Somewhere between us
Summary: A mission she had to do has forced her to pick a choice, Sylus in all his anger says what shouldn't have been said.
Continuation of this
Word count: 3k
Tags: angst, hurt, crying, the twins injured.
Part 2
The door slammed open, the sound cracking through the heavy quiet of Sylus’s office. Papers rustled on his desk, lights flickered. He didn’t even look up at first—his jaw was clenched, the veins in his hands straining against his skin. The air was thick with fury, and when he finally raised his eyes, it was like a storm had found its voice.
“You really thought I wouldn’t find out?” His tone was low, almost calm, but it shook with restrained rage. “That I’d simply accept that the twins almost died and move on? You went with those hunters knowing what could happen to them—to my kids. To your family.”
She took a step forward, her voice unsteady. “Sylus, please. I didn’t want—”
“Enough.” His voice cut through hers like a blade. “You had a choice. You could have saved them. You could have called for help. But you stayed. You stayed with those vultures because the protocol mattered more. The mission mattered more. Did you think I couldn’t have obtained it for you? Do you truly believe there’s anything I wouldn’t have done if you had just asked?”
“It wasn’t that simple,” she said quietly. “If I had acted—”
He slammed his hand on the desk. The sound echoed. “Don’t say that. Don’t hide behind excuses. You made your choice, and you chose them over us—over me—over them, who would have laid down their lives for you without a second thought. Have you already forgotten how they dragged you out of that ambush while you couldn’t even stand?”
Her breath caught. She tried to reach across the desk, her hand trembling. “I didn’t forget.”
“Then why?” His voice broke through her words. “Why did you let them bleed while you stood there, trying to play savior for the wrong side? You still think yourself righteous, don’t you? The hunter who never bends a rule. You wanted to prove you’re not one of us—that you’re better. That they deserved what happened.”
“That’s not true!” Her voice cracked as tears slipped free. “I wanted to protect everyone—you, them, the city. I thought if I could end it faster—if I could stop them from using the protocol again—”
“Don’t lie to me.” He stepped around the desk, the sound of his boots heavy against the floor. “You hesitated. I saw the footage. They screamed for you, and you stayed. You stayed because saving them meant exposing what you are—what we are. And that terrified you more than losing them.” His words were sharp, but his eyes betrayed the ache beneath them. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Her words came out fragile, trembling. “I couldn’t risk everything falling apart. If I had revealed myself, they would have taken me away. They would have come for you. I thought I was protecting us. I thought—”
“Everything?” His voice deepened, quieter, yet cruel in its precision. “You mean your spotless reputation? Your moral high ground? Because it certainly wasn’t the people who’ve been breaking themselves to keep you safe.” He came closer until the space between them was unbearable. “You still see us as monsters. You can deny it all you want, but I see it in your eyes every time you hesitate. You look at Luke, at Kieran, at me—and all you see are things to hide. To contain. To pity.”
“Stop,” she whispered, reaching for his hand. But his fingers closed around her wrist before she could touch him. His grip was firm, not cruel, but enough to make her breath hitch.
“You don’t get to tell me to stop,” he said, his voice low, shaking. “You don’t get to act like you’re the one wounded here. You put them in those beds. And now you come here, looking for understanding, thinking if you sound sorry enough, I’ll forgive you.” A bitter laugh escaped him, hollow. “You truly don’t understand what you’ve done.”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she whispered, her eyes shining. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought saving the protocol meant saving you. You think I didn’t see them fall? You think it didn’t destroy me? I see it every time I close my eyes.”
His face softened for a heartbeat—then hardened again. “You never mean it, but it happens anyway. And this time, it cost me the only family I had left.”
She took a step forward. “Sylus—”
He struck the desk with his palm, the sound deafening. “Don’t say my name.” His voice was hoarse, strained, cracking beneath the weight of his own words. “I can’t even look at you without wanting to break something. You chose a protocol over them. Over everything we built.”
He turned away, his shoulders trembling as he exhaled a shaking breath. “Leave. Before I say something I can’t take back.”
Silence filled the room. Her wrist still ached where his fingers had held her, the imprint of his touch burning into her skin. The air between them was suffocating, dense with all the things they couldn’t say.
She looked at him one last time, her voice breaking as she whispered, “You already did.”
He froze. The words struck him like a blade, but he didn’t move, didn’t speak. She stepped back, the sound of her retreat soft against the floor. When the door closed, it was barely a sound at all—but it echoed long after she was gone.
The office was silent now, but the silence was unbearable. The kind that screamed in the back of the mind. Sylus sat behind his desk, head bowed, fingers tangled in his hair. The city lights bled through the window, fractured across the floor in broken shapes—like everything else tonight.
He had told her to leave. He had watched her walk out, shoulders trembling, and said nothing to stop her. Now the image of her face—the disbelief, the hurt—looped in his mind like a punishment he deserved.
But what haunted him most wasn’t her face. It was theirs.
He had seen the footage too many times already. The twins—Luke and Kieran—cornered, bleeding, calling her name. Their voices cracked through the comms, desperate. And she… she turned. He could still see it. The second she hesitated, her eyes flicking back toward them, then away, running after the criminals who carried the stolen protocol. The moment she chose duty—or fear—over them.
He clenched his fists, his knuckles white. “Why weren’t you there,” he whispered to himself, voice rough. “Why the hell weren’t you there.”
He slammed a fist against the desk, the sound sharp and hollow. Every breath hurt. His mind replayed every word he’d thrown at her—each one sharper than the last. You see us as monsters. You chose a protocol over them.
The memory of her eyes when he said it burned him. He hadn’t meant to say those things, not like that. But the sight of the twins unconscious, pale, hooked to machines—it tore something out of him. He’d been afraid. Terrified. Not just for them, but for her too. He knew what fear did, how it poisoned every decision. And yet he had turned his fear into anger, flinging it at the one person he loved most.
He pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to shut out the memories, but they wouldn’t fade. Her trembling hand reaching for him. His fingers tightening around her wrist. The sound of her whisper—You already did.
He stood abruptly, pacing across the room, unable to sit still. The walls felt too close. Every step echoed with regret. He wanted to go after her, to tell her he didn’t mean it, that he understood—but the words wouldn’t come. They never did when they mattered.
He stopped by the window, staring at the city below. Somewhere out there, she was walking alone, and he was here, drowning in the ruins of his own anger.
The streets were quiet, washed in pale neon and soft drizzle. She walked without seeing, arms wrapped around herself as though that might hold her together. Her steps echoed faintly, the sound lost in the hum of the city. Each breath came uneven, fragile.
Tears blurred the world around her—streetlights became streaks of gold, the wet pavement glimmering like distant stars. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. What was the point? They kept coming, like they had been waiting for this moment to break free.
She thought of his voice—the way it trembled with rage, the way he looked at her as if she were a stranger. The way she couldn’t explain fast enough, couldn’t make him understand that she had chosen what she thought would save him. That she hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone, least of all him.
But it didn’t matter anymore. She had done it. She had finally ruined the one thing that had ever felt real in her life.
Her thoughts chased each other like ghosts—I should’ve gone to them. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve told him the truth sooner. Each one heavier than the last. The rain picked up, soaking through her clothes, but she barely felt it. It almost felt fitting—to walk beneath a sky that couldn’t stop crying either.
She reached her door eventually, the small apartment that had once felt safe now colder than ever. She closed the door behind her, pressing her back to it, her fingers trembling. The silence pressed in from every direction. And in that silence, she could still hear him.
You don’t get to act like you’re the victim here.
Her knees gave out, and she slid down to the floor, her arms tightening around herself. The world blurred again. All she could see was his face—the fury, the pain, the disappointment. The moment she realized she’d lost him.
For a long time, she stayed like that, listening to the rain tapping against the window, whispering the same truth over and over.
She had no one to blame but herself.
The next morning was coldly quiet.
Empty of the usual sweet voicemails he loved to hear right after waking up. Empty of the caws of the crow that perched by her window every dawn, checking if she was awake yet. Empty of the twins’ messages—those endless, ridiculous videos and memes they sent all night instead of sleeping or working. The silence was unbearable, a kind that gnawed through the walls and settled deep into his chest.
It felt like the morning after her family’s death—the same heavy quiet, the same raw realization of loss. Only this time, the grief wasn’t forced upon her by fate. This time, it was her doing. There was no one to blame, no cruel twist of destiny—only her choices, her hesitation, her fear.
And Sylus remained by that same window as he had the night before. His eyes were fixed on the city below—the city he had fought to keep under control, the one he had reshaped in the shadows so that she could live safely within it. He had done it all for her. Every calculated risk, every deal, every sacrifice—every single one was for her.
How had it all fallen apart overnight? How could something they had built with such care and trust crumble so easily? He wondered if their foundation had been too fragile from the start, if what they shared had only seemed unbreakable because they’d never truly tested it until now.
The thought hollowed him out.
He had always believed love could survive anything—distance, danger, even bloodshed. But this… this betrayal born of fear—it made him question everything.
He pressed a hand against the cold glass, his reflection staring back at him with tired, red-rimmed eyes. “Are we really done?” he whispered, though no one could hear him.
His mind replayed the way her voice cracked, the tears that had trembled in her eyes. The way she’d whispered that he already said something he couldn’t take back. He wanted to believe he could fix it, but he didn’t even know where to start.
Meanwhile, somewhere across the city, she sat on her bed with the phone in her hands, the screen still lit with old messages she couldn’t bring herself to delete. Her chest felt heavy, her body numb. Every sound outside felt distant, muffled—like the world had already decided to move on without her.
Her thoughts drifted to him—to that window she knew he always stood by when deep in thought. Maybe he was there now, watching the sunrise, just as she was watching it through her own window. The same light touching two broken people in different corners of the same city.
She whispered his name into the quiet. No reply came. Just the slow hum of a world indifferent to their pain.
And so the day began—not with love, or laughter, or the warmth of routine—but with silence. The kind that promised nothing would ever be quite the same again.
The door to the office creaked open slowly, letting in a thin line of morning light. Luke leaned against the frame, his weight uneven, his breath still shallow from the damage he hadn’t yet recovered from.
Sylus didn’t turn. He stood at the tall window again, the same way he had all night — unmoving, watching the city through tired eyes. The skyline was pale with dawn, the towers still wrapped in fog. His reflection in the glass looked like a stranger.
Luke’s voice broke the silence, low and uncertain.
“You haven’t slept, have you?”
Sylus didn’t answer.
Luke stepped forward, his limp soft but audible. The faint scrape of his crutch against the floor filled the room. “Kieran’s resting. The medics say he’ll be fine in a few days. We were lucky.”
Still nothing.
Luke sighed, shifting his weight. “I checked her place. She wasn’t there.” He hesitated before adding, “Did she come here?”
Sylus’s hand clenched against the window frame. “She was here.”
Luke blinked. “Yesterday?”
A small nod.
“And?”
“I told her to leave.”
The words hung heavy in the room, like smoke that wouldn’t clear.
Luke frowned. “You what?”
Sylus turned slightly then, just enough for Luke to see the exhaustion carved into his features. “I told her to leave, Luke.” His voice cracked halfway through, too rough to sound like his own.
Luke’s brows furrowed, disbelief turning to quiet hurt. “Why would you do that? After everything—”
“I don’t know,” Sylus cut him off, shaking his head. “I don’t know what happened. I wanted to ask her why she did it, why she didn’t save you, why she ran after that damned protocol when she could have—” His breath hitched. “When she could have chosen you.”
Luke’s jaw tightened, but his tone stayed calm. “She didn’t have a choice.”
“She always had a choice.”
“No,” Luke said softly. “Not this time.”
Sylus looked away again, eyes tracing the faint cracks in the glass. “You didn’t see the footage,” he whispered. “I keep seeing it. You both were calling for her. And she turned away. She ran. I can’t unsee it.”
Luke’s voice wavered. “You think she wanted that? You think it didn’t kill her too?”
“She could’ve called for help,” Sylus said, his voice sharper now, desperate. “She could’ve signaled me, she could’ve—anything.”
Luke exhaled slowly, walking closer. “And if she had, and the protocol got away? You'd still be angry she harmed herself and yet not obtained what she wanted.”
Sylus’s shoulders stiffened. “That’s not—”
“Isn’t it?” Luke interrupted, his tone suddenly colder. “You’re angry because you care. Because you don’t know how to handle what she did, or why she did it.”
He stepped closer, close enough to see the trembling in Sylus’s hand. “But this—” his voice softened again, “—this isn’t you. The bossman I know wouldn’t push her away for choosing to live through something he couldn’t control.”
Sylus turned sharply, eyes dark with something between guilt and pride. “Don’t talk like you understand.”
Luke didn’t flinch. “I do. I was there.” He gestured toward his leg, the bruises barely hidden beneath the fabric. “And even now, I’d tell you to go find her and apologize.”
Sylus’s eyes flickered, conflicted.
Luke lowered his voice. “She was out there fighting for us. We made it harder for her by showing up. It’s not her fault we got hurt.”
Sylus shook his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t excuse her.”
Luke stared at him, bewildered. “Excuse her? Sylus, she’s—she’s her. You used to—” He stopped himself, swallowing. “You used to make it seem like she was the only thing keeping this place human.”
Sylus didn’t answer.
Luke’s tone softened, but it carried weight. “Not everyone can make the same choices you do. You never asked Kieran or me to pick between our lives and Onychinus. You can’t expect her to either.”
A long silence followed, broken only by the quiet hum of the city below.
Sylus’s voice came low, almost to himself. “She made her choice.”
Luke looked at him for a long moment, something breaking behind his eyes. “So did you,” he said finally.
He turned toward the door, his limp heavier than when he’d come in. At the threshold, he paused and added quietly, “If you wait too long to fix this, she won’t believe you when you finally try.”
Then he left, leaving the door half open. The light from the hallway cut a sharp line across the floor, reaching the place where Sylus still stood, unmoving — a man surrounded by everything he built to protect someone he’d just driven away.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. The sunlight slipping through the curtains felt pale and thin, like it had lost its warmth overnight. The clock ticked somewhere behind her, but she couldn’t remember if it was morning or closer to noon. Everything felt slow — like the world had gone on without her.
Her phone buzzed beside her pillow. For a second, she didn’t move. Then she turned her head and blinked at the screen.
Luke.
The message was a photo — a blurry selfie of him grinning, hair a mess, one hand giving a thumbs-up. Beside him, Kieran lay half-asleep, one arm slung over his face like he was trying to block out the light.
The caption read:
"Still alive. Barely. How are you holding up?"
Her throat tightened. For a moment she just stared at their faces — bruised, pale, but alive. Relief hurt more than it healed.
She angled her phone away, wiped her eyes quickly, and flipped the camera. Her reflection stared back: eyes swollen, cheeks blotchy. She smiled anyway — just her lips, nothing more — and raised two fingers in a lazy peace sign. She took the photo from below, cropping out everything above her nose, and sent it.
Then she typed:
"Just being lazy in bed."
The reply came fast.
"Too lazy to come visit your poor, wounded friends?"
A small laugh slipped out before it turned into something quieter, heavier. The guilt came flooding back, raw and bitter. Her thumbs hesitated over the keyboard.
"If you heal faster, I’ll take you both out for a meal," she wrote.
A pause. Three dots blinked on the screen, stopped, then blinked again.
"Deal," came the message. Then another.
"I’m sorry, you know. We made your mission harder. Should’ve stayed out of it."
Her heart clenched. She sat up slowly, back against the headboard, the blanket still tangled around her legs. For a while she just stared at the message, her vision blurring again.
Then she typed,
"Nothing’s more important than you two. I hope you know that."
It took longer for the next message to arrive.
"We do," Luke wrote. "Always have."
She smiled, but it felt like breaking glass. Her fingers hovered over the screen, wanting to say more — to ask if he’d seen Sylus, to ask what he’d said, to ask if she could fix any of this. But the words wouldn’t come.
So she put the phone down beside her, curled onto her side, and let the unread silence stretch on — one heartbeat at a time.
The mission had drained her to the bone. The metallic tang of dust still hung in the air, and her hands trembled slightly as she lowered her weapon. The system failure had pulled her out of bed that morning, out of the quiet ache she'd been trying to drown in sleep. She hadn’t expected to end the day like this — standing in the ruins of a half-collapsed structure, her breath shallow, her heart too tired to keep fighting.
A sudden crash echoed behind her. Instinct turned her around, weapon raised. The hulking body of a monster fell to the ground, its last growl dying in the dust. And behind it —
Sylus.
He stood there in the half-light, gun still smoking, his coat marked with ash and blood. For a moment, they only stared at each other. The air between them was thick with the ghosts of everything unsaid.
“You look tired,” he said at last, his voice low, rough, and quieter than she remembered.
“You sound surprised.” Her voice came softer, but steady enough. The faintest curve of irony touched her lips — not a smile, just habit.
He holstered his weapon, his eyes never leaving her. Then, slowly, he walked toward her. Every step felt heavier than the last. When he reached her, he didn’t speak again. He just reached for her hand, the motion hesitant, as if expecting her to pull away.
She didn’t. Not yet. Her gaze flicked between his eyes and his fingers, the familiar warmth of his glove brushing against her skin. Her heart caught in her throat when he finally took her hand in his — firm, grounding, like he’d been waiting too long to do it.
“I want to talk,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”
She said nothing. Just watched him — watched the exhaustion beneath his eyes, the quiet plea behind his calm tone. There was no anger left between them, not now, only a weariness that neither of them could hide.
He didn’t let go of her hand as he led her out of the ruined sector. The streets were mostly empty, the wind carrying the smell of rain. They walked in silence, neither of them daring to speak first, afraid that any word might reopen what had barely begun to heal.
He stopped before a small, quiet house — one of his, she guessed. The lights inside were dim, untouched. He pushed the door open for her.
“Come in,” he said, voice gentler this time. “We’ll talk here.”
She stepped past him, the warmth of the place a stark contrast to the cold air outside. He closed the door softly behind them, the sound final, like the drawing of a breath before everything else could begin again.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They just stood there — two people who had once been everything to each other, now standing on the fragile edge between forgiveness and distance.
A/N: I hate writing on phone
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