#payroll errors

[dailyfinancial]

No Fraud, No Recovery: SC’s Landmark Ruling Protects Employees Forever

“Supreme Court rules employers CAN’T recover excess salary payments if no fraud is proven! Learn how this landmark judgment protects employees, impacts HR policies, and prevents wrongful recoveries. Essential read for employers & employees under Indian labour laws. #EmployeeRights “ In a landmark judgment delivered on April 4, 2025, the Supreme Court of India has once again reinforced the…

[rohirric-hunter]

Head hurty

[savvyhrms8]

Why Every Business Needs a Reliable Payroll Software

Payroll may not be the first thing that comes to mind when considering what keeps a business operating. Nevertheless, it is among the most important behind-the-scenes tasks. Making sure workers feel appreciated, respected, and inspired to give their best work is the goal of payroll, which goes beyond simply distributing paychecks.Payroll software is developed to tackle the problem of payroll Hr department face.

Payroll Software is essentially the process of figuring out and allocating employee wages. It goes beyond simple math, though. It entails keeping track of hours worked, figuring out overtime, overseeing benefits, taking taxes out, and making sure that constantly shifting labor laws are followed. Not only can a single payroll error cost a business money, but it can also erode employee trust.it reduces human errors.

Paying payroll Software incorrectly can lead to major headaches. It would be frustrating to put in a lot of effort throughout the month only to discover an error in your paycheck. In addition to upsetting staff, mistakes can result in legal issues if tax returns are not handled correctly. Because of this, a lot of companies are moving away from manual payroll procedures and toward automated ones, which speed up, improve accuracy, and reduce stress.

Payroll software nowadays is capable of more than just figuring out salaries. It files taxes, manages benefits, keeps track of working hours, and even creates digital pay stubs. Businesses save time and effort by doing this, freeing up the finance and HR departments to concentrate on more important tasks rather than becoming bogged down in mountains of paperwork.

With the help of this software workers feel more secure when they know their compensation is handled correctly, which boosts loyalty and morale. Additionally, effective payroll systems make it simple for employees to view their personal earnings records, allowing them to stay informed without having to contact HR each time they have a query.

Payroll software is needed to any organization and size will ultimately determine which is best for you. These days, cloud-based solutions are a fantastic option since they provide safe access from any location at any time and automatic updates for the most recent tax regulations.

[vrsnorway]

Visual Registration provides innovative solutions for time tracking, task management, and shift planning, designed to meet the unique needs of industries such as manufacturing, construction, hospitality, sports, healthcare, and more. Specializing in automated resource management, Visual Registration leverages advanced features like GeoFence technology and an intuitive platform to streamline operations, improve efficiency, and maximize productivity. Simplify workforce management for your organization with Visual Registration. Visit www.visualregistration.com to learn more

[tiggyloo]

So work had a payroll issue this week where PTO just wasn't paid out. They realized this near immediately, fixed it, and pushed out a new payroll with the PTO.

But of COURSE my fucking bank has an issue with one of their service providers the day after, the one they use for processing transactions: transfers, deposits, purchases, etc. SUPPOSEDLY they're going to have it fixed and all processing transactions pushed through by the end of the day.

So until then I'm just missing FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS FROM MY PAYCHECK

And this really isn't that big a deal, except that I was planning to do some grocery shopping today which now can't happen

[joshhamilton11]

The Role of Payroll Services in Reducing Errors and Payroll Fraud for Trucking Businesses

Managing payroll in the trucking industry comes with unique challenges, such as varying pay structures, fluctuating hours, and the need for compliance with industry-specific regulations. Unfortunately, these complexities can lead to payroll errors and even fraud, which can be costly and damaging to a trucking business. Experts offering trucking payroll services play a critical role in reducing these issues by automating processes, ensuring accuracy, and implementing safeguards to prevent fraudulent activities.

Automation to Eliminate Human Error

Human error is a common cause of payroll mistakes, especially in industries like trucking where compensation structures can be complicated. Truck drivers may be paid by the mile, by the load, or on an hourly basis, and tracking overtime, mileage, and routes manually can easily lead to miscalculations. Payroll services automate these processes, ensuring accurate calculations of pay rates, overtime, bonuses, and reimbursements.

By integrating time-tracking tools, such as Electronic Logging Devices (ELDs) and GPS systems, payroll services can automatically capture the hours worked, miles driven, and routes taken by truck drivers. This eliminates the need for manual data entry and significantly reduces the risk of errors, such as under- or overpayment of drivers. The automation also helps streamline the payroll process, ensuring that drivers are paid on time and that all payroll records are accurate.

Data Accuracy and Consistency

Payroll services use advanced software to maintain consistent and accurate data across all payroll cycles. These systems automatically apply the correct pay rates and ensure that all deductions (such as taxes, benefits, and reimbursements) are accurately accounted for. When manual processes are used, inconsistencies in pay rates, deductions, or hours worked are more likely to occur. For trucking companies, where drivers may work in multiple states or have complex compensation structures, maintaining consistency is vital.

Moreover, payroll services often come with built-in compliance features that adjust automatically to changes in labor laws and tax regulations. This ensures that trucking businesses are always up to date with federal, state, and local requirements, reducing the risk of fines due to non-compliance and minimizing the chance of making costly errors.

Preventing Payroll Fraud

Payroll fraud is a serious risk for trucking companies, particularly when it comes to issues like "ghost" employees, falsified hours, or misappropriation of funds. Payroll services help mitigate the risk of fraud in several ways:

Access Control and Permissions: Modern payroll systems allow businesses to set different levels of access for various employees. For example, only authorized personnel may have the ability to edit or approve payroll data. This prevents unauthorized individuals from manipulating pay rates or submitting false hours for themselves or others.

Audit Trails: Payroll systems often include an audit trail feature that tracks changes made to payroll records. This means that any adjustments or edits to a payroll record are logged with the name of the person who made the change, along with the time and date. This level of transparency discourages fraudulent activity, as it becomes easier to identify any suspicious actions.

Direct Deposit and Electronic Payments: Offering direct deposit for driver payments ensures that funds are transferred directly to employees’ accounts, eliminating the opportunity for payroll fraud such as stealing physical checks or misappropriating cash payments. Payroll services can also facilitate electronic reimbursement for expenses like fuel, tolls, or maintenance, ensuring that these payments are tracked and managed properly.

Error Detection and Reporting

Payroll services often come with built-in error detection features that can automatically identify discrepancies in payroll data. These systems compare data inputs against pre-set rules and regulations, such as expected pay rates, overtime hours, and tax calculations, and flag any inconsistencies before payments are processed. This reduces the likelihood of errors going unnoticed and ensures that any discrepancies are corrected promptly.

Additionally, payroll services generate detailed reports that can be reviewed by managers or accountants. These reports provide clear visibility into the payroll process and can be used to spot potential errors or fraud. For trucking businesses, having access to detailed, easily accessible reports is critical for maintaining control over payroll and financial operations.

Streamlining Compliance

The trucking industry is subject to numerous labor laws and regulations, including overtime pay rules, fuel tax credits, and reimbursement for expenses. Payroll services help businesses stay compliant with these regulations by automatically calculating the correct tax rates, ensuring that drivers are paid for overtime, and tracking reimbursements for expenses. Non-compliance with these regulations can lead to fines and legal issues, but payroll services help trucking businesses avoid these risks by keeping the payroll process aligned with current laws.

Conclusion

Payroll services are essential for reducing errors and preventing payroll fraud in trucking businesses. By automating payroll processes, ensuring data accuracy, preventing fraudulent activities, detecting errors early, and streamlining compliance, these services provide significant benefits to trucking companies. Investing in a reliable payroll service not only reduces the administrative burden on HR teams but also safeguards the business from costly mistakes and legal issues, allowing companies to focus on growth and operational efficiency.

[rcslindia]

Discover the financial advantages of utilizing professional payroll management services for your business. Beyond simply issuing paychecks, proficient payroll management encompasses crucial functions that directly impact your company's financial well-being. By outsourcing payroll responsibilities to experienced experts, businesses can reduce overhead costs associated with maintaining an in-house payroll department while ensuring compliance with tax regulations and minimizing the risk of costly errors and penalties. Additionally, streamlined processes and advanced software solutions enhance accuracy and efficiency, saving time and reducing administrative burdens. Outsourcing payroll functions also provides valuable insights into cost-saving opportunities and financial optimization strategies, ultimately contributing to greater profitability and success.

[hrspot]

Most Common Payroll Issues👇

[joyandella-123]

Does Automation Really Reduce Payroll?

Automation and robotics are touted as a panacea to the problem of qualified worker shortages. Can the resource outlays more than pay for themselves once the automated lines are up and running?

Automation can significantly reduce payroll needs in various industries, including metal fabricating. The impact of automation on payroll is primarily due to its ability to increase efficiency, productivity, and accuracy while reducing the need for manual labor in certain tasks. Here are some key points on how automation affects payroll:

Reduction in Manual Labor: Automation typically reduces the need for manual labor, especially for repetitive, mundane, or physically demanding tasks (the three D’s: dull, dirty, and dangerous). Machines and automated systems can perform these tasks more efficiently and for longer hours than human workers, leading to a reduced need for a large workforce.

Shift in Workforce Composition: While automation may reduce the number of low-skilled positions, there is often an increased demand for higher-skilled workers who can manage, maintain, and optimize automated systems. This shift can change the nature of payroll expenses, with a possible increase in salaries for these higher-skilled positions, but overall fewer employees.

Increased Productivity and Efficiency: Automated systems often work faster and more consistently than humans, increasing overall productivity. This means that the same amount of work (or more) can be done with fewer employees, leading to a potential decrease in payroll costs.

Reduction in Errors and Rework: Automation can also reduce costs associated with human errors, rework, and quality control. Automated systems can maintain high precision and consistency, leading to improved product quality and lower waste, which indirectly affects payroll needs by reducing the need for additional labor to correct mistakes.

Long-term Savings vs. Short-term Investment: While the initial investment in automation can be significant, the long-term savings on labor costs can be substantial. Over time, the reduction in payroll due to automation can offset the initial costs of purchasing and implementing automated systems.

Training and Development Needs: With automation, there's a need for ongoing training and development of staff to work effectively with new technologies. This aspect of payroll might increase as employees are upskilled to handle more advanced systems.

In summary, automation generally leads to a decrease in payroll needs related to manual labor, but it also requires a shift towards a more skilled workforce. The overall impact on payroll will depend on the extent of automation, the nature of the work, and the company's adaptation strategy in terms of workforce development and restructuring.

[shewrites444]

pretty [ art donaldson x babysitter/age gap! reader smut ]

[ Hiii me popping up on here for the first time in forever lmao. I've been on a Challengers kick lately, let me know if I should write more on Art perhaps. :D ]

WC - 3.5k (unedited story, so apologies for any errors)

[ Summary - The reader and Art have been having an affair for the past few months after she became the Donaldsons' occasional babysitter. A lot of porn with a slight plot. ]

[ Warnings - Age gap (reader is college-aged, art is in his like mid-thirties), cursing, cheating/affair, oral (m&f receiving), dirty talk, tiny breeding kink mention, unprotected sex ]

-

It's not like it mattered to Tashi, well, anymore, what her husband did in his free time. A year or so ago, when Art found out about Tashi and Patrick's on-going affair at their challenger, he felt crushed, defeated, sickened, all emotions jumbled into one component, knowing what his wife was doing behind closed doors since they were teenagers. No amount of "I love you's" could make her drawn closer to him, no amount of care, compassion.. nothing. I mean, it would only make sense that an affair that lasted over ten years, especially with his former best friend and teammate, would fundamentally fuck up their marriage.

Tashi tried to fix it, she really did, by cutting off all connections to Patrick, promising Art she'd be better for not only him, but their daughter, Lily, and the careers and finances they shared together. She knew all the logic behind an affair was unjustifiable, and it made sense to fix a marriage with someone who genuinely cared for her and the family, careers, and finances they created together.

Art stopped playing tennis that year, and like they had promised each other months before, decided to work on the foundation full time, and with newer responsibilities, came the need for a sitter that wasn't only one of their parents when Art had a game or two.

That's where you came into the picture.

You were an undergraduate student at NYU, about to graduate in the spring with a heavy need for any sort of finances to help you afford your rent the rest of the semester. Knowing that your niece was in class with Art and Tashi Donaldson's daughter, that set up a fairly easy connection to a potential babysitting gig. They were millionaires, hell, maybe even billionaires at this point, so you'd be bound to get a pretty solid paycheck.

You were in luck. They needed an occasional sitter on the weekends, and a handful of nights during the week, and given that they both knew your sister, you were already trusted. Easy money.

You got along with Lily pretty well, too. Not to mention the Donaldsons were kind to you as well, and the amount of money they gave you for watching their one daughter, who was pretty self-sufficient other than needing to have a bedtime story or two read to her each night, was fucking ridiculous. Not like you were rolling in dough, but they surely overpaid you. Not like that was a problem for either parties, though.

Overtime, you talked more to Art when Tashi was starting to have more meetings, interviews, and other miscellaneous tasks that required her attention as they expanded connections to the foundation. At first, it was a bit awkward, given that when babysitting, usually the dad was a bit more absent, or quiet, but he warmed up to you after a few nights. He'd ask you about how Lily was, even ask you about school, or what you wanted to do after graduation, pay you, and that was really it. It was simple, really, until it wasn't.

And here you were, months later, standing at the small kitchen island in your apartment, which was, frankly, a bit inhumane in size for an inhabitant, but it's New York City, and it's what you could afford, even on the Donaldson's payroll. You had a small salad bowl in front of you, sliding the grape tomatoes off the cutting board in your hand into the mixture, as no other than Art Donaldson stood next to you, the tongs in his hand as you handed him the bowl.

Playing house with a married 35-year-old man wasn't on your list of things to do this year, but it's not like you were complaining.

From an outside perspective, it felt wrong, but to you, it felt just right. It was cliche, and well, bad, being apart of an affair for a multi-millionaire last name, and a man that was married, with a whole family, but you tried not to think about it.

Did you love him? You had never been in love, so you didn't really know, but probably not, at least not yet. Did he love you? You didn't think so, but he definitely favored you more than his own wife, and you weren't even thinking that because of the situation, you genuinely knew he preferred you.

"You want me to put a show on?" Art asked softly, glancing down at you as you walked over to the kitchen, rinsing off the cutting board. His eyes averted to your ass, glancing at the sweat shorts that hugged your figure, before looking up to meet your eyes when you turned around.

You knew he checked you out, it's not like that came to a surprise. Art was sweet, really, but it's not like he wasn't a sexual man because he was older. If anything, that made his sex drive higher. You shrugged, sliding past him to open the fridge and grab the salad dressing. "Eh, I'm good with whatever."

You can hear him set the bowl down, and his free hand travel to the side of your waist, over the thick cotton of your sweatshirt, as you grin to yourself, shaking your head while you set the dressing on the counter. "Shouldn't we eat first?"

"Just missed you today." Art muttered, lightly turning you around to face him before giving your forehead a light peck. "Haven't seen you all week, pretty."

Your cheeks redden, and the familiar pit in your stomach follows directly after. Fuck. Art was older than you, yes, but an emotional man at the fact of it, but he was so fucking needy. He'd come see you, not even two or three days between, and act like it had been two months without contact. He'd lay his head on your chest, play with your fingers, tell you how much he missed you, all because you hadn't seen him in not even a week. From the outside, that probably looked pathetic, a married man, who had a wife and child at home, coming to a college-aged girl's apartment, not even the size of his bedroom, cuddling her like he was a teenager. It was fucking toxic, actually, but again, you tried not to think about that part of it.

"Well, why don't we eat, and then you can show me that you missed me later, hm? That okay?" You step back slightly to look up to him, reaching forward to cup his rose-tinted, pale cheeks. You lean up to kiss him, pulling away to slide out of his embrace, your eyes following the meal you had just made together.

Art was pouting, basically, as he frowned at the corner of his mouth, walking towards the other side of you and gently taking the tongs out of your hand. "I'd rather show you now. You can't tell me you don't want me to fuck you right here, sweetheart."

"Art." You purse your lips together, shooting him a glare. You could pretend to be annoyed all you want, but he knew you weren't aggravated with him. It's not like you didn't enjoy him fucking the shit out of you on your kitchen counter, or anywhere, matter of fact. He'd fuck you right in your car when he walked you out of his house after babysitting, he didn't give a fuck. He liked you a lot, way more than he should, even in the given scenario of an affair.

"What?" He tilted his head, looking down at you with that stupid cheeky-ass grin he'd always give you when he knew you were fibbing. You wanted him, obviously. Sometimes, he didn't know why you even pretended to act like you didn't want it right then and there.

Art really wasn't even the most dominating guy, but if that's what you wanted, he'd put on a fucking show. He'd bend you over and fuck the shit out of you if that's what you wanted him to do. He'd make it hurt, if that's what you wanted him to do. But again, he liked you, so he'd never actually hurt you.

You glance down between you, the obviously erection in his sweatpants pointing right at you. You look back up to him, that look of pure want on his face so obvious. You glance to your bedroom. You don't have to speak, he already knows, and he listens so fucking easily.

The chemistry between the two of you was a fucking pain sometimes. You'd be so wet when he'd do as much as touch your back, it would piss you off sometimes, and you would think that after fucking him for a few months now, that feeling of freshness would go away, but it didn't.

You'd do more than just fuck, too. If he wasn't such a public figure, he'd take you out on real date, probably try to pursue you in some way if he wasn't married, and just a more normal-status guy, but that wasn't the case. He would make efforts though, buy you flowers sometimes when he'd come over, order the two of you something to eat, whether it was Chinese takeout or a 5-star review restaurant steak, he didn't care. He just wanted to please you, the best he could. All the time.

Right now, his definition of pleasing you was gesturing for you to lay down on your twin-sized bed, and plant his face between your legs, eating your pussy until you were begging him to fuck you with something other than his tongue.

You wiggled yourself out of your shorts and underwear in one, Art assisting you by pulling them off your ankles and onto the wooden floor. He spread your knees apart, kneeling on the hard ground before his hot breath was planting kisses between your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours.

You gulp, averting your attention to his mouth. You watch him get closer, and you can only gasp when he latches onto your clit. You feel him move his hand onto your thighs, wrapping around them from the back and holding your sides, his pale, calloused hands digging into your skin. It didn't hurt though, not at all.

"Oh my god." Leaves your mouth without a single thought. Art knew exactly how to please you. "Art, you're gonna make me cum before you even fuck me."

He looked up to you, lips still pressed against your pussy, his eyes locked with yours for a moment, before he focused his attention to your body again. He didn't care. Guess that was the point.

You shake your head in disbelief, your back naturally arching as he pressed his tongue harder against you. God, you couldn't even imagine what it was going to be like when his cock was inside you, even though you'd slept together plenty of times before.

His tongue kept pace on your clit, as he moved one of his hands off your thigh and closer to your pussy, gently pushing his middle finger through your folds. Fucking hell, as if he couldn't make you more turned on.

"Art." His name rolled off your tongue. "You're gonna make me cum. I wanna finish with you."

He listened to you, and he obliged, despite how much he wanted you to cum now. Art slowly pulled his finger out of you, and his mouth away from you. He leaned up, motioning himself on top of you, before you moved your hands to lightly push him off.

"What's wrong?" He asked, almost immediately, his eyes dropping, almost disappointed. You knew his cock was aching to be inside you.

You lean up, your hands traveling to rest against the sides of his broad shoulders. "Here. Lay down."

Art wasn't going to fight that. He eagerly nodded at your request, your positions switching in seconds as he laid down on your bed. Your hands began to pull at the waistband on his sweats, and his underwear, sliding them off his body in one.

You weren't one for sucking cock, but with Art, you fucking adored it. You liked to watch him fall apart at just your mouth, knowing that he'd crumble once he fucked your pussy. You liked edging him to the point he was whining, begging, pleading to fuck you, or you to fuck him. Just depended on the day.

"You gonna suck my cock, pretty girl?" Art asked you, softly, a half-smile on his pink lips as he moved one of his hands to cup your cheek, his elbow propping his body up slightly. "Gonna let me fuck your mouth?"

"Mhm." You murmur, nodding as you move down to spit on his cock, wetting the tip before you peck a few kisses against his tip, glancing up at him as you laid on your stomach towards the end of your bed, front of your body aligned with his middle. "Gonna let you fuck my throat, Art."

Art's grin followed the rest of his lips, his cheeks dark red as his mouth hung open. He watched you lean down, his cock enveloped by your mouth. You had pretty, plump lips. Pretty and full lashes you'd bat when he fucked your throat. He could watch you suck him off all day. He could just be with you all day.

"You're so beautiful, [Y/N]. My pretty girl." He praised you, his hand still glued to your cheek, bits of spit against his thumb as you bobbed your head, his cock hard and full in your mouth. "Gonna let me fill your mouth up, hm? Or should I fill your pussy instead? What do you want, baby?"

It's not like you could answer the question. You keep sucking him off, looking up to his blue eyes, before you force him down your throat, muffling any sort of gag that your body desperately wanted to let out. You wanted him to know you could take his cock.

"God." He moaned, his eyes never leaving yours. He rubbed your cheek. "Your mouth feel so good, but I really wanna fuck you. Please, baby. I wanna cum in you. That pretty pussy, please."

It didn't take you much convincing to slide his cock out of your mouth and lay down on your bed. It made you feel embarrassed, desperate even, with how eager you were to have him stuff his cock inside you. Not like he judged you for that at all, just internal thoughts you'd have occasionally.

He sat up, his cock hard and straight, as his knees dug into the mattress. He took his shirt off in one pull, tossing it into the pile of your combined clothes before he moved you more towards the middle of the bed. He aimed his cock at your pussy, your legs spread wide for him, before he leaned forward, slowly pushing himself inside you, the both of you moaning at the raw feeling.

Art could be rough if you wanted him to, and you'd do the same for him, but typically, he savored the moment he entered you each and every time. He'd told you several times, that you were no where near in comparison to any woman he'd been with. No competition. You were it. In every way. Part of him wished he had met you earlier, maybe at Stanford or even grade-school. God, he would've worshipped you back then, all the way to now, and the future. You checked off all his boxes, physically, emotionally, sexually, everything. In a different narrative, he would've married you and had a life with you. Fuck tennis. Fuck everything. He'd rather whatever life he could've had with you.

"You feel so good, pretty. You always do." Art leaned down to press a hard kiss against your lips. He pecked your cheek, his lips moving to your ear. "I'm gonna fill that pussy. Gonna make you mine, baby, my sweet girl.. You want that? You like that?"

You nod, your mouth open as you moan, rather loudly as he picked his pace up the more he talked to you. "Y-Yes, baby, fuck yes, fill me up. You're so fucking sexy.. You fuck me so good, Art."

Art groaned at your response, moving his head back to align above yours, his overgrown curls bouncing with his movements, the bed squeaking underneath you. He'd let his hair grow out a bit more lately since you complemented it awhile back.

"Gonna fill this pussy, pretty girl. Gonna give you my cum." He muttered, almost to himself, as he looked between your bodies at what he could see, watching himself fill your hole. It was obvious you were fucking a former pro-athlete. He could fuck you for hours if he wanted to with the amount of stamina he had, regardless of his age. It was fucking hot, how much, and how long, he could fuck you.

You could feel your orgasm increasing the more he penetrated you, the more he pulled his cock nearly out of you and forcing it back inside you, sending jolts through your body. You were already overstimulated enough from just slower sex, him fucking you like a bunny was almost too much for you to take. Not like that was a bad thing though.

"Come on." You talk to him, watching between the two of you, too. "Make me cum, baby. I wanna finish with you, Art. Please, baby. Fuck me so good."

He nods, his body rocking against yours, your legs moving up to wrap around his hips, keeping him closer, and more inside you. You wanted him to fill all of you, not missing a drop of his cum. You wanted him to make you ache when you woke up tomorrow morning.

"Fuck." He groaned, moaning into your mouth as he kissed you, his tongue sliding against yours as he came inside you.

You felt your body jolt, finishing at the same time, as he filled your pussy up. It felt so good to be on the same level, the same energy, as him. So fucking good.

He gave it a few seconds before he pulled out of you, sitting back up, making sure he fucked your right. He rolled to the side before he pulled you closer to him, his hand running through your frizzy hair, kissing the side of your forehead.

You smirked, looking up to him, a small laugh leaving your lips. "What? You can't be shocked, we've had sex so many times I can't even count it at this point."

"I'm not shocked." Art laughed, playing with your hair as he looked up to the ceiling. "It just feels so different with you. You know how much I like you, [Y/N]. Just feels good is all."

"Hm." You watch him look up. You wanted to bring something else up, more emotional topics, but, as much as you knew he did fancy you, you didn't want to fuck up the moment. "Feels good to me, too." Is all you say in return.

Art looks down at you after a moment. "Yeah?" He grins, moving closer to you as he kisses your lips. "Good."

"Yeah." You return his kiss, slightly leaning up as you look to the door. "You wanna eat now? Got your energy out?"

Art shrugs, sitting up. He pecks your bare shoulder. "Maybe not. Maybe can let the rest of it out later."

"God, you're hornier than me." You scoff, pushing him off with a red face, laughing to yourself at the man before you. "Let's eat. I'm starving."

"Whatever you say." He smirks, clearly teasing you, before stepping out of the bed, grabbing his clothes and tossing yours to you.

And that was what was odd about you and Art. It was casual, but not in a hookup sense. Casual in the way that you could sit down and eat with him, make a meal with him, watch shows and movies together, like a normal couple. It drove you insane sometimes. He felt the same way, but how the hell could he tell you that, when he could never actually be with you? He'd have to mask it some type of way, and usually that was through sex. Not like he didn't enjoy it solely for sexual reasons, because, god, he enjoyed fucking you, but he also enjoyed you.

He watched you finish your plate as you sat on the sofa together. You were gorgeous, the perfect picture of the woman he'd want to be with for more than just this. But that was something you'd have to figure out later.

[am-i-interrupting]

hii how are you doing?

so, i have this idea for a silco fic - reader is his assistant and they become close friends, like, even though she’s younger than him, he trusts her and values her opinion. they like discussing books and philosophy and stuff, but silco refuses to believe he’s falling in love (he sees it as weakness ig) . reader starts feeling like her feelings are one sided. idk lots of hurt and drama but with a fluffy end!

Kingpin’s Office

Sevika was laid back on the couch in Silco’s office. From one hand dangled a large bottle of alcohol. Her other was hidden behind her cloak.

Her leg bounced up and down. It’d been a stressful week for everyone. Especially her because it’s been a stressful week for Silco.

Numbers were piling up. They were growing larger and larger and more and more. Silco didn’t have time for the unimportant shit and she wasn’t the best with numbers. Most people in Zaun weren’t.

It wasn’t like there was some education system. No, most of those who did things that topside would use math for just used common sense and trail and error.

That wasn’t possible for things like payroll and equipment costs. This was important but it shouldn’t be taking up Silco’s time and they both knew it.

It’s only now, in the trenches with a storm on the horizon, that Sevika dared open her mouth with a suggestion, “There’s a gal in the Promenade I know. Owned a shoe shop for a while ‘til some enforcer’s wrecked the place and she wasn’t able to pay to get it fixed.”

“Your point?” Silco asked, smoke from his cigar slipping from his lips with the words.

“She’s good with numbers,” Sevika said, getting to the point, “and she’s looking for work.”

Silco paused. He thumbed the corner of the paper in his hands. He brought his cigar towards his mouth and slowly, thoughtfully took a drag. His lower lip curled to his right side as he blew out the smoke.

“Bring her in.”

That’s how you met and were then employed by the Eye of Zaun. At first it was just the numbers. Then your work began to expand. It wasn’t officially but you were given different papers to go over, the ones not so important to be looked over by Silco himself.

It was easy to be intimidated by the man. However, without an official office and Silco still wanting to keep a close eye on you at first, you learned the man wasn’t one who needed to be feared all the time. He certainly had his scary moments, yes, but he also had his softer ones as well.

You noticed little habits within that first month of doing paperwork on the couch. He would tap his cigar once, twice and then twist it to put it out. He enjoyed the sound of ice clicking against glass. He would pick up his cup and empty it just to hear the noise. He wasn’t found of music while he worked but he couldn’t say no to the blue haired girl who would fall in from the rafters.

The first time you met Jinx was an experience.

“I’m busy,” Silco had said causing you to look up but the two of you were the only ones in the room.

You jumped slightly in your seat when a voice responded to him, “Isn’t that what she’s head to fix?”

He took a deep breath. “She is here to look over documents which don’t require my attention. That doesn’t mean I don’t still get busy.”

“Blah, blah, blah. You know what I’m hearing?” the voice asked. “A bunch of big fat excuses.”

Silco didn’t dignify that with a response. He simply let the scribble of his pen answer what he thought about it.

A mere moment before a loud bang sounded through the room, Silco gathered the papers and spun his chair to face the side instead of the desk. A flash of blue and then you saw a young girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, sitting on the desk.

She groaned as Silco still focused on the papers in his hand. Her head tilted back and her body followed it to fall. She laid on the desk.

Two braids angled over the side and her bangs followed the pull of gravity. Her eyes looked at you. She smiled and waved. A pen between your fingers, you waved back.

“It’s so quiet in here,” she said.

“Jinx,” the word (which you realized was actually a name) was said in a low, warning tone.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said as she righted herself. She got right in his face. “You’re no fun.”

“Hmm.”

He moved his chair back to its previous position and placed his papers on the table top. Jinx moved to a cabinet and flung it open.

“What kind of music do you like?” she asked, head reared back to look at you.

“Oh, I— I’ll listen to anything,” you said, startled to have the girl’s attention directed towards you.

“Anything,” she repeated with a sly smile coming over her face.

“Jinx,” it was said in that same tone.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Put out on a record regardless of the warnings. It was not what you would expect him to have. It carried a strong bass with a nice tune, guitars and drums, a beautiful singing voice. The track was lovely but rock music instead of the instrumental you assumed he’d have.

You quickly learned that Jinx seemed to be Silco’s soft spot. It was cute. The towering figurehead of the Undercity was wrapped around the finger of a blue haired teenager.

You were now approaching a year of working with Silco now. You had your own office but occasionally (most days) you would end up bringing some of your work into his.

“Ballad put in a request for a raise,” you told him. “What would you like me to do?”

He waved a hand. “Whatever you see fit.”

That was another unexpected thing. Once he realized, about four months in, that you were actually competent, he let you do what your gut told you to. He didn’t question it. He trusted you with it.

He actually began to frequent your office the past few months nearly as much as you frequented his, bringing a piece of paper with him and asking your opinion.

He never simply left after getting that answer. No, he commented about how you decorated the space. This led to talks about all sorts of things.

You learned that he enjoyed to read. He had an entire collection of books, some of which he’d even let you borrow. They were all well taken care of even if the spines were a bit worn.

You noticed they were also mostly from Piltover proper. Upon questioning him about it he said, “If we ever hope for them to take us with an ounce of seriousness and give us the tiniest bit of respect, it’s important to know how to speak like them.”

The two of you had many talks which lasted minutes at the least and hours at the most.

You had learned you rather enjoyed his company and held onto a spark of hope that maybe he enjoyed yours as well.

You gave Ballad that raise they asked for. They deserved it and there was money for it.

You continued on with you work, completely unaware of the eye which kept flickering towards you.

Silco had been feeling things which he hadn’t felt in a long time. It was a warmth in his chest which occasionally spread downward towards his groin. He recognized it as attraction.

He waved it off as though that was all it was. It was simply being attracted to his beautiful employee. A common trope, he supposed, but nothing dangerous.

Recently though, as he’d gotten to know you more and more, that warmth was becoming something softer. If he could run it through his fingers, he knew it would feel like silk.

He was still trying to figure out what this was. He was racking his brain, trying to see if he could remember something like this.

Then, as your lips curled around a word which was left unspoken while you read, he was struck with an urge.

He wanted to kiss you. Not like he’d imagined before where it would be hard and rough, with clothes coming off.

No, he wanted to kiss you.

He wanted to cup your jaw and tilt your head up. The want was to look into your eyes and then pull you close. He yearned to press his lips against yours, soft and lingering.

Were your lips as soft as they looked? Would you make a soft noise? How would your tongue feel teasing against his?

He tore his eyes from you. He looked down at the papers in front of him.

Those sort of thoughts were dangerous.

Dangerous for himself because that would give him something to lose. Jinx was already enough. It was dangerous for you because you would have a target placed upon your back.

This needed to stop.

He put an end to visiting your office. He stopped speaking to you when you visited his unless directly spoken to. He made his words short and curt.

He needed to separate himself from you before he did something he couldn’t take back, not after.

You felt the change. You noticed it instantly. You brushed it off at first. Perhaps he was just having a bad couple of days. However, as it continued on, it couldn’t help but feel personal.

What happened?

You had a rather nice, comfortable relationship with Silco and now it was suddenly upended?

A part of you laughed at yourself. You really thought the niceties would last? You thought you could be important to the kingpin of the Undercity?

How could you be so naive? So utterly stupid?

You took the hints. You began to retreat. You stayed in your office.

It was empty in there. You’d come to have a warmth in the air because you knew once a day, Silco would find his way in. Now it was cold.

“You’re getting harsh on my girl,” Sevika said one day. “Why?”

Silco flipped the page to the other side. “I don’t know what it is you’re talking about, Sevika.”

“Yeah, bullshit,” she said. “You go in her office every day for five months and she’s doing the same thing in yours. Now, all of a sudden, she asks me if she did something wrong and you’re always cooped up in here. You’re telling me you’re not being hard on her?”

Silco continued to ignore Sevika. Even though his pen halted for a moment.

You were worried you had done something wrong? To the point of going to Sevika? His stomach turned.

Sevika walked up to the desk. She placed her hand down on it with enough force his ashtray jumped up.

“Why?” she asked.

He finally dignified her by letting his eyes turn up. “I am her employer, not friend.”

Sevika gritted her teeth before a wide, harsh smile crawled across her face. “Oh, so that’s what this is about,” she said. “Okay.”

Silco raised his right brow.

“You caught feelings,” she stated. “Yeah? Doesn’t give you an excuse to be an ass. Our line of work is dangerous. Doesn’t matter what her relationship is with you, she’s gonna have a target on her back regardless, just like me, just like Ren, just like Jinx.”

His lip twitched slightly at the mention of Jinx. Sevika expected as much. That’s part of why she did it.

“Do us all a favor,” she said as she yanked open the door, “just get this over with and fuck already.”

She didn’t slam the door. She didn’t have a death wish despite what she’s just done. The display left her blood and skin jittery. She needed a smoke.

Nothing changed over the course of the next couple days, other than the fact that Silco was extra snippy with his second in command.

You were supposed to close the door and go back to your office. That had been the script for the past couple weeks. Instead, you took a step into the room and closed the door behind you.

“Should I put in my weeks or wait until you fire me?” you asked.

Silco halted. His pen slipped in his grasp. His eyes turned to you. “Why would I fire you?”

“I don’t know,” you answered. “I’ve been trying to figure it out. Did I overstep? Was it something I did? Something I said? You’ve been avoiding me and I don’t know why.”

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” he said.

“Well, you certainly have been avoiding something then!” you exclaimed. “Is it me? My office? The work I do? I’m confused and I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep dancing around you without even knowing the steps I’m supposed to take.”

“You don’t need to dance around me.”

“Well it sure feels like it. So am I quitting or are you biting the bullet and firing me?”

“You’re not getting fired. Stop being dramatic.”

“Okay.”

You rocked back and forth on your heels. You wrung your hands in front of your torso. Your jaw clenched and unclenched.

“Then I quit,” you said even though it pained you to do so.

“You’re not quitting,” Silco said.

“Well, why not?”

Silco stood. For the first time in nearly a year, you felt the full effect of the Eye of Zaun. He was imposing and demanded attention.

Maybe you had a death wish though or maybe you were just really stupid because you weren’t scared.

“Because I am not upset with you.”

“Then what are you?”

He rounded the desk. His hand reached for your own. He stopped where your nails had begun to dig into your skin.

His head bowed down. You could feel his breath against your own. His eyes darted down. You wetted your lips. He met your gaze.

He tilted his head. Your eyes began to flutter. For a second you thought. . . But he pulled back. He looked you over once more.

His hand traveled to your elbow. His knuckles grazed your torso. He let them trail down. His hand wrapped around your waist. He used it to guide you closer to him.

Then his lips met yours.

[furioussheepluminary]

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥

pairings: liar x liar, non idol au

synopsis: lies

warning: lies, ft minsung, hyunjin and changbin

a/n: if you have extra eyes for errors no you cant.

previously...

The house was quiet. A deep, heavy kind of silence that wrapped itself around the walls like a second skin. Only the occasional creak of old floorboards or the low hum of the fridge dared to stir. Bang Chan stood at the doorway of his room, the faintest sliver of light from the hallway catching the rigid line of his jaw. He glanced down the corridor toward your room. Your door was shut. He’d waited long enough, listened for your breathing to settle, watched the soft shuffle of movement behind your door stop. You were asleep. Finally.

He stepped back in and closed his door behind him, locking it. The folder he brought back earlier in the day—one he hadn’t dared open in front of her—now sat like a loaded weapon on the desk by the lamp. Cream-colored, slightly wrinkled, marked with a simple black label:

OP–SHADOWGATE : EXT-4271

He opened it. Slowly. The pages were crisp, printed in typeface and scattered with clipped photos, redacted names, and codes he recognized as off-grid intel. Private databases. Not FBI. Not CIA. This file had been buried beneath four layers of encrypted shell companies and abandoned ops.

But what hit him first was the photo.

You. Y/N. But not as he knew you.

The Y/N in the file wore darker clothes, your hair shorter, your eyes sharper. You looked… cold. Calculated. Military-grade precision in every movement. Every surveillance still of you was timestamped—none of them recent. All of them deeply embedded within reports about missing data, covert meetings in Singapore, Berlin, Tunisia… and one photo that made the breath catch in Chan’s throat—

A handshake. With a known arms trafficker.

What the hell? Page after page confirmed it.

Y/N L/N. No government affiliation. No agency tags. No loyalty flags. Not FBI. Not CIA. Not Interpol. Not even MI6. Instead, three bold letters marked the top corner of one document:

SCU. Chan stared at it, blinking.

Special Covert Unit. A name only whispered in the deeper shadows of intelligence circles. It wasn’t part of any official government. It was a freelance shadow operation—made up of former agents, soldiers, defectors, and ghosts. People who didn’t officially exist anymore. People who could do what governments couldn’t.

And you were one of them.

He ran a hand through his hair, standing abruptly and pacing across the room. The betrayal simmered just beneath his skin. You had lied to him. Let him believe you were an agent, his colleague. You played the role perfectly.

And now, he realized, you’d probably been tracking him. This wasn’t partnership. This was surveillance.

FLASHBACK — 5 HOURS AGO

The dim alley behind a nondescript Vietnamese café. A man stood near the loading door, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers. Bald. Tall. Wire-rimmed glasses and a nervous tic.

Chan approached with his hood up.

"You said you had something I needed," he muttered. The man barely looked at him. “Your girl’s not who you think she is.”

Chan's silence made the man nervous. He reached into a leather pouch and handed over a sealed file.

"She’s on her own payroll. SCU. Has been for years. She's gotten in deep with people you’d shoot on sight. Singapore? That was the third time she’s crossed paths with Petrov. She might not even want you alive.”

Chan had stared. Said nothing. Took the file and left.

The rage started to build in his chest. A quiet fury. His heart beat hard against his ribs, but his hands were steady. He didn’t know what her game was yet… but he would. He grabbed his burner phone from beneath the loose floorboard under his bed and tapped out a quick, encrypted message to Jisung:

BIRD’S IN SHADOW.

SHE’S SCU. NEED A DEEP DIVE. NO MISTAKES.

PRIORITY ONE.

DO. NOT. TELL. HER.

He hit send and watched the message disappear into the black void of the encoded network.

Then he stared at the door. The one separating him from the woman who saved his life—

and may have been the one holding the blade to his throat all along.

---

The sharp ping of a notification cut through the heavy silence of the room, cracking the late-night calm like glass underfoot.

Jisung groaned into the pillow, half-buried under a tangle of bedsheets and the warm weight of Lee Know draped across his back. Lee Know stirred slightly but didn’t wake. His face remained tucked against Jisung’s shoulder, breathing soft and slow.

Jisung squinted at his phone from under the covers, fingers fumbling to unlock it.

One New Encrypted Message — Burn Line [CHAN]

> BIRD’S IN SHADOW.

SHE’S SCU. NEED A DEEP DIVE. NO MISTAKES.

PRIORITY ONE.

DO. NOT. TELL. HER.

That jolted him awake.

He sat up too fast, causing Lee Know to mumble something and shift with a sleepy arm reaching for him. Jisung gently slid out from under him, muttering, “Sorry, baby. Emergency. Sleep,” pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Lee Know didn’t even flinch—dead to the world.

Jisung padded out of the room barefoot and pulled his laptop from under the couch cushions in the living room. His fingers flew across the keys like they’d been waiting for this exact command.

SCU.

He already didn’t like it. SCU wasn’t just off-books. It was the stuff of ghost stories shared between agents over whiskey and paranoia. An elite, unaffiliated covert unit—ruthless, self-sustaining, and impossible to track. The fact that you were one of them? That was bad enough.

But what he found next was worse.

Kallisto.

He hadn’t seen that name in years. The last time it came up, a Russian scientist had vanished from a NATO stronghold. The whispers pinned it on Kallisto—a faceless middleman known for smuggling secrets, laundering intelligence, and forging high-level cover identities.

Every major intelligence server had fragments of Kallisto's digital fingerprint, but no one could identify him.

Until now, obviously. Jisung cracked open one of SCU’s old Istanbul logs. He cross-referenced Y/N’s operation history, missions involving black sites, off-grid assassinations, chemical extraction. And there it was.

An encoded drop-off record.

Marked: KALLISTO — ESCORTED CARGO: L/N

The IP trail was faint. Half-wiped. But he knew this code. He knew this formatting. His eyes widened.

"...No way."

He dug deeper. The metadata on the embedded cryptographic pings led back to one person.

HWANG. HYUNJIN.

“What the actual hell…” Jisung whispered. Hyunjin. The eccentric art dealer. Hacker. Occasional ghost in the machine when they needed access to black market caches. Your silent little tech whisperer. The guy you “called sometimes.”

Hyunjin was Kallisto.

The black-market ghost tied to former Russian intelligence circles. Jisung leaned back in the chair, letting out a long, low breath. His skin felt clammy, the adrenaline finally catching up to him.

You had lied. Big time.

And suddenly, everything about you—your calm, your silence, your innocence—it all made sense. He stood, went back into the bedroom, and gently shook Lee Know awake. “Minho… wake up.”

Lee Know blinked up at him, groggy but alert. “What’s wrong?”

Jisung knelt by the bed. “We’ve got a problem.”

---

They sat side by side on the couch now, Lee Know scrolling on his own device, eyes scanning the material with practiced calm. Jisung was pacing.

“She’s SCU. Confirmed. But that’s not even the worst part—she’s been working with Hyunjin. He’s Kallisto, babe. Like, the Kallisto.”

Minho stilled, a slow exhale leaving him. “Petrov’s operations. The Geneva leak. That guy?”

“Yeah. And Y/N had contact with him on record. Multiple times.”

“So, either she’s compromised,” Minho muttered, piecing it together, “or she’s playing some kind of deep game. Either way…”

“We can’t let her know we know,” Jisung said. “She’s too good. The second she suspects, she’ll vanish.” Lee Know nodded slowly. “Then we make a backup plan. Containment strategy. Something in case she decides to flip on us.”

They leaned over the laptop together. Drawing lines. Mapping timelines. Creating an algorithm that would flag any divergence in her behavior.

“She’s not FBI,” Jisung added softly, almost like it stung.

Lee Know watched him, his hand finding Jisung’s knee. “This is bigger than her now. We play nice. Act like we trust her.”

“And if she decides to go full double-cross?”

---

SOMEWHERE IN BERLIN — FIVE YEARS AGO

The rain was silver in the glow of neon. Cold. Soaked into the cracked asphalt like bloodstains washed clean too many times.

Hyunjin leaned against the shadowed mouth of an alleyway, hood up, hands in the pockets of a double-breasted coat tailored to perfection. Beneath it, a handgun pressed against his ribs and three encrypted drives waited in his briefcase like poison seeds. His gaze flicked upward, catching the silhouette of the woman through the haze—sharp steps, no hesitation, like she wasn’t scared of anything.

She shouldn’t have been there.

And yet… there she was.

Y/N.

She didn’t flinch when she saw him. She didn’t blink, either. Just stood before him like she already knew his name.

“You’re Kallisto?”

He smirked. “I don’t usually get called that to my face.”

“I’m not most people.”

God, that voice. It wasn’t soft—it was steel sharpened in silence. She carried herself like a storm that forgot how to scream. Beautiful in a way that made him ache, because it came with distance. She was untouchable. Purpose incarnate.

She was his type of problem.

---

PRESENT — SOMEWHERE IN TURKEY, KALLISTO’S SAFEHOUSE

Hyunjin sat barefoot at a sleek marble table, screens aglow in the dim light, lines of code reflecting in his tired, brilliant eyes. Cigarette smoke curled into the air like a dragon’s breath, untouched. His hair was half-tied, sleeves rolled up, black ink peeking from the veins of his forearm.

One screen displayed a dossier.

L/N, Y/N. Alias: Sparrow. Former asset of Operation Daggerfall. Unverified handler clearance.

He stared at her picture longer than he needed to. They’d met in Berlin by accident—but what followed was no coincidence. Y/N had needed access to something no agency would touch. The CIA had written her off. MI6 had wanted her dead. The FBI wouldn’t touch her without a valid background.

Hyunjin gave her one. He buried her records so deep no database could scratch them. Gave her a full identity, a backstory rooted in minor ops and forged casework. He made her real, not just on paper but in the eyes of the federal machine.

Why?

Because she was the first person in his life who didn’t ask him who he worked for.

And he liked the lie that he wasn’t dangerous around her.

---

THREE YEARS AGO — RUSSIA, THE BLACK VAULTS

K.B.V. — Komitet Bezopasnosti Vnutrennyaya. The Committee for Internal Security.

Hyunjin had been part of them once—not fully initiated, but deep enough. A rogue intelligence offshoot made of remnants from the KGB, rebranded under the skin of modern espionage. Hyunjin had been brought in as a teenager. A prodigy. A cyber mercenary capable of crashing entire power grids and rerouting missile guidance in under seven minutes.

He had worked operations where no one left alive. Where targets were innocent, and missions weren’t labeled necessary, just paid.

But somewhere along the way… he cracked.

It was a girl, actually. A blonde. From France. He never talks about her. After that, Hyunjin started playing both sides. Selling intel to the West. Helping the ones meant to disappear. That’s how he ended up in your orbit—how he became the one man you could count on to clean up her messes.

But he never told you about his KBV roots. Never told you that your fingerprints were once auctioned on the dark web and he was the one who bought them before someone else did.

He protected you. He watched your walk into fire. He patched her comms. He killed for her—quietly, efficiently. And every time you said “thank you” in that clipped, mission-focused tone… a small, pathetic part of him ached. Because you never looked at him the way he looked at you.

---

He pulled up footage—grainy but clear. The gala. Again. The kiss. Chan’s hand on her waist. Her lips against his. Hyunjin stared at it like it betrayed him personally.

He leaned back in the chair, exhausted.

“…You never wanted me,” he said into the silence. “But you keep calling.”

He closed the screen and locked everything down. Then turned to the window, watching a city he didn’t belong to breathe in the dark. And in a hidden vault under his floorboards, a letter addressed to Y/N sat sealed. Unread. Unsent. Just in case he ever didn’t come back.

---

The morning peeled itself from the edges of the horizon, warm gold bleeding into the sky like ink dropped into water. The air was still damp from the night rain, and the cobblestones outside the safehouse glistened faintly in the soft light.

Inside, Y/N zipped up the final bag with the kind of practiced grace that made it clear this wasn’t her first covert exit. She wore a dark hoodie, her hair tucked beneath a cap, and had the quiet look of someone already in the next country in her mind. Chan watched her from the doorway, arms folded, his face unreadable except for the faint shadow beneath his eyes—a storm bottled too neatly.

He knew. Everything. But she didn’t know that. He grabbed his own bag off the floor, slung it over his shoulder. “You double-checked the back exit?”

“Twice,” she said, brushing past him lightly. “You’d be surprised how many ops go south just because someone forgot to check for cameras.”

He gave a small, empty smile. “Wouldn’t surprise me at all.” They stepped out into the dawn.

---

The taxi smelled faintly of cigarettes and lemon-scented wipes. The driver grunted something in Czech and pulled away from the curb, the soft rumble of the car the only real sound as the city began to stir around them. Chan sat by the window, his hand curled loosely near his mouth, eyes locked on the blur of minarets and rooftop pigeons sliding past. Y/N sat beside him, her gaze forward, one leg bouncing slightly.

He broke the silence casually, voice wrapped in silk and smoke.

“You ever work with anyone out of South Carolina?”

Her eyes flicked to him. “SCU?” A pause. Careful, he thought.

She shrugged. “Not directly. They’ve got their own ghosts. You know how it is—oversight, contracts, a lot of red tape. Why?” Chan tilted his head, still watching the window.

“Just… someone mentioned a woman in one of my old circuits. Said she moved like she wasn’t trained by the Bureau.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, just long enough for him to catch it. “You think I move like that?” He smiled faintly, turning to look at her now. “I think you move like someone who doesn’t wait for orders.”

That earned a breath of a laugh. “Maybe I don’t.” They lapsed into silence again. But in Chan’s mind, wires were already reconnecting. Her answer wasn’t defensive—it was practiced. Slick. And vague enough to slide past the truth without ever touching it.

She’s good, he thought. Too good.

The taxi rolled to a stop in front of the departure’s terminal. Morning travelers bustled past with overstuffed luggage and sleep-laced chatter. Chan and Y/N stepped out, blending in with the chaos like shadows.

As Y/N adjusted the strap on her carry-on, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it.

[Jisung]: Your flight's confirmed. Prague to D.C, gate C-22. You board in 1 hr. You’re welcome.

Chan’s burner buzzed next. He checked it discreetly, heart thudding low and slow like a warning drum.

[Jisung]: Kallisto = Hyunjin. Confirmed.

He’s deeper in Russian circuits than we thought.

Do NOT confront her.

Play along. We’re building the counter-plan.

Chan’s jaw tightened. Just slightly. He slid the phone back into his jacket, turned to Y/N with that easy, almost-charming look he wore like armor.

“C-22,” he said. “You want coffee before we go through security?”

She blinked, surprised for a second by the shift. “You’re buying?” He smirked. “You’re still recovering from that fish crime you ordered last night. I owe you.”

As they walked into the terminal, he walked just a step behind her. Watching. Calculating. And the entire time, he smiled like he didn’t know a thing.

---

The room was dimly lit, washed in a cool blue glow from the multiple monitors lined across the wall like portals to chaos. The table was cluttered, half-empty mugs, a bowl of almonds, USBs scattered like confetti, and at the center of it all: Jisung, hunched forward in a hoodie, eyes flicking fast over the screen.

Lee Know sat behind him on the edge of the couch, arms folded, head tilted with that signature mix of exasperation and fondness. His hair was messily laid back, and he wore nothing but a black sleeveless tee and joggers that slung low on his hips.

“Baby, it’s past three,” he said gently. “Your brain’s going to short-circuit. Come to bed.”

“I can’t,” Jisung mumbled, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. “We just pulled up something off that Turkish backdoor server. There’s something encrypted buried under the Havana list—some weird metadata…”

Lee Know sighed through his nose, padded barefoot across the floor and crouched beside him, eyes scanning the screen.

“… ‘OSCAR,’” he read aloud.

Jisung leaned in closer, typing furiously. “That name was tagged on the Havana trade manifest. Not as cargo. As the person who signed off Petrov’s transfer. But this doesn’t make sense—there’s no trace of her anywhere. No photo. No paper trail. It’s like someone built a ghost and gave her a name.”

Lee Know stared at the file; expression unreadable for a second. Then he stood, walked behind Jisung, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, pressing his lips to the side of his boyfriend’s head.

“You are too sexy to be this stubborn, you know that?”

“I’m trying to focus here.”

“And I’m trying to get you to sleep so you don’t pass out in the middle of a firewall breach tomorrow morning.”

“I said I’m fine—”

Lee Know leaned down and kissed him again. This time slower. Then once more. Again.

Jisung’s fingers slowed on the keys. “Lee Know…”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing.”

“I’m kissing you.”

“Why are you kissing me?”

“Because when reasoning fails, seduction prevails.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am lying.”

Lee Know slipped around and gently straddled him on the chair, pressing their lips together properly this time—hands warm against Jisung’s jaw, mouth coaxing the tension out of him in lazy, warm kisses. Jisung gave in with a soft groan, arms looping around his waist.

“Just a minute,” he murmured against Lee Know’s lips.

“Take your time,” he whispered back, dragging the kisses slower, lazier, trailing from his jaw to his neck. “I’ll keep you here till the sun comes up if I have to.”

They didn’t speak after that. They just swayed together in the low light, lost in something too tender for words—breaths mingling, mouths brushing, the tension of espionage fading for a moment into something personal. Familiar.

Then,

PING.

The laptop chimed. Jisung blinked against Lee Know’s collarbone, dazed. “That… was the metadata dump. It decrypted.” Lee Know groaned dramatically and flopped back into the couch, dragging a throw pillow over his face. “If that turns out to be a decoy file, I’m deleting the internet.”

Jisung pulled himself up, adjusted the screen—and then froze. His brows furrowed, fingers hovering above the keys as an image popped up.

“Holy sh—”

“What?” Lee Know sat up. Jisung didn’t look away from the screen. His voice dropped.

“That’s her. Oscar.”

An elegant silhouette in grayscale. No face. But the metadata showed something else: A log of clearance codes used during Operation Nightfall. Signed off… under the name Reynolds.

Lee Know leaned in, eyes narrowing.

“…They’re working together?”

Jisung nodded slowly, jaw clenching. “And they were in Havana.”

---

Rain whispered against the windows of the high-rise apartment, streaking the glass in slanted gray lines. The place was sharp—clean lines, sterile decor, too polished to be personal. Just like the man who lived in it. Reynolds stood in front of the bar, pouring himself something darker than his thoughts. The amber liquid sloshed into the tumbler with a quiet clink of ice. He looked tired. More than tired. Worn. His tie was loosened, top buttons undone, and there was a trembling tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there the day before.

Behind him, Petrov leaned back on the leather armchair like a cat that knew it had nine lives. He wore black, all black, a cigarette lazily perched between his fingers despite the no smoking sign Reynolds always insisted on. His eyes tracked Reynolds like a man who expected a bullet—but wasn't scared of it. “You look like shit,” Petrov said calmly in his thick Russian accent, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

“I ran into Oscar last night.”

That got his attention. Petrov straightened, the smirk dissolving from his face like fog. “…She’s here?”

Reynolds turned, drink in hand, and gave him a cold, slow look. “In my goddamn living room, Viktor.”

Petrov held his gaze. “I didn’t call her.”

Reynolds’ voice cracked with low fury. “Bullshit. You compromised the gala. She shook your hand in the middle of gunfire. You were a goddamn beacon.”

“I was saving your operation—”

“You were making yourself the center of it,” Reynolds barked, slamming his glass down on the bar with a sharp crack. “Now she thinks we’ve lost control. She thinks I have. She threatened to light this entire op on fire if I don’t have Bang Chan’s head before the deadline.”

Petrov rose from the chair, the smirk now fully gone. “I swear to you; I didn’t say a word to her. She doesn’t know about Chan. Not from me.”

“She knows enough to show up unannounced,” Reynolds snapped, stalking forward. “And if we don’t get in front of this—if we don’t figure out something, she’ll pull the plug and do it her way. And her way? It’s not clean. It’s not political. It’s nuclear.”

They stood there, the weight of a thousand betrayals thick in the air.

Petrov flicked his ash into the tray, then muttered, “So what now?” Reynolds pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. Calculating. The mind of a man who'd sold both secrets and souls for survival.

“We give her something,” he said finally. “A breadcrumb. Not Chan. Not yet. But something that makes it look like we’re playing ball. And in the meantime—”

He looked up, eyes sharper than a blade in the cold.

“—we come up with a contingency plan. In case she decides we’re no longer necessary.” Petrov nodded slowly, then lifted his glass.

“To desperate partnerships,” he said dryly. Reynolds didn’t toast. He just turned away, staring out at the rain.

“God help us all if she realizes how far off-script this really is.”

---

Terminal 2, Gate 22, En route to Washington D.C

The check-in line was long, but not noisy. But Y/N wasn’t distracted. Not really. She stood a few paces behind Chan as they waited at security, watching him with that instinctive sharpness she'd honed for years. Something about him was different. Distant. Not cold—but guarded. He hadn’t said more than ten words since they’d left the safehouse.

She watched the tightness in his jaw as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His hand gripped the strap of his bag a little too hard. His lips were set in a firm, unreadable line.

And Y/N, despite every instinct telling her to just play it cool, found herself leaning toward him gently as they passed through the security scanner.

“You alright?” she asked softly, keeping her tone light. “You’ve been weirdly quiet. Not that I’m complaining. It’s just… not your usual kind of quiet.”

Chan looked at her. For a moment, his eyes flickered. Like something inside him softened just enough to let the truth nearly spill out. But instead, he offered a faint smile—a hollow one.

“Just tired,” he said. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Nightmares or intel?” she teased, her voice playful but careful. He let out a small exhale, neither confirming nor denying. Just moving through the moment like a man carrying too many unspoken truths.

She didn’t press. Not yet. As they approached the gate, their boarding passes beeped and they crossed into the jet bridge, walking side by side in the sterile tunnel that led to the aircraft. The hum of the engines rumbled ahead, but her mind stayed focused on the man next to her.

Maybe it was the look in his eyes. Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe it was that unshakable thread between them—tension, trust, and something else they never had the courage to name. Just before they stepped into the plane, she said, “You know… whatever it is you think I’m hiding from you… maybe just ask me, Chan.”

That stopped him. He turned to her slowly, brows barely lifted, lips parting slightly as if caught off guard. She gave him a small shrug, eyes calm but not challenging. “I’m not saying I don’t have secrets. We all do. But if you want the truth, you can always ask for it. I won’t lie to you.”

That hit harder than it should have.

Because the file still burned in his bag. The truth already stared him in the face, and yet—her voice made him hesitate. Made him doubt. And that scared him more than anything else. He nodded once, eyes dropping to the floor for just a beat too long. Then he stepped into the plane, leaving her to follow behind, unaware that the first real fracture had just begun.

---

The room was dark except for the flickering light from at least six different monitors. Strings of code cascaded like falling rain across black screens. The air smelled faintly of soldered wire and burnt coffee, evidence of Hyunjin's relentless routines. His desk was a chaotic masterpiece: old USBs, passports, a disassembled burner phone, and a half-finished oil painting of a fox that had long since dried unfinished.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, a single cigarette resting between his fingers but never lit. His gaze flickered over the final set of coordinates he’d decrypted an hour ago.

Location: Prague > Departure: DC

Subject: BANG C. / YN

He exhaled sharply through his nose. They were moving faster than expected. With the same elegance he brought to his art, Hyunjin leaned forward and opened a separate interface. His fingers tapped quickly, unlocking a channel so heavily encrypted it would take even the best black hat a week to scrape the metadata. But Oscar? She’d receive the message in seconds.

He clicked the microphone icon and spoke low into it:

> Oscar. Your package is mobile. Destination: Washington D.C. ETA six hours. Suggest containment on landing. You still want the ghost or just the soldier?

He released the mic, leaned back, and pressed SEND. A soft beep confirmed it was received and decrypted. He sat there, motionless, fingers steepled. His eyes didn’t blink for a few seconds. Because despite what he had just done—despite the mask of cold indifference he wore so well—it wasn’t just a mission. Not when it came to her. Not when it came to Y/N.

Hyunjin whispered under his breath, “What the hell are you doing, pretty girl…?”

He was about to pull up the next operation file when another alert blipped in the corner of his primary monitor.

Incoming Message: UNRECOGNIZED KEYCHAIN

Encryption: NERVE Protocol / Red Spider Variant

Location masked

Brows lifted. He hadn’t seen this protocol in years. Only a handful of elite black-market hackers used it. Most of them were ghosts. Off-grid. Untraceable. Curious, he opened the message.

> KALLISTO. I see you. You can paint in Prague, hide in Spain, sip tea in Seoul. But sooner or later, I'm gonna unplug your router and use your bones as Wi-Fi extenders. :) – spider.exe

Hyunjin blinked. Once. Twice. Then he snorted—actually laughed. Loudly.

“Spider.exe?” he muttered. “That’s cute. Very cute.”

He leaned forward and quickly activated three different defense protocols, sealing his connection routes and initiating a trace sweep. Not to find them—he wouldn’t succeed. But to at least see what sort of game they were playing.

He stared at the signature tag of the hacker’s handle again. It was old-school. Reckless. Personal.

“…Who the hell are you?” he whispered, the smile still on his lips, eyes sharpening like a wolf finally smelling blood.

Because someone was watching him.

And even though they were clever… Hyunjin had survived the K.B.V. by being smarter.

---

Jisung leaned back in his chair, legs folded, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up as he spun a pen between his fingers. The laptop screen in front of him still had the encryption pulse active—the same encrypted system he’d used to poke the bear.

Or rather, poke KALLISTO.

Lee Know was somewhere in the background brushing his teeth, humming a tune from that one old K-drama he refused to admit he liked. But Jisung? He was grinning, eyes wide and glinting with mischief as he typed again into the Red Spider interface.

OUTGOING MESSAGE

> Yo Picasso.exe — you draw fast but you paint slow. FYI, I'm the nightmare that crash-lands your Dropbox and plays Baby Shark on loop till you cry in Morse code. Wanna play tag, comrade?

ENCRYPTED SEND > DELIVERED

Beep.

He waited. Not even fifteen seconds. His eyes caught the alert on screen.

INCOMING TRANSMISSION – USER: APOLLO.S13 // KALLISTO

Encryption Signature: Modified Russian VektorShell – Unscramblable

Jisung whistled. “Damn. Old school and expensive…”

Then the message decrypted.

RECEIVED MESSAGE

> Tag requires two players. You don’t ping like NSA, but you’re not FSB either. Your syntax is juvenile, your jokes? American. But your footprint is clean. Too clean. Either you’re new, or you’re very good. So tell me: how long have you been inside my system?

Jisung blinked. “Oh, he thinks I’m inside.”

He cracked his knuckles, rolled his neck, and grinned like a devil in a hoodie. “No idea who I am? Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

He quickly began coding his reply—half jokes, half riddles, all wrapped in a sarcasm sandwich.

OUTGOING MESSAGE

> Define ‘inside.’ Metaphysically? Emotionally? Or spiritually? Because honestly, I’ve been living rent-free in your RAM since you sent Oscar that voice memo. C’mon, Kallisto. Play a little.

Another beat.

Ding.

KALLISTO REPLY – 1:38 RESPONSE TIME

> Cute. But cute things die first. Keep poking, spider. When I find your web, I’m setting it on fire.

Jisung snorted, closing the lid of his laptop slowly like he’d just made eye contact with the final boss of a game. He leaned back further, arms crossed behind his head.

“Oh, he mad mad. Baby boy got attitude.”

Lee Know walked in, towel over his shoulder, frowning. “You’re flirting with Russian hackers at again?”

“…Technically he’s North Korean-trained but, y’know, semantics.”

Lee Know sighed, but smirked. “You’re not gonna tell him who you are?” Jisung grinned. “Nah. Not yet. Let’s see how long it takes Picasso to realize he’s been painting on my canvas.”

---

FLIGHT 297 – SOMEWHERE ABOVE KENTUCKY

Cabin dim, engines humming low, and the soft glow of overhead lights pooling like moonlight around their seats.

Y/N leaned back into her seat, head tilted toward the small window, watching as clouds slithered past in the night sky like pale ghosts. The plane wasn’t packed—just a scattering of sleepy passengers lost in their own silence. She’d been watching Chan from the corner of her eye for about twenty minutes now.

He was quiet. Too quiet. And something about the way he’d been since they left the safehouse was… off. Not cold. Just… calculated. Like he was mentally running risk assessments on everything, including her.

She didn’t press. Not immediately.

But curiosity and survival had a similar itch, and eventually, she turned toward him, voice soft. “So… what’s the plan when we land in D.C.?”

Chan didn’t look up right away. His gaze was fixed on the seat in front of him, fingers tapping rhythmically against the fold-down tray. Then, slowly, he shifted in his seat, casting her a quick glance before leaning a bit closer.

“Friend’s place,” he said simply, voice low. “Guy I trust. His name’s Changbin.”

Y/N’s spine straightened by less than a millimeter. Her eyes didn’t blink. Her breath didn’t skip. But something in her stomach knotted.

CIA.

She knew the name. Not from files, but whispers. Operation Scarfall. Beirut. The Berlin Deviation. He was the CIA handler you didn’t want to get on the bad side of. And he was close to Chan?

Shit.

But her face? A masterpiece. She smiled gently. “How close are we talking?” Chan exhaled a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “He almost got me court-martialed on my first inter-agency mission. Gave me hell for three weeks because I mislabeled a cipher doc.”

Y/N blinked. “Sounds like a great first date.”

Chan gave her a look, one that almost held a smile—almost. “He earned my trust the same way I earned his. We nearly died pulling each other out of a blown-out building in Benghazi. Haven’t been able to get rid of him since.”

Y/N nodded slowly, still pretending. Still sweet. Still the Y/N he thinks he knows. “And you think he’s the best place to start?”

“He’s not just a friend,” Chan said, voice flattening slightly. “He’s a fixer. Quiet but connected. If there’s anything left buried in D.C., Changbin can dig it up, burn it, and sell the ashes to the highest bidder.”

Y/N tucked that away. Filed it next to “Find a way to keep Changbin at arm’s length.” Chan’s eyes narrowed slightly, scanning her features. “Don’t worry. I’ll be the one to break the situation down to him.”

“Situation?”

He hesitated. “You. The mission. All of it.”

“Ah.” She crossed one leg over the other, lips curling into a soft smirk. “You think he’s not already ten steps ahead?” Chan scoffed lightly. “He probably is. He’s probably listening to this conversation right now. But I owe him the explanation anyway.”

She nodded, turning her gaze back to the window, watching the lights of a city far below flicker like dying stars. And deep inside—beneath the calm, beneath the softness—she wondered:

How long could she keep playing this game? Because it wasn’t just Chan anymore. It was CIA. And Changbin. The man who once interrogated KALLISTO in a shipping crate in Kaliningrad.

This was going to get messy.

REAGAN NATIONAL AIRPORT – WASHINGTON, D.C.

The air is heavy with dew and anticipation. The city sleeps—restless and unaware.

The plane’s wheels kissed the tarmac with a soft, tired bounce, jostling the passengers gently awake. Cabin lights blinked on fully, casting shadows over drawn faces and travel-weary limbs. Y/N stirred beside Chan, stretching subtly as the pilot's voice crackled overhead, welcoming them to the District of Columbia.

They moved in silence, the kind bred not of awkwardness but of focus—of sharpening blades before the next fight.

Baggage claim was a ghost town, the conveyor belt humming like a tired lullaby. Their duffels arrived quickly—black, nondescript, and heavy with secrets. Chan hoisted his without strain, glancing once over his shoulder as Y/N lifted hers. Always watching. Always calculating.

Outside, the chill was sharper than expected, the kind that bit through jackets and whispered of coming storms. Chan stepped a few paces away from her to the curb, phone in hand, raising it to call a cab. And that’s when her phone pinged.

One message. Unknown number.

Encrypted tag: MirrorOp-11.

She unlocked it, frowning faintly as the screen displayed:

> The spider’s getting closer to the web.

Better check your corners. – K

Her breath hitched just slightly—barely, but Chan caught it.

Unbeknownst to her, as she tilted the screen just slightly for a better read, he caught the top of the message from over her shoulder. His gaze flickered, lips twitching into a slow, almost amused smile.

Kallisto.

He knew that message wasn't from just anyone. And "the spider"? It was one of Jisung's oldest hacker tags—playful, dangerous, elusive. The digital equivalent of a red laser pointer and a loaded gun. Still pretending not to have seen a thing, Chan turned and flagged down a taxi with an easy wave, his voice calm.

“Over here.”

The yellow cab rolled up with a tired groan, headlights splashing across their faces. He opened the door for her first like always, and she slid in, her phone slipping into her coat pocket. Chan followed and closed the door behind them, then leaned in to the driver.

“Northwest. 14th and T Street,” he said smoothly. The driver gave a nod and pulled out into the sleepy city streets, tires whispering over damp asphalt.

Y/N’s expression was mostly neutral, but Chan didn’t miss the subtle tension in her posture, the tight hold on the strap of her bag, the way her eyes darted once to the rearview mirror, checking for tails out of habit.

“You okay?” he asked casually, glancing sideways at her. His voice had that soft, worn edge like coffee at dawn. “You looked like you saw a ghost back there.”

Y/N turned to him, lips already lifting into a gentle, practiced smile. “Yeah,” she replied easily. “Just... tired.”

He tilted his head, studying her just a beat longer than necessary, then nodded. “Of course,” he said, leaning back against the seat. “You’ve been through hell.” His tone was comforting. Reassuring. The protective leader. But his thoughts?

If you only knew what I saw.

If you only knew who I’m talking to. And what we’re building behind the curtain. The cab turned onto a main road, headlights cutting through fog, and the Capitol slowly began to rise like a giant in the distance watching them.

And Y/N?

She pressed her lips together and glanced down at her phone once more. She didn’t reply to the message.

Not yet.

Because suddenly…

It felt like someone else was watching the spider too.

---

The taxi hummed quietly as it pulled up in front of a narrow street lined with quiet row houses modest, but timeless. Each brick home had the same bones but showed off its own personality: a windchime here, mismatched flower pots there, paint chipping in just the right way. And in front of one—olive green door, cracked white trim—was where Chan told the driver to stop.

“Here,” he muttered, already reaching for his wallet.

Y/N stepped out first, stretching her arms with a quiet sigh as Chan paid the driver. The morning air was still cool, birds chirping overhead in the sleepy hum of D.C. suburbia. They looked like tourists, really. Two travelers with their bags and fatigue under their eyes. Nothing suspicious. Nothing wild. Just two people with too much history tucked into carry-ons.

As the car drove off and the sound of its tires faded, Chan walked up to the doorstep and gave three sharp knocks against the wood. There was a pause. Then footsteps. A shuffle. The squeak of a hinge and the door cracked open.

“Jesus Christ,” came a voice, deep and raspy, still thick with morning. “Who the hell fucked you?”

Chan barked out a laugh. “Real welcoming, Bin.”

“Hey,” Changbin grinned, stepping back so they could see him fully. He was barefoot in sweatpants and a black tee, hair messy, a toothbrush still in his mouth like a cigarette. “Had to be said. You look like a war crime.”

“I was a war crime,” Chan said with a smirk. “Come on, Y/N.”

Y/N stepped forward cautiously, bag slung over one shoulder, eyes darting over Changbin with subtle appraisal. She recognized the CIA air before he even spoke—calculated eyes, compact build, that low hum of suspicion always thrumming under the surface.

Changbin blinked at her. “And you are…?”

Chan shifted beside her. “FBI. She found me.”

There was a beat. Then Changbin’s lips twitched.

“A she found you?” he said, brow raised. “Damn, low blow, bro. I thought the Ghost of Langley would be found by some tatted-up Russian or an old white guy named Walter, but this—?” He let out a breathy laugh. “Nah, I like this better.”

Chan rolled his eyes and flipped him off as he crossed the threshold. “Eat shit.”

“Already did. The yogurt expired two days ago,” Changbin shot back, closing the door behind them with a heavy clunk and twisting the locks. He looked back at them. “Make yourselves at home. Couch is yours. Kitchen’s to the right. Don’t touch my protein powder or we fight.”

Y/N smiled politely, easing her bag down by the wall. The space was cozy in that ex-operative kind of way—bare walls, sturdy furniture, hidden cameras in the corner if you looked hard enough. Homey... if your version of home came with bulletproof blinds.

Chan looked over at Changbin again, that subtle softness tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“I missed you, bro.”

That wasn’t something they said easily. Not in this world. Not unless they meant it. Changbin’s expression flickered. “Yeah, well… you better’ve. I had to watch your name bounce through six different kill lists like a damn ping pong tournament.” He crossed over and pulled Chan into a half hug, the kind where you clap each other’s backs hard enough to bruise. “Good to see you in one piece, man.”

“You too.” Chan stepped back, grinning. “How’s your girl?”

Changbin snorted, dragging a hand through his hair. “Mad at me. Thinks I took a late-night op to avoid therapy again.”

“Did you?”

“Obviously.” He gave a shrug like: what’s a man to do? “She’ll forgive me. Eventually. I bought her a plant.” Chan shook his head with a smile. “You’re gonna die in your sleep.”

“Probably. At least I’ll die pretty.”

And just like that, the door to safety had shut behind them but the door to strategy, to planning, to war, had quietly opened. And no one said it aloud yet, but it was there in the glances, the sighs, the heaviness behind every word.

Because this wasn’t just a safe house.

This was the first chess move.

I can't wait for my lovely blue to see this 😙

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[urcoolgf]

INTRODUCING . . . CEO¡READER

ceo¡reader who . . . doesn’t take shit from anyone, but is petty enough to play along with people’s games (as long as it ends in her getting what she wants)

ceo¡reader who . . . built the business from the ground up herself, prides herself on her work ethic, && absolutely hates slackers or people who feel that everything should be handed to them

ceo¡reader who . . . went to college for business / finance (&& checks over every. single. payroll statement for errors). if you’ve messed it up one too many times, or if you’re trying to steal from her? fired. no exceptions. that’s how she built this empire—on guts && a backbone made of steel

ceo¡reader who . . . loves budgeting, but also unforgivably loves shopping, && has no problem dropping a pretty penny on herself (or her friends / family) && she loves that she can travel for work

ceo¡reader who . . . has the most sarcastic sense of humor, but only she can do it—because if you do it to her? give her attitude? good luck . . .

ceo¡reader who . . . is constantly taking calls—one of the reasons she’s never had a long-term relationship. she’s married to her work && her friends, no time for guys (but maybe a casual hook up every now && then to release some stress)

ceo¡reader who . . . has a closet full of designer—designer clothes, bags, shoes, jewelry—she’s quite a collector in that way. mainly wears blacks, greys, whites, or neutrals for a professional business look

ceo¡reader who . . . was almost a lawyer just because she’s always been one to argue—even if she knows she’s wrong (which she hardly is) && as a result she’s drawn to court tv && true crime documentaries

ceo¡reader who . . . has a hard exterior, but isn’t exactly ‘un-friendly’ && is always willing to lend a hand (or assign someone to lend a hand) to new hires

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[stylesonfilms]

ink & innocence - 1

word count: 2.3k

"Alright, just keep that wrapped for two days, come back if anything happens."

The rolling of the wheels from the artist's stool echoed through the tattoo shop, blending with the buzz of tattoo guns that hummed like restless bees. The air smelled of antiseptic, ink, and faint traces of burnt coffee from the pot someone had forgotten to turn off hours ago. Overhead, the muted bass of a playlist filtered through the JBL speakers mounted in each corner, punctuated occasionally by laughter and chatter between clients and artists. The ambiance was a chaotic symphony that Harry had long since learned to tune out.

Harry peeled the black nitrile gloves from his large hands with practiced precision, the snap of the material barely audible over the noise. He rolled them into a ball and tossed them into the trash, landing the shot effortlessly. His gaze flicked toward the apprentice, a wiry kid with a head full of bleached hair, leaning against the counter scrolling his phone.

"Ni, clean the station f'me. I'll be back soon." His deep voice cut through the din without needing to rise above it.

The apprentice straightened up, muttering something about being a glorified janitor as Harry gave the chair he'd been working on a nudge with his boot, spinning it back into place. Without another word, Harry strode toward the sink, his boots hitting the tile floor in a deliberate rhythm. He let the water run cold before scrubbing his hands, chasing away the slick latex residue.

His reflection in the mirror above the sink was familiar but worn—sharp jawline framed by the untamed curls that hung loosely around his face, the strands darkened slightly with sweat from the hours spent leaning over intricate linework. He rubbed at his temples briefly before shaking it off.

Making his way to the back office, Harry pushed open the door, the hinges creaking softly in protest. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, muffling the noise of the shop to a dull roar. The office was modest, functional, and distinctly his. The centerpiece was a battered brown leather sofa that sagged in the middle, where he now sank down with a groan. Papers, receipts, and appointment schedules spilled across the coffee table in organized chaos, the remnants of his latest battle with the bureaucracy of running a business.

Reaching into his pocket, he fished out a dark green bandana, shaking it out before tying it around his head with a double knot. It was one of many he kept stashed in his bag, a small but vital part of his routine to keep his unruly curls out of his face. His hands fell into his lap for a moment, and a long, tired sigh slipped past his lips, echoing softly in the quiet room.

It had been one hell of a week. Four nights in a row staying late to fix problems that shouldn't have existed in the first place. Lease renewals that felt endless, payroll corrections that had him cursing under his breath, and a scheduling disaster courtesy of Zayn.

Zayn, with his smooth charm and infuriating nonchalance, had somehow managed to book clients on top of each other during the week Harry had taken off to recover from a nasty head cold. Zayn claimed innocence, of course, insisting it was a system error or that Niall had gotten confused while updating the calendar. Harry wasn't buying it. Now the mess had landed squarely on his shoulders—because that's what being the owner of Black Rose Studios meant.

His green eyes scanned the pile of paperwork on the table, mentally categorizing it into priorities. At least this was the last stack for now. The rest could wait until Monday morning. Out in the shop, the low hum of voices filtered through the walls. He could hear Zayn's distinctive laugh cutting through the chatter, no doubt schmoozing some poor client or persuading Niall to cover for him again.

Harry had told them to finish up with the last three appointments for the night. Naturally, they'd whined about it, angling for an early out to make it to Zayn's party. A party Zayn had been hyping all week, complete with endless mentions of Isobel's new roommate—someone Zayn seemed convinced Harry needed to meet.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, pen in hand as he began scrawling his signature on a stack of lease agreements. The repetitive motion of signing his initials—HS, HS, HS—offered a small reprieve from the chaos.

Knock, knock.

The sharp raps at the door didn't slow him. He flipped a page and continued signing, barely glancing up. "Yeah?"

The sound of a chip bag crinkling made his jaw tighten. A second later, the telltale pop of the bag opening reached his ears, followed by the unmistakable cascade of crumbs hitting the floor.

"You should really come tonight, man." Zayn's voice was muffled as he spoke around a mouthful of chips. The door creaked open, and without waiting for an invitation, Zayn sauntered in and flopped down beside Harry on the sagging sofa.

"Didn't I leave you with clients?" Harry muttered, his pen not pausing for a second.

Zayn shrugged nonchalantly, the rustle of his leather jacket loud in the small space. "Niall's got it. They're fine." He waved a hand as if to dismiss the idea of responsibility entirely, reaching into the chip bag for another handful.

Harry finally looked up, shooting him a withering glare. "You're supposed to be working, not shoving crisps down your throat in my office."

Zayn smirked, unfazed. "Come on, you've been cooped up in here all week. You need to get out. Isobel's bringing her new roommate tonight— she's—"

"No," Harry cut him off, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Zayn sighed dramatically but pressed on, his brown eyes gleaming with mischief. "Her name's Aspen, and she's not stuck up. She's just... quiet. But in a cute way, y'know? Like, mysterious."

Harry scoffed, setting his pen down with a snap. "Yeah, no thanks. I'm not interested in some preppy girl with rich parents and a superiority complex."

Zayn rolled his eyes. "You don't even know her. And for the record, she's not preppy. She's cool. Just... Come out, man. When's the last time you let loose?"

Harry didn't respond immediately, his mind flicking back to the last party he attended—Louis' place, over the summer. That felt like a lifetime ago now. The thought of alcohol and music made him feel... tired. Still, Zayn's relentless nagging was wearing him down.

"Fine," he said at last, stuffing the paperwork into a folder and slapping a sticky note on top. "But if she's annoying, I'm leaving."

Zayn grinned triumphantly, crumbs scattering onto the couch as he stood up. "You won't regret it."

As he left, Harry glanced at the discarded chip bag on the table. With a muttered curse, he crumpled it and tossed it into the trash, shouting after Zayn, "Clean up after yourself next time!"

The muffled sound of Zayn's laughter was his only reply.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Aspen tugged the brush through her hair, wincing as it snagged on a stubborn curl. The faint scent of lavender conditioner lingered, a remnant from her earlier shower, mixing with the vanilla candle Isobel had lit hours ago in their small on-campus apartment. The gentle flicker of the candlelight reflected in the bathroom mirror, softening the sharp angles of Aspen's face as she worked her way through the tangled strands.

Her class had let out early that afternoon, an unexpected reprieve that she'd intended to spend buried in a book or curled up in bed with her favorite playlist humming through her headphones. But Isobel had other plans. Aspen's roommate had appeared in the doorway of her room with a pleading expression, hands clasped dramatically in front of her.

"You have to come with me tonight, Asp. Please. Zayn's throwing a party— it's lowkey, I swear!"

The term had finally come to an end-- her final exams all submitted and completed and she hated to sound cocky but she new she passed for sure. Her current GPA of a perfect 4.0 remained untouched for as long as she could remember. It was never a bribing point for her, though. Her grades were only so good because she had nothing to distract herself with. Parties never excited her and the boys she found interest in, she would never do anything about. And she surely was never approached by any of them either. Although she was sure that if she had been, she would be too shy to do anything anyways.

Aspen had protested at first, of course. She always did. Parties were foreign territory, a world she'd deliberately avoided ever since starting college. Growing up, she had made a silent pact with herself— and her parents— that she would stay focused. No distractions. No wild nights that might lead to messy mornings. It wasn't like she judged people who partied; it just wasn't her scene. 

But Isobel's persistence was as predictable as it was relentless. And now here she was, smoothing down her freshly brushed curls, her reflection in the mirror staring back at her with a mixture of resignation and anxiety.

"It's just a get-together, right?" Aspen asked, her voice tentative as she glanced at Isobel's reflection beside her.

Isobel's silence was answer enough.

"Iz..." Aspen turned slowly, setting the brush down with an exasperated sigh.

"Yes! Yes, okay, it's just a small get-together," Isobel said quickly, her words tumbling over one another in her rush to reassure. "It's just Zayn, a few of his friends from the shop, and maybe a couple others. Nothing crazy. No keg stands, no beer pong, nothing like that." She paused, gauging Aspen's reaction before adding, "And you don't have to drink! I already told Zayn to have soda and juice out."

Aspen wrinkled her nose. "Juice? Seriously? Iz, I'm not five."

Isobel snorted, pointing at her with the end of her eyeshadow brush. "Okay, but the mere mention of alcohol makes you do that weird cringy thing with your face, so maybe juice is a good option."

As if on cue, Aspen cringed again, her nose scrunching involuntarily. She turned back to the mirror, muttering under her breath as she picked up her blush brush.

Makeup had never been a big part of Aspen's routine, but she couldn't deny the satisfaction of it. There was something oddly soothing about the soft swirls of powder on her cheeks or the precise swipe of mascara on her lashes. Tonight, however, she was feeling daring—or as daring as Aspen could feel. She picked up a black liquid liner, carefully dragging the felt tip along the edge of her eyelid.

The result wasn't perfect, but it wasn't terrible either. She stepped back to admire her handiwork just as Isobel appeared behind her, clapping her hands in delight.

"Oh my God! Aspen, you look amazing! That wing is perfect— I mean, it's practically professional."

Aspen blushed under the praise, ducking her head slightly. "It's not that great," she murmured, though a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

Her mood, however, soured slightly as her mind wandered about who would be there, the thought of someone new being at the party. Aspen had met Zayn before— he was charming in that effortless, slightly intimidating way—but the idea of meeting more of his friends made her stomach churn. She had heard bits and pieces about them: Niall, who apparently had the sense of humor of a stand-up comedian; Louis, a former coworker of Zayn's with a penchant for mischief. And then there was Harry.

The mere thought of Harry sent a jolt of nervous energy through her. Tattoos. Piercings. Owner of a tattoo shop. She could already feel the intimidating aura he would inevitably exude. Aspen had never been good at talking to guys, especially not ones like that.

She would be doomed if she even tried to squeak a word to him. Isobel of course played into the playful banter earlier when she was begging for Aspen to come. 

"I'm not talking to him," she said firmly, more to herself than to Isobel.

Isobel, rummaging through her closet in search of the perfect outfit, barely glanced over her shoulder. "What was that?"

"I said I'm not talking to him," Aspen repeated, louder this time. "I'll go to the party, but I'm not—no way. Not happening."

Isobel smirked, tossing a shirt over her shoulder. "Who said you have to talk to him? Maybe he'll think you're hot and talk to you."

Aspen gasped, her face heating up. "God, no! Shut up!"

Isobel only laughed, her amusement growing when one of her discarded shirts landed squarely on Aspen's face. Aspen pulled it off with a huff, shaking her head as she returned to the bathroom.

By the time she finished her makeup and spritzed herself with her favorite cherry vanilla perfume, the nervous knot in her stomach had only grown tighter. She stepped back to examine her outfit in the mirror: a deep red ribbed long-sleeve top with a square neckline that hugged her frame, paired with a justtt long enough denim skirt and sheer black tights. Her boots added a bit of edge to the otherwise sweet ensemble, and the white satin bow in her hair tied it all together in it's half up-half down style. On her neck, a beautiful 'A' necklace that Isobel got her after their first year of living together and her ears had small silver hoops in them. 

She tugged at the hem of her skirt nervously, turning to Isobel. "Is it too much?"

Isobel turned to look, her eyes widening in mock awe. "You look incredible, Aspen. Seriously. If you don't get at least ten compliments tonight, I'll be shocked."

Aspen laughed despite herself, grabbing a leather jacket from Isobel's closet. The coat was heavier than she needed, but it gave her a sense of security. She slung it into the crook of her arm as they headed out the door. Zayn didn't live too far from them, but Isobel insisted on taking an Uber because she wanted to dress up and it certainly didn't fit the weather outside.

The Uber ride was short but felt interminable. Aspen stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past, her hands fidgeting with the zipper of her jacket. Her nerves buzzed like static, but she told herself this was for Isobel. Just one night. She could survive one night.

And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be as bad as she feared.

[feroshgirlsims]

Chapter 10.0 - If You Give a Fae A Cookie

AKIRA

Akira didn’t know many elves—a side effect of being a changeling. But Diego Lobo had the misfortune of being the last surviving member of his House, which elves considered a bad omen. He wasn’t welcome in the Realm of the Fae, so this was his home.

And good thing too, because one night a starving teenager who had glamoured their way from Newcrest to Windenburg, found themselves in a new country without money or power. They needed someone to give a shit about them.

And luckily, Diego was there.

“Was you ever married?” Akira makes a face as he pokes around cartons of oat milk and bags of veggies in the fridge. “And how come you don’t got shit in here to eat?”

“Because it’s my fridge,” Diego calls out. “And you don’t live here anymore, Doodlebug.” 

True. Akira was proud of the barter that got him one of Jacques’s condos. But from the ages of 16 to 26, this was his home. “I still eat here sometimes,” he grumbles. “And you do, too. What the fuck am I gonna do with a salad?”

“I have a grocery delivery coming later," Diego leans against the doorway and sighs. "In the meantime, you're welcome to vegetables."

Muttering under his breath, Akira grabs a plate and settles himself at the table.

“So, to what do I owe this pleasure?” The older elf slides into an empty seat without a sound. He might not look a day over 45, but Diego was centuries older than that and had the Elven grace to prove it. 

“I got a gap in my knowledge. Jacques has me trailing two sims who caught the attention of The Order of Enchantment. I tried to glamour one of them, and it didn’t work.”

“Interesting…why don’t you tell me the whole story? And start at the beginning.”

“Alright, so you glamoured this Miko, but what about Alice?”

“I didn’t try it,” Akira replies. And he has no intention of trying either. He didn’t even hide his ears around Alice, though, concerningly; she hadn’t noticed.

“So you come to me with half the information, looking for answers? Is that what Jacques thinks my time is worth?”

On paper, Diego Lobo is an antiques dealer. In truth, he’s an antiques dealer who fences magical items for private collectors and every organized crime syndicate from here to Selvadorada. He’s a fount of knowledge and on everyone’s payroll. Long story short, his time is worth a lot.

“Jacques is not asking; I am.”

“Well, then I’ll repeat myself. Why not glamour your other target? Make sure it’s not your error.”

“It’s not my error.” Akira can’t hide the edge in his voice. “And I’m not glamouring the other target.”

“Well, that’s careless,” Diego snaps. “You should glamour Alice.” 

“No.”

“Akira, you are no longer the boy who pilfered my silver and tried to sell it back to me. I taught you to wield your magic. I taught you to fight and to protect yourself so you won't end up bound to some sim you didn’t choose, or worse, some fae. You need to—”

“I said no!” Akira shouts, slamming a fist down on the table.

Diego startles. “If you give a fae a cookie…”

Akira’s response is a snarl. His teeth sharpen as the glamour peels back. He glares at his mentor, lowering his voice until it contains all the menace he feels. “If you give a fae a cookie and touch that cookie, he’ll cut your fuckin’ hand off.”

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(Part 1 of 6)

[sweetfirebird]

I cannot stress enough how bad at this these people are. I mean, they are in power and they are evil and they have successfully done a lot of evil things. But a lot of the things they've done have also been stupid, and they've been done stupidly. Their bulldozing was meant to take three months but I don't think they planned on any resistance at all. Which is amazingly stupid. They should have planned for *some* at least.

They also made other mistakes. And I think these were from a combination of factors: They are playing to MAGA but most of America is not actually MAGA. There were Republicans and stupid people and hateful people... but nonetheless, a lot of those people are not MAGA. Furthermore... most MAGA are not wealthy or even financially comfortable. That should have been factored in. They hired incredibly incompetent people with no idea of how a functional government works. Yeah they want smaller federal government and they want to keep all the money etc but you still... need people to do payroll and stuff in those positions. To do the IT. To be *good* lawyers. And all of those people quit or these idiots pushed them out.

They started believing their own hype, high on their own supply. They followed the Heritage Foundation and ignored all the actual economists' advice, and how bad economies turn people against their leaders. They made PR mistakes constantly--thinking they can spin it to MAGA (because they can) but the rest of the country--and the world--is not MAGA and they made themselves look worse. They have zero bargaining positions on anything, and Hegseth's dumbass got tricked into admitting that they have (probably) made plans about trying to take Greenland. In public he did this! The leaky idiot! They admitted Kilmar Garcia was a mistake and *could have* quietly returned him and made a whole fake show about how they are doing due process!!! but instead turned it into an issue that turned even more people against them. (Because fascists hate backing down but also because they are only trying to appeal to MAGA, which is a shrinking audience.) They wouldn't back off on tariffs and companies left the US, and the China "trade deal in the works" is on terrible terms for the US (womp womp). And I get why in a fascist's brain using obscene levels of force in LA makes sense... but historically, Americans HATE this and it also ALWAYS turns more people against their government. Trump's approval ratings are now underwater on every single issue, including immigration, which means even some of the racists are like, wait a minute.

Not to mention morale in the military is low and allegedly... allegedly... the Marines are slowwalking everything because they really do not want to be involved.

This government could have done a lot of their immoral shit fully legally, or in such a way that most Americans would be on their side or indifferent. They genuinely could have. Sorry, America, but it's true. (I am American shush. It's true.) But they have bullied and antagonized the entire world, alienated a large chunk of their citizens, slowly but surely tanked the economy unless someone steps in real quick (no one is buying our bonds uh oh). Bankrupted the federal government. And created a situation where citizens feel more loyalty to their individual states than to their federal government.

It's like when they brought Zelenskyy to the Oval Office to try to bully and humiliate him, and all it actually did was a) make more of the rest of the world turn away from the US and b) give Americans another symbol of protest--Ukraine's flag.

MAGA people don't understand how these were errors because they are told daily that the US is number one and the greatest force in the world and blah blah blah, but the rest of the world gets it. You can't threaten people as if you are a superpower when you have destroyed your country's ability to be a superpower. (womp womp)

And yes, the people in some of these think tanks and groups are starting to realize some of this. They are shocked to discover that these economic policies are terrible. They couldn't even be smart enough to follow a basic-ass "bread and circuses." They couldn't even do that! They are truly stupid!

Oh and for all the terror. For all that Stephen Miller is salivating over quotas of arrests. For all the money spent with troops in LA. For putting the soldiers and Marines in this position (and not providing food or shelter for them. Amazing incompetence.) their actual arrests are very, very low and a lot of the people they rounded up are... US citizens.

It's theater and it's not particularly good theater. The correct response is (sad to say) Newsom's. Standing up to them and responding to their posturing and mockery with more mockery.

And also showing in numbers across the country so that even one No Kings rally has more people than Orangina's parade that no, is absolutely not about honoring the Army. Please.

AND--staying on your Senators and Reps about the BBB and everything else.