Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The year was 1982, and the city of Oletus had begun to feel like a stage for the macabre. Two murders in two weeks–both aspiring actresses–had left a thick unease hanging in the air. Their faces still smiled from playbills taped to lampposts, now marked with wilted flowers and candle stubs at their feet.

As for our spooky little protagonist, Andrew Kriess wanted nothing to do with it.

“You’ll rot in that apartment if you keep hiding out,” said Efron, his friend since their teenage years. Much like Andrew, he was a goth through and through-powder-pale makeup, heavy piercings, his trench coat sweeping dramatically as he moved. But where Andrew’s darkness was timid and quiet, Efron’s was bold, hungry for spotlight. “A couple of murders, and suddenly you’re a recluse. Come on, the Luminary is waiting. Music, drinks, people–life.”

Andrew muttered, “I don’t…. I don’t fit in there.” His scarf muffled in the words, his pale hands clutched tight around the strap of his coat like it was an anchor. “That kind of place–it’s not me.” Efron scoffed, sweeping his eyeliner-smudged eyes over Andrew. “You’re literally dressed head-to-toe in black velvet and lace. If you don’t fit in, no one does.”

Despite his protests, Andrew found himself in the passenger seat of Efron’s beat-up car, the city blurring past in streaks of neon and rain. Every time they passed a police barricade or caught sight of a flyer for a missing person, Andrew’s stomach knotted tighter. By the time they reached Luminary, Andrew’s nerves buzzed like static. The club loomed like a cathedral of shadows, its entrance spilling red light into the street. The bass thumped from inside, low and insistent, like a second heartbeat.

At first, Andrew clung to the edges of the crowd, arms crossed, eyes darting. He hated the press of bodies, the smoke curling around the strobe-lit room. Efron melted into the scene with ease, already nodding along to the music, already making it look effortless. And without realizing it, Andrew’s foot tapped. Then his shoulders loosened. By the third song, he was no longer standing against the wall but drifting toward the floor, the atmosphere swallowing his hesitance.

That’s when he noticed a very peculiar man. He looked out of place yet commanded the room: fur boa wrapped around his neck, rings stacked on each finger, and a grin stretched wide as if he were waiting for applause. He sipped his drink with the flair of someone who expected eyes on him at all times–and most of the room obliged. Andrew froze, heart pounding–not just from the music but from the strange pull this man had. The other man noticed him immediately, his gaze sharp, amused, as though Andrew had already been cast in his movie.

He slid off the barstool with theatrical ease, drink in hand striding toward him like he’d just spotted the night’s main event but before he could reach him, the crowd moved first. A ripple went through the room, subtle at first, then obvious–heads turning, voices rising. People began drifting toward the bar, pressing closer, orbiting the strange man as though he were the club’s hidden centerpiece. Hands reached for his shoulder, his rings, his attention. He basked in it, grinning like a king greeting his court.
Andrew frowned, uneasy. “What’s…what’s going on? Who is that?”

“That’s Edgar Valden,” Efron cut in, already watching with a mix of disdain and fascination. He leaned closer so Andrew could hear over the pounding bass. “He’s some huge producer, known for making these really artistic films. He’s made more stars in this city than anyone else. If you know an actor, chances are Edgar had his hands on their career.”

Andrew blinked. The name meant nothing to him, though he could feel its weight in the way Efron said it. “So he’s…famous?”

“Famous and infamous.” Efron smirked, lips curling darkly. “They say he’ll make you a star if you can survive him long enough. He’s ruthless. Erratic. A complete egomaniac. But it works. He’s the reason Norton Campbell’s everywhere right now. Without Edgar, Norton would still be scraping pennies on stage. Now he’s in films, billboards, interviews. He’s untouchable.”

Andrew glanced back at the man glittering under the club's lights, soaking up the attention like it was oxygen. Edgar laughed at something a girl whispered in his ear, then threw his head back, letting the sound carry. Something about him unsettled Andrew–the way everyone hung on his every word, the way he commanded without asking. He wasn’t just famous. He was dangerous. “Stay away from him,” Efron muttered, though his eyes never left Edgar. “Men like that don’t notice people like us…unless it’s to chew us up.”

Andrew couldn’t look away from Edgar, even as the crowd swallowed him. For a moment, it felt like the murders outside–the headlines, the obituaries–had melted away in the haze of smoke and synths. But they hadn’t. They clung to the back of his mind like ash.

He turned to Efron, voice low. “Do you think it’s… connected?”

Efron arched a nonexistent brow, “The murders?”

Andrew nodded, eyes darting over the room. “Two actresses already, both young and aspiring, just like half the people in this place. What if the next one is–”

“Stop.” Efron cut him off, a sharp edge in his tone. “You really gotta stop being so damn paranoid over everything. You’re probably safer here than anywhere else in the city.”

“I’m not–”

Efron grabbed his arm and tugged him toward the bar. “We’re drinking. If death’s lurking in the city, we might as well toast to it instead of letting it hang over our heads.” They squeezed between a couple swaying dancers and found two stools at the end of the counter. The barmaid, dressed in black mesh and heavy silver chains, slid over without a word.

“Whiskey,” Efron said immediately. Then, glancing over at Andrew, he smirked. “And something stronger for him. He needs it.”

Andrew hesitated, then gave a shy nod. The glasses came quick–amber and burning. They clinked together, the sound swallowed by the club’s relentless pulse.

“To forgetting,” Efron said.

Andrew raised his glass with trembling fingers. “To forgetting.”

The liquor bit down his throat, warm and cruel, but it dulled the edge of his nerves. Another drink followed, then another, until his shoulders slumped, and words softened. Around them, the dancers grew wilder, the music louder, the lights more surreal.

Hours slipped by in a blur of pounding bass and flashing lights. The Luminary had shifted from crowded to feverish–bodies writhing on the dance floor like shadows stitched together, hair teased higher, makeup smudged with sweat. Efron has long since abandoned Andrew, vanishing into the mass of dancers with arms raised, black coat spinning like wings under strobes. He was in his element, lips parted in laughter, eyeliner streaking as he let the music devour him whole.

Andrew, meanwhile, remained at the bar. His fingers circled the rim of his glass, the ice inside long melted. He had loosened up, yes–the alcohol saw to that–but even as he swayed gently with the beat, he still felt like an outsider watching the carnival from behind glass.

That was when someone slid into the seat beside him.

At first, Andrew thought little of it. People came and went, brushed shoulders, ordered drinks. But this man didn’t blur into the background–he carved through it.

Edgar.

He was unlike anyone else in the room. While the goths glittered in spikes, velvet, leather, and black lace, Edgar was a study in contrast. A sheer white turtleneck clung to his lean frame, translucent enough to hint at the lines of his body beneath. Strands of pearls draped neatly into the waist of his high slacks, immaculate and pressed, cinched with gold clasp that caught the light. His long brown hair was parted and fell cleanly over his shoulders, framing a face made sharper by the thin wire of his glasses. One single earring–delicate, glinting–hung from his right ear, catching every flicker of the strobe.

Where the others tried to blend into the night, Edgar radiated under it.

He turned slightly, regarding Andrew with a small, knowing smile. “I’ve never seen a damn goth like you before.”
Andrew stiffened, unsure whether it was a compliment or mockery. “What do you mean?” His voice came out quiet, half-swallowed by the music.

Edgar’s eyes glinted behind his glasses, sharp and curious. “You’re not just pale.” His tone softened, almost reverent. “You’re one of those, albino freaks.”

The word landed heavy between them, cutting through the haze of noise and drink. Andrew’s stomach knotted. He was used to stares, whispers, cruel remarks about his skin, his hair, his pale-red eyes–but here, in the suffocating warmth of the club, with Edgar’s gaze fixed on him, the observation felt different. Not pitying. Not cruel. Just…precise, like Edgar had peeled something away and seen him bare.

Edgar tilted his glass, the ice clinking softly, and he let his eyes roam over Andrew as though cataloging every detail. “How old are you?”

Andrew blinked, caught off guard. “Thirty.”

“Thirty.” Edgar repeated it like a diagnosis, his smile curing in amusement. “Funny. You don’t look it. Something about you is… suspended. Not young, not old. Like you’ve been plucked out of time and dropped here.” He leaned in closer, his breath warm with whiskey. “You ever done modeling?”

Andrew shook his head quickly. “No. Never.”

Edgar chuckled, a sound that teetered between genuine and mocking. “That’s a shame. You’ve got a face people wouldn’t forget. Porcelain skin, natural red eyes, pale white hair–it’s rare. Striking. But you hide it under all this–” he gestured at Andrew's black velvet coat, the heavy scarf still knotted at his throat, “--like you’re ashamed of being seen.”

Andrew’s cheeks burned. “I’m not ashamed.”

“Mm.” Edgar smirked, unconvinced. “You are. But that’s what makes you interesting. Most people are desperate to be looked at. You, on the other hand… you don’t know what to do when someone actually looks.”

The words stung, but they lingered in Andrew’s chest in a way compliments never had. He turned his glass in his hands, trying to steady himself, trying not to let Edgar see how deeply he’d struck. Edgar watched him, head tilted, smiled sharpened into something both cruel and oddly admiring. “You could be a star, Andrew. If someone polished you up, pulled you out of the shadows, taught you how to stand without flinching. But maybe…” He paused, his tone dropping low and teasing. “Maybe you’re happier being invisible.

Andrew lowered his eyes, letting Edgar’s words roll over him like waves he couldn’t fight. He tried to shrink into the dim light of the bar, but Edgar wouldn’t allow it. He leaned closer, elbow on the counter, his sharp profile catching the red glow of the neon. “You know,” Edgar said smoothly, “people pay thousands for the kind of look you were just born with. That skin. That hair. Those eyes. But instead of owning it, you hide away in the shadows like a shy little phantom.”

Andrew’s grip tightened around his glass, but he said nothing.

Edgar smiled wider, clearly amused by his silence. “I bet you hate photographs, don’t you? You probably duck every camera, never let anyone catch you properly. Which makes me think…” His eyes lingered, shameless. “You’d look exquisite if someone finally forced you to pose. Forced you to be seen.”

Andrew’s breath caught. The words weren’t cruel exactly, but they carried the weight of command, like Edgar wasn’t making a suggestion–he was stating a certainty. Edgar leaned back just enough to sip from his drink, eyes never leaving Andrew’s face. “There’s something delicious about that,” he mused, tone low, teasing. “You blush so easily under all that paint. It’s adorable.”

Andrew shifted uncomfortably, wishing the music was loud enough to drown out the conversation, but Edgar seemed to revel in his unease. His smile turned sly, almost predatory. “Tell me,” Edgar said at last, tilting his head. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re beautiful? Or do they all pretend you’re invisible, just like you want?” Andrew swallowed hard, but no answer came. His silence only made Edgar grin, as if he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

Andrew opened his mouth, but the words tangled before they could escape. “I—I don’t…” His voice cracked under the weight of it. He cleared his throat, fumbling again. “People don’t usually…I mean, no one ever–”

Edgar’s grin widened. He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing Andrew’s, the sheer fabric of his blouse grazing the velvet of Andrew’s coat. “No one ever tells you you’re beautiful?” he finished for him, savoring the hesitation. Andrew flushed instantly, color flooding his pale cheeks, standing out even under the dim strobe light. He dropped his gaze, fingers tightening around it. “I’m not… I’m not used to people noticing me.”

“Of course you’re not.” Edgar’s voice was low, teasing, but his touch was deliberate. He let his hand settle on Andrew’s arm, fingertips tracing the sleeve in a slow, deliberate drag before resting near his elbow. “You’ve built your entire life around not being noticed. But here’s the thing, Andrew–” His hand slid lower, brushing the back of Andrew’s hand resting on the counter, just enough to send a shiver through him. “Some people don’t get to choose. They demand attention just by existing. You’re one of them. Whether you like it or not.”

Andrew’s breath hitched. His throat was dry, his pulse a hammer in his ears. “I…I don’t think..” The words tumbled out uneven, his voice breaking as Edgar’s hand lingered against his. Edgar chuckled, leaning in so close that Andrew could feel the warmth of his breath at his ear. His fingers pressed more firmly against Andrew’s hand, a playful squeeze before releasing him. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he murmured. “Makes me want to see how red I can make you go.” Andrew’s chest tightened, caught between retreating and leaning in. His body betrayed him with stillness, frozen in Edgar’s orbit, every nerve lit with heat and unease.

Andrew sat stiff, pulse racing, as Edgar’s hand lifted–uninvited, deliberate. With a slow, almost theatrical precision, Edgar brushed back the bangs that fell over the left side of Andrew’s face. The white strands slipped easily between his fingers, revealing features Andrew usually tried to keep hidden in shadow. Edgar’s eyes lingered, sharp behind the glint of his wire-frame glasses. His lips curled in something between a smile and a smirk.

“Look at that,” he murmured, tilting his head. His finger traced the air just beside Andrew’s cheek, not quite touching but close enough to make his skin prickle. “That jawline… cut sharp enough to draw blood. And your nose–” he leaned in, studying the hook of it like a rare artifact– “distinct, commanding. They don’t make faces like this anymore.”

Andrew’s breath hitched, his throat dry.

Edgar’s grin widened, cruel and worshipful all at once. “It’s like you were sculpted by a god who didn’t want you hidden. And yet here you… hiding.” Andrew’s cheeks flamed, the heat painful against his pale skin. He stumbled over his words, voice breaking. “I–I’m not… I don’t–”

“Shh.” Edgar’s hand hovered for a heartbeat longer before finally withdrawing, the absence almost as searing as the touch. He reclined back in his stool, swirling the ice in his glass, but his eyes never left Andrew. “Exquisite,” he said softly, almost to himself. “And you don’t even see it.”

Andrew’s pulse still thundered in his ears, his body frozen between the sting of Edgar’s words and the heat of his touch. For a long, awful moment, he stayed silent, eyes fixed on the bar top, too afraid to meet Edgar’s gaze again. But something inside him– whether it was the alcohol softening his fear, or the sharp edge of humiliation burning in his chest–finally snapped. He swallowed hard, his voice rough as he forced the words out. “You–” He faltered, then steadied himself. “You talk like you know me but you don’t.”

Edgar’s smirk flickered into something more curious. He set his drink down with deliberate slowness. “Oh?”

Andrew turned his face toward him, meeting his eyes fully for the first time that night. His own gaze trembled, but he didn’t look away. “I’m not some…statue, or phantom, or whatever it is you’re trying to make me into. I’m just a regular person. And I don’t need–” His throat tightened, but he forced the words through. “I don’t need you telling me who I am.”

For the first time, Edgar didn’t immediately have an answer. He studied Andrew in silence, lips curved faintly, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. Then, slowly, his smile returned–smaller this time, more dangerous. “Mm” Edgar murmured, almost purring at the sound. “So there’s a voice under all that velvet after all.” His gaze lingered on Andrew’s flushed cheeks, the tremor in his hands. “I like it.”

Andrew’s defiance wavered almost as soon as it had sparked. His shoulders sank, and he dropped his gaze back to his drink, fingers tightening around the glass. His voice came quieter this time, strained but honest. “I’m not…” he hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “I’m not used to people saying things like that. Complimenting me.” His words broke awkwardly, fragile and small against the pulse of the music. “All my life, people only ever called me a freak. Something to stare at… or avoid.”

For a moment, the chaos of the club seemed to fade, leaving only the soft weight of his confession hanging between them. Edgar tilted his head, his smile curling at the edges. He leaned in again, closer than before, “A freak, hm?” His tone was smooth, dangerous–half mocking, half reverent. His hand returned, tracing lightly along Andrew’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth as though measuring the truth of his words. “They were right,” Edgar said softly. “You are a freak. But not the kind they meant.” His eyes glittered behind the wire frames, unblinking. “You’re rare. Unrepeatable. Something no one else could dream of being.”

Andrew’s chest tightened, his face flushing hotter under the weight of the touch. He wanted to recoil, to deny, but the words sank in too deep, hitting a place in him he’d long buried. Edgar smirked, pulling his hand back with deliberate slowness. “And the beautiful thing about freaks, Andrew,” he said, savoring the syllables, “is that the world always ends up paying to look at them.”

Andrew’s grip on his glass loosened, his breathing slowly evening out. The sharp edge of embarrassment dulled, softened by the strange magnetism of Edgar’s voice. Against his better judgment, he found himself… easing into the rhythm of the exchange.

Edgar, watching him like a cat with a cornered mouse, arched an eyebrow. “So then, Andrew—” he said his name deliberately, like savoring the taste of it, “what is it you do with yourself when you’re not hiding in dark corners of clubs?”

Andrew hesitated, eyes darting away, as if the truth might embarrass him further. Finally, he muttered, “I’m… a gravekeeper. At the city cemetery.”

Edgar blinked once, then let out a low, amused laugh. Not cruel exactly—more delighted, as though Andrew had just handed him a rare gem. “A gravekeeper.” He leaned back on the barstool, studying Andrew with renewed intrigue. “Of course you are. Pale as porcelain, quiet as a shadow, and spending your days among the dead.” He smirked. “How perfectly gothic of you.”

Andrew fidgeted under the attention, but something in Edgar’s tone wasn’t mocking—it was fascinated. That alone kept him from retreating into silence.
“It’s… quiet work,” Andrew said softly, staring into his drink. “I like it that way. No one really bothers me there.”

Edgar tilted his head, resting his chin on one hand as his gaze traced over Andrew like he was memorizing him. “Graves by day, clubs by night. You’re a contradiction. No wonder you caught my eye.”

Andrew’s cheeks flushed, and for the first time, a nervous smile tugged faintly at his lips. He shrugged. “Guess I don’t fit anywhere.”

“Not yet,” Edgar corrected smoothly, his voice low and deliberate. “But I could fix that.”

The words lingered between them, tantalizing, dangerous.

Edgar swirled the last of his drink, eyes never leaving Andrew. His smirk widened, sly and knowing, as though he’d already decided how this night would end.

“You know,” Edgar said, his voice dropping lower, silkier beneath the thrum of the music, “we could finish this conversation somewhere quieter. My place, perhaps. No shouting over synth beats. No interruptions.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the dance floor, where Efron was still lost in a sea of bodies, oblivious. Then his eyes snapped back to Andrew, sharp as a hook sinking in. “Just you and me.”

Andrew’s chest tightened. He felt the floor tilt beneath him, though it was only the alcohol and Edgar’s stare making the room spin. Every sensible part of him screamed to refuse—to stay put, to retreat back to the safe shadows. But there was something in Edgar’s presence, some gravity he couldn’t explain, pulling him in against his better judgment.
“I—I don’t usually…” Andrew stammered, his pale fingers twitching nervously against his glass.

Edgar leaned closer, so close Andrew could smell the faint musk of cologne beneath the smoke and sweat of the club. His lips quirked into something between a smile and a dare. “I didn’t ask what you usually do. I asked what you’ll do now.”

Andrew’s throat worked around a dry swallow. His heart thudded painfully, but his voice came out quieter, resigned, almost as though he wasn’t in control of it anymore. “…Alright.”

Edgar’s grin widened, slow and triumphant, as though he’d just won a bet with himself. He reached for Andrew’s hand—not gently, but firmly enough to leave no room for second-guessing—and slid off the stool.

“Good,” Edgar murmured, tugging him toward the exit. “You won’t regret it.”

Andrew followed, legs unsteady, his stomach knotted with a mix of fear and anticipation. Deep down, he already knew this was the kind of choice that would change everything.

–

The city blurred past in flashes of neon and headlights, but Andrew hardly remembered the ride. By the time Edgar ushered him into the penthouse, it was as if he'd stepped into another universe entirely. The door shut behind them with a soft click, and the noise of the city vanished. The place was cavernous–high ceilings, walls of glass overlooking the skyline, and every surface gleaming as though polished for display. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t home. It was theatrical, like stepping onto a film set.

“Sit,” Edgar said smoothly, already gliding across the space to a sleek bar cart. He uncorked a bottle of red with practiced flair, pouring the win into two crystal glasses. Andrew moved cautiously toward a velvet sofa, lowering himself onto the edge as if he didn’t quite belong there. His pale eyes wandered–and froze. All along the walls hung paintings. Not landscapes. Not abstracts. Faces. Portrait after portrait of actors and actresses, each rendered in striking detail, their gazes following him wherever he moved. Some he recognized immediately–names splashed across cinema marquees and gossip magazines. Others were more obscure, but all unmistakably beautiful, immortalized in oil and gilt frames.

Andrew’s chest tightened, unable to stop himself from studying them. “They’re all…famous,” he murmured under his breath, as though afraid of disturbing the silence. “Of course they are,” Edgar replied, setting the record player spinning with a soft crackle as soft jazz swelled to life. He approached with two glasses, offering one to Andrew. His smile was razor-sharp. “Stars deserve to be worshipped don’t they?”

Andrew took the glass hesitantly, still staring at the painted faces. “You did all of these?”

Edgar sipped his wine, eyes glinting behind his frames. “Every last one, I’m a painter on the side.” He paused, tilting his head at Andrew. “When you’ve spent your life creating stars, it’s only natural to capture them.”

Andrew’s eyes moved from one painted face to the next, the wine glass trembling faintly in his hand. Something about the rows of frozen smiles, the proud stares, made his stomach knot. Edgar seemed to not notice Andrew’s unease. He sank next to him, crossing one leg elegantly over the other, his pearls catching the light as he lifted his glass. “Norton Campbell,” he said suddenly, as though the name were too important to stay locked inside his head. “His debut was my proudest creation.”

Andrew blinked, tearing his gaze from the portraits. “Norton Campbell…?”

“Yes.” Edgar’s lips curved into a smile that was half-pride, half-possession. “Dazzling Lone Wolf. You must’ve heard of it. The world never stopped buzzing after it premiered. Overnight, the boy was everywhere–magazines, interviews, the works. I built him from the ground up. Before me, Norton was nothing but another hopeful with a pretty face. Now?” He lifted his glass in a toast to no one. “Now, he’s unforgettable.”

Andrew nodded faintly, but his thoughts slipped elsewhere. The murders. The actresses found dead. All of them tied, in one way or another, to the film industry, to this world Edgar seemed to breathe like air. His mind flashed images he’d tried to keep buried–headlines screaming of blood and mystery, photographs of once-living stars reduced to cautionary tales. His gaze swept back to the portraits, each immortalized on canvas, untouched by decay or time. They stared back at him, and he couldn’t help but imagine them with their painted throats slits, or their eyes gone dull.

Andrew swallowed hard, realizing his palms had grown damp. The murders hadn’t just brushed the edges of his city–they had clawed their way right into Edgar’s glittering circle. Andrew’s eyes lingered on the portraits, his mind circling the headlines like vultures. It was too much of a coincidence. All of them belonged to this world, the world Edgar lorded over like a king. His chest tightened as he tried to trace invisible lines, connections he wasn’t sure existed. Could Edgar know something? Could Edgar–

A hand slid over his knee, firm and deliberate, yanking him out of his spiral. Andrew startled, breath catching as Edgar leaned forward, wine glass dangling carelessly in his other hand. “You’re tense,” Edgar murmured, his voice velvet, his fingers pressing through the fabric of Andrew’s slacks as if to claim him piece by piece. “You’ve been frowning at my walls like they hold secrets.”

Andrew’s throat worked. “I was just…thinking.”

“Mm.” Edgar’s hand traveled higher, stopping just short of indecent. He set his wine down and, with his now-free hand, brushed back Andrew’s bangs again, tilting his chin so their eyes locked. His touch was light but unyielding, the kind that made Andrew feel pinned in place. “Don’t think too much,” Edgar said, his smile cutting but coaxing all at once. “Men who think too much grow old before their time. And you–” His thumb traced along Andrew’s jawline, lingering at the sharp angle like a sculptor admiring marble. “You should be admired, not buried under worry.”

Andrew’s pulse thundered. The words, the hands, the closeness–each dragged him further into Edgar’s gravity even as his mind screamed warnings. He tried to focus on the faces of the walls, tried to keep the murders in sight, but Edgar was relentless, sliding closer, their knees brushing now. Andrew’s voice came out strained, almost defensive. “You surrounded yourself with stars, Edgar. All these faces. All this attention. Doesn’t it ever…feel like too much?” Edgar’s grin widened. He leaned in, lips a breath away from Andrew’s ear. “Too much?” His hand slipped to Andrew’s waist, fingers digging in just enough to make him gasp. “There is no such thing as too much.”

Edgar’s lips then brushed Andrew’s neck once, twice–slow, deliberate kisses that made Andrew shiver despite himself. His breath was warm against pale skin, his hand traveling further down Andrew’s waistline. His chest heaved, his thoughts crashing louder than the piano spinning on the record. He saw the painted faces again, the headlines, the young women lying lifeless in grainy photographs. The glamour of it all twisted into something grotesque.

“No–” The word broke out of him suddenly, sharper than he intended. He roughly shoved against Edgar’s chest, fumbling awkwardly to put distance between them. His wine glass nearly slipped from his hand. Edgar froze, stunned for a half second before straightening, brows furrowing. “What are you doing?”

Andrew’s pulse rattled in his ears. His voice came out thin, trembling, but he forced it anyway. “It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one who’s been…who’s been killing all those young girls!”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Edgar stared at him, lips parting in disbelief before his expression hardened, fury flashing behind the wire frames of his glasses. “What the fuck is your problem?” His voice was no longer smooth velvet but jagged, sharp enough to cut. He stood abruptly, knocking the record needle causing the music to screech. “You come into my home, you drink my wine, you sit here trembling like a little lamb–and then you accuse me of murder?”

Andrew flinched at the volume, gripping his glass so tightly he thought it might shatter. His heart screamed for him to run, but his feet wouldn’t move. Edgar advanced a step, his sheer shirt catching the light as he jabbed a finger toward Andrew. “You really believe that I’d throw all of this away, build all these stars just to butcher them?” His laugh was bitter, humorless. “You really don’t know a damn thing about me.”

Andrew shrank beneath Edgar’s fury, cheeks burning, throat tight. He swallowed hard, words tumbling out before he could stop them, small and shaky: “So…you–you don’t want to kill me?”

The question hung in the air like a cracked bell. For a moment, Edgar just stared at him, eyes wide, then he let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Jesus Christ,” Edgar muttered, dragging a hand down his face. His anger flared again, sharp but laced with disbelief. “No, Andrew. I don’t want to kill you. All I wanted was a fucking hookup.” He spread his arms as he gestured around the penthouse. “Do you see a bloodstained knife lying around? A pile of corpses under the rug? No. Because I’m not a goddamn murderer.”

Andrew blinked, his face going redder by the second. His fingers fidgeted nervously with the stem of his glass. “Oh, I…I guess that makes sense…”

Edgar exhaled through his nose, pacing a few steps before turning back on him, lips pressed into a thin, furious smile. “You really are something else. I’m sitting here trying to make you feel wanted–do you know how rare that is for a man like me?--and you accuse me of being Jack the fucking Ripper.”
Andrew shrank further into the couch, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry…”

Edgar finally stopped pacing, his shoulders rising and falling as he let out one last sharp laugh. He dropped onto the cough beside Andrew, and shook his head like he still couldn’t believe it. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, half amused, half exasperated. He reached for his wine again, taking a long shallow sip before setting it down with a heavy clink.

Andrew, still hunched in on himself, peeked sidelong at him. “I… I really am sorry.”

Edgar smirked, but it was softer this time, the edges dulled. “Apology accepted. Mostly.”

Silence stretched between them for a bit, only the faint crackle of the record filled the room. Andrew’s gaze slipped down into his lap, his fingers twisting in the hem of his sleeve. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. “But…why me? Why would you even want to be with someone like me? Everyone’s always seen me as… a freak.”

The word hung heavy in the air, laced with shame.

Edgar studied him for a moment, then leaned back against the couch, crossing one leg over the other. His smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth again, though his tone this time carried a low sincerity. “Because, darling.” He tilted his head, brushing his long hair back behind one ear, the glint of his single earring catching the light. “You and I–we’re not so different.”

Andrew blinked, his pale lashes fluttering as he turned to him. “What do you mean by that?”

Edgar’s smile deepened, though there was something guarded in his eyes, a flicker of honesty wrapped in his usual showmanship. He swirled the wine in his glass, watching the red cling to the sides like blood. “Let’s just say,” Edgar murmured, voice dropping low, “I wasn’t exactly born into the role you see before you now. It took a lot of..work to get here.” He tapped his chest lightly, then his throat. “I know what it’s like to live under a label. To be looked at like a curiosity, a scandal. To have people whisper what you are instead of who you are.”

He leaned in closer, so close Andrew could smell the faint cologne beneath the wine. “So don’t talk to me about freaks. You’re speaking my language.”

Andrew’s brows knitted as he listened, his pale fingers still nervously twisting at the cuff of his sleeve. “I..don’t really understand,” he admitted softly, his voice breaking the low hum of the record. “What do you mean..not born into it?”

Edgar only smirked, sipping his wine again, as if daring Andrew to piece it together on his own. He didn’t elaborate, just let the words hang there, watching Andrew through the glint of his glasses. Andrew stared back, uncertain. His mind turned it over clumsily, confusion written across his features. Not born into it…work to get here..chest, throat..people whispering what you are instead of who you are. The thought clicked suddenly, hitting him like a damn match struck in the dark. His painted lips parted, coloring rising in his pale cheeks. “Oh,” he breathed, his voice barely audible. His eyes widened, and he looked at Edgar with a mixture of awe and a fragile kind of respect. “I…I could hardly tell.”

Edgar laughed-sharp, amused, and just a little bitter. He leaned back against the couch, swirling the wine in his glass. “Well, darling, that’s where plastic surgery and money gets you.” He tapped his cheekbone with a polished nail, the gesture casual, almost mocking. “You throw enough cash at the right hands, and suddenly the whole world believes the mask.”

Andrew blinked, cheeks reddening at his own ignorance. “I didn’t mean it like–”

“I know what you meant.” Edgar cut him off smoothly, though his smile lingered. It wasn’t unkind, just sly, like he enjoyed watching Andrew squirm. “And don’t worry–I’ll take it as a compliment.” He leaned closer, letting the pearls at his throat catch the dim light. “After all, it means I’ve done my job well enough to fool even you.” Andrew's fingers fidgeted nervously in his lap, though some part of him felt oddly flattered by Edgar’s candor. For once, he wasn’t the only one in the room who lived under whispers.

Andrew shifted uneasily on the couch, voice hesitant as he ventured a question he’d been holding back. “I…I guess what I’m wondering is…all this… the look, the face…the..surgeries. Was it worth it?”

Edgar’s eyes flicked up, sharp behind his glasses, and then he let out a low, amused laugh. “Worth it?” he echoed, leaning back casually, one arm draped along the back of the cough. “Every cut, every stitch, every goddamn procedure was worth it. Do you know what it’s like to walk into a room and have people want to look at you? To have them need to notice you? To make them hang on every word?”

Andrew swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. “But…doesn’t it..I don’t know..hurt? To change so much?”

Edgar’s smirk sharpened, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, letting his gaze bore into Andrew’s. “Of course it hurts, Andrew. The pain? Temporary. The rewards? Eternal. If a little pain sculpts me into the man I was always destined to be then I’m willing to go that length.” Andrew fidgeted, unsure whether to admire him or recoil, the honesty raw and almost startling. “I…I guess I never thought about it like that.”

Edgar leaned back again, fingers brushing his glass idly. “Most people don’t. They see the surface. They don’t know the price, the effort, the fear behind the mask. But that’s what makes it powerful.” He gave Andrew a sharp, assessing low. “And maybe that’s why I’m curious about you too–you hide yourself like the rest of the world, but I can see you, Andrew. I see the work you’ve done..even if it’s all invisible to everyone.”

Andrew’s pale eyes stayed fixed on Edgar, his mind swirling. Bewildered, unsure if he even believes Edgar or not, he felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, words failing him. Edgar, noticing the uncertainty, smirked softly. “You’re still trying to figure me out, aren’t you?” His voice dropped to a lower, warmer tone. “Let me show you something.”

Before Andrew could respond, Edgar’s hands moved to the hem of his sheer shirt. With a smooth motion, he pulled it over his head, tossing it carelessly aside. Andrew’s eyes widened slightly, taking in the sight. Edgar’s chest wasn’t flawless–two long, thin scars ran diagonally across his torso, reddened against his pale skin. The raw honesty of it struck Andrew more than any polished appearance ever could.

“You..you weren’t lying about the work it took, were you?” Andrew murmured, voice barely audible. Edgar’s smile softened, leaning back into the couch so the scars were fully visible, almost an invitation. “No. And neither are you, Andrew.” His gaze held Andrew’s steadily. “We’ve both built masks to survive. Pain you hide, scars you carry… it all shapes us.”

Andrew felt a strange familiarity wash over him, an understanding he hadn’t expected. The weight of Edgar’s vulnerability resonated in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. For the first time that night, he didn’t feel entirely like an outsider in Edgar’s world–like he was seeing someone underneath the surface, just as he feared others never truly saw him.

He shifted closer, almost without thinking, drawn by the honesty and the shared sense of hidden battles. “I..I think I understand,” he whispered, his voice tinged with awe and something softer, almost tentative. Edgar’s lips curved into a faint, approving smile. “Good,” he said quietly. “Because understanding is the first step to connection. And I think we're more alike than either of us wants to admit.” The soft, fragile silence lingered between them for a heartbeat longer, Andrew still leaning slightly closer, caught in the warmth of Edgar’s honesty. His mind finally quieted, for just a moment, from the shadows of the city and the murders outside.

Then–the shrill, urgent ringing of Edgar’s telephone shattered the bubble like glass. The sound pierced the quiet penthouse, echoing sharply against the walls adorned with portraits. Edgar cursed under his breath, pushing himself off the couch. “Christ,” he muttered, snatching up the receiver with one hand, still letting his other brush the back of Andrew’s seat as he moved.

“Edgar!” a frantic voice hissed from the other end, tinged with panic. “It’s me…Norton. Someone–someone just broke into my house. They attacked me…” Edgar’s expression snapped instantly from his calm alarm, eyes narrowing behind his glasses as his jaw tightened. “What? When? Are you hurt?”

“I–I don’t know!” Norton’s voice cracked. “I barely got away…they–” His words broke off, frantic, ragged gasps filling the line. “Please, Edgar…I don’t know what to do.” Andrew felt a chill crawl up his spine as he watched Edgar, the playful, confident man from moments ago, transform into a version hardened by urgency and command. Edgar’s eyes darted toward him briefly, a flash of acknowledgment passing between them. “Stay put,” Edgar ordered sharply into the phone. “I’m coming. Don’t move, don’t touch anything. I–I’ll handle this.” He hung up with a snap, turning toward Andrew with a grim expression that left no room for charm or jest.

Andrew swallowed hard, the intimate warmth of moments ago evaporating, replaced by a surge of unease. The glamour and teasing were gone now, replaced with the raw, unflinching reality of danger. “You-you’re going after him?” Andrew asked softly, his voice a mixture of worry and awe.

Edgar’s gaze was unwavering, his jaw set. “Of course,” he said quietly, grabbing a coat and wrapping it around himself. “I’m not letting this shit slide again.” Edgar’s expression hardened as he strode to a sleek drawer near the bar, yanking it open with one fluid motion. Inside lay a polished handgun, glinting ominously under the penthouse lights. Without hesitation, he lifted it, checking the chamber before loading bullets with practiced precision. Andrew froze, eyes widening. His hands trembled, heart hammering in his chest. “Y-you have a…gun?” His voice cracked, a mixture of fear and disbelief. “You don’t?” Edgar asked flatly, his gaze sharp, unwavering. “The police are doing jack shit about the murders, might as well take matters into my own hands.”

Andrew’s stomach lurched. Despite the terror gnawing at him, a stubborn resolve flared. He swallowed hard, stepping closer to Edgar. “Then…I’m coming with you.” Edgar’s eyes flicked to him, a flash of surprise hidden beneath the usual confidence. He raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a faint, dangerous smile. “You? Brave…or foolish?”

Andrew’s voice wavered, but he held his gaze. “Both. I…I can’t just stand around and do nothing.”

Edgar studied him for a long moment, the record from earlier still faintly spinning in the background, wine half-forgotten on the coffee table. Then, finally, he nodded slowly, gun in hand, every line of his body coiled with lethal intent. “Fine,” he said, voice sharp. Andrew’s breath hitched as Edgar strode toward the door, the weight of the gun and the unspoken danger heavy between them. And just like that, the penthouse door swung behind them.

Chapter Text

Edgar drove like a man possessed, and before Andrew had time to gather his thoughts, they were pulling into the narrow driveway of Norton’s extravagant townhouse. The place was half-lit, curtains drawn crooked, the front door left ajar as though pried open in a rush. Edgar didn’t hesitate–he stormed up the steps, gun already drawn, while Andrew trailed behind with his stomach in knots.

Inside, the scene hit them like a punch. Norton was slumped against the wall of his living room, half-dressed in boxers, his bare chest heaving. A dark gash cut across the right side of his stomach, bleeding through a makeshift towel pressed weakly against the wound. His usually polished, camera-ready face was pale and slick with sweat. “Edgar..” Norton’s voice cracked as his eyes lifted. Relief flickered in them. “Gracias a Dios que viniste”

Edgar dropped to his knees beside him, checking the wound with quick, practiced hands. “Jesus, Norton. Who the hell did this?”

“I–I don’t know,” Norton stammered, grimacing as pain tightened his features. “I was asleep. Next thing I knew, someone was in my room. Dark shape–knife in his hand. I barely got away. If I hadn’t kicked him off..” He trailed, breath ragged. “Emergency services are on their way. But–I just…” His hand found Edgar’s wrist, gripping tight. “...I just didn’t want to be alone.”

For the first time since Andrew had met him, Edgar’s sharp confidence faltered. His expression softened, the edges of his usual arrogance blurring into something else entirely–fear, maybe, or protectiveness. He squeezed Norton’s hand back. Andrew stood frozen in the doorway, watching the strange, intimate scene unfold. The surreal mix of it–blood, the half-naked actor, Edgar on the floor with him–made Andrew’s skin crawl. He didn’t know if he should step closer or leave them to it.

Edgar glanced back over his shoulder at him, voice edged but steady. “Close the damn door, Andrew. Whoever did this could still be out there.”

Edgar yanked the coat off his shoulders and pressed it firmly against Norton’s wound, ignoring the way the blood soaked instantly into the fine fabric. His hands, usually so precise and graceful, now moved with a frantic urgency. “Keep pressure here–don’t let up,” he ordered, voice sharp, though Andrew could hear the panic clawing at the edges. Norton winced, his body tensing under Edgar’s grip. “It hurts, Ed…” His voice was small, cracking, a far cry from the polished actor’s charm he wore on screen. “I–I don’t want to die.”

“You’re not going to die,” Edgar snapped, too quickly, too forceful. Then he lowered his tone, leaning close, almost whispering. “You’re going to be fine, you hear me?” Norton’s eyes glistened, his breathing uneven. His free hand clutched desperately at Edgar’s sleeve, like a child hanging onto the edge of the world. Edgar, for all his arrogance and polish, stayed rooted there beside him, one hand pressing against the wound, the other cradling the back of Norton’s neck, steadying him.

Andrew hovered in the doorway, his stomach twisted into knots. He’d never seen a man like Edgar–who only hours before was mocking and untouchable–reduced to something raw, scared, protective. The contrast made Andrew uneasy, but it also tugged at something inside him he couldn’t quite name.

“Breathe, Norton. Just breathe,” Edgar murmured, voice low, almost soothing now. His hand brushed Norton’s damp hair from his forehead. “Emergency services will be here any second. You’re strong. You’ve always been strong.” Norton gave a weak laugh that broke halfway. “That’s the first time you’ve ever said something nice to me without a script in your hand.”

“Shut up,” Edgar muttered, but the crack in his voice betrayed him. He pressed harder on the wound, his knuckles white. From outside, faint sirens began to rise in the distance, cutting through the tension like a thread pulled taut. Tires screeched against the curb, and within moments the front door burst open, EMTs flooding in with their bags. The paramedics moved quickly, strapping Norton onto the stretcher, the metallic clicks and rustle of bandages filling the room. Edgar stayed pressed to Norton’s side until they began rolling him toward the door.

“I’m coming with him,” Edgar demanded, striding toward the stretcher.

One of the EMTs held out a firm hand. “Sir, we can’t allow that. You’ll be in the way.”

“The hell I will—” Edgar snapped, but before he could push past, the back doors of the ambulance slammed shut, locking him out. The engine roared to life, and within seconds the flashing lights sped off into the night, leaving Edgar on the curb, fists clenched and chest heaving. Already, the scene outside had drawn a crowd–neighbors peering from windows, curious onlookers spilling into the street. Among them, a pack of news reporters surged forward, microphones flashing, cameras pointed at Edgar like he was prey.

“Mr. Valden! Can you confirm Norton Campbell’s condition?”

“Is it true this is tied to the string of murders in the district?”

“Were you with him when the attack occured?”

“Fuck off!” Edgar roared, his voice slicing through the questions. His eyes, sharp and glinting behind his glasses, swept over them like knives. “He’s bleeding out in there, and all you vultures care about is a headline? Parasites!”

The cameras snapped louder, as if his fury only fed them.

Before Andrew could even process the chaos, a hand caught Edgar’s arm in a firm grip. Edgar whirled, ready to lash out–only to freeze. The man holding him was strangely calm, dressed in a long, khaki coat. His eyes hidden beneath a sheer fabric. Perched on his shoulder was a tawny owl, its round eyes fixed on Edgar with eerie precision, as if seeing for him.

“Edgar Valden,” the man said evenly, his voice smooth but weighty, like he was used to being listened to. “Name’s Eli Clark, I’m a detective working on the Oletus Murder cases.”

Edgar yanked his arm back, bristling. “And what the hell do you want?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Eli said, tilting his head slightly, the owl mimicking the gesture. “About Norton. About tonight. About why you just happened to be at the scene of yet another attack.” The crowd’s murmurs thickened, the reporters inching closer with their hungry microphones. Andrew could feel his heart thudding against his ribs–this wasn’t just a scandal anymore. This was becoming dangerous.

“Questions?” Edgar spat, his voice low at first, then rising like a whipcrack. “You want to question me while he’s bleeding out in the back of an ambulance? You blind bastard–why don’t you tell me why the police department hasn’t done a single damn thing to stop these murders?” Gasps rippled through the bystanders. The reporters leaned in further, microphone thrust like daggers. “Two of my clients are already dead,” Edgar went on, his voice cutting like glass, his finger jabbing toward Eli’s chest. “Two bright and brilliant young women with futures ahead of them, and what do we have? Another night, another corpse–or nearly one! What the fuck are you even doing, Detective?”

The owl’s feathers ruffled, its sharp eyes fixed unblinking on Edgar. Eli didn’t flinch, didn’t even raise his voice. His pale gaze under the cloth stayed steady, detached in the face of Edgar’s fury. “You’re upset,” Eli said calmly, almost too calmly. “Understandably. But shouting at me in the middle of the street won’t change the facts. Someone close to you has been attacked. And someone with your influence” —his lips curved faintly, nearly a smirk–”tends to draw both opportunity and enemies. Don’t act surprised when suspicion falls your way.”

Edgar’s hands twitched, like he might actually strike him. Andrew instinctively grabbed his arm, whispering urgently, “Edgar—please.” But Edgar only snapped back, loud enough for the cameras to catch every word: “Suspicion falls my way because you’re nothing but a bunch of incompetent pigs! You’d rather harass me than stop the butcher who’s carving up this city!”

The flashes of cameras still burned hot in the night, but for a moment the noise dulled. Eli tilted his head, his unseeing eyes fixed on Edgar as if he were reading him more deeply than sight ever could. His owl shifted on his shoulders, feathers rustling like the whisper of a warning. “Here’s the thing Mr. Valden.” Eli replied, keeping his voice low and calm. “Your long and very public affairs with Mr. Campbell does not exactly absolve you. The OCPD has every right to be suspicious of you.”

Gasps rippled outward like a shockwave. The reporters surged again, hungry now, like vultures scenting blood. Questions tumbled over one another:

“An affair?”

“Mr. Valden, is it true?”

“Were you with Mr. Campbell tonight before the attack?”

Andrew’s stomach dropped. His wide eyes flicked from Edgar to Eli, then back again. He wanted to shrink into the pavement, vanish before the cameras could catch his pale, trembling face. Edgar, though–Edgar didn’t shrink. His jaw tightened, his eyes flashing dangerously behind his wire-framed glasses. For a heartbeat, Andrew swore he saw something raw break through Edgar’s polished facade. But then, like an actor slipping into a role, Edgar smirked and leaned toward Eli, his voice dripping with venom.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? For me to confess in front of your little fan club here?” He swept his hand toward the reporters, who jostled forward for better shots. “Yes, Norton and I have been..close. Closer than you could ever imagine. But if you think that makes me a killer, Detective, then with all due respect you’re not only blind–you’re just plain stupid.”

Eli crossed his arms, his voice slicing through the noise with a cruel precision. “A sexual relationship between an actor and his producer,” Eli said, low and deliberate, “isn’t just scandalous, Mr. Valden. It’s exploitative. Some might even call it predatory.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Andrew felt Edgar’s body go still beside him, every ounce of his bravado freezing in place. For a single moment, the mask slipped. Edgar’s lips parted as though Eli had struck him across the face—because in a way, he had. The accusation didn’t just corner him, it threatened to strip him bare in front of the entire city. Andrew’s breath caught. He half-expected Edgar to explode, to lash out with that venomous tongue. But instead, Edgar yanked his arm free, turned sharply on his heel, and shoved past the crowd. His hand latched onto Andrew’s wrist with surprising strength.

“Move,” Edgar hissed through his teeth.

And Andrew moved.

The two of them cut through the chaos, Edgar dragging home down the block as reporters shouted after them, questions splintering into the night air. Flashes followed them, like gunfire behind enemy lines, until finally the noise dimmed and the neon-lit street fell away. They finally stumbled into a quieter side street, far enough from the flashing cameras, shouting reporters, and the buzzing police radios that Andrew could hear his own heart hammering in his ears.

Edgar sank onto the curb, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world had been pressed down on him. He dug a cigarette from his pocket, fumbled with a lighter, and finally sparked it to life. The tip glowed bright in the darkness, the small flame illuminating his tense, furrowed brow. Andrew hovered a few feet away, unsure whether to sit or remain standing. “You…you okay?” he asked softly. His voice felt small in the emptiness.

Edgar inhaled sharply, the smoke curling around his face. He let it out in a long, jagged breath, eyes unfocused as they stared at the asphalt. “Do you think anyone sees the real me, Andrew?” His voice was low, almost a growl, edged with exhaustion. “Not the media, not the cops, not the fans…no one.”

Andrew took a tentative step closer. “I…I saw some of it tonight,” he said quietly. “Not everything, but…some.”

Edgar flicked the ash from the cigarette with a sharp movement, then glanced at Andrew, his sharp eyes softening slightly. “Some isn’t enough,” he muttered. “And right now… I don’t know if I even care about being seen. I care about his survival.” He jerked his slightly toward the direction of where the ambulance went, the tension in his jaw visible even in the dim light.

Andrew shifted, feeling both awe and concern. “I…I get that,” Andrew said softly, “wanting to protect someone. I…I get that more than you know.”

Edgar’s eyes narrowed slightly, almost testing him, before he leaned back on the curb, “Yeah,” he said finally, voice clipped, “maybe you do. Or maybe you’re just like the rest of them…trying to act like you understand something you don’t.” Andrew stayed silent, letting the words hang. For now, the chaos was behind them. But Andrew knew, deep down, that this was only the calm before the next storm. Andrew took a cautious step closer to the curb, the glow of Edgar’s cigarette illuminating the sharp lines of his face. “Edgar.. The.. the thing with Norton…is that true?”

Edgar didn’t even flinch. He leaned back on the curb, letting the cigarette dangle lazily from his fingers, eyes sharp and unyielding as they locked onto Andrew. A faint, wry smile tugged at the corner of his lip. “Of course it’s true. And I don’t regret it, I loved every second of it.” He flicked ash onto the street, eyes gleaming with an almost mischievous defiance. “You think I’d give a damn what anyone thinks? If I had the chance, I’d do it all over again. Without hesitation.”

Andrew blinked, caught off guard by the sheer shamelessness in Edgar’s tone. “Y-you wouldn’t…care what people say?” he asked timidly, his voice barely carrying. Edgar chuckled, low and amused, like Andrew’s question was almost ridiculous. “Care? About gossip, whispers, or the morality police?” He shook his head, long hair brushing his shoulders. “Please. Two adults who are attracted to each other, Andrew. They do what they want, and if it’s between them…and it works… well, that’s none of your business, none of theirs, and none of anyone else’s. I’ll sleep with who I want, when I want and I refuse to let the media slut shame me for it.”

Andrew swallowed, cheeks warming. “I… I guess… I just…never thought–I thought that maybe people-people like you would be more mod-”

Edgar interrupted with a sharp laugh, leaning forward slightly, the intensity in his eyes making Andrew’s stomach flutter. “That’s ridiculous. I bet you never would’ve thought that somebody like me would actually live like this, huh? That’d I’d take what I want, who I want, and not give two shits about the rest of the world? Yeah you’re right. Most people wouldn’t. But I do.” Andrew stayed quiet, the weight of Edgar’s honesty hitting him harder than any confession he’d imagined. Shameless. Bold. Sinful. And terrifyingly magnetic. Edgar let out a low, amused chuckle, the kind that made Andrew’s stomach tighten for reasons he didn’t entirely understand.

“If you were to ask me,” he said slyly, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Seems like they’re all jealous I got to Norton first,” He continued. “Jealous they couldn’t build him, couldn’t claim him, couldn’t be the one he runs to when the world falls apart. But here’s the thing–they’ll never beat me at that game.” Andrew said nothing, his pale fingers clutching his jacket as he watched Edgar rise, the streetlamp casting long shadows behind him.

Edgar’s smirk lingered as he approached his car, sliding into the driver’s seat with a fluid grace. He glanced over at Andrew, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “Go home,” he said bluntly, voice low but commanding. “You’ve seen enough tonight. Don’t get tangled in this any further…not yet.”

Andrew hesitated, chest tight, but nodded. “Will I ever get to see you again?”

Edgar didn’t say anything, he just started the engine, tires crunching against the pavement as he pulled away, leaving Andrew standing under the dim streetlight. The walk back to his apartment felt longer than usual, the city quiet in a way that made Andrew’s thoughts race. When he finally stepped inside, the familiar darkness of his small space was almost comforting—until a familiar voice broke the silence.

“Andy? Andy?!”

Efron appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed, gesturing wildly. “What happened? Where did you go? Who was there? Why are you pale enough to glow in the dark?!” Andrew froze, his coat still damp from the night air. “Efron…calm down. I–”

“Calm down? CALM DOWN?!” Efron bounced on the balls of his feet, hands flying like he couldn’t contain himself. “You left the club without saying anything, I thought you really did get murdered until I saw you on the damn news now tell me everything. What happened? Who attacked him? Who did this?” Andrew let out a shaky breath, sinking onto the edge of his bed. “It…it’s complicated. I…I can’t explain it all right now.”

Efron leaned closer, eyes bright with frantic curiosity. “You have to. I need to know! Is it…is it Edgar Valden? I saw you leaving with him.” Andrew flinched at the mention of Edgar’s name, still feeling the weight of the night pressing down on him. “Yes…it’s him. But it’s not like that. Not exactly.” Efron’s eyes widened further, if that were even possible. “You’re gonna make me lose my damn mind if you don’t spit it out.”

Andrew rubbed his face, trying to steady his thoughts. “I’ll…I’ll tell you soon. I just…I need to think first. Tonight was… too much.” Efron, unsatisfied but clearly unwilling to push further in the moment, dropped onto the bed beside him with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. But you owe me.”

Andrew nodded silently, staring at the ceiling, the shadows from the streetlight stretching across his walls. The night was far from over in his mind. And as much as he wanted normalcy, he already knew: Edgar Valden–and the danger surrounding him–wasn’t done with Andrew yet.

Andrew’s apartment was quiet, the city outside humming faintly through the windows. He moved toward the bathroom, shedding his coat and jacket with mechanical motions, mind heavy with everything that had happened. The warm water of the shower hit him, steam curling around his pale skin, washing away the grime of the night—but not the torrent of thoughts inside his head.

Edgar.

The image appeared unbidden: the sharp angles of his face, the playful smirk, the way he had exuded confidence like the world revolved around him. Every teasing word, every daring gesture, every moment of shamelessness pressed against Andrew’s mind with a force that made his chest tighten.

But along with the fascination came a sharp, gnawing guilt. This isn’t right. I shouldn’t… I can’t…The words echoed in his head, a chorus of doctrines he’d been raised on, the sense of sin pressing down like a heavy weight of his shoulders. His heart hammered painfully, and his cheeks flushed–not from heat, but from shame.

He remembered the way Edgar had pressed against Norton in his living room, the dangerous protectiveness, the audacity, the control. And then himself–how he had felt drawn, captivated, flustered, even longing. Each thought felt like a betrayal of everything he believed in. God forgive me… for thinking these things… for feeling this way.

The water ran over him, but it couldn’t cleanse the confusion, the conflict within. He had always been taught to fear temptation, to keep desire in check, and yet here he was, flushed and racing, utterly undone by a man–a transsexual–who was everything he shouldn’t be drawn to. By the time he stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped tightly around his waist, Andrew felt both exhilarated and burdened. Edgar was a storm he didn’t know how to face, impossible and dangerous, and Andrew’s own feelings only added the sting of guilt. He prayed silently, more out of habit than conviction, that he might resist these thoughts–but somewhere deep down, he already feared he wouldn’t.

And yet, despite all the shame he felt..a part of him felt a deep sense of regret.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Edgar–the way he had looked at him, the way he had touched him, the bold, the desperate way he had pursued him. And now, sitting here alone, Andrew felt the sting of having pushed him away. I should have… I don’t know… said yes? Let him.. The thoughts churned like a storm in his mind, twisting with the shame he had always carried.

But then the other voice in his head rose up, insistent and unforgiving. You can’t. You mustn’t. This is wrong. God doesn’t want this. This is sin.

Andrew sank onto the edge of his bed, face buried in his hands. His pale skin burned with embarrassment, guilt, and longing all at once. The thought of Edgar’s hands on him, the way he had pressed close, made him shiver–but the notion of yielding to desire was a betrayal of everything he had been taught to uphold.

God forgive me…he whispered, voice hoarse. Why do I feel this way? Why does he…make me feel this way?

The regret grew heavier with every heartbeat. He had turned Edgar away—out of fear, out of morality, out of that gnawing sense of right and wrong–but now, with the night stretching behind him, he realized how much he wanted to have stayed, how much he wanted to surrender, even for a moment, to the chaos and fire that Edgar represented. Andrew laid back, staring at the ceiling, torn between the heat of regret and the cold weight of religious guilt. He wanted Edgar. He feared Edgar. He didn’t even know if he’d even ever see Edgar again or not.

–

The morning sun filtered weakly through the hospital blinds, casting a pale glow over the sterile room. Andrew hadn’t slept much, his mind still tangled in thoughts of Edgar, but he had avoided calling or checking in–he couldn’t bring himself to. Meanwhile, Edgar was already there, sitting beside Norton’s hospital bed. His coat hung neatly over the chair, a rare softness in his posture as he gently held Norton’s hand. “I told you,” Edgar murmured, brushing a strand of damp hair back from Norton’s forehead, “you’re not allowed to scare me like that again.”

Norton, propped up against the crisp white pillows, and managed a weak smile. “I’m fine, Ed…really. Doctors said it’ll leave me with a permanent limp, but…I’m alive. That’s what matters.” Edgar’s jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line as he glanced at the monitors, the quiet hum of the hospital machines. “You shouldn’t even be in this situation in the first place.” He muttered, voice low, tinged with something like fury. “Do you know how I felt when I saw you slumped on the floor on the verge of bleeding out? If those assholes did their job there wouldn’t be a fucking serial killer on the loose.”

Norton chuckled weakly, the sound fragile. “Maybe, but I survived. That’s all that counts.”

Edgar leaned closer, his sharp features softened by worry. “I don’t care about counting. I only care about your safety.” His thumb brushed lightly against Norton’s knuckles. “I’ll make sure this won't happen again, promise.” Norton’s eyes, still a little glazed from pain and medication, flicked toward Edgar. There was vulnerability there, but also trust. “You don’t need to promise, Ed… I know you’ll try. You always do.” Edgar exhaled, a rare quiet sound, almost like a confession. “I’ll try harder this time.” The room settled into a quiet hum, the world outside the hospital window muted. For a brief moment, the chaos, the danger, the murders–they were all held at bay by the fragile intimacy between them. Edgar leaned back slightly in the chair, eyes fixed on Norton as if willing him to be whole again. Norton flexed his injury, wincing slightly. “Edgar…I don’t know if I can perform again. With a limp…the roles are gonna be pretty damn limited.”

Edgar leaned closer, placing a firm but gentle hand on Norton’s shoulder. “Don’t even think about the spotlight right now.” he said, voice low and steady. “You’ve survived a serious attack. That’s what matters. Everything else–performances, premieres, awards—it can wait. Right now, you just focus on healing. We’ll figure everything out later.”

Norton nodded slowly, the tension in his face easing just a fraction. “I… I just hate feeling…helpless.”

“You’re not helpless,” Edgar said, softly caressing his arm. “Your life is more important than work.” The quiet intimacy between them was suddenly interrupted by the soft click of heels against tile. Both men turned toward the door. A young woman in a sharply tailored suit stepped into the room, a badge glinting at her waist. Her expression was professional but sharp, and her eyes scanned the room with quiet intensity.

“Mr. Valden?” she asked, her voice calm but assertive. “Detective Emma Woods. I’m here to ask a few questions about the attack on Mr. Campbell.” Edgar straightened instantly, his hand tightening slightly on Norton’s hand before releasing it. “Detective,” he said smoothly, though a flicker of irritation crossed his features. “I assure you, I have nothing to hide. But this isn’t exactly the most convenient moment.”

Emma’s gaze didn’t waver. “I understand,” she said, glancing briefly at Norton. “But this is my job to gather information now while it’s fresh. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to speak with both of you. Nothing lengthy, I promise.” Norton gave a small, weary nod. “It’s fine,” he murmured, though his voice was cautious. Edgar leaned back in his chair, lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine. But I expect discretion, I don’t want reporters rushing in here like a pack of wolves.”

Emma nodded as she pulled out a small notepad from her coat pocket and stepped closer to the bed. Her pen hovered, ready. “Let’s start with the basics. Mr. Campbell, you said you were attacked in your sleep. Did you see who it was?” Norton shook his head faintly, his hand brushing instinctively against the bandages at his side. “No…I woke up to them stabbing me, I managed to kick him off but” Norton winced at the memory, “but they were gone before I could even scream.”

Emma’s gaze flicked to Edgar. “And you, Mr. Valden–how did you arrive so quickly to the scene? Reports say you showed up before law enforcement.” Edgar leaned forward in his chair. His tone was cool but edged. “Because Norton called me first. He didn’t dial the police or the press–he dialed me. Maybe you ask yourself why that is before you try to twist it into suspicion.”

Emma arched an eyebrow, unbothered. “You’re not denying that you have a very…close relationship with Mr. Campbell?” A low laugh escaped Edgar–sharp, sardonic. “Please. Detective, I’ve molded his career with my own hands. Of course we’re close. What exactly are you implying? That I staged an attack on the very man who’s been making me millions these past two years? Norton is a commodity, a diamond in the rough, you’d think I’d just let that all go to waste?”

Norton shifted uncomfortably at the bluntness, his eyes flicking between them. Emma’s pen scratched across the page. “No, I’m implying nothing. I’m gathering facts. Two of your other actors are already dead. Mr. Campbell is now attacked. That makes you a common thread, Mr. Valden.” The air in the room grew tight. Edgar’s jaw clenched, his long fingers drumming sharply against his knee. “A common thread,” he echoed bitterly. “Or maybe a convenient scapegoat. Tell me, Detective, are you investigating the killer, or just whoever is easiest to point at?”

Emma met his glare evenly, then adjusted her glasses. “Truth and Inference is a very reputable business, we don’t see scapegoats, Mr. Valden. We see patterns, and right now, you’re the center of one.” Edgar smirked, though his eyes were hard. “Then I suggest you widen your lens, Detective Woods. Because the real killer is out there, and while you’re busy sniffing around me, they’re laughing at all of us.”

Emma didn’t waver once again, she steadied her gaze. “Don’t you realize how bad this looks?” she said, voice even but edged with weight. “Each of the victims so far are all tied to you, Mr Valden. They were all young, beautiful, and more importantly–connected to you.”

Edgar’s shoulders tensed. His hand stilled on his knee. Emma’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Lily Barriere. Does that name mean anything to you?” The air in the hospital room shifted. Norton looked up, saddened as Edgar’s face betrayed a flicker of something raw–pain, regret, guilt.

“She was eighteen years old,” Emma continued, pressing on. “Fresh out of high school. An aspiring actress. Barely old enough to know what she wanted from life, and somehow she crossed paths with you. A month later, she’s found dead in a ditch. Stabbed forty-seven times.” Edgar swallowed hard, his usually sharp tongue caught behind clenched teeth. His voice, when it finally came, was hoarse. “Don’t you dare–don’t you dare say her name like that. Lily wasn’t just some case file.”

Emma tilted her head, studying him. “Then who was she?”

“She was going to be brilliant,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual. “Lily was a runaway. She left behind an alcoholic father who couldn’t see her worth if it was painted in gold. And when she walked into a screening for Dazzling Lone Wolf, she didn’t beg or cower like so many others do.” His eyes flickered upward, lost in memory. “No. She came to me with confidence. She looked me straight in the eye and told me she wanted to burn brighter than anyone else on the screen. And, I believed her.”

Emma’s brow furrowed, but before she could respond, Norton–half propped up in bed, his bandaged side rising and falling unevenly–spoke up. His voice was faint, but steady. “She had the potential to be something huge.” Norton said. His lips curled into the ghost of a smile, though there was sorrow in it. “I saw it too. Lily had..that thing you can’t teach. That light. If she’d had the chance–if she’d had just one role–people would still be saying her name. Not reading it in a police report.”

The room went quiet. Even Emma’s pen stilled in her notebook.

Edgar exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his long brown hair. His wire-framed glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, and when he looked at Emma again, his eyes glistened. “So don’t reduce her to another name in your files, Detective. She was more than that. She deserved more than the world ever gave her.”

Emma shifted, her sternness softening for the briefest second before she closed her notebook with a snap. “Then help me,” she said firmly. “If you really wanted justice for her–and for the others–you need to give me something. Otherwise…” Her gaze cut like steel. “All I have are your connections to every victim, and that doesn’t look good in court.”

She didn’t wait for Edgar to answer. She turned and walked out, the door shutting with a heavy click behind her. Norton’s eyes lingered on Edgar, uneasy but sympathetic. Edgar rose giving one last nod to Norton before leaving the room.

The city lights bled into long streaks across Edgar’s windshield as he drove. The radio was off, the only sound was the low hum of the engine and the occasional drag of his cigarette. Smoke curled around him, ghostly and restless, before escaping through the cracked window.

The memory crept in uninvited, and soon the world outside his car melted into that night at the screening of Dazzling Lone Wolf. The theater lobby had been chaos, applause still ringing in the air, actors and fans pressing for his attention. And then she came barreling toward him–Lily Barriere. Barely eighteen, her dress slightly frayed at the hem, eyes wide with a feverish glow that unsettled even him.

“Oh my God–” she breathed, half laughing, half gasping as if she’d sprinted across the city just for this moment. “You’re Edgar Valden.” He smirked faintly, used to people saying his name like a prayer. But there was something different about the way she looked at him–like she was staring at an idol made flesh. “I’ve seen you–on magazine covers, interviews–everywhere!” she gushed, clasping her hands together as though restraining herself from grabbing him. “You’re the one who makes nobodies into legends. I can’t believe I’m standing in front of you. This is–this is insane.”

Her words tumbled out too fast, a stream of admiration and mania. People around them stared, but she didn’t care. Edgar adjusted his glasses, his gaze cool and appraising. “I am who I am,” he replied smoothly, though inside he was measuring her. “And what exactly are you, hm? Another girl who wants to be famous?”

“I’m not another girl,” Lily snapped with sudden intensity, her blue eyes sharp and burning. “I’m the girl. I can do it–I know I can. If you just look at me, really look, you’ll see it too. You’ll see what I see.” She was trembling, almost vibrating with the force of her own belief, but her grin didn’t falter. It unnerved him in a way he couldn’t admit. “You don’t even know me,” Edgar said dryly, half to test her, half to distance himself. “I don’t need to,” Lily answered instantly. “Because I know you.You’re Edgar Valden–the man who decides who shines and who rots in the shadows. And I’m not going to rot.”

The way she said it–breathless, desperate, and yet so sure–hit him harder than it should have. Edgar gave her a smirk, “Good answer. Meet me later after the movie.”

Back in his car, Edgar exhaled smoke into the empty light of day, the memory leaving him with an ache under his ribs. “What kind of sick fuck murders a teenage girl,” he muttered, voice low, bitter. The cigarette’s ember glowed red, then dimmed as ash crumbled onto his lap.

Sunlight streamed into the underground garage in sharp beams, dust floated lazily in the shafts of light. Edgar slid out of his car with a groan, his hair slightly mussed from the drive. His sunglasses did little to shield the weariness on his face. The day had stretched too long already–detectives, hospitals, and ghosts of the dead pressing his thoughts. All he wanted was the quiet of his home, a record spinning to drown out his thoughts, maybe another glass of wine.

Waiting near the elevator was Victor Grantz, his ever-timid assistant. The young man clutched his folio awkwardly, shoulders hunched, as if unsure whether he should approach. Edgar clicked his tongue the second he saw him. “Victor, what the hell are you doing here? It’s the middle of the day–you should’ve gone home hours ago.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t pay you to hover in my garage like a stray dog.”

Victor’s ears went pink, but he didn’t retreat. His grip tightened on the folio. “I–I was about to leave, Mr. Valden, but….you have a visitor waiting upstairs.” Edgar froze mid-step, irritation sharp in his expression. “A visitor?” His voice dripped with venom. “I don’t recall scheduling any meetings. And yet you let some stranger into my home while a serial killer is on the loose?”

Victor winced, but shook his head quickly. “He insisted, sir. Said it was urgent. I tried to turn him away, but he wouldn’t leave. I thought it was better that you deal with him yourself.” Edgar shoved his sunglasses up into his hair, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Of course. Leave the difficult parts for me to clean up.” He brushed past Victor and jabbed at the elevator button.

Victor hesitated, voice softer now. “I just thought… it seemed important.”

The elevator door slid open, polished metal gleaming. Edgar stepped inside, his jaw tight. “Fine. You’re dismissed. Go home before I decide to cut your hours.” Victor lingered, flustered, on the threshold but didn’t follow him in. As the door slid shut, Edgar exhaled smoke from the cigarette clamped between his teeth, his mind racing. Whoever had forced their way into his sanctuary had better have a damn good reason.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Edgar stepped into the dim coolness of his penthouse. The blinds were drawn halfway, muting the afternoon sun into a hazy golden glow. He set his keys down on the marble counter, already scowling.

And then he froze.

Someone was sitting on his velvet couch–broad shoulders hunched forward, pale hands clasped together as though bracing himself for judgment. Andrew. His stark white hair caught the weak light, making his presence even more ghostly against the dark furnishings. Edgar let the cigarette dangle from his lips, one brow arching sharply. “Well, well. Nosferatu himself.” He tugged his coat off with deliberate slowness, tossing it across the arm of a chair. “Tell me, Andrew, how the hell did you get past my assistant and into my home?”

Andrew shifted uncomfortably, his red eyes flickering up at Edgar then back down to the polished floor. “Victor… let me up. Said you’d probably be mad but–” He hesitated, swallowing hard. “I didn’t know where else to go.” Edgar’s scowl softened only a fraction, though he masked it quickly with a laugh that came out sharp, humorless. “So you break into my sanctuary because you’re out of options? Bold of you.” He stalked closer, his steps echoing in the high-ceilinged room. “You’ve got some gall, Andrew.”

Andrew’s shoulders tightened at the words, but he didn’t leave. Instead, he blurted out quietly, “I couldn’t stop thinking about last night.” Edgar paused mid-step, cigarette smoke curling around his profile as he studied the albino man with sharp, unreadable eyes. “You couldn’t stop thinking,” Edgar repeated softly, almost mocking–but there was a low hum of curiosity under it. He sank into the armchair across from Andrew, draping one leg over the other with careless elegance. “About me? Or about your little outburst where you accused me of being a murderer and then finding Norton almost stabbed to death?”

Andrew winced, guilt cutting across his pale features. “Both,” he admitted in a rush. His hands twisted in his lap like he was trying to wring the shame out of them. “I-i’m not used to this. To being touched. Or wanted. Especially by…by another man.” Edgar didn’t reply right away. He moved instead–unhurried, deliberate–sliding off his chair and onto the couch beside Andrew. Too close. Close enough that Andrew felt the heat radiating from him, close enough that the faint scent of his cologne–amber, smoke, something expensive and biting–curled its way into his lungs.

Andrew stiffened, words tangling in his throat. “I–I just–this is–” He stumbled over the sounds, his pale face flushing red, his eyes darting anywhere but Edgar’s. Edgar tilted his head, studying him with quiet amusement, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smirk. “You fall apart rather easily, don’t you?” His tone was silk and steel all at once, teasing but sharp, like he wanted to see how far he could push.

Andrew swallowed hard, heart pounding so loud it was all he could hear. “You’re–too close,” he finally muttered, though his body refused to move away. Edgar leaned back just slightly, draping an arm across the back of the couch behind Andrew’s shoulders. “Funny. I don’t think I’m close enough.” Edgar’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying Andrew like he was a puzzle he intended to solve. “So tell me, Andrew..why are you really here?”

Andrew fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, twisting it between his fingers. His voice was quiet, hesitant. “I… I wanted to thank you,” he admitted. “For last night. For…being so kind. For–for–” He faltered, unsure how much to say. Edgar tilted his head, lips curling into an expression that was half amusement, half disbelief. “Thank me?” he repeated, the word dripping with sarcasm. “And how do you intend on thanking me?”

Andrew’s cheeks burned hotter, but he couldn’t deny the truth of it. “I..I..I’m unsure–”

Edgar leaned closer, his presence pressing into Andrew’s space. His voice dropped low, velvet and dangerous all at once. “I can show you.” He let his hand brush lightly over Andrew’s arm–not quite a touch, not quite a warning–but close enough to make Andrew shiver and stumble over his words. “I…I don’t..I-”

Edgar’s smirk deepened as he watched Andrew falter. He shifted slightly, the closeness undeniable, and the heat of his body pressed subtly but insistently against Andrew’s. Andrew’s hands trembled in his lap, but he didn’t pull away. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling unevenly as the reality of Edgar’s closeness pressed against him. The warmth, the scent, the steady confidence–it was intoxicating, overwhelming.

“I–I shouldn’t” he whispered, voice strained, almost pleading. “I–”

Edgar’s fingers brushed lightly against Andrew’s jaw, tilting his head so their eyes met. “Shouldn’t?” he murmured, his voice thick with amusement and desire. “Andrew, you’ve been thinking about this since last night. Don’t fight it.” Andrew’s lips parted, eyes wide, heart hammering in his chest. Every instinct screamed caution, yet every nerve in his body ached to lean into the touch, to let the danger of wanting someone like Edgar consume him.

Andrew’s resolve faltered. His knees went slightly weak, his fingers clenching the couch fabric as he finally gave himself permission–tentative, nervous, but deliberate–to lean toward Edgar. The space between them shrank further, every second stretching, charged with an electricity that was impossible to ignore. Andrew’s pulse raced, and despite his fear, despite his guilt, he couldn’t deny the thrill, the pull, the dangerous intimacy of it all.

Edgar’s hand lingered on Andrew’s jaw, thumb brushing along the pale skin with delicate confidence. Andrew closed his eyes, a shaky exhale escaping his lips. Deep inside, beneath the racing hair and the heat of the moment, a small, silent prayer formed. Please Lord, forgive me for the fornication I am about to commit. He didn’t say it aloud; he didn’t dare. But he felt the words grounding him, a tether in the storm of sensation.

Edgar’s lips finally brushed against Andrew’s temple, feather-light, sending a shiver down his spine. Andrew’s hands trembling in his lap, unable to resist the pull of the moment. Slowly, deliberately, Edgar tilted his head and pressed a soft, lingering kiss beneath Andrew’s ear. Andrew’s breath hitched, a low, quiet sound that seemed to echo in the golden quiet of the penthouse. Every nerve ending felt alive, every pulse a drumbeat of desire and fear.

“You’re trembling,” Edgar murmured, his voice low, teasing, yet tender. His hand slid from Andrew’s jaw to rest gently along the side of his neck, thumb brushing along the skin in a slow, intoxicating rhythm. “Edar…I–” Andrew began, voice breaking, but Edgar silenced him with a soft chuckle, leaning in, lips brushing the edge of Andrew’s earlobe. “No words, Andrew.” Edgar whispered, almost commandingly. “Not yet. Just feel.”

Edgar’s lips traced a slow path down Andrew’s neck, teasing, intimate, each touch deliberate and careful. His hands explored lightly over the curves of his shoulders and arms. Andrew’s body responded instinctively–shivers, quickened breaths, and the flutter of his pulse–but beneath it all, his panic only deepened. He pressed his hands against Edgar’s chest, finally breaking the intimate pressure. “I..I can’t,” he stammered, voice trembling. “You’re..you’re a man.”

Edgar paused, eyebrow arched, a teasing smirk curling on his lips. “Well that's depending on who you ask.” Andrew’s flush deepened from embarrassment. “This is serious, Edgar. God…God is watching me. I can’t–” The words hung in the air, heavy and resolute. Edgar’s eyes darkened, a flash of frustration, heat, and want crossing his face. The teasing smirk faltered, replaced by a raw tension that made every muscle in Andrew’s body tremble in response.

“You..God,” Edgar muttered, voice rough, leaning back slightly, the sexual tension now twisted with irritation. “You always have to ruin the damn moment.” Andrew’s hands shook against Edgar’s chest. “I can’t go against what I believe in.”

Edgar let out a low growl, frustration evident as he ran a hand through his hair. “Damn it,” he hissed, voice edged with lust and exasperation. “You make it impossibly hard to keep my hands off you.” Andrew’s throat tightened, words faltering as he struggled to articulate what he was feeling. “I-I’m sorry! It’s just y-you’re a..” be began, voice shaky, eyes downcast.

Edgar’s patience snapped. He leaned forward suddenly, eyes flashing with irritation, lips curled in a sharp, cutting grin. “I’m a what? A transvestite, a fag?” His voice rose, low and dangerous, the cigarette smoke swirling around him like a halo of tension. Andrew flinched under the intensity, stumbling backward in his seat. “N-no, I…I didn’t mean it like that!” he stammered, hands shaking as he pressed them against his chest. “I…I just–”

“You just what?” Edgar barked, standing abruptly, the air between them thick with frustration and heat. “I know what I am, Andrew. I’m a walking talking sin, I don’t need you to remind me.” Andrew’s lips parted, but no words came. His pulse raced, and his religious guilt churned like a storm in his chest. He couldn’t articulate what he wanted without feeling like he was betraying his beliefs. Edgar took a step closer, the proximity suffocating and electrifying all at once. “Don’t you dare let God or anyone else make you afraid of me,” he growled, voice low, strained with desire. “I don’t care what rules you live by. I’m not just your sin. I’m the man standing right in front of you. And you..feel it too.”

Edgar’s eyes narrowed, sharp and unrelenting, as he took another deliberate step closer, the heat radiating off him undeniable. “You know why you stayed last night,” Edgar said, each word cutting deeper. “You didn’t leave because you wanted to. You stayed because you wanted this. Every glance, every stumble over your words..you’ve been chasing it, Andrew. Following me around like a damn dog.”

Edgar’s hand lifted slightly, brushing a stray lock of white hair from Andrew’s forehead. “And that’s exactly why you came back today,” he continued, voice low, teasing, but edged with frustration. “Don’t tell me you didn’t. You followed your own curiosity right here, didn’t you?”

Andrew swallowed, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. His hands shook, pressing against his chest as if to contain himself. “I–I…” he stammered, barely audible. “I..I don’t know..” Edgar leaned closer, his lips ghosting along the shell of Andrew’s ear. “Don’t lie to me, Kriess. I know what you want. You don’t have to keep lying to yourself.”

“Dear, Lord..help me.” Andrew whispered, voice breaking, but the words rang hollow to even his own ears. He leaned forward impulsively, capturing Edgar’s mouth in a slow, demanding kiss, their lips moving with a hunger that was completely feral. A soft moan escaped from Andrew as his hands roamed over Edgar’s chest and arms, memorizing the warmth and strength he could no longer deny he craved. Edgar’s fingers traced along Andrew’s spine, tilting him gently as their bodies molded together.

The penthouse seemed to shrink around them, the outside world forgotten. There was only the heat, the closeness, and the dangerous, thrilling surrender of two souls colliding in a moment that felt suspended outside of time itself. Edgar pushed back, his hands lingering on Andrew for a moment longer before he slowly, deliberately began to unbutton his shirt. The fabric fell away, revealing the sharp lines of his torso, and Andrew’s breath caught in his throat.

–

The next moment, the penthouse was quiet, sunlight muted through half-drawn blinds. Andrew and Edgar lay tangled together on the velvet couch, limbs intertwined, breaths heavy and uneven. Andrew’s head rested against Edgar’s chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath him grounding yet igniting his own racing pulse. He turned his gaze upward, eyes tracking the ceiling, mind spinning faster than his body could keep up. Thoughts tumbled uncontrollably: the guilt, the desire, the thrill of it all. God… what did I just do? The question echoed in his chest, mingling with a warmth he couldn’t deny.

His hands twitched slightly, brushing over Edgar’s arm, feeling the warmth and tension there. “Edgar…” Andrew whispered, voice trembling, between confession and fear. “I…I don’t know how to..how to feel about this. About us.”

Edgar shifted slightly, loosening the tangle of their bodies just enough to look down at Andrew, his expression a mix of amusement and sharp honesty. “Listen,” he said bluntly, voice low but firm, “I’m not one for relationships, don’t think anything else is going to come out of this.” Andrew’s pulse quickened, eyes flicking up to meet Edgar’s. “I..I’m not asking for that,” he murmured, voice tentative, uncertain.

Edgar smirked, brushing a damp strand of Andrew’s pale hair from his forehead. “I just wanted to make things clear so you don’t get the wrong idea. I like you, Andrew, but if you’re looking for love, for forever, you won’t find it with me.” Andrew swallowed hard, chest tightening, a flicker of panic and disappointment mingling with the lingering desire, “I…I don’t know if I can handle that,” he admitted, voice trembling. “I’ve never been wanted like this before.”

Edgar leaned closer, tilting Andrew’s chin up gently, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Then enjoy it while it lasts. That’s all I’m offering, no strings.” Andrew’s eyes dropped to Edgar’s chest, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm beneath his hands. His heart pounded. He wanted more, craved the closeness–but Edgar’s words reminded him that would simply just not happen.

Andrew’s hands hesitated for a fraction of a second on Edgar’s chest, then slowly, tentatively, he pressed closer. He let out a long, shaky breath, closing his eyes. Edgar, sensing the shift, didn’t move away. Instead, he draped an arm over Andrew’s shoulder, tugging him closer, letting the other man find solace in the tangled embrace. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to feel safe, to feel wanted even if it was for a short while, and finally, to drift into a sleep. The penthouse was quiet, the sunlight muted through half-drawn blinds, the faint hum of the city below unnoticed. And there, tangled together on the velvet couch, Andrew slept, surrendering to a dangerous, forbidden comfort that he knew he would never forget.

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered softly through the blinds, illuminating the penthouse in pale gold. Andrew stirred first, blinking against the brightness, still tangled against Edgar’s chest. The warmth and closeness of yesterday lingering, leaving a mix of desire, guilt, and a strange comfort in its wake. Edgar shifted under him, stretching, the sharp lines of his face softening slightly in the quiet of the morning. A low, amused hum escaped his lips as he caught sight of Andrew still half-asleep, nestled against him. The gold light caught in his pale lashes, he honestly looked like an angel.

But before either of them could speak, the door to the penthouse opened gently, and Victor stepped inside, folio clutched tightly to his chest. The young assistant looked slightly frazzled, eyes darting between Edgar and Andrew. “Mr. Valden,” Victor began, voice hesitant, “I…you’re late for your meeting with Alice DeRoss.”

Edgar’s eyebrow arched, a cigarette already between his fingers as if it were second nature. “Alice?” he murmured, voice laced with amusement and exasperation. “Oh right, I completely forgot.” He glanced down at Andrew, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Guess it’s time to get up. The real world doesn’t wait for anyone, not even us.” Andrew stirred again, blinking rapidly, mind still foggy from sleep. “Alice? The child star? That Alice?” he questioned, voice husky.

“Yes, that Alice.” Edgar replied, dragging himself up, brushing his hair back, and taking a long drag of his cigarette. “She’s going to be featured in an upcoming film alongside Mike Morton. It’s going to be huge.” Victor cleared his throat, stepping a little closer, folio still clutched to his chest. His voice was calm, measured, but carried a weight that demanded attention. “Mr. Valden,” he said carefully, “you do realize you’re running late for your session. She’s been waiting, and it’s important you maintain your reputation with her and her team. Show up late–especially after yesterday’s incident with Norton–doesn’t reflect well.”

Edgar’s eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation crossing his sharp features. He flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the marble floor, “I appreciate your concern, Victor.” he said slowly, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Truly. But I think I can manage my own schedule without a lecture from my timid little assistant.” Victor’s expression remained calm, almost serene in contrast to Edgar’s flare of temper. “I’m just reminding you, sir. You cannot afford to alienate yourself, no matter how confident you feel in your abilities.”

Edgar didn’t say anything, the last thing he wanted to do was argue back and forth with his assistant. Andrew, still curled slightly on the couch, watched the exchange nervously, unsure whether to be amused or horrified by Edgar’s audacity and disregard for people he deems lesser than him. After a moment of awkward silence, Edgar stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray, turning toward Andrew with a glint in his eye.

“Get up,” he said, brushing ash from his sleeve. “You’re coming with me. Might as well see what I actually do for a living instead of skulking in my home all day.” Andrew blinked, startled. “M-Me? To work?”

Victor, interjected softly, “Mr. Valden, perhaps that’s not wise. These meetings are delicate, and bringing an…outsider along might–”

“Victor,” Edgar cut in, voice sharp as glass, “I don’t recall asking for your opinion. He’s coming. End of discussion.” Andrew rose hesitantly, hastily putting his coat on. Victor pressed his lips together, clearly unhappy, but obediently followed as Edgar led them out of the penthouse.

By the time they reached the studio lobby, the air was buzzing with the sound of chattering voices and clicking shoes. Waiting near the front desk was a young girl with perfect golden ringlets, an expensive frilly dress, and a glare sharp enough to slice marble. Alice DeRoss, eight years old, the darling of the tabloids.

She tapped her patent leather shoes against the floor impatiently, swinging her little stuffed doll around with authority. Beside her stood her caretaker, a tall, gaunt man with neatly combed brunette hair and dark circles around his eyes. Orpheus, they called him. His gloved hand rested on Alice’s shoulder, though it seemed more to restrain than comfort.

She perked up the instant she spotted Edgar. “Mr. Valden!” he cried, running forward. “You’re late! I’ve been waiting forever!” Though her words carried a little sting, her wide grin softened them–more impatience than malice. Edgar spread his arms, bowing his head theatrically. “Ah, forgive me, my starlet. You caught me. I’m hopeless without your light to guide me.”

Alice giggled, hiding her face behind her small hands. “You always say funny things. Mama says you’re the most important man in the pictures, but you don’t seem very scary.” Beside her, Orpheus, tall and hollow-eyed, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Alice,” he hissed slightly, “remember your manners.”

“I am being polite,” Alice insisted, though she turned back to Edgar with earnestness. “I practiced the script all morning! You’re going to love them. Can we start right away?” Edgar smiled, though his eyes flickered with exhaustion. “Of course, but first we have to discuss what you’re getting into.” Andrew lingered a step behind, awkward and quiet. Alice noticed him at once, her eyes curious. “Who is that?” she asked, but then her face lit up. “Is that a real life vampire?!”

Edgar let out a sigh as he leaned slightly toward Victor, lowering his voice so only he could hear. “This is going to be a long day. Be a darling and fetch me some blow before I have to wring my own neck.” Victor’s face hardly shifted, save for the faintest twitch of his brow. He gave the smallest of sighs, “Mr. Valden…” he murmured in quiet reproach, but Edgar had already straightened back up, flashing Alice one of his perfected smiles.

Alice was still waiting expectantly, bouncing on her heels. Her eyes flicked again toward Andrew, curiosity sparkling. “This?” Edgar said with a dismissive wave, glancing at Andrew as though he were no more than a piece of furniture. “Nobody important. Don’t trouble yourself over him.” Andrew’s face colored, but before he could form a word, Edgar swept the conversation away. He crouched to Alice’s height, his tone suddenly warm, coaxing. “This film, Alice, is going to be monumental in children’s entertainment,” he said, rising back up pacing slowly as though speaking to a room of investors rather than an eight-year-old. “Not only will you be the heart of the story, but you’ll be sharing the screen with the one and only Mike Morton.” Alice’s eyes widened, a little gasp slipping from her lips. “Mike Morton? THE Mike Morton? He’s…he’s the best acrobat in the world!”

Edgar smiled faintly, pleased by her awe. “Exactly. You’ll be standing beside him, scene for scene. Imagine the posters, the premieres, the headlines: America's beloved darling joins forces with its Hullabaloo’s Brightest Star. The audience will eat it alive.” Alice grinned, bouncing a little in her seat. Andrew, watching from the side, felt his chest tighten–Edgar’s words were intoxicating, a spell spun so easily that even a child fell under its weight.

But Orpheus, who had been quiet and observant until now, finally stepped forward. His calm voice cut through Edgar’s performance like a blade wrapped in velvet. “Mr. Valden,” he said evenly, resting a hand on Alice’s shoulder. “You mustn’t push her too hard. She’s only a child, no matter how brightly you wish her to shine.”

For a moment, Edgar’s smile flickered. “Orpheus,” he said finally, voice edged with disdain. “Stars aren’t born, they’re made. And if she’s going to stand beside somebody as prolific as Mike Morton, then she’d better be ready to burn bright, no matter the cost.” Alice was still beaming, swinging her legs from the lobby couch as if Edgar’s talk had already carried her to the premiere night. Victor, who had been taking notes in his small leather-bound book, finally spoke–his voice level, edged with something firmer than usual. “Mr. Valden,” he said, eyes not leaving the page as his pencil tapped once against the margin, “Mr. Orpheus is right. The schedule you’ve drawn up for Alice is…ambitious, to say the least. Perhaps we ought to consider pacing her work. She is eight years old.”

The air thickened instantly. Edgar’s head turned sharply toward his assistant, a spark of irritation flashing across his face. “Ambitious,” he repeated flatly, “Victor, I don’t pay you to second-guess me. I pay you to listen.” Victor didn’t flinch, though Andrew, sitting awkwardly at the edge of the room, felt the tension crawl down his spine. “With all respect,” Victor replied, finally lifting his eyes, cool and steady, “it’s not my job to indulge you when I see potential harm. If Alice collapses from exhaustion halfway through filming, the schedule falls apart–and so does your production.”

Alice looked between them, her childish smile faltering slightly. Orpheus’s fingers tightened protectively on her shoulder. Edgar let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “My God, Victor. First you try to scold me in front of the boy, and now this?” His gaze flickered to Andrew, then back to Victor. “You’re starting to forget your place.” Victor’s jaw set, though his tone never rose. “Maybe someone needs to remind you of yours.”

The room fell into a hush. Even Alice sensed the gravity now, tugging lightly on Oprheus’s sleeve as if to shrink herself smaller. Andrew shifted uncomfortably, feeling like an intruder caught in something much larger than he understood. Edgar leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You two are unbelievable. A caretaker and an assistant—suddenly you both have authority over me?” Orpheus raised his brows. “At least one of us is thinking about Alice’s well–being, Mr. Valden. She’s not a machine for your cameras.” Edgar rolled his eyes, “I’m not listening to a glorified servant who couldn’t get his novels off the ground. What do you suppose I do? Read her a bedtime story on set? Should we give her milk and cookies between takes?”

Victor cut in dryly, “Frankly, yes. That might be more productive than your usual cocaine breaks.”

Edgar nearly choked, wheeling toward him. “Excuse me?”

“Did I stutter?” Victor replied, tone as ever.

“I wish you did, why don’t you go back to being mute so I don’t have to hear your bitching in my ear Victor.”

“You’d love for me to go back to being your quiet little lapdog wouldn’t you?”

“Gentlemen,” Orpheus interjected, raising his hand slightly. “If the two of you could stop trying to outwit each other for five seconds–”

“Don’t try to parent me, Orpheus!” Edgar snapped. The room filled with sharp words, overlapping barbs, and the rising tension of egos. Andrew, who had been trying to shrink into the armchair as the fire flew between them, suddenly found himself blurting out: “Can I…make a suggestion?” They all froze and turned. Edgar arched a brow, Victor coughed, and Orpheus tilted his head. Andrew’s throat went dry, but he pressed on. “Instead of tearing each other apart… why don’t you just ask Alice what she wants? What she feels about all this?”

Alice, who had been swinging her legs on the couch, perked up instantly, her eyes brightening. “Yeah! That! Why didn’t anyone ask me?” Edgar blinked, caught off guard. For a split second, the fire in his expression softened. He glanced at Andrew, lips curling into a faint, reluctant smile. Victor, meanwhile, exhaled and muttered under his breath, “This guy has got more sense than all of you combined.”

Orpheus leaned toward Alice, finally smiling. “Well then, my dear. What do you want?” Alice sat up tall, grinning ear to ear. “I want to be a star. And I don’t care how much work it takes–I can do it.” Her voice was so certain, so stubborn, that for the first time that day, the room fell into a rare kind of peace.

For a moment, Edgar simply studied Andrew from across the table. He didn’t say anything–just leaned back into his chair, igniting another cigarette, a sly gleam in his eye. But beneath that nonchalance, something stirred: a quiet, reluctant admiration. The boy had a way of slicing through noise without even raising his voice. It was…disarming.
Edgar’s lips twitched, almost into a smile, before he quickly disguised it with a drag of smoke. “Fine,” he said at last, exhaling a cloud into the ceiling. “We’ll do it your way.” Victor looked like he’d just witnessed a miracle. Orpheus gave Andrew a curt nod, as though silently approving. Alice, delighted at having the floor, launched into an animated monologue about how she wanted her character to have a dog, or maybe a sword, or maybe both. The rest of the meeting unraveled more smoothly than anyone expected. Edgar, for once, kept his temper in check. Orpheus made notes without snapping. Victor scribbled details into his planner with his usual quiet efficiency. Alice giggled through half the conversation, brimming with ideas.

And Andrew… he sat quietly, watching it all, realizing he’d somehow managed to steady the great Edgar Valden–even if only for an hour.

When the meeting finally concluded, Orpheus ushered Alice out with a hand on her shoulder, reminding her about etiquette and posture. Victor excused himself to make a call, leaving Edgar and Andrew lingering in the lobby. Edgar stretched, rolled his shoulders, then glanced sidelong at Andrew. There was something unreadable in his stare—half annoyance, half curiosity, and buried deep, something warmer. “You’re full of surprises, Reverend’s son,” Edgar muttered. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Andrew flushed at the words, his ears warming as he shifted uncomfortably under Edgar’s gaze. “I–I didn’t do anything,” he stammered, eyes darting to the floor. “I just… thought maybe it was best to ask Alice what she wanted. That’s all.” Edgar smirked, cigarette perched loosely between his lips as he blew a thin stream of smoke into the lobby air. “Don’t sell yourself short.” He stepped closer, just enough to make Andrew’s breath hitch. “You kept Victor from crying, Orpheus from strangling them both. That’s no small feat.”

Andrew blinked, still trying to decide if Edgar was mocking him or not.

Then Edgar leaned in, lowering his voice like he was letting Andrew in on a secret. “You know… you might just need to retire that grave–keeping gig. I think you’ve got more potential than you realize. Don’t wanna be on the big screen? You could always be behind the scenes. I could use a new assistant as well..”

Andrew’s throat tightened. “W-what do you mean?”

Edgar’s grin turned sly. “It means, Reverend’s son. I could use someone like you. A man who knows how to keep the peace. Someone who listens when no one else does. Maybe it’s time you stop shoveling dirt and start dealing with stars. Makes good money too.” The implication hit Andrew like a stone to the chest. To be a part of Edgar’s world–his circle, his business–it was thrilling as it was terrifying. He felt dizzy at the thought, caught between temptation and the heavy weight of his faith.

Edgar straightened, flicked the last of his cigarette into a tray, and clapped Andrew lightly on the shoulder. “Think about it. I’m not in the habit of repeating offers.” With that, Edgar strode toward the elevator, coat flaring dramatically behind him.

–

The day had long given way to night, the city’s silver glow reflecting in the puddles that spotted the cobblestone streets. Alice skipped lightly ahead of her caretaker, the hem of her pale dress fluttering with each bound. She hummed a fractured tune she’d picked up from the rehearsal after her meeting, her voice thin and sweet against the silence of the secluded alleyway. “Stay close, Alice,” Orpheus said evenly, his hands tucked into the deep pockets of his long coat. His eyes shifted constantly, always searching the shadows. “We should’ve taken main street.”

“But it’s so much more fun this way!” Alice giggled, twirling on her toes like a ballerina before resuming her skipping. “Besides, you’re always worrying. Nothing’s going to happen. You’ll see.” Orpheus frowned, his unease sharpening. The alley was too quiet. The lamps overhead flickered like failing stars, their light just barely reaching the slick bricks that surrounded them. Every echo of Alice’s shoes seemed amplified, as though the darkness itself was listening.

She glanced back at him, beaming. “Mr. Edgar is right, isn’t he? This film is going to make me even more of a big star. Everyone will know me!” She raised her arms as if addressing an invisible audience. “Alice DeRoss! The youngest, most famous actress in the world!”

“Don’t be so quick to dream of fame,” Orpheus replied, his voice tightening as he lengthened his stride to keep closer. “Fame has teeth. It devours faster than you think.” Alice pouted but skipped ahead again, chasing after the sound of her own laughter as it bounced against the narrow walls. She was too young, too naive to notice how the shadows seemed to stretch toward her. Her laughter rang like a bell, pure and untouchable, but it was cut short by a sound–sharp, metallic–clattering from deeper in the alley. She froze mid-step, her head cocking curiously.

“What was that?” she whispered, wide-eyed.

Orpheus’s hand shot out, gripping her shoulder and pulling her back to his side. His voice was low, strained. “Stay behind me.” The alley stretched on, a narrow throat of brick and shadow. Then–another sound. A scrape, deliberate, like steel dragging across stone. Then–without a word, without a warning–a figure burst from the darkness. Tall and wide-shouldered, face hidden under a hat and scarf, the stranger moved like a predator. In a single fluid motion, they swung a gleaming axe, the metal whistling through the air furiously toward Alice and Orpheus.

Alice screamed, jumping back instinctively, and Orpheus fired his revolver. The shot rang out missing the figure as it echoed against the brick walls, but the figure barely flinched. They were relentless, driven by a single, violent intent. Orpheus shoved Alice behind him, swinging his arm to deflect the first brutal strike. The axe came down again, slicing close enough to scrape sparks off the cobblestones. Every motion was precise, merciless.

Orpheus swung his revolver again, but the figure was faster than he anticipated. With a swift, horrifying motion, the axe came down, catching him squarely across the chest. He stumbled, a strangled cry escaping his lips, before collapsing to the cobblestone. Alice shrieked, frozen in terror, clutching his coat. Before she could even move, the stranger lunged again, axe raised high. The blade came down with a brutal precision. Her guttural scream was cut short, echoing through the alleyway as her body crumpled beside Orpheus.

The alley fell silent once more, only the sound of the axe continuously sliced through the bodies could be heard. Shadows seemed to stretch over, swallowing the scene whole. The city lights beyond the alley flickered indifferently, oblivious to the carnage. No one had seen the stranger arrive, no one would see them leave. Their work was complete, their presence nothing more than a whisper in the night air.

The alley, quiet and still under the dim glow of flickering lamps, seemed harmless once more. A few minutes later, a couple wandered down the narrow passage, their laughter echoing softly off the brick walls. “I swear Emil,” Ada said, bumping his shoulder playfully, “if you beat me at card tonight, I’m never letting you live it down.” Emil chuckled, spinning a coin between his fingers. “You’re on. But don’t cry when I win. You know I’m always lucky.”

The joviality of the moment made the alley seem almost magical, a hidden shortcut bathed in yellow light. They rounded a corner together, leaning into each other with easy familiarity, until the glow of the lamps revealed something that froze them both in place. Two butchered bodies lay sprawled across the wet cobblestone, limbs twisted unnaturally, blood glistening in the faint light. Orpheus and Alice–or what remained of them–stared lifelessly up at the night sky, their features etched in final horror.

Ada’s sharp scream cut through the night air like a dagger, shattering the illusion of peace. Emil stumbled back, his coin clattering to the ground as he froze, eyes wide. “Oh my God..” Ada whispered, her hands covering her mouth, trembling violently. “Oh my God, Emil… they’re…they’re–” Emil swallowed hard, his face pale. “We need to get out now and call the police.” Ada’s knees buckled as she backed up, Emil immediately catching her and pulling her toward the exit, but the image of the bodies, and the sound of her own scream, would linger in their minds long after they escaped the alley.

Moments felt like hours as the streets began to come to life with flashing lights and the low hum of urgency. Police cars had cordoned off the area, their sirens now silent but their presence commanding. Reporters clustered at the edges, cameras clicking and microphones thrust forward, hungry for a story. The alley itself had become a cage of yellow tape, glinting under the streetlamps. The bodies lay covered, but their horror had not been hidden from those who had seen them.

Three detectives pushed through the press, their steps purposeful and controlled. Eli Clark led the way, his owl perched on his shoulder. Though blind, his other senses seemed to map the world with uncanny accuracy. Behind him followed Naib Subedar, a shorter man with a serious, no-nonsense expression, and Emma Woods, a young woman whose sharp eyes already took in every detail, noting the positions of the officers, the tape, the shadows.

Eli’s voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd. “Clear the way. Step back.”

Naib barked orders to the officers, ensuring the perimeter was held. Emma pushed past a cluster of reporters, her notebook already out, jotting down observations with brisk efficiency. Eli paused near the entrance to the alley, lifting a hand as if sensing more than seeing. “Multiple victims,” he murmured. “Same MO as the previous incidents. Timing is consistent. Whoever did this…they aren’t stopping.”

Emma glanced at him sharply. “Do we have witnesses?”

“Two civilians,” Naib said, gesturing toward the young couple, who were huddled together near the police tape, visibly shaking. “They were the first on scene after the incident.”

Eli tilted his head, his lips pressing together. “We need to speak with them immediately. Every detail, every sound they heard..nothing is too small.” The press shouted questions, cameras swiveled, and the city’s pulse seemed to tighten as the detective stepped into the alley, their presence both authoritative and intimidating.

–

Andrew had just settled into his chair, the remnants of his uneasy thoughts from earlier still lingering, when a violent banging shook his apartment door. “What—who is it?!” he called out, heart jumping. The pounding came again, more urgent, desperate. Andrew rushed to the door and swung it open, nearly stumbling back in shock.

Edgar stood there, disheveled and wild-eyed, coat askew and hair mussed, a look of raw panic etched across his face. “Edgar? What—how did you find my address?” Andrew stammered, his mind struggling to piece together. “That doesn’t matter right now!” Edgar snapped, voice tight and ragged. His eyes darted past Andrew, scanning the small apartment as if expecting the danger to follow him inside.

Andrew froze. “W-What’s wrong?”

Edgar’s face twisted with fury and grief, his jaw clenched. “Alice…she’s been murdered.”

Andrew’s stomach dropped. “W-what? How..how?”

Edgar’s shoulders shook violently. “I don’t know all the details yet!” he gasped, tears streaking down his cheeks. “But she’s gone, Andrew! She’s gone!” His voice broke completely, the fury and anguish colliding with grief. He collapsed onto the couch, burying his face into his hands as silent sobs shook him. “I saw it… on the news..,” he sobbed, his voice raw and trembling. “They…they showed her..said they found her in an alley.” He choked, a strangled sound that made Andrew flinch. He then hesitated for a moment, then carefully Andrew lowered himself beside Edgar, his hand found its way to Edgar’s trembling shoulder, giving him a gentle, steady squeeze.

Edgar flinched at first, then buried his face deeper into his hands, letting the sobs spill freely, shaking his small frame. Andrew stayed still, quiet, letting the silence of the apartment be a sanctuary for the grief that had overwhelmed him. “I can’t believe this,” Edgar continued, lifting his tear-streaked face, eyes wide and hollow. “She was alive…just moments ago. How…how could someone hurt a child?” His voice cracked, and he bowed his head, unable to stop sobbing. “I don’t understand how anyone could do something like that. I feel so helpless and stuck.”

“You’re doing the right thing, by crying.” Andrew whispered softly, his voice barely audible over Edgar’s cries. “It's okay to be angry…and sad..and everything at once.” Edgar’s shoulders shuddered violently, and he let out a harsh raw gasp. “She was so..you… she…she had everything ahead of here! I—” His voice broke off again, unable to form the right words. Andrew’s hand remained firm against him, a silent anchor. Slowly, the sobs began to soften, the raw energy of grief lingering but losing its frenzied edge. Edgar’s breathing began to catch in uneven, trembling gasps, and for the first time since he had burst through the door, he allowed himself to lean into Andrew’s shoulder, seeking the quiet support he usually refused.

“I don’t feel safe,” he admitted. “I…I can’t stop thinking that maybe I’m next. Or you… or anyone I care about. This.. this is obviously targeted.”

Andrew’s chest tightened. “Edgar…”

“I;m scared, Andrew,” Edgar continued, his hands gripping his knees as if to study himself. “I’ve spent my life controlling everything–every career, every move, every person—but I can’t control this. I can’t stop whoever did this, and now…now I feel like we’re just lambs being sent to the slaughterhouse.” Andrew’s fingers dug a little deeper into Edgar’s shoulder in silent support. “I’m sure the police will figure everything out soon, who–whoever's doing this won’t get away with it forever.”

Edgar’s shoulders slumped further, “well they need to get the job done faster, before more people get murdered.” Edgar’s voice cracked as the last words left him, his hands trembling faintly in his lap. Andrew hesitated for a moment, his own thoughts pulling in opposite directions–religion, propriety, the gnawing guilt that still lingered from last night. But all of that seemed distant compared to the broken man before him. Without saying anything, Andrew shifted closer, wrapping one arm around Edgar’s shoulders and pulling him firmly against his chest. Edgar didn’t resist–he collapsed into the embrace, clutching weakly at Andrew’s shirt as though holding for dear life.

“Whatever happens out there,” Andrew whispered, his cheek brushing against Edgar’s hair. “You’ll be safe in here.”

Edgar shook his head into Andrew’s chest. “No.. I don’t believe that. Not anymore.”

Andrew tightened his hold, his hand rubbing slow circles along Edgar’s back, almost instinctively. He felt Edgar’s body shudder against him, each breath hitched with quiet sobs he couldn’t stop. It was raw, desperate, and strangely intimate–not born of temptation this time, but of Edgar’s unsaid need to simply be held. “Nobody knows you’re here,” Andrew said, his own voice firmer than he expected. “Nothing will happen.”

After a beat of silence. Edgar let out a shaky breath, his hands loosening their grip on Andrew’s shirt. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he shifted downward until his head rested in Andrew’s lap. His cheek pressed against his thigh and for a moment he just stared blankly at the ceiling, his lashes still damp. “Andrew…I don’t know what it is about you,” he murmured, words low and unguarded. “I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by people who only want pieces of me–my money, my name, the connections I can give them. Even the ones who claim to care… it always feels like there are strings attached. But you–” His voice caught, and he drew in a shaky breath. “You sit here and you don’t ask for anything. You just… let me fall apart. And I can’t tell you how rare that is for me.”

Edgar let out a breath, softer now, his tone almost pleading. “I find you deeply comforting, in a way I can’t make sense of. I feel safer near you than I have in years. It scares me, but it also–” He hesitated, swallowing hard. “It also makes me not want to let go.” Andrew’s hand froze halfway through brushing Edgar’s hair, his throat tightening. A warmth filled him, heavy and sweet, but it came tangled with guilt, with the weight of all the sermons he’d ever heard. Still… he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Instead, his fingers lingered, gently smoothing Edgar’s hair as he whispered, almost hoarse, “I’m glad I can give you that, I suppose.”

Edgar closed his eyes, his face softening in a way Andrew wasn’t sure anyone else in the world had ever seen.

–

The sterile chill of the morgue pressed down like a weight. The fluorescent lights above hummed faintly, their glow illuminating the metal tables where two covered forms lay still. The smell of antiseptic hung thick in the air, unable to fully mask the underlying copper tang of blood. Eli stood just inside the doorway, his owl perched solemnly on his shoulder, feathers ruffling against the unnatural stillness. His pale unclothed eyes swept the room, then fixed on the man hunched over the table.

Aesop Carl, the autopsy technician, moved with his usual quiet precision. His gloved hands were steady as he noted down his findings, his face unreadable beneath the stark light. Eli’s presence didn’t stir him; the man seemed immune to distraction, as if death itself had long since become a colleague. “What do we have?” Eli’s voice was calm, though low, carrying the weight of grim expectation.

Aesop peeled back the sheet just enough to reveal the battered chest of what once had been Orpheus. His tone remained flat, clinical, but the words themselves carried horror. “Over twenty separate axe wounds across the chest and face. Both victims suffered similar patterns. The blows weren’t just meant to kill–they were meant to disfigure.”

“And the girl..?” Eli asked softly.

Aesop pulled the sheet from the second body. Alice’s small frame was unrecognizable, marred by the same brutal savagery. “The body is hardly identifiable. But dental records confirm it. Alice DeRoss. Age eight.” He set his notes down with a faint metallic scrape against the table. “Butchered beyond belief.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed louder in the silence that followed, as if filling the void where the words failed. Eli lowered his gaze, one hand rising to gently stroke the owl’s feathers. His voice came quieter now, strained with something beneath composure. “An eight-year-old-child.. It takes a particular kind of monster to do this.”

The silence stretched until Aesop tugged the sheet back over Alice’s body, his gloved hands smoothing it down with a detached precision. He scribbled another note, then, without lifting his eyes, muttered in that low, even tone of his: “Two victims, over twenty wounds each,” He clicked his pen shut. “Our killer must have a strong arm. Maybe he should consider carpentry. At least then all that chopping might serve a purpose.”

Eli’s head snapped toward him. “Aesop.” His voice was low, but edged with disapproval.

The silver haired man finally looked up, his face expressionless as ever, though the corner of his mouth twitched–too slight to call a smile, too deliberate to be nothing. “What? It’s either make a joke or drown in the grotesque. You’d be surprised how useful gallows humor is in this line of work.”

Eli’s jaw tightened. He stroked the owl’s feathers slowly, grounding himself. “There’s a difference between humor and cruelty.”

“Perhaps,” Aesop murmured, peeling off his gloves with a snap, “but cruelty is all we have left when confronted with this.” He gestured to the sheeted bodies. “An eight-year-old, torn apart. If I stop and think about it as a child, Mr. Clark, I won’t be able to do my work. Better to think of her as a puzzle.”

“You must understand, I’ve ‘seen’ horrors,” Eli began, voice lower than usual, strained. “Things that would keep most men awake for years. Faces torn apart, families wiped out… and I could always file it away, tuck it in some dark corner and move on. But this–” His unseeing eye flicked to the small body laid out before them, his breath catching. “---this is different.”

Aesop slid a drawer shut, the sound echoing coldly. His pale gaze cut to Eli, sharp, and unreadable. In that dry monotone voice of his, he said, “What’s this? The big, bad, lead detective finally breaking?”

Eli didn’t fire back. His jaw flexed, his lips parted, but no sarcasm came. Instead, he turned slightly, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes as though to ground himself. When he spoke again, his voice wavered with an emotion he rarely let anyone hear. “When you’ve got a wife waiting at home..when you know there’s a child–your child–who hasn’t even taken their first breath yet..these aren’t just cases anymore. They’re warnings. Every lifeless face I see, I picture hers. Every torn body, every disfigured woman falling victim to men, I wonder if it’ll be hers I find in the dirt one day.”

Eli’s words settled into the room like smoke, thick and suffocating. For a moment, neither man spoke. The buzzing of the overhead light seemed louder than ever, filling the silence that Eli’s confession had carved out. Finally, Eli’s voice broke through, softer now, carrying a tremor before its usual steadiness. “Aesop,” he said, eyes narrowing on the pale young man. “Tell me… how would you feel if one day you walked in here and it was Victor on this table? Butchered like them. Torn apart until he wasn’t even recognizable.”

The question struck harder than he expected. Aesop froze, his hand hovering above a tray of instruments. For once, he had no quick retort, no cold joke lined up to deflect the weight of it. His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening as his composure wavered ever so slightly. He didn’t answer right away. His mind–always so clinical, so removed–tripped over itself, conjuring a vision he hadn’t allowed before. Victor’s body, lifeless, marred beyond repair. His voice, gone forever. The thought lingered like a knife twisting in his chest.

“I…” Aesop finally said, his voice low, brittle. He shifted his gaze away, down at the sterile floor. “I suppose I’d understand what you mean.” For the first time since Eli had known him, Aesop looked less like an autopsy technician dissecting the world and more like a man wrestling with it. His gloved hand curled slowly into a fist against the counter, the tension sharp and unspoken. Eli nodded once, letting the silence carry the rest. “That’s all I’m saying,” he muttered, almost to himself. Brook Rose ruffled her feathers, as though punctuating the end of the exchange. The morgue returned to its stillness, but it wasn’t the same silence anymore—it was heavier, more personal.

Chapter Text

Two weeks had rotted away in darkness and dust. Edgar hadn’t left Andrew’s apartment since the day of the murders, preferring to sink into the gloom rather than face the outside world. He practically lived on the couch, with a cigarette always burning, saying little, and barely eating. Andrew had accepted it in quiet resignation, giving space, offering food, being present as much as possible. But even he was startled when a violent insistent pounding rattled the door.

Andrew opened it a crack.

Victor stood in the hallway, livid. His usually neat hair was messy, his face pale with exhaustion and frustration. His glare darted past Andrew instantly, searching the dim interior. “Where is he? I know he’s in there.” Victor demanded. His tone was sharp, accusing. Andrew stiffened, instinctively blocking the doorway. “He doesn’t need visitors right now. He’s… he’s not well.”

Victor scoffed and shoved at the door with his palm, forcing it wider. “No well? No–don’t give me that. He doesn’t need coddling, he needs a goddamn reality check.” Andrew stepped back, taken aback by the sheer force in Victor’s voice. “You can’t just barge–”

But Victor already had. He stormed past, his steps heavy, eyes immediately locking onto Edgar slouched on the couch like a fallen idol, smoke curling from the half-burned cigarette between his fingers. “There you are,” Victor hissed. His voice shook with fury. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done these last two weeks? No–of course you don’t. Because you’ve been sitting here like a damn corpse while I’ve been cleaning up the mess. Missed meetings. Headlines circling like vultures. Directors pulling projects. I’ve been drowning, Edgar, drowning, and where have you been? Hiding.”

Edgar didn’t even list his gaze, only exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

Victor’s tirade filled the apartment, bouncing off the walls, growing harsher the longer Edgar stayed silent. “Look at you,” Victor spat, stepping closer, his shoes scraping the floor. “You were somebody. The whole damn world watched you, worshiped you. And now? You’re nothing but smoke and shadows. You can’t even lift your head to look at me.” Edgar let the cigarette burn to the filter. He didn’t stub until it stinged his fingertips. His eyes were hollow, unfocused, locked on some corner of the room only he could see.

Andrew’s hand twitched, as though he wanted to intervene, to shield him. But he hesitated.

Victor’s voice cracked, though he masked it with bitterness. “Do you think hiding here makes you safe? Do you think locking yourself away erases what happened? She’s still gone. And the world is still watching. Waiting for you to fall apart so they can tear the rest of us down with you.”

Edgar blinked, slow, heavy. Finally, his lips parted, and his voice came in a low rasp, barely audible: “...I can’t.”

Victor froze. “What?”
“I can’t do it,” Edgar repeated, his words sinking into the stale air like stones into water. “Not anymore.”

He slumped further into the couch, the cigarette slipping from his hand, leaving a faint scorch on the carpet. His gaze finally lifted to Victors, and though his expression was calm, there was something unsettling in it–a kind of vacancy, as though the man Victor knew was already slipping away. Victor’s fury faltered. His fists unclenched, then tightened again, torn between anger and despair.

“God damnit Edgar, pull yourself together.” He demanded. “You’re acting like a child hiding under the bed. Look around you–this isn’t some sanctuary. You’re slumming it with some guy you met at a club. You can’t possibly think that this was a good idea.” Edgar’s gaze remained distant, his body slumped like a marionette with its strings cut. He didn’t respond.

Victor’s hands gestured angrily toward the apartment around them. “Every day you stay here, you’re making it worse for yourself. You’re sitting in a gilded cage with someone who’s… barely part of this world, thinking you can just wait this out. You can’t. You won’t be safer than you were in your own home.” Andre shifted uncomfortably beside them, feeling the weight of Victor’s fury and the emptiness of Edgar’s withdrawal.

“Edgar,” Victor pressed, voice softer now, but no less insistent, “you’re not untouchable. You’ve got to stop thinking the world can’t reach you. Get your act together–or at least get up off that couch before you lose yourself completely.” Edgar didn’t move.

Victor huffed before he spun on his heel and strode toward the wall, fingers clenching around the corded receiver of the old black phone mounted there. He yanked it off the cradle with a sharp click, glaring at Andrew as he did so. “We’re gonna be needing some backup.” Andrew hesitated, glancing at Edgar, who didn’t even twitch. The thought of him leaving him alone made his chest tighten. But the urgency in Victor’s eyes left no room for argument.

Victor punched in numbers with quick, precise tapping on the push-button dial. He pressed the receiver to his ear, low but tense. “I’m going to be needing you to come to this address right now—yes right now–It’s Edgar, he needs support–just hurry. God, you’re so difficult.” He slammed the receiver back onto the cradle, the sharp click echoing in the apartment.

Edgar finally stirred, a low, drawn–out groan slipping from his lips as he shifted slightly on the couch. His gaze remained distant, but his voice broke the tense quiet. “What…what are you doing?” he muttered, voice rough from disuse.

Victor didn’t flinch. He crossed his arms, still bristling with frustration, and leveled a sharp look at Edgar. “I called Luca,” he said, voice tight. “He’s coming over to… cheer you up. Try to get you out of this hole you’ve dug for yourself.” Edgar let out a long, throaty moan, a mixture of annoyance and exasperation. “Ugh…. Seriously? Luca?” His fingers twitched, “I don’t need cheering up. I don’t want cheering up.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed. “Well, you’re getting it whether you want it or not. You’ve been hiding here for two weeks like a ghost, and it stops now. Luca will drag you out if I have to, and I will.”

The timing couldn’t be more perfect. The doorbell chimed, sharp and insistent. Victor opened it to reveal Luca, calm and composed, with a soft smile that somehow radiated patience and quiet authority. “Alright, everyone,” Luca said, stepping inside with a sway of easy confidence. “Time to get this sulking man-child moving.”

Edgar’s head lifted slightly at the sound of the voice, eyes narrowing. “I’m not moving,” he muttered, voice rough and stubborn. Luca didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned down slightly, tone playful yet firm, brushing a hand lightly over Edgar’s shoulder. “Oh, come on, Ed. You’ve been cooped up in here like some brooding vampire for weeks. It’s not healthy. You need fresh air, sunlight–heck, even a little socialization won’t kill you.”

Edgar groaned, tugging at his sleeve. “I don’t need it. I wanna stay here, I’m fine.”

Luca smiled wider, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Fine? You call this fine? Sitting here like a grumpy cat on a throne of ash and old take out? No, no. We’re going outside. You’re coming with me, and that’s final.”

Victor muttered something under his breath, but Luca ignored it, focusing on Edgar. He crouched down onto his knees, bringing his face closer without being threatening, softening his tone. “Look, I get it. You’re scared, upset… probably exhausted. But sulking in this shoebox apartment isn’t going to fix anything, this is no way to live. I’m not asking, Ed–I’m insisting. And you will thank me later.”

Edgar huffed, not budging. “I said I’m not going and you can’t make me.”

Luca’s smile didn’t waver. He stood back up and held up a finger, mock-serious. “Alright, Ed. Seems like words won’t work. Guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.” Before Edgar could protest further, Luca moved toward him, Victor seeping behind to help. In one fluid motion, they lifted Edgar from the couch. “Hey! What–wait–stop!” Edgar yelled, legs flailing and arms swinging as if he were a stubborn child refusing bath time.

Victor grunted under the weight, and Luca, laughing softly despite the struggle, whispered, “You asked for this Ed! We have to get you out of this apartment one way or another.” They managed to get Edgar halfway onto his feet, but he twisted, dragging one foot along the carpet, leaning back dramatically. “I’m not going! Put me down!” he cried out, a theatrical flair to every word. Andrew watching the whole scene unfold, couldn’t help but let out a small laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Edgar’s protest reached a crescendo, arms flailing, legs kicking like a stubborn child, but Luca and Victor had him firmly in their grip as they made it out the door. Luca grinned over his shoulder at Andrew. “Thanks, stranger,” he said in a teasing tone, nodding toward him. “Thanks for taking care of him these past few weeks.”

Andrew, flushed and laughing nervously, waved awkwardly. “Uh..sure, no problem.” he said before gently closing the door behind them. The sun beat down on the apartment building’s fire escape as Luca hoisted Edgar–who was now defeated–over his shoulder, Victor keeping pace just behind.

“Honestly, Ed,” Luca said, squinting in the bright daylight, “what exactly are you wearing? And when was the last time you took a shower? You stink.”

“I...I borrowed Andrew’s clothes,” Edgar muttered, his voice muffled against Luca’s shoulder, tinged with embarrassment. Luca laughed, shaking his head. “You look like a fucked up version of Dracula.” Edgar let out a muffled groan, half-laugh, half-growl. “I hate you–”

“You don’t mean that, you love me.” Luca teased, glancing at Victor as they descended the fire escape. The wind whipped past them on the metal stairs, carrying the sounds of the bustling city below. “I don’t get paid enough for this.” Victor muttered under his breath, shaking his head at the entire situation.

–

By the time Luca and Victor had escorted Edgar back to his penthouse, his protests had dwindled to low, dramatic grumbles, though he still looked every bit the sulking recluse. The door swung open, and Edgar slouched inside, immediately confronted by the unexpected sight of three detectives waiting in the expansive living room.

Eli, Emma, and Naib stood with serious expressions, hands folded or tapping impatiently. The tension in the air was sharp enough to cut. Eli’s owl perched quietly on his shoulder, wings twitching, as he fixed Edgar with a steady clothed gaze. “Mr. Valden,” he began, voice calm but firm, “we need to ask you some questions.” Edgar froze mid-step, the sarcasm and theatricality draining from his face, replaced by something heavier–a wary edge, almost predatory in its stillness.

Victor stepped slightly forward, his jaw tight. “Gentlemen, lady, he’s had a long day. Maybe–”

“No,” Naib interrupted sharply. “We don’t have the luxury of long days. You know why we’re here.”

Luca, standing behind Edgar, whispered softly, “Stay calm, Ed. Don’t let them get under your skin.”

But Edgar wasn’t having it. His eyes flared as soon as he saw the detectives. He strode forward, fists clenched, and his voice cut sharply through the tense air. “How the hell did you get in here?” he demanded pacing the room. “Do you even have the legal right to be inside my home?” Eli remained calm, “Edgar, we couldn’t get ahold of you for two weeks,” he said evenly. “We had to take action. A judge granted us the authority to search your home.”

Edgar threw his hands up, exasperation and fury blending in a dangerous mixture. “Jesus fucking Christ.” he barked. “I was gone for two weeks and so what? You decide to just barge in here and treat my home like it’s some crime scene? This is an abuse of power!”

Emma and Naib watched silently, letting him vent for a moment, while Victor and Luca exchanged uneasy glances. Victor muttered under his breath, “Here we go…” Eli’s tone remained firm, almost paternal in contrast to Edgar’s explosive anger. “Edgar, we didn’t want to do this. But given the circumstances–the attacks, the murders, and your absence–we had no choice. This is standard procedure. You need to cooperate.”

Edgar’s lips were still pressed tight, jaw clenched, and his eyes flashed with anger, but before he could launch into another tirade, Emma cut in, her voice sharp and unwavering. “Mr. Valden,” she said, stepping forward slightly, “during your unexplained absence, we found some concerning material in your home.” Edgar blinked, suspicion and irritation warring on his features. “Concerning material?”

Emma’s gaze was steady, almost piercing. “An unregistered firearm. Some illegal substances. Items that raise serious questions about your conduct and your whereabouts over the past two weeks.” Edgar’s chest rose and fell faster, but he kept his composure, though the edge in his voice betrayed his unease. “T-that’s absurd.”

Emma didn’t flinch. “It’s not just that,” she continued, her tone cutting. “We find it highly suspicious that you disappeared for exactly two weeks directly after the attack against Alice DeRoss. That timing alone raises serious concerns, Mr. Valden.”

Edgar let out a low, exasperated growl, pacing a few steps. “You’re implying I had something to do with it? Please, the reason I was gone for two weeks was because it destroyed me..” Edgar’s voice cracked as his words trailed off, frustrated, angry, yet revealing a hint of vulnerability.

Eli spoke next, calm but firm. “We’re not here to accuse without reason. But your disappearance combined with these findings, leaves us no choice but to investigate thoroughly. You need to cooperate.” Edgar froze mid-step, eyes flicking between Eli and Emma, then the rest of the room. For the first time since he entered his home, his lips parted in a small, grudging agreement. “...Fine,” he muttered finally, his voice low and tense. “I’ll answer your questions.”

Eli nodded, arms crossed, his owl perched steadily on his shoulder as he began to speak once again. “Let’s start with the firearm,” he said calmly. “Why do you have an unregistered gun in your home?” Edgar shifted in place, running a hand through his long hair, a low sigh escaping him. “I keep it for safety purposes,” he said, voice even but edged with defensiveness. “After everything that’s been happening… the murders, the attacks–I’m not going to sit around waiting to be next.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, not letting him off easily. “Safety? Mr. Valden, owning a firearm doesn’t absolve you from the law. Especially if it’s unregistered.”

Edgar’s jaw tightened. “I know the law, detective,” he said, his tone sharp now. “And yes, technically it’s unregistered, but I don’t intend to hurt anyone. It’s for protection–my protection. I’m willing to pay whatever legal fines come with it.” Naib leaned forward, voice calm but probing. “I find it hard to believe that you just decided to stash away a gun and hoard substances because you felt unsafe for two weeks. Wouldn’t that put you in more danger?”

Edgar’s eyes flicked to Victor and Luca behind him, both silent but tense, then back to the detectives. “Look I felt that keeping a gun inside my home would help me feel more secure that’s all,” he muttered. “I wasn’t hiding from the law–I was hiding from the world. From everything. The murders, the attack, the press…I needed to breathe okay?”

“Explain the drugs then,” Naib snapped.

Edgar’s jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Those aren’t for anyone else. The drugs–they…they help me cope. I don’t distribute them, I don’t give those away, I don’t use them recklessly. Just…necessary for me to function at this moment.” Victor stepped forward, cutting in with a sharper edge than usual, his voice calm but firm. “Detectives, let me clarify something,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Edgar has a rather serious problem with drugs. It’s not something I take lightly, and I think it’s important you know that it affects his behavior, his judgment, and how he responds under stress.”

Edgar’s lips pressed into a thin line, glaring at Victor. “Victor, I don’t need you explaining me to them.” Victor didn’t flinch. “No, Ed. They need the truth. You can’t just brush this off like it’s nothing. You’ve been reckless, and everyone around you sees it.”

Emma arched an eyebrow, eyes sharp. “So you admit to substance abuse, Mr. Valden?”

Edgar exhaled slowly, the fight in his posture softening just slightly. “I’ve had issues,” he said reluctantly, his voice low. “Yes. But I’ve never hurt anyone, and I’ve never done anything illegal outside of keeping them for personal use.” Eli kept his tone steady, seeing this a million times before. “Personal use doesn’t make the timing of your disappearance any less suspicious, nor does it erase the fact that people are dead. We need to know everything about your habits if we’re going to rule you out–or in.”

Edgar’s eyes flicked to Victor, who gave him a small nod of encouragement, then back to the detectives. He let out a long sigh, finally relenting to the reality of the situation. “Fine,” he muttered, voice quiet. “I have a problem.”

“Alrighty then,” Eli responded as Emma jotted things down in her notebook. “Let’s get straight to it, Edgar. Who have you been staying with during these past two weeks?” Edgar shifted uncomfortably, the weight of their gaze pressing down on him. “That’s..personal,” he muttered, his voice low and defensive.

Eli didn’t flinch. “Personal or not, Mr. Valden, it’s relevant. We need to know more about this person and his or her’s relation to you.” Edgar exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, the question hanging in the air like a weight. His eyes darted to Victor and Luca behind him, their expression unreadable for a moment. Then, almost reluctantly, he said, “I’ve been staying with…my current lover.”

The words fell like a bomb in the penthouse. Luca’s eyes went wide, and Victor’s jaw tightened, both exchanged shocked whispers behind Edgar’s back.

Victor muttered under his breath, “Wait…what?”

Luca leaned closer to him, whispering back, a mixture of incredulity and amusement in his tone. “Did you know about this?”

Victor exchanged a look with Luca before averting his gaze back to Edgar, “You think I give a damn? I only do what I’m paid to do.”

Edgar, still standing in front of the detectives, noticed nothing of their reactions. His face remained as calm as possible, even if his jaw was slightly tight. “I’ve been staying with him these past two weeks. That’s all you need to know.” Eli leaned back slightly, the owl blinking slowly as he considered Edgar’s answer. “We’ll need to speak with him as well,” he said evenly. “Care to give us his name and whereabouts?”

Edgar shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms. “His name is Andrew Kriess,” Victor and Luca’s eyes went wide once again, glancing at each other in a silent mix of disbelief and amusement. Luca muttered under his breath, “I swear this day keeps getting better.” Edgar didn’t react to his whispers, focusing back on the detectives. “Andrew can confirm everything.”

Emma scribbled in her notebook, raising an eyebrow. “And you expect us to just take his word for it?”

“I suppose so,” Edgar replied, dryly.

“Moving on,” Eli cut in, his voice carrying the kind of clinical detachment common in the eighties. “Mr. Valden, we need to understand everything about your personal life, relationships… even aspects of your transition could be relevant to the case. There are gaps we need to fill.” Emma added, with a hint of softness in her tone trying her best to carefully craft what she’s trying to say, “it’s unusual… a man living as you do, changing yourself. Could be relevant in understanding past conflicts or associations. We need clarity.”
Edgar’s body stiffened instantly. His jaw tightened, and a flash of anger sparked in his pale eyes. “That’s none of your business!” he snapped, voice sharp and icy. “My life, my body, my past–it is not relevant to your investigation. Do you understand me?”

Victor stepped forward slightly, tension radiating from him, while Luca’s fingers clenched around the edge of a chair, ready to intervene if needed. Eli’s tone was calm, but carried an edge of ignorance he likely didn’t notice. “Edgar, unusual circumstances often explain motives or connections. We’re not being cruel–we’re trying to understand the full picture. You can’t ignore facts that could matter.”

Edgar’s glare cut into them, fury and hurt mingling. “Unusual? You think my existence is unusual? This isn’t a fact, this isn’t a motive, this isn’t evidence–it’s my entire life. It’s my identity, not a crime.” Emma flinched slightly but held her notebook poised, unaware of the depth of personal violation she was inflicting. “It’s…just procedure, Mr. Valden. We need to be thorough.”

Edgar exhaled, visibly shaking just slightly. “You’re treating my existence like it’s a clue, like it’s a reason to suspect me! Ask about the murders if you must, but stop pretending my life is something to dissect because society doesn’t accept me. Maybe, instead of asking these dumb questions why don’t you fucktards start searching for the actual killer, a little girl is dead for christ sake and you’re worried about what’s in my damn pants.”

Naib crossed his arms, his tone firmer, almost dismissive. “We’re not here to debate societal norms. We’re here to investigate. Living as you do–is not normal. People like you often have complicated relationships. You need to be honest if you want us to believe you’re innocent!” he snapped back. Edgar’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of fear mingling within him. His hands twitched at his sides, and his chest rose and fell rapidly. He had felt this judgement all his life, and the scrutiny in this room–sharp, probing, ignorant–made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Finally, he took a slow, trembling breath. “I’ve felt this way since I was child, when I gained consciousness I knew I was never meant to live this life as a woman,” he said quietly, voice tight with emotion. “I’ve always been…different. But that has nothing to do with how I act. It is not a motive for killing anyone.”

Victor shifted uneasily behind him, while Luca awkwardly shoving his hands into his pockets. Naib raised an eyebrow, but Eli and Emma exchanged a glance, the tension in the room thickening. Edgar’s voice cracked slightly as he continued, more forceful now, desperate for them to understand. “I’ve lived my entire life being scrutinized, judged, and treated like a freak even by my own community. But just because I’m different doesn’t mean I’m a murderer. My existence is not a crime, and it doesn’t make me guilty of what’s happened.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. The detectives paused, realizing that pushing further into his personal life might provoke more than just defensiveness. “With all due respect, Detectives,” Victor cut in, stepping forward and immediately breaking the silence in the room. “I think this interrogation is over for now, Mr. Valden has said everything he can for today. You’ve pushed him far enough. He’s not going to answer more questions until he’s ready.”
“Fine, but we’ll be keeping in touch,” Eli replied, coolly shoving his hands into his trench coat pockets. The detectives finally filed out of the penthouse, muttering their frustrations, the door closing behind them with a heavy click. Silence sat between the three of them, the tension only now beginning to deflate.

Victor broke it first. His voice was low, disappointed rather than angry. “So. Is it true?” His eyes cut to Edgar, sharp and searching. “This…this thing with Andrew. Was that real? Is that why you’ve been on this two-week rendezvous?” Edgar exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. His shoulders slumped, the fight in him ebbing into exhaustion. “No,” he admitted bluntly. “It isn’t true. I just–I figured they would get off my back. They were circling like vultures. If I threw them a scrap, maybe they’d stop tearing at me.”

Victor’s jaw tightened. “So you lied. To law enforcement. Do you even realize how reckless that is?” Edgar snapped his head toward him, eyes bloodshot still burning. “What would you have had me do, Victor? Sit there while they dissect my life like I’m some kind of specimen? They wanted blood. I gave them something to chew on.” Victor pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to steady himself. “You don’t understand. Lies like that don’t just disappear, Edgar. They stick. They become records, rumors, ammunition. One wrong word, and you’ve just handed them more reason to destroy you.”

Edgar sat himself on top of the sofa, arms crossed defensively, his tone cold. “Better a lie than handing them pieces of myself they’ll never deserve to know.” Luca sat beside Edgar, slumping into the couch and smirked. “Well,” he drawled, “you sure know how to make a mess, Eddie. A lover-that’s-not-a-lover and a police file to match. Lovely cocktail you’ve mixed for yourself.”

Victor shot Luca a look to shut him up, but Edgar only let out a hollow laugh, as if the absurdity of it all was finally catching up to him “This isn’t funny!” Victor said, finally snapping, his patience thinning. “This is serious, Edgar. You can’t just do as you please, law enforcement is on your tail and if you don’t get yourself together soon–then, you can say goodbye to this life.”

For a moment Edgar stared at him, his long hair curtaining over his glasses, his expression unreadable. Then, almost suddenly, all the flight drained from him. His shoulders slumped. His voice came out flat. “Just leave, Victor.” He gestured vaguely toward the door, his hands trembling as though the weight of the world had finally pressed him down. “Go home, take the rest of the day off. Thank you for helping, but I can’t…I can’t do this anymore.”

Victor’s jaw tightened. He didn’t move, didn’t shout. He just stood there, staring at Edgar with a look that was equal parts anger and heartbreak. But instead of arguing, he quietly turned for the door. Edgar didn’t look up. And Victor left, without a word. The penthouse door clicked shut, and for a moment, silence roared louder than any argument.

–

Victor gripped the wheel tighter than he meant to, knuckles pale against the leather. The sun was finally setting pressing against his windshield, neon lights streaking into a blur as his car cut through the city.

The radio, turned up too loud, fought to drown out his thoughts.

“---authortities confirm the murders of child star Alice DeRoss and her caretaker Orpheus continued the grisly string of killings plaquing the city. Officials have yet to release details, but inside sources say the victims were mutilated beyond recognition. Panic grows as police urge citizens to remain vigilant. Meanwhile, film producer Edgar Valden—”

Victor’s hand shot out, slamming the dial. Static hissed for a moment before a shitty pop ballad from two summers ago filled the car. Something bright and stupid, but it only made his chest ache harder. The streets shifted around him as he drove. First came the gleaming towers, their glass faces catching a glint of golden glow from the sun’s dying rays. Then luxury homes with manicured lawns and security gates. But slowly, piece by piece, the landscape changed.

The manicured hedges gave way to cracked sidewalks. Neon signs sputtered, their buzz more desperate than alive. Apartment blocks sagged under the weight of grime and graffiti. Rusted fire escapes clung to their walls like bones jutting through skin. Victor barely noticed when he passed a group of hookers working the corner under a broken streetlight, or when a stray dog nosed through a garbage heap. He just kept driving, deeper into the city’s underbelly.

Victor pulled into the cracked lot of a weathered apartment complex, its walls stained by decades of rain and smoke. A flickering bulb buzzed over the stairwell as he climbed, his footsteps echoing in the thin halls. The door to his unit was scuffed and dented, a brass number barely clinging to its screws.

But when he pushed it open, the world shifted.

The apartment inside was warm, lit by the amber glow of a lamp in the corner. The scent of coffee lingered in the air, mixed with something faintly herbal. Plants hung from hooks above the windows, and a quilted blanket was draped across the worn sofa. It felt safe.

The first to greet him was Wick, their chunky mutt, who bounded across the small living room, tail wagging frantically. Victor crouched down, ruffling the dog’s fur until Wick pressed against his legs, whining happily. Across the room, seated in his usual armchair with his legs folded beneath him, was Aesop. His pale face caught the lamplight, half-shadowed, and a newspaper rested in his slender hands. He peered over the top of the pages as Victor stepped inside.

“You’re home early,” Aesop said in that calm, deliberate tone of his. Not judgemental, not surprised–just an observation. Victor exhaled, his shoulders sinking as he closed the door behind him. For the first time that night, he felt the weight of the city slip just a little. He dropped onto the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Wick hopped up beside him, curling into the crook of his arm as though he could sense the heaviness in his owner’s mood.

“Edgar let me go home early,” Victor muttered, rubbing his temples. “Guess he finally noticed I’m not his babysitter. Or maybe he just got tired of me nagging him. Either way–” he exhaled, voice low, “--I’ve been really stressed these past couple weeks. I swear, working for him is like trying to keep a wildfire under control with a glass of water.”

Aesop folded the newspaper neatly on his lap, his dark eyes lingering on Victor. There was no judgement in his expression, only that soft, measured stillness he always carried. “You’ve always had a…disdain for him,” Aesop said, tilting his head slightly. “But it’s more than that now, isn’t it?” Victor’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer right away, just scratched behind Wick’s ears as though the dog might reply for him.

Aesop leaned forward a little in his chair, his voice quiet but firm. “I don’t see much of you these days. Not really. You come home really late, half-asleep, with your mind somewhere else entirely. Even when you’re here, you’re not here…” The words landed heavier than Victor expected. He finally looked up at Aesop, meeting those steady, unflinching eyes.

“I’m sorry I just…been caught up in work, trying to keep things afloat.” he muttered. “It’s been hard, he lives in luxury, Aes–penthouse, marble floors, tailored suits. He breathes champagne and cocaine like it’s oxygen. And me? I’m running around picking up the pieces. Cleaning up his messes.” His voice tightened, carrying that sharp edge of long-buried resentment. “Half the time I’m covering for him with clients, smoothing things over when he explodes at reporters, or pulling him out of whatever self-destructive spiral he’s thrown himself into that week. And what do I get for it? Barely enough to scrape by. Certainly not what I deserve.”

He let out a dry laugh, humorless and tired. “Sometimes I think the city would be better off if he just vanished. No more drama. No more of his goddamn theatrics.I can’t believe how much my life has been reduced to just somebody’s slave.” Aesop didn’t flinch at the venom in Victor’s words. He just listened, patient as ever, though his eyes lingered on Victor a beat longer than usual, as if weighing the truth behind anger.

Victor sighed, his head sinking deeper into the sofa cushions, as if the weight of his words had finally caught up with him. Wick shifted, laying his chin on Victor’s thigh with a small huff. Across from him Aesop continued to study him. After a long moment, Aesop finally spoke. “You don’t have to carry all that frustration alone.”

Victor huffed a bitter laugh, tilting his head toward him. “You make it sound easy.”

“It isn’t.” Aesop leaned forward, resting the folded newspaper on the table. His tone was calm, but firm, as though every word mattered. “But it’s easier when you let yourself be seen. Even if it’s ugly. Even if it hurts.” Victor felt his throat tighten, his jaw locking. He tried to hold it in–he always did–but Aesop’s voice cut through his defenses like it always had.

Aesop rose from his chair and crossed the small space between them. He sat gently on the edge for the sofa, close enough that Victor could feel the warmth radiating from him. Without asking, Aesop’s hand slipped over Victors, cool and steady. “You’re not just somebody’s slave,” he said, his voice low. “I see the anger, the resentment. The way this city chews you up and spits you out. And I still see you. The man who feeds our dog before he eats himself. The man who works himself raw just to keep us afloat. You’re not a slave, you’re human.”

Victor swallowed hard, his vision blurring at the edges. For a second, he wanted to argue, to shove it all back down. But instead, he squeezed Aesop’s hand, clinging to it like a lifeline. The apartment seemed quieter than before, filled only with the sound of their breathing and Wick’s gentle snore. Victor rubbed his eyes and leaned back into the sofa, he chuckled to himself trying to change the topic. “You won’t believe what he pulled today,” he continued, “He lied to the detectives. Said he was dating some man–Andrew Kriess.”

Aesop raised a brow, then let out a low chuckle. “The grave robber?”

Victor blinked, sitting up straighter. “The what?”

“The grave robber,” Aesop repeated with eerie calm, as though he were discussing the weather. “Andrew Kriess. He made headlines a couple years ago. Fined, jailed briefly..something about desecrating graves in the north district cemetery.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Odd boy. Always had the look of someone who didn’t belong among the living, freakier than any dead body I’ve ever seen.”

Victor’s confusion deepened, his brows knitting. “And Edgar’s been hiding with this guy?” His voice dropped, the words heavy. “Jesus Christ.”

Aesop gave a little shrug, but his eyes lingered, sharp and probing. “Well. That does complicate things, doesn’t it?”

Victor sighed and pushed himself up from the sofa, stretching his arms out. “Yep, and I’m not going to deal with it. I’ve got to head to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a nightmare–Mike Morton’s flying in for a meeting, and Edgar will probably have me running circles around the city to make sure it goes smoothly.”

He started toward the hallway, already loosening his tie, when Aesop’s voice stopped him.

“Victor.”

Something in his tone–quieter, unguarded–made Victor glance back. Aesop sat forward in the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, the stoic demeanor he usually carried stripped away. “Could you maybe…take the day off?”

Victor frowned. “You know I can’t. Edgar–”

“I miss you,” Aesop interrupted, his eyes soft but heavy with truth. He folded his hands, almost self-conscious, like showing even this much vulnerability was foreign to him. “You’re always working. Always coming home late and going straight to bed before I even get the chance to say hi. Just… one day. That’s all I’m asking. One day for us.”

Victor’s jaw tightened. He wanted to brush it off, to tell Aesop that he couldn’t afford to upset Edgar again, not now. But the way Aesop was looking at him–ungaurded, almost pleading–made something inside him twist. He let out a long breath. “Aesop..”

“We could go to that one bar,” Aesop said, rising from the sofa. His steps were slow, deliberate. “The one we met at…remember?”

Victor half-smirked. “You mean the one where you called me a funeral director?”

Aesop’s lips twitched into a small smile. He closed the gap between them, resting a cool hand against Victor’s chest. “You looked so stiff. I had to do something about it.”

“Or,” Aesop continued, his voice lower now, coaxing, “we could skip the nostalgia and just have dinner. Sit across from each other, no Edgar, no work, no stress. Just us.” Victor clenched his jaw, but his resolve was slipping. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this–Aesop’s quiet persistence, the way he used touch instead of arguments. Aesop slipped his hands down to Victor’s wrists, gently tugging them away from his tie, then lacing their fingers together. “Come on,” he said softly. “One night. That’s all I’m asking.”

Victor exhaled sharply through his nose, staring down at him. “..You don’t fight fair, you know that?”

Aesop tilted his head, brushing Victor’s knuckles against his lips before answering. “I never claimed to.”

Victor sighed, but there was no real fight left in him. “Fine. Tomorrow. Dinner. But if Edgar fires me over it, you’re covering rent.”

“Deal,” Aesop whispered, leaning in to press a brief, chaste kiss to Victor’s mouth, just enough to seal the promise.

Victor finally let himself be guided toward the bedroom, Aesop’s fingers still intertwined with his, anchoring him in a way that felt both grounding and dangerous. Wick trotted behind them, settling at the foot of the bed as if he too approved of the peace in the room. They stripped off the day’s weight–clothes, tension, unspoken resentments–and slid beneath the covers. Aesop curled against him, warm and steady, his hand resting lightly on Victor’s chest.

Victor’s eyes stayed half-lidded, pretending to focus on Aesop’s warmth, but his mind had already wandered far from the comfort of the bed.

Andrew. The grave robber. Edgar’s secret little “lover”. Each image twisted in his mind, sharper, darker. He pictured Andrew helpless, cornered in some shadowy room, forced to beg for his life. He imagined the man’s porcelain skin flushed with fear, his wide eyes staring up at him, utterly at his mercy. A small, almost cruel part of Victor thrilled at the thought–the power, the absolute control.

Then he pictured something worse. Andrew failing. Failing in some way that would hurt Edgar. And Victor’s chest tightened, not with fear, but with a fierce possessive anger. The fantasy of punishment–swift, deliberate, and absolute–sent shivers through him.

It had been two weeks.

Two long agonizing weeks since the last time he felt it–the sharp, intoxicating thrill of control, of life and death in his hands. The city had been quiet without it, but the quiet only festered, gnawed at him like a relentless itch. He shifted slightly under Aesop’s hand, the warmth and safety next to him a fragile barrier against the craving. But the craving was relentless, clawing at the edges of his mind. Each murder–the girls, the boys, the men–had been perfect. Precise. Personal. The weight of power had never felt so sweet.

Two weeks. That was far too long. The sensation of fear in someone else’s eyes, the sound of struggle, the scent of panic–it called to him, whispered to him in ways no human voice ever could.

Victor traced the line of Aesop’s hand, finger tightening reflexively as he forced the memory down. The city, the penthouses, the glittering stars–it all seemed so…hollow. The only thing that made him feel alive was the darkness, the act itself. A soft whimper from Wick at the foot of the bed made him snap his head around. Even the dog sensed the edge in him. The edge that Aesop didn’t fully see yet.

Victor exhaled slowly, a small, chilling smile brushing his lips. Two weeks was far too long. Soon, very soon, he would feel it again. The hunger would consume him. And nothing–neither Aesop’s warmth nor the fragile truce with Edgar–would stop him from seeking it. The night closed in around him, velvet and dark, and Victor let himself drift again…but this time, the thrill of anticipation for his next victim coursed like fire through his veins.

Chapter Text

Edgar’s morning was nothing short of hell.

The alarm had blared far too early, and for once, he’d actually tried to sleep in–only to be jolted awake by Victor’s absence. The penthouse was a mess: empty liquor bottles lined the coffee table, ashtrays overflowed, and a half-finished script was stuck to the floor with something that looked suspiciously like spilled wine. Edgar rubbed his temples, the cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. His head pounded, fragments of last night slipping away like smoke between his fingers.

“Christ almighty.” Edgar muttered, spotting a familiar figure sprawled belly-down across the velvet couch.

Luca.

Edgar stormed over and gave him a rough shove. “Get the hell up–what the fuck happened last night?” Luca groaned, face still pressed into the cushions. “Mm… morning to you too, sunshine.”

“I said what happened,” Edgar snapped. At that, Luca finally cracked his good eye open, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “We went on a two-man bender, my dear Edgar Valden.” He sat up, hair sticking in all directions, and stretched like a cat. “Drinks, lines, gambled half our life savings away at some shoddy casino then karaoke…it was glorious. You don’t remember?”

Edgar’s jaw clenched, his mind racing but blank. “I remember nothing past midnight.”

“Then trust me,” Luca chuckled, leaning back into the couch with an air of pride, “it was the best worst night of your life.”

Edgar rubbed his eyes before scanning the wreckage of his penthouse–cigarette smoke curling from his lips as he tried to stitch together flashes of last night. His shoes were still by the door. There was powder residue on the glass coffee table. A woman’s fur stole lay draped over one of the chairs, though he couldn’t remember any woman being there.

But then his gaze darted to the wall clock.

1:30 pm.

Edgar’s stomach dropped.

“Shit.” He grabbed the clock as if shaking it would change the time. “Shit! Where’s Victor?” Luca, still half-reclined on the couch, blinked at him with amused detachment. “Probably stormed out, like he usually does when you go off the rails.”

“No, no, no, this–this isn’t good,” Edgar muttered, pacing furiously now. “Mike is supposed to be here—today, gooddamnit–and I’ve got no Victor, no schedule, no–” He stopped dead, staring at himself in the mirrored bar cabinet. His hair was a bird’s nest, his shirt unbuttoned, pearls still tangled around his neck from last night. “I can’t see Morton like this,” Edgar whispered hoarsely, as if the very thought might summon the man himself. Behind him, Luca let out a loud yawn and reached for a leftover cigarette. “Relax. You always look great.”

Edgar spun on him, frantic. “No. I need Victor. Where the hell is he?” Edgar then lunged for the vintage wall phone, nearly tripping over an empty bottle on the floor. He yanked the receiver off the hook and dialed Victor’s number with jittery fingers, muttering under his breath. “Come on, come on, pick up–”

The line clicked. But instead of Victor’s measured voice, it was someone else.

“Aesop Carl speaking.”

Edgar froze. “...Where’s Victor? Put him on.”

A pause. Then Aesop’s cool, flat tone: “He won’t be able to make it today.”

“What do you mean he won’t?” Edgar’s voice pitched upward, sharp with panic. “I need him–today is–”

“He’s sick,” Aesop cut in, blunt as a scalpel. “Caught a serious cold. He could barely get out of bed this morning and it’s beginning to snow outside. I told him to rest so it doesn't get worse.” Edgar squeezed the receiver so hard the cord creaked. “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. He abandons me now, of all days–”

On the couch, Luca puffed lazily on a cigarette and waved a hand, mouthing, “calm down.” Edgar turned away from him, pacing furiously as he snapped into the phone. “Fine. Tell him if this happens again then I won’t hesitate to replace him!” Before Aesop could respond, Edgar slammed the receiver back down, the sharp clang echoing through the room.

He raked both hands through his hair, pearls clinking against his buttons. “I can’t do this without him. I can’t–” he inhaled sharply, “fuck.” Edgar then stormed across the living room, snatching up empty bottles and crumpled cigarette packs, his hands moving with frantic precision. His voice rose and cracked, ricocheting off the high ceilings. “I can’t fucking believe that asshole, I swear to god I’m going to replace him, Luca, I don’t care if he was my friend outside of business that still doesn’t make him indispensable, no one is!”

He shoved an overflowing ashtray into a trash bag so hard the glass cracked. “I should have known better. He’s weak. Soft. I need someone reliable. Someone sharp. Someone who won’t collapse over a damn sniffle and a little bit of snow.”

Luca sat up on the couch. He held up both hands in a mock-surrender. “Whoa, whoa, slow down, maestro. You’re talking like you’re about to fire the Pope. It’s just Victor. He’s sick.”
“Sick?” Edgar spat the word, snatching up an abandoned glass and slamming it into the sink. “I don’t give two damn shits if he’s sick. He’s supposed to be at my side. Always. And now–now I’m left to face everything on my own.” Luca pushed himself off the couch and intercepted Edgar, gently prying a jagged bottle from his hand before he cut himself. “Look, you’re spiraling. You don’t need to replace anyone. You just need to breathe, take a second–”

“Don’t patronize me, Luca!” Edgar snapped, eyes burning as he shoved trash into another bag. “This whole day is falling apart! If I don’t keep it together–” His voice caught, breaking for the briefest moment. “--then it all collapses.” Luca softened, placing a hand on Edgar’s shoulder despite the tension coiled in him. “Hey. You’re not alone in this, alright? Even if Victor’s out, you’ve still got me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Edgar’s shoulders trembled beneath Luca’s hand, taking his words into account. His eyes darted between Luca’s messy hair, his snaggle tooth, and his half lidded eye and gulped. “I’m so screwed.”

Before Luca could shoot back at Edgar with something clever, a sharp knock rattled the door. Edgar froze mid-motion, clutching the trash bag like a lifeline. The door swung open and in strolled Mike Morton, tall and confident, a rakish grin plastered across his face. His outfit was garishly flamboyant, stepping into the room like he owned the place. “Well, if it isn’t my gracious host,” Mike drawled, glancing over the mess of half-cleaned bottles and whatever residue was lying around. “Classy as ever, Valden. Don’t tell me this is how you prep a meeting for me.”

Edgar froze, panic flashing in his eyes. He glanced around at the clutter, then shoved the trash bag into Luca’s chest. “Take this—now.” Mike’s grin widened as he sauntered further into the room. “Relax, dollface. I’ve seen worse backstage. Though…not by much.” His tone was playful, but his gaze hardened when it landed squarely on Edgar. “Looks like I picked the right time. Hell of a party you threw. Sorry I missed it.”

“No more chatter,” Edgar replied as he dropped onto the couch. He took a long drag of his cigarette before gesturing for Mike to sit across from him. “We were supposed to produce a film starring you and Alice DeRoss,” Edgar began, his tone clipped, eyes sharp but hollow. “But since her untimely death…everything’s come to a grinding halt.” Mike leaned back lazily on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. “Mm. Quite the tragedy,” he said, the words a little too smooth, almost mocking. “Poor kid. She was huge in children’s entertainment.” He tilted his head, studying Edgar. “And now, nothing. What a stain on your career, Valden.”

Edgar’s jaw twitched, but he exhaled smoke through his nose and pressed on. “That doesn’t mean the project is dead. We can rewrite. Adjust the script. Remove her role entirely. Make the film center on you.” He leaned forward, voice lowering, insistent. “It’d be a tighter production. Just you in the spotlight. You’d carry the whole thing.”

Mike barked a short laugh. “Of course you’d suggest that, you slimy little man. Alice is barely cold in the ground, and your first instinct is to cut her out like she was never there.” He leaned forward too, smirk sharp, eyes glittering. “Tell me, Edgar–do you actually care about anyone but yourself?”

Luca, still lingering in the background, rubbed his face and muttered, “Oh boy, here we go..”

Edgar shot him a look, then turned his attention back to Mike, voice sharp as a blade. “This is how business works, Mike. People die, projects collapse, money gets lost. The show must go on and I figured you of all people would understand that.”

Mike leaned back, stretching out like he owned the couch. He tapped his fingers against the armrest, a smug rhythm that he knew would grate on Edgar’s nerves. “You talk about the business like it’s a religion,” Mike said smoothly. “But I think we both know the truth. It’s not about art, it’s not even about money–it’s about control. And you, Valden, you cling to it like a lifeline.”

Edgar narrowed his eyes, smoke curling from his lips. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Mike. You’re here because you’re marketable, not because you’re profound. Nobody in the industry actually takes you seriously, you’re a washed up child actor who still clings to the past.”

Mike chuckled lowly. “Marketable. Right. Just like Norton was marketable before you got your claws in him like the succubus you are.” His voice sharpened, still calm but dripping venom. Edgar’s expression remained composed, but a vein twitched at his temple. “Watch it.”

Mike smirked wider, sensing the crack in Edgar’s armor. “Oh, come on.Don’t pretend it doesn’t bother you. Everyone knew Norton and I had something good. Stable. Then you came along–like a wolf sniffing around someone else’s kill.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, lowering his voice but keeping the poison sharp. “Do you really believe that he slept with you because he wanted to? No, he did it because you’re Edgar Valden, the big name, the untouchable star and that you can make him into something bigger.”

The silence that followed was taught as a wire. Edgar’s cigarette smoldered between his fingers, his knuckles bone-white in his lap.

Luca glanced between them, nervously tugging at his collar. “Uh, fellas–maybe we can..not start a blood feud?”

Neither man looked at him.

Edgar let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He stubbed his cigarette out with deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving Mike’s.

“I’m sorry,” he said flatly.

Mike arched a brow, clearly not expecting that.
Edgar leaned forward, his voice dripping venom. “I’m sorry that my ass was so good that Norton couldn’t resist it.” He tilted his head mockingly, lips curling into a smirk. “I guess some things…just can’t be helped.”

The words landed like a spark to dry kindling.

“You smug bastard!” Mike shot to his feet. His face flushed red, his playful mask stripped away. “You think this is funny? You destroyed something real because you’re a selfish, hollow little bitch.”

“Oh, spare me your morality play,” Edgar snarled back, standing as well. “If what you had was so damn real, he wouldn’t have dropped his pants the second I walked into the room.”

“You’re delusional!” Mike shouted, jabbing a finger at Edgar’s chest. “You didn’t win him. You cornered him, pressured him, paraded your power until he gave in. You don’t know what love is–you only know how to take.”

“And you don’t know how to keep.” Edgar fired back, slapping Mike’s hand away. His voice thundered now, his carefully cultivated composure gone. “Face It, Morton—you lost. Maybe if you’d, I don’t know…satisfied Norton in bed instead of whining about your precious feelings, you wouldn’t be in this situation right now.”

Mike’s jaw dropped for a split second, then he erupted into a loud, incredulous laugh. “You—you’ve got some nerve, Valden!” Edgar waved a hand dismissively, “Oh, don’t act shocked. I’m just being honest. Consider it…professional advice from someone who apparently knows him better than you ever did!”

Mike didn’t say anything, instead he stepped forward, and Edgar mirrored him, the tension stretching taut like a drawn bow. Luca hovered nearby, eyes darting between them, silently praying no one snapped.

Then the elevator dinged.

Both men froze.

The front door opened, and for a split second Edgar was relieved hoping it had been Victor who came to rescue him from this disaster of an afternoon but instead, Andrew stepped in. His eyes widened as he took in the scene–two men glaring at each other like predators in a cage, tension so thick it could be sliced with a knife.

“Uh…” Andrew’s voice was hesitant, unsure if he should laugh or flee. “I…didn’t mean to—”

Mike turned slowly, his grin sly but eyes sharp. “Well, well, what do we have here? Is this another one of your play things? Edgar?” Edgar’s glare faltered as his eyes landed on Andrew. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, though the air around Mike still crackled with unspent rage. “Andrew…” Edgar’s voice softened, almost unsure. “What…what are you doing here?” Andrew shifted nervously, hands fidgeting at his sides. “I..I just wanted to check up on you,” he admitted, voice low. “I haven’t heard from you since yesterday…I thought maybe I would come by.” Edgar blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in Andrew’s tone. His words hung tenderly in the air and Edgar couldn’t help but feel flustered.

“Well, isn’t that sweet?” Mike sneered, slicing through the calm. “Your little charity case shows up to stroke your ego, and suddenly you’re blushing like a schoolgirl. Tell me, Edgar, how many men have you dragged home like this? You’re nothing but a glorified whore playing producer” The blush on Edgar’s cheeks immediately burned away, replaced by sharp fury.

“You son of a–” Edgar didn’t finish. He lunged.

The room exploded. Edgar shoved Mike back against the wall, fists flying, and Mike clawed right back, grabbing for Edgar’s hair and yanking him down. “You piece of shit.” Edgar hissed, swinging wildly as Mike shoved his shoulder into him, both of them grunting and snarling like alley cats.

Andrew stood frozen in the walkway, horrified. “S-stop! Please!” he stammered, stepping forward, but the two men were too tangled in rage to hear him. Mike managed to slam Edgar down onto the couch, snarling. “You only got to where you are now by spreading your legs. For any seedy executive who gives you–”

Before he could finish, Edgar clawed up at his face, catching him across the cheek with his nails. Mike yelped but pressed on, the sound of bodies slamming against furniture echoed through the penthouse. Edgar had Mike by the collar, Mike had his fist cocked back.

“Get him, Edgar! Rip his damn face off!” Luca whooped, leaning against the wall with a grin. “Finally, some entertainment around here! Teach that pretty boy a lesson!”

Edgar snarled, trying to wrench Mike’s arm between his back. “I’ll do more than teach him–”

“Yeah, that’s it, get em good!” Luca cheered, clapping his hands like a drunk at a prize fight.

Mike hissed through clenched teeth, shoving Edgar off. “You’re insane–both of you!”

The chaos jolted Andrew out of his frozen state. He darted forward, his voice trembling but louder than usual, cracking through the madness. “Stop it!” Andrew cried, wedging his freakishly large body in between the two men. His pale face flushed red, but his eyes were firm. “This–this isn’t how you handle things! You’re grown men, not animals! Fighting like this solves nothing!” For a moment, both Edgar and Mike froze, panting heavily, glaring each other over Andrew’s trembling shoulders. Luca, meanwhile, gave an exaggerated groan.

“Booo, don’t ruin the fun. He almost had him!”

Andrew shot him a sharp look, surprising even himself. “You! Sh-shut up!”

The room went quiet, tension still crackling, but Andrew’s sudden firmness seemed to cut through the haze of fury-at least for now. Edgar’s chest heaved. Andrew’s trembling words echoed in his ears, tugging him back from the brink. “You’re right, Andrew,” Edgar muttered, still breathing hard, his gaze flicking briefly to him–softer, almost guilty. “This is pointless. He’s not worth it.”

Mike stumbled back a step, straightening his shirt with a sneer. “Seems like the great Edgar Valden suddenly grew a conscience.” His lips curled cruelly. “You’re not worth the trouble. Norton deserved better than some coked-up, washed-up, spoiled brat who thinks sleeping around makes him important.”

Luca gasped dramatically, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Ohhh, he did not just say that–”

Edgar’s whole body trembled. His jaw tightened, lips quivering, as though he was moments away from either breaking down or breaking Mike’s jaw again but before he could say anything further, Andrew jabbed a finger into Mike’s chest. “Enough” he snapped, glaring at Mike. “You don’t get to stand here in his home and talk to him like that. I don’t care what history you two share–there’s a line, a–and you crossed it.”

The room went silent once again. Edgar stood frozen, taken aback. No one ever leapt to his defense like that–no hesitation, no mockery, just a blunt shield raised in front of him. He didn’t expect it, especially not by somebody as meek and docile as Andrew. Mike gave a dry laugh, trying to shrug it off. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”

Andrew didn’t flinch. “Someone who doesn’t let people I care about get treated like garbage.”

The words hit Edgar like a punch to the chest. His lips parted, but nothing came out–just the faintest flicker of warmth that betrayed how much the defense disarmed him. After a moment, he found his voice, brittle but firm. “Mike…” Edgar exhaled, rubbing at his temple. “The project’s off. Forget it. Just… go home.”

Mike didn’t say anything. He straightened himself and strutted toward the door with all the self-satisfaction of a man who thought he’d won. As the door shut behind him, the silence that followed was deafening. Edgar’s hands trembled at his sides, his lips pressed tight to keep them from quivering.

The room seemed to close in on him after Mike left, the elevator’s ding from outside echoing in his ears like a cruel reminder. Edgar’s chest heaved, his fingers digging into his palms as though pain might keep him steady. He turned to Andrew, eyes flossy, voice low and shaking. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Edgar said, his throat catching. “With Norton… it wasn’t supposed to be like that. I never wanted to hurt him or ruin what they had.”

He sank down on the edge of the sofa, running a hand through his hair, tugging it in frustration. “It just–happened. He…he looked at me like no one else ever did, and I was weak. I know what that makes me. I know what I did. But God, Andrew… I didn’t mean for it to turn into a huge scandal.” For once, there was no sharpness to his tone, no barbed retort ready on his tongue. Just guilt, heavy and suffocating, spilling out in trembling words he could no longer keep locked away.

Luca stood by the door, arms crossed, shifting uncomfortably where he stood. “Well, gentlemen.” he said, “this seems to be getting a little too personal, I’ll leave you two be.” Luca gave Edgar one last reassuring smile before turning to the door.

Andrew stepped closer, his quiet presence steadying the air between them. He crouched down a little so he could meet Edgar’s gaze with those continuous quivering eyes. “You shouldn’t let him get to you,” Andrew said softly, “He only said those things to hurt you.”

Edgar let out a low, bitter laugh, though there was no humor in it. He dragged his hands down his face before speaking, his voice trembling on the edge of despair. “Is he not right though?” he muttered. “That’s all I am–a glamorized whore with a nice apartment and some name recognition. Strip away the suits, the cameras, the champagne, and that’s what’s left. Nothing worth defending.”

Andrew’s eyes widened, stunned by the rawness of the confession. Edgar refused to look at him, staring instead at the floor as if he might fall straight through it. His knuckles were white, fists clenched in his lap. “You don’t mean that,” Andrew said carefully, his tone soft but firm, like he was trying to coax someone off a ledge.

Edgar huffed, almost laughing again, though it cracked in the middle. “Don’t I? I’ve used people, Andrew. For my career, for comfort, for..for distractions. Norton was just another example. I ruin everything I touch.” His voice faltered, quieter now, as if admitting it to Andrew was the most dangerous thing he’d ever done. “I don’t know why you even let me near you.”

Andrew’s brows knitted together as he looked at Edgar, his frown carrying more sorrow than anger. For a moment, he didn’t speak–just studied the man unraveling before him, as if searching for the right thread to pull him back together. Finally, in a low, steady voice, Andrew said, “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

It was all he offered, but the weight behind the words hit Edgar harder than any insult Mike had thrown at him. His throat closed up, his chest tightening as though those simple words were too much for him to bear. Before Edgar could find a clever response–or find another sharp retort to shield himself–Andrew closed the space between them and pulled him into a hug. Edgar stiffened at first, unaccustomed to being touched with anything that wasn’t desire. But as Andrew’s arms stayed wrapped around him, steady and unwavering, the fight drained out of him. Slowly, his hands lifted, clutching the back of Andrew’s coat, his forehead pressed against his shoulder.

The silence hung thick, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside the penthouse windows. Edgar stayed nestled in Andrew’s arms longer than he’d ever allow himself with anyone else, his pride usually too sharp to permit such a thing. But here, in the quiet, it didn’t feel weak. It felt safe. He tilted his head slightly, his voice rasping but laced with a thin thread of humor, the only defense mechanism he had left. “Are you sure you’re not some kind of angel from heaven? Because you’re starting to make me believe in miracles.”

Andrew froze, his face heating instantly as the words sank in. He stumbled over his reply, throat tightening. “I—I’m no angel,” he stammered, unable to look Edgar directly in the eye. His grip tightened without him meaning to, as if grounding both of them. “I’m just…me.”

Andrew’s heart gave a painful squeeze at the word angel. It was the first time anyone had ever called him that–monster, freak, ghoul–he was used to the insults but…angel? Coming from Edgar’s lips, it felt less like holy praise and more like temptation itself. The heat crawling up his neck was matched by a cold coil of dread in his stomach.

An angel? His mind recoiled at the blasphemy. Angels belonged to God, not to Edgar Valden. To be called on here, in this man’s arms, felt dangerously close to a sin of its own. “P–please..” he stammered again, his words thick with both embarrassment and unease, “don’t say things like that, Edgar.”

But Edgar only leaned back slightly, studying him with a predator's patience, his smirk faint but eyes almost awed. “No human looks the way you do,” he pressed, his voice velvet and low, each syllable deliberate. “Not with those eyes, not with that face. If you’re not an angel, then you’re something heaven misplaced.”

Andrew’s breath caught, shame and warmth colliding inside him. He looked away, clenching his hands as though in silent prayer, but couldn’t bring himself to pull away. The praise left him flustered, torn between wanting to shrink under it and wanting to bask in it. Edgar tilted his head, amused and curious, watching the battle play out across Andrew’s features. “See? Even your silence gives you away,” he murmured, voice almost taunting but softened with a strange reverence.

Andrew bit his lip, finally finding his voice, though it trembled. “D-don’t tease me about this,” he said, sharper than he meant, eyes flashing with a mix of fear and conviction. “It’s blasphemy, Edgar. Angels aren’t meant for this world, not for…for this. They serve God, not the whims of men.” Edgar only chuckled, dragging a hand lazily across his jaw as though amused by the fire in Andrew’s words. “Then maybe God was careless leaving you down here with the rest of us,” he teased. “Or maybe He wanted to give me a gift.”

Andrew’s lips parted, his breath catching. “Stop.” His voice cracked at the word. He sounded less angry now, more like a man cornered in a confessional booth, desperate for the priest to let him go. Edgar leaned closer, “Stop what? Looking at you? Wanting you? You can pray it away. But it doesn’t change the fact you like it when I say those things about you.”

Andrew’s cheeks burned crimson. His heart pounded in both indignation and reluctant thrill. “You twist everything,” he muttered, finally breaking away, rising to his feet. His next words were almost spat out just to end the spiral: “Enough of this. You need air. You’ve been locked inside for so long it’s making you mad. I’ll take you out. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just—out.”

Edgar’s smirk softened into something unreadable, though his eyes still glinted with mischief. He lounged back against the sofa cushions as though surrendering—though not without one last jab. “You offering to wine and dine me now, Father Andrew?” Andrew ignored the barb, clutching his coat as if it were armor. “Just get ready,” he muttered, already reaching for the door.

–

The city felt different under snow. A hush lingered over the streets as if the world itself had been muffled, the usual city clamor buried beneath the weight of white. It was late afternoon, the sky a low sheet of gray, the kind that promised more storms yet to come. Andrew stepped out first, pulling his coat tightly around his wide frame. His platform boots crunched in the soft blanket of snow that reached nearly to his ankles, and a small involuntary smile touched his lips. His deep crimson eyes reflected the wintry gloom like twin shards of glass.

“I love this,” he murmured, almost to himself. His breath fogged the air in delicate bursts. “When it’s quiet. When it’s heavy and the sun’s garish rays are put aside.”

Edgar emerged behind him, tugging his faux fur coat tighter, grumbling at the cold. He adjusted his wire-framed glasses and watched as Andrew tilted his head back, flakes catching in his white hair, the faintest look of peace stealing over his jagged features. “You’re insane,” Edgar muttered, though the edge was absent from his voice. “Everyon else curses the snow. It ruins traffic, ruins shoes, ruins everything.”

Andrew’s smile widened faintly, though he didn’t look at him. “Not everything. It makes the ugliness go away. Covers it up. You don’t see dirt, or cracks, or…decay. Just white. Just silence.” For a moment Edgar said nothing, caught off guard by the sincerity in Andrew’s tone.

Edgar fell into step beside Andrew, letting the cold bite at his cheeks but keeping his eyes on the man next to him. There was something mesmerizing in the way Andrew moved through the snow, small and deliberate, as if every step were a secret ritual. The flakes clung to his pale lashes and brushed against the fine curve of his jaw. His hair caught the falling snow in soft, glimmering threads, and Edgar found himself holding his breath, caught off guard by how breathtaking it all looked. He had seen beauty before–actors, models, the famous faces he worked with–but this…this was different. It was like Andrew stepped out of a renaissance painting.

Andrew tilted his face up toward the sky, letting the snow land on him freely, eyes closing as though he were tasting it. Edgar’s chest tightened in a way he couldn’t explain–part awe, part something more dangerous, something possessive. “You really are something else,” he murmured again, almost to himself, though Andrew didn’t hear him. And for the first time in a long while, Edgar let himself simply watch, letting the world narrow down to the quiet, falling snow and the fragile, intoxicating figure near him.

Andrew’s unsteady eyes flicked sideways, and he realized Edgar’s gaze had lingered on him for far too long. A faint flush crept up his cheeks, and he lowered his head slightly, the snowflakes gathering on his lashes like fragile ornaments. “Y-You’re staring…” he murmured, almost as if he regretted saying it aloud. His voice was quiet, hesitant, the words dissolving into the snowy air.

Edgar blinked, startled, heat rushing to his own face. He coughed into his hand, searching for something to latch onto. “What? No—don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered, but the defensiveness only betrayed him further. With a sharp exhale, he waved a hand forward. “C’mon. Follow me. There’s a good restaurant nearby. Warm food, better than freezing out here.”

Andrew hesitated, boots shifting in the snow. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but instead he nodded, falling into step beside him, quiet and pliant. His shoulders hunched slightly as if trying to hide the blush on his cheeks from Edgar’s notice. The silence between them stretched–but it wasn’t empty–it was fragile.

The warmth of the restaurant hit them as soon as they stopped inside, the soft clatter of cutlery and murmur of voices stark contrasts to the muffled quiet of the snow outside. The golden glow of lantern light washed over the room, giving it a cozy intimacy. A server led them to a small booth in the corner. Edgar slid in first, lounging against the leather with casual grace, while Andrew sat stiffly across from him, hands folded like a schoolboy.

“You look like you’re about to recite the Lord’s Prayer,” Edgar said, his lips twitching in amusement. Andrew’s brows knit together, pale lashes still speckled with melting snow. “I’m just….not used to this sort of thing.” His voice dipped lower. “Restaurants.”

Edgar leaned in, smirk curling like smoke. “What, you’ve never gone out for dinner before?”

Andrew faltered. “Not–like this. Not with..” He trailed off, cheeks coloring, eyes darting away.

Edgar tilted his head, savoring the hesitation. “Not with me, you mean,” he supplied smoothly, tapping his finger against the table. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to confess your sins over bread and butter.”

Andrew’s flush deepened. “You speak like everything is… temptation.” He glanced away, fidgeting with the edge of the menu.

“Maybe that’s because you make it too easy,” Edgar countered, tone light but eyes sharp, watching every flicker of expression that crossed Andrew’s face.

For a beat, Andrew froze, caught between indignation and something softer. Finally, he lowered his head, hiding in the shadow of his hair. “...You enjoy teasing me far too much.”

“It’s cute seeing you get all uncomfortable and flustered.” Edgar replied with a slight chuckle, picking up the menu as though it were nothing. Andrew buried his face in the menu as if the print might save him from further embarrassment. His ears, however, betrayed him–flushed pink and burning hot against the cool pale of his skin.

The waiter eventually arrived, mercifully breaking the tension. Orders were placed quickly–Andrew stammering through his choice, Edgar reciting his with practiced ease. Once the waiter drifted away, Andrew tried to steady himself with the glass of water in front of him. Edgar leaned back after the silence had stretched too long. “So tell me something about you, Andrew. Where did the mysterious grave-keeper come from, hm? What dark corner of the world did you crawl out of before stumbling into my life?”

Andrew blinked at him, startled by the sudden shift, but then exhaled softly. He folded his hands on the table, his tone quieter. “...Central England,” he said after a beat. “I grew up there. My mother and I lived a quiet life indoors, but when she died, the church took me in. I was only a boy, and… I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Edgar’s smirk faded into something more contemplative. He tilted his head, studying Andrew’s downcast eyes.

“The church raised you?”

Andrew nodded faintly. “Partly but it was all I knew. Stone walls, hymns, sermons. Discipline. Rules. I thought that was how life was meant to be lived–that all the answers were already written, and all I had to do was follow.” There was quiet heaviness in his words, a weight Edgar didn’t dare interrupt. But after a pause, he leaned in, voice low.

“And do you still believe that?”

Andrew hesitated. His jaw tensed, fingers clasping together on the table. Finally, he whispered, “...Sometimes. Other times, I wonder if the world is bigger than they ever let me believe.”

Edgar swirled the last of his drink, watching the amber liquid catch the light before setting the glass aside. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before, stripped of its usual sharpness. “Bigger than they let you believe…?” he echoed, leaning in across the table. “What do you mean by that?”

Andrew shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable, but not because of Edgar’s tone–more because the words themselves pressed against old walls inside him. “I mean…” he faltered, his pale lashes fluttering as he searched for language he wasn’t used to using. “I was taught everything–how to pray, how to repent, what was right, what was wrong. But then I look around and I see people living their lives differently… freely. Sometimes it makes me wonder if faith is supposed to keep you safe or if it’s just keeping you… contained.”

Edgar’s lips curled–not in mockery, but in something closer to recognition. He tilted his head, studying Andrew as though the man were a canvas revealing its hidden brushstrokes. “You’ve thought about this a lot,” Edgar murmured. “Far more than you let on.” Andrew’s cheeks colored faintly, and his voice dropped. “If I say such things aloud.. It feels like betrayal.”

“It’s quite funny you say that when you look the way you do,” Edgar replied, voice low and teasing. “I mean isn’t it a little ironic? You walk around like you’re the poster boy for the underworld in all that black, hair teased like a bat's nest, and yet you’re still clutching your rosary tight like a good little Christian.”

Andrew blinked, caught off guard. His face flushed instantly, and he fumbled for a response, his hands curling nervously around his cup. “I–” he stammered, then frowned at Edgar’s grin. “That isn’t funny. My faith isn’t a costume.” Edgar chuckled softly, crossing his arms. “Relax. I’m not mocking it. Just…pointing out the poetry of it all. Goth boy, all gloom and shadow, usually goths are satanic–some might say.”

Andrew’s fingers tightened around the glass, his pale reflection trembling in the water. He let out a slow breath, as if the words were pried out of him rather than freely given “I dress this way..” he said quietly, still not meeting Edgar’s eyes. “...because in the community, we see beauty in things most people find ugly. The shadows, the sorrow, the decay–it all has its own kind of grace.”

Finally, he turned, his gaze uncertain but steady enough to meet Edgar’s. His voice lowered further, almost a whisper. “It’s more prominent back home and it was the only place I’ve ever felt like I belonged. Like I didn’t have to be ashamed of my disease. People look at me and see something strange, maybe even grotesque, and–” he swallowed hard, his jaw tightening “-that’s just something I have to live with but with this community they don’t see me as a monster, they see me as a person..” Andrew downcasted his eyes and faintly smiled to himself, “I guess I found a place of solace.”

For a rare moment, the sardonic gleam left Edgar’s expression. His smirk softened into something warmer, almost reverent. He studied Andrew like he was seeing him anew, like the snow-kissed across from him wasn’t grotesque at all but something delicate and rare. “You really think you’re ugly?” Edgar asked, voice hushed, his usual sharpness gone. Andrew’s lips pressed into a thin line, his lashes lowering. “Disgustingly so, I can’t stand to look at myself in the mirror–not with this monstrous body of mine.”

The admission hung between them, raw and unguarded. Edgar didn’t respond–he didn’t know how to respond, but deep down he felt the same pain as the man in front of him but all he could do was frown. Andrew’s voice grew quieter, his words weighted by something much older than himself.

“Back home..people whispered about me,” He continued, staring down at the table, tracing the rim of his glass with a trembling finger. “Rumors. Nasty ones. That I was cursed. Touched by something dark. Some of them even called me a demon straight from Hell.” He paused, his throat tightening before he forced the words out. “It didn’t matter what I did, how much I prayed, how hard I tried to be good–they still looked at me with utter disgust, like I was…wrong.”

“A demon, huh?” Edgar exhaled, tapping his finger against the table. “You know…I’ve heard that word thrown at me more times than I can count.”

Andrew glanced up, startled, like he hadn’t expected Edgar to understand.

Edgar tilted his head, his voice dropping to something more deliberate. “I know what it’s like, Andrew. To walk into a room and feel the air shift. To see people’s stares cut into you like knives. To live every day knowing they’ll never see you as anything but…something unnatural.” He gave a bitter laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Transvestite, creep, confused–is what they refer to me as. Even my own family sees me as some sort of abomination."

Andrew’s hands fidgeted in his lap as he leaned slightly forward, his voice quiet but earnest. “I don’t know how you do it,” he said, eyes flicking to Edgar. “How you manage to make a name for yourself… survive all the nastiness the world throws at you..and still come out standing. I mean–look at you. People have tried to tear you down, yet here you are. You’ve made them all look small.”

“Survive?” Edgar cut in, voice softer than usual. “Hah. It’s not always surviving, Andrew. Sometimes… it’s just pretending you are. Acting like you’re untouchable, even when every nerve in your body is screaming that you’re not.”

Andrew blinked, absorbing the raw honesty, his admiration deepening. “And yet… you still manage to move forward. To create. To be..you.”

Edgar chuckled, but it was a low, mirthless sound. “Listen,” he said, gaze fixed on Andrew. “The world’s always going to try to chew you up and spit you out. People will whisper, judge, call you what they will. The only way to survive–and maybe even thrive–is to do it your way. Don’t bend for anyone. Don’t apologize for existing. And above all… don’t let their hatred make you small.”

Andrew nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of Edgar’s words. There was a clarity to them, a sense of guidance he hadn’t realized he needed, and for a moment the world around them felt suspended.

Then a clatter from the table snapped the moment.

“Here we are, sir, madam–your orders!”

The waiter set plates down with a flourish, and the smell of food filled the space between them. Just like that, the tender, unspoken connection that had been building between Andrew and Edgar evaporated into the mundane hum of the restaurant. Edgar straightened, a faint smirk returning to his face as he picked up his fork. “Ah. Reality,” he muttered, glancing over at the waiter. “Always barging in at the worst possible moment.”

Andrew blushed slightly, the intensity of their conversation now mingling awkwardly with the smell of the meal. “Yeah…I suppose it does.”

They both laughed softly, the tension replaced by the comforting normalcy of eating together.

Time seemed to slip by as their dinner went on. Plates were emptied, wine glasses refilled, and laughter bubbled easily between them. For a little while, the world outside the restaurant didn’t exist—just two men sharing the warmth of a meal together.

Then Andrew’s gaze shifted across the room. A figure sat at a corner table, nursing a drink with his back straight and posture rigid, blissfully unaware of the eyes lingering on him. Andrew’s fork paused midair, and his voice lifted. “Hey… isn’t that your assistant?” He smiled.

Edgar followed his gaze, eyes narrowing as recognition clicked into place. His fork clinked against the plate as he leaned slightly forward. “Victor…” he muttered, the word tasting strange, like it belonged to someone else entirely in that moment. Andrew tilted his head, “Should we go say hi?”

Edgar didn’t say anything as he rose from his seat abruptly, striding toward the corner table. Andrew followed hesitantly, sensing the storm about to erupt. Victor sat stiffly, caught mid-sip of his drink, Aesop in front of him laughing softly at something Victor had said. The warmth of the date evaporated instantly as Edgar’s shadow fell across the table. “Victor,” Edgar barked, voice sharp enough to draw a few glances from nearby diners. “What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were sick!”

Victor’s eyes widened, a flash of panic crossing his features. He opened his mouth, then closed it, fumbling over his words. “I-I…It’s…I–”

Aesop glanced up, puzzled, while Edgar’s glare bored into Victor like a hot knife. “Don’t lie to me,” Edgar snapped, his charm from earlier completely stripped away now. “I’ve been told you were sick. Now I find you here, smiling like this, while you’ve left me to–what? Wallow in my own mess? Do you realize how important today was for me?” Victor swallowed hard, his hands tightening around the glass. He opened his mouth again, stammering, trying to find an excuse, but the words stumbled out in fragments. “I…I didn’t…I just…It’s not what it looks like..”

Edgar leaned in closer, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “It looks like you lied to me. And that’s something I don’t forgive easily.”

Victor’s hands shook slightly as he set his glass down, finally meeting Edgar’s piercing gaze. “I…I needed to get out,” he admitted, voice tight. “It’s been…it’s been too much lately. I needed a break from everything. From you, from the chaos.”

Edgar’s nostrils flared, his jaw tightening visibly. “A break?” he spat, his voice rising. “If you just asked Victor, I would’ve given you a damn break and find somebody to cover for you! But you lied to me and left me on a day that was extremely important. Do you even realize how serious this is? How many other times did you lie to get out of work?”

Victor straightened in his chair, his hands clenching into fists. His jaw was tight, but his voice carried a firmness Edgar didn’t expect. “Enough, Edgar,” Victor shot back, his eyes blazing. “I’ve had enough of you yelling at me like I’m a child! I’m tired of the way you treat me all the time–like I’m some sort of slave, I don’t even get paid enough to deal with half the crap you put me through. I have to sit here and watch as you flirt with danger, play with your lovers, and dabble in self-destruction.” Victor hissed. “So forgive me for wanting a damn moment where I don’t feel like I’m suffocating under your mess!”

Edgar’s chest heaved, his fingers twitching as he tried to rein in the storm of anger inside him. He took a slow, deliberate breath, and then, in a voice that was sharp and final, he said: “You want a breather? Fine, you’re done, how about that for a fucking breather?”

Before Victor could react Edgar spun on his heel and strode toward the exit with Andrew following closely behind. The clatter of plates and murmurs of conversation slowly faded behind them as Edgar and Andrew stepped out into the frosty night air. Snow crunched softly beneath their shoes, the restaurant’s golden light spilling briefly over them before the heavy door shut. Edgar didn’t look back, his jaw set tight, his hand flexing as though itching for a cigarette he’d forgotten to bring.

Andrew, quiet at his side, kept stealing glances at him, worried about not pressing. The night was cold, but the tension radiating from Edgar made it feel hotter than fire. Inside the restaurant, through the wide windows, Victor remained seated, his meal untouched. He sat utterly still, eyes locked on Edgar’s retreating figure. His jaw clenched so tightly it almost trembled.

His mind wandered.

He thought about how good it would feel…Edgar forced down against the marble floor of his penthouse, cheek grinding into the cold surface, his designer clothes shredded open under the edge of a blade. Victor could almost hear the pathetic gasps, the cracks in his voice as confidence bled into fear. Cut that smirk off his pretty face. Carve it away. Watch his arrogance drain out in rivers, warm and red, staining his pristine white carpet. Hear him begging–pleading–for mercy he never once showed to anyone else. Every scream, every tear, every twitch of his body a reminder that he’s not untouchable.

Victor’s hand tightened around the steak knife beside his plate until his knuckles whitened. The thought of it, sinking metal deep into Edgar’s chest over and over, was nearly euphoric. But then his mind wandered once again but not to Edgar, but to Andrew.

The name rolled in his mind with sickening clarity. That pale, wide-eyed shadow who clung to Edgar’s side, meek and quiet as a church mouse. He thinks he’s special. He thinks he’s comforting him. A darker thought slithered in, one that made his chest tighten with perverse delight: hurting Andrew would hurt Edgar more than any blade in the world. He could already imagine it–Edgar, desperate and broken, watching that fragile, pathetic little goth boy bleed out in his arms. The helplessness. The horror. The guilt.

Victor’s pulse quickened. Yes… that would break him. Tear him apart in ways death never could. Take the one thing he leans on and crush it to dust.

Aesop’s voice broke through, soft and worried. “Victor… you’re trembling, dear.”

He blinked, unclenching his fist just enough to set the knife down with a quiet clatter, his fingers damp with sweat. Slowly, he rose from the table.

“I need air,” he muttered, voice flat, controlled.

“Do you want me to—?” Aesop began.

“No.” Victor’s tone snapped sharp as glass. “I’ll meet you at home later. I need to clear my head.”

Without waiting, he strode out into the cold night. The snow stung his face, but the hunger inside drowned out everything else.

–

The night had quieted by the time Andrew and Edgar reached the looming entrance of the penthouse building. Snow still drifted lazily from the sky, blanketing the streets in a hushed stillness that seemed a world apart from the chaos of the restaurant. Edgar shoved his hands into his coat pockets, exhaling a plume of hot breath into the frosted air. “Well,” he muttered, softer than usual, “aside from the circus act inside…I actually had a lot of fun tonight.”
Andrew’s lips curved, hesitant but genuine. “Me too,” he admitted, his voice low as if confessing something forbidden. He shifted awkwardly from one boot to the other, his dark eyes meeting Edgar’s. “I…I don’t think I remember the last time I felt like that.”

Edgar smirked faintly, cocking his head. “Like what? Entertained? Or less miserable than usual?”

Andrew let out a nervous laugh, but the sound quickly died on his tongue. His chest tightened. The words he wanted to say caught in his throat, tangled with the weight of scripture and guilt–but he pushed it aside. Before he could second second-guess himself, Andrew leaned down. Hesitant, trembling, but determined. His lips brushed against Edgar’s–brief, uncertain, but real. The kiss lingered only a moment, but it was enough to make Andrew’s heart hammer in his chest. His mind screamed sin, sin, sin–yet his body didn’t pull away. For the first time in years, he silenced that voice and let himself feel.

Edgar blinked, startled by the suddenness, then a slow grin spread across his face. “Well, well,” he drawled, amusement softening into something more tender. “Looks like the church kitty has a bite after all.” Andrew’s cheeks burned crimson, his breath fogging between them. He swallowed hard, guilt already coiling in his gut, but his hands refused to unclench from where they hovered near Edgar’s coat.

Edgar leaned back, his grin turning sly. For a heartbeat, it looked like he might press the kiss further, but instead, he slipped his hand out of his pocket to give Andrew’s arm a light pat. “Make sure you get hom in one piece for me, okay?” Edgar said, his voice low but playfully mocking, the word rolling off his tongue with deliberate mischief. His eyes glimmered, catching the streetlight as if he knew exactly what kind of chaos he’d just left in Andrew’s chest.

Before Andrew could stammer out a reply, Edgar turned on his heel and marched into the building’s lobby, pushing through the glass doors with a hurried swish of his coat. He didn’t look back–though a faint trace of a smile lingered on his lips as the doors shut behind him. Andrew stood frozen in the snow, the cold nipping at his skin, his mind racing. He touched his lips as if to confirm it had really happened, his chest tightening with equal parts warmth and guilt.

The city was quiet–eerily so. The snow muffled every sound, blanketing the streets in a hush that made Andrew’s boots crunch louder than they should have. It was early still, but the storm had driven everyone indoors; not a single soul stirred along the sidewalks. Streetlamps glowed faintly through the curtain of falling flakes, their light stretching thin shadows across the ground.

Andrew walked with his head bent low, cheeks still flushed and warm despite the cold. His thoughts refused to leave Edgar. The kiss replayed in his mind again and again, quickening his pulse every time he remembered the sly grin and his light touch. His lips tingled as if the touch still lingered there. He couldn’t deny it anymore—not to himself. He was falling. For Edgar Valden of all people. A man surrounded by scandal, sharp edges, and shadows. A man who seemed like he should’ve been a warning carved into stone. And yet… Andrew’s heart betrayed him, whispering that maybe Edgar wasn’t just temptation–maybe he was comfort, safety, even if fleeting.

The snow swirled harder, and Andrew tugged his coat tighter around himself. He didn’t notice the faint crunch of another pair of boots somewhere in the darkness, echoing just a beat after his own.

The crunch of snow behind him grew louder, faster. Andrew’s breath hitched in his throat, his head jerking slightly as though to catch sight of the source. But all he saw was darkness and the shifting blur of snowfall. He swallowed hard, his instincts clawing at him. Something was wrong. Someone’s there. He quickened his pace, his long coat dragging at his legs, the heavy platform of his boots clumsy against the uneven snow. His vision–already hazy in the best of times–made the night a distorted smear of shadows and light. He couldn’t trust what he saw. He could only trust what he heard.

And what he heard was a second set of footsteps, heavy, deliberate, trailing his every move.

His heart slammed against his ribs. Andrew pushed harder, his steps breaking into a full sprint. The world tilted as he stumbled forward, arms flailing to steady himself. The snow made the streets slick, and the platform soles offered him no grace. His breath came out in harsh, panicked gasps, fogging into the air as he ran blind. Behind him, the figure picked up speed, his strides longer, steadier. Like a predator closing the distance. His shadow flickered in and out under the lamps, but his presence never wavered–relentless, hungry, patient.

Andrew’s foot caught the edge of a snow–buried curb. His body lurched forward, and he slammed into the ground with a crack that rattled through his bones. Pain shot up his side. The icy pavement scraped his palms raw, and for a moment, all he could hear was the violent ringing in his ears, a high-pitched shriek that drowned out the rest of the world.

He blinked furiously, dazed, his breath puffing into the freezing air in panicked bursts. His vision blurred further, the dark around him spinning into fractured shapes.

Then–a weight. A sudden force slammed into him. Cold steel flashed in the snowy haze. A blade pressed close, hovering just above his chest.

The figure pinned him down with ruthless strength, the pressure crushing the air out of his lungs. Andrew’s heart pounded wildly as the steel glinted, ready to come down.

His body screamed to give up, to fold into the helplessness he’d finally carried for years. But something deeper ignited inside him, hotter than fear–an image of Edgar. His sharp laugh. His piercing blue eyes. The fleeting, dizzying heat of the kiss they’d shared not even an hour ago.

He finally found the happiness he so desperately craved his entire life–now wasn’t the time to give that up so easily.
A guttural noise tore from Andrew’s throat, more animal than human. His hands shot up, seizing the attacker’s wrist with surprising force. The blade trembled inches from his chest. Muscles straining, Andrew shoved upward, teeth bared, his newfound will to live outweighing every ounce of fear. His boots scraped violently against the pavement as he fought to twist his body, to gain leverage.

For the first time in his life, he wasn’t fighting to survive for himself–he was fighting for them. For what Edgar had awakened in him. The blade wavered. The attacker’s grip faltered.

“Get home in one piece for me, okay?” The words echoed in his mind.

Andrew snarled through clenched teeth, his voice raw and shaking: “Not tonight bastard.”

Andrew’s arms shook violently, the knife quivering in their deadlock. For a heartbeat, he thought he had a chance–until the figure suddenly twisted in weight with brutal precision. The shift wrenched Andrew’s balance, and the cold blade slapped past his guard.

Steel ripped through flesh.

Andrew’s scream split the silence of the snow-choked street as the knife carved across his stomach. Hot crimson blood spilled instantly, soaking into his black clothes, steaming against the frozen air. He felt it–felt the skin split, the nauseating give of muscle and the hot, wet slide of his own insides loosening beneath the blade. His hands shot instinctively to his stomach, clutching at the wound, but the pain was so sharp, so searing, it stole the breath from his lungs. The metallic tang of blood flooded his mouth as he choked, eyes wide with disbelief and terror.

The figure leaned close, his breath clouding against Andrew’s paling face. His voice was calm, steady, even mournful–so at odds with the savagery of his act. “I’m sorry Andrew. You weren’t supposed to be caught in the crossfire.” Andrew gasped, his voice weak, broken. His vision blurred again, snow and shadow bleeding together.

The figure’s expression hardened, his eyes glinting with something obsessive and cruel. “But I can’t let Edgar get away. And hurting you…hurting you will destroy him.” The words sank like ice into Andrew’s mind. His unsteady pupils blew wide, realization cutting through the pain.

Victor.

The loyal assistant.

The quiet shadow at Edgar’s side.

The same man who ruthlessly murdered Alice in cold blood.

The same man who targeted Lily with no remorse.
The same man who had attacked Norton.

The killer.

His lips trembled as he tried to form words, his voice a strangled rasp as tears fell like a vicious waterfall. “Y–you..?”

The knife withdrew slickly, and blood poured heavier, staining the snow ruby. Andrew’s body convulsed as his stomach tightened in agony, his trembling fingers pressed desperately at the gash trying everything in his power to keep himself from being disemboweled.

Victor loomed above him, chest rising and falling—not from exertion, but from exhilaration. His lips curled into a grin that split his face with something almost boyish, disturbingly at odds with the carnage he had just caused. He crouched down, the snow crunching beneath his boots, bringing himself eye level with the trembling, fading man. Andrew’s cloudy eyes widened faintly, trying to focus, trying to anchor to anything but the pain.

“Don’t worry Andrew,” he murmured, voice like velvet wrapped around broken glass. “It’s not over yet.”

He brushed his bloodied fingers across Andrew’s cheek almost tenderly, smearing the red warmth across skin that was quickly growing cold. Andrew shuddered at the touch, his lips parting in a broken whimper. His body threatened to give in, to shut down, but Victor’s words dragged him cruelly back to consciousness, shackling him to the nightmare. Victor leaned closer, his grin twisting into something feral. His voice was hushed, intimate–like a lover sharing a secret.

“I want Edgar to feel this. To be so stricken with grief he gets led straight to me. You’re my pawn, Kriess, and unfortunate casualty.”

Andrew’s world tilted violently as rough hands gripped him, lifting his bloodied, trembling body off the cold, snow-laden ground and hoisted him over his shoulder. The icy wind stung his face, mingling with the metallic taste of his own blood as his limbs dangled helplessly. The snow around them was marred with a vivid, crimson stain–the only proof he had ever been there, the only trace left behind. And then the world narrowed to a tunnel of cold, darkness, and fear as he was carried away, leaving the bloodstain, the silence, and the night behind.

“Lord, I beg You, shield him from the darkness that has clawed its way into our lives, guard Edgar from the horrors that I cannot face, and keep him safe where my own strength fails. Let no harm touch him, let no shadow breach the walls of his world, and let his heart remain untouched by the fear that now consumes me. If it be Your will, guide him through this storm, protect his light from the cruelty of men, and grant him the peace I cannot claim for myself. Watch over him, Lord, as I am carried into the void, and let him live on in warmth, laughter, and hope, even as I fade into the cold embrace of suffering and night.”