Hit me harder
Sylus x Zayne / SnowCrow / AU Sylus is a boxer and Zayne his medic.
Synopsis: From broken noses to broken rules, the champion boxer Sylus “The Crow” crosses paths with his stoic ringside doctor, Zayne. As Sylus fights for his fifth title in the ring, Zayne wrestles with his own past fights. Blood, bandages, and something dangerously close to love.
Genre: romance, slow burn, angst, description of blood and broken bones, no major character death, grief, smut
Words: 8.6k // Reading Time: 34min // AO3
Navigator: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 - Final
This story is a one-shot, but I’ll be splitting it into two parts. It’s my first time writing SnowCrow, so I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I did bringing it to life. This fanfic only exists thanks to a very special chaos moment on Discord — huge thanks to my dear friend Tsuki for planting the idea (and for patiently waiting until now). Hope you all enjoy it, I poured a lot of heart (and maybe a little pain) into this one.
Small disclaimer: I haven't read Mignon. If there are any similarities, it's pure coincidence. This story is inspired by movies like "Rocky" or the series "The cage" or "Riverdale"
Taglist: @darkeskye @beaconsxd @kaeyasfuturewife @moon335000 @qqnanaqq @bbzaynie @athesists @hirostrvw @blessdunrest @treeteaofversailles @treeteaofversailles @n109zine @sweetcalebb @authorsoso @leaderincrows @silver--47 @hwaberrylemonade @yippie-bug @solemnlyshatteredvagrant @toopolite @sweatybonkhumanoidranch @ultraviolettefan @hwangintakswifey @potatughpudding @ultraviolettefan
(1) The Crow & the doctor
🔊 Opening BGM
The bass of the entrance music rattled through the arena, shaking the floor beneath every step. The crowd’s roar rose in waves, feverish, electric, thousands of voices crashing together until the very walls trembled. Spotlights slashed across the ring, violent bursts of white and crimson that blinded and thrilled in equal measure. This was the fight everyone had come for. The main event. Semifinales of the boxing Championship.
At the betting counters, it was bedlam. Credits slammed onto tables, fists pounded, shouts overlapped, bets leaping from a hundred to a thousand in seconds. But nearly every hand put their money on the same name.
The sound inside was deafening, a mix of chants, whistles, and the drunken hum of adrenaline. Security struggled to hold back packs of rabid fans, their faces painted, their throats raw from screaming. On the big screens, the fighters’ faces lit up—one, a man known for grinding his opponents to dust before the third round. To bet against him was to bet against gravity itself. When his name was called, the arena detonated.
The Crow.
He emerged in black and red, his stride sharp, coiled, lethal. The Crow didn’t wave. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough—scarlet eyes like a predator sizing up prey, a thin smile promising carnage. Tonight was about more than blood. It was about staying undefeated. Winning was all he cared about, he needed to secure his entry in the finales. Everything else was secondary.
The announcer’s voice ripped through the smoke and a fog of shouting, calling out the fighters' names. The air was filled with the sweat and anticipation of thousands. The familiar, intoxicating perfume of liniment, leather, and stale beer hung in the humid arena. The bell rang.
The Crow moved like a weapon honed to perfection. His opponent, sensing the immediate danger, tried to weather the storm. He ducked low, desperately shuffling his feet to keep distance, but The Crow was already in his space. The opponent jabbed wildly that The Crow slipped with a bored lean of his head. He tried a massive, looping hook, aiming for the temple, but The Crow simply leaned back on his heels, letting the wind of the missed punch ruffle his hair.
Loud of the speaker, the feral commentary of the jury were igniting the match. “And there’s the speed, folks! He’s just too fast. His footwork is perfect, turning every counter into a deadly blow. The other guy can't even touch him!”
The crowd’s roar was a single, hungry creature, feeding on the sight of the other fighter, who stumbled and reeled under the merciless assault. One final, brutal uppercut snapped the opponent’s head back. The referee threw himself between the men, ending the round with a premature bell.
Round seven. The opponent, driven by sheer survival instinct, charged out, trying to overwhelm The Crow with aggression. He threw everything he had. But The Crow was relentless, merciless and methodical. He easily rolled past the assault, his head a blur of movement. His jabs were sharp, snapping his opponent’s head back.
“The opponent is throwing haymakers, but Crow is just rolling his shoulders, making him look amateurish. It is amazing to follow.”
His trainer, Coach Lev, leaned over the ropes, his face split by a wide, nervous grin. He screamed over the din: “Stay smart! Wear him down! No risky moves! Victory first!”
But the trainer’s words were a whisper against the roar in his The Crow’s mind. He could feel the victory thrumming in his veins. The arrogance thrummed in his veins. He wanted to end this as fast as he could. He wanted the knockout now.
“And there it is! He's ignoring the corner! He’s going for the kill! This man does not want to win on points!”
He lunged. His opponent’s fist was a blur of leather and hate, a blur that ended in a detonation of pain. A sickening crack, a sound like breaking bone amplified a hundred times, echoed in the sudden silence of his skull. The world tilted. A hot, viscous stream of liquid traced a searing path from his nose, down his lip, and onto his chin. He could taste the coppery tang of his own blood, and it was a flavor of rage. The crowd shrieked, half in horror, half in ecstasy.
“Oh, the champion is down! No wait—he’s not down! He took a shot! A clean shot right to the nose! But he’s standing! And he’s smiling and bleeding?!”
He lifted his head. Crimson dripped from his chin, splattering on the mat, and he smiled, a grim, bloody slash in a face of fury. That’s when the referee, a stoic man with a tired face, stepped between them. He held up a gloved hand, calling for a pause in the chaos. He looked at The Crow, his eyes scanning the ruin of his face. “Do you need a break? Medical assistance?” he asked, concerned. In the background he could hear the coach scream and wanting to top attend his champion.
The Crow simply looked at him. “No,” he said. The referee’s face remained impassive, but a flicker of understanding passed in his eyes. He gave a sharp nod and stepped back allowing the fight to continue. He tore back into the fight, ignoring the sting, feeding on the pain. Adrenaline surged through him. Normally he wouldn’t see red but he wasn’t in the mood today to go easy. So every strike was full with intention to win, until his opponent buckled beneath the weight. Then came the final blow. The man crumpled as if some had cut strings of a puppet. His body was unconscious before it even hit the canvas. The referee’s hand sliced through the air: K.O.
The arena erupted. A storm of noise and adoration crashed down on the ring as the referee waved his arms, signaling the end. The Crow stood in the center of the ring, blood painting his grin.
“And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen! The definitive winner of this grueling semi-final match, advancing to the final round of Linkon Boxing Tournament: The Crow! What a performance! Not even eight rounds and his match is over! It’s amazing, Nova. I didn’t expect him to keep fighting while bleeding like that. That kind of focus, that ruthlessness... that’s what champions are made of!”
"That’s right, he definitely never disappointed anyone…”
The commentary faded into a muffled hum. The door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the last vestiges of the arena’s chaos.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Coach Lev’s voice cracked like a whip as he followed his champion into the locker room. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury “I told you, no risky moves! I told you to wear him down! You were a single punch away from losing the whole damn thing!”
The boxer pressed a wad of paper towels against his bleeding nose, shrugging with maddening calm. “I was thinking about winning.” He pulled the towels away and looked at his coach. “And I won. Why are you so angry?”
“Angry?” Coach Lev’s face was flushed, hands twitching like he was ready to rip out what little hair he had left. He was a study in compact fury. He stood barely five-foot-six, yet the dense muscle packed onto his small, wiry frame made him look like he could still go three rounds—a man well-tried for his age. What little hair he had left clung in sparse, very grey patches around the temples of his almost bald head. His face was a roadmap of past struggles, dominated by a small, crooked nose that was permanently angled slightly to the left. Clearly a souvenir from his own boxing days before he retired to the corner.
“Sylus, for fuck’s sake! You need to stay in the game—listen to me for once! We have a fashion deal in three weeks and now your nose…” He gestured wildly at Sylus’s face, at the paper towels soaked with his blood.
“Relax…” Sylus waved him off with a careless smirk. He leaned back on the bench, ignoring the pain and the furious man in front of him. “My nose will be healed by then.”
Coach Lev drew a sharp, furious breath, ready to scold Sylus until his ear also bled. In all his years of coaching, he’d never had such a stubborn student. And even if his champion was already in his late twenties, he sometime act like a fucking child. Lev’s reply was cut short, his mouth still open around the last word, as the door opened again. A colder presence stepped inside.
“I’m not sure three weeks will fix stupidity.” The voice was edged with disapproval. He set his medical bag down on the bench beside Sylus.
“Ah… Dr. Zayne. Glad to see you.” Sylus’s grin widened, blood still streaking his teeth.
Zayne’s green eyes didn’t soften. “Sadly, you’re the only one enjoying this. As your physician, I would’ve preferred not to watch your nose break in real time.”
“Scared of a little blood, Doc?” Sylus teased, his tone mocking.
Zayne didn’t answer. Instead, he snapped on a pair of latex gloves with sharp precision. “Let me see.” He reached out, fingers firm but careful as he probed the injury. Sylus hissed, jerking slightly. “Careful.”
Zayne muttered “It’s broken,” sighing as though the weight of dealing with Sylus drained the life out of him. “Come to the hospital. Now. You’ll get proper treatment there.”
The coach just watched, his hands on his hips, his face a mask of exasperation. “You can’t do this to me,” he said, not content to simply reprimand his star fighter. “You’re a brand, Sylus. Brands don’t go around getting their faces rearranged in the ring.”
Sylus almost rolled his eyes. “Can’t you just patch me up here, doc?”
Zayne leveled him with a look sharp enough to cut steel. “If you want an infection to keep you company in bed, by all means, let’s do it your way.”
Sylus chuckled, a low, amused sound that rumbled in his chest. “You always know how to talk sweet to me.”
The coach groaned, throwing his arms in the air. “Godmit, this isn’t a comedy show! Sylus, sit still. Zayne, just fix him before he bleeds out on the damn floor.”
“You too loud,” Sylus said again, eyes glinting as he leaned a little closer to Zayne. “Doctor Z wouldn’t let that happen. He cares too much.”
Zayne’s gloves squeaked as he tightened them, his expression unreadable. “What I care about is not wasting my time watching you self-destruct. Though it’s becoming a hobby.”
Sylus smirks. For a beat, the room went quiet except for the muffled roar of the crowd still raging outside. The coach muttered something under his breath and began pacing, too preoccupied with his own frustration to notice the current crackling between fighter and physician.
Zayne finally pressed the gauze against Sylus’s nose firm. “Hold still.”
Sylus hissed again, biting back a laugh. “Gentle. I’m going to think you are actually enjoying hurting me.”
Zayne’s eyes flicked up to meet his, cool and sharp. “If I were enjoying it, you’d already be unconscious.” His hand stayed on Sylus’s face a second too long before he pulled away.
“What a special kink, doc.”
Zayne had managed to stop the bleeding, but it didn’t buy Sylus much freedom. With one gloved hand still stained faintly pink, he shoved the stubborn boxer straight into the passenger seat of his car. Sylus protested the whole way, while in the back, the coach barked into his phone. Screaming at managers, sponsors, anyone unlucky enough to answer at that hour of the night.
By the time they reached the hospital, the adrenaline of the fight had dulled into exhaustion. After scans, paperwork, and a very vocal argument with the admissions nurse, Sylus was finally tucked into a private room. He shifted against the pillows. “Do I really need to stay? I’d prefer to be at home.” His tone was pure complaint, like a child refusing vegetables.
It hadn’t been an easy battle. For a solid hour he had argued insisting he didn’t need “babysitting” for a broken nose. But then Zayne had fixed him with a single, icy stare. And just like that, the Crow sat still.
Sylus grumbled under his breath, glaring at the ceiling. “You know, most doctors try asking their patients nicely.” Sylus lay sprawled against the stiff pillows, arms crossed behind his head, his red eyes half-lidded with boredom. The bandage across his nose looked almost comical against the smugness still curling his lips. Zayne had fixed his nose in a blink of an eye, after applying local anesthesia. He forced Sylus nose back into place, the fighter’s body tensed but he didn’t make a sound. Zayne didn't answer, he was still filling up a few charts.
Now the floor outside was quiet. No more footsteps, no more fans trying to sneak in, no more nurses bustling around. Even his coach had finally left, muttering about meetings and sponsorship calls, leaving behind the faint echo of his frustration. The private room was quiet now, save for the steady beep of the monitors and the noise of the hospital ventilation.
From the moment Dr. Grayson suggested to Coach Lev to get Dr. Zayne on the team, Sylus knew he wasn’t the kind of man who’d be impressed by victories or crowds. Zayne wasn’t a fan, not even a friend. He was more like a cold wall of ice, impossible to get through no matter how hard you tried. And maybe that’s why Sylus enjoyed pressing against it.
Through every fight, every injury, every bandage wrapped a little too tightly, their relationship had been a dance of sharp words and colder silences. The doctor was the only one who didn’t flinch at Sylus’s bravado, and Sylus found a certain satisfaction in being the one person capable of cracking Zayne’s cool exterior, if only to reveal the simmering annoyance underneath. For the past three years, their interactions were a predictable ritual: a pre-fight lecture from Zayne on staying safe and a post-fight argument about Sylus’s latest injury. This time, however, Zayne hasn’t said anything else.
Until one day.
The heavy bag swayed like a pendulum. The dull thwack of gloves against the heavy bag echoed through the space. Sylus was drenched, shirt clinging to his skin, his body vibrating from the rhythm of the punches. He was in his flow until the door cracked open. Sylus continued only to glance over his shoulder. Zayne stood just inside the entrance, medical bag in hand, his expression as cool and impassive as ever. A familiar challenge ignited in Sylus’s blood. He saw the doctor’s eyes fall to his bruised knuckles, then to the heavy bag. Zayne stepped in with a folder tucked under his arm, his expressions were pure detachment.
Sylus smirked. “What’s this, Doc? Decided to finally watch me work? Can’t say I pegged you for a fan.”
Zayne set the folder down on the nearest bench, ignoring the clearly provocative tone. “Your blood work is clean. Recovery times are where they should be. No restrictions.”
“You could’ve just mailed that,” Sylus drawled, sweat dripping down his jaw. “Or made me drag myself to your office like a good little patient.”
For a moment, Zayne’s greenish eyes flicked up, unbothered. “The coach insisted. Very desperately, in fact. He wanted me to make sure you listened to the doctor’s orders, since you apparently don’t hear anyone else.”
Sylus laughed as he reached for his water bottle. “So you’re my babysitter now?” He tilted the bottle back for a long drink only for the cap to slip loose. A cascade of ice-cold water splashed down his chest, soaking his shirt, dripping over every line of muscle. Sylus froze, blinking, droplets streaming down his jaw. So much for being cool. A faint blush crept up his neck. His glaze went flat in annoyance.
To his utter shock, the doctor actually huffed out a laugh. Zayne found it utterly amusing that this big, intimidating fighter was so flustered over a simple blunder, trying to be the cool kid even when only he was watching.
“Ohhh,” he drawled, eyes glittering. “Did I just hear a crack in the glacier?
Zayne quickly regains his composure, clearing his throat. He doesn't look back at the boxer, and leaves through the same door he came in. “Next check-up is in two weeks. Don't be late.”
Now, some time later, that same man was the reason he was trapped in a hospital bed. The door clicked shut, and silence swallowed the room. Zayne had finally left, but not without his parting gift: “If you reopen the wound, I’ll make sure you regret it.” Sylus laughed to himself, touching his bandaged nose with care. Typical Zayne. Threats sharper than any scalpel, colder than ice. And yet… Sylus turned on his side, dragging the blanket up over his shoulders.
“Cold bastard,” he muttered into the pillow, eyes finally slipping shut. Sylus let himself drift, the phantom image of Zayne’s smirk following him down into sleep.
“Charming,” Zayne said dryly, suggesting he found the scene neither charming nor remotely acceptable. He scanned the room, his eyes tightening with an almost physical disgust. He finally located a small, clean-looking section of the kitchen counter and set his medical bag there with cautious reverence.
The place looked like a battlefield: empty boxes stacked haphazardly, half-crushed protein shake containers on the counter, clothes scattered across the floor. To Zayne, whose world demanded precise order, the sight of this chaotic apartment was an affront to logic. Truth be said, Zayne’s own apartment was a study in minimalist perfection, and any apartment would look like a fucking mess to his eyes.
Sylus groaned, instantly on the defensive. He darted forward, snatching a pair of socks off the couch and stuffing them into a corner. “You didn’t need to come up.” His voice was quick, almost embarrassed, as he shoved a balled-up pair of boxers under the cushion.
“I promised your coach I’d take care of you,” Zayne replied, unbothered, scanning the room once more. Beside all the junk, Sylus apartments were definitely impressive. Modern lines softened by the weight of old-world taste. Dark wood framed the space: walnut shelves stacked with worn books, glass decanters catching the amber of the low light. A long leather sofa stretched across the open living room. Near the windows, heavy curtains in charcoal velvet pooled on the ground, swallowing the daylight.
Sylus followed his gaze, then muttered, “Did he pay you extra?”
Zayne didn’t even blink. “See it as a way to make sure you don’t get yourself into trouble.”
Sylus let out a sigh, sinking onto the arm of the couch with his arms crossed. “So you are babysitting me.”
“Call it whatever you want,” Zayne said, already rolling up his sleeves as he started stacking boxes into the recycling bin. Sylus stared at him for a long moment, unsettled. In all the years of cold stares and clipped words, this was the first time Zayne had stepped into his apartment.
“You’re bleeding again,” Zayne said instead, his voice crisp as he nodded toward the faint streak of crimson seeping from beneath Sylus’s bandage. He reached into his bag, pulling out fresh gauze and alcohol wipes. Sylus groaned, tilting his head down as Zayne stepped closer. “Sit.”
Sylus didn’t move immediately, instead he put back on his provocative smirk. “You enjoy bossing me around, don’t you?”
Zayne didn’t humor the question. He simply pressed the gauze firmly against the injury, making Sylus hiss sharply. “If you confuse following medical advice with being bossed around, that says more about you than me.”
Sylus chuckled low. Their eyes met, close enough now that he could catch the faint scent of aftershave on Zayne’s skin. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Zayne’s fingers were this time a bit more gentle as he secured the fresh, white gauze over the bridge of the fighter’s nose.
“Stay still and do not move.” Zayne ordered. The command landed flat and cold, but Sylus obeyed. He slumped onto the couch, legs stretched out, hands resting uselessly on his thighs. The gauze taped across the bridge of his nose tugged whenever he moved his face, but that wasn’t what bothered him.
Zayne moved through his wreck with efficiency. Now and then asking where he should put this or if can throw that away. Sylus shifted, he wanted to help out since it wasn’t fair that his doctor was cleaning up his place but every time he even thought about getting up, he was cut down by a single sharp glance. Those green eyes pinned him in place harder than any punch he’d ever taken.
Sylus realized something in that moment. He hadn’t had an injury this bad in years. Maybe some bruises, an open lip or even his eyebrow were badly hitted. But somehow, since Zayne had started to work with him… he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to bleed this much. Could it be… he was truly worried? The thought curled deep inside his chest, twisting tighter as he tracked Zayne’s movements. It was still a total mystery for him why Zayne had even accepted the job.
Sylus had heard from Coach Lev the essential details: Zayne had his own prestigious department in the city hospital, but he gave that up to open his own small practice. But he still helps out from time to time in the city hospital. Sports medicine wasn’t even his field. It seemed the doctor hadn’t just been looking for a job; he’d been looking for some major change in his life, and for some unfathomable reason, he’d landed here, in the middle of Sylus’s chaos.
The silence stretched, broken only by the crisp, tearing sound of Zayne opening a fresh garbage bag in the kitchen. Sylus, bored and increasingly curious about the man who was now cleaning up, finally broke the quiet.
“Doc,” he said lazily, making weight in his chest with mockery, “do you have a girlfriend?”
Zayne froze mid-movement. Sylus tilted his head, waiting, eyes glinting with curiosity. He probably has someone. Why wouldn’t he? Zayne was everything a woman would want. Sylus had seen enough women glance at him in the hospital corridors. Someone had to have gotten through. For a flicker, Sylus felt a weight twist in his chest.
Zayne didn’t even look at him as he set down the washed up glasses, and went back to rearranging the mess.
“That is none of your concern,” Zayne replied, his voice flat, but the subtle refusal to call the question unprofessional only stoked Sylus’s curiosity further.
Sylus just hummed softly in response. “So, no now. What about ever?” Sylus pressed. He watched the taut line of Zayne’s jaw. Zayne turned his back sharply, grabbing the garbage bag with a rustling noise that sounded violently loud.
“I am currently preoccupied with ensuring you do not reopen your facial trauma,” Zayne stated. “My personal life does not, and will not, affect your ability to follow my instructions.”
Sylus simply grinned, recognizing the defensive wall Zayne was throwing up. “It doesn’t. But you're here, cleaning my trash and going through my stuff. At least I want to know a bit more about my help hand.” He paused, letting the statement hang. “So which is it, Doc? Girlfriend or not?” Zayne took a slow, visible breath, letting it out through his nose. He kept his back to Sylus.
“No,” he clipped out. Sylus watched as Zayne crossed the kitchen, pulled open the fridge, and leaned in. A beat of silence then Zayne’s voice carried across the room. “Can you tell me what kind of bullshit you’re eating? I recall being very clear about your diet.” Zayne pulled out an army of half-empty protein shakes, mismatched Tupperware with suspicious contents, and a box of something that had clearly expired last week. “I’m honestly impressed you can still perform at this level while filling your body with this.”
Sylus smiled. “I don’t eat like that all the time. Only before hard fights. And I have followed your instructions.”
Zayne didn’t argue further. He simply gathered the chaos in his arms and dumped it all unceremoniously into the trash. “I’m going to buy proper food. I’ll take your keys with me.”
“Be my guest,” Sylus drawled, waving a lazy hand toward the door, his smirk firmly in place.
Zayne didn't acknowledge the wave. He paused by the door, his posture straight and unyielding. “Rest,” he said with no room for debate, in a flat command. The door clicked shut behind him before Sylus could even muster a comeback.
“No girlfriend, huh?” he murmured, almost to himself. The words rolled out low, half-smirk, half-thought. But then the grin faltered and his features hardened. “Fuck…” he exhaled. “This isn’t good.”
By the time Zayne finally made it back, his shoulders ached from the weight of plastic bags cutting into his hands. Traffic had been brutal, and the city at night was as restless as ever. He let himself in with Sylus’s keys, already preparing a list of things he’d need to lecture him about. But the apartment wasn’t the same mess he’d left.
The worst of the clutter was gone — laundry piled into a basket, bottles stacked by the door, the counters cleared. It wasn’t spotless, but it was closer than he expected. Zayne’s first instinct was to reprimand his patient for ignoring the order to rest. He had been clear enough. But the words caught in his throat before they could form. Because Sylus was asleep on the couch, the dim glow of a single lamp softened the sharp edges of his face. A book rested across his chest, its spine half-open like he’d drifted off mid-sentence. And a pair of glasses sat neatly on the coffee table. His head had lolled slightly to the side, silver hair falling into his eyes.
For a moment, Zayne stood frozen in the doorway. He should wake him. He should keep the professional distance he had always enforced. But something about the stillness, the quiet rhythm of Sylus’s breathing, the rare softness of him made Zayne set the bags down slowly in the kitchen.
A blanket was draped over the back of the couch. Zayne pulled it free and shook it out. He moved carefully, lowering himself to one knee beside Sylus.
The fighter didn’t stir. Zayne hesitated for a moment. Still he caught the dark circles beneath Sylus’s lashes — proof of too many nights spent training instead of sleeping. The sharp line of his jaw. The faint crack in his lips, careless hydration, another risk ignored. Zayne paused over them.
He should know better. The swirling feeling in his chest and light anxiety in his heart. Persevering the distance of professionalism should come first. But seeing the amount of blood… The way it had poured across Sylus’s face down on his gloves. The way his heart had clenched when he realized just how bad it could’ve been. The words slipped out before he could stop them, almost unconscious.
“…You scared me.”
It was so quiet he thought it might vanish into the lamp’s hum, but the figure on the couch shifted. The book slid off Sylus’s chest with a soft thump. Red eyes blinked open, hazy at first, then sharpening as they focused on Zayne kneeling right there beside him.
“What… did you just say?” Sylus’s voice was rough with sleep, but the edge of curiosity in it was unmistakable.
Zayne straightened too quickly, the blanket slipping from his hand as if it had burned him. “Nothing.” His tone was sharp. “Go back to sleep. I’m going to cook.”
A faint grin tugged at Sylus’s mouth as he stretched lazily, letting his head sink back into the couch cushion. “You sound like my girlfriend,” he muttered, eyes already closing again. The line landed somewhere between mocking and tender, as if even he couldn’t decide what he meant by it.
Days blurred together like rounds in a fight. Sylus healed, the swelling easing, the bruises fading. And though he insisted more than once that it wasn’t necessary, Zayne still showed up. Every day. Sometimes before work, dropping off new bandages. He never stayed long. Just enough to make sure Sylus wasn’t bleeding, wasn’t skipping meals, wasn’t breaking rules.
After more than a week like that, one rainy night, Sylus found Zayne standing there once more at his door. Normally, the man was a picture of control: shirt perfectly ironed, tie knotted just right, hair perfectly done. But tonight?
Tonight the tie hung loose, crooked against his collar. His shirt was wrinkled, and the faint scent of strong, stale coffee clung to the fabric beneath the faint hospital tang. Is that coffee or dry blood? He looked less like a doctor and more like a man who’d been dragged through hell.
Sylus bit back the instinct to smirk, to jab, to say “Man, you look terrible.” The silence stretched. His gaze dropped quickly from Zayne's face to the soaked floor and his chest swelled instead, as he stepped aside and let him in.
Zayne shivered. His eyes were half-lidded, fixed on some point in the distance. “You look like you haven’t slept in three days” Zayne blinked slowly, the exhaustion in his eyes seeming to pull the color from them. He tightened his grip on the handle of his bag, trying to reassert his control.
“Heavy rotation at the hospital. Just let me check your nose so I can leave.”
Sylus moved quickly, gently taking the medical bag from Zayne’s hand and setting it on the floor. “Sit down, Zayne. Now,” Sylus ordered.
“No—” Zayne’s voice was flat, roughened at the edges.
“Shut up and sit.” The fierce competitor in him was suddenly quiet. Sylus away and returned with a glass of water and towel, placing it silently on the coffee table.
“I should leave” He moved to rise, but Sylus pressed a hand to his shoulder and pushed him back down.
“No way, Doc. You’re too tired to drive.”
“I can’t stay here,” Zayne muttered, already shaking his head.
“I’ve got enough space.”
Silence stretched between them. Zayne’s eyes stayed shut, as if the fight to argue wasn’t worth it anymore.
“…”
“Not trying to pick a fight,” Sylus muttered, leaning back with a crooked smile, “but I should make sure my doc doesn’t kill himself by falling asleep in his car.”
Zayne exhaled long through his nose, the kind of sigh that usually meant I surrender. Which was all the opening Sylus needed. Before Zayne could string together a protest, he found himself herded down the hall with a firm hand on his back, shoved unceremoniously toward the bathroom.
“Shower. Change. Bed.” Sylus’s voice left no room for negotiation.
Zayne caught himself on the doorframe, glasses askew from the push, blinking in disbelief. His reflection in the bathroom mirror only made it worse. Yeah, the last day was rough. Did I just get bossed around by my patient?
The steam still clung faintly to Zayne’s skin when he finally recovered some life in his eyes. He was wearing the spare pajamas Sylus had somehow dug out of nowhere. They fit far too well for something he supposedly “just had lying around.”
Sylus steered him down the hall with a hand at his back. The absurdity of it: him, the physician, being manhandled by his own patient was almost enough to make him protest. And still he remained quiet, too tired to argue with the stubborn boxer. Sylus gestured inside like a host at a five-star hotel. “Bed’s all yours, Doc. Sleep before you pass out on my floor.”
Zayne stood there, stunned for half a second, but Sylus didn’t give him the chance to argue. A light shove sent him toward the mattress. “Good night, Doc.” The words came out warm, brushing against his mind somehow Zayne felt a shiver trail down his spine. Before he could gather his scattered thoughts, he stood alone in the quiet room, blinking at the space. How had he ended up here? And why, for the first time in years, did he feel the faint, terrifying pulse of something close to peace?
The night pulled him under faster than he expected. One moment, Zayne was lying stiffly in Sylus’s bed, staring at the ceiling like he could not allow himself to rest. The unique scent of the bed, a mix of clean cotton and a faint, masculine musk that was distinctly Sylus’s. The next, he was drifting into a warm pleasant dream. He didn't know who or what he was clinging to in the dream, but he let the honey coated sensation wash over him.
Morning light spilled through gauzy curtains. A faint crackle of jazz drifted from the living room, the lazy trumpet notes curling through the air, mixed with the scent of breakfast; butter melting over still-warm bread from the corner bakery he adored, ripe fruit cut into uneven slices, coffee rich enough to taste in the air. Everything felt gentle. “Good morning.” The blurry sound of a voice came, close enough for his breath to stir against his skin. A kiss brushed his cheek. Hands rested on his shoulders, calloused and firm that pushed him down into the soft, yielding warmth beneath him. The presence was a thrilling contradiction: someone who could tease him in the dark, drive him insane with a single look, and still make him feel… safe.
Loved.
The heat of this phantom body against his own was a yearning he knew he shouldn't follow, but his entire being was a hollow vessel waiting to be filled. Zayne leaned into it, against every rule he had ever set for himself, against every wall he had built. He let the warmth seep into the cracks. The formless haze began to coalesce, and he glimpsed colors so vivid they pierced the melancholic atmosphere.
Silver. A strand catching the light, gleaming like frost in the morning sun. Red. Sharp eyes that pinned him in place, even in the blur of the dream, staring down with a gaze that held an undeniable heat. Zayne’s chest tightened as he leaned forward, lips parting, ready to whisper his name.
The first silva stuck on his tongue as the warmth faded quickly as if someone had snuffed out a candle on a dark night. The image of those sharp eyes and the silver hair dissolved as a new sound ripped through the dream’s humid silence. A female voice cut through, sharp as glass, immediately dragging Zayne to the edge of a cliff. And when he was cornered she spoke “You’re incapable of love. Work is everything for you. I can’t do this anymore. I hate you!” The slam of a door reverberated through his skull.
The ground beneath him split open with a violent crack, making Zayne fall into the abyss. Lights blinked, fluorescent and harsh. A thousand alarms screamed. The sound of his own breathing was ragged, distorted, overlapping itself in panicked gasps. the noise was shaping itself into his name, shouted from somewhere close. “Doctor Li!” Voices blurred into static. Words tangled. His chest clenched tighter, too tight, too tight… He couldn’t breathe. He tried to speak, to call a name, but his voice broke, lost in the chaos. “Zayne…” A voice curling around the chaos, sweet laughter spilling in delicate strands. It should have been warmth, comfort yet it tangled with the horror. The sweetness melted into a poison. The laughter rose and bent into something distorted, cruel, echoing in his mind until he couldn’t tell if he was the one screaming.
As he stops falling snowflakes drifted past, delicate against the black, melting on his skin. So cold. It's always so cold. It sank into his chest, numbing his limbs, freezing the air in his lungs. “You wish…” The darkness shifted, and suddenly he was standing in a devastated world, empty and lonely. Nothing but a sheet of white stretching forever, snow covering everything in silence. He wanted to cry, but even his tears felt frozen. The sound of cracking ice echoed somewhere in the distance, jagged and hollow. Everything was dizzy, spinning, tilting. “Before the snow stops…” The whiteness thickened, swallowing everything. The cold pressed closer, suffocating.
Zayne jerked awake, breath tearing from his chest like he’d been pulled out of deep water. The ceiling came into focus in fragments. For a long moment, he simply lay there, chest heaving, listening to the city’s quiet pulse beyond the window. He dragged a hand over his face, pressing his palm against his eyes until colors bloomed behind them. “…Not again.” Zayne sat up slowly, the sheets clinging to his skin, the panic slowly receding, leaving a cold, oily film of dread behind. The bedside lamp cast a faint halo across the room, enough to outline his shoes by the door, his jacket folded neatly over the chair. He stared at them too long. Quietly, he swung his legs off the bed, standing barefoot on the cool floor. He should leave. Before the warmth of this room, this feeling seeped deeper into him. Before the lines blurred… But as his hand touched the door handle, he hesitated. On the other side of the wall, the faint rhythm of Sylus’s breathing carried from the couch. His fingers tightened on the cold metal. Why did his chest feel so heavy?
When Sylus woke up the next day, Zayne was gone. The next few days felt strange. No more showing up with groceries, no more staying until the apartment grew quiet and Sylus drifted off on the couch. He came only when it was strictly necessary, in and out with the same clipped efficiency he always showed.
One evening, when Zayne finished checking the bandage, Sylus leaned back on the couch and smirked, though his tone was softer than usual. “You know, Doc… it was kind of nice having you around every day.” For a second, he thought he saw something flicker in those green eyes, hesitation, maybe. But then the wall slammed back into place. Zayne straightened. “Your nose is healed enough for that photoshoot. Makeup will cover the rest.” That was it.
Sylus forced a laugh, tilting his head with mock arrogance. “Right.”
The photoshoot was supposed to distract him. Bright lights, cameras, assistants fluttering around with makeup brushes and bottled water all the chaos Sylus usually thrived in. He slipped into his public skin easily enough: The Crow, undefeated, untouchable, cool smile for every shot.
With that last visit, Zayne had declared him healed. The balm would take care of the rest, but the bandage was no longer necessary. And just like that, they slipped back into their patient-doctor dynamic. Sylus wasn’t happy about it. He’d asked Zayne why he always left so early in the morning, and the answer had been brief, distant. Work. Sylus could tell there was more behind that clipped word.
Sylus leaned back in the studio chair as the photographer adjusted the lights, running a hand through his hair with a low exhale. Isn't this the first time I feel like this... He’d been alone long before Zayne, and he’d be fine long after. And now, sitting under a thousand-watt light with makeup dusting his cheekbones, all Sylus wanted was for the damn shoot to end so he could go back. He huffed under his breath, almost laughing at himself. Even if I did try anything, he doesn’t look like someone who’s into guys… or into relationships at all.
And maybe that was fair. People were exhausting. Greedy, stupid, selfish, always clawing for something, always taking more than they gave. Sylus knew that truth better than anyone. Zayne wasn’t like that, even if he looks like he keeps everyone at arm’s length. When it came to helping others, he always put himself last. It was infuriating, self-destructive and yet, Sylus felt the corner of his mouth curve into something softer.
“Come on, boy, hit it harder!” Coach Lev barked, voice sharp enough to cut through the roar of Sylus’s breath. The gym echoed with the thud of leather against leather, the metallic rattle of chains as the heavy bag swung back and forth. Sylus drove his fists into the bag again, each strike harder than the last. His red shirt clung to him, soaked through with sweat, the fabric molding against the carved lines of his torso. Sweat dripped down his temple, tracing along his jaw before falling to the mat. “I need more concentration,” Lev snapped. “Come on, come on!” Sylus’s breath grew uneven, shoulders heaving as he pushed into another flurry of punches. Still, his rhythm faltered because his mind wasn't locked on the bag. It wasn’t easy to catch it, but his coach saw it. “Where’s your head, huh? Focus!”
Truth was Sylus knew exactly where his head was. Hunting down the thoughts that refused to leave him. The memory of quiet evenings in his apartment, of an icy doctor who had somehow made himself at home there. The warmth of Zayne’s presence, the rare cracks in his composure. Ridiculous. He should stick to women, to one-night stands, the easy fixes that never asked for more. That’s what he’d always done. And yet… nothing had felt as natural as the sound of Zayne’s voice in his space. Where the hell are you, Doc? His fists still. The bag swayed slowly and Sylus dropped onto the bench, grabbing his water bottle and taking a long swallow, his gaze slipping toward the far wall.
Lev stepped closer, arms crossed. “Gonna talk to me? What is this? Two and a half weeks off and you forgot how to box?”
Sylus clicked his tongue, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Of course not.”
“Then…?” Lev pressed.
Sylus tilted his head back, gulping more water. He didn’t answer. Lev sighed, shaking his head. “We’ve got ten days to get you fit. Ten days. You’re going to defend that title. Champion of the year again. So whatever’s eating you, clear it.”
Sylus capped the bottle with a snap. “Sure, old man.” Sylus was still stewing. Coach Lev hated being called that. He started fussing, grumbling under his breath about respect and discipline, but Sylus barely heard him. Lev swallowed his frustration, knowing his champion wasn't paying attention to the fuss he was making anyway. Lev would have loved to know where his star fighter’s head actually was right now.
“Hey—River, come here!” Lev barked. Across the gym, a tall, lanky kid dropped his jump rope and jogged over, still breathing heavy from drills. Barely nineteen, maybe twenty, his frame was wiry but promising, long arms, quick footwork. Lev had pulled him up from the juniors, grooming him for the light middleweights. The boy looked between them nervously, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Spare with him,” Lev ordered.
“Coach?” River’s eyes widened, darting from Lev to Sylus. The Crow. The undefeated champion. Twice his weight in muscle. It felt more like being thrown into the lion’s den than sparring.
“Don’t worry,” Lev said, clapping him on the back. “Just show him that new move. He needs to wake up a bit.”
River’s throat bobbed. “Y-Yes, coach.” Sylus glanced up at the kid in front of him. Tall, sure, but still green. Fear written all over his face. And Lev thinks this is what I need? But Lev wasn’t wrong. His head wasn’t in the game. Maybe a little push would bring him back. The boy raised his gloves, stiff but determined. Sylus stood slowly, rolling his shoulders, the smirk tugging faintly at his lips.
“Relax, kid,” he said, slipping into a stance. “I won’t eat you alive.” River didn’t look convinced. Both tapped gloves, the sharp smack echoing in the gym, and circled into motion.
Sylus remembered being a bit like River when he first stepped into a gym just like this one, trading street scraps for structured savagery. He’d been a wild thing, raw power and no technique. That wildness, tempered by Lev’s relentless discipline, was what had propelled him from a hungry kid to a four-time consecutive champion.
Luxury and prestige had come fast, crashing into his life with the sound of roaring crowds and snapping camera shutters. The apartment with the city view, the tailor-made suits, the endless stream of expensive and forgettable evenings. But Sylus found his truest pleasures in quieter things: the easy comfort of his leather jacket, the late night bike rides and the dedicated pursuit of his jazz vinyl collection.
“Keep your guard up, River. Light on your feet,” Coach Lev called, arms crossed.
Sylus slipped into rhythm with an easy sway, his eyes fixed on the boy. His jab was lazy at first, a feint, but enough to make River flinch. River tried a quick cross, awkward but earnest. Sylus blocked it with ease, lips curling into a smirk.
“Not bad,” he said, then darted in with a tap to the side of River’s headgear, light but deliberate. “But you’ll have to be faster than that.”
River grit his teeth, adjusting his stance, while Lev barked, “River, don’t square up—move, move!”
Sylus chuckled under his breath, circling. “Come on, show me something.”
“Sylus…” Lev’s warning cut across the mat.
Sylus flicked his gaze toward the coach, grin widening. “Let me have some fun.”
Lev pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re giving me a headache.”
He let the kid throw a jab, blocked it with ease, then tapped his ribs in return. River regrouped quickly, breath coming hard, but there was something in his stance now, less hesitant. “Good,” Lev barked from the side. “Don’t let him play you. Move!”
River feinted left, then threw a quick one-two and ducked under, slipping close enough that Sylus had to tilt his chin back to avoid the hook that followed. For the first time, his smirk faltered. Just for a heartbeat. The glove whistled past his jaw, missing by inches. Sylus caught the kid’s wrist, redirected the momentum, and tapped his chest to end the exchange.
“Break.” Lev clapped once. Sylus stepped back, lowering his guard. River was panting, sweat dripping, but his eyes lit with stubborn fire.
A slow grin spread across Sylus’s face. “Huh.” He wiped his brow with the back of his glove. “Almost had me with that last one, kiddo.”
River blinked, startled, then broke into a shy, disbelieving grin. Coach Lev snorted. “Don’t get cocky, River. You’re not ready for the big leagues.” But even he couldn’t hide the faint note of approval in his tone.
Sylus rolled his shoulders, smirk tugging again. “Not bad.” He glanced at Lev. “Looks like you’ve got something here.”
River tugged at his headgear, still catching his breath, but his grin was boyish, unguarded. “Man… sparring with you, it’s… it’s crazy. I wanna be like that one day. Champion.”
Sylus smirked faintly, tossing his gloves onto the bench. “Big words, kiddo. Champions take more than a few tricks.”
River nodded eagerly, eyes shining. “You even have a private doctor. Must be cool, huh, like being friends with him also? The words hit sharper than expected. Friend, huh? Sylus gave a low huff, grabbing his towel to hide the way his jaw clenched. “Yeah. Something like that.”
River, oblivious, laughed under his breath, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Man, I’d kill to have someone like that in my corner.” Sylus didn’t answer. He just smiled, though the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. He focused instead on the familiar ritual of untaping his hands. The rough gauze and sticky tape came away slowly, revealing the slightly bruised skin beneath.
He couldn’t quite understand why Zayne had simply not showed up anymore. His job was done, though how things were going so well. It took Sylus by surprise. The doctor was usually infuriatingly reliable. Even when Sylus sent him annoying, borderline inappropriate messages; half-teasing, half-flirting; Zayne would at least reply with an irritated emoji. Sylus’d become accustomed to Zayne’s intrusions at his place, and their unexpected closeness was growing. Did he do something wrong? He would wait anymore, he should pay the doctor a visit.
In a modest corner of the city, where the streets were narrow, the buildings worn, and most of the working class lived, stood Zayne’s clinic. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside: a simple sign above the door, a few potted plants by the entrance. Yet, for the people here, were genuinely happy that such a good doctor had arrived; it felt like a small victory for them. The first time Sylus had visited, he’d been surprised by the simple location but quickly realized why Zayne chose that part of the city; his solemn vow to help people was all the clinic truly needed.
Now, the silence of the afternoon lay heavy in the clinic, broken only by the soft tap-tap of fingers on a keyboard. It was quiet, almost austere, cream walls, warm wood trim, a faint scent of paper and disinfectant lingering in the air. Behind the reception desk sat a young woman, her blouse neatly pressed with the shine in her eyes and polite smile. The secretary looked up from her desk as she heard the footsteps. The second she realized who stepped through the door, her cheeks colored, fingers fumbling slightly over the keyboard. She was visibly nervous.
“Oh, Mr. Qin,” she said quickly, straightening in her chair. She smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear as if she’d been caught off guard. Her gaze flickered up and down, not subtle in the least, lingering on his silver hair, the cut of his coat and the black helmet in his hand. A shy smile tugged at her lips. “Your next appointment is in a month.” Sylus looked over to the consultation room, and the young woman followed his gaze. “Oh, Doctor Li isn’t here today,” she added quickly, trying to recover her composure.
Sylus leaned an elbow on the counter, the corner of his mouth twitching in faint amusement. He knew being handsome had its benefits, and he wasn't above using it for something practical, especially when he wanted quick answers. “Do you know where he went, sweetheart?” Sylus wasn’t in the mood to stretch the conversation. He hadn't seen Zayne in days, and the quiet, unexplained absence gnawed at him. The girl blinked, flustered again. She twisted the pen in her fingers, chewing at her lip as though debating how much to say. Sylus let the silence stretch for only a beat, then leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a seductive tone “Would you be so kind and tell me?” Her blush deepened instantly. She swallowed hard, before finally leaning closer, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial hush.
“He… he went to see her.” Her eyes softened, sympathy shining through the fluster. “Another year has passed.” She paused looking down. “He probably needs a friend today.”
“You’re right. Would you remind me where…?” She scribbled quickly on a slip of paper, her handwriting looping unevenly in her haste, and slid it toward him. “Thank you, darling,” he said softly before turning on his heel and leaving the clinic.
Sylus stared down at it, brows tightening. When he finally stepped outside, the words circled in his head. The drive was short, but it stretched like an eternity. He pulled his bike up beside a familiar black car. A cemetery?
Navigator: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 - Final
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