Chapter Two-Hundred Fifty-Nine: The Breaking Point

Chapter 259

The Breaking Point

Sauntering into the bar within Percy’s manor, Tristan took a seat at his usual stool. He rested his elbows on the counter, locking his gaze onto the man before him. Percy, clad in a blood-red silk dressing gown tied at the sash, stood behind the bar, polishing his glasses. He peered back, his ruby-red eyes intently meeting Tristan’s green ones.

Tristan: “I think I know what you’re going to say to me. Percy, Jaxon was the only one kidnapped; Jordi’s little sister, Lena, was also kidnapped.”

Percy’s lips curled into a smirk.

Percy: “I don’t care, my ice prince. You still disregarded my boundaries.”

Tristan hung his head.

Tristan: “For that, I apologize. I will make it up to you however you wish.”

Percy heaved a deep sigh.

Percy: “Tristan…”

He laughed a bitter laugh.

Percy: “You KNOW how much Jiro broke my heart.”

He said with a sad smile. Tristan pursed his lips.

Tristan: “Yes, I’m aware, Percy. I wouldn’t have done this under any other circumstance.”

He said tersely.

Percy: “Tristan, you never do it under ANY circumstances!”

His voice rose.

Tristan: “This was… different.”

He shifted in his seat.

Percy: “Tristan, I couldn’t care less! I said my transportation was NEVER to be used to rescue that parasite!”

Tristan remained unfazed, maintaining his cool composure even as Percy struck the counter with his fist.

Tristan: “...And, for that, I am sorry.”

He said icily.

Percy: “Tristan, I knew your boorish boyfriend, Deimos, couldn’t care less, but I expected better from you!”

He said as his voice cracked. Tristan’s jaw tightened, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

He angrily rose from his stool.

Tristan: “MY UNCLE, NARCISSE, KIDNAPPED JAXON AND LENA!”

He screamed, slamming his hands on the counter. Percy stopped and stared at him.

Tristan: “He did that to heal my fucking mother, who I thought I killed back in 1972!”

He cried and slammed his fist on the counter.

Tristan: “He blackmailed Jaxon into healing that vile bitch!”

He added as tears welled in his eyes and dropped down his cheeks.

Tristan: “And then I learned from Narcisse that I am the result of Project Ghisyn! I was brought into this fucking world to be a human weapon!”

He sobbed as he pounded the counter again.

Tristan: “Cut me some fucking slack, Percy!”

He sobbed. Percy gazed at him tenderly, his harsh expression softening.

Walking out from behind the bar, he reached over to take off Tristan’s glasses and gently wipe away his tears. Pulling him close, he embraced Tristan, who held onto him tightly, weeping against his chest. Percy softly caressed his hair and kissed his head.

Percy: “I’m sorry, Tristan… I’m the one who should be apologizing. I allowed my feelings about that parasite to cloud how this all affects you.”

Percy spoke softly as Tristan’s shoulders trembled with uncontrollable sobs. Holding him close for a brief moment, Percy allowed him the space to release his tears completely.

Percy guided Tristan to his living room and sat him on the sofa, pulling him in so he could rest his head on Percy’s chest. Tristan put his glasses back on.

Percy: “I take it the news of being a Project Ghisyn baby has been weighing on you.”

Tristan’s eyelids dipped.

Tristan: “...That’s an understatement.”

Percy nodded.

Percy: “What you’re born as or born to be doesn’t define you, my darling.”

He said gently and paused.

Percy: “I wasn’t born as who I am today… Being a soldier changed a lot for me.”

He murmured, looking back on the image of his fellow soldier’s charred bones.

Percy cupped Tristan’s chin, tracing his thumb over his lips.

Percy: “Listen… You are Tristan Trémaux, one of the kindest, most generous, empathetic men I have ever met.”

He said softly, gazing into Tristan’s eyes.

Percy: “My feelings for you defy a simple summary; your character is so deeply compelling that it would easily take me days to fully recount every way you fascinate me…”

He whispered.

Tristan let out a shaky breath, his gaze wavering as he searched Percy’s face for any hint of the earlier resentment, finding only an overwhelming warmth that made his chest ache. He leaned into Percy’s touch, the weight of the day’s revelations still heavy, yet momentarily lightened by the grace he was being shown.

Tristan: “I don’t know why you’re being so kind to me, Percy…”

He whispered back, his voice thick with a mixture of exhaustion and profound gratitude. He leaned his head into his hand. Perhaps I do know why, he thought.

Tristan: “Thank you. For seeing something in me that I’m not sure I see in myself right now.”

Percy: “Always my pleasure.”

He smiled and leaned over, kissing Tristan on his lips. Tristan closed his eyes and welcomed the kiss.

Tristan broke the kiss and smiled at Percy.

Tristan: “Am I forgiven?”

Percy: “I should be asking you that.”

Tristan tilted his head and smiled.

Tristan: “Of course.”

He whispered and rose.

Percy: “See you soon, my ice prince.”

He gave Tristan’s hand a gentle squeeze.

Tristan: “Always.”

~

Tristan stepped out into the sultry night air. Deimos landed before him.

Deimos: “Tristan! Are you okay?!”

The two men hugged.

Tristan: “Yes, Percy needed me to clear the air on something.”

He said softly. Deimos searched his eyes for a moment longer, then, without warning, scooped Tristan up into his strong arms. He jumped up and ascended, carrying them both into the night sky. Tristan nestled into Deimos’ embrace and inhaled sharply.

~

Ivy stormed into the Huang mansion. She unbuckled Samson from his stroller and lifted him out. Fen dashed to Ivy.

Fen: “Ivy, since you own this house and STOLE it from me—”

Ivy put her hand up.

Ivy: “I stole nothing! I saved you from Zhaolin’s wrath!”

She spat.

Fen: “Can you ask HER to leave?!”

He pointed to Helga, who marched down the foyer wearing her blue button-down shirt, navy tie, navy shorts, light blue knee socks, and black loafers. She grinned and held a feather in her hand.

Helga: “Cootchie-cootchie-coo!”

She sang as she headed toward Fen. Fen turned ashen when he saw her coming toward him.

Ivy: “Uhm? No, she stays!”

She flipped her hair.

Helga grabbed Fen’s legs, removed his double-strap monk shoes and socks, and dragged the feather across his soles.

Fen’s eyes bulged as he let out a sharp, strangled yelp, his legs thrashing in Helga’s iron grip. He doubled over, his face flushing a deep shade of crimson while he tried to pull his bare feet away from the relentless feather.

Fen: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

Helga, however, didn’t budge; she only grinned wider, her eyes dancing with a mischievous glint as she followed the curve of his arches with the soft plume.

Helga: “Oh, look at the big, bad DILF! I love tickling him to tears.”

She giggled, a throaty, playful sound that filled the foyer. She began to swirl the feather in rapid, light circles around the base of his toes, causing Fen to break into a fit of breathless, hysterical laughter.

Fen: “AIYEEEHEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!”

He collapsed onto the floor, clutching his stomach and gasping for air between peals of giggles, while Ivy simply watched the spectacle with an amused smirk, clearly enjoying the chaos Helga was causing.

Ivy flipped her hair and went upstairs to her bedroom. She opened the door, and her bedroom was submerged in a heavy, suffocating warmth, bathed in the crimson radiance of hanging paper lanterns. Every corner breathed a quiet, expectant stillness, as if the room itself held its breath.

At the center stood a grand, intricate canopy bed carved from dark, polished wood, its gilded valance gleaming faintly against the shadows. Sheer red silk curtains—embroidered with shimmering golden peacocks—draped loosely around the bedposts, framing a nest of embroidered silk pillows and a crimson duvet patterned with age-old symbols of double happiness.

A low tea table sat nearby, its surface adorned with tall, burning red taper candles whose dancing flames cast long, trembling shadows across the room. Next to the flickering wax sat a porcelain tea set, a wrapped gift box tied in silk ribbon, and stacked ceremonial boxes waiting for the night to unfold.

Tucked away in the corner was her dedicated “Tristan Love” space, where fairy lights and rose quartz crystals softly illuminated a collection of photographs. These snapshots, capturing moments shared between Tristan and Ivy, dated back to a year or two ago.

Beyond the dark lattice of the paper-screened windows, a cold, misty night pressed against the glass.

Ivy collapsed on her bed in tears that her plan didn’t work out and Tristan was not here to confess his love for her after she helped Celeste expose Fabien as a philanderer.

~

The low, rhythmic rumble of a V8 engine cut through the quiet hum of the suburban night as the slick, custom-purple Ferrari 328 pulled into the driveway. Jordi cut the ignition.

Taking a slow breath, Jordi loosened his tie slightly, adjusted his jacket, and stepped out onto the concrete. Working as Demetrio Donati's right-hand assistant was exhausting. Jordi clicked the Ferrari’s door shut, the sound crisp in the night air, and headed up the front walk.

He unlocked the front door and stepped into the house, greeted immediately by the faint, warm scent of vanilla incense. Jaxon lay back lazily on the dark leather sofa. He was wrapped in a vibrant, blood-red silk robe, embroidered with a coiled golden dragon that caught the living room's ambient warm light. The robe hung casually open at his chest, revealing his dragon chest tattoo, while his massive red-and-black hair cascaded over the throw pillows in a glorious, un-teased halo. He glanced over with a slow, mischievous smirk, his nose ring glittering in the soft glow.

Jaxon: “Took you long enough. I was worried Blair held you hostage.”

He teased, his voice smooth and playful. Jordi let out a low, breathy laugh, the stress that had been holding his shoulders rigid for the past ten hours finally beginning to melt away. He tossed his keys onto the glass coffee table and took off his black suit jacket, draping it unceremoniously over the back of an armchair.

Jordi: “No, but I bet he would. Two late-night conference calls and an emergency grid update for Palm Tree State. But I’d pull through worse than that just to come home to this.”

He admitted softly, his deep voice carrying a tired, affectionate rasp.

He walked over to the sofa, unbuttoning his top two shirt collar buttons as he moved. Standing over Jaxon, Jordi looked down at him—at the striking contrast of Jaxon's fiery, teased hair spilled across the sofa, the slick sheen of red dragon-embroidered silk, and the dark, magnetic warmth in Jaxon’s eyes.

Jordi dropped to his knees right beside the couch, closing the distance between them. He reached up, his long fingers carefully threading into the dark crimson hair at the base of Jaxon’s neck, tilting Jaxon’s head back just enough to look into his eyes.

Jordi: “Miss me?”

He murmured, his thumb gently trailing along Jaxon's cheekbone.

Before Jaxon could even construct a witty comeback, Jordi leaned in and pulled him into a deep, heavy kiss.

Jaxon let out a faint, startled hum against Jordi’s lips that instantly softened into a low sigh of satisfaction. He slid his hands up Jordi’s chest, his fingers bunching into the fine fabric of Jordi's shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. The cool silk of Jaxon’s robe rustled against the warm leather of the couch as Jaxon shifted, leaning into the pressure.

The kiss wasn’t subtle or rushed; it was slow, intense, and thick with the quiet intimacy of two men grounding themselves after long, chaotic days in their respective worlds. Jordi parted his lips slightly, deepening the hold, tasting the faint lingering hint of sweet clove and mint on Jaxon’s breath. He moved his other hand down to rest firmly against Jaxon’s waist, feeling the faint, steady pulse beneath the smooth silk fabric.

Jaxon leaned up onto one elbow, returning the kiss with a fierce, deliberate warmth, slipping his hands up past Jordi's shoulders to cup his neck.

When Jordi finally broke the kiss, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together in the quiet space of the living room. Jaxon’s dark eyes were heavy-lidded, a slow, completely contented grin pulling at his lips.

Jordi shifted his weight, slid one arm firmly behind Jaxon's back, and swept the other under the bend of his knees. With a fluid, practiced motion, Jordi stood up, scooping Jaxon completely off the couch and lifting him effortlessly into his arms.

Jaxon let out a surprised, delighted chuckle, his silk red dragon robe rustling as it draped over Jordi’s arms.

Jaxon: “Oh, showing off now, are we?”

Jordi: “Just taking care of what's mine.”

He replied with a smirk, nuzzling his nose against Jaxon’s cheek before turning to walk out of the living room. Jaxon rested his head comfortably against Jordi’s shoulder, his fingers lazily twisting into the fabric of Jordi’s lilac button-down as they moved down the quiet hallway.

Jordi leaned down as he set Jaxon gently on the cool, soft sheets of their bed, keeping his hands anchored firmly at Jaxon's waist for a moment before looking down at him.

Jaxon: “So… ‘mine’?”

A slow, indulgent smirk spread across Jordi's face.

Jordi: “Yes… You’re mine. You were when we first locked lips or maybe before that.”

He murmured, his voice low and raspy. He trailed the back of his knuckles down the front of Jaxon's open red dragon robe, feeling the warm skin underneath.

Jordi: “Don’t pretend you didn’t know…”

Jaxon let out a quiet, breathless laugh, his dark eyes sparkling under the dim bedroom lighting. He reached up, hooking his fingers into the collar of Jordi's shirt to pull him down closer, the slick silk of his robe spilling out around him like liquid fire.

Jaxon: “Maybe I just like hearing you say it…”

He whispered, his voice smooth and teasing as their lips brushed together again.

Jordi let out a low laugh against Jaxon’s lips before slowly sliding down the length of the mattress. His large, warm hands trailed down Jaxon’s chest, past the tied waist of the red dragon robe, and settled over his bare, toned legs. Jaxon leaned back against the mountain of pillows, watching Jordi with a relaxed, expectant smirk.

Without a word, Jordi ran his palms up Jaxon’s calves, applying just enough steady pressure to make Jaxon sigh in relief after a long night of dancing in boots. Jordi smoothed his thumbs over the arch of Jaxon’s foot, feeling the tension slowly give way under his touch.

Then, Jordi's expression shifted into something distinctly mischievous.

He leaned forward, his fingers digging into the sensitive soles of Jaxon’s feet. Jaxon let out a sharp, surprised yelp, his legs jolting as he tried to pull away.

Jaxon: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

Jordi held fast, his fingers dancing across Jaxon’s arches with playful precision.

Jordi: “No, you don’t!”

He chuckled, watching as Jaxon’s composure completely dissolved into a fit of breathless, hysterical laughter.

Jaxon: “ARGH!! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!! WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!”

Jaxon thrashed against the pillows, his head thrown back as he gasped for air, his resistance turning into desperate, giggling pleas.

Jaxon: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHA!! STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!!!”

Jaxon shrieked, kicking helplessly as Jordi refused to relent, clearly enjoying the chaos he was causing. He gave Jaxon’s sensitive soles one last, mischievous tickle that sent Jaxon into a final, breathless peal of laughter before his touch abruptly softened.

Jaxon: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!”

Jordi’s fingers slowed, his grip becoming tender as he began to slowly and lovingly caress the arches of Jaxon’s feet. The playful electricity in the air mellowed into a deep, heavy intimacy as Jordi’s thumbs traced soothing circles against Jaxon’s skin, grounding them both in the quiet warmth of the room.

~

Jordi stepped out of the shower in his black silk pajamas and climbed into bed with Jaxon, who was nude. He wrapped his arms around his man, resting Jaxon’s head on his chest. Jaxon smiled, listening to his heartbeat and feeling at ease.

Jordi pulled the heavy duvet over both of them, shielding them from the air-conditioned chill of the bedroom. Jaxon turned over. Jordi wrapped one broad arm firmly over Jaxon’s waist, pulling him in close until Jaxon’s back was flushed against his chest.

Jaxon let out a long, contented hum, leaning back into the solid warmth behind him. He stretched his legs out, tangling his bare feet with Jordi’s, and rested his hands over Jordi’s wrist where it lay across his waist. The wild halo of Jaxon's red-and-black hair spilled across the white pillows, brushing against Jordi’s jaw and filling the quiet space between them with the faint, sweet scent of Jaxon’s cologne. Jordi pressed a tender kiss to the back of Jaxon’s neck.

Jaxon smiled in the dark, slipping his fingers through Jordi’s, and let the quiet rhythm of Jordi’s steady breathing carry him off to sleep.

~

The room was quiet, save for the steady rhythm of Celeste’s breathing beside him. In the dim glow filtering through the blinds, her wild cascade of neon green and purple hair was scattered like silk across the pillows, framing her peaceful face.

Fabien lay on his back for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling fan as it lazily traced circles above them. A subtle smirk touched his lips as he glanced over at her. He carefully lifted the edge of the sheet, making sure not to disturb the blankets tucked snugly around her shoulders.

Sliding his legs over the edge of the mattress, he reached down into the dark for a pair of loose, worn plaid pajama pants resting on the floor. He pulled them on, the soft flannel warm against his skin, and padded silently across the room toward the sliding glass door that opened out onto the back patio.

The dawn air was cool and thick with summer humidity as he stepped outside, letting the screen door click softly into place behind him.

Leaning his elbows against the wooden porch railing, Fabien reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo. With a sharp flick, the small flame illuminated his white hair and the quiet, contented look on his face. He took a slow drag, watching the tip glow red against the misty blue backdrop of the backyard.

Looking out over the manicured suburban lawn and the quiet street beyond, he blew a plume of gray smoke out into the stillness. He glanced back through the glass door at their bedroom door, knowing Celeste was asleep and she was his as much as he was hers. He smiled to himself, taking another quiet drag before letting the night swallow the rest of the smoke.

He saw the fence gate jiggle and open. He inhaled another drag and laughed aloud when he saw Blair step into his backyard. He wore a TMNT shirt, orange shorts, white knee socks, and red sneakers. Fabien laughed at his attire.

Blair: “Good morning, Fabien! How are you this fine morning?!”

He cheered.

Fabien: “Hahahahahaha, what the fuck is this? Are you on E?”

He laughed.

Blair: “I like the letter E! You can’t spell Ashley without E!”

He chirped. Fabien threw his head back and howled.

Fabien: “I know, right?! You also can’t spell ‘nice guy’ and ‘true gentleman’ without E either!”

Upon hearing that, Blair’s face instantly lit up as Fabien let out a loud guffaw.

Blair: “Anyway, how would you like to work as Grandpa’s assistant!? You’re smart and handsome! All you gotta do is answer phones to say hello and goodbye, count to ten, type on a typewriter, and find my socks for me when I lose them! Oh, and heat my ravioli! I find using microwaves hard!”

He nodded. Fabien screamed with laughter, pounding the patio railing.

Blair: “Why are you laughing, Fabien? I didn’t tell a joke?”

He laughed and shrugged.

Fabien: “I dunno, man. I think I’m underqualified for that job! Why don’t you take it?”

He snorted.

Blair: “It cuts into my gaming time and working on my comic.”

He replied. Fabien laughed.

Fabien: “My bad. I forgot.”

He inhaled another long drag.

Fabien: “Why do you want me to work there? Jordi has that job.”

Blair pouted, crossing his arms over his chest.

Blair: “I don’t want that fat pig working for Gramps! He stole Ashley from me!”

He growled. Fabien smirked.

Fabien: “Oh, I think she’s single now. She dumped Jordi and told me she couldn’t wait to get a sexy stud like you. Your Spider-Man trading card collection gets her XXXXL panties wet.”

He said wryly. Blair had a big grin across his face.

Blair: “Since you’re my friend, Fabien, I can tell you I collected Ashley’s panties, and I can confirm they are parachute big!”

He nodded. Fabien laughed and clasped his hand over his chest.

Fabien: “Thanks for confiding that in me, Blair. I am honored.”

Blair: “I only do that for my friends!”

Blair nodded.

Blair: “Since Ashley dumped that loser to be with a true prince, I will have to let them know where my castle is! They lose their way a lot, but never to the fridge! Hahahaha, that was a joke!”

He chuckled. Fabien threw his head back and laughed.

Blair: “See you around, Fabien!”

He waved and let himself out.

Fabien: “So much for that job offer. I was mulling on taking it.”

He muttered dryly and laughed.

~

The afternoon sun leaked through the bedroom blinds, casting long gold-and-amber stripes across the mattress. Fabien was entirely out for the count—sprawled out on his side, buried deep in the blankets. His white hair was a tangled mess against the pillow, and one long leg had escaped the covers, leaving a bare foot sticking out off the edge of the bed.

Celeste, already showered, fully awake, and practically buzzing with daytime energy, slipped into the quiet room. Her bright neon-green hair was pulled back, and she wore a white tiger bustier and a jean skirt and was barefoot.

She stopped at the foot of the bed and spotted the unguarded foot hanging over the edge. A devious grin spread across her face. Creeping over with total stealth, she knelt down by the mattress. She reached out and lightly traced a single manicured fingernail right along the arch of his foot.

Fabien’s toes instantly twitched. He let out a sleepy, confused grumble, dragging his face further into the pillow and trying to pull his foot back under the sheets. Before he could escape, Celeste leaned in and tickled the bottom of his foot again—this time with both hands, merciless and persistent.

Fabien let out a loud, breathless laugh, kicking his leg back violently as he scrambled to twist around on the bed.

Fabien: “AHAHAAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

He pulled his knees up to his chest, bleary-eyed and half-laughing, half-glaring at her through his messy white bangs. Celeste just leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed, looking thoroughly pleased with herself.

Celeste: “Rise and shine, handsome.”

She purred.

Fabien groaned, burying his face in his arms for three more seconds of denial before resigning himself to the day. He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

He padded barefoot across the carpet into the master bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The afternoon light flooded the space, making him squint in the mirror. He leaned over the sink to splash cold water on his face, washing away the last lingering fogginess from his late night.

He reached for his toothbrush, loaded it with paste, and scrubbed away while staring absently at his reflection—hair sticking up in four different directions, the green bead necklace hanging loosely against his neck. After a quick rinse, he turned on the shower, cranking the handle until steam curled up over the top of the glass enclosure.

Slipping off his flannel pajama pants, he stepped under the hot spray with a satisfied sigh, letting the water relax his shoulders.

Ten minutes later, he stepped out onto the bathmat, a towel wrapped around his waist. He wiped a hand across the fogged-up mirror to clear a spot for himself, quickly running a brush through his silvery hair to get those signature wave-like bangs back into place.

With his white hair combed back, Fabien leaned over the counter to examine his jaw in the cleared-out patch of the foggy mirror. A bit of white stubble had crept up overnight—not much, but enough to warrant a clean slate.

He grabbed the can of shaving cream, shook it twice, and squeezed a generous dollop into his palm. Spreading the rich white foam along his jawline and neck, he wiped his hands on the edge of his towel and picked up his razor.

With practiced, slow strokes, he shaved down his cheeks and around his chin, rinsing the blade under the warm running water between passes. He tilted his head back to catch his neck, making sure he didn't miss a spot.

Once he was clean-shaven, he splashed a bit of cold water over his skin to seal the deal and patted his face dry with a hand towel. Splashing on a quick douse of aftershave, he winced slightly at the sharp sting, gave his hair one last pat in the mirror, and picked his necklace back up off the counter.

Before slipping out of the bathroom, Fabien reached for the sleek bottle sitting on the counter—his go-to Gucci Nobile. He gave himself four quick spritzes: one to his chest and a light tap on his neck, and one on each wrist, letting the crisp, aromatic scent of lavender, citrus, and oakmoss settle in. Smelling sharp, clean, and entirely refreshed, he tossed the towel aside and headed back to the bedroom to get dressed.

He pulled on a pair of briefs, and then jeans, followed by a black tank top that read “Nuklear Intokikation Sucks” in bold, jagged lettering. Finally, he reached for a denim jacket, sliding his arms into the sleeves and adjusting the collar as he prepared to face the rest of the afternoon.

~

The soft hum of the air conditioning and the rhythmic, muted clatter of a typewriter filled the executive suite on the 64th floor of the Donati Tower.

Jordi stood near Demetrio’s sprawling mahogany desk, looking sharp in a black Italian-cut suit, a light purple pressed shirt, purple tie, and black zip-up boots. In his hands, he held a sleek leather folder containing the latest grid distribution reports for Palm Tree State.

Behind the desk sat Demetrio, leaning back in his leather armchair with a smoldering cigar held between two fingers. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, a white pressed shirt, a navy tie, and brown wholecut Oxfords. He tapped a stack of documents onto the desk, his gaze fixing on Jordi.

Demetrio: “The power consumption in the downtown entertainment district spiked twenty percent higher than our forecasts last night, Jordi. I need to know if the substations in the east sector are holding, or if we’re going to have another blackout on our hands before the weekend hits.”

He said, his voice deep and gravelly. Jordi opened the folder without hesitation, his finger trailing smoothly down a line of neatly typed figures.

Jordi: “Substation Four experienced a temporary surge around midnight, Demetrio.”

He reported smoothly, his professional tone cool and entirely composed.

Jordi: “I’ve already had the engineering team reroute the excess load through the northern relay. The grid is completely stable, and I’ve scheduled a routine maintenance check for early tomorrow morning to ensure there are no repeat issues.”

Demetrio quieted for a beat, taking a long drag from his cigar before exhaling a thin cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. A nod of approval touched his features.

Demetrio: “Good.”

He muttered, flicking an ash into the crystal tray on his desk.

Demetrio: “You’re a hard worker, Jordi. You handle the fires before I even smell the smoke. I am glad I picked you for this job.”

Demetrio leaned back in his leather chair, flicking another trail of ash into the crystal tray before sliding a thick blue folder across the polished mahogany desk.

Demetrio: “Since you're so ahead of the game on the substation, Jordi, take a look at these.”

He commanded, gesturing toward the folder with his cigar.

Demetrio: “The city council is pushing for a new neon lighting district expansion down near the strip in downtown Pink Top City. They want a full proposal on energy allocation by five o’clock this evening.”

Jordi picked up the folder, opening it to glance over the blueprints and municipal requests. A slight, knowing smirk almost tugged at the corner of his lips when he saw the sector maps—the district expansion was right in the neighborhood of Darker Desires.

Jordi: “I’ll have the load management projections and cost estimates on your desk by four thirty, Demetrio."

He said seamlessly, keeping his voice strictly professional as he closed the folder and tucked it under his arm.

Demetrio: “Thank you, Jordi.”

He grunted, turning his attention back to a stack of signed contracts.

Demetrio: “And call down to the garage. Tell the driver I’ll need the car ready for the six o'clock dinner with the state representatives.”

Jordi: “Already taken care of, sir. I spoke with main dispatch twenty minutes ago.”

He replied coolly. Demetrio let out a quiet, gravelly chuckle.

Demetrio: “Jordi. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Jordi: “Neither do I, Demetrio.”

He replied with a smooth nod.

Checking his gold wristwatch, Jordi saw it was just past midday. He walked back to his adjacent private office and sat down behind his sleek desk. He reached for his telephone to ring the engineering team, but his eyes briefly strayed to the window overlooking the sunlit, sprawling skyline of Pink Top City. He adjusted his tie, picked up the receiver, and got right back to work.

~

After Jordi finished performing his tasks, he saw Blair dragging Yoshi across the hall. Yoshi wore a Venom shirt, jean shorts, and sandals. Blair barged into his grandfather’s office. Demetrio raised his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised to see Blair.

Blair: “Gramps, meet your new assistant, Yoshi! He can answer phones, do some counting, and other crap! You can fire Jordi now!”

He huffed. The smile died on Demetrio’s lips.

Demetrio set his cigar down in the crystal tray with a sharp, deliberate click, his expression hardening as he looked from Yoshi to his grandson.

Demetrio: “Blair…”

He began, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that signaled he had reached the end of his patience.

Demetrio: “Have you completely taken leave of your senses? You will not barge into my office and demand I terminate the most capable assistant I have ever employed.”

He cast a steely, unimpressed gaze toward Yoshi, then shifted his eyes back to his grandson, his jaw set firm.

Demetrio: “Jordi is staying, and you are in no position to make personnel decisions for this company. I know Sylvia’s death has been hard on you. I know you destroyed your toys in frustration, but she did what she did to protect you.”

He said firmly but gently.

Demetrio: “Take Yoshi and leave my office immediately. We are done discussing this.”

Yoshi: “Oh, man, I can answer phones, and if the ladies knew I was working a high-stakes job, I would have bikini babes in my office, and bikini babes washing my car!”

He beamed.

Blair: “Yoshi, you can’t drive a car, though.”

Demetrio crushed his cigar in his ashtray and leaned over, resting his elbows on his desk, gazing at his grandson.

Demetrio: “Blair, I know Sylvia’s death has been hard on you.”

He said gently.

Demetrio: “That doesn’t mean you should demand I fire Jordi.”

He said firmly.

Blair: “Well, if you don’t want Yoshi, Fabien wants the job!’

He stomped his foot. Demetrio sighed and hung his head.

Demetrio: “He’s Basile Bellegarde’s son, right?”

Blair gaped at his grandfather.

Blair: “He is?”

He tilted his head.

Demetrio: “I don’t believe Fabien has the qualifications I am seeking, and the position is taken.”

Blair flapped his hands.

Blair: “YES, HE DOES! Fabien is smart, and he can answer phones and count!”

He cried.

Demetrio let out a sharp, impatient exhale, the sound raspy and final.

Demetrio: “Answering phones and counting, Blair, are basic expectations, not qualifications. They do not constitute the level of expertise I require, nor do they give you the authority to dictate my hiring decisions.”

He stood up, his stout frame looming over the desk, eyes narrowing.

Demetrio: “The conversation regarding my staff is finished. Remove yourself and your friend from my office immediately.”

He said sternly.

Blair glared at his grandfather with tears in his eyes. He stormed out past Yoshi and slammed the door behind them.

Yoshi: “So are you considering hiring me then?”

He smiled dumbly. Demetrio shook his head and rubbed his temples.

Demetrio: “Go to Blair, Yoshi. He needs you now.”

He smiled tiredly.

~

Blair stomped his feet as he wept loudly down the foyer. He stopped in front of Sylvia’s portrait and gazed at it.

Blair: “Sylvia, why did you die?! Because you died, I have to do this crap now! It’s your fault!”

He bawled.

Driven by a sudden, volatile surge of grief and rage, Blair reached up and grabbed the frame of the portrait. With a guttural cry, he wrenched it from the wall, the wire snapping with a sharp ping. He threw the portrait onto the marble floor, where the ornate frame shattered upon impact. Ignoring the debris, he stomped on the canvas, his tears falling onto Sylvia’s face in the painting, his chest heaving with every ragged, destructive breath as he tore the fabric of the portrait to shreds.

Demetrio stepped out of his office and marched to Blair. He froze mid-stride, his gaze dropping from his grandson’s face to the ruin on the marble floor. The sight of Sylvia’s face, torn and trampled, seemed to drain the color from the foyer, leaving the air heavy with an icy, suffocating silence. He didn’t shout. He didn’t rush forward. He simply stood there, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as he looked down at the shredded canvas.

Demetrio: “Blair…”

He said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. It wasn't the gravelly roar of a man who had lost his patience; it was the cold, hollow sound of a man watching the last remnant of his own heart being ground into dust.

Demetrio: “You think destroying her memory changes the reality of your life? You think tearing apart the only thing left of her makes the weight on your shoulders any lighter?”

He took a slow, deliberate step over the jagged remnants of the frame, his shadow falling long and sharp over Blair.

Demetrio: “You have been grieving, yes…”

He continued, his eyes locking onto Blair’s with a mixture of profound sorrow and mounting steel.

Demetrio: “But this... this is a coward’s tantrum. You are not just destroying her portrait, boy. You are destroying the very foundation of who this family is.”

He looked back down at the ruined fabric, then slowly raised his eyes back to his grandson, his expression unreadable and weary.

Stepping out of his office, Jordi gasped as he caught sight of the ruined portrait of Sylvia. A heavy weight settled in his chest, and his gaze shifted toward Blair, whose tear-filled eyes burned with pure fury.

Blair: “THIS IS YOUR FAULT, YOU FAT PIG!! I HATE YOU!!”

He bellowed and stormed down the hall, pounding on the elevator pad. Yoshi chased after Blair.

Yoshi: “Wait up, Blair!”

Demetrio stared down at the shredded portrait. Jordi approached him and put his arms around him.

Demetrio: “I know Blair is taking her death hard. I don’t know what to do, Jordi. Should I arrange for him to meet with the family psychologist so he can work through his grief?”

Jordi glanced at Sylvia’s torn portrait, feeling contempt for Blair. This isn’t grief or mourning; this is a spoiled man-child not getting his way, he thought.