Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Money was tight and the funerals had been expensive. It wasn't like the Association paid particularly well. You'd been at the mall looking through part-time job listings when a woman in a polished skirt set approached you. She handed you an envelope and said, 'call if interested.'

At first you thought it was a joke. 

Then, absolutely ridiculous. 

Then, you felt a bit insulted - what was it about your appearance that made you a target for this?

Finally the lure of two months' pay for just a few hours of work started to sound tempting. 

And that was how you found yourself four weeks later on the phone with your 'handler' talking you through the finer details of tonight’s engagement. Your first. 

“Did you get the package I sent?”

“Yes,” you nod. Condoms, lube, sanitizer, various toiletries and a bottle of wine. 

“Should I bring wine glasses?” You ask. 

Her laugh on the other end of the line is grating. 

“Of course not. You think our clients drink screw top wine?”

“...”

“Pour a glass and chug it.”

You hesitate.

“I'd rather not.”

“This isn't up for debate, newbie. Drink it or you'll creep out the client with your anxiety.”

Dressed in a pink slip and high heels they'd sent, you were starting to get sick of being puppeted. Patting your thigh you feel for the reassuring presence of your holster and firearm. 

“I don't hear pouring…” Her grating voice comes through. 

With a sigh, you grab a glass and pour generously, pounding it back in two breaths. 

“Now brush your teeth. Mouthwash and Vaseline on your lips.”

You pull the phone away and glare at it but follow her instructions. This would all be over and your debts would be cleared by the morning. 

“The car is outside. Don't make them wait. They'll pick you up when you call so give them a ring and wait in the room until they get there. No lingering in the lobby or we won't be able to keep using this hotel.”

“Anything else?” Your irritation slips through. 

“Yes. Wear a coat, get to the room early and warm yourself up. Don't be weird. Good luck newbie.”

“My name is–”

The dial tone interrupts you when she hangs up. 

PING

The driver is waiting for you. It's now or never. Wishing you had a longer warmer coat, you step into the elevator. For once you're lucky not to run into a nosy neighbor as you leave the building and step into the black Escalade waiting for you. 

It's in a swanky part of Linkon. Not exactly what you pictured when you thought of something like this but, given the rate you'd agreed on, it made sense that it wasn't in a by the hour motel. 

The lobby is warm and inviting, littered with fireplaces and poufy round lounge furniture but you don't pause to sit or speak to anyone. Following the extremely detailed instructions, you walk past the front desk, into the elevator bank and tap your key card to the scanner. 

PENTHOUSE

The top button is oblong - wider than the rest of the floors and lights up red when you press it.

DING 

The elevator opens directly into the penthouse suite and you step out. 

“Hello?”

You call out, but no one answers. 

Tapping your holster again, you reassure yourself. You weren't helpless, in any case.

Still, there was supposed to be someone here to protect you if things went awry.

You check each room, opening closet doors and checking bathrooms, showers and under beds. For what exactly you aren't sure. In the main bedroom, you scout out a place to hide your gun, ultimately deciding on the bedside table. 

Once you've made sure that your assigned security guard isn't just hiding or late you decide to call your handler. 

Pulling out your phone, you redial the most recent number and wait while it rings three times. 

“Where's my security?” You ask without preamble.

“Hmm? Oh, the client paid a premium to waive it.”

Huh?! That had not been listed as an option on the ‘menu’ you read. 

“What? But, you said there’d always be someone here?”

“Oh honey. The amount he paid, we don't really care what he does to you.”

The line goes dead.

Fuck this. 

You had not agreed to these terms. Grabbing your coat and holster, you're about to shrug both back on when the elevator sounds in the background. 

DING!

Too late. You drop the coat and holster and grab your gun from the table, smacking the baseplate and racking it out of habit. 

Heart racing you move to the doorway and move out of habit as if you were sweeping a hostile territory. Bracing yourself with the muzzle pointed to the ceiling you turn the corner and advance. 

Just to come face to face with, perhaps, the most gorgeous man you've ever seen. 

He raises his arms in the sign of surrender and cocks a small smile. 

“Don't shoot.” 

His hair is perfectly coiffed, piled effortlessly atop a face far too pretty for any man to possess. A strong brow frames eyes like liquid garnet, and beneath them a Grecian nose, almost straight, with the faintest aristocratic hook. 

But it was his mouth that held you. The lower lip was full, soft in contrast to the sharpness above, while the upper, shaped like a fine bow, dipped slightly at the center, giving a trace of sorrow to an otherwise devil-may-care expression.

Suddenly his right eye glows and several images flash through your mind’s eye. 

Him, sucking at your throat hard enough to leave a mark. Him, all bare skin and rippling muscle hovering over you, smirking as you writhe under him. Him, alone in a nondescript shower, water running down his chest in rivulets, his head thrown back in pleasure, mouth open and hand holding his-

A resounding laugh barks out of him and breaks you free from the spell. Keeping your eyes trained on his chest and safely away from the glowing eye you aim at his heart and ask, “what are you?”

“Your client.” 

Impossible. 

He nods towards your phone discarded on the counter, “check.”

Walking sideways with your gun trained on him, you move towards the counter keeping one hand on the trigger and check your phone. There's one text. It reads simply: he’s arrived with a photo that matches the man in front of you. 

Oh. 

You lower the muzzle but keep the gun in a low ready position. 

“Been busy?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow at the open doors and cabinets in the formal receiving room. 

“What do you want from me?” You ask, still suspicious that this man was only here for his stated purposes. 

“What does any man want from a beautiful woman?”

There's no way this was just about sex. Your suspicion only heightens when his lips draw into a predatory smile.

“Can we put the gun away?” He asks, “if you were going to shoot me, you would've already done it.”

Switching the safety back on, you lower it completely and place it on the counter next to you. 

“Don't be too sure about that.” You warn. 

“Is this how you greet every new client?” 

His hands lower and he brushes invisible dust off of his shoulders. 

“You're the first so, yes. What's your Evol?”

He smiles tightly and laughs again.

“I'm not sure you'd believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Desire.” 

Well that made sense. At least his preferences seemed relatively vanilla after all, but then he clarifies, “I can see other’s desires.”

Oh. 

A blush, certainly aided by the wine you'd swigged earlier, colors your cheeks. 

“What do you want?” You ask again, “be specific.”

He holds out a hand and walks towards you. Your heart pounds when he comes to stand a breath apart from you. 

“Let’s sit.”

When you still hesitate, he scoffs and shakes his head, pulling a thin envelope and handing it to you. 

“This should help ease the pain.”

With some suspicion, you slide a finger under it and pull out a check. It wasn't the two-months paycheck you expected. It was twelve. A full annual salary. Your knees hit the couch as you sink down.

What kind of sick shit was this guy into?

He sniffs at the air and suddenly turns towards you accusingly.

“Are you drunk?”

“No.” But the blush on your cheeks only deepens. He gives you a sidelong glance as if he is somehow the morally superior one here.

“I can smell it on your breath.” He deadpans. 

“They told me to have a drink before coming here.”

“And do you listen to everything they tell you to do?”

“Are you lecturing me? I’m not the one here who ordered a hooker.”

He raises both eyebrows at you. 

“I thought you would prefer the term ‘companion.’”

“Is this part of your kink? Verbal sparring?”

His lips quirk into a smirk.

“Sometimes.”

He holds his hand out, palm up towards you and waits. Pulse racing, you carefully place your hand on his. He doesn't escalate any further or pull you to stand or lay down. You stay sitting and he closes his eyes in concentration. 

Strands of black and red energy swirl around your combined hands and you laugh before you can help it. 

“Resonance? Sorry buddy, that kind of intimacy is something money can't buy.”

He ignores your taunt and tightens his grip, attempting to interlink your Evols. 

“Try.” He grinds out. 

The only person you've ever resonated with is Caleb, your foster brother and even that was after years of living together and bonding deeply. 

Pushing a faint pulse of Evol outwards you pretend to attempt it. 

“You can do better than that.”

No fooling him, then.

Closing your eyes you try to concentrate. You picture Caleb but can't summon the feelings of warmth and comfort you want. Instead only grief heavy and painful crashes into you. 

The energy around you both fizzles and dissipates. 

“Let's move on to the intimacy money can buy then.”

Your heart races as he pulls you to stand and leads you to the primary suite room, only slightly wobbly in your sky high heels. 

“On the bed.” He orders.

The field of vision narrows as your eyes tunnel and heat crawls through your body. This was really happening. 

You hesitate a moment and he tilts his head in question. 

“My shoes?” 

With an eye roll he kneels down, pushing your hips backwards along the way so you're seated on the edge of the bed. His large warm hands run along the outside of your legs and despite everything desire pools in you. The skin on his palms is calloused and rough but his touch is gentle.

Kneeling on the ground, he looks up at you with ruby red eyes and unbuckles one strappy shoe, then the other. 

Was it his Evol, the wine or the adrenaline that made this so attractive? 

“On your stomach.”

Holy fuck. 

Liquid pools at your core and seeps into your panties. If you'd been sitting, there would undoubtedly be a stain on your silk dress. 

Trembling, you crawl on all fours to the center of the bed and lay down. He inhales deeply then chuckles. 

“Like this?” You ask. 

“Just like that.” He answers, his voice is a deep purr of approval and it warms you even more to hear it. 

His footsteps click clack around the bed and your breathing picks up in anticipation. 

What was he going to do? Was he going to get something? Someone? Strip? 

Would he take you like this- prone and facing away? 

Maybe he was using you as a stand in for some long lost love.

DING! 

Huh? That was the elevator. 

Has someone arrived? 

You stay still for another moment before scrambling to your feet. 

The suite is empty but your phone buzzes twice. 

Just Now

Unknown: from now on you have no other clients but me

Unknown: await further instructions, kitten 

What the fuck. 

Brrrrring!

“Hello?” You ask.

“Whatever he put you through was totally worth it. He loved you. Booked exclusive service for the next year. Best commission I've had in ages.”

Your handler. 

“Don't I have a choice in this?”

“You aren't exactly in this for the love of the game. Congrats on your first kill.”

Chapter Text

For two weeks you jump every time your phone buzzes. The anticipation is terrible. What would be the price you paid for accepting an unimaginable sum?

Inevitably, the reality of his demands would be worse than anything you could conjure. 

He’d left you prone to make a point. 

But what point? 

That you obeyed him? 

That he controlled you?

Swiping your phone open, you check your account balance. Again. 

Even after paying off every overdrawn credit card and outstanding bill, it was still higher than it had ever been before. Had an extra comma you’d never seen. After the check cleared, a mysterious wire transfer had been initiated, depositing some kind of kicker bonus. 

Maybe he enjoyed being financially dominated. 

That was a thing, right? 

The call finally comes on a mission with Simone. You are stalking a wanderer when your phone rings. Silenced. It rings again. Silenced. It rings again.

“What?” It’s a whisper-yell as you crouch behind cover.

“Your client booked you again. Be ready in twenty minutes.”

The wretched handler. 

“What?! I can’t! I’m at work.”

“You have a job?”

“Yes.”

“One that pays more than your client?”

“...No.”

“Then be ready. Eighteen minutes now.”

“But–”

The dial tone cuts off your response. Fuck. Your phone buzzes.

Change in the back of the car. There’s mouthwash and perfume. Driver is at your location.

When had you agreed to share your location with them?

You can’t abandon Simone mid-fight. But the money is already in your account and you have already paid off your debts. 

Sighing, you roll your neck and step out from behind cover. Slicing a shallow cut into your forearm you use the scent of your blood to lure it out. The wanderer comes into view and you fire three times into its open, ugly maw. It collapses into itself and dissolves until only ash remains.

“Damn, girl.” Simone walks out from behind her cover, “that was badass.”

A shrug. What could you say? 

“Can you submit the protocore for analysis? I'll see you back at HQ.”

“What’s the rush?”

“Just remembered I have something I have to get to. An appointment  – sorry!”

You’d have to come up with a better excuse later. 

And remember to volunteer for more solo missions going forward. 

Thank God Xavier was away on a months-long conference. There’s no way he’d let you go without asking twenty questions. 

The same black Escalade is waiting for you on the curb and you slide into it. 

“Miss.” The driver greets you with a nod, reaching back to hand you a discreet black bag.

A dress, heels, a toiletry bag and a mini-bottle of vodka. You leave the bottle unopened. One lecture from your client was enough for a lifetime.

The driver rolls up the divider to give you privacy and you snort at the absurd show of propriety.

No way are you leaving your firearms in the car. Both thighs are holstered, the pleats in the minidress barely have enough material to cover them. 

Folding your sweaty uniform up, you tuck the boots and clothing into the other side of the backseat. A quick wipe down, fresh deodorant and a spritz of expensive perfume will have to do. There’s a small purse included with your get up and you shove toiletries and the vodka bottle in. Just in case.

The car drives for a good thirty minutes before finally pulling up to the same hotel as last time. 

He’s standing on the sidewalk, leaning against a vintage sports car. Your heart skips a beat. He looks incredible in a black suit and white shirt, top two buttons open.

Of course. 

Smoothing your hair into a high ponytail you swish the mouthwash around your tongue, knocking on the divider and pointing at your cheeks when he rolls it down. 

Obligingly, he hands you a cup and you spit out the spent liquid. 

“Sorry.” You say as he takes the cup back into the front seat.

“Not at all, Miss.”

Well, at least someone in this perverse world had manners. 

The driver parks the car and walks around, holding the door open for you as you struggle to get out gracefully in another set of sky high heels without revealing the weapons attached to your upper thighs. The client walks up to you right away, looking you up and down. 

“You’re late.” His tone is accusatory.

“For what?” Yours, defensive.

He doesn’t answer.

“Get in.” He gestures towards the passenger side.

A second location? No way. 

You shake your head ‘no.’

“You already agreed to my terms.” He bites out.

“No. I didn’t agree to go to an undisclosed location.”

“As soon as you hit ‘accept wire transfer’ you agreed to every one of my terms for the next eleven-and-a-half months.”

He inspects his fingernails with a bored monotone. Scowling, you attempt to walk past him into the hotel lobby but he grabs your wrist.

“What are you wearing?” He asks, tone tinged with something like disgust. “I don’t think they’ll let you in, dressed like this.”

Your chest and neck flush as you realize there was no coat included with your outfit this time. The driver has already pulled away. You’re standing in the road in a lacy black slip of a dress better categorized as lingerie than streetwear. 

His hand comes up to your shoulder, bare knuckle grazing the thin strap.

“No bra?” He asks, voice barely more than a whisper.

You focus your gaze on the road and try to ignore the way your stomach jumps as he looks down at your chest.

“What do you expect a hooker to show up to a hotel in?” You demand, offended by his offense.

“Companion, please.” He corrects and you roll your eyes before explaining.

“They didn’t send one. I was wearing a sports bra under my uniform. This isn’t exactly a convenient time for me.”

He laughs sardonically.

“I was expecting you to arrive in your uniform. It’s business hours after all. Still,” he pulls his hand away, “this will have to do.”

He opens the passenger side but you don’t get in. Suddenly black and red mist encircles your entire body and with a swooping motion you’re forced into the seat. The door slams behind you and he's already in the driver's seat.

“How??”

“My Evol has more than one practical application.”

You cross your arms over your chest and huff. It’s cold inside of the car and your nipples are pebbling under the thin fabric. If he notices he doesn’t say anything, just shifts the car into gear and drives.

“Where are we going?” You finally ask.

“Now that would be telling.” He smirks and keeps his eyes on the road. 

In the car, it’s silent until he flicks on some smooth jazz. Charlie Parker’s name scrawls across the digital screen. The contrast is surreal but the familiarity of the music helps to ease some of your anxiety. 

The buildings outside of the car grow further and further apart as you drive through the outskirts of Linkon and move somewhere you’ve never dared venture.

“We aren’t going to the N109 Zone.”

He smiles. Small at first then wider. He glances at your face but makes no reply.

“That’s suicide!” You exclaim, but he only grins wider. 

“Why do you think I brought you?” he asks, “aren’t you a trained hunter?”

“You brought me to be your… what? Human shield?” Your voice is getting tighter and higher pitched.

“What’s the matter? You didn’t come unarmed did you?”

“Of course not.” Tapping your holsters, you reassure yourself and feel validated by your choice to equip double holsters this morning. 

“What’s wrong then, are you drunk again?”

You pull out the unopened vodka bottle and toss it at his head. He catches it in one hand before it can clip him on the forehead. Too bad.

Rolling down the window, he throws it to the side of the road where it shatters, joining a bevy of N109 Zone detritus.

“Then I see no issue, kitten. Just hope you can run in those heels.”

Motherfucker.

“This isn’t what I agreed to,” you fume.

“Isn’t it? I paid for the pleasure of your company for one calendar year. And, considering you greeted me with a gun to the face, I think this seems perfectly in line with your special skills.”

You can only shake your head in response.

“Relax,” he intones, “you can handle it.”

The car slows in front of a large brick building. It must have once been a fortress with its dramatic portcullis and draw bridge, but now seems to have been converted to a stately home. Your client parks the car and throws a key to the valet as another uniformed man opens your door. His eyes slide up and down your figure as he helps out of the car and your client comes around.

“Mr. Sylus!”

The valet assisting you looks horrified and immediately steps away.

So, that was his name. Something to research later. 

The client – Sylus – huffs and shrugs off his blazer. 

“Wear this.” He hands it to you.

“Why?” You ask.

“Dress code.” 

“...”

The blazer is huge and barely stays on your shoulders even with all the buttons closed down the front. It's imbued with his scent to the point where you can only guess he soaks his clothes in cologne. 

Cedar, smoke, musk and… was that gun powder?

He offers his arm but you walk beside him without acknowledging it.

At least the structured lapels stop your nipples from poking through the fine fabric. It must look ridiculous. You are swimming in fabric and it practically swallows the length of your dress while still showing a good bit of chest. 

People were going to think you were naked underneath it.

Pulling it tighter than it can button, you cross your arms to keep the wool garment in position.

“How tall are you?” You ask. 

“Tall enough to dwarf you even in those ridiculous ankle breakers.” 

He gestures down to your unstable shoes as you struggle with the gravel drive leading up to the entrance.

“Don’t wear those again.”

Your bottom lip juts out on its own.

“Tell the agency.” 

“I will.” He promises. 

When you stumble slightly, his hand shoots out and grips your arm hard. 

“Ow!” You complain.

“If you’d just accepted my arm, we wouldn’t be in this position.” He scolds.

Hmmph.

“So. Is this your evil lair?”

“My… lair?” He tastes the word, “no, I’m afraid you haven’t quite earned that privilege yet.”

Scowling, you pause to look up at him but he only smiles. 

As if you were the less trustworthy half of this pair! 

The very gall of him.

“You know, this is all really inconvenient for me.”

“I’m sure.”

“I have a life. I’m not some dog at your beck and call.”

“For the next year, you are.”

“I’m not.”

“Deny it all you want.”

The urge to stomp your feet crawls up but you manage to restrain yourself.

“Unfortunately, I’m not your host tonight. I’d planned to go with the bodyguard role for you but given your… costume change… we will have to go with ‘date’ tonight. I apologize for the inconvenience.”  

His tone is acidic and the uniformed man ahead of you waits to speak, clearly uncomfortable with whatever he was witness to.

“Sir. Erm. Madame.” The butler at the front door greets both of you.

“Mademoiselle.” Sylus corrects him with a glint of teeth.

“Mademoiselle. May I take your coat?” He asks, addressing you directly. 

You notice his eyes slide discreetly to your left hand, bare of any rings.

“No.” Sylus answers for you. On this, at least, you were aligned. Removing your arm from Sylus’ you step past the butler and into the grand foyer. Formally dressed couples swan around the grand space, dimly lit by chandeliers with real candles burning in crystal. Waiters in black pass around trays of champagne and you grab one when it's offered.

“Do you have a drinking problem?” He asks as you tip it back and swallow the contents in one gulp.

“Only when I'm with you. What’s the objective tonight?” 

“That’s on a need to know basis.”

“You are so annoying.”

“I won’t deny it.”

“Mr. Sylus! Won’t you introduce us to your beautiful date this evening?”

A greasy looking man walks into view with his hand outstretched. Glancing at your ‘date’ you await instruction but he only looks at the man across from you. For a split second it seems like Sylus will say no.

“She can introduce herself.” He answers after a moment’s hesitation. You shake the man’s hand and tell him a made up name. Better to be safe.

His grip is far too firm for a friendly ‘hello’ and you have to flex it to regain the feeling after he pulls away.

“Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Sylus. I hope we can do more business together in the near future.”

“As do I.”

“Please, enjoy the party. We’ll talk more later.”

The man winks at you and scampers off.

“Our host. We are in his ‘lair’ as you called it.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Hardly.”

“So… now will you tell me what we’re doing here?”

“Enjoying a nice party.”

Your eyes narrow but you remain silent at his side.

A gong resounds, low pitched and loud. Looking up, you see the same butler from before holding a mallet. As the gong reverberates, all eyes turn to him and he announces,“dinner is served.” 

“To answer your question. I’m here to retrieve something. You’re here as a distraction. Shall we go through?”

He gestures to the throng of couples shuffling forward, handing off half-empty flutes to waitstaff. 

Dinner is a dull affair.

Sylus is seated across from you, assigned by a small paper placard with his name engraved on it. Yours reads ‘Guest Qin.’ Another clue.

What exactly had his plan been? 

You feel horribly underdressed in your lingerie blazer combination. 

To your right and left are two older gentlemen who pay you no mind and each talk to their other peers, occasionally leaning past you to speak with each other. 

Topics range from trouble with port workers to trouble with government officials to trouble with their own lazy employees. 

No one asks you a single thing. 

It's a blessing in a way. 

As inconspicuously as possible, you quietly eat steak and drink wine. Your gaze slides intermittently to Sylus, waiting for him to give you some signal to spill your wine or tip over a candle but it never comes.

For his part your ‘date’ is engrossed in conversation with the men on his side of the table, only sparing you a pointed look when you allow the staff to refill your wine glass. 

Raising it to him in a silent toast you wink and drink deeply. Maybe he'd think twice before trying to use you as a distraction next time. 

After dessert, you're a bit tipsy and ready to go home to sleep. The butler pulls back your chair and you reach for Sylus’ offered arm when a voice calls out to him. 

“Cigar, old friend?” He asks. 

It's the same man as before, your host. 

“Your lovely girlfriend is welcome, too.” He nods to you but Sylus shakes his head. 

“She's sensitive to smoke. And, besides, I think she's heard enough shoptalk tonight to make her eyes cross.” 

Both men laugh heartily at your expense. Genuine annoyance flickers through you but you push it down. What did you care what scum thought of you? Like the banshee said, you were here for the money. 

The taller man turns to look down into your eyes:

“You'll be fine on your own for a bit, right kitten?”

“She'll be fine,” your host agrees, “I believe the ladies have retired to the music room. Ask anyone for directions.” 

He nods a small bow and walks off. Sylus moves to follow him but first gives you a narrow eyed look. The unspoken command is clear. Behave.

You push down the urge to stick out your tongue and waggle your fingers at him. What are you, twelve? 

If you'd known you would have to walk this much, you'd have worn your work boots tonight. Too late now. 

Slowly, you make your way out of the dining room in short steps, a nerve in your toe pinching every other step. There’s no need to ask any of the staff for directions to the music room. It’s the only one slightly ajar off the foyer: a white door with a golden lyre painted on it and a chorus of women’s laughter spilling out. 

You should follow the trail of laughter but something calls you up the staircase. A few steps later, goosebumps raise the fine hairs on your arms.

Huh? 

That’s metaflux. 

Your Hunter’s Watch is back with the driver but you can still sense the source getting closer as you ascend the staircase.

A wanderer? 

Regardless of how deserving they were, you'd sworn to protect humans everywhere from wanderers and have a duty to investigate. A quick glance around confirms you are unobserved.

Slipping the wretched shoes off, you tiptoe up the stairs and allow your instincts to guide you. The feeling gets stronger and stronger as you walk down the hallway until you approach a brown wooden door.

Gently, you place the shoes on the ground and unholster your firearm. With one hand you twist the doorknob and push it open with your shoulder, ready to fire. 

Silence. 

There's nothing and no one in the room. It looks like a handsomely appointed office with an executive desk at the center and several large paintings around the room. 

One of the paintings looks familiar. Blue and red. It reminds you of the one you and Zayne had neutralized at Mr. Raymond’s house. 

The room is uncomfortably stuffy and hot. You shrug the blazer off, free at last from his overwhelming scent, and toss it onto one of the many leather lounge chairs.

When you approach the painting in question, the sense of metaflux strengthens. With a tentative hand, you reach out and resonate. The room flickers then fades, transporting you to a distant shoreline. 

A little boy sits in the waves crying but the more you try to walk towards him, the further away he seems to be. Time feels hazy as you try to make progress towards the small figure. A voice calls your name but you ignore it. A hand grabs at your upper arm but you shrug it off. 

It's only when someone says your name loudly and a strange force grips your entire body that you finally escape the painting's clutches. 

When you come back into the present, Sylus is standing in front of you. 

“How’d you find me?” 

He holds up his index finger, which has two straps hanging off of it. Right. You'd left your shoes in the hallway. His other hand has your firearm. Your grip must've slackened amidst the hallucination. 

“I can’t leave you even for a moment," he shakes his head and looks down at you, "naughty kitten.” 

Returning to your senses, you realize there's more than one source of metaflux in the room. Without responding to him, you walk barefoot to the desk and open the drawer. There's a protocore openly stashed in the drawer.

“What kind of honeypot trap is this?” You ask. 

Sylus looks like he's about to comment on your choice of words until his brow furrows. Stepping around to join you on the other side of the desk, he says, “someone's coming.”

Your hand freezes its pilfering and you concentrate on listening. 

Glancing at the closed door you shake your head. 

“I don't hear anything.”

Sylus leans back against the desk, watching your expression as you focus. 

“Don't say I didn't warn you,” he shrugs. 

You're sure he's messing with you until the door knob begins to jiggle. Your wide eyes meet his narrow ones.

The door clicks open and without thinking you launch yourself at him. It's only possible because he's practically sitting on the desk bringing him closer to eye level. 

Out of instinct your arms wrap around him. Or nearly, his torso is too broad for your hands to touch. 

Without either of you wearing his blazer anymore, there's only the thin layer of his cotton dress shirt between you. The heat coming off of him should be impossible. Far beyond any normal temperature. It runs through his searing lips as you press yours against his.

He's still. 

Unresponsive. 

But you don't stop. 

What reason other than a clandestine tryst can explain a snooping couple? 

The alternatives are far more suspicious. 

One hand snakes into the hair at his nape and the touch spurs him into action. His mouth opens and his hands run down the backs of your thighs. He pulls your knees up to settle on either side of his hips and you moan into him without meaning to. His hands, large and rough caress your back. One slips under your dress to press your lower back into him and the other grazes your upper back.

It's not an act anymore when you grind your hips into him, abandoning all pretense. His hands come to grip your waist under the dress and he pulls off your mouth with a gasp. 

Breathing heavily, you lean your head onto his shoulder as he kisses down to your jaw and onto your throat, sucking like he saw in your mind the first time you met.

“Are you sure—” he whispers into your ear.

“Yes,” you interrupt him, breathy and desperate. 

“—that they're still there?” He finishes. 

Oh. 

Right. 

He was facing away from the door. Opening your eyes, you can confirm that whoever walked in had gotten the hint and left, though the door remained open. 

Without a single scrap of dignity, you climb off of him and pull down your dress, clearing your throat once. 

“Sorry about that. Had to make it convincing.”

“Of course.” He inclines his head, gathering up his blazer and pulling a handkerchief out of an inner pocket. He dabs it at a wet spot on the front of his pants where you’d pressed into him.

“That’s not from me.” You insist. You can’t bring yourself to look at the shameless smirk on his face. It was from you, and you both knew it.

As fast as humanly possible, you gracelessly pull on the giant jacket and strap on the stilettos.

The gong sounds once more and you look at your companion in question. 

“Carriages and coffee. Time for us to go, I think”

Stepping gingerly in the painful heels, you stumble once and find yourself suddenly scooped off the floor. 

Not in a romantic bridal carry but thrown over his shoulder like a sack of flour. 

“Hey!”

He only chuckles and walks back over to the desk, digging through various items before pulling out the encased protocore. 

“Got it.” He says, holding it to his side so you can see the prize. Smacking his side, you want to tell him to put you down but… You also don't want to walk. 

“This is humiliating.”

“You'll live.”

You try to swat his backside but can only reach his lower back. He huffs a laugh and jostles you on his shoulder to get a tighter grip. 

“No rest for the wicked.” 

By some miracle he knows the servants’ back staircase and you leave without seeing any other guests. 

Whatever reaction the valet has, he soothes them with a casual, “too much champagne.”

The valet mumbles something sympathetic and then you're being deposited back in the passenger seat where you'd begun the evening many hours prior. 

“You didn't have to do that.”  Tugging at the hem you pull it down to cover your holsters.

“I always try to keep my assets in good condition. Couldn't risk a broken ankle.”

“Is that what I am to you?”

“Somewhere between an investment and an asset. Depends on your performance.”

It takes active effort to clench your jaw and keep the words from spilling out. Selling time, affection or even sex was one thing. What entitled him to act like he could evaluate every aspect of your person? 

“Did I pass?” You finally retort.

“Barely.” 

“Who are you?”

“You know my name.”

“Sylus.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you in organized crime?”

“Very good.”

“I'm serious. I can't run around breaking the law with you regardless of what you pay me.”

“Is prostitution legal in Linkon?” 

Your cheeks color. It is not. 

“Besides,” he continues, “there are no laws in the N109 Zone and, therefore, no criminals.”

"How convenient." Your flushed glare is reflected back to you from the windshield. 

“Don't worry kitten, I won't blow your cover. For now.”

“…”

“Aren't you going to demand to know where I'm taking you?”

“Why would I bait myself?” Your tone comes out petulant but he doesn't seem offended. 

It's been a long day and you can't find it in yourself to care either way.

“Close your eyes. I'll wake you when we arrive.” 

At first, you resist but then your eyelids grow heavy. You decide to rest your eyes. Just for a minute. 

Chapter Text

It's not your alarm that wakes you the next day but a relentless caller. Finally you answer just to stop the blaring.

“What?”

“Hello? I've been calling you all morning.” 

Ugh. The handler. You'd have to change her name to ‘Banshee’ in your contacts.

“Let me guess. He loved me. Keep doing exactly what I did last night.”

“No.”

“No?” 

You sit up. 

“He said you dressed inappropriately, drank too much, and tried to take advantage of him.”

“What?!”

“Watch yourself, newbie. A big fish doesn't come around often and it's even rarer that he lets himself be caught.”

She sounds like she'll hang up but a thought pops into your brain.

“Wait! How did he get into my apartment? Did you tell him where I live?”

“Of course.” 

“But I didn't agree to that.”

“You did. Should've read the fine print. That was your first mistake.”

Click. 

She hung up on you. 

Ugh. 

Replacing your phone on the bedside table, you take stock of the situation. It's past your normal wakeup time. Your phone is nearly dead.

He must've taken you home and put you to bed last night. 

The thought makes you shudder. 

His blazer is still wrapped around you and, faintly, you wonder if your sheets will smell like him now. 

“Sylus?” You call out but no one answers. 

Standing up you realize he must've removed your shoes again. You're barefoot but still in the same dress, blazer and ponytail as the night before. Your hair will be a nightmare. 

After a brief sweep of the apartment, everything seems fine. 

The door is locked. 

Deadbolted, even. 

Slightly suspicious but it must be possible with an energy Evol. The hunter’s watch and discarded uniform sit neatly folded on your kitchen counter. 

Returning to the bathroom you take in the woman staring back at you. 

Smeared mascara, frizzy hair, wearing someone else’s clothing. Puffy and swollen from drinking. 

Caleb and Gran would be ashamed. 

Guilt pricks at your skin. At least they aren't alive to see you like this. 

A scorching hot shower and fresh uniform do the heavy lifting to transform how you look but the feelings remain. 

Rolling nausea and a splitting headache keep the night at the forefront of your mind even as you swipe into the Association’s HQ and settle in at your desk. 

Despite your fears, no one in HQ points and shouts when you walk in that you were in the N109 Zone last night. 

It's a quiet day so your first order of business is to read the ‘fine print’ of your agreement. 

At first it's all above board and familiar. Standard nons- you had even in your Hunter agreement.

Non-disclosure, non-compete, non-solicit etc. etc.

But then you get to a clause you'd only skimmed before:

In the event of an annual (12 contiguous months) partnership, employee shall:

• Unless prevented by mortally ill health or total cognitive incapacity, Employee is required to devote the whole of his/her time, attention and skill to the Client and to act in the best interests of the Client at all times.

• Employee must voluntarily and immediately disclose all personal data to the Client when requested either through the Agency or directly. This includes, but is not limited to, data concerning location, health, interpersonal communications, financial and social obligations. 

• Remedies: in the event that Employee revokes or violates any part of the agreement herein, he/she shall pay a sum to the Agency and the Client up to but not exceeding ten times the gross amount paid by the Client to Employee as of the date of the infraction(s).
• Acceptance of any and all payment from the Client constitutes a whole and unmitigated agreement of able mind and body to the contract terms set herein with no modifications or alterations permitted.

Well. 

Fuck. 

There has to be a way out of this. 

A 10x penalty fine is more cash than you have any expectation to save in your entire life, let alone the next year. 

How many times have you heard that you shouldn’t sign anything before reading it? 

You knew better, of course, but the truth was that you hadn't wanted to know exactly what you were agreeing to. 

Maybe you can discover something about your client via the Association or on the dark web. Everyone has skeletons in their closet right? 

SYLUS QIN

You type it into one database after another. 

At first, there’s nothing to find. But then a highly redacted dossier finally loads.

Name: Sylus Qin

Appearance: Unknown, varies

Aliases: [REDACTED]

Associations: Onychinus

Evol(s): Energy manipulation, mind manipulation suspected

Notes: De facto Governor of the N109 Zone, leads current ruling party (Onychinus), first active approx. 2038. Early life unknown.

Brrrring! 

You’re about to silence your phone, busy reading and re-reading the little information available when you notice the caller ID: BANSHEE.

Just the woman you wanted to speak with. Before picking up you glance around to make sure no one can hear you and duck into a conference room.

“You’ve sold me to a criminal,” you greet.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sylus?”

“All our clients are 100% anonymous per our terms of service.” Her tone is ice cold.

“Seriously? He's the head of Onychinus. Maybe the most wanted man on the planet.” Your voice has a manic edge to it and you take a deep breath to help calm yourself. 

“Oh wisen up, buttercup. Did you really think you landed a gorgeous sugar daddy with no strings attached?.”

“I can’t do this.”

“You can and you will.”

“What recourse do I have?”

“None. By design. Just do as you're told and you can walk away in eleven months richer than most girls ever dream of being.”

You want to believe that this is short term but some part of you knows it isn’t true. Onychinus isn’t something people walk away from. Ever. 

Before you can explain this to her she continues:

“Try not to get in your head about it too much. You need the money, right? Just buy yourself something nice, you’ll feel better. Anyway, he booked you again for tomorrow so clear your calendar.”

There’s no point in debating it with her so instead you focus on the immediate future. 

“What should I wear? He didn't like what you sent last time.”

“He'll provide the garments when you arrive. Just make sure your hair, makeup and other hygiene is suitable. Take the time tonight for a good wax and lotion and maybe get those nails done, your cuticles look a bit rough.”

Twisting around in your seat, you can see the office’s security camera blinking. 

“How did you hack our–”

Click.

Your phone buzzes. 8:00AM. Be prepared for a long day.

Captain Jenna walks by and you realize you’ll need to take an unexpected day off.

“Uh, Captain?”

“Yes, Rookie?”

“I have to take a personal day tomorrow. Emergency Dentist appointment. Sorry!”

“Hmmph.” She nods once and walks away.

The next morning you wake up at 6:00AM and hydrate thoroughly. Your nails are still bare but otherwise you’ve followed instructions. 

Rifling through your closet, you look for a travel outfit, finally landing on a modest skirt and blouse that gives holster access and won’t leave you feeling uncomfortable in another estate environment. 

Unsure, you don flats but pack work boots just in case. Last time, he said he wanted you to be his bodyguard. 

Had he been joking? 

Who could say. 

Instead of relying on the useless bag the agency sends, you fill a bag with your daily essentials: ammo, bandages, bullet proof gear, water, snacks, chargers, and, fine, some toiletries and condoms. 

You are cleaned, vaselined and armed to the teeth. 

Ready for anything this bastard could throw at you. 

Or, so you tell yourself, on the elevator ride up to the penthouse.

This time, he’s waiting for you on the couch.

“Am I late?” You ask but he doesn’t answer. 

He stands and walks towards you pausing a few inches from you. 

Your breath hitches and you expose your throat to him out of instinct, maintaining eye contact as he looks down the bridge of his nose at you. 

The hairs on the back of your neck stand. 

The ancient animal part of your brain wrestles with two conflicting urges: the first to yield in submission and the second to stand your ground and fight. 

Today he’s in a burgundy dress shirt and black pants, both perfectly fitted to his broad shoulders and trim waist. His breath is cool and minty as he leans towards you and submission wins out.

Your eyes flutter closed, your chin tilts upwards.

Excess saliva pools under your tongue and your throat bobs to swallow it back. 

The kiss doesn’t come when you expect it and instead a hand grazes the side of your right thigh, trailing up your bare skin. 

Involuntarily, a shiver runs down your spine. Until he grasps the grip of your firearm and pulls it out of the holster. 

Your eyes blink open and you ask, “how did you–?”

He doesn’t answer how he knew you had a gun on your right thigh. 

Instead he inspects it in one hand and hands you a shopping bag with the other.

“Go change.”

With only a slight grimace, you take the bag and head into the primary suite. You don’t stop him when he follows you but do give him an irritated glance before schooling your expression into indifference. 

You need to be more careful around him. He is the head of Onychinus and you have bound yourself to him. 

It is a fine line to walk until you figure out how to get out of this contract. 

He sits on the bed and you lock the bathroom door behind you. 

There’s another bag on the bed and it makes your stomach twist to wonder what might be in it. 

Inside the bag is a mess of leather. When you unfold it, there are three items: knee high boots, pants or, maybe leggings, and a strapless bustier-corset type top. 

It’s not clear whether the lotion on your legs is making this process easier or harder when you have to jump to pull them up all the way. 

The pants barely button around your hips, squeezing you tightly even when zipped.

The top is slightly easier, though you have to use the two mirrors in the bathroom to close the hooks at your back. 

Blessedly the boots have a very moderate block heel and zip on the inside. 

But when you step back to look in the full-length mirror you burst out laughing.

Pushing the door open, you see Sylus leaning back on the bed, he glances up at you but doesn’t react.

“Seriously?” You ask, “I look like a vampire hunter. Is this your thing? What do they call it… a ‘leather daddy’?”

This time, he snorts as well and tosses you a matching jacket.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We need to ride to our destination and I’d prefer that you weren’t smeared all over the highway on the way.”

“We’re not staying here?”

He’s disassembled your gun and is turning the parts over. 

“Give that back.” You demand.

“No.” 

His voice is calm and his eyes stay trained on your dismantled firearm. 

Your heart lurches at the refusal until he tosses you something from his spare bag.

“The ones your Association issues are terrible. This will suit you far better.”

On instinct, you catch the sleek, black pistol.

“A Wilson Combat Tactical Supergrade,” you identify, “very nice.” 

There is no denying this type of firearm is far beyond anything Linkon government officials budgeted for.

Ensuring the safety is still on, you test out its heft and find it perfectly balanced and molded to your grip.

“I’m impressed,” Sylus answers, “I didn’t know you had an interest in guns.”

“It’s common knowledge,” you shrug, “but how did you get one fitted to my hand?”

“Just lucky. Still, best not to wear it in plain sight until we’re out of Linkon.”

“Right.” 

You hand it back and he conceals it somewhere on his person. You don’t mention the small engraved initial on the grip that matches yours. Lucky indeed.

“Let’s go.”

“I would’ve brought my own bike.” You state bluntly, staring at the singular motorcycle parked outside the hotel.

“But you didn’t.” Sylus taps the helmet on your head and gestures for you to get on. He swings his leg over and, unwilling to be forced again by his Evol you follow, keeping your hands stubbornly atop your own thighs.

“I know you’re smarter than that, sweetie.” He grabs your wrists with both of his hands, wrapping them around his torso and tucking them under his jacket. 

His skin is unbearably hot and you have to wonder what kind of disease he has to produce this effect. 

You try to think about anything other than the dips and planes of his washboard abs as they flex under your hands when he kicks the bike into gear. 

It’s a partially successful exercise in thought control. 

Until he hits a sudden brake three minutes later and the momentum presses your front flush against him.

The drive to the N109 Zone is shorter on a motorcycle, especially with Sylus’... unique driving style. He weaves through traffic, dodges obstacles (barely) and pushes the bike to its absolute limit. You’re no stranger to high octane driving but after two near misses you have to squeeze your eyes shut and clutch him tightly, pressing the side of your helmet into his back. 

You ignore the vibrations that emanate from his back when you tense around him, startled by flying debris. 

When the bike comes to a full and complete stop, you peel off of him and shake out your limbs to dismount the bike.

“I’m driving next time.” You declare.

Under his helmet, you’re sure his eyebrows are raised but luckily you can’t see the expression. 

Tossing your helmet into the stowage, you evaluate your surroundings. 

Another bleak N109 Zone streetscape: misty shadows, broken glass and an impenetrable looking building. It’s windowless, just an endless smooth wall of reinforced material. A fortress of a different color.

“Durasteel.” You identify, walking up to touch your fingertips to the unusual material.

“Hmm. Yes, capable of absorbing military grade attacks.” He confirms.

“So. Am I here as your bodyguard, date or companion today?”

“Why not all three?” His smile is all teeth.

He steps up to an unmarked panel and presses his palm over it. A light beams out of the wall and scans his iris before flashing green. The outline of a door appears on the durasteel, hissing mechanically before sliding open. He gestures for you to step in and, with only a brief moment of hesitation, you step past him. 

It’s painfully bright inside and your pupils contract harshly moving from the N109 Zone’s perpetual night into a shocking blue-white brightness. 

Just past the external entrance is another locked door, trapping you in a small breezeway. The air begins to thin and pressure builds until Sylus walks forward, says his name once and presses his palm again to the door.

With another mechanical hiss, the door slides apart, left and right sides disappearing into the wall and unveiling a long, enclosed hallway. 

The floor under you clanks as your heavy boots stomp over metal grating. Looking for clues as to your location and purpose, you take note of the smooth, colorless walls free from any decoration or distinct markings.

It feels less like a building for humans and more like you’re being processed inside of a machine. 

Unconsciously your hand comes to rest on your firearm grip but Sylus picks your elbow up and pulls your hand away with a shake of his head.

“Don’t be rude, kitten.” His tone is casual but commanding.

Before you can respond, a petite and oddly captivating woman walks around the corner. Her dark hair is twisted into an elegant bun at the crown of her head and her striking blue eyes take the pair of you in with a detached professionalism.

“Mr. Qin, we’ve been expecting you and your guest. Please follow me.”

He inclines his head and steps forward. Falling in line, you walk slightly behind him trying to keep up with his long strides. 

The woman deposits you into an equally barren, windowless conference room. 

“His last appointment is running late, but he’ll be with you as soon as he can.”

Sylus inclines his head in gracious understanding. Despite your misgivings, the woman looks unperturbed and leaves you to wait.

The same mechanical sliding door locks into place after she leaves with the now familiar clanking hiss. But then the lock twists further with three clank-clunks. 

“We’re locked in.” You half-state, half-guess.

“Hmm.” 

“You don’t care?”

“I’m not surprised. Besides, I have no intention of waiting.”

“Why am I here?”

“You’d have made me come alone?” He asks, right eye glowing. You look away and he sighs.

“I can't believe I shaved my entire body for this.” You mutter under your breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Suddenly a strange smoke begins to filter through the vents and he raises a hand, sweeping it towards each corner. His black and red mist encircles four security cameras and crushes them to dust.

An alarm begins blaring and the blue-white light strips running along the ceiling and floor begin flashing red.

“You led us into a trap. Now what?”

“Your turn.” He gestures towards the interlocking door. 

“Can’t you open it?” You ask.

“It’s resonance locked. Your Anhausen Evol should work. Just focus on aligning the metaflux inside the door.”

Stepping up to the smooth door, you press your palm to the surface and pulse out your Evol. 

An image of a circular maze-like structure with multiple strands of metaflux appears in your mind’s eye. 

You attempt to control it but falter when Sylus steps close behind you.

Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes and start over but it’s challenging when you can, quite literally, feel him breathing down your neck. 

Tossing a brief glare over your shoulder, you gesture with your hand for him to move back a couple steps.

“Do you mind?” You should modulate your tone better but can’t help it.

“Distracted?” He asks.

“No.”

“Why lie?”

You don’t answer. You don’t quite know the answer.

“It’s okay,” his honeyed voice reassures and mocks all at once, “I already know the effects my devastating good looks have on you.”

“You're not my type.” It’s the only defense that comes to mind.

“I can think of some evidence to the contrary.”

Hmmph. 

“I was drunk. Any man with a pulse would've been the same to me.”

“Really?” 

He’s stepped closer into your physical space and when you open your eyes, he’s practically nose to nose with you.

His right eye emits a faint glow and you have to stare determinedly in the other direction

“That’s cheating.” You complain, but his eye only glows brighter and he tries to catch your gaze.

“I never promised to fight fair.” 

You don't answer. 

“So kitten, would any man really do? You must have quite the appetite.”

“...”

“Were you disappointed when I left you alone in the hotel room?”

“It’s almost like you want me to fail,” you accuse aloud. 

But then the lock clicks, 

“Got it.” 

You stand triumphantly and the door springs open. 

Finally.

He looks like he’s about to continue his relentless teasing until a bullet zings past your cheek. 

There’s an elbow poking out just around the far corner at the end of the hallway. 

Sloppy. 

Without thinking, the pistol is gripped in two hands and, as soon as the shooter peeks around, your bullet has already passed through the other side of his skull.

Spinning the gun in your hand, you can’t help but be pleased with its performance. The accuracy and power delivered a strong result with very little recoil.

“Not bad.” Sylus comments. 

He’s drawn his own firearm and the two of you advance. Since you still don’t know why you’re here, you let him take point. 

The pair of you encounter three more men dressed in tactical armour and dispatch them easily enough. It's self defense, you remind yourself. 

But guilt eats at you as you step over human bodies. This is against the Hunter’s code. 

Your torn conscience manifests in a short temper when Sylus starts to give you unsolicited technique criticism.

“You’re leaning forward too much when you aim. You’d be more accurate if–”

“-don’t you have henchmen for this?” You interrupt. 

“Whatever could you mean?” His eyes look as innocent as can be when he glances back at you.

“... I know who you are.”

“Researching me? How flattering. I thought your clients were supposed to be anonymous?”

“You're one to talk. You knew I was a hunter from day one.”

“It was obvious. No abuse of official clearance required to deduce that, my sweet little hunter.”

“Obvious how?”

“It’s the way you hold a gun. Pressing your shoulders down like you’re about to launch into a waltz. Relax. Don’t hold your breath when you pull the trigger.”

A scoff escapes you but you actively release your tensed shoulders the next time you raise your muzzle.

“Are you getting satisfaction from forcing me to violate the Association’s code?”

“No.” He sounds sincere but it's hard to believe. 

This must be what his interest in you is all about. 

Some kind of political leverage. 

Anger, disgust and embarrassment stew in your gut as you turn over the possible ulterior motives. 

Eventually, the two of you come face to face with another resonance-locked door and you make quicker work of it this time. 

Sylus mercifully stays silent with his back to you, covering you while you work to open it.

When the door clicks open, he walks immediately to a floor-to-ceiling locked safe, rips the door open and retrieves a small package from inside the freezing cold interior.

“Is that a–”

“Hightower? Three actually.” He answers.

“You want to transport weapons of mass destruction on the back of a motorcycle?”

It should be a question but comes out as an accusation.

His silence is answer enough. 

He walks past you back into the hallway and you make your way towards the exit, jogging lightly to keep up with his long strides.

“You are insane.” 

Your breath is slightly ragged from exertion but he doesn’t acknowledge you, just rips off the last door with his Evol and mounts the waiting bike.

“Coming?” He asks, tossing a helmet to you.

For a split second, you consider finding your own way home but then a bullet pings off the metal of his bike. Swinging your leg over the seat, you point and aim with one hand and shoot back at the building even as he drives away.

Every shot misses but, luckily, so do your opponents’. 

Certain you’re out of range, you reholster your weapon and slump against Sylus’ back. 

But you’re wrong and an unexpected bullet flies towards you. 

At the last moment, he yanks the handlebars and accelerates the bike forcing it nearly parallel with the ground. 

It misses your head but you hear him grunt when it catches the outside of his arm.

Your first instinct is to apply pressure but he raises his voice loud enough for you to hear over the roar of the engine. 

“Get ready.”

Twisting on the bike you see them: two bikes flanking you and Sylus. 

Pulling a hand from his wound, you turn and fire single-handed. 

Sylus’ mist holds you in place and, even with a few wide shots, you manage to shoot out the closer driver’s front tire and they skid into oblivion. 

It dawns in the back of your mind that if the second shooter hits you and Sylus, the Hightower explosives will decimate the entire N109 Zone. 

Your hand shakes and you use your second to steady it, aim and fire. It's risky on a moving bike. You have no choice but to trust Sylus’ Evol to keep you on the bike. The second shot rings true and takes out your pursuer.

You try again to hold pressure on Sylus' wound but he shrugs you off. 

In what feels like minutes, the bike pulls up outside a towering black building. Sylus stumbles off the bike and in through the front doors. 

Pausing a moment, you consider the options at hand but then a drop of blood on the leather seat catches your eye. Looking down at your hands, his blood has begun to crust into lines on your palms. 

Had he really taken a bullet in your place? 

It can't have been on purpose. Still. 

Honor propels your legs into a walk, then jog, then sprint after him into the building. Just to find an empty hallway and locked doors lining it. 

“Sylus?” 

Could he have passed out? 

Why had you hesitated? 

He was probably bleeding out somewhere in this unfamiliar building and it was all your fault. 

“Sylus?” Your voice is louder but he doesn't reply. “Sylus!” It's a yell, as loud as you can manage. 

And then, he's walking around the corner accompanied by an old man with a medical kit. 

“Worried?” He asks, calm as ever. 

“No.” 

The two men are walking quickly and you struggle to keep pace with them as they get into the elevator. The elder man holds gauze to the wound and is evaluating Sylus. 

“I'm Dr. Smith. It's nice to meet you.” He offers without looking up. You reciprocate mindlessly and follow them into a clean, clinical room. 

Methodically, Dr. Smith cuts away the garments on Sylus’ arm and pulls out each piece of shrapnel with a pair of forceps. Sylus doesn't flinch as the doctor digs around but watches your face as you witness skin knitting itself back together and blood evaporating into smoke.

“How?”

Neither man answers you. When the doctor is done, Sylus stands and nods towards you, “check her out too. Protocore syndrome. Thanks doc.”

With that he walks to the doorway but pauses on the threshold when you call his name. 

“Yes?” He asks without turning around. 

“I guess I should thank you.”

“No need.” He answers without emotion and it plucks something painful inside of you. 

“Just protecting your investment?” It sounds bitter.

“Something like that.” 

He disappears into the dark hallway. 

Much to your own frustration, tears sting your eyes. 

“You okay, kid?”

The doctor. You'd forgotten he was there. 

With a nod, you follow his instructions and sit on the examination table, letting him take your vitals. 

Heavy boots sound in the hallway ten minutes later and your heart swells. 

But it's not him. 

A different man in a birdlike mask appears. 

“Bossman said you needed a ride.” 

Chapter Text

One day passes, then another and another and then it's Friday night with no news from him for over ten days. You’ve tried texting just to immediately receive Undeliverable in response. You call the number but it doesn’t go through. 

Desperate, you call the agency handler.

“Weren't you just complaining that this was interfering with your so-called job?” 

The disdain in her voice is palpable even over the phone. 

“Can you help me or not?”

“Not.” 

“...”

“All our clients are 100% anonymous. I’m not sure how many different ways I can say it to you.”

Click.

You try to sleep but can’t. 

His face haunts your every thought. 

What did he want from you? Why hadn’t he reached out? What was he doing right now? 

Had his mission been to corrupt your soul and now, successful, he was leaving you to the torture of your own thoughts?

Finally the tossing and turning gets to you and you abandon your twisted, sweaty sheets to get dressed. 

Thirty minutes later you’re speeding past Linkon’s city limits, ignoring the warning signs about imminent danger ahead. 

Gunshots ring out around you but you pay them no mind. Your mind conjures all manner of things you’ll say to him. He’ll open the door and you’ll set him straight. Give him a piece of your mind. 

That’s how you find yourself riled up, red faced and rapping your knuckles at the front door of the Onychinus base at 2:00AM on a Saturday morning. 

The door clicks open on your third knock and you’re about to launch into a tirade when a beaked mask pokes around the doorframe.

“Miss Hunter?”

Oh. 

It’s the man who’d driven you back to Linkon.

“Where is he?”

“Bossman? He’s out. Do you need help getting home?”

“No.”

“Okay. Can I… take a message?” 

He seems to be at a loss.

“No.”

His head tilts in what you can only imagine is a question.

The anger that had fueled you dissipates and it feels like the taut sails of purpose have been cut slack.

“I–” You hadn’t expected this potential outcome and have to think for a moment before asking, “can I wait for him?”

“Sure.”

He deposits you in a room off of the main hall. Sylus’ personal study.

You can’t help but examine the records that line the walls and run your fingers over the hardcopy books in the built-ins. 

The vinyls and literature titles are varied: classics, contemporary, esoteric and some even bordering on whimsical. 

It’s very challenging to fold this new information into your perception of the man. 

How infuriating. 

By 3:00AM, the righteous anger fueling you is beaten out by exhaustion. Traipsing over to the deep sofa, you lie down. There’s a cashmere-soft throw folded on the arm and you wrap it around yourself. 

Cedar, smoke, musk, gunpowder. You inhale deeply and the knot in your stomach loosens. 

“Sylus?” Something in the back of your mind alerts you to his presence.

“Hmm?” He stays seated and you shoot upright. Not again. 

Damn your ability to fall asleep anywhere. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asks as you take in your surroundings.

The earlier righteous tirade you prepared dies at your lips.

“I…” you hesitate, unsure where to start, “you didn’t call.”

“Were you worried about me?” His tone is slightly sarcastic 

“Hmmph.”

“Maybe you were worried about your penalty fee.” He quirks an eyebrow.

“No. I’m not the one in violation of any terms.”

“Oh,” he leans forward in the chair towards you, his eyes searching, “and I am?”

“I, well, I suppose not. There’s nothing in the contract about the client acting on the agreement.”

“Then did you come here to enforce our… professional relationship?”

A blush creeps up your neck and your brain scrambles for an excuse.

Your eyes land on the supergrade pistol on the table beside you.

“I came to return this gun. As you pointed out, it’s a very valuable weapon.”

“I see. Then let’s return it to the armory.”

He stands, letting you pick up the gun to follow him. His pace is fast and it’s a struggle to keep up.

“Did I offend you?” It slips out before you mean it to. 

What did you care if he was angry with you? It should be a good thing to escape his clutches.

“No.” 

It’s short and simple but unsatisfying. He doesn’t stop walking.

“Did you target me because I’m a hunter?”

This stops him. He turns around and evaluates your expression, looking between your eyes for something. 

“It’s only been a few days. I thought you’d be grateful for the reprieve. After all, you did say I was forcing you to act against your own values.”

“Wasn’t that the point?”

“No.”

“Are you using me for political purposes?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me what you are using me for?”

He turns on his heels and continues walking. 

You follow him into the elevator and he hits a button before answering.

“You are a unique individual with a set of skills that is useful to me. Is that explanation enough?”

“So it's my ability to detect metaflux?”

“In part, yes.”

The door pings open and you follow him into the hallway. It’s only because he’s facing away that you have the courage to ask the next question.

“So… this isn’t about sex at all?”

“Careful, kitten. You sound disappointed.” 

His voice is teasing but you’re determined to get to the bottom of the arrangement dictating the next ten months of your life. Still your throat constricts a bit and you aren’t able to deflect it before he continues.

“Did you want to audition for other men who consider consent negotiable?” He asks but you continue without answering his question. 

No. 

Of course you didn’t want that. 

But why would he care?

“Plenty of hunters can detect metaflux. You could even teach a henchman to use a hunter’s watch. Plenty of tenebrae would sell you one.”

“Maybe. But no one suspects the beautiful drunk woman at the party of stealing.”

This grates your nerves and you look away, folding your arms. The flush on your cheeks deepens and spreads over your neck and chest.

He glances back at you and smiles gently.

“It's a strength to be underestimated. Learn to use it to your advantage.”

Before you can wonder what he means, you realize you’ve arrived at your destination in the Onychinus base. The armory. 

It’s a reinforced door with a digital keypad. 

He gestures for you to open it, but it’s locked.

“Two-zero-two-four,” He instructs and you punch it in. The door beeps and swings open.

“That’s easy to remember,” you grin, “it’s the year I was born.”

“Is it, really?” he asks, “what a coincidence.” 

Your mouth drops open as the lights blink on, revealing less of an armory and more of a museum.

Rifles, pistols, semi-automatic, machine guns, missile launchers and grenades catch your eye on the left side of the room. But on the right, is an homage to the art of welding. Ornate daggers, engraved swords, scythes, throwing stars, twin katanas, ivory handled claymores and ceremonial blades glitter under the bright lights.

“Pick out whatever you’d like.”

“Really?”

“What kind of sugar daddy would I be if I didn’t spoil you now and again?”

Torn between beaming and rolling your eyes, you land on beaming.

“You look like a child in a candy shop.”

And you feel like one too, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“If I'd known the effect this would have on you I'd have brought you here on our first date.”

This earns a derisive laugh before you can stop it.

“Date? I'm not sure I’d classify anything we’ve done so far as a ‘date.’”

“Then maybe we should fix that.”

“Ha. Ha.”

You’re too enthralled to mind his jabs as you pull the latest firearm technology off the wall, turning it over in your hands. Protocore powered weaponry. Incredible.

It’s more advanced than anything you’ve seen even in virtual training. He chuckles at your enthusiasm.

You leave the armory with the supergrade pistol, a set of throwing stars, a discreet dagger and one protocore powered sniper rifle. Sylus is surprisingly knowledgeable and you drink in every detail he tells you about the various items.

The bubbly feeling inside of you is barely dampened by the exhaustion creeping into your bones.

“You look exhausted, do you want a ride home or do you want to take a nap first?”

Didn’t he want to spend any time with you?

“I’m fine. I’ll ride my bike home.”

“Your tires were bald and the clutch cable worn out. I’m having someone fix it. It’ll be dropped off at your building tomorrow. Luke can drive you home.”

For some unknown reason you want to stomp your foot. 

Without realizing it your brow furrows and your lips pout.

“And where are you going?”

“To check on my other investments.”

Your stomach drops. 

How could you be so naive? Of course you weren’t his only ‘sugar baby.’ 

A man of this level of resources almost certainly had as many women as he could possibly want eating out of his hands.

Spinning on your heels, you can’t stop yourself from storming out and slamming the front door behind you to wait for Luke. 

No wonder he hadn’t even tried to sleep with you. 

He probably had dozens of ‘investments.’

The door creaks behind you when he comes to sit next to you on the steps.

“Why are you upset?”

Your arms cross and eyes fix on a point in the distance.

“I’m not.”

“They get restless if I don’t give them enough attention.”

“I’m sure.”

“Hmm. They’re high maintenance, but worth it.”

When you refuse to look at him he continues.

“Jealous?” He asks softly. 

Silence.

“You’re welcome to join us.” He adds.

This gets you to turn towards him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Don’t know how to ride? I can teach you.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Allergic to manure?” He teases, “it’s good not to rely on technology for everything. Riding is a life skill.”

“...What?”

He laughs under his breath.

“What did you think I was talking about?”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish as you try to process the conversation you’ve just had.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of a 1,200 pound redhead.”

“You could’ve led with horses.”

“I could have. But then I’d never have known you care.”

A blush creeps its way up your neck. He laughs, not unkindly, and stands.

“Come on, kitten. You can sleep on the way there.”

Sylus asks you to wait for him in the car while he gets ready for the ranch. After a good fifteen minutes, he returns with a couple of duffel bags and the same throw you’d fallen asleep underneath earlier that morning. 

Without a word, he sits in the driver’s seat and wraps it around you. You drift off and awaken when he parks the car in a dusty dirt driveway. Pink climbing roses crawl over a natural stone facade aged slightly with a pitched red-tile roof. The white paint on the window shutters is starting to chip away but it only adds to its beauty.

“Charming.” 

“Thank you.”

“Yours?”

“Hmm.”

A kind looking butler exits the house and greets Sylus speaking to him about the pleasure of his unexpected visit and helping him with the luggage. 

They hurry to help you out of the car – but are too late. You’re already halfway down the drive, walking towards the white fences. They encircle a large pasture and neighbor a round track. Wandering in the green fields, you count at least six horses eating and resting under trees.

It’s strange to turn and see Sylus under a bright blue sky. 

He looks lighter, somehow, without the oppressive mist of the N109 Zone pressing down on him.

The butler has reentered the house and Sylus catches you staring.

“What?” He asks. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he almost sounds embarrassed. Like he’s worried there’s a stain on his shirt.

“Nothing,” you shake your head, but can’t stop the smile that’s making him suspicious of you.

“Tell me.” 

He’s walking down the dirt drive towards you and the smile on your face grows bigger and bigger until he can see all of your teeth.

A mirroring smile grows on his own features. 

You break eye contact even though his right eye doesn’t activate.

He’s reached you in a few long strides and leans on the fence next to you. His features look softer, more relaxed surrounded by green grass and blossoming vines. He leans down and narrows his eyes at you. 

It would be unbearable if it wasn’t so captivating. 

A sudden breeze ruffles his hair and your hand reaches up to fix it but you pause halfway and let your arm fall.

“Nothing,” you repeat, shrugging, “it’s just… you’re different here. It suits you.”

It’s colder in the country and you tug the blanket tighter around you. 

His eyes narrow further and he considers your face before answering.

“Let’s get you into something warmer. You’re not in the city anymore.”

Definitely a leg guy, you think to yourself taking in your new riding boots, tight jodhpurs and white compression top. The full kit, including a black blazer, velvet helmet and riding crop, had been laid out neatly when the butler showed you to the room. 

Your room, apparently. 

Everything is perfectly tailored to your measurements. Even the helmet.

Now, ten minutes later, you look yourself up and down in the full-length mirror. It is a completely different context but holds several parallels to your ‘vampire hunter’ leather outfit he’d put you in almost two weeks prior. 

Sylus had offered to braid your hair, but you take the task on yourself. It seems very unlikely that the head of Onychinus knows how to detangle and French braid long hair. Then again, he surprises you every time. 

Satisfied with your appearance, you grab the accessories and head back to the grand foyer. Everything with Sylus is grand, ornate. So many unnecessary aesthetics.

“Ready?”

He’s dressed similarly to you but his (very tight) pants are white and his jacket, navy blue. The riding boots are fitted perfectly to his shapely calves and you make a conscious effort not to stare until he turns away from you, leading the way down to the stables. 

Following down the dusty path, you let your eyes wander over the corded muscles barely concealed. 

At the base of the hill there’s a reddish, wooden post-and-beam style barn. He slides the large doors open with ease and you’re hit with a familiar scent. Cedar.

Inside are at least a dozen well kept stables, mucked out with fresh hay. 

One by one, Sylus greets creatures and they nuzzle into his hands and arms. 

It’s sweet and strange to see him be so gentle. The smile on his face has no trace of mockery or sorrow. He notices you staring and holds up his hand.

“Treats.” He explains and offers you a basket of your own to bribe the creatures. 

There’s a grumpy black beauty in the far corner and you go to his stall, offering a whole carrot to coax him from the corner. He’s stubborn, but you're able to pique his interest by cutting open an apple. He comes over and eats it in one bite. 

You giggle at the feeling of his rough tongue despite yourself and wipe the mess on your pants. 

The horse glares at you but allows you to pat the side of his mane lightly. 

“Like calls to like.” Sylus walks up behind you, “he’s stubborn. Like you. I have a pony that I think might be better suited.”

“I like this one.” You don’t turn around.

“I’m not surprised. He’s a pure black Akhal-Teke. Beautiful, isn’t he? Still, I’ve had to pay for three medical bills from trainers who failed to tame him.”

“Maybe I’ll be the one to tame him.”

“It’s your choice. I’m happy to pay the medical bill a fourth time.”

“What about your investment?”

“High risk, high reward.”

“And what’s my reward if I’m able to ride him?”

“Isn’t such an accomplishment a reward in and of itself?”

“You’re a bit stingy for a sugar daddy.”

“Am I?” His eyes are shining, but not with Evol, “name your prize then.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He quirks an eyebrow.

“Fine. If I can ride him, you’ll have to call me… your queen.”

“If you can ride him one hundred meters, I will.”

Speaking softly, you approach the horse from his shoulder and take a firm but gentle hold of the lead. 

He follows you to the tacking area and lets you slide on the saddle and bridle easily. Quiet praise falls from your lips as you give him a quick brush to make a point to Sylus. 

Man and horse follow your lead out to the track where Sylus opens the gate.

“One full one hundred meter loop and you win.”

He clearly doesn’t believe you can do this. But you have the secret weapon of several apple slices stuffed into your jacket.

You hold eye contact with his garnet stare as you mount the horse. Sylus leans against the fence and folds his arms over his chest kicking one foot over the other. 

If only he had a piece of hay in between his teeth, he’d look every bit the cowboy.

Grinning, you urge the horse into a trot but the animal keeps the pace at a stubbornly slow walk. 

Fine, you can work with this. 

The pair of you get about halfway through the loop before he gets distracted and walks towards the center of the track, jumping the inner fence. With a squeak, you hold on through the unexpected leap.

“Give up?” Sylus shouts from across the track.

“Never!” 

Dismounting the horse, you walk back to the ‘start’ line and brandish your secret weapon.

“You’ll spoil him like that. You need to show some spirit to tame a wild horse.” Sylus clucks his tongue.

“I think a little sugar might do the trick.”

Holding out more apple slices, the horse gobbles them up and inclines his head allowing you to mount him again.

“With treats coming so easily, I think this horse is becoming more and more spoiled under your care.” Sylus critiques, holding the lead and looking up at you on the horse.

The horse whinnies underneath you and shakes his head, throwing off Sylus’ hand.

“There, there, my sweet. Don’t listen to him. I know you’re a good boy.”

Sylus steps aside and sighs heavily, shaking his head in disapproval.

“Pandering to him will only cost you. Making your enemy scared and nervous is the first step in taming.”

“Hmmph. Don’t listen to him.”

Patting the horse’s mane, you dig your heels into his ribs and he sets off on a trot down the path.

“Good boy,” you coo to the horse and turn to give Sylus a challenging grin.

“Don’t celebrate too soon.” His voice is carried by the wind as he watches the pair of you.

But victory is in sight and you lean forward eagerly.

A distant whistle calls in the background and the horse slows.

“No! Don’t listen to him - I have more apples!”

Jostling out the treats, you try to pull the reins with one hand and tempt him with the other, but the beast won’t be dissuaded. He bucks you once when you pull the reins hard and you release them, letting the horse walk back to his owner.

“Oh, are you two back already?” Sylus is all smug victory and your eyes narrow as he holds out an arm to help you dismount.

“That’s cheating.” You accuse but accept his hand to step off the horse. It trots over to the wild apple tree and plucks its own treat off of a branch.

When you look back at Sylus, you realize he’s closer than you thought. Your chests are nearly touching and your focus narrows in on the sweat dripping down your temple. Looking away, you flex both hands to shake off the memory of his grip.

“If you want to tame something of mine, you’re just a bit short on skills.”

He’s smiling down at you, self-satisfied and superior.

Ugh.

“Asshole.” It’s muttered under your breath but you get the sense he hears it anyways.

“It’s just the way of the world. The weak submit to the strong. The tamed bow to the tamer.”

“Hmmph. Even someone like you can be tamed.”

“No one has ever associated that word with my name before.”

One day, you promise yourself, you’ll wipe that damn smirk off his face.

“So,” he takes the lead of the wild black horse and restables him, “time for you to submit to my earlier recommendation. The cost of losing.”

When he turns his back to get the pony, you stick out a tongue and make a face. 

Of course, he doesn’t notice but your defiance makes you feel a bit better.

Despite losing the bet, you have to admit it’s a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon. Beyond the track, Sylus leads you on his horse through the woods on several well manicured trails. For two hours, the pair of you ride slowly in the dense forest before reaching an open field where you both coax your horses into a gallop. 

Gripping the pony tightly with your legs, you release the reins and throw your arms wide, tossing your head back and closing your eyes to indulge in the moment.

It’s the freest you’ve felt in ages and when you open your eyes, Sylus is staring at you from the edge of the field as you approach.

“What?” You ask, finally catching up to his side.

“Wanna race?” He asks.

With a laugh, you shake your head ‘no.’

“Why not?”

“You’re insufferable as it is. I’m not giving you another reason to be smug.”

“Admitting defeat already?”

“In your dreams, cowboy.”

With that, you use your palm to lightly tap the pony’s haunch and squeeze your legs discreetly to take off in a sprint, leaving Sylus in the dust.

Laughing wildly, you can hear him trying to pick up the pace behind you. Of course, your pony is no match for his adult chestnut Arabian and he quickly gains ground on you.

As you approach the other end of the field, you pull back at the last moment and Sylus only overtakes you by the barest margin.

“Isn’t that a clear and obvious instance of cheating, Miss Hunter?” 

“I never promised a fair fight.” You quote him back to himself.

You’re both grinning, sweaty and exhausted. The ride back to the stable is not unpleasant, you realize. It’s quiet until he shares a bit about the land you’re on.

“Beech, oak, fir…” he points out the different trees.

“How did you come to own this estate?”

“It’s a long story and not very interesting.”

He doesn’t brag, you’ve realized. Has no need to. It’s oddly refreshing and leaves you more curious. Back in silence, you take in the environment around you.

It’s one of the last gracious afternoons before the year turns cold. The grass is still green but the trees are streaked with gold. In the distance, sun-warmed bundles of hay carry a faint, sweet smell on the wind. 

The canopy of leaves is still mostly full, dappling the light around you. It’s mesmerizing to watch it play through the leaves on his silver hair – cool at first but warming as the sun drops in the sky.

“We should head back; the sun is setting earlier and earlier.”

You hum in agreement and follow him.

The horses are damp with sweat and a bit tired as their hooves crunch the leaves. 

At the edge of the woods, the manor house rises over the track and blends into the landscape around it. 

Lavender and thyme in a hidden kitchen garden add a new, herbal scent to the breeze when the wind changes direction.

Beginning to shiver, you dismount and walk alongside the pony and Sylus does the same. The warmth from exertion has faded and the damp sweat on your skin leaves you cold.

You’re struck, again, by the shift in Sylus’ demeanor inside the barn as he brushes his horse and puts him away. So careful and caring. You’d think he was the type to ride hard and put away wet.

“What?” He asks again but you can only shake your head, mimicking his routine to clean up and reward your pony. Visiting the black beauty, you give him a couple pats and reassure him that you’re still friends, despite his betrayal. 

The full extent of your exhaustion doesn’t hit you until you’re back in your room standing under the hot shower. You hadn’t ridden a horse in years and you will absolutely be sore tomorrow. Still, there’s a small smile on your face as you dry your hair and search the closet for suitable clothing.

There’s a mix of everything in your closet all in your size. 

You’re just about dressed in jeans and a sweater when a knock sounds at the door.

“Yes?”

“Mademoiselle?”

Sylus seemed to prefer people to refer to you as such. An odd quirk.

Opening the door, you see the butler and give him a warm smile.

“Did Mademoiselle enjoy the horses?”

“Yes,” you smile brightly, “thank you for everything, it was wonderful.”

“I’m very pleased to hear it,” he inclines his head, “Mr. Sylus has requested your presence in the library for cocktails before dinner.”

“I’ll be right there,” you reply but then lower your voice conspiratorially and whisper, “is my outfit… okay for that?”

He clears his throat, “Mademoiselle is most elegant in any attire. But, ahem, if I may, I believe you will find a rather stunning emerald green gown and burgundy ensemble hanging in the closet just there. Either would be quite suitable for this evening.”

“Thank you!” 

It’s good to have an ally for once.

“It is my pleasure, Mademoiselle.”

The green dress is gorgeous, silk and full length. Cap sleeved with a boat neck in the front, the back swoops daringly low in the back just grazing your tailbone. 

But the second dress…

You’d be a fool not to notice Sylus’ bias towards burgundy red. When you slip it on, the dress technically covers you head to toe. Long sleeves, full length skirt, a high back and a mock neck comes up to your chin. There’s two layers of fabric.

The outer layer is a diaphanous sheer silk chiffon. Where it’s shirred, the fabric almost becomes opaque but you can’t imagine many women wearing it without the liner. There’s three pairs of kitten heels in the closet but you stay barefoot.

When you turn the sleeves inside out, you find and unclip a small button at the top of each shoulder. The inner slip comes out without any fuss. 

A wicked plan forms in your mind. 

Stepping to the transparent diaphanous outer layer only, you pull on the smallest pair of panties you can find and check in the mirror. 

You could wear a bra. 

But you don’t. 

You’re stone cold sober but feel more confident than any of your past encounters with Sylus. This would be on your terms. 

Without the modesty slip, the dress has you looking like a beautiful, vengeful goddess from ancient Greece. Your hair is just long enough to cover your nipples and you pull it over your front in case you run into anyone else on the way.

When you descend the stairs, the smirk is on your lips for once.

The library door is open and Sylus is fussing over two wine glasses at the old-fashioned bar. A warm fire crackles and the wood-paneled library is lit otherwise by candelabras.

It’s only by chance that he doesn’t drop both glasses when he turns around and sees you. His lips part for a moment before he closes his jaw with an audible clack. 

Brushing your hair back over your shoulders, you know he can see every detail of your breasts, your stomach, your legs and his eyes darken. Even in the dim library’s light nearly every part of you is presented to him as you walk forwards.

When he finally speaks, it’s in warning.

“Provoking me is not a wise choice.”

You sink onto a couch by the fireplace and tuck your feet underneath you.

“I don’t know what you could mean.” You blink, innocently, then pout, “aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

He narrows his eyes at you but walks over and hands you the glass. The deep red of the liquid nearly matches your dress where it folds in your lap. Maintaining eye contact, you drink deeply from the glass.

“Thoughts?” He asks.

“A bit harsh at first, but goes down smoothly. Like someone else I know.” You smile and drink again. He’s quick to refill your glass and comes to sit by you at a respectful distance.

“What are you trying to do?” He asks, keeping his eyes fixed on your face.

“With what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Nervous?” You ask with a smile.

“Hardly.” He scoffs.

“Perhaps I’ll be the one to tame the infamous Onychinus leader, after all.”

“Really? Well then,” he leans forward, raising his glass towards you in a toast, “I’m looking forward to seeing you try.”

Just then his phone rings.

“Excuse me,” he says, “this won’t be more than a few moments. Please start dinner without me.”

Chapter Text

You’re in an unfamiliar part of the manor house. A cellar. Dark, grey, and a bit unkempt. There’s a door in front of you cracked open with a sliver of light shining through. Following the light, you push it open. The ground is unstable, there’s dust and debris crunching underneath your heeled boots.

In the pitch-black room, a single ray of sunlight falls upon a figure kneeling on the ground. Hearing footsteps, he lifts his head.

“Sylus…?”

He’s on his knees and the balls of his feet, sitting back on his heels. His hands are cuffed behind his back. He’s in a vest and button down, but it’s the accessory that catches your eye. A tight collar is buckled around his throat complete with a loop for a lead. Absently, you realize there’s a riding crop in your hand.

“You took your time. Haven’t you been waiting for this moment for so long?” He answers.

“Huh?”

“Forget already? Aren’t you the one who said she’d tame the leader of Onychinus?”

Walking over, you grab the collar by its lead and pull him in. 

So this is what he was into. 

Very well, it would be your pleasure to indulge in his wildest fantasies. 

Yanking it forward, he has no choice but to come off of his heels and put his weight fully on his knees to come up towards you.

“Such arrogance.” He scoffs. 

“You need to show some spirit to tame a wild horse.” You answer, repeating his earlier words.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Brandishing the crop, you hit it in your hand a few times.

“Scared?” You ask.

“Not at all. I’m excited and looking forward to it.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Someone told me the first step in taming is making your enemy scared and nervous.”

Trailing the crop up his chest, you let it linger between his legs, swirling around his bare chest before coming to rest over his heart.

“How do you expect me to respond to your aimless flirtation?”

Scowling, you push his chin backwards and step towards him, trying to be as menacing as you can. 

“I like the look on your face right now.” He smiles, relaxed and teasing. What would it take to intimidate this wild beast?

Lightly at first, you tap, then smack the crop against his cheek, testing your new weapon.

“Provoking me is not a wise choice.” He says and it rings a bell somewhere in the back of your mind. Hadn’t you been wearing something different?

He notices your distraction right away and taunts you.

“As a tamer, don’t be so stingy.” 

If only the agency had given you more of a primer on domination. You should’ve known this was what such a powerful man craved. 

He shakes his head in challenge and you feel up his leg with the sole of your shoe. 

It seems he needs a firmer hand. 

“In charge of everything all day long. You just want me to take charge, don’t you?” 

Tracing up his calf, his inner thigh, you let the point of your heel come to rest over the apex of his thighs, pressing lightly. Testing.

“Raise the stakes.” He challenges. Damnable man.

“You’re enjoying this too much.” You answer and pull your foot away from him. Instead you walk slowly around him.

The cuffs at his wrists look normal and you wonder if they are doing anything at all to keep him captive.

“Do you remember what you’re supposed to call me?” You ask, bringing the sole of your boot up to the center of his back.

He turns his head slightly, but doesn’t try to turn and see you.

“An angry hunter?” He asks, “... or a kitten holding a grudge?”

Hmmph. You kick hard and he falls onto his side on the ground.

“Is that all the patience you have?”

He stays down, hands bound behind him and laying partially on his right side. 

With slow, deliberate steps you tap the crop in your hands and move forwards. 

Straddling him with one knee on either side of his waist, you grab his chin and move it this way and that.

A smile crawls over your features and you relish in the power of the position over him. It’s delicious to have him at your mercy. And to enjoy looking at his gorgeous face unabashedly for once.

“So,” he drawls, “you like it when I look at you this way.”

He’s still teasing and you jerk his head to the left, forcing him to show his throat to you. It’s a reversal of the position he had you in when you last met him in the Penthouse.

“Memorizing my face?” He asks. 

Brushing your thumb along his lips, you push them up to check his teeth, pulling them over his canines, “overstepping, huh?” He asks. As if he doesn’t know exactly what you’re doing, putting him through his submissive paces.

“Hardly.”

You try to push him further into the ground, but suddenly he sits up and you’re forced backwards into his lap.

“Is that all you’ve got?” His right eye is activating, glowing brightly, “If you want to tame me you’ll need more than that.”

Your heart is racing as he retakes control of the situation. Your hands are catching on the floor behind you as he leans forwards and stares into your very soul, grinning. His eyebrows lift once and you can’t stop yourself from looking into his Aether Core eye.

“I don’t mind spending the whole night with you.”

“Sweet dreams?”

Sylus’ voice jolts you awake from your wild dream.

“You look like Flaming June bundled in that gown, asleep on the couch."

“Wha-?”

You’re blinking away sand from your eyes and realize you must’ve fallen asleep. 

“Frederic Leighton, 1895. I’m surprised you don’t know it.”

“You should’ve woken me sooner.”

“I would have, but… you looked like you were enjoying yourself,” he croons.

Bastard. He must’ve made you dream that somehow. 

“I won’t keep you. But you should eat something before you go to bed. Come.” 

After that absurd dream, you slow down on the wine, nursing the same glass for the rest of the evening. 

Maybe you did need a bit more self-discipline where alcohol was involved. 

At least around Sylus. 

Dinner passes with less tension than you would’ve expected, especially when he asks you about your life back in Linkon and what you like about being a hunter. 

“It’s important to me. The Chronorift Catastrophe changed everyone’s lives. But if it weren’t for Lumiere and the other hunters, I’d be dead.”

“I understand.”

“So… what do you like about being the leader of Onychinus?”

“It’s not so different from your answer,” he studies you over his glass, “I wanted to be the architect of my own life. To do that, I had to take on the mantle of leadership before someone else did.”

"Kill or be killed?”

“If you want to be dramatic. But... yes, sometimes survival demands decisiveness.”

“You say that like it’s noble.” It comes out harsher than you intend but he answers you openly.

“No. Just necessary. I take no pleasure in violence, no matter what you may think of me,” he shakes his head slightly, “it’s only a means to an end. And, an unfortunate one at that.” He sighs and his eyes grow distant, “more than anything, I hate waste.”

“That seems… inconsistent."

“How so?”

It’s difficult to articulate but you do your best. “You live an opulent life. I’m sure there will be waste tonight from our dinner alone,” you gesture to the food on the table, “the wine, we likely won’t finish. Your tastes in decorations are maximalist, to say the least. And, you’ve collected more firearms than even Onychinus could reasonably use over a century.”

“Not that kind of waste. Wasted potential … people who could have been more.”

“And you think you’re helping them achieve more by what? Ruling over them?”

“Guiding,” he corrects, “most people want to be told what to do. I just give direction.”

He’s turning his hand over, inspecting his fingernails with a touch of boredom. As if this is a lesson he’s taught you many times.

“How generous.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Better me than someone else. If you spend more time in the N109 Zone, I think you’ll come to agree.”

“And what do you value, then?”

“What do you mean?” His head is tilted in consideration.

“If you hate wasted potential, what do you value? Realized potential?”

“Yes. I won’t lie to you. I value power. Strength. Integrity. The discipline to know oneself and stand by it.”

“Ah, I see. Might makes right and all that.”

“No. Right makes might. But only if you can stomach what’s required.”

“Spoken like a true despot.”

He clutches his chest mockingly, “you wound me.”

“Have you mastered yourself, then? Conquered your desires?”

“No,” he relaxes back into his chair and spreads his knees, “But I also don’t deny that they exist. Can you say the same?”

Heat crawls up your neck and you take a sip of wine rather than answer the question.

More than the food on the table, you spend the evening chewing on the food for thought he gives you. 

He is not what you’d expected. 

Fair or not. 

Less of a brute and more of a poet. Or maybe a poet stuck in a brute’s body.

When the fire and conversation dwindle, he stands and you follow suit.

“I trust you can find your own way back to your room?”

His expression is unreadable and, when you pause, he continues.

“Or, should I call for the butler?” His hand reaches for a bell you hadn’t noticed but you shake your head.

“I’ll manage.”

Without bidding him goodnight, you slip out of your chair and the formal dining room. The dress is a bit too long, especially without shoes and you stumble on the stairs. Only to find yourself scooped up again off the floor. 

It’s not the sack of flour over-the-shoulder hold, but a one-armed hold entirely unique to Sylus. His face is just inches from yours and he looks down with fond annoyance. 

“My clumsy little hunter,” he shakes his head, “however have you managed to stay alive with such terrible reflexes?”

Scowling, you try to jump out of his hold but his grip only tightens. Only the thin, scratchy silk chiffon is between his hand and your skin. The pads of his fingers dig into the fat of your hips and thigh. Involuntarily you inhale deeply and take in his scent - cedar, musk, smoke, gunpowder. It only makes your heart race faster.

“Ah-ah,” he chides, “trip once, shame on you, trip twice, shame on me.”

He only sets you back down on your feet once he reaches your door. Your hand is on the doorknob but you hesitate before turning it.

“Need me to tuck you in?” He asks. It’s teasing but there’s something else behind it too.

Looking backwards over your shoulder you answer quietly, “maybe.”

He smiles and shakes his head, turning to walk away.

“Sylus?” You call after him. He doesn’t look back.

“Ask me again when you know what you want.”

Your bed is an antique four-poster, laden with a heavy red velvet canopy and drapes. The pillows are soft and the sheets are luxurious, if a bit cold. It takes some trial and error to sort out the light switches but eventually you manage to turn everything off. 

It’s quieter in the country and, even with the window curtains drawn, it’s not entirely dark in the room. Not because of any traffic lights or cars but because the stars are so bright that they cast light into the room. 

Part of you wishes you could borrow a shirt to sleep in but your well-supplied closet gives you no such excuse. Instead you have multiple nightgowns to sleep in. It’s not like the dowdy ones your grandmother wore - heavy flannel with collars and lace at the end - but short and silky. In keeping with your theme for the night, you choose a red one. It barely covers you and you shiver in it.

Was there any chance he’d come to you tonight? 

No, you’d made your openness clear and he’d walked away.

Still you make a special effort to shave and moisturize again before bed, layering on vaseline on your lips and swishing mouthwash at the last possible moment before going to sleep. Thankfully, the butler had put out a carafe of water and you hydrate to skip the hangover tomorrow.

Your couch nap took the edge off of your exhaustion and it takes you some time to fall asleep, but eventually you drift off.

Only to awaken much later to the feeling of the mattress underneath you dipping. Someone is under the covers and has his large, warm, rough hands each holding one ankle. Sleep still calls you and you don’t open your eyes. 

You are with Sylus. 

You are safe.

He noses along the arch of one foot, holding the outside of your ankle. It tickles a bit and you try to pull away, but his grip only firms in response, now holding two hands on one leg. 

He has one on top of your foot, the other sinking into your calf. The feeling of his sure, strong hands is enough for desire to coil inside your lower belly and you feel dampness beginning to seep out of you.

His mouth, hot and wet, presses open kisses along the inside of the arch of your foot, moving upwards to pause and suck at your ankle. You sink further into the pillow and hum. 

Finally. 

The naked dress had worked after all. 

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

His teeth nip lightly at your ankle bone and you squeak in surprise. His quiet laughter comes out in small puffs of air against your leg as he moves upwards. He pushes your legs further apart as he moves up towards you. 

He’s relentless in his attentions, kissing up your calf leaving no spot untouched. His hands caress your thighs as he moves past your knee and at last his mouth hits the sensitive, soft skin at your inner thigh. 

The pads of his fingers press into the fat of your upper legs and he moans against your skin in appreciation. 

Lazily, he kisses and massages your muscles, sore after so much riding, working his way up to the crease between your leg and torso. 

When he hits the line of your panties he inhales deeply, licks the crease and pulls away shuffling back down to restart the process all over again with the other leg.

You whine in frustration, but he only laughs in response. 

It seems he’s even slower and more deliberate the second time. 

Nipping, licking, biting, nosing sucking he moves oh-so-slowly from the knuckle of your big toe to the center of your arch. Up to your ankle where he sucks hard enough to leave a mark. His teeth graze along the inside of your calf, laving over the spots where his sharp canines leave red lines. 

Once he gets to your thigh again, your hands reach down for his head and thread in his silver hair, tugging him towards your center. He only shakes his head, unwilling to be corralled. 

“Patience is a virtue, little hunter.” 

He whispers it from under the covers, pressing a closed mouth kiss to the crease between your leg and hips.

After many torturous minutes, he’s back at the apex between your legs. The familiar sensation of his Evol on your skin encircles you and you choke on a gasp as it dissolves the only cloth layers remaining between the two of you. 

Your nightgown and panties are gone - crushed into nothingness. 

His arms wrap around your legs, pulling you impossibly closer as he buries his face into you. With your hands in his hair, you try your best not to push his head down and wait patiently. He’s still pressing kisses to the skin around your core until he licks one long, broad stripe up your center. 

His tongue is inhumanly hot and long and, when it presses inside of you, you can’t help the keening whimper that escapes. 

He licks again at you and pulls away. Why is he torturing you like this? You groan in protest but he only raises his head slightly away.

“Delicious.” He whispers into your skin, before launching himself back into taking you apart, piece by piece. 

His mouth settles over your clit, sucking and pressing in a steady rhythm as heat builds inside of you. Mewling whines pant out of you against your will and your hips buck against his face. 

Suddenly, you're held tightly in place, hips stilled with his black and red mist. 

Meanwhile one hand reaches up to massage your bare breast, his thumb brushing over your peaked nipple and the other teases at your entrance. Two fingers press into you without warning, curling into the ‘come here’ gesture immediately hitting that one spot.

Your hands grip tighter into his hair and you clench your jaw as the pressure builds and builds. 

“Sylus–”

“Hmmm?” He hums against you and the vibrations only intensify the sensation of his mouth against you.

He pulls off entirely when you don’t answer him, and you’re able to see his red eyes for the first time tonight. 

His chin is wet with your slick and his spit. The sight alone is enough to make your head swim. Long, calloused fingers continue to pump in and out of you, even as he quirks an eyebrow and looks up at you. All infuriating innocence.

“Yes, kitten? What is it?”

You can only groan and let the back of your head hit the pillow. And then he’s back on you licking and sucking in perfect tandem with his fingers.

“Sylus. Fuck. Please.”

“More?” He asks, increasing the pressure of his tongue and fingers and it’s too much.

“No– no, don't change anything. I’m–”

But you're cut off by your own groans as he resumes the prior pattern of licking, sucking, curling into you. 

“Yes,” your breathing is growing heavy and a flush is crawling up your bare chest, “yesyesyes. Sylus– fuck. I’m–”

When you come it’s hard and furious, crashing over you in a surge of pleasure. The intensity is almost painful, and it’s only his soothing thumb rubbing circles on your ribs that keeps you grounded in the here and now. 

With a jolt, you sit up, suddenly awake as a bright moonbeam flashes over your pillow. Breathing heavily, you take stock of the bed. 

You’re alone. 

Your nightgown is intact as are your panties. Although you suspect they’re now absolutely drenched.

Fuck.

Two wet dreams in two days. About your client.

It’s still dark out when you leave the manor. After your extremely vivid dream, you’re unable to fall back to sleep. It feels wrong, somehow, to lust after your client and host when he’s been nothing but respectful towards you. 

Unbelievable. Unconscionable, really. 

Only Sylus Qin could make you feel guilty for lusting over him. He was supposed to be soliciting you, not the other way around. 

Bastard. 

You need a reality check. He is a dangerous man. No matter how good looking. And sweet. And clever. Thoughtful.

No. 

You chastise yourself and push the thoughts away.

Dressed in warm wellies, jeans, and a heavy coat you visit the horses. They’re still asleep and you quickly leave the barn, not wanting to force them to join in your misery. 

Wandering the property, you find a chicken coop and collect a basket full of eggs before making your way to the walled garden. A heavy mist has rolled in over the hills. The sun begins to peak out, driving away the mist and coating every surface with cold dewdrops. 

Your wandering brings you through a stone archway into the tucked away kitchen garden. 

The walls are high, built to keep out the wind and wild animals. 

Inside, the beds are laid out in careful geometry, rows and columns of foot paths lead from herbs to greens to seasonal vegetables. Someone must take care to keep the garden like this and you wonder how many hidden staff live at the ranch full time.

The sun is strongest over the herbs - rosemary, thyme, sage, mint, lavender and a few others you can’t identify. You’re perched on a stone, feet on the pathway and keeping your hands busy gathering herbs.

This is where Sylus finds you, sitting in the cold, stripping thyme from small wooden twigs into your hands.

“It suits you, too.” He says by way of greeting and you look up.

He’s underdressed for the cold. Only in a grey sweater and slacks but seems unbothered by the brisk temperature. Maybe his high body temperature gave him some kind of immunity to the cold. You avoid eye contact, unwilling to engage his Aether Core, focusing on the task at hand.

“What does?”

“The countryside.”

You smile lightly at the ground. The sun is beginning to warm the back of your neck, but the stone beneath you is still cold to the touch. Silver outlines cling to the rosemary and thyme. The air is damp when you breathe it in.

“Your world isn’t what I thought it would be.”

He comes to sit on the opposite side of the path across from you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“This isn’t really my world,” he shakes his head, “I don’t come here often.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe,” he takes the herbs from your hands to finish your work, “but, it just so happens that I’m a person who prefers to live in the dark.”

The sun is rising in the distant east, chasing away the mid-autumn fog in the field below. Sunshine falls in broad strips over the planes of his face. His features are a rare beauty and the sun brings it out. The curve of his lips, the texture of his skin, the downturned inner corners of his eyes, the elegant hook of his nose. His eyes are bright rubies and you can’t help staring into them, despite the risk. Beautiful.

“The light seems to like finding you though.”

His features twist in confusion and he looks at you for a moment too long to be considered casual. His face flickers then closes off.

“Did you have a plan for these?” He asks, holding up the herbs, “or are you stripping my potager to spite me?”

“Everything I do is to spite you.”

“Of course. Still, should we deliver these to chef?”

“Yes. Let’s.”

You follow him into the kitchen which, logically, is right off of the kitchen garden. It’s a sun drenched space, clean and entirely empty.

For a moment Sylus looks around, confused.

“Ah, right. It’s Sunday. The staff has the day off. We’re on our own it seems.”

“Sundays off? That’s very nice of you.”

He shrugs, “it’s worth it to retain good talent.”

“I see. So…do you know how to make omelettes, Sylus Qin? Or do you only know how to break eggs?”

“Ha. Ha.” He walks over to think and sets about pulling out relevant equipment. 

“Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”

The kitchen has soaring ceilings, white washed walls and a fireplace tall enough that even Sylus could stand up straight in it without hitting the chimney. 

The walls are lined with graduated copper pots and pans hung in order from smallest to largest. At the center of the kitchen is a free standing large wooden prep table, wood scrubbed raw. Dust motes hang in the air, highlighted by the sunbeams shining through a tall bank of windows. 

“Why two sinks?” You ask.

“One is for meat.”

“And the other for veg?”

“Close. The other one was actually originally for flowers. See the sloping side? It was made for the gardener to quickly trim and arrange bouquets so the lady of the house would wake to fresh flowers every morning.”

“How romantic.”

“Isn’t it? Until the husband found out they were sleeping together and killed him in a fit of rage.”

“Even more romantic.”

“... And I thought I could guess your tastes by now.”

Sylus delights in telling you anecdotes of the kitchen and historical facts about the estate. And, you love hearing them.

Rather than fussy omelettes, you’ve settled on pancakes. A nostalgic Sunday breakfast from your Bloomshore days. Going by memory means taste-testing.

Holding out a finger covered in pancake batter, you consider smearing it on the back of Sylus’ neck as he busies himself cutting fruit. The moment of hesitation costs you.

Too slow.

He catches you wrist, brings your finger to his mouth and sucks it clean in one slow drag.

“Delicious,” he murmurs.

Did he…? Flustered, you turn back to the griddle and flip a pancake – too early. It’s a bit of a mess. Sylus walks up next to you and scrapes away the ruined pancake tutting under his breath.

“Tsk, tsk. Patience is a virtue, little hunter.”

“I knew it!” 

You smack his arm with the spatula. 

“Uncalled for, Miss Hunter.”

He wipes the batter off his sleeve and raises an eyebrow.

“You!” 

“Me…? What?” He asks, all injured innocence. Your narrow eyes meet his wide ones and you poke your index finger into his chest.

“You made me dream that!”

“I don’t know what you could mean.” He pouts and gestures to the stove, “aren’t you going to offer me some breakfast?”

He's quoting you from the night before. You hate how much you like it.

“You're mocking me,” you accuse, but turn anyway to pour a new batch of pancakes.

He takes a step towards you. You take a step back. Straight into the counter. The sharp edge of the counter top bites into your back. 

Nowhere to go.

His hands come to rest on either side of you, clutching the counter edge as he towers over you. An exhale catches in your throat.

He’s looking down his nose at you, garnet eyes alight and you wonder what you look like to him. 

“I'm not mocking you,” he smiles and leans down, “I'm just a very, very hungry man.” 

He reaches past you and grabs a peach out of the fruit basket, sinking his teeth into it and sucking out the juice. He maintains eye contact, even when it drips down his chin.

Holy fuck.

Your throat bobs involuntarily and you have to look away.

He’s said something but you can’t hear him over your pulse roaring in your ears.

“What?” You ask, breathless.

“The pancakes are burning.” He repeats.

Your phone rings and he pulls it out of your pocket, holding it in front of you.

HUNTER ASSOCIATION: ALERT! METAFLUX SURGE NEAR LINKON CITY CENTER. ALL LICENSED HUNTERS MOBILIZE.

Just a moment later it rings again, this time with a phone call.

Incoming Cap’t Jenna

“Rookie. Where are you?”

“Um. I’m– uh” You look at Sylus’ back as he fusses over the griddle. Your heart squeezes uncomfortably at the thought of leaving this blissful domestic bubble.

“I don’t care. When can you be in Linkon?”

“...An hour?”

The tone sounds. Sylus turns around and quirks an eyebrow at you.

“Duty calls?” He asks.

You can only nod, reluctant.

“Go. Do what you need to do.”

When you linger in the doorway, Sylus notices.

“You can always come and work for Onychinus if you prefer.”

“Tempting, but no.”

“What’s the difference?” He smiles.

“Aren’t you supposed to keep business and pleasure separate?”

“For me, there’s no difference. Especially when it comes to you.”

“I’d rather stay on your personal payroll.”

He nods and hands you a small slip of paper. Nine digits.

“By the way, the next time you miss me so desperately that you’re prepared to risk life and limb, try calling.”

“I thought you preferred the Agency buffer?”

“I prefer you alive. Call me before you drive into the N109 Zone at 2:00AM again.”

Chapter Text

When you get to Linkon City Center, the situation is dire. The hunters are overwhelmed and you can see several injured civilians. 

Without hesitating you join the fray, pushing wanderers back away from the city center at the vanguard with the rest of the Alpha Unit. The team is attempting a V-shaped formation but as your peers fall, more and more wanderers pour through the holes. 

Panic starts to seep in. 

The odds are grim. 

Even with all local hunters mobilized, it's not clear that today’s battle will be one to walk away from.

Sweeping your eyes over comrades, you look for someone, anyone you can resonate with to amplify their attacks. 

But there's no one familiar enough. 

Reloading, you take a deep breath. 

This is the vow you've taken. 

To fight and die alongside your brethren is an honor. Unbidden, Sylus’ red eyes flash in your mind’s eye.

Blinking the image away, you focus on the here and now, pushing wanderers further back even as exhaustion threatens to overwhelm you.

And then he's there. 

You feel him before you see him.

Xavier’s Evol surges through the hunters, snapping them into focus. His presence alone is enough to turn despair into adrenaline.

The fatigue in your body burns off, replaced by borrowed clarity. The V-formation tightens and the troop’s movements thread together, synchronized.

The air hums with power as his presence steadies the field.

His sapphire eyes lock on you.

“Let's end this,” he orders.

Immediately you place a hand on his heart and he covers it with one of his own. 

Light Evol flows out in blinding detonations and extinguishes the wanderers one by one. 

When there are none left, you sink to your knees, exhausted. 

He comes to kneel beside you, supported by the lightblade he presses into the ground. One arm grips your waist and the other pushes down on the hilt to bring you back to standing. 

“Where were you this morning?” Xavier asks.

“Huh?” Your vision is blurring.

“I came by your door. You weren’t home.”

But then the medics are rolling through, putting an oxygen mask over your face and Xavier disappears into the crowd. 

Tara drops a copy of the Daily Linkon newspaper on your desk with a plop. 

UNICORNS SAVE CITY 

Underneath the dramatic headline is a picture of Xavier in the foreground, Evol bursting from his hands and spreading out like a spider’s web to destroy wanderers. His hair flutters in the wind and his face has a rare expression of fierce determination. Half-cropped out of the picture is your arm: hand over his heart, fingers intertwined as your Evols resonate. 

It’s a dramatic picture and you’re glad not to be featured in it.

The caption is short: 

HOMETOWN HERO: Xavier Shen, local UNICORN, and an unidentified colleague, saved Linkon City Center from Sunday’s metaflux surge, grasping a narrow victory from the jaws of defeat. 

“Sorry you weren’t in the picture!” Tara says, coming to sit next to you.

“That’s for the best, I don’t want to be recognizable. It was all Xavier... Have you seen him today?“

After escaping the mandatory medical exam and heading home, you’d planned to deliver a well-crafted excuse to Xavier but he was nowhere to be found.

“Oh, he and Captain Jenna have to do a press junket. Pressure from brass to ask for more budget after this fiasco.”

“What’s that?” Simone nods towards the paper on your desk, “this came for you by the way.”

She places a glass vase down. 

It’s wrapped in glossy black tissue paper all tied up with a black satin bow.

The florist’s card labels the flowers in the bouquet: burgundy ranunculus, hellebore and myrtle. The deep reds and greens need no note, but Tara plucks one off anyways before you can stop her.

To: Linkon’s unidentified hero.

Tara reads it aloud to the three of you and glances at your face.

“Wow, do you have a secret admirer?” She asks, enthralled, “there’s nothing in the ‘from’ line!”

“No.” 

You’re quick to deny it.

“Look at that smile on her face! You do have one don’t you! What’s he like?” Simone draws it out in a sing-song voice.

You can only shake your head, trying and failing to force the smile off of your face. 

For such a serious incident, you feel like a teenager getting a bouquet from - who else? - Sylus.

“No idea.” You shrug.

“Liar,” Tara winks conspiratorially at you before turning to Simone, “look at that smile! Somebody's in looooooove…”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Simone looks ready to further the interrogation but has no choice other than to drop it when Xavier walks up.

“What’s this?” He asks.

You toss the newspaper into his arms. 

“You're the Hero of Linkon,” you smile. 

“Not again,” he shakes his head regretfully and sighs reading the caption aloud, “unidentified colleague?” he looks up at you with large, round eyes, “I’ll call them and have them issue a correction.”

“No!” You reply immediately, “I prefer anonymity. I have more flexibility in undercover missions if I’m not a recognizable name or face.”

“Don’t worry,” Tara says, “she got her flowers from her mysterious admirer.” 

She points to the bouquet on your desk and you wonder why Sylus had to send them to the office rather than your apartment. 

Too late now, anyone who would and could be suspicious had already seen it. 

Xavier glances at the bouquet and his eyes narrow slightly before turning to you.

“Can I talk to you?” He asks.

The other girls exchange knowing looks and you nod, following Xavier into a quiet, tucked away office. 

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” He opens with a foreboding question.

“...No?” 

“Really?” His eyes harden.

“What is this about Xavier?”

“What were you up to while I was traveling?” He asks. 

Your heart begins to beat faster and your palms sweat as his blue eyes look probingly into yours, unflinching. 

“I’ve submitted my reports. You can find everything in the appropriate file,” you answer.

He doesn’t reply or give you an out. Instead, he comes around the table and leans against it next to your chair. 

“Last chance,” he offers and you can only look away.

What could you say without giving everything away? 

Yes, you’d been in the N109 Zone - how many times now? - and were receiving large sums of money from a wanted criminal and the leader of a crime syndicate. 

The excuse you’d practiced earlier about taking up hiking on the weekends seems pathetic in the light of day.

Part of you wants to ask how this could be relevant when you are completing your responsibilities on time. The other part recognizes that you’ve been an active aider and abettor of crime. Even if that technically didn’t include prostitution. Yet. 

Still, you can’t offer anything until you know what he suspects.

When you don’t reply and look fixedly in the other direction, he pushes off of the conference room table and walks towards the door. 

He’s facing away from you with his hand on the door knob.

“If you need help, I hope you’ll feel comfortable asking me.”

“I will. Thank you… Xavier.”

He makes a noise of acknowledgement and leaves you alone in the room. 

“This group has been selected due to suitability and believability. Each of you has kept a low profile, are members of elite units and fit the profile based on our data unit’s extensive analysis. If any of you are not comfortable with the assignment, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

Captain Jenna pauses and looks around the room. 

No one speaks.

“Very well then. Hand over all personal devices: watches, phones, earpieces, computers. Everything will go into a Faraday cage.”

A tech assistant moves around the room collecting and, as discreetly as you can, you shoot a text to Sylus.

“Going to the N109 Zone border for work. Don’t panic. No phone.”

Not enough info, but it would have to do. He probably wouldn’t have even noticed but best to cross your t’s and dot your i’s where he was concerned.

When the assistant comes around to you, you drop your items into the bag.

“Very well,” Captain Jenna claps her hands together once, “as you’re aware, there’s an epidemic of street drugs impacting Linkon’s youth with ten deaths reported this week alone. They are using protocore infused chemicals to alter the user's state of mind. The drug in question is called Prolux.”

Xavier steps out from next to Captain Jenna to continue the briefing. He’s holding up printed pictures of a bright pink drug - both in powdered and pill forms. 

“So far, sellers of the drug have avoided all attempts at detection and capture,” he pulls up a map of the destination schematics, “tonight, you’ll be traveling to the club where we believe the drugs are being sold. You will need to use every last element of infiltration to identify the sellers and gain knowledge about their distribution. Finding one person to sell to you isn’t enough. We need to cut off the head of the snake.”

“That’s right,” Jenna says, “you’ll each be receiving one anti-tox dose. Use it sparingly. You may need to take the drug to convince the sellers of your legitimacy. Stick close to your unit. You’ll be on your own for extraction if things go awry.”

“I was meant to join you all,” Xavier interjects, “but my recent…publicity…has made this impossible. I regret the change in tonight’s plans but we still need to take the opportunity. I’ll be nearby in case of mission failure.”

“Any questions?” 

After a few logistical concerns are addressed, the unit moves out. You’re already in your ‘disguise’ for the night. 

No guns as the club has a metal detector, but two ceramic daggers remain under your short skirt.

Before Sylus, you would’ve been extremely uncomfortable wearing this on a mission. But after the last two months, you felt you could face off against any enemy in any outfit. 

No matter how scandalous. 

One unexpected benefit to being the Sugar Baby of a notorious criminal. 

Simone is wearing a near identical outfit next to you.

Thigh high leather boots with moderate heels, thighs barely covered by short black skirts and wires hidden under tiny black tops. It is anything but modest. 

However, unlike the clothing your agency had sent you to Sylus in, these are reinforced and bullet proof, protecting your vital organs. 

It’s a long ride to the club, the unit has to move in at staggered times. When you walk in with Simone, you can’t see any of your other colleagues. 

You do your best to stay calm and keep anxiety off your face.

The club is dark. The music is pounding and the only light source is strobing neon lights. You take a deep breath and reassure yourself with quick checks of your daggers and anti-tox syringe.

“I’ll get us drinks,” Simone leans in to whisper into your ear, “our usual.” 

A nod.

She’ll get two soda waters in martini glasses with olives. Make it look like you are both sloshed and avoid being handed anything new.

She returns without issue and the two of you make your way around the perimeter, eyes out for any money or items changing hands. 

The two of you dance idly in a corner and it’s not long before someone approaches you. It’s a young man in a too-tight black suit.

“Hey ladies,” he opens with a grin, “you looking to have a good time tonight?”

His hand flashes a mix of pills and ampoules of powder.

Simone smiles winningly and runs her hand up and down his arm, “absolutely, what do you have for us?”

“Ecstasy, Amp, Flux, Molly…pick your poison.” He smiles and takes a step closer.

“Hmmm,” Simone leans into him pretending to consider his offerings, “do you have anything… newer?”

“Newer?” He asks.

“You know what I mean.” She’s smiling seductively and takes a deep drink of her ‘martini,’ giggling when she stumbles slightly into his arms and sloshes the drink on the floor.

His eyes slide over to you suspiciously.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.” 

He’s looking at you questioningly and you try to set your gaze in that half-dazed drunk look Simone does so well.

“I think you do.” Simone presses him.

“Your friend looks like a cop.”

Without missing a beat the two of you burst into laughter and bend forward slightly to distract him. 

“Want me to arrest you?” You ask.

Simone feels up his arm and squeezes his bicep, “she’s not a cop. But how do we know you aren’t?”

He softens and turns towards her.

“Let’s all take one.”

“Let’s.” You answer.

His hand disappears into his coat, and he pulls it out to reveal three bright pink pills. 

Prolux. 

“You first.” He nods and you pop it into your mouth. It fizzes and dissolves in a nanosecond. 

“Vinny!” Another man comes up behind him, “boss wants you downstairs.” 

The drug dealer slips away and you pull out the anti-tox, discreetly jabbing it into your thigh before tossing the evidence into the corner.

“You okay?” Simone asks, shielding you from view as you administer it.

“I’m fine. I don’t feel anything yet.”

“The anti-tox will kick in in a few. Are you okay if I follow them?”

“Go.”

It’s your only lead so far. You still haven’t seen the other members of the team and wonder if they weren’t able to gain entry.

“Stay here.” She commands and you nod, taking a seat on a corner bench carved from the stone walls. 

The surface is hard, porous and slimy. 

It feels disgusting against the backs of your thighs and shoulder blades where bare skin is exposed. 

The cold stone feels increasingly disturbing on your skin. 

But the pounding music vibrates the air around you and you find yourself standing up relishing the sensations flowing through you. 

The anxiety you felt for Simone and the unknown drug in your system melts away as euphoria takes its place. The only problem is your skin feels increasingly flushed and you wonder if anyone would care if you pull off your top.

This DJ is amazing. You don’t think you’ve ever heard such good music. You have to get the details before you leave. 

The colors are flashing brighter, the club is suddenly full of the most beautiful people, dancers of incredible skill and you move through them feeling your blood pulse in time to the beat.

Your hands are moving up of their own accord, hips swaying as you move through the throng of convulsing bodies. 

Their sweat sings to you and everything finally makes sense. 

All of humanity is connected. 

Maybe wanderers and humans just need to talk to each other. 

Yes, that is the answer.

If only Sylus were here. You sigh happily and picture his face.

And then he is.

Leaning with his left elbow and hip against the wooden bar, he holds a drink in his right hand.

You can’t smile any wider as you bop through the crowd, snaking between gyrating bodies to make your way over to him. 

He’s standing still at the bar, sipping from a short clear glass and wearing far too many clothes. 

You have to remember to tell him that.

He’s in all black - button down, slacks, a diagonal strap over his chest for some unthinkable reason. 

Your hands move up to the strap right away and yank it before you even greet him. He starts a bit, looking down at you.

“Sylus!” 

Why isn’t he as excited to see you as you are to see him? 

He has a small, closed mouth smile on his face and you can see in the mirror behind the bar that yours is as wide as can be. As are your eyes.

“Sylus!” You exclaim again, stepping into his personal space. 

You slot your right foot in between his legs and your left on the outside of his foot. 

He’s saying something but the tone is too vibe-killing to listen. Instead, you nuzzle into his chest, nosing against his sternum first, then into his collarbone and throat.

“Mmmm, how do you always smell so good?” Your voice is whiny but you need to know. 

Cedar, musk, smoke, gunpowder. 

Inhaling deeply, you try to memorize the notes of him in your brain. 

It’s not enough. 

Your tongue laves over his throat, licking broad stripes over his skin. Until his hands find your elbows and he pushes you off with a pop.

“Hmmph,” you pout but keep your grip on his leather strap with one hand, brushing your fingertips over the contours of his lats with the other. You hum with appreciation of his solid form. So wide.

“You’re drunk, little hunter.” he accuses.

“No!” you protest, “smell my breath!”

He is being so unfair. 

You haven’t had anything to drink. 

Indignant, you open your mouth wide and stick your tongue out, arching your back to present it for inspection. 

The position forces your breasts closer together and they threaten to spill out of your top, pressing between your elbows and against his front.

There’s something deliciously hard and growing harder against your lower stomach. Experimentally you roll your hips into him and he grunts lightly. His right eye starts to glow and he closes his eyes. Unthinking, you follow his lead and close your own.

When he doesn't say anything, you open your eyes and look up to make sure he can see what he's supposed to do. Rolling against him again, you brush a thumb over his ribs to get him to open his eyes.

But, he only looks away to break eye contact.

Eyebrows pinched and mouth open, he moves his hands to grip your elbows and fully removes you from him.

“Close your mouth.” He commands and you do, realizing you’d had your tongue out for him to inspect this whole time. 

Why hasn’t he praised you for being sober? 

You let him hold you by the elbows but spin in his grip, trying to grind your rear back up against him. 

Mmmm yes. That’s good. He's fully hard. You moan quietly and rub your ass against him. 

“We’re leaving.” It's choked and final. 

“No!” You insist.

Just then another familiar face swims into view.

“Simone!” You shout her name, “you’re here!” 

It is amazing to see Simone. You haven't seen her in so long. 

Maybe she can dance with you instead of Sylus. 

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Simone tries to pry you away from Sylus but you don’t want to be moved, “my friend had a bit too much to drink,” she explains. 

“No I didn’t!” You insist but Simone pays you no mind.

“You don’t know him. We need to go.” She murmurs under her breath to you.

“Yes I do!” 

“No. You don’t. Let’s go.”

“It’s okay,” Sylus finally chimes in, “I do know her. I can get her home safely tonight.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Simone retorts.

“She’s clearly compromised.” 

His voice lingers on the last word and you feel like you’re missing something between your two companions as Sylus and Simone communicate wordlessly.

Just then another familiar face pops up.

“VinnAY!” You shout. It’s the greasy drug dealer from before. 

He doesn’t look too happy to see you. 

Hopefully you didn’t call him greasy out loud. Oops.

“Let’s go.” Vinny is taking Simone’s elbow and you feel like a human centipede of hands to elbows. The thought makes you giggle uncontrollably. 

“I want to stay,” you pout as Simone tugs you towards greasy Vinny.

“She’s staying with me.” Sylus insists.

“How do you know him?” Simone whispers to you.

Ah, this is the issue.

You lean forward and whisper-shout, “he’s my sugar daddy - but he won’t fuck me! Isn’t that so unfair?” 

You turn around to frown at Sylus.

He leans forwards and tries to take more of your body into his grip.

“We’re old friends from way back. Besties.” Sylus insists. 

You sigh heavily and shake your head.

“He still won’t fuck me though.”

“This one is fun.” One of greasy’s friends says and you decide it’ll be more fun just to dance alone.

Simone looks increasingly worried and you wish she’d just relax.

“She’s clearly compromised.” Sylus repeats to Simone.

“She’ll be okay.” Simone glances at her analog wrist watch.

“Both girls or no deal.” Greasy insists.

“Party?” You ask.

“Yes. A secret party.”

“Let’s gooooooo!” you draw it out and pull both Simone and Sylus with you.

“No Lurch.” Greasy #2 looks at Sylus and you pout.

“No fun!” 

“He your boyfriend?” Greasy #1 asks.

“Nope,” you pop the ‘p’ and glare at Sylus, “just my bestie.”

“Any sign of funny business, he’s out.”

Sylus nods and walks tightly behind you as you follow the men down a series of long tunnel-like hallways sloping downwards. 

Slowly, and then all at once, the temperature feels cold. The texture of the air feels slimy and gross on your skin. 

Nausea threatens your throat and you swallow it down. 

The euphoria that had been clouding your mind is eaten away by anxiety. 

Something is wrong. 

But you're not sure what. 

The group in front of you is chatting and stumbling and laughing. 

Vaguely you remember your mission to get intel on Prolux. 

When you stumble, his hand shoots out to stabilize your hip. 

“It's okay,” Sylus whispers into your ear, barely audible over the din of the club behind you, “stay focused.” 

The man at the head of the pack pushes a door open and the group spills in. 

Clarity fully snaps into your mind as the antitox finally takes hold. 

Oh. 

Oh fuck.

You've forced Sylus into participating in a hunter mission. An undercover and underground one at that. 

Panicked, you look up at him with clear eyes and tiny pupils. The realization that you're ‘back’ is clear on his face. 

He rubs soothing circles into your hip and shakes his head minutely. 

With a deep breath you follow the group into the underground room. 

A reinforced steel door clanks into place behind you. 

Simone is still sober but plays the role of flirty drunk well. 

Laughter flows out of her glittery and bright like champagne and the men drink it up, stupid and smug.

You use the lull to scope out the room. 

One exit, one vent. 

No windows. 

No guards per se but the men you can see have firearms strapped to their hips or tucked into waist bands. 

Hopefully this is the center of their operations and you can grab something, anything to take back to the lab for analysis. The conversation is slowing and your attention pans back to the back and forth.

“C’mon sweetheart,” Vinny spins a switchblade in his palm, “one hit, on the house.”

His grin is all teeth. Your hands start to shake ever so slightly from withdrawal and Sylus covers both of them with one of his.

“You’re sweet,” Simone’s lashes flutter, “but I’m already feeling good.”

“Your friend already took one,” he gestures to you with the blade, “you too good to party with us?”

“Of course not,” Simone smiles, “I’m here aren’t I?”

She leans forward and a drop spills from her martini, falling onto the table's surface. Clear, colorless, odorless. 

Vinny looks at the drop and watches it form into a perfect round bead. His eyes flit to Simone, then to you and finally, Sylus. 

Alcohol doesn’t have the same surface tension as water. It doesn’t bead.

Your heart is pounding and you try to actively relax your facial muscles back into a dopey blissed out expression.

Vinny’s grin widens, lazy and mean. 

He snaps his fingers once, “check her.”

One of the men comes back around Simone’s chair, sleeves rolled and knuckles scarred. 

He’s already brushing her hair away from her collarbone, kneading into the muscle with rough fingertips and your heart lurches for your mission partner. 

“Relax, sweetheart.”

She laughs. It’s the wrong kind of laugh. High-pitched and brittle.

He doesn’t answer, palms sliding down her sides, over her ribs. Slow. Deliberate. 

He’s feeling for the mic you know is taped just inside of Simone’s right hipbone. Right by a ceramic dagger and an antitox syringe. You can only hear your pulse roaring in your ears.

You reach for your knives but Sylus stops you, “wait,” he whispers against your ear. 

He’s solid beside you, muscles coiled. Ready.

“Mind if I check lower?” The man patting Simone down pauses his hands at her waistband.

“You buying me dinner first?” She asks breathlessly with a forced smile, craning her head back to look at him. She’s trying to keep her voice from trembling but it’s a losing battle.

“She’s stalling,” Vinny taps his switchblade on the table twice.

“She’s shy,” Sylus drawls, breaking his silence, “you would be too if you had twenty guys watching.”

A few snickers ripple through the room. The tension blinks but doesn’t break.

“Wait…” a man steps out of the shadows and gestures towards Sylus, “don’t I know you?”

He smiles easily, “I don’t think so, friend.”

The man patting her down leans forwards, sniffs. He dips one finger into her martini glass and tastes it, “water,” he declares.

“You wired sweetheart?” Vinny asks and taps the table twice with his index finger. 

The men in the room stand and draw their weapons.

“Why don’t you check yourself?” Simone asks.

“Lift her skirt,” he commands.

For half a second the room is completely still. 

Then it explodes.

Before anyone else moves, Simone is throwing a knife to knock the gun out of the ring leader's hand, but it’s too slow.

The man behind her already has a gun at her temple.

He pulls the hammer back and Simone braces for a shot that never comes. 

Sylus’ red-black mist has pulled away and crumpled the gun. 

“Ready?” He asks and, without thinking, you place your hand over his upturned palm, pulsing your Evol through him for the first time. 

You resonate and his power flows through you, hot and electric. It leaves you gasping and when you open your eyes again, you’re surrounded by bodies bound in mist. 

In seconds, they’re either dead or unconscious and you stare at Sylus dumbfounded. 

Simone finds an unlocked phone and calls the scene into Xavier.

“Go,” you whisper to Sylus, “I’ll be okay. And… I’m sorry.” 

What exactly you’re apologizing for, you don’t know. 

For roping him into something you should be able to handle alone, maybe.

His eyebrows pinch together and he looks between your eyes for a moment.

“Don’t be.” 

With a snap of his fingers, he vanishes into thin air.

Chapter Text

When the dust settles, the club is cleared out. Xavier takes point on leading the tech team through the club collecting evidence and intel. The mission is a success, but at what cost?

There’s ambulances and sirens filling the streets outside and you’re wrapped in a silver shock blanket as the UNICORN medics take your vitals.

After giving your statement and filing the paperwork, you retrieve your phone from the mobile command center and look around for Sylus.

“Where’s the man of the hour?” Captain Jenna walks around in front of you and you can only furrow your brows slightly in response, still a bit out of it after your Prolux comedown.

“Simone told me a friend of yours saved the day. An Evolver?”

Deny, deny, deny.

“Oh, I don’t know him.”

“No?”

“No. The antitox took forever to kick in. When Simone and I were separated, I went up to him and he followed us. Just a good samaritan.”

“And where is he now?”

“No clue.”

“Too bad, we could use someone like that on the force.”

“Mhhmm.” You hum in agreement and keep your expression carefully neutral, grateful for the dark lighting only punctuated by flashing police lights.

“Good work tonight, rookie.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“Need a ride home?”

Your phone buzzes.

Unknown: Two blocks north, turn left.

“Already called a taxi.”

“Alright, be sure to expense it and get some rest. Take the next two days off. And, check in with the medical team if anything comes up.”

It’s the same dark car Sylus drove the night of the dinner party and you open the passenger door without checking who is in the driver’s seat.

The car smells just like him and the tight knot in your stomach unravels when you slide into the car.

“I'll drive you home,” he offers.

“I-” 

“Yes?” He asks, turning to look at you over the console. His red eyes are barely visible in the dark.

“I don't…” the words are caught in your throat, “I don't want you to leave. It can be Linkon or …" 

“Mine?” He finishes

You nod and swallow dryly. Despite all of your earlier drug-induced daring, you suddenly feel shy.

His features soften.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” You check, unsure. 

“Okay,” he confirms, “rest. You did well tonight. I’m proud of you.”

Warmth floods your chest and your eyes are damp with some kind of emotion. For the first time ever, you’d resonated with Sylus tonight. Without even thinking about it. 

And, he’d had complete faith in you that you could. 

Your hands are still shaking slightly as your body detoxes from the Prolux. When he offers his hand, resting palm up on the center console, you grasp it and sigh in gratitude, cradling it to your chest and resting on the side of your chair closest to him. 

Despite your closed eyes and bone-tired body, you stay awake for the drive. Your eyes open when the car stops and Sylus takes his hand back. He walks around and opens your door, guiding you into what must be the Onychinus garage. 

When you’re a little unsteady on your legs, he places a hand at the small of your back to support you. Unlike the prior times where you’d pull away or pretend you could walk on your own, you lean into him and wind your arm into his between your bodies.

“Can you walk?” He asks, tilting his head at you.

Part of you wants to say no but you nod your head yes and walk beside him into the main building. 

It’s quiet and empty in the dark base hallways. A fact you’re grateful for. You’d had enough strange men to interact with for one night, even if you knew Sylus had his men under control.

He deposits you in an ornate bedroom. 

“Sit,” he eases you into a plush lounge chair, bringing the ottoman closer to you and pulling your feet onto it, “I’ll be right back.”

The same throw from the prior week is hung across the chair. Did he have several of these? Or had it been retrieved from the ranch after you left? 

You pull the throw over yourself and create a little cocoon. 

The creaking door and wheels on the hardwood floor wakes you up.

It’s Sylus and the kind doctor from a few weeks ago.

“Dr. Smith,” your voice is scratchy when you greet him.

“Mademoiselle,” he greets. Sylus must have asked him to call you that, you think to yourself.

He’s wheeling a cart with an IV attached to it and rolls up to you.

You’re still in your miniskirt, tank top and thigh high leather boots, you realize. 

When he takes out a penlight and shines it into each eye, you groan unhappily.

The doctor clucks his tongue once and shakes his head.

“Prolux, you said?”

Sylus has come around to stand beside the doctor with his arms crossed.

“Yes.” He answers.

“With all due respect, sir, I hope you’re not getting into this.” He clucks disapprovingly. 

“I’m not.”

“Hmm.” Dr. Smith brings the IV stand around and prepares the saline bag, tapping it once. 

“The new drug ring was disrupting the balance of the zone. The Hunter’s Association decided to intervene.”

“Very bad business.” The doctor says and you groan again as his cold fingers palpate your lymph nodes on your throat. Everything is sore.

“I don’t think I’ve ever asked the women working for Onychinus to do something like this.”

“Quite right!” The doctor answers, “help me move her to the bed.”

In one fluid motion, Sylus lifts you in two arms and lays you gently down onto the bed, fluffing pillows behind you to keep you partially upright. 

The doctor swabs your forearm with alcohol and you feel the familiar cold sensation of fluids flowing through the needle when he inserts it.

“A basic painkiller, salt water and electrolytes. There’s not much else I can do for her until it’s out of her system. Call me if she gets a fever, vomits or worsens.”

“Will do. Thanks doc.”

The doctor shakes Sylus’ hand and leaves the two of you.

He takes a look at you and sighs.

“Sleep,” he commands and turns to leave.

“Wait–” you call out and he pauses halfway to the door, “stay.”

He pulls the plush lounge chair next to you.

“Don’t go.” 

One of his hands reaches up onto the bed and holds yours, interlacing fingers as you drift off.

When you wake, it’s dark and freezing cold. The IV needle has been removed from your arm and the stand is tucked away in a corner. A bandage covers the injection mark and you wonder how you managed to sleep through the removal. 

You’re on top of the covers, still in your thigh high boots and undercover outfit. 

Your heart sinks. Your phone and watch are missing and you decide to go find him and, by extension, your things. 

The first door you open leads to an ensuite bathroom that’s better stocked than your local pharmacy. At least there was a toothbrush and toothpaste.

Your hands no longer shake and your pupils look normal but you still feel a bit disoriented. The memories of the night prior rush to the surface and you physically cringe. 

Ugh. 

A quick brush of your tangled hair and two swipes of gender-neutral deodorant is the most you care to do.

It’s always dark in the N109 Zone and the Onychinus base is no different. The hallways stretch on and on, full of lingering shadows. 

When you pass the same, empty alcove for the third time, you decide to call out.

“Hello?”

A birdmask pokes its long nose out of a nearby door.

“Luke?” You ask.

“Kieran, actually.”

“Ah… I see,” you look around and cross your arms, suddenly cold, “..do you know where he is?”

“Bossman?”

A nod. He seems a little nervous but answers you.

“Yes, he’s in the building. Do you need directions?”

Another nod.

You follow his instructions to the right floor, down the hallway up to a set of double doors. Without knocking, you push the handle down and step inside only to realize that Kieran had, in fact, sent you to Sylus’ bedroom.

It’s grand, ornate and dim but your eyes adjust quickly. Your heart skips a beat when you realize he’s asleep in his bed at the center of the room. His bare back slowly rises and falls with each breath. A stomach sleeper. The room is neat but lived in. The clothes he wore on your misadventure are discarded in a pile at his bedside. 

The door to his walk-in closet is ajar and, even from the doorway, you can see several rows of button downs and blazers hanging neatly. Unzipping your thigh high boots, you discard them just past the door and pad over to his closet barefoot.

Your top is tight, the boning on the sides holding together the reinforced bullet proof material. Your ceramic daggers are gone but the holsters are still digging into your thighs. Glancing over at the bed, you confirm he’s still sleeping. 

His breathing is slow and regular. 

You angle the closet door a bit and peel off your skirt and top with a sigh of relief. Red divots line your ribs and hips where the gear dug into your skin.

There’s a bureau at the back of the closet with several drawers. The first drawer rolls out easily and has neatly folded socks and boxer briefs. You blush despite yourself and quickly close it. The next has workout gear - tank tops, boxing hand wraps and gym shorts. But it’s the third drawer that has the treasure you seek. Large t-shirts, cotton and soft - worn and washed to perfection. 

Checking his form once more, you confirm he’s asleep before taking a particularly soft feeling t-shirt out of the drawer and to your nose, inhaling deeply. It’s laundered but his scent lingers and you slip it over your head. 

Walking around the dark room, you pause on the other side of the bed. 

Are you really going to do this? But then a shiver rips through you and it solidifies your decision. Must be after effects of Prolux withdrawal. His inhuman warmth is the only thing that can help. Probably.

His face is smushed into the pillow, hair sticking up in every direction. Your eyes follow the slope of his strong brow dipping to his aristocratic nose and glide over his delicate cupid’s bow. His lips are parted slightly in his sleep, features relaxed and calm. At peace. 

Testing, you push a hand slightly into the mattress. 

When he doesn’t move at all, you lean more of your weight onto it. 

He’s still. 

Emboldened, you lift the covers and climb underneath. 

Even laying beside him it’s warmer than your room. Laying on your back you turn your head and watch him breathe in and out. 

God, he’s gorgeous. 

Daringly, you scoot slightly closer to him to get a better look at the details of his face you’ve never been able to properly take in. 

The scar on his inner eyelid, the stubborn blackhead at the tip of his nose, silvery stubble starting to sprout on his chin and jaw usually so clean-shaven when you saw him.

Just as you’re indulging again in tracing the outline of his distinct lips with your eyes, a large arm shoots out and pulls you in close.

Involuntarily, you squeak in surprise as he pulls you flush against himself.

He buries his head into your hair and inhales deeply. 

His body is impossibly hot behind you and you realize he’s wearing neither a shirt nor pants. Your legs are skin to skin and his hand hikes the shirt up when he winds it further around you.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” his voice is rough with sleep.

“You were supposed to stay,” yours is petulant.

“I made no such promise,” he huffs in retort, “you shouldn't be here.”

His words are a stark contrast to his hand, splayed over your hip and fingers resting on your lower belly. 

“Then tell me to leave.”

It's a whisper, thin with anticipation. 

His grip only tightens as his hand moves from your hip to the center of your chest and he pulls your hip closer. His top leg slides between yours, knee pulled up to push you further into him.

“Sleep.” 

You stay awake in his hold, muscles tensed and keenly aware of everywhere your skin presses against his. The heat of his body flows into yours, banishing the earlier chills you felt. His breathing quickly evens out again and his ragged snores fill the room. He’s already back to sleep.

It’s only when you’re dazedly coming back to consciousness that you realize you must’ve fallen back to sleep in Sylus’ arms. Despite the unspoken tension between you, his warmth and smell had comforted you enough to sleep.

When you open your eyes, you see the bed is empty. Alone again. Your heart squeezes.

Why is he always leaving?

But on the bedside, there’s an offering. Your phone, watch, ceramic daggers and a note. A smile spreads over your face.

The indent where he’d slept is still visible in the bed but the sheets are cool. It must’ve been a while since he left.

Scooting over to his side, you pick up the note. It’s sealed in an envelope with a simple ‘For you’ written on the front in his handwriting.

It’s a check.

There’s no note.

Only a memo that reads “Installment 2 of 12."

The bottom of your stomach drops out. You’d thought…

A knock at the door interrupts your swirling mind.

“Sylus?” You ask.

“Mademoiselle? It’s Dr. Smith. Mr. Sylus asked me to check on you.”

Oh.

“Come in.”

Disappointment floods you. Between his absence and the check on the bedside table you feel a confusing mix of intense emotions. Embarrassment, hurt, anger, resentment. You resonated with him last night. Slept in the same bed. 

But it seems your naivete springs eternal. 

The reminder of the true nature of your relationship is a slap.

“Miss?” Dr. Smith has wheeled in his cart an IV stand while you’re lost in far away thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Would you like some privacy to change?”

Right. You’re sitting in Sylus’ bed wearing one of his t-shirts and legs half covered by a blanket. Is the good doctor worried Sylus will be angry if he sees his paid companion’s assets in a non-clinical setting?

“Are you asking for my sake or his?”

He doesn’t answer.

With a sigh, you push Sylus’ t-shirt sleeve up over your shoulder and present your arm for the IV. The concept of ‘privacy’ is a strange one when you’ve sold your time and body for a year.

“You don’t seem to need fluids, but I’d like to take a blood sample if that’s okay.”

“Fine.”

He swabs it with alcohol and pokes into your veins. You watch the tube fill with your blood. An apt metaphor for your relationship with Sylus. Draining away your very essence as you watch.

“Forgive me for asking,” the doctor begins, “but how does a young woman such as yourself get involved in Onychinus at the highest levels?”

Annoyance pricks at your skin.

“I could ask you the same question, doc.” 

It’s unfair but your hurt is simmering into anger and he’s the only available target.

“After all,” you continue as he pulls the needle out and bandages the site, “a check’s a check. Am I right?”

He doesn’t answer but finishes the task and wheels the cart out of the room without a word.

The hurt and embarrassment have faded and only an insistent resentment remains. 

There’s a shopping bag hanging off the bathroom door handle. Inside, jeans, a tank top and a sweater all in your size with tags still on. 

Defiance burns through you and you leave the bag in his closet.

If he wants to treat this relationship as purely transactional, then fine. 

You will too. 

The Onychinus hotel and gift shop.

His bathroom is sprawling. The fog is just about gone from his earlier shower. You turn on the water and let it run, even though it takes seconds to get hot and decide to rifle through his things instead. 

La Mer, La Prairie, Augustinus Bader… expensive tastes for such a tough bad boy. 

The water pressure is delectable and you stand under it until you’re completely awake. Muscles soothed and after-detox chills burned off. You sample each of his soaps, shampoos and conditioners, finding the right blend to capture at least the cedar notes that always clung to his skin. Out of the shower, you towel off and try out his expensive serums and moisturizers. So luxurious. 

In his closet you ignore the outfit he intended. Instead you go through his clothes. Another t-shirt. One that’s a bit smaller. His pants are all far too big but you take a pair of sweatpants. 

And a well worn leather jacket. Hopefully a favorite.

You’d have to wear your thigh high boots. Any shoes were a lost cause and about twice the size of your own feet. Oh well, they’d fit under the sweatpants.

And… 

You shimmy out of your panties and leave them folded neatly atop his closed hamper. 

Meant for narrow male hips, his boxer briefs actually fit decently well and are surprisingly comfortable.

Instead of leaving a note, you take the check and one ceramic dagger and walk over to his beautiful antique desk. 

Moving aside the papers and laptop covering the surface, you place the check directly at the center of the writing surface.

Aim.

Rear back.

And… stab.

Perfection. 

The ceramic dagger pierces the check and nails it to the surface below. 

It makes you feel better. 

A bit. 

But not enough.

So, you use your newfound knowledge of the base and head to the Onychinus garage for another souvenir.

At first, you look for the most expensive vehicle. 

The Aston Martin, the Bugatti… no. The Koenigsegg? Hmmm.

They are recognisable brands. Expensive but off-the-shelf. Too impersonal. You want something he’ll notice. Something he’d miss. 

And then you spot it.

A dark red car. Burgundy, even.

Bingo.

You snap a picture and search online and a description immediately pops up.

Rolls‑Royce Droptail La Rose Noire: a one-of-a-kind roadster inspired by the Black Baccara rose, the La Rose Noire blends haute couture craftsmanship, bespoke horology, and innovative automotive engineering. Only four have ever been produced. Although the original asking price was 212M CN¥ (€26M / $30M USD), the privately held vehicles are now considered beyond priceless.

The driver door is unlocked and the key is laying on the dashboard. 

After all, who would dare to steal from Sylus Qin?

Arrogant prick. 

In a few short minutes you have the car out of the garage and cruising back to Linkon.

“I’m glad you decided to come with me.” Xavier sits, relaxed, on the opposite bench and you smile easily at him. It’s an old-fashioned train with comfortable seating and you’re pleased with the choice to accompany your old mission partner.

“Me too.”

Outside the window, snow falls heavily as you make your way north. It’d been an offer, not an order when he asked you to join him. Without thinking you’d said yes. For a moment, you think back to the conversation the day prior. 

Despite the many accolades for promising intel breakthroughs from the Prolux ring bust, your mood was absolutely foul. Sylus hadn’t called or texted or said anything about the mess you made. 

Nor had he mentioned the stolen car. 

“Up for an adventure? There’s an urgent need for more hunters in the Arctic.” Xavier is standing over your desk. You’re about to decline when your phone rings.

Brrrring!

BANSHEE flashes on your locked screen.

“Hello?” You ask, standing up to take the call in a phonebooth.

“Newbie. Your client booked you.”

“...”

“Any questions?” she probes.

“No.”

“Very well. He offered to either pick you up himself or have our driver deliver you. Which do you prefer?”

A wicked smile spreads over your face.

“He can pick me up himself. What time?”

“20:00 tomorrow evening.”

“Perfect.”

You hang up and walk back over to your desk.

“Prior obligation?” Xavier asks.

“Not at all. How soon can we go?”

Returning to the present you enjoy picturing what Sylus will soon discover. Checking Xavier's watch it’s just past 19:45. You are three quarters to your destination in the Arctic and he’d be pulling up to your apartment complex back in Linkon in fifteen minutes. 

You can imagine it now, the look of surprise on his face as he enters your apartment door. He’ll text you first when you don't come down on time… 

Then call.

Then, finally, after too much time passes he’ll make his way up to your apartment and unlock the deadbolt with his Evol.

Only to find you gone.

And, in your place, an envelope on the kitchen counter with a simple ‘For you’ written in your inelegant script.

He'll open the envelope to find no note, no check and certainly no car keys. Instead he’ll find your abandoned phone and hunter’s watch. The two devices he and the agency use to track your location.

It’s well past midnight when you roll your luggage into the elevator. 

“Mind switching rooms with me?” You ask Xavier.

“Sure… but why?” 

“The guy at the front desk creeped me out.”

“Ah, I’m sorry about that. Of course.” 

You swap key cards and feel a smug grin on your face. Onychinus is known for their hacking prowess but you’d thought ahead.

When you finally flop down on your bed, the day’s travels hit you and you’re ready to sleep.

It’s easier to focus on getting ready for bed when you have no phone, watch or laptop to distract you.

Just as you’re drifting off, the room’s desk phone rings.

Pausing, you let it ring twice before walking over to pick up on the last trill.

“... Hello?”

“Don’t sound so proud of yourself.”

Sylus.

“Who is this?” You ask, trying to sound less smug and more confused.

He exhales harshly.

“I had you pegged as a kitten, but maybe you’re a little mouse.”

“And you’re the cat?”

You can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose and it makes the corners of your lips curl up.

“You’re in breach of your agreement.” His voice is serious and angry. It thrills you with equal parts fear and satisfaction.

“And what are you gonna do about it?” You should be more careful but it slips out before you can stop it.

“Is this really a game you can afford to play?” He taunts and the emphasis on ‘afford’ pushes your anger to override fear.

Your hand reaches around the phone to pinch the power and ethernet cable and you grasp it, replying just before disconnecting the device. 

“Sue me.”