still trying to figure out what kind of tattoo would he have tho. im already picturing red spider lilies, dead branches, winter trees but i just dont know what to put for the main part ;v;
maybe crows with their wings fully spread across his shoulders, reaching his deltoids on both sides. the detail in the feathers, overlapping and that it feels like it's moving. one of the head is turned slightly, an eye facing outward, and the eye is done in red.
ORRR
a wolf. in full stride across his back. maybe not a japanese wolf, something like the breed canis lupus.
...i may need some time to cook 0(-( both feels a bit too on the nose for me
the yakuza sylus x onsen owner zayne is already so perfect but you added the abo??? oh godyuu we’ll built a statue for you omg 😩😩
a statue???? shshbshsh but a statue of kitty zayne would actually be nice-
initially, i planned to write based on the cards but i haven't had time to go through it yet (unsurprisingly)
abo was added last minute because i felt like i haven't written much of those... butalsobecauseiwanttogetzaynepregnant
i dont post or update quite often anymore so i dont how many of you are still sticking around but thanks for still reading! i'll try and see if i can manage to write a fic for it and hopefully in one chapter only 0(-(
hiii, I wonder when will you update good boy, it’s my favorite fic of yours ❤️🩹 I love when you write about snowapple ^^ don’t be pressured! I just wanted to let you know that I’m waiting for it and I’m loving it 🫶🏻🫶🏻
heyyy good boy will be updated soon i promise u 0(-( the fic is technically completed but im just doing some checking and rewriting before i update (chapter 6 is undergoing some 180 shift bcause my smart ass wanted to write from scratch again-)
i might as well just stick with oneshots starting from now... multi chaptered fics are starting to wear me out
and to think there are still people waiting for it *tears up* almost there guys. almost there.
yakuza!sylus x onsen owner!zayne // abo au // drabble // 2k+ words
the onsen has rules. so does zayne. sylus intends to learn all of them.
there is silence that belongs only to winter. but it's not the absence of sound.
snow is never truly silent, if you know how to listen. it settles. it shifts. it speaks in the groan of old pine boughs and the soft collapse of powder from a sloped roof and the way footsteps compress it differently depending on how much a man weighs and how carefully he is trying to move. zayne has lived inside winter long enough to read all of it. to know, without looking, the difference between a guest arriving and something else entirely.
tonight is something else entirely.
he stands at the back entrance of hakurin-sō, hands folded inside his sleeves, breath a quiet ribbon of white in the cold air. the stone lanterns along the path have been lit since sundown. the garden beyond them is buried under two feet of undisturbed snow, pale and perfect and very still.
he has been waiting for twenty minutes.
the invitation had gone to kang lei. it always went to kang lei—onychinus had held their account for eleven years, and in eleven years, kang lei had been the one who filled the chair at the lacquered table, drank the tea zayne's staff poured, and conducted his business in the inner wing with loud confidence that men who have never truly been threatened tend to mistake for authority. he was not pleasant company. he was, however, consistent. predictable.
the message that arrived three days ago, however, was not from kang lei.
it was not signed with a name zayne recognized, which was in itself information. the calligraphy was clean. the phrasing direct. onychinus will be sending a representative in kang lei's place. please make the usual arrangements.
a representative. as though this were a scheduling matter.
zayne had made the usual arrangements. he had also made several additional inquiries, quietly, through channels that did not officially exist. the picture that assembled from their responses was—interesting.
kang lei was dead. had been for approximately two weeks.
the man who killed him had, by most accounts, done it with very little effort.
his name had come up before. there was a period, perhaps four or five years ago, when zayne first started hearing it in the back corridors of the inner wing. spoken carefully about things that unsettle them without quite knowing why.
sylus qin.
a lone wolf, at first. no faction, no backing, no name behind him but his own. just two men he kept close and a reputation that arrived somewhere ahead of him in every room he entered. the kind of man other men instinctively stepped aside for without being able to articulate the reason. zayne had memorized the name away and watched with mild interest as the various factions of linkon's underworld each, in their own time and way, decided he was someone else's problem.
then he stopped being a lone wolf.
how exactly onychinus had folded into him—or he into it, or whether the distinction mattered—depended on who was telling the story and how frightened they were at the time of telling it. what the accounts agreed on: it had not taken long. what they disagreed on: whether what he had built was a faction at all, in the traditional sense, or something with a different shape entirely. the old bosses, the ones who had been at this long enough to have opinions, had gone very quiet on the subject.
the rest of linkon's underworld was doing the mathematics of men trying to decide whether to be relieved or more afraid. a lone wolf was unpredictable. ungovernable. impossible to negotiate with in any formal sense because there was no structure to negotiate with. a wolf that had taken a den, made it his own, placed himself at the head of something with reach and resources and twelve armories scattered across the map—
that was a different kind of problem. the kind you could not ignore by simply making sure he wasn't in the room.
he would be at the table now. inside whatever room he chose.
and apparently, tonight, he had chosen to join the annual grand assembly.
zayne hears them before he sees them.
what he hears is the sound of the snow. not voices. perhaps his men don't speak on approach, which tells him they've been trained by someone meticulous.
the compression of it under many feet moving in a coordinated rhythm of a group that walks together often enough to have found an unconscious synchrony. he counts the footsteps. more than the usual retinue. significantly more.
they come around the bend in the path, and zayne's gaze adjusts—and then stills, very briefly, on what they carry.
red parasols.
they line both sides of the path in the hands of men who are standing rather than walking, having arrived ahead of the main party to form the corridor. the lantern light catches the lacquered paper, throws it back warm and vivid against all that white.
red spider lilies blooming in the dead of winter.
theatrical, one part of zayne thinks.
effective, another part concedes.
and then the man himself comes into view, and both thoughts vacate.
he is taller than zayne expected. this is not a thing he expected to notice—he has stood calmly in front of men of considerable physical presence for most of his professional life—and yet. there is something about the way the man occupies space that goes beyond dimension. he walks like a man who has never once, in his life, had to make room for anyone else. something older than arrogance. something that has simply never encountered a reason to be otherwise.
he is unhurried. the snow doesn't seem to inconvenience him. his coat is dark, well-made, and there is blood on it that suggest the evening has already been eventful. he holds a lit cigarette between two fingers, smoke trailing behind him in the cold air, leaving prints on the snow like a wolf just finished hunting, and his eyes—even at this distance, even through the mist of both their breath and the lantern-warmed air—are extraordinarily red.
and he is looking directly at zayne.
he has been looking at him, zayne realizes, since the moment he came around the bend.
the distance closes. ten feet. five. the row of red parasols end just behind, framing this meeting in a visual language that sylus has apparently decided to announce himself with. up close, the blood on his coat is more apparent. so is the absolute absence of concern about it.
he takes a long drag of the cigarette. exhales slow.
the smoke reaches zayne. like a challenge.
he lets it.
gives it a few seconds it deserves, which is two, and then he moves. a single step that closes the remaining distance.
he takes the cigarette from between sylus' fingers with the same ease one might accept something being offered, wraps the end in the square of cloth he keeps in his sleeve specifically for this purpose—guests, in zayne's experience, do not always read signage—and folds it closed. the ember dies without complaint.
he holds it back out.
"mr. qin." his voice is the same as it always is. "we have a no smoking policy on the premises. i trust you'll understand."
the red eyes haven't moved. something in them shifts. recalibrating without wanting to appear to.
he takes the cloth back.
"is that so? i apologize, then." sylus says. his voice is low and slow and does something to the cold air around it. “i was told you tend to make exceptions.”
"we have been in operation for one hundred and forty-three years," zayne says pleasantly. "we have not found exceptions to be necessary."
he steps aside and gestures toward the entrance.
"welcome to hakurin-sō," he says. "we've been expecting you."
he turns and leads the way inside, footsteps quiet on the stone, and does not look back to check whether sylus is following.
he is. zayne can hear it in the snow.
behind them, the red parasols fold closed, one by one, like flowers at the end of the day.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡°‧
the inner wing of hakurin-sō breathes differently than the rest of the property.
the public rooms have a warmth to them that comes from decades of families passing through, children running corridors they shouldn't, the accumulated noise of ordinary living soaked into the wood and paper walls until the building itself feels hospitable. a place that has held a great deal of happiness.
the inner wing is warm in a different sense. quieter. the corridors are wider and the ceilings slightly higher and the wood here is older, darker, the grain of it running deep. the lanterns burn lower. the sound of the outer baths doesn't reach here. what reaches here is only the wind off the mountain and the occasional settling of the structure and the soft, constant presence of water moving somewhere beneath the floors through channels cut into the rock when the building was first laid down, generations ago, by hands that understood the land they were working with.
it is a space that holds things. has always held things. conversations that couldn't happen elsewhere. decisions that couldn't be made in the light.
zayne has done this walk many times.
and he is aware, without turning around, that sylus is still watching him.
"your men," he says, as they turn down the second corridor, "will be accommodated in the east rooms. three to a room, which i trust is sufficient. if your security requirements are specific, my staff will need to know before morning."
"they'll manage," sylus waves off. behind him, even now, zayne can hear the senior lieutenant—the quieter of the two who flank sylus most closely—relaying this in a low voice to someone further back.
"the inner wing's bathing facilities are available to your party exclusively for the duration of your stay. meals are served at whatever hour you require — the kitchen runs through the night. if there are dietary restrictions or preferences—"
"there aren't."
"then i'll have something sent when you're settled." a pause in which zayne takes a smooth turn left and stops before a set of sliding doors. he opens them, steps back. "your rooms."
the suite is the largest in the inner wing. it has been onychinus' room for over a decade, and in that time it has been furnished and maintained to a standard that reflects the account's standing—lacquered furniture, dark and well-made, a writing desk positioned near the window that looks out over the back garden. the futon has been laid by a senior housekeeper, who has been known to remeasure the fold of the linens. a low table near the center holds a tea service, steam just beginning to rise.
sylus steps inside. he doesn't look at the furniture or the layout—he looks at the window first, noting exits with the automaticity of someone who has made it a survival habit. then the dimensions. then, briefly, the ceiling.
then back to zayne.
"eleven years," he says.
zayne tilts his head slightly. "i'm sorry?"
"onychinus has kept an account here for eleven years." he moves to the window and look out at the dark garden, the snow still coming down. "kang lei's tenure. before that, the previous administration. the account predates all of them."
"it does," zayne confirms. he remains near the door, hands folded. "hakurin-sō's relationship with onychinus is one of our oldest."
"then you know the account's worth."
"i know the account's history," zayne clarifies, and there is a fine distinction in it that sylus, half-turned from the window, appears to catch. "which is not always the same thing."
something moves at the corner of sylus' mouth
"no," he agrees. "it isn't." he turns fully from the window. "the meeting i've requested. three days from now."
"the arrangements are already in progress."
"i'll need the room cleared of staff during."
"that's standard practice for inner wing meetings, mr. qin. the room will be yours."
"and afterward—" he pauses. "i may require your specific services."
the phrasing is clear enough to mean only one thing and vague enough to mean several. zayne looks at him steadily.
"hakurin-sō provides discretionary medical care to inner wing guests as needed," he says. "if members of your party require treatment following the meeting, i'll be available."
"i meant you specifically."
"i am the one who provides it."
another not-quite-smile. "good."
a staff member appears at the corridor's end with a tray—food, as promised, something warm and suitable to the hour and the cold. zayne steps aside to allow entry and takes this as his natural exit point, inclining his head toward the room.
"if there's anything further you need tonight, the call bell is beside the desk. someone will come."
he turns to go.
"zayne li."
the use of his name stops him. he turns back, slow.
sylus is watching him from across the room. the blood on his coat has dried to rust. the red eyes in the low lantern-light are very still and contain something that zayne does not immediately have a word for.
"actually, i have a question. if you don't mind."
zayne considers him for a moment. then inclines his head. permission to continue.
what happens next he will, privately, write away as a lapse in his own attention. a thing that should not have happened and will not happen again.
one moment sylus is across the room. the next he is simply not, and the distance between them has collapsed without zayne hearing a single footstep on the floor. he is close—closer than the meeting at the entrance, closer than the remove this corridor demands—and then closer still, because he leans down, and zayne feels the displacement of warm air against his neck before he fully registers that sylus' face is there.
and with it—underneath the fading smoke, underneath the blood and cold still clinging to his coat—something else. something that has no business being as quiet as it is, on a man like this.
something that has the quality of deep forest, of altitude, of heat that has been burning long enough not to need to announce itself.
just—dark. lethal. and very, very patient.
sylus nose along the line of his throat. just above the collar. not touching. the restraint of it somehow worse than contact would have been.
inhaling.
the silence stretches.
then sylus exhales—a low, quiet huff of breath against zayne's skin—and pulls back just enough to look at him.
"i've been wondering about this," he says, and his voice at this distance is a different thing entirely—heavy and meant only for this corridor, this moment. he glances up. "why they would send an omega out to the front lines." a pause, almost thoughtful. "mingling with men like these."
the suite is very still.
zayne looks down at him and when he speaks his voice has not changed register at all from when he was discussing meal service.
"an interesting question," he says, "from a man currently standing close enough to my neck to make most people in this building very nervous."
a beat.
"the answer," he continues, before sylus can respond, "is that no one sent me. hakurin-sō is mine. it has been my family's for years, which i mentioned earlier, and which you will find explains most things about how it is run." he holds sylus' gaze without particular effort. "as for the nature of my guests—i have received worse, mr. qin. i am still here."
"as for my position," he adds, almost like a reminder or a warning, "i would invite you to consider who, at this precise moment, is in the more exposed one."
sylus has not moved back.
"you expected someone else tonight." he said instead.
"i expected onychinus," he says. "you are onychinus. the expectation was met."
"but not the specific expectation."
"adjustments are part of the work. you have a reputation that precedes you considerably. i was aware of you before tonight."
"and?"
"and," zayne says, "hakurin-sō still welcomes you. for as long as you abide the rules." he holds his gaze for one beat longer than necessary then turns and walks back down the corridor.
this time, he does not hear sylus follow. he has stayed in his room.
but as zayne reaches the turn that takes him back to the main wing, he hears, behind him, the quiet sound of the suite's sliding door closing. and just before it does, barely carrying through the cold corridor air,
i like to imagine that in your a kiss to save the world fic, what if all five of them are in the same place together (having drinks at a cafe or just in the area) and then there's an attack. do you think they will fight who gets to makeout with zayne ? 🤭🤭👀
oh absolutely.
and because you brought it up (and as an apology for not answering so soon imsosorry-), i genuinely want to write about it lmao:
there was a monster eating the linkon city pier.
but there was also three men currently arguing six inches from his face with such passionate energy of people who had temporarily forgotten the monster existed. a vending machine sailed past in the background. nobody flinched.
"the resonance works in order of—"
"that's not a real metric, rafayel, you invented that—"
"i didn't invent it, i observed it, there's a difference—"
"your observation is conveniently ranked with yourself at the top, so—"
"because objectively speaking i have the strongest—"
"i've known him the longest," caleb said, using the flat, factual tone that was somehow more aggressive than shouting. "that has to count for something."
"knowing someone longer doesn't mean you know them better—"
"it literally does—"
"xavier, back me up here—"
xavier, standing slightly to zayne's left with his hands in his pockets and an expression of someone who thinks they're already winning, said: "i'm not getting involved."
"you're already involved, you're standing there—"
"observing," xavier said. "there's a difference."
rafayel made a sound that was not quite a word.
zayne had stopped tracking the individual arguments approximately two minutes ago. he was watching the corruption creature instead—a roiling mass of black and violet that had pulled itself out of the harbor like something dredged from the bottom of a bad decision, and was currently dismantling the pier's support structure as if it had all evening. which it did, apparently. corruption entities didn't fatigue. they didn't get headaches. they didn't have to listen to this.
lucky, zayne thought, with genuine envy.
the cat was sitting on an upturned fish crate to his right, tail curled neatly, watching the argument the way one watches a theater production one has seen many times and still finds entertaining.
"you could intervene," zayne said to it, very quietly.
"i could," the cat agreed.
"but you won't."
"i'm having a wonderful time. why would i?"
another section of the pier collapsed into the harbor. the creature made a sound like a foghorn filtered through static. nobody behind zayne stopped arguing.
he exhaled, slowly, through his nose.
he could handle this.
probably.
he turned back to the three of them, opening his mouth to say something clipped and final and non-negotiable—
and didn't.
because there was a hand on his jaw.
fingers, curving beneath his chin, light as a question. tilting his face upward.
zayne's brain registered the touch about half a second before it registered who the touch belonged to. and by then it was too late, because sylus was already there—having materialized from somewhere behind him during the argument like smoke finding a vent—close enough that zayne could see the faint gleam of his red eyes in the harbor light, the small curve of his mouth.
"hello," sylus said, very softly, and kissed him.
it was—and zayne would resent this observation for some time afterward—good. annoyingly, categorically good. there was the hand at his jaw, angling him exactly where sylus wanted him, and then there was the other one settling warm around his waist. sylus kissed the way he did everything else. with total patience, no wasted motion, and the maddening implication that he wasn't planning to rush.
the tongue was bold. and zayne followed the pull of it almost on reflex. the way a tide follows the moon. helpless and furious about it.
damn it, some part of him noted, distantly. damn it, he's good at this.
the rest of him was not thinking anything coherent.
it lasted several seconds. maybe longer. time was doing something strange.
then, from somewhere to his left...
"SYLUS YOU LITTLE SHI—"
so... it happened again. even longer this time. *sigh*
anyways, i tried my best to reply to most of my inbox, forgive me if i missed some.
i somehow forgot that was a thing in twt hhhhh but thank uuu i just had cake with my fam and im wishing desperately for varka c2r1-
writing caleb fumbling is so fun aksjhdk that part wasnt part of the plot initially but i thought why not let caleb suffer a bit :d it may be a bit ooc but idk i kinda get the feeling caleb would be the first one to retreat in that context
and thank you for the blessingsss ;0; i hope all goes well to all of u too
wowza this a long one (just like varka’s third claymore- ok i need to shut up abt him now)
thankuu for appreciating my work!! i feel like i can never get used to the fact someone really spent a moment of their time to read any of it ;v;
rpotm… was quite a journey i must say. im quite relieved that it was well received but i feel like i havent done the fic justice 0(-( i think i might do a re-write of it soon. more coherent and consistent before i get to the second part. there was one bookmark that clocked me hard ajsdka i understand where they’re coming from really and i agree to most of what they say. but thank you really for loving the fic despite its flaws <3
another into me you see reader?? again, i think i’ve mentioned before how i wasnt rlly expecting much when i posted that hhhh and yea, slight spoiler i guess?? (but its not like im gonna post a full fic of it-) zayne and sylus did meet before at an orphanage. sylus was there briefly for a mission and zayne was just tagging along his parents who was there for work. im not gonna say more bc i havent rlly planned anything concrete for it yet but yea thats the gist of it
to think that was one of my first fic of crowsnow hhhh i was tempted to write a full fic for it (i have a slightly messy version in my drafts that i still read and enjoy by myself uwu)
the vamp fic sits on the same table as rpotm that has fully traumatized me… but im glad you like it :’D i swear there was a sequel to this. give me time to cook. maybe this halloween kjskdjhskj
caleb and zayne absolutely made out lmao the transformation depends on the kiss. i guess if it was only a peck, zayne would only transform partially or maybe just be able to summon a weapon. full makeout session would grant a powerful transformation :3 but to make his attacks stronger is a whole other thing that requires a bed- i mean what
thankuu again for reading my stuff! its not much but it is what it is hhh i’ll try to update often but im starting to feel like i got hit by the ao3 curse 0(-(
ikr i almost screamed when i saw the pv, almost couldnt believe they’re doing that concept. though i was sad at first that zayne’s outfit was in black but then they show the alt and i just knew i had to get this man to r2.
when i saw the lantern scene in sylus’ card?? i felt like i predicted the future bc part 2 of rpotm had a similar scene and i can die happy imagining that’s how he looked like aksjhdkjsa
timezone does nawt exist here so dw and happy new year anon!!! doing so far so good (coping) and i have a lot of wips ready to see the light :DD (after i complete the applesnow fic that is…)
yess i do have plans for it!! i almost forgot about it ngl hhhh again, there’s already a full version of it in my drafts, just not clean 0(-(
i honestly should start a poll soon so i know which one to start first…
oh lordt- i unfortunately have not touch the wip yet but yess it will come soon i swear
my god i didnt realize how long i’ve been away and it started since sylus’ third myth dropped aksjhdkjas
but yes, i remembered how insane it was when it came out. when i saw his long hair, its exactly how i imagined he’d look during the first scene (just more… dehydrated and creepy looking hhh)
im here now im so sorryyyyyy 0(-( (but i might be gone again so sorry in advance akjshdkjas)
caleb x zayne // dog cafe au // meet-cute fluff // +50k words
caleb doesn't play favorites—not with dogs, not with customers. he prides himself on treating everyone who walks through the doors of his café with the same warm, welcoming energy.
but apollo has been giving him looks lately. the kind of looks that say, "i know what you're doing, and you're not fooling anyone."
especially when it comes to one particular customer.
unfortunately i cannot move on from kitty butler zayne and sylus so im gonna vomit my ideas here... hear me out... kitty butler zayne in heat... 🤤🤤🤤...
well he does have his heat arc in the (nonexistent) fic 😌
im listening to infinite baths by sleep token and i js cant stop thinking bout red petals on the moon.. like this song is so them... i miss them sm...ough..
sleep token my beloved
i havent listened to them in a while but infinite bath is definitely them coded 😭 like???
"if it's blood that you want from me, you can empty my arteries"
"but i'm finally here, and i'm not leaving this time"
Hmm. Personally, I think I would listen to nu metal, or something similar, Perhaps bands like Slipknot, Metallica, the idea is close to that there's also a song I often listen to, called "Bodies" by Drowning Pool, I think it would I feel that it suits him.
I don't listen to electro music, so I don't know anything about that gendre.
Maybe during those days I'll draw Zayne with "metalhead makeup" or goth makeup too, I like the idea, what do you think? 😋
oh mannn i forgot how hard bodies hit now that i listen to it again
i feel like he would like spiritbox too (i love constance and it fits zayne to the t)
OMG. I JUST SAW A TIKTOK CONFIRMING THAT ZAYNE LISTENS TO METAL AND ELECTRO... I'VE BEEN HEADCANONIZING THIS SINCE BEFORE ITS MITH CAME OUT.
...Sorry, JDJS, I got too excited about that and honestly, I don't have anyone else to tell about this. I know we don't know each other, that we don't interact or anything like that, but I really wanted to share this emotion I feel
Btww, I absolutely love your works, they're amazing, keep going 😸✨
omg i just saw it on x and ykw this is a win for me too dhjsbd imagine him headbanging to the songs while he's sugar high or drunk or stressed tf out in the hospital 😭
greyson saw his earbuds left on his desk once and wondered what songs would their chief listen to and thought it's probably just classical music but he put one into his ear and nearly had a heart attack-
also thankuu and i do love it when ppl share me anything so dont be shy to interact with me :D (i say but i also have social anxiety lmao)
sylus x zayne // hannibal au // slight gore/dark // 6k words
the heart was never just an organ.
the corridor buzzes with the quiet hum of morning activity—carts rolling, distant voices calling out patient names, the rhythmic squeak of rubber soles on waxed floors.
zayne walks through it like a blade through still water. clipboard in one hand, eyes scanning charts as he moves. a line of interns trail behind him—jittery, whispering, matching his pace like ducklings afraid to fall behind.
he doesn’t slow down.
“dr. li, about the valve replacement scheduled for this afternoon—” one of them begins, voice tight with nerves.
without looking up, zayne cuts in. “did you review the patient’s history of arrhythmia?”
“y-yes, but—”
“then you know the answer.”
silence follows—awkward, but instructive. the interns exchange glances.
it’s always like this with dr. li.
he never raises his voice, never berates. he just expects—and somehow, that’s worse.
they walk past glass windows that overlook the city—sunlight reflecting off the polished floors. he flips to another chart, pen tapping once against the board.
“the valve’s mechanical,” he says finally, still walking. “adjust for the patient’s electrolyte imbalance before anesthesia. and tell dr. han to keep an eye on post-op potassium levels. we’re not repeating last month’s incident.”
“y-yes, sir!” the intern replies, scribbling notes furiously. nevermind he's probably older than zayne. the way zayne carries himself just makes him so much older than he seemed.
zayne stops outside the pediatric wing. the air changes there—softer, warmer. cartoon decals on the walls, paper cranes hanging from the ceiling. it’s quieter too, but not sterile. hope lingers here, faint but stubborn.
“well, look who it is.”
dr. riley spots him from the nurses’ station, a broad-shouldered man in his fifties with kind eyes and the eternal coffee stain on his scrubs.
“dr. li, fancy seeing you here this early,” he calls out, grinning.
“i’m always here,” zayne mutters, scanning the charts at the counter. his tone isn’t defensive, just factual. “any reports?”
riley shrugs, flipping through a clipboard. “same old, same old. one pending transplant—greyson’s handling that. another check-up for the boy, miles; possible tumor, but imaging’s inconclusive.”
he pauses, eyes flicking toward zayne with a knowing smirk. “and… someone requesting to see you.”
that makes zayne finally glance up. his lips twitch—almost a smile, but not quite. “i was about to head there myself.”
“good, because i’m running out of excuses to tell her where her dear doctor zayne is,” riley chuckles. “parents got questions about her surgery date. we've been told it’s been moved up. got a slot for her next week. yvonne will send you the updated details later.”
zayne nods once, already refocusing. “noted.”
riley watches him for a moment longer. the man—or maybe a machine would be more accurate—who moves like clockwork, every breath measured.
“try to grab breakfast this time, will you? you’re starting to look paler than the patients.”
zayne doesn’t answer. he turns down the hallway toward the recovery rooms instead. he made a mental note to treat the older out for a meal later.
behind him, the interns linger—whispering again, as if afraid to break the gravity he leaves behind.
in front of him, through the glass panel of room 312, sunlight slants through the blinds, scattering stripes across the bed where a little girl sits propped up against the pillows.
he steps inside.
she’s small—too small for the machines around her. a tangle of wires, cartoon stickers on the iv pole, a stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm. her face lights up the second she sees him.
“dr. zayne! you came!”
her voice cuts through the sterile quiet, bright and bubbling.
the faintest softening. a shift in the eyes, a small upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. for anyone else, it might go unnoticed. but for those interns trailing behind him, it’s a revelation.
“i promised, didn’t i?” he says, stepping closer. his tone is calm, gentle. “how are you feeling, lily?”
“i’m good!” she announces proudly, puffing up her chest. “the medicine tastes bitter, but i finished them! i swear!”
the nurse at her bedside chuckles, adjusting the iv. she glances at zayne and mouths silently: she did.
zayne nods once. “good.”
he reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a small, pastel-colored hair tie. “as promised, you get your reward.”
her eyes widen. “the braid?”
he nods once. “the braid.”
he sits at the edge of her bed, his posture still precise, still composed. “sit still for me?”
she straightens up immediately, grinning.
zayne’s gloved hands would be overkill for this, so he removes them—bare skin against soft strands. he separates her hair into sections, weaving them together with a rhythm almost meditative.
“check her chart,” zayne says suddenly to the interns still standing frozen behind him, still braiding. “review her last echocardiogram and post-op recovery notes. i’ll ask for your assessment when i’m done here.”
they scramble to obey, shuffling through her file. but their attention keeps flicking back—the sight too strange, too human, to ignore.
lily chatters while he works.
about how her mom promised to bring strawberry ice cream after surgery.
about how the nurse says she’s brave.
about how she wants to go to the park when she’s better.
zayne listens, patient. answers each question softly, an occasional “i see” or “that so?” grounding her stories.
then she grows quiet. her fingers fidget with the plastic strap around her wrist—her patient tag. the movement is small, hesitant.
“…dr. zayne?”
“yes?”
“will my heart be okay?”
zayne’s hands still in her hair, braid half-finished. he takes a breath—small, controlled.
“i’ll make sure of it,” he says finally. “don’t worry.”
lily looks down, unconvinced. her voice drops lower, almost a whisper.
“but… will i still be able to play like before? can i still run, and jump, and dance as much as i want?”
zayne studies her—the way her fingers clutch the sheets, the forced brightness in her eyes. she must’ve overheard something, he realizes. a conversation between doctors. maybe her mother crying outside the room.
“that depends,” he says.
“on what?”
“on how much pudding you eat.”
she gasps. “really?”
he allows himself a quiet chuckle. “really. you get better faster when you eat things that don’t taste like sadness.”
the nurse hides a smile behind her chart.
lily giggles, the sound high and unrestrained. “then i’ll eat twice as much! even the green pudding.”
“good. but save some for me, alright?”
he finishes the braid, ties it neatly, and pats her head.
“there. perfect.”
“like a princess?” she asks, hopeful.
he nods once. “like a warrior princess.”
her grin could outshine the sun.
but before he can say anything more, there’s a knock at the door—soft, hesitant. the nurse at the entrance looks uneasy, her hand still resting on the handle.
“dr. li,” she begins, voice low, “i’m sorry to interrupt, but… someone at the front desk wants to see you. he’s been waiting for an hour.”
the warmth drains from the air, subtle but complete. the child’s laughter lingers for a heartbeat too long before it fades into silence.
zayne blinks once. his expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes sharpens—the brief flicker of a man recalibrating.
he turns back to lily and smooths down the freshly tied braid, a faint smile curving the edge of his mouth—the kind that’s meant to reassure more than express.
“tell him i’m with a patient,” he says, calm and even.
“i did,” the nurse admits, wringing her hands. “he said he’ll wait all day if he has to.”
that makes him pause.
he blinks again, slow, like he’s processing whether to be irritated or weary. then he lets out a quiet sigh—the kind that says he already knows his peace is over.
“understood.”
he pats lily’s head one last time. “i’ll see you soon.”
her small hand waves automatically. “promise?”
“promise.”
he stands, straightening his coat. his tone sharpens slightly when he turns to the group of interns still pretending to study her file.
“report to me later. and…” his gaze softens again, just barely, “keep her company for a bit.”
the interns nod in unison. “yes, dr. li.”
zayne leaves the room.
the hallway outside feels colder, the lights harsher than before. his footsteps echo—steady, deliberate—as he walks toward the elevator.
behind him, through the glass panel, lily’s laughter returns. the interns have pulled up chairs, fumbling through her coloring books. the sound should be comforting. but for zayne, it only fades into the background noise—swallowed by the rhythmic click of his shoes and the distant hum of hospital machinery.
he reaches the elevator and presses the button.
he doesn’t need to wonder who even wants to see him. only what new ghost they’re bringing with them.
he glances down at his hands—steady as ever—and flexes his fingers once before slipping them into his coat pockets.
ding.
──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────
the consultation room is too bright. too clean. the overhead light hums with an unsteady flicker, illuminating a space meant for second opinions and careful optimism—not fbi briefings.
jack looks distinctly out of place in it.
the man sits hunched in a chair, his dark overcoat draped over the backrest, his hands folded loosely over a battered manila folder.
the door clicks open.
zayne steps in.
he doesn’t sit.
“agent crawford,” he says, voice low but firm. “i thought i made myself clear six months ago.”
jack looks up. “hello to you too, doctor.” he leans back, the chair creaking in protest. “and you did. you were very clear. but this isn’t a request. it’s a favor.”
zayne’s gaze narrows slightly. “for whom?”
“for the victims.”
“there are other profilers,” zayne says flatly. “ones who didn’t end up in a hospital bed after the last case.”
“yeah,” jack admits, “and none of them got us a lead in under forty-eight hours.”
“that lead,” zayne replies sharply, “cost me five days of consciousness.”
jack meets his gaze, steady. “and it saved four lives.”
the light above them flickers—just once, a faint pulse like the beat of a faulty heart.
zayne turns away first, adjusting his glasses. anything to do with his hands, something to stop them from curling into fists.
“you shouldn’t have come here.”
“i know.” jack’s voice softens — not out of guilt, but fatigue. “but i wouldn’t have if i had any other choice. on your table, it’s bodies you fix. on mine…”
he taps the folder lightly. “…it’s what’s left of them. i need your eyes, doc.”
i need your mind.
for a beat, neither speaks.
then jack slides the folder across the table, the sound sharp against the plastic surface. it lands between them like a loaded weapon.
zayne doesn’t move. his eyes flick down, a muscle in his jaw tightening.
bodies. chest cavities open like split petals. ribs spread with clinical precision. hearts missing.
no chaos, no rage. just purpose.
intention.
zayne inhales through his nose, sharp and shallow.
“rib spreader,” he mutters. “probably a finochietto. the heart was removed post-mortem, but the display…”
he stops himself, pressing his lips together.
“go on,” jack urges quietly.
zayne looks up, voice clipped. “no.”
“zayne—”
“i have three surgeries scheduled this week,” he interrupts. “i have patients who need me alive, not whatever i become when i walk into your crime scenes.”
the room falls silent except for the faint buzz of light.
jack leans forward, elbows on his knees, his tone softening but not losing weight. “this killer has medical knowledge. extensive. you and i can both see that.”
zayne’s jaw works, his stare locked on the photos but not seeing them—or seeing too much.
“one crime scene,” he says. “just one. you look. you tell me what you see. then you go back to your normal life.”
as if his life has ever been normal.
zayne doesn’t answer. his breathing evens, the walls go back up. finally, he reaches out and picks up the folder.
the photographs are worse up close. the lighting, the composition—the care. there’s artistry in the horror, a symmetry that makes his stomach turn.
he turns one page. another. each one more methodical than the last.
after a long pause, he speaks—voice low, distant.
“this wasn’t about killing her,” he says. “they want to show something. teaching.”
jack frowns. “teaching what?”
zayne looks up, meeting his eyes. for the first time, there’s something in his expression that borders on fear—or fascination. it’s hard to tell which.
“how beautiful we are inside.”
the clock on the wall ticks once, twice.
“i’ll have a car pick you up tomorrow. six a.m.”
zayne exhales through his nose. “i didn’t say yes.”
“you did,” jack says, standing. “just now.”
he tucks his cigarette pack back into his coat pocket—unused, for once—and leaves without another word.
the door shuts behind him.
zayne stands alone in the sterile white room, the hum of the fluorescent light suddenly too loud. he looks down at the folder again. his reflection stares back faintly from the glossy surface of a photograph—a face overlaid atop a hollow chest.
for a moment, his hands are steady. then they’re not.
the tremor is small—almost imperceptible—but it’s there.
he closes the folder carefully, like he’s sealing something dangerous inside.
then he slides it back across the table and walks out—as if distance could make him forget the images now burned into his mind.
but the sound of the flatline follows him all the way down the hall.
──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────
sparse. clean. lonely.
everything in the house has its place.
the surfaces gleam, the counters are bare. even the light feels restrained—a single lamp in the corner casting a soft glow over polished steel and pale marble.
zayne sits at the kitchen table, still in his work clothes: black slacks, rolled-up sleeves, shirt creased from a long day. his tie lies draped across the back of a chair like something shed.
a cup of green tea steams faintly beside a slice of matcha cake. he stares at it for a long time before finally cutting a small bite. the sweetness sits on his tongue, grounding him in the smallest way.
his laptop is open.
he shouldn’t have access to what’s on the screen—fbi files, tagged and encrypted. but jack sent them anyway.
more photos. more diagrams. more evidence laid bare in high resolution. notes scrawled in someone else’s shorthand. the glow of the monitor paints his face a ghostly blue.
“vertical sternotomy,” he murmurs to himself, eyes narrowing. “no tearing. no hesitation.”
judging by the timestamps and notes, this isn’t the first victim.
reverence. worship.
affection, maybe.
zayne can’t tell which kind.
the pure or the sick kind—sometimes they blur together.
“it’s always the psychopathic ones that are hard to read…” he murmurs to no one.
he leans back, pressing his palms to his eyes. he can still smell the hospital on his skin—antiseptic and adrenaline.
his phone vibrates against the table, the sound jarring in the silence.
he checks the message.
jack: your psych eval is scheduled. dr. sylus qin. friday, 3 pm. non-negotiable.
zayne exhales, slow. types back.
zayne: i don’t need a psychiatrist.
the reply is instant.
jack: fbi policy. you consult, you get evaluated. he’s the best. you’ll like him.
zayne stares at the words, thumb hovering over the screen.
you’ll like him.
he doubts that severely.
he sets the phone facedown and shuts the laptop. the apartment plunges into a low hum of silence—the kind that feels like a heartbeat waiting to stop.
from a drawer beside the couch, he retrieves a small amber bottle. he shakes two pills into his palm and swallows them dry. the bitter aftertaste blooms at the back of his throat.
he lowers himself onto the couch—not the bed. never the bed. the bed is where the dreams wait. the couch, at least, keeps them at a distance.
the ceiling above him is blank, white, sterile. he stares at it until the corners blur.
“just one case,” he whispers, the words dissolving into the quiet. “just one.”
his breathing slows. the pill’s dull weight settles in.
the room grows softer around him—shapes dissolving, colors fading. but the last thing that stays clear in his mind isn’t the apartment or the cake or the cold cup of tea.
it’s the image from the file—the opened chest, the hollow where a heart used to be.
and somewhere in that emptiness, he imagines the faintest pulse.
he turns onto his side, chasing a sleep that feels more like surrender.
the hum of the refrigerator becomes a monitor beep in his half-dream.
steady. then slower. then gone.
──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────
the glass doors slide open with a hiss.
zayne steps through in a charcoal-gray three-piece suit, every line crisp. his polished shoes echo off the tiled floor, the sound too precise, too measured. the lanyard around his neck reads consultant, but everything about him screams control.
beverly is waiting by the security desk, tablet in hand. she looks up, smiling faintly.
“dr. li. been a while.”
“beverly.” he inclines his head, voice low, composed. “you changed your hair.”
she blinks, taken aback. “six months ago. nice of you to finally see it.”
his lips twitch—almost a smile. almost.
they move through the bullpen, agents parting instinctively as they pass. conversations quiet just enough for zayne to notice, and he feels their eyes on him. the man who cracked the last case. the man who broke himself doing it.
“fair warning,” beverly says as they walk, “this one’s bad. even for us.”
“they’re all bad.”
“yeah, but this one feels… personal.” she pauses, glancing over her shoulder. “like someone’s trying to communicate.”
zayne’s gaze sharpens. “with who?”
they reach a door labeled incident room 3. she pushes it open.
“maybe you,” she says lightly—but there’s no humor in her voice.
the air inside feels heavy. the board dominates one wall—a grid of photos, notes, and forensic charts. red string ties points together in neat diagonals.
three victims. three missing hearts.
zayne steps closer, eyes scanning automatically—movements, posture, focus all surgical.
the first image: the woman in the bathtub.
the second: a man, seated in a high-backed chair, clothed, posed, eyes closed. peaceful.
the third: a young girl, no older than twenty, laid on white sheets, hands folded over her abdomen as if asleep.
he studies in silence, lips pressed thin.
“victims found seventy-two hours apart,” beverly explains, tapping her tablet. “no defensive wounds. no signs of struggle. either they went willingly or they were convinced to. every scene spotless. like the killer took their time… and cleaned up after.”
zayne tilts his head slightly. “it isn't impulsive,” he murmurs. “it's care.”
she looks at him, uneasy. “care?”
he steps closer to the photos.
“the incisions are consistent, but gentle. they didn’t want to harm them. they wanted to preserve them. like a display.”
he gestures toward the second victim. “the sternum was retracted. no bone splintering. the ribs were spread evenly—someone who understands anatomy, and implements it.”
beverly frowns. “so, someone with a medical background?”
zayne’s eyes narrow slightly. “a surgeon. or someone who’s watched one for a long time.”
she shifts her weight. “you sound certain.”
“i am.” his gaze lingers on the photos—the third one, especially. the faint tremor in his hand stops when he clenches it into a fist. “but the question isn’t how. it’s why.”
zayne’s eyes move slowly, absorbing everything. then again, why take the hearts only?
“any progress on locating them?”
beverly exhales, tapping the side of her tablet. “none. no trace at the scenes, no black-market chatter. forensics says if they were harvested for sale, we’d have seen transport residue — preservatives, packaging traces, something. but there’s nothing. it’s like they vanished.”
zayne’s eyes narrow. “he’s not selling them.”
“then what’s he doing with them?”
zayne opens his mouth to reply, but the door to the incident room opened.
“dr. li.”
jack approaches, trench coat slung over his shoulder, coffee in hand.
zayne doesn’t turn away from the board. “agent crawford.”
“thank you for coming.”
“i haven’t agreed to anything beyond looking.” his tone is calm, precise—every word cut to shape.
jack gives a short nod. “that’s all i’m asking. for now.”
he hands zayne a visitor badge and a slim file. zayne takes it without looking, eyes still fixed on the crime scene photographs.
jack studies him for a moment—the set of his jaw, the restrained disgust behind his calm expression. the man’s mind is already dissecting the crime scene before even seeing it in person.
“first site visit’s this afternoon,” jack says, then adds carefully, “but first… your appointment.”
zayne glances down at his watch. “it’s barely noon. the appointment isn’t until three.”
jack shrugs. “dr. qin asked if you could come early. said he had an opening. thought you might appreciate getting it over with.”
zayne’s jaw ticks—a tiny movement, irritation flickering beneath the surface. he doesn’t appreciate being handled. but the fatigue in his eyes betrays that he’ll let it slide.
“fine. where?”
beverly hands him a sleek white card, embossed in silver lettering. her lips press into a line that’s somewhere between amusement and warning.
“nice part of town. prepare for some pretentious interior design though. you know how the rich gets.”
zayne takes the card, eyes lowering to read the name.
dr. sylus qin, m.d., ph.d.—psychiatric consultant
‘in somno veritas.’
he frowns faintly at the motto etched beneath the name—in sleep, truth.
pocketing the card, he turns to leave. “pretentious interior design i can handle.”
beverly smirks. “good. you might want to prepare for the man that matches it.”
zayne doesn’t respond, just adjusts his coat, leaving the bullpen with his usual quiet precision.
as the doors close behind him, beverly looks at jack.
“the guy walks like he’s headed to his own execution,” she murmurs.
jack, still staring at the crime board, replies quietly, “maybe he is.”
──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────
the car glides to a stop in front of an elegant brownstone—three stories of muted grandeur framed by wrought-iron railings and climbing ivy. the street itself is quiet, almost eerily so.
just the hum of an engine cooling and the faint whistle of october wind through the trees.
he checks the address again.
correct.
he exhales through his nose, shuts off the ignition, and steps out. the door closes with a soft click.
inside, the air smells faintly of sandalwood and old paper. pristine dark wood lines the walls. leather armchairs and soft classical music filling the silence.
no receptionist. and no other patients.
just a bronze bell on a side table, accompanied by a neatly written note in looping script:
please ring. i’ll be with you shortly. — s.q.
zayne doesn’t ring. not yet.
he takes a moment to look around, hands in his coat pockets.
bookshelves hold everything from jung to nietzsche, with first-edition bindings that look unread. a crystal decanter of water. brass fixtures polished to a mirror sheen.
the anatomy print draws him in. the details are exquisite—arteries rendered like calligraphy, the heart painted in red. not a diagram for study, but for admiration.
even more curious, how the veins... spread out.
like antlers.
“beautiful, isn’t it?”
zayne turns, shoulders tightening before he can stop himself.
a man stands in the doorway as if he’s been there a while, watching. he’s taller than zayne, posture unhurried, almost lazy—but there’s a sharpness in the way his eyes move. bright red. unnatural. the kind of gaze that feels like dissection in slow motion.
he smiles, faint and knowing. “dr. li. i’m sylus qin. thank you for coming early. i hope i didn’t disrupt your schedule.”
zayne takes his hand. warm. firm. not the kind of touch meant to reassure—a test, almost.
“my schedule was already disrupted.”
“ah,” sylus murmurs, still smiling, “by agent crawford, no doubt. he does have a talent for intruding at precisely the wrong time.”
he gestures toward the adjoining room. “please. come in.”
the office itself is as meticulous as its owner—drawn curtains that bleed a muted gold light, two chairs facing each other with the same height. no couch. no clipboard.
it feels suffocating.
zayne notices the faint shadow of a record spinning behind the desk. the same organ piece, softer now. it’s hard to tell if the music is meant to soothe or unnerve.
“would you like tea? coffee? i have an excellent earl grey.”
“i’m fine.”
sylus pours anyway, steady hands moving with ritual precision. “forgive me, but i find that hard to believe.”
zayne’s tone sharpens. “that’s not relevant to this evaluation.”
sylus looks up over the rim of his teacup, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. “everything is relevant, dr. li. that’s why we’re here.”
he settles into the opposite chair, crossing one leg over the other with graceful indifference. his presence fills the room without effort.
zayne sits opposite him, back straight, hands clasped loosely. controlled.
sylus studies him—not the way psychiatrists usually do, with gentle interest or false empathy, but like a sculptor considering where to carve.
“you don’t like being observed,” sylus says finally, voice smooth as lacquer.
“no one does.”
“true.” a small smile. “but most people at least pretend not to mind. you, on the other hand, have built an entire life around restraint. medicine is the perfect refuge for that—structure, repetition, predictable outcomes. even your compassion can be measured in sutures and seconds.”
zayne’s expression doesn’t change. “you read my file.”
“i didn’t have to.”
sylus takes a slow sip of tea. “you haven’t slept properly in months. and you carry guilt like a man trying to cauterize a wound that won’t close.”
zayne exhales, almost a scoff. “you draw a lot of conclusions in five minutes.”
“that’s my job.” sylus sets the cup down gently, the sound too quiet, too deliberate. “and yours, i believe, is seeing patterns others miss. we’re not so different.”
zayne leans forward slightly, tone cool. “except my patients are alive when i’m finished.”
sylus’s smile deepens, unoffended.
a brief silence stretches between them. the record clicks, the music changing to something darker, slower.
zayne cleared his throat.
“look. the fbi requires this evaluation. let’s make it efficient. i’m mentally competent to consult on cases. i have no history of violence. i—”
sylus cuts in, quiet but precise. “this isn’t a checkbox exercise, dr. li.”
the interruption isn’t rude—a clarification.
“i’m not here to approve or disapprove you,” sylus continues, his voice smooth and deliberate, “i’m here to make sure you survive what uncle jack is about to put you through.”
“yes.” sylus’s tone doesn’t rise, but it sharpens like a blade finding tension beneath skin. “and last time, you stopped sleeping for eleven days. started hallucinating at crime scenes. collapsed during a surgery.”
zayne goes completely still—not defensive, not startled, just frozen. a man containing movement before it starts.
“that’s… not in any official report.”
sylus leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze steady. “no. but jack told me. because he’s worried.” a beat. “and frankly, dr. li, so am i.”
zayne exhales once, slow. “you don’t know me.”
“not yet.” sylus’s smile flickers—soft, brief, almost human. “but i’d like to.”
there’s something beneath those words. something invasive. interest.
not the kind doctors have for patients, but predators have for patterns.
zayne looks away first. his throat tightens—not from discomfort, but from the sense that this man sees too much, too easily.
“i don’t need someone to worry about me,” he says finally. “i need to do my job and go back to my job.”
sylus studies him for a long moment, then taps a single finger against the armrest. “your job,” he repeats softly. “saving lives. you’re quite accomplished.”
zayne doesn’t rise to the compliment. “so are you, i’m sure.”
a shadow of amusement crosses sylus’s face. “trauma surgeon.”
zayne blinks. that, he hadn’t expected.
sylus watches the shift in his expression like he’s cataloging it. “so, i understand the appeal,” he says, voice low. “of opening people up to fix what’s broken inside.”
sylus leans back again, gaze thoughtful. “the difference is, i realized i was more interested in what breaks in the first place. the mind, not the body.”
zayne’s voice is quiet. “they’re not separate.”
sylus smiles faintly, and it’s all teeth this time. “no. they’re not. which is exactly why you’re struggling, dr. li.”
zayne’s head lifts slightly.
“you fix hearts,” sylus continues, “but the fbi asks you to understand them in a different way—to empathize with the broken minds that stop them.”
the words hang between them.
zayne doesn’t answer. he doesn’t have to. the stillness in him says it all—the memory of the last case, the smell of blood that wasn’t from an operating room, the echo of his own mind cracking under the weight of empathy weaponized.
“tell me about the nightmares.”
zayne stands up. the chair legs scrape quietly against the floor. “i think we’re done here.”
“sit down, dr li.”
the command isn’t harsh. it’s gentle, but absolute. something in the tone bypasses reason entirely.
to his own surprise, zayne sits. slowly. like a man who doesn’t quite understand why.
sylus’s gaze never wavers. “you don’t have to trust me,” he says softly. “but you do have to talk to me. fbi policy, remember?”
zayne’s fingers tighten around the chair’s armrest. he looks at the curtain, the floor, anywhere but sylus. “you think this is helping?”
“i think,” sylus says, leaning forward again, “that you’ve been drowning quietly for months. and the only thing keeping you breathing is your work. you live inside the pulse of other people’s hearts because you can’t stand the silence of your own.”
zayne doesn’t react. but the muscle in his jaw jumps once, hard.
sylus smiles faintly—the kind that could mean sympathy, or fascination. “the nightmares are echoes, dr. li. echoes of what your empathy can’t digest. the mind’s way of asking you to look again.”
zayne’s voice is low, controlled. “you have a way with words for a psychiatrist.”
“i prefer honest.”
the air between them stills. neither man speaks, the quiet stretching long enough for the soft hiss of the record to fill it—that ghost of static before the next song begins.
sylus doesn’t press. he simply lifts his cup, drinks his tea with the same unhurried calm that has filled every gesture so far.
finally, zayne breaks the quiet.
“i dream,” he begins, voice measured, almost clinical, as if reciting a case study. “about the surgeries i couldn’t save. the patients who died on my table.”
sylus listens, head tilted slightly, the kind of attention that makes even the air lean closer.
“but in the dreams,” zayne continues, “they’re… different. not accidental. purposeful.”
sylus sets his cup down, porcelain clinking softly against the saucer. “as if someone meant for them to die.”
zayne swallows. his throat moves once, sharply. “…yes.”
“and in these dreams,” sylus’s tone remains quiet, steady, “who is that someone?”
zayne doesn’t answer. his eyes fix on the edge of the desk, tracing the line of the polished wood. his hands, resting on his knees, have gone perfectly still.
sylus studies him a moment longer, then leans back, crossing one leg over the other. “you’re afraid it’s you.”
zayne looks up, eyes dark and tired, meeting that impossible shade of red. “isn’t that what this evaluation is for? to determine if i’m dangerous?”
sylus shakes his head once, slow. “you’re not dangerous.” a pause. “you’re empathetic. dangerously so. you don’t just see crime scenes—you become them. you reconstruct the killer’s mind by dismantling your own.”
zayne’s expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes fractures—not visibly, but like a ripple through still water.
“then i shouldn’t be consulting,” he murmurs.
“perhaps.” sylus’s tone carries no judgment, only inevitability. “but you will anyway. because jack will ask. and you’ll say yes. and eventually…” he smiles faintly. “…you’ll stop saying no.”
zayne tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly.
sylus rises from his chair. he walks toward the curtained window.
“because i know what it’s like to be the person everyone needs. the one who can do what others can’t.” he glances toward zayne over his shoulder. “it’s intoxicating. and it’s corrosive.”
he turns fully then, facing him. silhouetted by filtered sunlight, he looks more statue than man.
“so here’s what we’ll do,” sylus says, voice slipping back into calm control. “you’ll consult on this case. you’ll come see me twice a week. we’ll talk. i’ll make sure you’re eating, sleeping, staying…” he searches for the right word, “…intact.”
zayne stares at him, skeptical. “and when it’s over?”
sylus steps closer, stopping just within the edge of zayne’s personal space. “when it’s over,” he says, “you’ll go back to your hospital, your interns, and your impossibly sweet desserts.”
zayne blinks. that last part throws him off just enough to pierce the shell of his composure. “…what makes you think—”
sylus’s lips curve slightly. “jack mentioned you have a sweet tooth. i assumed.”
but his tone suggests otherwise—like a man who’s seen more than jack could’ve possibly told him.
he moves to his desk, opens a drawer, and retrieves a small black business card. heavy paper, embossed letters. elegant. he writes something on the back with a silver pen.
“one more thing,” sylus says, holding the card out. “my personal number. call me if the nightmares get worse.” a beat, eyes flicking up, steady. “or if you just need someone who understands.”
zayne reaches for it. their fingers brush. the contact lingers a second longer than it should.
zayne glances down at the card—minimal, just like his business card. then back at sylus.
“why do you care?”
sylus’s answer comes without hesitation. “because you’re interesting.”
the faintest pause. then, softer, “and interesting people should be preserved.”
the record shifts again, the music deepening.
sylus sits back, smooth as the music itself. “our time is up. i’ll see you in three days. try to sleep before then.”
zayne stands. straightens his cuffs. he hesitates near the door—not because of doubt, but because of curiosity he refuses to name.
“dr. qin,” he says, half-turning, “when you were a trauma surgeon… why did you stop?”
sylus’s smile comes slow, thin. it doesn’t touch his eyes.
“i found i preferred working with the living mind rather than the dying body.” a heartbeat’s pause. “more room for… artistry.”
zayne studies him for a long second—maybe two—then nods once. “good afternoon, dr. qin.”
he leaves.
the door closes softly behind him.
sylus remains seated for several moments, eyes still fixed on the door. the music fades, the record crackles.
he picks up zayne’s empty teacup, examines the faint imprint of his lips on the porcelain.
he traces the rim of the cup with a fingertip.
then sets the cup down, the faintest ring of sound echoing through the quiet.
“if we cannot find a way,” he murmurs. “we will make one.”
the record ends. silence falls.
──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────
the building looms like a carcass left to rot. rust stains the walls; the air hums faintly with the echo of flies and the distant wail of police sirens.
jack and beverly wait near the yellow tape, both silhouetted against the fading light.
zayne steps out of his car—crisp suit, gloves in his pocket, face unreadable.
jack gives him a nod. “dr. li.”
zayne answers with a quiet, “agent crawford.”
beverly eyes him curiously. “how’d it go with dr. qin?”
“fine,” zayne says. clipped. noncommittal.
“that good, huh?” beverly smirks.
jack exhales a half-laugh through his nose. “he’s the best, zayne. used to consult for us before he went into private practice. probably saved a dozen agents from cracking up.”
zayne’s eyes flick toward him at that. sylus was fbi. that explains the way he looked at him—not as a patient, but as someone who’s already seen the inside of too many heads.
jack gestures to the warehouse. “you ready?”
zayne glances at the entrance—the crime scene tape fluttering faintly in the wind. the faint tang of iron already leaking out from within.
“…no.”
jack grunts. “good. that means you’re still sane.”
he lifts the tape for him. zayne ducks under and steps inside.
inside the warehouse, time feels suspended.
the harsh fluorescence of portable lamps cuts through the gloom, bathing everything in sterile white. the smell of bleach battles with blood and metal. the body’s been removed, but the shape of it lingers—in the dark pool beneath the drained tub, in the ritualistic arrangement of tools and candles still marking the space.
zayne pulls on his gloves. the sound—snap—echoes faintly.
beverly and jack hang back, watching.
zayne circles the scene slowly, measured. his gaze doesn’t skim; it sinks. every detail is cataloged: the drag marks, the pattern of candle wax, the faint indentation of knees in the dust beside the altar.
then his expression begins to shift. the tension leaves his brow. his eyes glaze, not unfocused—inward.
his pulse slows.
he can hear his watch ticking—steady, rhythmic. his breathing syncs with it.
he crouches near the tub.
blood outlines the rim in smudged crescents, like fingerprints turned inward. the drain still clogs slightly, water thick with residue.
his eyes close.
the world folds in.
this is my design.
light drains, then returns—not the present but then.
Zayne and the weird detective who is totally not Lumiere
another one thank you-
this is starting to feel like miraculous ladybug ngl hHHhh
it'd be funny if zayne finds out about xavier's side job if lumiere just impulsively kissed zayne (he was probably suffering blood loss after saving zayne) and poof he transforms
zayne's head immediately clicks and just pulled the guy by the ear with his teeth clenched "you are so explaining this back in the office after we beat this gigantic monstrous pillow that's currently eating people in this furniture store istg"
