Sylus X Reader - The Month We Lost Chapter 1 ₊⊹ ✞𖤐
Sypnosis: When your protocore syndrome turns terminal, you decide to break up with him to spare him the pain of seeing you fade. How does he react when you do?
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
The argument did not begin as an argument.
That was what made it worse later.
The kind of silence that followed a mission gone wrong. The kind that settled into your bones after too much adrenaline, too much blood, too much resonance burning beneath your ribs.
You returned to Sylus’ penthouse long after midnight, soaked from the rain and still carrying the metallic scent of the N109 Zone on your clothes. The city glittered beyond the glass walls. Beautiful and distant. But inside the penthouse, everything felt too still.
Sylus was waiting. Of course he was. He always did.
He stood near the bar, one hand resting against the counter, crimson eyes lifting the moment you entered. His expression was calm. Deathly calm. But you knew him well enough to see the anger underneath it.
Not loud anger. Not careless anger. Sylus’ anger was quieter than that. Sharper. More dangerous.
“You were supposed to wait for backup.”
You dropped your weapon case near the door.
Your body went cold. You had collapsed. Almost.
Not in front of Sylus, but close enough that Luke and Kieran must have reported something.
Your resonance had spiked violently during the mission. Pain flashed your chest so sharply that for one horrifying second, your knees buckled beneath you.
But you recovered before anyone could make a scene. Or so you thought.
His voice was immediate. Cold. Absolute. His response irritated you instantly. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.
Because there was a message from Zayne sitting unopened on your communicator. Because your chest still hurt. Because you were already scared.
And now Sylus was standing there, looking at you like he could see the problem before you even understood it.
The room grew quieter. The rain battered against the windows. Somewhere below, traffic moved through the city.
Sylus took one step forward.
"What happened out there?"
"Then why did Luke report that you couldn't stand afterward?"
Your head snapped toward him.
"You sent them to watch me?"
"I sent them because I knew something was wrong."
"You sent them because you don't trust me."
"Then what would you call it?"
"I'd call it making sure you came home alive."
The words should have sounded caring. Instead they felt suffocating. Everything hurt. Your chest. Your head. Your fear.
And suddenly Sylus standing there looking at you with that infuriating certainty felt unbearable.
"I'm not one of your subordinates."
"Then stop treating me like one."
"I am treating you like someone I care about."
The answer came too fast. Too honest. And somehow that made everything worse.
Because caring was dangerous. Because if he cared too much, he'd start asking questions. And if he started asking questions—
You didn't know how much longer you could lie.
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Even the rain seemed to pause.
"You care about control."
The temperature in the room dropped. You knew immediately you'd gone too far. But once the wound was opened, you couldn't stop pressing on it.
"Every mission. Every decision. Every person around me. You have to be involved in all of it."
"No, maybe someone should finally say it."
Something dark flashed behind his expression. Not anger. Hurt. Real hurt. But you were already spiraling.
"You think because you can buy cities and armies and information that gives you the right to decide everything."
"And what exactly am I deciding for you?"
"You act like I belong to you."
The room went dead. Completely dead. You immediately wished you could pull the words back. Because Sylus actually flinched.
It was small. Almost invisible. But you saw it. You loved him. Of course you saw it.
The look disappeared quickly. His face becoming unreadable. Dangerously unreadable.
"Then stop acting like I owe you permission every time I breathe."
Something snapped. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough.
The words cracked through the room.
Sylus took another step forward. The restraint he'd been holding onto all night finally beginning to fracture.
His voice rose. Not shouting. But close.
"And you're standing here arguing because I was worried?"
"Stop treating me like I'm fragile."
"Then stop acting like you're invincible."
You glared at each other. Two people terrified for completely different reasons.
"I can take care of myself."
The sarcasm landed like a slap. Your chest tightened.
There it was. The first genuine crack. Sylus's patience finally running out.
"I am tired of watching you throw yourself into situations that could kill you."
"I don't need your protection."
"You just need everyone else to clean up the mess afterward."
The words hit hard. Harder than either of you expected.
You stared at him. Sylus immediately regretted it. You could see it. The instant it left his mouth.
But neither of you knew how to stop anymore.
"Because you act like your life doesn't matter."
The accusation struck directly at the secret you'd been hiding. Too close. Far too close.
Something ugly twisted inside your chest. Maybe because a part of you wondered if he was right. Maybe because you already knew something was wrong with you.
Something permanent. Something fatal. And if that was true—
Then maybe your life really didn't matter as much anymore.
The thought terrified you. So you turned it into anger. So he wouldn’t find out.
"Maybe I'm just tired of living in your shadow."
The words echoed through the penthouse.
Sylus went still. Completely still. The kind of stillness that came before a blade struck.
"You always have an answer. You always have a plan. You always know best. And somehow everyone is expected to follow along."
"You think that's what this is?"
"I think you're used to getting your way."
For the first time all night—
Sylus laughed. It wasn't pleasant. It wasn't amused. It sounded wounded. It sounded betrayed.
"You think that's what I want from you?"
"I don't know what you want."
The answer came out harsher than intended. And that—
That hurt him most. Because after everything. After every fight. Every mission. Every night he'd stayed awake waiting for you.
You still didn't know. Or maybe you refused to see it.
His voice lowered. Dangerously calm.
"I have spent years proving exactly what I want."
You looked away. Because you knew. And because knowing made this harder.
Sylus watched you refuse to meet his eyes. Something inside him finally gave out.
One word. Cold. Exhausted. Final.
You hated how much it hurt. Good. Maybe he hated how much you hurt too.
You grabbed your coat. Sylus didn't stop you. Didn't reach for you. Didn't call your name. That hurt more than the argument itself.
You waited. Just for a second.
Say something. Please. Tell me not to go. Tell me you're still here.
But Sylus remained motionless. Pride holding him hostage. Pain holding him silent.
The elevator doors closed. The sound echoed through the penthouse.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Inside the penthouse. Sylus remained motionless for a long time. Outside, you pressed your hand over your chest and tried to through the pain.
The argument was over. Neither of you had won. Neither of you had said what you actually meant.
The truth remained buried beneath accusations and hurt feelings. Fear disguised as anger. Love disguised as frustration. And somehow, that made it worse.
Neither of you knew that one fight became the first step towards losing everything. And neither of you noticed Mephisto watching from the upper railing.
The crow had been there the entire time. Silent. Still. His red eyes had followed you from the moment you entered, tracking every tremor in your fingers, every shallow breath, every small hesitation before you spoke.
Mephisto was not human, but he knew Sylus better than anyone. He knew the rhythm of his master's anger, the shape of his worry, the texture of his attachment.
He knew the sound of your laugh when you visited the penthouse and pretended you were not happy to be there. He knew the scent of your coat, the cadence of your footsteps, the particular way your resonance always stirred the air.
But tonight, your resonance smelled wrong. It was sharp. Burnt. Unstable. Like a protocore cracking under pressure.
When the elevator doors closed behind you, Mephisto's feathers ruffled. Sylus did not move. He only stared at the closed doors, jaw tight, hurt chaining him in place.
Mephisto looked from the doors to Sylus. Then back again. For once, the crow hesitated. He was Sylus' creature. Sylus' spy. Sylus' shadow.
But something in the air where you had stood still trembled, faint and broken. A trail of dying energy. A warning.
Mephisto launched himself from the railing. Sylus looked up sharply.
The crow did not return to his perch. He flew toward the balcony, wings slicing through the cold penthouse air.
Sylus called again, firmer this time. Still, the crow did not stop. The balcony doors opened to the storm, and Mephisto vanished into the rain.
Sylus stood alone in the penthouse, watching the place where his crow had disappeared. His expression hardened. It felt, absurdly, like another betrayal.
But beneath the irritation, something else moved. A quiet unease.
Because Mephisto did not disobey him without reason.
And somewhere far below, you stepped out into the rain, unaware that the first creature to understand something was wrong had already chosen to follow you.
The next morning, you woke up alone. The empty side of the bed hurt more than your chest.
For one disoriented second, you reached toward the space beside you, expecting warmth. Expecting broad shoulders. Expecting crimson eyes half-hidden beneath sleep.
Instead, your fingers touched cold sheets. Reality returned all at once.
The argument. The silence. Sylus.
Your chest seized. Pain shot beneath your ribs so sharply that you folded forward with a strangled gasp. The room tilted. Your heartbeat stumbled.
Once. Twice. Then raced wildly.
You barely made it to the bathroom before your knees gave out. The tile was cold against your skin.
You sat there for several minutes, one hand braced against the cabinet, the other pressed desperately against your chest as if you could physically hold your heart together.
The pain eventually eased. Not completely. Just enough. Enough for you to stand. Enough for you to realize something had changed.
This wasn't exhaustion. It wasn't mission fatigue. It wasn't stress.
Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
Your communicator sat on the counter. You stared at it.
Sylus's contact remained pinned at the top. A habit formed months ago.
Your thumb hovered over his name. You could almost hear his voice.
The nickname alone made your throat tighten.
For one reckless moment, you considered calling. You imagined him answering on the first ring.
Because he always did. No matter how angry he was. No matter how stubborn. No matter how badly you'd hurt each other. Sylus always answered.
Your finger trembled. Then the memory came back.
You act like I belong to you.
The look on his face. The hurt. The disappointment. The silence afterward.
Slowly, you lowered the communicator.
And called Zayne instead.
By the time you arrived at Akso Hospital, you regretted waiting.
The pain hadn't returned. That was somehow worse.
Your body felt fragile. Unpredictable. Like a bridge already beginning to collapse beneath its own weight.
The receptionist recognized you immediately. You barely had time to sit before a nurse arrived.
"Dr. Zayne is expecting you."
The nurse's expression was far too sympathetic. Your stomach sank.
Zayne was already reviewing your scans when you entered the examination room. He looked up immediately. The concern in his eyes told you more than any report could.
You hated that. You hated knowing before the words were spoken.
His voice was calm. Steady. Professional. But there was tension beneath it. The kind he only showed when something genuinely worried him.
You sat. The scans began.
Bloodwork. Resonance testing. Cardiac monitoring. Questions. More questions.
Each answer seemed to make Zayne quieter.
The silence stretched for hours. The waiting was unbearable. By the time he finally returned with the results, your nerves were shredded.
The tablet remained in his hands. Unreadable. Like a verdict. You immediately knew you weren't going to like what came next.
Zayne took a breath. Then another. A physician preparing difficult news.
Your stomach dropped. Nobody used your name like that unless something was wrong.
"The abnormalities we observed after your last mission have worsened."
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the examination bed.
"The resonance fluctuations are no longer stabilizing on their own."
His voice remained careful. Measured. Too careful.
"The protocore integrated with your body is beginning to fail."
The words struck harder than you expected. Because some part of you had already suspected it. Ever since the pain started. Ever since the blackouts. Ever since your heartbeat began doing things a heart should never do.
"It means we're entering territory we haven't seen before."
"You don't know what's happening."
Not enough. The unspoken words hung heavily between you. Not enough.
Silence. The worst answer of all.
Zayne looked away briefly. Then back.
"We're going to do everything we can."
Not yes. Not no. Something much worse.
You laughed softly. A broken sound.
"That's not very reassuring."
For the first time that morning, Zayne looked genuinely tired.
The room fell quiet. Outside the window, people continued living their lives. Doctors walked the halls. Patients came and went. The city kept moving. Completely unaware that your entire world had just shifted.
Zayne's expression tightened. The hesitation lasted only a second. But it was enough. Enough to terrify you.
The word felt like ice water. Potentially. Not today. Not tomorrow. But eventually. The possibility now existed. And once a possibility existed, it became impossible to ignore.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. Then one thought surfaced above all the others.
Sylus. Not death. Not fear. Sylus.
You pictured him standing by the penthouse bar. Arms crossed. Eyes cold. Pretending not to care. Pretending the last month hadn't gutted him.
You knew him better than that. You knew exactly what he was doing.
Working longer hours. Sleeping less. Checking his communicator when nobody was looking. Waiting. Just as stubborn as you. Just as miserable.
The realization made your chest ache for an entirely different reason.
Zayne's voice interrupted the silence. Of course he knew where your thoughts had gone.
The answer came immediately. Too immediately. Because you had already thought about it. Already considered it. Already rejected it. If Sylus learned something was wrong—
He would stop at nothing. He would tear apart N109. Threaten researchers. Buy classified data. Break into facilities. Interrogate anyone who even hinted at having a solution.
And if no solution existed—
If this truly couldn't be fixed—
Then he would spend every remaining day trying anyway. Destroying himself piece by piece. The image was unbearable.
The words landed heavily. Because they were true.
That almost broke you. Because for the first time since entering the hospital, the fear finally arrived.
Not fear of dying. Fear of losing him. Fear that the last thing Sylus would remember was the fight. The accusation. The silence. An entire month spent pretending neither of you cared.
You looked down at your communicator again. At the contact still pinned at the top. At the name you couldn't bring yourself to delete.
Your thumb brushed the screen. Just once. Then stopped.
Because if Sylus answered—
If he called you kitten in that low voice—
If he looked at you the way he always did—
You weren't sure you'd have the strength to keep walking away. And suddenly that possibility frightened you far more than the diagnosis itself.
Outside the window, Mephisto clung to the ledge. Rainwater still darkened his feathers from the night before.
He had followed you from the penthouse to your apartment, then from your apartment to Akso.
He had watched you stop twice on the sidewalk to catch your breath. He had watched your hand press to your chest when you thought no one could see. He had watched your resonance flicker weakly around you, no longer bright and sharp but frayed at the edges.
That was what led him to you. Your protocore signature had changed.
Mephisto had been made to track danger, secrets, and signals threaded through the dark corners of N109. He knew the taste of protocore energy. He knew the static of Wanderers. He knew the cold pulse of modified weapons and the dangerous hum of illegal cores.
But yours was different. Yours had always felt alive. Now it felt like something burning itself out.
Through the glass, he could not hear every word. But he saw enough. He saw Zayne’s expression. He saw your fingers tighten around the sheet. He saw your mouth form one small word.
Mephisto pressed closer to the window, claws scraping lightly against the ledge. Inside the room, Zayne looked up.
For one brief second, doctor and crow stared at each other through the rain-streaked glass.
Zayne understood immediately. Sylus’s crow. Watching. Knowing.
Zayne did not chase him away. Maybe because he knew you needed someone. Maybe because he understood that the truth, once witnessed, could not remain buried forever.
When you left Akso hours later, Mephisto followed from the rooftops.He did not fly back to Sylus.
Not yet. Not when your steps were slow. Not when your shoulders trembled.
Not when the dying pulse beneath your ribs left an invisible trail through the city like a distress signal only he could hear.
When you finally left Akso, the sky above Linkon was gray. Rain threatened in the distance. The harbor stretched endlessly before you. Cold. Quiet. Empty.
You should have gone home. You knew that. Zayne had practically ordered you to.
Rest. Hydrate. Return if the pain worsened.
Simple instructions. Reasonable instructions. You ignored every one of them.
Because home meant silence. Home meant the empty side of the bed. Home meant your communicator sitting on the counter with Sylus's name still pinned at the top. Home meant thinking.
And right now, thinking felt dangerous. So you walked.
The city swallowed you whole. People brushed past without recognizing you. Traffic lights changed overhead. Neon signs reflected across rain-slick sidewalks in long streaks of color.
The world continued moving. Your world had stopped.
The medical report remained folded inside your bag. You could feel it there. Heavy. Sharp. Like carrying a death sentence against your ribs.
Advanced Protocore Syndrome. No known cure. Months.
The word echoed through your head. Months.
You had faced Wanderers. Rogue protocores. Experiments. Death itself. None of them had frightened you as much as that single word.
Your chest tightened. You kept walking. One block. Then another. Then another. Until eventually the city thinned and the familiar scent of saltwater drifted through the air.
Without realizing it, your feet had carried you toward Linkon Harbor. You stopped at the edge of the waterfront.
Gray waves rolled beneath darkening skies. Ships bobbed quietly in the distance. The entire harbor felt suspended between moments. Like it was waiting for something. Just like you.
You sat down on a weathered bench overlooking the water. For a while, you felt nothing.
The numbness was almost a relief. Then everything arrived at once. The fear. The unfairness. The diagnosis.
The memory of Sylus standing motionless beside the bar. The look on his face when you told him he cared more about control than love. The look on his face when you said he acted like you belonged to him.
The silence afterward. The realization that if Zayne was right, you had months left. And the last thing you had said to the man you loved was:
Your breathing hitched. You bent forward, pressing both hands over your mouth as the first sob broke through.
That was when Mephisto landed beside you.
The crow appeared soundlessly, black feathers glossy beneath the harbor lights. He hopped onto the bench, head tilting as he studied you with sharp red eyes.
You wiped your face quickly.
He did not move. The absurdity of it almost made you laugh.
Of course Sylus's crow would find you at the lowest moment of your life. Of course something connected to him would see you when you were trying hardest to disappear.
"I'm serious," you whispered.
Mephisto hopped closer. Your chest tightened painfully.
"Don't look at me like that."
The crow made a low sound. Not his usual sharp cry. Something quieter. Almost worried.
You tried to stand, but pain flashed through your chest. Your knees weakened, and the harbor blurred.
Mephisto reacted immediately. His wings beat against your arm as he let out a harsh, panicked caw.
You sank back onto the bench, gasping. The pain passed slowly. Too slowly. When you opened your eyes again, Mephisto was in your lap.
You stared down at him. His claws gripped your coat carefully, not enough to hurt. Almost like he was anchoring you.
"Oh," you whispered. Your voice broke.
Whatever strange connection existed between Mephisto and Sylus, it had always felt impossible to explain. Sometimes you swore the crow understood more than he should.
Tonight, looking into those red eyes, you knew. He knew. Not everything. Not the diagnosis. Not the details.
But enough. Enough to understand that something was wrong. Enough to refuse to leave. Enough to stay. And suddenly that small act of loyalty hurt more than the diagnosis itself.
Because Mephisto was here. Sylus wasn't. Not because he didn't care. Because you'd made sure he couldn't be.
You folded over the crow and cried. Really cried. Not the controlled tears you'd allowed yourself in front of Zayne. Not the quiet tears you'd shed in your apartment.
This was grief. Raw. Ugly. Terrified.
You had months left. Months. And somehow the thing hurting most wasn't death.
It was Sylus. The fight. The silence. The possibility that if the illness progressed quickly enough, the last thing he'd remember was you standing in his penthouse accusing him of treating you like a possession.
The thought made you sick. You buried your face in Mephisto's feathers. The crow stayed exactly where he was.
And for the first time all day, you didn't feel completely alone.
Across the city, Sylus felt restless. He hated that.
Restlessness implied uncertainty. Uncertainty implied weakness. And Sylus had built his entire life around never being powerless again.
Yet for three days, a quiet irritation had followed him everywhere. It sat beside him during meetings. Followed him through N109. Waited for him in the penthouse at night.
The source was obvious. You. He simply refused to acknowledge it.
Every time his communicator lit up, his eyes flicked toward it before he could stop himself. Every time the elevator opened, some irrational part of him looked up. Every time Luke mentioned your name, his attention sharpened immediately.
It was pathetic. He knew it. That only made it worse.
The fight replayed in his head constantly. Not all of it. Just certain moments.
You don't care. You care about control. You act like I belong to you.
The memories lodged beneath his ribs like shrapnel. The worst part wasn't the anger. It was the confusion. Because Sylus genuinely did not understand how you'd reached that conclusion.
Everything he'd done. Everything he'd sacrificed. Every line he'd crossed. Every enemy he'd buried. Had been for one reason.
Not ownership. Not control. Protection. Love. And somehow he'd failed so badly that you'd mistaken one for the other.
That thought bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Because Sylus could tolerate being feared. He could tolerate being hated. He could tolerate almost anything.
But the idea that you misunderstood him?
That one hurt. Far more than it should have. Far more than he would ever admit aloud.
That night, Mephisto did not return. The following night, he didn't return either. By the third night, Sylus stopped pretending it didn't matter.
The crow's empty perch sat near his desk. Waiting. Mocking him.
The same way the empty side of his bed did. The same way the unopened bottle of whiskey did. The same way your absence did.
Luke noticed first. Of course he did. Luke noticed everything when it came to people.
"You know," Luke began carefully,
“She's probably waiting for you to call."
Sylus didn't look away from the city.
The answer was immediate. Absolute. And completely unconvincing. Because the truth was simpler.
If you wanted him, you knew where he was. If you needed him, you would call.
That was what Sylus kept telling himself. The lie became harder to believe every day. Because beneath the pride. Beneath the hurt. Beneath the stubbornness. Something else was growing.
Fear. Not enough to recognize. Not yet.
Just enough to make him stare at the city every night and wonder why the uneasy feeling in his chest refused to go away. Just enough to make him glance toward Mephisto's empty perch one more time before bed.
Just enough to make him think:
Come back. Either one of you. Please.
The thought horrified him. So he buried it. Like he buried everything else.
And outside your apartment window, Mephisto settled onto the railing for another night. Watching. Waiting. Guarding.
Because unlike Sylus, the crow had already realized something terrible was happening.
And unlike Sylus, he had chosen to follow it.
The first week passed in silence.
You did not call. Sylus did not call. Neither of you blocked the other. Neither of you changed the codes, the habits, the countless invisible threads that still connected your lives.
That was the cruelest part. Nothing had actually ended. Everything had simply stopped moving.
The relationship remained suspended between one heartbeat and the next. Neither alive. Nor dead. Just waiting.
You checked your communicator every morning before you remembered you had decided not to reach out. Sylus checked his every night while pretending he had only picked it up for business.
No messages. No missed calls. No apologies. No confessions. Only silence. The silence became its own kind of injury.
Something you carried everywhere. Something that followed you into sleep. Something that sat beside you at meals and climbed into bed with you at night.
During that first week, your symptoms were manageable enough to hide. Manageable enough to lie.
You took the medication Zayne prescribed. You skipped missions whenever possible. You blamed the exhaustion on overwork.
The dizziness on stress. The bruises on training. Everyone accepted the explanations. Everyone except Mephisto.
Mephisto stayed close. Far too close. The crow became your shadow.
He perched on your bedroom balcony while you slept. Followed you to appointments. Watched you take your medication with unsettling intensity.
Once, when you skipped a dose, he stole the bottle from the kitchen counter and dropped it directly into your lap.
"You are absolutely insufferable."
Mephisto looked pleased with himself.
"You learned that from him."
The crow pecked your sleeve. Immediately your chest tightened.
Him. Sylus. His name lived inside your apartment now. Inside your thoughts. Inside the spaces between breaths.
You missed him constantly. The realization was humiliating. Especially since the reason there was anything to miss was because of you. You regret it. But it was too late. In more ways than one.
You missed his voice. His hands. His infuriating habit of noticing things you wanted hidden. You missed the way he occupied space. The way he made danger seem smaller simply by standing nearby. You missed the certainty that if the world fell apart, Sylus would somehow put it back together.
But this wasn't a broken mission. This wasn't a Wanderer. This wasn't an enemy. This was your body.
And for the first time in your life, there might not be anything Sylus could do. That was why you couldn't tell him. That was why you didn’t go back to him. That was the lie you repeated every night. The lie that became easier to believe than the truth.
The truth being that you missed him so badly some nights you almost called. Almost. Never quite.
Because if Sylus answered—
You weren't sure you would have the strength to keep pushing him away.
As the days stretched on, Mephisto became part of your routine. He arrived before dawn. Left after sunset. Returned again.
Sometimes he brought things. A packet of food from a restaurant you liked. A bottle of electrolyte water. A scarf. A pen. Small stolen treasures.
Then one morning he dropped something black into your lap.
You stared. A glove. Sylus's glove. You recognized it instantly.
The expensive leather. The faint scent of smoke. The traces of his cologne. The subtle signs of wear near the fingertips.
Mephisto looked unbearably proud of himself. You laughed once. Then nearly cried. Because the glove still smelled like him.
You should have sent it back. You should have returned it. Instead, you kept it. Then slept with it beneath your pillow.
That was the kind of pathetic grief turned people into. Not dramatic grief. Quiet grief.
The kind that made you hoard traces of someone because you were too afraid to have the actual person.
Sylus spent the first week angry. At you. At himself. At Mephisto. At the elevator doors. At the city. At the entire universe.
Anger was easier. Anger had direction. Anger could be weaponized. Longing could not. Longing simply sat inside his chest and refused to leave.
By the second week, anger became concern.
You had not returned. That bothered him. You were stubborn. Proud. Competitive. You hated leaving arguments unresolved.
Normally you would have returned just to prove a point. Instead there was nothing. No calls. No messages. No accidental encounters. Nothing.
Sylus began checking Hunter Association reports. Mission assignments. Field activity logs. Anywhere your name might appear.
He found less than expected. Far less. That unsettled him. Because you were not the type to sit still.
One evening he asked Luke casually if anyone had seen you recently.
Luke answered too quickly.
Sylus looked at him. Luke immediately found the floor fascinating.
That was the first crack. The first real crack. Sylus noticed it immediately. He said nothing. But the unease settled deeper.
By the third week, the silence no longer felt natural. It felt deliberate.
Mephisto had not returned. Luke disappeared for hours at a time. Kieran had become quieter. And your absence seemed to exist in every room.
Not merely absence. A secret. Something was happening. Sylus could feel it. He just couldn't see it. And that frightened him more than he would ever admit aloud.
Because Sylus trusted his instincts. His instincts had kept him alive. His instincts were screaming now.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. But hurt still held him back.
If you wanted him, you knew where he was. If you needed him, you would call.
That was what he told himself. It was also the lie that cost him the most. Because every night he replayed the argument. Every single night.
Sometimes he stopped you before you reached the elevator. Sometimes he admitted he was afraid. Sometimes he crossed the room and pulled you into his arms. Sometimes he told you he loved you.
In every version, you stayed. In reality, he had let you leave. That single decision followed him everywhere. Like a second shadow.
Luke and Kieran noticed the change. Sylus grew colder in public. Quieter in private. He snapped less. Laughed less. Slept less.
He spent longer hours staring through the penthouse windows. Watching the city. Watching the elevator. Watching Mephisto's empty perch. Waiting.
Luke's voice was barely above a whisper. Kieran glanced toward Sylus's office. The lights were still on. Again.
"He misses both of them."
"Should we tell him to call her?"
For a long moment, Kieran said nothing. Then he exhaled slowly.
Luke didn't answer. Because there wasn't an answer. Not one that would fix this. Not one that would stop what was already happening.
Kieran's gaze drifted toward the city beyond the glass. Toward the place where you were quietly dying. Toward the place where Mephisto refused to leave. Toward the secret they had discovered.
"I think we're running out of time."
Neither of them understood just how true that statement was.
Luke and Kieran found out because Mephisto finally ran out of patience.
The crow arrived at the penthouse near midnight. Soaked. Furious. Unreasonable. He landed directly on Luke's shoulder, nearly sending a glass flying from his hand.
Mephisto pecked his ear. Hard.
Luke yelped. Kieran laughed from the couch.
That laughter lasted exactly four seconds. Because Mephisto immediately stole a keycard from Luke's pocket and flew toward the elevator.
"Yeah," Kieran said, standing.
Mephisto screamed. Not cawed. Not chirped. Screamed. The sound made both men freeze.
Luke grabbed his jacket. Kieran grabbed the car keys.
Neither spoke again. They followed.
The apartment was dark when they arrived.
For one terrible second, Luke thought nobody was home. Then Mephisto flew to the couch. And landed.
Your blanket had slipped partially to the floor. One arm hung over the edge. Your breathing sounded thin. Shallow. Wrong.
Luke immediately crossed the room.
No response. Kieran reached you first. His fingers found your pulse. The relief that crossed his face lasted less than a second.
"Why does that sound like bad news?"
Because Kieran still hadn't removed his hand. Because his expression had gone pale. Because neither of them liked how weak your pulse felt.
The apartment itself felt wrong too. Medication bottles. Half-finished tea. Medical paperwork. Appointment reminders. Sticky notes in Zayne's handwriting.
Evidence that something had been happening while Sylus sat in the dark wondering why you weren't calling.
Luke felt sick. Then he noticed the folder. Half-hidden beneath the blanket. Akso Medical Center. His stomach dropped.
Neither moved immediately. Because opening it would cross a line. Because it wasn't theirs. Because if the folder contained what they feared—
Mephisto landed directly on top of it. Staring. Waiting. Almost demanding.
Luke slowly reached forward. And opened the file. The world stopped.
Advanced Protocore Syndrome. Terminal progression. No known cure. Estimated survival timeline. Palliative care recommendations. Confidentiality requested.
Luke stopped reading. His vision blurred.
Kieran took the file. Read it. Read it again. And again. As if repetition might somehow change the words.
The sound woke you. Your eyes opened slowly. Confusion. Exhaustion. Then realization.
You saw the file. Saw their faces. And immediately understood. For one second nobody spoke. Then you whispered:
"You weren't supposed to know."
The defeat in your voice was worse than the diagnosis. Because it sounded like you'd already accepted it.
Luke looked genuinely angry. Not at you. At the universe.
You closed your eyes. And somehow that answer was worse than words.
The apartment fell silent. Mephisto lowered his head. Kieran sat down heavily. Luke looked like he might break something. Or cry. Or both.
You laughed softly. Brokenly. Because there wasn't a good answer. Only the truth.
"Because he'll try to save me."
The room went silent. The certainty in your voice terrified them. Because you weren't guessing.
You already knew. You had already asked. Already searched. Already hoped. Already been disappointed.
"And when he realizes he can't..." you whispered.
"You don't get to decide that."
Your smile was small. Sad. Defeated.
That night nobody left. Luke cooked food you barely touched. Kieran organized medication schedules. Mephisto refused to move from your side.
And for hours, the apartment became unbearably quiet. Not because nobody had anything to say. Because nobody knew where to start.
The attempt at humor collapsed halfway through. Nobody laughed. Because the truth sat between all of you.
Sylus would find out. Eventually. The only question was when. And how much time would be lost before then.
Luke looked down. Then whispered:
"I don't think he's sleeping."
Your chest tightened. Kieran nodded once.
Nobody said anything after that. Because suddenly the month of silence felt a lot less noble. And a lot more tragic.
After Luke and Kieran found out, the silence changed.
Before, Sylus had felt ignored. Now he felt excluded. That was worse. Far worse.
Before, he thought you were angry. Now he knew something else was happening. Something everyone else understood except him.
Luke became careful. Kieran became quiet. Mephisto stopped coming home.
Every answer felt rehearsed. Every excuse felt incomplete. Every absence carried your name beneath it.
Sylus hated it. Not because he needed control. Because he needed information. Needed certainty. Needed proof that the sick feeling growing inside him was wrong.
Instead, the feeling grew. Day by day. Hour by hour. Until eventually it followed him everywhere.
Meetings. Missions. Meals. Sleep.
Something is wrong. Something is wrong. Something is wrong.
By the tenth day, he finally cornered Luke and Kieran in the weapons room. And the moment he saw their faces, he knew. Whatever they were hiding—
It was bad. Very bad. Because Luke looked guilty. But Kieran looked afraid. And Kieran almost never looked afraid.
The realization hit Sylus harder than any weapon ever had. Fear. Real fear. Cold. Immediate. Primal.
For the first time since the argument, the possibility finally formed. Not that you were angry. Not that you hated him. Not that you'd moved on.
Something worse. Something had happened. Something was happening. And everyone knew except him.
The thought devastated him. Not because he lacked information. Because it meant you were hurting. And you had chosen to do it without him.
That hurt more than betrayal ever could. Because betrayal required malice. This was love twisted into something unrecognizable.
You were protecting him. And in doing so, you were destroying him anyway.
By the time Luke's eyes filled with tears, Sylus already knew. Not the diagnosis. Not the details.
Just the truth. The terrible truth.
Something was wrong with you.
And he was running out of time.
The secret broke during a storm.
Rain hammered against the penthouse windows. Thunder rolled across Linkon.
And for the first time in nearly a month, Mephisto came home. Not calm. Not smug. Not victorious. Panicked.
The balcony doors slammed open. Luke looked up first.
The crow crashed into the penthouse like something was chasing him. Water dripped from his feathers. His wings beat frantically against the air. His cries were sharp. Urgent. Wrong.
Every person in the room felt it immediately. Something had happened.
Sylus stood before Mephisto even landed. The unease that had haunted him for weeks suddenly tightening into something far more dangerous.
Mephisto flew directly to him. Then dropped something onto the desk. A bracelet. White plastic. Bent at one edge. Small enough to fit around a wrist.
For several seconds, nobody moved. Then Sylus picked it up. And saw your name.
The room went silent. Not quiet. Silent. Like the world itself had stopped breathing.
Luke's face drained of color. Kieran closed his eyes. Because they recognized it too.
Hospital identification. Akso.
Sylus stared at the bracelet. Then looked up. Slowly. His gaze landed on Luke. Then Kieran.
Neither met his eyes. And suddenly—
Everything made sense. The missing assignments. The lies. The careful answers. The empty perch. The way Mephisto had refused to leave you. The fear in Kieran's face. Luke's forced smiles. The secret.
There had always been a secret. He just hadn't understood how large it was.
Nobody answered. Sylus's voice remained dangerously calm. That frightened Luke more than shouting ever would have.
The bracelet cracked slightly beneath his grip.
The third time wasn't louder. It was worse. Because his voice had gone completely flat. The kind of voice Sylus used when emotions became too dangerous to touch.
Luke looked away. And that was answer enough.
Something cold moved through Sylus. Cold enough to hurt. Cold enough to steal the air from his lungs.
For the first time in weeks, the terrible feeling he'd been carrying finally found a shape.
It wasn't anger. It wasn't pride. It wasn't a broken relationship.
Something had happened to you. Something bad. And everyone knew. Everyone except him.
The realization was devastating. Not because he lacked information. Because while you had been suffering—
He had been waiting. Waiting for you to call. Waiting for you to come back. Waiting for you to regret. Waiting for the hurt to subside.
And suddenly all that waiting felt monstrous.
The bracelet slipped slightly in his hand.
The sound barely registered.
Because Sylus was already moving.
The first firewall lasted twelve seconds. The second lasted nine. The third lasted less. Sylus barely remembered breaking through them.
His hands moved automatically. Years of information gathering. Years of secrets. Years of finding things people desperately wanted hidden.
Nothing had ever terrified him before. Not like this.
The file opened. And for one irrational second, he couldn't read. The words existed. His brain simply refused to process them.
Advanced Protocore Syndrome. Terminal progression. Estimated survival timeline. No known cure. Patient declined disclosure. Close contact: Sylus.
The world tilted. Not visibly. Not dramatically. Internally. Like something fundamental had shifted out of place.
He read the diagnosis again. Then again. Then again.
Each time hoping the words would change.
Terminal. Months. No known cure. Patient declined disclosure.
The last line hurt most. Not because you had hidden it. Because he understood why. Immediately. Painfully.
You had been protecting him.
The realization shattered something inside him. Because suddenly every moment of the past month looked different.
The argument. The distance. The silence. The refusal to call. The way you'd looked away whenever he got too close to the truth.
It hadn't been rejection. It had been fear. And he'd let you leave anyway.
The tablet cracked beneath his hand. Then shattered completely. Nobody moved.
Luke and Kieran stood frozen near the doorway. Neither brave enough to speak. Neither foolish enough to leave.
Sylus remained staring at the broken screen. His face had gone empty. Not angry. Not furious. Empty.
That frightened them more than anything. Because Sylus always felt something.
Rage. Amusement. Irritation. Affection. There was always something. Now there was nothing. Just devastation.
The words barely sounded human. Luke looked down.
Nobody corrected him. Nobody could.
For an entire month, you'd been dying. For an entire month, he'd been waiting for a phone call. For an entire month, he'd convinced himself you needed space.
The guilt arrived all at once. Violent. Crushing. Merciless.
He thought about every night he'd almost called. Every morning he'd looked at your name. Every moment he'd chosen ignorance. Every moment he'd decided there would be time later. Later. Later. Later.
The future suddenly felt like the cruelest joke imaginable. Because according to this file—
There might not be much later left.
And for the first time in years, Sylus felt truly helpless. Not powerless. Helpless.
The distinction mattered.
Power could solve problems. Money could solve problems. Influence could solve problems.
And countdowns didn't care who you were.
Then his eyes lifted. Slowly.
Toward Luke. Toward Kieran. Toward the two people who had known. The two people who had watched. The two people who had stayed beside you while he remained outside the door.
For a brief second, something dark flashed across his face. Not hatred. Not even anger.
Jealousy. Raw. Ugly. Devastating.
Because they had been there. They had seen you. He hadn't.
They had held your secret. He hadn't.
They had watched you suffer. And he—
The man who loved you most—
Had been the last person to know.
The words came out barely above a whisper.
Nobody answered. Because there was nothing to say. Nothing that could fix it. Nothing that could give him those weeks back. Nothing that could erase the fact that while you were learning you were dying—
He had been standing by the penthouse windows waiting for you to come home. And now all he could think was one unbearable truth.
You had been carrying this alone.
Sylus left before Luke could say his name.
The apartment address was already in his head. The file remained open on the shattered tablet. The hospital bracelet remained clenched in his fist.
Neither mattered. Only you.
The elevator could not move fast enough. The city could not move fast enough. Nothing moved fast enough.
By the time he reached the garage, rain was hammering against the concrete. Thunder rolled somewhere over Linkon Harbor.
Sylus barely noticed. The motorcycle roared to life beneath him. Then he was gone.
The streets blurred. Red lights. Traffic. Rain. None of it mattered.
Water soaked through his clothes. The cold wind stung his face. Still he accelerated. The engine screamed beneath him.
Normally Sylus rode with precision. Control. Tonight there was none. Every second felt stolen. Every delay felt unbearable.
His mind replayed the diagnosis endlessly.
Terminal. Months. No known cure. Patient declined disclosure. Close contact: Sylus.
The words followed him through the storm.
Patient declined disclosure.
You had known. For weeks. You had carried it alone. And he had not been there.
The realization hurt more than the diagnosis itself. Because he could survive grief. He could survive fear. He could survive almost anything.
But the idea that you had suffered alone? The idea that you had been terrified and reached for no one?
That broke something inside him.
The motorcycle cut through the city. Rainwater sprayed behind him. Thunder cracked overhead.
For the first time in years, Sylus prayed.
Not to gods. Not to fate. Not to anything specific.
Just one desperate thought repeated over and over.
Please. Please still be there. Please.
When he reached your apartment building, he was moving before the engine fully died.
The elevator took too long.
He took the stairs. Three at a time. Then four. Then more.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
The kind he had not felt since he was a boy. The kind that stripped away every layer of power and left only something painfully human underneath.
By the time he reached your door, he was breathing hard.
The hallway was silent. For one horrible second, he couldn't move.
Because suddenly he was terrified. Terrified of opening the door. Terrified of being too late. Terrified of what he might find.
Then Mephisto landed beside him. The crow stared. Waiting.
You are still here. For now.
The apartment was dark. Quiet.
The city glowed faintly beyond the curtains. Rain tapped softly against the windows.
The smell hit him immediately. Medicine. Tea. Hospitals. The scent of sickness carefully hidden beneath normal life.
Sylus stood frozen in the doorway. And finally saw what the last month had taken from you.
The blanket swallowed your frame. Your face looked thinner. Paler. The shadows beneath your eyes deeper. Your breathing was shallow. Too shallow.
Medication bottles lined the nearby table. Water within reach. Emergency instructions taped neatly beside them. A chair positioned close enough for someone to sit beside you for hours.
Evidence that people had cared for you. Evidence that people had stayed. Evidence that Luke had stayed. That Kieran had stayed. That Zayne had stayed. That Mephisto had stayed.
Something inside Sylus cracked. Not shattered. Cracked. A fracture running straight through the center of him.
Because suddenly he could see it.
Every night he'd spent standing by the penthouse windows. Every night he'd convinced himself you needed space. Every night he'd told himself tomorrow.
Meanwhile, your entire life had been quietly rearranged around survival.
Mephisto flew past him. Landing gently beside your pillow.
The movement stirred you. Your eyes opened slowly. Sleepy. Disoriented. For a brief moment, your expression softened. Then you saw him.
The sleep vanished immediately.
His name broke apart in your throat.
Every speech he'd imagined during the ride disappeared. Every accusation. Every question. Every ounce of anger.
Because you were here. Alive. Breathing. Looking at him.
Sylus crossed the room. Dropped to his knees beside the couch. And finally let himself touch you. His hand found yours. Cold. Too cold. Your fingers trembled beneath his.
For a second neither of you spoke. Neither could. Because one month of silence suddenly sat between you. Heavy. Bleeding. Alive.
Then your gaze dropped. To the bracelet still clutched in his hand. And immediately tears filled your eyes.
Sylus stared at you. At the woman he'd spent a month missing. At the woman who had spent a month dying. And something inside him broke completely.
Not because you were sick. Because you had tried to carry it alone. Because you had been afraid. Because he wasn't there.
And for the first time since opening the file, Sylus felt the full weight of what those lost weeks had cost him.
gummygunk
jbbartram-illu
theartofmadeline
2087
dededos
yousharknotpass
