fanfic writers are so fucking awesome in the sense that they can take one single scene, that lasts less than a minute, from the source material and turn that one single scene into a 40k word long fic with depth, feels, character study and development and create a whole storyline out of that one single canonical moment.
fanfic writers are so fucking awesome in the sense that they can take one single scene, that lasts less than a minute, from the source material and write 40 entirely different fics about that one single canonical moment and each one of those fics is a literal masterpiece.
rafayel, xavier, and sylus aren't truly in love with her - rather, they love a version of her that doesn't exist.
zayne... well. he seems like the only person who loves her for who she truly is. but now she knows how all of his lives end in tragedy, and it's always her fault.
so, she pushes them away. she disappears, leaving a note for each of them. "i'll never be able to truly make you happy. i'll never be her."
summary: in his haste to find you before the auction begins, sylus uncovers something much more harrowing. and he curses himself for agreeing to let you be bait in the first place.
warnings: violence, minor character deaths, human/sex trafficking, mentions of underaged girls, profanity, allusions to reader’s past as a kidnappee, reader is not mc, reader implied to be femme, sylus is mad murderous & an emotional wreck
notes: a continuation of this. thank you so much for reading!
now playing: mozart - requiem - lacrimosa
The docks are deceptively quiet tonight.
Nothing seems amiss between the creeks of old wood and the slosh of waves breaking on the pier.
Sylus isn’t convinced of its purity.
Not when the tracker dwarfed in his palm blinks a steady red, signaling to your whereabouts.
He’d followed the signal here after it grew stagnant following an hour of movement away from the city. He waited another 45 agonizing minutes to make his move. Had to be sure he wasn’t being led into a trap and that wherever Fate’s men whisked you off to was where he’d find the others.
He stands on the edge of a weathered connex, the wind ominously ruffling his coat.
He studies the device in his hand. Paints a shadowy figure amid the bokeh of distant city lights glittering behind him. With one hand in his pocket, the composure adorning his features contrasts with the hushed maelstrom brewing beneath his skin.
He holds out his unoccupied hand for Mephisto to perch on, the crow materializing on his wrist as if summoned from thought. Mephisto preens himself, iridescent feathers gleaming in the moonlight. When he’s done, he fixes Sylus with a lifeless, scarlet stare before a holographic image emerges from his eyesight.
It’s a detailed layout of the docks. Metal containers, small, worn ships. For a second, nothing looks abnormal. Yet something stark white and rectangular piques Sylus’ intrigue.
Sylus scrutinizes the shape further before he makes out what it is. A semi-truck inconspicuously parked between stacked connexes. Three dark figures circle around it like wolves. Guards, more than likely armed. Whatever they’re protecting, it must be big.
“Well, that doesn’t look very suspicious at all,” Sylus drawls, scratching Mephisto’s head with appreciative fingers. The crow bows out of existence in a flurry of inky shadows and feathers, having served Sylus well.
He spares another glance at the tracker. The blip of your signal aligns with where the truck resides.
It is then that he decides to make his move.
A smirk tugs on the corner of his lips. It’s been a while since he’s gotten his hands dirty. Had you and the twins for that. The prospect of a good fight makes his fingers twitch, the tips of them sparking with dark red electricity.
In superhero fashion, he pitches himself forward, swallowed by the misty vines of his Evol, as he ascends from the connex at breakneck speed.
You’d make fun of him for being so dramatic; he’s sure of it. He’ll tell you all about his heroic feats when you’re safely tucked back in his penthouse with this night shoved into the furthest reaches of your minds.
He lands on sturdy feet. Insufferably cool as he maneuvers through the maze of cargo containers. The click of his shoes reverberates off damaged metal until he spots what he’s looking for.
The guards have yet to see him. Two of them pace back and forth at the truck’s rear. Another circles its perimeter, two hands on a rifle.
Such meager security for whatever’s housed in that trailer.
He breathes deeply. Fades into obscurity, drawn into the shadows of his Evol, preparing for a sneak attack. He doesn’t need to. Could effortlessly eviscerate the guards with a snap of his fingers. But where’s the fun in that?
“I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” sighs a disgruntled guard all by his lonesome in the driver seat, hands wrapped around the steering wheel. “What am I, a fuckin’ babysitter?” So caught up in his head, he’s none the wiser to Sylus’ appearance on the passenger side, amused, crimson eyes boring into his skull.
“You’re right,” Sylus replies, his voice abrasive yet cocky. “You don’t get paid enough.”
The driver doesn’t get the luxury of a scream before wispy, handlike tendrils snake around his neck. Bone snaps, followed by a sigh of life drained from cold lips. He dies with terror twisting his features, shepherded into the afterlife by The Boogeyman himself. His head slumps onto his shoulder as his energy flows into Sylus’ body.
“Now, what exactly are you babysitting,” Sylus ponders. The kingpin blinks out of existence again, readying himself to dispatch the other three henchmen.
Sylus doesn’t make a sound as he takes out the guard who’d wandered to the nose of the semi to ensure his cohort was still on the job. The other two, he snuffs out similarly, their blood gurgling in their throats and their bones crackling, music to his ears.
He rolls out the kinks in his neck and shoulders to ward off the stiffness as their life force seeps into his body. It’s been too long since he’s had some fun. Hopefully, this is the most action he’ll see for the night.
His eyes grow intense with concentration when he stares at the worn handles of the truck’s trailer. He burns with anticipation. With something of wariness nestled between. Your signal stops here, steadily buzzing on the tracker in his pocket. He clings to the notion that you’re inside, unscathed and none the worse for wear.
He shuts his eyes, focusing a stretch of energy on the handles. The doors fly off with a deafening screech of metal, sure to draw some unwarranted attention.
Nevertheless, with his hands in his pockets, he waits for the dust to settle. Leaps into the truck trailer with practiced ease, eliciting screams and gasps of varying pitches from within.
None of which sound like yours.
Red emergency lights flicker in the space inside. It reeks of mildew and sweat. Fear. Revulsion.
When the grime completely clears, Sylus makes out dozens of sets of eyes fixed on him. He stiffens. His blood turns ice cold.
Girls of diverse creeds, colors, sizes, and ages cower against the back of the trailer. All from him. He makes out at least 30 of them, crammed in the trailer like cattle awaiting slaughter.
Something in his chest pulls. His lips twitch with the threat of a grimace.
Those sick fucks.
Sylus is no saint. He’s done horrible things to equally deplorable people to increase his reign. To strike fear into those who would oppose him. Challenge his title as Onychinus’ ruler. But he’s never dreamt of doing something as vile as this.
There’s no telling how long Fate had them—these young women, these girls. How long they’ve been emaciated, deprived of food, water, and sunlight.
Sylus bristles as an image of you forms in his mind. A flash of a girl, young like these ones. Terrified yet burning with fury. Revenge rotting your mind, anger warping your tear-stricken features.
Speaking of you, he scans through the girls’ faces in search of yours. He doesn’t find you through their varying degrees of fright. Sucks in a breath through parted lips, his blood running cold.
He cautiously steps further into the trailer, and the girls inside shy away. He holds out a placating hand. Sure, he’s despicable. Terrifying, and the red light highlighting his imposing figure as he nears them doesn’t help matters. But he has to be sure you’re not nestled between them. Playing a cruel joke on him after he spent all this time hunting you down.
The tracker in his pocket vibrates violently. The group of women parts, cowering away from him like he’s something of a sickness. He stops in front of a girl who looks no older than sixteen. Peers down at her, and she shivers, swallowed by your coat. She ducks into the fur, shrouding herself from Sylus’ penetrating gaze.
There’s no mistaking this jacket. Pristine lynx fur.
One of the first he’d bought you when you joined his entourage. A peace offering, a sign of his unyielding protection.
You wore it faithfully like it was your most prized possession. No matter how many more Sylus stocked you with, you never let this particular coat go.
He smooths shaky fingers down the collar. Suddenly sees red when he tugs on the lapel, snatching the girl up, and she shrieks, her feet dangling above the floor. The other women yelp in terror, shrinking away from Sylus’ ire. He must look like a monster to them. As beastly as the men who ripped them from their homes. From freedom. But he doesn’t care as anguish drives him into rage.
It’s rare he loses his cool. But when it comes to you, things just hit differently.
“Where did you get this?” Sylus demands. He’s breathy. There's a manic look in his eyes. He’s desperate. Running out of time. For all he knows, they could’ve already sold you off to the highest bidder.
Or worse.
The girl donning your coat says nothing. Too shell-shocked, her voice corked in her throat. He recognizes the look in her eyes all too quickly. Well acquainted with it, having seen it too often in his enemies before he extinguished them like a candle’s flame.
Gravity comes sinking back in. Sylus scans the space around, the fear in the dank space palpable.
He peers at the girl, at his hand fisted in the coat, disgusted with himself. They’ve already endured so much, and he’s only exacerbating their torment. Gently, he sets the girl down. After her feet return to the floor, something clanks on the wooden boards, and she scurries away. Sylus kneels to retrieve it, the telltale gleam of a crimson gem causing his muscles to tense.
The brooch.
Your brooch.
The tracker.
The fucking—
Fuck!
A tidal wave of grief crashes into him. He squeezes the pendant in his hand, its intricate carvings biting into his fingers. Anguish mars his features. He pinches his eyes shut, curling into himself. The girls cling to the lining of the truck, scared witless.
He tamps down an impulse to scream. Instead punches the wooden floor. Punches and punches until the skin of his knuckles split, and his fist is raw, bleeding red.
You wanted him to find them first. These girls who’d been snatched away from their families, their livelihoods. Sold to deplorable men to do revolting things. To suffer. To die.
To you, this was personal. Sylus fought against using you as bait to draw out the ringleader of this trafficking act. But you wore him down, citing that he owed you this moment of redemption. Why you sought him out all those years ago.
You fucking martyr.
The trailer grows silent. Sylus feels numb as he stands, chest heaving. His fist has already mended itself when he dismounts the truck in a daze, leaving the girls cowering in his wake.
Luke and Kieran, as if sensing their boss’s shock, call him back to the present in his earpiece.
“Boss?” cautions Luke, the radio silence alarming.
“I’ve found them,” Sylus states, his tone grim. Detached. Dejected.
“And the little boss?” Kieran queries, optimism breaking through the static.
Sylus’ silence serves as their answer.
There’s a pause before Luke cryptically disrupts it. “On the way, boss,” he promises before the line cuts dead.
Sylus stares at the ground. Dissociates, starting away from the truck before the sound of merriment catches his ears.
His attention’s drawn to a sizable ship on the opposite side of the pier. It cuts a sleek outline against the horizon, bordered by smaller passenger boats.
He narrows his eyes. Homes in on the ship, exhaling slowly. If he were an auctioneer, he would hold it somewhere in plain sight. Somewhere seemingly innocent that wouldn’t raise any suspicions. What better guise than a party?
Hope spumes through him. Adrenaline. You’re so crafty sometimes, it hurts. The brooch was merely a marker. You knew he’d assemble the pieces the moment you found the others and left your brooch where he could track it.
You could very well be aboard that ship, waiting to be sold off. Waiting to be returned to a life you fled from years ago. He could only hope he was right in his deduction.
Sylus sinks into the vantablack abyss of his Evol, setting course for the cruise ship at the pier's edge. He clings to the idea that you’re onboard, safe and sound, waiting to cuss him out for taking so long to find you.
—
He needed a distraction.
There were too many innocents onboard. Or, so they seemed. He couldn’t glean the difference when he landed on the deck. He had a one-track mind.
A few partygoers eyed him suspiciously. Perhaps he didn’t blend in with his wind-swept hair, harrowed features, and suit stained dark with blood.
Regardless of their intrigued looks, he wended through the crowd. Scanned the scenery, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Anything to signal nefarious dealings taking place aboard the cruise ship. Anything that could lead him to you.
He’d heard whisperings as he descended to the mid-levels of the ship. Hushed tones speaking of meetings for the elite taking place on the lower decks.
He clung to the bits of information he extracted. Pieced them together. Found his way to the kitchen. The staff was clueless to his presence—or they ignored him, too busy whipping up meals for the ship’s guests.
Sylus grabbed who he assumed was the sous chef by the collar. Pinned him with a stare that promised pain if he wasn’t compliant.
The man cowered in his hold. The remaining cooks caught wind of it, shrinking away from Sylus’ imposing, blood-speckled figure. From the malevolence pouring in waves off his skin.
“There’s a fire in the galley,” Sylus stated between the man’s eyes. The sous chef looked at him with pinched brows. Confusion showed through his fear, as nothing was amiss.
Sylus would soon change that.
“I would advise you to start clearing out your staff. Now.” He punctuated his sentence with a growl, tossing the chef back a few paces until he stumbled into his coworkers.
They weren’t moving quick enough for Sylus, so he set his plan in motion. Turned a few knobs with a flicker of his Evol, a fire sparking on the stove. It erupted into something more menacing, the flames licking the ceiling, triggering the sprinkler system.
The kitchen staff finally sprung into action. Hurriedly poured out of the room as the shrill cry of the fire alarm pervaded the air.
With his hair matted to his face and his mouth drawn into a rigid line, Sylus moved further through the kitchen. Descended to the lower floors as people rushed past him, all seeking refuge from the fire.
At least this way, he could wheedle out the scum who’d taken you while sparing the innocent a horrible fate.
