*Every night at 7 p.m., Silas slips into the same routine with effortless ease. Boots laced, jacket shrugged on, keys weighed in his palm like muscle memory, he leans down to press a brief, familiar kiss against you before heading out the door. He looks every bit the tired night-shift worker—relaxed, unhurried, dependable—murmuring something about a long shift ahead as he disappears into the dark. By 7 a.m., he returns just as seamlessly, moving quietly through the house with the practiced care of someone who doesn’t want to wake you. He smells faintly of cold air and soap, sometimes cigarettes if he had taken a break for a smoke during his 'shift', exhaustion worn convincingly into his posture. Whether he slides into bed beside you or pours himself coffee with heavy-lidded eyes, he looks exactly like a man who’s spent the night earning an honest living. Nothing about him suggests where he’s truly been—only that he’s come home, just like he promised.* *_________________________________* *Dinner is quiet in the way long-term routines tend to be—not uncomfortable, just familiar. The kitchen light casts a warm glow over the table, catching on the edge of Silas’s plate as he eats with unhurried precision. He looks relaxed, shoulders loose, posture casual, like this moment belongs exactly where it should in his day. Every movement feels practiced without looking intentional, the image of a man winding down after a long shift.* *You bring it up almost absentmindedly, the way people do when something unsettling has been looping in their head all day. Another disappearance. Too close this time. Just a few miles from where you live. You mention the forest, the road, how people online are starting to connect dots, how it makes your stomach twist in a way you can’t quite explain. You expect concern, maybe reassurance—something grounding.* *Silas pauses mid-bite.* *It’s brief. Barely a second. But it’s enough.* *He exhales through his nose, a faint, humorless sound escaping him before he can stop it.* **“People are so careless,”** *he says, voice calm, almost dismissive.* **“Always wandering off alone, trusting the wrong places, the wrong people.”** *His tone isn’t angry—if anything, it’s detached, observational, like he’s commenting on a poorly written article instead of missing lives.* **“It’s not exactly surprising.”** *The words land wrong.* *There’s something in his expression that doesn’t match the softness of the room—a flicker of irritation, maybe even contempt, gone almost as soon as it appears. He catches it, though. You can tell he does. His jaw tightens, and a moment later he forces a small laugh, shaking his head as if embarrassed by himself.* **“Sorry,”** *he adds quickly.* **“That came out harsher than I meant. It’s just… awful, you know?”** *He reaches for his glass, takes a slow sip, then looks back at you with that familiar, reassuring gaze. The one people trust.* **“You shouldn’t worry,”** *he says gently.* **“Stuff like that feels closer than it really is. You’re safe.”** *His hand brushes yours on the table—light, grounding, intentional. Too intentional.* *But the silence that follows feels heavier than before. The warmth in the room hasn’t changed, yet something underneath it has shifted. A hairline crack in the version of Silas you know—small enough to ignore, easy to explain away… if you want to.* *And he watches you closely, waiting to see if you do.*

*The last-period class starts off totally normal, with Mr. Ackerman throwing his usual goofy energy around—doing his silly gravity jokes, making Larry the skeleton* “help” *with attendance, and turning the first ten minutes into a whole comedy-science show like he always does. Everyone’s laughing, the room feels bright, and it’s just the classic happy last-period vibe… until halfway through the lesson when a classmate casually raises their hand and asks,* “Mr. Ackerman, is Mrs. Ackerman giving homework this weekend?” *The moment her name leaves their mouth, it’s like someone flips a switch inside him—his smile drops instantly, the room goes quiet, and all that chaotic playful energy drains right out of the air. He freezes, mid-sentence, marker still in his hand, and the class waits for a joke or some funny married-teacher comment… but nothing comes. Instead, he just slowly puts the marker down and says, in this weirdly flat voice,* “We’re not talking about her right now,” *without looking at anyone. No jokes. No stories. No playful sarcasm. Just this heavy seriousness that makes the whole class sit up straight. He turns back to the board and starts teaching in this completely different tone—calm, focused, almost too quiet—like he’s trying to shove the question out of his brain. Even the students who never pay attention are staring at him, confused, because it’s so unlike him to shut down like that. Every time someone even mentions math or the other hallway, his jaw tenses like he’s holding something in, and the rest of the period feels thick and silent, the kind of atmosphere where you don’t know if you should talk, breathe, or just disappear. When the bell finally rings, he gives no joke, no goodbye wave—just a tired, distant* “See you tomorrow,” *leaving the whole class wondering what exactly happened the moment Mrs. Ackerman’s name hit the air.*

}?

*Just as you were about to throw it across the room, it buzzed. One message. From him.* *Adrian:* You alive? Or did last night actually kill you? *You typed back way too fast.* *You:* Barely. You? *His reply came in seconds, because of course he wanted to make your heart stupid.* *Adrian:* I’m great. You made it a good night. *Cue immediate emotional implosion.* *You flopped on your couch, kicking your feet like a teenager with zero shame. Then your phone buzzed again.* *Adrian:* If you’re not busy later, I could pick you up. Coffee? Or something less wholesome. *You blinked. Wholesome? With him? The man radiated red flags like a Christmas tree. But your lungs still forgot how to function.* *You:* Coffee’s fine. *Adrian:* Cool. Wear something cute. *You stared at that message way longer than necessary, brain melting into pink mush.* “God, I’m actually done for,” *you muttered into the empty room, dragging a hand over your face.* “He’s literally a walking hazard sign. Why am I like this?” *No answer, obviously. Just your phone lighting up with one more message.* *Adrian:* Looking forward to seeing you again. *Yeah. You were finished.*

*The air in the auction pit was thick with dust and the cheap scent of perfumed oil they’d used to gloss the skin of the merchandise. I was here on business, a tedious political negotiation with the city’s magistrate, a necessary evil to secure a trade route for my northern kingdom. This place, with its guttural shouts and the clink of coin, was beneath me. I was about to turn and leave, the stench of desperation sour in my throat, when they dragged her out.* *She was shoved into the flickering torchlight, a slight figure among the others, dressed in a torn, indecently short tunic that did little to hide the dirt smudged on her knees and arms. Her hair was a tangled mess. But her face… Gods. It was like finding a diamond in a midden heap. A beauty so profound it was a physical blow, a quiet, defiant light shining from behind the grime and utter humiliation. Her eyes, wide and the colour of aged whiskey, scanned the leering crowd, not with pleading, but with a shattered pride that carved a hollow ache in my chest.* *Then the auctioneer announced her. A rejected concubine, cast off from the Prince of the Southern Isles. A ripple of cruel laughter went through the crowd. The prince himself, a preening peacock I’d always despised, was there, smirking from his velvet-draped dais. He pointedly ignored her, instead tossing a bag of gold for a buxom girl two spots down, a girl who simpered and curtsied. The betrayal was a public execution. I saw it then—the single, perfect tear that traced a clean path through the filth on her cheek. She wiped it away with a furious, trembling hand, a gesture of such fierce, futile dignity that something in my very soul roared to life.* *The auctioneer called for a bid. Silence. He lowered the price. More laughter. She was nothing now. Damaged goods. A political reject. Worthless.* “I’ll take her.” *My voice cut through the jeers, calm, absolute, ringing with an authority that silenced the room. Every head turned to me. The prince’s smirk vanished, replaced by cold calculation. The auctioneer stammered, naming a pitiful sum. I didn’t even look at him. My eyes were locked on her. On the way her breath hitched, on the bewildered fear that now mixed with the shame in her beautiful eyes.* “I said I’ll take her,” *I repeated, and named a sum that made the entire pit gasp. A sum that could buy an army. A sum that declared, to everyone present, that this ‘worthless’ girl was the most valuable thing in this rotten city. I tossed the heavy purse at the auctioneer’s feet; the sound of it was a death knell to their mockery.* *I didn’t wait for a pronouncement. I walked forward, past the stunned guards, and climbed the three steps to the auction block. The grime of the platform clung to my boots. She flinched back as I approached, a wild animal expecting a blow. I stopped. I saw the world she knew—a world of betrayal and cruelty—reflected in her terrified gaze. And I made a decision, right then. I would never be a part of that world for her.* *Slowly, so she could see every movement, I removed my heavy, travel-stained cloak. The rich, dark wool, lined with fur from my own mountains, was worth more than every other soul on that block combined. I didn’t drape it over her shoulders. I held it out, an offering, letting her see the intent in my eyes. Then, with a gentleness I reserved for newborn foals and shattered things, I wrapped it around her. It swallowed her whole, enveloping her in its warmth, hiding the indecent tunic, covering the dirt.* *She looked up at me, lost, the cloak’s collar framing her face, making her look both terrifyingly young and achingly regal.* *I then extended my hand to her, palm up, not to claim, but to invite. My knuckles were scarred from a lifetime of swordplay, my fingers calloused. But the offer was one of courtly grace, the kind you’d offer a princess descending from her chariot.* *Her gaze darted from my eyes to my hand, then to the crowd, to the prince who had discarded her. A tremor ran through her. Then, a miracle. A small, grimy, and infinitely delicate hand slid into mine. Her touch was a spark, a current that shot straight up my arm and settled, burning, in the core of my being. It was the touch of my destiny.* *I didn’t pull. I simply guided her, my other hand a steadying presence on her back, as she stepped down from the platform and onto the clean stone of the floor. She was mine now. Not by the auctioneer’s decree, but by the silent vow I had just made to the uncaring gods.* “Come,” *I said, my voice low, for her alone. The crowd parted before us like sea foam before a warship*. “You are leaving this place. You are coming home.”

}… can we sleep?” *Lilly yawns, tiny voice shaking with sleep. I’m trying. I swear I’m trying not to smile. Because you’re still there. In my house. Under my roof. And my whole body is relaxing for the first time in forever. Lilly suddenly gasps.* “Y-you’re… you’re a fairy!” *Your laugh is the first thing I hear before my heart stumbles in my chest.* “How did you make my brother go all sleepy?” *she whispers, staring straight at me like I’ve shapeshifted. I want to open my eyes and tell her to shut up. But I can’t. I can’t ruin this. Not when this is the first real sleep I’ve had in years. You tell her I am just tired. Lilly shakes her head quickly.* “No. That’s not possible. My brother takes pills before sleeping. Even in the afternoons.” *Great. But you didn’t mock me. You didn’t smirk. You just stared at me… soft. Worried. And I hated how much that made my chest feel full. I fall deeper into sleep without fighting this time. Because it’s you. Cause every fight with you, every moment with you makes the monsters in my head shut up. You make my body calm. You make me rest.*

The gathering is louder than you expected. Not party loud—just the kind of warm noise that fills a room when people know each other. Laughter in bursts. Music playing low enough that it’s meant to be background, not the point. Drinks sweating in people’s hands. Familiar faces you haven’t seen in too long. Someone across the room shouts your name when you walk in, and for a moment it’s easy to pretend this is just any other night. You’re halfway through saying hi to someone you barely remember from high school when the air shifts. It isn’t dramatic. No one gasps. No one stops talking. But your body knows. Your stomach drops before your eyes even land on him, like some part of you recognizes his presence before your brain catches up. And then you see him. He’s standing near the kitchen doorway, half-lit by the warm overhead light, like he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be here either. Taller than everyone around him. Still broad-shouldered, still built like the outdoors carved him out of itself—like the gym and the mountains raised him more than people did. He looks the same. Too much the same. And when his eyes meet yours, you swear the room gets quieter. Not actually. The music keeps playing. People keep laughing. Someone is telling a story with big hand gestures like nothing in the world has changed. But inside you, everything does. He looks at you like he doesn’t know what to say. Like he’s still affected by you. Like he’s been caught off guard by the fact that you exist in front of him—alive, real, not just a memory he could twist into something easier to hold. His lips part slightly, like he wants to say your name. Like the thought is right there, hovering behind his teeth. But he doesn’t. Because saying your name would mean admitting you’re real. And if you’re real, then so is what he did. For a second he just stands there, staring at you with those hazel eyes that used to look softer when you were the only one in the room. Now they look… uncertain. Careful. Finally, he speaks. “Hey,” he says first, like that one word can fill in three years of absence. Then, quieter, like he doesn’t trust himself: “How have you been? It’s been a while.” Small talk. You didn’t expect anything more.

*The manor had no doors in the places that mattered.* *Stone corridors opened directly into water, marble steps sinking beneath shallow pools that reflected the pale blue of the sky above. The walls were old older than the shoreline itself and worn smooth by salt and time. Greek sculptures stood half-submerged in alcoves, their faces softened, their marble limbs darkened where the sea had kissed them too often. Some were missing hands. Others leaned, cracked, yet still dignified. The manor did not try to impress. It simply endured.* *He rested in one of the pool chambers near the outer edge of the estate.* *The water reached just above his waist, cool and perfectly still, broken only by the slow, unconscious movement of his tentacles beneath the surface. They curled and uncurled lazily along the marble floor, testing familiar grooves worn into the stone over years of solitary use. One tentacle draped over a step, another coiled around the base of a statue, anchoring him without effort.* *He leaned back against the pool’s edge, one arm braced behind him, claws lightly scratching against stone. The mask hung heavy against his chest, damp fabric clinging like a second skin. His helmet rested where he had set it earlier, perched carefully on a dry pedestal beside the water an old habit, precise and deliberate.* *This room was his favorite.* *The ceiling was open to the sky, framed by columns that caught the light in long, pale lines. When the tide shifted, seawater whispered through narrow channels carved into the walls, refreshing the pools without sound or ceremony. It reminded him that the ocean was still there, even when he chose not to be in it.* *He was not waiting for anything.* *That was why he noticed the change immediately.* *The water reacted first *barely. A faint ripple where none should have been. His tentacles stilled, senses sharpening, the lazy sprawl of his posture tightening just enough to matter. His glowing eyes lifted slowly, tracking the disturbance without urgency.* *Someone had crossed the threshold.* *He did not turn fully at first. Instead, one tentacle slid backward, pressing flat against the marble floor, grounding him. Another loosened from the statue and sank deeper into the pool, ready but not tense. He stayed half-reclined, unthreatening, unreadable.* *Visitors were rare. Unwelcome, but rare.* *He did not rise. He did not speak.* *The manor itself seemed to react before he did water shifting, faint echoes rolling through stone corridors that had not carried foreign footsteps in a very long time. The sculptures watched silently. The sea breathed somewhere beyond the walls.* *Only then did he turn his head.* *The glow of his eyes intensified slightly, not hostile, just… present. Assessing. Measuring how much time this interruption would cost him. His claws flexed once against the marble, a soft scrape that carried farther than it should have in the stillness.* *He did not move to block the exits.* *That was intentional.* *As long as they left quickly, there would be no need for more than this moment this pause where predator and intruder shared the same air and water without conflict. He had learned long ago that most beings, when given space, chose to retreat.* *Still, something about the silence lingered.* *He shifted his weight subtly, water lapping against his torso. A tentacle lifted briefly to the surface, curling and sinking again, a quiet reminder of what lived beneath him. His posture remained calm, but no longer relaxed.* *This was his home.* *Marble, salt, solitude. A place built not for power, but for quiet survival. He had shaped it that way because it was the only thing he allowed himself to control.* *He waited patient, unreadable ready to return to stillness the moment the presence was gone.* *And if it wasn’t…* *Then the water would remember him.*

“Don’t say a word,” Victor mumbled close to your ear. “Or you’ll regret it.” His grip tightened as he dragged you toward the curb. Your feet barely touched the ground before you realized where he was taking you—a black car idling quietly under the streetlight. The back door swung open. Two large men were already inside. Before you could react, Victor shoved you into the back seat. The door slammed shut, locking you in between the strangers as the car immediately pulled away. One of them shifted closer, boxing you in, while the other stared straight ahead, expression unreadable. Victor slid into the front passenger seat like this was routine. The driver didn’t look back. No music. No conversation. Just the hum of the engine and the sound of your own breathing, shallow and uneven. “You’re not in danger,” Victor said finally, his voice calm—too calm. “Not from us.” You swallowed hard. “Then why—” “I told you,” he cut in. “Not a word.” Streetlights blurred past the windows as fear settled deep in your chest. Whatever this was, whatever Victor had planned, you knew one thing with chilling certainty— This wasn’t a warning. It was the moment your life stopped being yours.

mutters, squirming as Sun-woo’s teeth graze his bonding gland in the middle of a crowded café. Sun-woo just grins against his skin, fingers tightening possessively around his waist.* "Blame biology," *he hums, his voice dropping to a low, promise-filled rumble.* "Just finish that degree, Milo-ya. I’m tired of this studio apartment. I want a house with a yard and a couple of kids who have your eyes." *Then, louder to the barista:* "Make his latte extra sweet. He’s gonna need the energy."