Chapter Two-Hundred Seventy-Two: The Breach at Stone Manor

Chapter 272

The Breach at Stone Manor

The heat between them flared instantly, the lingering scent of rich oak, vintage grapes, and Jordi’s amber cologne hanging heavy in the dim room. Jaxon let out a breathless, wicked laugh as Jordi’s hands tightened around his waist, shifting his weight effortlessly until he was straddling Jordi’s lap, his bare feet tucking securely against the sides of the sofa cushions.

Jaxon: “What did Lena do?”

Jordi shifted his eyes.

Jordi: “She’s angry with me about… us, and I pointed out she flirted with Fabien despite him being taken.”

He murmured. Jaxon scoffed.

Jaxon: “Please. Before me, she was smitten with Tristan. She actually likes that fat bitch, and do you know who else does? Yeah. BLAIR.”

He fielded scathingly. Jordi twisted his mouth.

Jordi: “I was worried about her safety, and she slapped me when I pointed out what she did with Fabien.”

Jaxon: “She slapped you? Over him? Honestly, Jordi, that girl is spiraling, and I’m not letting her drama ruin our night. She’s just jealous because she can’t handle the fact that we’ve got something real while she’s with that fat bitch crying over a bigger loser, Blair.”

Jordi let out a low, rough laugh, pulling Jaxon closer until their chests were pressed tight.

Jordi: “Fuck them, Jaxon. Let them rot in their own misery.”

He kissed Jaxon’s jawline, the wine making his movements languid and deliberate.

Jordi: “You’re the only one that matters tonight.”

The heat between them flared instantly, the lingering scent of rich oak, vintage grapes, and Jordi’s amber cologne hanging heavy in the dim room. Jaxon let out a breathless, wicked laugh as Jordi’s hands tightened around his waist, shifting his weight effortlessly until he was straddling Jordi’s lap, his bare feet tucking securely against the sides of the sofa cushions.

Jaxon’s fingers curled into the loosened lilac collar of Jordi’s shirt, tugging it just enough to expose the hollow of his throat. With a swift, confident motion fueled by the wine, he brought one hand up to cradle the back of Jaxon’s head, burying his fingers deep into that massive, feathered mane of red-black hair, and pulled him down into a searing, hungry kiss.

The kiss tasted of dark cherries and electric heat. Jaxon melted against him with a soft, needy gasp, his hands sliding from the fabric of Jordi’s shirt up to cup his jawline, his silver rings cool against Jordi’s warm, flushed skin.

Jordi shifted his grip, trailing one hand down the small of Jaxon’s back, feeling his lean figure beneath the smooth silk of the open leopard-print shirt. He broke the kiss just enough to trail his lips down the sharp contour of Jaxon’s jaw, pressing firm, intoxicating kisses against the delicate skin beneath his silver earring, right down to the pulse point jumping in his throat.

Jaxon threw his head back against the cushion of Jordi’s shoulder, a low, shuddering sigh tearing from his chest. His fingers gripped the back of Jordi’s tailored trousers, his fingertips digging in lightly as the room seemed to tilt and spin with the heavy warmth of the Merlot and the slow, rhythmic beat.

Jaxon: “Bedroom.”

He whispered, his voice thick and raspy with desire, his breath hot against Jordi’s ear as he tilted his face back down.

Jaxon: “Unless you’re too drunk to carry me there, Mr. Executive.”

He teased.

Jordi pulled back just an inch, a devastating, wine-dark smirk playing on his lips. Without a second thought, he slipped his arms securely under Jaxon’s thighs and stood in one fluid motion, lifting the performer effortlessly off the sofa as Jaxon instinctively wrapped his arms tight around Jordi's neck, his wild hair spilling across both their shoulders as they left the empty wine bottle and the quiet living room behind.

Jordi carried him into the dim master bedroom. He stepped up to the edge of the mattress and lowered Jaxon onto the center of the bed, the silk sheets yielding with a whisper beneath his weight.

Jaxon sank into the plush pillows, his red-black hair spreading out in an untamed, feathery halo around his face. The silky leopard-print shirt fell completely open against the sheets, framing his chest as he looked up through dark, heavy-lidded eyes. A lazy, wicked smile curved his lips, his chest rising and falling in steady, quiet breaths.

Jordi stood by the edge of the bed for a brief second, towering over him in the dim light. The wine-warmed flush rose high on his cheekbones, his dark purple eyes locked on Jaxon with unyielding intensity. Slowly, deliberately, Jordi reached up to unfasten the remaining buttons of his pressed lilac shirt, pulling the crisp fabric free and tossing it toward the armchair, followed swiftly by his loose purple tie.

Without breaking eye contact, Jordi braced one knee on the edge of the mattress, leaning over Jaxon. The mattress dipped under his weight as his hands came down on either side of Jaxon’s head, pinning the performer comfortably beneath the shadow of his broad shoulders.

Jaxon reached his arms up to lock his hands behind Jordi’s neck, pulling him down.

Jordi pressed his mouth to Jaxon’s in a kiss that was slow, heavy, and profound. The initial haze of the Merlot and the reckless adrenaline of the evening softened into something far more tender, deep, and intoxicating. He parted Jaxon’s lips with a gentle insistence, tasting the lingering warmth of dark fruit and the familiar sweetness of the man beneath him.

He gathered Jaxon closer, sliding his arms under his lean back and lifting him slightly off the silk sheets so their chests pressed flush against one another. Jaxon let out a quiet, trembling sigh into the kiss, his hands burying themselves eagerly into Jordi’s thick, slicked purple hair, loosening the neat waves as his fingers tangled in the strands. The open leopard-print shirt bunched between them, warm skin meeting warm skin as the steady, rapid rhythm of their matching heartbeats filled the quiet bedroom.

When the kiss finally broke, leaving them both breathing in sync, Jordi didn’t pull away. He braced his forearms against the pillows, hovering just inches above Jaxon’s face.

The soft, ambient light filtering through the blinds caught the dramatic silhouette of Jaxon’s features—the delicate curve of his nose, the gleam of his small piercing, the rich, voluminous cascade of his red-black hair splayed across the ivory pillowcase like an open fan. Jaxon was looking up at him through dark, half-lidded eyes, his lips slightly parted and flushed, an expression of complete, unguarded trust.

In that quiet stillness, a sudden, piercing realization hit Jordi right in the center of his chest.

It wasn’t just desire, and it wasn’t just the comforting familiarity of their shared sanctuary away from Pink Top City’s relentless grind. It struck him with the clarity of lightning through a summer storm: he was completely, helplessly falling in love with him.

The thought made Jordi’s breath hitch in his throat. A deep, vivid crimson blush bloomed across his sharp cheekbones, burning through the light golden undertone of his skin and spreading all the way to the tips of his ears. For all his composure, his ability to outmaneuver state regulators and command executive respect at twenty-three, Jordi felt entirely laid bare beneath Jaxon’s gaze. His Byzantine eyes widened slightly, softening with a raw, undeniable vulnerability that he had never shown to another living soul. When he first met Jaxon, he was assigned by his ex-boss, Minerva Marzilli, to kidnap him, and then he became his friend, and when Lena was smitten with him, he was confrontational with him, until it blossomed into this.

Jaxon noticed the shift immediately. The sly smirk on his lips faded into a soft, curious warmth as he reached up, his cool fingers gently tracing the hot flush burning on Jordi’s cheek.

Jaxon: “Hey… What’s going on in that head of yours?”

He murmured. Jordi swallowed dryly, leaning his cheek into the palm of Jaxon’s hand and closing his eyes for a fleeting second just to ground himself. When he opened them, the intense tenderness in his gaze remained steady and true. He simply rested his forehead gently against Jaxon’s, wrapping his arms tighter around him as if anchoring himself to the only thing in the entire city that truly mattered.

Jordi: “I love you, Jiro.”

The room went utterly still, the quiet weight of the words hanging suspended in the dim bedroom air.

Hearing his birth name made his breath catch sharply in his throat. The playful edge in Jaxon’s dark eyes dissolved instantly, replaced by a wide, stunned stillness. His chest froze mid-rise, his fingers trembling ever so slightly against Jordi’s flushed cheek.

No one called him Jiro. Not the crowds at Darker Desires, not the bartenders, not the city, not even his friends. The only ones who did were his family, Noriko, and Fabien to spite him. Only Jordi held the key to that part of him, and hearing it paired with those three words shattered every last shred of armor he possessed.

A sudden, tender warmth rushed behind Jaxon’s eyes, threatening to spill over. The cool bravado was gone; in its place was the twenty-three-year-old man who found his only real peace in this house, curled up with the polished executive who saw right through the flash and the fire to the soul underneath.

A slow, breathtaking smile broke across Jaxon’s face, softer and more genuine than anything he had ever given the world. He reached up with both hands, cupping Jordi’s burning cheeks and pulling him down until their lips brushed gently, sharing the same quiet breath.

Jaxon: “You really mean that, don’t you?”

He whispered, his voice cracking with thick emotion. He didn’t wait for a reply before burying his face into the crook of Jordi’s neck, his arms wrapping tightly around Jordi's broad shoulders and squeezing with fierce, desperate devotion.

Tears pricked at the corners of Jaxon’s eyes as he pressed a trembling, fervent kiss to Jordi’s skin, his voluminous hair cascading over them like a protective veil.

Jaxon: “I love you too, Jordi…”

He murmured against his pulse, the words vibrating straight through Jordi’s chest.

Jaxon: “So goddamn much.”

The quiet emotional weight of their confession lingered in the room, wrapping them in an easy, unspoken peace.

Jordi slipped out from the edge of the mattress to finish undressing, leaving his tailored trousers neatly draped over the armchair. He reached into his dresser for a set of sleek, black silk pajamas—the cool, lustrous fabric gliding effortlessly against his skin as he loosely buttoned the shirt and slipped into the flowing bottoms. Across the room, Jaxon peeled out of his open leopard-print button-down and unbuttoned his black denim jeans, kicking them aside onto the floor until he was completely bare. He turned and slid back beneath the plush duvet, the cool satin greeting his warm, unadorned skin.

Jordi walked around to his side of the bed and climbed in beside him, pulling the heavy covers up over their shoulders. The contrast between the slick, cool black silk of Jordi’s pajamas and the bare, radiating warmth of Jaxon’s body was immediate.

Without a word, Jaxon shifted across the mattress, curling naturally into Jordi’s space. He draped one leg over Jordi’s thighs and rested his bare chest flush against the black silk, pressing his cheek right against the hollow of Jordi’s throat.

Jordi wrapped an arm around Jaxon’s bare waist, his fingers resting against the smooth curve of his back, pulling him tight against his chest. With his other hand, he gently brushed a stray strand away from Jaxon’s forehead, admiring the quiet stillness in his features.

Jordi: “Comfortable?”

He asked in a low, tender whisper, his voice still carrying the husky residue of the Merlot.

Jaxon let out a long, shuddering breath of pure contentment, his bare toes hooking lightly around Jordi’s ankle beneath the sheets.

Jaxon: “Never been better.”

He whispered against Jordi’s collarbone, closing his eyes as a faint, genuine smile settled on his lips. They held each other close, letting the rhythm of their matching breaths carry them softly toward sleep.

~

The golden morning light sliced through the blinds, casting pale, warm slats across the bedroom. Jordi woke to the faint, comforting aroma of roasted chicory and toasted bread drifting up from the kitchen. I don’t have a hangover? He wondered. Then he recalled that Jaxon healed him. Rolling out from under the silk sheets, he began the seamless, rhythmic morning ritual.

The master bathroom filled with a thick wall of fragrant steam as the hot water hammered down against his back, washing away the lingering remnants of sleep. Jordi worked a rich, lathering shampoo through his vibrant purple hair, making sure every strand was sleek and conditioned. Stepping out into the warmth of the room, he knotted a plush towel at his waist, grabbed his toothbrush, and meticulously scrubbed his teeth until they were gleaming. Standing before the broad vanity mirror, he combed his damp violet locks, applying a dab of high-hold pomade to sweep back the sides with surgical precision while allowing the sculpted, layered waves on top to hold their full, effortless volume. Finally, he reached for the crystal flacon on the marble counter, depressing the atomizer three times over his throat and wrists, enveloping himself in a cloud of dark amber, spicy bergamot, and rich cedar.

In the walk-in closet, Jordi assembled his attire with practiced care. He slid into a pair of ultra-fine, black sheer socks that hugged his calves with a smooth, breathable finish. Next came a pristine, stark white dress shirt—its collar stiff, its cotton fabric pressed so sharply the seams seemed knife-edged. He fastened the mother-of-pearl buttons straight to the top, wrapping a rich purple silk tie beneath the collar. His fingers worked with fluid elegance, looping the fabric into a sharp, symmetrical Full Windsor that sat squarely in the hollow of his throat. Stepping into the tailored trousers of his black Italian-cut suit, he fastened the waist, secured his leather belt, and shrugged into the matching structured blazer. The jacket draped across his shoulders with flawless poise, giving him an unmistakable aura of corporate authority and sleek, high-fashion sophistication.

Jaxon was already at the stove. He wore a flowing, crimson silk robe embroidered with sprawling, golden dragons across the back and trailing sleeves. The fabric draped loosely over his frame, shifting with every lazy, theatrical flick of his spatula as his hair was loosely tied back.

On the marble countertop, a steaming ceramic mug of dark, robust roast coffee sat ready for Jordi, with milk, sugar, and cream added, alongside a delicate, translucent porcelain teacup filled with fragrant, steeped jasmine tea for Jaxon.

Jaxon: “Morning, handsome…”

He teased over his shoulder, his lips curling into a sleepy, wicked grin as he heard Jordi’s soft footsteps entering the kitchen.

Jordi smiled, stepping up behind him to catch the warm scent of toasted bread, sizzling butter, and Jaxon’s familiar, comforting warmth. He wrapped an arm around the silky expanse of the red dragon robe, resting his chin on Jaxon’s shoulder. He buried his head into his neck, kissing him deeply.

Jaxon moaned, setting the spatula down to turn in Jordi’s embrace. He handed the hot mug of black coffee directly into Jordi’s hands, admiring the razor-sharp white-and-purple contrast against the dark Italian wool.

Jordi took a slow, grounding sip of the coffee, the heat from the ceramic mug seeping into his palms as he leaned back against the cool marble of the counter. His gaze remained fixed on Jaxon, who was now humming a soft, absent-minded tune while adjusting the heat on the stove. The morning sun, filtered through the city’s persistent haze, caught the golden threads of Jaxon’s robe, making him look almost ethereal in the domestic stillness.

The spacious kitchen was bathed in the soft, amber glow, illuminating the swirling steam that drifted upward from their breakfast. Jaxon transferred a pair of golden, folded omelets speckled with scallions and sharp cheddar from the skillet onto polished ceramic plates, pairing them with thick slices of lightly browned sourdough toast slathered in salted butter. With an effortless, theatrical flourish of his crimson silk sleeves, he carried the spread to the sleek breakfast table and settled in across from Jordi.

He wrapped his fingers around the warm ceramic of his coffee mug, inhaling the rich, dark aroma before taking a slow, measured sip. The brew was bold, grounding, and perfectly brewed. Across the table, Jaxon picked up his delicate porcelain teacup, cradling the fragrant jasmine tea in both hands.

Underneath the table, the relaxed intimacy of their home took over. Jaxon leaned back slightly in his seat, the flowing folds of his red dragon robe parting just enough over his bare legs as he stretched his limbs. His bare foot slid along the cool hardwood floor, deliberately seeking out Jordi’s. The smooth, warm skin of Jaxon’s instep met the sleek, ultra-fine texture of Jordi’s black sheer sock, his toes curling slightly as he ran his sole up the arch of Jordi’s foot and along his ankle.

Jordi shivered, and a spark lit up in Byzantine eyes. He took a forkful of the eggs, savoring the richness before setting the utensil down with a quiet clink against the porcelain. Jaxon gave him a sharp, wicked grin, leaning his chin into his palm while his bare toes continued their lazy, rhythmic friction against the sheer black fabric of Jordi’s sock.

Jordi applied a gentle counter-pressure with his socked foot, his sole pressing firmly against the warm arch of Jaxon’s foot, anchoring the quiet physical connection beneath the table.

~

Tristan made his way downstairs into his law office, attired in a sharp, dark purple Italian-cut three-piece suit, crisp white shirt, black tie, and black wingtip Oxfords. At their desks, Rosemary and Erin were hard at work. Rosemary wore a teal long-sleeved blouse with puff shoulders, paired with a black midi skirt and black pumps, while Erin wore a blue blazer with a matching skirt and blue pumps.

Tristan: “How are you feeling, Erin?”

Rosemary glared indignantly at Erin. Who does that slut think she is?! Look at what she’s wearing, she thought. She’s dressing like a slut to attract Tristan, she thought.

Erin: “I’m feeling safer since you follow me home.”

Rosemary glared daggers at her. Tristan’s green eyes flicked to Rosemary.

Tristan: “...Everything okay, Rosemary?”

Rosemary: “Fine.”

She said tersely. Tristan scrutinized her. He knew she was angry about him helping Erin, and he couldn’t understand why it upset her. He wondered if Rosemary wanted him, but he remembered she'd said he was taken. That could mean anything, he thought.

Tristan turned away from his internal musings, his attention shifting back to the mountain of paperwork claiming their desk. He reached for a thick, manila envelope, the edges worn from handling, and tapped it against the mahogany surface.

Tristan: “Rosemary, I need these sent out today.”

He held the envelope out, his movements precise.

Tristan: “It’s urgent. Use the overnight courier service. I need confirmation of receipt by the time the market opens in Apple State tomorrow.”

Rosemary, seizing the distraction as an escape from the suffocating tension, rose immediately from her desk. Her heels clicked sharply against the hardwood floor as she crossed to him, taking the documents with a clipped nod.

Rosemary: “Right away, sir. I’ll make sure it goes out with the afternoon dispatch.”

She turned on her heel, grateful for the errand that took her away from the piercing gaze of both her boss and her rival.

Rosemary pushed through the heavy glass doors, the sudden brightness of the afternoon sun making her blink. The city street hummed with the familiar, chaotic energy—the distant honking of yellow taxis, the rush of pedestrians in sharp blazers, and the pervasive sound of construction. She clutched the manila envelope against her chest, its weight a grounding force. Crossing the bustling sidewalk, she made her way toward the courier storefront two blocks down, the brisk, cool wind tugging at her skirt. With every step away from the office, the tightness in her chest eased, replaced by the city’s mundane, rhythmic efficiency.

She pulled a letter out of her purse with “For the Pink Top City Ripper” on the envelope. She looked around to ensure no one was looking. She taped it securely to a utility pole and made her way to the courier storefront.

Narcisse snatched the envelope. He wore a dark purple peacoat over his purple double-breasted suit and smiled. He pressed the button in his ear and teleported away.

~

When five o’clock arrived, Tristan locked the heavy glass doors of the office behind him, the evening air carrying a sharp, cooling breeze. He crossed the sidewalk to where his 1987 Toyota MR2 Convertible was parked, the pop-up headlights flicking open with a mechanical whirr as he climbed into the driver’s seat. He started the engine, the mid-engine hum vibrating through the chassis, and pulled out into traffic behind Erin’s gray 1987 Honda Civic.

His left foot depressed the heavy clutch with practiced ease, his right hand guiding the short-throw shifter into first gear with a mechanical click. As they moved through the city, he worked the gearbox with focused precision, matching his revs carefully and easing off the clutch to keep the MR2’s pace steady and unobtrusive behind her Civic.

He kept a steady distance, watching the boxy silhouette of Erin’s Civic navigate through the neon-lit streets of the city. The glow of storefront signs and the rhythmic flash of streetlamps reflected off his windshield as they wound through the urban sprawl. He remained vigilant, his green eyes scanning the sidewalks and rearview mirror, ensuring no other vehicle trailed them as they approached the gated entrance of her apartment complex.

When Erin pulled to the curb in front of her stucco apartment building, Tristan eased the MR2 into the space directly behind her. He cut the engine and stepped out, the street quiet except for the distant hum of the city. He met Erin at her car door and walked beside her, his presence a silent, protective shadow.

Erin: “Thank you for this, Tristan.”

Tristan: “It’s all my pleasure.”

Erin clutched her purse and gazed at her boss.

Erin: “Tristan?”

Tristan turned to her and smiled.

Tristan: “Yes?”

Erin: “Is everything okay with Rosemary? She seems off lately.”

Tristan’s gaze softened.

Tristan: “I’m not entirely sure, to be honest. She’s been tense lately, but I suspect it’s just the mounting workload. Don’t you worry about her—my only concern is making sure you get inside safely.”

That’s not true, he thought. Of course, I notice something is off, and I cannot help but shake this bad feeling, he thought.

They reached the vestibule of the building, and he waited until she had her keys in hand and the heavy door was securely locked behind her before he turned back to his car, satisfied that she was safe for the night.

~

Erin leaned her back against the heavy oak door, the click of the deadbolt echoing in the small, quiet hallway. She closed her eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath as the stifling tension of Rosemary’s glares and the weight of the law office finally fell away. Here, surrounded by the soft beige walls and the familiar scent of vanilla potpourri, she could finally breathe without feeling scrutinized.

She tossed her keys onto the laminate countertop and flicked on the kitchen light, the fluorescent bulb humming softly to life. After setting her purse down, she moved to the living room to turn on her Sony boombox, tuning it to a local station playing a soft synth-pop ballad that filled the apartment with a soothing melody. The digital clock on her microwave blinked 6:14 PM in glowing green numbers as she headed toward her bedroom.

Slipping out of her blue blazer and professional pumps, she reached into her closet for a pair of oversized gray heather button-down shirt. The relief was physical as she pulled her hair out of its neat bun, letting the dark strands fall loose over her shoulders. She caught her reflection in the dresser mirror; her eyes looked tired, but the sharpness of her anxiety had dulled to a manageable hum.

Erin moved back to the kitchen to put a kettle on the stove, her mind drifting back to Tristan. His presence was a steady anchor, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling of being an intruder in the delicate balance of the office. As the blue flame of the gas burner licked the bottom of the kettle, she leaned against the counter, staring out the window at the distant, flickering neon skyline of Pink Top City, wondering how much longer this sanctuary would remain untainted by the drama unfolding at the firm.

~

The sharp, insistent buzz of the intercom cut through the synth-pop melody, startling Erin so much she nearly dropped the ceramic mug. She frowned, glancing at the microwave clock. 6:28 PM. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She crossed the kitchen and pressed the button on the wall unit.

Erin: “Yes?”

Voice: “DashDish Delivery. Got a large pepperoni and mushroom for 4B.”

The voice sounded young, slightly bored. Erin hesitated.

Erin: “I didn’t order any pizza. You must have the wrong building.”

Voice: “Address says 1422 West Oak, Apartment 4B. Look, it’s already paid for. Just come get it.”

Erin sighed, her confusion momentarily overriding her caution. Maybe Tristan had sent something? She unlocked the deadbolt and cracked the heavy oak door, leaving the security chain engaged.

Standing in the dimly lit hallway was a boy who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, wearing a faded red cap and a windbreaker with the DashDish logo. A scuffed helmet hung from his handlebars outside on his moped, visible through the vestibule glass. He held a grease-stained cardboard box in his hand. But as Erin looked closer, she noticed his eyes weren’t bored at all—they were glassy, almost dead.

Erin: “I really didn’t order this.”

Delivery Boy: “Just take the box, lady.”

Before she could respond, he dropped the box. The sound of it hitting the floor was the only warning she got before he threw his entire weight against the door. The security chain groaned, the metal links straining against the wood. Erin’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Delivery Boy: “Open the fucking door!”

He snarled, his youthful face twisting into something terrifying. He jammed a heavy work boot into the gap, preventing her from closing it.

With a desperate surge of adrenaline, he rammed himself into the door, knocking it down.

He drove her backward into the wall, his fingers locking around her throat. Erin gagged and gasped for air, striking repeatedly at his head to no avail. Tears spilled down her face as the last of her breath was choked away.

The delivery boy shrieked, a high-pitched cry of agony that cut through the apartment as the frozen shards bit deep into his wrists. He stumbled backward, clutching his arms as blood began to seep through the fabric of his windbreaker, his grip on Erin vanishing instantly.

Erin collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, her lungs burning as she dragged in ragged, desperate breaths. Before she could fully recover, a shadow fell over the entryway. Tristan stood there, his tall frame rigid and his green eyes burning with a cold, terrifying intensity that made the room feel several degrees colder. He stood directly between the injured assailant and Erin, his presence a lethal barrier.

The delivery boy let out an animalistic scream and lunged at Tristan. Reacting instantly, Tristan raised his hands and unleashed a blast of ice, sending the attacker flying backward into the fridge before he slammed into the wall and collapsed onto the floor.

Tristan stepped forward, his breathing heavy but controlled, and loomed over the fallen figure as the green light from the microwave clock reflected off the shards of ice scattered across the linoleum. As he stood there, a sharp, two-inch chip dislodged from the attacker’s neck and clattered to the floor with a hollow ring.

The boy’s glassy eyes suddenly cleared, widening in terror as he looked up at the silhouette of the man towering over him. He scrambled back against the wall, his bloody wrists shaking as he threw his hands up in a desperate gesture of surrender.

Delivery Boy: “DON’T HURT ME! DON’T HURT ME! I DON’T KNOW WHERE I AM!”

He cried, his voice cracking with a high-pitched, genuine confusion that cut through the tense, freezing air of the apartment. Tristan stopped in his tracks. He surveyed the younger man’s shift in demeanor, the genuine fear in his eyes and how it contrasted with his previous dead, glassy look.

Tristan knelt to the floor, picking up the chip that had fallen off his neck from the confrontation.

Tristan: “Who sent you?”

Delivery Boy: “I don’t know! I don’t know how I got here! I went to Pizzas, Gyros, and More, and I blacked out!”

He sobbed. Tristan put the chip in a small baggie for Etsuko to examine it later.

Tristan immediately crossed the small kitchen to where Erin sat huddled on the linoleum. He knelt beside her, his movements gentle as he reached out to steady her with a hand on her shoulder.

Tristan: “You’re safe now, Erin…”

He said with a soft, protective murmur. He went to the bathroom for a moment and returned with a cool, damp washcloth, carefully pressing it against the angry red marks on her throat to soothe the burning skin. In the quiet of the apartment, the only sounds were the soft synth-pop from the Sony boombox and Tristan’s calm, steadying breaths as he kept watch over her.

Erin: “I… I didn’t know what to do. Thank you, Tristan. You always seem to be there when I need you most.”

She leaned into his touch, her hand trembling slightly as she reached up to rest her fingers near the cool cloth on her neck.

Erin: “Was he the ripper?”

Tristan shook his head.

Tristan: “No, that man is a seasoned predator. This young boy is a victim. He was controlled.”

Why did he come here? He wondered.

Deimos flew in.

Deimos: “Here I am.”

Tristan: “Deimos, heal the young man and Erin, please.”

Deimos nodded and moved toward the delivery boy, his hands glowing purple. With a sweeping gesture of iridescent light, he knit together the jagged wounds on the boy’s wrists, the skin sealing seamlessly. As Deimos’ vitakinesis took effect, the boy’s ragged breathing steadied, and he had a wave of genuine exhaustion and profound relief.

After ensuring the boy was stabilized, Deimos turned his focused, violet gaze toward Erin. He leaned in and hovered his glowing palms just inches from her bruised throat. As the vitakinesis took hold, the jagged red marks from the assailant’s grip began to fade, the skin returning to its natural, unblemished porcelain tone. The sharp, throbbing ache that had radiated through her chest dissolved into a cool, calm relief, and she began breathing easily once more.

Deimos: “Is that guy the Pink Top Ripper?”

Tristan shook his head.

Tristan: “No, he was mind-controlled. The Pink Top Ripper is a seasoned predator, and I don’t believe he’s younger than we are. Call it a hunch.”

Erin felt a sudden, overwhelming wave of relief wash over her as the last of the pain vanished, leaving her skin cool and restored. Her knees felt weak as the adrenaline finally ebbed away, and she turned instinctively toward Tristan.

Without a word, she threw her arms around his waist and buried her face against the sharp, dark purple wool of his blazer, letting out a jagged sob of pure gratitude. Tristan stiffened for only a fraction of a second before his expression softened with deep empathy; he wrapped his arms securely around her, his steady, protective presence acting as the final anchor of safety she so desperately needed in the wake of the terror.

~

Tristan and Deimos stood outside the apartment building.

Tristan: “Thank you, Deimos.”

He gave a soft nod, pulling him into a kiss, while his fingers brushed through Tristan’s white, silky locks.

Deimos: “For what?”

He murmured. Tristan kissed Deimos’ lips again.

Tristan: “For coming in to heal them and not reacting when Erin threw her arms around me.”

He said, cupping his face.

Deimos: “Why would I? She’s your secretary, and she’s scared of this ripper guy—just like Monica.”

He replied evenly. Tristan pursed his lips.

Tristan: “Rosemary seems to be getting upset about Erin wanting my protection… and, well, anything Erin does seems to upset her.”

He said, his voice trailing off.

Tristan cupped his mouth and furrowed his eyebrows. No, I don’t want to go there, do I? He wondered.

Deimos: “Did anyone follow you or Erin here when you took her home?”

He asked. Tristan glanced at Deimos and shook his head.

Deimos: “There’s lots of apartments in this building.”

He hooked his thumbs in his jeans, eying up the five-story stucco building.

Tristan: “I know. Why on Reona would a mind-controlled delivery boy go to only Erin’s apartment? This is barely a coincidence.”

He began.

Tristan: “It feels like a set-up… or a decoy.”

His eyes widened.

Tristan: “Don’t tell me this is—”

~

The heavy wrought-iron gates stood open, parted like the teeth of a yawning predator, flanked by a polished brass plaque that declared its pedigree in sharp, unyielding letters: The Stone Residence. Beyond the threshold, a sweeping gravel driveway carved an immaculate ribbon around a velvet circle of turf, crunching only under the deliberate, measured treads of power.

The estate rose against the hillside in stern red brick and pale limestone, a masterclass in Georgian symmetry. Classical columns anchored the portico, while rows of pristine sash windows caught the amber slant of the evening settling in, reflecting nothing but the manicured illusion of peace. High above the slate roofline, white stone balustrades crowned the edifice, a silent testament to old money stitched seamlessly to public office.

Beneath the arched carriage house, a sleek sedan sat tucked in the shadows, its glossy finish reflecting the soft glow of the lanterns already flickering to life. Two figures in tailored dark suits stood sentinel—one by the pillared entryway, the other beside the garage—hands clasped, postures rigid, their stillness broken only by sharp eyes scanning every inch of the perimeter.

All around the manor, the grounds tumbled outward in sculpted emerald terraces, buffered by dense walls of mature oak and dense, sculpted hedges that choked out the noise of the world below. Yet the world was never truly far. Rising in the hazy distance, through a deliberate gap in the treeline, the cold, glass-and-steel spine of the metropolitan skyline loomed. The distant silhouette of City Hall watched from the horizon like a reminder of the machine he governed, while up here, nestled in the golden hush of the hills, the Mayor simply pulled the strings.

The heavy mahogany front door swung inward, opening onto a grand foyer that smelled faintly of lemon wax, hearth smoke, and quiet authority. Polished hardwood stretched across the floor, half-cloaked beneath the rich, crimson weave of an ornate Persian rug. To the right, a marble-topped hearth.

Dominating the space was a sweeping curved staircase, its dark banister reinforced with intricate wrought-iron scrollwork that subtly wove the monogram S into every arch. At the landing above and over the brick chimney breast below, twin oil portraits of Sully Stone and his daughter, Scarlett. Classical marble busts stared blankly from recessed arched niches along the wainscoted walls, silent spectators to the house’s immaculate choreography.

Two maids in identical dark uniforms and crisp white aprons moved with ghostlike precision, their dust cloths gliding over the polished woodwork without breaking the stillness. Through an open double door beneath the upper gallery, the private study sat, revealing lined bookshelves, a brass globe, and tall windows that framed the distant city skyline.

Seated in his living room, Sully Stone was dressed in taupe trousers, reddish-brown whole-cut Oxfords, and a crisp white shirt with sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a couple of buttons loosened at the collar.

Sully gestured toward the mahogany coffee table, where a stack of Pink Top Newspaper editions lay fanned out. With a precise, practiced hand, he reached for a pair of heavy, gold-plated scissors resting on the arm of the chair. He smoothed out a page featuring his own photograph—a portrait of him shaking hands at a city council event—and carefully snipped along the borders.

A crystal tumbler, filled with amber bourbon and a single, clear ice cube that clinked softly against the glass, sat within arm’s reach. He took a slow sip, letting the bite of the alcohol settle in his chest before dabbing a brush of adhesive onto the back of the clipping. With surgical accuracy, he pressed it into the sprawling leather-bound scrapbook that spanned decades of his career, smoothing the edges until it lay perfectly flat against the vellum page.

While he worked, he didn’t notice the blood splashing up on the windows.

Scarlett entered the living room. She wore a purple long-sleeve crop top, a black mini skirt, and black pumps.

Scarlett’s heels clicked sharply against the hardwood floor as she stepped further into the room, her gaze sweeping over the scene. She paused, however, as her eyes caught something outside the tall, glass-paneled windows—a smear of dark, viscous red splashed against the glass, obscuring the view of the manicured lawn.

Scarlett: “Daddy?”

She said, her voice cutting through the rustle of the newspaper. Sully didn’t look up, his focus entirely on the delicate edge of the clipping.

Sully: “Just a moment, Scarlett. This piece on the city council’s new zoning initiative is a bit tricky to trim.”

Scarlett took a step closer, her unease mounting as she stared at the window. The splash looked unmistakably like blood.

Scarlett: “Daddy, look at the window. There’s… There’s something on the glass.”

Sully finally paused, the gold-plated scissors hovering motionless over the newsprint. He sighed, a slow, weary sound, and finally lifted his gaze from the scrapbook. As his eyes tracked toward the window, the amber bourbon in his glass caught the light, and his expression shifted from detached focus to sudden, sharp alertness. He set the scissors down with a soft, metallic click against the mahogany table.

Sully: “What on Reona?”

He murmured, standing up, his chair scraping against the floorboards.

The heavy oak double doors didn’t just open; they groaned on their hinges, splintering at the frame as if struck by a battering ram. Rutherford stepped into the foyer, his silhouette framed by the encroaching twilight outside. He didn't carry a weapon, yet the air in the room instantly curdled with the metallic tang of fresh slaughter.

With a careless, almost dismissive flick of his wrists, he hurled the heavy, sodden masses across the room. The remains of the security guards—shorn in two at the waist—tumbled through the air, landing with a sickening, wet thud upon the pristine Persian rug. Upon impact, their internal organs splayed out across the crimson weave in a gruesome display of slick, glistening coils and ruptured tissue. Blood sprayed in a wide arc, painting the wainscoting and staining the white marble of the hearth crimson. One half of a torso slid to a halt just inches from Sully’s polished oxfords, leaving a trail of viscera in its wake.

Sully recoiled, his hand instinctively clutching the edge of the mahogany table, while Scarlett let out a sharp, choked gasp, her hands flying to cover her mouth as she stumbled back against the grand staircase. Rutherford turned his attention to Scarlett, a lecherous grin on his face.

Sully: “YOU STAY AWAY FROM HER, YOU—”

He charged after Rutherford with his scissors in hand, but a purple bubble sent him back. Sully fell back on the floor, the scissors sliding across as a purple bubble enveloped him.

Sully: “WHAT ON REONA?!”

He roared, pounding on the bubble that shimmered with every blow he made.

Scarlett: “DADDY!”

She cried when Rutherford pinned her down. Sully gasped in horror.

Sully: “YOU! IT’S YOU, YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH!”

He bellowed at Rutherford.

Sully: “I will not only see to it that you’re apprehended, but you will also face the death penalty for your heinous crimes!”

He bellowed furiously, hurling his entire weight against the shimmering barrier and slamming his fists against it repeatedly in a desperate rage.

Narcisse stepped in with a smile.

Sully: “And who are you?! His accomplice?!”

Narcisse smirked and walked out with the bubble floating behind him. Sully gasped and tried to break out.

Sully: “No! NO!! SCARLETT!! SCARLETT!”

He screamed.

Narcisse: “Mr. Mayor, this is nothing personal. My beef is not with you or your daughter. I don’t even live in your filthy little city. My reluctant partner-in-crime has the beef with you… Something about not accepting his bribes to keep his oversized hulk with a sex drive to match under wraps or some other nonsense I couldn’t care less about…”

He said and rolled his eyes. Tears welled in Sully’s eyes.

Sully: “If he touches my daughter—”

Narcisse: “Mr. Mayor, this is nothing more than bait for my naughty little nephew and his lemmings. You, your daughter, your threats, and this rathole city mean nothing to me.”