~ I feel like I be saying the same things in different fonts but this has been lingering in my head for at least a month now so why not.
Sylus cannot stop spitting on your pussy during sex. You could be sopping wet, a mix of his cum and yours literally everywhere. All over your cunt, your thighs, dripping down your ass. It's still not wet enough, every so often he just spits down on where his cock disappears inside of you to make it even wetter.
Xavier eats you front to back, you don't think there is a time where he's gone down on you and not licked your ass too. You're mortified about it, make a point to really deep clean yourself up prior to seeing him. He's eating you to the bone, licking and sucking and biting every inch of you from the top of your thighs all the way down and around to the small of your back.
Caleb loves the smell of your pussy, an obsession that goes far beyond stealing your panties for personal use. He'll purposely eat you out with the blankets over his head to be enveloped by the heady scent that is you and your arousal. You swear you feel his nose burying between your slick folds more than his tongue.
Rafayel is into snowballing after he cums in your mouth. Don't swallow, don't spill either. He's tugging you up to his level and crashing his lips against yours, a sloppy mix of tongue and teeth as you pass whatever of his cum remains in your mouth over to his before he's pushing it back into your own again.
Zayne purposely makes you squirt / ruin his sheets. It gives him a sense of satisfaction seeing the wet spot (puddle). He purposely bought a water proof mattress cover for this reason. When everything is done and you go to shower? He's grinding his cock into the wetness, hard all over again at the aftermath of your strenuous activities before stripping the bedding to wash.
in your relationship, âwhat's mine is yoursâ is sylus's motto. he justâŠnever expected you to use his wealth to keep your favorite tv shows from being canceled.
before you met him, you'd been betrayed one too many times by some greedy network axing your beloved series one season in. so when you finally gain the resources to fight back, you vow to never be left on an unanswered cliffhanger ever again.
as the current season of your most-watched show comes to an end, you scour the news for a renewal announcement that never comes. when the inevitable âunfortunately, this series will not return for another season,â article drops, thereâs no time for mourningâonly action. you stay up all night running numbers you shouldnât even know, wondering just how many zeros itâll take for the studio to change their minds. (and they will change their minds. like, the main characters havenât even kissed yet! thereâs potential here, people!)
within the next week, the retraction statement floods the media:
âto our amazing community: an anonymous benefactor has made a multimillion-dollar donation to the production team behind your favorite show! their generosity will secure at least five more seasons for this brilliant team of creatives. thank you for making your voices heard!âÂ
hmmph, you think when you finish reading. and donât let it happen again!
other fans around the world rejoice at the network's change of heart, though theyâll never know the âbenefactorâ who made it happen was one of their very own.
and sylus? he hardly pays your philanthropic endeavors any mind. the funds are yours to spend, as far as heâs concerned; plus, if it means more cozy nights lying next to you, hearing you gush about scenes and storylines while your favorite show plays in the backgroundâŠwell, if it makes you that happy, he might just buy the whole network himself.
Imagine... being Sylus' wife and slowly realizing something about the people who work for him.
They're afraid of him.
Not respectful.Not loyal.
Afraid.
They keep their heads low because they know what happens when they cross him. They follow his orders because disobedience has consequences. They do their jobs because Sylus is powerful enough to make sure they do.
And perhaps most importantlyâ
Every single one of them is waiting.
Waiting for a mistake.
An opportunity.
A weakness.
Because fear makes people obedient, but it doesn't make them loyal.
And you hate that.
Not because you think Sylus is some innocent man who doesn't deserve his reputation.You know exactly who he is.
You've seen the ruthless side of him.You've seen what he's capable of.
But you've also seen the man nobody else gets to see.
The man who remembers tiny things about the people he cares about.
The man who protects what he considers his.
The man who can be unexpectedly patient, unexpectedly generous, unexpectedly gentle.
And you know that if his people ever got the chance to see even a fraction of that man, they might stop fearing him long enough to actually respect him.
So you decide to give them that chance.
Quietly.
You start with the people closest to him.
His bodyguards.His drivers.His Assistants and Informants.The people who have spent years standing at his side without ever really knowing what exists behind the reputation.
You learn about them.
Their families.Their financial situations.Their backgrounds.The things they struggle with but never mention at work.
And whenever you find something you can help with, you simply do.
Someone is drowning in debt?
You don't simply hand them a pile of money.You help them find a way out of it.
Someone is responsible for younger siblings after losing their parents?
Suddenly their little sister has the school supplies she needed.Their younger brother gets help with his education.You visit them when their older sibling is too busy working.And when they ask where any of it came fromâ
Someone's elderly parent needs medical treatment they can't afford?
You make sure the treatment happens.
Someone is struggling with an addiction?
You don't shame them but find them professional help.
Someone is trapped in an unhealthy relationship?
You make sure they know they have somewhere safe to go.
Someone is struggling mentally?
You don't dismiss it.You find them someone qualified to help.
And you never do any of this in a way that makes them dependent on you.
That's important.
You're not trying to buy their loyalty.You're trying to give them enough stability to stand on their own.
Because the point was never to make them grateful to you.The point was to make them realize something about him.
So whenever someone asks,"Why are you going through all this trouble for us?"
You simply smile."đâ. đŒđĄ đ€đđ đđŠđđąđ ' đđđđ."
Every time.
You give him all the credit.
You make it sound as though he woke up one morning and decided to personally solve everyone's problems.as though this terrifying man they've spent years avoiding suddenly developed a philanthropic streak.
And you never correct them.
Because eventually, they start believing it.Not because you told them Sylus cares.Because you've given them experiences that make the possibility difficult to dismiss.
The changes are small at first.
A guard who used to obey an order solely because he was afraid of disappointing Sylus , starts putting genuine thought into his work.
A driver starts looking after the others instead of treating them as competition.
A manager starts helping the people underneath him instead of ruling them through the same fear Sylus used to inspire in him.
People start taking care of one another and most importantly of him , which he doesn't need.
They start protecting each other's families.
They start staying late because they want the job done properly, not because they're terrified of what will happen if they fail.
And slowly, something that fear could never create begins to grow.
Respect.
Not the kind demanded by a boss.The kind earned by someone they believe is worth following.
They still know Sylus is dangerous.They still know exactly what he's capable of.You never tried to erase that.You simply gave them something else to put beside it.And eventually, the difference becomes impossible to miss.
They still stand when he enters.
They still listen when he speaks.
They still follow his orders.
But now there's something in their eyes that wasn't there before.
They trust him.
They defend him when he's not there.
They take initiative instead of waiting to be commanded.
They do things properly even when nobody is watching.
And one day, Sylus notices.
He notices that his people no longer look at him like a predator they have to appease.
They look at him like their leader.
And perhaps that's the first time he realizes what you've actually been doing.
You weren't making his people softer.You weren't buying their loyalty.
You were giving them reasons to respect him.
And you did it without asking them to.Without telling them that he's secretly a good man.Without forcing them to change their minds.
You simply let them meet the man you've always known.And perhaps the strangest part is that Sylus doesn't seem angry about it.He just looks at you for a long moment.
Because for the first time in his life, people aren't following him because they're afraid of what he'll do to them.They're following him because they believe he's worth following.
< Previous âą Next > | Note: reader is not the sultry âhot gamer gothâ stereotype, sheâs the cozy gamer girl. i hate stereotypes and no offense to dream and no hate to goth girls i love all girls btw)
synopsis: reader is a streamer doing a face reveal
wordcount: 1138
â "Congratulations! you have reached your goal of 30k donations. post to celebrate." you read the notification at your streaming account. Your latest donation was from the infamous RedRubyCrow109 who donated the remaining 20k to your goal
â you rubbed your eyes, thinking itâs still a dream. Scrolling through the posts of your community and it was flooded with posts.
âwhat do i do, i havenât prepared anything!â you ran your hands through your hair in frustration.
â you start remembering dreamâs face reveal and are lowkey scared it'll happen this time TO YOUâ but youâre not that well known so it wonât be an issue.
â you decided to write a post for the community
âI canât believe we reached the goal in such a short time! Thank you for supporting my channel and as i promised iâll do a face reveal in tomorrowâs stream :)) #pls-be-niceâ
â Obviously half of the comments were excited and the other half complained. however you ignored it and spent the whole day shopping and upgrading your set-up to make it as cute as possible.Â
â next dayâŠthe stream will be starting in a few hours. You double checked everything, the lighting was perfect with a hue of purple, with a nice camera angle, you also dolled up for the stream.
â you stared at yourself through the camera monitor and did some awkward poses. You still felt embarrassed and nervous but whatever, its too late to back down now! And you were gonna make a V-tube model soon anyways, so it wonât matter in the future.
â the stream finally started! You didnât open the camera immediately, chatting idly and reading comments until enough people joined.
Thankfully your streamers were supportive and kept cheering you up
Rndmplay replied: âman shut tf up youâre so annoyingâ
Lilgui replied: âitâs a surprise she hasnât banned you from her stream yetâ
â rolling your eyes at the annoying commentor, well he was beneficial for increasing your popularity with his annoying comments.
â but you couldnât help but notice the absence of your top donor. His comments were always so eye-catching due to the numerous badges next to his username...thereâs no way you wouldâve accidentally missed it, he usually comes early and chats with you.
â Wait, why are you disappointed? Itâs just a random person. Fuck it.
â taking a deep breath and mustering your courage, you finally enabled the camera, your face showing on a quarter of the stream and the comments started moving faster with heart emojis and keyboard smashes.
â chat: "omg wait you're so cute!
chat: "HOLY SHIT"
chat: "UR ADORABLE also where's your top from?"
chat: "mid"
â Honestly, you were so nervous you didnât even read most of it. You kept subconsciously hiding behind your hands and peeking through your fingers at the comments.
â but your appearance wasnât really what your fans expected. Of course, stereotyping sucks.
Your style was more elegant, dainty and cute. Itâs just your personal style and you loved it anyway.
But no one wouldâve expected that this girl is the same one that breaks the sound barrier crying when she loses her 50/50 on her favorites banner.
â chat cheered and spammed your comments, you had an army of simps now and it felt a bit embarrassing but also gave you a confidence boost! You eventually felt more confident and stopped hiding behind your hands or hair. and donations kept coming in again, variety from 10 to 2,000
â but he is still not here yet...
â âwho else expected a girl with eyeliner, piercings and cat ear headphones? đâ
âIs this a joke?â
âI expected a hot mommy with big [redacted]â
â yeah that last one got banned in a millisecond. And chat cheered for it.
â ânot you guys calling me basic.â you jokingly rolled your eyes. Your shyness was very obvious in your voice tone. You were unusually quiet this livestream.
â your heart skipped a beat when his familiar icon showed up as he joined the stream and immediately straightened your back.
â heâs late. and he didnât comment for a bit and you started feeling a bit self conscious. He was usually active, spamming you with comments and donations but heâs too quiet now without saying a single word.
â âhe must be disappointedâŠâ you thought to yourself and stared at yourself through the camera monitor again.
â âwhat could possibly be wrong? I did my hair, my makeup was simpleâŠmy outfit is nice too. Purple is my best color! Is it cuz i'm notâ'
â DING! RedRubyCrow109 donated 1000: âHello, you look divine. â
â your heart skipped a beat as your hands fiddled with the string of your zip-up hoodie. You felt a bit relieved when he finally commented and tried to not appear too excited
â âhii, thank you, red ruby! youâre late today.â you joked, immediately stopping yourself from sounding too excited but you did seem giddier.
â RedRubyCrow109: Sorry, i was unexpectedly busy today. Iâm watching your stream while working.â your heart skipped a beat, his dedication was so sweet.
â before you could respond, âaww, thatâs sweet. Iââ
â DING! RedRubyCrow109 has donated 5,000. Message: "to make up for being late, prettiest face reveal ever." followed with a little heart sticker
â You almost choked on your drink and chat started spamming againâŠâO-OH Thank youââ
â DING! RedRubyCrow109 has donated 5,000. âOh and a little congratulating gift. also sweetie could you please increase the maximum capacity of donations? I can only donate max of 5000 per transaction, itâs bothering me.â
â wow, this man! You canât tell if it's hot or if it's too arrogant and indirectly calling you broke. you chuckled and brushed a curl out of your face.
â âI canât do that right now since iâm in a livestream! Iâll do it after i log off.â you responded with an awkward smile.
â DING! DING! DING!
RedRubyCrow109 has donated 5,000.
RedRubyCrow109 has donated 5,000.
RedRubyCrow109 has donated 5,000.
â it just kept going. Your eyes widened as you tried to keep up with the donations and comments. Your hands fumbling the mouse.
"Uhmm-- is this a glitch or?!"
â RedRubyCrow109: Iâll just send it in small chunks if i canât do it all at once.â
â âIS HE SERIOUS?! Just how much money does he have?!' you thought to yourself
â Chat: wow bro is printing money
Chat: CAN HE BE MY SUGAR DADDY
Chat: he called me broke in 295 languagesâŠ
â and well you decided to flag him. you wanted to make sure it's not someone's stolen card or a child using his mom's account!
â RedRubyCrow109: âDid you just flag me sweetie?â
â âI didnât! It mustâve been the server or something! you were spamming, it must've been suspicious behavior or something."
â RedRubyCrow109: that won't stop me.
I can picture Sylus in the middle of a tough mission then going "hold on i'll miss the livestream
âĄwarnings: pârnstar!rafayel x prude f!reader, one past daddy mention, alluding to some kind of sexual shame, tattooed raf, begging, mocking, a little degrading, mostly a lot of praise, fingering, not that bad it's kinda sweet if i'm honest
⥠sound bite: âIâll help you out, yeah?â he whispered, his large hands rubbing up and down the smooth skin of your thighs, getting so close to where you wanted him before dancing away again.
âWhen Iâm filming with someone new and they get a little camera shy, sometimes it helps if I feed them lines. It keeps them from worrying about saying the right thingâloosens them up a little. Letâs try that, hm?â
⥠a/n: guess whoooo! i've been gone for a minute, like i said a lot of my posts have been taken down so i might try to repost, but most of my stuff is on my ao3. my user is slapmeshigaraki on there too. anyway lot of shit going on irl but i dusted this one off from the drafts for the fuck of it. enjoyyyy xx
Bitchhhhâ I know this ainât who I think it is.
That was the message that interrupted your six-part bodycam TikTok viewing session. It was a text from your best friend accompanied by a sketchy link to Xvideos. The title read in bold letters: sexy virgin gets stretched open and fucked ROUGH. You were almost scared to open it, fairly certain that somehow this link would lead to a hacker accessing your bank account. It might not have had much money in itâbut it was your bank account nonetheless.
Against your better judgment, you clicked it. As you pressed play, your living room was immediately filled with a series of lewd moans and the sound of sweaty skin smacking together. It went on for a few seconds. It didnât seem like anything out of the ordinary, pretty average backshots, until you heard a voice. Fuckâyouâre milking me so good, sweetheart. You must want my cum, huh? Is that what you need, baby? You shook your head in disbelief. Surely it wasnât who you thought it was.
The camera panned down to show a large hand slamming down against the girlâs ass. The skin of the manâs fingers was littered with tattoo inkâshaded into the shape of bones. It was that same damn skeleton tattoo. If that wasnât confirmation enough, two seconds later the alleged âsexy virginâ whined out, Yes, please. Please cum inside of me, Rafayel. Ainât no fucking way.
A part of you wanted to question how your friend even found this to begin with, but a bigger concern was how the fuck didnât you know that your long-term friend with benefits was secretly a porn star. Actually, it clearly wasnât much of a secret; the shit had millions of views. When you clicked on the account that posted the video, you quickly saw an entire portfolio of work. The tags on some of them were sick, reallyâmaster and slave, slapping, sadism, even fucking watersports. Just as you were about to let your curiosity consume you to open another video, you heard the sound of a key jingling in your front door. You didnât even have time to turn your phone off; you just threw it to the other side of the couch.
âOhhh, youâre gonna wanna fuck me so bad when you see what Iâve got behind my back.â The familiar voice rang out across the room, the same tattooed fingers revealing a brown paper bag with grease spots staining the bottom as Rafayel stepped through the door.
âStopped by your favorite food truck. No need to pay me back or anythingâ I think Iâd rather take my reimbursement in the form of head.â He laughed at his own words, as if it were a joke. You tried to get the image out of your head, but it seemed nearly impossible as he walked closer to your seat on the couch, placing the bag on the coffee table between you.
âYou good? You look like youâre gonna be sick.â He wasnât wrong. He could see the little beads of sweat forming on your neck, your eyes wide as if youâd seen a ghost. You cleared your throat, desperately trying to redirect your thoughts.
âDidnât I tell you that key was for emergencies, Rafayel?â He hummed in agreement.
âOh, Iâm sorry.â He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his phone, and unlocked it. âWhen someone texts you, âI need to see you so bad. Iâm so pent up Iâm dying, literally.â It kinda seems like an urgent situation.â You turned your head, opting to grab the food instead of making eye contact with him. He sucked his teeth at your lack of rebuttal.
âOkay, damn, Iâm sorry. Did I scare you? Is that whatâs got you so tense? In my defense, I did say I was on the way. Next time, though, Iâll knock, yeah?â You nodded absentmindedly. Sensing the unusual tension in the room, he stepped around the coffee table, sitting down on the couch beside you. He placed a tattooed hand on your bare thigh.
âSeriously, tell me whatâs up. It obviously isnât just about the key.â His other hand reached across you, grabbing the sides of your face to turn your gaze onto his completely.
âLookâI get that lately weâve only seen each other to hookup. But donât forget about the friends part of friends with benefits, yeah? If you wanna talk, Iâve got time. You can tell me anything,â he said, voice completely softened now. Just as you were about to reply, your lips inching to form a sentence, you heard it. Those same lewd sounds from earlier, only this time they were slightly muffled. There was no fucking way.
Rafayelâs face contorted, and he shuffled around in his seat to see where the noise was coming from. Heâd started to reach for his phone, but then he saw an illuminated screen tightly tucked between the cushions. You reached for it at the same time, desperately trying to dig for your phone to silence those fucking sounds, but it was no use. Before you could even try to wrestle it out of his hands, he saw it. There he was on your phone screen, the tip of his cock inching towards the back of some girlâs throat. All you could do was cover your face in horror.
âNo fucking way!â He was dying laughing, the filthy sound of someone gagging on his cock filling the space.
âYouâre watching porn of me? Howâd you even find this? I thought you said you didnât like that kinda stuff?â he asked between gasps of laughter.
âI donât.â You reached back for your phone, snatching it away this time as he was too busy cackling at you to fight back. You clicked the power button this time, the filthy sounds now dissipating.
âClearly you do, or at least you do if Iâm in it.â He was so fucking smug about it, too, amused at your humiliation as he reached out for the bag of food, fishing out a taco for himself.
âI wasnât fucking watching it. Someone sent it to me.â
âThatâs actually weirder. What the fuck were they even doing to find that? Itâs not like itâs Twitter porn, youâve gotta dig to find that kinda shit,â he retorted before taking a bite.
âI donât feel like youâre in any position to talk about whatâs weird when youâre recording yourself fucking whoever. Some of those videos are disgusting.â He shrugged it off.
âNo shame in my game. Fucking is an art, and I am an artist. Forgive me for sharing my talent with the world.â He could barely get the line out before laughing again, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.
âWell, how come you never told me you were into that kinda stuff? Huh, what happened to âfriends can tell each other anythingâ or whatever the fuck?â you asked, halfway offended.
âUhhh, because you act so vanilla,â he said with no hesitation. Well, now you were fully offended.
âWhat the fuck is that supposed to mean?â You reached out to smack his shoulder, which he barely felt through the layer of muscle.
âI didnât say you were vanilla. I said you act vanilla. Itâs not a bad thing. You like what you like, and I like what I like. Doesnât bother me, but itâs the truth.â He said it like he was simply stating that the sky was blue, so fucking matter-of-factly.
âWhy would you even say that, though? What about me is so vanilla?â He could tell you werenât gonna let this go anytime soon, so he shoved the rest of the taco in his mouth, taking far too long to chew and swallow for your liking before he replied.
âOkay, first, you never make any noise.â Your eyebrows furrowed at the comment.
âThatâs not true!â
âIt most certainly is. Itâs like sometimes I can hear you about to moan, but then you cover your mouth or bite your lip or something to stop it. Uhhh, letâs see, what else? Oh yeah, you never let me go down on you.â
âLetting you eat me out wouldnât be freaky if thatâs what youâre implying.â He noticed how you conveniently didnât respond to the former accusation about being too quiet.
âExactly my point! If you wonât even let me eat you out, which is like basic shit, then of course I wouldnât try to do anything else. I damn sure wouldnât ask you to film.â You fell silent at the annoyingly logical point, but then something even more troubling fell over you.
âBe honest...Am I not hot enough to fuck on camera?â Rafayel tried his best to stifle another fit of laughter, now aware that you were actually being serious.
âThatâs not it at all. You are soâso fucking sexy. Of course, I think people would want to see you nakedâhell, I want to see you naked. In fact, I wish you were naked right now instead of wasting time with this ridiculous conversation.â You rolled your eyes, now more irritated than anything else by his evasive answers. You werenât sure why it bothered you that he never offered. Maybe it was the fact that he had hundreds of videos posted, and each one seemed to have a different girlâhe had no problem asking every single one of them, so why not you? You were about to get up from the couch, suddenly needing some space from the man, but he reached out for your wrist, guiding you back down to your seat.
âOkay, okay, wait. Look at me for a second, yeah?â You did so, reluctantly.
âYou are one of the prettiest girls Iâve ever seen, really, and we have good sex. I mean it, really, I always have a good time with you,â he said, as if it were no big deal.
âGood? Itâs just good to you?â
âI mean, yeah. I cum. You cum. Whatâs not to like?"
"The problem is, thoughââ He took a second, wondering whether brutal honesty would hurt or help in this situation. In the end, he decided to continue anyway. âI never asked you to film because you perform too much. Itâs inauthentic.â For a second, you thought he was going to say something genuine or romantic, like that he thought you were too good to do something like that. Instead, though, it seemed like this was a worse insult than before. Before you could object, he spoke again.
âWhat I mean by that isâ okay, I make a lot of money off of those videos, yâknow. Like some of the most popular ones have been worth almost a grand.â Okay, so what you heard was that you wouldnât make him enough money because youâre not that good at fucking.
âLet me finishââ he pleaded, anticipating an interruption. âYou know what most of those videos have in common?â
âEvery woman in them has clearly had a boob job.â He smiled at your remark.
âNot every, but sure. What I was going to say is that those videos are all super degrading. Iâm saying mean shit and being rough. Begging on camera for someone to spank you or choke you or whatever the fuckâthatâs not something someone can half-ass, and in a way, it only works if youâre willing to be real. Youâre always so caught up in trying to perform, super concerned about what other people are gonna think.â You didnât even allow his monologue any time to sit in the air.
âThat is not true!â
âNo? Okay, then tell me why you donât moan when we fuck, huh?â There was a hint of a challenge in his eyes, a provocation to see if you would tell the truth.
âMaybe itâs because youâre just not that good at fucking. Did you ever consider that?â He hummed in acknowledgment.
âWe both know thatâs not it. Youâre performing. You think that if you get too loud or if you let me go down on you, that Iâll see you differently. Youâre scared of looking like a slut, even though itâs obvious that you are one.â You gasped at the allegation.
âOh, and donât say youâre not because if you werenât, you wouldnât have slipped up that one night and called me daddy when we were drunk, or I wouldnât have been able to hear you fucking yourself in bed every night through the walls when we were roommates. Actually, if you werenât a slut, you wouldnât be so hung up on the fact that I didnât try to recruit you to make a porn video.â You were actually speechless now. His delivery implied that this wasnât an impromptu speech.
âBetter yetââ He reached down to grab one of your ankles, pulling you closer to him before wrapping your leg around his waist. You were basically in his lap now, and you could feel his length painfully hard beneath you. âLet me show you why you couldnât get fucked on camera.â He wasted no time slipping his hand between your bodies, reaching beneath the hem of your t-shirt to find the waistband of your panties. You hadnât bothered with pants due to the previously scheduled booty call, which was quickly taking a turn for the worse.
âWell, see. Look at thatâyouâre certainly wet like a slut.â He had no trouble finding your clit beneath the fabric, his middle finger rolling over the button unbearably slowly. You lied earlier; he actually was that good at fucking. He noticed the way your eyes had started to flutter closed with each little movement of his finger against you.
âDoes that feel good, hm?â he whispered, leaning into you, your chests pressed against one another as his lips brushed the shell of your ear. You stayed quiet, focusing on calming your breathing and holding the moan that had been building up in the back of your throat from escaping. Rafayel had always been a bit theatrical in bed, clearly loving the sound of his own voice. He was never shy about moaning or telling you what he wanted. This was different, though; now, he was going to make you participate.
âSpeak up, or Iâll stop.â His words seemed like a command, but the way he pressed a soft kiss onto your neck gave a different impression.
âYouâre not serious,â you said, and not even a full second later, he slid his hand from underneath your panties, the absence of his fingerâs warmth quickly showing that he was indeed serious.
âRafayelââ
âNu-uh, you said you could fuck on camera, right? Well, this is your audition, angel, and if Iâm honest, youâre failing miserably.â He readjusted your hips on his lap, pushing you off of him in the process.
âIâm not asking you to act. If it doesnât feel good, say that, but if it does, then you have to show me because right now, Iâm not convinced. I'm not gonna touch someone whoâs not enjoying it,â he said it so nonchalantly, like it was basic math before shrugging it off and turning to reach for the food again.
âIt did.â He raised an eyebrow at your commentary, intrigued, but still not satisfied.
âIt didâwhat? What is it and what did it do, exactly?â he questioned, a devious grin slowly growing on his face.
âYouâyour fingers did feel good.â He hummed in approval.
âAhh, see? Now Iâm following. So do you want me to keep touching you then?â You nodded, eyes growing wide at the offer.
âNo, no noâyou were just starting to do good for me, donât get shy now,â he said, voice sickly sweet as he turned back toward you, his body leaning closer and closer to yours, forcing you to lie on your back, your legs wrapped around him once again.
âIâll help you out, yeah?â he whispered, his large hands rubbing up and down the smooth skin of your thighs, getting so close to where you wanted him before dancing away again.
âWhen Iâm filming with someone new, and they get a little camera shy, sometimes it helps if I feed them lines. It keeps them from worrying about saying the right thingâloosens them up a little. Letâs try that, hm?â You nodded, once again, at a loss for words as his hand, still wet from your juices, pressed flat against your pussy, rubbing you through the fabric of your panties.
âYouâre so wet, baby. I can feel you getting your panties all messy. You want me to keep touching you like this?â His fingers danced between your slit at an agonizingly slow pace.
âYes.â It was soft, a shameful confession whispered into his ear, but heâd heard you, and that was a victory he was happy to accept.
âYeah? I can tell it feels good. Youâre getting my hand all sloppy, pretty girl.â His lips hovered against the skin of your neck, his warm breath making your eyes flutter into the back of your head as he tried not to chuckle at how cute you looked when you were frustrated.
âTell me what you want,â he whispered. âNo one else is here. Itâs just meâŠtell me what you need, baby.â He could feel the way you tensed up at the request, pressure building in your chest as all of the dirty words you wanted to say got stuck in your throat.
âIâll help you again, okay?â You could barely even focus on the lesson as his thumb slowly circled your clit, his lips pressing a kiss onto your skin between words.
âRepeat after meâsay, please put your finger inside of me.â It was so straightforward, no flowery wording or beating around the bush. Heâd told you to say exactly what you wanted, leaving no room for interpretation. You almost couldnât focus on how humiliating the request was because the heat building between your thighs was becoming unbearable.
The feeling of Rafayel slowing his fingers down slightly served as a warningâhe was not afraid to stop touching you again. You had no choice but to repeat the script, every word, verbatim. You could feel him smile against you in success.
âAw, you did such a good job. Of course, I can do that for you, angel. Relax for me, yeah?â As he felt your heartbeat even out against his chest, he slowly slid the tip of his middle finger past your entrance.
You waited a beat, expecting to feel him reach deeper inside, but he didnât move, leaving you clenching around the tip of his finger. He could feel you shifting around beneath him.
âWhatâs wrong, baby?â He was playing so fucking coy. You were so frustrated that a little whine left your mouth just before you could bite your bottom lip to silence yourself.
âOoh, that was a pretty sound. I mustâve spoiled you too much, hm? Otherwise, I wouldâve gotten to hear the cute little noises you make when you donât get your way. Is that it? Have I been too nice to you?â Only more noises left your lips as you tried to push yourself further onto his finger.
âSo fucking greedy,â he said, taunting you, as his free hand moved to pin your hips down against the couch cushions, forcing you to whine again, tears prickling the corners of your eyes.
âYou gonna whine some more, or you wanna tell me whatâs wrong? Can you use your big girl words for me?â He never moved to look you in your eyes, knowing that the eye contact would only make you crawl back into your shell again, but you knew that he was doing everything in his power not to use his hand to force your gaze onto his.
âJustâŠtell me what to say, Rafayel.â You were indeed whining some more, but at least youâd said something.
âHmm, I want to hear you say please again. I liked it earlier.â You didnât even bother to quip back, realizing that this was all about stroking his ego.
âPlease, tell me what to say, Rafayel.â He knew youâd rolled your eyes, but he let it slide.
âI think I wanna hear you beg. Say please, play with my pussy. Ask me to make you cum, nicely.â At this point, you were so frustrated that you just agreed to whatever he asked, each word falling from your lips, much to his enjoyment.
âSee, that wasnât so hard, was it? Youâre making me so proud, angel. You want a treat?â he said. Heâd always praise you in bed, loving the way it made you tighten up around him, and this time was no exception.
âYes, please.â As the words fell from your lips, he forced the remaining length of his finger inside of you, effortlessly brushing the tip of his finger against your G-spot. His thumb found your clit again, slowly teasing it as his finger slid in and out.
âMy good girl, using her manners. I loved the way that sounded, so desperate. Doesnât it feel so much better to get what you want when you had to work for it?â Just as you opened your mouth to deliver a slick remark, he slid a second finger inside, forcing a loud moan from your chest. You rushed to slap your hand across your mouth, as if you were trying to stuff the noise back inside, but it was too late.
For the first time, heâd moved his head, his face only inches away from yours, a look in his eyes that youâd never seen before, pupils darkening his irises, like a vampire that hadnât fed in weeks. Heâd released your hips from his grip, opting to grab your wrist instead, gently freeing your lips.
âItâs okay if it feels good, you know? No one can hear you but me, and I like hearing you. Donât you trust me?â He allowed you to just nod this time, not trying to ruin the moment by forcing you to a script when he finally had you right where he wanted youâout of control.
âDonât hold back anymore, okay? You're allowed to feel good. I want you to feel good. I wonât think differently of you. Youâre still so smart and sweet and funnyâthose parts of you are still there when weâre like this. I like every part of you, so just be you with me.â Â You nodded in agreement, eyes watering again from the intimate moment, as you felt his hand loosen on your face just a little, before his fingers started playing with you again.
âYou can close your eyes if you want. Just think about how it feels, okay, baby?â You did, which heightened every act of stimulation as he moved his lips back to that spot that made you shiver beneath him. He knew it wouldnât take much more for you to cum, but he was tempted to edge you a bit, desperate to see you like this just a little longer. He was so eager to hear that noise again, he swore it was the prettiest sound heâd ever heardâthe song of an angel. You could tell by the way he wasted no time curling his fingers again, pressing against that spot rhythmically in time with his thumb on your clit. You were trying to ignore that filthy sound that flooded your ears each time he pushed his fingers in your cunt. You physically couldnât hold your moans back any longer if you tried, and Rafayel could not have been more in awe of you in that moment.
âYouâre dripping down my fucking wrist, angel. Am I making you feel that good, hm?â All you could say was yes over and over again, each one more broken and pleading than the last.
âYeah? You look so fucking pretty for me, sound so fucking good. I need you to cum for meâwant to hear it so fucking bad.â All you could do was whine as he quickened his pace again while he felt you tighten up around him, the familiar sensation telling him that you were unbearably close.
âFuckâI think Iâm gonnaââ The word kept getting stuck in your throat, the sound of him breathing so heavily in your ear was fogging up your brain.
âAw, what is it, baby? Youâre gonna what, hm? Tell me whatâs gonna happen if I keep pressing against this spot right here?â he mocked. You were actually crying now, the stimulation close to making you cum harder than you ever had before.
âYeah? You gonna cum for me, angel? You think you can be good and do one last thing for me?â You were nodding so quickly, like an excited puppy, mouth open, desperately trying to catch your breath. His grip on your cheeks tightened once again.
âLook at me, please.â You hesitated, just for a second, but it didnât last long, the need to cum outweighing any shame at this point.
âNo scriptâyou wanna cum? Beg me.â So, you begged, a series of pleas and moans leaving your lips. He tried his best not to change his expression, scared that any reaction might make you self-conscious. All he did was press light kisses against your cheeks. He could taste the salt from your tears as you whined against him.
âItâs okay, baby. You can cum for me. You earned it, pretty girl, cum for me, please. All over my handâthatâs it. Yeah? Oh my godâfuck, yes. Good job, angel, sound so fucking sexy like this.â Your thighs were clamping down around his wrist, forcing him still as you shook and writhed against him. He closed his eyes while he listened to you moan and beg, for what, you weren't exactly sure, but he was addicted to the sound.
âDamn you really were pent up, huh? Iâm so proud of you, baby. Cumming so good on my fingers, making all those pretty noises for me. Just like thatttâfuck, keep cumming. Let it all out for me.â Ever so slightly, he kept rubbing his thumb on your clit. It was as if he were in some sort of trance, studying the way your breath would catch in your throat and how you whined like such a little crybaby. It was so overstimulating that your moans had turned into screams before you begged him to stop.
âSorry, I justâgot carried away, I guess. You were just soâŠâ he hesitated.
âLoud?â you asked, still out of breath and doing your best not to cover your face, embarrassment heating your cheeks as the nasty sounds you had made rang in your ears.
âNo, noâso beautiful. It was like getting to look at a masterpiece. That was art.â
âYeah? Good enough to record?â
âMmmh, so good that I don't think I'd wanna share it with the world. Might have to record something just for me."
âą heâs someone who canât sit stillâŠhe always has to be doing something or else he feels like heâs wasting time. i feel like he wouldnât really watch any tv shows or movies in his spare time by himself (unless you guys had plans to discuss it), but building airplane models would feel more productive cause it relates to his job
âą biggest lebron glazer of all time lmaooo he would rarely use social media outside of keeping up with your posts, but when he did venture on there, lebron memes and edits would be all over his timeline
âą on the topic of sports, i think heâd be pretty on top of the basic happenings of the nfl, mlb, nhl, and the top 5 soccer/football leagues, but the nba would be the one he kept up with the most. heâs a former basketball player himself, after all!!
âą i agree with everyone who thinks caleb is chronically crusty. i love my man but his skin and lips are DRY. he would use lotion & lip balm though if you bought him some because it reminds him of you đ„ș
âą this unfortunately ties into my last point, but i think he has really low self esteem :( he doesnât care about himself that much, so he just does the basics when it comes to taking care of himself, so he skips things like lotion, uses 2in1 shampoo, etc :/ i also donât think heâd put in the effort to cook good food just for himself, like heâs eating straight boiled chicken & only worries about his macros idk lmaoo. he ends up doing a lot more for himself when youâre around!!!
âą heâs had this habit ever since he was little, but i just KNOW heâs the type of person to comment on the things going on when yall are watching tv/movies together, especially if heâs asking stupid questions on purpose or pointing out something obvious. heâs just a yapper and he also loves to annoy you đ€
âą iâve seen a lot of people say heâs golden retriever coded but i also have seen him compared to a german shepherdâŠwhich means heâs a Golden Shepherd teehee
âą caleb is naturally good at everything he tries & it can be annoying as hell, especially when heâs better than you at a hobby or skill youâve been working at for a while. we saw a glimpse of that in the card âchasing summerâ but heâs just been that way for yalls entire lives đ
âą in terms of music, i think he would listen to a lot of everything. it would have to be really crazy for him to be like hmm not feeling this. i think he would definitely lean towards whatever kind of music you like listening to, though, since itâs whatâs around when you guys are together. MY caleb is 100% an nctzen and sticker was an immediate hit to him idc. maybe we can blame the toring chip on that one
âą he doesnât do it as often anymore, especially since you guys are finally together and heâs grown up a lot, but as a teenager he definitely loved trying to make you jealous. not the most mature thing, but it made him feel wanted and he liked having proof that you are just as crazy about him as he is about you. i know he loved every second of mcâs crashout in âstage observerâ once he realized she was jealous lmaoooo
maybe iâll make a master list, but for now you can find my xavier, zayne, rafayel, and sylus headcanons by clicking their names!!!
iâm also currently working on a xavier drabble rn..weâll see if i ever post it.
18+ MDNI | Sylus gets possessive... and he doesn't hide it.
So, I've been introduced to Love and Deepspace recently by my friend and Sylus... well, he struck a chord within me, let's just say that.
One day, you confessed something small but raw: you'd always dreamed of feeling truly safeâguarded, tranquil, untouchable in a world that never stopped spinning. The words hung in the air like a challenge. Something primal flickered in Sylus's crimson eyes, a quiet storm he hadn't known he could harbor until you said it.
"Feeling safe," you'd murmured.
If that's what you cravedâwhat you'd always neededâhe'd become the fortress. No half-measures. He'd give everything to wrap you in that security, especially in his bed, where vulnerability met power.
It started subtly. During sex, he held you impossibly closeâhis massive frame curling around yours like living armor. When he took you from behind or sideways, his thick arms banded across your waist and chest, not to restrain, but to anchor. To remind you (and maybe himself) that nothing could touch you here.
"Wrap your legs around me," he whispered one night, voice low and gravelly as he settled on top, broad shoulders blocking out the dim light of his penthouse. His silver hair fell messily across his forehead, strands catching the glow like liquid moonlight. "Yeah⊠just like that, kitten."
You hooked your ankles at the small of his back, pulling him deeper. His thrusts slowed at firstâdeliberate, measuredâeach one pressing him so far inside you felt him in your core, a heavy, grounding fullness that made your breath hitch. Not pain. Never pain with him. Just overwhelming security. Loved. Desired. Protected.
Your nails dug into the thick muscles of his back, raking red lines across sweat-slick skin. He groanedâlow, animalâhis body responding instinctively. Plump muscles strained under your grip; his hips snapped harder, deeper, chasing the way you trembled around him.
"SylusâŠ" Your voice cracked, eyes stinging as pleasure built to something almost too much.
He shifted, rolling you gently onto your stomach. Then he blanketed you completelyâchest to your back, thighs bracketing yours, weight a comforting cage. One large hand threaded through your hair, petting softly while the other braced beside your head. He pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses along your scalp, your temple, the nape of your neckâmessy silver strands brushing your skin like silk.
"You feel so good, kitten," he rasped, voice catching on a choked gasp as he sank in again, harder this time. His control frayed; he barely restrained the urge to mark you, teeth grazing your shoulder instead of biting down. "So fucking perfect⊠taking me like this."
No more words were needed.
He rocked into you steadily, rhythm building until every thrust dragged a whimper from your throat. His free hand slipped beneath you, fingers circling your clit with practiced precisionâslow, insistent circles that matched his hips. You arched, pushing back against him, chasing the edge.
"That's it," he murmured against your ear, breath hot. "Let go for me. I've got you. Always."
The orgasm hit like a waveâshattering, endless. You cried out his name, clenching around him so tightly he hissed, thrusts stuttering as he followed. Heat flooded you; his arms tightened, holding you through the aftershocks, rocking gently until you both stilled.
He didn't pull out right away. Instead, he eased onto his side, pulling you flush against his chestâstill buried deep, one hand splayed protectively over your stomach, the other cradling your head under his chin.
"Safe?" he asked quietly, voice rough from exertion.
You nodded, turning just enough to kiss the underside of his jaw. "Always with you."
Synopsis: You were supposed to die quietly. Sick since birth, youâve spent your life in a hospital bed, surrounded by white walls and kind hands. And then thereâs Dr. Zayneâthe one who never looks at you for too long.
Until you see him with a corpse.
Until he sees you.
He doesnât kill you.
He tells you he willâjust not yet.
Youâre already dying, after all.
You are no longer a patient.
Youâre a specimen.
And Zayne is still deciding what to do with you.
Tags; psychological horror, death, body gore, body abuse, mental abuse, dark romance (hopefully), medical horror, obsessive behavior, sadistic male lead, slow descent into madness, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, toxic dynamics,
AN; It been such a long time since I wanted to write back horror with dark romance. I don't know if a lot of you enjoy this, I hope you will. I don't know if a second part will be written, I'm not sure yet.
Next Chapter ->
Chapter I : White Walls, Red Hands
The hospital always smelled like cold metal and paper masks.
Even the flowers brought by visitorsâwhen there were visitorsâsmelled like plastic.
Your room was on the east side of the building, near the elevator that groaned every time it opened. The nurses said the sunrise was beautiful here. But most mornings, your body was too tired to open its eyes in time.
You had grown used to it. The beep of machines. The soft whirr of the air system. The weight of wires taped against your skin like you were a broken machine still pretending to be human.
The illness had a name you stopped trying to remember.
You had it. It had you. That was enough.
And then there was him.
Dr. Zayne.
He wasnât your doctorânot really. He didnât handle your charts or bring your meds.You only saw him when you were walking in the hospitalâs walls. Silent. Gloved. Eyes sharp as glass.
You didnât like the way he looked at people. Or rather, the way he didnât.
He observed. Not like a personâbut like something trying to understand what people were.
You had watched him once from behind a door while he was in an asleep patientâs room.
He had stood still, for far too long. Not checking their vitals. Not saying a word.
Just⊠watching.
You told yourself he was probably tired. Or maybe he was just like thatâquiet, serious, brilliant. The other nurses respected him. Your actual doctor,Dr. Greyson, the one with the warm smile and jokes about pudding, called Zayne âa machine wrapped in genius.â
But he said it fondly.
You didnât laugh.
Still, you never thought much of it. You never really had to engage with him for anything. After all, you were already stuck in this hospital before he arrived.
You told yourself he was just intimidating. Cold, but professional.
Someone who didnât waste words or warmth. Someone you could respect⊠from a distance.
But sometimesâon the worst nights, when the halls went still and you could hear your heartbeat over the machinesâ
You thought:
He didnât walk like a doctor.
He walked like death, making rounds.
And you hated that your body believed it.
Knock knock.
The sound pulled you from your thoughts.
The door creaked open, and in stepped Dr. Greyson, all soft footsteps and easy smiles.
His white coat was wrinkled againâprobably from sleeping at his deskâbut his pale blue shirt was still tucked in, and his tie had tiny ducks on it. Again.
âGood morning, sunshine,â he said, like he always did. âHowâs the most patient patient on the floor today?â
You gave him a tired smile, the one that didnât reach your eyes but always made him smile wider.
âStill breathing,â you murmured.
âThen weâre winning,â he said, pulling up a stool. âLetâs keep it that way.â
He always made you feel like the sickness wasnât something inside you, but something you were both fighting together.
Like you werenât alone in it.
As he took your vitals, he asked about your sleep, your appetite, your painâalways with a tone that said he cared, not just needed to know.
He made jokes. Light ones. The kind that filled the silences without needing to force laughter.
For a few minutes, it was easy to forget how cold the room was. How long the days were. How slow dying could be.
But thenâ
From the corner of your eye, through the window in the door, you saw him.
Dr. Zayne.
Passing by.
He didnât stop. He didnât look in.
There was a woman walking beside him. She was talking, her voice too soft to hear through the door, but her expression was warm. Familiar.
She smiled at him like sheâd known him forever. Like he was someone worth smiling at.
And maybe most surprising of allâ
Dr. Zayne let her.
He didnât look at her, not quite, but he didnât walk away either. His pace matched hers. His posture wasnât as stiff as usual.
He didnât seem like death right then.
He seemed⊠human.
You found yourself sitting up straighter. Watching.
The woman touched his arm lightlyâbarely a brushâbut Zayne didnât pull away.
Dr.Greyson chuckled at your curious gaze but didnât give you any answers. He adjusted your IV, humming under his breathâsomething soft and familiar. You didnât recognize the tune, but you liked that it didnât sound like anything clinical.
âYou didnât eat much today,â he said, glancing at your chart.
âIt tasted like cardboard.â
âCardboard would sue for slander if it heard that,â he murmured with mock offense.
You laughedâa breathy little thingâbut it made him glance up with that look.
The one that said: Iâm glad youâre still trying.
And maybe you were. In your own quiet, stubborn way.
âHowâs the pain?â
You shrugged. âItâs quieter today.â
âThen letâs not wake it up,â he said, scribbling something into the chart.
He didnât hover, never made you feel like a problem to be solved.
He simply existed with you, beside the slow drip of medication and the hum of sleep beginning to settle over your bones.
He stood to leave, reaching over to dim the overhead light.
âTry to rest, okay?â he said gently. âThe halls arenât as fun as you think at night.â
You smiled, eyes already fluttering closed. âTheyâre less white in the dark.â
He pausedâmaybe a little surprised. Then he gave a quiet chuckle.
âFair enough. But still... donât go running marathons in your socks.â
âNo promises.â
He shook his head and whispered, almost to himself,
âYouâre trouble.â
You didnât argue as he just sat there for a moment. Then he offered you something warmer than hope: a hand.
You took it.
He stayed like that until your eyelids grew heavy, and your breath evened out, and the world faded to soft beeping and soft white light.
You didnât mean to wake up.
You never did. Sleep came in patchesâthin and unreliable.
The room was dim now, bathed in shadows and blue glow from the machines. The halls beyond your door were quiet. No footsteps. No chatter. Just the sound of your IV dripping, like water in a deep cave.
You sat up slowly, joints stiff, blanket falling to your lap.
This place had been your world for so long. The nurses knew you by name. Some of the younger ones had even grown up while you stayed the same, slowly fading into the sheets.
So you looked at the clock and you did what other patients werenât supposed to:
You wandered.
The nurses didnât mind. They knew you. Youâd been here longer than some of the interns. As long as you didnât pull out your IV or get lost near the elevators, no one stopped you.
You bare feet touched the floor. You pulled on your robe and then opened the door.
The hallway greeted you with a soft hum of silenceâdim lights, pale tiles, the faint echo of distant machines.
It felt almost peaceful.
Like you were the only living thing left in the world.
Your bare feet made almost no sound on the cold tile.
You stayed close to the walls, just in case. Not that anyone would stop youâbut there was something sacred about this time of night. Like the building itself was asleep, and you didnât want to wake it.
You walked past the nurses' station. Empty.
Past the staff kitchen. Dark.
Then you heard it.
A clang.
Then another. A metallic scrape.
It wasnât loud. Just enough to make your heart skip but your lips sketched in a happy smile.
You knew every corner of this hospital.
Not from maps or staff permission, but from years of slow wanderingâwhen your legs could hold you, when the nurses looked the other way.
The sub-basement wasnât supposed to be for patients.
But rules bent when you were more furniture than person.
Down here, the air smelled like old copper and dust. Warm from the boilers. Quiet in the way only forgotten places could be.
And best of allâno one ever bothered you.
Thatâs why she liked it too.
The cat.
You didnât name her. Somehow, that made her feel more real. More yours. You just called her hey you or little monster in a whisper. She never minded. Sheâd rub against your calves like she owned you, her fur rough with dust.
She came to you when no one else did. Rubbed against your legs, purred like thunder in a tiny throat. She didnât care about IV lines or hospital gowns. She just wanted food. And sometimes, warmth.
You fed her scraps. Bits of meat. Sometimes milk in a little paper cup.
No one knew about her, except maybe a janitor or two. But no one said anything.
Tonight, you had turkey wrapped in a napkin and a small container of cream tucked into your pocket. The elevator to B2 let out its usual groan, and the flickering lights danced across the brushed metal walls. You leaned against the side, heart beating in a familiar rhythm.
Down here, it was warm. Your joints didnât ache as much. The air didnât sting.
You knew the path by memory.
Past the broken equipment. Past the dripping pipe that always leaked even when fixed. Past the pile of unopened supply boxes.
Your footsteps echoed.
But it was a kind echo. Familiar.
âLittle monster,â you called gently. âI brought your favorite.â
No answer yet.
But that wasnât unusual.
One day, she panicked â you didnât know whyâ and she ran into a wall so hard, she bled from her head. You had to bandage her head but since then, she was clumsier. Her paws werenât moving as smoothly as the first time you met her.
Since then, she has been way slower or sometimes she just enjoyed taking her time. Slept behind the rusted lockers or slinked under the old gurneys before showing up with a stretch and a yawn.
You reached the far cornerâwhere the wall vent buzzed quietly with warm airâand knelt slowly, placing the food down.
âCome on, little monster,â you whispered, smiling softly.
You waited.
The silence pressed in. Not cold. Not threatening. Just still.
You didnât notice at first that something was⊠off.
The silence was too perfect.
No cat. No shifting. No meow. No distant mechanical hum.
Just⊠nothing.
You stayed kneeling by the vent a little longer than usual.
Normally by now, sheâd be here. A flick of a tail, a chirping meow, a sharp little nudge against your ankle. You pressed the napkin closer to the floor and opened the cream quietly, the familiar plastic snap echoing too loud in the stillness.
âHey,â you whispered, frowning. âI know you hear me.â
Still nothing.
You glanced toward the shadows beyond the vent. The boiler rumbled softly like always. Nothing looked wrong. Just⊠still.
You almost stood to leave.
And thatâs when you heard it.
A clink.
Not from the vent. Not from your tray.
Behind you.
You stilled.
Not out of fear.
Just⊠listening.
Maybe it was a pipe. Or the wheels of a cleaning cart on uneven tile. Or someone dropping a scalpel upstairs and the sound somehow carried through the walls.
Hospitals always made noise. You knew them all.
You turned your head slightly.
Silence again.
You slowly rose to your feet. The cream cup tipped and rolled, unnoticed.
The hallway behind you stretched longer in the dim amber light. The flickering overhead bulbs had gone still.
You took a step. Just one.
You didnât mean to follow it.
You couldâve turned around. Couldâve called out, laughed it off, blamed it on the building like you always did.
But something about the quiet tonight didnât feel like silence.
It felt like something holding its breath.
And now, so were you.
You stepped past the line of old supply crates, one hand brushing the dusty edge for balance. The tiles beneath your feet felt warmer here, like the heat from the boilers still clung to them.
Another step.
Another sound.
Drip.
A pause.
Drip.
It wasnât a leak. You knew what leaking pipes sounded like. They hissed. They gurgled. They had rhythm.
This⊠was slower.
Heavy.
Wet.
Your eyes adjusted as you moved deeper into the sub-basement, where the hallway bent around the edge of the boiler chamber. The lights were weaker here. Yellowed.
Drip.
It echoed.
Not loudlyâbut it was the only sound.
You reached a doorway. Half open. A storage room, maybe. One of the ones that had never been used in your memory.
You pressed your palm lightly to the frame.
The air was warmer inside. Still. Almost humid.
You leaned forwardâ
Just enough to peer through the crack.
Your fingers barely registered the cool metal of the doorframe as you pushed it open, slow enough that it barely creaked, careful as if you were afraid of waking something, though you couldnât have said what or why.
The room inside was warmer than the hallway had beenânot welcoming, not gentle, but close and dense and humid in a way that made your lungs tighten a little with every breath, like the air had been sitting too long in someone elseâs mouth.
One overhead light flickered, casting soft, intermittent shadows across the far wall where old boxes were stacked and folded linens had yellowed at the edges, and for a moment it looked no different than any other forgotten hospital space.
And then your eyes found the center of the room.
And the center of the room found you.
He was hangingâ
Not slumped in a chair, not lying on the floor, but suspended, his feet barely grazing the ground, toes curled unnaturally inward like they had once tried to stand and then forgot how.
His arms dangled limp, his head hung low, chin nearly touching his bare chest, and you thoughtâalmost idioticallyâthat maybe he was alive, that maybe he was unconscious, that maybe there was some medical explanation for this.
Until you saw his torso.
Split.
Opened like a textbook or an exhibit or something out of a nightmare made for people who had trusted hospitals their whole lives and suddenly didnât know where the danger had been hiding all this time.
His skin had been peeled back, delicately, purposefully, like the person who had done it wanted to see everything inside and had taken their time doing itâhis ribs spread, his chest hollow, his heart gone, and not in the way that left a mess, but in a way that felt almost reverent.
As if whoever had taken it hadnât just wanted to remove itâ
They had wanted to own it.
No ragged edges. No mess. Just the hollow curve of the organâs absence, like a dish plucked neatly from its place.
His face was still intact. Still staring. The skin pale and waxy beneath dried blood.
A part of you wondered if he was alive when he was being cut open. But as your eyes traveled toward his face, you noticed his mouth.
Sewn shut.
A single black suture crisscrossed his lips, puckering the corners unnaturally. As if his last words had been stolenâsilenced by hand.
A slow drop of blood slid from the edge of his open sternum, dripped onto the tile, and joined the dark pool beneath him.
Drip.
You didnât scream.
Not because you didnât want to, but because your voice had locked itself somewhere behind your ribs and your body was too busy deciding whether to flee or fall or simply forget how to exist.
Your hand reached behind you blindly, fingers searching for the doorframe, your legs preparing to bolt, to run without reason or directionâ
And thatâs when the air shifted behind you.
Not loudly.
Not even audibly.
Just⊠the sense of presence.
Like something had stepped into your space that didnât belong to it.
Like cold had grown bones and breath and eyes, and was now standing just behind your shoulder, waiting.You turned, your body sluggish with something deeper than fear, slower than instinct, as though your blood had thickened and your bones had forgotten their purpose, and the room didnât tilt but your world did, just enough to make you feel the gravity in your chest shift.
He was standing in the doorway.
Dr. Zayne.
Just as youâd seen him a hundred times beforeâwhite coat crisp and buttoned to the throat, gloves fitted to his hands like second skin, hair perfectly in place, not a speck of blood anywhere on him, not a wrinkle, not a breath out of sync.
He didnât look like someone who belonged here, not in this heat, not in this blood, not in this moment.
He looked like someone who had stepped out of a sterile photograph.
And for the first time since you ever saw the man, you felt relieved. Someone, a doctor, was here. Maybe he would be able to save the man?Â
Because how could someone look like that and belong to something this wrong?
âDr. Zayne,â you breathed, the words breaking loose from your throat like cracked glass. âI⊠I didnâtââ
Your voice caught. Your feet wouldnât move. You raised your hands instinctively, as if to show him you werenât hiding anything, as if this were a crime scene and you were the one in trouble.
âI didnât touch him,â you said, your voice trembling and too high. âIâI came down to feed the cat, I justâI found him like this.â
You looked back toward the hanging man, heart pounding so loudly it muffled your own voice.
âCan youâcan you save him?â you asked, desperation thickening every syllable, pulling it down into your throat like it might drown there.
âI think heâs stillâstill breathing, maybe, if youâre fastââ
You didnât notice that Zayne hadnât moved.
Not forward. Not back. Not even to look at the man.
He was looking at you.
And his face was unreadable.
Not angry. Not surprised.
Just⊠observing.
Like you were part of the scene now.
âPlease,â you said again, your voice cracking into something small and childlike, a version of yourself you hadnât heard in years. âYou can help him. Pleaseâdo something.â
Zayne tilted his head slightly, the motion slow, mechanical, the way someone tilts a puzzle piece to see if it fits. He didnât kneel. He didnât check for a pulse. He didnât even glance at the open, red cavity behind you.
He just stepped past you.
One step.
Two.
Two steps, and he stood beside you, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could feel the cold rising off of himânot from his body, not from the coat, but from something beneath his skin, something that had nothing to do with body temperature and everything to do with absence.
He didnât speak right away.
Didnât ask what you were doing here.
Didnât ask if you were okay.
Instead, he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. Pulled it just slightly straighter. Neat. Controlled. As if the chaos around him hadnât registered as chaos at all.
You watched him like he was the last stable thing in the room, like maybe he was assessing the scene, already forming a plan, already calculating how to help, how to fix thisâ
And then, finally, he looked at you.
His voice, when it came, was low. Even. Calm enough to make you flinch.
âYou shouldnât be down here,â he said.
Not cruel. Not accusatory. Just a statement. A quiet fact.
You nodded, too quickly. Your throat was raw. Your hands had started to shake. âIâI know. Iâm sorry. I didnât mean toâI wasnât trying to sneak around, I justâI come down sometimes, I feed this cat, I didnât mean toââ
Your words ran ahead of you, stumbling over each other like children late for class, trying to explain something too big with sentences too small.
âI didnât do anything,â you whispered. âI swear I didnât. I just walked in and he wasâhe was alreadyââ
Zayne didnât interrupt.
He didnât reach for you.
He just listened. Or watched you try to explain yourself, try to make sense of something that wouldnât bend to logic.
âIs heâŠâ You swallowed hard. âIs he dead?â
Zayne turned his head slightlyânot to look at the body, but to study you again, as if your reaction was more interesting than the answer to your question.
âYes,â he said, after a pause. âHe is.â
Something inside you crumpled. You could feel itâa delicate part of you folding in on itself like paper gone soft with water.
âIâI thought maybe if we were fast, if weââ
âYou were too late,â he said, gently. âThatâs all.â
And for a moment, it sounded like a comfort.
Like he was reassuring you.
Like nothing you did could have changed it.
âThatâs all,â he repeated, as if death was a matter of timing, like arriving too late to a lecture or missing the last train homeânot a man hanging open and empty from the ceiling of a hospital basement.
You nodded again, even though your mind hadnât caught up with your body, even though nothing inside you agreed with him, but you were nodding because thatâs what people do when they donât know how else to stay aliveâwhen agreement feels safer than silence.
âI didnât know,â you said again, the words barely audible, your lips stiff and cold and dry. âI didnât know anyone was here.â
Zayneâs gaze driftedânot to the body, not to the blood, but to the thin trail of footprints behind you. Yours. Clean and small, like a childâs, perfectly stamped in the wetness that had spread from the center of the room.
His eyes returned to you, and there was something strange in them nowâstill quiet, still soft, but no longer neutral.
âYou should be more careful,â he said, voice low, almost kind. âThings happen down here.â
You blinked.
Something in you cracked.
Not fully. Not loudly. Just a small, hairline fracture in the center of your understanding.
Because it was the first time he sounded like he wasnât trying to explain something to you, but warn you.
âHe⊠he didnât fall,â you said slowly, your voice thin, fragile as a thread caught in a breeze. âHe didnât hurt himself.â
You didnât want him to answer. You wanted him to tell you yes, to lie, to laugh, to call a nurse, to do anything that didnât confirm what your body was already starting to scream from beneath your skin.
Zayne didnât lie.
He just looked up at the body, then back at you, and saidâ
âNo. He didnât.â
Your breath hitched.
Something inside you had already started retreating, curling inward like a flower before frost, but his voice anchored you againânot by tone, not by warmth, but by familiarity.
Because Zayne was always calm.
Always composed.
And this⊠this sounded like the version of him you knew. The version everyone talked about.
âWhat are you feeling right now?â he asked.
His voice didnât rise or falter. It was quiet, steady, edged with the kind of concern doctors use when asking about pain levelsâwhen trying to translate the chaos of your body into something measurable, something clean enough to record.
Your lips parted.
And before you could stop yourself, your body obeyed the rhythm it remembered.
âTightness in my chest,â you whispered. âHands are cold. Legs feel⊠like they arenât mine. My breathing is shortâŠMy head feels like explodingâŠI think IâmâI think itâs fear.â
Zayne nodded slowly, almost encouragingly. He took one small step closer, the sound of his shoes barely registering over the hum of blood in your ears.
âGood,â he said. âThatâs very clear. Youâre self-aware.â
And you felt a flickerâsomething close to relief.
Because thatâs how doctors always spoke to you. That calm attentiveness. That quiet voice. The way they listened. Measured. Cared.
âFear,â he repeated. âYes. That makes sense.â
He looked down at your hands, still trembling against your sides, then back at your face.
And then he said, almost thoughtfullyâ
âInteresting. I donât feel anything.â
It wasnât cruel. It wasnât even detached.
It was a statement. Like reporting the temperature. Like observing a side effect.
Your heartbeat stumbled.
Because he didnât mean he wasnât upset.
He meant he never was.
Something in your stomach lurchedânot sharp like a stab, but heavy, like something falling too fast through your insides, dragging pieces of you down with it.
You took a step back.
He didnât move.
You took another. Your heel caught the edge of the tile where the floor changed level slightly, and your ankle twisted, just a little, just enough to break your balance for half a second.
Zayne tilted his head, but didnât reach for you.
âCareful,â he said gently. âYouâre already weak.â
The words didnât sting.
They chilled.
You blinked fast, trying to clear the blur rising in your eyes, but your body was already betraying youâyour breath too shallow, your skin prickling, your legs going soft at the knees.
âPlease,â you said, your voice shaking so badly it didnât even sound like yours anymore. âI wonâtâI wonât tell anyone. I didnât see anything. I didnâtââ
âYou saw everything,â he said.
Still no anger. Still no blame. Just the truth, laid bare in that same measured tone, like a diagnosis.
Your back hit the wall. Cold concrete pressed through the fabric of your gown. You couldnât look at the body again. You couldnât even look at Zayne now, not directly.Â
But you felt his presence in every inch of air between youâclean, composed, unshaken.
âWhy are you doing this?â you breathed, though you werenât even sure what this meant anymore.
Zayne didnât answer. Not right away. He took a step forwardâcalm, smooth, no faster than before.
Then, softly:
âTo feel something.â His eyes met yours. Pale. Unmoving. âBut I donât.â
Your hand slapped to your chest, instinctively, trying to hold your heartbeat in place.
âHow could youâŠâ
The words barely left your lips, thin as a thread stretched between worlds, but they came anywayâshaking, broken, like your body was trying to build a wall with sticks in a storm.
âHow could you do that to someone?â
Zayneâs head tilted again, just slightly, just enough to make you feel like he wasnât adjusting for sound but for perspective, like he needed to see you from the right angle to understand the question.
âDo what?â he asked, voice soft, as if you were overreacting.
You gesturedâwild, weak, helplessâtoward the body without looking.
âThat,â you said. âThat man. Youâyou opened him. You⊠took things from him.â
Zayne stepped closer. Not much. Just enough that you could see the slight indentation of his gloves against his fingers, the way his sleeves were still crisp, unwrinkled.
âWould you like to understand?â
You blinked, confused. Terrified.
âWhat?â
âI could show you,â he said, voice gentle, almost soothing. âIf you want to know how itâs done.â
You shook your head so fast it made your vision tilt, but he didnât stop talking.
âItâs very clean,â he said. âWhen itâs done properly. Controlled. Thoughtful. You donât have to be cruel to be curious.â
Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Only air.
âWould you like to see inside someone?â
That was the moment your body gave up pretending.
The warmth bloomed beneath your hospital gown before you could stop it, a sudden wet heat that spread fast down your thighs, pooling quietly around your feet. Your hands went to your stomach like you could hold it in, like shame could protect you better than begging.
You didnât sob. You just stared at him, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
Zayne didnât move. Didnât flinch.
You couldnât speak.
Not with the warmth soaking your legs, not with your chest squeezed so tightly around your lungs that breathing felt like punishment.
Zayne didnât comment on it. He only looked down, briefly, at the stain spreading across the floorâan involuntary reaction, a physical submissionâand then back up, his expression unreadable.
You saw nothing in his eyes.
No empathy. No cruelty.
Just stillness.
âYouâre frightened,â he said simply.
A fact. Like saying the floor is wet.
You nodded, because lying didnât make sense anymore.
Zayne studied you for a moment longer. His hands, still gloved, hung at his sidesâloose, relaxed. But the tension was in his shoulders now. In the subtle way he held himself.
As if he was deciding.
Not how to comfort you.
Not how to protect you.
But whether it would be more efficient to kill you now or clean up after you later.
Your knees trembled. Your voice came out as a whisper, cracked and wet.
âI wonât tell anyone.â
You hadnât planned to say it.
It just tore its way out, instinctive, like your body was trying to offer something up before it could be taken.
Zayne blinked slowly.
âYou already have,â he said. âBy being here.â
Your mouth opened, searching for a reply, some desperate counterargument that would make him see you as something other than a variable, a witness, a liability.
âI didnât mean toâI didnât want to see anything, I justââ
âI know,â he said quietly. âBut that doesnât change what you saw.â
The room felt smaller now. The walls closer. The light dimmer.
Zayne took one slow step toward you.
Your heart slammed against your ribs, but your feet wouldnât move.
âI havenât decided yet,â he murmured, more to himself than to you.
His eyes flicked over youânot with hunger, not with interest.
But with calculation.
Like a surgeon examining a problem. Like a butcher weighing whether to waste the meat.
âYouâre already dying,â he said, as if he was reminding himself. âSo maybe I donât have to do anything at all.â
Your heart was moving too fast.
Not just poundingâbut scrambling, like it didnât know whether to run or stop, beating so hard against your ribs that the pain started to edge into something sharper, tighter, something youâd felt before in the worst nights when the machines beeped and the nurses rushed in.
Your legs gave out.
Not gracefully. Not like a faint in a dream. You dropped. Hard.
Your shoulder hit the floor first, then your hip. The impact vibrated through your chest, but none of it hurt as much as the inside didâyour chest caving in on itself, your lungs clawing for air, your pulse screaming through your skull.
You couldnât get enough oxygen.
You couldnât think.
All you could feel was the thundering chaos of your own body turning against you.
âPlease,â you rasped, though you didnât know what you were begging for anymore.
Above you, the fluorescent light flickered once, twiceâthen steadied.
A shape moved.
Then the sound of fabricâclean, crispârustling as someone knelt down in front of you.
Dr.Zayne.
His face lowered into view, upside down from your angle, pale and calm, the fluorescent glow turning the edges of his features ghostly.
He wasnât frowning.
He wasnât panicking.
He wasnât reaching for a call button or checking your vitals.
He was watching.
Eyes sharp, mouth still, head tilted just slightlyânot with concern, but with curiosity.
âYour heartâs failing,â he said, almost thoughtfully, like he was pointing out the weather.
You couldnât respond. Your mouth was open, but your chest wouldnât lift.
Zayne leaned in closer, one gloved hand hovering an inch above your wrist, not to hold itâjust to feel the flicker of your pulse through the air.
âIs it the fear?â he murmured. âOr the condition?â His eyes followed the way your chest struggled to rise. âItâs difficult to tell.â
He smiledânot unkindly, not cruelly.
Almost like he was⊠grateful.
âYouâre very⊠informative like this.â
The edges of your vision began to blurâslow at first, like fog creeping across glass, until the light above Zayneâs head began to pulse, dimming, brightening, dimming again, not because the bulb was flickering⊠but because you were.
You tried to lift your hand. It twitched against the floor. That was all.
Zayneâs gloved fingers drifted closerânot to help, not to steady, but to follow the motion.
He crouched lower, one elbow resting on his knee, and tilted his head to match the angle of yours, as if trying to see the world from the way your face was falling apart.
âYour pupils are dilating,â he said softly. âThereâs a tremor in your fingertips.â
You gasped. A thin, wet sound that caught in your throat like thread through a needle.
âI wonder,â he continued, âwhat youâll remember.â
His tone never changed. It wasnât comforting. It wasnât cruel.
Just curious.
He watched your jaw tighten. Your legs twitch. Your lungs beg for control they no longer had.
âI could help,â he murmured, almost absently. âBut Iâm not sure youâd learn anything from that.â
The room tilted again. You couldnât tell if he was moving closer or if your vision was collapsing around him.
âThis is what it looks like,â he whispered. âWhen the body thinks itâs dying.â
You whimpered, low and broken, as your eyes rolled back slightly.
Zayne leaned in, his breath brushing your cheek.
âDonât worry,â he said gently. âIâll remember it for you.â
And thenâ
Darkness.
Light.
Not the flickering, sickly yellow of the basement, but soft, clean, familiar.
Your eyes snapped open like something had yanked them awake from beneath your skin, and for a moment, the ceiling above you didnât look like a ceilingâit looked like a trapdoor youâd fallen through, back into a world you werenât ready to return to.
âHeyâhey, youâre awake.â
A voice. His voice.
But not Zayne.
Dr. Greyson.
He leaned over the bed, eyes wide, colorless with fear. His tie was crooked. His coat was gone. His hair was a mess.
âJesus Christ,â he breathed, his hand brushing your wrist, checking your pulse with fingers that trembled just slightly. âYou scared the hell out of me.â
You blinked.
The machines beside you beeped steadily. The IV line tugged softly at your arm. The blanket was tucked around youâtight, secure, like someone had wrapped you up after.
âYou had an attack last night,â he said, trying to sound calm, but failing. âYour heart rate spiked, then collapsed. You were barely breathing when the staff found you in the east corridor,â Dr. Greyson said gently, like he was afraid you might break if he raised his voice even a little.
âClose to the stairwell near Imaging. You mustâve passed out while walking. You werenât hurt, but you werenât breathing right. The nurses said you looked like you were⊠gone.â
You didnât answer.
Because that wasnât where you were.
That wasnât even close.
The basement had no Imaging signs. No corridors with bright lights and polished floors.
You had collapsed on concrete, surrounded by blood and a body hanging from the ceiling, with Zayne kneeling in front of you, whispering truths like lullabies.
So whyâŠ
âYou mustâve pushed yourself too hard,â Greyson continued, frowning at your vitals. âOr maybe you saw something that triggered the attack.â
You swallowed.
Did you?
âYou donât remember what happened, do you?â he asked.
You opened your mouth. Closed it.And for just a momentâjust long enough to wonderâyou considered lying. Because if they found you in a clean hallway, nowhere near the sub-basementâŠ
Then someone had moved you.
Or was everything a horrible nightmare..?
The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them.
âYou have to check the sub-basement.â
Dr. Greyson froze in the middle of adjusting your IV.
âThe what?â
âThereâs a body,â you said, breath picking up, every word scraped raw. âThere wasâsomeone. Hanging. His chest wasâopen. His heart was gone.â
You didnât care how it sounded. You didnât care that your voice was cracking or that your hands were shaking. You just needed someone to believe you.
âYou said I collapsed in a hallway,â you went on, voice rising, âbut thatâs not where I was. I was in the sub-basement. Near the boiler room. I went to feed the catâplease, Dr. Greyson, Iâm not crazy.â
He blinked at you slowly.
Not annoyed.
Not suspicious.
Just⊠confused.
âThereâs no one authorized to be down there this week,â he said carefully. âThat wingâs shut for⊠maintenance.â His eyes looked away for a second from you, like he was⊠trying to hide something from you?
âThat doesnât mean no one was there,â you shot back. âPlease. Just look. Please.â
He stared at you for another beat. Then, slowly, he nodded.
âOkay. Okayâbreathe, alright? Iâll go take a look. Stay here. Donât move.â
You didnât.
Couldnât.
You lay there in silence as the door clicked shut behind him, every second stretching like thread soaked in ice water.
The beeping of your heart monitor ticked out your panic in perfect rhythm.
You stared at the ceiling and imagined him finding it.
The body.
The blood.
The hook.
The proof that you werenât insane.
That you werenât making it up.
That Zayne had done something.
That he was real.
The door opened fifteen minutes later.
Dr. Greyson stepped inside. Slower now. Paler. But not in the way you expected. He sat down next to you, gently, like he thought you might fall apart if he moved too fast.
âI went down there,â he said. âI checked every room.â
You leaned forward, heart pounding.
âAnd?â
A pause.
âThereâs nothing there,â he said quietly. âNo body. No blood. No sign of anyone having been there at all.â
You didnât speak for a long time after Greyson gave you his answer.
No blood.
No body.
No sign of anything.
You lay there with your eyes open, your arms tight around yourself beneath the blanket, and tried to pull your memories apartâone thread at a timeâlooking for the lie.
Maybe you had imagined the blood.
Maybe the body wasnât real.
Or maybe heâd moved everything. Cleaned it. Rewritten it.
Like a page he didnât want you to read again.
âYour heart rateâs still high,â Dr. Greyson said softly, checking the monitor beside you. âYouâre spiking again. You need to breathe, alright? Justâstay with me.â
You tried.
But your fingers were shaking again. Your chest wouldnât rise evenly. The fear was coming back in waves, no longer sharp but slow, like something poisoning your veins from the inside. You couldnât have imagined all of this. You werenât turning crazy, right..? Being caged in the hospital would not be your doom, right?Â
You wanted to live.
âLet me grab someone,â he said, already halfway to the door. âDr. Zayne should still be on rotation tonightâheâs the best we have for cardiac stability. Iâll have him take a look at you.â
Your stomach turned.
âNo.â It came out barely above a whisper. âNo, IâmâIâm okay, I just needââ
But he was already waving down the hall. You heard the soft rhythm of footsteps before you saw him.
Zayne appeared in the doorway like he had never been anywhere else. White coat. Perfectly fitted gloves. Calm, unreadable eyes.
He stepped inside as Dr. Greyson called him over, the monitor still beeping too fast beside your bed, your breath catching like it had forgotten what safety ever felt like.
âDr. Zayneâshe had a cardiac event last night, and her rateâs still spiking,â Greyson said,his concern thick in his voice. âMind taking a quick look?â
Zayneâs gaze shifted to you.
No recognition. No guilt. Just that same calm you rememberedânot from the last time he saw you, but from every time before.
âOf course,â he said.
Zayne moved closer.
Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just steadyâlike the soft glide of something inevitable.
You wanted to pull your hand away. You wanted to scream but your fingers were locked around the blanket, your muscles coiled too tight, like even your own body didnât trust you to move correctly.
âSheâs still a bit tachycardic,â Greyson said, stepping aside. âVitals are stable otherwise, but I figured youâd want to confirm.â
Zayne didnât answer with words. He just reached for your armâclean, practiced. His gloved fingers closed gently around your wrist.
And suddenly you were back there.
On the floor.
Your lungs collapsing.
His eyes watching you fall apart.
His fingers pressed against your pulse nowâlike they had thenâand it took every shred of strength you had not to recoil.
âStill elevated,â he murmured, mostly for Greysonâs benefit. âLikely from residual anxiety.â
Thenâ
His thumb moved. Just slightly. Not in a diagnostic pattern. Not something any other doctor would notice. A slow, deliberate stroke against the inside of your wrist.
Your eyes snapped to his.
His gaze was calm. Direct. Empty.
And then he leaned in, just close enough that Greyson couldnât hear, just close enough that his breath skimmed the edge of your cheek.
âYou remember,â he whispered.
A shiver ran through you.
âThatâs good.â
Your body seized up.
The fear didnât just spikeâit detonated.
Your chest pulled tight, tighter, then tighter still, until your ribs felt like they were being crushed from the inside. Your vision blurred. The lights fractured.
You gasped.
But there was no air.
No oxygen. No sound. Just the sharp, high-pitched scream of the monitor as your vitals plummeted. Greyson cursed somewhere behind the ringing in your ears, reaching for the call button. But Zayne didnât flinch. Didnât rush.
He watched.
Watched as your eyes rolled back, as your body went slack, as the machines lit up with panic.
And thenâhe smiled.
Just for a second.
Small.
Quiet.
Like something in you had just confirmed something in him.
âClear the line,â he said smoothly, already reaching for the crash cart. âSheâs fibrillating.â
His hands were fast. Precise.
He pushed Greyson aside without looking, already fitting the oxygen mask over your face, adjusting the IV drip, his voice calm and clipped as he issued commands.
âSodium bicarbonateâten ccâs. Push now.â
You were slipping.
But you could still feel it.
The pressure of his hands on you. The cold calm in his voice. He was saving you.
But only because he wanted you alive.
You woke to silence.
No voices. No footsteps in the hall. Just the gentle hum of machinery and the soft hiss of the IV beside you.
For a moment, you didnât move.
You lay still in the narrow hospital bed, the room lit only by the faint electronic glow of monitorsâcold, blue-white halos that made everything feel half-real.
Your body ached in a way that told you youâd been unconscious again. Your limbs were heavy, your chest tight, and somewhere in the hollow beneath your ribs, fear still curled like smokeâbut it was duller now. Not gone, just quieter.
You told yourself it was over.
That whatever had happened beforeâwhatever had broken you open in the dark, whatever had made you collapse under the weight of your own heartbeatâwas behind you now.
That you were safe.
You let the tears come slowly, without sound, tracking hot lines down your cheeks.
You didnât sob. You didnât scream.
You cried the way exhausted people cryâquietly, weakly, as if even the act of mourning had to be done gently now, in case your body couldnât take it.
And as the tears slipped past your temples into your hair, you whispered apologies to no one.
To the man in the basement.
To yourself.
To the version of you who used to believe doctors were only here to help.
Your breathing steadied, even as your eyes blurred again.
You thought you were alone.
Until the silence blinked.
Not brokeâblinked.
Like something in the room had moved without moving. Like the stillness had shifted just enough to pull your attention toward it. Your eyes, sluggish and red-rimmed, drifted toward the far corner of the roomâ
âand thatâs when you saw him.
Sitting.
Perfectly still.
Half-shrouded in shadow, his white coat faintly illuminated by the blue glow of your monitors.
Dr. Zayne.
Not standing. Not speaking. Not making his presence known.
Just there.
His gloved hand rested lightly on the arm of the chair, the other on one knee. His legs were crossed neatly, his posture pristineâas if he hadnât shifted once since you were brought back here.
And his eyesâ
They werenât soft.
They werenât cruel.
They were measuring.
Like he wasnât watching a girl cryâ
He was watching the aftershock of an experiment.
And when your breath caught in your throat, sharp and sudden, he didnât blink. He simply said, in the same calm voice heâd used while pressing a scalpel into someoneâs chest,
âYou stabilized quicker this time.â
A pause.
Then, with that same clinical curiosityâ
âThatâs promising.â
He didnât ask if you were okay.
He didnât ask how you were feeling.
He already knew.
âYou were afraid,â he said, as if you hadnât just spent the last several minutes trying to forget. âBut the second event was shorter. Less severe.â
You said nothing.
Your body still hasn't caught up with your mind, and your mind⊠your mind was treading water in something dark and endless, struggling to stay afloat under the weight of his voice.
Zayne uncrossed his legs slowly. His coat shifted slightly.
âTell me what you remember.â
It wasnât a request.
It wasnât even an order.
It was a line dropped into the silenceâa net, cast to see what you would offer.
You opened your mouth, but no words came out. You couldnât make yourself speak. Not to him. Not like this.
âThe man in the basement,â he said, as if reading the gaps in your breath. âDo you remember how he looked?â
Your lips trembled.
âY-yes,â you whispered.
Zayneâs head tilted.
âWere you afraid of him?â
âNo.â
A pause.
âOf me, then.â
You didnât answer.
You didnât need to.
He smiled faintly. Not pleased. Not mocking.
Just⊠confirming.
âThe heart stops differently in each person,â he said, almost conversational. âThe way it fights. The sounds. Iâve studied a many. In books or real life.â His voice softened, like he was speaking to himself now, remembering things you could never understand. âBut yours,â he said slowly, âdidnât want to give up.â
He paused, just long enough for the silence to press in again.
âWas that because you didnât want to die?â
You didnât answer.
Couldnât.
But your eyesâwet, bloodshot, wideâtold him everything.
Zayne leaned forward, just slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his hands folded. His gloved thumbs pressed together in thought.
âMost people beg when they know,â he said. âYou did, too. But that wasnât what interested me.â
Your breath hitched.
He watched.
âIt was the look on your face,â he continued quietly. âNot terror. Not even desperation.â
His eyes met yours.
âIt was sorrow. Like you werenât afraid to dieâjust afraid it would hurt.â
His words settled on your skin like ice.
And thenâso softly you almost missed itâ
âDid it?â
He didnât blink. He didnât breathe. He was asking if you felt yourself dying.
And for the first time⊠it didnât sound like a warning.
It sounded like a test.
You couldnât speak.
Your mouth was open, your lungs pulled tight, but no sound came outânot even a breath worth calling a word.
And for a moment, it was enough.
Zayne didnât press.
He just watched.
But then, without a single change in his expression, he stood.
Smooth. Quiet.
The chair gave a soft creak behind him as he turned, walking with steady, soundless steps to the small cart near your bedsideâone used by every doctor, every nurse, filled with the usual assortment of tools and vials.
You knew that cart. You have seen it every day. And youâd never feared it before.
Until now.
Zayneâs fingers moved without hesitation, gloved and practiced, choosing something from the tray.
A small syringe.
Glass vial.
Clear liquid.
He held it to the light briefly, tapped it once with his finger, then pressed the plunger until a thin bead of fluid shimmered at the tip.
You choked out a breathâdry, broken, more panic than sound.
He turned back to you, expression unchanged.
âItâs not lethal,â he said flatly, as if discussing something mundane. âBut it can be.â
You stared at the needle. Your heart pounded against your ribs. The machine at your side began beeping faster.
âA little too much, and your system will seize,â Zayne continued. âBut just enough, and youâll sleep without pain. No struggle. No fear.â
He took a step toward you.
âIâm giving you a choice.â
Your breath shook.
âSpeak,â he said calmly. âTell me what youâre feeling. Let me understand you.â
Another pause.
âOr Iâll take away the part of you that makes this interesting.âHis voice never rose. âAnd end it quietly.â
The needle glinted under the monitorâs glow. And for the first time, you realizedâhe wasnât trying to scare you.
He was just explaining what came next.
The beeping beside you blurred into a high, thin rhythmâsharp and panicked.
Zayne didnât acknowledge it. He stepped closer, unhurried, like a surgeon prepping for a routine procedure. His coat brushed the edge of the bed as he came to your side, syringe in hand, and reached for your arm with clinical ease.
You tried to pull away.
But your muscles wouldnât respond.
The exhaustion, the fear, the weight of everything youâd seenâit kept you rooted there, trembling, barely able to breathe.
He caught your wrist with one gloved hand, steadying it gently, and rolled your sleeve up just enough to find the vein.
Then he pressed the needle lightly to your skin.
Cold.
Thin.
So sharp you could already feel the sting before it broke the surface.
Zayneâs face hovered just above yoursâclose enough to see the shadow of your panic in his eyes.
âOne last chance,â he said quietly.
Not threatening.
Not kind.
Just⊠final.
âTell me,â he whispered, âwhat you were feeling.â
His finger shifted slightly on the plunger.
âOr I stop wondering what it felt like.â
The implication hung in the silence, colder than the steel tip on your skin. Your heart gave a jolt. And the breath you didnât realize you were holding finally broke freeâragged, high-pitched, full of something primal.
Terror.
âIâI donât want to die.â
The words tore out of you, cracked and high and soaked in the kind of panic that didnât sound like language anymore.
âPlease, please, Iâm sorryâI didnât mean to see anything, I didnâtâI didnât ask toââ
Your voice broke. You couldnât stop crying now. The tears spilled too fast, the words tumbling after them in pieces.
âI was just feeding the catâI didnât knowâyou were just there and IâI didnât meanââ
The needle still pressed against your arm, unmoving.
Zayne didnât speak.
He just watched.
His eyes traced your faceâflushed, wet, twisted in terror. Your mouth was trembling too hard to form full sentences. The panic trembling through your chest like your heart might leap out and fall apart at his feet.
Slowly, he pulled the syringe back. Just a few centimeters. Not gone. Not discarded. Just⊠paused.
âGood,â he said softly.
You didnât know what he meant. But in that moment, you understood something else: He hadnât decided to let you live. Heâd decided to wait. And that was somehow worse.
âDo you still believe in right and wrong?â
His voice was quiet, almost idle, as though he were asking what you thought of the weather.
You blinked up at him, the tears still clinging to your lashes, your breath stuttering in uneven pulls.
He didnât repeat the question. He didnât need to.
âY-yes,â you whispered, voice thin but trembling with something almost close to anger. Maybe you were so exhausted you didnât care anymore. You were doomed to die, from your illness, you didnât care anymore.. or did you? âAnd someone like you⊠someone like you is going to end up in prison.â
You regretted it immediately. Your heart stuttered. Your entire body locked up like youâd just thrown yourself off a ledge.
But ZayneâŠ
He didnât move. Didnât flinch. Didnât threaten.
Instead, he looked at youâreally lookedâhis head tilting just slightly to the side.
And then he smiled. Small. Barely there.
But unmistakably amused.
âPrison?â he said softly, as if testing the word. âYou think this world is built to contain people like me?â He stepped back, finally releasing your wrist, the syringe disappearing silently into the pocket of his coat.
âNo,â he continued. âPeople like me keep the system functioning.â
A beat.
âPeople like you just bleed for it.â
Thenâquietly, with the same gentleness one might use to tuck in a patientâhe reached for your shoulder.
His gloved hand settled against you, light but impossibly heavy, as if he were anchoring you to the bed.
âIâm not going to kill you tonight,â he murmured, his voice low, unhurried. âToo many rounds. Too many eyes. Timing matters.â
His thumb moved, just barely, against your collarboneâlike a doctor taking your pulse.
âNext time,â he added. âIâll be less busy.â
But he didnât move away.
His hand stayed there, cool through the glove, resting against your skin as if he were gauging more than vitals. As if he were trying to feel the echo of your fear, the memory of your panic still trembling beneath the surface.
He leaned in slightly, his face unreadable, eyes roaming over yoursânot like a man looking for answers, but like a scientist watching for cracks.
His hand lingered, gloved fingers cool against your skin, as if he were reading something far more complex than vitals. His gaze flicked over your faceânot with care, not with empathy, but with calculation. Like you were a puzzle still unfolding in real time.
Your lips trembled. Your breath caught again.
He tilted his head slightly.
âThere it is,â he murmured. âStill alive in there.â
Then, just for a moment, he looked away.
And you moved.
Your fingers, hidden beneath the blanket, reached toward the tray tableâtoward the pen, the scalpel, anything sharp. Your hand shook, but you moved with purpose.
You werenât sure if you meant to defend yourself or die on your own terms.
But before your fingers could close around the metalâ
âCareful.â
His voice stopped you cold.
You froze.
His eyes were back on you. Unblinking.
âIâd hate to misinterpret your intentions,â he said calmly. His voice had cut through the air like a scalpel. âCareful,â Zayne said again, stepping closer.
He reached down and took the sharp object from your fingersânot violently, not even with pressureâjust a calm, quiet removal, as if you were a child who had picked up something dangerous without understanding it.
âI donât think you meant to attack me,â he murmured. âIf you had, you wouldnât have hesitated.â
He opened a drawer at your bedside and took out a fresh syringe. The sight of it made your stomach turn. You knew that shape. You knew that vial. You knew it wasnât a sedative meant for sleep.
âYour bodyâs still weak,â Zayne said calmly, drawing the clear liquid with smooth, clinical precision. âYour heart hasnât fully recovered. Youâre disoriented. Slow.â
He glanced at youânot angry, not gloating.
Just⊠measuring.
âThis dosage wonât kill you,â he said. âBut you wonât be able to move. Youâll feel everything. Just⊠not be able to respond.â
He slipped the needle into your IV port like it was routine. And as the cold spread through your veins, he leaned closer.
âI want you to remember what this feels like,â he whispered.
Your body began to fail you one piece at a time.
Your fingers went firstânumb, tingling, like youâd slept on them wrong. Then your arms. Then your legs. Your chest tightened, your eyelids felt heavy, but your mindâyour terrified, spiraling mindâremained sharp.
âIâve seen this in animals,â Zayne said, sitting beside your bed again. âThe flickering between panic and stillness. The way they try to scream even when their throat wonât work.â
He leaned in.
âLetâs see what kind you are.â
Your eyes rolled toward him. It was all you could do.
And he smiledâsmall, satisfied.
âYou should be grateful,â he murmured. âIf I was cruel, Iâd leave you like this until morning.â He reached forward, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the back of one finger. âBut I have patients. Rounds.â
A pause.
âYouâll come back soon enough.â He stood, adjusted his coat, and looked down at you like a man admiring a painting still in progress. âAnd next time you try to grab something sharpââ
He touched the side of your throat, right where your pulse fluttered erratically beneath the skin.
ââIâll cut deeper than your pride.â
Then he walked out.
Calm. Polished.
Like death passing politely through the hallway, smiling on his rounds.
