#the Threshold Protocol | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thedensworld · 20 days ago

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Duty Finished | C.Sc

Pairing: Duke Seungcheol x reader Genre: Noble House Au! Type: Romance, Angst, Smut (mdni!) Word count: 22k Summary: The wife and the son of Choi's house went missing one night.

“Sir…”

Seungcheol didn’t bother lifting his head right away. He was halfway through a glass of aged whiskey, the ice barely clinking as he swirled it in his grip, eyes still scanning the reports on his desk. His office—sleek, dim, and built like a vault—reeked of silence, save for the sharp interruption of his right-hand man’s voice.

When Mingyu barged in, slamming the door open with the kind of recklessness he should’ve known better than to display, S eungcheol finally glanced up. His gaze was frigid. Controlled. The kind that made men squirm and executives sign whatever he wanted just to escape it. Mingyu stood just inside the threshold, his breathing tight, jaw clenched like he was trying to bite back a disaster. He didn’t speak right away, which meant only one thing—this wasn’t just bad. It was catastrophic.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he placed the glass down on the leather blotter. “This better be worth the noise,” he said, voice smooth but carved with warning. “Or I’ll personally remind you of protocol.”

Mingyu swallowed. “It’s… your wife. And your son.”

That got a reaction. Barely. One brow ticked upward. Seungcheol’s mind flicked briefly, vaguely, to you. And the boy. When was the last time he saw either of you? He had to think. It all blurred together. Boardrooms. Contracts. Private jets. Endless handshakes. The house was his base, not his home. You were part of the arrangement—an accessory that came with it. And the child? A product of timing. Nothing more.

He left both of you in the care of his mother, the Duchess. But you never complained. Not seriously, anyway. You knew what this marriage was. Five years of luxury, power, and cold silence. You got the title. He got the freedom. That was the deal. A marriage crafted from ink and strategy, not affection.

An arrangement.

The Choi family’s wealth was forged—literally—in fire and steel. Their legacy built on the backs of blacksmiths, blades, and the unyielding rhythm of iron mines. For centuries, they supplied the royal army with weapons and armor, their influence woven into the very skeleton of the kingdom.

But not all legacies are immune to decay.

Twenty years of mismanagement had nearly bankrupted the family. Lavish galas, failed ventures, and an aging patriarch too obsessed with tradition to adapt—it had all but dragged the Choi name through the mud. The empire of steel had rusted.

And then came Seungcheol. Sharp. Surgical. Unforgiving.

He returned from his education abroad not with fanfare, but with a scalpel in hand—cutting out inefficiencies, dismantling old loyalties, and selling off sentiment piece by piece. The boy they once dismissed as too cold, too ambitious, had become the man who would not flinch while setting fire to his own house just to build it back stronger.

He didn't save the family for pride. He did it because he hated failure. Now, the Choi name gleamed again. Polished. Feared. Powerful.

The silence that followed Mingyu’s words was weighted. Heavy. Not with grief—Seungcheol didn’t operate in emotions—but with calculation.

“What happened,” he asked at last, voice like chilled steel.

“They were kidnapped.”

Kidnapped.

The office door opened again, this time more cautiously. Seokmin stepped in, still in uniform, dust clinging to the hem of his coat and sweat slicking his brow. He looked like he had run—like he had failed.

“Sir,” he said, breathless.

Seungcheol didn’t raise his head. “You were assigned to her today.”

Seokmin froze in the doorway. “Yes, sir. I—I was. I didn’t leave her side… until West Gwanrae.”

A beat passed.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair slowly, folding his hands together. “Explain.”

“We stopped by a boutique. Lady Choi wanted to try on a dress. She was with her lady-in-waiting. I checked the perimeter twice. There were no signs of threat—nothing. But when I came back inside, the store was empty. Everyone gone.”

“You lost them in a boutique?” Seungcheol’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

Seokmin flinched. “The store was a front. We’re looking into the workers now, but the boutique was staged. There were no real records of the staff. The surveillance cameras were wiped clean. Whoever planned this… they were prepared, sir.”

Silence followed, thick and brutal.

Seungcheol stared at the unopened letter on his desk. His jaw ticked once.

“And the boy?”

Seokmin swallowed. “They took him too.”

Still no emotion. Not visibly. Not in his face, not in his posture. Just a colder shift in his gaze, like steel icing over.

Mingyu stepped forward, holding something in his hand. “A letter arrived at the estate,” he said. “No return address. It was hand-delivered through a driver—anonymous. The staff didn’t question it. They thought it was routine.”

He passed the envelope across the desk.

“They used paper,” Mingyu added. “No traceable signal. No digital footprint. If this is a kidnapping, sir… it’s a careful one.”

Seungcheol didn’t react immediately. He stared at the envelope—ivory, expensive paper, sealed with red wax. Old-fashioned. Deliberate.

“This was a move,” Seungcheol muttered, almost to himself. Then, finally, he broke the wax seal.

The letter inside was handwritten. Cursive. Expensive ink. “If legacy is all you care about, we’ve taken your future.”

No ransom. No demands. Just a warning. Who dares to warn Choi Seungcheol?

Seungcheol didn’t pace. Pacing was for the uncertain. He stood behind his desk like a statue carved from winter stone, fingers drumming against the glass surface with chilling precision. One beat. Two. Three.

“Find out who’s behind this,” he said, his voice smooth and flat like polished obsidian. “The ones who’ve been sniffing around our territory. The ones who smiled too long at that last summit dinner. I don’t care if it’s a silk-suited investor or a sewer rat with a grudge—dig them out.”

Mingyu stood straighter, but something in his shoulders betrayed him. A delay. Barely noticeable—unless you’d spent a decade watching a man read war tables like bedtime stories.

Seungcheol’s gaze slid to him, a flick of ice under shadow. “You’ve got names in mind already,” he said, not asking. “Start there.”

Mingyu opened his mouth, then shut it. His throat moved with a slow swallow. “Understood.”

The air tightened between them like an old wound reopening.

“Good,” Seungcheol muttered, already turning away, as if dismissing both the man and the moment. “And Mingyu—”

He paused at the window, eyes cast toward the distant skyline, where the horizon bled rust and coal smoke.

“If someone thinks they can take what’s mine, make sure they understand the cost.”

The silence that followed rang louder than any threat.

Mingyu nodded once, firm—but when he left, his steps weren’t as sharp. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t head straight for the security floor. He took a detour. Past the portraits no one dusted. Past the closed doors where your laughter used to echo before it fell into absence.

And when he stopped, it was in front of one painting. Yours. Just for a second. Then he kept walking.

“What’s going on, Seungcheol? My birthday is in a week, and your wife and son went missing? Are they insane?”

His mother’s voice pierced through the marble halls of the estate like a thorn catching on silk—sharp, persistent, unwelcome. Seungcheol barely glanced at her as he passed, his coat still dusted with the chill of dusk, jaw clenched with exhaustion. The Choi household, once a fortress of routine and elegance, had descended into chaos. Guards scrambled across city districts. His right hand, Mingyu, was stretched thin with investigation routes. And Seungcheol—he was running out of patience.

“If only your late father had been in his right mind,” his mother continued, trailing after him in her usual designer heels. “That marriage—what good has it brought? Nothing but problems. Look where it’s led us. And now, of all times—before my birthday party!”

He stopped at the base of the grand staircase, one hand gripping the railing tighter than necessary. His mother caught up, her perfume too sweet for his senses, too loud for the grief she pretended to wear. Her expression faltered when she met his gaze—cold, unreadable, and far too silent for comfort.

“I’m sorry, son,” she said softly, her voice trembling just enough to sound rehearsed. “I’ve just… been lonely lately. Your father’s gone. Your wife never cared for me, and the boy—he avoids me like I’m a ghost. And now they’re missing. I only wanted someone to talk to. Someone to understand.”

She folded her arms, her sorrow wrapping around her like a well-tailored coat. A performance—quiet, pitiful, tragic.

Seungcheol took a breath, long and steady, his eyes drifting past her to the portrait of his father hung above the hallway. A man with vision but no spine. A legacy he had to rebuild with blood and bone.

“I understand, Mother,” he said at last, voice controlled, cold. “But right now, I need silence. And space.”

He turned away again, leaving her standing at the foot of the stairs in her designer grief.

Seungcheol passed your room on his way to his own, but his steps faltered at the familiar curve of the mahogany doors. Without a thought, he turned, hand reaching for the ornate brass handle. The door creaked softly as it gave way under his push.

He stepped inside.

A scent lingered—soft, distinct. Yours. That subtle blend of lavender and something sweeter, something warmer. It hadn’t even been ten hours since you vanished, but the room still breathed you in every corner. It was as though the space had been carved around your presence—crafted to cradle only you.

He walked further in, letting his eyes sweep over the room he never truly looked at. Not until now. He had never wandered here—not out of curiosity, not even out of care. Usually, if he needed you, he came to your bed. If he needed to speak to you, he summoned you to his library. Cold, efficient. Just like him.

But now, he noticed the details.

The delicate lace curtain that fluttered slightly with the wind. The vanity table with brushes still holding strands of your hair. The books stacked haphazardly beside your bed, half-read. A teacup on the nightstand, still stained with lipstick.

"It’s her favorite color."

A voice broke the silence.

Seungcheol turned. Minyeong stood by the doorway, hands folded tightly in front of her apron. She had served your family for decades, and had been assigned to you ever since your wedding. Her gray hair was pulled into a neat bun, and though her body was aging, her eyes were as sharp as ever.

Seungcheol’s gaze dropped briefly to the soft lilac sheets before meeting hers again. “I suppose you have something to say to me?”

His tone was flat—too calm. It was the calmness before a blade struck, laced with something colder than anger. Minyeong bowed, trembling faintly.

“I failed, sir. I should have protected the lady and the young master.”

“That’s exactly what you were meant to do, Minyeong. And yet—they’re gone.” His voice didn’t rise, but the weight in it pressed against the room like a storm cloud. “Do you know if my wife ever received any threats? Any enemies she failed to mention?”

Minyeong looked hesitant, her brow furrowing. “It’s hard to say, sir. The lady rarely entertained guests. She barely had friends in society. Most of the time, she stayed here… or in the garden.”

Seungcheol’s jaw ticked as he scanned the room once more.

“Then someone must’ve watched her from the outside,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Minyeong wrung her hands tightly, her knuckles whitening. She stepped forward, her voice trembling as she fell to her knees in front of Seungcheol.

“Please, sir… you must find her. The lady—she may not speak much, but I see things.”

Seungcheol's eyes didn’t waver. He watched her with the same stillness he offered his enemies in negotiation—silent, unreadable.

“She bore the weight of this marriage without complaint,” Minyeong continued, eyes brimming with guilt. “Never once did she dishonor the Choi name.”

His gaze flickered at that, just slightly.

“She never asked for anything,” Minyeong whispered. “Not love. Not affection. Just safety. For herself. For Jiho. And I failed to give her even that.”

Seungcheol looked down at her—an old woman who had watched over your days like a silent guardian, now crumpled before him. He didn’t kneel. He didn’t speak words of comfort. But his voice, when it finally came, was low and steel-edged. “Get up, Minyeong. I’ll find them. That’s a promise.”

And when he turned, his footsteps carried something heavier than usual—a crack in his otherwise flawless control. As Seungcheol stepped out of your room, his shoes silent against the marble, the lingering scent of you clung to the air like smoke after a quiet fire. Lavender and something faintly citrus—he never bothered to ask what you used. He just knew it had always been there, soaked into the sheets, the curtains, the collar of his shirt when he walked too close to you.

He hadn’t intended to think of you tonight. But something about the silence of your room, the untouched comb on your vanity, the faint imprint on the armrest where you used to sit and read—unsettled him. Not in grief. Not in worry. In disturbance. Like a room missing its weight. A system missing its balance.

You’d entered his life five years ago—unwanted, inconvenient, and needed. A solution. Your family’s downfall had brought you to his door like a merchant pushing damaged goods wrapped in silk. He hadn't wanted a wife. He wanted leverage. Political gain. A calm household. A woman who wouldn’t scream. Instead, you had the gall to challenge him.

You walked into the Choi estate in that faded navy hanbok, spine straight, eyes sharp, and mouth far too honest. You questioned everything—the contract, the house rules, even the arrangement of his schedule. You moved through his life like a storm in slow motion, unraveling the stiffness in his perfect world.

He hadn’t liked you. But he hadn’t hated you either. You were just… noise. Eventually, like all things, the noise faded.

The storms dulled. Your voice softened. The fire in your chest smothered itself into embers. He watched it happen gradually—arguments turned into nods, sharp words into silence, protests into polite compliance. You stopped decorating your days with resistance. You stopped speaking unless spoken to. You became still.

And Seungcheol—he thrived in stillness.

He never told you to change. He never needed to. Your defiance melted the longer you stayed, and what remained of you was quiet, predictable, peaceful. He didn’t love you. He didn’t hate you. You were just… there. Like furniture that fit the room too well to be noticed.

You gave him peace without touching him. You gave him space without absence. And that was the closest thing to comfort Seungcheol had ever known.

Then the child came.

Jiho. A small, soft echo of you. A boy with your eyes and your uncanny quietness. At first, the sound of his laughter grated him. Too alive. Too human. But one night, Jiho had fallen asleep on his office couch, book in hand, head tilted back. Seungcheol had watched him for minutes without understanding why. He didn’t touch the boy. Just stood there.

Now… that boy was gone. You were gone. And peace was cracking at the edges of his life again.

He reached the study, fingers grazing the edge of his mahogany desk, his reflection staring back from the glass of the scotch bottle he didn’t touch. Seungcheol didn’t mourn. He didn’t fear.

But the quiet wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was hollow.

Seungcheol woke with a violent jerk, breath caught sharp in his throat. The sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, soft and silver, illuminating the untouched side of the bed beside him.

It was just a dream.

But the phantom weight of your body still clung to his arms—limp, warm, then terrifyingly cold.

In the dream, you had curled into him after the haze of an intimate moment, skin bare against his, your voice still hoarse from whispering his name. His hand had rested on the dip of your waist, fingers tracing the soft line of your spine, when he felt something wet. Sticky.

He pulled his hand back. Crimson.

He remembered shouting your name, once—twice—his voice breaking the peace of the room. You had turned your head slowly, eyes glassy, your lips moving without sound before your body slumped against him. Blood soaked through the sheets like spilled ink, blooming across white cotton in uneven circles.

Then Jiho appeared. Small feet pattering against the wooden floor.

“Appa!” His voice cracked.

“Appa!”

The boy’s tiny frame stumbled into view, hands outstretched, his nightclothes soaked in blood up to his elbows. Not yours. His. He was crying but not sobbing—just calling, repeating the word like a broken hymn.

Seungcheol reached for him— And the dream shattered.

Now, in the stillness of his room, the air felt heavy, oppressive. He sat up, elbows on his knees, dragging both palms across his face, trying to scrub away the remnants of the nightmare. His heart wouldn’t calm down. It thudded with unnatural rhythm, out of sync with the silence around him.

He looked at the empty side of the bed again. The pillow still held the faintest indentation of where you used to sleep, as if your absence had weight.

The scent of your skin, the softness of Jiho’s voice—he could still feel it in his bones.

Was it guilt? Fear? Loss?

Seungcheol didn’t know. He didn’t care to name it.

He stood, slowly, quietly, as if afraid the wrong sound might call the dream back. He moved to the window, looking out over the dark courtyard, the lights of the estate flickering like the last embers of a dying fire.

Somewhere out there, you were breathing. Alive.

At least, he told himself that.

And somewhere out there, someone was playing with his mind. Twisting his fears into letters. Into silence. Into images that crept into his dreams like poison.

He would find you. He had to. Because if the nightmare ever became real— He wasn’t sure there would be a man left in him to crawl out of it.

The ballroom shimmered under a thousand crystal droplets, chandeliers glinting like stars caught mid-fall. Music swelled, delicate and distant, barely cutting through the sound of expensive laughter and clinking glasses.

Seungcheol stood with a glass of aged champagne in hand, sharp in a tailored navy suit embroidered with fine gold thread that curled like ivy across his lapels. The suit was commissioned weeks in advance, as always. His presence alone demanded perfection—and he delivered.

Then you arrived.

A soft blue dress, simple in its silhouette. No jewels. No embroidery. No lace, no drama. It barely touched your ankles, and the neckline was too modest to flatter. Next to him, you looked like a shadow of yourself—muted, out of place, and hauntingly quiet.

He had turned to say something that night. Something biting. The words were already in his mouth: “You’re underdressed.”

But he said nothing. Not because he approved. Because he didn’t want to argue. Not there. Not now.

Still, the memory of your first ball played in his head like an echo—louder than the orchestra. You had stormed into his study with silk swatches and sketches, your arms full of fabrics, babbling about tone and fit and social expectations.

“It has to match,” you’d said with bright insistence. “You in dark navy, and me in silver. Or black. Or deep emerald—something with character, Seungcheol. People talk about these things. I won’t have them saying your wife dresses like an afterthought.”

You were alive then. Not just breathing, but burning. And now… you dressed like a ghost. Clothes dull. Accessories absent. Hair always pulled back in the same low bun, practical, forgettable.

“Do you think my wife has an enemy?” Seungcheol asked, his voice low and steady as the car rolled through the city, tinted windows blurring the passing world into streaks of gray.

Mingyu, seated beside him, turned slightly in his seat. The silence between them had lingered for most of the ride until now.

“She was a bit vocal,” Mingyu said carefully, “but watching her all this time… I don’t think there’s anyone who would hate her. Not truly.”

Seungcheol arched a brow, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Are you sure?” His tone held weight. “No one in the house? Among the servants?”

Mingyu hesitated, then gave a small shake of his head. “Your wife baked everyone cookies last winter.”

The words pulled Seungcheol’s gaze toward him, his expression unreadable. “Cookies?”

“Mm,” Mingyu nodded, lips twitching faintly. “I got one too. Peanut butter and cinnamon. They were pretty good.”

Seungcheol leaned back in his seat, letting his elbow rest against the car window as he stared out. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. If anything, it pulled tighter.

“I didn’t receive any.”

Mingyu glanced at him. “You were buried with the railroad project, remember, sir? You barely came home that month.”

The car went quiet again, the soft hum of the engine filling the space between them. Seungcheol didn’t respond—not immediately. But his jaw tensed, and a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes.

He hadn’t even known you baked.

Seungcheol stepped into his office with the weight of a storm dragging behind him. The heavy doors shut with a soft thud, muffled by the thick carpet covering the marble floor. The space was cold as ever—sleek black furniture, sharp-edged shelves lined with files and books no one dared touch unless permitted. The glass windows stretched wide behind his desk, revealing the smoky outlines of Gwanrae’s skyline blurred by early morning fog.

Before he could sit, Seokmin entered quietly, his presence firm, respectful.

“Sir,” he said, approaching with something folded carefully in his gloved hand. His face looked drawn, strained.

Seungcheol turned halfway, eyes narrowing as Seokmin held it out.

A flash of red.

It didn’t need unwrapping. Even from a distance, the fabric bled familiarity. Seungcheol’s steps slowed as he approached, gaze fixed on the item like it might vanish if he blinked.

The scarf. Your scarf.

Worn and soft from use, it still carried the faint scent of your perfume—floral with a hint of musk. Years ago, he’d given it to you without much thought after he noticed how you tugged at your collar to hide the bruises he'd left the night before. It wasn’t an apology, not quite. It was possession disguised as protection.

Now it was evidence.

“Who else knows about this?” Seungcheol asked, his voice quiet but sharp, a blade hidden in velvet.

“Just the search unit. They haven’t spoken to anyone.”

He gave a single nod, eyes still fixed on the red scarf in his hand, thumb grazing a fraying thread near the hem. His mind flickered—your neck wrapped in that scarf, your voice low against his chest, your hand twitching in sleep as you pulled it tighter around yourself.

Seungcheol’s fingers paused mid-fold.

There, at the very tip of the scarf—just above the frayed hem—faint ink bled into the threads. It was subtle, like it had been brushed in haste or with something barely permanent. He squinted, bringing the fabric closer to the pale morning light.

A line of handwriting.

Almost delicate in its curve. Almost playful.

“So beautiful but this scarred? Can’t wait to take off more than this scarf.”

The ink was uneven. Someone had written it quickly, perhaps without care—or maybe with too much pleasure. The handwriting was unfamiliar. Not yours. Not Seokmin’s. It wasn’t the neat, meticulous penmanship of his staff or the strict, cold lettering from official documents.

Personal.

Seungcheol’s chest tightened with a sick heat, as if something vile had begun to churn slowly under his ribs.

He read the words again.

So beautiful.

But this scarred?

Who had seen you up close enough to write this?

The scarf had hidden a bruise, a bite, a scar—one left by him. He remembered that night. How you turned your face away as you buttoned your blouse. He hadn’t apologized, and you hadn’t asked him to.

But someone else had noticed. Someone who had looked. Touched. Written this message.

The fury came like a low flame, slow and silent. It didn’t need a burst to burn—it simply simmered, eating through logic and restraint, until his fingers curled tightly around the fabric.

Not only were you taken. Someone had been near enough to you to leave this behind. Near enough to humiliate him, to provoke him. To mock him.

This wasn’t just a disappearance. It was a challenge. A message dressed as a taunt.

His reflection glared back at him in the glass of his office window—sharp suit, expression like stone, eyes void of softness. For a man known for never flinching in courtrooms or boardrooms, something now stirred within him. Something ancient. Primal.

He looked down at the scarf one last time before slipping it into his inner coat pocket. Not like a keepsake. Like evidence.

Whoever wrote that message had no idea what they'd started.

A week had passed since your disappearance, yet rumors swirled like wildfire—fanned further by his mother’s lavish birthday party, held defiantly even as family members vanished without a trace. The glittering ball went on, but Seungcheol arrived burdened, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face and the slump of his shoulders.

He stepped through the grand doors with the weight of sleepless nights pressing down on him, every movement heavy. His plan was simple: greet his mother, offer the obligatory birthday wishes, and retreat swiftly to his office to bury himself in the endless updates about you and Jiho.

Choi Jiho—his son. The name still felt strange on his tongue, foreign yet tethered to his heart in ways he didn’t fully understand. After Jiho’s birth, your world had shifted. Your attention poured into your son with a fierce protectiveness that left little room for him. Seungcheol’s role was clear-cut: provide. Make money. Supply everything you and Jiho could need.

But sometimes, when work allowed a brief reprieve, he caught glimpses of Jiho wandering into his home office. The boy would settle himself on one of the leather couches with surprising ease, fingers busy sketching on scraps of used paper strewn about. No words passed between them—just presence. Quiet companionship.

Those moments peeled back years. They reminded Seungcheol of the early days of their marriage.

You, sitting patiently on the couch nearby, engrossed in a book or your journal, brows furrowed in thought. He remembered the way your eyes would occasionally flick up toward him—focused, calm, sometimes weary. A stark contrast to his own sharp, guarded expression.

And every time his gaze fell on Jiho, it was as if he was looking at a perfect carbon copy of you: the same gentle concentration, the same subtle intensity. In those moments, the cold, ruthless man he was softened, caught off guard by the echo of your presence in his son.

“Seungcheol.”

He turned slightly to find Hong Jisoo—an old friend of yours—approaching from behind a marble column. Impeccably dressed in a muted gray suit, the heir of the Hong family from East Gwanrae always carried an air of soft elegance. His eyes, though gentle, now bore a solemn weight.

“My deepest condolences,” Jisoo said quietly once he was close enough. “I heard about Y/n and your son. I… I can’t imagine the weight you're carrying.”

Seungcheol didn’t flinch. Didn’t nod. He simply returned the gaze, still and unreadable. The golden light made his tired face look sculpted from cold stone—sharp, shadowed, untouched by grief in any conventional sense.

“Thank you,” he replied, voice smooth and devoid of emotion.

Jisoo hesitated, then offered, “If there’s anything I can do—my men in the East are reliable. If you permit me, I’ll send them to sweep that side of Gwanrae. Discreetly.”

There was a pause. A thin, sharp one.

Seungcheol’s expression didn’t shift. “I appreciate the offer,” he said with practiced politeness. “But I prefer to handle my family’s matters internally.”

Jisoo studied him for a moment, as if trying to read what lay behind the cool surface. But Seungcheol gave him nothing. No worry, no despair—only poise carved out of discipline and restraint.

“Of course,” Jisoo replied after a beat, offering a small bow. “Should you change your mind, I’ll be around.”

Seungcheol inclined his head once, and watched as Jisoo disappeared into the sea of well-dressed guests. The noise of the party returned in full as the space between them widened, but inside Seungcheol, everything remained quiet. Still.

Because wavering now would be a crack in the foundation—and if he cracked, the whole house would fall.

“Seungcheol…” his mother began, catching his arm just as he approached to greet her.

“Everyone’s talking about your wife and your son! This is my party!” she hissed through a tight smile, her voice kept low behind her glass of wine as Seungcheol offered nods to her circle of well-dressed friends.

“I told you to postpone it,” Seungcheol replied, his tone measured and calm, but with the faintest edge of warning.

His mother scoffed softly, brushing imaginary dust from her sequined sleeve. “Remind me to punish your wife once she returns. This level of disrespect toward the Choi family can’t go unchecked. I’ll speak to her family personally.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The weight of her words sank heavier than usual tonight. Something about the way she spoke—so cold, so performative—rubbed against the unease already nesting in his chest. He cleared his throat, a silent attempt to dispel the building discomfort.

“I think you’ve said enough, Mother,” he said, voice clipped with restraint. “Perhaps you should enjoy your party. I won’t be staying long.”

Before she could respond, Seungcheol bowed politely. “Happy birthday,” he said simply, then turned on his heel, walking past the soft glow of chandeliers and champagne flutes, out of the suffocating warmth of the ballroom—and toward the silence of his office, where duty and dread awaited him in equal measure.

The scent of paper and aged mahogany greeted Seungcheol as he entered his office—a sanctuary from the shallow glitter of the ballroom. He barely had time to close the door behind him when his eyes fell on something out of place.

A single envelope. It sat in the center of his desk like it had been waiting.

His gaze swept the room with calculated precision, eyes narrowing slightly. Every item seemed untouched, precisely where he left it. Yet the letter’s presence felt like an intrusion. Quiet, deliberate, and too bold.

Without removing his coat, he pressed the intercom.

“Mingyu. My office. Now.”

He didn’t sit. He stood before his desk, gloved fingers pulling the envelope open in one slow motion. The paper inside was thick, almost luxurious, as though it were meant to mock him in its elegance. But it was the handwriting that made his breath pause—neat, feminine, unfamiliar.

“He looks exactly like you. Do you know he’s mute?”

The words didn’t strike—they clawed.

A slow-burning fury flickered in Seungcheol’s chest, tempered only by years of discipline. His eyes darkened, and when the door creaked open behind him, he turned sharply, holding the note up.

“What is this supposed to mean?” His voice cut through the silence, firm and low.

Mingyu paused at the threshold. His expression faltered—not from fear, but hesitation. “Sir…” He stepped in slowly. “I didn’t know you didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” Seungcheol’s tone remained steady, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

Mingyu lowered his gaze to the floor, exhaling quietly. “Jiho… Your son... he’s barely spoken.”

Seungcheol’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His fingers clenched the paper tighter. All those moments—Jiho silently watching him, quietly doodling, smiling without sound—they flooded his mind in sharp, disjointed flashes.

The air in the room felt heavier. He slowly lowered the letter to his desk and turned toward the window, eyes distant, yet sharpened with a quiet storm.

The letter still sat open on his desk, but Seungcheol’s gaze had drifted toward the couch across the room.

That old leather seat, worn smooth at the edges, once held a different kind of weight—your weight. Now, he saw Jiho in your place. His small figure curled up, legs barely reaching the edge, papers sprawled before him. A single crayon tucked behind his ear, his little fingers busy sketching something only he understood. His head would tilt, brows furrowed just so, lips parted ever so slightly in concentration.

He didn’t make a sound. He never did.

And yet Seungcheol saw you.

Five years ago, it was your body stretched across that couch, draped in a silk robe or one of your too-large knits. Your legs would swing lazily, a journal balanced on your lap, your pen tapping the pages as your thoughts spilled freely. You used to talk then. A lot.

“Seungcheol, don’t you think this room needs better curtains? Or should we get one of those antique globe bars?”

“I saw Lady Jung’s daughter wearing canary yellow at the ball—do you think I’d look good in that shade?”

You were bold, curious, utterly unfiltered. Sometimes he listened. Sometimes he didn’t. But he had always heard you.

It was strange. At the time, he thought you were exhausting. Always pushing at boundaries, filling silences he once treasured. Yet now, in the stillness, all he could think about was how much color you had brought into this room. Until that color faded.

He didn’t know when it started. Maybe it was after Jiho was born. Maybe it was before that.

Your voice softened. Your steps grew quieter. You stopped suggesting changes to the curtains. You stopped speaking about colors and dresses and opinions. You simply… adapted.

You scribbled in silence. You waited in silence. You moved through the house like a shadow he had grown used to but never truly studied.

“Journal…”

The word left his lips in a whisper, as if spoken too loudly, it would break the thread of memory he was clinging to.

He remembered it—faintly—seeing a book on your vanity. A worn leather-bound journal, the corners soft from years of turning, its spine slightly cracked from frequent use. At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it. Just another one of your habits. Another thing you kept close.

But now, it felt urgent. He rose from his chair with a suddenness. His strides were long, purposeful. The echo of his shoes down the hallway broke the house’s stillness, like a force too large to be quiet anymore.

The bedroom still smelled faintly of you—of jasmine and the warm, almost nostalgic scent of dried lavender. It hadn’t changed in the past week. Everything remained untouched, as if time itself was reluctant to erase you from this space.

And there it was.

Sitting right where it always had—on the vanity, beside your untouched bottle of perfume and a silver hairpin he bought you years ago in Vienna. The journal.

He reached for it slowly, as if it might vanish. His fingers hovered just a second longer before making contact, brushing over the soft cover. It was warm from the afternoon sun slipping through the lace curtains. He held it in both hands, staring.

You wrote. Every day, almost. He remembered catching glimpses of it—your hand furiously scribbling after arguments, after dinners, even on lazy mornings where you stayed curled in bed long after he had left. You used your journal like a vault, locking pieces of yourself away when you couldn’t say them aloud.

Seungcheol sat on the edge of the bed—your side. The weight of the mattress sank just as it used to when you lay there. He cracked open the journal, pages filled with your looping script, so familiar and yet so distant now.

His breath caught when he read the first line on the open page. Seungcheol’s eyes traced the words again, but this time, their meaning twisted deeper into his chest.

“I sold all the accessories my husband had given to me this morning. But I failed to hide the new dresses. She got mad.”

“You know where my wife is…” Seungcheol said, voice low and tight, the moment the last servant slipped out and the door clicked shut behind them.

His mother barely lifted her gaze, swirling her tea as if his words were no more significant than idle gossip. “What nonsense are you talking about, Seungcheol?”

But there was nothing nonsensical about the storm building in his chest. The weight of guilt, disbelief, and a boiling rage pressed down on his shoulders, making it hard to breathe. Seungcheol remained still, but his hands trembled slightly at his sides, fists curling and unclenching.

“I think you’ve hidden them—my wife, my son.” His tone was calm, but every syllable was laced with something sharp, jagged. Accusation.

His mother let out a soft chuckle, amused. Amused. It made his stomach turn. “You’ve lost your mind, my son.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed, the muscles twitching. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stared, as sentence after sentence from the journal echoed relentlessly in his head.

“She hit me again today for making her go to the ball instead of me. She met her enemy: Duchess Kim.” “Minyeong has treated my wound, but it was still hard to sleep last night.” “She put Jiho in the cupboard. I couldn’t do anything but cry. I’m sorry, Jiho.”

His hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles whitened, veins visible beneath his skin. Guilt gnawed at his gut like rust. All this time, he had thought he was protecting you by providing, building an empire so you and Jiho would never lack anything. But while he was drafting deals and signing contracts, you were being dragged through hell under the same roof. By his own blood.

“You lost your mind hitting my wife behind my back,” he said, voice as brittle as cracked glass.

She lowered her cup then, finally sensing something in his tone. Her eyes narrowed. “She told you?” Her voice was low, disbelieving. There was no remorse—only the offense of being exposed. “How dare she,” she muttered, her lips curling.

The air thickened between them, tense and suffocating.

“I don’t know her whereabouts,” his mother snapped, lifting her chin. “Maybe she went somewhere. Maybe she was kidnapped. Either way, she deserves it. That woman was a pain in this family.”

Pain.

The word echoed in his chest. What she called a pain—he now knew as suffering. Suffering you endured in silence, under his roof, while he turned a blind eye.

He turned his back to her, not because he was retreating, but because he couldn’t look at her anymore without feeling sick. His voice dropped into a tone colder than stone. “Say that again, and I’ll cut your funds immediately.”

She gasped behind him, rising from her seat. “My son, don’t let a woman’s tantrum undo your reason. You forget how she came here—she wanted our money. Her parents sold her, and I suppose she’s no better than they were.”

His steps were slow, deliberate, echoing on the marble floor as he walked toward the door.

Every word she said now sounded like static in his ears. His body felt hollow and burning all at once, his heart pounding like a war drum. He had failed you. He had failed Jiho.

He paused at the door and turned his head slightly, enough for her to see the disdain now written in his eyes.

“From today,” he said, “your accounts are frozen. Until my wife and my son are back, not a single coin will reach your hands.”

Then he stepped out, not looking back—not for her, not for excuses, not for explanations.

Ten days since you were gone.

The world kept turning—ballrooms were lit, contracts passed hands, and the morning sun still crept through the windows of the Choi estate. But for Seungcheol, everything had stopped. Days blurred into nights, and the silence of your absence grew louder with every tick of the clock.

His work was a mess.

Documents piled on his desk, untouched. Reports sat unanswered. Meetings were postponed, calls ignored. He couldn’t sit through briefings without seeing your face flash in the expressions of strangers. Couldn’t look at maps without wondering if you were somewhere cold, scared, or worse.

He couldn’t even think straight. Every time someone knocked on his door, a violent hope bloomed in his chest—that it was you. That someone had found Jiho.

But it was never you.

Never.

Seungcheol sat slouched in his office chair, eyes hollow, staring blankly at the open folder in front of him. He didn’t even know who the client was anymore. Their voice on the speaker was just noise.

When the man across the table mentioned “transport,” Seungcheol flinched.

“You say something about moving her?” His voice was suddenly sharp.

The client blinked, confused. “I was talking about coal—shipping routes to the West—”

Seungcheol stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. Mingyu rushed in before he could throw the folder across the room.

“You think I care about coal when my wife and son are gone?” he barked, eyes bloodshot. “Why are you all still talking about shipments and investments like this is normal?!”

The man stammered an apology before fleeing the room. Mingyu stayed quiet, closing the door behind him with a heavy sigh.

Seungcheol pressed his hands into the desk, head hanging. His breath was unsteady, raw with exhaustion. A man who once commanded fear with composure now looked like a soldier losing a war no one else could see.

“I can’t do this, Mingyu,” he muttered. “I can’t even look at people without wondering if they had something to do with it. I sit in front of allies and I wonder if they betrayed me. I see enemies and I can’t decide if they’ve hidden her out of spite.”

He looked up, eyes gleaming but empty. “I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

It was five months into the marriage when Seungcheol pushed open the bedroom door without knocking, only to find you brushing your hair in front of the vanity. You looked serene, like a painting—but he knew better. You were always eerily quiet when you were angry.

“You didn’t leave the room all day,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “I assume the bed’s more interesting than our entire estate now?”

Without looking at him, you replied, “I didn’t realize I needed to submit a movement report.”

“I’m your husband. I think I’m allowed to ask.”

You let out a low chuckle. “Since when do you ask anything without sounding like it’s an interrogation?”

He stepped into the room. His eyes caught the reflection of your face in the mirror—expression calm, but your tone cut like glass.

“You’re mad at me again.”

“No, Seungcheol,” you said, finally turning to look at him, “this is just my face. Turns out five months of marital bliss leaves me glowing.”

He ignored the jab. “I’ve been patient with you, Y/n. But I come home and find you locked up in here like some moody debutante. What do you want from me?”

“Oh, you want honesty tonight?” you quipped. “Interesting choice.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I think I’m pregnant, Seungcheol.”

The words fell heavy—but not soft.

He blinked. “You think?”

You shrugged. “Unless nausea and crying at toothpaste commercials is just a charming new hobby of mine.”

Seungcheol stared at you for a moment. His reaction was unreadable, which only fueled your irritation.

“Right. There it is,” you said bitterly. “You look more panicked than when the market crashed.”

“I’m just... processing.”

“You mean calculating,” you snapped, standing up. “You’re already thinking about how this messes with your timeline, your quarterly goals, or—God forbid—your public image.”

“I never said that,” he said, jaw tight.

“You didn’t have to,” you shot back. “You speak in silence better than you do with actual words.”

“And you don’t speak at all unless it’s laced with attitude.”

“At least it’s real.”

The room buzzed with tension—resentment, sarcasm, the ache of two people who couldn’t stop clashing because they both refused to bend first.

Still, as always, it ended the way it always did: your bitterness crashing into his restraint, your fingers eventually finding his shirt collar, his hand gripping your waist too tightly. No solution. No apology. Just another night pretending friction meant intimacy.

Seokmin barged into the office, breathless, eyes wide. “Sir—they found her. Your wife and son are on their way to the estate. They were spotted in East Gwanrae market.”

The room froze for a split second before it snapped into motion.

Seungcheol shot up from his seat, already reaching for his coat. Mingyu was two steps behind, phone pressed to his ear, barking instructions as they stormed down the hallway.

“Driver!” Seungcheol shouted. “Pull up the car. Now.”

The black vehicle cut through the city like a blade. Inside, silence hovered thick between them, save for the low murmur of Mingyu speaking on the phone with Seokmin.

Seungcheol’s hand rested on his knee, knuckles pale. His voice broke the silence, low and rough. “What did Seokmin say? Is she okay?”

Mingyu hesitated—just for a second. Too quick for most to catch, but Seungcheol noticed. His eyes darted toward his right hand, waiting.

“They looked like they were… escaping someone,” Mingyu finally said, his voice carefully measured. “Your wife was with Jiho. She was holding him close, keeping low in the market crowd. Someone recognized her and followed the trail. They were scared. Hungry, probably. But alive.”

Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed. “Escaping?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu said, avoiding eye contact. His jaw tensed faintly. “Seokmin thinks they were trying to run from the person who had taken them.”

The words lingered in the air, cutting deeper than Seungcheol expected. He leaned back against the seat, staring at the blur of the road outside, expression unreadable.

But Mingyu didn’t speak again. He only tightened his grip on the phone, as if holding in something more.

Something he wasn’t ready to say.

Seungcheol didn’t wait for the car to stop completely. As soon as the estate’s iron gates creaked open, he pushed the door and ran—feet heavy, breath sharp. The guards barely had time to bow before he was past them, storming through the halls he built but never cared to live in.

In his mind, you were collapsed in a corner. Maybe barefoot, trembling. Your clothes torn, hair matted, Jiho sickly pale and clinging to you for warmth. That image had haunted him for days—kept him up, fed his guilt like a slow poison.

But what he saw when the door opened made him freeze in the doorway.

You were sitting on the bed.

Clean. Dressed in a simple beige dress, hair slightly tangled but tied loosely at the back. Jiho curled against your side, his small hand holding your scarf like a lifeline. You were whispering something to him, too soft to hear. Both your eyes turned to the door at once.

And in that moment, Seungcheol felt like a ghost standing in his own home.

You weren’t the broken image he had imagined. You didn’t look like a victim of some wild, tragic escape. No bruises on your face. No desperation in your posture.

But there was something in your eyes—tired, aged, older than the woman he married. A hollow sort of peace. Like someone who had already buried too many things inside herself to count.

“Y/n…” his voice cracked before he could stop it.

You blinked slowly, saying nothing.

“You’re… okay,” Seungcheol breathed, as if trying to convince himself.

“I’m here,” you replied, voice calm. “We both are.”

But you didn’t stand. You didn’t run into his arms or cry or scream or ask where he had been. You just looked at him, as if he was a stranger at the edge of your door.

And for the first time since this madness began, Seungcheol didn’t know what role he was supposed to play anymore—husband, father, or something far more irrelevant.

“Do you want a doctor? Food? I can call someone—” he started.

You shook your head once. “We ate. We’re not sick.”

He nodded slowly, unsure. Everything he imagined saying, every question and command, shrank in his throat.

You weren’t what he expected.

Seungcheol approached slowly, as if afraid that the moment would vanish if he moved too fast. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes dropped to Jiho, small and still, curled against your side with one hand tucked beneath his cheek.

The boy looked peaceful, untouched by the storm Seungcheol had imagined—but that only stirred more chaos in him. His gaze shifted to you. You were watching him, chin slightly lifted, as if measuring his intentions. Without speaking, his hand reached out, hesitating before his fingers gently traced your cheek. It was still soft, full, with that natural flush you always had when you were annoyed or caught in the middle of a sarcastic remark. Alive. Still you.

“You’re okay?” he murmured.

You tilted your head slightly, eyes unreadable. “Why? You worry?”

There was a teasing lilt to your voice—subtle, sharp, the same tone you used when you knew exactly how to push his buttons. But your eyes didn’t match it. They were colder. Distant.

Seungcheol bit his lip, gaze dropping. Was it worry? Or curiosity? He wasn’t even sure anymore. All he knew was that something clawed at his chest the moment he saw you again, like he’d been underwater for too long and just found air again.

“I…” He paused, swallowed. “I couldn’t think straight.”

You looked at him with a slight teasing glint, voice soft but tinted with edge. “Why?”

“You disappeared.”

“And?” Your tone was flat. Testing.

“Jiho too.” His eyes flickered to the child again, still fast asleep against your side.

You hummed faintly, tightening your arms around Jiho’s small frame. It was a protective gesture, but it also told him everything he needed to know—you didn’t trust him yet. Maybe never had.

“Someone took you.”

You bit your lips, your jaw tightening. Then, a sigh escaped. “What are you trying to say, Seungcheol?”

He let out a long, shaky breath, fingers gripping his knees. “I… I’m glad you’re fine, but… I’m angry. I’m furious at the people who took you, and I promise you—I’ll catch them. I’ll make them pay.”

Your brow quirked. “You’re acting odd, Seungcheol. The fact that you were running in here like a madman, with this look on your face, is odd.”

His lips parted, but you cut in before he could explain.

“You never ran for me before,” you added coolly, eyes locked on his. “Not when I cried. Not when I begged you to talk to me like I was a person. But now—suddenly—I disappear, and it’s like you remembered I existed?”

There was no venom in your voice, but it stung worse than any shout would’ve.

He flinched. “That’s not true.”

“No?” You raised a brow, blinking slowly. “You said you couldn’t think straight. Is it because you missed us? Or because you lost control?”

His mouth opened again, but nothing came out. You’d hit the mark, and he knew it.

You exhaled deeply, your tone softening only slightly. “We were surviving, Cheol. Me and Jiho. Out there, with no money, barely any food, and always looking over our shoulders. Do you know how many times I had to lie just to keep him safe?”

His jaw flexed.

“And now you’re here, talking about revenge,” you said. “But you weren’t the one suffering. You weren’t the one hiding bruises, or calming down a mute child in the middle of a nightmare.”

“I didn’t know,” he whispered.

“You didn’t ask.”

That landed like a punch. The silence stretched. Thick. Bitter. But still, you didn’t tell him to leave. And he didn’t stand up.

Because somewhere beneath all the resentment and ruined intentions, something lingered—small, quiet, broken. Something still tethered.

You heard from Minyeong that Jiho had accidentally knocked over your mother-in-law’s favorite vase that afternoon. The moment her words reached your ears, a cold dread climbed up your spine. You knew how she was—unyielding, cruel when it suited her. And you knew what that meant for Jiho.

Without thinking, you bolted through the halls of the estate, heart pounding like a war drum. You burst into the room where they said Jiho was, only to find him wailing—his tiny body trembling in the arms of unfamiliar servants, his face streaked with tears and fear.

“Get my son down, right now!” you shouted, your voice raw with panic and rage. You stepped in only to freeze—halted by the icy presence of your mother-in-law, seated calmly in the armchair as if the chaos around her were just a matter of inconvenience.

“Not until his mother learns how to educate her son,” she said coldly, standing with deliberate grace to approach you.

You tried to keep your voice from breaking. “Stop this. Please… I beg you.” Your knees wobbled as your eyes locked onto the small cupboard where Jiho had just been shoved. The servants had locked him inside, and the sound of his muffled cries—sharp, panicked, and unrelenting—cracked your heart in two.

Your mother-in-law’s lips curled into a twisted smile as she watched you collapse to your knees, the humiliation like a crown she placed upon your head.

Then came the sting. A slap, hard and merciless, sent your head snapping to the side. Your cheek burned, and tears spilled from your eyes—not just from pain, but from helpless fury.

Still trembling, you didn’t have time to recover before she gripped your hair and yanked your face upward to look at her. Her gaze was icy. Unforgiving.

“You and your son better learn some lessons, Y/n,” she hissed. “Do you know how easily you can be replaced? You and that unfortunate, mute child of yours.”

Her words sliced through you sharper than any blade.

“First, you tried to hide those dresses my son sent you—expensive things, meant to honor this family. I told you to give them back. I told you to stop wasting his generosity.” Her voice dripped venom with each word.

“And now,” she gestured toward the cupboard, where Jiho’s sobs still echoed, “your little beast breaks my most treasured vase.”

She shoved you backward, and you stumbled to the floor as she turned to the servants.

“Lock them in here,” she ordered coldly. “No food until dinner tomorrow. Let them reflect on their behavior.”

You cried out, but the door had already slammed behind her.

And in that moment, with your son trapped and your body aching, you knew: no one was coming to save you—not even your husband.

You married Choi Seungcheol not out of love, but out of necessity—at least, that’s what you used to tell yourself.

Your family, once noble and revered for their long-standing loyalty to the Choi family, had fallen into disgrace. Years of quietly aiding them behind war lines and political tides came to nothing when your father’s business collapsed into bankruptcy. Reputation meant survival, and survival meant sacrifice.

So your parents turned to the Choi estate, heads bowed with desperation, asking for a marriage alliance to preserve what little dignity your bloodline had left. You were the offering. The last, obedient daughter of a once-great military household.

You didn’t protest. In fact, you thought of it as an escape.

A way out of your father’s suffocating expectations, the cold lines on his face drawn deeper every time you dared to speak for yourself. You thought marriage to Seungcheol—Choi Seungcheol, the heir with a good name and a better record—would at least mean gentler days. He was calm, level-headed, generous when it mattered. Not once had you seen him raise his voice. A respectable man, people said. One of the best this generation could offer.

And for a while, you believed it. Even in the early months of your marriage, he was attentive in his own reserved way. He didn’t try to love you, but he didn’t hurt you either. That, in itself, was a mercy.

When Jiho was born, everything changed.

The cruelty didn’t come from him—not at first. It came from your mother-in-law, the regal matron of the house with eyes colder than marble. She said it started because of your attitude. Because you were “spirited.” Because you were "too free" for a woman who should’ve been grateful to be saved from ruin.

The abuse began with a slap—one sharp sting across your cheek when you failed to greet her with the right tone. Then came the days without food, long hours in the nursery with Jiho where no one entered. The isolation. The servants looking through you like you were something to be tolerated, not served. You weren’t allowed to step outside the estate without her approval. Even your letters to Seungcheol were filtered. Some were likely never sent.

Seungcheol never knew—because he was away.

Your mother-in-law believed your "rebelliousness" would one day convince Seungcheol to cut the financial cord. That you would poison him against his duty. She believed that if she broke you, caged you, tamed you—then you’d stop trying. Then you’d surrender to the role they assigned you. And Seungcheol, their golden heir, wouldn’t be distracted from the real goal: protecting the name.

You were awakened by the sound of the door unlocking. A quiet click in the dark, but enough to jolt your senses. Eyes wide, you scanned the room—Jiho was still curled up inside the cupboard, the space too small for a child, his soft breaths uneven from earlier cries.

Your heart lurched.

Without thinking, you shot up and sprinted barefoot through the hall. The cold marble bit into your feet with each step, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t even know where you were going—only that you needed someone. Anyone.

You collapsed against the corridor wall. A tall figure came running to you. Surprised and worried.

“What’s wrong, Lady Choi?” Mingyu asked, crouching beside you. His voice softened at the sight of your shaking figure, your palms scraped and dirty from crawling.

“My son…” your voice was barely a whisper, “Jiho… they locked him in the cupboard. He’s still inside. Please, Mingyu. Help me…”

Mingyu’s expression changed. Just a flicker. Concern replaced courtesy, and for a second, something else—fury, maybe—flashed through his eyes.

“I’ll get him,” he said, standing up. “Stay here.”

And you could only nod, pressing a hand to your chest as your breath fought its way in and out—because for the first time in so long, someone had heard you.

You held Jiho close to your chest on the bed. His small frame trembled in your arms, his fists curled into your shirt, though the tears had long since stopped. The silence between you was heavy, but not empty. You could feel it in his breathing—shallow, uneven. In the way he clung to you like a lifeline. He didn’t cry anymore. But you were his mother. And you knew.

This child—your child—carried too much for a body so small. Too many things he didn’t know how to name. Pain. Fear. Confusion. He had grown up in a house where love was spoken like a foreign language. A house where his parents barely looked each other in the eye, where tension hung like fog. His grandmother’s cruelty had only carved the wounds deeper, branding trauma into him before he even learned how to defend himself. Before he even learned how to speak.

And now, he doesn't speak at all.

Muted—not by choice, but by trauma. And no one seemed to understand.

You gently ran your fingers through his hair, kissing the crown of his head as your heart ached. You asked yourself—again and again—what was best. For him. For you. For both of you.

Was staying here a form of protection? Or just a slower kind of destruction? You didn’t know. But you knew you had to keep trying. Because Jiho deserved more than this silence. He deserved safety. He deserved love. Even if you had to crawl through fire to give it to him.

The night after Jiho’s trembling subsided and he finally drifted into sleep—still curled tightly against your side—you sat in the dark and stared at the moonlit ceiling. Eyes wide open, heart numb.

You had cried all you could. It was no longer grief that kept you awake. It was resolved. Something in you broke that night. Or maybe, something in you finally woke up. You had to get out. Not just you—but Jiho. He deserved more than a prison guarded by tradition and cruelty. And you… you deserved a life where you didn’t flinch every time a door opened.

One morning, you waited in the garden until you saw him.

Mingyu.

He was one of the few people in this house who had always looked at you with a trace of human decency. Loyal to Seungcheol, yes. But not blind. Not heartless.

“Mingyu,” you whispered from the corner of the rose wall. “I need your help.”

He looked hesitant at first, glancing around. “Is something wrong?”

You stepped forward, showing him the bruises you had covered the night before. Not with pride, but with desperation. And when you said, “It’s not just me. It’s Jiho, too,” something in his expression shifted.

Still, he hesitated.

“I serve your husband, Lady Choi. You know I—”

“I’m not asking you to betray him,” you cut in softly. “I’m asking you to help a mother protect her son. That’s all I’m asking, Mingyu. Please.”

He stared at you. At your trembling hands. By the way your eyes, even when dry, screamed for help. And then… he nodded. It was the smallest gesture, but it changed everything.

Together, the plan began. Fake kidnapping. Enough to throw the house into chaos. You’d vanish without a trace. Just gone. Long enough for Seungcheol to search, for his mother to squirm, and for you to slip far beyond the reach of this gilded prison.

You needed one more piece. So you wrote a letter. With careful words and shaking hands.

“Dear Jisoo, I hope this finds you well. I have no time to explain everything, but I need you more than ever. I’m trying to escape with my son. I know this is asking a lot, but if you ever saw me as your friend, please—help me disappear. With all my heart, Y/n.”

Jisoo had been your friend from the years before marriage. Gentle, quiet, kind-hearted. He had always seen past your mask. Past your name. The kind of friend who noticed sadness even when you smiled.

The response came swiftly—disguised in a box of imported tea.

“Tell me when and where. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

No one will find you. You clutched that letter to your chest the night it arrived.

You didn’t just want to leave. You wanted them to feel it. You wanted the Choi family to suffer in confusion, to twist in paranoia. To question their power, their security, their control over you. You wanted Seungcheol to see what happened when he turned a blind eye. You wanted his mother to choke on her arrogance.

They thought you were weak. They mistook endurance for submission. Mistook silence for obedience. But you had been watching, learning. Smiling at every slap. Bowing after every insult. Playing your part—until it was time for the curtain to fall.

Mingyu swallowed hard. “You’re colder than I thought.”

You smiled darkly. “Yes, this is who I've been the whole time.”

You disappeared in silence. Like a shadow slipping into dusk.

That night, you imagined Seungcheol pacing the estate in rage. You imagined his mother screaming at the staff, flipping porcelain in hysteria, all while you sipped tea in a warm cabin nestled deep in the property Jisoo owned.

“They’ll lose their minds,” Jisoo said calmly, reading your expression.

You leaned back, watching Jiho chase butterflies through the window.

“I want them to,” you replied, smiling without warmth. “I want her to think someone took me the same way she took everything from me.”

Jisoo stared for a moment. “And Seungcheol?”

You sipped your tea and set it down gently. “He doesn’t get to play the victim. He left me there for four years. If guilt’s what haunts him now, let it grow roots. Let it rot.”

Your tone was soft. But your words were razor sharp.

You hadn’t run to be free. You had vanished to make them remember you in fear.

And when the time came—if it ever came—you wouldn’t return as the girl they once tried to break.

You would return as the ghost that taught them how it feels to lose everything.

The Duchess Choi stepped into the room like a queen returning to her throne, the smug curl on her lips unmistakable. Her heels clicked on the polished floor, every sound like a warning bell. Jiho’s small fingers tightened around yours, and you could feel his pulse racing—just like yours. You gently shifted him behind you, body instinctively shielding his.

"Nice to see you come back," she began, her voice honeyed but hollow. "I finally can breathe."

You didn’t say a word. You just looked at her—truly looked. She was thinner, her cheekbones sharper, and the usual glint of superiority in her eyes had dulled slightly, just slightly. Ten days without Seungcheol’s money must have felt like ten years in exile for a woman like her.

You had learned a lot in those ten days.

That fear could turn to fury. That silence could scream louder than words. That a journal—carefully placed on a vanity Seungcheol would pass by—could rewrite the entire narrative.

Even if you sprinkled salt into the wounds, embellished the bruises, and emphasized Jiho’s silence as irreversible, your husband wasn’t the type to fact-check a bleeding truth. He would feel it. And it was his feelings you counted on. The man who once watched you from a distance was now looking too closely for comfort.

Before your mother-in-law could raise her hand—as she had so many times before—you beat her to the blow.

"My husband wouldn��t like it," you said sharply, voice low but sure, "if he knew you hit me again. Would he?"

The words cut the air like a dagger. And for the first time, her hand faltered mid-air.

The duchess laughed—a dry, unimpressed sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Bold, are you?” she scoffed.

You tilted your head, smiling just faintly. “No. Just smarter.”

You stepped forward, careful but steady. Jiho clung to the back of your dress, and your voice dropped to a whisper meant only for her.

“Now we wouldn’t want the court hearing things about what’s been happening behind closed doors, would we? Or the charity ladies you love so much.”

Her jaw tightened. The way her fingers curled at her sides told you she wanted nothing more than to hit you, but the risk outweighed the impulse.

“I don’t know what nonsense you fed my son,” she hissed.

“You raised him to swallow a good story.” You stepped back with a shrug, “I just wrote a good story.”

Her voice slithered back into the room like a shadow that refused to leave.

“I shaped him, Y/n,” she said, one heel pivoted against the marble, eyes gleaming with poisonous pride. “Do you think I can’t unmake him?”

You froze only for a breath. Jiho’s head tucked against your side, his small fingers still curled around your dress, a living reminder of what she once tried to break.

Your lips twitched into a cold, almost amused smile. You stood tall, one hand protectively on Jiho’s back.

“You shaped a puppet,” you replied, your voice calm but laced with steel. “But I raised a soul. One you never understood.”

Her jaw clenched. You saw it. That flicker of fear that she was losing control. The very thing she thrived on was slipping through her fingers.

“I won’t let you,” she whispered, venom behind each word.

You stepped forward, not backing down. “You’ve already tried. For years. With silence, with fear, with violence.”

You bent slightly, meeting her gaze at eye level.

“And yet—here he is. Still standing. Still whole.”

That silenced her.

She turned with a dramatic sweep of her gown, fury stiffening her spine. But before she left, she paused at the door and glanced at Jiho. His wide, scared eyes met hers.

“You’ll regret this,” she said coldly.

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to Jiho’s temple. “No,” you murmured, meeting her stare without flinching. “You will.”

And then she was gone.

You exhaled—deeply, slowly—and wrapped Jiho in your arms. His little hands were still trembling, but your body had stopped shaking.

For the first time in years… You weren’t afraid of her anymore.

Seungcheol leaned against the doorframe, his eyes softening at the sight before him. You were seated on the carpeted floor, a handful of colored pencils scattered around you as Jiho clung to your side, intently focused on the sketch he was making. His small hand moved across the page in childlike strokes, your hand resting gently on his back, steadying him.

It was quiet, peaceful even—too peaceful for what he expected after hearing that his mother had come to see you.

He cleared his throat deliberately, breaking the silence.

Your hand stilled mid-stroke, and you slowly turned toward him. Jiho instinctively leaned closer into your side, his small frame tense again.

Seungcheol stepped in. “I heard my mother was here,” he said, voice unreadable.

“She was.” You didn’t look away as you said it, your tone flat but not hostile. “She left just before Jiho finished drawing this.” You held up the picture—a messy house, two stick figures, a sun drawn in orange rather than yellow. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Jiho always drew the sun in yellow.

Seungcheol stepped closer, eyes trailing over the drawing, then back at Jiho. His son didn’t meet his gaze.

“You didn’t call me,” he said, watching you.

He crouched down finally, close enough to see Jiho’s trembling lip, though the boy quickly masked it. “Jiho…” he called gently.

But Jiho only pressed his face further into your side. Seungcheol’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach out, but he didn’t.

“He needs space,” you said quietly. “And time.”

He nodded, understanding. “I came to check on you,” he said after a moment. “Not just because of her.”

“Jiho, Mingyu is outside and he wanted to draw with you in my office,” Seungcheol said, his voice unusually gentle. Jiho turned his head toward you, seeking approval with those quiet eyes of his, still wary—still unsure.

You gave him a soft nod. “Go ahead, sweetie.”

Jiho stood, clutching his crayons, and after a small, almost hesitant glance at Seungcheol, he shuffled out of the room.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and just like that, silence swallowed the room again.

You didn’t move.

Seungcheol remained standing for a beat, as if unsure how to begin. But then his voice came, low and heavy.

“I read your journal.”

Your fingers froze mid-reach toward a colored pencil. You slowly lifted your eyes to him, quiet but unreadable.

He took a step forward. “I don’t know what I was expecting when I found it—maybe anger. Accusations. But not…” He trailed off, brow furrowed. “Not that.”

You tilted your head. “Not what? The truth?”

His jaw clenched. “Some of it,” he admitted. “But you made it sound like I left you here knowing what would happen. Like I… abandoned you on purpose.”

“Didn’t you?” you asked, voice like calm water over a sharp stone. “You never asked. Never checked. Four years, Seungcheol.”

His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t defend himself. Instead, he let the weight of your words fall where they must.

“I didn’t know.”

“No,” you said. “You didn’t want to know.”

Silence.

He ran a hand through his hair, stepping closer, something burning just beneath his expression. “You made me believe you were okay. You wrote letters, you smiled when I called—”

“Because if I told you, she would’ve hurt Jiho more.” Your words cracked then, the first sign of emotion leaking through. “So I smiled and lied.”

Seungcheol’s face twisted at that. Regret carved deep into his features.

“She told me you hid the dresses I bought for her,” he muttered. “That you were wasting my money. She said you were trying to turn Jiho against the family.”

“And you believed her?” you asked with a hollow laugh. “You believed her over your own wife and child.”

“I don’t anymore,” he said quickly. “Not after reading that. Not after seeing Jiho.”

You looked at him for a long moment, your expression softening—but only slightly. “Then do something. Don’t just stand there feeling bad. You were raised by that woman, Choi Seungcheol. You know what she’s capable of.”

He stepped closer again, his voice lower, almost hoarse. “I didn’t know it would come to this. I—I should’ve protected you.”

Seungcheol’s eyes didn’t leave yours, but there was something different in them now—no longer just regret or guilt. Something quieter. Something breaking.

His voice was softer when he spoke next, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to say it. “Can I…” he paused, his gaze flickering down for a moment before rising again. “Can I hug you?”

Your breath caught, not because you were surprised, but because of how long it had been since he asked. Since he even thought to ask. You looked at him—not as your husband, not as the man the world respected—but as the man who once held your trembling hands on the altar and swore he'd make you feel safe.

You didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled taut—threatening to snap.

And then you gave the faintest nod.

He stepped forward slowly, carefully, like you were glass he had shattered and was trying not to cut himself on the edges. When his arms finally wrapped around you, they felt different—not like a husband who claimed, but like a man who begged to be allowed back in.

You stood still at first, tense in the circle of his embrace, memories flashing like scars beneath your skin. But as his warmth bled into you, you felt the steady rhythm of his heart—fast, unsure, human.

And slowly… your hands lifted to rest on his back. You didn’t melt into him. You didn’t collapse. But you let him hold you. And that, after everything, was the beginning.

Your plan has run well so far.

Seungcheol felt the small tug at the hem of his coat just as he was about to step out. He turned on instinct, ready to brush it off—but then he saw him.

Jiho.

The boy was in his slippers, hugging a drawing book against his chest with one hand, the other still gripping his coat tightly. His eyes wide, silently pleading.

That silence—it hit Seungcheol like a brick to the chest.

Jiho couldn’t call his name. Couldn’t say “Appa” like other kids might. And yet here he was, tugging him back with all the strength his little body could offer.

Seungcheol glanced at his watch. He was already late. A meeting with regional heads, important people.

But the promise he made to you echoed louder than any ticking clock.

“I’ll change,” he had told you.

So, without a second thought, Seungcheol looked over his shoulder and called, “Mingyu, push the meeting back. Two hours.”

He crouched to Jiho’s height, his voice softer, careful, like something sacred could break between them.

“Jiho… what’s wrong?”

The boy hesitated only a moment before holding out the sketchbook and colored pencils, then pointed toward the garden with a hopeful look.

Seungcheol followed the gesture, noticing the sunlight pouring gently through the windows. The air outside looked crisp and golden.

“You want me to draw with you?” he asked, still unsure if he was reading it right.

Jiho gave a shy nod, his eyes flickering down like he was preparing for rejection.

But Seungcheol didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go to the garden,” he said.

And just as he straightened up, ready to guide Jiho forward, he felt it—small fingers wrapping around his own. A warm, hesitant hand slipping into his.

He looked down, stunned.

It wasn’t much.

But to Seungcheol, that little hand holding his was louder than any word Jiho could’ve spoken.

It was trust. Maybe even forgiveness.

And for the first time in a long time, Seungcheol let the weight of work fall away as he stepped outside—not as a chairman, not as a Choi, but as Jiho’s father.

The crayons rolled lazily on the blanket as Seungcheol added a pair of long ears to the rabbit he was drawing. Beside him, Jiho carefully shaded the butterfly’s wings in a bright orange, his tongue peeking out slightly in concentration. It was peaceful—quiet but warm, like the sun filtering through the trees around them.

Seungcheol leaned back on one hand, glancing at Jiho’s drawing and then back to his own. “I think mine looks like a dog,” he chuckled softly. Jiho looked up and tilted his head, lips twitching like he might have laughed if he could.

But the calm was broken by distant shouts.

“Jiho!”

Seungcheol turned his head, brow furrowing as he caught sight of two figures darting through the hedges—your voice unmistakable, calling for your son. Minyeong was behind you, looking just as panicked.

You skidded to a stop when your eyes finally landed on the garden, where Jiho and Seungcheol were sitting casually on the picnic blanket, surrounded by scattered drawings and crayon boxes.

Your shoulders dropped, relief flooding your face as you exhaled. “Jiho!” you cried, hurrying toward them. “You scared me.”

Jiho’s head whipped toward you, startled by your tone, and he immediately clutched the sketchbook to his chest, eyes wide.

Seungcheol stood, brushing his hands on his pants, still confused. “What’s going on?”

You knelt down beside Jiho, checking him over as if making sure he hadn’t vanished and reappeared. “He wasn’t in his room. He always waits for breakfast after class. No one saw him leave. I thought—” your voice broke off, the worst-case scenarios unspoken but loud in your expression.

Seungcheol’s brows lifted as he finally understood.

You let out a shaky breath, gently tucking Jiho’s hair back. “You can’t just disappear like that, sweetheart. I got scared.” Your voice softened as you held his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye.

Jiho looked down, guilt plain in his body language.

"He's safe here. You don't need to worry," Seungcheol said, his voice calm, his stance steady.

But his assurance didn’t sink into your chest the way it should have. Not with the image of the Duchess still fresh in your mind—her cruel smirk, her venomous words, the way her shadow still lingered in every corner of this estate. Not with the memory of Jiho's trembling form, locked away and crying for someone who would never come.

You tightened your arms around your son, cradling his fragile body to your chest as if your heartbeat alone could shield him. “He’s too precious,” you murmured, your voice low, heavy with everything you couldn't say. Too precious to be used. Too precious to suffer. Too precious for this house to break.

Seungcheol didn’t say anything at first. He looked at you, at Jiho, at the way your hand cupped the back of your son's head protectively. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“I understand,�� he said quietly. “He’s important to me, too.”

You looked up, your eyes sharp and cautious.

Seungcheol stepped closer, dropping to a knee so he was eye-level with the both of you. “Whatever happens,” he said, voice more serious now, “I’ll work hard to protect him… to protect you. So you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

Your breath caught.

You wanted to believe him—so badly—but belief wasn’t trust, and trust wasn’t earned overnight. Not after years of silence. Not after years of being left behind.

Last night, the nightmare returned.

The same one that gripped you with icy fingers every time you dared to close your eyes. The same twisted scene that played over and over like a curse etched into your subconscious. You had thought that leaving the estate would quiet it—give your mind the peace to heal—but it only followed, sinking deeper into your bones each night.

It always began the same: silence. A vast, suffocating silence that wrapped around you like a veil.

Then, the halls of the estate. Dim, echoing, endless. You'd find yourself running, barefoot and frantic, the cold stone floors numbing your feet. Your heart thundered louder than your steps.

Then her—Duchess Choi.

Her figure always emerged from the dark, regal and terrifying. Her hands were always red—soaked, dripping. Her eyes gleamed with something inhuman.

And Jiho...

You never reached him in time. No matter how fast you ran, how loud you screamed, you always arrived just a second too late. The final moment always burned itself into your soul: Jiho's lifeless eyes, his small body limp in her cruel arms, as she whispered, "You should’ve obeyed."

You jolted awake, drenched in sweat and breathless, clutching your chest as if it could steady the madness storming inside.

But the room was silent.

Beside you, Jiho slept peacefully, his tiny hand curled into a fist near his face. The innocence of his slumber clashed cruelly with the horror that still lingered in your veins.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead and laid back down, eyes wide open, unwilling to risk sleep again. You couldn’t. Not when the nightmare was always the same, and the ending never changed.

Your mind whispered over and over: What if the dream was a warning? What if it wasn’t just a dream at all?

Seungcheol’s voice cut through the heavy silence, gentle but firm. He noticed the weariness etched into your face—the dark circles beneath your eyes, the distant glaze that made you look like you were somewhere far away.

“You should rest, my wife,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Leave Jiho to Minyeong for a while. Let yourself breathe.”

His words carried more than just concern; there was a quiet insistence, a promise that you didn’t have to carry everything alone.

You blinked slowly, the exhaustion weighing down your lids, and for a brief moment, you almost wanted to say yes. To give yourself permission to stop fighting, even if only for a little while.

But the nightmare still lingered behind your eyes—the bloody hands, the silent screams.

The door creaked softly as Seungcheol stepped into your room. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a dim wash of moonlight that etched pale shadows across the floor. The air was still, thick with silence. You were curled up beneath the covers, your body barely moving, your eyes open and distant—staring at nothing.

He stood at the threshold for a moment, just watching. You looked so small like that, fragile in a way that struck him in the gut. His chest ached. He wondered how long you’d been surviving in this half-state, quietly unraveling while he stood blind beside you.

“You haven’t slept again,” he murmured, voice soft as cotton.

You didn’t answer—just turned your head ever so slightly in his direction. The motion was slow, like it took effort.

He approached the bed and sank gently onto the edge, careful not to startle you. For a moment, he didn’t say anything more. His hand lifted, tentative at first, before his fingers brushed beneath your eye, tracing the bruised hollows of exhaustion there. Then down to your cheek—warm, familiar, trembling.

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Are you just here to touch me?” you asked, your voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but with an edge of bitterness beneath it.

Seungcheol’s brows pinched, his thumb ghosting over your temple.

“I’m here because I want to carry what you’ve been carrying alone,” he whispered. “I turned my eyes away when I should’ve looked closer.”

Your throat constricted as tears swelled. You bit your lip hard. “I’m already broken, Cheol.” Your voice cracked. “This house… your mother… everything. I—I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I tried to be what you needed, but I’ve only ruined it. You don’t deserve someone like me.”

He closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight with pain. And then he leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead—delicate, unwavering.

“I don’t care,” he whispered against your skin. “You’re my wife. Convenient or not. I made vows, and I meant them. I still do.”

A sob shuddered up your throat as your defenses collapsed. The tears you’d swallowed for months broke free.

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t hurried or full of hunger—it was slow and aching. His mouth moved against yours like he was memorizing you again, trying to soothe every invisible wound. You clung to him, fingers fisting the front of his shirt, desperate for something solid, something real.

There was no need for words anymore.

Clothes slipped off like old armor. His hands didn’t rush—they moved over you gently, like you were something he thought he’d lost. His touch was reverent, worshipful. He kissed the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist, the softness of your stomach like they were all parts of a story he refused to forget.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, trembling. “I’m scared,” you admitted into the dark.

“I know,” he breathed against your skin. “But I’m here. I’m here.”

When he entered you, it wasn’t a conquest—it was a return. A slow, desperate need to feel something real between the both of you again. You moved together like the world outside didn’t exist. Like grief and shame and regret could all be held at bay if only you stayed close enough.

Your breaths synced, ragged and warm. Gasps turned into moans, moans into whimpers. The sound of your name on his lips was unlike anything—hoarse, reverent, as if it hurt to say but he couldn’t stop saying it.

You cried through it. Not just from the sensation, but from all the pain that had piled up between your bodies for months. Seungcheol held you through it all, brushing your tears away with his lips, whispering apologies and I love you’s and I’m so sorrys between every kiss.

He whispered your name like a vow. Like a prayer.

“You’re mine,” he breathed over and over, not possessively, but like a truth he clung to. “You’re my wife. You’re mine.”

That night, the bed wasn’t just a place of desire—it became a sanctuary. A fragile, fleeting pocket of warmth where two hearts could find their way back to each other.

Morning crept in quietly, the rain having washed the world into a pale stillness. The sky was soft and gray beyond the curtains, the kind of morning that asked the world to slow down.

Seungcheol stirred beside you, his hand instinctively brushing a lock of hair away from your face. You were still asleep, finally at peace. Something in his chest loosened at the sight. For a moment, it felt like maybe, just maybe, things were starting to heal.

Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached for it lazily, intending to silence it, but froze when he saw the name.

Seokmin. Your personal guard.

The blood drained from his face as he opened the message. The screen burned into his vision. The phone nearly slipped from his hand.

Not kidnapped. Requested. Lied.

His lungs stopped working. He stared at the words, willing them to change, to rewrite themselves, to offer any other meaning. But they stayed the same, cold and damning.

The room shrank. His pulse pounded in his ears. Everything—their night, your tears, your trembling voice saying “I’m already broken”—all of it twisted now. He looked at you lying there, still, peaceful, the soft blankets rising and falling with each breath.

And suddenly, he didn’t know what that peace meant anymore.

He stood from the bed, the sheets pulling slightly as he moved. He was still half-dressed from the night before, hair a mess, lips bruised from kissing someone he thought he knew.

You stirred, frowning slightly at the absence of his warmth. Your voice was sleepy, unguarded. “Cheol?”

He turned, and you saw the expression on his face. The way his jaw clenched. The way his eyes looked at you like he didn’t recognize you anymore.

“Did you sleep with him?” he asked. The words were low, cold, and jagged.

You blinked, sitting up abruptly. “What?”

“Hong Jisoo,” he repeated, more biting this time. “Did you sleep with him? Is that why you ran off and let me think you were taken?”

“Cheol—no.” You shook your head, panic rising. “I didn’t. I would never—how could you even—?”

“Then what was it?” he snapped. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t betrayal. Don’t tell me you didn’t look me in the eye every day and pretend nothing was wrong while you were planning your escape behind my back!”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

Your voice wavered, but you forced the words out. “It wasn’t cheating. It was surviving.”

The silence that followed was sharper than any scream. It cracked through the air between you, full of things neither of you had said for months—maybe years.

His throat worked around the lump forming there. “You lied to me,” he whispered, voice almost breaking. “You stood in front of me, wore the ring I gave you, and lied every damn day.”

You stood too now, trembling, bare feet on the floor, your arms crossed tightly over your chest like you were holding yourself together. “You neglected me,” you said quietly, but it came out sharp. “You left me to rot in that house, alone. Your mother made me feel like dirt and you—you never even looked at me.”

“I was trying to protect you!” he shouted. “You think I didn’t know how bad she was? You think I didn’t want to fight her? I was trying, but you never let me in! You never told me how bad it got!”

“Because I didn’t think you'd believe me!” you cried. “You kept brushing it off. You said I was being too sensitive. Every time I tried to tell you, you told me to be patient. So I stopped talking.”

“You gave up on us,” he said, venom trembling behind each word. “You chose him.”

“I chose myself, Seungcheol.” Your voice cracked. “I had no one. No one listened. Not you, not your family, not the people I was supposed to trust. So yes—I ran. I asked Jisoo for help because I didn’t want to die in that house.”

His face twisted. Pain and rage warred behind his eyes. “You should’ve come to me.”

“I did,” you said. “You just didn’t hear me.”

He backed away from you like your words physically pushed him.

“I didn’t cheat on you,” you said again, voice quieter, but no less steady. “I lied. I’m not proud of that. But I did what I had to do.”

“You don’t get to rewrite this like you’re the victim,” he muttered bitterly. “You lied. That’s the one thing we swore we’d never do to each other.”

“And you swore to protect me,” you said, eyes burning. “You failed me first.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Two people who once promised forever, now standing in the ruins of misheard cries and emotional silence. Both of you hurt. Both of you right, and both so terribly wrong.

Seungcheol looked away, jaw flexing. “I don’t know how to come back from this.”

And this time, you didn’t answer. Because neither of you did.

Seungcheol slowed his steps as the raised voices reached him—fierce, trembling, far too close to a breaking point. He stood just shy of the corridor’s edge, where the marbled hallway met the staircase landing, his hand resting on the wall as if grounding himself from a storm he hadn’t yet seen.

And there it was.

You—face flushed, eyes glassy with fury and something dangerously close to heartbreak—stood between his mother and your son. Your arms were slightly outstretched, like a shield. Jiho stood behind your legs, barely visible, clutching his sketchbook tightly to his chest, his small frame tense like a frightened deer in the open.

Seungcheol didn’t move. Couldn’t. The weight of your voice froze him in place.

“You’ve always blamed him for existing,” you said, each word like a shard of glass cutting through the thick silence. “He’s a child. Not a burden. Not your second chance to twist another soul.”

His mother's lips curled, cold and disdainful. “You should’ve taught him obedience instead of weakness. No wonder he turned out like this. You coddle him like he’s glass—”

“He is!” your voice cracked, but you didn’t waver. “Glass that you keep trying to shatter. He’s traumatized—because of you! Because of this cursed house! You broke every child that passed through your hands and now you want to break him too—”

“Watch your tone,” she snapped.

“Or what?” you challenged. “You’ll hurt me? You already have. But I won’t let you lay a single finger on him.”

Your breath was coming in hard, shallow bursts, your voice trembling with the desperate kind of love only a mother could understand. And Seungcheol—watching from the shadows, unseen—felt something rip open in his chest.

Then it happened.

Jiho, who had been so still, so silent—stepped forward. A tiny hand tugging on your skirt, eyes flickering between the two adults in confusion and fear. He didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. He only wanted to stop the fighting. To reach you. To help.

And Duchess Choi turned. Sharp. Too sharp.

“Don’t touch—!”

Her hand flew in a gesture meant to shove you back—but Jiho was there. Too close. Too small. Her arm struck him across the chest, not hard enough to harm a grown-up, but more than enough to unbalance a child on the edge of stairs.

Seungcheol’s heart stopped.

Jiho’s sketchbook flew from his arms, pages flapping like wings of a broken bird.

And then—time cracked.

Jiho stumbled backwards. One small foot slipped. He tilted.

“Jiho!” Your scream pierced the hallway like a siren, raw and anguished.

Seungcheol was already moving. But he wasn’t fast enough. Jiho fell. Head first, down the staircase. His tiny body bounced off the steps in an unnatural, horrifying rhythm. The final thud—when his head hit the marble—echoed through Seungcheol’s ears like a gunshot.

Everything was silence after that.

You screamed again, louder this time, but it sounded distant in Seungcheol’s head. He sprinted, feet hitting the ground too late. You were already at the bottom, shaking, your hands trembling as you pulled Jiho’s limp frame into your arms.

“Jiho—Jiho, baby, no—” your sobs came in gasps, hoarse and broken, like something inside you was shattering.

Seungcheol collapsed beside you, his hands fluttering uselessly, hovering over Jiho’s blood-matted hair. The boy whimpered faintly, eyelids fluttering, a soft sound that should have been a relief but only deepened the horror—because it meant he was still conscious through this pain.

“Eomma… don't cry.”

“Mingyu,” he said quietly. The butler had already rushed into the hall. “Get the doctor. Then gather the guards.”

“My lord—” the duchess began, but Seungcheol didn’t even look at her.

“You’re no longer welcome in this house,” he said coldly. “Not near me. Not near my wife. And not near my son.”

His mother’s breath hitched. Her mask finally cracked. “I raised you—”

“And you nearly unmade me,” he snapped. “You will not get the chance to do the same to my son.”

He turned back to you and Jiho, kneeling once more, brushing Jiho’s hair back gently as the boy leaned into him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

“Appa…”

Seungcheol sat heavily in the armchair, the dim light from the window casting long shadows across his worn face. His eyes, dark and stormy, never left you as you sat on the edge of Jiho’s bed, watching your son sleep. Jiho’s breathing was soft and steady now, peaceful in the fragile safety of the moment—his small face untouched by pain, save for the faint bruises and bandages that marked the night’s horror.

The silence between you was suffocating—thick with everything left unsaid, every wound raw and aching beneath your skin. Your heart pounded in the quiet, the weight of what had happened pressing down like a heavy shroud.

Then, your voice—low, brittle but unwavering—cut through the stillness.

“I knew this was coming.”

Seungcheol’s breath caught a subtle hitch that betrayed the storm inside him. His gaze sharpened, hanging on every word you spoke.

“I dreamed of this,” you said, voice trembling like a fragile thread stretched too thin. “Over and over. How your mother would... harm him.”

Your hand clenched into a tight, desperate fist at your side, knuckles whitening. You didn’t want to look weak, not again—not now—but the tremor in your chest betrayed your fierce vulnerability.

“That’s why I turned to Jisoo,” you whispered, the words heavy with bitter truth. “Because my own husband wouldn’t. Because you don’t have the heart to turn your back on your mother. And I understand... because I’m a mother too.

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, a war raging behind his eyes—between blood ties and love, duty and desperation, guilt and regret. He felt torn apart, the impossible weight of loyalty clashing with the raw, aching need to protect the family he claimed as his own.

You finally met his gaze, your eyes shimmering with tears you fought to hold back—an ocean of pain, exhaustion, and pleading that spilled over despite yourself.

“Let us go, Seungcheol,” you said, voice breaking but steady. “We’ve suffered enough.”

The words hung in the room like a fragile glass between you—beautiful, sharp, and ready to shatter. It was a plea. A reckoning. A heartbreak that neither of you could deny. For a long moment, the world outside ceased to exist. Only the quiet breaths, the unspoken fears, and the fragile hope that maybe, somehow, healing could begin.

Seungcheol’s jaw clenched, his breath shallow and uneven. The words you’d just spoken echoed in his mind, sharp and unyielding. He wanted—needed—to say something, anything, to hold on, to fight, but the weight in his chest crushed his voice before it could form.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Silence hung between you like a thick fog, suffocating and endless.

His eyes, dark and conflicted, searched yours, but no answer came. The battle raging inside him was too fierce—between love, loyalty, guilt, and despair.

Three years later, Seungcheol sat behind the grand oak desk in his government office, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. The sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the room lined with books, maps, and official decrees.

Now appointed as the regional governor of Gwanrae by the kingdom, he was tasked with ruling a land both vibrant and challenging—a region ripe with opportunity but tangled in its own conflicts and histories.

Papers scattered across his desk demanded his attention: petitions from villagers, reports on trade and security, letters from the palace, and reminders of the delicate balance he must maintain between power and justice.

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, feeling the years of lessons pressed into every decision. The role was demanding, each day a test of wisdom, patience, and strength. But Seungcheol carried it with quiet determination, fueled by a desire to forge a future where pain like his family’s could be undone.

Though the past still lingered—ghosts of mistakes and loss—he focused on what lay ahead. His kingdom, his people, and perhaps, one day, the chance to heal the fractures within himself.

Seungcheol sat behind his polished desk, papers neatly stacked but momentarily untouched as Mingyu entered the room with a purposeful stride.

“Mingyu,” Seungcheol greeted without looking up, his tone measured yet weary.

“Sir,” Mingyu replied with a slight bow before standing straight. “I wish to update you on young Jiho. He has recently commenced his studies at the elementary academy in Southeast Gwanrae.”

Seungcheol finally raised his eyes. “Is that so? And how does the child fare? Has he begun to speak more freely?”

Mingyu nodded respectfully. “Indeed, my lord. Though reserved, Jiho has begun to articulate himself with increasing confidence. His progress, while gradual, is promising. He shows signs of resilience reminiscent of your own.”

A faint expression softened Seungcheol’s features. “That is reassuring to hear. It has always been my hope that he would find his voice in his own time.”

“Also, the Ministry of Trade has confirmed your presence at the opening ceremony for the new provincial market in Southeast Gwanrae. It’s scheduled for the second week of the coming month.”

Seungcheol paused in his writing, his pen hovering just above the parchment. “Southeast Gwanrae?”

“Yes, sir,” Mingyu replied, maintaining professional composure. “The region has seen significant growth in recent years. The local business community has funded and organized the new market plaza. You’ll be expected to deliver an address and conduct a ceremonial inspection of the trade facilities.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed subtly, though his expression remained neutral. “And who oversees the business council there?”

Mingyu met his eyes with a steady nod. “The chairwoman is Lady Ji.”

Silence followed—not strained, but still.

Seungcheol leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his hands before him. “Did she submit the invitation herself?”

Mingyu hesitated, then answered carefully. “It came through the council secretary, but her name was signed at the end of the official document.”

A long breath filled the room.

“I see,” Seungcheol said quietly, gaze distant now.

Mingyu added, “It’s not a personal summons, sir. It’s a public obligation. The council is aware of your history, but they believe your presence will lend prestige to the event.”

Seungcheol gave a slow nod, eyes shadowed but steady. “Prepare the itinerary. Notify the guards. We’ll proceed with the visit as expected.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Mingyu turned to leave, Seungcheol’s voice called him back—quieter, tinged with something more thoughtful. “Send word ahead. I expect nothing more than a formal greeting. She owes me nothing else.”

Mingyu bowed low. “Understood.”

You stood before the mirror, adjusting the silk ribbon at your waist with trembling fingers. The fever had come quietly the night before—subtle aches, a flush that crept beneath your skin. But the ceremony couldn’t wait. Not when months of preparation and the trust of so many local merchants rested on your shoulders.

You dabbed a touch of powder to your cheeks, trying to mask the pallor that clung stubbornly to your skin. The dizziness made your limbs feel like they moved underwater, but you anchored yourself with deep breaths and the steady hum of responsibility.

Outside, the town square of Southeast Gwanrae buzzed with anticipation. Banners hung from the rooftops, merchants lined the stalls with wares, and citizens gathered around the ceremonial platform. The new market was not just a structure—it was proof of survival, of self-reliance. Of rebirth.

You walked slowly toward the platform, Jiho’s small hand in yours. He looked up with curiosity, unaware of the way your steps were measured, your breaths shallow. Jisoo hovered nearby, eyes watchful.

Then you saw him.

Governor Choi Seungcheol. Cloaked in ceremonial robes, his stature even more commanding now. His gaze swept the crowd with practiced poise—until it landed on you.

And it lingered.

You didn’t falter, not outwardly. But your heart tripped painfully in your chest as heat bloomed behind your eyes—not from the fever this time, but from something older. Deeper.

He stepped forward at the cue of the master of ceremonies. Applause rose around him. You bowed your head in respect as protocol demanded, hiding the slight sway in your posture.

He took the podium. His voice, when it came, was steady and regal. But in the middle of his speech, there was a pause—so brief that only those watching closely would notice.

You didn’t look up, but you felt it.

“Was that the Lady Ji he married to?”

“They didn’t even make eye contact.”

“They used to be married, didn’t they?”

You kept your chin lifted, hands folded tightly in front of you to hide the tremor. Jisoo shifted subtly beside you, standing tall, a quiet shield against the public’s prying eyes. Jiho tugged at your sleeve, sensing something even in his young innocence, but you only gave him a weak smile.

The ceremony pressed on. Names were called, the market gates opened, and trade resumed with festive cheer. But around you, eyes still flicked between your back and Seungcheol’s retreating form. Between the woman who had rebuilt from nothing, and the man who had once vowed to build everything with her.

The hotel’s reception hall was lavish but subdued, echoing the tone of formality befitting a governor’s visit. Crystal glasses gleamed under soft golden light, and the long table was dressed in cream linens and lined with carefully arranged refreshments—fine teas, traditional pastries, imported fruits, and small plates that suggested abundance without ostentation.

You sat with practiced grace near the center, across from the Governor himself. Your pale cheeks were touched with a hint of makeup to conceal the fever’s lingering shadow, though the heaviness in your limbs remained. Jiho was safely with Minyeong elsewhere; this part of the evening was no place for a child.

The air around the table buzzed with polite conversation. Influential dukes from surrounding provinces, regional council members, and a few trade lords from the merchant guild sat in a semi-circle. Discussions drifted from recent drought relief efforts to tariffs on imported grain, yet somehow always curved back to Gwanrae’s rapid development under Governor Choi’s new policies.

You remained composed, offering observations when appropriate, your voice even but soft. You noticed how Seungcheol glanced your way only when no one else was looking—quick, unreadable flickers of something unspoken. Perhaps it was memory. Or curiosity. Or guilt.

You couldn’t tell.

“The Lady Ji’s market district in Southeast Gwanrae has seen the highest citizen satisfaction index in the last quarter,” one of the younger councilors noted, smiling at you respectfully. “The property restructuring method she adapted from Sir Hong was a success. Her initiative has inspired the outer provinces.”

A few nodded in agreement.

You inclined your head politely. “We simply provided what people needed—affordable space to grow. Most of the credit belongs to the people who dared to try.”

“Well spoken,” Seungcheol said then, his voice calm but commanding.

It was the first time he had addressed you directly.

The room stilled just slightly—not noticeably, but enough that your spine straightened. You lifted your tea to your lips, hiding the flicker of surprise in your eyes.

And the whispers… started again. Not out loud, not yet. But in glances. In tightened smiles. In the careful politeness that only arose when something unspoken filled the space between two powerful figures.

By the time dessert was served, the room looked orderly again. But beneath it all, the air hummed with possibility—and a tension that even fine porcelain couldn’t mask.

You rose from your seat with the same poise you had maintained all evening, offering a quiet apology to the table. “Please excuse me for a moment,” you said, your voice gentle, unshaken. No one questioned it.

But as you stepped into the hallway beyond the reception hall’s doors, the air shifted.

The soft murmur of noble chatter faded behind you, replaced by the hush of a long, carpeted corridor lit with wall sconces and the distant patter of staff footsteps. You pressed a hand to the wall as your balance faltered—the fever had been steady all day, but now it surged again, making the corners of your vision blur and pulse. Your breath caught. The polished tiles swam beneath your feet, the weight of the night catching up to you.

You leaned your back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, willing the dizziness to pass. Your fingers curled lightly around your stomach, the warmth of your palm a weak shield against the chill pooling in your limbs.

This wasn’t the place for weakness. Not with officials gathered, not with him in the next room.

But your body disagreed.

Your throat was dry, and the soft layers of your hanbok, though elegant and stately, felt heavier with each breath. You took another slow step forward, then another, intending to reach the small powder room at the end of the hall. But your legs buckled slightly.

And that’s when you heard him.

“Y/n—” Seungcheol’s voice, low and sharp with concern, cut through the silence.

You turned your head, just enough to see him striding toward you. His expression had shifted from formal restraint to something rawer, something dangerously close to the man you used to know. His eyes scanned your face, your posture, the way your fingers trembled against the wall.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, instinctively, but your voice betrayed you—it cracked like paper.

“You’re not,” he said, already beside you. His hand hovered at your back, hesitant but prepared to catch you if you faltered again. “You’re burning up.”

You opened your mouth to dismiss him, to deny him, but the weakness clawing through your spine left no room for pride.

The world around you dimmed slowly, like a lantern flickering in the wind. Your breath grew shallow, your limbs impossibly heavy. You tried to take one more step, tried to hold your chin high despite the spinning in your head—but it was too much.

Then you heard him.

“Mingyu, prepare a room. I’m going there.”

His voice was firm. Urgent. No longer the voice of a distant governor or a man hardened by time and power—but of Seungcheol. The man who once held you like you were made of glass and fire.

You felt the warmth of his hand wrap around yours, the way it used to, anchoring you. Your knees buckled, and the last thing you registered was the sensation of being caught—his arms solid around you, strong and familiar, just before everything faded into darkness.

Seungcheol sat in the armchair beside the bed, a stack of reports resting in his lap—mostly unread. His eyes kept drifting toward your sleeping figure, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest beneath the covers. The doctor had said you were dehydrated and exhausted, the fever pushing your body past its limit. You’d been given a shot to bring it down, and now you finally rested—still, pale, and far too quiet.

The soft creak of the door opening caught his attention. Footsteps—small, hesitant—tapped gently against the floor.

Seungcheol turned, and there stood Jiho.

The boy’s eyes were wide, glassy with worry. He stood frozen in the doorway until he whispered, “Mother…”

The sound nearly undid Seungcheol.

It wasn’t just the word—it was the way Jiho said it, the clarity in his tone. After years of delayed speech and silence, the word shattered something inside him.

Seungcheol rose from his chair, slowly. “She’s going to be fine,” he said gently, his voice low. “She just needs rest.”

Jiho stepped forward, inch by inch, as though afraid that if he moved too fast, it would all disappear. When he reached the bedside, he reached out with a trembling hand and took yours.

“Thank you, Father…”

Seungcheol stood in place, the words echoing in his mind. His heart clenched—not out of pain this time, but something bittersweet and unfamiliar. Jiho’s voice, his gratitude… it was more than he deserved.

He swallowed hard, blinking back the emotion stinging behind his eyes.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said hoarsely. “She’s your mother. She’s everything.”

Jiho didn’t answer, but his hand remained firmly wrapped around yours.

And for a moment, in that quiet room filled with the steady sound of your breathing, Seungcheol felt something he hadn’t in years.

A glimpse of what could have been.

Or perhaps… what could still be.

Seungcheol watched Jiho in silence, unable to tear his eyes away from the boy’s small hand wrapped around yours. His chest rose with a slow, heavy breath as something bloomed in him—warm, unfamiliar, and overwhelming.

Jiho had grown.

Not just in height or how he carried himself—but in spirit. The timid little boy who once hid behind your skirts was now standing tall beside your bed, speaking clearly, and holding your hand like he could protect you.

It struck Seungcheol with a force that left him breathless.

He knelt beside Jiho, eye level with him now. “You’ve grown a lot,” he said softly, his voice a bit rough around the edges. “You’re strong… just like your mother.”

Jiho looked at him, his eyes uncertain but bright. “I practiced,” he said shyly. “Talking. Writing. Reading.”

Seungcheol nodded, swallowing the emotion in his throat. “I can tell.”

He reached out, gently brushing Jiho’s hair back, something he hadn’t done in so long it felt like a forgotten memory brought to life. “I’m proud of you, Jiho.”

The boy blinked, stunned, before a small, careful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Will she wake up soon?” he asked.

“Yes,” Seungcheol said, his hand still resting lightly on Jiho’s head. “She just needs rest. You gave her a reason to rest easy.”

Jiho’s small fingers clutched yours a little tighter, his eyes still fixed on your sleeping face. Then, after a pause, he glanced up at Seungcheol—uncertainty flickering in those big, dark eyes.

“Father isn’t here to take me from my mother, right?”

The question landed like a blow to Seungcheol’s chest.

He froze, caught off guard by how quietly it was said, how much fear and understanding hid behind such simple words. Jiho wasn’t asking as a child guessing. He was asking as someone who remembered. Someone who had lived through absence. Through tension. Through loss.

Seungcheol lowered himself again, this time more slowly, until he was eye level with Jiho once more. His throat tightened, but he didn’t look away.

“No,” he said, voice low but steady. “I’m not here to take you away from her.”

Jiho searched his face for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether he could believe him.

“You have nothing to be afraid of. Not from me. Not anymore.”

Jiho nodded slowly, still watching him. And then—quietly, cautiously—he leaned just a little toward Seungcheol’s shoulder, not quite touching, but not pulling away either.

It was the smallest shift.

“Rest…”

Seungcheol’s voice, deep and hushed, wove into the stillness like the final note of a lullaby. It wrapped around you gently just as your eyes fluttered open, lashes blinking against the soft golden light that seeped through the curtains. The scent of chamomile lingered faintly in the air—either from the tea or from the linen sheets recently changed—and for a brief moment, the world felt hushed, like it was holding its breath.

You stirred slowly, your body sore but lighter, the fever that had held you hostage now a fading ache. Disoriented, you mumbled, “Why are you here?”

He was already there—by your side. Sitting on the edge of the bed like he belonged in that room, like he’d never left your orbit. The light caught the edges of his sharp features, softened by fatigue and something quieter. Something more tender.

“Taking care of you,” he said, his voice low, smooth like worn velvet. His hand reached out, calloused yet gentle, brushing against your forehead. Cool skin against warm. The kind of touch that made your heart betray you with its sudden stutter.

“Your fever’s gone down,” he murmured, eyes studying you. “But you still need rest. Are you hungry? I can have something sent up.”

You turned your face toward him, blinking slowly as you tried to anchor yourself. The pillows cradled your head, the comforter tucked around you like arms you couldn’t name. It was your hotel, your room, and yet it felt like he had brought the air with him—changed it just by being there.

“We’re strangers now, Seungcheol…” you said, your words barely above a whisper, unsure if they were meant to remind him or to protect yourself.

A faint laugh escaped his lips—low, breathy, amused in that familiar way that always managed to stir something under your ribs. “Strangers usually call me Lord,” he teased, already pulling out his phone, fingers dancing across the screen.

Your brow furrowed. “This is my hotel,” you muttered, frowning. “You can’t just order people around like you own the place.”

He leaned back slightly, still so at ease. “Their boss is sick,” he said with a sly smile, “so naturally, they should tend to you.”

A quiet hum filled the space between you. The distant clink of silverware being prepared downstairs, the muffled rush of staff moving through the halls, and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing. The air was laced with something fragile and unspoken, like the moment before a confession or the second before dawn.

“You’re weird,” you said softly, your eyes not quite meeting his.

Seungcheol’s smile grew—smaller, more personal, like he didn’t want the world to see it. “You always said that when I did something nice.”

“And you always acted like it meant nothing,” you whispered back, your voice thinning, unraveling.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of everything unsaid, of the ache of almost everything, of a past that still lived in the corners of the room. The kind of silence that made your heart flutter even as it weighed down your chest.

“You’re the chairman of the council,” Seungcheol said quietly, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the way your fingers trembled just a bit when you reached for the glass of water. “Yet no one seemed to notice you were sick.”

You gave a soft, rueful smile, pressing the glass to your lips before setting it down again. Your voice came gentle, laced with fatigue and a hint of something more resigned. “The art of noticing…” You let the words settle, your gaze drifting to the window where morning light filtered through gauzy curtains. “It’s not easy. Needs a lot of practice.”

Seungcheol stilled. Something in your tone made his chest tighten—not with guilt, but with recognition. You weren’t talking about the council. Not entirely.

“Jiho came earlier,” Seungcheol said, his voice gentler now, changing the subject. He leaned back slightly, eyes still fixed on your face. “He was worried… You shouldn’t worry your son like that.”

A soft breath escaped your lips, not quite a sigh—more like a breeze of guilt brushing through your chest. You didn’t look at him right away, only let your gaze fall to the folds of the blanket between your fingers.

“Hmm…” you murmured, then turned to face him with a small, grateful smile. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“You’re far too calm for this situation…” Seungcheol muttered, his voice low and taut with frustration. He wasn’t looking at you—his eyes were fixed on the half-open window, where sunlight spilled lazily across the room.

You tilted your head, watching him quietly. “Why?” you asked softly. “Are you… feeling something, Seungcheol?”

A silence fell between you. Not the comfortable kind, but a loaded pause that felt like holding your breath underwater. He didn’t answer right away—just clenched his jaw, the flicker of emotion twitching behind his eyes.

“Hm… old things,” he finally said, his voice quieter. “But I don’t want to talk about this.”

You nodded once. “Okay.”

Another silence—quieter this time. The wind outside rustled the trees. Somewhere down the hall, a servant’s footsteps echoed faintly and then faded again.

Then, like a whisper dropped into the stillness, he said, “I miss you.”

Your breath caught in your chest. For a moment, the room felt smaller, like everything folded in around those three words.

These visits became a quiet rhythm over the months—small, almost unnoticed, but impossible to ignore. You were immersed in the latest market expansion reports when Jeonghan appeared, calm as ever, his tablet tucked beneath one arm.

“My lady,” he said gently, “Governor Choi was seen in the lobby again.”

Your pen hovered but you didn’t look up. “Again?” you asked, voice steady but with just a hint of something beneath.

Jeonghan nodded. “His fourth visit this year.”

You said nothing, turning the page deliberately. The room filled with a heavy silence as Jeonghan lingered, waiting for a crack in your carefully guarded composure. But none came.

This pattern repeated over time: subtle visits, thoughtful gifts.

One afternoon, Jeonghan appeared with a small, carefully wrapped package. “Governor Choi has sent painting equipment for the young master,” he said softly.

You accepted it with a quiet “Thank you,” your heart catching briefly before your face smoothed into neutrality. These gifts carried more weight than paint and canvas.

Later, Jeonghan returned, a slight smirk on his lips. “Lord Seungcheol asked for a recommendation on a local restaurant.”

You met his gaze evenly. “Tell him the best place is the one he hasn’t discovered yet.”

Jeonghan’s knowing smile lingered as he left, the door clicking softly behind him.

Month after month, these quiet reminders arrived—unspoken words and careful gestures, threading their way through your days, stirring memories you tried not to name.

It was near sunset when Jeonghan entered again, the golden light casting long shadows across your office floor. He stood with both hands behind his back, his voice as composed as ever.

“My lady,” he said carefully, “Lord Seungcheol has asked… if he could take the young master for a stroll around the city.”

You looked up from the correspondence in your hand, eyes resting on him a second longer than usual.

The question hung in the air like incense—unexpected, warm, and slightly disorienting.

“For how long?” you asked, though your voice was quieter than intended.

“An hour or two,” Jeonghan replied. “He said he wants to show Jiho the market square lights… and the new flower lane.”

You glanced toward the window, where faint sounds of the evening city buzzed below. Jiho had asked about the flower lane just days ago.

And now Seungcheol remembered.

You closed the document before you slowly nodded. “Tell Lord Seungcheol… as long as Jiho wears his coat.”

Jeonghan gave a slight bow. “Yes, my lady.”

As he exited, your eyes lingered on the door he’d just left through, a quiet ache swelling in your chest. You knew Seungcheol wasn’t just walking through the city. Somewhere else you didn't want to name.

Seungcheol opened the door of his hotel room, his tie loosened and sleeves slightly rolled up, only to pause at the unexpected sight.

You stood there, framed by the soft hallway light, holding a familiar bottle of red wine cradled in your arms—his favorite vintage.

“Room service,” you said with a small, wry smile.

A quiet laugh escaped him, subtle but real, as he stepped aside. “I should’ve known this hotel had excellent service.”

You stepped inside, the wine bottle cool in your hand as you made your way to the small sitting area. The room smelled faintly of cedar and old paper—his cologne mixed with the remnants of long hours and unopened reports. You settled onto the couch with practiced ease, the weight of the years between you both momentarily suspended in the soft click of the bottle setting down on the table.

“How was the stroll with Jiho?” you asked, your tone casual, though your eyes lingered longer than they should.

Seungcheol took the seat across from you, his gaze steady. “Peaceful. He asked questions about every flower and every vendor. He’s bright... very much like you.”

You gave a faint smile, looking away as if brushing off a compliment that hit a little too close to the chest.

“I didn’t expect your visit,” he said finally, voice quieter now, more careful.

You shrugged lightly, fingers tracing the rim of a wine glass. “I didn’t expect to be here either. But I figured I’d be a terrible host if I didn’t personally greet one of our most loyal guests. You come here almost every month, Lord Seungcheol. That’s an impressive amount of... business in Southeast Gwanrae.”

His eyes didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something in them—soft, vulnerable, almost sheepish.

“I find the region… welcoming,” he murmured.

“Mm. I’m sure you do,” you replied, pouring the wine with quiet grace, the room now bathed in the quiet hum of night and all the things that remained unsaid.

The wine settled between the two of you like a truce—rich, deep, and aged with memories. Seungcheol swirled the glass in his hand, the deep crimson catching the lamplight in slow motion.

“So,” he began after a sip, voice low, “how’s business been treating you?”

You leaned back against the couch, crossing one leg over the other as your fingers reached for a slender silver case from your coat pocket. With practiced fingers, you pulled out a cigarette and placed it between your lips.

You lit it without hesitation, exhaling softly, the smoke curling into the warm air like a secret.

“Depends on the day,” you answered. “Some days I feel like I own half of Southeast Gwanrae. Some days I feel like I’m drowning in numbers and neck-deep in egos.”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, watching the trail of smoke dance above your head. “And today?”

You glanced at him, lips tugging in a wry smile. “Today I’m drinking wine with the governor and pretending we’re just old friends catching up.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze intent. “You don’t have to do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

He tilted his head toward your cigarette. “That. You don’t have to put on the show. Not with me.”

A soft laugh escaped your lips, laced with tired amusement. “You know I’m not here to be your business partner, Seungcheol. This isn’t a deal. This—” you gestured around with your cigarette, “—is just tradition. Wine, smoke, talk. It keeps people from asking the real questions.”

He looked at you quietly for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Still. You don’t have to play the game.”

You met his gaze, then took another drag, the cherry at the end of your cigarette glowing faintly. “We all play, Seungcheol.”

Silence stretched between you like silk, delicate and taut. Only the quiet ticking of the wall clock and the soft clink of his glass broke through it.

“I never expected to see you like this,” he said finally. “Cigarettes in one hand, a thousand thoughts behind your eyes, carrying everything on your own.”

You looked at him then, really looked—and for a second, it felt like the years hadn’t passed. Like your hearts had never broken, like the city hadn’t swallowed you both in different directions.

“You were the one who shaped me,” you replied, voice steady, though the wine had begun to warm the ache in your chest. “You don’t get to hate the woman I had to become.”

He didn’t speak. He only nodded once, solemnly, before refilling both your glasses.

Seungcheol watched as you took your third drag, the smoke curling lazily from your lips, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. He frowned, a flicker of concern tightening his features. Rising from his seat, he moved toward you with measured steps, until he stood beside the couch.

Without hesitation, his hand gently closed over your fingers, pinching the cigarette between them and pulling it away. The sudden loss startled you, but you didn’t pull back.

“Enough smoking,” he said quietly, eyes searching yours. “It’s not good for a woman.”

You inhaled sharply, the edge in your voice barely masked. “I had worse,” you mumbled, the silence that followed thick and heavy.

Seungcheol stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until his breath brushed your cheek. His voice softened, almost pleading. “Stop this mask, right now.”

You looked up at him, steady and unflinching. “I don’t wear any mask, Seungcheol. Never.”

His eyes darkened with something unsaid, a mixture of frustration and longing. The tension between you pulsed in the still room, neither willing to break, yet both craving the truth beneath the carefully crafted walls.

For a long moment, you simply held each other’s gaze—raw, honest, and dangerously close.

Then, slowly, he released your hand, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

“Maybe,” he whispered, “it’s time we stop pretending.”

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as his hand slowly lifted to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that belied the tension in his stance.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.

Your eyes fluttered closed as his face dipped closer, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. Time slowed—every second stretched thin with the weight of what was about to happen.

And then, finally, his lips found yours—soft, tentative at first, as if testing the waters of a long-denied connection. The kiss deepened slowly, a silent confession that spoke louder than any words ever could.

All the pain, the silence, the masks—they melted away in that moment, leaving only raw, honest truth between you.

Seungcheol’s lips brushed against yours again, softer this time, but no less intense. His voice was low, rough with something like hunger.

“Stop pretending, Y/n. I don’t want the mask—I want you.”

You trembled beneath him, eyes searching his. “I’m not sure I know how to be anything else.”

His fingers tightened around the fabric of your blouse. “Then let me show you.”

With a slow, deliberate motion, he undid the buttons, his breath warm against your skin. “You don’t have to hold back with me.”

Your pulse thundered as he trailed a finger along your collarbone, voice dropping to a whisper. “Not here. Not anymore.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding, and whispered back, “Seungcheol...”

He silenced you with a deep, searing kiss, his hands tracing the curves he’d longed for, claiming every inch with a touch that was anything but innocent.

Seungcheol’s kiss grew more urgent, his hands tightening slightly as he pressed you closer. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with heat and longing. Your breath hitched, heart pounding wildly as his lips trailed down your jaw, then the curve of your neck, each touch leaving a trail of fire.

Seungcheol’s hands moved with purpose, peeling away the barriers between you as if memorizing every inch of your skin. His lips never left yours, devouring and tender all at once, a fierce mixture of restraint and need.

“Do you feel it too?” he murmured against your mouth, his voice rough yet intimate.

You nodded, breath hitching, fingers threading through his hair. “I’ve never stopped.”

His gaze darkened, intense and unwavering. “Then stop hiding from me. Let me in—completely.”

With that, he gently laid you back onto the bed, his body following, warm and solid against yours. The world outside the room ceased to exist as his hands and lips explored with a slow, deliberate hunger, every touch igniting fire beneath your skin.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, fingers tracing a path along your jaw, “I’m listening.”

Your voice trembled, honest and raw. “I want to stop pretending. Just be with you… like this.”

A low, satisfied growl escaped him as he closed the distance again, sealing your confession with a kiss that promised no more masks—only truth and desire.

Fingers deft and confident, he began to undo the buttons of your blouse, each movement sending shivers down your spine. His touch was far from innocent—possessive, claiming, demanding without words.

You parted your lips, breath mingling with his as his hands explored, every brush of skin a promise, every lingering touch a confession. The line between restraint and abandon blurred until it vanished entirely, leaving only the two of you tangled in a heat too fierce to ignore.

Seungcheol’s breath hitched as his fingers traced the curve of your jaw, steadying you in the quiet storm between heartbeats. The air around you thickened, charged with a magnetic pull neither of you could resist. His eyes darkened, searching yours for any flicker of doubt—but found none.

Slowly, deliberately, he closed the space between your lips, the world narrowing to the soft press of his mouth against yours. The kiss deepened, hungry and fierce, as if trying to make up for all the years of silence and restraint. Your breath caught, trembling beneath the weight of his touch, the heat of the moment wrapping around you like a consuming flame.

His hands slid lower, warm and urgent, tracing the lines of your body as he lowered you back onto the bed. The sheets whispered beneath you, cool against skin that burned with anticipation. The tension in the room thickened—every inch of space between you charged with unspoken desire, fear, and a longing that had refused to die.

Seungcheol’s voice came low, almost a growl. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as the distance between hesitation and surrender vanished. In his arms, all your defenses began to crumble—raw, exposed, but never more alive.

The golden morning light spilled lazily into the room, tracing soft lines over the floor, the sheets, and the scattered remnants of last night’s heat — a blouse hanging off a chair, his watch forgotten on the nightstand, your heels crooked beneath the desk. The room smelled of perfume, wine, and something intimate, like skin warmed under candlelight.

You woke to a quiet stillness, broken only by the faint rustle of sheets and the distant hum of the city outside. The clock on the bedside table glared with urgency, a rude interruption to the warmth that still lingered between your tangled limbs and the imprint of Seungcheol’s arm curled loosely around your waist.

He was already awake beside you, eyes open, watching the way your lashes fluttered before you even spoke. A lazy smile twitched on his lips — affectionate, knowing.

“We’re late,” you murmured, voice low and still wrapped in sleep.

His smile didn’t fade, but there was a flash of clarity in his eyes. “No time to waste.”

And then the spell shattered.

The room erupted into a controlled chaos. You both moved with half-hearted haste — clothes tugged on backward, then corrected; buttons mismatched, hair smoothed with hurried fingers. There was laughter between curses, near stumbles, and shared glances that betrayed the rush with something softer.

You slipped on your heels, feeling the bite of time catch up to you, and turned to find him — shirt half-buttoned, collar askew, eyes still locked on you like you were the only thing in the room that made sense.

Your steps toward him were quiet but purposeful. The carpet cushioned the urgency beneath your feet, but your heart beat loud with everything unspoken. You stopped in front of him, reached up, and pulled him into a kiss — not rushed, not frantic, but deep. Measured. A pause in time.

His lips tasted like memory and morning, like the ache of missing someone too long and finally having them again.

“I have a meeting,” you said as you pulled back, your breath brushing his lips, hand cupping his jaw. “I’ll meet you for lunch, alright?”

Seungcheol’s hands slipped to your waist, grounding you with that steady strength he always carried. His touch was warm, possessive in the gentlest way — not demanding, just there.

“I’ll wait for you,” he whispered, low and sure.

There was no space for doubt in that voice. No hesitation. He would wait for you, just like how you had waited for him.

You smiled, fingers lingering a second longer on his jaw before you stepped back, turning toward the door.

The day was calling — but behind you, in that hotel room still steeped in shared heat and the haze of closeness, a kind of quiet longing bloomed.

It fluttered in your chest, soft and stubborn.

Like the start of something secured.

Like hope.

The end.

786 notes · View notes

buckysleftbicep · 7 days ago

Text

for better or for worse (4) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, oral sex (f rec), unprotected sex, creampie, unresolved sexual tension, jealousy, possessive!bucky, slow burn-to-explosion, angst

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 4.6k

author's note: hi my loves! i hope you enjoy this chapter!! 💓

series masterlist

The sun poured through gauzy curtains, brushing golden light across the silken sheets—but the space beside you was cold.

Empty.

At first, your half-asleep mind tried to explain it away, maybe Bucky was in the bathroom. Maybe he’d gone for a walk. Maybe he was on the balcony again, brooding over the ocean like he had the first night you got here.

But minute after minute ticked by in silence, and each one carved deeper into the pit of your stomach. Your pulse climbed. The soft rustle of sheets as you sat up sounded impossibly loud in the stillness.

You pushed the covers back and rose to your feet, the cool tiles shocking against your bare skin. Something in your chest thudded—not quite panic yet, but close. You tried the comms, voice low and clipped.

“Yelena? Ava? Anyone?” Nothing.

Just a crackle of static, followed by silence. No signal, no voice.

Your heart rate kicked up, you tapped again, harder this time. “Come on. Don’t do this now.”

Still nothing.

Your hand hovered over the emergency line. It was protocol, something you’d never had to use—a last resort tether. You didn’t want to overreact, but your jaw was clenched, throat thick, fingers trembling faintly.

Because he didn’t just disappear.

Not without a word. Not after last night.

You were about to hit the button when the door clicked. You froze, breath caught in your throat, heart pounding.

It creaked open slowly,

You froze.

Bucky stepped through the threshold with a tray in his hands. He didn’t look rushed or rattled, just composed, like he’d never been gone at all.

Your panic collided with a rush of anger. But all you could do was stare.

“I, uh…” he started, glancing at you as he shut the door behind him. “Got us breakfast. Figured you’d be hungry.”

Your chest heaved once with a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. You nodded stiffly, not trusting yourself to speak. He stood there awkwardly for a beat longer, then gestured vaguely toward the en suite.

“I’ll wash up.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It was thick. Dense. It wrapped around your throat like humidity in a storm, and you hated that he could still do this to you, could disappear and leave you unraveling like a live wire. You turned sharply on your heel and walked to the bathroom, shutting the door behind you a little too hard.

The marble was cool beneath your feet, the steam from the last shower still faintly fogging the mirror. You stared at your reflection, cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes too wide. Still shaken.

You hated it. Hated that one quiet morning could break your control like that. That you’d woken up in that soft bed and your first instinct had been dread.

That it hadn’t been just the mission anymore.

That it was him.

Not of him. Never of him.

But for him.

You gripped the counter edge with both hands and closed your eyes. Inhale, then exhale, deep and even. He was fine. He brought breakfast.

This wasn’t Kabul. This wasn’t Madripoor. You weren’t losing your mind.

A soft buzz crackled in your ear.

“Sweetheart? Comms were down. Sorry. Bob fixed it.” Yelena’s voice chirped in casually, like you hadn’t just been seconds away from spiraling. “You okay? What happened last night? You two sounded…off”

She let the sentence trail off—not coy, exactly. But definitely fishing.

You swallowed. “It was fine,” you said too quickly. Too sharp. “Nothing happened.”

A pause. Then the unmistakable crunch of something in her mouth.

“Mhm. Sure,” she said flatly. “If you say so honey.”

You pulled the robe tighter around your waist and sighed.

By the time you emerged, Bucky had already set the table on the balcony. The scent of coffee and warm syrup hung in the morning air, soft and too domestic for the state of your chest.

The sun cast golden slants across the plates, silverware gleaming under the soft breeze. Bucky stood with his back to you, one hand braced on the railing, gazing out at the horizon like he hadn’t just sent you into a tailspin.

When you joined him, he turned and offered you a plate.

Omelettes. Sausages. And chocolate chip pancakes.

Your throat caught.

“I… didn’t know you remembered these.”

He gave a half-shrug, avoiding your eyes. “You said it once. When Walker got diner duty in New York. Thought you liked ’em.”

You sat down slowly, the chair cool beneath your thighs. Appetite gone, you stared at your plate, twisting the tines of your fork into the edge of a pancake you didn’t touch. The silence stretched again, thicker now, tinged with something raw.

It was you who broke it.

“About last night…”

Bucky didn’t flinch, but you caught the way his fingers tightened just slightly around his coffee mug. His expression didn’t change, but something in the way he held himself shifted.

“Yeah?” he said finally.

You hesitated. Then: “I didn’t mean for it to get, I don’t know. That close.”

He met your eyes over the rim of his cup.

“Neither did I.”

You waited, hoping he would say something more. That he’d reach across the table or crack a smile or offer something, anything, that might give you clarity.

Instead, he cleared his throat and looked away.

“We should stay professional,” he said, voice even. “Makes things less complicated.”

The words hit you square in the chest. Your stomach dropped. Your hands curled under the table.

“Is that what I am to you?” you asked, quietly. “Complicated?”

He blinked. His brow furrowed, just slightly. “I didn’t—”

“Just stop, Bucky,” you said, cutting him off, your voice barely holding together. “Let’s just finish the mission and go home.”

He didn’t respond.

And for the second time that morning, silence swallowed you whole.

The rest of the week was a lesson in discipline, in restraint. You and Bucky slipped into your roles like second skin—Mr. and Mrs. Barnes, honeymooners flush with love and lust.

Your movements in public were seamless. Your interactions, flawless. To an outsider, you were enamored, addicted. The kind of couple that made heads turn in envy.

But behind the perfect facade, every glance, every touch simmered with unspoken tension. The silence that stretched in private was deafening, unbearable in its weight. It was a performance—a painfully convincing one. And it was starting to eat you alive.

At breakfast the following day, you sat on the open-air veranda with a glass of fresh juice sweating between your fingers. The sea breeze tousled your hair, and Bucky sat across from you in his crisp white button-down and sunglasses, the picture of effortless masculinity.

You were midway through pretending to laugh at something he said when Andrei strolled past your table.

“Morning, lyubimaya (darling)” he purred, espresso in hand, his grin oily and practiced. He didn’t even look at Bucky when he said it.

Before you could speak, Bucky’s arm slid around your shoulders, dragging you in until your body pressed tight against his side. His fingers flexed possessively along your collarbone.

You barely had time to react before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple—slow, deliberate, searing.

His lips lingered just a second too long.

Your throat went tight, pulse thrumming at your neck. The moment passed, but the phantom burn of his mouth remained. Andrei didn’t stop, but you felt the weight of his stare as he moved on, the air behind him thick with suspicion and something darker.

Moments like that repeated themselves.

At the pool, when Fred and Layna struck up a conversation about the spa packages, Bucky played his part perfectly. You listened and laughed on cue, legs dipped in the water, sunglasses perched on your nose.

And every now and then, Bucky’s hand found your waist, casual, proprietary, his thumb brushing slow, idle circles against your bare skin beneath the thin fabric of your wrap.

When Fred made some bland, slightly flirtatious comment about your laugh, Bucky didn’t say anything. But his hand slid higher, fingers splaying across your ribs like a silent warning. A boundary. His grip wasn’t rough, but it lingered, just firm enough to remind everyone who you belonged to, at least in front of others.

You didn’t pull away. But your breath hitched all the same. He smiled as the conversation continued, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

That night, you walked with him hand-in-hand along one of the garden paths that wrapped around the west wing of the resort. The lanterns overhead cast dappled shadows along the stone walkway.

You tried to breathe in the scent of sea salt and hibiscus, tried to lose yourself in the illusion of warm intimacy. Your dress clung to your body from the heat, and his hand in yours felt both grounding and suffocating.

A group of guests passed by—loud, laughing—and among them,

Andrei.

His gaze caught yours, amused. Expectant.

You barely lifted your chin to acknowledge him when Bucky stopped short.

Before you could say a word, he turned and backed you into the nearest marble column.

Then his mouth was on yours.

There was nothing polite about it. No finesse. Just heat and pressure and a clash of teeth as his hands pinned your waist, body flush against yours like a shield. The kiss was possessive. Aggressive.

You could hear Andrei’s footsteps fading down the path—but your brain couldn’t process anything but the way Bucky’s body felt pressed tight against yours, the way his tongue curled hot and angry into your mouth.

When he pulled away, his lips hovered near yours, breathing hard.

“Just doing my job,” he muttered.

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

You stood there in silence as he turned and kept walking, leaving you trembling against the column with your mouth still tingling and your knees barely steady.

The act continued.

Holding hands at dinner. His fingers trailing down your bare back as you leaned over a blackjack table. Kisses to your shoulder while you lounged by the pool, sunglasses hiding your eyes, heart pounding with every brush of his lips.

His hand would often rest on your thigh beneath the linen tablecloth. His voice would drop low when others were near.

Every contact was calculated. Every movement choreographed.

But the ache growing inside you wasn’t.

And the worst part? He was so good at pretending, it almost broke you.

Because sometimes, sometimes, it didn’t feel like an act.

Like the way his hand would tighten when someone else looked at you too long. Or the way his jaw flexed when you wore something a little too revealing. Or the way his gaze lingered on your lips when you weren’t talking, like he wanted to kiss you but didn’t trust himself to stop again.

He didn’t say anything. He never did.

But you could feel it, thick and heavy in the space between you.

And then he’d pull away. Go cold. Professional.

It made you want to scream.

That night, you lay in bed beside him, facing the opposite direction. The sheets were warm from his body, but the distance between you felt like a chasm. You stared at the ceiling, counting the sound of the waves outside.

One. Two. Three.

You remembered the way he’d said, “You looked good today,” after your cover-dance with Layna. The way his eyes had dragged down the slope of your shoulder when your dress slipped during the mock twirl. The way he looked like he might burn through you with the heat in his stare.

And yet, he hadn’t touched you since. Not when you returned to the suite, not when you changed, not when you climbed into the same bed.

He hadn’t even looked at you.

You hated him for it. For being so cruelly good at making it feel real, only to take it back the second the curtain dropped.

But not nearly as much as you hated yourself. Because you wanted it again. Wanted him again.

And the worst part?

You didn’t know if it was because of the mission… or in spite of it.

The evening air buzzed with the low hum of the resort’s ambient music, barely audible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your silk cover-up from earlier, legs tucked beneath you as the comms unit clicked to life on the table. Bucky stood beside it, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screen.

The moment Val’s image flickered into focus, you felt the static tension in the room shift— like the crackle before lightning strikes.

“Well, it’s about damn time,” Val snapped, lips pressed in a tight line. “You two have been living in luxury for ten days now, and you’re telling me you’ve got absolutely nothing?”

You straightened instinctively, fingers curling against the fabric of your robe. “We’ve been gathering patterns, watching contacts. Andrei’s circling. He’s brought up Raskovic a few times, but nothing concrete yet—”

“I don’t want patterns,” she bit out. “I want results. Raskovic hasn’t slipped. No suspicious transfers. No hard evidence. You were supposed to be our in.”

Bucky’s jaw twitched, but he stayed silent. You pushed on. “We’re trying, but things are delicate. Too much too fast and they’ll get spooked. They’ll know—”

Val leaned forward, her eyes sharp, voice clipped. “You call this trying? Sounds to me like you’re not pushing hard enough. Not doing your damn part.”

You flinched. The words hit harder than they should’ve— because some part of you feared she was right. The days were blurring into each other. The mission was dragging. And maybe, just maybe, you were letting your emotions compromise your focus.

But before you could speak, Bucky’s voice cut through the silence, low, even, laced with steel.

“Back off.”

Val raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I said back off,” Bucky repeated, stepping forward, arms still crossed but posture charged.

“She’s done everything you asked. She’s played her part, charmed half the inner circle, and kept her cover airtight—despite having to flirt with these smug bastards. So if there’s a problem with our progress, maybe it’s the shitty intel we were given. Not her.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Even Val blinked, momentarily thrown. You stared at Bucky, something coiling tight in your chest. The protectiveness in his tone had been fierce. Unflinching, almost intimate.

He didn’t even look at you. Just kept his gaze trained on the monitor, breathing steady.

Val’s expression shifted. She leaned back, mouth pursing.

“Fine,” she said after a beat. “You want to run interference for your partner? Go ahead. But get something, Barnes. I don’t care if both of you have to fuck your way through the entire guest list—I want names. Accounts. Routes. Do you hear me?”

“We’ll get it,” Bucky said flatly. “You’ll have it soon.”

The comms clicked off.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, quietly, you murmured, “Thanks.”

He turned then—just slightly—enough for his eyes to meet yours. And the look there made your stomach drop.

He remembered.

You could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard. He remembered the night in the elevator—how close it had gotten.

Your back against the wall, his mouth inches from yours, his hand gripping your thigh like he couldn’t help it. He remembered the way your voice had trembled when he whispered in your ear, the way you’d touched him and how he hadn’t stopped you.

You didn’t answer. For a moment, you weren’t sure you could. The air between you had gone still, thick with something raw, unresolved, something too close to everything you were both trying to avoid.

“And, you’re not complicated,” he adds, so quiet you almost missed it.

You blinked. “What?”

He shook his head. “Forget it.”

“No.” You stood slowly, closing the space between you, the silk of your robe whispering against your thighs. “Say it again.”

His jaw flexed. He didn’t step back, but his whole body went still. That flicker of hesitation in his eyes, that crack of something hot and dangerous—it only pushed you forward.

“Say I’m not complicated. Say it’s all pretend,” you whispered, chin tilted up. “Tell me you haven’t been thinking about it. About me.”

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Don’t do this.”

“Why not?” you pressed. “You scared I’ll make you feel something?”

That was all it took.

Bucky crashed into you like a breaking dam, hands gripping your waist and the back of your neck as he kissed you like he was furious. His mouth claimed yours hard and hot, tongue pushing past your lips as he backed you toward the nearest wall.

You gasped into it, fisting the fabric of his shirt, barely keeping up as he devoured every breath like it belonged to him.

He broke away just long enough to rasp, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Then do it,” you hissed. “Stop pretending.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you without a word.

Your breath hitched as his hands gripped your hips, strong, purposeful, sliding up the curve of your waist. One sharp tug loosed the sash of your robe, and the silk fell open with a whisper. You hadn’t bothered with underwear underneath, and when his gaze dropped to your bare skin, he made a sound you’d never heard from him before, low, almost desperate.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging the fabric down your arms and letting it pool at your feet. “Look at you.”

Then he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder and leaned in.

The first stroke of his tongue was like setting fire to your nerves.

You gasped, one hand bracing against the wall behind you as his mouth latched onto your clit, no hesitation. He groaned into you, tongue flicking and circling before sliding lower, licking through your folds like he meant to memorize every inch. His grip tightened on your thigh, keeping you spread wide, open to him, helpless as he devoured you.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

Your voice cracked as he sucked harder, tongue pressing into you, he was relentless, obscene with how messy he got—spit and slick dripping down your thighs, his beard glistening, his fingers digging bruises into your hips to keep you steady. You were panting, shaking, already so close you could barely breathe.

He flattened his tongue and dragged it up slowly, groaning like he was addicted. “This pussy’s been mine all fucking week,” he said against you. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

You didn’t even get a response out, just a shattered moan as you came hard, thighs trembling, back arched off the wall as heat exploded through your core.

He didn’t stop, kept licking and sucking through it, until your legs threatened to give out and you were clawing at his shoulders to get away.

When he stood, his mouth was wet, his pupils blown wide. He grabbed your face and kissed you again—deep, filthy, tongue fucking into your mouth with the taste of you still fresh on his lips.

Then, rough and breathless, “Bed. Now.”

You stumbled to the mattress, dazed, still high from your orgasm. Bucky followed, shoving his pants down far enough to free his cock—thick, hard, the flushed tip leaking.

You moaned at the sight of it, spreading your legs for him.

He climbed over you and pressed the head of his cock through your folds, dragging it along your soaked slit.

“Goddamn, baby,” he growled. “You’re fucking dripping.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, until he bottomed out. You cried out, the stretch perfect and brutal all at once.

“Fuuuck—”

“You kept pushing,” he rasped. “You knew what it’d do to me.”

“So stop holding back,” you whispered.

He snapped his hips forward.

You gasped, fingers clawing at his back as he started to move—hard, fast, deep, his cock slamming into you like he’d been dying for it. He fucked you like he wanted to ruin you, dragging you up the bed with every thrust, his hands gripping your thighs as he drove into you with mindless, brutal rhythm.

“Bucky—” you sobbed. “God—Bucky, I’m—”

“That’s it,” he gritted out. “Cum for me sweetheart, I wanna feel you.”

He reached down between you and rubbed tight circles on your clit, matching the punishing pace of his thrusts. You came fast, harder than before—your body locking up, eyes rolling back as your orgasm ripped through you.

“Fuck—fuck—”

“Good girl,” he groaned, fucking you through it. “Taking it so fucking well.”

Your walls fluttered around him, soaking his cock, and he cursed under his breath, hips stuttering.

“I’m not gonna last,” he gritted, voice ragged. “You feel so fucking good—”

“Come inside,” you gasped. “I don’t care. I need it. Please—”

That was it.

Bucky slammed into you once, twice, then buried himself to the hilt with a raw, guttural groan as he came—hot and deep, his cock twitching inside you as he filled you completely.

He collapsed on top of you, breathing hard, his mouth pressed to your neck.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Then, after a beat, he whispered, voice raw:

“This isn’t just a mission to me.”

You turned your head just enough to see his face, still close, still flushed with heat.

And you didn’t say a word.

Because for the first time since this mission started—you finally believed him.

You didn’t move and neither did he. The moment held, delicate and loaded, like a breath neither of you dared to let go.

The hours that followed passed in a kind of hush—not silent, but suspended.

Bucky didn’t pull away, not right away, he stayed close. His hand remained on your hip while your heartbeat slowed beneath his touch. You lay tangled together in the warm hush of the suite, moonlight pooling on the sheets, the ocean crashing far below like a distant pulse.

At some point, he brushed your cheek with his knuckles and murmured, “We should get some rest.”

You didn’t argue.

He pulled the duvet over you both, and you curled into his chest without hesitation. The lines between real and pretend had already blurred past recognition.

There was only the feel of his body next to yours. The weight of everything unsaid. The quiet terror that maybe this was temporary—a consequence of proximity, adrenaline, heat.

And yet, you fell asleep to the sound of his breathing, steady and close.

The next evening arrived with little warning.

You dressed in silence, but it wasn’t the silence from before. It wasn’t cold or stiff, it was charged, waiting. Your eyes met in the mirror as you adjusted the delicate straps of your black slip dress, and Bucky’s lingered just a second too long.

The secure tablet buzzed against the nightstand. You crossed the suite and tapped the screen, perching on the edge of the armchair as the brunette adjusted the cuffs of his charcoal shirt in the mirror.

“Copy,” you said quietly when the line connected. “We’ve got movement. Andrei’s going to be at the restaurant tonight. We’ll be there too, we need to get closer.”

Yelena came in first, her voice even but alert. “You think he’s testing you?”

“Feels like it,” Bucky said, stepping into view behind you.

“He initiated contact?” Ava asked.

“He did,” you confirmed. “This afternoon, said he was going to be at this dinner thing, told us to come.”

There was a pause. Then John chimed in. “You expecting Raskovic?”

“We don’t know yet,” you said. “But it’s possible. Andrei’s acting like someone’s watching him.”

“Then assume someone is,” Ava said flatly. “If Raskovic wants to get a read on you, he won’t make it obvious.”

“We’ll be careful,” Bucky said.

“We’ll scan the floor from our end,” Yelena added. “No chatter from the VIP suites yet, but Bob flagged some encrypted calls coming in from offshore.”

You met Bucky’s eyes for a moment before replying. “We’ll stay close, just keep eyes on the exits. If anything shifts—”

“We’re already listening,” Yelena cut in. “Stay sharp.”

Bucky ended the line with a quiet tap. Silence fell again—not heavy, but loaded.

You stood, smoothing your palms down the sides of your black dress.

“Let’s go,” you said, voice steady.

He looked at you like he had something else to say.

But he didn’t. He just nodded.

The restaurant shimmered like something out of a dream.

Carved teakwood latticework framed the walls, filtering the amber glow of chandeliers strung like starlight above velvet-covered tables.

It smelled of seared wagyu and truffle oil, the air humming with soft jazz and the faint clink of cutlery. Waitstaff in gold-threaded uniforms moved like dancers across the polished marble floors.

You sat across from Bucky in a secluded alcove, half-hidden behind lush tropical plants, a private view of the moonlit ocean beyond the arched glass doors.

Bucky looked unfairly good in that collared shirt, open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins in his flesh arm flexing as he sipped from a glass of Yamazaki.

He hadn’t said much, but his eyes had barely left you all night. Not with the way your leg crossed over the other and the way your lip wrapped around the rim of your tequila cocktail.

You hadn’t meant to torture him. Not entirely.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he murmured finally, his voice quiet beneath the music, laced with something darker.

You sipped again. “So do you.”

His mouth twitched—not a smile, not quite. Just the smallest hint of tension breaking through.

That’s when the shadow fell over your table.

Andrei wore a custom-tailored suit in midnight navy, the lapel pinned with a gleaming insignia you didn’t recognise, some blend of family crest and blood-stained money. His cologne hit before his voice did, expensive, overwhelming, suffocating.

“You two make quite the pair,” he said, lifting a crystal glass of something dark and expensive. “Mind if I interrupt?”

Bucky’s jaw locked, but he said nothing.

You gestured smoothly to the empty seat beside you. “By all means.”

Andrei took it with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “My boss has noticed you,” he said, eyes flicking between you and Bucky like a predator scenting blood. “James and his beautiful bride.”

Bucky leaned back slightly, one arm draped over the chair behind you. He was projecting calm, but you felt the tension vibrating through him. His fingers ghosted over your bare shoulder, a subtle but unmistakable move. You didn’t move away.

Andrei continued. “He’s… curious. Interested in what you might offer. In what kinds of partnerships you and your husband are open to.” His lips curled. “So he’s invited you both to a private dinner. Just the four of us. Tomorrow night at the penthouse wing.”

“Four?” Bucky asked, voice edged in steel.

Andrei nodded. “Myself. You two. And Raskovic.”

The name landed like a gunshot.

Raskovic, the ghost in the mission file, the man they’d only seen from a distance, always flanked by guards or hidden behind reflective glass.

The boss. The target.

You felt Bucky’s posture shift beside you, not outwardly, but enough. Enough to know he was already calculating, adjusting, preparing. His hand squeezed your shoulder just once, barely noticeable to anyone but you.

“Tell him we’d be honoured,” you said, smiling as you reached for Bucky’s hand and laced your fingers through his, projecting everything they expected of you. “We’ve been dying to meet the man pulling the strings.”

Andrei’s grin widened, sharp and knowing. “Good,” he said as he stood. “I’ll have a car sent.”

He left as swiftly as he came, disappearing into the velvet-draped crowd.

You stayed frozen for a moment, your fingers still threaded with Bucky’s under the candlelight. Then, slowly, you turned to look at him.

“This is it,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours, like he wasn’t sure what came next.

But even then, you could tell—something had changed.

a/n: and that's chapter 4! i am halfway through proofreading chapter 5 and i'm so excited to have it posted! please remember to leave a comment or reblog, it keeps me motivated! thank you!

taglist: @hughjackmanadict @vxllys @f1padfoot @mortallydistinguishedwolf @midnightvitality @starglory @benbarnesprettygurl @biggestfangirl @lexavalon52 @harrietandcats @cjand10 @loganficsonly @kqliie @kitkatyap @buckyslefttooth @its-in-the-woods @yessebastianstanus @buckysgirl27 @lokisgirlie @furiousprincesskingdom @keira-kaz2y5 @amatiswayland @emilyswortwellen @samanthaw16 @bobscucumber @rrosiitas @alicetesser @morphoportis @polkadot-567 @w-h0re @c3iiaaaaa @mouseratface @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @that-daughter-of-hephaestus

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witherby · 5 months ago

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HI HI. SAME ANON :33anon here!!!

omg???? jfc christ? that was so good im shaking my cup for more 😭 i think the fact my ask is being used as a power shower is silly... i love it keep up the good work!

(side note ive done metamorphosis may i be 🎆anon.... i will be yapping at you on a later date o7)

Welcome to the club 🎆 I am smooching ur cheek

Hahaha...wouldn't it be so silly....if I used your ask again.....to post the second part hahahaha.....isn't that the silliest idea hahahaha.........

The Littlest Wayne: Uncertain Home

(Part 2 of 2)

Masterlist is Here!

"Let me make sure I've got this straight."

Everyone stiffens in their seats. When Batman says things like that, it means he is very, very close to yelling. Batman never yells unless his patience has reached its limit, his emotional threshold has bubbled over, or he hasn't slept in over six consecutive days. Given his usual activities, it could very well be a combination of the three, and the current situation is not helping.

"You —" he points a gauntleted finger at Manhunter, "— realized my child was showing signs of developing their powers six weeks ago, and told no one."

He turns to Superman and Diana next, talking through clenched teeth.

"And then you two, today, realized the same thing, indirectly told them they would no longer have a place in my home, and then they vanished under your cape."

He places his hands on the meeting table. Inhales. Exhales.

"No one attempted to reach out and express their concerns to me, the father, in either incident."

He slams his fists on the table. The wood splinters under the impact. Everyone flinches with it.

"AND NOW MY CHILD IS MISSING! DID I FORGET ANYTHING? DID I LEAVE ANYTHING OUT!?"

The silence afterwards is deafening. Bruce yanks his cowl off and slams it to the floor, running his hands through his hair.

"The Watchtower is under lockdown until further notice. We do not leave until either I find my kid, or I figure out how to track them down."

"Batman," the Flash chimes in, "I feel for you. This is a bad situation, but we can't all stay here; I have to —"

Bruce rounds the table and crowds Barry into his seat with near-inhuman speed. His eyes are wide and wild and his teeth are bared.

"We do not leave until I find them."

The lights briefly turn red and an automated voice comes over the intercom, alerting them that lockdown protocols have initiated. The heroes watch as blast shields cover the windows and the Zeta tubes deactivate, effectively blocking their only ways out.

Green Lantern re-enters the room from the observation deck with a determined expression.

"Checked the monitors and surrounding galaxy. Skies are clear, and earth-side we should be fine for at least a couple hours, so I went ahead and triggered the protocol."

"Hal!" Barry protests. "C'mon, I'm gonna be late to work again! It's not as easy for some of us to maintain our civilian covers, you know!"

"Well, then it sounds like we gotta find our missing Mouse fast."

Bruce presses a button on his gauntlet and pulls a small ball out of it, rolling it to the center of the table. A hologram screen pops up and shows a picture of you sitting in Tim's lap and enthusiastically looking at something on his computer with him. To the right of the image, a wall of text begins to appear, detailing observations made about your growth, health, and development of your powers.

"You already knew," Diana mutters, like the words have been punched out of her. Clark holds his head in his hands.

"Why didn't you tell us then, huh?" Oliver frowns. "Didn't think we could benefit from that information?"

"My child, my discretion," Bruce hisses. That shuts Ollie right back up. "This is everything I've been able to passively observe about their ability. They can latch onto any shadows in their immediate vicinity, up to a range of approximately one hundred feet, and until now has only used them for pathfinding, like solving puzzles or looking for small objects. What just happened today with Superman's cape is the first discovered instance of them being able to traverse into darkness itself."

"That's why the Watchtower is locked down," J'onn realizes. "If they can only travel so far with the shadows, chances are high that they're still in here."

"Yes."

"How do we pull them out if we find them?" Arthur speaks up, arms crossed. "Last I checked, no one else has shadow powers."

"Do what you can without risking injury to them or yourselves. If you can talk them out, that will be the ideal tactic. Any more questions?" Bruce waits a few seconds for anyone to speak up, then dismisses the holo-screen and rises to his full height. "Then everyone fan out, cast some shadows, and get to work."

Arthur is having no luck. He checks the furniture that was already casting shadows, like tables and beds and appliances, to no avail. Calling to you and feeling around those dark spaces isn't gonna get him anywhere.

Clark and Diana had picked up his cape and hunkered down under the fabric, gingerly asking you to please come out, Uncle Clark and Auntie Di are very sorry they implied what they did, they never meant to scare you, please please please come back.

Barry is zipping around the whole tower, checking high spaces and low, calling for you with a mixture of urgency and concern.

Ollie uses his body to cast a shadow under the fluorescent lighting and Dinah crouches in the space of it, patting the ground gently and urging you to appear. She insists everyone is worried and looking for you because they want you to be safe.

Bruce is frantic. He's visually very composed, but Hal can see the tremble in his hands as he slowly and methodically checks every single shadow he can find or create for signs of you.

"Bruce," Hal mutters, watching him check his cape for the fifteenth time in just as many minutes. "Bruce, sit down and breathe for a bit."

"Don't mention breathing," Bruce snaps. "This is unprecedented. I'm working with zero useful information and three of my teammates contributed to this situation in the first place. Can they just exist in darkness forever, or is there a limit before they get spit back out? Can they even get back out? Is there oxygen wherever they are? Are they safe or in any kind of distress? If you don't have answers to these questions or haven't found them yet, I don't want you talking to me."

He turns to check his cape again and almost runs right into J'onn.

"There was a shadow moving in the training room," he noted. "When I approached to investigate, it melted away. I found it important to tell you that Flittermouse seems to be active and uninjured judging by the ease in which that shadow moved."

The Manhunter leaves them again, phasing through the walls to continue searching for you. Bruce pulls his gloves off and rubs his face, sighing.

"Hal."

"I forgive you," comes the immediate reply. Hal places a hand on Bruce's back and offers him a thin smile. "You're a dad who's scared for your four-year-old kid. I think you're entitled to a little bit of bitchiness."

Bruce hums.

"Just a little bit, though. Like fifteen percent more bitch than your baseline. Which is to say, if you talk to me like that again I'm going to make a giant cartoon hammer and beat you to death with it."

Both men hear you giggle. Their heads whip around in the direction of the sound, and find a small, child-shaped shadow moulded into the corner. It's a strange thing, to look at a shadow with no source. It would be frightening if it wasn't you.

"Mouse?" Bruce immediately calls, stepping towards you. The giggling stops and the shadow shrinks. He crouches down, palms extended. "No no no! Don't go, don't go anywhere, please. Can I talk to you?"

You don't respond. Bruce isn't entirely sure if you can, in your current form. You haven't run away yet, however, so he inches just a bit closer.

"I'm...there's...." He stops and starts, searching for the best words to use. "Mouse, there was a misunderstanding. No one is making you leave. I'm not going to give you up or send you away, I promise."

"...m e t a h u m a n..." you mutter. Both Bruce and Hal shiver. It sounds like darkness itself whispering directly into their ears, faint and echoing and all-encompassing.

"Yes, that's what people with skills like yours are called," he confirms.

Your shadow doesn't move for a while. Bruce shuffles closer, palms extended, and is about to ask you to come out, but then your entire form wobbles and starts shrinking even more.

"...n o m e t a s i n G o t h a m..." you say, and the sadness in your voice is so potent Hal has to brace himself against the wall.

"No!" Bruce says, pressing his palm against the wall just a second too late. You dissolve and disappear. "That's not — ffffffuck."

He presses his forehead to the wall and closes his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths to avoid screaming. It takes a while.

"They're not going to talk to me," he eventually says. "They're scared of me, of that damned rule I —"

He cuts himself off and rubs a hand down his face.

"You have to do it."

"Me? Specifically?" Hal asks.

"You're their favorite uncle." Bruce pushes himself off the floor and rests his hand on Hal's forearm. "They adore you. They ask when you're going to visit Gotham again all the time. If anybody's gonna get them to understand that they're not in any trouble or danger of losing their family because of something I did, it's gonna be you."

"Whoa. No pressure," Hal says. He knows it's true though — you absolutely adore Hal, and the feeling is mutual. You feel almost like his own kid. He's just as scared as Bruce is about your current situation. "Okay...alright, I got this. Listen, tell the others that Mouse probably isn't gonna come out for 'em. Go hang out in the meeting room and gimme an hour alone. I'll bring them back."

Bruce nods, but he seems hesitant to leave the part of the hall where they spotted your shadow. Hal gives him a small nudge and he eventually turns away, his boots clocking softly against the floor.

Hal inhales slowly, holds it, then exhales for a count of ten.

He's got this.

He does not have this. Hal walked into an empty corridor and flicked all the lights off, choosing to sit in the darkness and try calling out to you for almost thirty minutes. There's been no luck.

He sighs and uses his ring to construct a small bear, illuminating the immediate space around him in green, and makes it walk around.

"Y'know you used to love playing with my constructs," he murmurs. "We had this game I made up, where you would chase after whatever toy I made as fast as you could and try to catch it. I let you win a lot."

He makes a construct of you as a much smaller infant, not yet able to walk, crawling eagerly after the bear.

"You'd grab the little toy and hug it tight, and then come show me you got it. And I'd scoop you up and give you a cookie before we did it all again. We had to really tone down the cookie part because you got sick one time. Bruce made me sleep on the floor for a week. Not even one of the million couches in the manor. The floor. It was the worst."

He hears the surrounding darkness around him giggle. Hal leans against the wall and heaves a large, relieved sigh.

"Hey, kid," he says softly. "S'good to hear you."

You don't respond. He tries not to feel discouraged, instead seizing the opportunity presented.

"I'm not gonna ask you to come out, but if you don't mind...I'm kinda lonely. D'you think we could play that game again?"

Hal vanishes the constructs and makes a new one — a small, stuffed bat toy. He makes it flap its little wings and flop in circles.

"Think you can catch it? This one's a bit feisty."

Nothing happens for a few seconds. Hal feels himself growing nervous, and he's about to abandon the idea and suggest something else, but then the bat just vanishes. The construct is sucked up into the shadows, like darkness itself came up and hugged it into the void. A knot in his chest comes undone.

"That," he says, "was awesome. Okay, here's another one. Even feistier than the last."

This goes on for a while. Hal makes something for you to chase, you emerge from the dark just long enough to pull it in with you, and the process is rinse and repeat. Eventually, though, you come out of the shadows more and more, staying out of it longer and longer to chase around the conjured toys, until you're just tossing them into the shadows with gleeful little cheers.

"Got it!" You cry, jumping up to reach another one, this time shaped like an owl. You're panting from exertion and grinning widely at Hal, just standing and hugging it to your chest. "I win?"

"You win again," Hal agrees, expression painfully fond. He adores you wholeheartedly. "C'mere and get a victory hug, kid. Don't have any cookies on me, but we'll do a raincheck on that."

You go to him easily, practically collapsing in his lap, and rest your head against his chest while you idly pet the glowing owl toy. The area is bathed in dim green, enough to see each other without strain but still casting more than enough shadows for you to hide in again if you wanted.

"Fantastic job," Hal murmurs, kissing the top of your head. You nuzzle into his chest even more, hiding your face. "We definitely have to do that again some time. Don't you think?"

You start to nod, but the motion is jerky. You hesitate, then shrug, hugging the toy tighter.

"Oh, Mousey," he says, running his fingers through your hair. "You didn't think your powers would make Uncle Hal stop wanting to play with you, did ya?"

You slowly nod again, curling in on yourself.

"Well, that's just plain wrong. I love you, honey. Everybody loves you, y'know? You're smart, and adorable, and soooo much fun to be around," Hal insists, giving you a quick squeeze. Your mouth twitches like you're trying not to smile. "And it's gonna be way more fun now that you have cool shadow powers! Hide and seek might get a little challenging, but we'll make it work."

"...and Daddy?" You mutter. "Will he...want to play, too?"

"I know Daddy would love to play any game you wanted," Hal swore. "Daddy loves you more than anything in the whole wide world. And you know what else?"

"What?" You ask, lifting your head. You look at him with wide eyes and furrowed brows, hanging onto his every word.

"Sometimes Daddy makes mistakes. Like creating dumb rules he shoulda broke years ago."

You look away, snuggling further into Hal.

"What if...Daddy don't wanna break the rule?" You whisper.

Hal curls around you almost protectively, kissing your head again.

"Then he's a big, smelly dummy, and I'll take care of you instead," he promises. "You can live at my house, and I'll still bring you to the Watchtower to hang out with everyone and play games, and maybe, if you're extra good, I'll take you on vacation in outer space. I'll show you things you've never seen, like planets with four moons, and people as tall as skyscrapers, and space food that turns your hair all different colors. It'll explode your tiny head!"

"Nooo!" You giggle, grinning. "I don't want a exploded head!"

"Hmm...you drive a hard bargain kid," Hal says. "Okay, I won't give you explodey-head food. But only because you said so."

He lets you get your laughter out, then gently pats your back to regain your attention.

"I know you're very scared," he says, "but I promise this doesn't change the fact that you are so, so incredibly loved. I bet if you gave the others a chance, they'd be more than willing to prove it. Especially your dad."

You tighten your grip on the owl in your arms, bottom lip wobbling for a moment.

"Could you give him a chance, Mouse?" Hal asks. "If you don't want to, that's fine. We can work an arrangement out and always try again a different day. But I know he would be really, really excited to see you again."

You stare at Hal, face tight in contemplation. He waits patiently, continuing to rub small circles in your back.

His patience is rewarded when you bury your face in his chest again, nodding.

"Want daddy," you whisper. Hal settles you more securely in his arms and immediately rises to his feet, relishing the burst of satisfaction and relief in his chest.

He takes you back into the meeting room. Bruce immediately stands up from the table when he spots you curled up in Hal's embrace, hands twitching like he wants to hold you himself.

He moves with all the carefulness of someone approaching a wild animal. His face is uncharacteristically open, broadcasting his worry for you and relief that you're unharmed.

"Hi, sweet pea," Bruce mutters, silk-soft, and that's all it takes to make you start sobbing and reach for him. Your father doesn't hesitate, sweeping you up and giving assurance after assurance that you are just as treasured and loved as you've always been, that he is so happy to be your dad, that you belong in Gotham and that will never change no matter what.

The lockdown gets lifted from the Watchtower. Several heroes, after conveying their relief and gratitude over your safety, take their leave. Diana and Clark stay behind to apologize profusely, both to you and Bruce, for implying that you would ever be unwelcome in your own home just for being different. It's easy for you to forgive them, but Bruce is grinding his jaw a bit, so they excuse themselves for the night and take their leave.

"Well." Hal claps his hands together and yawns. "I'm ready for a drink and a bed. What do we say we hit the road, huh? C'mon, B, let's get Flittermouse back home. I've hit my daily quota for adventure."

Bruce nods, walking with you back to the Zeta tubes. You've already nodded off in his arms, drained from your stressful day.

"Thank you, Hal," he says, preparing to warp home. "Come by after the kids are in bed. Let me repay you properly."

"Y'know, normally I'd be all over that," Hal smirks, "but I'm seriously beat. Can I cash my reward in tomorrow?"

Bruce gives him a small smile. "Whenever you want. Come by anyway, if you like. We don't have to do anything."

"Yeah, okay. I'll see you later, then." Hal crosses his arms and relaxes against the corridor wall, smiling down at your dozing form. "You take care. Both of you."

Bruce thanks him again, disappearing in a flash of light. When Hal drops by later that evening, he finds his boyfriend asleep with you in his arms, clinging to his shirt and drooling on his chest as you coast peacefully in Dreamland.

Before joining the cuddle pile, he finds that sitting on the nightstand, written in a combination of pen and crayon, is a contract holding both yours and Bruce's signatures:

The rule against Metahumans in Gotham is hereby null and void forever and ever.

Signed by: Daddy & Mousey

#batfam x reader #littlest wayne au #long post #batlantern #🎆#Uncle Hal is your favorite and that's forever uncontested

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thethresholdprotocol · 2 months ago

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.-..*OEDS INTERNAL COMMUNICATION*..

TO: All Vostok-12 Personnel

FROM: Administration

DATE: January 1, 19■■

SUBJECT: Welcome!

On behalf of the Office of Experimental Defense Systems, we would like to personally welcome you to the Vostok-12 Polar Research Facility. You have each been selected for your contributions to your respective fields. Your work here will play a critical role in expanding our understanding of the meteor impact event and its effects on the surrounding subglacial environment.

We recognize the challenges of working in such a remote location, and we’ve outfitted the facility accordingly with top-of-the-line accommodations, personal effects storage, and a shared recreation module stocked with books, films, and board games.

A few reminders:

All scientific documentation must be logged to the shared mainframe daily at 2300 hours.

External communications are subject to review per Article 7 of the Threshold Protocol.

Observation Windows A-1 through A-4 are to remain clear at all times. Do not obstruct or modify the glass.

The interior perimeter should be patrolled twice daily by designated maintenance staff. If you notice any structural discrepancies, log them in Form R-17. Do not attempt to realign doors or panels manually.

Your safety, focus, and professionalism are essential to the success of this mission. Should you experience disorientation, headaches, or audiovisual hallucinations during your deployment, report immediately to Medical. These symptoms are not uncommon during acclimatization to the Antarctic environment.

Here’s to a productive and enlightening winter. We’re proud to have you on the team.

.*Office of Experimental Defense Systems* "We are the last gate." ...

#classified #redacted #Vostok-12 #The Threshold Protocol #analog horror #internet horror #ARG #there is nothing in the ice #horror #80s horror #fictional archive #worldbuilding #oc lore #deep lore

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mahalachives · 2 months ago

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Part 5: The Sound of Her Silence

TW: This chapter contains intense emotional distress, depictions of self-harm, mental health deterioration, themes of suicidal ideation, fever-induced hallucinations, and emotional abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

Please take care of yourself and skip or pause if needed. 💛

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The Great Hall fell into uneasy silence after the Night Court's entrance, their arrival a deliberate provocation.

Even Beron hesitated, his ever-burning flames receding as if inhaling before a storm.

The flames illuminated the High Lord's face, calculating, dangerous, a predator considering his options.

Rhysand stepped forward, power coiled tight beneath his skin, a leashed tempest. "Lord Beron," he said with cool precision, "we come regarding matters of mutual interest between our courts."

Beron's voice, low and sharp, sliced through the tension. "You enter my court uninvited. That alone is a breach of protocol. Give me one reason not to treat it as an act of war."

"Because war would serve neither of us," Rhysand answered smoothly. "Not over what is, by all appearances, a personal complication."

Your eyes were drawn unbidden to Azriel.

He stood apart from Rhysand and Cassian, his body angled as if bracing for a fight. His face was impassive, carved from stone, shadows held tight around him like armor.

Yet they strained against his control, reaching toward you in aborted, desperate movements before he willed them still.

Where one tendril briefly brushed the flagstone, a frost pattern etched itself into the ground and faded, leaving behind a scent like winter pine.

The mating bond flared in your chest, a barbed hook that twisted with every heartbeat, golden warmth laced with unbearable pressure.

Your lungs constricted. Your fingers trembled.

Every instinct screamed to move toward him, to close the unbearable distance.

Beron's gaze flicked from you to Azriel, sharp with calculation. "Your shadowsinger shows an unusual concern for my daughter." His fingers tapped once against his throne, embers spiraling upward. "Is this intrusion about the mating bond that threatens both our courts' standing with the others?"

Eris stepped forward, his copper hair gleaming in the firelight. "Perhaps we should hear what the Night Court has to say." His voice was silk over steel, practiced and smooth. "After all, we wouldn't want to appear inhospitable."

Beron shot his eldest son a withering glance. "Your hospitality has already cost us enough, Eris."

"Among other things," Rhysand replied to Beron's earlier question. "Though this may not be the appropriate setting to discuss such matters."

The doors to the Great Hall swung open, and Lady of the Autumn Court entered.

Your mother moved with quiet grace, her russet gown flowing like autumn leaves around her slender frame. She paused at the threshold, taking in the scene with eyes that betrayed nothing of her thoughts.

"You weren't summoned," Beron said coldly, not bothering to turn fully toward his wife.

She inclined her head slightly. "I heard we had guests." Her voice was soft but steady. "It would be remiss of me not to welcome them properly."

Beron's flames flared, casting harsh shadows across his face.

"Always interfering where you're not wanted. Like mother, like daughter." His gaze cut to you, contempt evident. "Both of you, useless except for the trouble you cause."

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, rage building in your chest alongside the pull of the bond. The insult spoken so casually, so cruelly, made something crack inside you.

Eris's face remained composed, but his eyes hardened to amber chips. "The Night Court representatives are waiting." His voice was still controlled, but carried an edge sharp enough to cut. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion elsewhere."

Your mother's face remained impassive, a mask perfected over centuries of such treatment. Only the slight whitening of her knuckles betrayed her reaction.

Beron's nostrils flared. The flames around him crackled and dimmed, reflecting the push and pull of his control.

Heat pulsed in waves through the hall, making the air shimmer. At last, he waved a hand. "The western salon. I will join you shortly."

As the Night Court turned to leave, Beron snapped his gaze back to you. "You. Walk with me."

You stood, legs stiff beneath the weight of your father's fury, and fell into step beside him.

"I'll accompany them," your mother said quietly, moving toward the Night Court.

Beron grabbed her wrist, flames licking at his fingers, dangerously close to her skin. "You will return to your chambers and stay there until I send for you."

"Let her go." The words escaped your lips before you could stop them, quiet but firm.

Eris shifted slightly, positioning himself between your father and mother. "The Night Court is watching," he murmured, his voice for Beron's ears alone. "Consider the impression we make."

Beron released her wrist with a shove. "Get out of my sight."

Your mother's eyes met yours briefly, a warning, a plea for caution before she bowed her head and withdrew, dignity intact despite the humiliation.

Eris lingered a moment, his eyes meeting Azriel's with cold assessment. "Watch yourself, shadowsinger," he murmured, too low for the others to hear. "Beron's patience has limits, and so does mine."

He followed after Beron, silent as a blade at your back.

"Control yourself," Beron hissed at you as you walked. "Your mother's weakness is bad enough without you adding to our shame."

Rage simmered beneath your skin, hot as Autumn fire. "She is not weak. She never has been."

Beron's laugh was cruel. "Defending her now? Where was that courage when she needed it?"

The word struck like a physical blow, dragging memories forward, sterile white rooms with strange instruments, laughter that didn't belong in this realm, voices discussing you as if you weren't present.

A life before Prythian, before the Autumn Court. Before you were—whatever you are now.

The western salon was warmer, quieter. Sunlight poured through amber-stained windows, gilding the dust in the air. Rhysand and Cassian stood near the hearth, speaking in low tones. Azriel remained by the door, positioned like a sentry, his back straight, expression unreadable.

When your eyes met his, the bond shuddered.

Golden light rippled beneath your skin and his, cold fire racing along your veins.

Azriel didn't move. Didn't flinch.

His shadows curled in tight coils around him, containing the flare before it could escape, but not before one shadow darted toward you, caressing your cheek with a touch like frost-covered silk.

Your heart stumbled in your chest. Blood rushed in your ears.

Beron took his seat and gestured curtly to the chair beside him. "Speak, Rhysand. Then leave."

Rhysand sat, every inch the High Lord, his posture relaxed and voice level. "Recent events call into question the stability of our courts' relationship. An unexpected mating bond. An attempted crossing into another court's lands. An unauthorized rescue."

"My daughter's choices are her own," Beron said coldly.

"They become our concern when they involve one of mine," Rhysand answered, unblinking. "And when they nearly end in bloodshed."

You stared down at your hands. The bond tugged with every beat of your heart, flaring whenever Azriel so much as shifted his stance. His silence was deafening, a void that demanded to be filled.

Beron leaned back, his expression glacial. "The bond was rejected. That is the end of it."

"It is not so easily discarded," Rhysand said. "You know that. A rejected bond leaves... consequences. Dangerous ones."

Beron sneered. "Do not lecture me about consequences, boy. If your shadowsinger cannot stomach the match, that is no longer my concern."

"Then consider this a precaution," Rhysand replied, steel beneath the silk. "Allow my spymaster ten minutes alone with her. To ensure there are no... lingering complications that might destabilize Autumn's borders or create vulnerabilities Night's enemies could exploit."

A long silence followed.

Beron's fingers twitched, flames licking at his knuckles, crawling up his wrists like living things.

At last, he gestured dismissively. "Ten minutes. Then she returns to her chambers, under guard."

Rhysand rose. "Cassian, Eris, shall we?"

Eris unfolded himself from his chair with feline grace. "Of course." His gaze swept over you, lingering on the faint glow of the bond beneath your skin.

They filed out, one by one. When the door shut behind them, silence settled like ash. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth and your treacherous, thundering heart.

Azriel did not move.

You waited, the pressure in your chest mounting until each breath felt like drawing in shards of glass. He watched you like a stranger, shadows still circling his boots, though they shivered with what looked like restraint.

"You shouldn't have come," he said at last. His voice was low. Controlled. Ice, not fire. Each syllable precisely measured. "Not to the war camp."

Your mouth dried. "I didn't mean-"

"I know what you meant," he interrupted, sharp enough to cut to bone. "But intent doesn't undo consequences."

You stood, unable to remain still under the weight of his voice, every muscle drawn taut. "The bond-"

"Is inconvenient," he said flatly.

His shadows flinched at the words, contradicting his tone.

One of them drifted toward you before curling back like a burned leaf, leaving a trail of frost that melted instantly in the Autumn Court's heat.

You swallowed. "I thought if I said goodbye, it would ease the pain."

His expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened fractionally, tendons straining beneath scarred skin.

"And the lake? Was that meant to ease something too?"

You couldn't answer. Not truthfully. Your fingernails bit into your palms.

"I wanted it to end," you whispered. "I thought death might sever the bond."

His shadows stilled. The silence that followed was so complete it rang in your ears. The temperature in the room plummeted, your breath clouding before your face.

He stepped forward once, slow and deliberate.

Not close. Never close.

"I've seen bonds form between killers. Between traitors. Between those who should be enemies." His voice dropped lower. "They don't care about virtue or wisdom. Only connection. And sometimes, connection is a curse that will tear down everything we've built."

You stared at him, heart splintering. "Is that what I am to you? A curse?"

He didn't answer right away.

When he did, his voice was quiet, almost gentle, and that gentleness cut deeper than any blade. "You're not the same female I knew."

A breath. A pause. His shadows twisted around him, agitated.

"But you have caused too much pain." I can't trust myself around you hung unspoken between you.

The bond pulsed again, a flare of pain so acute it forced a gasp from your lips.

You staggered slightly.

Azriel didn't move to catch you, but his shadows lurched forward before he brutally reined them back.

You steadied yourself against a table, knuckles white. "If I could change it-"

"You can't," he said, more sharply than before. "And neither can I. Not without destroying what keeps both our courts safe."

His gaze locked with yours, centuries of survival and sacrifice written in the tight lines around his mouth. "The Night Court has enemies who would use any vulnerability. The Autumn Court the same. This bond is a weakness neither of us can afford."

He looked at you as if weighing something, then added, "I don't hate you. But I don't believe this bond is something either of us should accept. Not at the cost it would demand."

Another breath passed, then two. He reached for the door, shadows reluctantly trailing after him.

"I came to say goodbye," he said without turning around. "And to make it clear. I reject you. I dont want anything to do with you."

His shadows curled toward you one final time, a defiance of his words—their touch colder than winter, gentler than a lover's caress as they traced the contours of your face. Then they vanished, ripped back to their master.

"Goodbye," he said.

You couldn't speak.

Not as he opened the door and left without a backward glance. Not as the door clicked shut behind him, sealing you in the quiet.

You rose from your chair, legs unsteady, hand pressed to your chest where the bond burned like a brand. It pulsed once more, then dulled to a low throb.

Still there. Still aching.

But colder now. Just like him.

You moved toward the door, vision blurring.

You needed to be away from here, away from the lingering scent of pine and winter that his shadows had left behind. Each step felt heavier than the last as you pushed through the doors and into the hallway, not caring who might see the tears that now threatened to spill.

The corridors stretched before you, all amber and ruby and burnished gold.

Suffocating.

You quickened your pace, heading for your chambers, the only place where you might find a moment's peace.

A figure stepped from an alcove, blocking your path. Your mother—no, not your mother. The Lady of Autumn Court.

She stood before you, her eyes taking in your trembling hands, the faint golden glow still visible beneath your skin, the tears you could no longer hold back. Something in her expression softened, a recognition of pain she understood all too well.

You tried to step around her, to maintain the distance that had always existed between you, heightened by the knowledge that you were not truly her daughter. That you came from another world entirely, a world of skyscrapers and smartphones, not magic and immortal fae.

But she simply opened her arms.

The gesture broke something loose inside you.

Memories flashed through your mind, another mother in another life, hugs after scraped knees, whispered comfort during thunderstorms.

A life stolen from you.

You stepped into her embrace, burying your face against her shoulder. Her arms closed around you, unexpectedly strong, smelling of cinnamon and woodsmoke. The dam within you burst completely.

Silent tears soaked into the silk of her dress as she held you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head like you were a child. Your shoulders shook with the force of your grief—grief for the bond, for the cold goodbye, for the life you once knew, for the truth you couldn't speak.

She made no move to pull away, asked no questions you couldn't answer. Her heartbeat steady against yours, a counterpoint to the painful throb of the rejected bond.

In that moment, in that corridor of amber and shadows, something shifted between you.

Not blood, not shared history, but something equally powerful—understanding. Compassion.

A choice to be family when nothing in fate had designed you to be.

You clung to her, this woman you barely knew, as the golden bond-light flickered beneath your skin and tears continued to fall.

Days passed in a gray haze of pain and emptiness.

Confined to your chambers under Beron's orders, you barely left your bed.

The mating bond, once a dull ache you could somehow endure, had transformed into something monstrous in the wake of Azriel's formal rejection.

It pulled and twisted beneath your skin, the golden light pulsing visibly through your nightgown at all hours, casting eerie shadows across your walls.

"Make it stop," you whispered into your pillow, the words becoming a mantra as hours bled into days. "Please, make it stop."

Food remained untouched on trays. Water turned stale beside your bed. Sleep came only in fitful bursts, often jolting you awake when the bond would suddenly flare as if sensing Azriel across the distance.

Each time, the pain would be fresh again, as if his rejection had just occurred.

On the third day, you couldn't leave your bed.

Your limbs felt leaden, unresponsive to your commands. The bond's golden light had spread, no longer contained to your chest but threading through your entire body in a complex network that resembled veins of fire beneath your skin.

"Make it stop," you begged the empty room, your voice cracking with disuse. "Make it stop."

Briar came and went, her face increasingly drawn with worry. She bathed your forehead with cool cloths that brought momentary relief, helped you sip water when your throat became too parched to speak. But even her gentle care couldn't touch the agony of the bond.

"The healers say-" she began on the fourth day, only to fall silent when you shook your head weakly.

"No more healers," you whispered. "They can't help."

The rejection was killing you.

Not quickly with merciful swiftness, but slowly, systematically.

First your appetite, then your sleep, then your strength.

Soon, you knew, it would take your mind, and finally, your life.

By the fifth day, the pain had become so unbearable that you could no longer contain your screams.

They tore from your throat in ragged bursts, startling servants and causing guards to peer nervously through your door.

Ember, your faithful flame bunny, tried desperately to comfort you, nuzzling against your tear-stained cheeks and offering his warmth. But even his presence brought only fleeting solace.

"Make it stop," you sobbed between screams, your voice raw and broken. "Please, just make it stop."

Night fell, and with it came fever.

Your body burned from within, as if the bond had ignited your very blood.

The golden light beneath your skin pulsed in nauseating waves, brightening and dimming with each labored beat of your heart. Shadows danced strangely across your walls, though no source of light moved to cast them.

In your delirium, you thought you saw your human body, lying peacefully in a hospital bed, monitors beeping steadily beside it.

The vision taunted you—safety and normalcy just beyond reach. You stretched your hand toward it, only to watch it dissolve like mist.

"I want to go home," you wept, curling into yourself as another wave of pain crashed through you. "I just want to go home."

The latch on your door clicked softly, the sound barely audible over your ragged breathing.

You didn't bother looking up. Another healer, no doubt, come to offer useless remedies for a condition beyond their understanding.

"So, this is what a mating bond does," said a familiar voice, cool with equal parts disdain and clinical interest. "How remarkably... undignified."

You forced your eyes open to find Eris standing at the foot of your bed, his amber eyes assessing your deteriorated state with detached calculation.

He held a small wooden box in one hand, its surface carved with intricate symbols you didn't recognize.

"Go away," you managed, your voice barely audible. "Can't... help."

"Can't I?" A smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he set the box on your nightstand. "Your arrogance persists even in this state. How typical."

His dismissive tone convinced you he saw only what he expected to see. His cruel sister, temporarily weakened. He didn't suspect you were someone else entirely.

Eris opened the box with careful precision, removing a small vial of dark liquid.

"Do you know what this is?" When you didn't respond, he continued, "It's called ash tea. Death to our kind in sufficient quantity, it disintegrates our magic from within, dissolves our organs rather spectacularly." He swirled the vial, studying the contents with academic interest. "But in minute, carefully measured amounts..."

"Poison?" you whispered, hope flaring briefly.

Eris laughed softly. "Not as you're thinking, no. Though many would consider offering this to a High Fae treasonous." He sat carefully on the edge of your bed, an unexpected intimacy that emphasized the seriousness of the moment. "This particular blend contains ash wood bark, ground fine enough to enter the bloodstream without killing you outright, but potent enough to... dampen certain magical connections."

Understanding dawned slowly through your pain-addled mind. "The bond?"

"Precisely." Eris uncorked the vial, the scent of earth and something acrid filling the air between you. "It cannot be broken, but it can be... muted. Made bearable. At least temporarily."

You tried to sit up, wincing as the movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating from your chest. "Why would you... help me?"

Eris's expression remained carefully neutral, though something flickered in his eyes, not quite compassion, but perhaps a cold form of practicality. "Let's just say having the Lady of Autumn Court driven mad by bond rejection doesn't serve anyone's interests. Particularly not when diplomatic relations with the Night Court are so delicate."

He lifted the vial. "This won't be pleasant. And the effects are temporary. A day, perhaps two. But it should bring enough relief to keep you from it."

Hope and suspicion warred within you. This was Eris, after all—known for manipulation and political maneuvering, not acts of charity.

"What's the... price?" you asked, even as you eyed the vial with desperate longing.

A smile ghosted across his lips. "Smart question. There is, of course, a cost. The ash will dampen the bond, but it also suppresses all magic—including healing magic. You'll be weaker, more vulnerable to injury. And if you take too much, too often..." He shrugged eloquently. "Well, that's a risk you'll have to decide if you're willing to take."

Another wave of bond-agony crashed through you, drawing a whimper from your raw throat. The golden light beneath your skin pulsed viciously, as if the bond itself protested this conversation.

"Give it to me," you gasped, reaching weakly for the vial.

Eris held it to your lips. "Drink all of it. And brace yourself. This will hurt before it helps."

The liquid burned like fire as it slid down your throat, leaving a trail of blistering pain in its wake. You gagged, nearly retching as your body instinctively tried to reject the poison. Eris held you steady, his grip surprisingly gentle despite his usual coldness.

"Breathe," he instructed calmly. "The first wave will hit in approximately thirty seconds. Try not to scream too loudly. The servants are already terrified enough."

The pain began in your stomach, a spreading heat that quickly evolved into liquid agony. It raced through your veins like molten metal, seeking out the golden threads of the mating bond wherever they had infiltrated your system. You bit down hard on your lip to keep from screaming, tasting blood as your teeth pierced skin.

"Good," Eris murmured, observing with cold efficiency. "If you survive the next few minutes, relief should follow."

You couldn't respond, too consumed by the battle raging within your body. The ash tea burned through you like wildfire, while the mating bond fought to maintain its hold.

Golden light flared beneath your skin, brighter than ever before, illuminating your chamber as if noon sun streamed through the windows.

Just when you thought you couldn't bear another second, when death seemed not just welcome but necessary. The pain crested, held for one eternal moment, then began to recede.

The golden light dimmed, not disappearing entirely but retreating, condensing back toward your heart where the bond's core resided. The burning sensation of the ash tea transformed into something cooler, almost numbing, as it wrapped around the bond's tendrils like a smothering blanket.

"There," Eris said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "The worst is over."

You collapsed back against your pillows, gasping for breath. The pain hadn't vanished completely—the bond still pulsed steadily in your chest—but it was... contained.

Manageable. For the first time in days, you could think clearly, breathe without agony slicing through your lungs.

"How do you feel?" Eris asked, assessing you with calculating eyes.

"Like I've been trampled by a herd of horses," you replied honestly, your voice hoarse but stronger. "But... better."

He nodded, seeming pleased with the results of his experiment. "It forms a temporary barrier between you and the bond. It's still there, still active, but its effects are dampened. You should be able to eat, sleep, perhaps even function normally for a brief time."

"Thank you," you whispered, the words entirely genuine.

"Don't thank me yet. It has side effects, headaches, nausea, significant weakening of your healing abilities. A paper cut could take days to close. And when it wears off..."

"The pain returns," you finished for him.

"Precisely. This is not a cure, merely a reprieve." He rose from the bed, returning the empty vial to its box with careful precision. "I have more. Enough for several treatments, if necessary. But using ash too frequently risks permanent damage to your magic, possibly death. It's a temporary solution at best."

You nodded, understanding the limitations but grateful nonetheless for even temporary relief. "Why help me at all?"

"Because a mad Lady of Autumn is a liability to this court," he said finally, his voice carefully devoid of emotion. "And because no one deserves that particular hell. Not even you."

Through your exhaustion, you noticed Eris studying you with an intensity that hadn't been there before. His amber eyes narrowed slightly, head tilted in calculation.

"Rest now," he said, his voice oddly soft. "Sleep while you can."

The suggestion was unnecessary.

Your body, wrung out from days of suffering and the recent battle with the ash tea, was already surrendering to exhaustion. Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy, darkness crowding the edges of your vision.

The last thing you saw before consciousness fled was Eris standing over you, his expression unreadable as he pulled something from his pocket—another vial, this one filled with clear liquid.

"Forgive me, sister," he murmured, though the words seemed to come from very far away. "But you cannot stay here."

Then darkness claimed you completely.

Far away in the Night Court, in the darkest chamber of the House of Wind, Azriel knelt on the cold stone floor.

Alone, as he preferred. As he required.

His blade—Truth-Teller—lay before him, its edge gleaming in the dim light.

Blood. His blood. Already stained the steel, fresh rivulets running down its length to pool on the stone beneath.

Another wave of pain crashed through the bond, brutal and unrelenting.

Azriel didn't make a sound.

Five centuries of torture and war had taught him that lesson well.

Silence in suffering.

But his body betrayed him, trembling violently as the mating bond seared his insides like molten silver.

With deliberate precision, he picked up the blade and drew it across his chest, adding another perfect line to the row of cuts already marking his skin.

Each one corresponded to a wave of your pain that had reached him through the bond.

Blood for pain. Pain for denial. Denial for protection.

His shadows writhed around him, agitated and distressed by the self-inflicted wounds, but he controlled them with ruthless precision.

Control was all he had left. All he could permit himself.

It was the secret that male Fae carried and females rarely understood.

Rejection hurt the male more. Always.

The Cauldron's cruelest design—to make the one who denied the bond suffer more deeply, more fundamentally, than the one rejected.

The females experienced the pain as something inflicted upon them.

The males felt it as something torn from within them.

He had rejected you. For his family, for his court, for five centuries of history that couldn't be erased by the sudden, incomprehensible appearance of a bond.

Yet with each day that passed, with each wave of agony that pulsed through the connection, his reasons seemed increasingly hollow.

Azriel closed his eyes, mastering the tremors that threatened to overtake his body.

His wings tightened against his back, the membrane between the joints quivering with the effort of maintaining control. Each breath was measured, deliberate, a weapon against the madness that clawed at the edges of his consciousness.

The madness all males faced when denying the mating bond.

His shadows swirled around the wounds on his chest, trying to staunch the bleeding, but he commanded them back.

The physical pain was a lifeline, an anchor to sanity when the bond threatened to drag him into the abyss. Each cut was a reminder, a demarcation between thought and action, between the primal claiming instinct and his hard-won self-control.

"She's not mine," he said aloud, his voice steady despite the war raging within him. "She can't be mine."

His shadows disagreed, stretching southward toward the Autumn Court, toward you, before he wrenched them back with brutal force. They had grown harder to control since the bond formed, increasingly rebellious against his commands where you were concerned.

Just as his mind had grown more fragmented, thoughts circling in patterns he recognized as dangerous.

Possessive. Violent. Obsessive.

Mine to reject. Mine to claim. Mine to punish. Mine to protect.

Another wave of your pain rolled through him, sharper this time, different. Not the steady agony of rejection but something new—something foreign.

His body arched backwards, a wordless snarl escaping through clenched teeth as the unfamiliar sensation burned along the bond.

Something was happening to you. Something was being done to you.

Without conscious thought, Truth-Teller was in his hand again, his grip so tight the scars on his hands whitened. His shadows exploded outward, slashing across the walls in chaotic patterns before he brought them to heel.

"Control," he gasped, the word a prayer and command. "Control."

The foreign sensation continued, burning through the bond for endless minutes before slowly, gradually beginning to recede.

As it faded, the connection itself seemed to dim—not broken, never broken, but muffled.

Distant. As if a veil had fallen between them.

Azriel stared at his bloody hands, at Truth-Teller's gleaming edge, as realization dawned.

Someone had interfered.

Someone had touched what was his.

A low, feral growl built in his chest, shadows coalescing around him like armor. His wings flared wide, bumping against the chamber walls, as pure, primal rage flooded his system. It was the claiming instinct, the mating drive—made worse, not better, by his rejection.

Shadows pooled at his feet, rising up his legs like living things, responding to emotions he refused to name. They whispered to him, ancient and dark,

Find her. Claim her. Kill anyone who stands between.

For one terrible moment, he considered it—giving in to the madness, surrendering to the bond's demands. It would be easier than fighting, easier than the constant war between instinct and reason, between what the bond wanted and what his mind knew was necessary.

The shadows sensed his weakness, surging eagerly in response, already mapping the fastest route to the Autumn Court, to you.

With tremendous effort, Azriel forced them back, confined them to the chamber, to himself. His hands shook with the strain, blood dripping from fresh cuts to the stone below.

"I am not a slave to instinct," he said, each word precise and controlled. "I am not ruled by the bond."

But even as he spoke, he knew it for the lie it was. The mating bond had fundamentally altered him, changed something essential in his makeup. The ruthless control he had maintained for centuries was fracturing, eroding a little more with each denial, each rejection.

Eventually, it would break entirely. And when it did...

You woke to sunlight and the scent of lavender.

Soft sheets. Linen curtains. A breeze slipped in through the open window, carrying the scent of wild roses and summer heat.

Winnowed here from the heart of Autumn, you were somewhere new—somewhere safe. The ash tea still burned faintly in your bloodstream, muting the mating bond's agony into something distant and bearable.

Not gone. Never gone. But quieter now.

You pushed yourself upright, slow and stiff. Your muscles protested, days of agony had left their mark. Ember stirred at your feet with a warm churr, his tiny pink flame ears twitching lazily as he hopped up onto your lap.

His companion—Sizzle, your second fire bunny—lounged on the windowsill like she owned the house, her tail periodically sparking small holes in the curtains.

"We live another day, troublemakers," you murmured, scratching Ember behind his flaming ears. He purred in response, a sound like kindling catching fire.

Sizzle, apparently jealous of the attention, sneezed dramatically. A tiny fireball shot across the room, hitting the curtain.

You scrambled to pat out the flames while Ember, startled by the sudden movement, jumped onto your pillow and promptly set it ablaze.

"Perfect," you muttered, now frantically swatting at both the curtain and pillow. "Absolutely perfect."

The door opened with a soft click, revealing Lucien Vanserra standing in the threshold, one brow arched. His russet hair was pulled back in a neat queue, his metal eye whirring as it assessed the smoldering chaos.

"I see your therapy animals are hard at work," he remarked dryly.

"They're very passionate about interior redesign," you replied, finally extinguishing the pillow.

Ember, unperturbed by the commotion he'd caused, began grooming himself smugly. Sizzle hopped down from the windowsill to join him, leaving a trail of tiny scorch marks across the blanket.

Lucien stepped inside, moving with the fluid grace of a High Fae male. Despite his seemingly casual demeanor, his hand never strayed far from the ornate knife at his hip.

"Eris said you were stable," he said. "I see he was being optimistic."

"I'm perfectly stable," you protested. "It's these two that are hazardous."

As if on cue, both bunnies looked up at Lucien with identical innocent expressions, their flame ears flickering like halos.

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Why am I here?" you asked, gathering Ember in your arms before he could cause more damage.

"My home. Border estate between Spring and Autumn," he replied. "Far enough from Summer that their water-wielders can't sense your fire magic."

"No, I mean why here. Why you?"

His jaw clenched. "Because Eris didn't trust anyone else to keep you alive."

A beat of silence. You stared at him. "Beron knows I'm gone?"

Lucien nodded grimly. "He's furious. You disappearing was one thing. But being bonded with the Night Court's shadowsinger... that made you a liability."

You swallowed hard. "He'll come after me."

"Yes," Lucien said simply. "But not here. Not yet. The border glamours I've crafted keep this place hidden from most eyes."

Ember, sensing your distress, nuzzled against your hand, his warm fur oddly comforting. Sizzle hopped closer, squeaking indignantly, as if personally offended by Beron's threat to you.

Eris swept into the doorway, elegant and deadly in fine Autumn Court attire. His eyes immediately landed on the singed pillow, then the bunnies, then you.

"You're awake," he added, gaze sliding over you. "Good. You were very dramatic about nearly dying."

You offered him a flat look. "You drugged me. Forgive me for not being chipper."

Eris just smiled thinly. "You're welcome."

Ember, evidently unimpressed by Eris's entrance, turned his back on your eldest brother and began methodically cleaning his paws. Sizzle, however, puffed up to twice her size, her tiny flame ears growing larger as she stared Eris down.

Lucien and Eris stared at each other, tension crackling like fire beneath still water. Centuries of history hung between them—betrayal, silence, blood.

"Why bring me here?" you asked again.

Eris's gaze darkened. "Because Beron watches me too closely. And because our charming brother has experience managing broken bonds."

Lucien's jaw ticked. "I'm not your pawn."

"No. Just the only one who's already walked through fire." Eris's eyes flicked to the scars on Lucien's face. "Literally and metaphorically." He continued. "I have business in the human lands. Autumn's emissaries report unusual activity," Eris said, already stepping back toward the door. "I'll return in three days. Try not to explode before then."

And then he was gone, leaving behind only the scent of embers and spice—not bothering to walk out, but winnowing away in a flash of copper light.

Ember triumphantly squeaked, as if he had personally driven Eris away, while Sizzle hopped in an excited circle, leaving a ring of tiny burn marks on the floor.

"Your security detail is very effective," Lucien remarked, his lips twitching.

"They're very selective about who they allow near me," you replied, patting the bed for them to return. Ember immediately hopped back onto your lap, while Sizzle took a detour to investigate Lucien's boots.

"So," you said, "Beron's hunting me."

Lucien nodded. "And I'm keeping you off his radar. For now."

Your mind flashed suddenly to that moment in the Autumn Court—Azriel's shadows coiling away from you, his face carved from ice as he rejected you.

The memory sent a bolt of pain through the bond, sharp enough to make you gasp. Golden light flared beneath your skin, pulsing once, twice, before the ash tea smothered it again.

Ember chirped in alarm, nudging your hand with his warm nose. Sizzle abandoned her investigation of Lucien to race back to your side, both bunnies pressing against you as if trying to absorb your pain.

Lucien tensed, his hand moving to his knife, not drawing it, but ready. "Breathe through it," he instructed, voice steady. "Don't fight it."

You nodded, forcing air into your lungs. "Why help me?" you managed after a moment.

He paused, then said, "Because someone should have helped me."

Your hand drifted to your chest, fingers pressing lightly over the steady, bruised thrum of the bond. "Azriel told me it wasn't real. That we weren't anything."

Something flashed across Lucien's face—recognition, perhaps. Understanding. His metal eye whirred softly. "But you felt it."

You nodded. "Still do."

Ember, as if understanding, rested his tiny paw on your hand where it pressed against your chest. His warmth seeped into your skin, a small comfort against the ache.

Lucien exhaled, his gaze distant. "It never fully goes away. You just get better at living around the ache."

"For how long will the tea work?"

"A week. Maybe less." His voice was clinical, practiced. "It gives you time to think without drowning."

"Think about what?"

"Whether you're going to keep breaking every time he turns away," Lucien said quietly.

Sizzle, who had been unnaturally still and attentive, suddenly hopped toward Lucien and squeaked forcefully, as if disagreeing with his pessimism. She punctuated her argument by sneezing a perfect smoke ring.

Lucien blinked down at her. "Was that... intentional?"

"She has opinions," you said, unable to stop a small smile. "Strong ones."

You looked at him. "And you? With your bond?"

His jaw tightened. "I've learned to stay standing."

You let silence sit between you. "It hurts."

"It should," he replied. "It means you cared."

You stroked Ember's back as he nestled against your ribs. "Azriel's in love with Elain," you said. I

The bond flared again at the shadowsinger's name, a sharp, twisting pain that made your fingers curl into fists. Golden light rippled beneath your skin, illuminating your veins like molten metal.

Lucien didn't flinch. "Yes."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Elain is your mate."

He nodded once, the motion tight and controlled. "Yes."

You gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "So my mate wants yours. And yours won't even look at you."

Heat surged through your body—not the bond this time, but your own power.

Flames licked between your fingers, dancing along your knuckles. Ember chirped in alarm, scurrying to safety, while Sizzle watched in what appeared to be admiration.

Lucien moved with startling speed, his hand closing around your wrist. Not roughly, but firmly. "Control it," he said, voice low. "You'll burn down the house."

The absurdity of the moment—the deadly serious warning about your power—broke through your anger. You took a deep breath, pulling the fire back inside.

"Sorry," you murmured, extending a gentle hand to coax Ember back.

Lucien's smile didn't reach his eyes. "The Cauldron has a twisted sense of humor."

"I'm done," you said, voice barely a whisper. "Done chasing someone who only ever turns around to run."

The moment the words left your mouth, the bond gave a violent pulse, as if in protest.

You gasped, pressing a hand to your chest as golden light spilled between your fingers.

Lucien looked at you for a long moment. "Good."

"I keep thinking if I'm better, softer, less angry, he'll see me. But I could walk through fire and he'd still stare at the smoke."

His voice was quiet. "I know the feeling."

You wiped at your face with the edge of the sheet. "So what now?"

Lucien's mismatched gaze found yours. "Now we learn to walk forward. With the ache. Without them."

You offered a watery smile. "We'll be strong for each other."

He returned it, faint but real. "The Vanserra way."

You wiped tears from your cheek. "Honestly? They're both walking red flags."

Lucien blinked. "Red what?"

"It's a saying," you explained quickly. "Red flags mean warning signs. Bad news. Like signals in battle, but for people."

"So I've been ignoring battle signals for decades," Lucien said dryly.

"Exactly. And Azriel..." You sighed. "Shadow and steel and silence don't make for healthy relationships."

Lucien's laugh was unexpected—sharp and genuine. "Don't let Rhysand hear you say that."

"At least I'm done chasing my red flag," you said.

The bond throbbed once more, a deep ache that would never truly fade. But for the first time, it didn't feel like it would tear you apart.

He nodded, the golden eye whirring softly. "And I'm learning to carry mine."

You looked at him, really looked at this brother you barely knew, and said, "We've got each other. That's enough."

Lucien leaned back. "The Vanserra siblings. Mated. Rejected. Slightly flammable."

"Speak for yourself," you grinned, A small flame danced across your fingertip as you stroked them, controlled this time, gentle. "We're adorably flammable."

His laughter—sharp and real—echoed softly through the room, making both bunnies' ears perk up in delight.

And for the first time in days, the ache in your chest felt like something you might one day be able to carry without breaking—a permanent bond, yes, but no longer a chain.

The golden light pulsed once more beneath your skin, and somewhere, miles away, in the darkness of the Night Court, you knew a shadowsinger felt it too.

Azriel woke shaking, breath crystallizing in the frigid air.

The bond.

Muffled for two days now—erupted with savage, unfamiliar pain. He'd marked each hour of silence with thin, precise cuts across his chest, but nothing prepared him for this blazing agony, as if the golden thread inside his ribs had been yanked tight and set aflame. Shadows writhed across the floor, mirroring his frantic heartbeat as sweat soaked the sheets.

He dressed by touch alone, leather sliding over half-healed wounds. Blood blossomed beneath the buckles, warm against his ice-cold skin. The hallway distorted, edges warping, but discipline drove him forward.

Movement might drown the torment. He staggered toward the training ring, trailing frost in his wake.

Cassian was drilling recruits when Azriel stepped onto the sand. Ice crackled under his boots; every Illyrian within twenty paces fell silent. His hands trembled violently, nearly dropping the practice sword until he clenched harder, reopening the newest cut.

Crimson seeped down his abdomen, its metallic scent sharp in the morning air.

A young warrior advanced.

Azriel struck—too fast, too brutal—wood splintering against bone.

The boy crumpled with a cry that Azriel barely registered through white sparks bursting behind his eyes, each one pulsing with the bond's torment.

Another opponent stepped forward, then another. Azriel met each with vicious, mechanical precision until Cassian intercepted, arms braced across his chest.

"Look at me," Cassian ordered, voice cutting through the roaring in Azriel's ears.

Azriel's vision swam. "It's worse," he rasped, throat raw. "Didn't know it could get worse."

Cassian's gaze dropped to the blood darkening Azriel's tunic. "You need a healer."

"I need-" Azriel couldn't finish.

Shadows spilled from his shoulders, lashing the air like whips, carrying the scent of nightfall and steel.

Cassian's siphons flared crimson, siphoning the wild magic before it scorched the watching recruits. "Training's over. War room, now."

Azriel remembered nothing of climbing the stairs to the River House, only the taste of copper and frost on his tongue. Maps blanketed the long table where Rhysand, Feyre, Mor, Amren, and Nesta looked up as he stumbled in, darkness trailing his every step.

Rhys's violet eyes narrowed at the blood. "Az-"

"The bond," Azriel grated, each word a tremor. "The agony's funneling straight through. I can't-" He pressed a shaking fist to his sternum where phantom fire burned. "I can't shut it out."

Feyre reached with her mind, gentle as dawn. The attempt brushed against raw nerves; Azriel recoiled with a guttural snarl. Glass shattered in the windowpanes.

The chandelier swayed, crystal tinkling. Shadows erupted, drenching the room in smothering darkness that tasted of ashes and grief.

Mor stepped forward, palms raised. "Az, breathe-"

"Every heartbeat feels like a blade," he said, voice breaking.

His eyes—normally calm as a midnight lake—shone wild, desperate. "If it gets any worse, I'll-" He bit down on the rest, but the madness was there, circling, hungry, a beast straining at its chains.

Nesta's steel-gray gaze tracked the shadows crawling over the ceiling. "Then we fix it before you lose yourself."

Cassian planted a steady hand between Azriel's shoulder blades, grounding him. "Name the order, Rhys."

Rhysand's power rolled out—cool midnight and stars—pushing the shadows back until lantern-light flickered once more. "Stealth flight to Autumn in four hours," the High Lord said. "We extract and return before dawn."

Azriel's knees nearly buckled with equal parts relief and renewed terror. "Four hours is too long."

"It's how long it takes to prepare winnow points that Beron can't trace," Rhys countered, voice edged with authority. "You will hold."

Azriel's jaw clenched so hard something cracked.

Fresh blood slid beneath his leathers, a warm contrast to the cold sweat beading his skin. "I'll try."

Amren clicked her tongue, ancient eyes gleaming. "Try harder. Velaris has survived worse than your shadows."

Azriel dragged in a ragged breath that smelled of pine and steel and coming snow.

The pain surged again—hot, merciless—and his vision went white at the edges. But he felt Cassian's steadying hand, heard Rhys's measured voice, sensed Feyre's mind-touch waiting for permission.

He swallowed hard. "Keep me busy."

Cassian's grin was fierce, all teeth. "I can do that."

The shadows settled—trembling, resentful, but leashed. Focus returned to Azriel's fever-bright eyes, razor-sharp and deadly.

Four hours.

He could endure four more hours of this hell.

And when the time came, he would fly south on wings of night and frost, and anyone standing between him and that muted golden thread would learn why even High Lords feared a shadowsinger's wrath.

Author’s Note:

If you made it through this chapter—first of all, I love you. This one was heavy, but necessary. Our girl is still standing (with fire bunnies), and Azriel is one breakdown away from realizing he’s in love. As always, thank you for reading. 💛

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