suggestions. Speed limits were for the powerless. He didn’t slow. Didn’t flinch. The world blurred around him in streaks of steel and shadow.

All he wanted now was the noise.

All he needed was the road.

The city blurred past him in neon streaks and headlight flashes, but Sylus barely registered any of it. His eyes were on the road, but his mind was miles away—tangled in thoughts of you. Of how many times you’d slipped through his fingers like smoke. How even when you weren’t trying to run, you still managed to escape. Every time he got close, something cracked. You bolted. You vanished. And each time, it carved deeper into his patience, into the carefully laid plans he’d built from the ground up.

He hated it. The unpredictability. The instability. The feeling that one wrong move would scare you off for good. He couldn't afford that now. Not with his daughter in the picture. Not with you on the verge of breaking apart. He knew how fragile you were—he could feel it even now, like a dull pressure behind his ribs. The dream had shown him enough. You were slipping. Not just from him, but from yourself. And if he pushed too hard again, you might disappear in a way even he couldn’t fix.

No, he couldn’t confront you directly. Not this time.

He could track your location. That wasn’t the issue. He had the tech. The reach. A few good sweeps and searches of motels, and he’d have your location eventually. But what good would that do if it only made you run again? You were probably already packing, frantic, shoving diapers and formula into a ratty bag while the baby cried in the background. You’d grab your keys, double-check the windows, head for the next nameless motel like it might save you.

Chasing wouldn’t work. Not anymore.

He had to lure you in.

But how?

What could possibly pull you out of hiding? It wasn’t money—you never cared about wealth, not when it came from him. You’d scraped by with nothing before. Starved, bled, hidden in no so great areas and God knows where else, and not once had you reached out. You were stubborn. Principled. Even in the face of ruin. Shelter meant nothing to you unless it was your own. And safety? You didn’t trust it unless you built it with your bare hands. If it came from someone like Sylus, you saw it as a gilded cage. A trap. You’d rather sleep in your car with one eye open and Sylvia clutched to your chest than ever accept his protection again. He’d learned that the hard way.

So what else was there?

His eyes snapped open.

Xavier.

The name surged through his chest like a lightning strike, fast and final. Not just some boy. Not some forgettable face. Your first love. The one you never spoke of. The one who had been there before Sylus, before he had rightfully swooped into your life. Sylus remembered that name like a splinter under his skin. Xavier—the one you compared him to without even realizing it. The one whose absence still lived in the corners of your eyes. A boy wrapped in golden memory, the one you had called out for right in front of him. Hated the way you softened when you had been with him temporarily, hated how distant your gaze went when you were obviously remembering him. But now...now that name was useful.

Now it was leverage.

He wouldn’t just take Xavier. He’d use him. Because Xavier wasn’t just someone you cared about—he was someone you’d still trust. If he showed up at your door, if he said the right words, if he asked you to come with him...you might actually listen. You might follow. And Sylus wouldn’t even have to be the one dragging you back. You’d walk willingly. Into his hands. Into his world. Just like before.

No fighting. No screaming. That wasn’t the goal. The plan had to be exact. Controlled. Xavier wouldn’t be hurt—at least, not yet. He just needed to be...taken. Contained. Given the right motivation. And Sylus knew how to motivate. He’d remind the boy what was at stake. He’d break him down until he was pliable enough to say whatever needed to be said to get you back. And you—God, you’d come. Because it wasn’t just that you loved Xavier once. It was that part of you that still did. That tiny flicker you tried to bury, the one Sylus saw in your eyes every time you thought of him. He would use that flame, twist it, feed it. Until it led you straight back to him.

Because you always protected the people you loved. He had watched you do it routinely during his time of stalking you. Watching you slash wanderers and laugh cheerfully with coworkers while still covered in their blood had amused him greatly.

Sylus was used to playing the villain in your story. He had made peace with that a long time ago—though “peace” wasn’t the right word. It was more like inevitability. Like gravity. No matter how gently he touched you, how quietly he spoke, how many comforts he laid at your feet, you still saw him as the one who took everything. Who ripped you from the world you knew and reassembled you into something else—something that, in his mind, was better, safer, more protected. But not free. Never free. And he knew it. He'd always known. So yes, he had accepted the title. Worn it like a second skin. Monster. Manipulator. Possessor. The man you feared almost as much as you once loved.

This—what he was about to do—it wouldn’t be different. If anything, it was worse. Cold. Calculated. A violation of the only trust you might’ve had left in the world. Taking Xavier and twisting him into bait was a line few would cross, but Sylus had never been most men. He didn’t think like them. Didn’t feel like them. He wasn't them. He loved differently. Obsessively. Entirely. And that kind of love didn’t come without damage. He understood that. He had acknowledged long ago that he was far from normal.

You would hate him for this. You would scream, and sob, and call him a monster all over again—and you would be right. There would be no justifying it, not to you. Maybe not even to himself in his more honest moments. This was betrayal, and he knew it. Deep down in the marrow of him, he understood he was digging the wound even deeper. But it wasn’t about today. It wasn’t about next week. It was about forever. About building something unshakable out of the ashes. He couldn’t afford to think small. Not when everything that mattered—everything he had yearned for—was slipping further out of reach with every passing hour.

Forgiveness would not come easily, if it ever came at all. He knew that too. But you had the rest of your lives to sort that out together. Every scream, every accusation, every cold stare across the room—that was all just noise to him, part of the process. Because you would be there, under his roof, in his arms, where you belonged. That was all that mattered in the end.

You’d call it cruel.

He’d call it love.

The engine cut with a rough purr as Sylus pulled off the road, gravel crunching beneath the tires as the bike skidded to a smooth stop. The road had opened up briefly, revealing a narrow, unlit path that led down toward the shoreline—a beach tucked away beneath the cliffs, quiet and empty at this hour. He hadn’t intended to stop. The ride was supposed to be a release, a clearing of his head, not an invitation to pause. But the sight of the water, dark and endless, pulled at something low in his chest. The sky was starting to shift, just a touch—inky black softening to navy blue, then to hints of bruised lavender near the horizon. The sun would be up in a few hours. For once, he had the time to watch it rise.

He swung his leg off the bike, boots hitting the ground with weight. The air was cold, salt-stung and clean. He hadn’t been near the ocean in months—maybe longer—and the sound of the waves was foreign, distant, like it belonged to another life. Maybe it did. A version of him that could live outside of strategy and surveillance, one that could win you over without having to rip apart the world around you to do it. He adjusted the collar of his shirt against the wind, eyes fixed on the horizon as he stood there in silence.

But the stillness didn’t last long. It never did with him.

He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out his phone, the glass cool against his palm as he tapped Kieran’s contact. The line didn’t even have time to ring once.

“Yes, boss man?” Kieran’s voice cracked through, chipper and fast—almost too eager for someone who’d probably just been asleep seconds ago.

Sylus didn’t flinch. His tone was flat, measured. “Both of you—start making preparations for a...retrieval.”

The other end of the line went still. Not quiet—focused. Kieran wasn’t confused. He knew what Sylus meant. There were protocols for things like this, unspoken and carved into their history. They didn’t need long explanations or drawn-out orders. Just the trigger word.

“You know what that entails,” Sylus continued. His gaze didn’t shift from the horizon. “I’ll have more details later.”

Then he ended the call.

Just like that.

No confirmation. No repeat-back. The twins would already be moving, slipping out of their apartments, contacting the right people, dusting off their gear. Kieran would brief Luke. Luke would help him secure the extraction. By the time Sylus returned to the mansion, the wheels would already be turning. All he had to do now was name the target and tighten the noose.

And he would.

Very soon.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, letting the wind pull at the hem of his jacket. Somewhere out there—somewhere in another crumbling motel room—you were probably wide awake, packing in the dark, clutching Sylvia to your chest and listening for footsteps outside the door. He could picture it vividly. You with that haunted, tired look in your eyes. Always ready to run.

But this time, you wouldn’t have anywhere left to run to.

This time, the move was his.

And it would end exactly how he planned.

Your vision began to blur with tears, hot and stinging, distorting the quiet streetlights into wavering halos. You didn’t even try to blink them away. You just let them fall, silent and warm against your wind-chilled cheeks as you pushed your body forward, one unsteady step at a time. Your muscles screamed in protest, every stride feeling heavier than the last. Your chest felt like it had caved in, as though your lungs were trying to fold in on themselves, trying to stop you from breathing. But still—you kept moving. Not because you had strength. Not because you had direction. But because if you stopped, everything you were running from would catch up in an instant.

As much as you hated to admit it—even to yourself, even in the deepest, most buried corner of your thoughts—for the first time in what felt like forever, there was silence. No shrill crying. No tiny fists clinging to your shirt. No desperate scrambling for milk or diapers or warmth. Just the sound of your footsteps. Your breath. The low hum of the wind whistling past your ears and through the empty streets. And with that silence came something unfamiliar—thought. Clear, sharp, brutal thought. It filled the spaces where panic usually lived. It peeled back the protective layer of chaos that had clouded everything for weeks. And in its place, it left clarity laced with guilt so thick and heavy it seemed to soak through your bones. It sat there, dragging against your ribs like wet lead.

You had done the right thing. Hadn’t you? That thought circled back again and again, rising and sinking with every heartbeat.

You told yourself it on repeat like a mantra, like a prayer, like something fragile and holy that might crack if you let doubt in. Sylvia was better off. She had to be. The mansion had looked safe. It had been the kind of place people lived when they had real lives, good lives, secure lives. Someone kind would find her. Someone warm. Someone who didn’t wake up in a cold sweat, afraid of their own shadow. Someone who wouldn’t look at her and see a reflection of the worst night of their life. Someone who would open the door and see her for the miracle she was. That they would read the note. That they would care. That they would raise her with laughter, with love. That she would never know the dark you were running from. That she would never know him.

But despite everything you told yourself, your legs felt heavier with every step. Your shoes dragged over the uneven sidewalk. The tears still hadn’t stopped. You sniffled, wiped your sleeve across your face, smearing salt and snot and shame across your cheeks. You looked up through blurry eyes, heart suddenly hammering—because you didn’t know where you were. Not really. Your motel had to be around here. Somewhere. Right? You’d walked so far and so fast you hadn’t even looked at the signs. You hadn’t thought to track the route. All you had been thinking about was leaving. Running. Now everything looked the same—fences, porches, rows of parked cars, lights flickering above cracked pavement.

You turned in a slow, clumsy circle, trying to get your bearings. Your breath hitched. The world tilted slightly beneath you, just for a second. You hadn’t eaten in...how long? You hadn’t slept well in ages. Your stomach was a tight, cramping knot and your body was running on fear alone. Maybe you could find someone. Ask them the name of the street, the nearest motel, anything. But who was going to help a wide-eyed, sleep-deprived woman trembling in the middle of a dark street with tear tracks frozen to her face? Who would believe you weren’t a danger to yourself?

Another gust of wind barreled into you, and you shivered violently. Your arms folded across your chest, fingers digging into your sides. It didn’t help. The cold cut through your coat, through every layer like it was punishing you. Like it knew what you’d done. Like it had been sent to remind you that no matter how far you ran, you were never going to outrun the part of yourself that turned away from your baby girl and ran away.

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You started running again—if you could even call it that. It was more like a half-stumble, half-sprint, your body pulled forward by sheer adrenaline. Your lungs burned. Your throat stung with every inhale of freezing air. Your legs wobbled beneath you, threatening collapse, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t know where you were going. You just knew that if you stopped moving, your thoughts would swallow you whole.

Finally, after what felt like forever, your body gave out. You stumbled to a stop, doubling over with your hands on your knees, gasping for breath. You stood there in the middle of some nameless, empty street, chest heaving, eyes blurry again. You looked around. Nothing was familiar. Not a single detail. It was like you’d stepped into a different city entirely.

And as you stood there in the dark, panting, trembling, lost—you realized something that cracked you wide open:

You didn’t know if you were any closer to where you were supposed to be.

Or if you even had anywhere to go at all.

Sure, you needed to go back to the motel. But even as the thought crossed your mind, a cold hollowness followed it like a shadow that stretched farther the longer you stared into it. What would even be the point now? The room would be empty. Still. Too quiet in that kind of way that made your skin itch and your chest ache. The crib beside the bed—bare, untouched. The bottles on the counter, the half-packed diaper bag, the tiny clothes you had no strength to fold—all of it now meaningless clutter. Without Sylvia, that place wasn’t a sanctuary anymore. It was a tomb. And you? You weren’t sure if you were meant to walk away from it or crawl back inside and rot.

The realization hit with a force that nearly buckled your knees: you could go anywhere now. There were no limitations, no tiny cries anchoring you to a schedule, no frantic middle-of-the-night wakeups to cater to every whim of a newborn, no need to watch your back every second in case a familiar shadow caught up with you. You were unburdened in the most horrible way possible. Free, yes—but only because the one person who tethered you to something good was no longer there. You could take the car and just drive. Drive until the road turned to gravel, until the gas tank blinked empty, until the sun set a thousand times behind you and you forgot what her face looked like.

And the sickest part? The part that made your stomach twist and your heart pound with guilt? For the briefest second, it sounded almost...tempting. To not have to stop every hour to change a diaper with numb fingers in a cold backseat. To not have to pull over at rest stops in the dead of night and relinquish your body to a needy baby. To not feel your heart jackhammer in your chest every time she cried too loud, afraid it might echo through some surveillance system he had rigged, afraid it would lead him right to you. No more scavenging for warmth, for safe spaces, for peace you never really found.

Hell, you could just disappear. Fade into some nameless diner, stare out a window for a week straight, let yourself drift into the background until your mind frayed at the edges. You could sleep in the car, let your body sink into the cold and let it wear you down to nothing. No one would notice. No one would ask. You could waste away, cell by cell, thought by thought. It wouldn’t matter. Not now.

You could just die.

No.

Your chest seized violently. A sharp inhale cracked through your throat like ice shattering under pressure. You clenched your eyes shut, like if you just squeezed hard enough, the thoughts would splinter apart and disappear. But they didn’t. They clung. They festered.

You shouldn’t think like this. You couldn’t think like this.

What was wrong with you? What kind of person—what kind of mother—thought these things? You weren’t supposed to feel relief. You weren’t supposed to feel lighter. You were supposed to be mourning. Panicking. Praying. Not mapping out the various ways you could vanish without consequence.

You were sick. Twisted. A monster in borrowed skin.

The thought that you had willingly left her—placed her in a stranger’s arms and walked away—how could you ever justify that? And worse, how could part of you be grateful for the silence that followed? How could you ever forgive yourself for even fantasizing about a life without Sylvia in it? You shouldn’t be calculating escape routes. You should be clawing your way back to that doorstep.

The shame hit you like a tidal wave.

It knocked the air out of your lungs, drove your body to the ground like you’d been struck. You collapsed to your knees on the freezing pavement, the cold biting through your jeans as your body folded in on itself. The sob burst from your throat before you could stop it—loud, raw, keening. It was the sound of something cracking, something final. It echoed off the empty street around you, unanswered. You cried like you were breaking open from the inside. Like grief was clawing its way out of your bones and pouring from your mouth.

Hot tears spilled down your cheeks in relentless waves, dripping from your chin to your collar, staining the front of your shirt. Your fingers curled against your thighs, nails digging deep as if pain could somehow tether you to the moment, to your guilt, to something. Anything.

You didn’t want to be this person. This hollow, aching shell of someone who used to be whole. But you didn’t know how to be anything else anymore.

And worst of all, you weren’t even sure you deserved to.

You wept uncontrollably, your sobs unraveling from somewhere deep—deeper than you’d allowed yourself to feel in weeks, maybe even months. It wasn’t a single cry, or a small moment of catharsis. It was an eruption. A collapse. As though every buried tremor inside you had finally cracked through the surface all at once, and now there was no way to put yourself back together. Your body shook with the effort of it, your chest heaving, throat raw. It was as though your nervous system had gone into complete revolt, unable to contain the pressure anymore.

Everything was too much. Every memory. Every failure. Every second of pretending you were fine when you were unraveling inch by inch. The weight of it all—the slow accumulation of suffering, of loss, of impossible choices—pressed down on you now like a crushing tide. It wasn’t just the immediate grief of Sylvia, or the pain of what you’d just done. It was everything that came before. The things no one else had seen. The things you never spoke of aloud.

The trauma of being kidnapped not once, but twice. Of having your agency stripped from you in quiet, methodical ways that didn’t always leave bruises, but always left scars. The brush with organ trafficking—your body nearly sold, your future dangled in front of you like bait only to be yanked away. The invasive, soul-level violation of being used. Manipulated. Rewritten by someone who swore he loved you. You had endured so much with clenched teeth and a steady gait, forced yourself to survive when everything in you screamed to collapse. And you had made it—barely. But even survival came with a cost.

The exhaustion. The isolation. The sense of never quite feeling safe, even when the door was locked and the baby was sleeping and the lights were off. He was always there—if not physically, then in your mind. A looming shadow that tracked every movement, every breath, every decision. And now, even after all that effort to escape, you could feel it again. The certainty. The inevitability. He would find you. He always found you.

And yet none of that compared to what you had just done. Because when all was said and done, when you stripped away the fear and the chaos and the survival instinct—you had made a choice. A conscious, deliberate choice to leave the only person who hadn’t taken from you. The only person who had needed you simply because you were her mother and didn't have much choice in the matter either.

Sylvia.

And what broke you most wasn’t just the choice. It was the relief that had followed. The sudden, appalling lightness in your chest. The silence. The stillness. You had left her. And for a single, horrifying second—you had felt free.

You gasped, your throat constricting as that realization hit, hard and unforgiving. The guilt clawed up from your gut like bile, burning all the way through. It was undeniable now. You were the monster. Not him. Not the man whose obsession shaped the course of your life. You. You were the one who had walked away. Who had seen her as a burden instead of a blessing. Who had left her on a doorstep like unwanted baggage.

You remembered the things you’d whispered in your weakest moments—how she cried too much, needed too much, reminded you of him. And it made you sick. Because she had never asked to be here. She had never been anything but a child—your child. And still, you had failed her.

How had you ever called her the monster?

She had never been anything but pure. Small. Good.

The real monster had been with you all along. Wearing your skin. Making your choices.

You crumpled in on yourself, sobbing harder now, each cry breaking loose with more force than the last. It felt like your soul was hemorrhaging, like every part of you that was human had been scraped raw. You didn’t even try to stop. You couldn’t. You shook and cried with every heave of your chest, your hands shaking too much to steady you.

The streets were still dark. Quiet. Your cries echoed through the narrow alleyways and dim intersections. You thought maybe the sky was starting to lighten, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did. Not now.

And then—cutting through the spiral like a blade through silk—

“Uh…miss?”

The voice hit your senses like an electric shock. You flinched violently, twisting around, breath catching mid-sob. Your vision was blurry—between the tears and the chill—but you could make out a figure standing several feet away.

It was a young woman, probably mid-twenties, dressed in running gear, a reflective band strapped to one wrist. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion or the cold, her ponytail slightly mussed. She had one earbud still in, the other dangling by the cord, forgotten. Her face was marked with caution, but also genuine concern.

“Are…you okay?” she asked gently, voice soft but sure. “I heard you crying from the next street over.”

You stared at her, frozen, heart still thudding erratically in your chest. Your face was a mess—tear-streaked, blotchy, raw. You realized you were still kneeling, hunched over like you’d been dragged there by force.

Embarrassment swept over you in a fresh wave. You didn’t even have the strength to answer. Of course someone had heard. Of course someone had seen. Because it wasn’t enough to fall apart—you had to do it in front of a witness. You had to unravel beneath a stranger’s eyes and add humiliation to your long list of griefs.

And somehow, that felt like the cruelest part of all.

Think. Think of an excuse.

You couldn’t possibly tell a stranger the truth—that you had just abandoned your newborn child on the doorstep of a random mansion, your heart still raw, your soul still bleeding. That you had written a goodbye letter with shaking hands, kissed her warm forehead one last time, and walked away into the darkness before the sunrise could make you change your mind. The guilt still pulsed in your chest like a second heartbeat, jagged and loud and inescapable.

You cleared your throat, rubbed at your swollen, tear-streaked face, and slowly forced yourself to stand. Your limbs trembled slightly beneath your weight, your knees sore from the pavement. “I’m so sorry for the noise,” you murmured, blinking rapidly to pull together some fragment of composure. “I just…lost someone I loved dearly.”

It wasn’t technically a lie.

Sylvia was gone. You had walked away from the one person in the world who had needed you unconditionally, the only living proof that something beautiful had come from the wreckage of your life. And now she was out of your arms, out of your reach, and possibly already in someone else’s. The thought nearly made your legs buckle again.

The stranger nodded softly, her expression shifting into one of gentle, practiced sympathy. “I totally understand the feeling. I can get you a ride if you’d like. Do you live nearby?” she asked, already pulling the other earbud from her ear and tucking it away.

Shit.

Now you had to keep lying.

“I’m actually from pretty far,” you said quickly, your voice just steady enough to sound plausible. You forced a thin, almost-apologetic smile. “Just visiting. I need to get going…sorry.” You took a step to the side, trying to end the interaction as quickly as possible. You didn’t have the energy for kindness, not even from a stranger.

But the woman didn’t move. Her brows furrowed with deeper concern. She took a cautious step toward you, not aggressive, just present. “Wait, really—it’s no trouble. You shouldn’t be out here alone like this. Let me help. You don’t look okay, and it’s not safe to wander around here this early. Please.”

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders sagging beneath the exhaustion, the emotional wreckage, and the cold morning air. “Fine,” you said finally, not because you trusted her, but because you were too tired to argue. “Do you know where the nearest motel is? And maybe…the nearest bus out of the city?”

Her eyes lit up with something close to relief. Maybe she’d been afraid you’d collapse again. “Oh—yeah! There’s only one motel nearby. It’s not the best, but it’s clean and usually has rooms. I can give you directions.”

Thank god. It was likely the one you'd been staying in already.

She paused, eyeing your disheveled state—your tangled hair, your dirty sleeves, your red, puffy eyes—and you saw the way she hesitated before continuing, like she wanted to ask more but knew better. “The bus stops are a little farther, though,” she added, shifting her bag off her shoulder and crouching down. “You’ll probably want to rest first. Or at least warm up.”

She dug around in her jogging bag and pulled out a crumpled piece of notebook paper and a pen with a cracked clip. “I’m Emma, by the way. Nice to meet you,” she said as she began to write. Her voice was calm, practiced, like she’d helped people like you before.

You hesitated just a second before answering. “Mephisto,” you said, picking a name you hadn’t used in awhile. “Nice to meet you too.”

She gave you a small look but didn't remark about the strange name. Emma crouched beside the curb, bracing the paper on her knee as she scribbled down a list of directions—turns, street names, small landmarks to look out for. Her handwriting was quick but legible, and she talked through each step as she wrote, pointing out helpful details like the corner bakery you’d pass or the alley to avoid at night. You nodded along, humming in acknowledgment, pretending to listen to every detail.

You didn’t want to trust anyone. You didn’t want to owe anyone. You didn’t want to open yourself to even a sliver of vulnerability.

But for now, just for a moment, you had to.

She even tore the paper carefully and folded it in half before handing it to you, her fingers brushing yours briefly. “It’s not much,” she said, “but it should get you there.”

You took it with a quiet nod. “Thanks.” The word felt foreign on your tongue.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” Emma said, stepping back slowly.

You offered a faint smile, but your heart was already closing in again. Already retreating. Already preparing for the next goodbye.

At least now, you had a direction.

Emma had been surprisingly good at giving directions—clear, precise, almost effortless. It made sense, you guessed. She seemed like the kind of person who jogged the same routes daily, the type who paid attention to her environment without even meaning to. She probably waved to the same people, passed the same barking dog behind a crooked fence, noticed the seasons changing one crack in the sidewalk at a time. You followed her neat handwriting down the maze of early morning streets, her voice still echoing in your mind with each turn: take a left after the bakery, go past the park, look for the green trash bin with a missing wheel.

What amazed you most wasn’t just how helpful the note was—it was the distance. The sheer distance. As your feet dragged and your legs burned, it dawned on you just how far you had pushed Sylvia in her stroller. That entire stretch of road had passed like a blur, your body running on instinct, your focus consumed entirely by those last moments. You could barely remember the details of the streets, the buildings, the cold biting your cheeks.

All your energy had been devoted to soaking in those last fleeting moments with her—the warmth of her small body, the subtle twitch of her lashes, the faint scent of her skin, like milk and laundry soap. You had stared at her for so long you’d memorized the shape of her nose, the curve of her jaw, the way her breath made her chest rise and fall. Everything else around you had ceased to matter.

Eventually, the familiar shape of the motel sign crested into view—faded red letters buzzing behind a plastic casing, its light flickering sporadically like it couldn’t decide whether to stay on. It looked the same as you left it, and yet completely different. You stood there for a second, just breathing. Part relief. Part dread. Part something you didn’t have a name for. Your legs felt like they might give out, but somehow you moved forward, crossing the final stretch of concrete until you stood beneath the buzzing glow.

Your bones ached from exhaustion, but your heart—that was worse. That was agony. An invisible wound pulsing with every beat, reminding you what you had left behind.

You slipped into the small, dimly lit lobby and were hit instantly by the warmth inside, dry and stale but welcome. The worn carpet muffled your steps as you crossed the room, heading straight for the vending machine tucked near the ice machine in the corner. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached into your coat pocket, fishing out a few crumpled dollars. You didn’t want much—just something to fill the yawning void in your stomach, to distract you for a moment. You fed the bills into the machine and punched in the number for a danish you knew would taste like cardboard.

You watched it spiral downward behind the glass, the noise oddly loud in the silence. For a second, you just stood there, staring at it, hands limp at your sides.

Behind you, the sound of a door creaking open pulled you back to reality.

From the back office, the motel owner emerged, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked the same as always—gray hair, plaid shirt, a tired but genuine smile. “Morning! The little one still sleeping?” he asked, his voice light, friendly.

Your breath caught in your throat like a stone.

You turned halfway toward him, forcing your face into something that resembled calm. “Uh…morning,” you replied, clearing your throat. “Yes, she just went to sleep.”

It wasn’t a good lie. But it was simple. It worked.

He smiled, apparently satisfied. “That’s good. You’ve both had a rough stretch. Let me know if you need extra towels or anything.”

“Thank you,” you said, the words barely audible, as you grabbed your danish from the tray and turned away. Your hands felt colder than they should’ve, even in the heated room. You moved toward your room slowly, every step heavier than the last.

Your shoulders were tense, your breath shallow. The weight of the lie lingered in your chest like smoke, thick and cloying. You didn’t want to think about what he’d say if he realized you’d left alone. If he’d even notice. If he’d ask questions.

You told yourself you’d only need one more night.

Just one.

Just enough to figure out what came next. Enough time to gather your strength, pack the rest of your things, and disappear again before the consequences caught up.

It wasn’t rest you needed. It was distance.

You walked down the hallway, counting the doors as if that might keep the thoughts at bay, the guilt at arm’s length. But it never really left you.

You opened the room door slowly, stepping back into the hollowed-out space you had called your temporary home. The crib still sat by the bed.

Empty.

Everything felt too still, too silent. Like time had paused the second you walked away from her.

And somehow, you weren’t sure it had started back up again.

You forced yourself to look away from the crib and sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath your weight, a familiar sound that felt strangely out of place in the crushing silence of the room. Every fiber of your body resisted the motion. Sitting felt too still, too final. But you made yourself do it. You made yourself breathe—slow, deliberate inhales through your nose, and shaky, fragmented exhales through your cracked lips. Your hands gripped the packaged danish like it was some fragile, sacred thing, a flimsy attempt at self-preservation. You peeled the wrapper back with trembling fingers, the crinkle of plastic loud in the otherwise silent room.

You had to eat. You told yourself that, over and over. You had to stay functional. Stay upright. Even if your insides were hollowed out, even if your thoughts were barely your own anymore. You had to pretend that your body could still do what it was supposed to, that it hadn’t been hollowed out by guilt, grief, and the aching silence that now filled every inch of the space where your daughter’s cries once lived.

The first bite caught in your throat. You chewed but didn’t taste it. You swallowed and it burned. But your stomach, starved and miserable, demanded more. It tasted surprisingly okay—soft enough, sweet in a dull, artificial way. It might have even been enjoyable if your brain weren’t screaming at you. If your chest weren’t caving in with every breath.

You dissociated as you ate, pulling further and further from the moment. Mindlessly chewing, biting, swallowing. Again and again. Each motion felt robotic. Empty. Your jaw moved on autopilot while your gaze went unfocused, locked somewhere beyond the walls of the room. The light from the window—dim, gray, lifeless—seeped in and cast a dull sheen on the floor. It all felt like a dream, or maybe a memory, something washed out and slightly wrong.

With every swallow, something clenched tighter in your throat. Like your body wanted to reject the food. Like it knew you didn’t deserve even this small comfort. It was a betrayal to feed yourself, a betrayal to let your body continue on like this, while somewhere out there—Sylvia was alone. With strangers. Without you.

Tears welled in your eyes again. You blinked hard, forcing them back with every ounce of strength you had left. You’d cried enough already, hadn’t you? Your body was exhausted from it, raw from it. But grief didn’t care. It had no timer, no limit. It waited. Patient. Always ready to spill back out the moment you let your guard down.

When you finally finished the danish, you looked down at the empty wrapper for a long moment, unable to remember the last few bites. You stood slowly, like you were trying not to shatter. Your knees popped. Your back ached. You crossed the room, walked the short distance to the trash can, and dropped the wrapper inside.

And then you looked up.

You didn’t mean to. But your eyes found it anyway—the crib.

It sat there like a ghost. Still. Hollow. Devoid of breath or warmth or life. A tiny blanket lay folded over the side, untouched since the moment you left. It was a monument now. A grave marker. A cruel reminder of what was no longer yours.

Your breath caught, snagged in your throat like barbed wire. Your hand hovered near the edge of the trash can as the wave hit.

And then you broke.

You burst into tears again, harder than before. Your knees hit the floor with a dull thud, arms wrapping around yourself as the sobs came pouring out of you, fast and uncontrollable. Your body convulsed with the force of it, and you made no effort to stop it this time. No effort to be strong or silent or still. It came from the pit of you, the most hidden place. The place where the last image of Sylvia still burned behind your eyelids—the curve of her cheek, the softness of her hand, the way she sighed in her sleep.

And now she was gone.

And you were still here.

You can't stay here anymore.

Not like this. Not in this still, quiet space filled with echoes and regrets. The air feels too heavy, like it’s thick with judgment, pressing against your chest with every breath you take. You can’t keep pretending that everything is fine, that the world hasn’t shifted irreversibly beneath your feet. That your daughter—your own flesh and blood—isn’t out there somewhere without you. That leaving her behind was the right choice. That it was survival.

Every second you spend in this room feels like penance. The walls seem to shrink around you, pressing in tighter, suffocating you with their silence. You swear the crib is watching you from across the room, hollow and empty, screaming without making a sound.

You have to go now—before you do something reckless. Before you turn around and run back. Before you convince yourself you deserve a second chance, that you’re strong enough to be the one she needs. Because right now? You aren’t. And the worst part is, you don’t even know if you ever were.

Before you can overthink it—before your mind gives out or your will caves in—you move.

You start throwing your things into your bags, not bothering with careful packing. Your movements are sharp, rushed, erratic. Precision doesn’t matter now—only speed. You fling open drawers, grab whatever your fingers touch, and toss it in blindly. There’s no order, no sense to it. It’s just action. Desperate, raw, necessary action. If you hurry, you can still catch the early morning bus out of the city. It’s your only real option.

You barely check the time. Your heartbeat is your clock now, thudding louder with every passing moment. There’s no room for second-guessing.

You don’t bother with the toothpaste. Or the lotions. Or the unnecessary toiletries that once made you feel clean and put together, like you could pass for someone whole. Those things feel absurd now. They weigh too much—not just physically, but emotionally. There’s no space for vanity or softness. Only survival. Clothes. Snacks. A first-aid kit. Wet wipes. The bare minimum. That’s all you take.

That’s all you deserve.

Before long, you’ve got two bags slung over your shoulder, one clutched in your hand, and a cramp forming in your back from the way you’re moving. You scan the room quickly, mind racing, heart pounding. You rush to tidy the room in the little ways you can—smoothing the blanket over the bed, wiping condensation from the mirror, folding the towel you left by the sink. Why it matters, you don’t know. But it does. Something about leaving it clean makes the shame sting a little less. As if neatness could cover up the mess you’ve made of your life.

You leave enough money to cover what was supposed to be for next few nights. You don't know how much you have left now, you'd have to count it later.

You hurry to the door, your hand landing on the knob with more force than you intended. Your body is ready. Braced. But your mind stutters.

Because your eyes flicker—unbidden, unwilling—toward the crib.

You stop. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel everything all over again.

Don’t look.

You repeat it like a prayer. A command. A plea.

Don’t look at the empty space where she used to sleep. Don’t look at the soft blanket folded neatly at the base, still holding the faintest shape of where her body once rested. Don’t look at the silence. Don’t listen to it.

You tell yourself again: some other mother will use it. Some other child will lie there and sleep through the night. Some other family will walk into this room and never know the story that came before them.

It’s fine to leave it behind.

It has to be.

Because if it’s not—if this really was your last shot to be a mother, to be her mother—then you’ve already lost everything.

You turn the knob and open the door. Cold air spills in, biting at your skin.

You step outside, bags pulling at your shoulders, heart dragging behind you like an anchor.

You didn’t care about being seen on cameras anymore. You had spent too long hiding from shadows, always looking over your shoulder, checking reflections, scanning crowds for familiar threats. But now? Now it didn’t matter. Let them watch. Let the lenses catch your face, your car, your exit. You weren’t planning to return to this place, not ever. You weren’t running anymore—you were leaving. Not in the panicked, desperate way he might have imagined. Not in a spiral of fear.

This was a departure wrapped in finality.

It was time to say goodbye to Windsor City.

You pulled out the worn piece of notebook paper Emma had scribbled directions on, unfolding it with more care than you’d shown most things lately. It felt delicate in your hands, like it might crumble from the weight of what it represented. The ink had smudged slightly, blurred at the edges from your fingers and maybe a few stray tears, but the path remained visible. Legible. Like a message from someone who had no idea how pivotal her kindness had been. You took one last, shaky breath and stepped toward your car, the early morning air crisp on your skin, your breath fogging in the cold.

The car looked smaller than you remembered. Older. Rust creeping along the fender, paint chipping in places you hadn’t noticed before. It had become a symbol of your survival—scratched, dented, barely holding together, yet somehow still moving. But today, it looked like a relic. A piece of a life you were finally ready to leave behind. You slung your bags into the passenger seat with less care than they deserved, then slid into the driver’s side and shut the door with a heavy thud. The silence inside the cabin was thick.

"Don’t…look behind you," you whispered aloud, your voice low, hoarse, like it might crack under the weight of what you were holding back.

But the car seat was still there. In the rearview mirror, just barely visible. A ghost of routine. You didn’t need to look directly to feel its presence—like a phantom limb pressing into your mind. You could still see her there. Could still imagine her tiny hands waving in the air, her eyes blinking slowly in the morning light. Her breath. Her warmth.

The urge to rip the seat out, to throw it onto the curb and drive away with less weight—both physical and emotional—hit you hard. But you couldn’t. Not yet. Some part of you still needed it there. Why? As punishment? As reminder? As proof?

It was fine. The car was a temporary thing anyway. You were ditching it the moment you reached the bus stop. It had served its purpose. It was falling apart at the seams—just like you—and holding onto it any longer was a risk. The engine would probably give out within months. Its tires balding. But if it could take you just a little farther, just to that last stop…it would be enough.

You turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed, then groaned to life, vibrating under your feet. A tired old beast waking up one last time. You pulled out of the parking lot slowly, one final glance in the rearview, and then—no more looking back.

The sky was beginning to get a lot brighter, soft streaks of gray and gold unraveling across the horizon like watercolor. The city was stirring but not yet awake. You drove through Windsor’s streets swiftly but quietly, the hum of your engine the only sound in a world not quite ready for noise.

As you followed Emma’s directions, your eyes wandered. For the first time since you arrived in this place, you actually saw it. The storefronts were quaint, shuttered and sleeping but maintained with pride. Cafes with chalkboards out front advertising seasonal lattes. Bookshops with yellowed pages glowing faintly behind display glass. The trees, bare of leaves, arched gracefully over the roads, giving the streets a kind of quiet dignity.

You passed neighborhoods with playgrounds tucked between homes, the swings still and the slides frosted over. There were schools, too—modest, with murals painted by little hands, messages of kindness and hope scrawled in every color of the rainbow. You wondered if Sylvia would walk those halls one day. If she’d tie her shoes on those benches. If she’d climb those monkey bars, laugh with friends in the grass.

You hoped Windsor City would become hers.

You hoped she would thrive here. That she would find joy in the little things you never had the energy to appreciate. That someone kind and steady would raise her in a house that smelled like soup and warmth. That she’d go to school plays, bring home crayon drawings, and fall asleep in a room filled with safety. You hoped she would be known—not just seen. That she’d be loved, not feared over or obsessed with.

That her life would be simple. And bright. And whole.

The bus stop came into view just ahead, a small sign near a cracked bench under a flickering streetlamp. The plaza beside it was waking up—a newspaper vendor setting up, a street cleaner brushing away last night’s wind. You pulled over, parked, and let the engine fall silent.

You didn’t move at first. Just sat there with your hands on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead. Your chest ached. Your fingers were cold. Your throat felt scraped raw.

And then—finally—you opened the door.

You stepped out into the quiet morning. The air felt colder than it had a moment ago, biting and real. You shut the car door behind you with a soft click and slung your bags over your shoulders, taking one last look at the sky above Windsor City.

And then you turned.

This was truly it.

There was already a small huddle of people waiting at the bus stop when you arrived, their shoulders hunched against the chill, breath fogging in the frigid morning air. You slowed your pace instinctively, scanning the group with a cautious eye. You didn’t want to draw attention to yourself. The last thing you needed was someone noticing that you had just dropped off a battered, barely functioning car on a nearby street corner and now stood here, bags in hand, looking like you hadn’t slept in days. So you kept your head low, your shoulders rounded, and quietly stepped into the loosely formed queue.

The bench was icy, its metal biting into your thighs through your clothes as you sat down. You wrapped your coat tighter around your frame, trying to make yourself small, invisible. The December wind slid under your collar and up your sleeves no matter how tightly you folded your arms or clenched your jaw. You were used to being cold by now—in your bones, in your thoughts, in your heart.

A couple sat to your left, whispering in a language you couldn’t place. Their hands touched in soft, familiar ways, their conversation muted but intimate. You couldn’t help the flicker of envy that stirred deep in your chest. Not for the language or even the relationship, but for the sheer sense of belonging they seemed to carry with them, like a quiet orbit of safety you couldn’t penetrate. Still, you tuned them out. You didn’t want to feel anything more than you already were. You couldn’t.

For a fleeting moment, you considered leaning toward the man to ask when the bus might arrive. Just a simple question. But the woman’s protective posture, the way she leaned into him like a barrier, made you hesitate. You didn’t want to intrude. You didn’t want to need anything from anyone. So instead, you said nothing. You just pulled your hood tighter over your head and bowed forward, your eyes fluttering closed.

You didn’t mean to sleep. You only wanted a moment. A breath. A pause from the endless weight that dragged at your thoughts. But your body betrayed you. The exhaustion of the last few days—weeks—finally caught up with you, and you slipped into a shallow, uneasy doze. The cold became background noise. The voices around you faded. Your limbs felt heavy, detached, floating just beneath the surface of reality.

You weren’t sure how long you were out before the bus horn cut through the morning quiet like a blade.

You jerked awake with a startled gasp, blinking against the sudden brightness of the headlights and the cacophony of shuffling feet. The bus had arrived, and its doors were open, waiting. People were already moving, climbing the steps in a slow, orderly fashion. You sat up too quickly, your neck protesting the motion.

"You getting on or what?" the driver called out, clearly impatient.

"Shit," you muttered, scrambling to your feet. Your limbs were stiff, your joints slow to respond. You reached for your bags and stumbled forward, nearly losing your footing at the edge of the curb. You caught yourself with one hand on the side of the bus, flushed with embarrassment. Behind you, people had started to murmur, shifting in place as they waited. You could feel their eyes, their judgment.

"Thirteen dollars for the ticket," the driver said, holding out his hand with mechanical disinterest.

You fumbled through your coat pockets, your wallet tangled in your bag. The bills were crumpled, sticking together from moisture or neglect. Your hands shook slightly as you tried to count them out, fingers numb from the cold and your own frayed nerves. The driver sighed but didn’t say anything else, only tapping his fingers against the wheel.

It felt like an eternity before you finally shoved the money into his palm. He snatched it quickly and motioned for you to move along.

You stepped onto the bus, heart still racing, and scanned the rows for an empty seat. Most were already filled, passengers staring out the windows or tapping on phones, lost in their own worlds. Only one spot remained.

Directly across from a woman holding a sleeping baby.

Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t want to sit there. You weren’t ready for that kind of reminder. But there was nowhere else to go. The aisle was clogging with passengers, and people were already eyeing you to move. So you walked the short distance, set your bags between your feet, and sat down.

The woman looked up and gave you a polite, tired smile. She adjusted the blanket around her child with gentle hands, her whole posture radiating quiet care. The baby slept soundly in her arms, small and peaceful.

You forced a smile back. It felt foreign on your face—tight, unnatural.

Then you looked away.

You kept your eyes fixed firmly on the window beside you, watching the fog melt slowly on the glass, doing everything in your power not to come apart in front of strangers.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, not from fear this time, but from the unbearable weight of memory and loss. Of what you had left behind. Of what you could never take back. You pressed your hand to your lap, grounding yourself in the pressure, and told yourself to breathe.

You had gotten on the bus.

You were leaving. Really leaving. And with that came an emptiness so vast it felt like space itself—limitless, cold, indifferent. The kind of emptiness that didn't echo, because echoes required something to bounce off of, and right now, there was nothing left inside you. You could do anything now. Live somewhere quiet, unnoticed. Disappear into a nameless town where no one knew your name or your history. Or simply stop existing in any meaningful way. Let yourself fade into the background, a ghost among strangers. Nothing was tying you down anymore—no responsibility, no midnight feedings, no heartbeat depending on yours. And yet, the absence didn't feel like freedom. It felt like drowning in clear air.

The weight you thought you’d be rid of wasn’t gone—it had simply changed shape. Now it lived in your chest like smoke, in your limbs like wet sand, in your breath like static. The heavy, clawing sense of impending doom stalked every beat of your heart, tucked itself into every quiet moment. You were finally unmoored. And it terrified you.

Just a few minutes into the ride, your dissociation was shattered by a sharp, familiar sound—a baby’s cry. It was shrill, immediate, and visceral. You flinched, your back straightening instinctively as if a string had been pulled tight along your spine. The baby across from you had woken up. Her cry cut through the quiet hum of the bus, and your body betrayed you instantly. Your chest clenched, your heartbeat sped up, and a surge of something ancient and instinctual rushed through your veins. Your jaw locked. Your eyes burned. You gripped the edge of your seat.

"Shh, shh. It’s okay, I have your bottle right here, Chloe," the woman across from you murmured in that soft, sing-song tone only mothers seemed to perfect. Her voice was a balm—steady, warm, full of muscle memory and affection. She shifted her bag without fuss and pulled out a bottle with calm precision, like she'd done it a hundred times before. The baby, Chloe, took the bottle without hesitation, her tiny hands latching around it with hunger and comfort. She drank eagerly, the tension in her little body melting away.

You didn’t mean to stare. Honestly, you didn’t. But your eyes were fixed. Unmoving. The baby was older than Sylvia—by months. Maybe seven months old, maybe more. Bigger. Stronger. You could see it in how she moved her head, how her limbs responded with coordination, how her gaze settled with awareness. Sylvia hadn’t been there yet. She still twitched like a dream, still curled her fists instinctively.

And yet, as you watched Chloe feed, something inside you ached in a way you weren’t prepared for. Grief that lived behind your eyes and breathed through your shaking hands.

The woman must have noticed. Your tension. Your stiffness. The way your knuckles had gone paler as you clutched your coat. She glanced up and caught your expression, offering a gentle, understanding smile.

"Sorry for the noise," she said softly, her tone sincere but light, as if trying to ease any annoyance she thought you might be feeling. She gave a small laugh, brushing hair from her face. "They get really fussy at this age."

You blinked out of your trance, blinking rapidly as your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.

"Oh, no…it’s fine. I’m used to it. Heh."

The laugh was brittle, your voice cracking at the edges like old glass. Your throat tightened, and you could already feel tears rising, pressing behind your eyes with growing pressure. You turned quickly, redirecting your focus out the window beside you. The world passed in gray smudges of trees and buildings, none of it registering.

Chloe cooed now, bottle still clutched in her hands, her body soft and still once again.

You clenched your jaw tighter, trying not to picture Sylvia in her place. Trying not to imagine her waking up in an unfamiliar crib, her cries echoing in an unfamiliar room. Who had picked her up? Had they done it quickly, gently? Had they murmured to her? Rocked her the way you had? Had they said her name aloud—your name for her?

You blinked again, this time harder, forcing the tears to retreat.

You couldn’t cry here. Not now. Not in front of these strangers. You had already given up too much.

You reminded yourself: you were leaving.

And you could not afford to fall apart on the way out.

The baby let out a soft grunt and abruptly spit out her bottle, wriggling with renewed energy. She began grabbing at her mother’s chest and shirt with tiny, determined hands, making little urgent noises that sounded almost like commands. Her feet kicked lightly against her mother’s thighs as she twisted her torso, trying to hoist herself upward with the uncoordinated insistence that only babies have.

"Oh, okay, okay—let’s sit you up," the woman said with a soft laugh, adjusting her grip. She fumbled a bit, shifting the baby onto her lap, carefully sliding the blanket down and looping an arm behind the child’s back for support. Chloe seemed absolutely delighted by the change in position, her face lighting up with excitement. She let out a stream of gleeful giggles, tiny fingers clapping against her mother’s arm, bouncing slightly as she steadied herself upright.

You looked back over, drawn by the sound. Her laughter pierced something deep inside you—not in a painful way, but like a pin through an over-inflated balloon. And there she was—Chloe—beaming, wide and gummy, her cheeks round and pink with joy. Her brown eyes, bright and curious, had settled directly on you.

You froze for a second, caught off guard by her attention. Not wanting to seem cold or threatening, you raised your hand and offered a tentative wave and the gentlest smile you could manage.

Chloe responded with an infectious, single tooth grin that stretched across her whole face. She bounced slightly in her mother's lap and lifted one arm in a jerky, uncoordinated motion, trying her best to mimic your wave. The movement was more of a flail than a gesture, but it was so sincere, so open, it knocked the wind out of you.

Her mother laughed warmly at the display, her eyes crinkling with affection. She reached down and gently took hold of her daughter's wrist, helping her form a more deliberate wave.

"She loves strangers," she said, her voice full of fond exasperation. "I swear, I’m going to end up raising an extrovert."

Your smile wavered. Your throat ached. Your heart clenched so tightly in your chest it felt like it might collapse in on itself.

You swallowed hard, trying to push the rising emotions down, but they surged anyway. A single tear escaped before you could stop it, slipping quietly down your cheek. You sniffled and quickly rubbed your nose with your sleeve, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

"Your daughter is very cute, ma’am," you managed, your voice a little too soft, a little too shaky.

The woman’s expression shifted, the brightness dimming into something softer, more careful. She looked at you more closely now, truly seeing the exhaustion in your face, the red around your eyes, the tightness in your jaw. Her smile became more subdued, tinged with gentle concern. She leaned over and reached into her purse, rustling through its contents until she pulled out a small travel pack of tissues. Without hesitation, she offered one to you.

"I’m so sorry," she said quietly, her voice low and kind, as if she were afraid to say too much. "Would you…would you like to hold her? You seem like you’re having a rough morning."

She gave a small, almost shy smile, tilting her head as she studied your expression. The offer hung in the air like a fragile thread—one you could grasp or let drift away. It wasn’t pity. It was something else. A moment of human recognition. One mother seeing another, even if the second mother hadn’t said so out loud.

Something inside you twisted, sharp and tender.

And for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. You just sat there, blinking, tissue in hand, heart hammering wildly in your chest as Chloe looked up at you again with that impossibly open smile.

And you wondered if holding her—even for a second—would break you completely.

"Sure, why not?" you said, your voice soft, barely steady as you quickly wiped your eyes with the offered tissue. The kind gesture had chipped away at the emotional dam you’d been desperately trying to reinforce all morning, cracking something fragile and already overstrained. You sniffled quietly and stuffed the tissue in your pocket like it could patch up the flood that was surely on its way. Then, cautiously, you outstretched your arms toward the baby, unsure how this would feel—but aching for the contact in a way that made your breath hitch.

Chloe squealed with delight, a sound that hovered somewhere between a babble and a high-pitched shriek. Her little hands waved excitedly in the air, reaching for you without hesitation, as if she'd known you her entire short life. Her face lit up with uncontainable joy, her whole being seemingly thrilled by the simple act of being passed into someone else’s arms.

You slipped your hands beneath her arms, heart fluttering nervously, and lifted her gently from her mother’s lap. As soon as you had her in your arms, the difference became glaringly clear—she was so much heavier than Sylvia. So much more solid. The contrast hit you like a jolt. Your arms adjusted instinctively to accommodate her weight, but your chest? Your chest collapsed just a little. Sylvia had been so small, so delicate, like holding a puff of breath. Chloe was full of life—strong, warm, and grounded in her own little presence.

She immediately began bouncing on your lap, kicking her legs with glee and wiggling with unfiltered energy. Her hands flailed with excitement, and before you could react, one of them latched onto a chunk of your hair with surprising strength. You yelped, caught off guard, then burst out laughing, the sound coming from somewhere deeper than you expected. It was real. Honest.

"Oh no, I’m so sorry," her mother said quickly, half-laughing, half-mortified as she reached over to help.

You shook your head, brushing her off with a smile that trembled at the corners. "It’s fine," you said gently, laughter still lingering in your voice. You gently pried Chloe’s fingers free, smoothing your hair back behind your ear as she babbled something nonsensical and joyful, still entirely unaware of the storm churning behind your eyes.

And your heart—it felt like it was fracturing all over again, not violently, but slowly. Like something being torn delicately, thread by thread.

"Where are you guys headed?" you asked, your voice soft, as you shifted her slightly in your lap. It felt strange and familiar all at once—the weight, the movement, the rhythm of holding a baby. You tried to keep your tone light, normal, conversational.

The woman smiled, her expression warm and open. "Ah, we’re headed out of town to my parents’. I just got her back from her dad’s, actually. Custody battle. I’m very happy to have my little girl back."

You froze.

Her words hit like a punch to the chest. She had fought. Probably for months. Maybe longer. She had filed paperwork, gone to court dates, endured endless nights of anxiety and doubt. She had fought to get her baby back.

And you—you had walked away from yours this morning.

Shame rushed in like a tide, choking and thick. Your gaze dropped to Chloe’s face. She smiled at you again—wide and gummy, her cheeks round with glee—as if she hadn’t just reminded you of everything you’d lost. She reached up and patted your cheek clumsily, babbling a small sound that might have been a laugh.

That was it.

The sob rose from deep inside, unbidden and unstoppable. The tears poured down your face, hot and fast, blurring your vision. Your shoulders trembled as you tried to hold back the sound, to hold yourself together—but it was no use. You were crumbling, undone right there on the bus in front of a stranger, holding someone else’s baby while grieving your own.

Chloe blinked at you, then reached up again, her fingers brushing your chin. It was such a small, simple thing, and yet it made something inside you split wide open.

The woman leaned forward, her face shifting from polite concern to something deeper, more instinctual. She didn’t speak. She didn’t ask.

She just watched you, her arms still outstretched, ready to take Chloe back whenever you needed. But she didn’t rush you. She didn’t flinch.

She just let you cry.

And you did.

Quietly, then not-so-quietly, you wept—tears soaking your cheeks, your collar, the baby’s tiny sweater. You cried for everything. For Sylvia. For yourself. For all the weight you’d been dragging for weeks. For the part of you that still wasn’t sure if you’d made the right choice—or if such a thing existed at all.

No. This wasn’t right.

As you sat there with someone else’s child in your arms, a warmth blossoming in your chest that you hadn’t felt since Sylvia’s first cry, a cold, sharp realization slammed into you like a tidal wave. This wasn’t okay. You couldn’t sit here smiling, laughing, letting yourself feel even an ounce of peace while holding a stranger’s baby, pretending—if only for a second—that everything was fine. Not when just hours ago, you were trembling with rage and grief, yelling at your own child. Not when you were unraveling so completely you believed the only way to save her was to give her up.

You had given her up. You had placed your daughter—your own flesh and blood—on a doorstep and walked away like she was a burden. Like she was a mistake. Like you weren’t the only one she had in the world.

And now you were sitting here, pretending to be whole?

No. No, no, no.

You couldn’t keep doing this.

This wasn’t grief. This wasn’t healing. It was denial wrapped in borrowed comfort. A fragile delusion trying to muffle the truth clawing its way back into your mind. That you had made a mistake. A colossal, devastating mistake.

It should be Sylvia in your arms right now. Her little hands twitching in sleep. Her eyelids fluttering open. Her cries—those tiny, desperate cries that had once driven you to the edge—should be the only thing in your ears. Your daughter. Your baby. The one you carried, birthed, fed, rocked. The one you had whispered promises to in the darkness. She was part of you. And you had left her behind.

You looked down at Chloe again. She smiled at you, so bright and full of trust, her little fingers curling against your shirt like she belonged there. It split your heart open. It was too much. The weight of it—the tenderness, the joy, the innocence. It didn’t belong to you. Not anymore.

You sniffled sharply, hastily blinking back fresh tears. Then, without giving yourself more time to think, you leaned forward and gently passed Chloe back to her mother. The woman blinked in surprise, her hands instinctively moving to steady her daughter as you relinquished your hold.

"Thank you," you said, your voice breathless, frayed at the edges.

You stood quickly, your movements sudden and stiff, grabbing your bags in the process. Your pulse raced. Your breath came in short, shallow gasps as you turned and made your way down the aisle. Each step felt uncoordinated, like your body had outpaced your brain.

You could feel every pair of eyes turning toward you, confusion painted across the faces of the other passengers. A few murmured quietly. One person shifted in their seat to make space for you, though you barely noticed.

You pushed through, eyes fixed on the front of the bus like a target. Your feet carried you faster than you realized. Your throat tightened.

And then you were there. Right behind the driver’s seat.

"Please, stop the bus!" you shouted, louder than you meant to. Your voice cracked under the force of it, trembling with the weight of something you couldn’t control anymore.

The driver flinched slightly and turned his head, clearly startled. His brow furrowed as he glanced at you, taking in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.

"Ma’am?" he asked, confused. "What’s going on?"

You gripped the metal rail beside him, your knuckles tense. Your entire body felt like it was shaking from the inside out.

"Please," you repeated, this time softer, more desperate. "I have to go back. I left—" your voice caught, the words sticking like thorns in your throat. "I left something behind. I need to go back."

Your vision blurred again. You couldn’t see the road. Couldn’t see the passengers. All you could feel was the ache, the absolute certainty blooming in your chest.

You had to fix this. You had to try.

Even if it was too late.

Even if you had already ruined everything.

You couldn’t stay on this bus. You couldn’t sit quietly in your seat and pretend this was normal, that moving forward was the right thing. Not when Sylvia was still out there. Alone. Not when the air still tasted like her on your clothes, not when her absence echoed in your arms. Not when you could still feel the weight of her, still remember the exact sound of her breathing as she curled into your chest. You had made a mistake—one you couldn��t live with.

The driver looked at you for a long, quiet moment. His lips parted like he was about to speak, but hesitation won. His eyes narrowed, scanning your face—your trembling hands, your wide, desperate eyes, the unspoken battle playing out behind them. You could see it then: the internal calculation, the weighing of protocol versus empathy. The entire world seemed to hold its breath with him, suspended in the tension of a decision not yet made.

And then—

"Ma’am, I need you to take your seat," he said at last. His voice was firm, practiced, but not entirely devoid of compassion. "I can’t stop in the middle of a route. You’re going to have to wait until the next stop."

But you didn’t move. You didn’t nod, didn’t retreat, didn’t even blink. Something inside you coiled tight and snapped at once. You weren’t going to wait. You couldn’t wait. Your body had already made the decision your mouth was seconds away from confirming.

“Let me off the bus!” you shouted, your voice cutting through the quiet hum of the engine like a blade.

The driver startled visibly. His head jerked, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, then back to you. You saw his jaw tense.

“I said let me off!” you cried again, louder, harsher. Your voice cracked under the pressure but didn’t waver. "Stop the bus!"

Passengers behind you began to stir. Murmurs erupted. Shuffling, exasperated sighs, the crackle of discomfort as people leaned into the aisle, trying to see what the hell was going on. A few muttered complaints. Someone groaned, "Jesus, its too early for this shit."

You didn’t care.

Your hand came down hard on the metal rail, the smack echoing like a gunshot in the confined space. "Right now! I’m not staying here—LET ME OFF!"

There was no explanation. No justification. No backstory. You didn’t try to appeal to their logic or ask for their understanding. You didn’t offer any glimpse into the hurricane tearing through your chest.

You demanded.

Because there was no room for anything else. No time for reason. No audience that mattered.

There was only the thunder of your heart, the fire in your lungs, and the tidal wave of urgency that consumed you whole.

In a surge of unfiltered panic, you lunged toward the doors of the bus, your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream, hands flailing against the sealed metal doors. Your palms slapped against the cold surface with more desperation than strategy. You knew—deep down—you weren’t strong enough to open them, that the lock could only be released by the driver. But logic had long since drowned beneath a tidal wave of urgency. Rationality had become irrelevant. All you had left was instinct, raw and blistering, and one singular, unbearable truth roaring through your veins: you had to get off this bus. Now. Not at the next stop. Not in five more minutes. Right now.

Behind you, chaos erupted. Voices tore through the air, jagged with confusion and annoyance:

"Hey! Relax!"

"What the hell is she doing?!"

"Lady, sit down!"

But they were background noise, no more real than the dull drone of the engine or the rattling windows. The world had tunneled—sight, sound, sensation—into a tight spiral of action. Nothing existed beyond the steel doors in front of you and the frantic beat of your heart, slamming against your ribs like it was trying to escape you. You slammed your shoulder into the glass, your body rocking from the impact, palms skidding along the door frame as you clawed for an opening, any opening. You weren’t thinking. You were surviving. Desperately, frantically, mindlessly surviving.

"Okay! ALRIGHT—STOP!" the driver’s voice cracked through the frenzy, sharp and laced with panic, a command flung out like a rope.

And then the world jolted.

The brakes hit hard. The tires shrieked against the pavement. The entire bus lurched forward violently, hurling bodies and bags with it. There was a ripple of chaos behind you—yelps, curses, the metallic clang of falling luggage, the scuffle of limbs flailing for support. Your knees gave out, and you staggered, barely catching yourself on a nearby pole. Pain shot up your shoulder. Your breath tore through your lungs in short, ragged gasps. But you didn’t care. You had stopped the bus. You were almost there.

"Step away from the door!" the driver barked, his voice sharp now, slicing through the noise like a blade.

You backed off, hands raised, not out of obedience but sheer necessity. Your limbs trembled as if every muscle had been stretched to the edge of tearing. Your eyes stayed locked on the doors, willing them open with the weight of everything you hadn’t said, everything you couldn’t undo.

And then, finally—with a mechanical hiss and a rush of winter air—they opened.

You didn’t pause. Didn’t think. You grabbed your bags in one swift motion, the straps twisting in your grip as you hurtled down the steps. The moment your shoes hit the pavement, your legs took over, driving you forward with more force than your mind could comprehend. You didn’t look back. Not at the driver. Not at the woman with the baby. Not at the passengers now whispering and gawking behind the windows.

You could feel their judgment as you fled, a wall of eyes etched into your spine: unhinged. Dangerous. Unfit.

But none of it mattered.

You had something more important to worry about.

You stumbled as your shoes hit a patch of ice near the sidewalk, catching yourself with one hand against a frozen railing. The air was freezing, slicing into your lungs with every breath like a blade. You bent forward, wheezing, chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. It felt like your ribs were caving in, like your body was folding under the weight of your own realization.

And then clarity slammed into you like a train.

The bus had only been driving for ten minutes—maybe less. You hadn’t passed any major intersections or crossed a freeway. Every street that had blurred past the window was familiar enough. You could retrace your steps. You could find the car.

And with it—her.

Sylvia. Your baby. Your blood. Your second chance.

Your pulse pounded louder now, steadier, clearer. The hysteria morphed into singular determination. You adjusted your grip on your bags, slinging it tighter across your body. The cold stung your cheeks and nose, but you didn’t care. You turned toward the direction the bus had come from, eyes scanning for anything familiar.

And then you ran.

Not jogged. Not stumbled. You ran—full throttle, elbows tucked, head down, pushing your body beyond what it was ready for. You weaved through pedestrians, dodging startled faces and narrow sidewalks, ignoring the traffic lights and slick patches that threatened to send you flying. You ran like the world was ending. Like your life depended on it.

Because in a way, it did.

Because she was waiting.

Your legs burned with each pounding stride as you tore through the icy morning streets, lungs screaming with effort, boots skidding across patches of frozen pavement. Your coat flapped violently behind you, useless against the slicing wind that whipped through the city like a blade. Buildings blurred into vague outlines—brick storefronts with shuttered windows, stoops powdered in frost, rusting fences catching the weak light of dawn. You didn’t pause to catch your breath. You didn’t even stop to think. The city was a smear of movement and color. A map without labels. All you had was your gut, pounding inside you like a war drum.

Your only direction was forward.

The sun had just begun to rise, painting the sky in soft shades of coral and violet, casting long shadows over the sleeping city. But it brought you no comfort. There was no awe, no warmth, no pause to marvel at beauty. The world could have been on fire and you would have run through it if it meant getting back to her. Your daughter. Your Sylvia. You didn’t even know if you were going the right way. Landmarks looked both familiar and foreign in the pale light. But then—just when your legs felt like they might give out—you saw it.

Your car.

Parked crookedly against the curb, just where you’d left it. Unmoved. Untouched. Your heart slammed into your chest so hard you nearly doubled over in the middle of the street. A strangled sound left your throat—half sob, half exhale—as you stumbled toward it, your fingers fumbling with the door handle. Relief hit you in a crushing wave. For one terrible moment you’d believed it might be gone. Towed. Broken into. Taken. But it wasn’t. It was there, waiting.

You threw yourself into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind you as your breath fogged up the inside of the windshield. Your hands trembled as you shoved them into your pockets, rifling through crumpled receipts, lint, and broken pens until your fingers closed around something soft and worn. Emma’s note. You ripped it out, the paper creased and slightly damp, the ink smudged along the folds. You flattened it across your knee, eyes darting across the text.

Could you follow it backwards?

Could you unravel the steps in reverse, like retracing your footprints in the snow?

Would that even work?

What other choice did you have?

Your fingers fumbled the keys into the ignition. The engine growled to life, rough and reluctant from the cold. You gripped the wheel with both hands, knuckles whitening. The paper trembled in your lap as you scanned it again, flipping mental images in your head. Turn left at the corner store with the green awnings. Right at the gas station with the flickering sign. The images were hazy, but they were there. Like dreams still clinging to your mind after waking.

You started to drive, heart jackhammering with every block, every slow turn. Your eyes were everywhere—on street signs, on landmarks, on the rising sun creeping up between high-rises. The air inside the car felt tight, claustrophobic. Your chest ached with tension. The motel had to be close now. The one you’d left behind. The one that still carried the scent of your daughter’s skin, the ghost of her cries.

And then—there.

It came into view like a vision from a memory. The squat, boxy shape. The faded sign. The peeling paint. That bleak, familiar stillness. The motel sat crouched in the morning light like it had never moved, like it had been watching and waiting in silence for your return. Your throat closed. Your foot hovered above the brake. But you didn’t stop.

After catching sight of the motel, your tires barely slowed. You didn’t even pull into the parking lot—just glimpsed the squat, tired building from a distance and knew it was enough. That flash of confirmation hit you like a jolt of electricity to the chest. You were close. You were retracing your steps. You were moving in the right direction. But there was no time to linger. No time to catch your breath or second-guess your instincts.

Every second ticking past felt like a crack widening between you and your daughter—growing longer, darker, more impossible to cross. You gripped the wheel with both hands, knuckles white, as you scanned Emma’s handwritten note for the hundredth time, flipping the route in your mind, trying to remember every detail and landmark in reverse. The ink had smudged in places, but you didn’t need it to be perfect. You just needed to move. Fast.

You were running on fumes—adrenaline, fear, a tattered thread of motherly instinct holding you upright. Your body ached from exhaustion, your mind fogged by too many sleepless nights and hours of grief, but still you pressed on. The streets around you started to look familiar again. Trees leaned over sidewalks in ways you remembered. A crooked streetlamp. A red-bricked corner house with a chipped wooden gate. Every familiar detail brought a spike of hope to your chest, paired immediately with a shot of panic. The closer you got, the more your thoughts unraveled—tighter and tighter spirals of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.

The sunlight had grown stronger now, casting sharp shadows on the road ahead. The city was fully awake, unaware of the crisis unfolding in the pit of your soul. Pedestrians began to emerge, walking dogs, carrying coffee cups, beginning their day as if the world hadn’t just ended for you and your daughter. It made your skin crawl. How could everything look so normal? How could this be just another morning for anyone else? The guilt pressed heavier against your chest, wrapping around your ribs like a vice.

She had been alone for hours.

A baby. Your baby. Alone on a doorstep. What had you done?

You pressed your foot harder on the gas.

Your hands trembled as you slowed for a turn. You squinted against the sunlight, blinking fast to clear your eyes. You weren’t even sure if it was tears or light that made everything blur. The houses were starting to blur together—sleek modern facades, polished driveways, everything pristine. You swallowed hard. And then—there it was.

The house.

The gate.

The long, curved driveway like something out of a painting. You knew this was it. You recognized it immediately. The same stillness. The same cold elegance. It felt different in daylight—less surreal, more final. The mansion sat like a monument, immovable and severe under the morning sun. Your car rolled to a slow crawl as you approached, and for a moment, you couldn’t move.

Your fingers clenched the steering wheel so tightly they ached. Sweat beaded at your hairline despite the cold air. You glanced at the gates—they were still open, just barely. Had they been open since you left? Or had someone come out since you left? Your mind raced through a dozen possibilities. Had someone found her? Had she been crying? Had they called the authorities? Or worse...had someone taken her inside?

What if she was gone already?

What if you were too late?

Could you really just march up to the front door and knock? Just ask? Just say, "That’s my baby—please give her back"? Would they believe you? Would they think you were lying? A thief? A madwoman? What if they refused to answer the door at all? What if someone else had taken her and they didn’t know what you were talking about?

You let out a shaky, shuddering breath. Your chest rose and fell in uneven waves as a nauseating mix of hope and terror churned in your gut. The gravity of what you had done—what you were trying to undo—weighed down every muscle in your body. But beneath it all, beneath the fear and shame and doubt, one thing blazed like fire:

You were her mother.

And you were not leaving without her.

You parked the car a considerable distance from the mansion’s gate, your breath catching in your throat as you killed the engine. The silence that followed was deafening, pressing into your eardrums until it was all you could hear—just that thick, suffocating quiet, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine. You sat still for a heartbeat, eyes locked on the looming estate ahead, your mind buzzing with static and dread. It felt unreal. Like something from a dream—or a nightmare. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to move, to do something, and before you’d even fully processed the thought, you were already moving.

You pushed the door open with trembling fingers, the cold morning air hitting you like a slap. It smelled like frost, iron, and distant chimney smoke. Your legs moved before your brain could form a plan, boots crunching softly against the frozen gravel. The sensation grounded you slightly, but not enough. You felt like a shell filled with nothing but panic. Your breaths came short and sharp, visible in the cold as you hurried forward.

The gate loomed closer—wrought iron, black as pitch, still hanging slightly ajar. It was a small detail, but it hit you like a bolt. Someone had come through. Or maybe...no one had remembered to close it. It stood like a crooked invitation or an unanswered question, and it made your stomach twist. You pressed a shaking hand to your chest as your heart pounded louder with each step. She’s gone. She’s definitely gone. Someone took her. Or the police. Or worse. The thoughts spun in loops, growing faster, more frantic.

You whispered under your breath without even realizing it. A breathless, stumbling prayer. "Please be here. Please be here. Please—"

And then everything stopped.

As you slipped through the gate, your body froze. Your thoughts ground to a halt. Your eyes widened and locked onto a single, blessed sight: the black stroller.

There it was, still sitting beneath the shadow of the front awning, untouched. Still. Waiting. Your heart lurched, and for a second, you couldn’t breathe. Then your body snapped into motion, instincts overriding everything else. You bolted forward, sprinting so hard your knees nearly gave out from under you, your breath tearing from your throat in ragged gasps.

Closer. Closer. Closer—

And then you were there.

Your knees buckled as you reached her. You dropped to the ground, the chill of the stone cutting through your pants, but you didn’t care. You reached out with shaking hands, fumbling at the blanket, afraid of what you’d find. But there she was—your baby. Your Sylvia. Still bundled in the same worn blanket you had wrapped her in, her tiny body curling instinctively into its warmth. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold but not dangerously so. Her mouth opened in a soft, sleepy yawn. Her fists twitched near her face.

And then, as if sensing you, her head turned.

Her eyes fluttered open—slowly, groggily—blinking up at you with that unfocused newborn gaze. There was no crying, no screaming. Just that slow squint, that dazed confusion, like she had only just started remembering she existed.

You reached for her, brushing her cheek with your fingers, your breath catching as she leaned into your touch.

A sob broke from your throat, low and raw, the sound splitting you open. Relief crashed into you in waves, so strong it knocked the wind out of your lungs. You hunched forward over the stroller, your forehead nearly touching hers as you let the tears fall freely now, hot on your frozen skin.

She was here.

She was still here.

Unharmed. Waiting. Alive.

Sylvia fully opened her eyes, her sleepy gaze drifting to meet yours, and for a moment—just a moment—it looked like she leaned into your touch. Whether it was a simple muscle twitch or some miraculous, wordless recognition, you didn’t know. But then her tiny face shifted, contorting into what could only be described as a small, genuine smile—barely there, fleeting, but unmistakably real. That smile undid you. It sliced through every wall you’d built, cracked every fragile attempt to hold yourself together. It wasn’t just a smile—it was a lifeline. It was forgiveness. It was a tiny signal from the universe that you hadn’t ruined everything, not entirely. That you hadn’t lost her forever.

Your body folded around her, as if trying to shield her from every danger you had failed to prevent, from every moment you hadn’t been strong enough, hadn’t been present. Tears erupted from your eyes, hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks in thick, ungraceful streams. The morning cold burned your skin, but you didn’t feel it. All you could feel was her—the weight of her tiny body, the warmth that hadn’t faded despite everything, the life still pulsing through her.

You crumbled at her side, knees giving out, your legs no longer able to support the storm inside you. You collapsed beside the stroller, hands trembling violently as they moved instinctively toward her. "Mommy’s here," you choked out, your voice splintering in the back of your throat, breaking under the weight of what you had done. "I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry."

You said it over and over again, not even realizing the words were still coming from your mouth, like your body was trying to pour out the guilt through sheer repetition. The apology came from every fiber of your being, from your lungs, your bones, your soul. You said it as if the force of your remorse could rewrite time, undo the hours she spent alone. Your hands reached into the stroller and slid beneath her warm, impossibly fragile frame. Even now, she was heavier than you remembered, and yet she fit perfectly in your arms—like she had always belonged there, like she had never been anywhere else. Your fingers curled gently around her, brushing the edge of her blanket, confirming that yes—she was here. She was real. She was yours.

With the utmost care, you lifted her from the stroller, bringing her close to your chest. The familiar weight of her settled into your arms like an anchor in a storm. Her head lolled gently against your collarbone, her tiny hands curling toward your shirt as if seeking something familiar. She made a soft grunt, a small exhale through her nose, and the sound alone was enough to crush your heart. Her breath was warm against your skin, soft and steady, a rhythm that slowed your frantic thoughts just enough to let the tears fall more freely.

She didn’t recoil. She didn’t cry. She didn’t even seem to realize you had left, instead just having just had the best nap of her life. Instead, she melted into your body, her presence silent and whole. The heat of her face against your neck lit a spark in your chest that spread through you like a flood, thawing the frozen guilt that had seized your heart ever since you walked away. You clung to her like she was the only thing keeping you alive—because in many ways, she was.

And then you held her. Really held her. Not the way you had when you were exhausted, not the way you had when you were trying to survive—this was different. This was surrender. This was desperation and gratitude and something so fragile it barely had a name. Your entire body shook as the sobs came—deep, heaving sobs that cracked you open, spilled everything you’d been holding in. It all came rushing out. Grief for what you’d done. Guilt for ever believing she’d be better off without you. Terror that someone might have found her before you did. Shame that you’d let yourself think, even for a second, that you weren’t her mother.

It all poured out of you, soaked into the fabric of her blanket, into your sleeves, into the cold air around you. The pain. The shame. The desperation. Every sleepless night, every second of doubt, every whispered wish that she would stop crying so you could breathe—all of it flowed through you, leaving you empty, raw, and clinging to the only thing that mattered.

She was here. In your arms. Safe. Warm. Alive. Her small chest rose and fell against yours in a perfect, unbothered rhythm that felt too sacred to break. It was the most beautiful thing you’d ever known—more real than your own breath, more important than anything you could ever say.

You couldn’t just stay here and sob, no matter how badly your body wanted to collapse and hold her forever. The moment had been sacred, a fleeting miracle in the quiet of early morning—but it wouldn’t stay suspended in time. The world outside was still turning. Reality was creeping in at the edges like frost under a door.

Somewhere inside this mansion, someone could be waking up at any second. A yawn, a stretch, footsteps down a hallway. A light flickering on. A door creaking open. You felt it looming over you like a countdown, each second shrinking your margin for escape. You glanced up at the tall windows above, their curtains heavy with silence.

Your heart pounded wildly in your chest, but the beat had changed. It no longer felt like panic—it was purpose. Urgency. You had been granted something rare, something almost mythic: a second chance. You arrived before they did. You arrived before the stroller had someone’s attention, before a call had been made. It was luck. Pure, undeserved luck.

And you wouldn’t waste it. You couldn’t. Sylvia needed food. She needed her diaper changed. She needed to be warm and safe and held by someone who knew her, who knew how she liked to be rocked, who knew the little creases of her brow and the way she startled in her sleep. All the things you hadn’t given her consistently but desperately wanted to again. All the things you still had time to fix—if you left now.

You wiped your face quickly with the sleeve of your coat, pushing away the dampness that clung to your lashes. Your arms tightened around Sylvia in one last hug. Her soft breath tickled against your neck, and her tiny fingers curled slightly in the fabric of your shirt. Her warmth sank into your chest, branding itself into your skin like a promise. You kissed her forehead, lips lingering a moment longer than necessary, and whispered, "We have to go now, okay? Just hold on for mommy. We’ve got to be quiet."

With trembling, reluctant hands, you carefully settled her back into the stroller. She stirred a little, brows pulling together, lips puckering in protest, but she didn’t fuss. Not yet. You tucked the blanket securely around her, your fingers smoothing over her chest as if you could press the world back into place. Her eyelids fluttered, fighting sleep again. You knew she would need feeding soon, but that would have to wait. First—you had to leave.

You moved to the stroller’s handles and began pushing it slowly across the porch. Each stone slat beneath your shoes creaked with excruciating volume, each sound a threat to shatter the delicate quiet. You held your breath as you moved, shoulders hunched, every muscle in your body bracing for a door to fly open, for a voice to call out and freeze you in place. The gate was still open, the path to freedom just ahead. You were so close.

And then it happened.

One of the front wheels snagged on the lip of the top stair, catching hard. The entire stroller jolted forward with a small, violent shudder, and Sylvia was tossed ever so slightly in her seat. Her arms flung up in a startle reflex, her mouth opening in a hiccuped gasp. You froze.

Time suspended.

But she didn’t cry.

Not yet.

You dropped to your knees beside the stroller, your hand instantly pressing over her chest, the motion both instinct and prayer. “Shhh, it’s okay, baby. I’ve got you. We’re okay,” you whispered, barely breathing. You rocked the stroller gently, soothing the movement back to stillness.

And then—a soft metallic clink broke the silence.

Your eyes darted down.

A bolt. One of the front bolts had come loose from the wheel, fallen and rolled down the porch steps. The stroller wobbled slightly under Sylvia’s weight, the frame tipping just enough to betray its instability.

You stared at it in dismay. The damn thing was falling apart. Just like everything else you’d pieced together in desperation. Just like the plan that had crumbled the second you walked away from her. Your forehead sank to the stroller’s handlebar as a deep sigh left your lips. Not from exhaustion, not entirely—but from the bone-deep ache of knowing that every time you tried to hold your life together, something still fell through the cracks.

“Sorry,” you whispered, voice barely audible now, thick with emotion. “Shouldn’t have gotten the cheapest one. I should’ve known better.”

You should’ve gotten a better stroller. You should’ve had a better plan. You should’ve never left her. And now here you were, on the verge of being caught, wheeling your daughter away in a half-broken stroller held together by hope and shame.

From then on, you moved quickly—well, as quickly as you could without jostling the stroller too much. Every step felt like you were walking a tightrope, balancing your frantic need to move fast with the equally desperate need to protect her from even the slightest bump. Your hands gripped the stroller handles so tightly your knuckles ached, muscles drawn taut like a bowstring, but still you pressed forward. The wheels clicked unevenly across the sidewalk cracks, and every dip in the pavement sent a new wave of panic through your chest. Was it too rough? Was she waking up? Was someone watching?

The early morning air bit at your skin, sharp and brisk, painting your cheeks a raw pink. The tension in your limbs hadn’t faded—it was still humming in your bloodstream like electricity, keeping you hyper-aware of every sound, every movement, every shadow. Each second felt swollen, bloated with tension, like time itself had thickened. You just had to reach the car. Get her secure. Then—maybe—you’d be able to breathe again.

Finally you saw your car. Still there. Parked just where you left it. Just the sight of it made your chest tighten with relief, your knees weakening under you for a beat. A fresh wave of gratitude swept over you as you rushed to it, and a small, unspoken prayer caught in your throat: Thank god you hadn’t thrown out the car seat. You had been close—closer than you liked to admit. In that moment of finality, when you had packed everything away and told yourself she was never coming back to this car, you had stared at that seat for a long time.

But you hadn’t tossed it. And now that decision felt monumental.

You unlocked the door with fumbling, frozen fingers, flung it open, and began shoving things into the back seat. The small duffel with bottles. The diapers. The folded onesies. The blanket with stars you had picked out weeks before she was born, imagining how she might look wrapped in it. All of it had been meant for a family that wasn’t you. A life she wasn’t going to live. And now it all came back into your hands. Back into your life. You stuffed it in like you were stuffing away your guilt—packing the shame deep enough that maybe you wouldn’t have to see it again.

You turned to Sylvia then. She was blinking up at you from her stroller, her crimson eyes wide and a little unfocused, her body curled beneath the blanket. Her lips parted, a sleepy breath escaping as she looked at you, entirely unaware of the weight pressing down on your shoulders. You crouched beside her and brushed your fingers along her cheek.

"Alright, sweetheart," you whispered, your voice tight but soft. "Time to get in. We’ve got to go."

You gently unbuckled her and lifted her into your arms, careful not to jostle her too much. But she was already shifting. Squirming. A soft grunt escaped her lips, then a whimper. You held your breath.

And then it began.

First, a mewl. Then a sharper whine. Then—like a switch had flipped—a high-pitched, keening wail that cut through you like a blade. You froze for a moment, mid-movement, your breath catching in your throat as your nerves flared under your skin. Her cries weren’t just loud—they were loaded. Every sob felt like a judgment, a reckoning, a reminder of how close you had come to never holding her again.

You moved faster, even as your hands shook. "I know, I know... you hate the car seat," you murmured as soothingly as you could, even though your own voice was beginning to waver. "But it’s only for a little bit, baby. Just for a little bit."

She wasn’t listening. Of course she wasn’t. She was too young to understand. All she knew was discomfort, change, and the panic of restraint. She twisted in your arms, her little fists pounding the air as you tried to settle her into the seat. The cries climbed in pitch, sharp and guttural, filling the car like smoke—cloying, thick, impossible to ignore. Your hands fumbled with the straps, your fingers slipping, your own frustration rising with every second. You could feel your composure fraying again, piece by piece.

The scream she let out as you clicked the final buckle in made your eyes sting. It was so full of betrayal, of grief, of longing. It was unbearable. You had to close your eyes for a second just to block it out—to not unravel again completely.

But you didn’t walk away.

You didn’t scream back. You didn’t cry.

You took a deep, ragged breath and placed a gentle hand on her chest, trying to ground both of you.

You hadn’t made a mistake. You knew that. Somewhere deep beneath all the noise and chaos and spiraling anxiety, you knew that coming back for her had been the right thing. The only thing. This was what motherhood was. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t peaceful. It was messy, loud, and sometimes so overwhelming it felt like drowning.

But you were here.

And she was here.

And you were going to keep going—even if your heart was bruised and your hands were shaking and your nerves were hanging by a thread.

You could do this.

It took longer than you wanted to get her settled into the car seat—your hands were trembling slightly, your nerves still frayed from the adrenaline crash of the past hour. The buckles felt stiff, unfamiliar again, like you'd forgotten how they worked in the short time she'd been out of your care. You fumbled to get the chest strap aligned properly, your fingers brushing over the soft fabric of her onesie, adjusting the harness with a quiet, whispered urgency. “Okay... okay, sweetheart... almost done,” you murmured, more to yourself than her. She squirmed with impatience, her little fists balled at her sides, legs kicking out in disapproval. Her whines were high-pitched and erratic, not quite cries but sharp enough to pierce through your remaining calm like a thread unraveling in your chest.

You leaned back on your heels, looking her over, and double-checked every strap again—then again, just to be sure. The last thing you needed was to mess this up. You weren’t going to let anything else happen to her. Not now. Not after all this.

But she was still fussy—uncomfortable, probably soaked through, likely hungry. All things you’d fix as soon as you got out of this neighborhood. You just had to move. But her tiny face was scrunching up more now, the beginnings of a cry taking shape, her mouth parting like she was winding up. “No, no, no—hang on,” you breathed, diving into one of the bags you’d packed for her new life, the one that now felt like a suitcase of betrayal. Formula, wipes, extra clothes, and finally—a pacifier. You pulled it free like it was a life raft.

You brought it to her lips and gently coaxed it into her mouth. She resisted at first—of course she did—but after a few seconds of light nudging and soft shushing, she latched on. Her jaw worked against the silicone with slow, deliberate movement, the familiar rhythm quieting the rising distress just enough to stop your heart from sprinting out of your chest. But her face—god, her face. She wasn’t soothed. Not entirely. Her eyebrows knit together, her eyes narrowed in your direction as she sucked on the pacifier. It wasn’t just tiredness. It wasn’t hunger. It looked like judgment.

You stared down at her and blinked, surprised by how sharp the look felt. A squinting, scowling sort of glare that no baby her age should have been capable of, and yet...there it was. You weren’t imagining it.

And despite everything—despite the guilt still suffocating your ribs, despite the sweat clinging to the back of your neck from sheer panic—you let out a sound. A short, breathless laugh. “What? You mad at me?” you whispered with a cracked voice, smiling with a sorrow that lived behind your teeth. “Yeah...fair enough.”

You lingered a moment longer, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead, letting your thumb graze the soft curve of her cheek. She was warm. Solid. Still yours.

Finally, you closed the door with a quiet thunk, trying not to jostle her. You straightened up slowly, your joints aching in protest, and circled around the car to put the stroller away, letting yourself breathe again now that the crisis—this crisis—was past. The sun had fully risen now, casting the neighborhood in golden light, too soft, too beautiful for what the morning had contained. The houses stood like sentinels, their windows glinting like watchful eyes. You hated it. Hated how peaceful everything looked. As if the world hadn’t almost collapsed on top of you.

You opened the passenger door and climbed inside, settling into the seat and closing it behind you with a long, slow exhale. The silence inside the car felt heavier now, not soothing like before, but thick and loaded—full of the words you couldn’t say to her, the apologies too big to cram into one breath. Your hands trembled as you placed them on your thighs, grounding yourself.

You turned your head just slightly to glance at Sylvia through the rearview mirror.

She was still watching you.

Still glaring.

You smiled, weakly. “Yeah,” you whispered, voice cracking again. “I’m working on it.”

You turned the key in the ignition with shaky fingers, the engine coughing to life beneath your hands. The familiar rumble vibrated through the steering wheel as you pulled away from the mansion’s curb, slowly at first, then faster—just enough to feel the distance growing behind you. Each turn of the tires felt like a breath, a beat of reprieve, but the knot in your chest never fully loosened. You were driving, yes—but to where? You didn’t know yet. Not really. There was a whisper of instinct guiding you, nothing more, and even that felt fragile.

You weren’t sure what the plan was anymore. Not since everything fell apart so quickly. Your mind reeled with half-formed ideas, each one more desperate than the last. It wasn’t just about getting away now—it was about staying ahead. About staying alive.

The motel wasn’t an option for much longer. Even if no one had noticed your brief return, even if you’d somehow managed to escape without triggering any alarm bells—someone eventually would. You couldn’t risk staying in one place too long. Sylus probably figured out you were staying in one by now. The walls of that room felt too heavy anyways, too filled with memories, with guilt, with the echo of what could have been permanent loss. No...you needed to go. Somewhere farther. Somewhere off the map. Somewhere no one would ever think to look.

Another bus, maybe? you thought, your mind racing ahead of your heartbeat. You could keep moving. Get new tickets. This time, with Sylvia in your arms where she belonged. But even as the idea bloomed, it withered under the weight of reality. A bus wouldn’t get you far enough. Not far enough to matter. Not far enough to stop him. You needed more. A better way out. A clean slate. An escape that didn’t just buy you a few days—but gave you an entirely new life. A life where you weren't glancing over your shoulder every hour. A life where you and Sylvia could laugh again. Sleep again. Breathe again.

You sighed, long and heavy, your fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel. The morning sun was rising higher now, casting long shadows across the road, painting the world in soft gold that felt undeserved. The warmth of the light didn’t reach you. It only made the contrast sharper. You flicked your gaze to the rearview mirror again.

Sylvia was quiet now, pacifier bobbing slightly as her eyes blinked slowly, still half-lulled by the car's motion. You studied her face for a long moment, that same sharp ache in your chest returning full-force. It felt surreal. Just hours ago you had convinced yourself you could leave her behind. That you were doing the right thing. That she’d be better off. The thought made your stomach churn. How could you have ever believed that?

No—she needed you. Just as much as you needed her. You could see that now with piercing clarity. Every breath she took felt like it stitched you back together. There was no leaving her again. Not for any reason. Whatever came next, whatever it cost—you’d face it together. There was strength in that. Terrifying, yes. But also grounding.

You were still an emotional mess. Broken by everything that had happened and tired beyond reason of running. But neither you or Sylvia had asked for each other. You were both technically victims of circumstance and could make this work.

But still...there were things to consider. Serious ones. The practical weighed against the emotional, and for once, you had to think like someone who intended to survive.

As much as you hated to admit it—you both needed papers. Real ones. You needed official documents. Something to get you far enough away to disappear in plain sight. A job. A lease. It was the only way to build something lasting. The only way to get passports and hopefully get on a plane. The only way to keep him from finding you again. And you knew, with cold certainty, that he would keep looking.

For you, it should be possible. Risky, yes, but manageable. Getting a replacement ID, maybe a birth certificate copy...it wouldn’t be easy, but it was within reach if you were careful. The biggest threat would be walking into the wrong building and showing your face on the wrong camera. Having to answer the wrong question to the wrong clerk who saw too much or knew too little. Who knows how many people Sylus had informed to catch you trying to escape. But that was a risk you’d have to take. You could practice the story, pick a disguise carefully, time it just right.

For Sylvia, though...

You glanced back at her again.

That’s where things got complicated.

What could you even say? How could you explain her presence—no hospital records, no birth certificate, no documented history at all. She existed only to you. To the world, she wasn’t anyone yet. And making her someone without drawing attention to yourself? That would take more than luck. It would take planning. It would take someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who owed you. Someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions.

You didn’t have answers yet. But you knew one thing with certainty:

You had her back.

And this time, you weren’t letting go. Not for anything. Not for anyone.

You could figure it all out soon. For now, you had her back, and you were both safe. That was the only thing that mattered in this moment. The rest—the paperwork, the hiding, the impossible logistics—could wait. You knew you weren’t in the best place mentally. The emotional storm hadn’t passed, not even close, and it still rumbled beneath the surface, threatening to tear through you again without warning. And Sylvia—she needed food, rest, a clean diaper, probably a full check-up. She needed more than just safety. She needed care, consistency, you. But you had her. She was alive. You were alive. That was enough to start with. That had to be the foundation, however cracked. You’d rebuild from there.

So you just drove. Slowly. Steadily. Out of the neighborhood, away from the tall, looming houses and carefully manicured lawns. Away from the weight of what you’d done—and almost done. With each passing block, the pressure in your chest loosened just a little. The city was starting to stir, but the roads were still mostly clear, the streets slick with the last traces of dew. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, muffled by fences and fog. You passed a jogger on the sidewalk, oblivious in her headphones and neon gear, completely unaware of the world you were escaping. It felt surreal, how normal the morning looked when your life had been reduced to fragments. You didn’t know where you were going yet, but you clung to the idea that somewhere ahead there was a new beginning. Not perfect, not easy—but possible. A fresh page. A blank space to breathe.

Several minutes passed in silence, the quiet in the car broken only by the soft suckling of Sylvia’s pacifier and the hum of the tires on pavement. Her little breaths were rhythmic, soothing even, and for a few fragile moments you allowed yourself to believe things might hold together. You turned a corner onto a broader street lined with trees and low storefronts, trying to stay alert despite the exhaustion pulling at your edges. Your eyes flicked to the gas gauge—less than a quarter tank. Something to worry about soon, but not yet. Your thoughts were already a haze, fogged by adrenaline and fatigue, but you kept pushing forward, street by unfamiliar street.

Then, out of nowhere, a sharp, guttural sound sliced through the stillness—a motorbike revving at full volume.

Your heart lurched and your foot instinctively slammed the brakes. The car jolted slightly as you came to a halt. A blur of motion whipped past your window—a flash of black and chrome—so fast you couldn’t make out anything but speed and noise. Your breath caught as your eyes darted to the rearview mirror.

Too fast. Too loud. And far too close.

You exhaled sharply, the pulse in your neck pounding as you gripped the wheel a little tighter. “Are there no speed limits in Windsor City?” you muttered, rolling your eyes as the adrenaline slowly ebbed. You looked into the mirror again, watching the vanishing tail light disappear around a bend. You tried to laugh it off, but a prickling feeling crawled across your spine.

You didn’t catch a glimpse of the rider. But something about the sound had stirred something inside you—a memory, or maybe just a reflex. You shook your head. Still, it was the kind of sound that branded itself onto your thoughts, lingered longer than it should’ve.

It’s nothing. Just some asshole in a hurry.

But still, your fingers stayed tight on the wheel as you pulled forward again, just a little more cautious now than you were before. You drove slower, eyes scanning every intersection, every parked car. You found yourself wondering where you’d sleep tonight, if there was a place that didn’t feel borrowed or breakable. Somewhere you could close your eyes and not listen for the creak of approaching danger.

Sylvia stirred slightly in her seat, a faint little coo escaping her lips, and you glanced back at her. Her eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t wake. You reached back without thinking, brushing her blanket back over her legs. That tiny, instinctive motion steadied you more than anything else could’ve in that moment. It reminded you that you weren’t just running—you were protecting.

And that meant moving forward, no matter how uncertain the road ahead looked.

A plane. You needed to get on a plane.

The apartment was dim, stale with the scent of old coffee and something vaguely metallic. The blinds were still half-shut, casting long, gray shadows over the hardwood floor littered with unopened letters and forgotten food containers. The silence was thick — broken only by the distant hum of the city and the occasional pop of an ice shard cracking against the radiator.

Xavier lay curled on the floor, shirt damp with sweat and blood. His limbs ached, locked in position from another uncontrolled surge of his Evol. Ice laced his forearms, jagged and crystal blue, crawling up the veins beneath his skin like frostbite. He hadn't meant to lose control again. But this time, there had been no stopping it. Not when the memories hit.

Your face. Your voice. The betrayal. The goodbye that hadn’t really been a goodbye.

He groaned, shifting slightly, shards of ice cracking and falling to the floor like broken glass. His phone lay face-up nearby, vibrating now and then with texts and missed calls. Most were from Captain Jenna, her voicemails becoming increasingly panicked, increasingly professional.

“Xavier, just checking in again. There's nothing you can't get through if you open up to others. At the very least, we need to get in contact for your potential resignation. Call me back".

He hadn’t called her back. He hadn’t called anyone back.

He stared at the ceiling now, eyes hollow. He couldn’t shake the image of you— not the woman you had become, but the one you used to be. The one who used to stand beside him on missions, laugh in his ear, curse like hell when they were nearly killed on a recon job. The one who had said she trusted him. The one he had let down.

He had nightmares of you screaming. Crying. Holding a baby that wasn’t his.

The baby....

Xavier coughed, his chest tight. He didn't know if it was guilt or something worse, but the pressure never went away. Every hour without knowing where you were was felt like his bones were splintering. And somewhere, out in that city...was him. Sylus. Breathing the same air as you. Touching you. Playing house with you.

It made Xavier sick.

But worse than the rage was the helplessness. Its not like he hadn't tried. He had fought like hell to bring you back. To save you. Had even damaged and changed his very DNA in the process. He would've died trying to regain your freedom.

Who knew that the very one to defeat him wouldn't be Sylus...but you. The kiss you gave Sylus played over and over in his head on a daily, bleeding into his every thought and mind as he underwent his painful transformation.

With a shaky hand, Xavier reached for the pill bottle on the edge of the coffee table. It was nearly empty. He swallowed one dry, not caring what it was — painkiller, suppressant, something. He just needed something. His vision blurred for a moment before settling again.

“Get it together,” he whispered, his voice cracked and rough.

He tried to sit up, but his arms gave out, and he slumped back down. The air felt too cold. Or maybe that was just him.

He curled deeper into himself, barely registering the soft crackle of more frost forming under his palms as the temperature around him dropped again. It was always cold now. Always just a little too frigid in the corners of the apartment, like he was leaking winter from his soul.

Most weeks passed like this—quiet, aching, cold. He had stopped going outside. Every time he tried to leave, the light burned too bright, the people moved too fast, and the fear of losing control again crawled up his throat like a scream. A week ago, he shattered a glass cup just by brushing against it. He hadn’t told anyone. How could he? He was dangerous now. Broken. And alone.

And you...you were still out there somewhere. Maybe safe. Maybe not. Maybe you hated him for not finding you again. For letting you go.

He closed his eyes and let the dark seep in around the edges of his vision. He just needed a little more time. A little more strength.

He had had numerous people knock on his door over the last several weeks—neighbors checking in with cautious voices, food delivery drivers knocking and waiting too long before leaving, even someone from the Hunters Association once, leaving a note taped crookedly to his door. But he never answered. The world outside had narrowed into a blur of light and noise, a distortion of reality that he could no longer tolerate. His senses felt too sharp, too volatile, like everything was either too loud or too cold or too much.

Most days, he was too weak to even lift his head off the arm of the couch, much less drag himself to the door and pretend to be human. Even ordering groceries online—once his last remaining tie to the outside world—had become an exhausting task, buried under the weight of apathy and fatigue. Not that it mattered. He barely had an appetite anymore. The kitchen had turned into a shrine of rot and neglect: untouched cans of soup, spoiled milk, dust coating the counter like a second skin, and a coffee maker that hadn’t been touched in weeks.

He had tried—passively, deliberately, and with a kind of quiet finality—to die. He’d stopped eating. Stopped drinking. Stopped moving unless absolutely necessary. Just laid there for days at a time, waiting for his body to shut down. He thought maybe the pain, the crushing guilt, the endless isolation would finally end if he could just cease to exist. But that wasn’t what happened. Instead, he learned something terrifying. His body had changed. Permanently. Whatever they had done to him at the hospital—whatever mutation had been coaxed out of him through the injections and forced transformations—it had rewritten him at a cellular level. He didn’t need food anymore. Or not often. His body sustained itself with an eerie efficiency, feeding off something internal. Something cold.

At first, he thought it was just stubborn willpower dragging him back from the edge. The hope of seeing you again. Of saving you from Sylus. Of making things right. But after week two, he realized it wasn’t will at all. It was biology. Or worse—something unnatural. Something that no longer obeyed the rules of the world he used to live in.

It infuriated him.

His entire being was a cocktail of pain, loss, and freezing, inescapable power—and he couldn’t even do this. Couldn’t even vanish the way he wanted to. The cold that lingered in his limbs never left. His breath misted in the air everywhere he went. He was a walking winter storm, barely contained. And the only person who might have helped him—who might have understood what was happening to him—was gone.

Dr. Grey.

He had tried to reach him. Countless messages. Calls. Eventually the number stopped ringing and informed him the number had just been disconnected.

It wasn’t until a stray article popped up in his newsfeed—one of those half-buried, suspiciously underreported stories—that he finally understood. There had been multiple arrests linked to EVER. Whistleblowers had come forward. Testimonies collected. Files leaked. The lab had suffered what officials called an "internal sabotage incident." Translation: someone on the inside had torched the place. Explosions. Missing researchers. Disappearing witnesses. Dr. Grey's name was never mentioned explicitly—but he was gone all the same.

It all clicked into place then. Every strange gap in memory. Every evasive answer during treatment. Xavier hadn’t been a patient. He hadn’t even been a subject with consent. He’d been a living prototype. A guinea pig for something experimental. Something unstable. They had changed him under the guise of recovery. Left him with abilities he couldn’t control, instincts he didn’t understand, and a body that was quickly becoming something alien.

He had once dreamed of joining the Hunters Association again once he saved you and brought you back. Of protecting people. Of making a difference.

Now? He couldn’t even go outside without frosting the windows of passing cars. He couldn’t sleep without nightmares of you crying. Screaming. Holding a child that he had been fully ready to adopt as his own. He couldn’t move without the ache of ice still spiraling in his joints.

He was unraveling.

And he was utterly alone.

Whatever he was now—whatever frost was replacing his veins, whatever armor was beginning to form beneath his skin, whatever pulsed beneath the surface like an ancient glacier—there would be no one coming to fix it.

Hell, at this rate, he was likely becoming a Polar Wyrm by the day.

And no one was coming to stop him.

No one was coming to save him.

He was on his own.

He didn't sleep much these days either. And it pained him—deeply, profoundly. Sleep had once been his greatest comfort, the only thing in life he had ever truly desired with any consistency. It had been his reprieve, his sanctuary, the only time he felt completely untethered from duty, expectation, or regret. He had once taken pride in his ability to sleep anywhere, anytime. A cot on a transport vessel. The back of a recon truck. Even slumped over in his chair with a jacket for a pillow. But now? Sleep had become his tormentor.

The only "rest" he managed now came in brief, involuntary stretches—when the muscle spasms and deep, marrow-level aches overwhelmed his body and knocked him unconscious. And even that wasn’t truly sleep. It was a shutdown. A collapse. There was nothing peaceful about it. And when he woke, it was always the same: his body shaking, soaked in sweat, the room covered in thin, crystalline patches of frost that had spread out from his limbs while he lay there.

And the dreams—god, the dreams. They weren’t just disorienting or abstract. They were vivid, sharp as knives, seared into the fabric of his subconscious like permanent scars. You were always there. Sometimes holding a baby he couldn’t bring himself to look at, crying, begging him to come back, to fix everything. Other nights, your eyes were full of hate. You screamed at him, called him a coward, told him he was too late. And worse—much worse—were the nights when you said nothing at all. When you stood beside Sylus with a smile on your face, holding his hand, pressing your mouth against his like it was the most natural thing in the world. As if you’d never known Xavier. As if he had never mattered.

Those dreams always woke him violently. Gasping, clutching at his chest, his skin clammy and freezing to the touch. He would sit up surrounded by a halo of melting ice, puddles of water soaking through whatever surface he'd been laying on. After ruining his sheets and mattress more times than he could count, he had given up trying to sleep in bed at all. Now he laid on towels layered over the wooden floor, with an emergency blanket beneath him to soak up the melt. He kept a mop nearby. A bucket. His "sleeping area" looked more like a containment site than a place of rest.

He’d once dreamed of peace. Now even unconsciousness betrayed him.

Much like how he woke up just now.

“Crap...again,” Xavier groaned, his voice nothing more than a rasp as it escaped his cracked lips. His breath misted visibly in the cold air as he pushed his face away from the damp floor, blinking against the sharp sting of icy meltwater that had soaked through the towel beneath him. His limbs were locked in a state of dull ache, his muscles refusing to stretch naturally, his bones groaning with stiffness. The hardwood beneath him was slick, a shallow pool of slush where his body had involuntarily released its Evol-induced freeze during the night. He shivered violently, his teeth clacking together before he forced them to still. He pressed his palm against the wall, feeling the jolt of freezing energy where his skin met the surface, and hauled himself upright with the kind of effort that made his vision swim.

Each movement sent splinters of cold through his spine, as if his very nervous system had become wired with frost. He reached out with one trembling hand to grab the mop propped against the corner—an old thing, worn at the handle from repeated use. The towels he’d laid out the night before were useless now, soaked through and clinging to the floor like discarded skins. He yanked one up with a grunt, the fabric clinging before releasing with a wet slap.

It was routine now. A grotesque morning ritual that no longer shocked or even disappointed him. This was simply how life worked now—wake up surrounded by ice, clean up the wreckage of his body’s betrayal, try to piece together something like a normal day. It was a performance of normalcy for no one but himself.

But the question had begun to rot at the back of his mind: What was he even waiting for?

To die? He had tried. A slow, deliberate starvation. An experiment in neglect. But his body, twisted by experimental drugs, refused to give up. His system seemed to sustain itself on nothing now, some buried reserve of energy constantly renewing the damage, repairing the organs, defying entropy like a cruel joke.

Or was he just waiting to lose himself completely? To wake up one morning and see nothing but glassy, alien eyes in the mirror? To find that his thoughts were no longer his own, that something darker, colder had taken over? He could feel the change crawling beneath his skin. His reflexes had sharpened, yes, but they no longer felt human. There was a delay—not in his actions, but in the recognition of them. Like someone else was pulling the strings just a beat ahead of him.

He’d seen this before. People turning into Wanderers. People that evolved past reason, past empathy. People who forgot their names and remembered only hunger. Madness followed in their wake like a shadow.

Xavier wasn’t ready to admit it, but the signs were there. His hands trembled for reasons unrelated to cold. His mind frayed at the edges, thoughts looping endlessly. Sometimes he didn’t remember what day it was, or if he had spoken aloud or just thought he had.

He had to act before it got to that point.

He couldn’t risk becoming one of the dangers the Hunter’s Association warned against. He couldn’t risk hurting someone. The people in his building didn’t know what he was. They thought he was a recovering soldier, someone dealing with trauma or addiction, not a man whose body could freeze a man’s throat shut with a single scream. There were kids here. He couldn’t be the reason their lives changed forever.

But if the Hunter’s Association caught wind of him, it would be over. They were too efficient. Too well-connected. One incident, one report, one scan of his Evol signature and they’d start digging. They’d find his name buried in the collapsed records of EVER more than likely. They’d uncover everything. The injections. The illegal testing. The collapse of the lab. The missing researchers. Dr. Grey.

And if the Association didn’t get to him?

Sylus would.

Xavier had seen what Sylus did to people like him—people with potential. With power. He didn’t use them. He owned them. Broke them. Reforged them into weapons. Xavier sometimes thought about their encounters and realized he had been dancing with death many times.

Xavier pressed the mop harder into the puddle, water squeaking beneath the pressure, and clenched his jaw. The temperature in the apartment felt like a meat locker. No matter how long he lived like this, he never fully adjusted to the cold. It got into his bones and stayed there. His heartbeat pulsed dully in his ears as his thoughts spiraled.

He had to change something. Make a move. Find help—or at least find a direction.

He was running out of time. He could feel it every time he closed his eyes.

Something was coming.

And if he didn’t do something soon, it wouldn’t just be himself he couldn’t save.

And the worst part? He was of no use to you like this.

All of it—every painful transformation, every sleepless night, every moment spent spiraling into himself—meant nothing if he couldn’t help you. He had gone through hell trying to get you back. Gotten various bones in his body broken. Threatened his own doctor. Traveled into one of the most dangerous cities known to man. Abandoned everything that once defined him. Put his faith in doctors who saw him as data points. Risked treatments that fractured his mind and mutated his body. Let himself be changed, rewired, tested. All of it, for the chance to be the one who could save you.

And now?

He was nothing. A shell of who he used to be. A ghost locked in his own apartment. The man who once stood shoulder to shoulder with you in the field, who made you laugh even during chaos, who knew your tells, your silences, your bravery—he was gone. Replaced by a trembling, frost-covered wreck who barely made it through each night. His body betrayed him. His mind wasn’t far behind. He spent hours just staring at the wall, forgetting what time it was, what day. He was starting to fear forgetting who he was.

The image of your face in the woods haunted him constantly. Not just the memory of it, but the weight of your voice. The way your eyes hardened right before you kissed Sylus. The cold finality of the words when you told him it had all been a lie. The conviction when you said you were choosing Sylus. Not just implied, but said aloud. You had meant for him to hear it. Time had passed, and he still couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t unhear it. Couldn’t stop the slow drip of betrayal from bleeding into everything he thought he knew about you.

You had chosen Sylus.

Surely, your feelings for him hadn't been fake. You had cried in his arms before. Even tried to kiss him. Told him things in hushed, trembling voices, things people only say when they believe in something together. He’d seen it in your eyes—hadn’t he? That flicker of hope. That hunger for freedom. For something more than pain. More than survival. He'd held onto it like it was gospel.

And yet, you had thrown it all away.

After months of tormenting himself, replaying every second, every word, every intake of your breath, he had managed to boil it down to two possibilities. It had to be one of them, didn’t it? Either you had genuinely given up hope—that the fight wasn’t worth it anymore. That loving him, trusting him, trying to rebuild a life together was too impossible to grasp. That giving in to Sylus was the easier path. The less painful one. The safer bet.

Or...

You had done it for him.

To save him.

Because you knew Sylus. You knew his rage, his cruelty. You knew how far he’d go to punish defiance. And Xavier had already tried once—already stepped into the fire and come out broken, bruised, bleeding. He had told you what Sylus had done to him for previous attempts. Maybe you thought he wouldn’t survive another attempt. Maybe you thought if you submitted, if you played along, he’d let Xavier go. Let him live. Maybe it had all been for him.

Would he ever know?

No. Probably not. The answer didn’t matter anymore.

What mattered was this: he couldn’t try again. He wasn’t strong enough. Not like this. He couldn’t even manage to leave the apartment, let alone stage some heroic rescue. And Sylus had made it crystal clear—another move, and Xavier would be killed. No ceremony. No games. Just death.

And you...you had let it happen.

Maybe out of love. Maybe out of fear. Maybe out of surrender.

At least this way, he told himself, you were both alive. That was the only thread he had left to hold onto. That maybe you were out there breathing, even if it wasn’t for him. That maybe you were surviving, even if it meant enduring. That you and his almost adopted daughter were at the very least thriving. Not a day passed that he didn't think of his precious girls. He wondered every day how the birth had gone. What Evia looked like. Surely she must look like you, right?

It made him smile.

It was a fragile comfort. A lie he repeated every night, like a prayer against the cold that never left his skin. He whispered it to the ceiling, to the cracked paint, to the frost growing at the corners of his windows. Like a mantra.

He stopped mopping and blinked, something catching his eye in the dim blue sheen of the room. The puddle at his feet rippled subtly as he shifted, and his gaze was drawn downward—to his arm. A sharp inhale caught in his throat as his breath stilled.

There it was.

A long, jagged black scale, protruding from just below the bend of his elbow. It jutted out like a blade, gleaming faintly even in the weak, gray morning light. Glossy and hard like obsidian, its edges ridged and dangerously sharp, almost like some natural armor forged under impossible pressure. This wasn’t ice. Not frost. Not one of his usual Evol side effects. This was something else entirely. Something deeper. Something ancient, even. He had seen hints of them before, fleeting and ghostlike—once in the mirror, once during a dream that felt too real. But they’d always vanished before he could truly process what he was seeing. Faded away like steam. Like denial.

But this one…this one stayed.

And worse, it pulsed with light. Faintly. With a slow, steady heat. A throb of energy that radiated from beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.

His breath caught hard in his chest. That was not a good sign. That was not something he could ignore.

The mop slipped from his hand, clattering uselessly to the floor with a wet slap. Xavier stumbled backward a step, still staring at his arm as if it might move on its own. Panic surged up his throat, cold and sharp. He backed away until his legs hit the wall, and then he slid down, his spine pressed to the frigid plaster, trying to make sense of what was happening. Trying—and failing—not to hyperventilate.

His knees drew to his chest instinctively, arms cradling them. His fingers twitched, and that throb beneath his skin only grew stronger, more insistent. He could feel it now—other places where the scales had started to form. His back. His shoulder blades. Along his ribs. He ran a shaky hand down his torso, wincing as he felt the irregular texture beneath the fabric of his shirt. Like raised seams. Growing.

He shook his head and tilted it back against the wall, eyes wide, jaw clenched. The room felt too warm suddenly, too enclosed. But he knew that wasn’t true. The air was freezing. He could still see his breath ghosting in front of his face. Still feel the sting of cold against his cheeks.

He turned his eyes toward the ceiling vent, his breath trembling. He had tried turning the heat on once—just once, days ago. Not because he wanted to, but because he needed to know. And what had happened had nearly destroyed the apartment. The moment the very warm air filled the space, his body reacted violently. Sweat turned to steam, curling off his skin in thick, rolling clouds. His chest had seized up, tight and raw, as if his lungs were trying to escape the heat. His Evol had spiked without warning, creating a vicious chain reaction: the walls cracked, the ceiling fan shattered, frost and light surged through the room and melted just as quickly. The entire apartment sweltered and froze in alternating bursts. It had taken hours to stabilize everything again.

Since then, he hadn’t dared touch the thermostat. He kept the windows cracked. The vents closed. The cold was a burden—but it was the only thing keeping his body from spiraling further out of control. It was the only constant in a reality that was rapidly disintegrating.

And yet here it was. The scale. Unbothered by cold. Still growing. Still anchored to his body like it belonged there.

He reached for it again, trembling fingers brushing the hardened surface. It didn’t hurt to touch—but it sent a chill up his arm all the same. It wasn’t foreign anymore. It was part of him. Embedded. A sign that something inside him had passed the point of return.

He felt other parts of himself reacting too—muscles twitching involuntarily, skin prickling as if bracing for impact. It was like his body was preparing for something. A change. An awakening. Or maybe a final mutation.

His eyes stung. He hadn’t cried in days, maybe weeks, but now the pressure behind them burned. He pressed his forehead to his knees, breath hitching as the fear set in.

He was changing.

And this time, there was no coming back.

Not as the man he was. Not as someone who could still pass for human. Not as someone who could ever stand beside you again without wondering if he’d freeze the air between you, or shatter something precious without meaning to.

He stayed there, curled up beneath the pale morning light, trembling in the silence of the apartment, the weight of inevitability pressing in from all sides.

It was already too late.

He knew what needed to be done. Deep down, he’d known for awhile but the words never quite made it to the surface. He couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud, to look in the mirror and admit it to himself. Because once he did, it would become real. Unchangeable. The final act in a play he never wanted to be part of. But with no cure, no doctor, no support system to lean on, and his mental state fraying at the seams, there weren’t many other paths left. Every day was a battle just to stay in control, to keep the frost from creeping up the walls or the wild pulse of his Evol from cracking through his skin. Every hour chipped away at what little stability he had left. He was living on borrowed time, held together by sheer will and whatever scraps of human instinct he had left.

It was probably that very willpower—and whatever residual strength had been drilled into him from his time in the field—that allowed him to hold back this long. But even that resolve was beginning to falter. His thoughts weren’t linear anymore; they moved in circles, spirals, rehashing the same anxieties, the same fears, over and over again. He couldn’t tell if days were passing or if time had folded in on itself. His body no longer responded like it used to. The pain wasn’t isolated. It was everywhere—deep in the joints, the chest, the eyes, like something was breaking him down from the inside.

His Evol didn’t flicker anymore—it surged. It pulsed. It responded to emotions, to movement, to memories. The black scales were no longer fleeting. They didn’t fade when he blinked or wash away in the morning light. They lingered. Hardened. Spread. He could feel them even now beneath the skin of his back and ribcage, pressing outward like armor that hadn’t been invited. It was building inside of him, something unnatural, something neither fully human nor fully other.

And he couldn’t afford to wait for the worst. He couldn’t risk snapping. Couldn’t risk his body going into full transformation in the middle of the night and freezing through the walls of his building, taking out neighbors who were just trying to sleep. Couldn’t risk walking into the street and catching someone’s eye with a flare of unhinged Evol energy. Couldn’t risk the Hunter’s Association. Couldn’t risk drawing Sylus.

So he sighed. A long, hollow sound dragged from somewhere deep in his chest—the kind of exhale that emptied him of more than just air. He glanced toward the narrow beam of sunlight peeking through the blinds, casting a thin golden line across the icy floor. It looked like a fracture in reality. A reminder that time still moved forward, even as he felt suspended in place. The sunlight didn’t warm him. Nothing did anymore. But it gave him a point to focus on, a symbol. A decision.

Tonight.

He would leave.

No fanfare. No goodbyes. No messages sent or coordinates left behind. Just vanish. Fade into the margins like a shadow that no longer served a purpose. He would pack the few belongings he hadn’t already broken or neglected. He’d go somewhere no one could follow. Maybe to the cliffs past the ridge. Maybe to the outskirts of that long-abandoned industrial district. Somewhere forgotten. Somewhere the cold wouldn’t matter. Somewhere he could let the transformation finish if that’s what had to happen.

Maybe he could isolate until it passed. If there was even a part of him still left to pass through it.

Or maybe—if it came down to it—he’d do the unthinkable.

Die.

The thought didn’t settle in his mind with terror. It settled like inevitability. Like something he had quietly agreed to weeks ago but hadn’t dared to name.

Better that than becoming a monster. Better that than waking up to blood on his hands and not knowing whose it was. Better that than seeing your face again and watching it fill with horror.

Better that than hurting you—even from afar.

He didn’t cry. Not anymore. He didn’t have the energy for tears, not when his body was already busy fighting itself. But when he finally stood, dragging his fingers across the frost-lined wall for support, his hands trembled.

They trembled with fear. With resignation. With something too hollow to be hope, but too persistent to be nothing at all.

He moved toward the closet, already beginning to form the shape of his departure.

It had to be tonight.

Before it was too late.

His phone buzzed from the floor, the sound sharp and jarring against the otherwise still, cold silence of the apartment. It echoed louder than it should have in the frost-covered room, bouncing off the bare walls like a reminder of the world he was choosing to leave behind. The vibration made the screen tremble where it lay on the warped hardwood, the dim glow catching Xavier’s attention from across the room. He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing toward the faint light, squinting through the grayish morning haze that filtered through the blinds.

He didn’t reach for it right away. Part of him didn’t want to. He already knew what it was.

Of course.

Probably Tara or Captain Jenna. They were the only ones still trying. The only ones who hadn’t given up on him yet.

Tara had been the more persistent of the two, especially in recent weeks. She never pushed too hard, never demanded answers or explanations, but her presence was constant. Quiet but steady. She checked in like clockwork, always respectful of his silence, but never letting him forget he was still seen.

Sometimes she left small care packages at his door. A fresh thermos of soup still warm to the touch. A case of water. A small packet of nutrient bars she thought he might be able to stomach. She never expected thanks. Never knocked. Just left them, always with a simple note folded neatly under the top item. Usually something like, "No pressure. Just here if you need. - T.”

And he never responded. Not directly. But he read every note.

She had been having a hard time accepting your disappearance. That much was evident in every word she wrote, every strained smile the last time they’d crossed paths. He could see the way her voice faltered when she mentioned your name. The way she watched him when she thought he wasn’t looking, like she was waiting for him to break—or vanish. Like she was bracing for the next person to slip away.

It hadn’t taken much effort to figure out she was worried about him, too. Maybe more than she let on. Maybe more than she should’ve.

And now, that fear would become reality.

It hurt more than he liked to admit. More than he thought it would. To imagine her walking down the hallway one day soon, finding his apartment cold and empty, the air stale, the lights off, and no trace of where he’d gone. To imagine her calling his name and getting no answer. Sitting by her phone, re-reading their old texts, wondering if the last thing she sent had somehow pushed him too far. Wondering what she should have done differently.

He could already see the look in her eyes—the guilt, the confusion, the grief. Not the kind people wore at funerals. The quiet, personal kind. The kind you carry alone.

Tara had been a good friend. A real one. To both of you. She had stood beside you on the worst days, on the bloodiest missions, when no one else would. She was the one who ran back into the fire, not away from it. She’d trusted your instincts without question. Supported your judgment when others second-guessed it. She had laughed with you in rare, quiet moments. And with him, too. Shared drinks. Shared war stories. Shared long, exhausted silences when words weren’t needed.

She was smart. Intuitive. Stubborn as hell. And loyal—sometimes to a fault.

She had never given up on people. Not on you. Not on him.

And she didn’t deserve this kind of ending.

None of them did.

But Xavier knew the truth now. The man she’d called teammate, friend, brother—he wasn’t here anymore. He was slipping further away every day. Piece by piece, breath by breath. And if he stayed any longer, if he let himself fall even one step deeper into what he was becoming, he wouldn’t just forget her name. He’d forget why it mattered.

Still, he didn’t pick up the phone.

He didn’t check the message. Didn’t open the screen. He just stared at it, letting the light dim slowly until it vanished again into darkness.

It buzzed once more, a soft mechanical hum, like a voice muffled behind a thick wall.

Then silence.

Final. Unanswered.

He leaned back against the wall, the cold biting into his shoulder blades, and let out a breath that shook in his chest.

It was better this way.

Safer.

For everyone.

This day went just like any other. Xavier lay weakly on the ground, curled up in the only corner of the apartment that wasn’t slick with frost or cluttered with discarded towels, frayed blankets, or shards of ice. The floor beneath him was unforgiving, hard and cold against his bones, but he barely noticed it anymore. Pain had become his default state—dull, persistent, and numbing in its constancy. His muscles were locked in a state of tension from disuse, his joints flaring with the lingering burn of his Evol backlash. Every breath he drew seemed to scrape against his ribs, and every exhale fogged faintly in the chill air that never quite left the apartment.

His body was no longer predictable. It pulsed with strange currents, waves of cold surging unpredictably through his limbs like static, or the hum of something broken but still clinging to power. Sometimes, he imagined it like a dying machine—flashing, glitching, refusing to shut off completely. Even blinking had become an effort. His eyelids felt heavy, like they were weighted down by exhaustion he couldn’t sleep off. Every movement cost him something. So, he didn’t move much. He barely existed.

At one point, he tried turning on a show. Something familiar. Anything to break the monotony. A rerun of a series he had once loved, back when his life felt somewhat normal—back when laughter wasn’t foreign. The sound filled the room, the actors' voices echoing off the icy walls, but it all felt surreal, disconnected. The plot twisted forward, characters bickered and grew and loved, and he couldn’t care less. His eyes glossed over. His thoughts wandered. His mind played tricks on him, replacing scenes with memories he’d rather forget. You, laughing. You, crying. You, slipping through his fingers.

The show became little more than noise. A dull hum that hovered in the background like a ghost. Eventually, he turned the volume down until it was barely audible and let it play out of habit. It gave the illusion that he wasn’t alone, even if he knew better.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. He didn’t eat. His appetite had long since vanished. He didn’t shower—the thought of warm water on his skin made him sick, and cold water was unbearable. He alternated between lying perfectly still and forcing himself to move in small, deliberate increments. He scribbled down brief notes, some coherent, others just frantic loops of words and thoughts he didn’t want to lose. He packed slowly, methodically, as if touching his few remaining belongings might help ground him in reality.

By the time night came, the sky outside had darkened to a deep blue, stars barely visible through the frost-covered window. He had managed to finalize the last of his quiet preparations. His bank account was set to autopay the rent and utilities, a quiet contingency he’d put off until now. It was a small, almost absurd gesture—keeping up appearances, pretending like life would go on. But it served a purpose. If anyone checked in, the apartment would still look lived in. The lights might stay on. The bills would be paid. The mailbox would remain quiet. It would delay suspicion.

No one would truly notice he was gone.

Not right away.

And maybe, by the time someone did come looking, it would already be too late.

There would be no note. No goodbye. No dramatic exit or final message. Just silence. Just absence. He wanted it that way. It would hurt less for the people who cared. Or so he told himself.

He spent the last hour before midnight sitting by the window, wrapped in an old coat, watching his own breath fog the glass. The city below moved on without him. Lights blinked. Cars passed. Someone laughed a few stories down. The world was still turning.

And he was ready to step off of it.

In the quietness, Xavier imagined you.

Not the version of you who had last stood in front of him, fractured and fleeing. No, this was the version from a life that never had the chance to bloom—a dream stitched together by longing and loss. He saw you in a sunlit kitchen, wearing a loose, oversized sweater, the kind that slipped off one shoulder as you held Evia on your hip. Not his child biologically. But one he had chosen. A daughter with wide, curious eyes and unruly hair, cheeks stained with mashed fruit and fists clutched around a wooden spoon.

He could almost hear the cooing, the gentle rhythm of your laughter as you shifted your weight and bounced the child slightly, humming some half-forgotten tune that always seemed to calm her. There was warmth in that vision—a kind of hazy golden light spilling over the countertop, soft enough to blur the harsh edges of memory. It was domestic. Safe. Unimaginable now.

He pictured himself walking in from the hall, watching you from the doorway, his heart squeezing at the sight like it always did when he caught you in those rare, quiet moments. You would glance over your shoulder at him, smile—tired, but real—and he would step forward, wrapping an arm around your waist, his hand brushing his daughter's back.

“Morning,” you’d murmur, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “You’re up late.”

He’d just smile, nodding toward the baby now babbling at him with her arms outstretched. “She giving you trouble?”

“She thinks I'm a drum,” you said with a mock sigh, gently repositioning her as she giggled and thumped her fists into your chest. “Daddy’s gonna have to take over soon.”

“Yeah?” he said softly, reaching out for her, his heart tightening as her tiny hands latched onto his fingers. “C’mere, little star.”

Evia squealed in reply, nonsensical babble spilling from her mouth as she reached for him eagerly, eyes wide with the innocent trust only children gave so freely. He kissed her round cheeks, laughing gently as she squealed and clung to him, you watching with a huge smile on your face.

That was what he’d wanted. What he’d believed, for a breath of time, was within reach.

He blinked slowly, a sharp throb pulsing behind his temples. The pain grounded him. Reminded him that whatever that scene was—whatever dream his fractured mind tried to paint for him—it was already gone.

Still, in the darkness and ache, he held onto the feeling.

Because sometimes, illusion was the only thing keeping him from slipping away entirely.

But even illusions couldn’t last forever. His breathing shifted. The temperature around him felt colder again. The sounds faded into nothing. And the dull ache that pressed against his skull was growing sharper.

It was time to go.

The apartment was silent as Xavier stood by the door, hand resting on the knob, unmoving. The air inside was freezing, still and biting, so cold that his every breath turned to fog before his face. It coiled in front of him like smoke, fading quickly into the stale atmosphere that had clung to the apartment for weeks now. Outside, though, he could see the warmth trying to creep through the cracks—the hint of a mild early-spring night, the suggestion of still streets and budding trees. Lukewarm, maybe even pleasant to a regular person. But he wasn’t that anymore. His body didn’t register comfort in the same way. Temperature warped around him like a hostile force. Warmth made him dizzy, light pierced him like needles, and silence itself had begun to scream. Nothing felt right anymore. Nothing felt human.

He waited with his ear to the door, posture tense, breath held. Just a few more seconds to be sure. The hallway outside was deathly still—no footsteps from neighbors, no TVs murmuring from behind thin walls, no doors opening or closing. It was the deadest part of the night, that fragile sliver of time when even insomniacs had dozed off. He knew this building’s rhythm by heart. It wouldn’t notice one more ghost slipping out.

With a soft, deliberate motion, he turned the knob. The door creaked ever so slightly, but not loud enough to alarm. He stepped into the corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, one near the stairwell flickering in an erratic pulse. He closed the door behind him gently, letting it click shut like a whisper.

And then his eyes landed on it.

Your door.

Just across the hall.

He froze, breath catching in his throat. That door had been the beginning of so much. It still had the same unit number etched into its metal surface, but the little things were gone. No more tiny magnets from places you'd visited together. No more reminders scrawled in your sharp handwriting. Someone else lived there now. Someone who probably had no idea what that space had meant. He wondered if the woman had rearranged the furniture. If they'd repainted the bedroom. If they'd felt the weight in the walls and mistaken it for something they could clean away.

He stood there for a long moment, a lump forming in his throat as memories pulled at him like gravity. The first time he met you had been in front of that door. You’d looked at him with shy eyes and a genuine smile. By some miracle, he’d made you laugh that day despite being awkward yourself. That laugh had been the start of something real—something worth surviving for.

Now, it was just a door. A sealed chapter. And he had no place here anymore.

He looked down, heart sinking, and forced himself to move. The new tenant probably wouldn’t appreciate him haunting the hallway like a specter. His feet were heavy as he turned toward the stairwell, his steps deliberate and strained.

He didn’t bring much with him. Just a single weather-worn pack slung over one shoulder. Inside, only what he thought he might need: a knife dulled from overuse, a few vials of suppressant—some already clouded from age—an old scarf that smelled faintly of pine and metal, and a battered notebook filled with half-finished thoughts. He didn’t need more. This wasn’t an expedition. It wasn’t survival.

It was surrender.

Each step down the stairs was a war. His muscles clenched with every movement, Evol flaring unpredictably through his limbs. His left leg dragged slightly, favoring the one that trembled less. He clutched the railing with a gloved hand, fingers aching beneath the fabric. The oversized coat he wore draped down to his knees, concealing the jagged shapes that now marred his body—scales, swelling veins, bruises that never healed. Beneath it all, he burned.

Outside, the air was tepid. To anyone else, it might’ve been refreshing, but to Xavier it was unbearable. Stifling. The moment he stepped out of the stairwell and into the night, it felt like a furnace had opened around him. His skin prickled beneath his clothes, sweat forming immediately at the nape of his neck, running in a slow line down his spine. He grit his teeth, tried not to sway. The darkness around him spun just slightly. The streetlamps shimmered like distant stars through a haze.

Still, he moved. Slowly. One heavy footfall at a time. He didn’t look back. Not once.

The city’s distant noise was muffled by his own heartbeat, which pounded loud and frantic in his ears. He was walking away from the only space that had ever felt close to home. From memories so deeply ingrained, he could still feel the warmth of your hand in his when he passed the cracked cement walkway. He forced the thoughts down. Pressed forward.

One step at a time. Into the dark. Into the silence.

He made it to the edge of the forest just as the last threads of city light began to dissolve behind him. The trees stood tall and silent, casting long shadows across the uneven earth. The ground beneath his boots was soft, littered with old leaves and damp moss, the air thick with the scent of pine and wet soil. It should have felt cool here, comforting even—but to him, it was suffocating.

Xavier stopped at the first clearing, his breath ragged and body heaving. Every nerve felt raw, as if his skin were trying to peel away from muscle, rebelling against the heat festering inside of him. The coat he wore, once essential to conceal his deformities, now clung to him like a shroud of agony. It was too much. Too heavy. Too hot. It felt like it was burning him alive.

With a trembling hand, he gripped the front zipper and yanked it down. The fabric fought him—snagging, resisting—until he tore it off with a guttural growl and let it drop to the forest floor like shed armor. Steam practically rose from his shoulders. The cool air against his sweat-slick skin brought no relief. He felt like he was boiling from within, the energy inside him crackling like it was begging to be released, to burst free and take shape.

There was no one around to see now. No one to hide from.

His legs shook as he moved farther into the woods, each step harder than the last. He hadn’t trusted himself to drive, not in his condition. Not with the way his limbs spasmed unpredictably, not with the blackouts that came in waves. He hadn’t even considered it. He had walked the entire way—through cracked sidewalks, past blinking crosswalks and empty gas stations, through the suburban outskirts and into the wilderness. Each mile a trial of willpower.

Now, his body screamed for rest.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed into a kneel beside a fallen log, chest rising and falling in frantic, shallow waves. His back throbbed with heat. His arms ached with tension. Every breath felt like it scraped against the inside of his throat. But he’d made it.

He was alone now.

Exactly as he needed to be.

He had barely caught his breath when something struck the back of his head.

Hard.

The blow was immediate, blinding. White-hot pain exploded in his skull, and a constellation of sparks burst behind his eyes. His entire body pitched forward as his balance disappeared, knees buckling beneath him. He hit the ground with a strangled grunt, the cold, wet forest floor greeting him with unkind force. The scent of damp earth and old pine filled his nose, mixing with the copper tang of blood as a trickle seeped down his temple.

Panic surged in his chest. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

Desperate not to become wanderer food or something worse, Xavier clawed at the ground, struggling to push himself upright. Adrenaline flooded his veins, sharp and sudden, urging his battered muscles to move—but his body betrayed him. His arms trembled violently and gave out before he could get leverage. His knees skidded across damp leaves, slipping uselessly as his strength failed him. Everything swam. His vision blurred, faded, then snapped back just enough to let him see the moss-darkened roots beneath his cheek. His chest heaved with labored breaths. Still, he couldn’t rise. Couldn’t fight.

Then came the voice.

"Been wanting to do that since he cut my leg."

Familiar. Too familiar.

Xavier's heart stilled in his chest before beginning to pound like a war drum. That voice—it was sharp and smirking, dripping with a cruelty he recognized instantly. His blood ran cold. He tried to turn, to see who it was, but his neck screamed in protest. The ache from the impact throbbed through his skull like a second heartbeat. His hearing warped, distorted by pain and rising fear. He could barely distinguish the crunch of boots through underbrush from the pulsing in his ears.

Hands—rough, calloused, precise—grabbed at his arms. He jerked instinctively, but his body responded like wet cement. Pain flared down his spine. HIs Evol flickered beneath his skin, a pathetic surge that sparked and died, as weak as a dying matchstick.

Something metal and cold had been clamped tightly around Xavier’s neck, jolting him abruptly from the lingering fragments of the dream. His eyes snapped open, panic clawing at his chest before the rising heat against his skin sent a bolt of clarity through him.

A high-pitched beep followed—a series of rapid tones—before the device settled with a final, chilling click.

He recognized the sound instantly.

An Evol-sealing collar.

The device hummed faintly, its warm surface pressing against the most vulnerable part of his throat. The restraint was military-grade—used by special task forces and elite syndicate enforcers to neutralize Evol surges in unstable users. He had seen them used in the field before. He had placed them on others.

Never once had he imagined wearing one himself.

The realization sank in like a lead weight. Whatever flicker of peace he'd found in that false morning light, whatever whisper of a family that had been born in a dream, it was gone now. Replaced by steel, heat, and the suffocating silence of control.

His wrists were yanked behind his back, the restraints digging in immediately. The stickiness of duct tape against raw skin brought him back to full awareness.

"Oof, bud, you’ve clearly seen better days," said a second voice. Lighter, more casual, but unmistakably connected to the first. Teasing, mocking.

His stomach sank.

He was flipped onto his back with zero care, his spine striking the uneven ground with a thud. Dirt clung to the sweat on his face, leaves sticking to his damp skin. He blinked, hard and fast, forcing his vision to align, to sharpen.

And then he saw them.

Two men, crouched above him, faces hidden behind sleek, black bird-shaped masks. Unmoving. Silent. Watching.

No.

It couldn’t be.

The world narrowed around them. Time seemed to slow. His pulse roared in his ears as the truth settled like ice in his gut.

“You two again…” Xavier rasped, every word thick with disbelief, pain, and venom. His voice cracked. He tried to lift his head, but one of them pushed him back down, pressing his chest firmly into the earth.

“Shh,” one of them said, amused. "We’re working."

They rummaged through his coat without urgency, pulling out vials, flipping through his worn notebook, tossing aside anything useless. The one on his right picked up a small pocket knife and gave it an impressed whistle.

"Carrying this old thing? Where's your sword? Oh wait...” the man said, giggling.

Xavier grit his teeth, every nerve in his body screaming. He recognized the energy behind those movements, the rhythm of their presence. The twins. He hadn’t seen them in so long he thought—hoped—they were ghosts of his past. But they were very real. And if they were here, together, this far into the forest...

Then Sylus had found him.

Of course he had.

Xavier’s jaw clenched as the implications sank in. There would be no death in peace. No isolation. No final transformation in solitude. He had tried to outrun it—tried to disappear—but the monster he feared most had simply sent monsters of his own to drag him back for some fucking reason.

"I did everything he asked..." Xavier groaned, coughing onto the wet ground. "Leave me alone..."

The taller twin stood, brushing leaves off his gloves. "You know," he said conversationally, "we thought you might’ve already gone full Wanderer. Honestly, you’re looking pretty damn close. So...you’re welcome."

“Yeah,” the other added with a grin Xavier couldn’t see but heard clearly. “You should be thanking us.”

Xavier let out a rough breath, eyes fluttering shut.

He didn’t thank them.

He braced himself instead. Because he knew what came next.

He didn’t even have time to think of it again before the next swing of the bat collided with his skull, plunging him into deep, suffocating darkness.

There was no warning. No pause. One second he was processing the cold, the tape digging into his wrists, the weight of the twins' voices grating in his ears—and the next, everything detonated into pain. A brutal, bone-shaking crack echoed through his skull, louder than thunder, sharper than a gunshot. It felt like the world folded in on itself in that instant.

His body tensed once, then crumpled like paper. His mouth opened but no sound came out. His breath stalled. His muscles spasmed, jerking uncontrollably before going limp. He didn’t even feel the ground when he hit it. His mind was already slipping too far, tumbling into that cold, black void that swallowed everything.

The last sensation that remained—the last tether to consciousness—was the echo of laughter. Not the joyful kind. No, this was a low, amused chuckle, hollow and cruel, floating above him like smoke. One of the twins. Maybe both. They sounded like they were enjoying this far too much, like this was a game and he was just another piece to move.

"Maybe we shouldn't have used the bat. What if he bleeds from his head and dies? Boss will be pissed."

"He'll be fine. He's lasted this long. C'mon, help me grab him."

The forest disappeared around him. The scents of damp earth and pine needles, the biting warmth on his skin, the smell of blood trickling near his temple—all of it was erased in a flood of nothingness. There were no more sounds. No more sensations. No more body.

Just darkness.

Heavy. Thick. Endless.

It pressed in from every side, swallowing thought, memory, even the concept of time. He didn’t know how long he drifted in it. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. There was no way to tell. It stretched infinitely in every direction, pulling him deeper.

And then…

Silence.

Sylus sat on his leather sofa, one arm draped casually over the back, the other hand steadily twirling a small, rust-colored bolt between his fingers. His gaze was fixed on a large painting across the room—a muted abstract piece with thick brush strokes in shades of gray and green that had hung there untouched for years. It was a piece he’d once admired for its obscurity, but now, it served more as a distraction, a placeholder for thoughts he didn’t want to face directly. He wasn’t really seeing it. Not the color, not the composition. He stared through it, past it, lost in the quiet swirl of his mind.

The bolt made a soft clicking sound as it tapped against the metal of his ring, again and again, a subtle but constant rhythm that filled the otherwise dead silence of the room. It was late—nearly three in the morning—but Sylus's day was just beginning. Rest didn’t come easily these days anyways, not since you vanished. Not since the dreams. Not since that last ride into the city that had stirred up more than just his grief.

This stupid bolt had been bothering him more than it should.

He had found it that morning after he returned from his morning ride—a long, aimless drive meant to clear his head and shake off the last lingering images of your shared dream. He’d been moving on autopilot, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes scanning the ground out of habit. That’s when he saw it: a lone bolt resting on the gravel path, half-buried near the edge of the estate’s front entrance. At first, he almost ignored it. Just another piece of hardware dislodged from the gate, maybe, or something kicked loose from a car.

But something about the way it caught the early light, how it seemed so perfectly out of place, had made him pause. He’d picked it up, running his thumb over the threads, idly noting the wear on it. Slight corrosion. Recently handled. Out of instinct, he walked straight to the garage and examined his motorbike.

Every inch of it had been inspected: the wheels, the frame, the suspension, the mounts. Hinge by hinge, screw by screw. Nothing was missing. Nothing was loose. Not a single bolt out of place.

So then, where the hell had this one come from?

Now, seated in the vast dimness of his living room, Sylus held the bolt up to the light and narrowed his eyes, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. The light from the fireplace caught on the threads, illuminating a fine groove near the head that looked suspiciously like it had been forced out of something.

It was small. Unremarkable. And yet it had consumed his thoughts all day. It didn’t belong. Not here. Not at his estate. Not where everything was meticulously ordered. Sylus didn’t like anomalies. He didn’t like things appearing without explanation—especially not so close to the place he considered the only stronghold he could trust at the moment.

He set his drink on the glass table with a quiet clink, leaned forward, and studied the bolt again. Something about it nagged at him. Something subtle but persistent. A familiarity he couldn’t quite name. Like a word caught on the tip of his tongue.

He clenched his jaw and leaned back slowly, the leather beneath him creaking. It wasn’t just the bolt itself—it was what its presence implied. That someone had been close. Close enough to drop it. Close enough to leave something behind.

The estate’s gates had been left open that night. A mistake. An oversight born from his restless state, his need to escape his own rabid thoughts. But what if someone had slipped in during that window? What if that bolt wasn’t from machinery… but from something else? Something brought in. Something—or someone—left behind.

The thought was irrational. And yet it didn’t feel like paranoia.

Sylus had learned a long time ago that the things which gnawed at the back of your mind were often warnings. Quiet signals. Instincts honed by years of survival.

He stared at the bolt again.

This wasn’t just a stray piece of metal.

It was trying to tell him something. He just hadn’t figured out how to read it yet.

He hadn’t had time to check the cameras, not with the full scope of Onychinus demanding his precision elsewhere. The morning following his ride had greeted him with a digital chorus of blinking alerts and a flood of high-priority messages, all of them clambering for his attention like vultures circling over a fresh kill. There were territorial disputes festering along the southern corridor that threatened to fracture crucial alliances.

A smuggling route near the marina had been compromised, severing a supply chain vital to his overseas networks. Two of his more insufferable lieutenants had devolved into a shouting match over synthetic protocore allocations—an internal power play masked as logistics. Each problem had arrived wrapped in urgency, daring to challenge his authority with their presumption.

Pests. That’s what they were—unworthy gnats drawn to the scent of perceived weakness, too shortsighted to understand that his silence wasn’t surrender, it was calculation. They believed the king distracted, the throne unguarded, the crown tilted. But they were wrong, and Sylus had reminded them exactly why he was feared across every grim corridor and back alley that bore his syndicate’s mark.

With swift, surgical brutality, he restored order. His commands were executed to the letter. Debts were collected in blood, reputations dismantled, and dissent turned to dust beneath his boot. By the time the sun began to crawl over the skyline, his hands were washed clean, his hands only faintly scented with the metallic echo of violence. His demeanor returned to its usual frigid elegance, as if nothing had occurred, as if he hadn’t gutted half a rebellion before breakfast.

Now, with his empire once again silent under his heel, he stood, pocketing the bolt without a second thought, his mind clicking into place with that same quiet, predatory clarity. Enough distractions. The day’s earlier mystery—the one that had scratched at the edge of his otherwise unflappable calm—would now be addressed. He moved with purpose, intent drawn tight across his features as he made his way toward the study to review the estate’s surveillance footage.

But just as his shoes echoed across the polished floor, the sharp buzz of his phone broke through the calm. He paused, expression sharpening with irritation, and glanced at the screen.

Kieran.

The annoyance simmered instantly into something colder, sharper. He answered the call with a voice like a blade.

"I assume you're only calling me because you’ve successfully done as I asked. If not, hang up."

There was a beat of silence—just long enough to confirm Kieran was soaking in the theatrics—before his reply came, cheerful and smug. "Yes, sir! We have him. We’re in the air now and should be landing in Windsor by this afternoon. Jet’s running ahead of schedule."

Sylus exhaled through his nose, a breath so subtle it barely moved his chest, but it was enough to shift something inside him. A muscle in his jaw relaxed. The tightness behind his eyes eased. And then, slow and deliberate, a rare smile curved his lips. Not the cold smirk he wore like armor. Not the cruel grin he gave before breaking a man’s fingers. But something unguarded, quiet, and wholly satisfied.

Perfect.

Everything was converging now. The bolt could wait. The camera feeds could wait. Because the final and most essential piece had been retrieved.

Xavier.

The bait.

He would contact the staff within the next few minutes. The basement level of the estate would be stripped of its usual storage and repurposed, transformed back into the specialized containment it had once been—reinforced steel doors, padded restraints reinforced for Evol surges, sedation systems calibrated for resistance. No errors. No leniency. No escape.

This wasn’t simply a prisoner. This was leverage in its purest form.

The closing move in a very long, very deliberate endgame.

And as for you?

This chase had gone on long enough. The winding trail of disappearances, stolen moments, and fragmented dreams had all led to this. He could feel the invisible thread between you both tightening now, trembling under the weight of inevitability.

Soon, you would come for him. Whether in fury or desperation, whether in love or rage—it didn’t matter. All roads pointed back to him.

You would return.

And when you did, he would be ready.

One way or another, this was the endgame.

And Sylus always won the endgame.

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mavphorias · 3 months ago

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Lingering (Robert McGinnis Paint Over)

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mavphorias · 3 months ago

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His Watchful Eye Pt.18

Word Count: 28.4k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, tw for postpartum depression, suicidal ideations, manipulation, coercion, slight verbal abuse, stalking, murder, gore, pet names like kitten, honey

AN: Hiii guys! Long time no see! Or should I say long time no read? Hehe. I am genuinely so sorry tho about how long this took! Had some things going on in my personal life, and everything just seemed to be falling apart. So I took a long hiatus, but I'm doing much better these days! I promise I wont disappear again without communication! I don't plan on going on another hiatus anytime soon though! Thank you all for your continued patience and interest in HWE, I genuinely have the best readers! A little tw if you have kids, this chapter gets a little intense with themes of postpartum depression. Reminder, Sylvia has no specific skintone, I just use images I think best represent the chapter in general. Imagine her and MC as you like! As I always say, enjoy lovelies!

He sighed, tilting his head slightly as if he were observing something fragile, something just about to break. “You’re tired, aren’t you?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “At your breaking point?” His hand slid from your wrist up to your forearm, his grip tightening just enough to keep you close. “There must be a reason your subconscious reached out to mine.” Your heart stuttered in your chest. “I didn’t—” “You did,” he interrupted smoothly, his thumb brushing against the inside of your arm in slow, absentminded circles. “I’m not mad. I’m worried.” His eyes softened, and that terrified you more than anything. “I just want you to realize that I’m here. I wasn’t lying when I said I would change.” His free hand came up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “But you’re mine. You can’t run forever. It’s not good for you or her.”

Check my masterlist for the other parts!

Your eyelids felt like lead, every blink a battle against the overwhelming weight of exhaustion. The stretch of road ahead was endless, swallowed by darkness, the headlights carving out a lonely path through the thick emptiness of the night. It had been hours since you’d last stopped, hours since you’d even allowed yourself to consider resting. The fear in your chest had outweighed the exhaustion gnawing at your bones, keeping you upright, keeping you moving.

But now…now, it was getting harder.

Your body screamed for rest, your fingers stiff and aching against the wheel, your spine curled in discomfort from sitting so long. The hum of the tires on the cracked asphalt had begun to lull you, hypnotic in its monotony, and your head bobbed once, twice, before Sylvia’s sharp, desperate wail from the backseat jolted you violently awake.

You sucked in a breath, your heart pounding, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight they ached. Your first instinct was panic—something was wrong, something had happened—before you registered the sound for what it was. Hunger. Frustration.

Just your baby girl crying for you.

"Sylvia, please, sweetheart, I know..." your voice wavered, raw from exhaustion, throat tight as you fought against the thick fog of fatigue clouding your brain. You risked a quick glance over your shoulder, your gut twisting at the sight of her tiny face contorted in distress, her fists clenched tight as she wailed.

Her tiny body trembled with the force of her cries, her little chest rising and falling in quick, panicked breaths. She didn’t understand why she was strapped down, why you weren’t holding her, why everything in her tiny world felt so loud and unfamiliar.

The sound of her suffering felt like a dagger lodged deep in your chest.

"Shhh, baby...Mommy’s here... I know, I know, I know," you whispered, reaching back blindly to shake the car seat just a little, as if the movement would somehow bring her comfort. It didn’t. Her cries only grew louder, more desperate, more insistent.

A fresh wave of guilt crashed over you, stronger than before.

You hated this. You hated hearing her cry and not being able to fix it. You hated that she was suffering because of you. Because you had been reckless. Because you had been selfish.

The thought came unbidden, intrusive and cruel, and you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek until you tasted blood. No. No, you couldn’t think like that.

But what if he was closing in?

The paranoia that had driven you to keep moving, to push past every ache and pain and ounce of exhaustion, crept up your spine again. Sylus was smart. Too smart. You had made it this far, but how much longer before he caught up?

Would he be merciful?

No. Of course not. He had ruined your life, taken your mind, body, and soul. Changed you in irreparable ways. That nice guy act over the phone was bullshit. It had to be.

He had told you—over and over—that you were his. That you belonged to him. That no matter where you ran, no matter how far you went, he would always come for you.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling against the wheel as you pressed just a little harder on the gas.

You needed to keep going. You couldn’t stop.

But Sylvia’s cries weren’t letting up. They were clawing at your resolve, chipping away at it piece by piece, until it was nothing more than a fragile, fraying thread threatening to snap.

How much longer? How much longer before you completely fell apart?

Your vision blurred as tears pricked the edges of your eyes, the weight of it all—of everything—crushing you.

"I’m so sorry," you choked out, barely able to hear yourself over her wails. "I’m so, so sorry."

It wasn’t fair. She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve any of this.

Your body ached with the need to pull over, to take her in your arms and comfort her the way you were supposed to. To stop, even just for a moment, to breathe, to think.

But if you stopped now…

If you stopped now, you weren’t sure you’d have the strength to start again.

You took a deep, shaky breath, forcing yourself to push back the primal, aching urge to pull over and scoop Sylvia into your arms. Your instincts screamed at you to comfort her, but fear screamed louder. Stopping meant wasting time. Stopping meant giving Sylus a chance to close in. So instead, you reached for the radio, fumbling with the old-fashioned knobs, hoping—praying—that some music might drown out her cries.

Your fingers twisted the dial, static hissing angrily in response.

Come on, come on…

You struggled to keep your eyes on the road, the lines blurring from exhaustion. Radios this old were practically relics in Linkon, outdated and replaced by sleek, voice-command technology. Were there even working radio stations outside the city? Had the rest of the world moved on, or had Linkon just left them behind?

Another turn of the knob. More static.

And then, sound.

Soft strings. A slow, haunting melody. Classical.

Your stomach dropped.

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened as unwelcome memories flooded your mind, unspooling like a film reel you couldn’t turn off.

Sylus, lounging on the edge of his massive bed, swirling a glass of whiskey in one hand while the other rested lazily against your waist. The dim glow of his bedroom, the scent of sandalwood and aged liquor clinging to the sheets. The way his crimson eyes would drift closed, his head tilting slightly as he listened, completely lost in the music.

"Relax, kitten," his voice, low and smooth, echoed through your thoughts, his lips brushing the crown of your head. "This should help you sleep".

You twisted the knob violently, heart hammering.

The radio shrieked with static again, Sylvia’s wails filling the gaps between the noise, clawing at your nerves.

“Come on, come on—”

The static flickered. A different station crackled through.

The familiar twang of an old country song filtered in, the singer’s voice rough yet warm. Not your usual taste. Not your preference. But it wasn’t classical. That was enough.

You exhaled slowly, your shoulders slumping as the melody filled the car.

Sylvia’s cries didn’t stop, but they softened just enough to dull the sharp edges of your panic. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“I know,” you murmured, risking another glance at her in the rearview mirror. Her tiny fists flailed, her red, tear-streaked face scrunched in distress. “Just a little longer. We’ll stop soon, I promise.”

You pressed a hand to your temple, exhaustion pressing down on you like a weight.

You just had to keep moving.

Thirty more minutes crawled by, and the suffocating isolation of the road was beginning to gnaw at your nerves. Nothing but dirt and desolate fields stretched endlessly on either side of you. The trees had thinned out long ago, replaced by flatlands that made you feel uncomfortably exposed. You kept checking the rearview mirror, expecting to see headlights cresting the horizon at any moment—Sylus's car, or worse, one of his men.

Your fingers drummed against the wheel. The only sound in the car was the soft hum of the radio and the occasional sniffle from Sylvia in the backseat. She had finally exhausted herself from crying, but you knew it was temporary. You’d have to stop soon.

Your eyes flickered to the gas meter.

Your stomach dropped.

Shit.

The needle was hovering dangerously close to empty.

You clenched your jaw, gripping the wheel tighter as you exhaled slowly through your nose. You should’ve stopped earlier. Should’ve filled up before you even left the outskirts of Brunswick. But in your haste—your desperation to put as much distance between you and Sylus as possible—you hadn’t even thought about it.

Now, you didn’t have a choice. You had to find a gas station.

And soon.

Your mind raced through the options. There had to be something out here, even if it was just a tiny, rundown station in the middle of nowhere. You scanned the road ahead, searching for any sign, any flicker of neon in the distance, but all you were met with was an endless stretch of dirt and open sky.

Another whimper from the backseat drew your attention. You glanced in the mirror.

Sylvia was stirring again, her tiny face scrunching up, little hands flailing weakly. She was getting hungrier by the second.

Your chest tightened.

You had nothing prepared. The bottles Clara had packed were in the passenger seat, but they were still cold. You needed to heat them up somehow. You needed a rest stop, a gas station, anything. The you realized enough time had passed that the formula likely wasn't safe to give her anyways.

The pressure in your skull built. Every mile that passed felt like another nail being hammered into your nerves.

The gas light flickered on.

Shit.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, fingers clenching so hard against the steering wheel that your knuckles went white. You couldn’t break down out here. Not in the middle of nowhere. Not when Sylus was still out there, searching.

Not when you had Sylvia.

She let out a soft cry.

You inhaled sharply through your nose.

Keep it together. Keep driving. Find a station. Fast.

As if the universe had finally decided to grant you some mercy, a gas station came into view in the distance, its sign flickering weakly against the inky black sky. You nearly sighed in relief, your grip on the steering wheel tightening as you forced yourself to maintain a steady speed. The last thing you needed was to burn out the last drops of gas before you even reached the pump.

The place was rundown—long abandoned cars left at odd angles in the parking lot, their paint peeling under the weight of time. The single convenience store sat behind the pumps, its windows coated in layers of grime. The fluorescent lights above the entrance buzzed loudly, some flickering in and out like they were clinging to life. It looked like something out of an old horror movie, the kind of place you’d never stop at willingly. But right now, you didn’t have a choice.

You turned off the engine and slumped back against the seat, exhaling slowly. The sudden silence inside the car felt almost deafening after hours of listening to Sylvia’s cries. You hesitated before glancing back at her. She had finally fallen asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling in soft, rhythmic motions. The tear stains on her chubby cheeks twisted something deep inside of you, a gnawing guilt that wouldn’t let go.

She had cried herself to sleep.

The thought made your throat tighten, but you swallowed it down. Right now, you needed to focus. Get gas. Find something to eat. Then feed her before she woke up screaming again. Simple steps. One thing at a time. You could do this.

You reached under the seat, rummaging around until your fingers brushed against the cool metal of Luke’s gun—except…it wasn’t there.

Your stomach twisted as you patted around the floor, the glove compartment, the passenger seat, even checking beside Sylvia’s car seat just in case it had slid over. But nothing.

Shit.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a brief moment, pressing your fingers to your temples. You had sworn you packed it. Had you left it at the farmhouse? Maybe in your rush, you had forgotten. Either way, it wasn’t here, and that meant you were completely defenseless.

A slow breath left your lips, your heartbeat picking up slightly. It’s fine. It has to be fine. You weren’t some helpless civilian—your training as a Deepspace Hunter wasn’t something you could just forget overnight. You had survived worse at this point. Besides, this place looked empty. Just a quick stop and then you’d be back on the road before anyone even noticed you were here.

But still…the absence of the gun made your nerves hum with unease.

You reached over and gently adjusted Sylvia’s blanket, making sure she was snug and comfortable before you grabbed the thick envelope with money and slowly opened the car door. The night air was crisp, cool against your flushed skin. A shiver ran down your spine, and you weren’t sure if it was from the cold or the strange stillness of the place.

The wind howled softly through the empty lot, rustling stray scraps of paper and dried leaves. Other than that, it was quiet. Too quiet.

You glanced over your shoulder once more, reassuring yourself that Sylvia was still fast asleep before heading toward the pump.

Stay alert. Stay ready.

You had to be quick. Sylus could be closing in.

The lower half of your body aches as you finally swing your legs out of the car, wincing at the deep, unrelenting soreness that radiates through your hips and thighs. Three weeks postpartum, and your body is still punishing you for what it went through. Every movement feels stiff, your joints weak, your core unstable. You shouldn’t even be walking like this, let alone driving for hours on end.

Under normal circumstances, you should be at home, curled up in bed with your baby, resting and recovering in a soft nest of blankets. That’s what all the pregnancy books Sylus had given you had insisted upon—proper rest, gentle healing, quiet moments bonding with your newborn. Of course, resting anywhere near Sylus wasn't exactly ideal...

You exhale sharply, forcing his image out of your head. Why are you even thinking about him right now? Why was he always an unrelenting thought in your head?

Focus.

Your hands tighten into fists as you pull yourself upright, steeling your nerves. You had to keep pushing. The pain? You could handle it. The exhaustion? You’d dealt with worse. But Sylvia needed you to stay strong. Squaring your shoulders, you push forward, limping slightly as you march toward the gas station doors. Your body protests with every step, your muscles screaming for rest, but you ignore them. Pain is nothing. Adrenaline is your crutch now, keeping you upright, pushing you through the haze of exhaustion.

The rusty bell above the gas station door chimes as you shove it open, the heavy scent of stale food and dust hitting you immediately. The air is thick with the kind of stillness that only places long-forgotten seem to carry, as if time itself had abandoned this rundown stop in the middle of nowhere.

Your eyes sweep over the dimly lit aisles, scanning for any signs of danger. Old shelves sag beneath expired snack foods and faded bags of chips. Refrigerators hum in the back, their glass doors fogged with condensation. It’s eerily quiet.

Then your gaze lands on the guy behind the counter.

A young man—early twenties, maybe—slouches lazily against the register, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. His shaggy hair falls over his eyes, and a bored expression sits on his face. He doesn’t even glance up when you enter.

Your stomach churns.

You’ve been in places like this before. Sketchy, isolated stops. The last time you found yourself in a run-down gas station like this, you met Reese. And soon after? Your entire world turned to hell.

Your hands instinctively twitch, as if reaching for a weapon that isn’t there. Your posture straightens, eyes sharp, spine stiff. Don’t show weakness. Don’t trust him, even if he seems friendly.

Be assertive. Be smart. Your a woman all alone with a man at a deserted gas station.

And above all else— don’t let him see your fear.

You approach the counter slowly, clutching the thick envelope of cash tightly against your chest. Every step feels measured, deliberate. You’re hyperaware of your surroundings, the dim lighting, the faint hum of the refrigerators, the flickering fluorescent light above that casts harsh shadows along the stained tile floor.

The man behind the counter finally senses your presence, glancing up from his phone. He jumps slightly, clearly not expecting anyone at this hour. His surprise quickly fades into a small, easy smile.

"Ah…sorry. You caught me off guard," he says, setting his phone down. "I don’t get too many customers, to be honest."

You force a polite smile, trying to appear composed, though your insides are twisting with unease. Sylvia is still out there, alone in the car, vulnerable. Every second wasted inside this dusty old gas station feels like an eternity.

You clear your throat, straightening your posture, forcing steel into your voice. Don’t appear weak.

“I need enough gas to make it to the next town…city—whatever,” you say, already thumbing through the envelope, your fingers brushing against crisp bills. “How much for a full tank? Eighty should cover it, right?”

The man’s eyes flicker down toward the envelope in your hands. His gaze lingers a second too long.

You feel your stomach clench.

Something shifts in the air—not immediately threatening, but… interested. Curious. Too curious.

“Um…yeah,” he says finally, nodding as he straightens up. “That should do it. I’ll get you settled right now.”

His hand extends toward you, waiting for the money.

You exhale through your nose and nod, quickly counting out the cash. You don’t want to take too long, don’t want to give him a chance to ask questions or make small talk. You briskly press the bills into his open palm. Your fingertips graze against his.

You flinch.

It’s barely noticeable, but the movement is there, and you immediately look away, pulse kicking up a notch.

“Ah—sorry,” he mutters, fumbling the cash slightly as if he noticed the tension in you.

You don’t respond. You mumble a quick, “Thanks,” and turn on your heel, briskly walking toward the exit.

Get back to the car. Get back to Sylvia.

The bell above the door chimes as you step back outside, the night air cold against your skin once more. You don’t look back.

Relieved to finally be out of that suffocating, dust-filled gas station, you rush back to the car, your steps quick and purposeful. The air is sharp against your overheated skin, but you barely notice it—your only concern is Sylvia.

As you reach the car, your breath hitches slightly as you peer through the window, searching for her tiny form in the dim interior.

Still asleep. Thank god.

A wave of relief crashes over you, momentarily easing the knots in your stomach. She’s curled in her car seat, her little face barely visible in the darkness, the faint rise and fall of her chest the only thing keeping you from spiraling into panic.

Just pump the gas. Eat something. Wake her up to feed. Then go.

You quickly double-check the pump, making sure that sketchy attendant actually followed through. Your fingers hesitate over the button for a second before pressing it. The numbers flash correctly on the screen.

Good. One less thing to worry about.

You exhale slowly, shoving the nozzle into the gas tank, your hands trembling slightly as the tension in your body refuses to fully dissipate. You lean against the rickety old car, closing your eyes for a brief second.

Just breathe. One step at a time.

“Hey, um—”

A voice cuts through the night, sudden and far too close.

Your heart lurches into your throat. You spin violently, a panicked scream ripping from your chest as you stumble backward, hands flying up defensively.

"What the—!" Your voice comes out sharp, shaky.

The gas station attendant.

He throws his hands up instantly, eyes widening in alarm. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you—I swear!” His voice wobbles slightly, like he’s startled by your reaction.

Your breath is ragged, your pulse hammering painfully in your ears.

He shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just…thought you might wanna know your tail light is, um… broken.”

You don’t answer immediately. You’re too busy reining in the storm inside you, the suffocating mix of paranoia, exhaustion, and adrenaline. Your hands are still trembling slightly, though you clench them into fists to hide it.

A broken tail light. That’s what this was about?

For a moment, you just stare at him, trying to determine whether or not he’s lying. Whether he’s stalling you for something worse.

Or someone worse.

Sylus.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to breathe through the paranoia.

“…Right.” Your voice is flat, carefully guarded. “Thanks.”

Your fingers itch to grab the gas nozzle and get the hell out of here.

“I could…take a look at it if you’d like. Sometimes it’s just a weird wire. Easy fix,” the attendant says, offering you an earnest smile.

You feel the sweat forming at the back of your neck, an uneasy warmth that creeps down your spine. Something about his persistence sets you on edge. You glance at the pump’s screen, watching the numbers climb. Almost full.

Not much longer now. Just stay calm.

“Um, no thank you,” you mumble, forcing yourself to keep your tone neutral. “It’s an old car. Things break, it’s fine. I’ll get it looked at in the next city.”

You don’t make eye contact. You don’t want to engage.

Just let this conversation die.

But he doesn’t leave.

He lingers, hovering like a storm cloud, hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets as if he’s trying to seem harmless. You keep your posture rigid, your body instinctively shifting closer to the driver's side door.

He finally speaks again, his voice oddly casual. "I see...um. Your daughter is…very cute. What’s her name?"

A shiver of ice rushes through your veins. Your grip tightens on the gas nozzle.

The mention of your daughter.

Coming out of a strange man's mouth.

Your pulse spikes, adrenaline replacing exhaustion in an instant. Every nerve in your body screams at you to protect her. Your hand twitches toward the car door handle, ready to grab her and bolt, ready to—

No. Stay still. Don’t escalate.

Your stomach twists, nausea creeping in. He leans over slightly, peering into the car.

Too close.

"Leave me alone," you say, your voice low, warning. Your jaw clenches so tightly it aches.

His head snaps back up, eyes flicking to yours in something like surprise. Then, to your growing disgust, he gives a sheepish little chuckle.

"I'm sorry…" he says, rubbing his neck, shifting his weight. "I just thought…you're very pretty…and—”

Nope. No. Absolutely not.

Your body reacts before your mind can even catch up. The nozzle slams into the pump with a sharp clang, yanked free from the tank in one swift motion.

And then you take a single step forward, staring him down with everything left inside of you.

"I'm leaving," you say, voice cold. Final. "Get out of my way."

His demeanor shifts instantly. The awkward, sheepish act he had been putting on peels away like dead skin, revealing something far uglier underneath. His lips curl into a sneer, his once-meek expression hardening into something calculating, entitled. He steps forward without hesitation, and before you can react, his hand latches onto your wrist like a vice.

The moment his fingers dig into your skin, a shock of rage erupts through you, an electric, all-consuming fury that you hadn’t felt in ages—not since Reese. Not since Sylus. Not since that man in the basement.

"Fucking women," he spits, yanking you toward him with a force that nearly makes you stumble. "I was just having a conversation! What the fuck are you so uptight for—"

His words are cut short as your body moves before your mind can catch up.

Your free hand snaps up, clamping around his wrist, twisting it outward in a sharp, fluid motion. You step into him, shifting your weight forward, and suddenly, he’s off balance. He staggers, eyes widening in confusion and pain as you torque his arm into an unnatural angle.

With every ounce of muscle memory left in you, you twist, pivot, and use his own momentum against him. The moment his center of gravity tips too far forward, you yank hard, sending him crashing face-first onto the pavement.

The sound is sickening.

His skull meets the ground with a dull, wet crack, and a sharp gasp rips from his throat. His body bounces against the asphalt, his hands scrambling to push himself up, but you’re already on him.

Not this time.

Not ever again.

Your breath heaves, hot and wild in your chest, and a sound tears from your throat—not a scream, not a sob, but something primal, something animalistic. Before you can think, your foot slams into his ribs.

Once.

Hard.

A wheezing grunt escapes him as he jerks onto his side, but you don’t stop.

Another kick—this time to his gut. He gags. A wet, choking noise claws from his throat, and his hands curl toward his stomach on reflex.

But you’re not finished.

You rear back and slam your foot into his shoulder, his collarbone, his chest. Anything, everything.

Sylus.

Reese.

That man in the basement.

Luke.

Kieran.

Their faces blur and meld into the one beneath you, and suddenly, you’re kicking harder.

Harder.

Your breath saws in and out of your lungs in sharp, jagged bursts, your heart hammering in your ears like war drums. Every kick feels like retribution. Every stomp, every hit, every impact is a scream your body was never allowed to release.

The man beneath you groans, then whimpers, curling into himself like a dying insect, blood trickling from his nose onto the cracked pavement.

But you don’t feel better.

You feel alive.

You stand over him, chest heaving, a faint tremor in your hands. The adrenaline still pulses through your veins, hot and all-consuming, but deep beneath it, you feel something else creeping in—a chilling sense of realization.

You’re not weak anymore.

You’re not a victim.

Not now.

Not. Ever. Again.

When you finally run out of breath, when the searing heat of rage begins to fizzle into exhaustion, you stagger back, your entire body trembling. Your chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven breaths, your limbs heavy with the weight of what you’ve just done.

Beneath you, the man groans, his body a mess of bruises and split skin. Blood drips from his nose, smearing against the pavement as he twitches in pain. His arms feebly attempt to shield himself, but you can see it—the way his body curls inward, the way his wide, horrified eyes track your every movement.

Good.

He coughs, a wet, gurgling sound, his lips parting to speak—but he says nothing. He doesn’t dare.

You lean down, just enough to cast a looming shadow over his crumpled form. Your voice is low, strained from panting, but the warning in your tone is unmistakable.

“I said…” you breathe, wiping the sweat from your brow. “I’m leaving.”

You straighten, forcing yourself to turn away from the wreck of a man on the pavement. As if the interaction had never happened, you dust off your coat, smooth your trembling hands over your stomach, and take one final look at him.

Your lip curls, not in fear, not in disgust— but in something eerily close to satisfaction.

“Have a good night.”

And with that, you walk away.

Leaving the groaning man behind, you waste no time scrambling into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut with shaking hands. The scent of gasoline still lingers in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of sweat on your skin. Your pulse is hammering, your body still vibrating with adrenaline, but you force yourself to steady your grip on the wheel. Focus. Breathe. Drive.

You jam the keys into the ignition, the engine roaring to life as you yank the car into gear and pull away from the gas station. Your heart is still pounding in your ears, drowning out everything but the shrill wailing from the backseat. Sylvia.

She had been startled awake by the commotion, her cries loud and insistent, cutting through the thick haze of your spiraling thoughts. You glance into the rearview mirror, your daughter’s tiny, writhing form barely visible in the dim light. The sound is piercing, relentless—a desperate, needy scream that tugs at something primal inside you.

She’s hungry.

You know she needs to eat, but the lingering fear in your chest keeps your foot pressed against the gas pedal. You need distance. Security. Clara was one in a million, but you can’t trust anyone else. There are too many dangers, too many unknowns, and the idea of stopping—of exposing yourself and Sylvia to another potential threat—makes your stomach turn.

Just a little longer, baby. Please, just a little longer.

“Waaa! Waaa!”

Sylvia’s cries grow more frantic, her tiny body arching against the car seat. Her fists flail, her face scrunching up in distress. She’s starving. She doesn’t understand why you won’t stop.

“I know, baby. I know. I promise—just hold on. You can eat soon,” you plead, your voice trembling as you grip the wheel tighter. You’re talking more to yourself than her, trying to convince yourself that you’re making the right call, that a few more miles of safety are worth the delay.

But then—it hits.

A dizzying wave of nausea, so intense that your vision tunnels. Your breath catches in your throat, and suddenly, it feels like the air is too thick, your limbs too heavy. Your gut twists violently, an aching emptiness gnawing at you from the inside out.

Milk.

Your mind is suddenly filled with nothing but the overwhelming, singular thought of milk. Your body aches, your breasts throb with the need to feed her, the demand pulsing through you like a siren call. The pain is unlike anything you’ve felt before, a raw, clawing hunger that doesn’t belong to you—or does it?

The car veers sharply as your grip slackens on the wheel, and panic explodes through your chest. You snap back into focus just in time to jerk the wheel, slamming your foot against the brakes. The tires screech against the pavement, the entire car lurching as it skids to a grinding halt on the side of the road.

Sylvia shrieks louder, her cries blending with the ringing in your ears. Your head is spinning, your muscles locked in place as the suffocating hunger surges through your veins. Why do you feel like this? Why does it feel like your body is betraying you?

Then—without thinking, without even realizing you’ve moved—you’re already crawling into the backseat, your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Almost zombielike. Your fingers fumble with Sylvia’s seatbelt, your breath ragged as you yank her free from the harness, pulling her trembling body into your arms.

She’s so small. So warm. So needy.

Your hands shake as you cradle her against your chest, your own breath coming in short, uneven pants. The world around you is distant now, blurred at the edges, the only thing real being the overwhelming thought screaming at you.

Feed her. Feed her now.

You don’t even feel like yourself anymore. You move like something else—something driven by impulse, by raw, consuming need. Your mind is foggy, your hands trembling as you tug at the collar of your shirt, exposing the swollen, aching skin underneath.

Sylvia’s cries weaken as she senses the proximity of food, her tiny mouth searching blindly. Yes. This is right. This is what she needs.

The second she latches, the tension in your body snaps like a taut wire. Your mind is filled with instant clarity again. Relief washes over you in waves, the pain in your stomach subsiding as she suckles, her frantic whimpers quieting into soft, rhythmic gulps.

You slump back against the seat, your entire body trembling from exhaustion and whatever the hell just overtook you. Your breath shudders, your mind barely able to process what just happened. Was that…normal?

Your body seemingly had acted on its own. It didn’t even feel like you were in control. Your thoughts didn't seem like yours...why the hell would you think of milk?

Something deep inside you stirs, an unsettling thought curling around your already fragile mind. You swallow hard, staring down at Sylvia as she drinks greedily, oblivious to the storm raging inside you.

It couldn't have been...? No. You're being ridiculous. She's a baby. Babies can't...manipulate minds. Right? Sure, you had seen quite your fair share of oddities during your time as a Deepspace Hunter...but babies with mind control abilities was unheard of. Evolvers usually didn't even usually develop their abilities until well into adolescence. You knew that better than anyone. You blink the thoughts away, not wanting to overthink anything else right now. What matters is that she's eating. She's happy and eating.

Whatever that was though…it scared you. Deeply.

Sylus sat in the backseat of the sleek black car, fingers rhythmically tapping against his knee as he watched the grainy feed from Mephisto’s latest scan. The bird had picked up tire tracks leading away from the cabin, carving a clear path down an isolated stretch of road. It was confirmation. You were definitely in a car.

He let out a slow breath, tilting his head slightly as the car sped along the same path. There was no need for panic. No need for impatience. You couldn’t run forever.

Not with his daughter.

Luke and Kieran sat near him, whispering to each other in low voices, though they knew better than to directly disturb him. Tension in the vehicle was thick. Every single one of them knew what was at stake.

Sylus’s eyes flicked to his watch, then back to the feed pinned to the dashboard. You had, at best, a few hours' head start.

That didn’t concern him. What concerned him was what those few hours might do to you.

No hospitals. No medical care. No help.

How much were you struggling? Was your body holding up after birth? Were you getting enough rest? Enough food? Was she crying? Hours nonstop on the road definitely wasn't good for a newborn.

The thought made his jaw tighten. Did you even know how to handle her cries properly? Did you know how to soothe her? Did you even understand what she needed?

He stopped himself. No, you weren't stupid. You had to have some idea to get this far. You’d been running on nothing but adrenaline and fear for weeks though. That couldn’t last.

And he was counting on that.

The corner of his lips twitched upward as Mephisto’s feed flickered, the camera lens catching glimpses of old road signs. The bird circled ahead, scanning the land like a mechanical vulture.

Then, his screen glitched—static flooding the feed for half a second—before stabilizing.

A gas station.

Sylus sat up straighter, rewinding the footage. The timestamp was barely an hour old. His pupils dilated as the distorted image sharpened—a blurry glimpse of you stepping out of a car.

There.

A slow, deep exhale left his chest, his heart hammering against his ribs in quiet victory.

You were still close.

"Boss?" Kieran glanced at him nervously, sensing the shift in his mood.

Sylus barely blinked, his gaze locked onto the monitor. He saw your face. Saw the exhaustion lining your eyes, the way your body moved like every step was a struggle.

You were breaking. You just didn’t know it yet.

"Drive faster," Sylus murmured, slipping his phone back into his coat pocket. "She stopped at a gas station not long ago."

The driver whistled, adjusting his grip on the wheel. Kieran perked up, clearly excited. "Then we're catching up. Wonder how she’s holding up on her own."

Sylus didn’t answer. He already knew.

And it was only a matter of time before you did, too.

Sylus kept watching the video, eyes intent on capturing every single one of your movements. As if blinking meant losing sight of you forever. His grip on the device tightened, thumb hovering near the replay button, though he didn’t need to rewind it—he had already committed every second to memory.

Through Mephisto’s grainy feed, he could see you stepping out of the car, your movements sluggish, deliberate. Tired. His lips pressed into a thin line. Of course you were tired. He could only assume that his daughter remained strapped in the backseat while you made your way inside. He squinted, a flicker of frustration crossing his face.

What were you thinking? Leaving her alone, in the middle of nowhere?

The irritation built inside him like an ember, a slow-burning, undeniable truth: this is why you needed him.

You were making reckless decisions, no doubt running on nothing but fear and exhaustion. And in doing so, you were putting her at risk.

Sylus exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he should’ve expected this. You’d never had time to prepare for motherhood, never been in a stable enough situation to learn the proper way to care for a newborn. And now, without help, without him—you were floundering.

The thought should have pleased him. Should’ve reassured him that you’d come to your senses soon enough.

Instead, it pissed him off. Although he had tried...he had failed on his part of making you feel safe obviously. And despite the promises of change, his birdie had flown out of her cage again.

And it was ultimately his fault. Clara's words back at the farmhouse ringed in his head. As much as it pained him to even think about it. Regardless, it didn't change the fact that he had done everything out of necessity. He couldn't allow himself to feel guilt about it...yet.

His jaw clenched as he refocused on the footage. Mephisto had barely caught you in time. The bird was still sluggish from his last-minute tune-up after being shot—flying lower, slower than Sylus would’ve preferred—but it was enough. By some miracle, he had found you in the vastness of nowhere.

And Sylus refused to let you disappear again.

He watched as you exited the store almost as quickly as you had entered, your head snapping toward the car the moment you stepped outside. Checking on the baby. His baby.

How precious.

But it wasn’t enough. Sylus exhaled slowly through his nose, his fingers tightening around the edge of his seat as he watched you move. He wanted—no, needed—more. The anticipation of finally laying eyes on his daughter, the perfect blend of you and him, had been gnawing at him since the moment he realized she had finally made her entrance into the world.

And yet, you kept her locked away from him. Hidden. Without even realizing it.

It was maddening.

He wished—no, ached—for you to open that car door and lift her into your arms, to grant him just a fleeting glimpse of what he has longed for his entire existence. To see the tiny, delicate baby you had carried for months—his firstborn, his blood, a piece of himself forged inside you.

But you didn’t. You merely glanced inside before refocusing on the gas pump, never once sparing him the satisfaction.

His teeth ground together.

What was it that made you so determined to keep her from him?

Did you think he wouldn’t know how to care for his own child? Did you think running would solve all your problems?

The sheer audacity of it made his stomach coil with frustration. Of course, you were a mother now—his darling little runaway. And while that was an adorable sight to behold in some aspects, it didn’t change the fact that you were his. Both of you.

And yet, here you were, trying so desperately to escape him. As if you could.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. Soon.

Soon, he would hold you both in his arms.

He could already picture it—the warmth of your body finally pressed against his once more, your breath unsteady against his neck, your heartbeat syncing with his. You would struggle at first, of course. You always did. But he would calm you, hush your trembling sobs with whispered reassurances and quiet promises. He would remind you, over and over, that he was the only one who could truly keep you safe.

And his daughter…his perfect little girl.

He imagined her small, delicate weight in his hands, her soft cries settling into contented coos as he rocked her for the first time. He would press a kiss to her tiny forehead, trace his fingers over the softness of her hair, memorize the details of the child that you had stolen from him.

But there would be no more hiding.

No more running.

You would see it soon enough—that this was inevitable. That this was fate.

The moment you realized it, he would be there to catch you as you finally surrendered, as your resistance melted into exhausted acceptance. He would soothe the tears from your eyes, his lips brushing against your damp cheeks, and you would know—truly know—that there was no leaving anymore.

There never was.

His fingers tapped impatiently against his knee as he studied the way you moved, the way your eyes flicked back and forth with unease. Always looking over your shoulder, always afraid of who might be watching.

You shouldn't be afraid. Not of him at least. Was he perfect? No. But he was trying. He couldn't change the past, but he can write the future. If only you'd just stop running.

The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. Its fine. Everything will fall into place. Like it did last time.

He leaned forward slightly, watching intently as you moved to pump gas, fiddling with the machine, gaze shifting nervously toward the gas station door every few moments. He could tell by your tense posture that you weren’t at ease—and for good reason.

You knew he was coming.

You just didn’t know when.

Sylus’s eyes widened as he watched a figure emerge from the gas station, his entire body snapping to attention. A young man, no older than his early twenties, walked toward you with an almost casual air. Who the hell was he?

His pulse quickened, his senses immediately sharpening as he observed the interaction unfold through Mephisto’s feed. You didn’t notice the man at first—your awareness was still lacking, too focused on fueling the car and tending to your little escape plan. It infuriated him. You should have sensed the approach of a stranger before he got that close. His fingers drummed against his thigh impatiently, irritation seething under his skin.

The man hesitated before speaking, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as he tried to peer into the car. What was he looking at? The realization hit Sylus like a strike of lightning. The baby.

His grip on the glass in his hand tightened dangerously. That fucking bastard was trying to get a look at his daughter.

Even though the feed only provided faint audio, he could make out the unease in your voice. You were uncomfortable. Your body stiffened. You turned away. Sylus watched you give clipped, dismissive responses, clear signs that you wanted nothing to do with this man. But the fool didn’t take the hint. You grew increasingly aggressive, slamming the pump back and attempting to get around him.

Then the stranger grabbed your wrist.

Sylus’s entire body went rigid.

Something primal and violent coiled in his gut, his blood running hot with barely contained rage. How dare he? How fucking dare some low-life, gas station nobody put his hands on you? If he had been there, he would have snapped the bastard’s fingers off one by one for even thinking of touching what was his.

But then—oh, kitten.

Sylus watched as, in the span of mere seconds, your body reacted before your mind did. Your instincts—those beautiful, sharpened instincts that he had always admired, always known were there—finally kicked in.

The man barely had time to register what had happened before you twisted his arm and flipped him onto the pavement with an effortless motion. A perfect maneuver. It was fluid, instinctual, deadly. The sound of his body hitting the ground was satisfying enough to make Sylus chuckle under his breath.

And then you stomped on him. Again. And again. And again.

He watched as the man turned into a writhing bloody mess. His amusement morphed into something deeper, something like pride as you leaned over his figure and grinned.

Yes.

There she is.

The fire, the strength, the pure ruthlessness he always knew you had in you—it was all there. And it was magnificent to finally witness.

He smirked, leaning forward slightly, unable to tear his eyes away from the feed. The way you didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter. The way you unleashed every ounce of frustration, fear, and rage into every blow, as if making a statement—not just to this poor fool, but to the world itself.

Sylus exhaled slowly, feeling an overwhelming sense of satisfaction.

"That’s my girl."

"Holy shit. I'm glad the miss didn't do that to me," Kieran muttered, leaning over Sylus's shoulder as he watched the grainy footage unfold on the screen. His voice was a mix of awe and unease, his usual cocky demeanor faltering. "I wouldn’t have defended myself if she did, of course! Or hurt her in any way, boss! I swear, I'd never lay hands on her unless necessary."

Sylus didn't react at first, his crimson eyes still fixed on the footage as he rewinded a bit, watching the way you moved—the sheer force behind each calculated stomp, the way your body tensed with unrelenting fury. He didn't need to look at Kieran to know his men understood where they stood when it came to you.

Finally, with a slow nod, he acknowledged the statement. "Of course, you wouldn’t," he said simply, his tone carrying the weight of an unspoken warning.

His men knew better. All of his staff had been given strict orders from the start: no one was to raise a hand against you. No one was to subdue you, restrain you, or so much as consider fighting back if you ever lashed out at them. Only unless you were an absolute danger to yourself, escaping, and he wasn't around.

He grit his teeth again. The one time they had been allowed to...and they failed. Though he didn't really prepare them for the scenario that you would turn a weapon on yourself, much less have one to begin with.

Luke...

"She was pregnant, dummy. I would've been impressed if she could," Luke snickered beside him, though there was an underlying tension in his voice.

Sylus didn't share their amusement. His eyes flicked toward Luke with quiet scrutiny, his arms crossing over his chest in a slow, deliberate motion. "She shouldn't have even gotten the chance," he said coolly.

Luke stiffened.

"Perhaps if someone paid more attention to what he leaves in his coat," Sylus continued, his voice deceptively calm, "she wouldn't have to stomp strange men into the ground to protect herself and our daughter."

Luke visibly shrank under the weight of Sylus's words, his bravado disappearing in an instant. "Right…sorry, boss," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, remembering that he wasn't quite yet off the hook.

Sylus exhaled through his nose, gaze returning to the flickering feed from Mephisto’s camera. The image of you—furious, breathless, standing over the bloody, groaning man—burned itself into his mind. His little kitten still had sharp claws after all. Good. You weren't weak. You could defend yourself until he found you at least.

Don't break until he's close enough.

Sylus clenched his fist, the leather of his gloves groaning under the pressure. His jaw tightened, muscles twitching as he watched the way you scrambled back into the car. Even through the grainy, flickering screen, he could see the tremble in your hands as they gripped the wheel. His sharp eyes didn’t miss the way your chest heaved, how you fought to steady yourself.

His lips pressed into a thin line, irritation rolling through his veins like molten iron. You shouldn’t have to do this—shouldn’t have to fend off some pathetic bottom-feeder on your own. That was his job. The very thought of anyone else laying their hands on you, invading your space, sent his blood boiling.

And yet…his gaze softened ever so slightly, just for a fraction of a second.

He had always loved your fire, the way you resisted, fought, clawed for every ounce of freedom you could scrape together. It was infuriating and had slowed the progression of things, yes—but it was also mesmerizing. That strength, that will to survive, was exactly what made you his.

Still, it wouldn’t be long now.

All this built-up irritation clawed at his head, pressing against the inside of his skull, demanding release. His patience was a thin thread stretched taut, moments from snapping. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus.

At the very least, there were some fingers to shred to take out his frustrations.

The gas station’s fluorescent lights buzzed weakly, flickering intermittently as the battered young man dragged himself back inside. Every step was a struggle, his legs trembling beneath him as he coughed, a thick glob of blood splattering onto the linoleum floor. His jaw throbbed, and he could already feel his right eye swelling shut.

He staggered forward, gripping the edge of the counter for support, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Fucking whore," he muttered bitterly, wiping at his busted lip with the back of his hand. "She's lucky…bitch should be on her knees begging instead of fighting."

His vision blurred for a moment, his body threatening to collapse. His hands fumbled against the register as he struggled to steady himself. He didn’t know what hurt more—the humiliation or the actual injuries.

The soft chime of the doorbell rang behind him, signaling someone entering. He flinched, his nerves frayed beyond repair. "We're closed," he rasped, his voice hoarse, not even bothering to turn around. "Come back—"

"Ah," came a deep, smooth voice from behind him. "You will be closed after tonight. Indefinitely."

The young man froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The weight of those words sank into his gut like lead. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head toward the door.

There, standing under the dim, flickering light, was a tall figure, clad in black. A pair of piercing red eyes gleamed in the fluorescent lights, predatory and cold.

The young man barely had time to process the looming presence behind him before a gloved hand clamped over his shoulder, squeezing just enough to make his bruised body jolt with pain. His breath hitched, and instinct screamed at him to run—but his legs wouldn’t cooperate.

Sylus leaned in slightly, his voice deceptively smooth, yet laced with something that sent ice straight into the young man's spine. "That was quite the beating you took," he murmured, almost conversational. "And yet, you still had the audacity to spit out insults about her?"

The young man swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Oh! L-look, I don’t want any trouble, man," he stammered, barely managing to get the words out. "She—she freaked out for no reason! I didn’t even do anything—"

A sharp, pained grunt escaped him as Sylus’s grip tightened, fingers digging into his already bruised shoulder. "No, no," Sylus tsked, shaking his head slightly, eyes burning into him. "You did do something. You put your filthy hands on her. You scared her. That, I can't allow."

Before the young man could beg, Sylus shifted his grip, effortlessly dragging him forward before slamming his face down onto the counter. The glass candy display cracked under the force, loose wrappers and shattered shards tumbling onto the floor. The man let out a garbled cry, blood pooling from his nose onto the register.

Sylus exhaled, slow and measured, as if keeping himself from making more of a mess than necessary. "I should make this a slow lesson," he murmured, his voice dangerously calm. "A reminder to keep your hands to yourself. But I’m on a tight schedule."

His other hand raised lazily, fingers twitching slightly. A faint, red mist coiled from his palm, slithering through the air like phantom tendrils. The young man barely had time to scream before the mist lunged—wrapping around his wrists like invisible shackles. He gasped, eyes going wide as pain flared through his hands.

The sensation started as a slow, burning pressure—then turned razor-sharp.

The man’s scream split through the quiet night as his skin split open, jagged lines forming along his fingers and palms. Blood welled up in uneven, deep cuts that carved into the tendons like hungry fangs. His hands trembled violently, muscles spasming from the unnatural wounds.

Sylus tilted his head, watching the spectacle with the detached curiosity of an artist critiquing his work. The red mist flexed again, tearing deeper.

A gurgled sob tore from the man’s throat as he collapsed to his knees. His fingers curled inward instinctively, but the moment he tried to move them, fresh agony seized him. His hands—his fucking hands—

"Fuck!"

The young man let out a whimper, trembling as Sylus finally released him. He slumped against the counter, gasping, clutching at his face with bloodied hands. He was about to mumble out some weak attempt at an apology—when Sylus turned, walking toward the shelves lined with cheap liquor and dusty energy drinks.

Without hesitation, he reached up, knocking over several bottles, letting their contents splash onto the linoleum floor in a spreading pool of alcohol. The acrid scent filled the air, seeping into the aisles. He moved deliberately, tipping over a shelf of motor oil, letting it mix into the mess. The young man’s dazed expression twisted in confusion, then realization.

"Wait, wait—what are you—?" he stammered, struggling to push himself up.

Sylus simply flicked open a silver lighter from his pocket, the small flame casting an eerie glow against his sharp features. "Consider this severance," he mused, before tossing the lighter onto the floor.

The fire roared to life instantly.

Flames spread like liquid hunger, climbing the shelves, licking up the walls, racing toward the ceiling. Heat exploded outward, consuming everything in its wake. The young man scrambled back, his screams swallowed by the crackling inferno.

Sylus didn’t bother looking back as he stepped out of the gas station, the fire’s glow casting flickering shadows over his form. He adjusted his gloves, slipping into the backseat of the car once more.

Mephisto flapped onto the dashboard, letting out a mechanical caw.

"Yes, yes," Sylus murmured, cracking his knuckles as he set his sights on the road ahead. "I know, I know. We have two little birdies to retrieve."

With one last glance at the burning wreckage in his rearview mirror, the driver pressed his foot to the gas, peeling off into the night. Mephisto took off into the night sky once more.

Behind him, the gas station erupted in a final, deafening explosion. Luke and Kieran ooed and awwed at the sight, cheering at the flames as if it were a fire show. A pillar of fire shot into the sky, a violent exclamation mark on the lesson Sylus had left behind. No one would know for awhile that such an event occurred in the middle of nowhere.

And just like that, he was gone—chasing after the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

After a feeding and a diaper change for Sylvia, you had found yourself quickly getting back on the road. The exhaustion creeping through your bones is nothing compared to the dull, persistent ache that thrums through your lower body. Every movement sends a ripple of discomfort through you, a brutal reminder that your body hasn’t even had the chance to recover properly. The adrenaline from earlier, the sharp, fiery rush that had propelled you into action, is long gone now, leaving nothing but soreness and exhaustion in its wake.

You shift slightly in the driver’s seat, wincing as you adjust your posture. The pain is manageable—you’ve survived worse—but it makes every mile feel longer, every second behind the wheel heavier. The road ahead blurs slightly, the lines on the pavement stretching into the distance, endless and unknown. Still, you push forward. There’s no other choice. Stopping isn’t an option. Not when Sylus could be closing in at any moment.

In the backseat, Sylvia makes soft, sleepy noises around the pacifier you had finally managed to get her to take. It had been a struggle at first—she had resisted every attempt, wailing in frustration—but now, she sucks contentedly, tiny fingers curled against her blanket. You watch her for a brief moment in the rearview mirror, something tight and unfamiliar twisting in your chest. The sight of her peaceful, tiny form should have been comforting, but instead, it only added to the storm inside you. You were all she had. That responsibility was suffocating.

Were you still technically on the run with a newborn, completely unaware of what the next few hours, let alone the next few days, would hold? Yes. But for the first time in a long time, things seemed to be—however temporarily—working out in your favor.

The gas station had been a risk, one you had to take, but you handled it. The bastard had underestimated you, just like so many others before him. And despite the pounding ache in your limbs, the raw sting of exertion in your muscles, you felt something else deep in your gut—pride. It was small, fleeting, but it was there. You had defended yourself, defended your daughter, and sent a clear message. You weren’t weak. You weren’t helpless.

Still, as the high from that moment faded, reality crept in. Your body wasn’t the same as it was before pregnancy. It betrayed you in ways you weren’t used to. The soreness clung to your muscles, and your reflexes—once sharp and instinctual—felt sluggish. You had won this time, but what about the next? What if you hesitated for even a second too long? What if you weren’t fast enough to protect Sylvia?

Your fingers tightened on the steering wheel. You couldn’t let those thoughts fester, not now. You had to keep moving. The darkness outside was thick, swallowing the road beyond your headlights, but there had to be something ahead. You had planned on stopping once you reached the next town, but how long had it been now? Clara had said it was miles away, but had you miscalculated? Was your sense of time completely warped from the exhaustion?

You shake your head, pressing forward. Your eyes burn from the lack of sleep, and your shoulders ache from hours of tension. You flex your fingers against the wheel, trying to force some of the stiffness from them. The last thing you needed was to get sloppy now.

A road sign loomed in the distance, barely illuminated by your headlights. You squinted, your heart leaping slightly in your chest as you read the worn, peeling letters. Five more miles to the next city. Relief surged through you, but it was brief, overshadowed by the ever-present weight in your gut. Five miles could be the difference between safety and disaster. Five miles was nothing.

You steal another glance in the rearview mirror. Sylvia was still fast asleep, her small face relaxed, tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm. The sight both soothed you and sent a wave of fresh guilt rolling through your stomach. How long could you keep this up? How long until she suffered because of your choices?

Your hands tightened on the steering wheel as you exhaled slowly.

One step at a time. One mile at a time.

The next five miles stretched endlessly, the road before you an unforgiving expanse of asphalt cutting through the early morning mist. The bold, weathered letters of a looming sign came into view, its chipped paint barely holding onto the message it carried: "Welcome to Windsor City." The sight should have brought relief, but instead, a sinking feeling clawed at your stomach, twisting into knots as the golden hues of the rising sun bathed the world in a deceptive warmth.

You murmured the city’s name under your breath, testing the words like they were foreign, something belonging to a past life. It had been so long since you’d been surrounded by towering structures, busy streets, and the rhythmic pulse of civilization. The skyline ahead was a vast, glittering beast, its patchwork of glass and steel piercing the heavens, glowing softly in the new light. It looked almost dreamlike, unreal, as though it existed in another dimension entirely. A stark contrast to the endless stretches of backroads and quiet wilderness that had cradled your escape for the past few weeks.

Your hands tightened around the steering wheel as an unexpected wave of grief laced with nostalgia hit you square in the chest. The last city you had truly called home was Linkon, and those memories felt like they belonged to another person. A ghost of yourself who still had a job, a future, friends that laughed with you over coffee and trivial work complaints. A self that had never known what it was like to wake up in a gilded cage. That person had died the moment Sylus entered your life. And now, even with miles between you, you felt the weight of his presence like a chain around your throat.

The road narrowed as you approached a bridge leading into the city, lined with sluggish rows of cars inching forward. Your stomach twisted in recognition of the uniformed figures pacing between vehicles. A checkpoint. You had been expecting something like this eventually, but seeing it in person made your pulse hammer. Security officers, clad in black and blue, moved with precision—checking IDs, inspecting trunks, occasionally directing cars to a secondary inspection zone. You quickly scanned the scene, assessing, calculating.

A toll booth would have been bad enough. But a full security stop? That was disastrous. You had money, but you didn’t have an ID. No passport. No way of identifying yourself or Sylvia. As far as the world knew, your daughter didn’t even exist. No birth certificate. No records. She was a shadow in the system, just like you were trying to become.

Your fingers curled into the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as you forced yourself to breathe through the rising panic. You needed a plan.

The car inched forward, and your mind raced through the possibilities. Could you talk your way through it? A lost ID sob story might work—people misplace things while traveling all the time. But the risk of being turned away or, worse, detained lingered like a warning siren in your head. If they looked too closely—if they saw the sheer amount of cash stashed beneath the passenger seat or noticed the weariness in your face—questions would follow. Questions you couldn’t afford to answer.

The car in front of you rolled forward, and now you were next in line.

A bead of sweat trickled down your temple. You cast a glance into the rearview mirror, your eyes landing on Sylvia’s sleeping form in the backseat. Her tiny chest rose and fell in peaceful rhythm, her little hand curled into a fist beside her head. She was completely unaware of the tension gripping your body, of the invisible clock counting down your every move.

You had to get through this. For her.

As the uniformed officer stepped toward your window, clipboard in hand, you forced yourself to loosen your grip on the wheel, pushing every ounce of exhaustion and fear deep into the pit of your stomach. You had to make this work. There was no other option.

"Alright, baby girl," you whispered, barely audible over the rapid pounding of your heartbeat. "Let’s hope they don’t ask too many questions."

With one last deep breath, you rolled down the window and met the officer’s gaze, masking your nerves with the most convincing smile you could muster.

"Hi, ma’am. You a resident of the city? Got identification?"

The toll officer leaned slightly forward, eyes scanning the car’s interior with a practiced, impassive gaze. His uniform was crisp, badge gleaming under the dull morning light. His stance was relaxed, but there was a sharpness in his eyes, a silent scrutiny that made your palms damp against the steering wheel. He wasn’t hostile, not yet—but he was doing his job, and that was a problem.

You swallowed down the rising panic, forcing your expression to remain calm, pleasant. Confidence. You had to project confidence. Any hesitance, any nervous energy, and he’d sense it like blood in the water.

You let out a small, composed breath and forced an easy, warm smile onto your face. “Actually, yes. I live here with my husband,” you said, voice smooth, practiced. “I was out of town visiting family when—” You let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle, gesturing toward the sleeping infant in the backseat. “Well, when everything happened a little earlier than planned. I wasn't expecting to make a sudden trip, so I left most of our things at home. It all happened in a rush. I'm trying to get back to him so he can meet her.”

You almost grimaced at the lie. The last thing you wanted to do was have Sylvia meet her father.

The officer’s gaze flickered toward Sylvia, and for a moment, you saw it—the softening in his expression. His posture relaxed, his grip on his notepad loosening slightly. You knew the sight of a newborn had a way of disarming people, of making them more sympathetic. You had seen it happen before, how even the coldest people melted in the presence of something so small and vulnerable.

The moment stretched on for what felt like eternity, your heart thrumming violently against your ribs. If this worked, if he let you through without much question—

The officer’s lips twitched into something like a smile. “She’s very cute. Congratulations, ma’am.”

Relief surged in your chest for a brief, fleeting moment. Maybe this would be easy. Maybe—

“But,” the officer continued, and your stomach dropped, “without proper identification, we’re gonna have to ask you to pull into the second lane for a quick search.”

Your entire body went rigid.

A search?

No. No, no, no.

Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out the hum of the car’s engine. Your fingers curled around the steering wheel, your knuckles aching from the force of your grip. You had no ID. No paperwork. No legal proof that you even existed, let alone that Sylvia was yours. She wasn’t even officially registered as a person yet. And if they searched the car, if they ran anything—

They’d find out.

They’d find out that this vehicle wasn't even registered to a womans name. Sure you could lie and say that was your husband but if they searched more about him and realized it belonged to an elderly man?? Then what??

The officer was still watching you, waiting for you to comply, and the weight of his gaze was suffocating. You could already feel the other officers beyond the toll booths watching too, likely trained to spot hesitation, nervousness—anything that might hint at dishonesty.

This was bad.

“I—I understand,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Your mind raced. Think. Think. You had seconds to come up with something, anything.

The toll officer gestured toward the second lane, where a few other cars were already pulled aside, waiting to be inspected. Two other officers stood near them, one speaking into a radio. Your stomach twisted.

You couldn’t risk it.

If they made you step out of the car, if they asked too many questions, it was over. You had no plan for this. You had no forged documents, no alias, no safety net. You were just a woman with a baby in a "stolen" car, and that wasn’t something you could talk your way out of. They'd make you leave. You needed to get into this city.

Your grip on the wheel tightened, fingernails digging into the leather. Your heartbeat pounded violently in your ears, adrenaline surging like wildfire through your veins.

You had to act—now.

Your eyes flickered to the road ahead, to the space just beyond the checkpoint, where the city stretched open and vast before you. Freedom was right there. It was within reach.

A quick decision.

A reckless decision.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself.

Then, with a sudden, decisive motion, you began to slowly press your foot onto the accelerator.

Just as your car roared to life and you were about to floor it, a sudden commotion erupted behind you, loud enough to make your heart leap into your throat. Shouting. A struggle. The distinct, frantic shuffle of boots against pavement.

"Stop resisting!" Several male voices barked, their commanding tones cutting through the morning air. The officer attending you snapped his head toward the noise, his hand instinctively reaching for the radio at his hip.

You stiffened, gripping the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white. Shit. What was happening? You didn't have time for this. You needed to go, needed to slip away before anyone had a chance to scrutinize your lack of credentials.

The officer hesitated, his attention divided between you and the escalating situation. In the side mirror, you caught a glimpse of the source of the chaos—a man being yanked from his car, his arms flailing wildly as multiple officers restrained him. He was shouting something, but you couldn't make out what. The surrounding traffic had slowed, drivers craning their necks to watch the unfolding spectacle.

This was it. A distraction. A perfect opportunity handed to you by sheer dumb luck.

The officer looked back at you, his expression tense but expectant. "Go ahead, ma'am, pull forward to the secondary checkpoint—"

"Of course, officer, thank you," you replied smoothly, plastering on the most grateful, sleep-deprived-mother smile you could muster. Your foot hovered over the gas pedal, your heartbeat a frantic drum in your ears. He gave a firm nod and turned, jogging toward the scuffle as the man let out a garbled shout.

The second his back was fully turned, you slammed your foot down.

The car lurched forward, its tires screeching against the asphalt as you veered sharply away from the checkpoint lane, blending into the moving traffic ahead. Your pulse pounded violently against your ribs. You kept your gaze forward, hands locked in a vice grip on the wheel, doing everything in your power not to look back and see if anyone had noticed.

Sylvia stirred in the backseat, letting out a soft whimper.

"Shh, baby, just a little more," you whispered, voice barely steady. You swallowed hard, stomach twisting. You had no idea if they had your plate number, if they were going to radio ahead and set up a blockade further into the city. No idea how long your luck would hold.

You cast a quick glance at the mirror, sweat slicking your palms as the toll station shrank in the distance. No sudden sirens, no pursuing vehicles yet. Yet. You forced yourself to breathe, tried to focus on what came next. You had made it into the city, but you couldn’t afford to let your guard down. If they flagged your car, you needed to ditch it. Fast.

The tall buildings of Windsor loomed ahead, their glass surfaces reflecting the warm glow of morning light. It was strange, being back in a city after so long in hiding. The hum of civilization, the distant honking of impatient drivers, the muffled sound of pedestrians moving along sidewalks—it all felt too normal. Almost surreal, considering the life-or-death game of cat and mouse you were playing.

Sylvia whimpered again, and your heart clenched. She was hungry again. You needed to stop soon. But where? You had to think fast. The city would provide you cover, but only if you kept moving, stayed smart. Gas stations, convenience stores, alleyways—you needed to plan your next step, and you needed to do it now.

But one thing was certain—you couldn't stop now. You had made it past the gate. You were in Windsor City. And now, every second counted.

The city unfolded before you like an intricate tapestry of lights, towering glass structures, and bustling life. It had been so long since you were surrounded by this kind of energy, the organized chaos of people moving, talking, and living in a way that felt almost foreign now. You hadn’t realized how much your world had shrunk in the past year, how the isolation had wrapped around you like a second skin. Now, the sheer volume of movement, the never-ending sounds of horns, laughter, and distant conversations were both mesmerizing and suffocating.

Your grip tightened around the steering wheel as you tried to navigate without the crutch of a GPS. Every street sign was unfamiliar, every turn a risk. You needed a place to stay, somewhere that wouldn’t demand identification or ask too many questions. A motel, preferably one that accepted cash upfront. A safer haven than a backseat. The thought of choosing the wrong place, of ending up in a dangerous situation, gnawed at the edges of your mind. But what choice did you have?

A glance in the rearview mirror showed Sylvia still fast asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling steadily. The sight softened you. You had to be strong, had to figure this out. For her.

After circling aimlessly for what felt like an eternity, you spotted a small park nestled between two larger buildings. It was a quiet slice of nature in the middle of all the steel and stone. The sign near the entrance advertised clean restrooms, benches, and even a designated privacy area for breastfeeding mothers. A small relief. You could use a moment to breathe, stretch, maybe even gather your thoughts before plunging forward into more uncertainty.

You pulled into a nearby parking space, exhaling as you shut off the car. Your entire body ached from the drive, the tension still coiled tight in your shoulders. And yet, as you sat there in the silence of the car, you hesitated. It felt ridiculous, but stepping out felt like another commitment—another moment where you had to face just how alone you were.

Sylvia stirred in her car seat, a small whimper escaping her lips before she settled again. The instinct to comfort her overrode everything else, pushing you into motion. You opened the door, stepping out into the crisp city air. It smelled of rain and pavement, of life moving forward while you were still trying to figure out your place in it again.

You walked around to the backseat, unbuckling Sylvia carefully, her tiny body warm against your chest as you lifted her out. She shifted slightly but didn’t wake, and for that, you were grateful. As much as you loved her, the endless cycle of feedings and exhaustion had left you drained.

The walk to the bench felt longer than it should have, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you. But as you finally sat, cradling your daughter close, a strange feeling settled over you. The overwhelming loneliness didn’t fade, but for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to just be. The city moved around you, indifferent to your struggles. But in this moment, in this small park, with Sylvia nestled against your heartbeat, you could pretend—just for a little while—that you weren’t running.

For a while, you didn’t move. You just sat there, breathing in the moment, letting the sounds of the city wash over you. The distant hum of traffic, the laughter of children playing nearby, the occasional chirping of birds—it all felt so normal. So ordinary. It was a stark contrast to the chaos of the last few weeks, to the weight of fear and exhaustion that still clung to your body like a second skin.

But for just this moment, you let yourself pretend. Pretend that you weren’t on the run, that you weren’t constantly looking over your shoulder for the shadow of a man who refused to let you go. That you weren’t alone in this city with nothing but an envelope of cash and a fragile, three-week-old baby who depended on you for everything.

Your gaze drifted downward, settling on Sylvia’s sleeping face. Her tiny chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, her lips parted slightly as she made the faintest sucking motions in her sleep. The wind stirred, blowing a few wisps of her soft hair across her forehead, and you instinctively reached out to brush it away. Your fingers lingered longer than necessary, tracing the curve of her cheek, her impossibly small nose.

She looked so much like him.

The realization hit you hard, the breath catching in your throat. The shape of her tiny mouth, the subtle arch of her brow, the barely-there curl to her lashes—all of it was unmistakable. Sylus. His blood ran through her veins, just as much as yours did. You tried not to think about it much, but it was nearly impossible.

Months of pain and suffering laid neatly in your arms right now.

A lump formed in your throat, and you swallowed hard, blinking against the burn in your eyes. She was so innocent, so untouched by the horrors of the world. She had no idea what kind of life she had been born into. No idea that the man who had given her those features was the very reason you had to keep running.

Yet, despite everything, you couldn’t bring yourself to resent her for it. If anything, it made you ache more. Because Sylvia would never know the luxury of a simple, peaceful life. Not with you constantly looking over your shoulder. Not with Sylus hunting you down like an animal.

Your arms instinctively tightened around her, cradling her just a little closer to your chest.

“God…I envy you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the city noise. You wished you could just be an innocent baby again.

Sylvia stirred slightly, her face scrunching up before relaxing again into sleep. She was warm against you, a tiny, fragile piece of yourself that you had sworn to protect. But as you sat there, staring down at her peaceful face, the weight of it all pressed heavier on your chest.

How much longer could you keep this up? How much longer until exhaustion won? Until Sylus finally found you?

Or worse—until you started to wonder if running was even worth it anymore.

After a bit, Sylvia stirred against your chest, her tiny whimpers quickly escalating into fussing. You sighed, adjusting your hold on her as you prepared for yet another feeding. The moment you repositioned her, she latched on, though her suckling was noticeably weaker than usual.

You frowned slightly. Was she not as hungry? Or was your milk supply dipping? You hadn’t eaten properly in hours—maybe even a full day at this point. That had to be it. You needed food, something substantial, to keep yourself going. To keep producing enough to sustain her.

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought. Eating meant stopping somewhere again, being out in the open. Every moment you weren’t moving felt like another opportunity for Sylus to catch up. You couldn’t afford that.

But you couldn’t afford to let Sylvia go hungry either. The formula Clara had packed it was definitely spoiled now. Yes, you had some cans of formula but Sylvia didn't always take it. It would be easier and less stressful to just keep up your supply.

As she nursed, your mind raced through possible solutions. Fast food? A grocery store where you could grab something quick and calorie-dense? You needed to be smart. Find something in a well-populated area where you wouldn’t stand out, but not too crowded where you might be noticed.

Sylvia pulled away with a small grunt, her lips parting as she let out a tiny yawn. You readjusted your shirt and lifted her onto your shoulder, rubbing slow circles on her back as you stood from the bench. She let out a small, sleepy burp, her head resting against your collarbone.

A part of you wanted to sit there just a little longer. Just a few more minutes of stillness. Of pretending things were normal. But you had wasted enough time already.

Break was over.

Shifting Sylvia into the crook of your arm, you moved briskly back toward the car, your paranoia creeping back with every step. The park was peaceful, but something about it felt...off. The quiet hum of distant traffic, the scattered people walking by—it should’ve been reassuring. Instead, it made your skin crawl.

You reached the backseat side, your hand hovering over the door handle before something in your peripheral vision made you freeze.

A shadow in the trees.

Your heartbeat spiked as you slowly turned your head. There, perched on the highest branch of a skeletal tree, sat a single crow.

Your blood turned cold.

Mephisto?

No. No, it couldn’t be. You squinted, heart hammering against your ribs as you studied the bird. It was just a crow. Just a normal, everyday bird. Right? You watched as it began to battle some pigeons on another branch.

But normal birds didn’t send chills down your spine. Normal birds didn’t make you feel watched.

Your grip on Sylvia tightened, your breath shallow. You couldn’t tell for certain from this distance, but you knew better than to ignore your instincts.

So what if you were overthinking it? It was time to go anyways.

Quickly laying her down on the seat and changing her diaper, you quickly discarded the diaper pile that had been building up and got her buckled in again. You'd have to changer her clothes soon but that could wait until you found a place to stay.

It didn’t take long to find a small grocery store tucked into the corner of a quiet street. The "OPEN" sign flickered inconsistently, casting a dim, wavering glow onto the glass doors. You pulled into the lot, parking in a spot that provided an easy escape route—just in case. Your heartbeat, which had finally started to settle, picked up again. Every stop was a risk. Every moment out in the open was an opportunity for Sylus to find you.

Taking only a modest sum from the envelope of cash—just enough to keep things inconspicuous—you adjusted the makeshift baby wrap you’d fashioned from an old shirt. Sylvia was nestled securely against your chest, her small body radiating warmth. She had been quiet for most of the drive, but now, blinking up at you with groggy, crimson-tinged eyes, she fussed under the brightness of the sun. You instinctively rubbed her back, rocking slightly as you pushed open the door.

A bell jingled as you stepped inside, the cool air blasting against your skin. The place smelled like a mix of cleaning supplies, stale produce, and faint traces of something fried. Despite its humble size, the store was decently stocked, shelves lined with dry goods, canned food, and a small selection of fresh fruits and vegetables.

You moved quickly, scanning the shelves with purpose. The act of shopping felt eerily normal—mundane, even—but the weight of reality pressed against your chest. The last time you had been in a store like this…it had to be almost a year ago. Back in captivity, there had been no need. No choice. Sylus had ensured everything was provided for you, all food meticulously delivered to the estate, your meals planned out to the last calorie. You had never even been allowed to leave the room for months, much less pick out what you wanted in a store.

A small, rebellious flicker of satisfaction stirred in your chest. This was freedom, wasn’t it? The ability to decide for yourself, even if it was something as small as which fruit to buy. You clenched the apple in your palm a little tighter, but the feeling was fleeting.

The overstimulation crept in before you could stop it. The chatter of shoppers, the steady beep of registers, the hum of refrigeration units—it was all too much at once. Your vision swam for a moment, breath coming just a little too fast. You forced yourself to focus. In and out. No lingering. No unnecessary risks.

With your small selection of food in hand, you veered toward the baby aisle. Sylvia had grown quickly in just three and a half weeks. While she wasn’t heavy, constantly carrying her had taken a toll on your body, which was still weak from birth. You ignored the twinge of pain as you crouched slightly, scanning the rows of baby gear. A stroller. That was what you needed. Just something cheap and functional.

Your fingers hovered over the cheapest option, lips pressing into a thin line. Every dollar counted. But you needed this. Sylvia needed this. As if sensing your hesitation, she let out a soft whine, her tiny fingers curling against the fabric of your shirt. You exhaled slowly.

"Yeah, I know," you murmured to her. "We need to save money, don’t we?"

With a final glance at the price tag, you grabbed the stroller, tossing in a small pack of diapers and wipes for good measure. As you approached the register, a new thought struck you. You turned on your heel and hurried back down the aisle, grabbing a roll of duct tape before returning to the counter. The clerk barely glanced up, continuing to scan your items with mechanical disinterest.

Minutes later, you were back in the car, the rustling of plastic bags filling the silence as you settled Sylvia into her car seat. The moment you clicked the buckle into place, your stomach clenched. You hadn’t eaten in what felt like forever. Unwrapping the sandwich with trembling hands, you took a ravenous bite, chewing slowly as exhaustion sank into your bones. The ache in your limbs had become a dull, ever-present throb, a reminder that your body was still healing. But there was no time for rest.

You stared at the sandwich in your hands, barely tasting it. Another night. Another stop. But how many more until Sylus caught up? How many more before exhaustion, hunger, or sheer bad luck caught up with you first?

With the last bite of the apple was swallowed, you reached for the duct tape, ripping a strip off with your teeth before getting out and carefully covering the car’s license plate. It wouldn’t be a perfect fix, but it would buy you some time. If anyone tried to run your plates, they'd get nothing. Better yet, Sylus wouldn't realize it was connected to Clara's father if he somehow managed to get a glimpse of the car. You patted it down firmly before glancing at the horizon, the sun already beginning to dip below the skyline.

Time to move again.

You drove around endlessly, weaving through side streets and avoiding main roads as much as possible, your paranoia growing with each passing mile. Every streetlight, every camera mounted on the corner of a building made your stomach twist with anxiety. You couldn't risk being seen—not with Sylvia in tow, not when you knew Sylus could be tracking you even now.

You had passed three motels already, each one striking the wrong chord in your gut. The first had a group of men huddled near a door, their cigarette tips glowing in the dark, but the acrid smell in the air told you they weren’t just smoking tobacco. Their hushed, erratic laughter sent an immediate warning through your nerves. No way in hell.

The second motel was even worse—no proper parking lot, just a patch of dirt riddled with tire tracks and broken glass. The flickering neon VACANCY sign buzzed above, giving the place an eerie, abandoned feel. Something about it sent shivers down your spine, the way the windows were all dark like empty sockets staring right at you.

The third had seemed promising until you stepped inside. The office reeked of old coffee and mildew, and the so-called manager was slumped over at the desk, dead to the world. No matter how loudly you cleared your throat or tapped the desk, the man didn't stir. The idea of staying somewhere run by someone so utterly unaware of their surroundings didn’t sit right with you.

And now, here you were, pulling up to your fourth option of the night.

Cedarwood Motel.

It was small, the kind of place that wouldn’t attract much attention, but modern enough to not look like a complete hellhole. The dull amber glow of the sign illuminated the empty lot, the office window giving you a glimpse of the front desk. No loitering men, no strange smells hitting you from the entrance, no obvious red flags—so far.

You turned in your seat, glancing toward the back where Sylvia was curled in her makeshift blanket nest in the car seat, her chest rising and falling with deep, undisturbed breaths. Your heart clenched a little. She had been doing better than expected, but you knew she needed more than this. A proper bed. A real rest. You needed it, too.

Letting out a deep, steadying breath, you killed the engine and prepared yourself. You were running on fumes at this point, but there was no other option. This would have to do.

The motel bathroom was cramped, the walls lined with outdated floral wallpaper that had started to peel in the corners. The sink faucet dripped every few seconds, and the overhead light flickered intermittently, giving the space a dim, uneven glow. But it would have to do.

Sylvia’s tiny wails echoed in the tiled room as you knelt by the bathtub, her little body trembling despite the water being warm. Her tiny fists flailed as she kicked against the sensation, her sobs hitching in her throat.

“I know, I know…I’m sorry, baby,” you murmured, keeping your voice low and soothing even as your heart ached. You had thought a bath would calm her, like you had seen on tv. But this was anything but calming.

Your hands were careful as you ran the washcloth over her delicate skin, wiping away the remnants of the long, exhausting day. She had been wrapped up in that car seat for too long, and you couldn’t stand the thought of her being uncomfortable a second longer than necessary. You had gotten in the bath with her, attempting to save time and hot water by washing you both. But she clearly didn’t appreciate the gesture, her cries growing louder the moment you started on her hair.

“Shhh, shhh, okay, I just need to wash your hair, alright?” you whispered, voice laced with exhaustion as you dipped your fingers in the water, gently massaging the motel shampoo into her soft scalp.

Her tiny face scrunched in protest, her sobs momentarily breaking into hiccups before she wailed again, her body wriggling against the support of your hand. Your chest tightened.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Almost done, I promise,” you cooed, trying to calm her as you carefully rinsed out the soap, making sure not to get any in her eyes.

Despite your gentle touch, her cries didn’t ease. She was shivering even in the warm bath, her little body reacting to the stress of it all, and a deep guilt settled in your stomach. It wasn’t just the bath—everything had been too much for her. This wasn’t the kind of life a newborn should have, moving from one unknown place to the next, never in one spot long enough to settle. You wished things were different.

You sighed, running a hand down your face before quickly stepping out and wrapping her in the softest towel you could find, pressing her against your chest. The moment she felt your warmth, her cries started to weaken, her tiny body curling into you instinctively.

“There we go,” you whispered, kissing the top of her damp head. “See? Not so bad…”

But as you held her close, feeling her small breaths against your skin, that creeping thought returned. You were failing her. Stressing her out beyond what she should be. Why were you putting a newborn through all this?

You don't deserve her. She's better off without you.

You close your eyes, gently rocking her trying to remove the awful thoughts.

You shook your head, pushing the intrusive thoughts away. There was no use in dwelling on these awful thoughts. You needed to focus on the present, on keeping Sylvia comfortable and safe. That was all that mattered.

With practiced movements, you wrapped her snugly in a clean onesie, taking extra care to dry her soft hair before slipping a tiny cap over her head. You tugged on one of the old, oversized shirts Clara had given you and pulled the motel’s scratchy blanket over your lap. The exhaustion was hitting you full force now, making every movement feel sluggish and heavy, but at least you were both clean and settled.

Then you saw it.

Or rather—what you didn’t see.

Your stomach clenched as your gaze darted around the dimly lit motel room, scanning every corner, every piece of furniture. No crib. No bassinet. No safe place for her to sleep.

Shit.

How had you forgotten something so important? You’d been so focused on getting here, on getting through the night, that you hadn’t even thought about where she’d actually sleep. The realization made you feel like a failure all over again.

You exhaled, rubbing your temples. Okay, okay. It’s fine. It’s just one night.

Your eyes landed on the bed—a stiff, creaky thing with barely enough room for one person, let alone two. You hesitated before gently placing Sylvia down beside you, adjusting her position carefully, making sure she was safe. But the moment you moved your hands away, her face crumpled, and a sharp, heart-wrenching wail filled the room.

“No, no, no, Sylvie, it’s okay,” you whispered, quickly reaching for her. You tried shifting her to her side, patting her back, even tucking the blanket around her more snugly—but nothing worked. She squirmed, arms flailing, her little mouth open in an ear-piercing cry.

Your own chest tightened. What am I doing wrong?

You turned her every which way, tried shushing her gently, rocking her where she lay, but nothing soothed her. She just cried and cried, her tiny fists curling and uncurling in distress. You could feel frustration creeping up your spine, but more than that, the guilt. You were her mother. You were supposed to know what she needed. But right now? Right now, you felt completely useless.

"You slept just fine by yourself before, what's the issue now Sylvie?"

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you gave up and did the only thing that made sense. You scooped her up and laid her directly on your chest, holding her close, one hand splayed protectively over her back.

And just like that, she stopped.

Her sobs melted into little hiccups, and within seconds, she was nothing but a soft, warm weight against you, her tiny breaths puffing rhythmically against your collarbone.

You let out a long, shaky sigh, your entire body going slack with relief.

“Figures,” you murmured tiredly, running a hand down her back. “You just wanted to be close after a long ride in a carseat, huh?”

Sylvia’s fingers twitched against your shirt in response, and you let out a quiet chuckle.

As your head sank back into the pillow, you finally allowed yourself to close your eyes. The tension in your shoulders remained, the ever-present paranoia never fully leaving your system—but at least for now, in this moment, with your daughter curled against you, the world outside felt just a little bit quieter.

You had disappeared again.

For a fleeting moment, he had seen you. A glimpse of you behind the wheel, crossing the bridge into the city, your hair catching in the wind, your hands gripping the steering wheel with a tension he could feel even through Mephisto’s grainy aerial footage. But then—gone.

Mephisto had lost you amidst the maze of cars, and just like that, you had vanished into thin air once more.

He couldn't understand. He had stalked and found countless amount of people with ease and yet...you had slipped through the cracks.

His patience, already worn thin, was unraveling by the day. It wasn’t for a lack of effort; he was hacking into street cameras like no one’s business, combing through footage for any trace of you. Still, there was zero sight of that run-down car. You had gotten smarter—too smart. You avoided main roads, stayed away from major traffic hubs, dodged places you knew could be under surveillance clearly. It was almost impressive. Almost. But it was also infuriating.

He had ordered his men to track hospital and clinic records, knowing you couldn't avoid medical attention forever. Surely, with how weak you had been toward the end of your pregnancy, you would have needed help by now. A check-up. A prescription. Something. But every report they pulled of a postpartum woman with a newborn wasn’t you. No record of you giving birth, no sudden ER visits, no documented cases of a woman fitting your description. Nothing.

It was as if you had simply ceased to exist.

His fingers curled into a fist against his desk, frustration simmering beneath the surface. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the dim glow of the monitors surrounding him. The city was vast, but not endless. You had to be somewhere. And when he found you, he wouldn’t let you slip away again.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to what he had already missed. The moment she came into the world—his daughter. Had you screamed for him in those final moments, cursing him even as your body broke itself apart to bring their child into existence? He clenched his jaw at the thought, fingers tightening into his palm. That was supposed to have been a moment you shared together.

His chest ached with something ugly. Regret? Longing? He shook it off. It didn’t matter. None of it did. What mattered was fixing it. What mattered was bringing you both back where you belonged.

But Sylus’s drinking was getting worse. Much worse.

He was no stranger to indulging—alcohol had always been a crutch for him, something to take the edge off when things weren’t going his way. But now? Now it was different. It wasn’t about leisure or numbing minor inconveniences. It was about survival. Because without the burn of whiskey down his throat, without that momentary haze dulling the sharp edges of his mind, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep himself together.

The nights were the worst.

During the day, he could distract himself—he could hunt, strategize, pull every resource he had to try and locate you. He could scan through endless surveillance feeds, hack into security systems, command his men to chase down leads. But at night? At night, he had nothing but silence and the agonizing absence of you.

That was when the images came creeping in.

You, alone. You, scared. You, clutching his daughter to your chest, unsure of how you were going to feed her next. Were you cold? Were you sick? Had you found shelter?

The thoughts made his stomach twist so violently he could barely stand it.

Another glass. Another burn. It barely dulled the aching frustration, the relentless feeling of failure clawing at his mind. He had been so close. So fucking close before. And now he was back to square one.

Sylus exhaled slowly, letting the weight of exhaustion settle over him. His other hand gripped the edge of his chair, knuckles whitening. His patience had never been his strongest suit, but this was different. It had been weeks, and still, you eluded him. You had disappeared into the cracks of the world, slipping through his grasp like smoke.

Never in his life had he had felt so inadequate. He had been routinely outsmarted by you again and again.

The room around him was dimly lit, a near-empty bottle of whiskey standing on the table beside him, its contents dangerously low. He had never been one to let himself spiral, but the weight of everything was pressing down on him, suffocating him.

And then came the worst part.

The moments where the alcohol wasn’t strong enough to drown out the memories.

He never allowed himself to think about his own past—there was no point in dwelling on things that couldn’t be changed. But when it came to you…

He kept thinking back.

To the way you used to look at him when you thought he wasn’t watching. The hesitation in your eyes, the wary curiosity that had been there before you had truly started to hate him. The way you had kissed him that night in front of Xavier, the warmth of your lips against his, the way your hands had trembled against his face. It had been a performance, but god, if it hadn’t felt real.

And then—

You had ran. Even after everything. Just when he thought things were finally calming down.

Sylus clenched his jaw, pressing his fingers against his temples. He digged around in his pocket, feeling around for the engagement ring you had pawned off for cash. He didn't pull it out. It hurt to look at it. He had wanted it to make you as happy as it had made him.

You had made it clear as day that it was never the case.

Would things have been different if he had handled things better? If he had spoken to you more softly? If he hadn’t let his temper get the best of him? Would you have stayed? Would you have trusted him?

Would you have loved him?

He let out a bitter laugh under his breath, shaking his head as he leaned forward again, grabbing the whiskey bottle with an iron grip and pouring himself another glass. It didn’t matter. It was too late for that. He had spent months playing the villain in your story, and now he had no choice but to finish the role.

He lifted the glass to his lips and took a slow sip, the liquid scorching its way down his throat. His free hand curled into a fist, nails pressing into his palm, his frustration mounting with every second you remained hidden.

The silent plea in your eyes as you left the twins, the sheer, raw desperation to escape him. Had you hated him so much? Would you really rather starve, suffer, and wander aimlessly with a newborn than return to him?

A cruel smirk twisted his lips as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

No. You didn’t get to decide that. Not anymore. It was for your own good that you and his daughter were found immediately.

He would find you. He would bring you home, and he would hold his daughter in his arms. He would remind you of the life you could have had, the life you would have once he had you back where you belonged. He would spend every waking moment trying to show you the man he could be.

Unfortunately, Sylus couldn’t dedicate every waking second to hunting you down, no matter how much he ached to. The empire of Onychinus still demanded his attention—there were deals to be made, threats to be eliminated, and an endless cycle of business that could never be neglected. Even now, as his men carried out high-stakes negotiations over illegal protocores and weapons, his mind drifted to you. To her. His daughter.

Every moment he wasn’t personally combing the streets of Windsor City, he was ensuring that every single resource at his disposal was being used to track you down. And once his duties were handled, once he was done dealing death and destruction to those who dared to oppose him, he would immediately return to the city where he knew—knew—you still were.

Sylus had spared no expense in setting up a base of operations. He had rented a mansion in Windsor City—something temporary, but lavish, an estate that kept him within reach of the search while affording him every comfort he was accustomed to. The finest liquor was stocked in the cabinets, rare cuts of meat were delivered on a schedule, and the place had enough security to make even the most ambitious assassin rethink their life choices. But none of it mattered. None of it brought him any peace.

He barely even lived there—what was the point of a mansion when the one thing he wanted most was still missing? When he walked its halls at night, every footstep echoed in the empty spaces where he should have heard you.

And still, he knew you hadn’t left Windsor. He could feel it in his bones, in the way his gut twisted whenever he drove through the city, the unshakable sense that you were near. Hiding. Running. Surviving. But still his.

It was this certainty that kept him going. Kept him from completely losing himself.

On one particularly restless evening, he found himself in his study, nursing a glass of Gin Fizz that barely did anything to dull the frustration clawing at his insides.

He had gotten a bit sick of whiskey for the moment.

Mephisto perched on the desk beside him, metal talons clicking lightly against the polished wood. The mansion was quiet save for the faint hum of music playing from the antique record player in the corner, some classical composition that normally would have soothed his nerves. But nothing soothed him anymore.

His eyes drifted to the calendar on his desk.

He hadn’t been keeping track of the days—not in the way he normally would—but something about tonight made him glance at the numbers. A small red mark stood out against the otherwise pristine white square of tomorrow’s date.

Six weeks.

His daughter would be turning six weeks old in the morning.

His breath hitched slightly, and before he realized what he was doing, he had pulled out his phone. His fingers moved on their own, searching.

Six-week-old baby milestones.

The results flooded his screen in an instant. He scrolled through the articles and parenting forums, reading each detail with obsessive focus. At six weeks, she should be making more eye contact. She’d be smiling now—a real smile, not just an instinctual reflex. Her tiny hands would be more coordinated, reaching for things, grasping at whatever was within her reach. She might even be opening her eyes more, making those early attempts at taking in her surroundings.

His chest tightened painfully.

Had you seen her first real smile? Had she reached for you? Did she coo when you spoke to her, when you held her?

Had you...named her?

A sharp pang twisted deep in his stomach. He had already lost so much. He had missed everything.

He clenched his jaw, gripping the glass in his hand until his knuckles turned white.

Where was she sleeping tonight? Was she warm enough? Were you still able to feed her properly? Did she even have a proper crib, or were you forced to make do with whatever the hell you could find?

The thought of his daughter—his perfect daughter—lying in some rundown motel, bundled in whatever cheap blankets you could scavenge, made his blood boil.

This was not the life he had envisioned for her.

This was not the life he had planned.

Sylus took a slow, shuddering breath and forced himself to set the glass down before he shattered it. His hands were trembling. He pressed his fingers to his temples, willing himself to think, to strategize.

He couldn’t let another week pass like this. Another day.

No more waiting.

No more patience.

He would find you.

And when he did—when he finally had you back in his arms—all would be right in the world again.

Sylus blinked as the realization settled over him like a slow-building storm. A motel. It should have been obvious. The answer had been in front of him this entire time, yet he had spent weeks chasing ghosts, circling dead-end theories, his frustration mounting with each passing day. His first assumption had been that you had wormed your way into someone’s home, that you had managed to find another bleeding-heart fool like Clara—someone naive enough to shelter you, to let you hide behind their kindness, thinking they were protecting you from a monster they didn’t understand. He had scoured the city's quieter residential districts, had his men track down every shelter, charity, and underground safehouse, tearing through the city’s underbelly in search of a trace of you. But there was nothing. No one had seen you. No one had taken you in.

For a brief, maddening moment, he had considered the possibility that you had run out of money entirely, that you were sleeping on the streets, desperate and destitute, scraping by on scraps like some pathetic runaway. That thought had nearly driven him to put a bullet in someone’s head. The very idea of you—his woman, the mother of his child—reduced to such a state made his stomach twist with rage. But now, as the pieces finally clicked into place, he realized why you had managed to keep yourself hidden for this long. A motel. Of course. It was the perfect hideout—cheap, discreet, and, most importantly, temporary. Places like that didn’t care about names, didn’t ask questions, didn’t leave behind a paper trail. As long as you had cash, you were just another anonymous traveler passing through. No records. No real trace.

He exhaled sharply, fingers pressing against his temple as his mind recalibrated, the weight of his own oversight gnawing at him. He should have expected this. You weren’t making the same mistakes you had before. You weren’t seeking comfort, safety, or permanence. You were stalling, running on borrowed time, waiting for something—but what? An opening? A chance to disappear entirely? His smirk curled at the edges, though there was no amusement behind it. Clever girl. But he wasn’t entertained. Not anymore.

His gaze flicked toward the clock on the wall, the red digits glaring back at him: 2:46 AM. Another night spent glued to surveillance feeds, combing through street cameras, hacking into data streams, watching for even the smallest flicker of your presence in the city. He had ripped Windsor apart in his search, but it had all led him in circles, like a goddamn hound chasing after scraps. His patience, already hanging by a thread, was beginning to fray beyond repair. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding with the effort to keep his temper in check. You were his. His woman. His kitten. The mother of his child. And yet here you were, hiding from him, forcing yourself to suffer in ways that were beneath you.

The thought of you huddled in some filthy, bedbug-infested shithole made his stomach churn with something dangerously close to guilt. This wasn’t survival. This was suffering. And Sylus refused—absolutely fucking refused—to allow you to waste away in some goddamn motel room, forcing yourself to live in conditions that were so far beneath what he could provide for you. He reached for the bottle beside him, not even bothering with a glass as he took a deep swig, letting the burn sear down his throat. But the fire did nothing to extinguish the inferno raging inside of him. You were better than this. You deserved better than this. And you knew it, too. That’s what infuriated him the most. You already knew. Deep down, you knew that you needed to come home.

His fingers tightened around the bottle, the glass creaking under the pressure of his grip as his eyes flickered toward the ceiling. He wasn’t even angry at you. No, fuck that. He was angry at himself. For not seeing it sooner. For letting you slip past his grasp. For allowing you to believe, even for a second, that there was anywhere in this world you could go where he wouldn’t follow.

But tomorrow, things would change.

His men would tear apart every extended-stay motel, every dingy roadside inn, every nameless building that took cash over questions. They would turn this city upside down if they had to. Burn to the ground if it meant you had nowhere else to hide. And when he found you—oh, when he found you—you would finally understand. Understand that running was pointless. Understand that no matter how far you went, no matter how well you hid, you would never be beyond his reach.

Because you two were meant to be. There was not a second that passed where he didn't feel like his soul was hurting being away from you.

And nothing in this world—not time, not distance, not fate itself—would ever fucking change that.

You weren't okay.

The days blurred together, melting into an endless cycle of exhaustion, uncertainty, and the quiet kind of desperation that settled deep in your bones. The first few days in Windsor City had felt like a small victory—finding shelter, getting supplies, keeping yourself and Sylvia fed. But that small sense of triumph had quickly faded, swallowed by the unrelenting, suffocating weight of reality.

Taking care of a newborn was supposed to be hard, you knew that. The sleepless nights, the round-the-clock feedings, the crying—it was all part of it. But this? This was something else entirely. There was no help this time. No Clara was coming every week. No safety net. No one to share the weight of it all. Just you, your daughter, and the constant fear of being found.

It wasn’t just the physical toll, though that was brutal in itself. Your body had barely recovered from childbirth, aching in ways you couldn’t even begin to describe. Every step sent a dull throb up your spine, your stomach still felt sore and hollow, and the bleeding hadn’t completely stopped. Some nights, after rocking Sylvia for what felt like hours, your legs would give out, sending you crumbling onto the stiff motel mattress, too weak to do anything but sob silently into the pillow.

But worse than the pain was the isolation. The crushing, unshakable loneliness.

You weren’t stupid—you knew something was wrong. There were moments when you would just stare at Sylvia, her tiny body curled against your chest, and feel…nothing. No overwhelming warmth. No sudden wave of love. Just exhaustion. Just numbness. You would hold her close, stroke the wisps of soft hair on her head, whisper promises of protection into her soft skin, and yet a voice in the back of your mind kept whispering, You’re not enough. She deserves better.

The intrusive thoughts crept in slowly, poisoning the already fragile remnants of your sanity. You can’t do this alone. She’d be better off without you. You’re going to fail her just like you’ve failed everything else.

Some nights were worse than others. There were times when Sylvia’s cries rattled something so deep inside you that it felt like your entire body was unraveling. You would pace the motel room in the dead of night, bouncing her in your arms, whispering, please stop, please stop, over and over again until your throat was raw. But she wouldn’t stop. And sometimes, when the exhaustion became too much, you would press the heel of your hand against your temple and just...wish everything would go quiet.

And then the guilt would set in.

It was a vicious, never-ending cycle.

The city outside was loud, alive, pulsing with a world you were no longer a part of. You had spent weeks avoiding eye contact with strangers, ducking into alleys when you saw police officers patrolling too close, keeping Sylvia hidden in the crook of your arm whenever you had to step outside. You barely spoke to anyone. The only real sound in your life was Sylvia’s cries—and even those were starting to sound distant, like they were coming from someone else’s child.

You had thought about leaving. About running again. But where? How much longer could you keep doing this?

And then, the worst thought of all—the one you kept shoving down, burying beneath layers of denial and shame.

Would Sylvia be safer without you?

You had started looking. Not actively, not with real intention, but the thought had taken root. When you walked past playgrounds, when you saw exhausted but stable mothers pushing their babies in strollers, when you saw couples cooing over their newborns, you would wonder—Could she belong to someone else? Someone better? Someone stronger?

You hated yourself for even considering it.

But every day, the idea grew just a little louder.

You were so, so tired.

And a part of you wondered if love was enough.

No one was coming to save you. There was no cavalry, no last-minute rescue, no miracle waiting just around the corner.

No Xavier. No Clara. No Tara. No Captain Jenna. These people were ghosts of your past now.

The harsh reality of it had settled into your bones over the past few weeks, rooting itself so deep that even the idea of hope felt foreign now. You had exhausted every possibility, every desperate fantasy of someone—anyone—helping you escape this nightmare, and yet each passing day only reinforced the truth: you were utterly alone. You had no family left to run to, no friends who wouldn’t immediately be dragged into the mess Sylus had created around you. No safety net. No second chances.

You could barely remember your parents. Grandma had died long ago. Caleb...well. He had gone out in a flame of fire and smoke. Right in front of you. Not that it would matter if either one of them was still alive. They'd also be ghosts of your pasts.

The only one who would come for you was Sylus, and no amount of running could change that. It was a reality you had tried to push down, to smother beneath the weight of exhaustion and survival, but it lingered in the back of your mind like a shadow, poisoning every fleeting thought of relief. It didn’t matter how careful you were. He would find you. He had the resources, the intelligence, the sheer obsessive determination to track you no matter how many cities you passed through, no matter how many times you changed motels or used fake names. And you weren’t stupid enough to believe otherwise.

You had done everything right this time—ditched all forms of technology, paid in cash, avoided cameras and main roads, stayed out of sight. But deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time. Sylus was relentless. If there was one thing you understood about him, it was that he didn’t know how to let go. You could only assume he had gone his entire life getting what he wanted through sheer force if necessary. It came with his job after all.

For the first week, you had clung to the fantasy of returning to Linkon, of somehow reclaiming your old life. The thought had been the only thing keeping you from spiraling completely, the distant possibility of waking up in your old room, of hearing the familiar sounds of Linkon City, of slipping back into the life that had been ripped away from you. But even that fantasy had begun to lose its grip on you. The truth was, it wasn’t real anymore. It never would be. Even if you could step foot in Linkon again, it wouldn’t be the same.

Your old apartment? Gone. Your job? Gone. The few acquaintances you had? They had probably moved on. And you? You weren’t even the same person anymore. That girl,—the one who had walked those streets without fear, who had gone to work and met friends for drinks, who had lived without constantly looking over her shoulder—was dead. She had died the moment Sylus got you pregnant. The moment you realized you weren’t going to be free again. Not truly.

The moment your body had become a vessel for something you hadn’t been ready for.

And yet, despite it all, despite the unbearable weight of that realization pressing down on you, you kept moving. You had to. There was no time to process it, no time to grieve the person you used to be. Sylvia needed you. She needed you to keep going, to keep running, to keep pretending like there was still a way out of this. But it was getting harder. The exhaustion ran so deep now that your body felt foreign, as if you were operating on autopilot, going through the motions without truly existing.

Every sleepless night chipped away at you. Every moment spent rocking her back and forth, desperately trying to soothe her cries while the world outside loomed like a threat, drained something vital from you. There was no one to pass her off to, no one to give you even an hour of reprieve. You hadn’t showered in days. You barely remembered to eat. Your body ached in ways you hadn’t known were possible, your postpartum wounds still healing far too slowly given how much strain you had put on them. But the worst part wasn’t the pain or the exhaustion. It was the creeping emptiness.

You had done everything right. You had carried her, birthed her, kept her safe, fed her, rocked her, cooed at her. You had done everything the books had said you should do. But now, every time you looked at her, there was something missing. You felt like a stranger holding someone else’s baby, like you were caring for something that wasn’t truly yours. It was terrifying, this quiet detachment, this void where love and warmth were supposed to be. You knew you cared for her. You knew you loved her in some way. But it wasn’t the overwhelming, all-consuming connection that the books had promised. It wasn’t the instant flood of emotion that the mothers in those online forums had described. Instead, there was just a dull ache in your chest, an absence of something you couldn’t name. And the guilt of it was suffocating.

You wanted to love her. You wanted to feel something other than this relentless exhaustion and fear. But how could you? How could you bond with her when all you saw when you looked at her was him? When every little feature, every tiny expression, was a reflection of the man you had spent months trying to escape? It was a cruel twist of fate that your daughter—your innocent, undeserving daughter—looked so much like the man who had trapped you in this hell. Her eyes, though still cloudy and unfocused, carried the same crimson shade that haunted your nightmares.

Her tiny hands, always reaching, always grasping, reminded you of his—of the way they had held you down, the way they had claimed you. And the worst part? The realization that followed, creeping into your mind like a venomous whisper: She would never stop looking like him. No matter how much time passed, no matter how much she grew, she would always be half his.

That thought alone was enough to break you.

And so, you did what you had been doing for weeks now. You shoved it down. You silenced the thoughts. You forced yourself to keep going, because what other choice did you have? But the cracks were beginning to show. The exhaustion, the emptiness, the suffocating weight of it all—it was pressing in on you from all sides, threatening to swallow you whole. You weren’t sure how much longer you could keep this up.

What had happened? Where had that determination gone? Just weeks ago, you had convinced yourself that you could do this—that you could survive, that you could be a good mother, that you could keep running and keep Sylvia safe. You had even felt like you were bonding with her, like despite the circumstances, you were beginning to understand what it meant to be her mother. You hadn’t blamed her for any of this. You had sworn you wouldn’t. It wasn’t her fault that she was here.

She had never asked to be born into this nightmare. But now, with each passing sleepless night, with every piercing cry that shredded through your already fragile sanity, that quiet, shameful resentment was growing. You hated yourself for it. Hated that you could even think such things. But the exhaustion was swallowing you whole, and no matter how hard you tried to push it down, to force yourself to feel nothing but love and devotion for her, the truth sat heavy in your gut.

If it weren’t for her, you could’ve fled this city by now. You could be anywhere—miles away, in another state, another country, disappearing into the world as nothing more than another nameless traveler. If it was just you, you could be on a train or a bus, forging documents, blending in, vanishing. But you couldn’t. Not with her. A newborn couldn’t handle constant travel, the lack of stability, the absence of proper care. You knew that. No matter how much you longed for freedom, you couldn’t rip her away from what little security you had managed to piece together. You couldn’t put her at risk. She needed stability. Consistency.

She needed a real life.

But could you give that to her?

That was the thought that lingered now, creeping in at the edges of your mind like an infection, rotting through the last of your resolve. Maybe it had just been adrenaline keeping you in high spirits before. Maybe it had been the initial relief of escaping, the rush of defying Sylus and proving, even for a little while, that he couldn’t control you. But now? Now you were just tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushingly tired. And as you sat there, staring down at your once-again weeping six-week-old daughter, that exhaustion twisted into something ugly. You let out a slow, heavy sigh, one that felt like it had been building inside of you for days.

"Please," you murmured, barely recognizing your own voice—so hoarse, so drained. "Just stop crying for one night. Just one."

But, of course, she didn’t stop. She just wailed louder, her tiny face scrunching up in distress, her little fists trembling as she kicked against the blanket you had swaddled her in. The sight of her should have filled you with warmth, with affection, with that deep, unconditional love that mothers were supposed to feel. Instead, all you felt was guilt. A crushing, unbearable guilt that weighed down on your chest like a boulder. What kind of mother felt this way? What kind of mother sat there, staring at her child, wishing she could just disappear?

A bad mother. A selfish mother.

The kind of mother who didn’t deserve to have a child at all.

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You were too tired to cry. Too tired to feel anything but this aching, relentless numbness. Maybe this was postpartum depression. Maybe this was just what it meant to break. But whatever it was, it was eating you alive, and you didn’t know how much longer you could endure it.

Instead of crying, instead of breaking down, instead of giving in to the despair clawing at the edges of your mind, you did what you always did. You moved on autopilot, numbly going through the motions, pushing down the exhaustion, the frustration, the resentment, the guilt. Without a word, without even a sigh this time, you leaned over and begrudgingly lifted Sylvia from her crib. She fussed immediately, already rooting against your shoulder, little hands balled into desperate fists. You ignored the familiar sting of irritation that came with it. She always wanted to be close. Always wanted to feel you, to smell you, to know that you were near.

Just like her damn father.

She didn’t care that you were drowning.

She just needed you.

You exhaled through your nose, forcing your muscles to unclench as you laid her down beside you in the bed. The crib had been a necessary purchase—one you had hoped would give you some space, some distance, some semblance of control over your own body again. But, of course, Sylvia hadn’t approved. She had screamed every time you put her down in it, as if separation from you was the worst kind of torture. And right now? Right now you didn’t have it in you to fight her.

Whatever. If sleeping next to her meant she’d actually sleep—and by extension, that you could finally get some rest—then so be it.

Without much thought, you adjusted your shirt, exposing your breast and guiding her to latch. She did so immediately, her frantic crying settling into soft, eager sucking, the tension in her tiny body easing now that she had exactly what she wanted. You could feel the tug, the slight ache of letdown, but at this point, the sensation was so routine it barely registered. You laid your head back against the pillow, staring blankly at the wall. The dim glow of the motel’s neon sign seeped in through the curtains, painting the room in an eerie, flickering light.

The exhaustion weighed heavier and heavier on your limbs, pulling you down, dragging you under. Sylvia’s rhythmic sucking became background noise, lulling you further into that dark, dreamless abyss you had been craving for hours. Finally, finally, you let go.

Sleep claimed you.

But instead of the comforting emptiness of nothingness, you found yourself somewhere else entirely.

You weren’t in the motel anymore.

The cramped room, the peeling wallpaper, the rickety furniture—all of it was gone.

You were in his bedroom.

The massive bed, the silk sheets, the rich and dark furniture, the faint scent of whiskey and cologne that clung to everything—it was unmistakable.

Your blood turned to ice.

No. No.

This wasn’t real.

This couldn’t be real.

Your heart pounded in your chest as panic seized your limbs. You turned sharply, expecting to see him beside you, expecting his arms to be caging you in, but the bed was empty. You were alone. But that didn’t make you feel any safer. If anything, it made it worse. Because if you were here, then that meant he was close.

Your breath came out in short, frantic gasps as you scrambled to sit up, clutching the silk sheets like they were a lifeline. Wake up. Wake up. This is just a dream. But it felt real. The weight of the sheets against your skin, the softness of the mattress beneath you, the cool air against your arms—it all felt too vivid, too tangible.

And then—

The sound of a door creaking open.

A shadow moving in the doorway.

And a voice, deep, familiar, and dripping with warmth that made your stomach churn.

"Kitten?"

There he was, in all his glory. Imposing, tall and staring at you with those deep red eyes of his as he got closer. You didn't answer him, just looked at him with pure disgust.

Sylus chuckled, but there was no mockery in it—just something soft, something almost…fond. "I suppose even in my dreams, you want to get away from me," he murmured, smoothing out the sheets beneath him with absent fingertips. "I can’t say I blame you, kitten. But it does sting a little."

You pressed yourself against the headboard as if the space between you could somehow make this less real. Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of the situation. His presence felt too tangible—too warm, too steady. You could smell the faintest trace of his cologne, the familiar mix of cedar and spice, could see the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

"This…this is my dream though?" you whispered, eyeing him like he might vanish if you blinked.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, as if he was just as perplexed as you were. "Well, this is news to me," he said, exhaling a quiet chuckle. "I was just resting, and then… I ended up here." He glanced toward the door, frowning in thought before turning his gaze back to you. "If this were only your dream, would I really be able to remember how I got here?"

You swallowed hard. The room felt too still, too real. The weight of the blankets, the way the dim lighting flickered ever so slightly—it wasn’t the warped logic of a dream.

"No," you muttered, shaking your head. "No, that’s not possible. You can’t actually be here. You’re not real."

Sylus sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw before his gaze softened. "Kitten…do you really think I’d say something like that if I weren’t experiencing this, too?" He reached forward, as if to prove something, his fingers ghosting toward your wrist—but he stopped himself, letting his hand rest on the space between you instead. "You feel it, don’t you? How real this is?"

Your breath was coming faster now, your mind desperately trying to refute what your body already knew. Theres no way.

"You're lying. This is just a dream after all. I can make you poof," you declared, squeezing your eyes shut, desperation clawing at your throat. If this was your mind's cruel trick, you could take control of it. You had to take control of it. Your breathing hitched as you concentrated, willing the image of him—him—to vanish, to dissolve into nothing but the formless mist of your subconscious. You envisioned him disappearing in a swirl of crimson vapor, fading from existence the way he always should have. This isn’t real. He isn’t real. If you could just wake yourself up, none of this would matter. You could push him away, just like you had in reality.

But then—

A chuckle.

Deep. Familiar. Amused.

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

Your eyes snapped open, dread creeping up your spine as your gaze landed on him once again. He was still there, still seated just across from you on the edge of the bed, watching you with that same exasperating patience, like he had expected you to try something so childish. His was soft, but his lips curved ever so slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.

"Shit," you exhaled, your throat suddenly dry. Panic curled its cold fingers around your ribs, making it harder to breathe. You licked your lips, trying to steady yourself, but it was no use. "Are we…actually sharing a dream?" Your voice wavered, as if saying it out loud made it even more real, even more impossible to ignore.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes studying you with unnerving intensity. "It's not impossible," he murmured, his tone thoughtful, almost curious. His gaze flicked around the room, taking in the familiar surroundings as if he were assessing them for the first time.

"If I had to guess, probably something to do with our Aethor Cores." His fingers absently traced over the sheets, his movements slow, calculated. You felt breathless as he met your gaze again, his eyes slowly lowering to your lips. The small shift in his demeanor made your stomach churn. He wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t taunting you. He was just there, existing in the same space as you, like this was something natural. Like it wasn’t utterly terrifying.

No. No. You refused to accept this. This wasn’t happening. This was just another trick, another cruel fabrication of your subconscious, it had to be. Your breath quickened as your mind scrambled for a way out. "No…no. This can't be happening," you muttered, pressing your fingers to your temples. A feverish kind of dread settled in your bones, creeping into every inch of your being like a toxin. Your body screamed at you to move, to run, to wake up.

"I need to wake up," you whispered, voice trembling, your limbs sluggish and heavy with panic. You scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over your own feet in your desperation to reach the door. If you could just get out—if you could just move—maybe this whole twisted nightmare would shatter around you.

But Sylus was faster.

Before you could reach the handle, a warm, firm grip closed around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. Not forceful. Not rough. Just…steady. Unyielding in its purpose. His touch sent a jolt through you, your breath hitching as you froze, your body locking up in alarm.

"Wait…stop, please," he said softly, his voice carrying none of the usual arrogance, none of the smugness you had come to expect from him. It lacked the biting edge, the sharp confidence. Instead, there was something else. Something quieter. Something almost… pleading.

Your stomach twisted violently.

"Let go of me, you—you freak!" you spat, trying to wrench your arm free, but his grip held firm. Not crushing. Not painful. Just anchoring. Keeping you rooted in place as if he was afraid you would vanish the moment he let go. The warmth of his touch seeped into your skin, grounding you in a way that made you feel too much. It was too real. Too solid. Your chest heaved, your pulse racing wildly against your ribs, torn between instinctual fear and something else, something just as dangerous.

Sylus’s gaze was slightly tense, his fingers loosening slightly but not letting go. He exhaled slowly, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. Something that made your heart clench.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he murmured, and it was the way he said it—gentle, earnest—that rattled you the most. "I just…" He hesitated, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your wrist, his jaw tightening before he finally admitted, "If this is real…if this is actually happening…then this is the first time I’ve seen you in weeks."

The air in your lungs stilled.

The weight of his words crashed into you, drowning out the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat. You had expected mockery. Possessiveness. Some kind of smug declaration that you would never escape him. But this? This was something different.

This was longing.

Your breath caught in your throat, an unwelcome lump forming there. You wanted to shove him away, to break free from his grasp and put as much distance between the two of you as possible. But there was a small, terrible part of you—one you refused to acknowledge—that wanted to stay. Just for a moment. Just to pretend, even if it was only in a dream, that things weren’t so irreparably broken.

But pretending was dangerous.

So you did what you always did when confronted with him. You steeled yourself, lifted your chin, and glared at him with all the venom you could muster.

"So what?" you hissed, forcing steel into your voice. "You think this means something?"

Sylus just looked at you, his expression unreadable. "I don’t know," he admitted, voice quiet. "But I do know I don’t want you to run. I've missed you."

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms. You did want to run. More than anything. You wanted to wake up, wanted to pull yourself out of this suffocating moment before it swallowed you whole.

So you swallowed hard, straightened your spine, and forced the words past your lips.

"Then wake up," you spat. "Because I sure as hell don’t want to be here with you."

For a moment, he just stared at you, his eyes searching yours, filled with something deep, something you couldn’t name.

Sylus’s voice was deceptively soft, his tone laced with that maddening warmth that made your skin crawl. “Tell me where you and the baby are, honey.”

Your entire body tensed at the familiar pet name, the endearment rolling off his tongue like honey-coated steel. It made your stomach twist violently, resentment coiling in your chest. He didn’t get to call you that. Not anymore. Not after everything.

You winced, glaring at him. “No. Fuck off. Me and her are doing just fine without you.” You struggled in his grasp, trying to wrench your wrist free, but he didn’t budge—not even an inch. His grip was firm, steady, but not painful. It was possessive in a way that made your breath quicken, but not out of fear—out of something far more infuriating.

Your heart stuttered in your chest. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupted smoothly, his thumb brushing against the inside of your arm in slow, absentminded circles. “I’m not mad at you, kitten. I’m worried.” His eyes softened, and that terrified you more than anything. “Please. I just want you to realize that I’m here. You can run to me anytime. Rely on me. I wasn’t lying when I said I would change.” His free hand came up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “You’re mine. You can’t run forever. And it’s not good for you or her.”

Your stomach dropped.

Not good for Sylvia.

That one sentence lodged itself into your ribs, slicing through your defenses like a blade.

Your exhaustion clawed at you. The sleepless nights, the endless crying, the way you felt like you were barely keeping your head above water—it all came crashing down on you in an instant. And worst of all? He wasn’t wrong. You were at your breaking point. You were exhausted. And running with a newborn was slowly chipping away at you, piece by piece, day by day.

But he didn’t get to say that. He didn’t get to act like he cared. He was the reason for all of this in the first place!

“Shut up!” you snapped, your voice raw and desperate, squeezing your eyes shut as if that alone could block him out.

And then—the room changed.

A flicker. A shift. A violent flash of something new.

Your stomach lurched as the plush surroundings of Sylus’s bedroom distorted, reality flickering between here and somewhere else.

Your motel room.

Your fucking motel room.

“No!”

Your eyes widened in horror as the room twisted again, revealing glimpses of the small kitchenette, the peeling wallpaper, the crib in the corner. He was seeing it. He was seeing everything.

Sylus’s eyes flicked upward, locking onto the vision like a predator catching scent of prey.

You had to go. You had to wake up before he could commit any of it to memory.

You wrenched yourself back, mustering every last ounce of strength you had, your body burning with the effort as you finally tore yourself free from his grasp. The sudden force sent you stumbling backward, tumbling to the floor with a sharp gasp.

The dream shook.

Like the world itself was coming undone, spiraling into chaos.

Sylus stepped forward instinctively, reaching out again—but you didn’t wait. You couldn’t wait.

You bolted.

You scrambled to your feet, racing for the door, your heart hammering against your ribs as the dream warped and twisted around you. The walls cracked, the bed dissolved into nothingness, the air thick with an unseen force pulling you in all directions.

You lunged for the handle, your fingers barely wrapping around it before his voice cut through the chaos behind you—low, steady, unwavering.

“I love you.”

Your breath hitched.

The door wrenched open.

“I will find you.”

And then—

Darkness.

Nothingness.

You gasped awake, your body jerking violently as you bolted upright in bed, sweat clinging to your skin, your heart slamming against your ribs like it was trying to break free.

The motel room was still there. The peeling wallpaper. The crib in the corner. The distant hum of the city outside.

Real. It was all still real.

You turned sharply, your breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as you scanned the room for him—but there was no one. Just you. Just Sylvia, stirring slightly next to you, not fully awake.

Just a dream.

But your hands trembled.

What the actual fuck was that?

Sylvia’s cries cut through the silence of the dimly lit motel room, sharp and relentless, digging into your already raw nerves like tiny, clawing fingers. You clenched your jaw, inhaling deeply, trying—really trying—to muster the energy to deal with her needs. You had barely moved, just shifted an inch, and yet to her, it was as if you had vanished off the face of the earth.

"Shit..." you whispered, pressing your fingers to your temple, trying to keep your frustration at bay. But it was getting harder. Harder and harder with every night, every hour, every minute of this constant cycle. You had just woken up from that dream, your body still rattled with adrenaline, your skin slick with sweat. You hadn’t even had the chance to process what had just happened, to fully comprehend that Sylus was closer than ever before—and now, now you had to shove that panic down and deal with this. Again.

Sylvia’s whimpers turned into full-blown sobs, her little face scrunching up as if the world itself was betraying her. You sighed heavily, forcing yourself up from the bed, your muscles aching, your head pounding. Fine. Fine. Just get this over with.

You moved with the motions of someone who had long stopped feeling. Your hands automatically unlatched her onesie, pulling off the tiny, soiled diaper, tossing it onto the growing pile of them in the corner. I need to take out the trash, you thought idly, the realization empty and meaningless. Sylvia wailed through the entire process, her tiny fists flailing, her body squirming as if you were torturing her rather than helping her.

“Sylvia, please,” you muttered through clenched teeth, grabbing a fresh diaper and hastily fastening it around her. Your hands were shaking—not from fear, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of it all pressing against you, bearing down on you with no relief in sight. She just wouldn’t stop crying.

You scooped her up again, her little body warm against yours, and just like that—her tears stopped. She nestled against you, her red eyes staring up at you in quiet contentment, a tiny smile curling onto her lips.

That smile should have done something to you. It should have filled you with warmth, should have stirred something deep within you, should have made the agony of all of this worth it.

But it didn’t.

You just stood there, looking down at her, blank and hollow. The weight of her in your arms, the warmth of her body, the fact that you were the only thing in this world that could soothe her—it all just felt like chains. A tether binding you to something you weren’t sure you could handle anymore.

You forced yourself to lay her back down, hoping—praying—she would just go back to sleep. But the moment she left your arms, the moment she no longer felt your warmth, the moment she realized she wasn’t attached to you—she screamed.

Not just cried.

Screamed.

It was as if you had ripped her from the only thing keeping her alive. As if you had abandoned her entirely.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hands to your temples as frustration boiled over into something darker. “Sylvia. Please. Just. Stop.” Your voice was sharper than you intended, your tone clipped and laced with an exhaustion so deep it scraped against your bones.

But she didn’t stop.

She never stopped.

Your chest tightened, your breathing uneven as you tried—tried—to push down the growing resentment crawling up your throat. Why won’t she just stop? Why won’t she just sleep? Why does she need me all the time? Why do I have to be the only one doing this?

Your vision blurred, the weight of everything crushing you from the inside out.

And for the first time since she was born…

You wanted to run.

Not just from Sylus.

Not just from this motel.

From her.

You elected to just ignore her. You couldn't take it anymore. You picked her up, rougher than you intended, and placed her down in the crib with little care for the way she flailed and twisted, screaming in protest. You had nothing left in you, no patience, no warmth, nothing to offer her. You weren’t even sure if you wanted to comfort her anymore.

Your hands worked mechanically as you grabbed her pacifier and pushed it between her tiny lips, pressing it against her mouth with the hope that maybe—just maybe—this time she would take it, that she would finally let you breathe for five fucking minutes. But of course, she didn’t.

She spat it out almost instantly, her face twisting up as she let out another wail, her cries louder, angrier, demanding. She knew what she wanted, and it wasn’t some useless piece of rubber. She wanted you. She always wanted you. Every second of every minute of every goddamn hour. You, you, you. No one else. Nothing else. And she wouldn’t stop until she got it.

But you didn’t care. You couldn’t.

“Okay, fine. Have it your way. Going to sleep,” you muttered, voice hollow, drained of emotion, of anything that made you feel human.

And then you turned your back on her.

She screamed. Of course, she screamed. You felt her cries drill into your skull as you climbed onto the bed, your body collapsing onto the mattress as if you’d been carrying a thousand pounds of dead weight. You grabbed the nearest pillow and shoved it over your head, pressing it down so hard against your ears that the edges of your vision began to blur. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Maybe if you ignored her long enough, she’d finally tire herself out. She had to. Even she had limits, right? She had to give up eventually.

But she didn’t.

Her cries kept coming, sharp and insistent, her tiny lungs never seeming to run out of air. Minutes passed—five, ten, maybe twenty—you couldn’t even tell anymore. Your grip on reality was slipping, the exhaustion turning everything into a haze, like you were trapped in some endless cycle of sleep deprivation and screaming and frustration and resentment. God, the resentment. You clenched your jaw so hard it hurt, your fingers digging into the mattress, nails pressing against the fabric so harshly they ached. You had to stay put. Had to resist. If you gave in now, you’d just be teaching her that screaming would get her whatever she wanted. You had to hold out.

Then, it happened.

The static in your brain thickened. Your limbs felt heavy, your entire body sinking into the mattress, but at the same time, something pushed against you, something unnatural, something wrong. You felt yourself slipping, felt something creeping into your mind, curling around your thoughts, suffocating them. And before you could stop it, before you could fight—your body started moving.

No, no, no. Not again.

A sickening warmth spread through your chest, a soft pull dragging you upright, making your fingers twitch, making your arms ache for something—for her. Your mind filled with blurry images, flickering like a broken film reel. You, holding Sylvia. You, rocking her. You, soothing her. You, whispering reassurances, pressing kisses against her forehead, letting her curl into your warmth. Your hands moved without your command, your muscles tightening, preparing to reach for her—to pick her up—to do exactly what she wanted.

No. No, I’m not doing this. I refuse.

You gritted your teeth, fighting against the force pulling you forward, your body trembling as you pushed against it with everything you had. But the more you resisted, the stronger it got. The harder it pushed. It wasn’t fair.

You didn’t ask for this.

You didn’t ask for a baby.

Didn’t ask to be ripped away from everything you had known.

Didn’t ask to be hunted down like an animal.

Didn’t ask for this—this thing, this unnatural pull, this invisible force that made you crave to hold her even when all you wanted to do was scream.

And you couldn’t take it anymore.

You ripped yourself from the bed, stomped over to the crib, and without thinking, without stopping, without giving yourself a second to hesitate—

"SHUT UP!"

The words exploded from your mouth before you could stop them, the rage, the exhaustion, the sheer helplessness pouring out of you in one sharp, vicious outburst.

And then—

Silence.

For the first time in weeks, Sylvia stopped crying.

Wide, unblinking red eyes stared up at you, her tiny face frozen in an expression you couldn’t quite place. Surprise? Confusion? Fear? Your breath came in heavy pants, your whole body trembling as you loomed over her crib, hands clenched into tight, shaking fists.

And then, the worst part.

Her little bottom lip wobbled.

And her face crumbled.

The wail that came next was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t needy. It wasn’t demanding.

It was heartbroken.

A sharp, broken cry that cut through you like a blade, raw and devastated, like she wasn’t just upset—she was hurt.

She was afraid.

And just like that, the anger drained out of you, leaving behind something much, much worse.

Guilt.

You stepped back, hands flying up to your mouth in horror, your breath stuttering as you looked down at her tiny, trembling body, her fists clenching and unclenching as if searching for comfort. Searching for you.

What had you just done?

What the fuck had you just done?

You spiraled instantly. The realization of what you had done hit you like a freight train, the weight of it crushing down on you so suddenly, so violently, that your knees nearly buckled beneath you. Oh my god, what did I do? The thought was suffocating, an unbearable pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. The moment the first whimper left Sylvia’s mouth, small and pitiful, her face scrunched up in pure devastation, the dam inside you broke completely.

Tears flooded your vision, hot and unrelenting as you instantly reached down, scooping her up with shaking hands. She stiffened at first, her tiny body rigid in your arms, her whimpers turning into sniffles, her breath hitching in that awful, hiccuping way newborns did after crying too hard. It only made you sob harder.

No, no, no, no, no…

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—Mommy didn't mean it, Sylvia, please," you choked out, your voice hoarse and desperate as you pressed her against your chest, rocking her as if movement alone could erase what had just happened. As if the warmth of your body could somehow undo the damage. But the damage was done. You had screamed at her. Yelled at her like she was some disobedient child, not an innocent, helpless baby who had done nothing but exist. She was six weeks old. She didn’t understand. She didn’t deserve this. She had no idea why the one person who was supposed to protect her had just erupted in rage, her tiny world shattering in an instant.

Her cries didn’t stop immediately. They didn’t settle the way they usually did when you picked her up. Instead, she kept trembling against you, her sniffles and whimpers breaking through the silence like little shards of glass stabbing straight into your heart. Her heart was beating a thousand miles per minute. She was scared. Of you. And the realization nearly made you collapse.

Your mind reeled, frantic thoughts spinning so fast you could barely keep up with them. What’s wrong with me? What kind of person screams at their own baby? Have I really lost that much of myself? The self-loathing was instant and all-consuming, seeping into every inch of your being like poison. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your forehead to the crown of her head, inhaling the faint newborn scent that should have brought you comfort but instead sent another wave of guilt crashing over you.

Sylvia finally began to calm, her body no longer stiff, her breathing growing steadier. But you? You were anything but calm. You held her like she was the only thing tethering you to this world, like if you let go, you would disappear into the dark void that had been slowly swallowing you whole. Your sobs came in waves, silent at first, then broken, raw, shaking your entire body as you curled around her, whispering apologies over and over again.

She deserved better. So much better.

Your hands trembled as you ran them over her back, feeling the tiny ridges of her spine through the fabric of her onesie. She was so small, so fragile, and you had been hurting her. Maybe not physically, but this wasn’t what she deserved. Not a mother who was so exhausted and broken that she couldn’t even summon the strength to feel love anymore. Not a mother who snapped and lost control, who let her own misery bleed into the innocent, untouched existence of her baby.

You had spent all this time running, thinking you were keeping her safe. Thinking you were doing the right thing. But what if—what if—you weren’t protecting her at all? What if you were only delaying the inevitable? What if, no matter how hard you tried, you were the real danger here? Not Sylus. Not anyone else. You.

Your stomach twisted violently at the thought, bile rising in your throat. You shook your head, rocking Sylvia more urgently, as if you could shake the thoughts away. But they only grew stronger. More insistent.

You had tried. You really had. But it wasn’t enough. No matter how much you fought, how much you sacrificed, it wasn’t enough.

She wasn’t safe with you.

Maybe she never had been.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending.

Maybe it was time to put her first.

Maybe…

It was time to give her up.

It didn’t take you too long to pack up a few of her things. Your movements were robotic, mechanical, as if your body was moving on autopilot while your mind refused to fully register what you were about to do. Diapers, onesies, some extra milk. The necessities. You didn’t want to burden whoever found her, but you couldn’t just leave her with nothing. You had to make sure she had enough, at least for the first couple of days.

The sun would be rising soon. The first hints of light were already creeping over the horizon, painting the edges of the sky in soft hues of purple and gold. You need to hurry. People would be waking up soon, moving about, starting their days. You didn’t want anyone to see you. You didn’t want to risk someone trying to stop you.

Your hands trembled as you shoved the last of her things into the bag, your breath uneven. This was the right thing to do. It had to be. Sylvia deserved stability, a real home, someone who could care for her without resentment bubbling under the surface, poisoning every interaction. You weren’t that person. You had tried—god, you had tried—but all you were doing was slowly unraveling.

You gently placed her in the stroller, making sure she was bundled up. The air was cool, a lingering chill from the night before, and you didn’t want her to be cold. She barely stirred as you adjusted the blankets around her tiny body, only letting out the faintest of sighs. She was exhausted from all the crying, her little face relaxed in sleep, peaceful in a way you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

Your heart clenched painfully.

Good. This would make things easier.

Easier.

That word felt like a lie.

Your stomach twisted violently as you looked at her, as you took in every tiny detail—the wisps of hair on her head, the little crease in her brow, the slight pout of her lips. Every feature was a perfect blend of you and him. She would never know the man who had given her those crimson eyes. Never know the grip he had on your soul. She would be safe. She would be free.

You turned away sharply, squeezing your eyes shut as if that would somehow make this less unbearable. It didn’t.

You forced yourself to move, rummaging through the motel’s tiny desk drawer until you found an old notepad and a pen with barely any ink left. Your fingers shook as you pressed the pen to the paper, the words coming out in short, shaky scrawls.

Her name is Sylvia. She is breastfed but will take formula. No birth certificate, please get her one and take care of her.

You stared at the words, your breath coming in shallow gasps. Was this enough? Would someone understand? Would they know how much she liked being held, how she hated bright lights, how she always nuzzled against your chest for comfort? Would they love her enough?

Would they love her more than you could?

A choked sob escaped your lips before you could stop it. You bit down on your trembling lip, trying to shove the emotions down, to lock them away. If you thought about this too much, you wouldn’t be able to go through with it. And you had to. You had to.

You folded the note carefully and tucked it into the blanket beside her, making sure it wouldn’t blow away in the breeze. Then, without another glance, you gripped the stroller handle and stepped outside into the quiet, early morning streets.

This was the right thing.

You had to believe that.

Because if you didn’t…

You wouldn’t survive it.

You could've taken the car. It would have been faster, easier. But something in you resisted. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was some part of you clinging to the last fleeting moments you’d ever have with her. You just wanted one last walk—one final, quiet moment between mother and daughter before you severed the last fragile tie holding you together.

The world was still. The kind of early morning hush that made everything feel softer, untouched. The crisp air kissed your skin, the streets empty except for the distant sounds of the city beginning to stir. You glanced down at the tiny bundle nestled in the stroller, her little chest rising and falling with each breath, her lips slightly parted in sleep. The sight of her so peaceful, so completely unaware of what was about to happen, made your stomach twist in agony.

Your fingers brushed over her hair, trailing down to those two tiny, hard nubs hidden beneath the strands. You still didn’t know what they were. Maybe whoever found her would. Maybe they would understand her in ways you never could. Maybe they would love her better.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening painfully as you pushed forward.

You didn't know how long you walked. The city blurred past in a haze of rising sunlight and the rhythmic sound of the stroller wheels rolling over pavement. Your feet moved on their own, one after the other, guided by some force you couldn't name, until eventually, a towering mansion came into view across a bridge.

It was immaculate—pristine marble pillars, massive iron gates that stood open just enough for someone to slip through, a sprawling estate that screamed wealth and power. Whoever lived here was loaded, that much was obvious. And loaded meant resources. Stability. Protection. A child could be safe here, cared for. Given everything you couldn’t provide. The gate was slightly open. Perfect.

Your breath shuddered as you pushed the stroller across the bridge, your hands gripping the handle so tightly your knuckles turned white. Every step felt like dragging yourself through quicksand, like your body was resisting what your mind had already decided.

When you finally reached the grand front steps, you hesitated.

This was it.

The point of no return.

Tears blurred your vision as you carefully maneuvered the stroller up the stone steps, pausing just before the door. A car sat parked nearby, its presence offering a sliver of relief—someone would find her soon. Someone important. Someone who would change her life for the better.

Your fingers trembled as you tucked the blanket around her one last time, ensuring she was warm, protected. You reached into the small bag and pulled out the note, rereading over the words you had written as if hoping, somehow, they could say everything your heart was screaming.

Her name is Sylvia. She is breastfed but will take formula. No birth certificate, please get her one and take care of her.

You gently placed the note on her chest, your fingers lingering just a little too long. Please love her the way I couldn't. You didn’t write it, but you wished—prayed—that whoever found her would understand.

Would love her.

Would give her the life she deserved.

Your legs felt like lead as you stepped back, the weight in your chest growing unbearable. You reached for the stroller handle again—no, don’t do this, you can’t do this—but you forced yourself to let go.

You told yourself you were doing the right thing. You turned around.

You told yourself this was what was best.

Then why did it feel like you were leaving a piece of your soul behind?

Sylvia.

Your breath hitched as you stood at the edge of the steps, frozen in place, unable to take another step forward. Your chest felt too tight, like your ribs were closing in on your lungs, suffocating you. The early morning air was crisp, but you felt unbearably warm—your skin burning, your pulse roaring in your ears. You had to move. Now.

But you couldn’t.

Not yet.

You turned your head just enough to steal one last glance at her. She was still sleeping, blissfully unaware of what was happening. Her tiny hands curled into loose fists against her chest, her little lips twitching in a soft, contented sigh. The note rested against the blanket, its corners barely moving in the breeze.

Your throat closed, and your vision blurred.

You knew you would never see her again.

The thought alone nearly drove you to your knees.

Sylvia...

A shuddering breath escaped you as you closed your eyes, willing yourself to be strong, willing yourself to accept that this was what had to be done.

"Please live."

The words were barely above a whisper, slipping past your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea to the universe to do right by her in ways you never could.

"Grow up happy. Make friends. Finish school, find a good job."

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms, grounding yourself in the pain, reminding yourself to keep going.

"Find true love."

Real love. A love that didn’t consume, didn’t possess, didn’t suffocate. A love that was free and kind and safe. A love that would never trap her in a cage the way you had been trapped.

"Just live."

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, willing the tears away. But they fell anyways.

"And I will try and live too. Despite us being apart from now on, I will always think of you. This moment doesn't define either of us."

It was a lie. You didn’t know how to live anymore. You didn’t know if you even wanted to try.

But if you told yourself enough times, maybe—just maybe—you’d start to believe it.

With a final, agonizing inhale, you turned your back to the mansion, forcing one foot in front of the other. Each step felt like a blade sinking into your heart, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

If you looked back now, you’d never leave. You went into a full sprint, not wanting to change your mind.

You had to leave.

Because Sylvia deserved a future.

Even if you weren’t in it.

571 notes · View notes

mavphorias · 3 months ago

Text

Five More Minutes?

Word Count: 6.1k

Tags: sylus x fem!reader, unprotected sex, creampie, morning sex, biting, injury, a bit of blood, teasing, fingering, nicknames like good girl, kitten, my love, grinding, humping, overstim, breeding

Summary: You have to get up soon for a team meeting at your job but Sylus shows you all the reasons you should stay in bed with him instead :3

His warm breath danced across your ear as he left gentle kisses, sending shivers down your spine as he whispered, "Just let me make you cum again." His words were a gentle persuasion, a soft coaxing that seemed to seep into your very being. "You don't really want me to stop, do you?"

AN: Man, it feels SO good to be back writing again. I hope you guys enjoy this little fic I wrote up over the weekend! Another fic idea crossed of the list! Enjoy!

The room is still, wrapped in the muted hush of early morning in Linkon City. The faint glow of dawn filters through the blinds, casting soft, golden lines across the walls. Outside, the city stirs, but in here, time moves slower. The only sounds are the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the steady, even breaths of the man beside you.

Warmth cocoons you—thick blankets tangled around your legs, the lingering scent of laundry detergent on the sheets, and the solid, unmistakable presence of Sylus pressed against you. He’s a furnace, radiating heat even in sleep, his arm heavy across your waist, fingers curled loosely around the skin of your arm as if, even unconsciously, he refuses to let you go. His face is buried somewhere near your shoulder, breath warm and slow against your skin.

Right. He stayed over last night.

The memory unfolds in fragments, soft and hazy around the edges. He’d brought a bottle of wine, a gift for you, though you’d insisted—pleaded—that he share it with you. It had taken a bit of coaxing, some playful pouting on your part, but eventually, with a quiet sigh and a small, indulgent smile, he had obliged.

And then…

Your face heats up.

The night plays back in your mind, moments flickering like warm candlelight—his quiet laughter, the way his eyes softened as he listened to you talk about any and everything, the casual brush of fingers against skin that grew less accidental as the night went on. The pinkness of his face as he poured you both another glass. The slow unraveling of space between you. Then suddenly you both weren't wearing clothes.

Though he hadn't even bothered to remove your underwear, electing instead to just move the fabric aside for quicker access. The moans, the sweat, the pleasurable ache of him pushing inside you, filling you completely until you felt like you couldn't breathe...

You shift slightly in his grasp, your pulse quickening for reasons that have nothing to do with the morning chill.

But something tugs at the edge of your awareness, a vague, creeping sense that you’re forgetting something. A loose thread in your mind, pulling tighter with each second you lie there.

Your hand fumbles across the nightstand, fingers clumsy with sleep as they search for your phone. The cool surface meets your palm, and you bring it close, squinting against the harsh glare of the screen. The sudden brightness stings your tired eyes, and you blink rapidly, trying to focus. The numbers staring back at you make your stomach drop.

Shit.

A team meeting. In an hour.

For a few seconds, you just stare at the screen, mind sluggish, like a machine still booting up. Right. You need to move. Shower, throw on something presentable, maybe down an entire pot of coffee before suffering through whatever motivational spiel Captain Jenna has planned this morning.

You exhale through your nose, slowly, carefully, and begin the delicate process of slipping out of your bed.

The sheets rustle as you peel them away, inch by inch. You shift just enough to lift Sylus’s arm, careful not to wake him, careful not to disturb the heavy warmth of sleep still clinging to him. The air beyond the blankets is cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the body beside you. You manage to slide his arm just far enough—his fingers loosen their hold, giving you the sliver of space you need.

And then, just as you begin to rise—

His grip tightens.

A soft, barely-audible noise escapes him—a quiet sigh, laced with something almost petulant, as his fingers curl tighter against your stomach. Before you can react, he shifts, using that lazy, effortless strength of his to pull you flush against him, caging you in with an arm that’s now locked like steel around your waist again. His face buries deeper against the crook of your neck, breath warm, slow, and completely undisturbed.

You freeze.

For a moment, you don’t move, barely daring to breathe. Maybe, just maybe, if you wait, he’ll shift again, loosen his hold, let you slip away without incident.

But no. His grip remains firm, steady, an unspoken claim that keeps you anchored in place.

You sigh, staring at the phone still clutched in your hand.

Well. So much for an easy escape.

You squirm against him, frustration creeping in as you attempt to loosen his grip. His arm is a dead weight around your waist, unmoving, solid, like he’s anchored you to the bed on purpose. The warmth of his body radiates into yours, making it all the more difficult to convince yourself to leave the comfort of the blankets. Still, you have a meeting. You have to get up.

“Sylus,” you whisper, testing the waters, voice hushed in the stillness of the room.

No response.

You shift again, pressing your back against his chest, hoping that if you disturb his sleep enough, he’ll finally wake up. But he remains perfectly still, save for the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing. You know he’s usually a light sleeper so something about the way he’s too still makes you suspicious.

You try again, this time a little louder. “Sylus.”

Nothing.

The stubborn warmth of him seeps into your skin, lulling, dangerous, tempting you to sink back into sleep. But you refuse to fall for it.

Fine. If he’s going to be difficult, you’ll make him wake up.

You shift your elbow into position, drawing in a breath before—

Thud.

Your elbow connects with his chest, firm but not enough to actually hurt him. The effect is immediate.

A low grunt leaves him, but it’s short-lived—quickly swallowed by a laugh that shakes through him, low and unreasonably warm. The sound vibrates against your back, spreading through your chest before you can stop it. It’s deep, rich, full of amusement, and completely unbothered by your attack.

You glare at him over your shoulder, but he’s already grinning—lazy, smug, red eyes half-lidded with sleep but entirely too awake for someone who was just pretending to be unconscious.

“I figured,” he drawls, voice thick with lingering sleep, “if I just held still, you’d eventually give up and fall asleep again.” He pauses, another chuckle slipping past his lips, muffled as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, leaving soft kisses into your skin. The heat of his breath tickles your skin, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. “My bad for underestimating your stubbornness once again, kitten.”

Your stomach twists, an annoying mixture of warmth and irritation bubbling in your chest.

“You’re an ass,” you mutter, shoving weakly at his arm, though there’s no real force behind it.

He hums, unconcerned, tightening his hold around you with zero intention of letting go. “So you say. Just five more minutes.”

The weight of him presses against you, steady and familiar, and despite yourself, you stop struggling. You could fight it. You should fight it. But the way his body fits against yours, the way his warmth seeps into every inch of you—it’s too easy to melt into it, to let your body settle even as your mind screams at you about responsibilities.

His breathing evens out again, and just for a second, you let yourself sink into the warmth, into the comfort of him.

Five minutes.

Just five.

No, wait. You have to get up.

The thought pushes through the haze of warmth and sleep, clawing its way to the forefront of your mind, insistent and unyielding. You have a meeting. You have things to do. You can’t just stay here, no matter how comfortable, no matter how tempting the weight of Sylus’s body is against yours.

Still, the bed is so warm, the heat of him wrapping around you like a cocoon, the soft rhythm of his breath lulling, dangerous. He smells like remnants of cologne, a hint of last night’s wine still lingering on his skin, and something purely him, something familiar and grounding that makes it incredibly difficult to want to leave.

But you have to.

Sighing, you shift against him again, gathering just enough resolve to push at his arm, attempting to free yourself. His grip doesn’t loosen—if anything, his fingers curl tighter against you, securing you in place like an unyielding anchor.

"I can't stay in bed all morning, Sy" you murmur, voice slightly hoarse from sleep. You push again, trying to inch away, but it’s like trying to move a stone wall. "I have a team meeting soon." You pause, bracing yourself for the inevitable resistance. "I'm sure you have things to do as well."

There’s a beat of silence. Then, a low hum rumbles from deep in his chest, the kind that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end.

And before you can react, he moves.

Not to release you. Not to let you go.

No, instead, Sylus shifts forward, pressing impossibly closer, his bare chest firm against your back, his lips suddenly hovering at your ear. His voice drops into something dangerously smooth, velvety in its teasing amusement as he whispers,

"Mm…but didn’t a certain kitten beg me last night never to leave her side?"

Your entire body locks up.

Heat floods your face so quickly it’s almost dizzying, embarrassment crashing through you in waves as your mind scrambles to process his words. His breath, warm and deliberate, ghosts over your ear, and every single nerve in your body reacts all at once. A shiver works its way down your spine, traitorous and impossible to suppress.

He remembers.

Of course, he does.

The memory of last night unfurls in your mind like a film reel, every single moment flashing in humiliatingly vivid detail.

You’d been tired out by multiple orgasms, softened by wine and warmth, curled against him in the very same bed, murmuring words you hadn’t really been thinking through.

"Stay, don’t go, just a little longer. Never leave me, please?"

Of course he had assured you that he hadn't been planning on leaving in the first place. How silly of you to even beg him for something like that in the first place.

The pleas had slipped from your lips too easily, too naturally, and at the time, it had felt like nothing. But now? Now he was using it against you, and from the smugness dripping from his voice, he was enjoying it far too much.

Him and his constant teasing.

Your face burns hotter, the warmth of him unbearably close, suffocating, intoxicating. In a fit of sheer embarrassment, you thrash against him, twisting, wriggling, desperate to escape. "Oh, don't act like you didn't eat up every word I said! Let me go!"

But Sylus?

Sylus doesn’t listen.

He never listens.

Instead of loosening his hold, instead of giving in even an inch, he does the exact opposite.

He moves again, his hand gliding down the length of your body—slow, deliberate, maddening. His fingertips ghost over your side first, tracing a path too gentle to be ignored, before slipping lower, skimming along your waist, then back up in a slow, torturous caress. His touch isn’t demanding, isn’t forceful—it’s light, teasing, patient. The kind of touch that coaxes a reaction before you can stop it.

You shiver—visibly, undeniably.

And he feels it.

You don’t even have to look at him to know the smirk that’s surely curling at his lips. His fingers continue their featherlight path, unhurried, infuriating, utterly controlled. It’s like he’s memorized every spot that makes you react, testing, playing, pushing just enough to remind you that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Then, in that same, low, velvety tone, he murmurs,

"Shh…don’t strain yourself."

The words are a command, soft but firm, and before you can even process them, he adds, "Just call out."

Your breath catches.

You know what he’s doing.

He’s making you choose.

Stay or fight. Surrender or resist.

And worse?

He already knows which one you want.

"I can't just call out," you groan, frustration thick in your voice as you shift again, squirming against the warmth wrapped around you. "I've already called out four times in two weeks! Unless I have a good excuse this time, I'll get punished with desk duty..."

The thought alone is miserable. Trapped in the office, drowning in stacks of paperwork, stuck behind a desk instead of being out in the field actually doing something meaningful? No, thank you. You’d rather suffer through whatever mind-numbing speech Captain Jenna had planned this morning than subject yourself to that.

But the unshakable weight of Sylus’s arm draped across your bare skin tells you he has other plans.

For a moment, there's silence. A pause long enough that you think maybe—just maybe—he's drifting off again, and if you time it right, you can slip free. But before you even begin to try, he lets out a low chuckle, the kind that vibrates against your back, a lazy sound of acknowledgment that makes your stomach twist with anticipation.

His voice is slow, unhurried, still thick with sleep. "Punished with desk duty, huh? Yeah…that does sound rough…"

For a brief, foolish second, you almost think he's sympathizing with you. That he’ll finally loosen his grip, let you go, maybe even roll over and let you salvage what little time you have left before your meeting.

But then—he leans in again.

His lips hover just beside your ear, his breath warm as it fans over your skin. A barely-there whisper of heat, enough to send a shiver curling down your spine before you can stop it. His grip around you doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens—just slightly, just enough to remind you that he’s still in control here.

"I mean…" his voice dips lower, conspiratorial, teasing, smirking without even having to show it. "I could forge a doctor’s note if you really need it."

You blink, caught completely off guard.

"What?"

Sylus shifts, settling himself more comfortably against you, like this is just another lazy morning where neither of you have anywhere to be. His fingers begin to move again—absentmindedly tracing slow, meandering patterns across your stomach. Light, feather-soft strokes that aren't urgent, but they are distracting.

"Yeah," he murmurs, dragging his fingers idly up your ribs before dipping back down, his touch effortless, as if he's not even thinking about it. "I’m pretty good at it, you know. Could make it look real official—some tragic, unavoidable emergency."

You snort. "Oh yeah? Like what?"

He hums again, like he’s actually considering it. "Food poisoning? Appendicitis? Oh, I know." He presses in closer, lips brushing so lightly against your ear that you almost don’t register the words before he says them. "You were in a car crash."

A genuine laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it. It startles even you, bright and amused, shaking your body just slightly against his. "A car crash? Really?"

"Of course," he replies smoothly, as if this is the most logical solution in the world. "A controlled one. Just enough damage to make it convincing. Maybe even get you some sympathy points—hell, you might even score a few extra days off to lay in bed with me."

You shake your head, still giggling, pressing your face briefly into the pillow before turning slightly to glare at him over your shoulder. "You are ridiculous."

But your amusement vanishes in an instant the moment his fingers graze lower.

The movement is so subtle—a mere shift of his hand, like he's still idly tracing those lazy shapes against your skin—but it lands over a sensitive spot just below your exposed breasts. The reaction is instant.

Your breath hitches.

Your body betrays you, tensing instinctively, muscles twitching beneath his touch. Your fingers reflexively shoot up to grip his hand, holding on like that might somehow stop him from noticing.

But he notices.

Of course he does.

His fingers pause for just a second, like he’s taking mental notes, cataloging the reaction, committing it to memory. Then, in a way that feels entirely too intentional, he moves again—this time even slower, more deliberate.

A soft, barely-there stroke, skimming over the tip of your nipple.

Your stomach twitches.

A sharp exhale catches in your throat.

You hate how easily your body reacts to him, how he barely has to do anything, yet your skin is already burning. You can feel the smirk on his lips even though you’re not even looking at him.

His voice is quiet, teasing. "Seems you haven't had enough of last night, kitten."

Your entire body goes rigid. Oh, no. No, no, no.

This isn’t good.

You stay still, hoping, praying, that maybe—just maybe—he’ll leave it alone. That he’ll stop before this becomes something you’ll never live down.

But of course, he doesn’t.

His fingers continued their deliberate dance across your skin, each stroke igniting a fire that spread from the bare expanse of your stomach to the very core of your being. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the heat of his body pressing closer, the unmistakable hardness of his cock brushing against your panties, sending electric shocks through your body.

Your breath hitched, an involuntary reaction that betrayed your desire to remain composed. Sylus, ever attentive, noticed your body's response, the way you tensed and shivered under his touch, your nipples hardening further, your breath coming in short gasps.

“Are you sure…” he murmured, drawing out the words like honey, “you don’t want to stay in bed?” His breath was warm against your skin, a tantalizing whisper that sent shivers racing down your spine.

As he spoke, his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, slowly, deliberately pulling them down, exposing your bare skin to his hungry gaze. The cool air on your exposed skin sent shivers down your spine, a contrast to the heat of his touch.

Your body betrayed you, the wetness pooling between your legs a clear testament to your desire. Each brush of his fingers sent waves of heat coursing through you, an insatiable yearning clawing at your insides. You wanted him—needed him—yet the game he was playing was as intoxicating as it was maddening.

His fingers danced lower, their path a tantalizing tease, tracing the edges of your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. You shifted, your back arching, your hips moving involuntarily, your body instinctively craving more of his touch, drawn to the heat and pleasure he offered.

Your heart raced, a wild drumbeat that echoed in your ears as you felt the heat of his gaze on you, his fingers poised tantalizingly close to the edge of your desire. You swallowed hard, the words stuck in your throat, a delicious mix of defiance and longing swirling within you.

“I…” you began, but the breathy whisper faltered, caught between shyness and the primal urge coursing through your veins. The way he leaned in closer, his warm breath ghosting over your skin, made it impossible to think straight.

"Sylus stop...I need to..."

"Hm?" he pressed, his voice a sultry murmur that coaxed the truth from your lips as his fingers moved lower. With a deliberate slowness, he dipped the tip of his finger inside you, the sensation igniting a spark that shot straight to your core. You gasped, your body instinctively tightening around him, the warmth of your walls welcoming his intrusion.

"Mghn!"

The way he toyed with you was maddening; it was as if he could sense the storm brewing within, each twitch of his fingers a spark igniting the kindling of your desire. You could feel his cock twitching behind you, hard and insistent against your thigh, and it sent a jolt of need straight to your core.

He knew exactly what to say to unravel your defenses, to make you surrender to the sensations coursing through your body. His voice was a low, husky whisper, a sensual temptation that seemed to wrap itself around your resolve, weakening your resistance. "You don't really want me to stop, do you?" he murmured, his words a provocative challenge, a dare to admit the truth - that you were helpless against the pleasure he was unleashing upon you.

The way he spoke, the words he chose, it was all so deliberately crafted to break down your barriers, to make you succumb to the desire that threatened to consume you. And yet, despite the warning bells ringing in your mind about your meeting, you couldn't help but feel yourself being drawn back in, helpless against the tide of pleasure that he was so expertly manipulating.

Dammit, he knew exactly how to play you, and you were powerless to resist.

“M-make it quick...” you finally breathed, the words spilling forth with a desperate honesty that hung heavy in the air between you.

His eyes darkened, a glimmer of satisfaction sparking within them as he shifted, pressing his hardness against you more firmly, the friction sending waves of heat cascading through your body. “Good girl,” he crooned, his finger finally dipping deeper into your slick folds with a teasing gentleness that made your breath hitch once more.

You gasped, your body arching instinctively into his touch, craving more, needing him to explore you fully. “Fuck…” you begged, the desperation in your voice a heady cocktail of need and surrender that only fueled the fire between you.

The room seemed to pulse with the intensity of the moment, the morning lighting casting long sun rays that seemed to merge with the heat of the encounter. The scent of anticipation lingered in the air, intertwined with the musky aroma of arousal. Every sense was heightened, every touch magnified, as if the world had narrowed to this single, electrifying moment.

You were drowning in a sea of sensations, the rhythm of his movements synced with the pounding of your heart. The emotional undercurrents were as intense as the physical ones, a primal dance of dominance and submission that left you breathless and yearning for more.

As his finger moved with deliberate precision, you became more acutely aware of the symphony of sensations enveloping you. The aching pressure already building in your lower stomach, the heat, the teasing gentleness, it was too much and yet not enough all at the same time. The dialogue between you was minimal, yet every word, every moan, seemed to speak volumes.

You tried to keep your focus on the upcoming meeting, the fear of being late and the prospect of desk duty looming in your mind. But as Sylus continued to orchestrate pleasure within your soft walls, the rising heat between your legs became all-consuming, your thoughts dissolving into a haze of pleasure.

But when he added the second finger, you didn't have the strength to make him stop any longer.

Your grip on his arm tightening, your nails digging into his skin as you arched into his touch, your body moving in rhythm with his fingers, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The sound of your own moans filled the air, a testament to the pleasure he was delivering, your mind unable to focus on anything but the sensations he was evoking.

"That's it, my love," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Nice and loud, you sound beautiful". He sounded close to unraveling himself, cock now straining impossibly hard against the roundness of your ass.

As Sylus's words washed over you, your body responded instinctively, your muscles clenching around his fingers, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, each exhale a warning to the building pleasure. Your climax approached like a rising tide, your body trembling, your voice reduced to a series of gasps and moans, your nails digging into his arm as you surrendered to the sensations he evoked.

"S-sylus! Im-!".

"I know, I know" he whispered, panting and grinding into your backside. He deftly curved his fingers, hitting that spongy part inside. Your body responded to his movements, your muscles clenching and releasing around his fingers, your breath coming in shorter, sharper gasps, your climax building to a crescendo, until you cried out, your voice hoarse, your body trembling, your release a powerful wave that left you breathless and sated, the fear of work and its consequences now a distant memory, replaced by the all-consuming pleasure Sylus had delivered.

As you lay there, still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm, Sylus took advantage of your heightened sensitivity, pushing his cock fully inside you in one smooth motion. Your body, still slick with arousal, offered little resistance, and he filled you with a solid thrust, his girth stretching you, his length filling you completely.

You cried out, overwhelmed by the sensations—the overstimulation of your orgasm blending into the pleasure of his intrusion, which quickly morphed into a slight pain as he began to thrust inside your tightening hole. "So fucking tight," he growled, his voice a low, primal sound.

His grip on your body tightened, almost possessive, as if trying to keep you from moving, from escaping the pleasure he was delivering. You struggled to breathe, your body shaking, your senses overloaded. "Sylus...too much!" you cried out, your voice hoarse, your body practically shaking with the intensity of the sensations.

"You're okay, kitten," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Bite down on my hand."

He offered his hand, his fingers curling around yours, urging you to bite down, to ground yourself as he continued to thrust, his pace relentless, his body a cage of pleasure and pain, his grip on you a reminder that you had no choice but to surrender and take every thrust he was giving you.

You bit down on his hand, your teeth sinking into his skin, grounding yourself in the physical sensation as his thrusts continued, relentless and powerful. The pain and pleasure mingled, creating a heady mix of sensations that overwhelmed your senses. Your body shook, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, your nails digging into his arm as you clung to him, your body moving in rhythm with his.

Despite the pain, he didn't flinch, didn't try to pull his hand away. Instead, he seemed to lean into it, his movements becoming more insistent, his body moving in perfect sync with yours. The friction between you was almost palpable, a living, breathing thing that pulsed with every thrust.

Sylus's movements suddenly became slow and sensual, his thrusts a a new gentle rhythm that built pleasure anew. Your bodies, slick with sweat, moved in sync, your moans filling the air, a symphony of pleasure and desire that seemed to echo off the walls.

As he moved, his cock rubbed against your G-spot, sending shivers through your body, making your toes curl and your fingers dig harder into his skin. His pubic bone pressed against your clit, adding an extra layer of sensation, making your body tremble with anticipation. Your moans grew louder, more insistent, as he continued to thrust into you sensually, lovingly

"Y'know..." he whispered, his voice hoarse and strained, his words barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing. "I could give you a really good excuse to miss work for nine months" His breath was hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine, making your body arch into his touch.

Your entire body locks up.

The weight of his words crashes down on you like a lightning strike, your mind screeching to a halt as it fully processes what he just said. Nine months. Nine. Months?

Oh. Oh.

Your breath stutters, your heart hammering so loudly you can hear it in your ears. A fresh, unbearable wave of heat floods through you, burning up from the inside out. You can’t even think properly, your thoughts spiraling into what ifs and impossible images that make your stomach flip so violently you almost feel lightheaded.

Your lips part—you want to say something, anything, but your brain is completely fried, every coherent thought erased by the sheer weight of what he’s implying. Instead, a strangled, breathless noise escapes you, somewhere between a choked gasp and a disbelieving scoff.

Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, your body trembling on the edge of release. His thrusts became more insistent again, his pace quickening, his body moving in rhythm with yours, his voice a low, primal growl that seemed to vibrate through every cell in your body. You felt yourself getting closer and closer, your body coiling tighter and tighter, until you were a spring ready to snap.

You find yourself biting even harder on his hand, moaning and choking curse words into his skin.

Sylus still didn't flinch, thrusts didn't even falter, even as your teeth dug deeper into his skin. "That's it, kitten, let go," he urged, his breath hot against your ear, his words spoken with raw desire. "Cum for me". His voice was like a spark to dry tinder, igniting a fire that had been building for what felt like hours.

You surrendered to the building pleasure, your body convulsing around his length, your release a powerful wave that left you trembling and breathless. As you came, your body milked his cock, squeezing and releasing in a rhythmic pattern that seemed to draw him in, pulling him closer and closer to his own release. Sylus followed, his own climax a hot flood within you, his body shuddering as he filled you with his cum, his breath ragged against your neck. You felt his cock pulsing inside you, releasing wave after wave of heat, making your body tremble with aftershocks.

Even as you came down from the peak of your orgasm, you still bit down on his hand, the pain a reminder that you were still alive, still present in your body. Tears streamed down your face, your eyes closed as you struggled to process the intensity of the feelings that had just torn through you. Sylus didn't seem to mind, didn't try to pull his hand away, instead wrapping his other arm around you, holding you close as you rode out the aftershocks of your climax.

The air between you is thick, heavy with the aftermath of what just happened. Your body still hums with sensitivity, the lingering warmth of his touch ghosting over your skin even in the places where he’s no longer touching you. Your breath comes fast and uneven, mingling with his in the limited space between you. It takes a few sluggish seconds for your mind to catch up, for reality to seep through the haze of warmth, exhaustion, and the overwhelming presence of him.

You shift slightly, the movement sluggish and lazy, tangled in sheets that are now an absolute mess beneath you. But something catches your eye, a faint streak of red between his index and thumb—small, but unmistakable. Your gaze sharpens, the fog in your mind clearing just enough to process what it is. His hand. The mark you left there.

Your stomach twists.

Turning fully toward him, you reach for his hand without thinking, grasping it between your own as you bring it closer to examine. The skin is broken, a faint indent of your teeth still visible, a thin smear of blood welling up along the fresh bite wound. You swallow hard, something warm—guilt, embarrassment, maybe a little bit of both—curling low in your chest.

"Sylus," you murmur, tracing the edge of the wound with gentle, careful fingers, your touch barely a ghost against his skin. "You're bleeding. I'm so so sorry."

The reaction you expect—a wince, a sigh of annoyance, maybe even a scolding remark about being too rough—doesn’t come.

Instead, he chuckles.

A deep, amused sound that rumbles through his chest, utterly unbothered. His free hand moves almost lazily, fingers threading into your hair as he pulls you in just slightly. Before you can protest, he presses a warm, lingering kiss to your lips. Then another. And another. Each one deliberate, soft, like he’s trying to reassure you that he’s perfectly fine. That, despite the evidence on his skin, he doesn’t mind.

"You're so cute when you get all worked up and worried about me," he muses, voice drenched in amusement, his lips never straying far from you. "You've seen me bleed before. I healed just fine, this is no different."

You let out a breath, one you hadn’t realized you were holding, but you don’t let go of his hand. Your fingers tighten around his slightly, still feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your own. It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen him injured before—this is different. The mark is from you. You did this. The thought makes something in your chest twist, a tangled mix of emotions you don’t have the energy to sort through right now.

Sylus, on the other hand, doesn’t seem the least bit concerned.

He tilts his head slightly, brushing another lazy kiss against your temple before murmuring, "Since you’re so worried, and since you’re already late for your meeting…you can help me bandage up."

You blink.

The words take a full second to register in your mind.

Then, suddenly—panic slams into you like a freight train.

You jerk upright so fast that the blankets tangle around your legs, the soreness in your muscles protesting immediately. But you ignore it, lunging for your phone as a pit of dread sinks deep into your stomach.

No.

No way.

This can’t be happening.

Your fingers fumble against the screen, tapping it awake, and the moment your eyes land on the time, your heart stops.

You stare.

The numbers blink mockingly back at you, taunting you with undeniable proof that your absolute worst-case scenario is now reality.

You were supposed to be in that meeting fifteen minutes ago.

Fifteen. Minutes. Ago.

For a moment, your brain completely short-circuits.

Your breathing is still uneven, your body still warm and exhausted, and yet—somehow, all of that disappears beneath the sheer force of realization slamming into you. Your stomach drops into oblivion, a rising sense of dread climbing up your spine as your pulse kicks into overdrive.

Slowly—mechanically, like you’re in some kind of fever dream—you turn your head, your wide eyes locking onto Sylus.

He’s watching you, still completely relaxed, utterly unbothered. One arm is lazily draped behind his head, the other still in your grasp, and there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips that tells you he knows exactly what’s happening in your brain right now.

You open your mouth, ready to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a strangled, breathless, "No way."

His smirk grows. "Oh?"

You snap your gaze back to your phone, as if staring at the numbers harder might somehow make them change. But they don’t. The reality is unavoidable.

You lunge back toward him, shoving his shoulder as the weight of the realization crashes over you. "No way. No way! There’s absolutely no way our—" You flail your arms wildly in emphasis, words momentarily failing you. "Activities lasted an hour!"

Sylus lets out a low, knowing chuckle, one that does absolutely nothing to ease your growing panic.

"You sure about that?" he muses, arching a brow.

You open your mouth to argue, to deny, to insist that there’s no way you just completely lost track of time like that—but then you stop.

Because, unfortunately, the evidence is right there.

The sluggish ache in your limbs, the dull soreness still lingering in your muscles, the aftershocks still thrumming beneath your skin—all of it is proof.

Your jaw clenches shut.

Your entire body slumps forward, collapsing back onto the bed, an absolutely defeated groan ripping from your throat. You drag a hand over your face, squeezing your eyes shut, as if that might somehow undo reality. "I'm so screwed."

Sylus’s laughter vibrates through the mattress, deep and thoroughly entertained. You don’t need to look at him to know he’s loving this.

A moment later, his good hand finds your waist again, fingers tracing lazy, absentminded patterns against your still-sensitive skin. His touch is warm, soothing, completely unrepentant.

"Relax, kitten," he murmurs, his voice a slow, indulgent drawl.

You hear the smirk in his tone before he even says it.

"The offer for that car crash is still on the table y'know..."

1K notes · View notes

mavphorias · 5 months ago

Text

His Watchful Eye Pt. 17

Word Count: 32.3k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, forced pregnancy, unwanted pregnancy, tw if u have tokophobia, some mentions of blood and other fluids from birth, pet names like kitten, sweetie, honey, threats with a gun, extortion, xavier appears

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh @eliasxchocolate @nozomiaj @xmiisuki @sylus-kitten @its-regretti @ve1vet-cake @starkeysslvt @yarafic @prince-nikko @iluvmewwwww75 @someone-somewheres-stuff @zaynesjasmine1 @honnylemontea @altariasu @sorryimakira @pearlymel @emidpsandia @angel-jupiter @hwangintakswifey @webmvie @housesortinghat @shoruio @gojos1ut @solomonlover @mysssticc @elegantnightblaze @mavphorias @babylavendersblog @burntoutfrogacademic @sinstae @certainduckanchor @ladyackermanisdead @sh4nn @lilyadora @nyumin @kiwookse @anisha24-blog1 @weepingluminarytale @riamir @definitionistato @xxhayashixx @adraxsteia @hargun-s @cayraeley @xxfaithlynxx @palomanh @spaceace111 @euridan @malleus-draconias-rose @athoieee

AN: This is on A03! Hi guys!! I missed yall! I've been soooo busy with uni and getting a crap ton of assignments and projects thrown at me that I haven't had much time for tumblr!! Then once I finally had free time I caught Covid LOL. Thankfully I'm starting to feel better now. Btw the dividers are made by me!! Ive started messing around with photoshop and want to make my own dividers. Hopefully they look ok! Ok enough yapping, enjoy! I lowkey cried making this chapter ngl...

“You can’t ever leave me,” he continued, his tone as smooth as velvet but laced with an unshakable finality. “Even if it means I have to keep you pumped full with my children forever. Can’t run with all eight of them, can you?” The words hit you like a blow to the chest, stealing what little air you had left. Your entire body trembled beneath him, a rush of panic and revulsion coursing through your veins. Tears welled in your eyes, hot and blinding, spilling over as your voice cracked under the weight of your fear and fury. “I hate you!” you screamed, your voice raw and desperate. “I’ll never let you take me! Or her! Never!” But Sylus didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil or lash out. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he smiled—a slow, chilling smile that spread across his face like poison. There was no anger in his expression, no cruelty. Just calm, calculated possession.

Check my masterlist for the previous parts!

The air in the room was suffocating, heavy with tension and the faint scent of whiskey. Luke and Kieran stood at rigid attention near the door, their usually cocky demeanor replaced by something more cautious—fear, even. The quiet ticking of a wall clock amplified every passing second, each one feeling more precarious than the last. They shifted slightly on their feet, trying not to attract too much attention.

Sylus sat in an armchair in the middle of the dimly lit room, his long frame sprawled casually, but his posture was deceiving. He exuded calm, yes, but it was the kind of calm that hinted at a predator lying in wait. The room itself was nondescript, just another hotel suite, but it had been transformed into a nerve center of activity. Maps of Brunswick lined the walls, papers were scattered across the desk, and a laptop hummed softly nearby, displaying live surveillance feeds from the area. Yet none of it had yielded what he wanted.

You.

He swirled the glass of whiskey in his hand absentmindedly, his crimson eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The alcohol burned his throat with each sip, though the familiar sting did little to dull the simmering anger coursing through him. He had been drinking more in the past few days than he had in months, each glass a silent concession to the mounting frustration. The pawn shop had been his last real lead. After that, the tracker on your ring was useless now, and even Mephisto, with his aerial surveillance, had failed to catch so much as a glimpse of you.

The crow was efficient, but he wasn’t infallible. He couldn’t enter buildings, couldn’t see through walls. And Sylus was beginning to realize that you were smarter than he had given you credit for initially. You’d chosen a place to hide where technology and brute force could only get him so far. He hated to admit it, but you’d done well. For now.

The faintest sound of glass cracking broke his reverie. He glanced down and realized his grip on the whiskey glass had tightened to the point of nearly shattering it. Amber liquid seeped through the faint fracture, dripping onto his fingers and pooling on the table. Luke, ever the more talkative of the two, audibly gulped as the sound of cracked glass seemed to echo in the room.

“Boss…” Luke began, his voice shaking slightly. “We’re so sorry. She must’ve—”

“Silence, Luke,” Sylus said coldly, cutting him off without even looking up. He set the cracked glass down on the table, the faint clink echoing in the oppressive quiet. His eyes finally lifted to look at Luke, and the intensity in his gaze was enough to make the younger man take an instinctive step back.

Kieran, standing slightly behind his brother, remained silent but no less tense. Sylus’s calm demeanor was always more terrifying than his outright anger. They had seen him lash out before, seen the destruction he could unleash when he was truly enraged. But this cold, measured version of him—the version that stared at them now—was infinitely worse.

“Don’t expect any breaks until she’s found,” Sylus said evenly, his tone devoid of emotion. “And I’m docking both of your pays until then.”

The words landed like a guillotine, and Kieran stiffened visibly. Luke shifted a bit as if he wanted to protest, but one sharp look from Sylus silenced him. The twins exchanged a glance, their masks hiding the expressions etched with a mixture of fear and shame. Still, this was much better than the alternative punishments they could've endured...

Sylus leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together as he studied them. “Get me another glass,” he said after a moment, his voice low but commanding.

Luke jumped into action, practically tripping over his own feet as he made his way to the minibar in the corner of the room. His movements were quick, almost frantic, as he fumbled with the bottles. Kieran stayed rooted in place, his eyes darting nervously between Sylus and the table littered with maps and photographs beneath his mask.

Sylus tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair, the rhythmic sound filling the silence like a ticking time bomb. His gaze drifted to the map pinned to the wall, the last known location of your tracker staring mockingly at him. Brunswick. You had managed to slip through his fingers there, and the thought of you wandering the streets, clutching your belly, filled him with a mix of frustration and something dangerously close to anguish.

Did you honestly think you could outrun him? Did you think he wouldn’t find you? Sylus exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening as he forced the thought aside. It didn’t matter. He would find you. It was only a matter of time. He had found you before, and you hadn't even had the extra weight of pregnancy slowing you down back then.

Luke returned with a fresh glass of whiskey, setting it down on the table with a trembling hand. Sylus reached for it without a word, swirling the liquid as his eyes remained fixed on the map.

“You’re dismissed,” he said finally, his voice clipped.

The twins wasted no time leaving the room, their footsteps echoing down the hallway. The moment the door clicked shut, Sylus took a slow sip of his whiskey, the burn doing little to ease the tension coiled in his chest.

“Time is ticking, kitten,” he murmured, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Let’s see how far you can run.”

A few more days had dragged by, each one testing the limits of Sylus’s patience and resolve. Nothing had come to fruition despite his tireless efforts, and it was beginning to wear on him. He had spent countless hours combing through the sparse security footage available in Brunswick—a town so technologically outdated it barely had enough cameras to cover its streets. Still, it was better than nothing, and his team had managed to hack into what little surveillance was there.

It was during one of these marathon sessions of reviewing footage that he finally caught a glimpse of you. His eyes locked onto the screen as his heart gave a faint jolt. There you were, walking into the town’s small library. You were bundled in Luke’s coat, its oversized frame swallowing your smaller figure. Despite the layers, you were still shivering slightly, and the way you rubbed your belly with one hand only made Sylus’s chest tighten.

“There you are,” he murmured under his breath, the words slipping out without thought. You looked so lost, so fragile, and the sight ignited a strange mix of emotions in him. Anger at your stubbornness for running, guilt for the circumstances that had driven you to this point, and something softer—an aching need to pull you back into his arms where you belonged.

Hours later, the footage showed you exiting the library. The streetlights bathed you in a faint, golden glow as you paused just outside the doors, your movements slow and deliberate. You glanced around nervously before walking over to a nearby bench. Sylus watched as you sat down, your hands resting protectively on your belly. He could practically see the gears turning in your head, the way your eyes darted around as if trying to calculate your next move.

And then, just as quickly as you had appeared, you stood up and walked out of the camera’s range, disappearing once again. Sylus exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest tightening further. It was almost like losing you all over again, and it stung more than he cared to admit.

“Fine,” he muttered to himself, closing the footage window on his laptop. He had the geo-location of the camera and the exact street. It was enough. He would simply send his men to comb through every building and possible location in that area. If it meant finding you, he didn’t care how long it took.

Reaching for a folder on the desk, his phone suddenly buzzed, the shrill sound cutting through the quiet of the hotel room. He glanced at the screen, and his brows furrowed slightly when he saw the name: Dr. Merill. The doctor wasn’t someone who called often, but given the situation, Sylus had been expecting this eventually.

For a brief moment, he hesitated. He didn’t want to speak to anyone who might remind him of the gravity of your situation. But then, with a sigh, he picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear.

“Sylus speaking,” he said curtly, flipping the folder shut with one hand as he leaned back in his chair.

“Just calling to check in,” Dr. Merill’s voice came through, calm and professional. “I was wondering if you’d planned an at-home birth or if you intended to use a facility? I know the circumstances of your… relationship are tricky, but I’d like to be prepared. The birth can be extremely hush hush either way.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened slightly. The reminder of your absence, of how precarious everything was, set his teeth on edge. He decided to get straight to the point.

“There’s no need for that right now,” he said sharply. “She’s missing.”

There was a brief pause on the other end, and when Dr. Merill spoke again, there was an edge of concern in his voice. “Oh my. I’m sorry to hear that. I’m assuming she’s still pregnant?”

“As far as I know, yes,” Sylus replied, his tone clipped. He turned to stare out the window of his hotel room, his eyes scanning the streets below. His reflection in the glass stared back at him, eyes filled with something he refused to name. “But no doubt the added stress of running away could result in pre-term labor, correct?”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue, and he hated the image they conjured in his mind. He pictured you somewhere cold and alone, screaming and crying in pain as you gave birth without anyone to help you. His brows furrowed deeply, and he rubbed his temple with his fingers as if he could erase the thought entirely.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Dr. Merill admitted, his tone cautious. “And given her current weakened state, I’d say I’m even more concerned that something medically significant could go wrong and she’d be alone. I don’t mean to worry you, of course, but—”

“You don’t need to sugarcoat it,” Sylus interrupted, his voice dropping lower. “Tell me how long I have.”

The doctor hesitated again before answering, “Give or take… a week or two, at most. It’s difficult to say for certain when exactly itll happen, but she’s close.”

Sylus exhaled slowly, his hand tightening into a fist on the armrest of his chair. A week or two. Maybe less. The clock was ticking, and the thought of you enduring labor without him—or worse, something going wrong—made his stomach twist.

“Thank you, Dr. Merill,” he said, his voice colder than he intended. “I’ll handle it.”

“Of course,” Merill replied carefully. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to assist.”

Sylus hung up without another word, tossing the phone onto the desk. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the blinking dot on the map. You were close. He knew you were close. But time wasn’t on his side, and neither was luck. If he didn’t act decisively, he risked losing everything.

“Kitten,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. “You're a lot more stubborn than I thought”

His crimson eyes burned with determination as he reached for his glass of whiskey. The hunt was far from over. It was only just beginning.

Sylus spent the next few hours scouring the streets, stopping at every possible lead you might have left behind. His footsteps finally brought him to the library—the one place he’d seen you on the surveillance footage before you disappeared again. The building was unassuming, small compared to the libraries he was accustomed to in the cities. Its brick façade was weathered by time, and the glass doors bore smudges from countless hands. The faded sign above the entrance read, Brunswick Public Library. It seemed like the kind of place where people came to escape reality for a while—quiet, simple, unremarkable. But to Sylus, it was a potential goldmine of information.

He entered with several of his men trailing behind him, their sharp gazes scanning the surroundings. The air inside smelled faintly of old paper and dust, mingling with the sterile scent of cleaning products. Rows of mismatched bookshelves lined the space, interspersed with outdated computers and worn-out armchairs. A few patrons lingered near the shelves, their heads snapping up at the sight of Sylus and his entourage. Whispers began to ripple through the room.

"Who’s that guy?" "FBI, maybe? He looks important…" "Or dangerous…Look at the size of him!"

Sylus ignored the murmurs, his long strides taking him straight to the front desk. His polished shoes clicked against the scuffed linoleum floor, and the whispers faded into a tense silence as he reached the counter. Behind it sat a middle-aged woman, typing away at a computer with the kind of practiced disinterest that came from years of routine. She didn’t even glance up when he approached.

"Returns aren’t done at the front anymore," she said flatly, her fingers continuing to clack against the keyboard. "There’s a new system for book returns near the door."

Sylus leaned down slightly, his presence towering and unignorable. He tapped a single finger on the desk, the sound sharp and deliberate. "If I happened to be returning a book from ten years ago," he said smoothly, his voice carrying an edge of menace, "how much would my fine be?"

The woman’s fingers froze mid-typing, and her eyes darted up at Sylus with a mix of confusion and mild irritation. Her annoyance quickly melted away, however, as her gaze traveled upward—up and up until it landed on his face. She blinked, her expression shifting to one of surprise, her brow furrowing slightly as though trying to place him.

“My goodness,” she finally said, clutching her chest in a dramatic fashion. “You’re…tall! What are you, a basketball player?”

Sylus resisted the urge to roll his eyes, his patience already razor-thin. Instead, he straightened his back, exuding a cold, unshakable authority that made the air around him feel heavier. "I’ll cut to the chase," he said, his tone sharp enough to make the woman flinch slightly. "There was a pregnant woman in here a some time ago. Shes very far along, wearing a long coat, about this tall." He gestured vaguely with his hand. "I need to know if she mentioned where she was headed next."

The woman’s brows knitted together, and she folded her arms across her chest, clearly not intimidated enough to abandon her sense of defiance. "Pregnant woman?" she repeated, her tone skeptical. "Look, mister, I don’t keep tabs on every person who walks in here. And unless you’re police, I don’t see why I should help you."

Sylus’s jaw tightened, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. The faint tension in his posture was enough to send a ripple of unease through the room. He leaned closer, his hand gripping the edge of the counter as he spoke in a low, measured tone. "She’s my fiancé," he said, feigning a hint of desperation in his voice. "She’s missing, and I’m worried about her. If you have any information, now would be a very good time to share it."

The woman hesitated, her defiance wavering slightly under the weight of his gaze. Before she could respond, a younger male assistant rolled his chair over from a nearby workstation. His nervous energy was palpable, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as he cleared his throat.

"Uh, sir?" the assistant stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I…I think I know who you’re talking about."

Sylus’s attention snapped to the young man, his sharp gaze pinning him in place. "Go on," he said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable undertone of command.

The assistant swallowed hard, glancing nervously at his coworker before continuing. "She came in a few days ago," he said, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Asked me for recommendations on pregnancy and birthing books. I showed her to the maternity and health section over there." He gestured toward a cozy nook in the corner, where a cluster of beanbag chairs surrounded a small shelf of health-related books. "She stayed there for hours…until closing."

Sylus’s gaze followed the assistant’s gesture, landing on the corner of the library. The beanbag chairs looked deflated and worn, the small bookshelf stuffed with outdated titles on health and wellness. He could almost picture you there—curled up awkwardly in one of those chairs, one hand resting on your belly while the other turned the fragile pages of a pregnancy manual. His jaw clenched at the thought.

Were you really that desperate? The notion hit him like a punch to the gut. You had come here, to this tiny, rundown library, to prepare yourself for one of the most terrifying and vulnerable moments of your life—all alone. No doctor, no midwife, no one to reassure you or guide you. You had been reading birthing books, scouring for answers, planning to face labor and delivery on your own. Did you feel like you had no choice? Were you scared? Of course, you had to be. The thought of you, terrified and struggling, filled him with a cold, simmering rage—not at you, but at the situation that had driven you to this point.

His hands curled into fists at his sides as his imagination ran wild. Had you rubbed your belly in that corner, whispering soft reassurances to your unborn daughter while fighting back tears? Had you been overwhelmed by the medical jargon, scanning page after page, trying to decipher what to expect? Sylus couldn’t bear the image. You were supposed to be cared for, supported, protected. You shouldn’t have had to step foot in this shabby little library to learn about childbirth on your own. You shouldn’t have been alone, period.

The assistant’s voice broke through his thoughts, hesitant and nervous. "She…seemed really focused. Sat over there for hours. I, uh, offered to bring her water or tea, but she declined. She just kept reading until we had to close up."

Sylus exhaled sharply, the sound low and barely audible. Of course, you would refuse help. Stubborn as ever. You had always been strong, determined, fiercely independent—but this wasn’t strength. This was desperation, and it pained him more than he cared to admit. He could imagine you sitting there, putting on a brave face, forcing yourself to learn everything you could because you had no one else to rely on. And that thought? That hurt worse than anything else.

And honestly? The thought of this man offering you anything, much less talking to you at all made him want to break his neck right here. Of course, he refrained.

The ghost of a sigh escaped his lips as he turned back to the assistant. "And after closing?" he asked, his voice steady but colder now, barely masking the emotions bubbling beneath the surface.

The assistant shook his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I didn’t see where she went after that, sir. She just…left. No mention of where she was going."

Sylus stood there for a moment, his sharp eyes staring into the distance, the image of you leaving this library alone burned into his mind. Wrapping Luke’s oversized coat tighter around yourself, shivering in the cold. His kitten, scared and alone, carrying his child, walking into the night as though the weight of the world rested on your shoulders. Did you think no one cared? Did you think he didn’t care?

Sylus’s fingers curled slightly against the counter, his frustration mounting. He was so close—close enough to feel the ghost of your presence lingering in the room—and yet, once again, you had slipped through his grasp. His eyes bore into the young man, searching for any sign of deceit, but the assistant’s trembling form seemed genuine enough.

Straightening, Sylus nodded curtly to his men, signaling for them to begin leaving. He turned back to the assistant, his expression softening ever so slightly as he spoke. "If you remember anything else," he said, his voice quieter but no less commanding, "anything at all, you’ll call this number." He handed the young man a card, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.

Without waiting for a response, Sylus turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, his men following close behind. The whispers resumed as soon as he was out of earshot, but he paid them no mind. His thoughts were consumed by one thing and one thing only: you. You were close—he could feel it. And no matter how far you ran, no matter how well you hid, he would find you. It was only a matter of time.

As Sylus closed in on the exit, the air around him felt heavier. The assistant, and the older woman at the desk visibly relaxed as he moved toward it. His men followed in his shadow, their presence casting a long, foreboding aura across the quiet library. The room seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief the moment Sylus reached the door. The faint chime of the bell above it announced his departure, but even as he stepped outside into the brisk evening air, his sharp hearing caught the hushed whispers behind him.

“Thank you, Matthew…” the older woman murmured in a voice so low it was nearly inaudible. "I thought he was about to hit me. Did you call the police? He’s very…shady."

There was a soft shuffle, as though the assistant was fidgeting nervously. "I don’t know, Miss,” Matthew replied, his voice trembling slightly. “But something tells me the police won’t stop him. He’s not… normal. We shouldn’t get involved.”

Sylus paused just outside the door, his hand resting on the cool metal frame. Their words didn’t anger him—they intrigued him. The woman’s fear, the assistant’s unease—it wasn’t just his appearance or the tension in the room that unnerved them. They’d felt it, that instinctual warning that came from being in the presence of a predator.

People always did.

A slight smirk tugged at the corner of Sylus’s lips as he straightened his coat and pushed the library door shut behind him. He’d spent years honing that effect, the ability to radiate quiet menace without needing to raise his voice or make an explicit threat. But he also knew it had its limits—fear alone wouldn’t lead him to you.

The whispers continued, faint but audible through the glass. “What if he comes back?” the older woman asked, her voice quivering. “We should…we should tell someone, just in case.”

Sylus’s smirk disappeared, replaced by a sharp, calculating expression. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he mulled over their words. If they called the police, it would only complicate things—not because he feared them, but because unnecessary attention could spook you if you were still nearby. He couldn’t risk you catching wind of his presence and disappearing again.

Adjusting the cufflinks on his shirt, Sylus turned to his men. “We move now,” he said, his voice clipped and commanding. “Search the streets near here. Every café, every motel, every alley. If she’s nearby, I want her found. Unharmed. Not a single scratch.”

His men nodded, splitting off into the shadows like hounds released from a leash. Sylus stood still for a moment longer, glancing down the street. The lights from the shop windows glowed faintly against the dimming sky, the town settling into an almost eerie quiet. His thoughts flickered back to the image of you in the library, flipping through pages of birthing books, your shoulders tense with worry. The vision made his chest ache with a feeling he couldn’t quite name.

You were here. You had been here. And if you’d left, you wouldn’t have gone far.

“Sweetie…” Sylus murmured under his breath, his voice low and edged with determination. “Where are you hiding?”

Straightening his spine, he strode down the street, the whispers in the library fading behind him. They were right about one thing—getting involved wouldn’t stop him. Nothing would.

Sylus returned to his hotel room as the rain began to drum steadily against the windowpane. The muted glow of the city’s lights barely pierced the stormy night, and the low rumble of thunder in the distance mirrored the storm brewing in his chest. His search for you had yielded nothing concrete—only fleeting traces of your presence, tantalizingly close yet agonizingly out of reach. Frustration clung to him like a second skin, and he sought solace in routine.

He strode over to the record player nestled on a small table by the corner of the room. Sliding a vinyl disc from its sleeve, he placed it carefully on the turntable and set the needle down. The soft, melancholic strains of a classical piano piece filled the room, its delicate notes a temporary balm for his fraying nerves.

Never in his life had he struggled so much to find simple traces of someone. You were being extra careful this time, clearly.

Just as he sank into his chair, savoring the faint relief the music brought, an insistent rapping broke the atmosphere. His eyes flicked to the window, narrowing at the sight of Mephisto perched on the sill, his metallic feathers glinting in the dim light. Rain dripped from the bird’s beak, and its glowing red eyes stared at Sylus with what could almost be described as irritation.

Sylus chuckled softly, the sound low and devoid of humor. “Eager to escape the rain, are we?” he murmured, standing to unlatch the window. With a swift motion, he opened it, and Mephisto hopped inside, shaking off the rain like an indignant dog. Droplets scattered across the room, and the crow let out an exasperated series of caws, as if voicing his displeasure with the weather.

“It’s a good thing you showed up,” Sylus said, closing the window behind him and shutting out the storm. He turned back to the bird, his tone shifting to something more matter-of-fact. “It’s time for a little maintenance. Not like I have much else to do at the moment.”

Mephisto’s caws grew sharper, almost as if protesting. The bird flapped its wings briefly, hopping away from Sylus’s reach with a mechanical whir. “Don’t be like that,” Sylus chided, crossing his arms and watching the bird’s antics with mild amusement. “You knew this was coming.”

The crow’s protests dwindled into begrudging silence, its head tilting as if to say, Fine. Have it your way. Sylus smirked, scooping up the bird with practiced ease and carrying him over to the desk. He reached for a toolkit tucked into the drawer, setting out an array of small wrenches, screwdrivers, and oil canisters.

He adjusted his chair slightly, his long fingers deftly unscrewing a tiny bolt from Mephisto’s outer shell. The mechanical crow had been his most loyal companion for years, serving him well in countless missions. But tonight, his intentions were different. This wasn’t just routine maintenance—this was preparation, a personal touch for the life he was about to welcome into the world.

Carefully, he lifted Mephisto’s casing and set it aside, revealing the intricate network of gears, wires, and circuits that powered the bird. The scent of machine oil and metal filled the air as he reached for a small bottle of lubricant, meticulously applying it to the crow’s joints. The familiar motions brought him a strange sense of calm, though his mind was far from at ease.

As he tightened a loose screw near Mephisto’s left wing joint, his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the future. Soon, very soon, his daughter would be here. His daughter. The words still felt foreign in his mind, though they filled him with a rare warmth. He could almost see her in his mind’s eye—a tiny, delicate figure wrapped in soft blankets, her little hand gripping his finger with surprising strength.

Would she have your eyes? Your smile? The thought sent a pang through his chest, a mix of longing and regret. He should’ve been there with you now, protecting you, ensuring you were safe and cared for as you neared the end of your pregnancy. Instead, he was here, chasing shadows and trying to bring you back.

His hand hesitated briefly over a small compartment in Mephisto’s chest. With a soft click, it popped open, revealing a slot for the protocore. He removed the old one and replaced it with a newer, more advanced one, ensuring the bird would be more efficient in its flying abilities. But that wasn’t all. From the corner of his toolkit, Sylus picked up a tiny, specially designed module—a music player he’d built weeks ago.

The idea had come to him one night as he lay awake, envisioning the life he wanted to build for his daughter. He’d thought of the quiet moments—rocking her to sleep, her soft breathing against his chest, the world reduced to just the two of them. Mephisto, with his tireless loyalty, could play a part in those moments. The bird, a tool of surveillance and strategy, would now also be something softer, something comforting. He carefully slotted the module into place, ensuring it was securely connected to the crow’s internal systems.

As he tightened the last screw to secure the music feature, Sylus allowed himself a small, fleeting smile. The lullaby function was a simple addition, but it felt deeply significant. It was a way to bridge the gap between his harsh, pragmatic world and the innocence of the life he was about to meet. He could almost hear the gentle strains of a music box melody filling a quiet room, soothing his daughter to sleep. Perhaps you’d be there, too, watching with that skeptical but affectionate gaze of yours.

He shook his head slightly, snapping himself out of the daydream. There was no point in indulging in such fantasies—not until he had you both back where you belonged. Yet, the thought lingered, stubborn and unshakable.

Hours passed as Sylus continued his work, his focus unwavering. He adjusted Mephisto’s wings, ensuring their mobility was flawless, and fine-tuned the sensors in his eyes for better visual clarity. Every movement was precise, deliberate, as if the act of repairing the bird was a reflection of his desire to piece his own fractured world back together. Sylus leaned back in his chair, wiping his hands with a cloth as he watched Mephisto blink to life.

The bird’s eyes glowed brightly, its head twitching as it recalibrated his systems. He let out a triumphant “Caw! Caw!” and flapped his newly oiled wings, testing his restored mobility.

“Welcome back,” Sylus said dryly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Mephisto preened, seemingly pleased with his upgrades. “Now, let’s see if the new feature works.” Sylus leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying a soft command. “Mephisto, play a lullaby.”

The bird tilted its head, his glowing eyes flickering faintly as if processing the request. There was a brief pause, the sound of faint whirring emanating from his body, and then the first gentle notes of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star began to play. The tune was soft and delicate, like a music box, its simplicity filling the room with a bittersweet warmth.

Sylus closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. In his mind, he pictured holding his daughter for the first time, her small body cradled against his chest. He imagined the way she might yawn or squirm, the way her tiny hand might reach out to him. The thought brought a tightness to his throat, an unfamiliar ache that he didn’t quite know how to name. And then there was you—your face, your voice, your presence that haunted him even now. He wanted to hold you both, to keep two of you safe, to rewrite the chaos of the past months into something that resembled a future.

When the song ended, Mephisto let out a soft, inquisitive caw, as though asking for approval. Sylus opened his eyes, his expression unreadable as he stared at the bird. “Not bad,” he said quietly, leaning back in his chair. His fingers picked up the glass of whiskey on the table, but he didn’t take a sip. Instead, he stared out the window at the rain-soaked streets below, the faint echo of the lullaby lingering in his mind.

“You’ll play that for her one day.” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the storm outside.

The town seemed endless, a maze of possibilities where you could be hiding. But no matter how far you ran, no matter how well you thought you’d covered your tracks, Sylus was certain of one thing.

He would find you. And when he did, he would never let you go again.

Mephisto perched on the desk, his glowing eyes watching Sylus intently, as though he understood the weight of those words.

The knock at the door was sharp and insistent, pulling Sylus from his thoughts. He set his glass of whiskey down and glanced toward the door, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Enter," he called, his voice calm yet commanding.

The door creaked open to reveal Kieran, his bird-like mask slightly askew as he stepped inside. His chest heaved, and his breathing was uneven, as though he’d just run a great distance. Even in the dim light of the room, the excitement radiating off him was palpable.

“Boss!” Kieran said, his voice breathless yet eager. “We have a lead.”

Sylus straightened in his chair, his fingers idly brushing against the edge of the desk. “Go on,” he said, his tone smooth but tinged with a subtle urgency.

Kieran stepped further into the room, practically vibrating with excitement. “There’s a diner nearby,” he began, barely able to contain himself. “One of the women who worked there mentioned something about a pregnant girl staying at a farmhouse to her brother. She let it slip during a conversation, but when we tried to press her for more information, she clammed up. Seemed…very hush-hush about it all of a sudden. Too suspicious to ignore.”

Sylus’s eyes sharpened, and for the first time in days, a genuine smile curved across his lips. Relief flooded his chest, spreading through him like a long-awaited balm to his fraying patience. Finally. There was no way this was a coincidence. A pregnant girl hiding in a farmhouse? It had to be you.

His fingers tightened slightly on the desk, the faintest tremor of anticipation running through him. “You’re certain?” he asked, though the answer was already evident in Kieran’s confident posture.

Kieran nodded vigorously. “I am, boss. It lines up. The woman wouldn’t give up anything else, but it’s clear she’s hiding something. We’ve got her cornered, and I can lead you there.”

Sylus leaned back in his chair, his mind already racing. He’d known it was only a matter of time before things went his way, and now the opportunity was finally within reach. His earlier frustrations melted away, replaced by a razor-sharp focus.

“Good work,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of approval. “Make sure the car is ready. I’ll be down shortly.”

Kieran gave a quick nod, his eagerness evident in the way he all but dashed out of the room to carry out the order.

Sylus stood, rolling his shoulders as he glanced toward the desk where Mephisto perched, watching him with his glowing red eyes. “Looks like the waiting game is over,” he murmured, straightening his jacket as he moved toward the door. His steps were deliberate, every movement exuding purpose.

As he left the room, the storm outside seemed to intensify, the rain lashing against the windows as if mirroring his growing anticipation. Soon, he would have you back. And this time, there would be no escape.

Sylus pushed open the diner’s door, the small bell overhead jingling softly as he stepped inside. The warm scent of frying bacon and stale coffee wafted through the air, but his focus was immediately drawn to the scene at the counter. One of his men was interrogating a middle-aged woman, her face flushed with irritation as she gestured emphatically.

“I’m telling you, it was just a slip of the tongue! She’s my niece, not some random!” the woman barked, crossing her arms defiantly. Her voice carried a sharp edge, and her posture screamed exasperation. Her tirade paused momentarily as she heard the door chime, her sharp eyes narrowing as Sylus stepped inside.

“Oh, great! There’s more of ya! Your buddy’s already bothering my customers—now you’ve brought reinforcements?” she snapped, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Just leave! For crying out loud.”

Sylus adjusted his jacket and calmly made his way to a nearby booth, his movements measured and unbothered by her hostility. Sliding into the vinyl seat, he clasped his hands together and leaned forward slightly, his crimson eyes fixed on her. The intensity in his gaze was softened only by the faint smile curling his lips, though it was far from reassuring.

“We don’t wish to interrupt your business, ma’am,” he said smoothly, his tone polite but carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of authority. “But you see, the woman we’re looking for is of great importance to me. Your cooperation would be…appreciated.”

Sylus gave a brief description of your features and what you were last wearing, but she simply rolled her eyes.

The woman, who seemed unfazed by his imposing presence, raised an eyebrow and snorted. “First of all, my name’s not ‘ma’am.’ It’s Clara. Get it right. And second, I don’t gotta tell you or your goons a damn thing,” she said, taking a deliberate drag of her cigarette. Her defiance was palpable, her demeanor unshaken despite the clear tension in the room.

Sylus studied her for a moment, his expression unchanging. Her stubbornness was mildly amusing, and he allowed a soft chuckle to escape his lips. She was a tough one, that much was clear. Still, he doubted she’d been much trouble if you truly were under her care. He leaned back in the booth, his gaze cool and calculating.

“I understand,” he said evenly. “This must be stressful for you. However, I’d like to propose a deal. Fifty thousand in cash for any information on the woman we’re seeking.” His voice remained calm, almost casual, as though he were suggesting an innocuous business arrangement rather than attempting to buy her out.

"Given immediately of course."

Clara’s eyes narrowed, and she planted her hands firmly on the counter, leaning toward him. “Who do you take me for?” she snapped, her voice rising. “That’s my niece! I’m not about to sell her out to some weirdo with a fancy suit and a gang of lackeys. God knows what you’re planning!”

“Go ahead. Try to wave your money around somewhere else. Ain’t gonna work here, buddy!”

Before Sylus could respond, Clara punctuated her anger by spitting at his feet. The wad of saliva landed just inches from the polished leather of his shoes, a wet splatter against the worn linoleum floor. The sound seemed louder than it should have been in the now-silent diner. Every eye in the room shifted between Clara and Sylus, waiting, tense with anticipation, for what would happen next.

Sylus’s gaze lowered, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the spot where her spit had landed. The movement was slow, deliberate, the kind of motion that made it clear he wasn’t ignoring the insult—he was acknowledging it. Time seemed to stretch unbearably as he remained still, staring at the ground as if weighing his response. The air felt charged, oppressive, like the moment before a storm.

When he finally looked up, his expression was unreadable, his sharp features calm yet dangerous. Clara met his gaze head-on, her chin raised defiantly, her body language radiating a kind of reckless bravery. She’d made her point, and she wasn’t backing down, but even so, the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her nerves.

Sylus tilted his head ever so slightly, a faint, unsettling smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The contrast between his calm demeanor and the oppressive weight of his presence was enough to make a few customers shift uncomfortably in their seats.

“This is…” he began, his voice smooth as velvet, yet laced with something sharp and dangerous, “rather disappointing.”

The simplicity of the statement carried an unsettling finality, as though he were speaking to a child who had failed to meet his expectations rather than a woman who had just spit at him. He straightened to his full height, towering over Clara and everyone else in the room, and began brushing off his jacket with slow, deliberate movements. The gesture was almost casual, but there was a precision to it, a hint of control that was impossible to ignore.

“But I understand,” he continued, his tone calm, measured, and far too composed given the circumstances. His eyes flicked over Clara, taking in every detail of her stance, her expression, the subtle quiver in her jaw that she likely thought she’d hidden well. “Loyalty is…admirable.”

He let the words linger in the air, his voice softening slightly as if offering her a compliment. But the underlying menace in his tone was unmistakable, and everyone in the room felt it. Clara’s expression didn’t waver, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed her eyes for the briefest of moments.

Sylus stepped back, his hands sliding into his pockets with a grace that belied the simmering tension beneath the surface. “It’s a rare quality these days,” he added, his gaze never leaving Clara’s. “But rare qualities often come at a cost, don’t they?”

The room was suffocatingly quiet as Sylus turned on his heel, his movements fluid and unhurried. He strode toward the door, the sound of his polished shoes against the linoleum floor echoing in the silence. His men followed closely, their sharp eyes flicking between Clara and their boss, but none of them spoke.

Clara stood rooted to the spot, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw clenched. She didn’t say another word as Sylus reached the door, but her eyes burned with a mixture of defiance and unease. The other diners and customers watched the scene unfold with bated breath, their gazes darting between Clara and the imposing man who had just been so casually insulted.

As Sylus reached the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder with a faint smirk. “Enjoy your evening, Clara. It’s a nice little diner you have here.” His tone was polite, almost conversational, but there was an unmistakable edge to his words—a quiet promise that this wasn’t over.

He motioned for his men to follow, and they did so without hesitation, their heavy boots echoing against the diner’s tiled floor. The room remained silent as the group exited, the bell on the door jingling faintly as it swung shut behind them.

Clara remained where she was, her arms still crossed, her jaw tight as her brother approached her cautiously.

“You think that was smart?” he muttered, his voice low but tinged with worry. “Spittin at a guy like that?”

“He needed to know I don’t scare easy,” Clara snapped, though her voice wasn’t as steady as she would’ve liked. She reached for another cigarette, her fingers trembling slightly as she lit it. “And I don’t regret it.”

Her brother glanced toward the door, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t know, Clara… Something about him. He’s not like the usual riffraff that comes around here.”

“Let him try something,” she said stubbornly, exhaling a puff of smoke. “I’m not scared of men like him. I dealt with those kind of men before".

Outside, the rain poured steadily, drenching the streets and forming shallow puddles on the cracked asphalt. Sylus stopped just short of the car, his gaze fixed on the neon lights of the diner sign reflected in the water. His calm demeanor had not wavered, but there was a simmering intensity in his eyes that his men knew better than to question.

“Keep an eye on her,” Sylus said, his voice low but commanding. “I'll have Mephisto tracking her every move. And you two…” He turned his gaze to Luke and Kieran, who stood at attention despite the rain soaking their suits. “Do a deep dive on everything you can find about this…Clara. Where she lives, who she associates with, what her connections are. Be prepared for anything.”

“Yes, boss!” they replied in unison, nodding behind their bird masks.

Sylus finally slid into the car, his fingers drumming against his knee as he stared out at the rain-slicked streets. They were closing in, he could feel it. You weren’t far now, and Clara’s defiance wouldn’t change the inevitable.

Sylus sat in the plush armchair of his hotel suite, his gaze fixed on the rain streaking down the window. His fingers traced the edge of his glass absently, the remnants of whiskey untouched. The room was dimly lit, quiet except for the soft crackle of the record spinning in the corner—a slow, haunting melody that only amplified the weight in his chest.

He had spent days combing through every scrap of evidence, piecing together your trail. Tailing Clara had proven to be lackluster so far, she hadn't even left town yet. Though the twins had dug up some very interesting information on her. Mephisto, despite scouring the skies once more, had failed to catch sight of you. You definitely weren't in town anymore.

His men were following faint whispers and dead ends. He had instructed them to monitor every hospital in a 100 mile radius for any recent recorded births of newborn girls. But every hour that passed without progress was like a tightening noose, and yet he refused to show it. Composure was his weapon, his armor. But even he couldn’t ignore the ache growing in his chest.

You were out there, somewhere. Alone. Pregnant.

Sylus exhaled slowly, setting his glass down on the table with more force than he intended. A faint crack spread through the delicate crystal, but he ignored it. He had cracked a bunch of glasses so far out of pure frustration. His focus was on the desk before him—a small array of equipment spread out meticulously. Tapping into landlines in a radius as outdated as Brunswick hadn’t been difficult, but it had been tedious. He had been listening for hours, catching only irrelevant snippets of conversations. Most people had moved on to cell phones, but he had banked on the idea that you, in a remote farmhouse, might rely on older means of communication.

Then, he finally heard it.

“Ah, hello! Sorry to bother, but my chest really hurts. Do you think you could—”

His breath hitched, sharp and immediate, his entire body going still as the familiar sound of your voice filled the room. For a moment, he thought he had imagined it, that his mind had conjured your voice to taunt him in his desperation. But no, it was you. Your tone carried a trembling edge of discomfort, the exact cadence of your words unmistakable. Sylus’s hand tightened around the phone receiver, his knuckles whitening. A flicker of relief—raw and unguarded—shot through him, mingling with an almost overwhelming ache.

You were alive. You were speaking. And for the first time in days, you weren’t just a figure on a screen or a phantom in his thoughts.

He barely registered the next words coming out of his mouth, his voice soft yet urgent, as though afraid you might disappear if he spoke too loudly. “Your chest?” he interrupted, the sharp edge of his concern cutting through the air. “What’s wrong, kitten?”

He could imagine you now, frozen on the other end of the line, your shock palpable even through the silence. He closed his eyes for a fleeting second, relief washing over him again—but it wasn’t enough to soothe the simmering tension in his chest. You weren’t safe, you weren’t with him, and the sound of your voice only made the ache sharper.

The silence stretched, the faint static of the landline filling the gap, and his grip on the receiver tightened. “Cat got your tongue?” he asked again, his tone gentler now but tinged with an unmistakable vulnerability. Despite himself, a flicker of longing crept into his voice, betraying the iron-clad control he so carefully maintained.

And then your response came, sharp and venomous, cutting through the moment like a blade. “Leave me the fuck alone!” you snapped, your voice trembling with rage. “I swear to God, if you come near me—”

“Now, now,” he interjected smoothly, forcing his voice to remain calm even as your anger formed a greater ache in his heart. He leaned back in his chair, his free hand coming up to rub at the tightness forming at his temple. “Don’t yell. It’s not good for your heart.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his mind racing to piece together the fragile moment. “I’m just calling to see how you’re doing. It seems you’ve hidden in a place even I can’t find. You could make this easy and just tell me where you are, sweetie. I’m worried.”

Worried. The word hung in the air, heavy with meaning. He meant it more than he cared to admit, but he could already hear the scoff building in your chest.

“Ha!” you spat, disbelief and fury dripping from your tone. “As if…why would I willingly throw myself into another one of your punishments?”

The accusation hit harder than he expected, though he masked it well. His jaw tightened, his mind replaying every moment that had led to this. Did you truly believe that’s what he wanted? His fingers flexed against the phone, his voice softening as he leaned forward again.

“Honey,” he said, his tone a rare blend of tenderness and exasperation. “Do you honestly think I’m going to punish you? I just want you to be safe. You’re about to give birth, and you running away doesn’t anger me. I only care about you and our daughter.”

He paused, the weight of his own words settling over him. He could hear your unsteady breathing on the other end, could picture you clutching the phone with trembling hands. The thought made his chest tighten further. He wanted to reach through the line, to hold you, to convince you that you didn’t have to keep running. That you never had to run in the first place.

“No,” you said coldly, your voice sharp and unyielding. “If you really cared, you’d leave me alone.”

Sylus didn’t respond immediately. The line crackled faintly with static, but he could still hear the rhythm of your breathing on the other end, shallow and uneven. It was a sound that tightened something deep in his chest, an ache he couldn’t quite suppress. He exhaled slowly, his grip on the receiver firm but controlled. Even from miles away, he could feel your defiance—your fury. He admired it, in a way, even as it frustrated him.

“I can’t do that,” he said at last, his voice soft but resolute. “You’re mine, kitten. I’ll always come for you.”

The words hung in the air, their weight unmistakable, and Sylus knew they would provoke you. He braced himself, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips despite the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

“You fucking basta—”

“I just want to know if you’re taking care of yourself,” Sylus cut in smoothly, his tone gentle yet unshakable. He shifted in his chair, his crimson eyes fixed on the window as he spoke. “Landlines are a lot harder to track, y’know. If it makes you feel better, I don’t have your location, so don’t panic or get yourself worked up. I just know a few tricks…and happened to get lucky.”

Lucky. The word was carefully chosen, designed to downplay the extent of his efforts to reach you. It wasn’t entirely true—he had poured countless hours into chasing this faint lead—but he didn’t want you spiraling. Not yet. Not until he had you back where you belonged. He let the silence stretch, listening intently for your response, hoping for something—anything—that would tell him you weren’t hurting yourself out of stubborn pride.

Then he broke the silence again, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “Are you eating? How’s the baby?”

The question was simple, but the act of asking it stirred something raw within him. He pictured you, clutching your belly, maybe curled up on some cold floor without food or warmth. His chest tightened at the thought. The baby. His baby. He wanted to believe you were keeping yourself safe for her sake, but your defiance worried him. How far would you go to prove a point? Would you risk your own health just to spite him?

He leaned forward, his elbow resting on his knee, his free hand brushing through his hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this…powerless. Every fiber of his being was wired for control, but right now, the only thing he could do was keep you on the phone. Convince you to listen. Convince you to trust him, just enough to keep yourself alive until he could find you.

“Fuck you,” you spat, your voice breaking under the weight of your emotions. “I’m alive, aren’t I? That’s all you care about, right?”

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose. “That’s not true,” he said, his voice quieter now, carrying an uncharacteristic gentleness. “I care about more than that. I care about you.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating, your skepticism tangible even without words. He could feel the barrier you had put up, the walls he had driven you to build, and the thought clawed at him. Was this his fault? No, he told himself. He had done what was necessary. He had protected you, even if you didn’t see it that way.

“You don’t get to do this,” you said, quieter now but no less sharp. “You don’t get to act like you care after everything you’ve done. Just…leave me alone.”

“I already said I can’t do that, kitten,” Sylus replied, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. “You know I can’t. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Well, I am,” you snapped, the fire back in your voice. “Now stop calling me.”

There was a long pause. He considered his words carefully, knowing this might be the last time he heard your voice for a while. Finally, he spoke, his tone softer than before. “I won’t call again, if that’s what you want. But you should know…I’ll still be looking. And I will find you. Not to hurt you, but because I want to protect you. To be there for you. You and our daughter.”

Your bitter laugh rang through the line, sharp and cutting. “Protect me? From what? You’re the only threat I need protection from, Sylus.”

The words hit their mark, sharper than any blade, but Sylus didn’t let it show. “Believe what you want,” he said quietly. “But if something happens, call me. Please. You have this number.”

The line went dead. Sylus sat there for a long moment, the silence of the room enveloping him as he set the receiver down. The ache in his chest hadn’t lessened—in fact, it had only grown. You were alive, but you weren’t safe. And until you were back in his arms, he would never stop searching.

Sylus sat back in the dim light of his hotel room, the flicker of the city outside casting long shadows across his face. He tipped his glass back, the sharp burn of whiskey sliding down his throat, but it did little to dull the ache gnawing at his chest. His nerves were raw, his thoughts scattered. No one—no one—had ever driven him to the edge like this. On the outside, his expression was stone-cold, his eyes unyielding, but inside…inside he was a storm of chaos.

He reached for the bottle and poured another glass, his hand steady despite the fire raging in his veins. The memory of your voice on the phone echoed in his mind, a haunting melody he couldn’t shake. The anger in your words, the defiance—it clawed at him, driving him to drink more, to try and calm the madness building inside him.

This Clara woman. The name lingered bitterly on his tongue as he downed the next glass. She had to have you. There was no other explanation. It wasn’t coincidence. It was her meddling that had you hiding, keeping you and the baby away from him. The thought of you, pregnant with his child, under another’s roof—it ignited something feral in him. Clara wasn’t just keeping you from him. She was ruining everything.

But it wasn’t just her that left him seething. It was you. He told himself he wouldn't be angry with you, and he wasn't fully. But god it was frustrated him to his core.

His jaw tightened as he poured yet another glass, the amber liquid rippling under his gaze. How could you leave at a time like this? The thought rattled in his mind like a broken mantra. Throwing yourself into danger—for what? Did he not provide well enough for you? Did he not protect you, give you everything you could possibly need? His hand clenched around the glass so tightly that he was surprised it didn’t crack like the rest.

Was it the hormones? The thought crossed his mind briefly, though it felt like an excuse. He knew he wasn’t a perfect man—far from it—but he hadn’t been that bad, had he? No, there had to be more. Something deeper. Something he hadn’t seen coming.

And yet, even as frustration bubbled under his skin, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about you, about the time you stood before him, declaring your love in front of Xavier. He closed his eyes, and for a brief, fleeting moment, he could feel your lips on his again. Soft, warm, yielding. He had felt the fire in that kiss, the passion. He had felt you give yourself to him, even if just for a moment. And when he’d wrapped his arms around you, it had been more than just possession—it had been triumph.

You chose me, he thought bitterly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. In that moment, nothing else in the world had mattered. Not Xavier, not the lies, not even the inevitability of the situation. You had chosen him, and it had been the purest form of happiness he had ever felt.

But now? Now, you had ripped that happiness from him. You had shattered the illusion. You had run, throwing yourself into danger like some reckless fool. Did you even realize how precarious your situation was? Waving a gun at people in broad daylight, pregnant and vulnerable—it made his blood boil to think of it. You were lucky, so damn lucky, that he’d already paid someone to erase the footage from the bus. If he hadn’t, who knows what kind of situation you might be in right now.

I’m the one cleaning up all your messes. Because I care about you. Because I’m responsible for you.

Anyone else might have laughed at the absurdity of it, but Sylus didn’t find it amusing. He saw the danger in it, the recklessness that could’ve gotten you killed—or worse. He’d paid a small fortune to ensure the footage was erased, scrubbing away any trace of your actions.

Why? Because that’s what he did. He protected you, even from yourself.

No one else in the world would’ve done that for you, and yet, here he was, covering your tracks, cleaning up the fallout of your decisions. It wasn’t out of obligation, no. It was because you were pregnant with his child. Because you were his. And that meant something. It meant everything.

You might have been running, fighting to stay away from him, but Sylus knew the truth. He was the only one who could truly take care of you. Not Clara. Not Xavier. Him. And the fact that you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see that gnawed at him in a way nothing else could.

He rubbed his temples, letting out a low sigh as the thoughts churned in his mind. He had sacrificed so much already, bending his rules, softening his nature, all for you. And yet, here you were, throwing yourself into chaos, dragging his child along with you. Did you even realize what you were doing? How much he was trying for you? For her?

He rubbed his temples harder, his teeth grinding against each other as he tried to rein in his spiraling thoughts. Why did you leave? The question gnawed at him, refusing to let him rest. Did you really not trust him? Was he truly so unbearable in your eyes?

He slammed his glass down on the table, whiskey sloshing over the edges as a low growl escaped his throat. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were supposed to stay. To build a life with him and the baby. To be safe, protected, and adored.

He grabbed the whiskey bottle again, pausing briefly as his mind wandered back to the phone call. The way your voice trembled, the anger and fear laced through it—it wasn’t hatred he had heard. It was pain. Hurt. Exhaustion. And that realization, as much as he hated to admit it, carved a hole through his chest.

No matter how much he wanted to be angry at you for this, no matter how much your defiance infuriated him, Sylus couldn’t shake the truth. He didn’t just want you back because of control. He wanted you because, without you, nothing felt right.

It was himself that he was truly mad at.

You were his anchor in a world that otherwise felt too hollow.

He loved you. What had started as obsession had bloomed into an emotion he never thought was possible for a fiend like him.

And he would have you back, no matter what it took.

You had finally forced yourself to get up, your entire body feeling like it had been run over by a freight train. But you had no choice—your daughter needed you. The umbilical cord still connected the two of you, a fragile and grotesque reminder of the bond you shared, but one that couldn’t remain uncut for long. One of the books you had read, back at the library, had mentioned that leaving it uncut for too long could lead to complications. You clung to that fragment of knowledge like a lifeline, despite how much the words in those books had overwhelmed you at the time.

Careful not to tug on the cord, you steadied yourself as you walked through the bloodied chaos of the farmhouse, scanning frantically for scissors. Each step sent a fresh wave of ache through your legs and abdomen, but you gritted your teeth and pressed on. Your daughter’s cries echoed on your chest, high-pitched and relentless, making your chest tighten with every passing second. You cursed yourself under your breath for being so unprepared. How could you not have scissors? How could you be this careless?

Your search came up empty, and you were out of time. Panic clawed at your throat as you realized you’d have to improvise. You grabbed a knife from the kitchen, its blade duller than you’d have liked but better than nothing. Returning to the couch, you set down your baby, carefully unwrapped the bundle of blankets surrounding her, trying not to jostle her too much. She immediately let out an ear-splitting wail, her tiny face scrunching up as if she could sense your hesitation.

“I’m so sorry,” you murmured, your voice trembling as tears pricked the corners of your eyes. “Just hold on, okay? I’ll be fast, I promise.”

Your hands shook as you positioned the knife against the cord, working slowly and methodically to avoid cutting too close to her delicate belly button—or slicing yourself in the process. Her cries grew louder, piercing your ears, and you felt your stomach churn with guilt and terror. Finally, the knife finally cut through the cord, and the severed piece fell to the floor. You pulled the other end out of you. Relief washed over you like a wave, and you exhaled shakily, wiping the sweat from your brow.

But the relief was short-lived. Your daughter continued to scream on the couch, her tiny fists flailing as her cries filled the room. The sound was unbearable, each shrill wail slicing through your nerves and making your heart pound harder in your chest. You froze, staring at her with wide, panicked eyes.

What do I do next!?

Your mind was a foggy mess, every thought tripping over itself in a jumbled cacophony. The books didn’t prepare you for this. Nothing did.

The placenta! Right. The placenta was supposed to come too, wasn’t it? But…how to get it out? Had it detached already? Wasn’t that supposed to happen naturally? Or did you have to do something? Your daze deepened, and for a moment, all you could hear was the sound of her crying and the rush of your own panicked thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, your voice breaking as tears slipped down your cheeks. You bent down and scooped her up into your arms, cradling her against your chest. “I’m such an idiot. You’re cold. I’m so sorry.”

You rushed toward the bathroom, your feet slipping slightly on the blood-streaked floor. Your whole body was trembling, and you tried to push the thought of how much blood you were losing out of your mind. None of it mattered—not the mess, not the pain, not the dizziness threatening to topple you over. The only thing that mattered was keeping her safe, keeping her warm.

Reaching the bathroom, you stumbled toward the sink, fumbling to turn on the tap. Warm water poured out, and you carefully tested it with your fingers before holding your daughter closer. She was still wailing, her little face strained and scrunched, her tiny body trembling. You could see that she was smeared in fluids and blood, her delicate skin slick and sticky. You didn’t even have proper baby soap—just an old bar of mild hand soap sitting in a dish on the counter.

“I’ll make this quick,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Gingerly, you eased her into the sink, supporting her head and neck with one hand while your other hand gently rinsed her off. Her cries didn’t stop, but they softened slightly as the warm water cascaded over her tiny body. You worked as quickly and carefully as you could, washing away the mess and trying to keep her warm. Your movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, your exhaustion making it hard to focus. But somehow, you managed to clean her up, wrapping her tightly in a fresh towel as soon as you were done.

You sank to the bathroom floor, clutching her against your chest as your tears fell freely now. She had stopped crying, her little whimpers the only sound in the room. You held her close, rocking her gently as you tried to catch your breath. The enormity of what had just happened began to sink in, and for the first time since she was born, you let yourself feel the weight of it all.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whispered to her, your voice shaky and raw. “But I promise, I’ll try. I’ll keep you safe, no matter what.”

Your daughter let out a tiny, almost contented sigh, her head resting against your chest. It was enough to make you believe, if only for a moment, that maybe—just maybe—you could do this.

The feeling of calm was very short-lived.

As you scoured the bedroom for the baby clothes and diapers Clara had so thoughtfully left for you, your daughter began to whine. At first, it was just a small noise, barely a fuss, as she squirmed against your chest. You tried to ignore it, assuming she was just getting used to her new environment. But the whining didn’t stop. It quickly grew into a louder cry, her little face scrunching up as her mouth opened wide in protest.

“What now?” you muttered, panicked, as you gently laid her on the bed. Her tiny hands balled into fists, her little legs kicking in frustration. You saw her sucking on her hand—a cute gesture at first—but it did nothing to calm her cries.

“Okay, okay, let’s get you dressed first. You’ll be warm, and then…I’ll figure it out,” you said, your voice trembling as you rummaged through the small pile of baby clothes and diapers. They were plain and white diapers, free of patterns or labels to distinguish sizes, leaving you to just grab the first onesie and diaper your hands touched. You spread them out on the bed, eyeing them like they were some kind of puzzle.

“Front? Back?” You turned the diaper over twice, squinting at it before settling on a side and hoping for the best. “This has to be right.”

Your daughter’s cries grew louder, and you felt a pang of guilt twist in your chest. Were you taking too long? Were you already failing her? “I’m going as fast as I can,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to her, as you carefully picked up her wriggling form. “It’s okay, baby girl. This will be warm. You want to be warm, don’t you?”

You tried to keep your voice calm and soothing, but it wavered as tears pricked at the edges of your eyes. With shaky hands, you lifted her to get her diaper on, and guided her tiny arms into the sleeves of the onesie, wincing every time she let out a sharp wail. She wailed with every little movement, her face reddening as if the whole process was an unbearable ordeal. You paused, staring at her tear-streaked face, and wondered if you were hurting her. Were you being too rough? Did babies cry this much all the time, or were you already screwing up?

Tears began to spill down your cheeks as your shaking hands snapped the buttons of the onesie closed. “It’s okay, sweet girl. Mommy’s trying her best. I promise, I’m trying,” you whimpered, wiping your tears so you could see what you were doing. “You’re warm now, see? That’s better, right?”

But it wasn’t. The moment you lifted her back into your arms, she started screaming even louder, her tiny lungs producing a sound far bigger than her little body should have been capable of. You rocked her gently, pacing back and forth in the room, bouncing her as you’d seen mothers do in movies. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. Mommy’s here,” you whispered, though the tears in your voice made the words sound hollow. Her cries didn’t cease.

“Waaaah! Waaaaah!”

You felt helpless, completely lost. The weight of the moment pressed down on you like a crushing wave, and for the first time since you’d held your daughter, the overwhelming sense of failure hit you square in the chest. Tears streamed down your cheeks as her cries only grew louder, shriller, piercing through what little resolve you had left. You clutched her to your chest, rocking her frantically, trying to do something—anything—to soothe her.

“I don’t know what to do,” you sobbed, your voice trembling with desperation. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

She didn’t calm. Her tiny body wriggled in your arms, her face red and scrunched in frustration, and all you could do was hold her tighter. You whispered apologies into her soft hair, hoping somehow the sound of your voice would ease her, but it didn’t. Nothing did.

As you paced the room, your foot hit something on the floor, making you stumble slightly. You gasped, clutching your daughter tighter to your chest as your eyes darted downward. There, near your feet, was a bottle—small, clear, rolling slightly from the impact. It must’ve fallen out of the cabinet earlier, completely overlooked in your frantic search for supplies. You stared at it, realization dawning slowly.

“Oh my God…” you breathed, your voice hitching in relief. A small, tearful laugh escaped your lips as you looked down at your still-screaming daughter. “Mommy’s such an idiot, huh? You’re hungry. Of course. You’re hungry.”

Setting the bottle down on the bed for a moment, you sat on the edge, still clutching your daughter to your chest. She hadn’t stopped crying, her tiny fists still flailing, her legs kicking out against your arms. You stared down at her face—red and streaked with tears—and felt your chest tighten. She was so small, so delicate, so utterly dependent on you. And you…you didn’t know what you were doing.

“I’m sorry, baby. Let’s try this, okay? I’m new at this too,” you whispered, your voice shaky as you pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. You hesitated for a moment, your mind flashing back to the books you’d read. They’d said breastfeeding was natural, instinctual, something your body and your baby would know how to do without being taught. But as you looked at her, squirming and wailing in your arms, a wave of doubt washed over you. What if they were wrong? What if you couldn’t do this? What if she couldn’t? Was there even enough milk for her? Would you fail at this, too?

Your hands trembled as you adjusted your shirt, exposing your breast. The cool air against your skin made you shiver, but the feeling was quickly drowned out by the overwhelming pressure of the moment. You tried to guide her tiny mouth to latch, but her cries didn’t let up. If anything, she seemed even more frustrated, turning her head away and squirming against your hold. Her little fists pounded against your chest, her movements wild and uncoordinated.

“Waaaah! Waaaah!” Her cries pierced through you, sharp and unforgiving, like daggers to your already fragile nerves. You bit your lip, trying to keep from sobbing again. The last thing she needed was for you to completely fall apart.

“Shh, shh. Please, sweetheart, just try,” you murmured, your voice breaking as you stroked her soft cheek with your thumb. “I’m so sorry, I’m not good at this. I’ll get better, I promise. Just…just give me a chance.”

You adjusted her position, angling her tiny body the way the books had described, but every time you thought you were close, she turned her head or whimpered louder. Frustration bubbled up in your chest, not at her, but at yourself. How could you not know how to do this? You were her mother. This was supposed to come naturally, wasn’t it? Wasn’t this what your body was meant to do?

“I’m trying,” you whispered, your tears dripping onto her blanket as you rocked her gently. “Please, baby girl. Please just try for me.”

It felt like an eternity—an endless cycle of adjusting, soothing, repositioning—until finally, she latched. You froze, your breath catching as you felt the slight pull and the soft, rhythmic motions of her mouth. Relief flooded through you so quickly it made your head spin, and you gasped, a shaky laugh escaping your lips.

“There you go,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re doing so good, baby girl. That’s it.”

Her cries faded into quiet, contented gulps as she suckled, her little hands still curled into fists against your chest. You stared down at her, tears still slipping down your cheeks, but now they weren’t just from frustration. They were from relief, from awe, from the overwhelming realization that, somehow, you’d done it. She was feeding. She was okay.

The room fell into a fragile silence, broken only by her small, hungry gulps and the occasional hitch in your breath as you calmed yourself. You stared down at her, her tiny body curled against yours, and despite the overwhelming fear and exhaustion, you felt a small flicker of hope.

Your heart ached as you watched her, her tiny body nestled against yours. You’d never felt so raw, so vulnerable, so utterly exposed. You didn’t feel like a perfect mother—you didn’t even feel like a good one. But you were all she had at that moment, and you were never one to not give something your all.

You couldn’t believe how long she fed. Was this normal? Surely newborns didn’t eat this much, right? You tried to remember the books you’d read, flipping through the mental pages like a frantic librarian. They’d said to let her nurse for a minute or two, then burp her. Even though breastfed babies didn’t need to be burped as often, you wanted to be thorough, to make sure you were doing everything right. She deserved that much after your rocky start.

When you noticed the absence of pulling, you looked down. Her tiny mouth was still latched, but her eyes were closed, and her breaths were soft and even. She was fast asleep, her belly clearly full from milk. Relief washed over you, but it was accompanied by a crushing wave of guilt.

Her face was still slightly strained from crying, her little cheeks blotchy and swollen. The sight tugged at your heartstrings, and you felt shame creep into your chest. How had it taken you so long to realize she was hungry? Of course, a newborn would be starving after being born into the world. You sighed, feeling the weight of your failure settle into your shoulders. “I’m sorry,” you whispered softly.

Leaning down, you placed a small, awkward kiss on her tiny forehead. It felt...correct. Not overwhelming, not like the magical, joyful moment you’d read about in books or seen in movies. But correct. You were still in shock, your mind barely able to process everything that had happened in the last several hours, but this—holding her, caring for her—was something you could hold onto. Something to do. Something that made the chaos a little more bearable.

Carefully, you adjusted your shirt, covering your breast again, and slowly stood. Your legs still felt weak, trembling slightly as you shifted your weight. You held her close, making your way toward the crib Clara had set up for her. Each step felt like an exercise in precision, your body tense with the fear of waking her. When you reached the crib, you hesitated, your nerves making your hands tremble as you lowered her into the soft bedding.

She twitched a little, her tiny limbs flailing for a moment before settling again. Her breaths came out in soft, rhythmic sighs, and you found yourself standing there, just listening to the sound. It was oddly calming, like a reminder that for now, she was okay. You took a step back, then another, your eyes never leaving her tiny form until you were out of the room.

Once the door clicked shut behind you, the reality of everything came crashing back. You glanced around the house and felt a lump form in your throat. The place was a mess. Blood splattered across the floor, streaks dried and crusted in places where you’d stumbled earlier. The broken window from the Sawshredder let in a faint chill, and glass shards glittered under the pale moonlight streaming through the gap. You exhaled shakily. There was so much to do, and your body ached from head to toe.

You shuffled into the bathroom, your legs heavy and unsteady, and climbed into the tub. The warm water hit your skin, and you hissed at the sting as it washed over the raw, tender areas. You winced as you began to scrub away the layers of dried blood and fluids. It was everywhere—your thighs, your legs, and even had dripped to your ankles. The metallic smell lingered, even as the water ran pink and swirled down the drain.

As you cleaned yourself, your mind wandered. Had you torn? You weren’t sure. You weren’t about to check yourself, either. You found some pads and doubled them up, making a makeshift diaper of sorts along with some underwear. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. You grimaced as you moved, every slight motion sending a dull ache through your abdomen and lower back.

You even managed to get the placenta out. How you did so? You didn't want to think about it anymore. The whole process had been...uncomfortable. Thank god for those books though.

You stepped out of the tub, pulling on a loose shirt and Clara’s oversized sweatpants. They hung low on your hips, but at least they were clean. That was more than you could say for the rest of the house.

Dragging yourself back into the main room, you surveyed the carnage. The blood smears on the floor, the glass from the shattered window, the umbilical cord still lying forgotten in a corner. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move. You couldn’t leave it like this—not with her here. Clara certainly shouldn't have to come back to this mess.

Grabbing an old towel and some cleaning supplies, you knelt down and began to scrub the bloodstains. The dried patches took more effort, and each swipe sent a sharp reminder of how sore your body was. You muttered under your breath as you worked, cursing yourself for not being more prepared, for not having someone here to help. “This is what I wanted, though, right?” you said bitterly to no one. “Freedom. To do this on my own.”

When the stains were finally gone, you turned your attention to the broken window. The jagged edges of glass glinted like teeth, and you carefully picked up the larger shards, tossing them into the trash. You’d have to board it up with something. You couldn’t risk her getting cold—or worse, another attack.

Finally, you grabbed the umbilical cord and placenta, wrapping them in an old plastic bag. It felt wrong, disrespectful somehow, to just throw them away like trash, but what else could you do? The thought made your stomach churn, but you forced yourself to move, tying the bag tightly before tossing it outside in the bin.

By the time you finished, you were utterly spent. Every muscle in your body screamed in protest as you collapsed onto your bed. You closed your eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. Your mind wouldn’t let you rest. You thought of her tiny cries, the feel of her soft skin, the weight of her in your arms. She was here. She was real. And she depended on you for everything.

No pressure, right?

You were jolted awake by the sharp, piercing cries that had become all too familiar. Every hour. Nonstop. Was this the seventh time? Eighth? You had lost count somewhere in the haze of sleeplessness, your body and mind running on fumes. The world felt like it was spinning as you staggered toward the crib, groggy and heavy-limbed, clutching onto the faint light of determination to keep moving.

The cries grew louder as you approached. “Waaah! Waaah!” she wailed, her tiny fists flailing as she suckled furiously on one of them. You had come to recognize this as her hunger cue—a useful tell, sure, but it didn’t make the constant crying and relentless lack of sleep any easier to bear.

“Please…” you whined softly, your voice barely audible over her cries. “Just sleep…a little longer…for mommy, okay?” But you already knew it was futile. She wasn’t going to stop. The second you picked her up, she quieted just a fraction, her little body curling into you instinctively.

Your head throbbed, and every muscle in your body protested as you shuffled back to the bed, sinking into the mattress like a dead weight. As much as you cared for her, you had never felt more unnerved in your life. Her cries sent a shot of adrenaline through you every single time, as if something inside your brain had rewired itself to panic at the sound. You felt like a marionette on strings, moving automatically, barely able to think beyond her immediate needs.

You adjusted your shirt and guided her to latch, wincing at the familiar sting as she began to feed. Her tiny mouth worked hungrily, her desperate noises quieting into soft, rhythmic gulps. “There… you’re okay now,” you whispered, trying to soothe her even as your voice trembled with exhaustion.

Your tired mind began to wander, the lull of the moment allowing intrusive thoughts to creep in. Despite yourself, you thought of Sylus. He should be doing this, not you. This was his idea, his plan, his twisted way of controlling your life. He should be the one awake every hour, running on no sleep, dealing with the endless cycle of feeding, crying, and cleaning.

The thought made your chest tighten, and you quickly shook your head, trying to push it away. Sylus was the last person who should be near her right now. He was dangerous, suffocating. She deserved better than that. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t fully banish the image of him from your mind. His voice still echoed there, his gentle words from the phone call playing on a loop.

“Are you eating? How’s the baby?”

You scowled, clenching your jaw as you rocked your daughter gently in your arms. You didn’t want to think about him, didn’t want him to have any more space in your head. But the exhaustion was wearing down your defenses, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you wondered what he was doing now. Was he still looking for you? Of course, he was. Sylus never gave up on anything, especially not you.

Your thoughts shifted to Clara. Maybe you should call her? She had said to reach out if you needed anything, and you knew you could use some help. But the memory of that last phone call with Sylus stopped you cold. What if he answered again? He had promised not to do it again, but Sylus and promises didn’t exactly go hand in hand. The risk felt too great, the possibility of hearing his voice again too unnerving.

You sighed, closing your eyes as your daughter’s feeding slowed. She began to doze off against your chest, her tiny body warm and soft in your arms. For a moment, you just sat there, holding her, feeling the weight of her tiny life against you. It was overwhelming. Terrifying. Beautiful. And utterly exhausting.

“We got this, don't we?” you whispered softly, brushing a finger over her delicate cheek. She didn’t stir, her little mouth slightly open now as she drifted into a deep sleep.

As much as you wanted to join her, you knew the moment you set her down in the crib, she’d start crying again. It was only a matter of time. You looked down at her peaceful face, your chest tightening with a mixture of adoration and guilt. You felt like you were drowning, and yet, she was the only thing keeping you afloat.

The hours stretched endlessly ahead, and you had no idea how you were going to make it through the night. But for now, in this fleeting moment of quiet, you just held her close, trying to push away the weight of the world. It was just you and her against everything. And you were going to do your best. Somehow.

The morning sun shined through the curtains, casting long, sleepy shadows across the room. You stood at the bedside, eyes heavy with exhaustion, reaching for a fresh diaper. Your body felt as though it had been wrung dry, every muscle aching from a night of no sleep and constant cries. It must have been the seventh time she’d woken up—was it the eighth? You didn’t know anymore. The hours had blurred into each other, leaving you in a daze.

Her whines started up again, soft but insistent, quickly climbing to a full-blown wail. “Waaah! Waaaah!” she cried, tiny fists waving angrily in the air. You let out a tired sigh as you opened the curtains, and then gently picked her up from the crib, her warmth a small comfort against your chilled arms.

The front of your shirt was damp with breastmilk—cold and sticky against your skin, making you shiver. You grimaced, setting her down on the bed and reaching for the diaper. “Okay, baby girl, let’s get this sorted,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. She kicked her little legs in protest as you worked quickly, removing the soaked diaper and replacing it with a fresh one.

You were shocked when she didn’t cry during the change—she wailed at the cold feel of the wipes all last night. But instead of protesting, she blinked sleepily, her tiny mouth forming an “O” as if she were just as exhausted as you were. "You're tired too, huh?" you mumbled, brushing a hand over her impossibly soft hair.

When you finally buttoned her onesie and tossed the old diaper into the trash, she was fast asleep again. Her face, still puffy from crying through the night, seemed impossibly peaceful now. A pang of guilt swelled in your chest. She deserved better.

You glanced at your daughter as she drifted back to sleep in her crib, her tiny body swaddled snugly. Her face was peaceful now, her soft breaths the only sound in the room. The sight should have filled you with warmth, but instead, it left you feeling…disconnected. It was like looking at someone you’d just met—someone you were supposed to love unconditionally but didn’t quite know yet. You cared about her, of course. But was it love? Or just the responsibility of knowing you were the only one she had?

Your shirt clung uncomfortably to your chest, damp and cold from the milk that had leaked during the night. You were freezing, and the stickiness against your skin only added to the discomfort. You needed to change. Quickly checking that your daughter was still asleep, you grabbed a fresh shirt from the bedroom and headed to the bathroom.

In the harsh bathroom light, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The person staring back didn’t feel like you. Dark circles framed your eyes, and your hair was a tangled mess. Your face was strained, drawn tight with exhaustion. You peeled off your soaked shirt, wincing as the cold air hit your skin, and replaced the pads you’d stuffed into your underwear. The ache in your lower body was still there, every step a painful reminder of what you’d gone through. Should you see a doctor? Maybe. But you weren’t bleeding heavily, and nothing felt wrong. At least, not yet. You decided to keep an eye on it, relying on the scraps of medical knowledge you’d picked up over the years.

"It’s fine," you whispered to yourself, your voice hollow. "It’s probably fine."

After changing into a clean shirt, you made your way to the kitchen, determined to eat something. The fridge greeted you with its dim light and meager contents: eggs, bacon, some chicken, a few frozen meals. You hesitated, your body screaming for something quick and easy, but you knew better. If you didn’t eat properly, you’d have no energy—and no milk for your daughter. Gotta eat to produce, right?

You pulled out some eggs and bacon, moving slowly and carefully. Every step felt like a marathon, every movement a test of endurance. Pain throbbed dully in your lower half, but you gritted your teeth and kept going. You’d been through worse. Or so you told yourself.

The sizzle of bacon hitting the pan filled the air, accompanied by the comforting smell of cooking meat. You stirred the eggs absentmindedly, your mind wandering.

How did it come to this? You thought about calling Clara, about asking her if this level of pain and exhaustion was normal. But then you thought about Sylus, about how easily he’d intercepted your last call. Could he do it again? The risk was too great.

You weren't ready to hear his voice again.

Once the food was ready, you sat at the small table, the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon steaming before you. You picked at the food slowly, your appetite dulled by fatigue. The thought of Sylus lingered in the back of your mind, gnawing at you. He should be the one doing this. He should be the one pacing back and forth at night, rocking a crying baby, trying to figure out how to soothe her. This was his idea, after all. His child. His responsibility.

But no. You shook the thought away, focusing on your meal. You reminded yourself that you could do this alone. You’d take it one day at a time. That’s all you could do.

As you scrubbed the last plate in the sink, the warm morning sun streamed through the window, casting soft golden light across the kitchen. The peaceful moment didn’t last long, though, as the sharp, familiar cry broke the stillness. You froze for a second, the sound sending an almost Pavlovian jolt of adrenaline through your body. Feeding time. Again. Of course.

You felt like your existence had been reduced to that of a milking machine.

You dried your hands on a nearby towel, walking toward the bedroom where your daughter’s wails were quickly escalating. It was like a bell tolling, one you couldn’t ignore no matter how drained you felt. Your heart pounded, the sheer exhaustion of it all threatening to consume you, but you pushed it down. She needed you. That was what mattered.

“Shhh, shhh. I know. You eat so much, huh?” you whispered softly as you picked her up. Her tiny hands flailed, her face red and scrunched in frustration. Settling on the edge of the bed, you adjusted your shirt and prepared to feed her. As soon as she latched, her cries quieted to soft whimpers, and the tension in your chest eased—slightly.

You leaned back, cradling her close, and allowed yourself a brief moment of stillness. As her little lips moved rhythmically, you found yourself studying her closely. Her delicate features were so much like your own, though Sylus’s traits were undeniable. It hit you again how much she looked like him, those tiny hints of him etched into her face like a cruel reminder.

But despite how much she resembled him, you couldn’t help but notice how healthy she appeared overall. Her skin was soft and smooth, her tiny fists full of energy as they flexed and curled. She seemed perfect on the outside. But what about the inside? Did she need a hospital? Could you even risk it?

Your mind spiraled. You couldn’t avoid it forever. If she got sick or needed something you couldn’t provide, you’d have to take her somewhere. Hospitals meant records, though. A birth certificate. Official acknowledgment of her existence. Wouldn’t that make it easier for Sylus to find her? To find you?

The thought of giving her up flickered briefly in your mind, guilt twisting your stomach into knots. It felt horrible, thinking about it. Unforgivable. But the rational part of you knew it wasn’t so simple. How could you protect her if you didn’t even know how to care for her properly? You sighed, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on your chest.

Your free hand moved almost automatically, tracing gentle circles on the top of her head to soothe both her and yourself. Her hair was baby soft, fine wisps that carried that distinct, sweet newborn scent. It calmed you a little, grounding you in the moment. But then your fingers froze.

There was something…hard under her hair. Confused, you pressed lightly, feeling again. Two small, firm spots, spaced apart but evenly placed. What the…?

Your stomach dropped, and you gently pushed her hair aside to get a better look. Nestled in the soft tufts of her hair were two tiny black dots. Hard, like little nubs. Your mind raced. Birth defect? Injury? Something Sylus passed down? You felt panic creeping in, your chest tightening as the possibilities swirled in your head.

Before you could think any further, she let out a piercing wail, yanking your attention back to her. “Oh, yeah, gotta burp you. Your tummy’s full” you cooed, forcing calm into your voice. You lifted her carefully onto your shoulder, patting her back with gentle but firm motions until a tiny burp escaped. But her crying didn’t stop.

“What’s wrong?” you murmured, holding her against your chest. “I fed you, your diaper shouldn’t be full…” But just to be sure, you set her down and checked. Dry as a desert.

Her cries only grew louder, her tiny face scrunching in distress. You felt like you were losing it. Nothing you did seemed to work. You rocked her, bounced her, even tried humming a soft lullaby, but she kept wailing, her little fists waving in the air as if to scold you for not understanding.

Her cries turned into screams, sharp and heart-wrenching. You noticed her tiny eyelids fluttering open, her milky crimson eyes squinting before she shut them tightly again, her face contorting in discomfort. A memory flashed in your mind—Sylus in the car, squinting his eyes from the sun as he had sat next to you.

“Are you…sensitive to light too?” you asked softly, staring down at her as if she’d answer. The thought made your heart ache. She had been in a bright room basically all morning, and you hadn’t even considered it. It made sense, given the rare color of her eyes.

You didn’t waste another second, rushing to the windows and yanking the curtains shut. The room plunged into darkness, the only light coming from faint slivers around the edges of the heavy fabric.

As the room dimmed, her cries began to taper off. Her tiny body relaxed slightly, her fists unclenching as she let out soft, hiccuping sobs. You stared at her in disbelief, the realization hitting you like a freight train.

“Of course…” you whispered, guilt crashing over you in waves. “Of course. I’m so sorry, baby girl.”

You held her close, rocking her gently in the dim light, her soft sniffles the only sound now. How had you not thought of this? You were so overwhelmed, so consumed by everything else, that you hadn’t even realized the most basic thing about her needs. You couldn't help but think of how Sylus would likely have teased you about this if he was here.

"I could've told you that, honey. Don't beat yourself up about it though."

The thought made you scowl.

It was a lot to process, but at least she was calm now. For the first time in what felt like hours, the house was silent except for the soft, steady sound of her breathing.

The baby’s soft, rhythmic breathing in your arms was oddly soothing, a rare calm in the storm of chaos that had defined the past few days. Her tiny weight against your chest anchored you, even as exhaustion gnawed at the edges of your mind. You hadn’t slept properly in what felt like a lifetime, but sitting still wasn’t an option. Maybe moving around would help with the ache in your body. Maybe it would distract you from the relentless thoughts circling your head.

The house was quiet, save for the creaks of the floorboards under your feet and the faint rustle of the wind outside. You passed by the kitchen and paused at the calendar Clara had pinned up on the wall. The dates blurred together in your sleep-deprived haze. How many days had it been? Two? Three?

Your eyes scanned the calendar until they landed on November 1st, the day your life had changed forever. That was when she’d been born. You glanced down at the tiny figure nestled in your arms, her little fist resting against her cheek, her face serene in slumber.

“Happy late birthday,” you whispered, a tired but genuine smile tugging at your lips. “Sorry I didn’t say it then. Y’know...I was going through a lot.”

The absurdity of your own words made you giggle softly, though the sound was tinged with weariness. You continued to sway on your feet, cradling her as the light streaming through the windows shifted. Clara would be visiting soon—tomorrow or the next day. That much you were sure of.

But how were you going to explain everything to her? The broken window, the deep gashes in the walls left behind by the Sawshredder’s claws, the bloodstains you hadn’t quite managed to scrub away entirely? Not to mention the fact that you had given birth to your daughter alone, in the middle of all that chaos. Clara would undoubtedly have questions, and you weren’t sure how many of them you could answer without spiraling into the tangled web of truth and lies you’d been navigating for months.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a sudden twist of pain in your chest, sharp and jarring enough to make you nearly lose your balance. You clutched at your shirt, the ache radiating outward, hot and insistent. It was the same pain as before—your Aethor Core.

Gritting your teeth, you stumbled back into the bedroom and gently laid your daughter in her crib. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her tiny lips parting in a soft sigh. Relieved that she remained asleep, you sank to the floor beside the crib, your knees drawing up to your chest as you pressed a hand over your heart.

Why was this happening again? Was it getting worse? You racked your brain, searching for something, anything, that might ease the pain. But nothing you’d tried so far had worked. Nothing except…

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as the memory of the phone call resurfaced. The pain had almost completely vanished when you heard his voice. The realization sent a chill down your spine. Why? Why did hearing him—the man responsible for so much of your suffering—have such an effect on you?

Your hand curled into a fist against your chest, nails biting into your palm as anger flared alongside the pain. You didn’t want to entertain the idea, didn’t want to even think about him like he was some kind of lifeline. Sylus was not a solution. He wasn’t your salvation. He was the problem.

You didn’t need him. You didn’t need anyone.

And yet, as the pain continued to throb, stubborn and unrelenting, the thought lingered in the back of your mind, unwelcome and insidious. Could it really be that simple? Would hearing his voice again dull the ache, even for a moment?

You shook your head violently, as if the action could physically dislodge the thought from your brain. No. Never. You couldn’t let yourself fall into that trap again. Sylus was not an answer, and he never would be.

Clenching your fists, you focused on your daughter’s steady breathing, the rise and fall of her tiny chest. She was the only thing that mattered now. You would endure the pain if it meant keeping her safe. You would endure anything.

The day passed by in an unremarkable haze, each hour bleeding into the next as you went through the motions of survival. You took naps when you could, brief moments of respite that never truly felt like rest. The cycle was endless: eat, feed the baby, change the baby, rock the baby, sleep. Or try to, at least. It wasn’t much of a life, but it was all you could manage right now.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon and the world outside was cloaked in darkness, you were already bracing yourself for the long night ahead. The endless cries, the frantic feedings, the sheer exhaustion that came with tending to a newborn—it was all expected now, but that didn’t make it any easier. The dread in your chest lingered, a quiet, constant weight that no amount of preparation could lift.

After gently placing her in her crib, you took a moment to change into a clean shirt and swap out the bloody pads that had become a constant reminder of your body’s fragile state. You were sore, raw, and utterly drained, but at least for now, she was asleep. You curled up in the bed, pulling the sheets tight around you, desperate for even a sliver of comfort.

But as soon as your head hit the pillow, your mind began to wander.

You hadn’t named her yet.

The thought gnawed at you, a subtle but persistent ache that had been bubbling beneath the surface since the moment she was born. You’d avoided it, skirting around the issue by calling her "baby girl" or simply "baby." It was easier that way. Safer.

Because naming her made it real, didn’t it? Naming her meant acknowledging the bond that was forming, however slowly. It meant accepting her as more than just a fragile little being you were obligated to care for. It meant letting yourself hope for a future together.

And that was terrifying.

Names had always been a touchy subject for you, and now was no different. What if the name you chose tied her to everything you wanted to leave behind? What if it made it harder to do what might need to be done? Because as much as it broke your heart to think about it, you’d already decided that if giving her up was what was best for her, you’d do it. You’d find her a family who could love her unconditionally, who could give her a life far removed from the chaos of your own.

Maybe then you’d both be free.

Free from the ghosts of the past. Free from the weight of your mistakes. Free from him.

Your chest tightened at the thought, and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing the tears to stay at bay. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. But fairness didn’t matter anymore. Survival did. And if giving her up meant she’d never have to know the horrors of her conception, never have to hear Sylus’s name or see his face…then maybe that was the right choice.

Maybe it was the only choice.

Your lips pressed into a hard line as you rolled onto your side, pulling the blankets tighter around you. The room was quiet now, save for the soft sounds of her breathing from the crib. You told yourself you’d do whatever it took to keep her safe, even if that meant letting her go.

And Sylus? He’d never win. Not this time.

You swallowed hard, your resolve solidifying like stone in your chest. You’d take it one day at a time, one moment at a time. You didn’t have all the answers yet, but you’d figure it out. For her. For both of you.

But as the minutes stretched into hours and the darkness deepened, the weight of everything pressed down on you once more, heavy and unrelenting. You closed your eyes, hoping for sleep but knowing it wouldn’t come easily.

You stirred awake to the faint sound of your daughter whining, her soft cries piercing the stillness of the room. The noise had become familiar by now, but it still sent an automatic jolt of adrenaline through your veins every time. Groaning, you reached for the side of the bed, fumbling for the diapers you had neatly stacked the night before. “I know…I know…Hold on…” you mumbled, your voice thick with exhaustion, the weight of sleepless nights dragging you down.

Just as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, prepared to face another round of late-night parenting, a voice cut through the darkness like a blade.

“There’s no need, kitten. She’s fine. You can lay back down.”

Your blood froze.

That voice. Smooth, low, and impossibly calm, it rooted you to the spot. Your head snapped up, and your breath hitched in your throat as your eyes locked onto a figure standing in the corner of the room. Sylus. He was there, leaning against the shadows like he belonged to them, his tall, commanding presence impossible to miss. His piercing crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, locking onto you with an intensity that made your stomach churn.

But what made your heart truly stop was what he held in his arms. Cradled close against his chest, her tiny form barely visible in the dim light, was your daughter.

“No…” you whispered, the word barely audible as it left your trembling lips. Your hands gripped the sheets so tightly your knuckles lost circulation. “Put her down,” you demanded, your voice growing louder as disbelief and fury collided inside you. “Where did you—how did you even find us?” Your words tumbled out in a frantic rush, your mind reeling.

Sylus tilted his head slightly, his expression calm but unreadable, as though he were studying you. “I said, put her down!” you screamed, the panic in your chest finally boiling over into action.

But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he simply raised a finger to his lips, his voice maddeningly soft. “Shhh,” he said, glancing briefly down at the baby in his arms. “You’ll wake her. She’s fine, honey. Calm down.”

The casualness of his tone, the way he cradled your baby so carefully while acting as if he hadn’t just shattered your entire world, sent a wave of rage so intense through you that it burned away your fear. You lunged forward, ready to rip her away from him, to fight him with everything you had left. “Let her go, you fucking ba—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Mid-step, your body froze. A cold, red mist—dense and otherworldly—snaked around your limbs, locking them in place. It wrapped around your arms, your legs, even your chest, holding you aloft in the air like a puppet suspended on strings. You gasped, struggling against his powerful Evol, but the more you thrashed, the tighter he constricted you, squeezing the air from your lungs.

Your heart thundered as you stared down at Sylus, your panic rising to a fever pitch. His expression was still maddeningly calm, his crimson eyes watching you as if you were nothing more than a storm he had already weathered countless times before. “Stop struggling,” he said coolly, his tone almost bored. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Let me go!” you spat, your voice trembling with fury and fear. “Let her go! She’s not yours—she’s mine!”

Sylus exhaled softly, the faintest hint of amusement curling the corner of his lips. He moved closer to the bed, his every step measured, deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world. The mist holding you tightened slightly, forcing your back to arch against its cold grip.

“You’re wasting your energy,” he said, stepping closer, the mist tightening with every step he took. “I told you I would find you. And now I have. I wasn’t expecting our little one to be here as well, but…” His lips curved into a soft, almost genuine smile. “She looks well cared for. You’ve done a good job, sweetie.”

His words dripped with mockery, but it was the way his eyes gleamed—predatory and triumphant—that made your blood run cold. “No more running, kitten. This game of cat and mouse? It ends now.”

Before you could respond, the crimson mist tightened its grip, wrapping around you like unyielding chains. It lifted you effortlessly into the air, and you could do nothing but struggle against it, your limbs refusing to obey your commands. Panic seized your chest as the mist carried you backward, gently but deliberately laying you on the bed as though it had a mind of its own.

You hit the mattress with a soft thud, but the force of the moment knocked the air from your lungs. The mist pinned you in place, like weights pressing down on your wrists and ankles, rendering you completely immobile. No matter how hard you thrashed or tried to twist free, you couldn’t move. All you could do was watch in horror as Sylus turned toward the crib, cradling your baby with an eerie tenderness that sent chills down your spine.

He bent over the crib, his massive frame shadowing the small, delicate figure nestled in his arms. With unsettling care, he placed her down, tucking the blanket around her tiny form. It was the gentlest thing you’d ever seen him do, and that only made it worse—made the whole thing feel more surreal, more terrifying. His actions were too calculated, too rehearsed. You could feel the control emanating from him, sharp and suffocating.

And then his attention snapped back to you.

He moved toward you with the fluid, predatory grace of a panther stalking its prey, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light. The bed dipped under his weight as he climbed on, his powerful presence overwhelming. He hovered above you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of leather and whiskey lingering in the air.

Your breath came in sharp, panicked gasps, your chest heaving against the invisible restraints. You couldn’t look away from him, no matter how much you wanted to, his crimson gaze holding you captive as he leaned in closer. His nose almost brushed against yours, and the weight of him pressed just enough to remind you how utterly trapped you were.

“You’re never leaving my sight again,” Sylus murmured, his voice dangerously soft, almost affectionate. It wasn’t the comfort of a lover’s whisper, but the promise of an unyielding captor. His words slithered into your ears, wrapping around your mind like the mist around your body.

The words hit you like a blow to the chest, stealing what little air you had left. Your entire body trembled beneath him, a rush of panic and revulsion coursing through your veins. Tears welled in your eyes, hot and blinding, spilling over as your voice cracked under the weight of your fear and fury.

“I hate you!” you screamed, your voice raw and desperate. “I’ll never let you take me! Or her! Never!”

But Sylus didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil or lash out. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he smiled—a slow, chilling smile that spread across his face like poison. There was no anger in his expression, no cruelty. Just calm, calculated possession.

“Thats cute,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch that was almost tender, almost loving. “But you lost your ability to make choices long ago."

Your breath hitched as his words cut through the room like a blade, slicing through whatever resolve you had left. The mist tightened again, and your body convulsed in response, your screams ripping through the silence like jagged shards of glass. You couldn’t stop. You screamed and screamed, raw and unrelenting, until your throat burned and your vision blurred.

But Sylus didn’t move. He didn’t even look fazed. He simply stayed there, watching you, his crimson eyes gleaming with an eerie calm, as though he were savoring your despair.

The mist constricted once more, and everything around you began to blur. The room faded into a haze, the edges of your vision darkening as the world spiraled out of focus. Your screams turned into gasps, then whispers, then nothing at all as the suffocating weight of fear and exhaustion finally pulled you under.

And then you woke up.

You shot upright in bed, your chest heaving with frantic gasps as you clawed for air. The room around you was a blur, shadowed in the dim gray light of dawn creeping through the curtains. Sweat clung to your skin in cold rivulets, and your heart thundered so violently it felt like it might burst. It took several long moments for the fog of the dream to lift, for reality to begin piecing itself back together. The crib. The farmhouse. The faint creak of the floorboards under your shifting weight. The absence of that horrible red mist.

Your head snapped toward the crib, your breath hitching in your chest. Relief swept over you like a tidal wave as your eyes landed on her. She was still there, peacefully sleeping, her tiny hand curled against her cheek, her breaths soft and steady. Nothing had changed. She was safe.

You exhaled shakily, but the release didn’t ease the trembling in your hands. Pressing your palms to your face, you tried to steady yourself, your fingers trembling against your damp skin. “Just a dream,” you whispered to yourself, the words catching in your dry throat. “It was just a dream…”

But it didn’t feel like one. Not entirely. You wrapped your arms around yourself, as though holding your body together could stop it from unraveling. His voice still echoed in your mind, low and smooth, the way he said kitten with that maddening calm. The way he had cradled her so gently, like she already belonged to him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the memories to dissolve, but they wouldn’t leave. The phantom weight of his presence lingered, the image of his towering figure, crimson eyes glinting with possessiveness, looming over you. The sickly-sweet gentleness in his tone, the mockery in his promises. The dream had felt so vivid, so real that it left you raw, as if it had happened just moments ago.

Your arms dropped limply to your sides, and your gaze wandered back to the crib. She was still there, still yours. For now. The thought made your stomach twist, your relief tainted by a darker undertone. Dreams didn’t come from nowhere. This one, you knew, was a manifestation of all your fears, all the truths you couldn’t bear to say out loud. That he would come for you. For her. That no matter how far you ran, how carefully you hid, he would find you.

And the worst part? You weren’t entirely sure it was a lie.

You inhaled deeply, trying to force your pulse to slow, but it was no use. The dread clung to you like a shadow, and no amount of logic could banish it. The way he had looked at her in the dream—the way he had spoken as though you were both his—made your skin crawl. You wrapped your arms around yourself again, biting your lip to keep from crying.

“It was just a dream,” you whispered again, more firmly this time, though the words felt hollow. You looked toward the crib once more, watching the gentle rise and fall of her tiny chest. “You’re safe,” you murmured, almost like you were trying to convince yourself. “We’re safe.”

But were you?

Two days later, you were startled awake by the sound of the door creaking open. Blinking groggily, you sat up just in time to see Clara stepping into the room, her arms full of grocery bags. She froze in the doorway, her eyes widening as she took in the scene—the crib, the faint whines of your baby, and the dark circles under your tired eyes. The bags slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Oh my goodness, hun! Are you alright? Oh! You had the ba—” she exclaimed, her voice rising with shock and excitement, but you immediately shushed her, your finger pressed to your lips.

“Shhh!” you hissed, your eyes darting toward the crib where your daughter was finally, miraculously, falling asleep again. Clara clapped her hand over her mouth, her cheeks flushing in apology.

“Oh! Right, right…quiet,” she whispered, her voice soft now as she smiled sheepishly at you. She stepped closer, peeking at the crib. “Well, would you look at that...she’s a doll. Congratulations, mama.”

You smiled weakly, exhaustion still weighing heavily on your body. “Thanks, Clara. Can I…can I ask you a huge favor?”

“Anything, honey,” Clara said immediately, her tone warm and reassuring.

“Can you watch her for just a little while? I need a nap—like a real nap,” you begged, your voice trembling with desperation. The mere thought of lying down without having to jump up every five minutes made you feel like crying.

Clara’s face lit up with joy. “Oh, you don’t have to ask me twice! Of course, I’ll watch her. You go get some rest, sweetie. I’ve got this,” she said, already moving toward the crib with a gentle, eager demeanor.

Relief flooded through you, and you mumbled a soft, heartfelt, “Thank you,” before dragging yourself to bed. The moment your head hit the pillow, sleep claimed you like a tidal wave, washing away the weight of the last few days.

When you finally woke up, the sun was streaming through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. You rubbed your eyes, feeling more rested than you had in days. It was almost disorienting—not waking up to the sound of crying or the weight of exhaustion crushing you. You stretched and got out of bed, your feet padding softly against the floor as you made your way to the living room.

The smell of garlic and tomatoes greeted you, and as you entered, you saw Clara standing at the stove, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce with one hand while cradling your baby in the other. She was humming softly, her movements natural and at ease.

“Oh, you’re awake!” Clara exclaimed when she noticed you, her face breaking into a warm smile. “Just in time for lunch! This hungry girl’s ready for her lunch too. You mind, honey?” She held out your daughter gently, and you nodded, stepping forward to take her into your arms.

You settled into a kitchen chair, cradling your baby as you prepared to breastfeed. The small, rhythmic sounds of her suckling filled the air, blending with the soft clink of plates and the bubbling sauce on the stove. You felt a little awkward breastfeeding in front of a stranger but figured yall were past the point of awkwardness. You had given birth in her home after all. Clara worked quickly, plating two generous servings of spaghetti before joining you at the table.

As she sat down, her cheerful expression shifted to one of mild exasperation. “Why didn’t you call me, hun? I told you to call for anything—anything! Especially emergencies!” she said, her tone scolding but not unkind. There was genuine concern in her voice.

You looked away, guilt prickling at the edges of your mind. You didn't want to tell her about Sylus calling so you decided to lie instead. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted softly. “You’ve done so much already. And I didn’t think it’d…happen so fast.”

Clara sighed, shaking her head as she twirled spaghetti onto her fork. “Sweetie, you’re not a bother. Bringing a baby into the world is no small thing! You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.” She gestured toward the broken window with her fork. “And what in the world happened here? Did a tornado blow through while you were giving birth?”

You hesitated, your chest tightening. “It’s…a long story,” you said, brushing a hand over your daughter’s soft hair. “I’ll explain everything later. For now, I just want to focus on her.”

Clara’s sharp gaze softened, and she reached across the table to give your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Alright, hun. Later. But for now, you let me help, okay? No more going through this alone. Deal?”

You nodded, feeling a lump rise in your throat. “Deal.”

“Good,” Clara said firmly, taking another bite of her spaghetti. “Now eat up. You need your strength.”

You smiled faintly, adjusting your daughter in your arms as you picked at your food. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel entirely alone.

You eventually worked up the courage to tell Clara about the Sawshredder. She listened with wide eyes as you recounted everything—how it had come crashing into the yard, its terrifying screeches, the way you had barely escaped, and how it had inexplicably stopped and walked away in the end.

“It just left?” Clara exclaimed, her hand flying to her chest. “Dear God…that’s terrifying. We don’t get Wanderers in these parts usually. Maybe the occasional stray up in the hills, but never this close to town. And for it to just…walk away? That’s strange, honey. Real strange.”

You nodded, a shiver running down your spine as the memory resurfaced. “I don’t know why it left,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I thought…I thought I was going to die.” You glanced down at your daughter, who was swaddled and resting peacefully in your arms. “If it had attacked just a second later…” You trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Clara reached over, resting a hand on your shoulder. Her touch was firm, grounding. “I’m just glad you and the baby are okay. That’s all that matters.”

You nodded again, but a pang of guilt twisted in your chest. “I couldn’t get all the blood off the couch,” you said, your voice tinged with apology. “And some of it got onto the wall. I covered the couch with a sheet. I’m sorry, Clara. I should’ve—”

Clara waved her hand dismissively, cutting you off with a soft chuckle. “Oh, hun, don’t you worry about that. It’s just a couch and a wall. That’s not important. What’s important is that you and your little one are safe. I’ll get my brother to fix that window for you, no problem.”

Her kindness nearly brought tears to your eyes, but you swallowed them back, focusing instead on her next question. “Has the rest of the cord fallen off yet?” she asked, peering curiously at your daughter.

You shook your head. “No, not yet. I read somewhere it can take up to two weeks.”

Clara nodded knowingly. “It does. Just make sure it stays clean and dry. That’s the most important thing.” She leaned closer, tilting her head to get a better look at your baby. A warm smile spread across her face. “Oh, isn’t she just precious? She looks like a little doll, hun. Her father must’ve been a supermodel.”

You froze, wincing at her words. The mention of Sylus sent a sharp pang through your chest, and your grip on your daughter tightened ever so slightly. You didn’t want to think about him right now—not when you were finally beginning to feel a shred of normalcy. Your silence must have given you away because Clara’s smile faltered. Her eyes widened slightly, and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry, hun,” she said, her voice laced with regret. “I didn't realize. Sometimes I just say shit without thinkin. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You forced a small, shaky smile, brushing your thumb over your daughter’s tiny hand. “It’s okay,” you murmured, though your heart felt heavy playing into the lie. “You didn’t know.”

Clara reached over again, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze. There was a bit of sadness and...anxiousness in her eyes. You couldn't exactly place why. “Well, whoever he was, he gave you a beautiful baby girl. And she’s got a strong mama to look after her now. That’s all that matters, alright?”

You nodded, taking comfort in her words even as your mind lingered on Sylus. You didn’t want him to cast a shadow over this moment, but the memories were hard to shake. Still, you looked down at your daughter’s peaceful face, her tiny chest rising and falling with each breath, and you resolved to keep moving forward—for her.

Just then, your daughter squirmed in your arms, letting out a soft whine. Her little fists curled and uncurled as her eyes briefly fluttered open. The milky red of her irises caught the light, and Clara gasped, her hand flying to her chest.

“My goodness! Is she somewhat…er…what do you call it? Albino?” Clara blurted, her voice tinged with genuine curiosity and a touch of embarrassment. “Dear Lord, that sounds rude, doesn’t it? I’m sorry, honey, I don’t mean anything by it,” she added quickly, looking sheepish.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at her openness, despite the tension creeping up your spine. “No, no. It’s fine,” you said, brushing a hand over your daughter’s soft hair. “I don’t think so? I haven't given it much thought” You paused, your thoughts flickering briefly to Sylus. His eyes were the same shade of crimson, and his hair was kinda white…was he albino? Or something else entirely? You shook the thought away. Sylus didn’t fit into any category you could explain.

Clara tilted her head, studying your daughter for a moment longer before her expression shifted, becoming more serious. “Hey…her father. Did he have red eyes?” she asked, her tone light but edged with curiosity.

Your heart skipped a beat. The question hit like a slap, and you clutched your daughter tighter, your body tensing instinctively. Clara’s expression didn’t seem threatening, but the implications of her question sent your mind racing. Why was she asking that? Did she meet him? Does she know something? Is this all a trap?

“Uh…um…” You stammered, trying to keep your voice even. “Why do you ask?” Your grip on your daughter tightened as if shielding her from some unseen threat.

Clara’s eyes widened slightly, and she quickly plastered on a nervous smile. She raised her hands in a gesture of reassurance. “Oh, no, no! I didn’t mean to freak you out, honey,” she said, her tone apologetic. “I was just asking. You know, fathers usually determine eye color, don’t they? Or at least that’s what I’ve always heard. Genetics and all that. She's got your hair color at least!”

Your body relaxed a fraction, though your heart was still pounding. You forced a small smile, trying to push away your lingering paranoia. “Oh…right. I guess so,” you murmured, your voice a little shaky.

Clara nodded, her demeanor lightening again. “She’s just so unique, that’s all,” she said, her gaze softening as she looked at your daughter. “She’s a real beauty, honey. Eyes like that? They’re special. People are going to remember her wherever she goes.”

That statement sent a cold chill down your spine. The last thing you wanted was for your daughter to stand out, to be remembered. You swallowed the lump in your throat and gave Clara a weak nod, mumbling a thank you.

As Clara turned back to the dishes, humming softly to herself, you looked down at your daughter, her eyes now closed again as she rested peacefully in your arms. Your thoughts swirled. Her eyes, Sylus’s eyes…the way Clara had asked the question. Was this all coincidence, or was your paranoia creeping in again? You couldn’t be sure. All you knew was that keeping your daughter safe meant staying hidden—and staying hidden meant trusting no one, not even someone as kind as Clara.

Over the next week or two, Clara became a constant presence in the farmhouse. To your surprise, she had refused to leave, despite mentioning work and her responsibilities in Brunswick. She brushed off your concerns with a wave of her hand, insisting that you needed the help more than she needed to be slinging coffee at the diner.

“You think I’m about to leave you here alone with a newborn? Not on my watch, honey,” she said with a grin one morning as she whisked a fresh batch of eggs in the kitchen. “Besides, the diner will survive without me for a bit. My brother’s got it covered.”

Her steady presence felt like a lifeline, even if you weren’t entirely used to it. She filled the quiet farmhouse with her voice, chatting about everything under the sun, but mostly babies. It seemed Clara had an endless wealth of knowledge, and she didn’t hesitate to share it.

“You gotta make sure to clean behind her ears,” she said one afternoon, her hands deep in a bowl of soapy water as she cleaned baby bottles for you. “Babies are sneaky little things—they’ll get all kinds of lint and gunk back there, and you won’t even notice until it’s crusted over. Happened to my daughter once, and I felt like the worst mom in the world.”

You nodded, filing the information away as you rocked your daughter, who was dozing peacefully in your arms. “Got it. Behind the ears,” you murmured, glancing down at your baby as if inspecting her right then and there.

“And the belly button!” Clara added, wagging a soapy finger in your direction. “You keep it dry, of course, but once the cord falls off, you still gotta clean it gently every so often. Otherwise, it starts to smell. My mother used to say, ‘A stinky belly button leads to a stinky baby!’” She laughed at the memory, her voice warm and hearty.

You couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “Clean the belly button, got it. Anything else I should know?”

“Oh, plenty,” Clara said, drying her hands on a dish towel before sitting down at the kitchen table. She crossed her arms and leaned forward like she was about to tell you a secret. “Now, listen here, because this one’s important: you gotta be ready for the blowouts.”

You blinked at her, unsure if you’d heard correctly. “Blowouts?”

“Yep, blowouts,” she said with a knowing nod. “You think you’ve seen messy diapers now? Just wait until she has her first real blowout. The kind that goes all up her back, gets in her hair, ruins her cute little onesies… It’s a nightmare.” She shuddered dramatically. “But don’t you worry, I’ll teach you my stain-removal tricks.”

You stared at her, equal parts horrified and grateful. “Thanks for the warning, I guess.”

Clara chuckled, reaching over to pat your arm. “Hey, it’s better to know what you’re in for than to get blindsided. Trust me, honey, I’ve been there. It ain’t pretty.”

Her advice didn’t stop there. She showed you how to swaddle your baby properly, how to tell the difference between different cries, and even how to soothe a gassy baby. “Gripe water is your best friend,” she said one evening as she rocked your fussy daughter in her arms. “And don’t be afraid to try a little bicycle motion with her legs. Works like a charm to get those toots out.”

She was patient, too, answering every question you had without making you feel stupid. When you worried about your daughter’s health or the two little black spots on her head, Clara reassured you with gentle words. “Babies are all different, honey. I’m sure she’s perfectly fine. But if it’ll give you peace of mind, we can figure out how to get her to a doctor.”

Despite your lingering paranoia, you couldn’t deny how much easier things were with Clara around. She had a way of lightening the mood, of making even the most overwhelming moments feel manageable. And as much as you wanted to keep her at arm’s length, a part of you was starting to trust her. Just a little.

Clara even left for an entire day just to pick up iced pads and painkillers for you, insisting that you shouldn’t have to suffer in silence. When she returned, she laughed at the visible relief on your face as you gingerly took the supplies. The iced pads felt like heaven, soothing the relentless pain you had been quietly enduring. The painkillers dulled the ache enough for you to finally move around without wincing at every step. For the first time since giving birth, you felt a little refreshed—almost like a real person again.

Your daughter was two weeks old now. You still couldn’t believe it. Every day felt like starting from scratch, like learning a new rhythm for both you and her. She was still very much a tiny, needy potato that did little else but cry and sleep, but slowly, you felt like you were getting in tune with her needs. It was all small victories—knowing her hunger cues, figuring out which lullabies seemed to calm her the most. You were adjusting, step by step.

You rarely ventured outside. The fear of Mephisto still hung over you like a dark cloud, an ever-present reminder that Sylus and his reach weren’t far enough away. Still, on cooler nights, you cracked the window open just a little to let your daughter breathe fresh air. You told yourself it was safe. The farmhouse was secluded, tucked far enough away from any major towns or cities. It was okay—for now.

Over time, you started to open up to Clara. Her kind nature and patience made it easy. You began to tell her about things you hadn’t spoken of in years—about your mom and grandma, your childhood, even your time as a hunter. Clara listened intently, her warm eyes encouraging you to continue. She asked thoughtful questions but never pressed too hard, always mindful of your boundaries.

One night, she brought out an old photo album and showed you pictures of her daughter as a baby. You couldn’t help but smile at the photos of the chubby-cheeked infant grinning toothlessly at the camera. “She’s so beautiful,” you had said, feeling a pang in your chest as you glanced down at your own baby, asleep in your arms. “She looks like you.”

Clara laughed, flipping the pages fondly. “She was a handful, let me tell you. But those were the best days of my life.”

Hearing her talk about her daughter brought both comfort and sadness. It reminded you of what you were trying to give your daughter—a chance to live without fear. A chance to be free. But as time passed, that gnawing feeling of impending doom grew stronger. You knew these peaceful moments wouldn’t last. They couldn’t.

One evening, after bathing your daughter, you found Clara in the living room, folding laundry and packing up some things to bring back to Brunswick. She had decided to head home for a few days to catch up on work and care for her father, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that this might be the last time you’d see her.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, clutching your daughter close as you worked up the courage to speak. “Clara?” you finally said, your voice soft and hesitant.

She glanced up from the laundry, her warm smile faltering slightly when she saw your expression. “Yes, honey?” she asked, setting the clothes down and giving you her full attention.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “I…I haven’t been completely honest with you,” you said, rushing to get the words out before you lost your nerve.

Clara froze, her brows furrowing in concern, but she didn’t seem angry. “Alright,” she said gently, her tone calm and reassuring. “What’s wrong?”

The words felt heavy in your throat, but you knew you couldn’t keep this from her any longer. You took a deep, trembling breath, clutching your daughter a little tighter as you prepared to tell her everything.

You settled on the couch, clutching your daughter tightly to your chest as Clara waited patiently. Her warm, kind eyes stayed on you, unflinching. The weight of the truth pressed down on you, but you couldn’t delay any longer. If there was any chance she’d be in danger because of you, Clara needed to know the truth.

“I…I don’t know where to start,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Wherever you’re comfortable, honey,” Clara replied softly, folding her hands in her lap. “Take your time.”

You took another shaky breath and looked down at your baby, who squirmed slightly in her sleep. Her tiny fingers curled around a fold in your shirt, and the sight of her innocence made the guilt in your chest tighten even more. You began to speak, your voice trembling as the words tumbled out.

“I lied about her father,” you started, glancing nervously at Clara. “He’s alive. Very much alive. And he’s looking for us.”

Clara’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt. She simply nodded for you to continue.

You told her everything—the truth about Sylus, the man who had turned your life into a nightmare. You spoke about how he had stolen you away, manipulated you, and taken control of your life. How he had removed your birth control with a piece of glass, how he had impregnated you, and how you had finally escaped for the second time. You hesitated, but you also told her about Reese, the horrors of the basement, and the lengths you had gone to get away from that life.

About Xavier.

As you spoke, letting the words tumble out one after another, a strange feeling bloomed in your chest. At first, it was tight and uncomfortable, like a knot that had been wound too tightly for too long. You hadn’t expected it to feel this…hard. Telling the truth wasn’t supposed to be easy, not with the weight of everything you had kept buried, but somehow you’d thought it would feel more cathartic. Instead, it felt like pulling barbed wire out of your skin—necessary, but painful, and every word scraped against old wounds you hadn’t realized were still raw.

Still, with every detail you revealed to Clara, you felt the smallest sliver of relief pushing through the pain. Like a wound being cleaned, the barbs slowly gave way, and a fragile sense of release crept in. As you spoke about Sylus—about the way he had stolen your life and your control, about how he had taken you apart piece by piece and left you feeling like a ghost of who you once were—it felt almost surreal to say it out loud again since you had told Xavier. You had kept this bottled up for so long, locked away in your mind, that it felt foreign to share it with another human being. And yet, the more you spoke, the easier it became.

Clara listened intently, her expression shifting between disbelief, horror, and sadness. She didn’t speak until you finished, tears streaming down your face as you clung to your daughter like a lifeline.

When you finally stopped, the silence was suffocating. Clara’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as she leaned forward, resting a hand gently on your knee. “Oh, honey,” she said softly. “I can’t imagine… I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through this.”

You bit your lip, the flood of emotions making it hard to respond. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” you whispered. “I just…I didn’t want to drag you into this. You’ve been so kind to me, and now I feel like I’ve put you in danger.”

Clara shook her head firmly. “You listen to me, sweetheart. None of this is your fault. You’ve been through hell, and all you’re trying to do is protect your baby. I understand why you kept this to yourself.”

Her understanding brought a fresh wave of tears to your eyes, and you wiped them away with the back of your hand. “I just… I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t keep running forever, but I can’t let him find us.”

Clara sighed, her gaze drifting to the sleeping baby in your arms. “You’re right—this can’t go on forever. But you’re not alone, you hear me? We’ll figure something out.”

You shook your head, your voice breaking as you spoke. “You don’t understand. He’s dangerous, Clara. He has resources, connections. If he finds out you’ve helped me, he won’t hesitate to come after you too.”

Clara leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Let him come,” she said, her tone firm. “I’m not afraid of some big-shot bastard. You’re basically family now, and I take care of my own.”

Her words left you stunned, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. She sounded so sure, so resolute, and it made you feel both grateful and terrified.

“I don’t want you to get hurt because of me,” you said finally, your voice trembling.

Clara reached out and squeezed your hand. “We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it. For now, you just focus on taking care of that little one, okay?”

You nodded weakly, the weight of her kindness settling in your chest. It wasn’t a solution, but for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel completely alone. Clara was here, and even though you still felt the shadow of Sylus looming over you, you had someone in your corner.

Clara's next words hit you like a brick to the chest. "I haven’t been completely honest with you either," she began, her voice quiet but steady. You froze, your heart skipping a beat as you braced yourself for whatever she was about to say.

She looked at you, her expression a mix of worry and determination. “A tall man came into the diner a while back. Greyish white hair, red eyes…He had other men with him too. Demanding answers about a pregnant lady.”

Your blood ran cold. Sylus. Of course. He had gotten closer than you thought.

Your grip tightened on your daughter instinctively, your mind racing. “What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Clara nodded, her face softening with regret. “He asked about you. Described you down to the coat you were wearing, and…well, I told him you were my niece. Refused to tell him anything else.” She smirked, though it was tinged with unease. “He offered me a shitload of money, too. I spit at his shoes.”

Her little wink and defiance were so unexpected that you let out a laugh—high-pitched and incredulous, but a laugh nonetheless. “You spit at him?”

“Sure did,” Clara replied, giving a small shrug like it was no big deal. “The nerve of him, thinking I’d sell out someone in need. I don’t care if he’s the devil himself.”

Despite the humor in her tone, the reality of what she’d said crashed down on you like a wave. You felt your heart race, your mind whirling with panic. “Clara, you should’ve told me…” you said, shaking your head, the fear creeping into your voice. “He’s not stupid. If he was there, he probably already tracked you back here. Shit—”

Your chest tightened as the gravity of the situation hit you full force. Your time here was up.

Clara’s face fell, her hands twisting nervously. “But honey,” she said, her voice trembling, “you’re still freshly postpartum. You can’t possibly leave on foot with a newborn! You’re not healed yet, and the baby—”

“What choice do I have?” you cut her off, your voice breaking as you rocked your now-whining daughter. “If I stay here any longer, he will come. He’s probably already closing in…” You trailed off, trying to push down the rising panic.

Clara sat in silence for a long moment, her gaze flickering between you and the baby. Finally, she let out a heavy sigh, standing abruptly and moving to a nearby closet. “Alright,” she said, her voice firm. “How about this?”

You watched as she rummaged through the closet, pulling out a car seat. Confusion flickered across your face as she set it down and moved to a nearby drawer, pulling out a set of car keys. She turned to you, her expression serious.

“You know how to drive, right?” she asked.

Your mouth fell open. “Clara, what are you—”

“Take my father’s car,” she said simply, holding out the keys. “He won’t be using it anytime soon anyway.”

You stared at her, the weight of her offer hitting you like a truck. “You…you’d give me your dad’s car?” you stammered, utterly floored by her kindness.

She nodded firmly. “What good is it sitting here collecting dust? You need it more than he does. Now take it, honey.”

The tears came fast, spilling down your cheeks as you reached for her, pulling her into a tight hug. You buried your face in her shoulder, sobbing as the relief and gratitude washed over you in waves. “Thank you,” you choked out, your voice trembling. “Thank you so fucking much.”

Clara hugged you back just as tightly, patting your back reassuringly. “You don’t need to thank me, sweetheart. You and that baby need to be safe. That’s what matters.”

As the tears continued to fall, you felt the tiniest spark of hope flicker in your chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, you had a chance to escape. To start over. To keep your daughter safe. And it was all thanks to Clara.

The plan was set in motion as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the cabin and surrounding woods. The air was cool and still, almost unnervingly quiet as you and Clara worked in tandem, preparing for what could very well be the riskiest part of your escape.

Clara, despite her usually warm demeanor, had taken to the plan with an unwavering determination. She would head back to Brunswick, armed with a carefully swaddled bundle—a fake baby to lure Sylus and his men away from your path and waste their time. She’d even wrapped the bundle with some of the baby’s spare blankets, ensuring Mephisto would pick up the scent and follow her all the way back.

“It’ll work,” Clara had said with surprising confidence, holding up her father’s old shotgun. “Let them come. I’m not afraid of no man who thinks he can hurt a mother and her baby.”

You couldn’t help but admire her fiery spirit. It felt strange, almost wrong, to leave such a kind and fearless woman to face Sylus’s wrath, but she’d insisted. "I’ve been through worse, honey," she said with a wink. You weren’t sure if that was true, but you appreciated the reassurance nonetheless.

She spent the rest of the evening making sure you had everything you’d need for the journey ahead. Diapers, wipes, bottles, onesies—every essential item a baby on the road could need was packed into the car. When she brought out the box of formula, you hesitated. “I’ve been breastfeeding,” you admitted, “but…just in case.”

Clara gave you a knowing smile. “Smart thinking, hon. You’ll thank yourself later.”

She showed you how to start her father’s car—a rusted but reliable manual—and went over the basics of shifting gears. “It’s not as tricky as it looks,” she said, patting the hood. “Just don’t panic if you stall. You’ll get the hang of it.” Then she helped you strap your daughter safely into the car seat, her hands steady and patient as she guided you through every buckle and strap.

Finally, the moment you’d been dreading came. The time to leave.

“I guess this is goodbye then,” you said, feeling the sting of tears pricking at your eyes. You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked just enough to betray you. Was this really it? Would you ever experience such raw human kindness again?

Clara smiled and pulled you into a tight hug, her warmth anchoring you for just a moment longer. “I don’t believe in goodbyes,” she said softly. “More like, see you laters. Now chin up, sweetheart. The nearest city is a looong drive.”

You laughed, even as the tears spilled over. “Thank you for everything,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll never forget you.”

Clara pulled back, brushing a tear from your cheek. “You’ll do great, honey. Just stay safe.”

As you climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car, the rumble of the engine made your daughter stir slightly in her car seat. Clara leaned down, peering through the window, and her expression softened. “By the way,” she said, her voice gentle. “Did you decide on a name yet?”

You glanced back at your baby girl, her tiny eyes fluttering open just enough to meet yours. In that fleeting moment, you felt a pang deep in your chest. Ruby…Evia… Those names had lingered in your mind for days, tied to memories that stung too much to carry forward. Names burdened with loss, betrayal, heartbreak. But this? This was a fresh start. A new chapter. Something better was needed—something untarnished.

“Sylvia,” you whispered, the name tumbling out of your mouth as if it had been waiting there all along. It felt right—soft yet strong, simple yet meaningful. The name filled the silence like a balm, wrapping you and your daughter in something new. Something safe.

As if on cue, Sylvia blinked up at you, her lips parting slightly in what could almost pass for a tiny expression of acknowledgment. You smiled softly, your chest aching with a blend of pride, guilt, and exhaustion.

Clara’s face lit up, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile. “Well, she seems to like it,” she said, nodding toward the little bundle strapped snugly in the car seat. “Guess that’s her name, then. You know, it means ‘forest’ in Latin. Pretty fitting for where she was born, don’t ya think?”

You let out a laugh, shaky but genuine, wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks with the back of your hand. “Yeah…fitting,” you murmured. The forest had been both your refuge and your prison, the place where this journey had truly begun. Sylvia was as much a part of that story as you were.

Clara stepped back, her hand resting gently on the car door as her smile faded into something softer, more serious. “See you later, hon,” she said, her voice low and steady. “And stay safe, okay? For her.” She gestured toward Sylvia, whose tiny hand was curled against her cheek in sleep already.

“See you later,” you replied, your voice catching just slightly. You offered her a small, shaky smile, the weight of your gratitude pressing down on your chest. “Thank you again…for everything.”

Clara gave you one last nod, her lips pressing into a firm line as if she were trying to hold back her own emotions. “You’ll do just fine, hon. I’ll keep them busy for you. Now, go.”

With one final glance at Clara, you gripped the steering wheel tightly, shifted the car into gear, and began to pull out of the gravel driveway. The headlights illuminated the narrow dirt road ahead, cutting through the thick darkness of the woods. Behind you, the farmhouse grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, until it finally disappeared from sight.

The road stretched out ahead of you, dark and endless, but you forced yourself to focus. To move forward. Behind you, Sylvia stirred faintly in her car seat but didn’t wake. The rhythmic hum of the engine seemed to lull her, and for that, you were thankful.

“Alright, Sylvia,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the lump forming in your throat. “Let’s go.”

And with that, you drove into the night, the sound of the tires crunching against the dirt road the only thing accompanying your thoughts. The uncertainty of the road ahead loomed large, but as you glanced at your daughter—at Sylvia—you reminded yourself that every mile away from the farmhouse was a mile closer to safety. At least, that’s what you hoped.

Sylus sat in his hotel room, the dim light from the desk lamp casting sharp shadows across his angular features. A glass of Gin rested on the table beside him, untouched for once. His attention was glued to the screen of his laptop, where a live feed from Mephisto's cameras played. The mechanical bird had been trailing Clara since she left Brunswick, its sharp, red-lensed eyes capturing every move she made.

It had been almost two weeks since Mephisto began following her, and Sylus’s gut told him everything he needed to know. This Clara woman wasn’t just some harmless diner worker. She was hiding you. That much was clear. The way she drove, cautious but purposeful, heading out to a remote area far from prying eyes—it all screamed of secrecy. And Sylus’s instincts were rarely wrong.

On the screen, Mephisto’s feed showed a small farmhouse coming into view, nestled in a clearing surrounded by dense trees. The sight of it made Sylus’s pulse quicken. He couldn’t see you—yet—but he felt it in his bones. You were there. His kitten, hiding in the woods like a frightened prey. The thought almost made him smile, but there was no time for smugness. Not yet.

Sylus leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him as he continued to watch the feed. Clara parked her car near the farmhouse and began unloading groceries from the trunk seemingly for the third time that week. She moved with ease, not a trace of nervousness in her demeanor. Either she was an excellent liar, or she truly believed she had outwitted him. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to act hastily. Not this time.

Normally he wouldn't have waited so long but given your sensitive state, he wanted to be careful.

He needed to be certain. If he stormed in too soon, he risked spooking you—and that was the last thing he wanted. Sylus’s crimson eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. He had time. Patience was key. He would let you feel safe, let you think you had escaped him. And when the moment was right, he would strike.

But his stalking was unexpectedly interrupted the night he planned to move in.

The feed from Mephisto’s cameras cut out abruptly, replaced by a burst of static. Sylus’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “What the hell…” he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. He tapped a few keys on the laptop, trying to reestablish the connection, but it was no use.

Moments later, a call came in from one of his men. “Boss,” the voice on the other end said nervously. “We’ve got a problem. Mephisto’s been shot.”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed. “Shot?” His voice was cold, lethal.

“Yes, sir. A hunter took a shot at him—thought he was a real bird, I guess. He’s damaged pretty badly. We’ve got him en route for repairs already.”

Sylus closed his eyes, taking a deep, measured breath. The interruption was irritating, but it wasn’t the end of the world. He would have Mephisto repaired quickly, and in the meantime, he could work out his next steps. “Fine,” he said curtly. “Make it quick. I want him operational as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

He ended the call and leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. The delay was frustrating, but it didn’t change his plan. Normally he'd take care of Mephistos repairs himself but his mind was racing far too much for that. He still had Clara. And wherever she went next, she would lead him straight to you.

Sylus reached for his Gin, taking a slow sip as he stared at the now-empty screen. The game wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. He would find you. It was only a matter of time. And when he did, there would be no more running. You were his. You had always been his.

“No weapons drawn unless I say so. It’s just a middle-aged woman and a pregnant one,” Sylus said firmly, his voice cold and calculating. “We won’t need much force.” He stood in front of a gathered group of his men, Luke and Kieran at his sides, their bird masks gleaming under the dim lights of the room. Sylus’s crimson eyes scanned each face, ensuring the weight of his command sank in. He wouldn’t tolerate recklessness. Not now.

Mephisto perched on his shoulder, his damaged wing twitching sporadically. The mechanical bird had seen better days, but it was still functional enough to serve as a watchful eye. Further repairs could wait. Time was of the essence, and Sylus wouldn’t waste another moment while you slipped further away.

On the monitor before him, the live feed from Mephisto’s remaining camera showed Clara entering Brunswick once more. Her movements were purposeful, but what truly caught Sylus’s attention was the bundle of blankets cradled in her arms. His pupils dilated instinctively, his chest tightening. Could it be? Was it possible that you had given birth already? His mind reeled at the thought. It wasn’t beyond reason—you were past your due date. The possibility sent a sharp thrill of anticipation coursing through him, though he masked it behind his usual stoicism.

Though, it could also be a trick. Not a very clever one, but a trick nonetheless.

Sylus then moved to the car, his crimson eyes glued to the live feed from Mephisto’s camera. Clara now strolled casually through the quiet, rain-slicked streets. She carried a bundle in her arms—soft blankets, cradled as if she were shielding a baby from the cold. His chest tightened as he observed her movements, his sharp gaze analyzing every detail.

“Boss…” Luke began from the front seat, his voice tentative. “Do you really think it’s…?”

Sylus didn’t answer right away. He leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest. His mind worked at a feverish pace, weighing the possibilities. Clara was clever, he’d give her that. The way she moved through the town was calculated, like she wanted to be seen but not stopped. She stopped briefly at a grocery store, stepping inside while the “baby” stayed securely tucked in her arms. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged with a bag of supplies and continued down the street.

Sylus’s lips curved into a faint smirk. If this was some elaborate trick, she was putting in a hell of an effort.

“She’s making a show of it,” he finally said, his voice calm but tinged with suspicion. “How peculiar to bring a fresh newborn outside this early in their first weeks of life.”

“Could it be hers?” Kieran asked cautiously, glancing at the feed over his shoulder. “Maybe she’s not hiding the miss at all.”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the edge of the seat tightening. “Not likely,” he said coldly. “She’s hiding something. And I’m going to find out what.”

For nearly an hour, they trailed Clara as she moved through Brunswick, making mundane stops and chatting briefly with shopkeepers. She never once let go of the bundle in her arms. Mephisto tracked her from above, his damaged wing hindering his flight but not enough to lose her in the sparse streets.

Finally, Clara climbed back into her car and began driving out of town. Sylus’s driver started the engine, following at a careful distance. The tension in the car was palpable as they left the lights of Brunswick behind, the road ahead growing darker and more secluded with every mile. Mephisto kept up, the feed from his camera showing the winding path Clara was taking.

“She’s heading back to the farmhouse,” Luke muttered, his voice barely audible.

Sylus didn’t respond. He already knew. His gaze stayed locked on the screen as Clara’s car pulled into the familiar driveway. She stepped out, clutching the bundle tightly as she walked briskly to the farmhouse door. The sight of the building—a small, unassuming structure nestled in the woods—made Sylus’s pulse quicken. If you were inside, then this charade was about to end.

“Stop here,” Sylus ordered, his voice low but firm. The car rolled to a halt about a mile away from the farmhouse, far enough to remain undetected but close enough to keep it in view. He watched intently as Clara disappeared inside with the bundle, her movements calm and purposeful.

“She’s got something,” Kieran said, breaking the silence. “But if it’s just blankets…”

“It can't be just blankets,” Luke snapped, cutting him off. “She wouldn’t be this careful over nothing. Prepare to move in.”

The men tensed, the air in the car thick with anticipation. Sylus reached into his coat, retrieving the lockpick kit he always carried. His movements were precise, almost methodical, as he checked his weapons and adjusted his gloves.

“No weapons,” he reminded suddenly, his tone sharp.

Luke and Kieran exchanged uneasy glances but nodded. They knew better than to question him when he was like this.

Sylus’s eyes flicked back to the farmhouse. He wasn’t foolish enough to think this would be simple. Clara had already proven herself clever, and you…you were a wildcard. But he’d planned for every possibility. He wasn’t leaving without you—and his daughter.

“Let’s go,” he said finally, stepping out of the car. The others followed, their footsteps muted on the damp earth. Mephisto perched nearby, his mechanical frame blending seamlessly into the shadows. The farmhouse loomed ahead, quiet and unassuming, but Sylus’s instincts told him otherwise.

Reaching the door, Sylus knelt, his fingers working expertly with the lockpick. It took mere seconds for the mechanism to click, and he pushed the door open with deliberate care. The sound of creaking hinges broke the silence, and the men filed in behind him, their eyes scanning every corner of the dimly lit space.

Sylus’s heart pounded in his chest as he stepped into the farmhouse. The game of cat and mouse was over. It was time to claim what was his.

Sylus’s patience had already worn thin as his men stormed the farmhouse, tearing through every corner, opening cupboards, flipping over furniture, and making a mess of the small space. He stood in the middle of the chaos, his eyes scanning the room with a calculating calm. It grated on his nerves how much noise they were making, and the lack of results only made it worse.

“No one here!” one of the men shouted from another room, frustration clear in his voice.

Sylus clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching at his sides. Minutes passed as his men continued their futile search, and with each moment, his irritation grew sharper. Finally, he raised his hand.

“Stop,” he commanded, his voice cold and clipped. The single word was enough to freeze everyone in place.

The farmhouse fell silent save for the distant sound of the wind outside. Sylus turned his gaze to a small closet in the living room—untouched, unsearched. His instincts prickled, a quiet certainty settling over him. He stepped forward, the air thick with tension as the other men watched him. The closer he got to the closet, the heavier the air felt.

With a steady hand, Sylus gripped the handle and swung the door open.

The sound of two gunshots shattered the silence, deafening and sudden. But the bullets never reached him. His crimson mist flared to life, wrapping around the projectiles and stopping them midair. The bullets hovered for a split second before clattering harmlessly to the floor.

Inside the closet, Clara stood trembling, her shotgun still aimed, her face pale but defiant. She fumbled to reload the weapon, her hands shaking as she tried to shove another shell into the chamber.

Sylus sighed, his crimson mist snaking out and wrapping around the shotgun. With a sharp yank, he pulled it from her hands and held it aloft. Clara froze, her breath coming in ragged gasps as Sylus examined the weapon with unnerving calm. He crouched, picking up the two discarded shells, and smoothly loaded them into the shotgun himself.

“You’ve got some fight in you, I’ll give you that,” he muttered, straightening up and aiming the weapon at her. Clara, now unarmed, still managed to glare at him with pure hatred.

“Get out of my fucking house,” she snarled, attempting to push herself up from the floor. Her body trembled, but her resolve didn’t waver.

Sylus’s expression didn’t change, his finger resting casually near the trigger. “Don’t think you’re in a position to be making demands.” He took a step closer, the barrel of the shotgun now pointed directly at her forehead. “Start talking. I’m not above putting new holes in women who stand in my way.”

Clara scoffed, her lips curling into a sneer even as her body sagged with exhaustion. “I got cancer anyway, bastard. Fucking do it,” she spat. “You think I don’t know all about what you did to that poor girl? Despicable. If anyone needs two new holes, it’s you, asshole.”

Sylus’s expression darkened, her words cutting through him like shards of glass. For a moment, his grip on the shotgun tightened, his crimson eyes narrowing dangerously. But instead of pulling the trigger, he reached down, his hand gripping Clara’s shoulder with bruising force. He yanked her up and tossed her onto the couch like a rag doll.

“Last chance,” he growled, his voice dripping with menace as he aimed the gun at her again. “And here I told my men no weapons. This is fair, though. You tried to kill me first.”

Clara struggled to sit up, clutching her side and breathing heavily. Despite her position, her fiery spirit hadn’t dimmed. She locked eyes with Sylus, her own gaze burning with hatred. “Go to fucking hell where you belong. You ain’t a man. Far from it. More like the devil himself!”

Her voice rang through the room, defiant and unwavering. Sylus grimaced, his teeth clenching as her words struck a nerve. He pressed the barrel of the shotgun against her head, his patience hanging by a thread.

But before he could respond, a voice cut through the tense moment.

“Boss…we found the nursery,” Luke called from down the hall.

Sylus froze, his heart skipping a beat at the words. Slowly, he straightened, his gaze snapping toward the hallway. For a moment, he didn’t move, his mind racing.

The nursery.

Without a word, Sylus turned on his heel, leaving Clara on the couch as he strode toward the hallway. The shotgun dangled at his side, forgotten in the flood of emotions rising within him. His men stepped aside as he passed, their eyes filled with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

When Sylus entered the small room, his breath caught. The faint scent of baby powder lingered in the air, and soft, pastel colors adorned the walls. A crib sat against the far wall, and though it was empty, it was unmistakable—this room had been prepared for a child.

His child.

The nursery was a modest, humble space, but its purpose was unmistakable. The walls were painted in faded pastels, hints of yellow and green that had begun to peel slightly with age. A small wooden crib rested against one wall, its blankets slightly rumpled as though a tiny occupant had just been tucked away not long ago. The faint scent of baby powder lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of milk and something distinctly newborn.

Sylus’s gaze fell on the trash can tucked into a corner. It overflowed with used diapers and wipes, the evidence of sleepless nights and constant care. Scattered across the floor were tiny onesies in muted colors, some clean and folded, others clearly used and tossed aside in haste. A bottle sat forgotten on a nearby shelf, half-filled with what looked like breast milk.

You had been here. And not just for a moment—it was clear you had settled in, created a safe space for her. Sylus’s chest tightened as he scanned the room. His previous anger faded, replaced by something far heavier. He moved to the crib, his movements deliberate and slow. The mattress was slightly indented, a faint outline of where a newborn had rested.

His daughter. Was alive.

His hand hovered over the blankets, almost afraid to touch them, as if they would vanish under his fingers. What had her cries sounded like, he wondered? Soft and sweet like you? Or shrill and demanding, a force to be reckoned with? His jaw clenched, his breath uneven as his thoughts spiraled.

Had you given birth alone in this room? Without medical help? Without him? Were you hurt? Was she? The questions stormed through his mind, tightening a coil of frustration and fury in his chest. His eyes caught sight of a tiny onesie draped over the edge of the crib, pale pink with faded stripes. He reached for it, holding it delicately between his fingers before bringing it up to his nose.

Just as he thought. The faint, unmistakable scent of a baby clung to the fabric. His baby. He breathed in deeply, his nostrils flaring as he let the scent flood his senses. His hand shook slightly as he folded the onesie and slipped it into his pocket. A memento. A reminder of how close he had come—and how once again, you had slipped through his fingers.

His eyes darkened, and his calm exterior cracked as anger surged back to the forefront. You weren’t here. You had evaded him once more, just like before. His fists clenched, the thought of you out there alone with his newly born daughter sending a fresh wave of fury through him.

Straightening, Sylus turned on his heel and stalked back to the living room. His boots echoed heavily on the floorboards as he entered, and the tension in the air grew thick. Clara, restrained by two of his men, thrashed against their grip, yelling profanities at them.

“Assholes! Let me go!” she barked, her voice hoarse from shouting. Her defiance wavered for a moment as Sylus reentered, his imposing figure filling the room like a shadow.

He walked toward her slowly, the dark gleam in his eyes silencing the room. His steps were deliberate, calculated, and predatory. Clara froze as he crouched in front of her, his face mere inches from hers. His crimson eyes bore into her, and for the first time that night, the fiery woman shivered.

“Tell me where my fiancé and daughter went,” Sylus said, his voice low and venomous. “Or cancer will be the least of your worries.”

Clara stared back at him, her mouth opening and closing like she wanted to retort, but the words caught in her throat. His presence was suffocating, his aura predatory. Her confidence faltered, but then, with a shaky breath, she straightened herself as best she could, meeting his gaze with renewed defiance.

“I’ve dealt with men like you before,” she spat, though her voice lacked its earlier bravado. “You don’t deserve a fucking thing, much less a beautiful little family.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened at her words, his hand twitching at his side. He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over her face as his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Last chance, Clara. Talk,” he growled, his voice like a razor’s edge.

But Clara’s lips curled into a small, bitter smile, despite the beads of sweat forming on her brow. “Go to hell,” she said. “You’ll never find them. Never.”

The room fell deathly silent, and the tension crackled like a live wire. Sylus’s men exchanged nervous glances, waiting for his next move. For a moment, his face was unreadable, his crimson eyes locked on Clara as if weighing her words. Then, slowly, he stood to his full height, towering over her trembling form.

Sylus's jaw tightened again as Clara's defiant words echoed in his ears. How dare she? The audacity to look him in the eye, to challenge him, to stand in the way of the one thing he had longed for since he was a child—a family of his own. The only dream he had ever allowed himself to cherish in the twisted, brutal reality he had grown up in. And this woman, this nobody, thought she had the right to stand between him and what was his?

She wants to talk about deserving? His mind churned with indignation. The memories of sleepless nights, the endless search for you, and the growing knot of anger and longing to hold his daughter swirled together in a fiery storm. What did Clara know about what he had endured, about what he would sacrifice for you both? Nothing. And yet, she dared to judge him. She dared to throw his sins in his face as if hers weren’t just as vile.

A low, humorless chuckle escaped his lips, breaking the silence like a knife slicing through tension. His grin was sharp, predatory, as he leaned closer to Clara. Her defiance faltered for a split second, the shift in her expression subtle but satisfying. He had her attention.

“It’s funny,” he began, his voice calm but laced with venom, “you mention the prospect of deserving anything.” He paused, savoring the way her eyes narrowed, the way she stiffened against his men’s grip. “Haven’t you been stealing your father’s government checks while he rots away in a nursing home? Yet, you’re apparently ‘taking care of him.’”

Clara’s face faltered, her composure slipping like a mask cracking under pressure. Her mouth opened slightly as if to deny it, but no words came.

Sylus’s grin widened, his tone dripping with mockery. “Oh, don’t act so high and mighty, Clara. Don’t sit there on your soapbox and preach to me when your sins are clear as day, etched right onto that smug little face of yours. Didn't you dump your own daughter at her fathers cause you were tired of the financial burden she put on you?”

The color drained from Clara’s cheeks, her breathing quickening as his words struck true. She tried to pull her gaze away from his, but Sylus wasn’t letting her escape that easily. He leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. “You think you’re better than me? That you’ve got the moral high ground because you helped a pregnant woman on the run? Spare me. You’re no saint. You’re a liar, no different than the rest of humanity.”

For a moment, the room was suffocatingly quiet, the weight of his words pressing down like a crushing force. Clara’s lips pressed into a thin line, her trembling hands curling into fists at her sides as she tried to muster another bout of defiance. But the guilt in her eyes was unmistakable, and Sylus knew he had hit his mark.

His grin faded, replaced by a cold, calculating look. “So, Clara,” he said, his voice softer now, but no less dangerous. “Do you want to try again? Or are we going to keep playing this little game until I truly lose my patience?”

Clara's chest heaved with fury, her hands still pinned by his henchmen, but her voice came out sharp and steady. “I never claimed to be perfect,” she snapped, her eyes burning into Sylus. “And I sure as hell have my own sins. But it was me who looked after her and that baby, hiding her from you. You should be thanking me, asshole. If it weren’t for me, she’d probably be dead in a ditch somewhere. And you have the nerve to come into my house and threaten me? Fuck you.”

She paused, her defiance unwavering as her gaze darted to the crib in the other room. Her voice softened slightly, but the venom was still there. “That woman was scared out of her mind, crying every damn night, and I was the one who kept her alive. I gave her food. I gave her a safe place. So yeah, go ahead—hold that gun over my head. But just remember, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even have a daughter to hunt down. Much less a fiancé.”

Her voice broke slightly, but she kept her head high, glaring at him. “So like I said. You don’t deserve her. And you sure as hell don’t deserve that baby.”

Sylus stared at her, his breathing heavy, his crimson eyes narrowing. Her words cut deeper than he cared to admit, the weight of her defiance stirring something dark inside him. For the first time in years, someone had dared to tell him he wasn’t deserving—dared to spit the truth in his face.

Sylus’s jaw tightened further, the muscle flexing as Clara’s words struck him like a whip. Her breathing was ragged, and the fire in her eyes was unyielding despite the clear danger she was in. Her defiance burned bright, and though it grated on his every nerve, he couldn’t entirely dismiss the truth in her words.

She’s right, isn’t she?

He inhaled slowly, steadying himself. Her accusations hung heavy in the air. It was her who had hidden you, fed you, cared for the baby—all while he’d been storming around like a madman, desperate to bring you back. Dead in a ditch somewhere. The words echoed in his mind, and an unfamiliar pang struck his chest. Was that true? Could you have survived all this without Clara? He hated the thought, hated the idea that someone else had protected you better than he had.

But there it was. His mind churned as Clara’s words continued to linger, stoking the embers of his frustration. He wanted to tear her a new one, to tear her arguments apart, to prove that he was the one who should be thanked, not her. He had searched tirelessly, sacrificed sleep, combed every inch of this cursed region to find you.

He had cleaned up every mess you’d made, erased the trail you’d left behind so no one else could harm you. Killed most of the people who had harmed you. He had paid people off, hacked into systems, and even restrained himself from tearing apart everyone who so much as looked like they might know where you were. He was doing all of this for you.

And yet, here Clara stood, telling him he wasn’t worthy of you or his daughter. The audacity of it boiled his blood.

Sylus’s lips pressed into a thin line as he paced slowly in front of Clara, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His mind was a storm of conflicting emotions—rage, frustration, and something deeper, something he didn’t want to acknowledge. Guilt? No. He didn’t allow himself guilt. Not when everything he did was necessary to bring you back to where you belonged.

He stopped abruptly, turning to face Clara again, his crimson eyes burning into hers. "You think I don’t know what she’s been through?" His voice was low, almost a growl, but there was an edge of restraint to it. "You think I don’t care? Every second she’s been out of my sight has been hell. Hell, do you understand me?"

Clara’s glare didn’t waver, though her breathing hitched at the force behind his words. "Oh your the victim here? Then maybe you should ask yourself why she ran in the first place," she said bitterly, her voice quieter but no less cutting.

Sylus stiffened. The words landed like a blow to his gut, but he masked it with a cold smile. "She ran because she doesn’t know what’s best for her," he said sharply, though even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow. "She’s reckless, impulsive, and stubborn. And yet here I am, cleaning up her messes, making sure she’s safe. Because I care. Because she’s mine."

Clara scoffed, shaking her head. "You call that love? You’re delusional. Love isn’t ownership, you sick bastard. It’s trust. And you? You don’t even know what that word means. Probably can't even spell it."

Sylus’s jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth might crack. Her words cut deeper than any weapon ever could. He could feel the simmering rage bubbling beneath the surface, but he forced himself to take a step back, inhaling deeply to keep his composure.

"You’re bold, I’ll give you that," he said, his voice eerily calm now. "But don’t mistake my patience for weakness, Clara. I’ve killed people for saying less." He leaned down, bringing his face closer to hers, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed for her. What I’ve endured just to make sure she and our daughter survive. You don’t get to sit there and tell me I don’t deserve them."

Clara’s lips trembled for a moment, but then she lifted her chin defiantly. "And yet, here you are. Storming in like a tyrant instead of a father. Do you even know what she’s gone through? What it’s like to be afraid of the man who’s supposed to protect you?"

Sylus flinched inwardly at her words but didn’t let it show. Instead, he straightened, his expression hardening into a mask of indifference. "Enough," he said coldly, brushing past her as he gestured to his men. "Search the area again. Look for any clues as to where they’ve gone."

As his men scattered to follow his orders, Sylus turned his back to Clara, though her words continued to echo in his mind. Do you even know what she’s gone through?

He tightened his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wasn’t here to reflect on his actions or question his choices. He was here to bring you back. That was all that mattered.

And yet…her words lingered, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts as he made his way toward the nursery again.

Sylus lingered in the nursery, his gaze sweeping over every detail of the room. The small pile of used diapers in the trash, the onesies scattered across the crib, the faint smell of baby powder that clung to the air—all of it painted a vivid picture of the life you had carved out for yourself and your daughter in his absence. His chest tightened, a mix of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Anger, regret, longing. It was all there, bubbling beneath the surface.

He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenching as his thoughts spiraled. I missed it. The words echoed in his mind, heavy with anguish. He had missed her birth. The first cries. The moment she had entered the world. He had missed it all.

What had those first few days been like? Had you been in excruciating pain, left to deal with it all alone? The thought made his stomach churn. You probably hadn’t had medical attention, knowing how determined you were to stay off the radar. Were you okay? Was she okay? His mind raced with questions, each one more painful than the last.

What did she look like? Had you given her a name yet? The ache in his chest deepened. He wanted to know every detail, every moment he had missed, but instead, he was left with this hollow emptiness.

Sylus sighed heavily, forcing himself to focus. His eyes fell on a familiar object tucked beneath a blanket on the floor. He crouched down and pulled it out, his lips curling into a faint smile. Luke’s gun. The one you had stolen during your escape. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. He checked the bullet chamber.

Empty. What had you used the rest of the bullets for?

“So, you still had this with you,” he murmured to himself, his tone a mix of amusement and frustration. “At least you were somewhat armed. But now…” He sighed again, his brows furrowing. Now you’re out there with nothing to protect yourself or the baby. You’ve left yourself vulnerable.

He stood, pocketing the gun as his mind churned with possibilities. If you had left the gun behind, then you hadn’t gone far on foot. Traveling with a newborn, without proper protection, in your condition—it wasn’t feasible. A thought struck him, and his gaze snapped toward the front door.

He strode outside, ignoring the puzzled glances from his men. The dirt driveway stretched out before him, and he crouched low, inspecting the ground. Sure enough, fresh tire tracks were etched into the earth, leading away from the farmhouse. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Ah, so you’re driving now. Clever girl. But that also means…you haven’t gotten far.

Straightening, Sylus turned and re-entered the house, his expression calm and collected despite the storm raging inside him. He found Clara in the living room, still struggling against the grip of his men. He motioned for them to release her.

Clara fell to the floor with a grunt, clutching her chest and glaring up at him. “Assholes,” she spat, her voice hoarse but still full of defiance.

Sylus smirked, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket as he approached her. “I’d like to thank you for taking such great care of my family,” he said smoothly, his tone almost polite. “Truly, you have my gratitude. As a gift, you won’t get any new holes in your skull today.”

Clara scoffed, pushing herself into a sitting position. “Crazy bastard.”

He chuckled softly, his crimson eyes glinting. “Perhaps. But I will, however, be taking this.” He held up the shotgun, the metal gleaming under the dim light. “Thanks for your time.”

Clara glared at him, her jaw tightening. “Go to hell.”

Sylus leaned down slightly, meeting her gaze with an unsettling calm. “I’ve already been there, Clara. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure to send your regards if I ever go back.”

With that, he straightened and gestured for his men to follow him. They filed out of the farmhouse, leaving Clara sitting on the floor, her defiance still flickering but her exhaustion evident. Sylus stepped out into the night, the cool air biting against his skin as he approached the waiting car.

As Sylus exited the farmhouse, the cool night air filled his lungs. His steps were measured, his eyes fixed forward, but his mind was racing. He reached into his pocket, pulling out Luke's missing gun, its weight familiar in his hand. He turned it over once, a faint smirk tugging at his lips before he called out.

“Luke,” Sylus said, his voice sharp enough to cut through the noise of the other men shuffling about.

Luke turned quickly, his bird mask tilted in curiosity. “Yes, boss?”

With a flick of his wrist, Sylus tossed the gun toward him. Luke caught it midair, his eyes widening behind his mask. “No way! You found it!” he exclaimed, holding it up triumphantly.

Sylus’s smirk deepened. “Try not to lose it again to any more pregnant women,” he said dryly, turning away as Luke let out an enthusiastic cheer.

“Thanks, boss!” Luke said, almost bouncing in place as he inspected his beloved weapon. Kieran gave his brother a light shove, muttering something about priorities, but Luke didn’t seem to care. He twirled the gun theatrically, clearly overjoyed to have it back.

Sylus didn’t linger on the scene. He strode toward the car, his expression hardening once more as the reality of the situation set in. Tossing the gun back was a minor indulgence—one moment of levity in a sea of mounting frustration. He climbed into the car, settling into the backseat as the driver awaited his command.

He had managed to keep his cool surprisingly well so far. First with the twins, and with everyone else here in Brunswick. No one had died surprisingly. Perhaps you had more influence on him than he thought.

Still. There was only so much he could take before he snapped.

His eyes drifted back toward the farmhouse, the faint glow of its lights barely visible through the dark trees. Clara’s words still rang in his ears, her defiance leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. But it didn’t matter now. He had the trail. The tire tracks. A direction.

The game was far from over.

“Drive,” Sylus ordered, his voice cold and unyielding. The car hummed to life, rolling forward into the night. As it sped down the dirt road, he allowed himself a brief glance at the horizon. Somewhere out there, you and his daughter were waiting. He would hold you both soon, he could feel it.

And he was getting closer.

Xavier’s apartment was dark, the curtains drawn tightly to block out the sunlight that threatened to pierce through. The air was frigid, his breath visible in the dim light of the television that flickered across the room. Ice shards littered the floor, clinging to his arms and legs like cruel barbs. He lay there, writhing, his body trembling uncontrollably as pain radiated through every fiber of his being.

The shrill sound of his phone ringing cut through the silence, pulling him momentarily from the haze of agony. It buzzed relentlessly on the floor next to him, the screen illuminating missed calls and unread messages.

Missed Calls: Captain Jenna (5), Team Line (12) Messages: Captain Jenna – “Xavier, we’re worried. Please answer your phone.” Team Chat – “Anyone heard from Xavier?” “He’s been ghosting us for weeks.”

The phone buzzed again. Another call. He turned his head slightly, his blurred vision focusing just enough to make out the name on the screen. Captain Jenna.

The ringtone felt like nails in his ears, and with what little strength he had, he reached for the phone, his frostbitten fingers trembling. It slipped from his grasp, clattering back to the icy floor. The call went to voicemail.

Moments later, the voicemail notification played automatically, her voice soft but filled with concern:

"Xavier, everyone on the team is worried sick about you. Please get back to me when you can. I’d hate to forcibly resign you. Let’s work something out, okay? If you need more time, it’s fine. Call me back."

The message ended with a beep, and Xavier let out a strained breath, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. His fingers twitched, trying to reach for the phone again, but his body refused to cooperate. The ice shards seemed to dig deeper, the frost creeping up his arms like vines threatening to claim him.

He heaved, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as he tried to form coherent thoughts. The pain was unbearable, a relentless wave that drowned out everything else.

And then, everything went black.

The phone buzzed one last time, the screen lighting up the room as Xavier’s unconscious form lay sprawled on the floor, his breaths uneven as the frost slowly spread across his floor.

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