Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

6th September, 1997
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

It is a most intolerable thing, this habit of mine — to put to paper what cannot, must not, be spoken aloud. Yet the words coil in me like smoke, choking me, until the pen bleeds them free.

Jayden Miller. Agent Miller. Always with that absurd crest of a haircut, as though he were some pub-bound hooligan, not a man entrusted with Foundation-issued armaments. The sight of him, swaggering down the sterile halls of Site-44, mud still on his boots, his lip split from yet another tavern skirmish — it should repel me. It should. And yet it is a flame at which I burn, willingly.

He does everything without thought, as if the world were but one long street-brawl where fists are currency and wounds are mere adornments. This morning, a junior researcher flinched when a D-Class raised his voice. Raised his voice. And what did Miller do? Took a blow meant for no one, a punch that meant nothing, and he grinned through the blood as though he’d won something grand. He makes everything so damnably simple. To him, the world is: fight, bleed, laugh, drink, repeat. I, with my decades of scholarship, my cane, my walls of leather-bound volumes and crystal decanters — I, who have given my marrow to the Foundation — I cannot understand how the universe folds itself so readily around him.

Months ago, when the breach tore through Site-44, it was Miller who dragged me through the smoke and alarms, my leg ruined, my life bought by his recklessness. I remember the stench of scorched steel, his arm clamped around me like an iron vice, and the absurd, unshakable grin — “Ye’re not dyin’ on my watch, Doc.” That grin haunts me more than the screams of those we lost. I walk with a cane now, a permanent reminder of how close I came to death — and how intimately his strength has branded itself upon me.

He reeks perpetually of whiskey and stale cigarettes. His eyes are bloodshot, his knuckles split, his voice as coarse as the highlands that spawned him. And yet — and yet — when he speaks, when he laughs, I feel something raw and sick within me stir. I find myself envying the very bruises he wears like medals, for they touch him where I may not.

My hands shake as I write. I despise the disorder he brings into my ordered world, yet I crave it like a starving man. My colleagues would recoil if they knew. The Head of Research, undone by some reckless Scot with a Mohawk and a penchant for bar fights. I am a man of refinement, of reason. He is chaos incarnate. And I am possessed.

God help me, I want him bloodied, laughing, alive in my arms.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

12th October, 1997
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He asked me. Awkwardly, as though the very word “walk” were a foreign thing in his mouth, Jayden Miller asked me to accompany him along the canal this evening. Not a pub, not the smoke-stinking common room, but the canal. He said it like a challenge, as if daring me to decline. Of course I did not. How could I?

The air was sharp with autumn, the water sluggish and dark, reflecting gaslights like scattered coins. He walked with that unstudied gait of his, shoulders broad, hands stuffed in the pockets of a battered jacket. That ridiculous Mohawk was mussed by the wind, and somehow it suited him even more in disarray. He kept glancing at me, then away again, like a boy caught out in mischief. I confess, the sight near undid me.

He spoke little, but when he did, his accent was thick, rolling, unapologetic. He asked if the cane still hurt me — not my leg, but the cane, as though the wood itself might pain me. I laughed, stiffly, and he grinned, pleased with himself for drawing it out of me. There was a pause then, a silence filled only by the ripple of water and the crunch of our steps on the towpath. I could feel his warmth even at a slight distance, a barbaric sort of vitality radiating from him, as though he carried the tavern, the brawl, the battlefield in his very skin.

At one point he stooped, picked up a stone, and sent it skimming across the surface. Five skips. He whooped, triumphant as a child. “Simple trick, Doc,” he said, nudging me with his shoulder, “ye think too hard on things.” Simple. Always simple, with him. My mind, tangled with calculations and the weight of knowledge, balks at his ease — and yet I long to drown in it.

I wonder if he knows how near I was to reaching for his arm as we walked, how many times I nearly betrayed myself. I wonder if he chose the canal for its privacy, or if he merely thought it scenic. His eyes, when they met mine, were steady but unreadable. And when he left me at the gate of my estate, with only a nod and a muttered “See ye Monday,” I found myself aching, ravenous, maddened by how close and how far he remains.

I am a fool. A forty-two-year-old fool limping along a canal beside a man who smells of whiskey and iron, who does not know that he owns me entire.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

21st October, 1997
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

At two in the morning the telephone rang, and it was him. Slurred, thick with liquor and powder and whatever filth his so-called friends had poured into his glass. His voice was unsteady, the Scottish burr rasped raw, and yet—he said it. He said he missed me. Not the Foundation, not the work, not the bloody research notes. Me.

I ought to have dismissed it. There is a briefing tomorrow at nine sharp. I ought to have put the receiver down and willed myself to sleep. Instead, I felt my chest ignite, and my hand clenched around the cane as though it were his throat, his pulse. I could hear laughter behind him, jeering voices, the crash of a bottle. He was outside, he said. Needed air. And in that fragile, broken edge of his voice, I heard something no one else will ever hear: dependence.

I told him to stay where he was. That new coat I gave him last month—he laughed at the finery then, but he wears it. He does not know I stitched a locator into the lining. Foolish, reckless man—he thinks me sentimental. But I know where he is when the streets swallow him whole. Tonight, I traced him across the map like one traces a beloved vein beneath pale skin, straight into the filth of the town’s underbelly.

The slums stink of rot, of piss and rusted iron. My motorcar was too fine a beast for such a place, but I drove until I saw him: Jayden Miller, swaying against the canal railings, telephone still pressed to his ear. His Mohawk was damp from mist, his eyes glazed and feral in the dim light. When he saw me—ah, the shock in his face, then the slow unfurling smile, as though I had materialised from the very air he craved. “Doc,” he breathed, almost tender, almost boyish, “ye came.”

Yes, I came. Of course I came. I would always come.

I stepped from the car, every inch of me thrumming, and in the hollowed quiet of that godforsaken street I stood close enough to smell the smoke in his hair, the sour whiskey sweat on his skin. He is chaos, filth, ruin—and I want every fragment of it crushed into me. He spoke nonsense, stumbling, but every word was mine to keep, every flicker of his gaze mine alone. His friends, his colleagues—they will never see him like this. Vulnerable, pliant, reaching for me even as he pretends to laugh.

I touched his arm. Just lightly. He stilled, swaying, and let me hold him steady. A moment—God, a moment too brief—but it was there. He is mine, whether he knows it yet or not.

When I left him at last, still drunk, still smiling that slack, beautiful smile, I knew I would not sleep. I am wide awake, ravenous, writing this with ink that might as well be blood. He misses me. He said it. He cannot take it back.

And now he will never leave my sight again.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

28th October, 1997
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

There is a rot in all of us here, though most pretend otherwise. The Foundation does not prune its trees — it lets them warp, knot, grow monstrous so long as the fruit remains edible. I have seen it for years:

Owens, with that laugh of his. Too sharp, too long, bordering on the deranged — colleagues wince, and he never notices. I’ve heard it echoing through empty halls at midnight, when he thinks no one is near. Patel, poor creature, with her twitching eye, her nerves wound so taut they play her like a puppet. When she tries to silence it, it crawls into her limbs until she’s slamming her own wrist against the desk to quiet the fire in her body. Others drink, others pray, others rot slowly at their desks.

And I — I was always the exception. William Burgess, unflinching, untouchable. Head held high in the mire, my cane clicking like a metronome, the one man who had not broken. Even the agents, with their short lifespans, never descend the same way we do. They die too quickly for madness to settle in. But the senior scientists remain. Too valuable to discard. Too brilliant to replace. Broken, but kept.

I told myself I was different. I told myself I was above. Until him.

Jayden Miller. That reckless brute of an MTF agent who should have been ash months ago. He is undoing me, thread by thread, and I cannot — will not — stop the unraveling. His laughter at 2 a.m., slurred and drugged, still rings in me like scripture. His words — he missed me — have branded themselves into my marrow. I follow the signal in that coat I gave him as a priest follows a rosary, tracing every movement, every stumble, every alley he poisons with his presence. He belongs to me, whether he understands it yet or not.

Owens has noticed. Of course he has. He alone does not shrink from me in the corridors, does not avert his eyes from my cold stare. He lingers. He studies. I caught him watching me during briefing, his grin stretched too wide, his laugh bubbling at nothing. He knows. He knows I am cracking. Perhaps he is waiting, eager to see what sound I make when I break at last.

But I will not shatter like Patel, nor cackle like Owens. Mine will be different. Precise. Beautiful. I will carve my madness into form. And Jayden — my Jayden — will be the altar upon which it is built.

I can still smell the whisky-sour sweat from his skin when I held his arm in the dark of that slum street. I can still hear the ragged catch in his voice when he said my name. He does not know that each bruise he earns, each scar he wears, only binds him tighter to me. He is chaos incarnate, and I — I will be the order that encloses him.

Owens watches. The others whisper. But I no longer care. My composure was my shield, and I lay it down willingly. Let them see. Let them all see.

I have not broken. I have begun.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

2nd November, 1997
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

It was late — too late — when Owens remained in my office with me, the fluorescent lights dimmed, the silence of Site-44 broken only by the shuffle of files we hadn’t touched in daylight. He has a way of lingering, Owens. Where others flee me, he drifts closer, as though the cold I cast about myself draws him instead of warning him. He spread papers across my desk, his pen scratching quick, then stilled, and began to laugh. Not the bark that unsettles new recruits, but something quieter. Something pointed.

“You’ve changed, Burgess,” he said, not looking up. “Took me years to hear it, but I can smell it now. Crack in the stone.”

I told him he was mistaken. My voice was clipped, even. He only grinned wider, eyes glinting behind his spectacles. “Patel twitches, I laugh… and you? You’ve found your vice at last. Or should I say — it’s found you.”

The air froze between us. He leaned back in his chair, tilting it until it creaked, watching me like a crow eyeing a corpse. “Miller,” he said simply. That name in his mouth was acid. “The Scot. You think no one sees, William? You think you hide it behind the cane and the cuffs and the cut-glass diction? You’re bleeding, old man. Bleeding all over him.”

I said nothing. What could I say? My fingers dug into the desk, nails nearly splintering the wood.

Owens’ laugh rose then, sharp, delighted. “Finally. The last statue in this mausoleum begins to crack. I wondered what would break you. Not a Euclid, not a breach, not death snapping at your heels. No, no — just a bruised thug with a bad haircut. Isn’t it delicious?”

I wanted to strike him. To wipe that grin from his skull. Instead, I smoothed my sleeve, steadied my voice. “Careful, Owens,” I said. “You misstep.”

He leaned forward then, too close, his voice almost tender. “I don’t misstep, Burgess. I watch. And I know. You’re no outlier anymore.”

For a moment we only stared at one another, the file-laden desk between us a battlefield. His laughter still trembled in his throat, ready to burst. Mine was locked behind my teeth, my restraint the only thing that kept my hand from the blade in my drawer.

When at last he left, his laugh echoed down the corridor long after he was gone.

Yes, Owens knows. He smells the blood in me. And he is right — I am bleeding. But he is wrong if he believes that makes me weak. I am not cracking. I am becoming something far sharper. And Miller will be mine in the end.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

2nd November, 1997
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

It was late — too late — when Owens remained in my office with me, the fluorescent lights dimmed, the silence of Site-44 broken only by the shuffle of files we hadn’t touched in daylight. He has a way of lingering, Owens. Where others flee me, he drifts closer, as though the cold I cast about myself draws him instead of warning him. He spread papers across my desk, his pen scratching quick, then stilled, and began to laugh. Not the bark that unsettles new recruits, but something quieter. Something pointed.

“You’ve changed, Burgess,” he said, not looking up. “Took me years to hear it, but I can smell it now. Crack in the stone.”

I told him he was mistaken. My voice was clipped, even. He only grinned wider, eyes glinting behind his spectacles. “Patel twitches, I laugh… and you? You’ve found your vice at last. Or should I say — it’s found you.”

The air froze between us. He leaned back in his chair, tilting it until it creaked, watching me like a crow eyeing a corpse. “Miller,” he said simply. That name in his mouth was acid. “The Scot. You think no one sees, William? You think you hide it behind the cane and the cuffs and the cut-glass diction? You’re bleeding, old man. Bleeding all over him.”

I said nothing. What could I say? My fingers dug into the desk, nails nearly splintering the wood.

Owens’ laugh rose then, sharp, delighted. “Finally. The last statue in this mausoleum begins to crack. I wondered what would break you. Not a Euclid, not a breach, not death snapping at your heels. No, no — just a bruised thug with a bad haircut. Isn’t it delicious?”

I wanted to strike him. To wipe that grin from his skull. Instead, I smoothed my sleeve, steadied my voice. “Careful, Owens,” I said. “You misstep.”

He leaned forward then, too close, his voice almost tender. “I don’t misstep, Burgess. I watch. And I know. You’re no outlier anymore.”

For a moment we only stared at one another, the file-laden desk between us a battlefield. His laughter still trembled in his throat, ready to burst. Mine was locked behind my teeth, my restraint the only thing that kept my hand from the blade in my drawer.

When at last he left, his laugh echoed down the corridor long after he was gone.

Yes, Owens knows. He smells the blood in me. And he is right — I am bleeding. But he is wrong if he believes that makes me weak. I am not cracking. I am becoming something far sharper. And Miller will be mine in the end.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

11th November, 1997
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

Another night of neglected files, another hour past sanity, and again Owens remained. He knows I will not dismiss him, no matter how the air sours when he lingers. He likes to prod, to press. Tonight, he pressed too far.

We were half-buried in reports on containment protocol revisions when the door opened — Miller. Jayden himself, uniform rumpled, eyes still red from whatever vice had carried him through the evening, grinning that boyish grin as though the Site were his playground. “Docs,” he said, dropping into the chair opposite me with all the graceless ease of a man who has never bowed to a room in his life. “You pair never sleep, eh?”

Owens looked at him too long. Too hungrily. And then he laughed — that dreadful, cracking laugh that set Miller to blinking, bemused. “Ah, Agent Miller. You’re the very subject of our… discussions.”

Jayden frowned, scratching the back of his head, Mohawk shadowed by the lamp. “Me? I’m no’ in any o’ these papers. I’m just the idiot that gets shot at while you lot shuffle pages.”

Owens’ smile widened, his pen tapping the desk. “Yes, precisely. You stumble into fire, and somehow, you don’t burn. Quite the specimen, don’t you think, Burgess?”

My cane struck the floor too hard, but I said nothing. My eyes burned into him, and he knew it. The bastard knew it.

Jayden laughed, oblivious, shaking his head. “Specimen? Christ, ye make me sound like one o’ your bloody lizards in a box. I just do the job, mate.” He glanced at me then, a flicker of concern, as though puzzled by the tension in my silence. “Doc, you alright?”

Owens cut in before I could answer. “He’s more than alright, Agent. He’s fascinated. Aren’t you, William?” His voice dripped with amusement, taunting.

I wanted to split his skull with the brass of my cane. I wanted to drag Jayden from the room, away from that gaze, away from that laugh. Instead, I smoothed my cuffs, forced my throat to unlock. “Fascination,” I said coldly, “is not in my nature.”

Owens laughed again, softer this time, meant only for me. He leaned back, tapping his temple. “Not in your nature? No, William. It is your nature. And it’s bleeding through, whether you admit it or not.”

Jayden only shook his head, still smiling, still clueless. “You two are bloody strange, ye know that? Should get out more. Touch grass. Maybe get a pint.”

Owens chuckled. My glare carved through him. He was playing a game, and Jayden — sweet, reckless, blind Jayden — hadn’t the faintest idea.

But Owens knows. He knows exactly where to press, and I can feel his fingers closing on the edges of what is mine.

If he ever touches Jayden — ever — there will not be enough bleach in Site-44 to scrub him from the floor.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

18th November, 1997
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

Owens has no shame. Not the kind one might admire in a reckless agent, not even the sort that makes one forgive indiscretion for brilliance. No, his lack of shame is methodical, surgical. Tonight, once again, he intruded. Not in my work — though that is irritation enough — but in the life I am attempting, with care, to claim from the chaos.

We were closing the final files on the containment shift logs, fluorescent lights buzzing over the otherwise silent lab. I had allowed him to linger — years of begrudging companionship make it easier to tolerate his presence than to remove it. Yet he leaned back in the chair, arms folded, and watched me with that grin that is meant to pierce, to see past the polished veneer I maintain.

“You’re letting him run through your life, William,” Owens said softly. Too softly. “I heard some of the agents talking… Miller. Jayden. They’re all laughing about it, of course. But they wonder — why you? Why a man like you would let a mad Scot wander into the corridors of your life and… stay?”

I froze. My hand on the pen tightened. I could feel his gaze, steady, calculating, almost affectionate in its intrusion. The way he framed it — as though he were simply curious, but I know better. Owens knows the truth of me. The dark pull, the obsession, the meticulous fever in my chest when Jayden is near. He’s not judging; he’s cataloging. And worse, he finds amusement in the discovery.

“I do not let him, Owens,” I said, the words clipped, frigid. “He appears. He exists. That is circumstance enough.”

Owens chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, William. You’ve built walls higher than most, yet here he is. And you —” He gestured vaguely, encompassing the files, the cane, the silence — “you do nothing but let him in. Even now, with me leaning over your shoulder, you do nothing. Curious.”

Jayden, of course, would never understand this. He laughs, drinks, scars, disappears into the night, oblivious to the storm he drags behind him — oblivious to the storm he has already become. My teeth grind at the thought. And Owens? He knows, and he’s watching. Always watching, never stepping too close, never overreaching, but never missing a flicker in my eye, a tremble in my jaw.

He will never interfere — not truly. Not because I trust him, but because the one thing Owens understands better than anyone else is that some chaos is meant to be possessed, not shared. Still, tonight, his intrusion leaves a mark. A note in the ledger of my mind: the world sees. The world whispers.

And I? I am still the only man who has not broken.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

26th November, 1997
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

I do not usually indulge in sentiment. I do not coddle, I do not reconstruct, I do not replicate. And yet, for him, I have done both. The hot chocolate — the exact hot chocolate he once raved about at a café near the canal months ago — I made it. Every detail: the precise richness of the cocoa, the hint of cinnamon that lingered on his tongue, the froth whipped to the exact texture he described. He never had it again. Until I made it for him, in the bed-bound haze of my morphine stupor after the breach, when every step I could not take, every hour I could not bear, was sharpened by the memory of his reckless smile and stubborn defiance.

He came in that night, full of words and whisky breath, jabbering at me about trivialities — football scores, bar fights, his mates’ idiocy. He ranted and gestured, leaned over my morphine-laden frame, eyes wild and bright. I do not remember much of what he said, only that I listened. I had to listen. Because even through the fog of pain and narcotics, I could see the world he made mine by merely existing, and I could not let it go.

Before Owens arrived, I was tracking him. Cameras in the hall, cameras in the common areas, all feeding me the faint thrill of proximity. I watched him move, oblivious, the slouch of his shoulders, the careless twist of his Mohawk catching the light. He never suspected, of course. He never suspects anything. The idiot is blissfully ignorant of the chains I have wound around him.

And then Owens appeared, catching me mid-surveillance, watching Miller as he approached my room. Owens’ expression was a mixture of amusement and… something else. “Ah, so this is the reason you’ve been sitting here with your eyes glued to the screens,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “The great William Burgess, Head of Research, reduced to a voyeur.”

I did not answer. I only turned my glare on him, letting the cold sear through the room. Owens chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I wonder, William… what do you see in him? Why this obsession? Some curiosity? Some… longing?”

I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to rip the smug amusement from his face. Instead, I merely turned back to the monitors, watching Jayden laugh at a joke no one will ever know, gesturing with careless hands, moving as though the world is entirely simple. As it seems so simple to him.

And I — I am not simple. I am precise. I am deliberate. I am the only man who has not broken. Not yet. And every detail of his existence — every moment, every sip of hot chocolate, every careless laugh — I catalogue. I possess them, whether he knows it or not.

Owens may see, Owens may judge, but Owens will never touch. Only I can.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

3rd December, 1997
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

I have begun to arrange the world so that he cannot help but appear in my orbit. The coincidence, of course, is nothing of the sort. Every step, every slight diversion, every file “misplaced” in the corridor — all meticulously calculated. Jayden Miller does not know he is being guided. He believes himself reckless, free, uncontrolled. How laughable. How perfect.

Tonight, it worked again. The printer jammed in the lab he frequents, a minor nuisance, barely worthy of attention — except it forced him down the hall, precisely where I had stationed a stack of containment logs, half-finished, requiring his review. He stopped at the edge of my office door, peering in with that infuriatingly bright, boyish curiosity. His eyes flicked to me, squinting in the dim light, and I could see that split second of recognition, the tiniest glimmer that something had gone… right.

Owens was there again, leaning against the far wall, hands folded, grin stretching too wide. “Ah,” he said, almost theatrically. “And here we have it. The hunter, at last, with his prey wandering blindly into his den.”

I did not respond. I merely held my gaze on Miller, letting the heat of my stare press against him, tangible, almost suffocating. He fidgeted, finally stepping fully inside, shrugging off his coat — the one I had lined with the hidden locator — and I let my hand brush against it as he passed, a feather-light touch, deliberately measured. He did not notice. Of course not.

Owens watched, silent now, as if savoring the scene. He said nothing further, but his presence alone was a reminder: someone else sees the fire I am tending, though no one else could ever approach it without risking their own ruin. I did not mind. Let him watch. Let him see how far the last of the unbroken men can be undone by a careless Scottish agent.

Jayden finally spoke, voice rough with fatigue or intoxication — I am never certain which. “You’re still awake, Doc?” he asked, a grin tugging at his lips. “I thought you’d be asleep, letting those files pile up.”

“I am precise,” I said simply. My voice did not tremble. I did not move. I let the words hang between us. He laughed, oblivious, thinking I was teasing. He has no idea how right he is — how utterly everything he does is orchestrated, cataloged, consumed by me.

And Owens? He smiled faintly, the corner of his lips twitching. “Fascinating,” he whispered. “Really fascinating.”

I let him watch. Let him savor it. But I will not share. No one will ever touch what is mine.

Jayden, oblivious, moves closer to me, and I feel it again — the sharp pull of possession, the ache of ownership, the fever of control. Every night, every step, every encounter only tightens the net. And tonight, the net has caught him once more.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

15th December, 1997
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

It is becoming… habitual. I find myself pacing my halls, anticipating the night, anticipating him. Jayden Miller. Reckless, brilliant, maddening Jayden Miller. And he does not even know the extent of the orbit into which he has fallen.

Tonight, like so many nights before, he insisted we walk along the canal. The autumn air has turned bitter, but he strides ahead regardless, fists stuffed into his jacket, Mohawk catching the dim lamplight. He talks, endlessly, oblivious to the rhythm of my pulse, to the ache of need that drives me to follow, silent, steady, unflinching.

The repetition is exquisite. Each night we walk, the canal growing colder, the water sluggish and black, the reflections of the lamps trembling like weak flames — it is becoming ours, a private world. The world does not intrude. Only Owens lingers on the periphery of my mind, as he always does, grinning at my obsession. He has not, cannot, intervene — not yet. But he watches. I feel it in the press of his scrutiny, and it only sharpens me.

Jayden has no idea how meticulously I track him, how I orchestrate these “chance” encounters. He laughs at the icy wind, gesturing wildly, the cut on his cheek catching the light. I want to take him in my arms, hold him, anchor him to me, and yet I do not. I cannot. I will not — not yet. It must be gradual, precise.

His voice rises over the canal water, telling me some anecdote about his bar fight last night. I do not respond; I let him speak, drinking in every careless word, the scent of whiskey and smoke clinging to his clothes, the reckless warmth radiating from him.

Owens would have laughed at this scene, quietly, from somewhere else. “The great William Burgess, undone by a drunk, reckless agent,” he would say. And yes, he is right — undone. But I am careful. Controlled. Possessed. Not broken. Not yet.

Jayden swings his arm against mine, brushing against my sleeve. My pulse seizes. He smiles, oblivious. And I — I follow him along the canal, night after night, savoring every step, every glance, every word. It is becoming ritual. And I am counting the days until it will become permanent.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

23rd December, 1997
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He did not appear tonight. Not along the canal, not at the edge of my office, not anywhere within the orbit I have painstakingly constructed around him. One day missed, and already a cold knot of dread twists my stomach. I could not ignore it. Something is always wrong when Jayden Miller does not arrive.

I traced him immediately, the locator in the coat I gave him guiding me through the dim streets. And there he was. Passed out. Slumped on a park bench, clothes rumpled, vomit-stained, the faint smell of whiskey and… something else, something foul and foreign, clinging to him. His ex, that wretched woman, had evidently done what she pleased — left him like this, altered, abused. And yet he remains blissfully unaware of my presence until I arrive.

I reached him swiftly, and fury boiled through me, a sharp, hot thing that made the blood hum in my veins. Not for his suffering — no, he is always suffering, always reckless — but for the audacity of the world to let this happen, to allow him to lie here as if abandoned. My hands shook with the urge to throttle the air itself. To drag him home, to guard him, to keep him safe from the universe that persistently dares to wound him.

He murmured incoherently as I lifted him from the bench, clinging loosely, half-laughing, half-cursing. I felt the bile of rage rise, a storm of possessiveness and fury that left Owens’ observation pale in comparison. If anyone had dared touch him tonight — not just his ex, but anyone — I would have extinguished them. I would have burned their existence down with the same meticulous care I have spent tracking every inch of Jayden’s path.

Owens’ face appeared in my mind, smug, amused, aware. He would have lingered on the scene like a cat watching a mouse, waiting to see how the last unbroken man handles the inevitable fracture. He would never understand — could never understand — the precise, gnawing heat of this obsession.

I carried Jayden back, the world silent, the snow beginning to fall in fine, cold flakes. His Mohawk was flattened, his eyes half-closed, his body a weight I did not resent. Rage, yes. Possession, yes. Love? Perhaps. But all I knew was that he belonged, in that moment, entirely to me. And the thought that anyone — anyone — had even touched him before I could reach him makes my pulse spike still, weeks later.

He is mine. Even in ruin, even in ignorance, he is mine. And no one — not Owens, not the universe, not that wretched ex — will ever interfere again.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

24th December, 1997
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He woke up, finally, in the warmth of my house. His hair mussed, his clothes wrinkled, the faint stink of vomit lingering despite my insistence on a change of garments, and he blinked at me as though the world had merely shifted while he slept. I did not forgive him. I did not smile. I did not even glance at him with softness. I paced. I ordered the butlers around with precision, their compliance unquestioning, their faces masks of neutrality — all the while speaking only of him. Every instruction, every adjustment, every careful arrangement was about Jayden Miller.

“Bring towels. Hot water. The coat, cleaned. Extra blankets in his room. Ensure the night nurse is ready should he awaken again disoriented. Prepare hot chocolate. The one he likes. Yes, exactly as he described it once — every detail.”

I watched him from the doorway of the guest room — the room I had prepared for him while he slept off whatever poison or vice the night had inflicted. He looked around, confused, groaning softly, mumbling incoherently about nothing and everything, scratching at the scratch on his cheek, and I felt a surge of hunger in my chest that had nothing to do with food.

Owens would have chuckled at the scene, undoubtedly, noting how thoroughly I have allowed this man to occupy my thoughts, my time, my movements. But Owens is not here tonight. Only Jayden, only the flailing, stumbling, drunken, beautiful creature he has become under my watch. And I — I am the last unbroken man, pacing, commanding, orchestrating every detail of his care, every comfort, every indulgence.

I allowed myself to linger, watching him stir, watching his confusion deepen as he realized the world had shifted around him, entirely for him, and yet he could not understand why. My hands itched to touch him, to steady him, to pull him closer under the guise of care. I did not. Not yet. Every action must be measured. Every encounter deliberate.

I spoke of him to no one, gave no orders for anyone else’s sake. Every note, every command, every careful arrangement: Jayden Miller. Nothing else exists in this house tonight. Nothing else exists in my mind tonight. He had been imperiled by the world, by his own recklessness, and I — I have ensured that here, now, he is mine.

I will not let him slip again.

— W. Burgess

___

24th December, 1997 — Later
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He finally stirred fully, blinking against the lamplight, his head heavy, his limbs trembling slightly from whatever poison or vice had carried him through the night. He mumbled incoherently at first, leaning against the bedpost, still drunk, still high, still breathtakingly oblivious.

I allowed myself to approach, slow, deliberate. Not to coddle him, not to forgive, but to observe. To measure. To possess, in the quietest, most intimate way a man can possess another without a single word of consent. I smoothed the blanket around him, adjusted the pillow beneath his head, and even in these small acts, he became mine. Every motion, every flinch, every blink — catalogued, memorized, controlled.

“Jayden,” I said finally, voice low, unyielding. “You’ve been reckless again. You cannot… you must not wander alone in this state.” My hand hovered over his shoulder, not touching yet, but the heat of it radiating. He blinked at me, confused, groaning softly, but made no attempt to resist. His breath smelled of whiskey and something cloyingly sweet, and it made my pulse spike.

I helped him to sit, guiding his elbow carefully, steadying him with a hand at the small of his back. He leaned on me with a trust I did not earn but immediately claimed. “Doc… what’s going on?” he slurred, eyes half-lidded, faintly alarmed. “Why… why am I here?”

I did not answer directly. I only steadied him, brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, and adjusted the coat around his shoulders — the same coat I had laced with the locator, the same coat that marked his every movement. I could feel his confusion, his unawareness, and it made my control more intoxicating. I spoke softly, clipped, commanding in the gentlest possible way:

“Stay. Rest. I will see to everything. You do not move again tonight.”

He nodded dumbly, too fatigued to argue. I let my fingers linger on his arm briefly, just a whisper of contact, testing, marking, claiming. He shivered slightly — not from cold, but from the awareness he could not articulate, a subtle acknowledgment of my presence and the insistence of my authority over him.

And Owens? Not here. Not now. I do not need him to watch. Tonight, Jayden is mine. Every breath he takes, every movement, every subtle flicker of confusion, is for me alone. I could spend an eternity cataloguing him like this, watching him slip between consciousness and stupor, owning him with patience and precision.

No one else will touch him. No one. Not the world. Not his ex. Not that reckless universe he seems determined to challenge. Only I.

— W. Burgess

___

24th December, 1997 — Later Still
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He attempted to rise. Slow, fumbling, unaware of the danger his own recklessness had placed him in. I caught him before he could fully move, my hands steady on his elbows, firm but measured.

“Jayden,” I said, calm, smooth — yet the quiet authority in my voice left no room for argument. “Sit. You are not moving. Not yet.”

He blinked at me, confusion flickering, and a grin, half-annoyed, half-amused, tugged at his lips. “Doc… come on. I’m fine. Really. I just… need a minute.”

I did not flinch, did not hesitate. My hands did not tighten — not yet — but the intent, the possession in the contact, was unmistakable. “You are not fine,” I said softly, predatory in my calm. “You were left for dead, or worse, and you will not leave this room again until I deem it safe. Understand me, Jayden?”

His brow furrowed. He tried to argue, the slur in his words barely disguising his stubbornness, but I held him firmly in place. “I… I’m fine, Doc,” he insisted, voice rising, irritation creeping through his haze. “Really. Just… just lemme stand, alright?”

I let my gaze drift over him, cool, calculated, sharp. Every shiver of his body, every twitch of his hand, every inhale drawn against my chest was noted, catalogued, possessed. I leaned slightly closer, enough that he could feel the weight of my presence, the certainty behind my words.

“You will not move,” I repeated, softly, each word deliberate. “Not until I say. You are here because I brought you. You exist in my care. You will follow my instructions. No exceptions.”

His confusion deepened, that careless bravado beginning to waver under the calm authority I wielded. He looked up at me, and for a fleeting moment, I saw the sharp spark of realization — that the world had shifted, and I was the axis upon which it now turned.

I allowed a fraction of warmth into my touch, just enough to anchor him to me, but the predatory undertone never left. My hands did not tremble; my voice did not falter. Control is quiet, subtle. Control is the only weapon I need.

He sank back into the pillows, muttering, confused and slightly annoyed, but compliant. And I… I watched him, catalogued him, possessed him in ways no one else could ever approach. Every careless, reckless inch of Jayden Miller is mine tonight. And Owens? Let him watch from the shadows. He will never understand what it means to own like this.

— W. Burgess

⸻

24th December, 1997 — Later That Night
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He took the phone and called one of his friends, voice still rough and disoriented, fumbling through excuses for missing the pub, for failing to appear as he always did. He muttered apologies, laughed nervously, promised to “make it tomorrow,” and then wandered on the line into idle chatter about a detour, some minor mishap, entirely oblivious to the fact that I was watching him, cataloguing every syllable, every shift of tone, every careless gesture.

I did not interfere. Not yet. My control is precise, deliberate, and I will not ruin the subtle tension I hold over him with impatience. But I adjusted the blanket around his shoulders again, smoothed his hair from his damp forehead, and set the hot chocolate I had prepared at the edge of the table within easy reach. Every detail meticulously arranged — temperature perfect, froth exact, the spice just enough to mirror that single memory of his praise months ago.

He stirred, oblivious, murmuring into the phone, chuckling and shaking his head, the careless chaos of him laid bare. Every laugh, every pause, every distracted glance toward the drink I had made is mine to observe, mine to possess. I do not move closer yet, merely linger, allowing the subtle aura of my presence to press against him, unspoken but undeniable.

He hangs up at last, promising to meet his friends tomorrow, and finally sits back, sipping the chocolate with a groan of satisfaction. I catalogue the reaction, memorizing the curve of his lips, the slight furrow of his brow, the exact moment his eyes light up at the taste. A small indulgence, yes, but a dominion. Even in this trivial, inconsequential act, he is mine.

Owens would have noticed, would have smirked, noting the meticulous care, the quiet obsession, the invisible leash I have tightened. But Owens is not here. Only I, only my presence, my direction, my watchfulness over this reckless, beautiful creature. He will not leave this house again tonight. He cannot. Not until I allow it.

And yet he does not understand. He believes he is simply tired, lucky, or fated. He is wrong. Every detour, every misstep, every word, every sip is catalogued, controlled, and claimed. He is mine.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

25th December, 1997 — Early Morning
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He finally sleeps. The chaos, the intoxication, the reckless energy — all of it surrenders to the quiet weight of slumber. And at last, I may touch him.

I lingered at the edge of the bed, watching him breathe, counting silently, meticulously, each rise and fall of his chest. Sixteen breaths a minute. Perfectly uneven, just enough to keep him alive, just enough to stir my fascination further. I traced a finger along the line of his jaw, following the sharpness of his cheekbone, the curve of his lips, memorizing the angles, the warmth of his skin. His eyelashes fluttered occasionally, the faintest shiver passing through his body, and I felt a surge of satisfaction that only obsession could grant.

I rested my hand against his face, gently, deliberately, feeling the heat, the faint pulse beneath his temple. He stirred, small, unconscious movements — an arm twitch, a foot shifting — and I catalogued each one. I adjusted the blankets around his shoulders, smoothing the sheets, ensuring that nothing, not a stray hair, not the slope of the pillow, escaped my notice. Every detail of his comfort, every nuance of his body, is mine to command.

Owens could never witness this. He might understand control, yes, but not possession. Not the exquisite, predatory satisfaction of tracing the rise and fall of someone’s chest in silence, of holding a face as though it were carved for your touch alone. My fingers lingered on his lips, brushing lightly, memorizing the way they part, the faint tension even in sleep.

I counted his heartbeats in tandem with his breaths, each one a reminder that he exists entirely within the world I have arranged. He is reckless, foolish, alive in ways no one else could endure. And yet he belongs to me, here, now, in this silent chamber of night, under my watchful, precise, and utterly possessive gaze.

He stirs once more, small, faint, and I feel the thrill of absolute control surge — not cruelty, not punishment, but dominion. The world can rage and burn outside these walls. Here, he is mine. Every breath, every twitch, every imperceptible movement — catalogued, memorized, possessed.

And I will not let him slip again. Not tonight. Not ever.

— W. Burgess

___

25th December, 1997 — Morning
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He wakes slowly, sluggishly, his eyes heavy, his head vacant in the soft morning light. The reckless energy, the swagger, the chaos — all of it has receded. Jayden Miller, drunk and drugged and exhausted, is suddenly… docile. Almost blank, just there, and I can feel my chest constrict in anticipation and possession.

I prepared a platter for him — everything meticulously arranged. Fruits sliced with care, nuts roasted to perfection, cured meats and delicate cheeses, warm breads, small portions of cooked grains and creamy dairy. Each bite chosen to be gentle, enticing, digestible for his fragile, trembling body. And a cup of hot chocolate — precise, exact, frothy, rich — waiting for him to sip as he explored the assortment.

He reached for it hesitantly, fingers brushing mine as I guided the platter closer. The first taste of hot chocolate made him whine softly, a quiet, guttural sound of relief that froze me in place. My heart skipped, and for a long moment, I simply watched, memorized, felt the taut string of desire coil tighter around me. That sound — a sigh, a whine, a noise of surrender, trust, and comfort — made my fingers itch to trace him, to feel him, to make him make it again. And again. Until he was nothing but me in every sense.

I let him nibble, sip, explore, while I hovered close, calm and deliberate. Every movement, every small gesture, every tiny intake of food is mine to witness, to savor. I imagine coaxing him further — letting him moan, whimper, cry softly in my arms — not demanding, only allowing, only orchestrating. The thought makes my pulse spike. He does not yet understand, of course. He is too unaware, too trusting, too empty of pretense to resist or even question.

He leans into my presence, the warmth of him pressing subtly against my chest as he eats. I adjust the platter slightly, brush crumbs from his lips, guide his hand to taste a different fruit. Every sigh, every quiet whimper, every soft exhalation that escapes him is a note in the symphony I am composing — a symphony of control, obsession, and utter possession.

I do not care who sees, who knows, who might whisper. He is mine. In every nibble, every sip, every shiver, every sigh — he is utterly, irrevocably mine. And I will not stop. Not now. Not ever.

— W. Burgess

___

25th December, 1997 — Mid-Morning
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He is responsive now. Not fully awake, not fully alert, yet every gesture, every breath, every subtle movement betrays the truth he refuses to acknowledge — he is enjoying this. Jayden Miller, reckless, swaggering, impervious to everything in the day-to-day world, is quietly succumbing to the care I have arranged. And yet he acts as though it is nothing, as though he is merely “fine,” cool, untouchable. The facade makes my chest tighten and pulse at once.

He reaches for the platter, still messy, still fumbling, and I guide his hand just slightly, fingertips brushing. The touch is casual — or so he pretends — but the quiet whine he emits as the hot chocolate touches his lips betrays him utterly. Another sip, and a soft groan escapes. He mutters something about it being “bloody good,” trying to sound casual, manly, detached. But I see through it. Always. Every sound, every flicker of his lips, every shiver as he bites into a slice of fruit, is him letting go, surrendering in a way he will never admit aloud.

He leans back slightly, sighing into the pillows, shoulders slackening, yet he attempts to keep some trace of bravado — a flicker of the old, cocky Jayden Miller. I let him pretend, let him cling to that illusion while I hover, hands poised to brush hair from his face, adjust the blanket, tilt his head to sip from the cup, trace a line along his jaw. Every sound he makes — whine, sigh, soft groan — sets something alight in me. The desire to make him produce them all again, louder, longer, until he is nothing but these noises in my arms, is unbearable.

He murmurs half-comprehensible words, joking weakly about being “pampered like a child” or “a bloody aristocrat’s pet,” but he cannot suppress the soft hums, the subtle shivers of pleasure and relief that escape him. His docility, his responsiveness, the way he unconsciously leans into my presence, fills me with a predatory delight I have never allowed myself to feel before.

Every bite, every sip, every involuntary noise — catalogued, memorized, possessed. And though he will never admit it aloud, I know. He is enjoying this. He is yielding to it. He is mine. In every whimper, in every groan, in every soft sigh that escapes him, he belongs entirely.

Owens could never understand. No one could. And I do not care. The world outside these walls does not matter. Only Jayden Miller, only his quiet surrender, only the music of his noises in response to my touch and care — only that is real. Only that is mine.

— W. Burgess

___

25th December, 1997 — Late Morning
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He drifts further into that delicate, fragile state. Not unconscious, not fully alert — but teetering on the edge, docile, pliable, yet aware enough to react, to whisper, to shiver, to sigh. I allow it. I extend it. Every motion is deliberate. Every touch measured. Every command soft, calm, predatory.

I guide a piece of fruit to his lips, brushing the side of his mouth with my fingers, letting him take it slowly. He hums softly, a sound of reluctant pleasure, trying to mask it with a mumbled joke about being treated like a “bloody queen,” and I feel a thrill — an electric surge — at his feigned bravado. I brush a strand of hair from his damp forehead, trace the line of his jaw, tilt his head slightly to sip the hot chocolate I have prepared to perfection. Every exhale, every small noise — sigh, hum, soft groan — is catalogued, memorized, and possessed.

He tries to maintain a posture of casual nonchalance, sitting upright, muttering complaints about “pampering” and “aristocrat’s nonsense,” but the truth is written across him in the subtle noises he cannot suppress. He leans slightly into my presence, the smallest inclination, as if instinctively seeking comfort, warmth, proximity — and I allow it. I encourage it with the lightest touch along his shoulder, the gentlest brush of a thumb along the curve of his jaw. He shivers softly, sighs again, hums under his breath — and I taste the control, the ownership.

I whisper instructions, soft and deliberate. “Take a bite. Sip the chocolate. Breathe slowly. Stay here.” My words are calm, measured, but underneath them lies an iron insistence. Every motion, every taste, every involuntary sound is mine to orchestrate. He obeys without fully realizing it, giving himself to me in ways he cannot articulate.

And yet, he enjoys it. Oh, God, he enjoys it. Even as he murmurs, even as he mumbles, even as he laughs softly at his own weakness, he leans closer to me, gives in, allows himself to be guided, soothed, controlled. He does not see it, cannot see it, but he responds, and that response — that soft, docile, yielding response — is intoxicating.

Every sound, every subtle movement, every sigh, hum, and whimper — it all feeds the fever of control, the thrill of possession, the obsessive, predatory delight I feel. And I will not release it. Not now. Not ever. I will prolong this, savor this, ensure that Jayden Miller cannot escape me even if he wanted to.

He is mine. Completely. And the proof lies in the quiet symphony of his surrender, his compliance, his noises — soft, hesitant, pleading in their own way — for me alone.

— W. Burgess

___

25th December, 1997 — Christmas Night
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

Christmas. The house is quiet but full. The staff move soundlessly through the corridors, the fires burn low and steady, the garlands hang immaculate over the mantels. Outside, snow has begun to fall again, heavy, muffling the world, making it feel as if the entire estate exists in a different plane. And here, in the guest room, Jayden Miller sits propped against the pillows, docile, slow, warm, pliant.

The air smells of pine, cinnamon, and the faint sweetness of the chocolate he still sips. He’s wrapped in a thick robe I had set out for him, the one lined with cashmere, a deep green that suits the cut of his shoulders. I bring him the tray myself this time. Fruit glistening, nuts roasted and dusted with salt, soft meats cut to easy bites, small breads, cheeses, and cream. Everything exact. Everything chosen for him.

He takes it slowly, half in a haze, but responsive now. His voice is a low murmur, a weak attempt at normality, “Doc, you don’t have to do all this… it’s Christmas, aye? Go do your posh thing.” He tries to chuckle, tries to sound manly, unconcerned — but he takes the slice of orange I press into his palm, lets me guide the cup to his lips. A soft sound escapes him as he swallows the chocolate — a low, involuntary whine of relief — and it stops me mid-motion.

For a moment, everything in me freezes. That sound, raw, soft, unguarded, is exactly what I wanted. I want it again. And again. Until it breaks him open. Until he’s crying in my arms, moaning, whimpering — I do not care which, so long as he is near.

I brush my thumb across his jaw as he chews. He doesn’t even flinch. He pretends to roll his eyes at the treatment, muttering something about “bloody aristocrat pampering,” but he leans into the touch, just slightly, enough to betray himself. He’s too deep in his head, too soft right now to mask the way his body responds to mine.

“Eat this next,” I tell him softly, guiding another bite to his mouth. “Good. Breathe slowly. Sip. Stay.” He obeys without question, murmuring a half-hearted joke but opening his mouth all the same, chewing slowly, sighing at the taste. Every sound — sigh, hum, soft groan — burns into my chest.

The snow keeps falling. The lights of the house glow warm and dim. It is Christmas, and the world outside does not exist. There is only this room, this man, this quiet, pliant creature who has wandered, without realizing, into my care, into my possession.

I stroke his hair as he swallows another bite, my thumb brushing his temple, the warmth of his skin under my palm. He hums softly again, unthinking, leaning into it. And I feel it — the thrill of absolute control, of predatory patience, of having drawn him to this point with nothing but care, precision, and the promise of warmth.

He is mine. Completely. On Christmas night, with the world frozen beyond these walls, Jayden Miller is mine.

— W. Burgess

___

25th December, 1997 — Christmas Night, Late
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He sleeps at last. My hand still upon his hair, his temple warm beneath my palm, his breath a slow and measured tide beneath the thick woolen blankets. Outside the window, snow drifts heavily, muting every sound, sealing the world in a white silence that feels, to me, like a cathedral. The staff are gone to their quarters. Fires banked low. Candles gutter in the hall. And here, in this chamber, Jayden Miller lies as though the earth itself had given him over to me.

I have taken to counting him. His breaths first — seventeen per minute, then sixteen, then fifteen as his body loosens into deeper slumber. His pulse next, felt beneath the fragile skin at his wrist — strong but uneven, thrumming against my thumb. The small tremors of his face as dreams reach him. I note them all. I inscribe them in my mind as one would catalogue the most precious artefact.

How exquisite it is, this quiet dominion. How singularly intoxicating to hold his face in my hands, to brush the calloused thumb along his cheekbone, to feel the faint rasp of stubble against my palm, and know that he does not pull away. He does not resist. He yields in sleep, in docility, in some half-instinctive trust he cannot name.

The world would call this obsession. Perhaps it is. Yet what they cannot fathom is its refinement — no brutish haste, no vulgarity, but patience; an artistry of possession, of drawing another being inch by inch into one’s orbit until they cannot imagine themselves apart from it. Jayden Miller, who would fight a giant with bare fists, who would bleed in a bar before bowing, now sighs at my touch as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

His lips part slightly; a soft sound escapes — a sigh, or the ghost of a whimper — and I still my hand, heart hammering. I want to make him produce it again. And again. Until every breath is a whimper, until his body knows nothing but my hands upon it. Whether he cries in my arms or moans in them matters not; only that he is in them.

Tonight the house, the world, the Foundation itself, might crumble to ash and I would not look away. This moment is mine. He is mine. Entirely. Completely. And I — I am undone, yet more whole than I have ever been, with his face in my hands and his every sigh counted like a prayer.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

26th December, 1997 — Early Morning
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The snow is still falling, pale ribbons drawn across the windowpanes, and the house remains as silent as a crypt. But Jayden Miller is no longer a docile, half‑drugged creature in my guest bed. He has awoken — fully, now — and the transformation is almost cruel to behold.

I watched him stir before dawn, the same heavy lashes fluttering, the same hands flexing on the blanket. At first, he was quiet, still enough that I thought he might remain in that pliant state a little longer. But then his eyes opened, and the brashness, the swagger, the unbreakable insolence of him flooded back into his face like colour returning to a faded painting.

He sat up slowly, looking around the room, eyes darting between the tray still half‑full with food and the cup of chocolate I had left for him. “Christ…” he muttered, rubbing his forehead. “I didn’t — uh — I didn’t pass out here, did I?” His voice was light, joking, and his mouth twisted into a sheepish smirk. “Doc, you didn’t have to— all that last night… you’re mental.”

I did not answer at first. I simply sat back, hands clasped before me, the very picture of composure. “You were unwell,” I said at last, my tone measured, old‑fashioned, each word cut clean as glass. “You required care. I provided it.”

He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, refusing to meet my eyes. “Yeah, well, cheers for that. Must’ve looked a right state. Sorry ‘bout that. Don’t remember half of it.” He paused, glancing sideways at me. “Guess I’m more trouble than I’m worth, eh?” The false bravado was thick in his voice, the mask firmly back in place, as if he could simply erase what had transpired with a few jokes and a crooked smile.

I allowed a thin smile to ghost across my lips — not warmth, but acknowledgement. “You are never more trouble than you are worth,” I replied, voice low and deliberate. “But you are reckless. And I will not always permit recklessness under my roof.”

He blinked at that, then barked a short laugh, running a hand over his Mohawk. “Right. You sound like my bloody headmaster.” He tried to stand, brushing crumbs from his robe, doing his best to act as though the previous night had been an anomaly, a harmless accident.

But I saw it — in the way his fingers lingered on the cup of chocolate before pushing it away, in the way he hesitated as he moved past me, a flicker of embarrassment, of something he could not quite name. He is trying to pretend it never happened, but some part of him remembers. Some part of him liked it.

And I — I sit perfectly still, every inch of my restraint honed, my words measured, my eyes following him as he pretends to reassemble himself. He can act as though it was nothing. He can wear his manly mask again. But I have felt the docility, the small noises, the quiet surrender. I have held his face and counted his breaths.

He can pretend. I will never forget.

— W. Burgess

___

26th December, 1997 — Late Morning
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

I allowed him to retreat, to compose himself, to don again the armour of his roughened masculinity. He emerged from the guest room washed and dressed, hair damp, Mohawk pressed back, a crooked smirk on his lips as if the night before had been nothing more than a bad dream. He strutted down the stair as though this were a hotel and not my home, muttering something about needing a “bloody strong tea.”

I did not confront him. I did not even mention what had transpired. I simply waited in the dining hall, seated at the long polished oak table, my hands folded, my expression composed. Before him lay a breakfast I had arranged myself — not ostentatious, but precise, curated, a quiet echo of the night before. Poached eggs glistening, dark bread cut to thick slices, fresh fruit arranged in small bowls, coffee and tea prepared exactly to his taste. It was not a question. It was an offering.

He hesitated at the doorway. Just for a heartbeat. His eyes flicked over the spread, then to me, then away again, his jaw tightening. He tried to mask it with a grin. “Christ, Doc, you’re gonna fatten me up like a bloody calf if you keep this up.”

I stood and moved around the table, slow, deliberate, the echo of my cane tapping on the stone floor. “Sit,” I said simply, and he did. The word was soft, but it left no room for argument. I poured his tea with the same precision I might pour acid in a laboratory, handed him the cup, and allowed my fingers to brush against his just slightly — the smallest contact, the lightest test.

He cracked another joke, something about “getting used to this posh treatment” while shoving bread into his mouth, but the corners of his lips betrayed him: a flicker of something like pleasure. His shoulders eased as he ate. His eyes softened. His body leaned ever so slightly toward me without him noticing. He was performing his manly act — but his responses betrayed him again.

I laid a hand on his shoulder as I passed, steadying myself with the cane. Just a touch. My thumb brushing the slope of his neck. He froze for half a heartbeat, then chuckled to cover it, but he didn’t pull away. His body stayed where it was, leaning slightly into the touch as though by instinct.

I said nothing of the previous night. I did not need to. The memory sits between us like a third presence at the table. He can pretend all he wishes — that it was nothing, that he is above it — but each time he sips the tea I made to his exact taste, each time he takes a bite of the fruit I sliced for him, he remembers.

And I, in my restraint, in my refinement, in my predatory patience, remember too. This is the art of possession: never seizing, never clenching, but drawing the object closer and closer until its orbit is yours, until it leans into you without knowing why. Jayden Miller is no longer just an agent under my purview. He is a creature in my care, and whether he realises it or not, he has begun to feed on my attentions.

I will continue. Quietly. Methodically. Until the pretense of his manly facade is nothing more than another artefact in my collection.

— W. Burgess

___

26th December, 1997 — Afternoon
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The day has been hushed, wrapped in snow and old stone, and the house still feels like it belongs to another century. Jayden stayed. He tried to leave after breakfast, muttering about a pub, a mate, an errand, but his words faltered in the cold hall and he drifted instead to the sitting room. He sat before the fire with his legs spread, elbows on knees, feigning nonchalance while he stared into the flames.

I let him sit in silence for a long time. I remained at the far end of the room, writing at the desk, though my eyes never left him. He played the part of the irreverent agent to perfection: slouching, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket, tossing off half-formed jokes to himself. But the edges were cracking. He’d shift, lean back, then lean forward again, fingers twitching on his knee as if unsure whether to get up or stay put.

I rose at last, cane striking the floor with a soft, deliberate cadence. I brought him another small tray — no feast this time, just an apple sliced precisely, a wedge of sharp cheese, and a glass of water so cold it beaded with condensation. I placed it on the low table before him and said nothing.

He looked at it, then at me. “Bloody hell, you’re gonna start charging me rent,” he muttered, voice rougher than before. He picked up a slice of apple, bit it, chewed slowly. Another muttered joke. But his eyes dropped.

I sat across from him, watching. After a few bites, he sighed. Not loudly. Not theatrically. A small, unguarded sigh that slipped from him before he could catch it. His fingers tightened on the glass.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, almost under his breath, as though the word had been pried from him. His accent thickened with the softness, and for a moment his eyes flicked up to mine, quick and vulnerable. “For, uh… y’know. Everything. Guess I’m… not used to it.”

It was not much. But it was a fracture in the mask. The first real thing he had said all day.

I leaned forward slightly, enough to cast my shadow over the low table. “You need not thank me,” I murmured, my voice low, measured, the old cadence of a man who never hurries. “You are here. That is enough.”

He shifted, looked away, ran a hand over his Mohawk. Tried to smirk. Tried to resurrect his bravado. “Aye, well, don’t get used to it. I’m usually more trouble than this.” But his voice lacked weight.

I watched him. I watched the way his shoulders softened as he took another bite, the way his throat moved as he swallowed, the way his fingers lingered on the rim of the glass. His facade may be sturdy, but the body never lies. The body remembers. It leans into what it craves.

And I am patient. I have always been patient. He need only stumble once, and I will be there to catch him. Again and again. Until he stops stumbling and simply stays.

— W. Burgess

___

26th December, 1997 — Evening
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

Twilight crept in like spilled ink over the white world outside. The fireplaces burned low and amber, and Jayden remained in the sitting room, still pretending to read an old magazine I had left on the side table. He had not gone to the pub. He had not left. He had not even put his boots back on.

His manly act was still there — the slouch, the smirk, the lazy mutterings about how “posh” everything smelled — but his edges had dulled. He sat with his elbows on his knees, chin in his hand, chewing the last slice of apple slowly, eyes flicking up to me and then away again. The more he tried to appear nonchalant, the more obvious it became: he was staying.

I crossed to him deliberately, each step measured, the cane striking the Persian rug in a muted rhythm. I stopped beside his chair, looking down at him. He tilted his head up, that same crooked smirk creeping to his lips. “You’re gonna start feeding me grapes next, Doc,” he muttered, voice thick with false amusement.

I did not speak. I simply reached out and let my hand brush his knuckles where they rested on his knee. A small, almost incidental touch. He blinked, looked at our hands, but did not move.

“You’ve crumbs on your jaw,” I said softly, and with my thumb, I brushed them away — slow, deliberate, letting my touch linger against the stubble of his cheek. He inhaled sharply, as though surprised.

“Christ,” he muttered, eyes flicking to mine, then away. “You’re like… you’re like one of those old-school bloody butlers in a film.” He laughed awkwardly, but he didn’t pull back. His jaw even tilted fractionally toward my thumb.

“You were tired,” I said quietly, my voice the old cadence of a man who does not rush. “You are still tired.” I let my fingers trace just barely along the edge of his jaw, then drew them back. “Eat slowly. Breathe.”

He snorted, trying for bravado. “Aye, aye, boss.” But his shoulders dropped a little as he said it. He shifted slightly in the chair, leaning back, his hands now resting openly on his thighs. The faintest tremor of relief passed across his face — there, then gone.

I stood behind him now, one hand light on the back of his chair. “Stay by the fire a while longer,” I murmured. “Let the snow do as it pleases.”

He chuckled again, but softer, a low sound from his chest. “You’re weird, Doc,” he muttered. “But… this is nice.” His voice caught on the last word, the accent thick, the manly act fraying at the edges.

I said nothing. I simply let my hand slide once more across his shoulder, a slow, possessive arc, then withdrew. He stayed where he was, staring into the fire, chewing on nothing, his hands still, his body leaning just enough toward me to betray everything.

He may act, but his body already knows. It is already learning me. And I — patient, methodical — will teach it more.

— W. Burgess

___

26th December, 1997 — Night
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The snow has not ceased all day; the windows are milk-white with it, the house sealed in its own world. The staff tread lightly and do not intrude. They know enough to leave us undisturbed now. And so the sitting room belongs to us alone, the fire snapping low, the candles flickering like a chapel, Jayden Miller sunk into my furniture as though it has always been his.

He sits on the edge of the armchair, pretending still to be at ease, to be detached, muttering under his breath about “bloody Christmas” and “missing the pub.” Yet he has not left. He has not once stood, boots still lying by the door where he abandoned them. He is warm, fed, eyes heavy but alert now, his bravado a coat he wears loosely.

I coaxed him easily. A simple pat on the cushion beside me, a quiet: “Come here, Miller. It’s warmer by the fire.” He tried to make a show of rolling his eyes, muttering something about “you and your posh furniture,” but he came. He sat. Not stiffly, not grudgingly — his body tilted toward mine without his noticing.

Now he is here, beside me on the sofa, his thigh brushing mine through the heavy fabric. He leans his forearms on his knees, staring into the flames. He acts as though it is nothing. Yet his breathing has slowed, his shoulders softened. Each time my hand moves — to rest on the back of the sofa, to brush a crumb from his sleeve — his eyes flick down, then away.

I have noticed so many things. The faint scar that cuts through his eyebrow from some bar fight years ago. The callouses on his knuckles, thicker than they ought to be for a man his age. The way his accent thickens when he is tired or unguarded. The subtle shift of his pulse when my hand grazes him — it spikes, then steadies, as if some part of him is learning to find calm in my presence. Even the smell of him is etched into my mind: whisky, smoke, cheap soap, rain-damp wool.

I am obsessing, yes. I do not deny it in these pages. The exact number of breaths per minute. The way his eyelids flutter when he tastes something he likes. The way he chews the inside of his cheek when he is trying to appear indifferent. The way his gaze softens when he thinks I am not looking. He is chaos incarnate, but he is also a pattern, and I have been trained all my life to find patterns and study them until they yield.

He shifts now, the movement subtle, his arm brushing mine. He does not move away. “This is weird, Doc,” he mutters, voice rough but quieter. “Just sitting here. Feels… weird.” He huffs a laugh. “But… s’nice.”

I do not speak. I only let my hand fall lightly to his shoulder, resting there, neither pressing nor restraining, simply being. His body stays still, breathes out once, and leans a fraction more into the contact without realising.

I have spent decades around things too dangerous to touch. Things you must study from behind glass, behind steel, behind layers of protocol. Jayden Miller is not behind glass. He sits beside me now, warm and real, and I can count every heartbeat, every breath, every small surrender.

He can play his manly act as long as he wishes. But he is here. He stayed. And my hand is already on his shoulder.

— W. Burgess

___

26th December, 1997 — Late Night
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The hour has turned black and silver; the fire is little more than embers now. Snow presses against the windows in heavy drifts, muting even the wind. The house feels as though it floats in a void. Jayden Miller sits beside me on the sofa, half-slouched, hair damp from the shower he took upstairs, a faint smell of my soap still clinging to his skin.

He is awake, but softened. The bravado has thinned, the manly mask cracked at the corners. He still mutters little jokes — something about “your fancy bloody cocoa,” something about “I should be at the pub” — but his body tells a truer story. His shoulder rests against mine now. His knee points inward. Each time my hand brushes him he does not move away.

I have begun to measure him again, under the guise of care. I reached for his wrist, lightly, as though to check the time — but instead I felt his pulse with my thumb. Strong, a little fast, his skin warm under my touch. He looked at me, eyebrows raised, a half-smirk tugging his mouth. “You a doctor or a bloody vampire, Doc?” he muttered. But he didn’t pull his hand back.

I moved my hand to his jaw, brushing away an imagined fleck of ash. My fingers traced the line of his stubble, the faint scar bisecting his eyebrow. “You’re warm,” I murmured. “Still tired.” He huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes, but the pulse under my thumb jumped.

And then his phone rang.

The sound shattered the room — a tinny, drunken ringtone in the hush of my sitting room. Jayden jolted upright, nearly spilling his drink, fumbling it from his pocket. “Christ,” he muttered. “It’s Dylan.” His voice turned sheepish, his accent thicker. He glanced at me, as though caught. “Gimme a sec.”

He answered, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Aye, mate. Yeah, yeah, sorry I didn’t show. Took a detour, eh?” He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll be there tomorrow, promise. Nah, s’fine. Don’t worry about me. I’m good.”

I sat back, silent, hand still curled loosely on the sofa cushion where his wrist had been a moment before. My eyes fixed on the side of his face as he spoke. The ease of his tone, the little laugh he reserved for his friend, the way his fingers drummed on his knee. I watched every breath. I watched the little flicker of shame cross his eyes when he glanced back at me.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said into the phone. “I’m safe. Just… somewhere warm.” He smiled faintly at the fire. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

He ended the call, slid the phone back into his pocket, and turned to me with that crooked, sheepish grin. “Sorry, Doc. Mates worry, y’know?” He tried for bravado, but his eyes dropped. His shoulder brushed mine again, this time more deliberately.

I said nothing. I simply reached out, slow and deliberate, and brushed my thumb once more along the edge of his jaw. “You are safe,” I said softly. “Here.”

He swallowed, looking away. “Aye,” he muttered. “Here.” His voice was low now, almost a whisper.

I watched him. I will remember the sound of that call, the tone he used for another man, the flicker of guilt in his eyes, the way his pulse spiked under my touch before he answered. I will remember all of it. Because it is all part of the pattern.

— W. Burgess

___

26th December, 1997 — Near Midnight
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The call ended; the small, tinny chime of the line going dead faded back into the hush of the house. Snow had piled high on the terrace windowsills, the moon hidden entirely. The fire was down to coals now, glowing red like a heartbeat. Jayden’s phone sat face-down on the low table between us. His hand stayed there a second too long after setting it down, as though unsure whether to reach for it again.

I moved first. Slowly. Deliberately. “Another drink,” I said, not a question but a quiet directive. “Something warm.” Before he could answer, I was on my feet, cane striking once against the rug. I poured another hot chocolate myself, richer this time, darker, with a faint hint of cinnamon. When I returned, I set it before him and gestured with an open palm. “Here.”

He gave a weak laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re gonna spoil me rotten, Doc. I’ll never leave.” But he took it. His hands curled around the mug like it was the only warmth left in the room. He sipped. He sighed, low and involuntary, that same noise from the night before slipping out before he could catch it. His eyes flicked to me, wide, embarrassed, then away.

I sat down beside him again, closer now, our thighs touching fully. He did not move. I reached out — not suddenly, not in any way he could call a grab — and adjusted the blanket on the back of the sofa so it draped over his shoulders as well as mine. A small cocoon of wool and firelight, shutting out the winter beyond the windows.

“You run yourself ragged,” I murmured. “You get bruised, drugged, bled dry in bars, and then you apologise to boys named Dylan while you sit shivering in someone else’s house. You think that is strength. It is not.” My hand brushed the back of his neck, light as a moth. “Sit still. Breathe. Stay warm.”

He chuckled again, rougher now, looking down at the mug. “Aye, aye, boss. You’re relentless, you know that?” But his shoulders eased; his body leaned subtly against mine under the shared blanket. He drank again, slower.

I watched his throat work as he swallowed. I noted the colour back in his cheeks, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his pulse had steadied. I have catalogued anomalies, entities, horrors unimaginable — but I have never obsessed like this, counting another man’s breaths, his sips, his murmurs of relief.

He spoke softly, almost to himself, “This is… weird. But… good weird.” His eyes flicked to mine, then away.

I did not speak. I only let my fingers curl once more around the side of his neck, the pad of my thumb resting against the pulse I had memorised, the warmth of him seeping through my skin. The house, the snow, the Foundation — all of it fell away. Only this remained: his pulse beneath my thumb, his body leaning fractionally more into mine, the cocoon of fire and wool, the inevitability of his orbit tightening.

He is here. He stayed. And I have begun to close my hand. Slowly. Patiently. Beautifully.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

27th December, 1997 — 1:14 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The hour was mine. I had him. His body had grown heavy against me, the weight of his shoulder settled beneath the wool blanket, his breath warm and slow against the fabric of my sleeve. His head lolled once, twice, the mug of chocolate emptied and abandoned at his feet. He was half-asleep, murmuring nonsense, sighing like a child, utterly disarmed.

I sat still as a statue, scarcely daring to breathe lest I disturb the moment. His heat seeped into me, his pulse thrummed faintly against my hand where it rested along his throat. I had begun to imagine that he might stay, that this might become our night entire — the snow outside, the fire low, his body surrendered wholly to mine.

And then the phone rang again.

He stirred like a startled animal, fumbling for it in his pocket, groaning, “Bloody hell, who’s that now…” His voice was thick with sleep, but the moment shattered. He pressed the phone to his ear. Dylan again, or one of his ilk. A laugh, muffled by distance. Jayden straightened, rubbed his eyes, and sat forward.

“Aye, aye, I’ll come. Stop shoutin’. I’ll come.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Christ, you lot don’t give a man peace.” His hand raked through his Mohawk as he glanced sidelong at me. His smirk tried to return, crooked and sheepish. “Guess they want me out. Pub’s still open. Even in this weather.”

Outside the wind howled against the glass, rain lashed hard enough to smear the view of the snow. The storm was vicious, unrelenting. Yet he stood, pulling his jacket from the back of the chair, shrugging into it with careless ease. “I’ll be back later,” he said, almost as though it were an afterthought. Then he turned, grinning that reckless grin, one brow cocked. “Unless, uh… unless you wanna come?”

The words froze me. For a moment, I saw it — myself in some reeking bar, surrounded by his loud, drunken companions, their laughter like broken glass, their hands on his shoulders, his arm around them as if he belonged to them. The image turned my stomach.

“I have no business in those places,” I said evenly, my voice smooth as a blade. “You know this.”

He laughed, scratching his neck. “Aye, figured you’d say that. Too posh for us lot. Don’t wait up, eh?” He winked.

And then he was gone — the door shut, the echo of his boots vanishing into the storm.

I remained on the sofa, the blanket still warm from his body, the faint scent of him clinging to the wool. My hands curled into fists on my cane until the wood groaned. He walked out into that wind, into those hands, into those eyes that are not mine. He offered me the chance to follow, but no — no. That is not how I will take him.

Let them have his noise, his laughter, his cheap bravado. When he staggers back, wet and stinking of drink, it will be here he returns. To my fire. My walls. My hands. And each time he comes back, he binds himself tighter.

I will not chase him into the storm. He will come back to me. He always will.

— W. Burgess

___

27th December, 1997 — 3:02 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The storm had not eased. Rain drummed like nails on the terrace roof, wind tore at the eaves, the house shuddered faintly in the gusts. I sat waiting, the blanket still across my lap, the embers of the fire low and angry. Each passing minute wound me tighter; each sound of the storm another reminder of where he was — what hands he was in, what poisons were being poured into him.

And then, at last, the door. A muffled laugh, a thump, the rattle of the handle. Jayden Miller stumbled inside, soaked to the skin, hair plastered flat, jacket dripping a small pool onto the marble. He was smiling. Not the cocky grin of a fighter, but a loose, slack smile, his pupils wide, his cheeks flushed. “Doc…” he slurred softly, blinking up at me. “Y’re still up.”

I rose slowly, the cane striking the floor once, sharp, deliberate. “Of course I am,” I said. “Come here.”

He obeyed without hesitation. That was the first tell. He came straight to me like a man led by a string, jacket half-off his shoulders, eyes glassy. “Was wild,” he murmured, voice thick, accent heavy. “So loud. Hate it. Didn’t… didn’t feel right.” He swayed as he spoke, then leaned against me without warning, his head finding my shoulder. “S’quiet here,” he muttered. “Warm.”

I steadied him with a hand on the back of his neck, thumb pressing lightly to the damp hairline. “You’re drenched,” I said, my voice even. “And high.”

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes closing, smile widening faintly. “Maybe. Don’t care. M’fine.” His arms moved sluggishly, one hand brushing my side as if to steady himself but lingering there. “You’re warm,” he whispered. “Smell nice.”

I guided him through the hall, past the butlers who knew enough not to meet my eyes, into the sitting room where the fire still glowed. He followed with the docility of a sleepwalker, shedding his jacket without prompting, standing barefoot on the rug, blinking at the warmth.

“Sit,” I said softly. He sat. I brought the blanket back around his shoulders, tucking it close, my hands brushing his jaw, his temple, his hair. He hummed again at the touch, a low sound of relief. “Hot chocolate?” I asked. He nodded faintly, eyes already drifting closed.

When I returned with the cup, he was curled against the sofa cushion, knees drawn up slightly, the blanket wrapped around him. I sat beside him and placed the mug in his hands, curling my fingers over his to keep them steady. He took a sip, shuddered, and let out a small, involuntary whimper that made my heart seize. “S’good…” he whispered, leaning his head against my shoulder again. “Don’t like bein’ out there. S’quiet here. Warm.”

I froze, feeling his weight, his heat, his scent of rain and smoke and cheap beer. My hand slid, slow, deliberate, into his hair. He tilted his head automatically to allow it. His breathing slowed. His body softened.

He is high, yes. He is vulnerable. He does not even realise the words he says. But his body knows. It leans toward mine, it seeks my warmth, it answers my touch. Each time he leaves, he returns more deeply. Each time, he gives me a little more.

He thinks himself reckless, untamed. But he is already curling against me, half-asleep, sipping from my cup, whispering that it is better here. That I am warm. That I smell nice. That here is quiet.

I can wait. I will always wait. I am patient, and patient men always get what they desire.

— W. Burgess

___

27th December, 1997 — 4:03 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He grew heavier as the hour dragged on, his body melting further into mine until his head rested fully against my shoulder. The fire was low, little more than dying embers, and his breaths came in slow, uneven pulls. I could feel the dampness of his hair seeping through my shirt. Each exhale smelled faintly of beer and smoke, undercut with the cocoa on his breath.

I let him sit there a long time, cataloguing every inch of him in my mind. His weight. His heat. The small, unconscious sounds he made when my thumb stroked the back of his neck. The twitch of his fingers where they curled against my sleeve. All of it etched into me.

But at last the fire was nearly out, and the room had cooled. “Come,” I said softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You should be in bed.”

He stirred weakly, eyes half-lidded. “M’fine here,” he muttered, voice thick, childlike.

“No,” I murmured. “Up. Bed.”

It took coaxing, but he obeyed, swaying slightly as he rose. My hand stayed on his elbow as I guided him toward the stairs, his head tipping toward my shoulder every few steps. “You’re warm,” he mumbled again. “Don’t like stairs…”

We reached the guest room. I opened the door, the sheets turned down already, the lamp casting a faint amber glow. He stepped inside, still clutching the blanket I had wrapped him in, and I began to turn away. “Sleep,” I said. “I will check on you later.”

He stopped me.

His hand shot out, fingers curling into my sleeve with surprising strength for how soft he’d been all night. His eyes, glazed but wide, fixed on mine. “Don’t…” he muttered. Then louder, a raw edge to his voice: “Don’t go. Please. Just— don’t leave me.”

The words struck like a blow. He wasn’t smirking now. He wasn’t joking. His face was open, stripped of all bravado, pupils blown, lips trembling slightly.

For a moment, I stood very still. Every instinct in me urged to draw back, to keep the line where I had always kept it. But the plea in his voice — the way his fingers clutched at me — it was not the cry of a soldier or an agent. It was the sound of something much younger, much more breakable.

I exhaled slowly, and placed my hand over his. “Very well,” I said at last, my voice low, measured. “Come then.”

I guided him not to the guest bed but down the corridor, to my own chamber. It is larger, warmer, darker. The heavy curtains blocked the wind entirely, the fire still burning on the hearth. He followed without question, still clutching my sleeve.

When we reached the bed, he all but collapsed onto it, curling instinctively toward the centre. I drew the covers over him, then sat on the edge. His hand found mine again in the dark. “Told you I’d be back,” he murmured, almost smiling. “S’quiet here.”

I watched him a long moment. Then, with a sigh, I slid further onto the bed, sitting upright against the headboard. His head found my lap almost immediately, like a compass swinging true north. Within moments, his breathing evened, his weight heavy and warm across my thighs.

The storm raged outside, unheard. He slept. And I sat awake, my hand resting lightly in his hair, cataloguing each rise and fall of his chest, each twitch of his fingers, each small sound he made. This was not a surrender in name — not yet — but it was the shape of one.

He begged me not to leave. So I did not.

— W. Burgess

___

27th December, 1997 — 5:41 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He lies abed still. The storm has at last quieted to a distant murmur beyond the curtains, but here within my room, all is still but for his breathing. It is a small, animal sound — soft and even now, like the tide against a rock. He has not stirred since folding himself against me, his head in my lap, his hand curled unconsciously against my knee as though to anchor me.

I have sat thus for over an hour, and still cannot bring myself to move. My fingers have traced the pattern of his hair until I could do so blind. I have watched the flicker of his eyelids, the small tremors of dream. I have counted each rise and fall of his chest like a metronome. I am as a man possessed; my hand shakes when it leaves him.

I have studied anomalies, gods, leviathans that can warp reality with a thought — and yet none have occupied me so entirely as this man’s warmth upon my thighs. There is a sickness in it, I know, an unseemly hunger unbecoming of my station, unbecoming of my discipline. And yet I find myself longing for his smallest noises, addicted to the way his body slackens when I press my thumb to the base of his skull. It is as though some secret mechanism within me — sealed and locked for decades — has been prised open, and the tide pours in ungoverned.

He begged me not to leave. He spoke it softly, but it was no jest. The moment his fingers gripped my sleeve, I felt it like a current through bone. Stay. And I stayed. And now he sleeps with his head on my lap as though it were always his right.

God help me, but I would keep him thus. Keep him like a relic under glass. Feed him, clothe him, hold him until he forgot the world beyond these walls entirely. Let the pubs, the drugs, the fists in alleyways all dissolve like mist, and leave only this — firelight, warmth, and my hand in his hair.

I have not broken in my decades at Site-44. Not through the screams, nor the madness, nor the faces of colleagues who lost themselves to their own obsessions. I thought myself apart. But tonight, with his pulse steady against my thigh, I see the truth: I am as damned as they, perhaps more so.

And yet, even knowing this, I cannot stop. I do not wish to stop. He is an opiate, and I am content to drown.

— W. Burgess

___

27th December, 1997 — 9:23 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He woke slowly, groggy, blinking against the dim light that filtered through the curtains. For a brief, golden moment he did not seem to notice where he was, nor whose hand lingered still against his hair. He shifted against me, his cheek brushing my thigh, eyes half-lidded, sighing with that low, careless relief of one who has slept too deeply.

Then it struck him. He sat upright too quickly, blinking, running a hand down his face. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, voice rasped from sleep. “Did I— did I crash here?”

“You begged me not to leave,” I said evenly, my voice stripped of anything save fact. I remained seated against the headboard, watching him as he looked around the room with dazed half-recognition. “And so I did not.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, his Mohawk skewed wildly from the night. “Christ, Doc, you make it sound like—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Never mind. Thanks. Really. I was out of it.”

He stood then, tugging his shirt down, searching for his jacket, moving with that practiced clumsiness of a man who has lived half his life staggering home. His grin was already sliding back into place, easy and reckless. “Weekend now. Gonna head to the pub with the lads later. Y’know how it is.” He glanced over, smirk tugging. “You could come, if you fancy a pint. Though I know what you’ll say.”

I said nothing for a long time. Only watched. His words fell like stones into still water — each ripple widening until it filled me with a cold, taut fury I was careful not to let show. Pub. The lads. He would leave again, laughing with them, letting them drag him down into whatever squalor they chose, while I was left here with only the shape of his head in my lap, the echo of his plea.

“Of course,” I said finally, my voice so calm it was almost toneless. “You may do as you please.”

He gave me a lopsided grin, shoving his arms into his jacket. “Good. Knew you’d understand.” He paused, scratching at his jaw. “I’ll swing by after, maybe. Or tomorrow. Don’t wait up, yeah?”

And then he left. Just like that. Careless. Unaware of the fissure he had cracked open in me.

The bed still holds the warmth of his body. My hands still remember the weight of his head. And yet he walks out, speaking of beer-stinking companions as though they are worth the same as what was given me in the dead of night.

He thinks himself free. He thinks he chooses. He does not see the truth: each time he returns, each hour spent here, the tether grows tighter. He begged me once not to leave him — and I will not. No matter the noise, no matter the storm, no matter the cheap hands and cheaper drinks — when he stumbles back, it will be to me. Always to me.

He is mine. He has simply not yet realised it.

— W. Burgess

___

27th December, 1997 — 11:57 p.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The house is silent now. The staff are asleep, the fires banked low, only the soft hum of the old pipes in the walls keeping me company. I have walked these halls twice already, from the west wing to the east, cane tapping a steady rhythm. The storm has cleared; the moon has risen like a blade over the snow. He is not yet back.

He left in such a hurry earlier, laughing, talking about “the lads” and their pub. He left his old clothes on the chair by the hearth, as though they meant nothing — a shirt and a pair of socks, rolled together with that same careless indifference he carries everywhere. But they are still warm from his body.

I stood over them longer than I will write here.

In this book, however, I permit myself honesty. I lifted the shirt. Slowly. The smell rose like an ache — rain, woodsmoke, cheap beer, the faint salt of his skin. My hands trembled around the fabric. I pressed it to my face and closed my eyes. For a moment it was as though his head still rested against my thigh, as though his voice still murmured “don’t go” against my sleeve.

He has no idea what he leaves behind when he rushes out the door. No idea what I do when he is gone. The others at Site-44 speak of their quirks, their fractures: Dr. Owens with his psychotic laugh, Dr. Patel twitching herself bloody, a thousand slow descents into madness. I thought myself immune. Untouchable. But here I am, smelling the shirt of an MTF agent like some lovesick boy.

I folded the shirt again, placed it back precisely as it was, but the scent clings to my hands even now.

The GPS I sewed into his coat says he is at the outskirts of the town, somewhere between the pub and the park where he was left once before. I have checked it three times in the last hour. Each time the same pin, pulsing on the map. Each time my heart hammering against my ribs.

It is a sickness. It is an addiction. It is him.

I will wait. I will pace. And when he comes back, reeking of beer and wind, I will be here. He leaves pieces of himself in my house — clothes, shoes, the sound of his voice — and each piece is a thread.

Threads make ropes. Ropes hold fast.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

28th December, 1997 — 9:23 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He woke slowly, groggy, blinking against the dim light that filtered through the curtains. For a brief, golden moment he did not seem to notice where he was, nor whose hand lingered still against his hair. He shifted against me, his cheek brushing my thigh, eyes half-lidded, sighing with that low, careless relief of one who has slept too deeply.

Then it struck him. He sat upright too quickly, blinking, running a hand down his face. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, voice rasped from sleep. “Did I— did I crash here?”

“You begged me not to leave,” I said evenly, my voice stripped of anything save fact. I remained seated against the headboard, watching him as he looked around the room with dazed half-recognition. “And so I did not.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, his Mohawk skewed wildly from the night. “Christ, Doc, you make it sound like—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Never mind. Thanks. Really. I was out of it.”

He stood then, tugging his shirt down, searching for his jacket, moving with that practiced clumsiness of a man who has lived half his life staggering home. His grin was already sliding back into place, easy and reckless. “Weekend now. Gonna head to the pub with the lads later. Y’know how it is.” He glanced over, smirk tugging. “You could come, if you fancy a pint. Though I know what you’ll say.”

I said nothing for a long time. Only watched. His words fell like stones into still water — each ripple widening until it filled me with a cold, taut fury I was careful not to let show. Pub. The lads. He would leave again, laughing with them, letting them drag him down into whatever squalor they chose, while I was left here with only the shape of his head in my lap, the echo of his plea.

“Of course,” I said finally, my voice so calm it was almost toneless. “You may do as you please.”

He gave me a lopsided grin, shoving his arms into his jacket. “Good. Knew you’d understand.” He paused, scratching at his jaw. “I’ll swing by after, maybe. Or tomorrow. Don’t wait up, yeah?”

And then he left. Just like that. Careless. Unaware of the fissure he had cracked open in me.

The bed still holds the warmth of his body. My hands still remember the weight of his head. And yet he walks out, speaking of beer-stinking companions as though they are worth the same as what was given me in the dead of night.

He thinks himself free. He thinks he chooses. He does not see the truth: each time he returns, each hour spent here, the tether grows tighter. He begged me once not to leave him — and I will not. No matter the noise, no matter the storm, no matter the cheap hands and cheaper drinks — when he stumbles back, it will be to me. Always to me.

He is mine. He has simply not yet realised it.

— W. Burgess

___

28th December, 1997 — 11:57 p.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The house is silent now. The staff are asleep, the fires banked low, only the soft hum of the old pipes in the walls keeping me company. I have walked these halls twice already, from the west wing to the east, cane tapping a steady rhythm. The storm has cleared; the moon has risen like a blade over the snow. He is not yet back.

He left in such a hurry earlier, laughing, talking about “the lads” and their pub. He left his old clothes on the chair by the hearth, as though they meant nothing — a shirt and a pair of socks, rolled together with that same careless indifference he carries everywhere. But they are still warm from his body.

I stood over them longer than I will write here.

In this book, however, I permit myself honesty. I lifted the shirt. Slowly. The smell rose like an ache — rain, woodsmoke, cheap beer, the faint salt of his skin. My hands trembled around the fabric. I pressed it to my face and closed my eyes. For a moment it was as though his head still rested against my thigh, as though his voice still murmured “don’t go” against my sleeve.

He has no idea what he leaves behind when he rushes out the door. No idea what I do when he is gone. The others at Site-44 speak of their quirks, their fractures: Dr. Owens with his psychotic laugh, Dr. Patel twitching herself bloody, a thousand slow descents into madness. I thought myself immune. Untouchable. But here I am, smelling the shirt of an MTF agent like some lovesick boy.

I folded the shirt again, placed it back precisely as it was, but the scent clings to my hands even now.

The GPS I sewed into his coat says he is at the outskirts of the town, somewhere between the pub and the park where he was left once before. I have checked it three times in the last hour. Each time the same pin, pulsing on the map. Each time my heart hammering against my ribs.

It is a sickness. It is an addiction. It is him.

I will wait. I will pace. And when he comes back, reeking of beer and wind, I will be here. He leaves pieces of himself in my house — clothes, shoes, the sound of his voice — and each piece is a thread.

Threads make ropes. Ropes hold fast.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

29th December, 1997 — 12:42 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The telephone rang again, shrill and insistent against the hush of the house. I was in the study, standing over his shirt on the chair, fingers pressed into the fabric until the seams left imprints in my palm. The sound startled me enough to drop it.

“Doc!” His voice, through the receiver — so loud it distorted, thick with drink, with smoke, with whatever else he’d poured into himself tonight. My pulse leapt like a struck string. “Burgess! Where the hell are ya? You’ve got to come down here, man! This bar is wild! It’s mental! You’re missin’ it!” A loud laugh. Music and shouts in the background.

I said nothing for a moment, only gripping the receiver tighter. My heart pounded so hard it drowned his noise.

“Jayden,” I said, low, measured, the old cadence that makes even chaos go quiet. “Where are you.”

He shouted an address I already knew from the GPS. His voice cracked with some strange giddiness, like a boy daring a teacher. “Come on, Doc! Head of Research slumming it with us! Won’t tell the lads! They’ll die when they see ya!” Another roar of laughter behind him. “Come on! You said you never—”

“I’m on my way.” The words left my mouth before I’d even decided them.

A beat of silence on the line. Then, softer, “Really? You’ll come?”

“Yes,” I said. “Stay where you are.”

The line went dead.

Within minutes I was in the car, coat over my shoulders, cane across the passenger seat. The GPS blinked steadily on the dashboard, the pin pulsing like a heartbeat. The roads were slick and dark, the town’s lights smeared by rain. I drove faster than I should have.

The bar sat at the edge of the slums, a low building of brick and neon, its sign half-flickered out. Outside, a knot of smokers huddled under a dripping awning. I killed the engine, stepped out into the wet, and felt the noise roll over me like heat: music, shouting, laughter, the stink of sweat and cheap liquor.

I straightened my coat, smoothed my hair, adjusted my grip on the cane. When I stepped inside, the room fell around me like another world. Dim lights. Sticky floor. Walls sweating with humidity and beer. And there — at the far end of the bar — Jayden Miller, leaning against the counter, his arm slung around some friend, head thrown back in laughter.

He had not told them. Of course he hadn’t. Their faces turned as I entered — a man in a black overcoat, gloved hands on a cane, old-world posture cutting like a blade through the slop of their noise. A ripple of confusion moved through them. Jayden’s grin faltered, then broke into something wide and almost boyish.

“Doc!” he shouted, shoving his friend off. “You came!”

I stood still a moment, letting the air shift, watching him push his way toward me. Even through the stink and noise, the sight of him made my heart quicken — his shirt untucked, his eyes glassy, hair mussed by hands not mine. Yet he came toward me, not them.

This is how it begins. Not with a plan. Not with an invitation. With him calling at midnight, voice too loud, asking me to come. With me driving into filth I swore never to tread, just to stand in the same room as him.

I am Head of Research at Site-44. And tonight, I am in a bar at the edge of the slums. For him.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

29th December, 1997 — 1:17 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

If I have ever doubted my own corruption, it was annihilated when I beheld him tonight. I have seen gods in containment, creatures whose very form ruptures sanity — yet nothing has struck me as wholly as the sight of Jayden Miller, living and unbound, in that room of heat and rot.

He stood near the bar as if the chaos bent to him, not the other way around. That jacket — black leather, the collar spiked, sleeves rolled back to the elbow — clung to his shoulders like an animal’s hide. Beneath it, a crop top so thin and cut so high that every inch of him from the hard lines of his obliques to the faint snail-trail that disappeared below his waistband was on display. Baggy jeans slung low enough to reveal the curve of a black thong peeking up, a dark slash against the pale skin of his hip.

Christ forgive me, but it was obscene in its beauty. His abdomen tight, every muscle a soft ripple under the neon light, the dips of his hips like sculpted marble catching a flicker of red and blue. Even the bruises mottling his ribs — trophies from some fight — seemed to frame him rather than mar him. His waist narrow, his stance loose and predatory at once, the leather jacket shifting to reveal a tattoo curling just beneath his ribs.

He laughed, head thrown back, Mohawk tipped and messy from some stranger’s hand, a smear of beer on his jaw he hadn’t noticed. His throat flexed with every shout. That faint line of dark hair — a trail leading from his navel down into the low-slung denim — kept pulling my gaze no matter how I willed it elsewhere.

And yet, for all his posturing, when he saw me in the doorway his expression changed. His grin cracked wide, boyish, almost startled, and he pushed his way through the crowd to reach me, the thong, the crop top, the bruises, the leather all moving as one dangerous, magnetic creature.

I remained at the threshold of the room, the noise pressing against me like a tide. It smelled of sweat, spilled liquor, and bodies too close. My cane was in my left hand, gloved right hand loose at my side. I did not blink as he came near.

He reached me, shouting over the music, “You came! Thought you’d never—” His hand brushed my sleeve, and even that small contact sent something sharp and electric through my chest.

I cannot write of this without shame; yet here, in these pages, I will be honest. He was not simply handsome tonight. He was carnal. The sight of him, half-clothed and bruised and glowing in that vile light, made my breath shorten like a man starved.

The Foundation made me a man of ice, of scalpel and steel. And yet one look at him in that bar and I am undone.

— W. Burgess

⸻

29th December, 1997 — 1:46 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The room seemed to revolve about him. Wherever he planted himself, others orbited — agents in half-buttoned shirts, sleeves rolled, sweat shining at their temples. Dylan Foster, loud and thick-necked, his lifelong companion since boot camp, had an arm slung across Jayden’s shoulders as though to lay claim. Jayden laughed at his jests, head tipping to the side, that cursed strip of dark hair vanishing beneath his waistband catching the neon light.

Ava Flores — sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued — leaned on the counter with a pint in hand, watching him with the smirk of one accustomed to his reckless charms. Theo Carter, taller, calmer, laughed when Jayden shoved him in mock offense, and even that movement — the twist of his torso, crop top riding high to show the flex of his stomach — caught the breath in my throat.

They all knew him in ways I do not, though none of them knew him as I do. They have not watched the way his pulse trembles when he drinks hot chocolate at my fire. They have not catalogued the tilt of his head as he surrenders to sleep. To them he is the reckless Scot with his leather jacket and his brawls. To me — God help me — he is far more.

And yet tonight, he let them drape themselves across him, let Dylan lean too close, let Ava tease at the spike of his hair, let Theo cuff him lightly on the back in camaraderie. Each touch made my jaw tighten until it ached.

He saw me watching.

It happened between the lights, between the shouts and clatter of glass. He turned his head, and his eyes caught mine across the room. His grin softened — only slightly, but enough. And then he left Dylan’s arm, stepping through the throng to reach me, leather creaking, crop top lifting once more as his hand shoved into the pocket of those low-slung jeans.

“Doc!” he shouted again, the accent thick, joy reckless. He didn’t care who heard. Dylan glanced over, frowning in confusion, Ava’s brows rose, Theo’s chuckle dimmed — all of them startled to see their Head of Research, immaculate and cold, standing in the filth of their haunt.

Jayden reached me, cheeks flushed, eyes shining like some devil lit from within. He clapped a damp hand to my shoulder as though we were equals. “Told you you’d come!” he laughed, then, leaning closer, dropped his voice into something hoarse and private: “Knew you would.”

The music roared. His friends called for him. But for a moment, he stood with me, his hand heavy on my shoulder, his breath smelling of whiskey and smoke, his grin just for me.

And I thought: yes. Let them see. Let them all see.

— W. Burgess

___

29th December, 1997 — 2:11 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

They stared, of course. How could they not?

Foster was the first — thick-necked, red in the face from drink, his hand clapping Jayden’s shoulder as if to anchor him away from me. His brow furrowed, his laugh gone sharp. “Christ, Miller, him? What’s he doin’ here?”

Flores tilted her glass, smirk thin and fox-like. “Never thought I’d see the day. Head of Research slummin’ with us degenerates.” Her eyes darted between Jayden and myself, calculating, amused.

Carter only raised a brow, his quiet chuckle heavy with disbelief. “Burgess in a bar. There’s a sight I never thought I’d witness. What, Miller, you drag him down here to take notes?”

Jayden laughed too loud, too long, brushing their jests off with the careless ease of a man who doesn’t feel the knife edge beneath. He slung his arm around Foster’s shoulder, leaned across to cuff Carter on the chest, grinned wide at Flores. “What, can’t a man invite a mate out? Stop actin’ like I dragged a bloody ghost in!”

“Miller,” Foster pressed, shaking his head. “What the fuck d’you mean, mate? That’s Burgess. Coldheart himself. Don’t even know if the bastard can smile. What the hell d’you talk about with him?”

Jayden only smirked wider, that ridiculous grin that made his scars and bruises look like trophies instead of wounds. He tipped his drink back, then shrugged. “Dunno. Nothin’. Everythin’. He’s sound.” A pause. “And he came, didn’t he? That means somethin’.”

Their laughter rose again — mocking, disbelieving, half-nervous. But I saw it, the thing they did not. The brief glance he gave me as he said it, sly and unguarded at once, as if to confirm I had come, as if to tell me he knew I would.

It thudded through me like a drumbeat. My cane shook faintly where I held it against the sticky floor. He was oblivious, yes — still playing at bravado, still smirking under the lights — but his words were a thread, tightening. And he came, didn’t he?

Indeed I did. And not for science, nor duty, nor research. For him alone.

They do not understand. They never will. He speaks to me, even when drunk and laughing, in ways they cannot hear. His tongue may be careless, but his body betrays him. He moved from Foster’s grip to stand at my side without thought. He smirked at me, not them.

They believe themselves his comrades. They believe themselves his family. But tonight, they looked upon him and saw him call to me — and saw me answer.

The seed is sown. And it grows.

— W. Burgess

___

29th December, 1997 — 2:37 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

I could not bear another second of their hands on him, their laughter fouling the air, the way Foster clung as though Jayden were his to guard. No — I would not.

So I leaned down, close enough that he could hear me through the wall of sound, my breath brushing the damp line of his temple. “Come. You need air.”

He blinked at me, glassy-eyed, lips parted around a retort that never left his tongue. He only grinned — infuriating, boyish, perfect — and let me take his arm. His friends jeered behind him, shouting something crude, but Jayden only barked a laugh and followed, stumbling slightly as I steered him through the press of bodies.

Outside: the world was wet, dark, cold. Rain fell hard enough to slick his Mohawk flat, drops shining in the harsh neon glow. He stood under the eave of the bar, leather jacket creaking as he pulled it tighter across his cropped shirt, his breath white in the air.

Christ. To see him there, with the night biting at his bare stomach, the faint line of hair leading down into jeans clinging wet to his hips, thong peeking like some deliberate sin — it was unbearable. Every curve, every bruise, every careless breath seemed designed to undo me.

“You’re mad,” he laughed, shaking his head, water dripping from his fringe into his eyes. “Comin’ out here. You— you in a bloody bar, Doc. Thought I’d keel over.”

“Mad?” I said, low. “Mad would be letting you rot in that place, drunk and grinning at people who do not deserve you.”

He squinted at me, confusion written across his flushed face. “They’re my mates. Don’t start, Doc. Dylan’s— been there since the start. Ava and Theo too.”

“They will leave you to the wolves the moment the night turns,” I hissed, voice sharper than I intended. “Do you not see it? You drink yourself half-dead, and they laugh. You let yourself bruise and bleed for nothing, and they clap you on the back. And then — then you call me.”

His grin faltered. A silence stretched between us, broken only by the hiss of rain. His hand flexed on the edge of his jacket, eyes darting down, then up again to meet mine.

“Yeah,” he said, softer now, almost sheepish. “Aye. I called you.”

Something inside me snapped taut. My gloved hand rose before I thought better of it, fingers pressing hard against his cheek, cold leather against damp skin. He froze, startled, then stilled — wide-eyed, lips parted, rain running over both our faces. I traced the line of his jaw, the pulse at his throat hammering under my touch, cataloguing the rhythm of his breaths, the faint tremor of his body in the chill.

He let me. Christ above, he let me.

My thumb lingered at the corner of his mouth. The city stank of rot, of spilled beer and piss, but in that moment it was only him — his warmth, his pulse, the sound of him breathing beneath my hand.

“Never call me mad, Miller,” I murmured. “You do not know what I would do for you.”

And for the first time, he had no jest. No laugh. Only silence, standing close, the rain seeping through us both.

— W. Burgess

___

29th December, 1997 — 3:02 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The night air clung heavy as I steered him toward the car, cane striking wet pavement with each step. He stumbled once, but my grip on his arm held him steady. The streets were near-empty, the bar’s cacophony muffled behind its door. Here, only the rain and the uneven cadence of his boots existed.

I opened the passenger side, gesturing him in. He flopped down gracelessly, jacket squeaking against the leather seat, crop top riding even higher from the angle. I circled to my side, slid behind the wheel, and let the silence hang — a taut string between us.

He smelled of liquor and smoke, but beneath it, faintly, sweat and leather and him. I could have drowned in it.

He turned, grinning faint and crooked, hair plastered to his temple. “Christ, Doc. Draggin’ me out like some bloody knight in a carriage.”

I did not smile. My eyes lingered too long on his mouth, his damp lips parted just slightly, pink from biting them against the cold. I thought, with a clarity sharp as glass: now. I could ask now.

The words rose, unbidden: Let me kiss you, Miller.

But before they could fall, he laughed — quick, flustered, eyes darting away. “What, you gonna kiss me or somethin’, Burgess?” His tone was mock, nervous, but the heat flushed up his neck betrayed him.

I froze. My fingers tightened awhen upon the wheel. He had said it first. The notion was not mine alone.

And then — a beat too late — the realization crossed his face. His grin faltered, his pupils flared. He had meant it as jest, but he saw my stillness, my eyes fixed upon him, and something inside him flickered.

He swallowed hard. Looked away. Laughed again, quieter this time, forcing the levity back into his voice. “Ah, forget it. Jokin’, mate. Just jokin’.”

But he had seen. For that split second, he knew.

And I — God damn me — did not deny it.

— W. Burgess

___

29th December, 1997 — 3:46 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

I am a fool. A god-damned fool in a fine coat.

The drive back was nothing — a blur of headlights on wet tarmac, the wipers hissing their rhythm like a metronome for my humiliation. He sprawled in the passenger seat, wet hair dripping onto his collarbone, leather jacket creaking when he shifted. He tried to fill the space with idle talk, little jokes about the bar, about Dylan probably puking in an alley, about how “posh” my car smelled. He was trying to make it normal. To erase what he had said.

I sat rigid, eyes fixed on the road, fingers carved into the wheel. The whole time the echo of his voice pounded in my skull: What, you gonna kiss me or somethin’, Burgess? A jest, thrown off like a spark from his teeth — but I had shown it. My stillness, my silence, my stare. In that moment, he had seen.

God, I despise myself. Forty-three years old, Head of Research, a man who has held the veil of reality in his hands and not trembled — and I sit here undone by a drunk agent’s crooked grin.

Back at the house he slipped off his jacket, water darkening the polished floor, crop top clinging to his chest. He smirked as if nothing had passed. “Cheers for the lift, Doc. Owe you one.”

I wanted to tear the smirk off his face, to kiss it, to beg his forgiveness — I don’t even know which. Instead, I managed, “You’re welcome,” in a voice too cold, too smooth, while inside everything clawed at the inside of my ribs.

He padded further into the hall, toes of his boots squeaking, and said over his shoulder, “You alright, Doc? You’re quiet. Not like you’re chatty usually, but…”

“I am fine,” I said. Lie. My hands still trembled when I unclasped my gloves.

Upstairs now, in the solitude of my study, his scent still lingers — liquor and leather and skin. His shirt from the other night lies over the chair. I pressed it to my face before I began writing this. The shame is as sharp as the thrill.

He joked, and I did not laugh. He joked, and for a heartbeat, he knew. I saw it in his eyes. He will pretend he didn’t. I will pretend too. But the truth is alive now, crawling between us, and I can no longer cage it.

I have weathered anomalies that devour minds, walked halls of screaming steel, endured the ruin of my own body after a breach. Yet tonight I feel broken in a way none of them ever achieved.

Because he joked. And I showed my hunger.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

29th December, 1997 — 9:12 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

The morning light was harsh and clinical in Site-44’s corridors, fluorescent and unforgiving. It revealed every flaw, every smudge, every shard of reality I usually preferred obscured in the gloom of my mansion. And yet, he arrived — Jayden Miller — as if the previous night had been some dream, some fevered hallucination, rather than the raw, jagged truth that it was.

His Mohawk was tousled, jeans slung low, leather jacket flung over one shoulder. Crop top replaced by a simple shirt, but the way it clung to his torso still betrayed the curve of muscle and bruise beneath. He strode down the hallway with that reckless confidence, grinning at the junior researchers who dared glance his way.

He laughed, tossing a paper into a recycling bin like it were a cannonball. “Oi, check this assignment, eh? Nothing like us lads to make science fun!” His voice rang across the lab, light, careless, unburdened. He was himself, and yet I knew — I knew — that the night’s truths were tucked somewhere beneath the bravado, hidden where no one else could see.

He leaned against the counter near the containment logs, chatting with Dylan Foster, Theo Carter, and Ava Flores as though nothing had occurred. He nudged Dylan, elbowed Theo, smirked at Ava. And all the while, I catalogued: the way his shoulder muscles shifted under the shirt, the dip of his hip as he shifted weight, the small twitch of his fingers as he traced the edge of a folder, the light sheen of sweat at his temple from the morning warmth.

He did not look at me — or pretended not to. His eyes flicked briefly in my direction, maybe a second too long before he cast them elsewhere, and I felt my stomach tighten. He remembers. He remembers exactly. But he plays it off. That grin. That casual, reckless grin that says: all normal, Doc. Move along.

I moved along, behind him, cataloguing every step he took. Every small movement, every casual gesture, every shift in stance. He is pretending it never happened. And I, of course, cannot.

The other agents do not notice, nor would they dare. The senior staff are aware only in fragments, snippets whispered in the halls about the peculiarities of Burgess and Miller. But I — I am aware fully. My obsession hums beneath the surface, relentless. He is in my mind every moment, and every calculated step, every laugh, every careless tilt of his head, fuels it.

Even here, at the sterile heart of the Foundation, amidst containment and chaos, I am undone by him. By the lightness of his laughter, the curve of his muscles, the way he moves as if the world owes him nothing but still chooses to exist within it.

And all the while, he pretends, oh, so perfectly, that nothing happened.

— W. Burgess

___

30th December, 1997 — 11:17 p.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He was there before I even reached the threshold, body pressed against the doorframe, trembling, eyes wide and unblinking like a man on fire. Pupils blown to black pinpoints, phone buzzing endlessly in his hand, ignored with deliberate care. The smell hit me first — sweat, liquor, perfume, and something harsher I did not wish to name.

I barely had time to breathe before he surged forward as I opened the door. Hands clamped onto my coat, jacket scrunching in my grasp, lips meeting mine with the force of some storm. He climbed, rough, heated, pressing against me as though the world were to end before he could claim any of it for himself.

His mouth was frantic, his tongue moving with urgency, teeth grazing my lower lip in warning and invitation. He pressed closer, body hot and trembling, chest and hips pressing into mine. Every part of him — the curve of his ribs, the hard lines of his abdomen, the subtle tremor of his thighs — burned into me like a brand.

I guided him gently, carefully, onto the living room couch, yet even there he was on top, pinning me with that desperate weight, lips never leaving mine. The buzzing phone continued, a faint, meaningless hum against the raw noise he made. He was no longer Jayden Miller the reckless agent. He was something wilder, something raw and unrestrained — and entirely mine in that moment.

Hands tangled in my hair, nails digging lightly into my shoulders, breath hot and ragged against my jaw. Every exhale was a plea, every groan a confession. I felt the thrum of his heart through his chest, fast, chaotic, addictive.

I do not remember giving consent. There was no room for thought. Only the pull of him, of that hungry energy, that ungovernable need. I catalogued every movement, every shiver, every desperate, needy sound that tore from him as though he were trying to imprint himself upon me, to leave nothing unsaid.

The world outside ceased to exist. The buzzing, the night, the streets, the Foundation — all of it vanished beneath the weight of him atop me, consuming and claiming. He kissed with abandon, with recklessness, with a fire I could neither temper nor resist.

And in that moment, I understood: I am utterly, irredeemably addicted.

— W. Burgess

___

29th December, 1997 — 11:52 p.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He stilled for a moment atop me, chest heaving, pupils blown wide as black pools. And then — words, sharp, tremulous, urgent. “I know,” he whispered, ragged. “I know what you want, Burgess.”

The sound cut through the haze of heat and need. I paused, lips hovering near his jaw, fingers tangled in his hair. The confession was not angry in a simple sense, nor wholly tender. It was all at once: furious, upset, trembling, electric. His voice cracked between each word, and there was something in it — a spark I had not anticipated — that betrayed excitement, anticipation, and something darker, almost guilty.

“I saw it that night,” he said, voice low, barely audible over the rapid thrum of his own pulse. “When… at the bar. I knew. Didn’t know what to say. Didn’t… couldn’t.”

The heat behind his words pressed into me as keenly as his body. He was needy, shivering against my chest, searching for purchase, for reassurance, for dominance, or perhaps for surrender. His hands roamed with reckless curiosity over the coat I wore, over the collar of my shirt, the buttons of my waistcoat — touching, clinging, seeking. He is aware, and yet unrestrained, and the tension in him is exquisite.

“You… you want this,” he continued, voice quivering, breath hot and ragged. “You always… you’ve wanted me. And I…” A shiver ran through him. “I don’t know if I hate it or… or like it too much.”

God help me, I knew in that moment that nothing in the world — neither research, nor containment, nor the countless anomalies I have catalogued — had ever filled me with the same exquisite tension. He is here, atop me, trembling and needy, knowing what I desire, and daring me to act.

I let my hands roam with deliberate precision: tracing his jaw, pressing into the hollow beneath his ribs, feeling the tremor of his thighs, cataloguing the rhythm of his heart and breaths. Every tiny sound he made — whimper, hiss, breath caught between teeth — became an obsession, recorded in every fiber of my mind. He is fully aware, fully conscious of me, fully aware of us, and yet he is unable to stop, unable to leave, unable to deny this pull.

I am consumed. He is consumed. And in the dark of my living room, on the threadbare couch, the storm of need and confession and recklessness between us roared louder than the wind outside.

He knows. And so do I.

— W. Burgess

___

30th December, 1997 — 12:18 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess, Head of Research, Site-44

He tried it. The brat, that infuriating, beautiful creature, tried to test me — lips curling in that half-smirk, eyes flashing with defiance, hands tugging at my coat as though he could wrest control from me.

I paused, letting the fire in his gaze burn for a fraction longer than necessary. Every tremor of his muscles, every shift of his weight atop me, only stoked the rising flame inside. “You will not,” I murmured, low and deliberate, each word a steel-edged warning. “Do not test me, Miller.”

He grinned — bold, reckless, foolish — and I saw the spark of his own thrill, the mix of defiance and desperate curiosity. And it was enough. Enough to push me over the line of decorum, enough to unspool every last restraint I had been forcing myself to maintain.

I guided his body with precise control, hand pressing into the hollow of his back, fingers tracing the curve of his ribs, mapping the tremor of his muscles, noting every shiver that ran through him like electric fire. He whimpered softly at my touch, half-laughing, half-protesting, and I catalogued it all: the pitch of his breath, the rapid pulse under my fingertips, the way his hips reacted against mine, the subtle shift of his thighs.

“You are mine tonight,” I murmured, voice calm, cold, and yet entirely claiming. “You test me, you bray, you fight — and still, you belong to me.”

He squirmed, trying to roll, trying to protest, and yet the weight of my hands, the press of my body, the inevitability of my presence rendered him still. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, a soft, needy whine escaping that made the coldest, most controlled parts of me shiver with satisfaction.

Every defiance he offered only drew me closer, made my obsession flare brighter. I pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, tracing it with deliberate slowness, letting him know that rebellion would not go unpunished — not cruelly, but with absolute, meticulous claim.

Even as he breathed ragged, flushed and trembling, I catalogued it all. Every gasp, every whimper, every protest, every subtle whine that escaped him. Every inch of his body was recorded, memorized, consumed.

And still he tried. Still he dared. And still I — impossibly, inexorably — claimed him.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

1st January, 1998 — 00:14 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

Midnight struck while he was still leaning against me.

The city below erupted in light — every window flashing gold and white, every street echoing with the hiss and thunder of fireworks. The glass of the balcony railing trembled faintly from the force. He tilted his head back, eyes wide and reflecting each explosion as though the sky itself had spilled into him.

For a moment I forgot to breathe.

He was beautiful like that. Not polished. Not performing. Just… unguarded. The hard edges of the agent stripped away, leaving the boy who still marveled at light and sound.

He whispered something I couldn’t catch over the fireworks. I bent closer and he half-turned, eyes shining, cheeks flushed from drink and winter air. “Happy New Year,” he said, but it sounded more like a question.

I answered without hesitation. “Happy New Year, Jayden.”

His lips curved into a small smile. He swayed slightly — the drink catching up to him — and instinctively pressed closer. My hands, still at his hips, steadied him again. This time, he didn’t move away.

The first few minutes of the new year passed like that. Him leaning into me, watching the sky. Me holding him, unseen by anyone but the dark and the light above.

I wiped away the tear that had slipped down his cheek — whether from the cold, the drink, or something else, I couldn’t say. My thumb brushed the salt of it and, for a split second, I had the insane urge to taste it. To know it. To take every piece of him into myself until there was nothing left unclaimed.

I did not. Of course I did not. But the thought sat heavy in me, shameful and glorious in equal measure.

He laughed then, softly, as another firework bloomed above. “You’re warm,” he murmured again, almost childlike.

“I told you,” I said.

I pulled the balcony chair out for him when his legs began to falter, coaxing him to sit. He obeyed without question this time, too tipsy to pretend otherwise. I fetched his drink — water now — and asked him what he’d like next, even though the restaurant’s decadence still lingered in our coats and the chandeliers of old money still glimmered in my mind.

He blinked up at me, eyes soft. “Don’t know. Surprise me.”

So I did.

And all the while, as the fireworks burned themselves out and the city fell back to silence, one thought kept returning to me, relentless as a pulse:

This boy. This moment. This year. Mine to build. Mine to keep.

— W. Burgess

___

1st January, 1998 — 00:47 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

We returned to the warmth of the mansion. The rain had ceased, leaving the air thick and clean, faintly smelling of wet stone and winter.

He was still unsteady on his feet. I guided him to the study, insisting he sit while I retrieved his drink and checked the fire. He obeyed, slumping into the armchair as though the world were suddenly far too heavy for him to bear.

And then, as I bent to set the glass at his side, he shifted. Curled. Sought warmth. He leaned into me before I could protest, curling against the edge of the desk while I continued writing, pen moving across the page with deliberate precision.

He muttered something under his breath, thick and garbled by alcohol. His Gaelic, I realized with a quiet, dangerous thrill, he assumed I could not understand.

“Tha gaol agam ort,” he whispered again, voice small, unsteady. “Fìor… fìor ghràdh.”

I paused. My pen hovered. He pressed closer, burying his head briefly into the curve of my side, warmth pressing against me, and I felt it — that pull, that tide of need he cannot fully articulate, cannot fully control.

I have long catalogued his habits, his quirks, his reckless bravery. But this… this is something new. He does not know the language I speak fluently. He does not know I understand every syllable.

“I love you,” he repeated, the Gaelic soft, broken, an almost childlike plea, and my chest tightened. Not because of pride, not because of sentiment, but because I can hold him in my orbit, understand him utterly, and remain untouchable.

I continued writing, deliberately, as his words washed over me. He pressed against me more fully, drunken, needy, muttering small fragments — “mo chridhe… mo bheatha… thu fhèin…” — each syllable a tether I cannot resist.

I do not correct him. I do not respond. I simply catalog and observe, my hand stilling only when I lift it to smooth the damp hair at his temple. I can feel his pulse against my side. His breathing. The faint tremor in his shoulders.

He has no idea how completely he is in my possession, not by force, but by something far more insidious: by knowing him fully, in all the languages, in all the silences, in all the reckless moments he cannot hide.

I continue to write. I will not stop. I am writing for him, about him, for no one else. And yet, I feel something almost feral stir — a desire to trace the salt of his tears, the warmth of his skin, to catalog every whispered admission he cannot even remember tomorrow.

He sighs, pressing closer, and for a fleeting second, I allow my fingers to rest at the curve of his waist. Not commanding, not restraining — only steadying. Only observing.

And I think, as the pen moves again across the page, that this — this boy, this chaos, this devotion he cannot name — will consume me entirely if I do not watch myself.

— W. Burgess

___

1st January, 1998 — 01:19 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

He has shifted again, drowsy from drink, the firelight making his hair gleam like tarnished gold. His head found its way into my lap without conscious effort. He stared up at me through those heavy-lidded eyes, pupils still wide, lips parted as though he were about to speak and then forgot how.

And then, soft as a child asking for water, he whispered:
“Will… kiss?”

It was not a demand. Not a command. Merely a plea — uncertain, blurred by exhaustion. But it went through me like a blade.

I am not a man who indulges. I have lived by restraint, by caution, by precision. And yet, at that moment, his voice — his drunken, unguarded voice — stripped all of that away.

I bent only slightly. My hand cupped the back of his neck — steady, careful — as I lowered my mouth to his. The first kiss was brief, a testing of boundaries; the second deeper, slower, a press of warmth against the cold hours of the morning. He sighed against me, a sound of relief so soft it barely existed, and curled closer.

He kissed me back. Not with calculation. Not with performance. Just instinct, needy and clumsy and heartbreakingly sincere. His fingers slid into my sleeve, clutching like he feared I might pull away.

“Again,” he breathed, eyes still closed.

And so I did.

I allowed myself, for once, to be exactly what he asked for: steady, present, the giver of what he sought. I tasted the faint salt of his earlier tears at the corner of his mouth. I felt his heart stutter against mine.

I know this cannot last. I know he will wake tomorrow and retreat behind that mask of his, the manly act, the denial. But tonight — tonight he asked, and I gave, and in that small, private moment, the world narrowed to the warmth of his mouth and the weight of his body leaning into mine.

I have always catalogued his habits. Tonight I catalogued his kiss:
the tremor at the corner of his mouth,
the small sound he made when I brushed my thumb against his jaw,
the way he tilted his head, instinctive, as though he had always known where he belonged.

I did not tell him I understood the Gaelic he whispered earlier. I did not tell him that hearing those words from his lips has undone me more completely than any anomaly or experiment ever could.

I simply held him there, answering each kiss with a measured one of my own, until the room blurred into quiet and his breathing slowed.

He is asleep now, still curled against me. I am writing with one hand, the other resting lightly at his hip to steady him.

I am a man who has spent twenty-five years mastering control. Yet tonight, I find myself wondering how much of that control remains.

— W. Burgess

___

1st January, 1998 — 02:03 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

We stepped into the garden an hour past midnight. The air still held the ghost of winter — sharp enough to bite the lungs, but softened by the scent of damp earth and roses. The fireworks from the city had already begun to fade into smoke, their echoes rolling across the hills like distant artillery.

Jayden wandered ahead of me, weaving between the hedges as though the garden were a labyrinth meant only for him. He was laughing softly — not the loud, reckless sound he gives his comrades, but a quieter one, unguarded. Each burst of light caught on his hair, on the glint of a chain at his throat, on the shine of his smile.

He looked back at me once, as though to check that I was still following.

Of course I was.

I always am.

When we reached the far terrace — the one with the wrought-iron swing where I sometimes sit to smoke — he stopped and turned toward me, breath misting in the air. “Cold,” he said, though he was grinning. I offered him my coat, and he shrugged into it without hesitation. It hung too long on him, but somehow that only made him more beautiful.

The fireworks from the city had ended, yet as though summoned by some unseen instinct, the butlers began their own display from the lower lawn — golds, silvers, deep crimson flares that bloomed and vanished like dying stars. Jayden’s eyes lit up; he laughed again, loud and amazed. He looked up, arms spread, as though the world were his to take.

Then he turned toward me — and for a moment, I could not tell whether the brightness on his face came from the fireworks or from within him.

I do not remember who moved first. Only that the distance between us disappeared. That my hands found his jaw. That his breath caught as my mouth found his again, softer this time, as though we both understood what this moment was and what it would cost.

The fireworks cracked above us, gilding the rose bushes in light. The scent of gunpowder mingled with that of roses — sweet, sharp, intoxicating. He pressed closer, the taste of smoke and champagne on his tongue, and whispered something I could not quite catch over the noise. I think it was my name.

When the last firework burned itself out, we stood there still. The silence afterward felt enormous.

I wanted to speak — to say that he has ruined me, that I no longer remember what it feels like to want something small — but I did not. Instead, I brushed the hair from his forehead and told him the hour. He laughed again, low and warm, and said we should go inside before we both froze.

I let him take my hand.

And as we walked back through the garden, past the smoking remains of the fireworks, I realized that I could no longer tell where the roses ended and the ruin began.

— W. Burgess

___

1st January, 1998 — 09:47 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

The house is silent now. The servants move like ghosts through the hallways, their footsteps careful on the marble so as not to wake the guest sleeping in the eastern room.

Jayden.

He sleeps with the stubborn peace of someone who has survived too much to be bothered by the ordinary. One arm flung across his eyes, mouth slightly open, still wearing the shirt from last night — creased, a faint smell of smoke and wine clinging to it. His hair sticks up in several directions. Somehow, impossibly, it suits him.

I am writing from the study. The window here faces the back gardens, and I can still see the pale fog rising over the rose bushes we stood among only hours ago. The evidence of our fireworks remains scattered across the lawns — blackened shells, thin streams of smoke curling toward the morning sky.

It is strange, how something so beautiful can look so ruined by daylight.

He will wake soon. I should not be here when he does. I am not certain what version of himself he will wear today — the soldier, the jester, the wary man who laughs too loudly to drown his own thoughts. Whatever it is, I suspect he will not mention last night.

And yet I cannot stop reliving it. The feel of his breath warming my jaw, the sound of his laugh swallowed by the fireworks, the way he leaned back into me without fear.

I tell myself that it was nothing — a drunken moment, an error of judgment.
But I am not a man who lies to himself.

I wanted it.
I have wanted it since the day he first called me Will without hesitation, since he leaned against my desk and made the sterile air of Site-44 feel alive for the first time in years.

He does not understand the power he holds, nor the danger of it. Perhaps that is mercy.

When he wakes, I will have breakfast sent to his room — black coffee, eggs, fruit. Something simple. I will act as though the night was no more than a celebration among colleagues. He will likely accept that, grateful for the pretense.

But I will remember the way he looked at me in the garden, and the way the light touched his face like confession.

For the first time in a very long while, I am aware of the hour in a way that has nothing to do with the Foundation’s schedules or research deadlines.
It feels — unbearable.

I am, it seems, not immune after all.

— W. Burgess

___

1st January, 1998 — 16:22 p.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

I returned to Site-44 before noon. It felt obscene, almost, to step from the quiet of the house into the sterile brightness of the upper laboratories — the hum of the centrifuges, the constant echo of the containment doors. Everything smelled of disinfectant and steel, and I could not shake the lingering scent of roses from my coat.

The day has been intolerably long. Every sentence of every report reads like static; I have read the same line of the chemical requisition log four times and could not tell you what it said.

The butlers have been sending me updates throughout the day, unprompted — though perhaps they know me too well to need instruction.

09:56 — Agent Miller awake. Breakfast served. Appears alert but subdued.
10:27 — Walked the garden. Smoked. Lingered by the swing for approximately ten minutes.
11:41 — In music room. Attempted to play piano. Two notes only. Stared at keys for several minutes before leaving.
13:03 — Ate half of lunch. Returned to guest room. Currently sleeping again.

Each message makes my pulse jump, though I reply to none of them. To acknowledge them would be to admit what they already know.

Dr. Owens stopped me in the corridor an hour ago to ask if I was “quite well.” He said I looked “haunted.” I nearly laughed. I told him I was simply tired from the new year’s formalities. He smiled, as though that explained everything.

If he had seen the image that accompanies the last message — a photograph sent without request, of Jayden asleep on the divan in the east drawing room, sunlight touching his face — he might have understood what kind of haunting this is.

I deleted it immediately. But the outline of it remains behind my eyes, sharp and stubborn as an afterimage.

It should not matter. He will recover. He will return to the Site in a day or two, shrug off the past week as if it were a story told by someone else.

And I — I will return to the laboratory, to my work, to the familiar comfort of things that do not breathe or bleed or ask for anything beyond precision.

But I find myself waiting for the next message.

God help me, I even drafted one myself — “If he wakes again, bring him tea. The same blend I made last night.”
I have not sent it. Yet.

The human mind decays in slow increments, not in violent collapse. I used to believe myself immune.

Perhaps that was arrogance.

— W. Burgess

___

1st January, 1998 — 17:38 p.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

He arrived at the Site this afternoon, moving through the corridors with the careless grace that always unnerves me. His coat hung loosely, hands in pockets, and yet there was a tension in his shoulders that had not been present last night. A weight, almost imperceptible, but it caught my attention immediately.

I followed at a distance, ostensibly occupied with departmental inspections, though every instrument, every beaker, every junior scientist’s movement blurred into background noise. My focus was entirely on him.

During break, he and a few of the MTF agents — Foster, Flores, Carter — gathered near the east commons. Their voices were low, but careful attention to tonality allowed me to hear fragments.

“…he’s… different today, yeah? Not his usual…”

“…more… quiet. Almost… brooding?”

“…Burgess must be on him again. Can’t help himself, that man.”

I catalogued it all. The pause, the hesitation, the way Jayden’s hand drifted toward his hair as he muttered something I could not catch. He leaned back slightly, laughing at something Dylan said, though the laugh carried a faint tremor.

He is thinking of last night. I know it.

No one notices me in the shadows, not my colleagues, not the agents. I am a ghost to them. But I see him. Every nuance. Every flicker. Every hesitation. The little things he cannot hide: the way his gaze returns — fleetingly — toward the hallway where I stand, the quick tilt of his lips as he processes something he does not say aloud.

I would correct him. I would command him to focus. But I cannot. Not yet. The storm within him — the storm he has begun to carry when I am not near — is intoxicating.

I do not allow myself to think of the other possibilities. I catalog, I observe, I mark the patterns.

Tonight, I will know more.

— W. Burgess

___

1st January, 1998 — 19:11 p.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

He approached me during the late shift, sober — an unusual state, though I suspect he would deny it with typical stubbornness if asked. His eyes were clear, attentive, carrying that familiar defiance tempered by some unreadable impulse.

“Will,” he began, voice casual yet carrying a tension he did not attempt to mask, “do you reckon we could… go out for a bit? Maybe dinner? Somewhere cheap.”

I did not flinch. I simply inclined my head. “Certainly.”

His expression shifted immediately — surprise, almost disbelief. He stared at me as though I had offered him the moon itself.

“Really? You’d…?”

“Yes,” I replied, calmly, as though the matter required no further justification.

He smiled then, faint, sharp, and a little mischievous. “Well… we’ll need to frequent elsewhere if that’s the case,” he added, a half-joking acknowledgement of my preference for establishments far more… refined than the greasy diners he suggested.

I noted it without comment. It pleased me to see him unsettled, even mildly. The notion that he might influence the course of our evening — even in this small, inconsequential way — is a novelty I intend to catalogue carefully.

He departed soon after, clearly buoyed by the exchange, though he maintained his air of reluctant dignity. I remained in the lab, hands at work, though my mind traces every step he will take, every pause he may allow himself before our meeting.

I do not permit myself the luxury of imagining more than the appointed dinner. Yet, even as I write, I catalog the subtle shift in him: the faint light in his eyes, the way he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, the careful modulation of his voice.

Everything about him is under observation, yet none of it diminishes the quiet thrill of being obeyed, even for something so trivial as consenting to a simple dinner.

— W. Burgess

___

1st January, 1998 — 20:47 p.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

We dined at a modest establishment, far from the chandeliers and polished silver of my usual predilections. The linoleum floor creaked beneath our chairs; the lighting was harsh and yellow, a poor substitute for ambiance, yet it suited him. Perhaps the discomfort was necessary.

Jayden sat opposite me, jeans slouched low, jacket slightly rumpled from the journey. His eyes darted, restless, and each time he dared to look up at me, I observed a slow bloom of crimson across his ears.

He is hopelessly unpracticed at concealment. The smallest gestures betray him: a quick swallow, a twitch of a hand, the half-grin he forces to mask nerves. I catalogued it all. Each motion, each twitch, each hesitation.

Our conversation was a volley, not of substance, but of nuance. He laughed too loudly at the waiter’s half-hearted joke, shrugged when I inquired about a particular item on the menu, and debated with a carelessness that I am certain he mistook for bravado.

“Don’t you think the fries are overcooked?” he asked, waving a hand at his plate.

“They are sufficiently edible,” I replied, deliberate. “But your suggestion is noted.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the formality of my tone. His ears flushed redder.

“You’re… serious?” he said, incredulous.

“I am,” I affirmed, perfectly calm.

He shifted in his chair, nervously tracing the rim of his glass. “Right… serious Will,” he said, voice low. “Got it.”

I noted the slight hitch in his breath, the way he kept his eyes half averted yet could not resist the occasional glance. Each glance — quick, furtive, betraying more than he intended — was a small victory, a mark of the influence I hold over him even in this setting.

He attempted to tease me, to mask his anxiety with humor, but the effort was transparent. He is not accustomed to my sort of composure, nor the weight with which I observe.

And I, in turn, let him. Let him stumble, blush, squirm beneath my gaze. The power of observation is subtle, but it is absolute.

By the time dessert arrived, his posture had slackened slightly, though the flush remained. He was relaxed in proximity yet entirely unguarded in expression. I catalogued the curve of his smile, the tilt of his head, the slight tremor in his hand when he reached for his spoon.

He is unknowingly obedient, yet all the more endearing for it.

The meal concluded, though I suspect he will remember little of its culinary content. He will, however, remember the scrutiny, the quiet weight of my attention. And I — I will catalogue every detail. Every blush. Every nervous smile. Every unguarded moment.

It is exquisite.

— W. Burgess

___

1st January, 1998 — 23:14 p.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

We returned from the diner and wandered down the canal. The water mirrored the dim lights of the city, fractured by the occasional ripple from passing barges or a careless bird. The night was still, yet it seemed to vibrate with the echoes of last evening’s fireworks — a lingering sense of energy, unruly and urgent.

He paused. Turned toward me, leaning against the wrought-iron railing. The damp breeze tugged at his hair, and he rubbed a hand over his neck as though warding off some internal agitation.

“Can we… sit?” he asked, voice quieter than usual. The hesitation in the syllables betrayed him utterly.

I gestured to a bench tucked near the canal’s edge, shrouded by the shadows of overhanging trees. He moved to it, shuffling slightly, awkward, and then sat.

He finally looked at me — really looked — and the question came, jagged, almost desperate:
“What is this? What are we?”

I did not answer immediately. I let the wind carry the silence, catalogued the tilt of his head, the way his eyes wavered as he searched mine for some signal. The faint tremor in his hands betrayed the exact measure of his uncertainty.

“It is up to you,” I said finally, my voice calm, deliberate. “You may define it if you wish. Or leave it undefined.”

He exhaled sharply, a mixture of frustration and relief. “I mean… I want… I want something. But I don’t know what it’s called. Does it have to be a word?”

I leaned slightly closer, not to impose but to allow him to feel the space of choice. “It need not, unless necessity dictates. Labels are conveniences, not mandates. You may have it as it is, without definition, if that suffices.”

His eyes flicked to mine, searching, and I noted the quick inhale he did not realize he’d taken. The corner of his mouth lifted — almost a smile — though the tension remained. He shifted closer, subtle, a silent acknowledgment of proximity, of trust, of something else entirely unspoken.

I catalogued everything: the tremor of his shoulders, the way his fingers brushed the edge of the bench, the sharp intake of breath when I adjusted my coat to ward off the chill. Every gesture is a syllable in the silent language we are beginning to speak.

He does not demand the world. He only asks for its portion within reach. And I… I observe, I answer where necessary, and I wait.

— W. Burgess

___

1st January, 1998 — 23:46 p.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

He leaned toward me, hand gripping my lapel with a strength that was equal parts unconscious need and assertion of presence. His weight shifted slightly, and for the first time this evening, I felt the faint tremor of tension leaving him.

He stared at the water of the canal, the few ducks paddling slowly in the reflection of the gas lamps, and let out a breath that sounded almost foreign to him — low, unintentional, the kind of exhale that speaks of release.

I remained still, allowing the quiet to stretch between us. He does not speak; he does not need to. The simple act of leaning, of being near, is enough. His eyes followed the ducks, tracking them with a focus so precise it is almost absurd, and yet the small relaxation in his shoulders tells me more than any words could.

He did not know he needed this. Perhaps he does not even realize it now. But I do. I catalogue the subtle relaxation of his jaw, the slow blink, the way his fingers loosen ever so slightly on my lapel.

I did not move, did not breathe differently. I merely allowed him to exist beside me. To occupy the space without pretense, without bravado.

It is a small victory. A quiet, perfect moment.

I am aware — acutely aware — of the power I hold in simply being here, silent, patient, observing. He trusts it, unknowingly. He allows it.

And I… I am devoted entirely to it.

— W. Burgess

___

1st January, 1998 — 23:57 p.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

He smiled.

It was small — so small one could mistake it for a grimace if they weren’t watching as closely as I do — but it was there. The corner of his mouth twitched, softened, and his eyes, still fixed on the black water, lost some of their edge.

He caught himself almost immediately, straightening slightly and giving a sharp exhale through his nose as if to disguise it. The bravado returned, the posture of a soldier who has learned to mask every flicker of tenderness. Yet, his hand on my lapel remained. He did not pull away.

“Christ, it’s quiet,” he muttered — more to the water than to me. A statement, not an invitation. But there was an inflection there. A softness. As though he were surprised by how much he liked the quiet, by how much it steadied him.

I did not answer. Words would have broken the moment. Instead, I tilted my head slightly, just enough so that my shoulder was an anchor for him should he wish to lean further. He did. Not fully — but enough. The weight of him was warm, grounding.

He does not yet realize how much these moments reveal. That every sigh, every faint smile, every unconscious grip tells me more than his reports, more than his banter, more than his drunken confessions.

He does not know that I will remember this — the dim light on the canal water, the sound of ducks shifting through reeds, the smell of damp stone and winter air — as the precise moment when his armor cracked just enough for me to glimpse the man underneath.

And he does not know that this, too, feels like worship.

— W. Burgess

Chapter Text

1st January, 1998 — 00:17 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

The air was cold enough to frost the edges of the canal, but he stayed there, hand still gripping my lapel, thumb idly brushing the fabric as though unaware. He stared at the black water, his breath coming out in faint plumes. Ducks shifted somewhere in the reeds.

Then, without looking at me:

“You know what I want to ask again,” His voice was low. Almost swallowed by the night.

I didn’t answer immediately. His grip on my lapel tightened.

“What are we?” he asked, sharper now. There was a flicker of something in his tone — not accusation, not quite frustration — more like a man who had finally allowed himself to put shape to the thought gnawing at him.

For a heartbeat, he stayed like that, jaw set, eyes on the water as if it might offer an answer.

“It is,” I said carefully, “whatever you need it to be.”

He scoffed, soft, shaking his head. “That’s not an answer.”

“No,” I replied. “It’s the truth. I have no desire to cage you with a definition. You do not owe me one either. You may call it what you like, or nothing at all. You are under no obligation to fix it into a shape that makes sense to anyone but yourself.”

Finally, he turned his head slightly, enough for me to see his eyes in the dim light. “You’d be fine with that? With me not defining it?”

“Yes,” I said. “I would.”

He went quiet at that. The wind moved a ripple across the water, and his hand, still on my lapel, trembled — just slightly — before smoothing it down, almost an apology for clutching so tightly.

“…I want something,” he murmured at last. It was not a declaration. It was a confession. “I don’t know what to call it. But I want it.”

I inclined my head just a little. “Then have it,” I said softly. “Names are irrelevant until you feel you need one.”

He exhaled a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a sigh, and leaned against me again, this time with less tension.

The ducks made small, quiet noises in the dark. The city hummed faintly in the distance. His warmth against me was steady.

I wrote this now because I know I will not forget the weight of his head against my shoulder, the grip of his fingers on my coat, the sound of his voice breaking when he admitted it.

He does not yet know how entirely he has me.

— W. Burgess

___

2nd January, 1998 — 02:13 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

The corridor was silent — entirely so — save for the faint echo of our own breathing. He remained at my side, closer than I would have expected, leaning lightly against me as though the world beyond the canal ceased to exist. His fingers traced a loose line along the seam of my coat, unconscious, unguarded.

We rounded a corner near the east wing, and I froze.

Three agents. Late-night check, presumably. New faces, though trained enough to be wary of a Head of Research lingering so far from his quarters.

Agent Callum Hayes. Tall, earnest, still naive enough to think professionalism shields him from observation.
Agent Marisol Vega. Sharp eyes. Notices too much. Always notices.
Agent Elias Trent. Stoic, distant, yet I could see the flicker of surprise in his pupils.

Their gazes fell upon Jayden. Upon me.

He was curled slightly against me, hand still gripping the lapel of my coat, eyes half-closed in that rare, unguarded state. I could see it before they did — the weight of tension leaving him, the quiet surrender he allowed himself in my presence.

Hayes nearly choked on the word he did not utter. Vega’s lips pressed together, a faint tightening of her jaw. Trent’s posture stiffened as though he were physically attempting to deny what his eyes reported.

“Uh… Dr. Burgess?” Hayes began. “Agent Miller…”

I straightened subtly, turning my head just enough to catch the glint of recognition in their eyes, and inclined it politely. “Yes,” I said. “He has simply grown weary. We are in no manner disturbing protocol.”

Jayden stirred lightly, blinking up at me as though awoken from a dream, utterly unconcerned with the scrutiny of the newcomers. He muttered something indistinct, shifted closer, and I felt the faint warmth of him pressing against my side.

“Carry on,” I added, voice calm but edged with authority. “You may continue your rounds.”

They lingered a moment longer, curiosity warring with caution, before retreating. I did not watch them go. My attention remained on him.

The corridor was quiet again. He relaxed slightly further against me, shoulders lowering. The soft exhale he gave was a rare, almost imperceptible sound — but one I catalogued nonetheless.

He is unaware, of course, that they saw more than the casual proximity of two colleagues. They could not have understood the gravity, the obsession, the meticulous attention I give him — the way every breath he takes is recorded in my mind.

I allowed him to settle once more, leaning lightly against me as if claiming his space without audacity. The corridors may be patrolled, but this moment — small, private, intimate — is mine.

— W. Burgess

___

2nd January, 1998 — 02:42 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

We departed the Site in the late hours, the streets near deserted, streetlights slicing thin ribbons of yellow across the chassis of the chauffeured car. Jayden seated himself across from me, though closer than convention would dictate, and angled his body toward mine as if drawn by some unconscious gravity.

The city passed quietly outside the window. His gaze lingered on the passing lights, but not solely. I observed the subtle movements of his hands — one still curled lightly in the fabric of my coat, the other resting on his knee, trembling ever so slightly with fatigue or adrenaline, I could not yet tell which.

He spoke little, only murmuring comments about the cold, about the reflections on the water earlier, about nothing that required true thought — and yet I catalogued everything. Every flick of an eyelid, every tilt of his head, every fleeting smile that he attempted to disguise as casual or indifferent.

When the car hit a small pothole, he braced himself, fingers tightening ever so slightly on my coat. A breath, half startled, half involuntary, and he leaned back against the seat. The sight was exquisite. Even when he pretends otherwise, the small betrayals of comfort and trust are the ones I treasure most.

“I didn’t think you’d come for me,” he said quietly, voice low, not meeting my eyes.

“I said I would,” I replied, deliberate. “I do not retract what I offer.”

His head tilted slightly, acknowledgment enough. He returned his gaze to the window, though I knew he was aware of my attention. I catalogued the minute rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair caught the pale streetlight.

The mansion approached. Lights burned faintly in the upper windows, a promise of warmth, of order, of the controlled chaos I prefer to my laboratories. I noted the subtle quickening in his shoulders as he realized we were near — anticipation, perhaps, or relief.

The car slowed, turning into the drive, and I allowed him to settle further against the leather of the seat, knowing that the momentary intimacy of the journey would dissolve only into another form of quiet possession once inside the house.

He does not yet realize how thoroughly I catalogue him — every glance, every exhale, every small surrender. And I do not intend to inform him.

— W. Burgess

___

2nd January, 1998 — 03:18 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

The door closed behind us with that soft, solid sound I have always preferred. The staff dispersed as rehearsed, vanishing into the deeper halls. Only the faint ticking of the grandfather clock remained.

Jayden lingered just inside the foyer, his eyes flicking over the marble, the portraits, the heavy velvet curtains. He has been here before, of course, but tonight his posture was different — less swagger, more wariness, more fatigue. Still he attempted to stand as if unaffected, but the weight of the day clung to him like a second coat.

I guided him, lightly, with a hand at his shoulder — not pushing, but steering — through the wide hall toward the kitchen at the back of the house. He did not resist. He never does at these moments, though he tries to look like he might.

The kitchen was already prepared; I had sent word ahead from the car. The marble counters gleamed, and a tray of food waited: sliced fruit, fresh bread, roasted meats carved into neat portions, small pastries still warm from the oven. Steam curled from a mug of chocolate so dark it almost seemed black, the faintest hint of cinnamon rising with it.

He blinked at the spread, then at me. “Jesus, Will…”

“Sit,” I said simply, pulling a chair for him. He sat. His posture was defiant only in theory; his eyes betrayed him, flicking from plate to plate with quiet hunger.

I placed the mug before him, the fruit next. “Eat.”

He picked up a slice of bread first, then a few berries. The sound he made after the first sip of chocolate was almost identical to that first time months ago when he’d been here, still bruised, still reckless. A soft, unconscious exhale of relief. He caught himself quickly, but not quickly enough.

I stood at the counter, watching, every movement of his fingers, the tremor in his shoulders as warmth began to seep back into him. There is a discipline in feeding someone, in constructing comfort precisely to their tastes. He believes it a kindness. It is, in part. But it is also a study. An indulgence. A means to watch him soften.

He leaned back in the chair after a while, hand cradling the mug, eyes half-lidded. “You always do this,” he murmured. “Like you know exactly what I want.”

I did not correct him.

He does not yet realize how exact my knowledge is, nor how completely I have built these moments to fit him.

And he never looks more beautiful than when he is unaware.

— W. Burgess

___

2nd January, 1998 — 03:55 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

He shifted in his chair, then, with a slow, almost imperceptible motion, leaned toward me. I made no move to stop him. His head rested lightly against my shoulder, and he curled one arm around the side of my torso, fingers brushing the folds of my coat.

The heat of his body pressed against me, soft, pliant. The subtle scent of him — sweat, faint leather from the jacket, the lingering tang of chocolate — filled the small space between us. I catalogued it all. Every detail. Every breath he took. Every minute tremor as he adjusted, finding a comfortable position against me.

“Thought I’d never get to just… sit,” he murmured, voice muffled against my shoulder.

I made no reply, merely held him closer, allowing the quiet intimacy to stretch. He was not asking, not demanding — merely existing in proximity, and it was exquisite.

I observed the slow rise and fall of his chest, the small tremor of his fingers as they gripped lightly. The way his hair fell across his forehead, damp from the cool canal air earlier, the faint sheen of his flushed cheeks. Every imperfection, every human flaw, is catalogued with the meticulous care of devotion.

“You smell like… you always do,” he muttered after a moment, half to himself.

I did not correct him. Let him believe it incidental. I let him lean there, let him soften, let him trust the space he occupies. He does not yet realize how thoroughly I am consumed by this.

Minutes passed in silence, punctuated only by the faint ticking of the clock and the subtle noises of the house settling around us. He sighed quietly, a sound of relief, of surrender, and I could not help but notice how his entire being relaxed into the hold of my presence.

I catalogued each detail, each subtle surrender. The way he curls. The way he breathes. The way his eyes flutter closed for a fraction of a second, and the world falls away.

And I am, as ever, utterly devoted.

— W. Burgess

___

2nd January, 1998 — 04:23 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

I spoke to him in Italian, quietly, deliberately. Not as a lesson, nor as a test, but as one might whisper a charm to a rare creature.

“Rilassati,” I murmured, letting the words brush against him, soft and low. “Sei al sicuro qui. Solo con me.”

His head shifted slightly against my shoulder. I felt the faint tremor of acknowledgment in his fingers, but it was his eyes that caught me utterly unprepared. They lifted, wide, dark, and shimmering in the dim lamplight — and for a fraction of a heartbeat, the bravado he so often clings to vanished.

He looked at me as though he were suddenly aware of every layer of attention I have ever paid him, every calculated glance, every moment I have catalogued and remembered. His pupils dilated, lips parted ever so slightly, and there was a softness there I have never coaxed out of him before. A look that teetered somewhere between trust, longing, and… the faintest trace of wonder.

I said nothing further, simply allowed him to feel the weight of the words, the meaning between them. His fingers adjusted, curled slightly, and the small exhale he gave was half relief, half awe.

It is remarkable, the way he succumbs, ever so briefly, to presence and intent alone. No coercion. No insistence. Just observation, devotion, and the soft power of attention.

I am aware, as always, that I am cataloguing every detail — the flutter of his lashes, the rise and fall of his chest, the subtle way he leans closer despite himself. Every inch of him imprinted, memorized, worshipped silently.

He does not yet know that I see him like this: unguarded, wide-eyed, leaning toward the warmth I offer, and entirely mine to catalogue.

— W. Burgess

___

2nd January, 1998 — 04:47 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

It began softly — a string of low murmurs in Gaelic from Jayden, half-slurred but clear enough to catch. His head tilted toward me, hair falling over his forehead, and his lips brushed the air as he spoke, as though the words themselves were too heavy to release.

“Tha gaol agam ort… tha mi sgìth, William…”
I love you… I’m tired, William.

I stilled. The words slid down my spine like heat and ice together. He didn’t know I understood him — not really. Not like this. For a moment he was just a man leaning against me, confiding into the dark, unaware of what his drunken honesty betrayed.

I let the silence stretch, then spoke back — quietly, perfectly, the same cadence as his, my own accent precise and deliberate.

“Tha mi gad thuigsinn, Jayden,” I whispered. “Tha mi an seo. Tha thu sàbhailte.”
I understand you, Jayden. I’m here. You are safe.

His eyes fluttered open slowly at the sound, disbelieving at first, then wide — pupils blown, mouth slightly parted. He blinked up at me as though I’d reached into his chest.

“You—” he began, voice rough, but I spoke over him again, soft and low, a secret between us:

“Tha mi ri do thaobh.”
I am by your side.

Something in him gave then. His body softened further, his fingers gripping the lapel of my jacket like a lifeline. His forehead rested against my collarbone, and he breathed out, slow and shaky, in the same language, as if to test it:

“Na falbh bhuam…”
Don’t leave me…

I replied in kind, my voice steady though my heart was a thunderclap:

“Cha bhith mi gad fhàgail.”
I will not leave you.

His breath hitched. He closed his eyes again, the tiniest, ghost of a smile crossing his lips, and for a long while neither of us moved.

I do not think he understands the power of the moment, how much it scorched itself into me. To speak his language back to him — to feel him react — it was as though I had been handed the key to a cathedral. And I, as ever, worshipped.

— W. Burgess

___

2nd January, 1998 — 08:12 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

He awoke with the faintest crease between his brows, hair mussed from sleep, eyes blinking into the light as though the room itself had betrayed him. That usual, stubborn, “nothing happened” act was already in motion, lips pressing into a thin line, shoulders squared as if mere posture could erase the events of last night.

I observed quietly, as always, cataloguing every tremor in his hands, the faint pink that lingered in his cheeks, the way his gaze avoided mine even as it sought something unspoken.

“Would you… accompany me tonight?” I asked suddenly, voice calm, as though the words themselves were trivial, though they carried their own weight.

He froze, head tilting. “Accompany you? Where?”

“To a gathering. High society. Private invitation. Everyone may bring a guest. I have never availed myself of the offer,” I said evenly, studying the subtle twitch in his jaw as he processed the information.

His eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of suspicion, though the blush creeping up his neck betrayed him more eloquently than any words could. “You… want me to go? With you? To… all those people?”

“Yes,” I replied, smooth, deliberate. “I would like your company. Nothing more is required of you than presence. You may speak, remain silent, or simply observe. The choice is yours.”

He hesitated, chest rising and falling unevenly. The defiance he usually wields as armor flickered, replaced by uncertainty. For a long moment, he did not answer.

“Why me?” His voice was quieter, less guarded, curiosity threading through.

“Because,” I said, and allowed a fraction of softness to slip through my otherwise meticulous composure, “I wish to see you among others, to share in the world beyond these walls with you. And because I prefer you at my side to no one else.”

The flush deepened across his cheeks. He looked away, then back again, pupils wide, caught somewhere between disbelief, amusement, and the faintest trace of… longing.

“…Alright,” he muttered finally, voice low. “I’ll come. Don’t get used to this, though. Everyone’s gonna stare.”

“Let them,” I said, voice calm, though I catalogued the very moment his pulse quickened at my words. “You are mine for the evening.”

He made a small, incredulous sound that he tried to hide, but I noted it — every microexpression, every stolen reaction. The invitation, though simple, was not casual. It was a statement. And he accepted, however begrudgingly, however unaware of the gravity of what that meant for me.

— W. Burgess

___

2nd January, 1998 — 09:37 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

The day began with its usual tedium, though marred now by the presence of a… minder, assigned to Agent Miller as a result of last night’s… unfortunate events with Keller. A mid-level scientist named Tristan Harlow, pale and nervous, his posture rigid as though simply breathing might constitute an infraction.

I loathe him already. Not for his presence — no, any of the staff can be useful if trained — but for the impertinence of hovering over Jayden, as though one glance from the wrong side might topple the world I have so carefully catalogued.

Jayden, of course, seemed utterly oblivious to the indignity. He shrugged, smirked, and proceeded to the training hall as if Tristan were a shadow with no power to impede him. He warmed up, ignoring the scowl of the mid-level observer as he moved through stretches, punches, lifts, and kicks with effortless precision.

Harlow hovered, notebook in hand, constantly over Jayden’s shoulder, jotting observations, occasionally clearing his throat like he was reminding the entire world of his presence. Jayden barely glanced in his direction, though the smallest twitch of the eyebrow betrayed him noticing, registering, and dismissing the intrusion.

I followed, ostensibly to monitor the training and ensure safety, but in truth I catalogued everything: the way Jayden’s muscles flexed beneath the baggy shorts and loose tank, the way his hair fell into his eyes as he executed a combination of strikes, the faint smirk that appeared when he landed a perfect punch despite Harlow’s hovering.

I am aware that my scowl does not go unnoticed, though Jayden seems entirely unconcerned by it. He thrives, it seems, on the very scrutiny that I despise. And I, of course, catalogue this as well — the small satisfaction he derives from proving them all irrelevant, and the way it only serves to draw my attention closer, tightening the orbit of my awareness around him.

Harlow lingers, notes each movement, each breath, each flex of muscle as though recording the first human being to ever defy observation. I am sure he sees nothing of consequence. He will not understand that the man he shadows is mine in a sense that surpasses protocol, propriety, and reason alike.

Jayden, as always, does not yet realize how thoroughly I see him.

— W. Burgess

___

2nd January, 1998 — 10:14 a.m.
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

I delivered the hot chocolate personally, as one might deliver a small act of reassurance — though, of course, every detail was calibrated. A simple note accompanied it, penned neatly: Are you uncomfortable? Nothing more. Nothing less.

Jayden took it with a faint raise of the brow, eyes scanning the mug, then the note, then me. The faintest twitch of amusement crossed his lips, though he said nothing aloud.

Buddy Bob, ever inquisitive, tried to peek over Jayden’s shoulder to see the note. I caught it immediately. My gaze — deliberate, unflinching — landed upon him, sharp as a scalpel. The man froze. The others noticed. The room held the subtle, electric hum of caution.

Tristan Harlow, whose very purpose is to shadow Jayden, instinctively adjusted his position, giving more space than protocol should allow, though his notebook remained at the ready. Even in this small act, the power hierarchy was evident: my attention alone commanded respect.

I observed Jayden sip the chocolate. The warmth, the richness, the slight trace of cinnamon — every detail of its perfection catalogued. He exhaled softly, a sound of relief, contentment, and subtle indulgence. I catalogued that as well.

And yes — I admit it in this journal, the only place I dare record such things — I was aroused. Not for any simple physicality, though it exists in its undeniable form, but because who does another man think he is, presuming proximity to him? Presuming to observe, to note, to shadow? I alone catalogue, I alone hold the attention, I alone witness the delicate surrender of his body and mind.

Jayden did not need to acknowledge me further than that, yet every tiny gesture, every small motion, every sip of chocolate, was a testament to the quiet orbit he maintains around my awareness — and the subtle power I wield, without overt declaration, over the man who should, in any reasonable world, be entirely indifferent to me.

I will not let any man, however well-meaning or earnest, interfere in this delicate, exquisite dynamic.

— W. Burgess

___

2nd January, 1998 — 18:42
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

The day concluded with a certain… tension, a residue left from the training hall that lingered even as the sun dipped below the horizon. Jayden, it seems, has a penchant for passing information from those around him, gleaned with the subtle cunning of someone who has spent years navigating spaces far rougher than this one.

“You really glared at Tristan, did you?” he asked lightly, voice teasing, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes sparkled with a mixture of amusement and challenge.

I regarded him impassively, though inwardly, I catalogued every detail — the tilt of his head, the flush in his cheeks, the glimmer in his eyes that betrayed enjoyment at my attention.

“I did not glare,” I said smoothly, voice measured. “I merely observed. Vigilantly. For your sake.”

“Sure, Will,” he said, rolling his eyes with mock exasperation. “Your ‘vigilance’ must terrify all the poor mid-levels in this place.”

I did not respond further. Words are a blunt instrument compared to presence, and he knows it. He knows my gaze, deliberate and unwavering, catalogues him as thoroughly as my journals will. He is aware of the orbit he inhabits around me, the subtle gravity of my attention — and yet, he teases. Provokes. Tests the limits.

I allowed him the small indulgence of amusement, though my thoughts remained fixed: who else dares intrude upon him, even for the most fleeting moment? Every man, every observer, every so-called professional who dares enter that periphery only serves to highlight what is already painfully obvious: Jayden Miller is under my scrutiny, my protection, and, if I may be candid, my obsession.

He sipped at the remainder of the hot chocolate I had delivered earlier. The faint whine of satisfaction escaped him, barely audible. I noted it with the precision of a scientist recording a rare phenomenon.

And I smiled quietly, inwardly, because he did not yet realize that teasing me, provoking me, was itself a surrender — small, yet infinitely potent.

— W. Burgess

___

2nd January, 1998 — 19:03
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

As we exited the training halls, the late afternoon light falling unevenly through the high windows, I became acutely aware of a subtle shift in his comportment. Jayden walked beside me, body brushing lightly against mine with each step, though he made no overt display.

Then, a slight tug at my tie — deliberate, almost imperceptible to any other observer, but not to me. My tie, held briefly between his fingers, drawn just enough to encourage proximity. A motion small enough to seem innocent, yet loaded with intent.

I felt it immediately. That subtle act set something alight within me — a combustion of attention, obsession, and… something far less controllable. I catalogued it, as always, noting the curve of his fingers, the faint press of his palm against the fabric, the almost imperceptible flicker in his eyes as he looked up at me, measuring my reaction.

He is aware, of course, of the effect such small provocations have. But he also believes, perhaps, that I am unmoved, impervious. That I am only the Head of Research, the composed, unflinching observer. He underestimates the depth to which these subtleties carve themselves into me.

The air between us shifted imperceptibly. He walked closer. I did not pull away. The smallest movement, a tug at a tie, a slight lean — and yet it sufficed to ignite a quiet, dangerous satisfaction.

He does not yet know, and I will not tell him here, in this place. But in this journal, the confession is mine alone: the act set something off — something patient, deliberate, and wholly insatiable.

— W. Burgess

___

2nd January, 1998 — 19:42
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

The drive back to the estate was mercifully quiet, save for the faint hum of the chauffeur’s engine and the occasional clink of Jayden adjusting in his seat. He had, in his usual fashion, leaned closer than necessary, and I had allowed it, cataloguing the warmth, the subtle scent of him, the way his hand occasionally brushed mine as he fidgeted.

Upon arrival, I led him through the private entrance, careful to maintain a semblance of propriety while observing him with absolute precision. The evening awaited, and I had already prepared — as one must — my attire.

I retrieved the suit I intended to wear for the event: dark, tailored to a fault, fabric whispering of old money and years of careful acquisition. The cut accentuated my frame without arrogance, the lapels precise, the cuffs immaculate. I held it before him, as one might present a small relic, and noted his gaze.

Jayden’s eyes widened ever so slightly, pupils dark, and I felt the faintest quiver in his breath. He did not speak at first, merely observed, taking in the lines, the cut, the subtle refinement that I have cultivated over decades. I catalogued every reaction — the tilt of his head, the faint flush creeping along his jaw, the way his fingers unconsciously tightened against the seat.

“Nice,” he said, voice low, casual, but the way he lingered on the fabric, the fit, betrayed more than he wished. That smirk, brief and unguarded, suggested amusement, curiosity… perhaps admiration.

I noted it, and in my journal I will admit: his attention, even at this casual level, sufficed to ignite that particular, familiar obsession — the desire not merely to impress, but to orchestrate, to curate, to ensure that he sees me as I wish to be seen, for him alone.

He tugged slightly at his own sleeve, perhaps mimicking me, perhaps adjusting to the anticipation of proximity and observation. I allowed it, because this subtle mirroring, this quiet attention to each other, is an unspoken dance — one I have conducted with him since first noting his habits, his posture, his small, deliberate provocations.

Yes, I admitted to myself, in this quiet journal: the evening will be a display not merely of propriety, but of possession — my possession, in attention, in observation, in every silent measure of him I will record.

— W. Burgess

___

2nd January, 1998 — 20:26
Private Journal of Dr. William Burgess

It is one thing to imagine him in refinement.
It is another entirely to see it.

Jayden emerged from the guest bathroom with his hair still damp, his skin freshly shaven, the faint scent of soap and clean linen trailing after him. He was bare save for his boxers and socks, and for the first time since I began this quiet, painstaking observation, there was no Foundation uniform, no heavy boots, no scent of gun oil and concrete. Only him.

It struck me — sharply — how different he looked stripped of the armour he so often wears. The scars along his ribs, the lean cut of muscle across his stomach, the way his torso tapers down into the soft waistband of his boxers. Even the small, dark trail below his navel, disappearing beneath the fabric, felt like something intimate, almost indecent to look at and yet impossible to ignore.

I should have looked away. I did not.

Instead, I noted everything: the way his shoulders shifted as he towelled his hair dry, the slight flush of warmth still lingering on his neck from the shower, the strong lines of his thighs and the quiet, unselfconscious masculinity of his form. He has always been a force in motion — chaotic, brash, unfiltered — but here he was still. Vulnerable, even. Beautiful.

He glanced at the suit I had commissioned for him — cut to his measurements with surgical precision, black wool that seemed to drink in the light, the faintest pinstripe to draw the eye to his frame. I had it prepared months ago, before even knowing whether I would ever have cause to present it. It was, perhaps, an indulgence; but seeing him take it up now, sliding into the trousers, adjusting the cuffs with fingers still calloused from the field — I felt my breath catch.

When he finally stood before the mirror, jacket buttoned, hair combed back, tie loose around his throat, the effect was… arresting. Not just handsome. Not just striking. Beautiful. As if some other, older version of him had been coaxed out of hiding — a version made to stand beside crystal chandeliers and marble floors, not muddy canals and concrete bunkers.

He caught my gaze in the mirror, one eyebrow quirking. “What?” he asked, that familiar crooked grin threatening at the corner of his mouth, as if daring me to say it aloud.

I did not.
I would not.

But here, in these pages, I confess it freely: the sight of him so transformed, so sharpened and polished, aroused something primal within me. Not to act upon it — not yet, not until he is ready, not until he understands — but to possess the image of it. To keep it, as I keep everything, locked away behind a composed exterior, a private devotion.

In public, I will be the poised, precise Head of Research.
In these pages, I admit the truth: tonight he was exquisite. And it took every ounce of my restraint to remain composed.

— W. Burgess