Chapter Two-Hundred Ninety-Five: Surge of Terror

Chapter 295

Surge of Terror

Wednesday morning arrived crisp and bright, the coastal mist burning off early to reveal a clear, cloudless sky over Pink Top City. By seven sharp, the familiar, low mechanical thrum of Elias’ flatbed truck and a massive commercial cement mixer signaled that the project was moving forward without a hitch.

On the west lawn, Elias ran the site with military efficiency. The trenching from Tuesday had been dug deep, clean, and perfectly level. His crew laid thick grids of steel rebar into the trenches, wiring the cross-sections together with rapid, rhythmic twists of iron pliers.

Elias: “Check the grade on the southwest corner, Tommy!”

He barked, his deep baritone cutting cleanly over the mixer’s rotating drum. He adjusted his heavy leather work gloves, a pencil tucked behind his ear and a chalk-line reel hooked to his canvas vest.

Elias: “I want six full inches of clearance above the exterior turf line before we pour! Lena’s subfloor needs to sit dead-even with the hallway threshold!”

A few minutes later, the concrete mixer’s chute extended with a heavy metallic groan. Rich, wet aggregate poured into the footings, slumping smoothly around the steel cage. Elias and two of his men worked in seamless tandem, using vibrating pokers to eliminate air pockets while dragging long aluminum screed boards across the wooden forms to smooth the top of the pour.

From the open kitchen window, the rich scents of fresh, damp concrete and morning pine mingled with the aroma of brewing coffee. The foundation was officially setting into the earth, locking Lena’s new sanctuary into the house’s bone and mortar.

The bathroom mirror was completely fogged over with fragrant, humid heat as Jordi Vaquero stepped out of the walk-in shower. A soft white towel wrapped around his waist; he wiped away a circle of steam from the glass, admiring the sharp line of his jaw and his damp, vivid purple waves. Down the hallway, the sizzle of a skillet and the rich, waking aroma of dark roast coffee drifted beneath the bathroom door.

Sitting at the edge of the plush bed, he smoothed a pair of black sheer dress socks over his calves before pulling on crisp black trousers. He slipped his arms into a pristine, white pressed shirt, fastened the silver cufflinks with practiced precision, and knotted a dark purple silk tie that matched the exact hue of his hair. Next, he put on the tailored Italian-cut blazer, letting it drape flawlessly over his shoulders. To finish, he picked up the heavy crystal flacon from his dresser and spritzed a cloud of rich, expensive sandalwood and bergamot cologne across his throat and wrists.

Satisfied with the immaculate reflection looking back at him, Jordi turned the knob and strolled toward the kitchen.

Leaning against the doorframe with an amused smirk, Jordi let his eyes linger on the scene before him. Jaxon stood by the stove, bathed in soft morning sunlight pouring through the blinds. His voluminous mane of black hair was loosely swept up, and a crimson silk dragon robe draped over his frame, its golden embroidered scales catching the light as he expertly flipped an omelet in the pan.

Jordi: “You’re up remarkably early for someone who tore the roof off Darker Desires last night…”

He purred, crossing the tiled floor with quiet confidence. He rested one hand on the kitchen counter, close enough that Jaxon could catch the crisp scent of his cologne.

Jaxon glanced over his shoulder with that signature bright grin, his eyes tracing Jordi from the cut of his Italian lapels down to his sheer-socked feet.

Jaxon: “I couldn’t let my favorite corporate executive walk into Demetrio’s office running on empty, could I?”

He teased, turning the stove burner down and leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms so the silk sleeves drifted down.

Jordi felt that familiar, intoxicating flutter in his chest at the sight of him. He stepped closer, closing the small distance between them until his tailored chest met the slick crimson silk of the dragon robe. Reaching out, Jordi lightly brushed a stray lock of hair behind Jaxon’s ear.

Jordi: “Well, Jiro…”

He murmured, his voice dropping to a smooth, warm cadence.

Jordi: “You certainly know how to make a man reconsider leaving the house on a Wednesday.”

Jaxon laughed softly, leaning into the touch before grabbing a fresh mug of steaming black coffee and placing it squarely into Jordi’s hands.

Jaxon: “Breakfast first, handsome…”

Jaxon carried the loaded plates over to the small, sun-drenched breakfast table, setting down fluffy folded omelets bursting with melted Gruyère and herbs, thick slices of golden sourdough toast, and a bowl of chilled berries. Beside his own plate, he set down a delicate porcelain cup of steaming jasmine tea, the soft floral aroma unfurling into the morning air to mingle with the robust scent of Jordi’s dark roast coffee.

Pulling his chair back with an effortless, graceful motion, Jordi sat down opposite him. He smoothed the front of his pressed trousers, resting his forearms on the table as his Byzantine eyes tracked Jaxon’s every move.

Jaxon tied the sash of his red dragon robe a little tighter, swept his dark mane over one shoulder, and slipped into his seat with an easy, radiant grin. He cupped his warm hands around the jasmine tea, brought the rim to his lips, and took a slow, appreciative sip.

Jordi: “Smells incredible, Jiro…”

He murmured, his voice velvety and rich as he picked up his silver fork and cut into the perfectly cooked omelet. Across the table, his knee nudged playfully against Jaxon’s bare leg beneath the silk hem, maintaining a gentle, grounding contact in the quiet morning space.

Jordi: “You’re spoiling me. Demetrio’s morning briefings are going to pale in comparison to this.”

Jaxon let out a quiet, throaty laugh and set his teacup back on its saucer with a gentle clink.

Jaxon: “Someone has to keep you properly fueled before you go spar with boardroom executives all day.”

He shot back, his dark eyes dancing with affectionate mischief. He buttered a slice of warm sourdough toast and passed a piece to Jordi’s plate.

Jaxon: “Besides, if I let you leave hungry, you’ll just end up surviving on black coffee, cigar smoke, and a Blair tantrum until five o’clock.”

Jordi smiled thinly, took a bite of the buttered toast, set his fork down, and took another slow sip from his mug. The warm, relaxed intimacy of the kitchen felt worlds away from the cold efficiency waiting for him at Donati Tower.

Jordi: “An accurate forecast, unfortunately. Demetrio has three regional managers flying in from the coast, and the quarterly energy distribution projections need final approval before noon.”

Jaxon rested his chin on his palm, watching Jordi with warm focus as he took another bite of his breakfast.

Jaxon: “Sounds exhausting. Just make sure you leave enough energy to celebrate when you win them over.”

Jordi’s gaze softened as he met Jaxon’s eyes across the sunlit table.

Jordi: “With you waiting at home, Jiro, I have every reason to wrap things up swiftly.”

Jaxon looked around.

Jaxon: “So where is Lena anyway? She doesn’t usually sleep in.”

He stated. Jordi paused and pursed his lips.

Jordi: “...She will be staying over at a friend’s.”

He said slowly, taking a sip of coffee. Jaxon furrowed his eyebrows.

Jordi: “Jiro, please. Ashley and I are LONG done, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be friends with Lena, and it’s not an ulterior motive to get closer to me or to see me.”

He said gently, placing his hand on Jaxon’s. Jaxon felt his heart flutter at his touch.

Jordi: “They told me in a note—not to my face—they don’t want to see me, and… I don’t want to see them either. I don’t hate them, and I hope they are happy, but that… that relationship is done.”

He said, his tone plaintive.

Jaxon: “Good. I never liked that fat bitch anyway.”

He huffed.

Jordi pursed his lips.

Jordi: “Well, look at it this way—we get the house to ourselves…”

He purred. Jaxon lit up.

Jaxon: “When you put it that way…”

He murmured. Jaxon stepped close, sliding his arms around Jordi’s waist and pulling him tight against his red silk robe. He leaned up and pressed a warm, slow kiss to Jordi’s lips.

~

Jordi blotted his mouth with his napkin and took one last lingering sip of his coffee before rising gracefully from the table. He stepped to the entryway and retrieved his sleek leather briefcase from the console table.

Sitting on the bench by the door, he extended one leg, pointing his sheer-socked foot before slipping it into a black leather zip-up boot. The supple leather hugged his ankle as he zipped it shut with a crisp, metallic slide, then did the same with the other foot until the tailored hem of his Italian trousers draped flawlessly over the boots.

He stood, adjusted his cuffs, and turned back to face Jaxon. He stepped close, letting his free hand rest affectionately against Jaxon’s waist, his thumb catching the soft weave of the silk.

Jaxon smirked, tilting his chin up to meet Jordi’s gaze.

A slow smile curved Jordi’s lips. Leaning down, he brushed a soft, lingering kiss on Jaxon’s lips, catching the faint scent of jasmine clinging to his skin, before pulling away with a wink.

Jordi: “See you tonight…”

With a firm grip on his briefcase, Jordi clicked the front door open and stepped into the crisp morning air.

Stepping down the driveway, his black zip-up boots clicked rhythmically against the pavement until he reached the driver’s side. He unlocked the door with a satisfying snap, set his leather briefcase neatly onto the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel, wrapping his hands around the classic three-spoke steering wheel.

Turning the key in the ignition, the mid-mounted V8 engine roared to life with a deep, throaty growl that purred smoothly into a steady, rhythmic idle.

Jordi shifted into reverse. Resting one arm casually over the passenger headrest, he glanced back over his shoulder, his sharp eyes checking the quiet suburban street before easing his foot off the clutch. The Ferrari glided backward with effortless precision, backing out into the road under the golden morning light.

Straightening out the wheel, he shifted into first gear, flashed a quick, knowing smirk back toward the front window where he knew Jaxon was watching, and accelerated smoothly down the boulevard toward downtown Pink Top City.

The vibrant neon signs and palm tree silhouettes of downtown Pink Top City blurred past as the purple Ferrari cut through the morning traffic. Jordi downshifted smoothly as he approached the gleaming monolith of Donati Tower, turned into the subterranean incline, and entered the dimly lit underground parking garage. The mid-engine growl echoed off the polished concrete walls until he pulled cleanly into his designated executive space, right next to the reserved bays for company brass.

Killing the engine, Jordi gathered his leather briefcase from the passenger seat and stepped out, the sharp click of his zip-up boots resonating through the garage as he secured the Ferrari.

He pushed through the heavy glass doors into the tower’s lower lobby and glided toward the private executive elevator bank. He swiped his magnetic gold-trimmed keycard against the reader; the panel chimed pleasantly, green lights flashing to grant access. The brushed-steel elevator doors slid shut.

With a near-silent pull of hydraulic power, the car shot upward, the brass floor indicator ticking steadily past the bustling departments of the lower levels until it slowed and glided to a stop on the 64th floor.

The doors chimed and parted. Straightening his purple silk tie, Jordi stepped out into the quiet luxury of the executive suite.

Jordi knocked twice on the heavy door, then pushed it open. Inside the sprawling corner office, the air hung heavy with the rich, pungent scent of aged tobacco and polished mahogany.

Demetrio Donati sat behind an expansive desk. The CEO leaned back into the tufted leather of his high-backed chair, framed against panoramic glass walls that looked out over the sprawling electric grid of Pink Top City. Between two thick fingers, he held a smoldering cigar, sending curling ribbons of blue-gray smoke toward the recessed ceiling lights.

Demetrio: “Right on time, Jordi…”

He rumbled, not bothering to look up from the financial quarterly spread across the desk as an ashtray clinked under his tap.

Jordi closed the doors behind him with a discreet click.

Jordi: “Always, Demetrio…”

He replied smoothly, crossing the room with effortless poise.

He set his briefcase down on the arm of a guest chair and stood at parade rest before the desk.

Jordi: “The morning grid load reports from the southern substations arrived twenty minutes ago.”

He continued, his voice calm, clipped, and impeccably professional.

Jordi: “Along with the updated agenda for the board’s afternoon session. Everything is lined up and ready for your review.”

Reaching smoothly into the inner breast pocket of his tailored blazer, Jordi retrieved a pair of sleek square-frame glasses. With an elegant, practiced motion, he slid them onto the bridge of his nose, the sharp angles of the frames accentuating the focused intensity in his Byzantine eyes.

He unlatched his leather briefcase, pulled out a thick, manila dossier stamped with the Donati, Inc. seal, and sank into the deep leather armchair opposite Demetrio’s desk. Crossing one leg over the other, the hem of his trousers rode up just enough to reveal the pristine black sheer socks encasing his ankle above his zip-up boot.

Jordi opened the file, his gaze scanning the dense columns of figures, wattage metrics, and municipal power distribution logs. The soft rustle of turning pages and the faint, rhythmic ticking of the brass desk clock filled the quiet space between Demetrio’s slow, measured puffs of cigar smoke.

Jordi: “Substation four in the southern sector handled the midnight spike without tripping the secondary transformers.”

He noted, his eyes darting across the charts with sharp precision as he tapped a finger against the margin.

Jordi: “Peak draw was at fourteen after two in the morning, but the backup capacitors absorbed the surge cleanly. If we reroute the industrial overflow toward the western grid before three o’clock today, the grid won’t break a sweat when the city lights fire up this evening.”

Demetrio blew a thick plume of smoke toward the high ceiling, a grim nod of satisfaction cutting through the blue haze.

Demetrio: “Good. If the board starts whining about transmission line upgrades this afternoon, that report shuts them up immediately.”

Jordi adjusted the bridge of his glasses, a quiet, knowing smirk gracing his lips.

Jordi: “Consider them already handled, Demetrio.”

Demetrio didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back into the worn leather of his chair, the heavy silence punctuated only by the soft sizzle of his cigar. Through the veil of drifting smoke, his shrewd, weathered eyes slowly swept over the young man across from him—taking in the crisp cut of the Italian blazer, the effortless composure, and the sharp glint behind Jordi’s square-frame glasses.

He tapped the tip of his cigar against the crystal ashtray, letting a clump of gray ash fall away before fixing Jordi with an appraising stare.

Demetrio: “You know, Jordi…”

He rumbled, his deep voice carrying a gravelly undertone.

Demetrio: “Every time you sit in that chair rattling off power grid analytics like a twenty-year veteran, I have to remind myself you’re only twenty-three.”

A low, dry chuckle escaped the older man’s chest as he shook his head slightly.

Demetrio: “Most kids your age are out wasting their nights in dive bars, spinning their wheels in entry-level mailrooms, or sleeping in bedrooms still unchanged from when they were six years old, entirely clueless about how the world actually runs. Yet here you are, managing the logistical lifeline of the entire Palm Tree State before nine in the morning without a single hair out of place.”

Jordi looked up from the dossier, peerless and completely unfazed. He slowly closed the manila folder, resting his hands neatly over the leather binding. A smooth, poised smile touched the corner of his lips as he met his boss’s gaze head-on.

Jordi: “Age is just a number on an HR file, Demetrio…”

He replied with easy, magnetic confidence, tilting his head slightly.

Jordi: “Competence is what keeps the lights on. And I prefer to make sure both this company—and myself—are running at peak efficiency.”

Demetrio held his look for a beat longer, a flicker of genuine respect cutting through his stern demeanor, before taking another slow draw from his cigar.

Demetrio: “Fair enough, kid. Just don’t let it go to your head before that afternoon board meeting.”

Without warning, the steady, ambient hum of Donati Tower abruptly died.

The recessed overhead lights flickered once, snapped violently, and plunged the sprawling 64th-floor executive suite into pitch-black shadow. The climate control choked off, the digital readouts on the consoles went dead, and the sprawling electronic hum of the city’s heart went entirely mute. Only the dim morning daylight piercing through the tinted floor-to-ceiling windows cut through the sudden gloom.

Demetrio’s cigar cherry flared bright orange in the dark, casting harsh shadows across his scowling face.

Demetrio: “What the hell?”

He growled, slamming a heavy fist onto the marble desk.

Demetrio: “The primary generators should have tripped instantly. We don’t black out. Ever.”

Jordi didn’t flinch. He calmly pulled off his square-frame glasses with one smooth motion, sliding them into his breast pocket as he rose to his feet. His suit remained immaculate, but beneath the polished exterior, a subtle, dangerous current was stirring.

Deep in his core, the invisible pulse of the city’s power grid felt abruptly severed, like a snapped artery.

Jordi: “The entire central trunk just dropped, Demetrio.”

He said, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp, lethal calm that cut through the silence.

Jordi: “This wasn’t an overload. Someone just manually severed the downtown feed.”

A frantic, heavy knock rattled the thick mahogany door, shattering the tense silence.

Demetrio: “Come in!”

He barked, rising half out of his leather chair, the cigar clamped tight between his teeth.

The handle jerked down, and one of the chief building engineers stumbled into the room’s gloom, breathing hard as if he had run up several flights of maintenance stairs. His hardhat was crooked, and he held a heavy-duty flashlight whose beam bounced wildly off the walls.

Engineer: “Mr. Donati! Mr. Vaquero!”

He wheezed, wiping sweat and grease from his brow.

Engineer: “We found the source in the sub-basement conduit vaults. It’s… It’s absurd, sir, but the main trunk lines—they’ve been completely chewed through.”

Demetrio: “Chewed through?”

He echoed, his voice rising in disbelief.

Demetrio: “By what?!”

Engineer: “Rats, sir.”

He blurted out, shaking his head.

Engineer: “A whole damn swarm of them. Hundreds—maybe thousands. They flooded the primary switching relays and gnawed right through the high-voltage insulation. The conduits are crawling with them!”

At the word rats, the air seemed to siphon instantly out of Jordi’s lungs.

His effortless composure shattered. His pupils dilated, and every muscle beneath his tailored Italian suit locked rigid as cold dread flooded his veins. The faint static hum at his fingertips vanished, replaced by an involuntary shiver that ran from the nape of his neck straight down to his boots. It gripped him like a vice; the image of hundreds of squirming, whiskered pests gnawing in the dark made his stomach lurch violently.

He took half a step backward, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the corner of Demetrio’s marble desk to keep his balance. His breath caught in his throat, and he was rattled.

Jordi: “R-Rats…?”

He managed, his smooth, velvety tone betraying a thin, uncharacteristic edge of panic.

Jordi: “In the sub-basement vaults?”

A sickening, high-pitched scratching began behind the mahogany baseboards, swelling from a distant murmur into a frantic, chattering wave that seemed to vibrate straight up through the floorboards.

Before the engineer could utter another word, a sharp, metallic screech tore through the ceiling vents above. The decorative brass grate buckled under an impossible weight, snapping its screws and clattering down onto the carpet.

With it came a tide of absolute darkness.

A living, undulating swarm of sewer rats burst through the vents, pouring down the walls and spilling across the marble thresholds. Their wet, pink tails whipped frantically through the dim morning light, their beady black eyes catching the dim glow of Demetrio’s smoldering cigar. The chittering was deafening—a chorus of frenzied, starving squeaks as hundreds of rodents spilled across the executive floor, scrambling over filing cabinets, scurrying around polished table legs, and sweeping across the open carpet in a chaotic, scurrying horde.

Jordi’s world instantly shrank to pure, paralyzing terror.

A visceral, suffocating wave of fear seized his throat, turning his lungs to ice and sending his heart hammering violently against his ribs. His vision tunneled. His skin broke into a cold, prickling sweat.

Jordi: “N-NO!! GET AWAY!!”

He screamed.

As a frantic cluster of rodents surged toward the desk, scratching against the polished leather of his boots, Jordi recoiled in absolute horror. He scrambled backward, hitching himself up with desperate, trembling hands until he stood atop Demetrio’s heavy mahogany desk, pressing his back flush against the panoramic glass window overlooking Pink Top City.

Below, Demetrio roared, swatting his cane and kicking at the surging sea of pests, while the engineer let out a strangled yelp and bolted back toward the corridor.

Jordi stood frozen on the desk, his legs shaking uncontrollably beneath his trousers. His zip-up boots were tucked as tightly toward him as possible, his hands clawing at the cool glass pane behind him, eyes wide and completely unmoored as the sprawling room became an ocean of writhing, squeaking shadows. All he could see were whiskers, sharp yellow incisors, and long, hairless tails dragging across the carpet, turning the prestigious 64th-floor into a living, chattering nightmare.

A sharp, searing pain snapped against the side of Jordi’s right hand as one of the frantic rodents, scrambling up the back of the heavy leather armchair, lunged and sank its sharp teeth into the meat of his palm.

The sudden contact shattered the paralysis and froze him in place.

With a frantic, terrified gasp, Jordi jerked his arm back violently, flinging the creature away toward the carpet. He clutched his injured hand against his chest, his breathing ragged and uneven. Blood welled up along the bite marks, contrasting sharply against the pristine white cuff of his shirt.

The stinging throbbing tore through the foggy haze of blind panic, replacing the overwhelming dread with the cold, urgent realization of immediate danger. Being pinned atop the desk was no longer an option.

Jordi: “Demetrio! The emergency stairwell—now!”

He shouted, his voice hoarse but slicing through the chaotic chittering and roaring in the darkened office.

Without waiting for the older man to argue, Jordi leaped down from the marble desk, his boots hitting the carpet in a desperate sprint. Kicking blindly through the scurrying bodies on the floor, he grabbed Demetrio by the heavy wool sleeve and hauled him toward the door.

Pushing through the threshold, they burst into the hallway and headed straight for the glowing red emergency exit sign marking the reinforced concrete fire escape. Behind them, the chattering nightmare clawed at the heavy wood, but out on the bare concrete landing, the cold draft of the stairwell offered a clear, unblocked path down into safety.

~

The heavy fire door slammed shut behind them with a booming, reverberating clang, cutting off the deafening chorus of squeaks. Red emergency floodlights cast long, stark shadows across the flights of steps spiraling endlessly downward.

Demetrio leaned heavily against the cold steel railing, clutching his chest with one hand while the other braced against the wall. His face was flushed crimson, and his chest heaved under the weight of his tailored coat.

Demetrio: “Can’t… Damn stairs…”

He wheezed, his breath rattling in his throat, completely winded after just three flights.

Demetrio: “Sixty-four... floors... my heart’s going to burst, Jordi…”

Jordi: “Just keep moving, sir.”

He urged, his voice strained and breathless, but steadying with raw willpower.

Jordi stepped in close, ignoring the sharp, throbbing ache in his bitten hand. He tucked his uninjured arm firmly beneath Demetrio’s shoulder, taking a substantial portion of the older man’s heavy bulk onto his own frame. His black zip-up boots found solid footing on the bare concrete risers as he descended with swift, calculated steps.

Jordi: “One flight at a time. Put your weight on me.”

He commanded gently, his jaw set tight. His pristine purple waves were slightly disheveled, and drops of sweat dotted his brow, but his focus was locked entirely on getting them clear of the swarm.

With every landing they crossed, Demetrio leaned harder into Jordi, his heavy breathing echoing off the bare cinderblock walls.

Demetrio: “Good man, Jordi…”

He managed between ragged gasps, his knuckles white against Jordi’s sleeve.

Demetrio: “You’re a good man…”

Jordi: “Save your breath for the stairs, Demetrio.”

He replied, his Byzantine eyes fixed resolutely downward as they descended into the quiet safety of the lower floors.

Jordi: “We’re not stopping until we’re outside.”

Descending a few more flights, they felt the chilly stairwell air distort under an abrupt, stifling pressure.

Positioned right in the middle of the cramped concrete landing, bathed in the flickering red glow of the emergency light, stood Narcisse Beaumont. His stark white hair gleamed under the faint overhead bulb, perfectly accentuating his pristine lavender double-breasted suit, white collar-up shirt, deep purple silk cravat, and white loafers.

Clutched tightly under one arm, squirming helplessly against Narcisse’s crisp tailoring, was Jaxon—still wrapped in his crimson silk dragon robe, his eyes dilated with raw fear as his breathing came fast and shallow.

Behind his round-framed glasses, Narcisse’s eyes gleamed as his mouth twisted into a theatrical grin.

Narcisse: “Coucou!”

He cooed playfully, his tone soaked in cruelty.

Jaxon: “Jordi!”

He gasped, his voice tight with panic, his fingers clawing vainly against Narcisse’s iron grip. Jaxon: “He—he broke into the house—”

Jordi froze on the steps, his arm still bracing Demetrio’s trembling weight. The remnants of his phobia, the throbbing pain of the rat bite on his palm, the exhausting descent—every ounce of vulnerability was instantly incinerated by a searing surge of protective fury.

His Byzantine eyes narrowed into lethal slits. The air in the stairwell turned bitterly cold, sharp ozone filling the tight concrete passage as violent, crackling purple lightning danced across Jordi's knuckles, hissing against the concrete walls.

Jordi: “Take your fucking hands off Jiro… Right now.”

He growled, his voice vibrating with raw, dangerous power that echoed up and down the empty stairwell.

The heavy, serrated steel of a hunting machete caught the crimson emergency light, resting flush against Jaxon’s soft throat.

Jaxon froze completely, his breath hitching in his chest as the cold metal pressed against his jugular. His brown eyes darted toward Jordi in silent, desperate terror, his fists clutched tightly in the folds of his silk dragon robe.

Narcisse tilted his head, his spectacles catching the dim red glow with an unsettling sheen as his smirk deepened. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned down and dragged a wet, mocking lick across Jaxon’s cheek, relishing the shudder of revulsion that tore through the younger man.

Narcisse: “While your sexy boyfriend was showering… I watched him, and then I caught him.”

He chuckled. Jordi’s face contorted with rage.

Narcisse: “Why don’t we play a little game, Mr. Executive Assistant?”

He purred, his voice silkily theatrical as his pale fingers tightened around the machete’s hilt.

The gesture made the blood in Jordi’s veins turn to pure, volcanic fury.

Jordi carefully guided Demetrio to sit flat on the concrete steps behind him, shielding the winded CEO with his frame. He straightened to his full height, his suit immaculate, but the manicured poise had transformed into pure predatory malice. The violent hum of purple electricity didn’t just dance across his fingers anymore—it hissed and crackled up his forearms, illuminating the concrete landing in blinding, strobing violet light.

The ozone stench was so thick it choked the stairwell air. The hair on the back of Narcisse’s neck would have stood on end from the sheer static charge flooding the landing.

Jordi: “You’ve got about three seconds to pull that blade away from him…”

He said, his voice deadly low, vibrating with a venom that shook the cinderblock walls.

Jordi: “Before I boil the blood right out of your veins.”

Narcisse’s lips lingered deliberately against Jaxon’s soft, pale skin, trailing slow, mocking kisses along his forearm and up over the curve of his shoulder, deliberately brushing past the slipping crimson silk of the dragon robe. Jaxon shuddered in pure disgust, flinching violently away from the touch, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth clicked together.

Heavy, booming footsteps shook the concrete landing below.

From the shadows beneath them emerged a hulking, broad-shouldered figure in a flamboyant red-and-gold striped ringmaster suit and a crooked purple top hat. In her massive hands, she swung an oversized, roaring chainsaw, billows of blue exhaust and sputtering cyan sparks coughing from the motor. Her wide, crazed grin split her round face as she locked hungry, manic eyes on Jordi and Demetrio.

Narcisse: “Well, Jordi and Mr. Donati…”

He announced, his smooth cadence oozing theatrical glee as he swept his arm in an elaborate introduction.

Narcisse: “Meet Juggernaut Josie! She will be playing with you while I take Jiro to have some fun with him.”

Narcisse let out a low, amused chuckle and planted one last, deliberate kiss right on the crown of Jaxon’s hair.

Jaxon: “Jordi! Look out—!”

He yelled, thrashing wildly against the lavender sleeve pinned across his chest, but Narcisse was already taking a step backward toward the descending shadows, keeping the cold flat of the machete dangerously close to Jaxon’s neck.

Before Jordi could lunge forward to tear Narcisse’s throat out, the deafening scream of Josie’s chainsaw ripped through the enclosed stairwell.

Juggernaut Josie revved the throttle, the saw’s teeth spinning into a vicious blur that spat hot oil and blue sparks against the cinderblock walls.

Juggernaut Josie: “Step right up, pretty boy!”

She bellowed, her voice booming over the two-stroke engine as she planted her boots on the concrete risers, blocking the path down with her immense frame.

Jordi didn’t take a single step back. Behind him, Demetrio pressed against the wall, clutching his chest in horror, but Jordi’s focus was absolute. The purple sparks dancing across his knuckles surged violently, crackling into jagged bolts of pure violet electricity that wrapped up his forearms, whipping around his tailored sleeves and setting the emergency stairwell ablaze with blazing violet light.

Jordi: “You’re not taking him anywhere…”

He snarled, his eyes glowing with lethal, crackling power as he stared down the roaring blade.

Narcisse’s sadistic smirk widened until it curled with theatrical triumph. As the thunderous drone of Josie’s chainsaw vibrated the concrete landing into a frenzy of hot oil and metallic screeching, Narcisse pulled Jaxon flush against the tailored front of his lavender suit. Completely unbothered by the jagged arcs of purple electricity leaping from Jordi’s knuckles, he tilted Jaxon’s face upward by the jaw.

With slow, possessive deliberation, Narcisse pressed his mouth firmly against Jaxon’s mouth, claiming an intimate kiss right in plain sight. Jaxon squirmed frantically against the iron grip, his muffled shout choked with pure revulsion as his fists hammered uselessly against the lapels of the double-breasted coat.

Pulling back with a breathy, arrogant laugh, Narcisse’s eyes glinted, drunk on the fury bleeding across Jordi’s face.

Narcisse: “Adieu…!”

He purred mockingly.

Lifting his free hand, Narcisse tapped a small, sleek chrome earpiece, teleporting them away.

Jordi: “JIRO!! NOOO!!”

He roared, lunging forward with reckless abandon, his arm outstretched.

Where Narcisse and Jaxon had stood just a second prior, nothing remained but empty, cold concrete. The lingering floral scent of jasmine and the rich musk of Narcisse’s cologne were wiped out instantly, replaced entirely by the choking, blue-gray haze of two-stroke exhaust pouring from Josie’s idling saw.

Jordi hit the cold steel landing on one knee, his fingers clawing at empty air. His heart slammed against his ribs like a sledgehammer, cold dread and scorching rage colliding in his chest. Jaxon was gone. Snatched away right before his eyes, helpless and terrified.

Juggernaut Josie: “Aw, looks like your little boyfriend had to catch a flight, Mr. Pretty Boy Executive!”

She cackled, stomping her boots against the risers until the metal framework shrieked. She hefted the roaring chainsaw across her broad chest, teeth spinning in a murderous blur of sparks and smoke as she leveled the blade directly at Jordi’s face.

Juggernaut Josie: “Which means I get to decorate my chainsaw with your blood!”

Behind him, Demetrio gasped for breath on the upper stairs, clutching the handrail as the chainsaw revved to a pitch that rattled the cinderblocks.

Slowly, Jordi rose. The bite on his hand throbbed, his lungs burned, and every inch of his vision was tinted violet. His jaw locked with lethal precision, his knuckles cracking as jagged bolts of high-voltage lightning snaked up his arms, hissing along his cuffs and setting the concrete walls around him ablaze with strobing, blinding purple brilliance.

He was going to turn this concrete stairwell into a lightning rod.