Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue: The Deal

The club was the kind of place that shouldn’t have let Meg in.

Mahogany and velvet. Glass and gold. The air smelled like money and hidden sins. Every surface gleamed like it had something to prove. The doorman had looked her over - scuffed boots, denim jacket two sizes too big - and waved her through anyway. Maybe it was the eyes. People always said she looked like she had something to run from.

Tonight, she wasn’t running.

Tonight, she was marching straight into the fire.

Inside, the bass throbbed low under her feet, the lights dim enough to hide regret but bright enough to flaunt power. She shoved her way through the crowd, ignoring the sidelong glances, the silk-slick smiles. Her hands were fists in her jacket pockets. Her heart hammered.

She’d heard the name whispered.

Hades.

The man who could fix things.

The man who could ruin you if you asked twice.

She’d heard it from Theon - hissed into the phone when he thought she wasn’t listening. A debt he couldn’t repay. A man he couldn’t outrun.

Now, Theon was in over his head.

And Meg had come to sell whatever it took to keep him breathing.

A bartender with sleeve tattoos raised a brow as she approached. “Looking for someone?”

“I need to speak to Hades,” she said. Her voice came out steadier than she expected. “Tell him it’s about Theon.”

The bartender’s smile thinned. “You think dropping a name buys you a minute of his time?”

“He’ll want to hear this.”

He watched her a moment longer, then nodded toward a door at the back. “Upstairs. Don’t waste it.”

She climbed, footsteps echoing, every step scraping at her nerves. The music dulled behind her, replaced by the hush of something colder.

At the top of the landing: a hallway. A door, half-open. Golden light spilled out like an invitation - or a warning.

She pushed it open.

The office was sleek, understated in the way that cost a fortune. Shelves of untouched books. A window with the city glittering like a trap. A single chair in the corner - deliberately out of place, designed to make anyone who sat in it feel small.

And behind the desk: him.

He didn’t look up right away. Just turned a page in some leather-bound book, deliberate as a priest mid-sermon.

“You’re not one of mine,” he said at last, voice cool and clean. “So why are you in my office, Megara?”

The sound of her name stopped her cold.

She blinked. “I didn’t tell you who I was.”

“No.” A slight smile touched his lips. “You didn’t.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Of course he knew her. Of course he knew everything.

He stood slowly, his suit moving like water. Dark. Unblemished. Tailored like a second skin. The open collar. The weight of his gaze.

She forced herself to hold it.

“You know who I am,” she said. “But I don’t know you.”

“Don’t you?” he asked, stepping around the desk.

“I know your name. I know you’ve got your claws in Theon.”

“Theon has claws in Theon,” he said, not unkindly. “I just collect what’s owed.”

“And if I could give you something instead?”

“Something?” A flicker of interest passed through his eyes. “Or someone?”

She flinched. “I want to make a deal.”

“Ah. The good old-fashioned kind.” He smiled now. Slow and sharp. “You’re not the first girl to offer herself for a man who wouldn’t do the same.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

“Isn’t it?”

Her fists clenched. “I don’t care what he owes. "Take it from me instead.”

Hades stepped closer, gaze never leaving her. “You’re offering yourself, then.”

“I’m offering a way to make things right.”

“There is no right,” he said, gently. “Only cost.”

They stood in silence. The city blinked behind the glass. The desk sat between them like a line she didn’t know she’d already crossed.

Then, finally:

“You’re braver than he is,” he said, like a compliment and a verdict all at once. “Fine. I’ll accept your offer.”

Her stomach dropped.

“That’s it?”

“Oh, no,” he murmured, walking past her toward the window. “That… is only the beginning.”

Chapter Text

Before the Fall

6 months earlier

The fire escape was still warm from the day, metal heated by hours of sun and now cooling beneath the soft brush of night air. Meg sat cross-legged on the grate, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug of tea that had long since gone cold.

Below them, the city pulsed with its usual chaos - sirens, laughter, the hum of a thousand strangers chasing whatever dream hadn’t cracked yet.

Flynn passed her the bottle of something cheap and sharp, half-empty already. He didn’t ask if she wanted it. Just knew. Like always.

“This summer’s been biblical,” he said, tipping his head back to rest against the brick wall, one boot propped up on the railing. “Sunshine, sins, poor life choices. Ten out of ten.”

Meg smirked. “You left out broke.”

“Ah, yes. The great tragedy of our times.”

She took the bottle, drank. The burn was familiar now.

They’d found each other early on - two drifters orbiting the same subway stops and corner stores. He’d caught her sketching on the back of a napkin in a diner, offered a compliment, then stole her fries. She should’ve walked away. Instead, she’d followed him out into a summer that had stretched long and gold and impossible.

Flynn had no fixed address, no fixed job, and no real name if you asked too many questions. But he’d always shown up when she needed him - grinning, reckless, alive.

“You ever think about running?” Meg asked now, staring out over the rooftops, the skyline flickering like it might wink out at any moment.

“Every day,” Flynn said. “But then I think… where would I get a better view than this?”

He gestured to the city with his bottle, grand and ridiculous.

She smiled, soft. “You’re such a sap.”

“Megara,” he said, mock-serious. “I am a romantic with excellent cheekbones and a flexible moral compass.”

She barked a laugh, quick and real.

The window creaked open behind them.

“Oh god,” Flynn groaned under his breath.

“Still loitering on my emergency exit?” Esme’s voice was dry as kindling.

Meg twisted around, grinning. “Hey, you’re home early.”

“Early?” Esme climbed halfway out the window, arms crossed. “It’s eleven. Some of us have jobs.”

Flynn offered her the bottle. “Drink to the death of dreams?”

She ignored it. “You know it’s illegal to be drunk on a fire escape, right?”

“Is it also illegal to enjoy the company of a radiant young artist under the stars?”

“Radiant?” Meg snorted.

“Jesus,” Esme muttered. “You’re both insufferable.”

But she didn’t go back inside.

Meg glanced over her shoulder at Esme, who leaned against the frame like she couldn’t quite bring herself to re-enter her world of deadlines and fluorescent lighting.

This was how it had been for months now - Flynn and Meg wrapped up in some gravity all their own, Esme circling the edges, never quite letting herself fall in. She tolerated Flynn for Meg’s sake, and Meg suspected he kept needling Esme because he knew it got under her skin.

Meg was the axis. The glue. The one who hadn’t figured out where she belonged, except between these two opposites.

“I did a tarot spread earlier,” Flynn said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Oh no,” Esme groaned.

“Apparently, great change is coming,” he intoned.

“An upheaval. Something fated.”

Meg blinked. “Did the cards say that, or the whiskey?”

Flynn winked. “Both.”

Meg turned back to the skyline, the city still buzzing like it never slept. She thought about her sketchbook - abandoned on her nightstand, pages unfinished. About the unpaid bill tucked in her coat pocket. About the feeling in her chest that something was shifting, slow and seismic, like a tide she hadn’t noticed until now.

But for now, there was just the metal beneath her legs, the warmth of the night, Esme half-smiling at the window, and Flynn beside her, tipping his head back to count the stars behind the city lights.

Chapter Text

Drifters

The apartment was too warm. The fan in the corner buzzed, doing nothing but shuffle the heavy air around. Esme sat at the small kitchen table, laptop open, fingers flying across the keys. Her concentration was surgical—sharp, focused, and slightly furious. She always typed like she had something to prove, and a print deadline to make.

Meg wandered in, barefoot, nursing a half-empty glass of orange juice that probably wasn’t hers. Her hair was damp from the shower, curling at the ends, her oversized T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. She looked like she’d just woken from a dream she hadn’t quite escaped.

“You’ve been up since six,” Meg said, peering over Esme’s shoulder. “Who are you trying to ruin this time?”

“Corrupt councilman,” Esme muttered. “Midtown. Has a thing for underage assistants and offshore accounts.”

Meg gave a low whistle. “That’s ambitious for an intern.”

Esme didn’t look up. “We don’t all have the luxury of sleeping till noon.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Meg said, slipping into the seat across from her. “I was… contemplating my artistic legacy.”

“Mm. How’s that going?”

Meg smirked. “Still broke.”

The silence that followed was warm, familiar. A flash of what they used to be.

They had come to the city together - two girls from nowhere, with big eyes and chipped dreams. Meg remembered the train ride in: their backpacks stuffed with everything they owned, Esme reading aloud from a guidebook, Meg sketching strangers across the aisle. They’d promised each other it was the beginning of everything.

And in some ways, it had been.

Esme was the first to land on her feet - internship at a paper, nights fact-checking, mornings chasing leads. She’d fallen into the rhythm of the city like she was born to it. Meg had drifted more than landed. Gallery assistant, barista, one disastrous week temping at a law firm. Art school had been the dream, but dreams didn’t come with tuition.

Still, they’d always had this. The apartment. The shared fridge. The unspoken promise that no matter how frayed things got, they’d still meet at the kitchen table.

But lately…

Lately the silences between them had sharpened. Less companionable, more loaded.

“You’ve been out with Flynn again,” Esme said, not quite a question.

Meg leaned back, tired of pretending it didn’t bother her when Esme said his name like it was something sticky.

“Yeah. So?”

Esme sighed, finally pulling her eyes from the screen. “He’s not good for you.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Here we go.”

“I’m serious.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know enough,” Esme said.

“He cons people for fun, Meg. He thinks getting away with things is a personality trait.”

“He makes me laugh,” Meg said. “He listens. He doesn’t lecture.”

Esme’s eyes flickered. That one landed.

“I just don’t want to see you get sucked into something you can’t crawl out of,” she said, voice quieter now. “You’re already drifting.”

“Drifting?” Meg’s smile vanished. “Thanks.”

“I mean it.” Esme stood up, not out of anger but out of some deep, restless energy that Meg couldn’t reach. “You’re so damn talented, and you’re wasting it. Sketching in cafes and hanging out with some… charming criminal.”

“I don’t have your path, Esme,” Meg said. “I don’t have a paper offering me a future. I don’t have—” She stopped, biting the inside of her cheek. “I’m figuring it out.”

“I know you are,” Esme said, softer now. “But I hate watching you struggle when I know you’re capable of more.”

They stared at each other. A quiet kind of ache sitting between them. Meg stood and walked to the fridge, mostly for something to do. She took out a nearly-empty jar of peanut butter, considered it, then put it back.

“You remember our first night here?” she asked without turning around. “When we didn’t have furniture and we ate Chinese on the floor?”

Esme’s voice thawed. “You spilled sweet and sour on the lease.”

“You told me I’d never make it through a New York winter.”

“And you told me I’d sell out and start writing ad copy in six months.”

They both smiled, faintly. A memory they could still share.

“I miss that,” Meg said, quieter now. “When it was just us. When it wasn’t all… pressure and expectations.”

“It’s still us,” Esme said. “Just messier.”

Meg finally looked at her, and for a second they were back on that empty apartment floor, their future still unwritten.

But then the moment passed, and Meg’s phone buzzed on the counter. She didn’t check it, but they both knew who it would be. Esme gathered her laptop.

“I’ve got to file this” she said. “Try not to burn the place down.”

“Only if it gets me a mention in your exposé.”

Esme almost smiled. “Oh” she turned before reaching the door. “Yoga tonight as usual? The guy in his Speedos might be there again.”

Meg cringed. “Ah, I forgot – I’m sorry, I said I would go to some roof party with Flynn. Next week?”

“Next week.” Esme said softly, looking back at her friend.

The door clicked behind her.

Meg stood in the silence for a long time, staring at the phone she hadn’t answered. When she finally picked it up, her reflection in the dark screen looked a little older. A little further away.

Chapter Text

One Last Good Idea

The city was still clinging to summer, but just barely.

The heat had broken a few days ago, and now the nights were cooler, kissed with a breeze that hinted at sweaters and early dusks. The kind of night that made Meg restless.

She sat on the fire escape, Flynn’s this time, legs dangling into nothing, a bottle of cheap wine between her knees. Flynn had wedged himself into the space beside her with all the grace of someone who’d done this a hundred times before.

“I still say we break into the Natural History Museum,” he said, sipping straight from the bottle like it owed him something. “Big fake dinosaur bones. Infinite hiding spots. It’s got everything.”

Meg snorted. “You’d get caught in like, twenty minutes.”

“Please. I’d blend in. I’ve got a very innocent face.”

“Your face literally says ‘please frisk me.’”

Flynn grinned, sharp and easy. “You wound me, Nutmeg.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed. The nickname had stuck months ago, and somehow it never made her flinch the way others did. It was stupid. It was sweet. It was his.

Below them, the city buzzed soft and low. People moved like currents, warm light spilled from restaurants, and the skyline glittered like it was showing off.

They’d spent the whole day doing nothing of importance - wandering street fairs, sharing greasy food from paper plates, trying on sunglasses they didn’t buy, flirting with strangers just for fun. The kind of day that left your feet sore and your heart full.

Meg leaned her head back against the metal railing, wine warming her limbs. “I wish it could always feel like this.”

Flynn was quiet for a beat, watching her. “It doesn’t?”

She cracked one eye open. “You know what I mean.”

He nodded, slow. “Yeah. I do.”

There was something fragile in the quiet that followed. Like if they said the wrong thing, it might break.

Flynn twisted the bottle in his hands, suddenly uncharacteristically serious. “Where would you go if you left?”

She blinked. “The city?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Just pack up and go. I’d find a shitty little beach town. Start over. Paint seashells. Sell postcards.”

Meg laughed, soft. “You’d go stir-crazy in a week.”

“Probably.” He grinned again, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still. Nice thought.”

She looked at him - really looked. He was tan from too many days outside, windblown, the faintest hint of exhaustion under his charm. And something else too. Like he wanted something he didn’t know how to ask for.

“Is this your one last good idea?” she asked.

Flynn glanced sideways at her, lips twitching. “Maybe. You in?”

Meg hesitated.

There was a version of the world where she said yes. Where they ran. Where none of it - the brokenness that hadn’t found her yet - ever touched her. But that version of the world felt far away. Even now. Even here.

She nudged his knee with hers. “Only if we steal the postcards first.”

Flynn barked a laugh and tipped his head back to the stars. “Deal.”

They passed the bottle between them a while longer, not saying much. Just the creak of the metal, the hum of the city, the easy rhythm of two people who knew each other bone-deep.

When the bottle was empty, and the chill had started to bite at bare skin, Meg tucked her arm through his.

“Come on, thief,” she murmured. “Let’s go inside.”

And Flynn, who would never admit how much he needed to hear something just like that, followed her in without a word.

Postscript: Still Summer

The apartment was warm from the day’s heat, windows cracked just enough to let the breeze whisper through. Meg kicked off her boots, peeled her jacket off like she’d been waiting all day to shed the weight of it. Flynn followed behind, loose-limbed and quiet.

The glow of the bedside lamp was soft and yellow, casting long shadows across the worn wood floor. The fan whirred lazily in the corner, half-hearted against the fading summer.

Meg collapsed onto the bed like she belonged there, limbs spread like she was claiming the space. “I think I’m still drunk,” she mumbled.

Flynn leaned over her to flick the light off. “You were drunk before we even got to the sunglasses stand.”

She cracked a grin. “Those were good sunglasses.”

“You looked like a mob wife.”

“That was the goal.”

He dropped beside her without asking, the way he always did. No boundaries left to cross between them, just the easy comfort of shared silence.

They lay like that for a while. Back to back. Breathing in sync. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything from either of them.

Flynn spoke into the dark. “You ever think about what comes next?”

“Not really,” Meg said. Then, after a beat: “Maybe that’s the problem.”

He turned onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “You’re not a problem, Nutmeg.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she reached for his arm, dragging it around her waist like a lifeline. He didn’t resist.

There was nothing romantic in it, not really. Just something steady. Something soft.

She closed her eyes, his breath at her neck, the weight of him grounding her.

The city hummed outside the window. Somewhere, far away, the world was already beginning to turn.

But here, in the moment, in the hush before the fall - Meg let herself feel safe.

Just this once.

Chapter Text

Sunday in the Park with Esme

The train rumbled into Manhattan just past ten. The car was half-full - mornings like this always seemed to lull the city into something softer. A rare, golden lull. That sweet spot between summer and autumn, where the sunlight still lingered, but the air held the faintest whisper of cold.

Meg leaned her head back against the window, watching the river flash between buildings. Esme sat beside her, one foot tucked under her thigh, flipping through an old magazine she’d found on the seat.

“I think this is from 2007,” she said, holding up an ad for a flip phone.

Meg smirked. “Vintage.”

The train rocked. Their arms brushed. Neither of them moved away.

They hadn’t done this in a while - just… existed near each other without tension crackling like a third passenger. The air between them was easier today. Not quite what it used to be, but closer.

When they emerged onto the street, the city opened around them like a theatre curtain. Noise, colour, movement.

“You’re leading,” Esme said. “I have zero plan.”

Meg raised a brow. “Since when?”

“Since I decided not everything has to be an objective.”

They walked without purpose, meandering through Soho. Past boutiques with curated windows and price tags like taunts. Meg drifted toward a sleek mac she couldn’t afford and didn’t need. Esme caught her looking.

“You want it?”

Meg gave a lopsided smile. “I want to be the kind of person who wears it.”

"You'd look like a femme fatale." Esme chuckled.

They wandered further. Paused in front of a window full of hand-thrown pottery, then another with delicate necklaces and gold-plated things that caught the light.

At a stall tucked beside a coffee shop, Meg picked up a pair of ceramic earrings shaped like little pomegranates. She turned them over in her palm, then set them back down.

“I always forget how much I like it here,” she murmured.

Esme nodded, quietly. “You used to say you felt more you in Manhattan.”

“I said a lot of things.”

Still, they stayed close. Browsing old books. Thumbing through scarves they couldn’t justify. At one point, Esme held up a beaded clutch that looked like it belonged in a 1920s jazz club and raised a brow. “You?”

Meg laughed. “Absolutely not.”

But it felt good to laugh.

They walked for hours up to the Park. Bought iced coffees they didn’t need and settled in the seats of the amphitheatre, a favourite haunt. They sat watching children play below them, acting out their dreams on the empty stage. Their boots tapped the same rhythm. The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore. Just familiar.

It wasn’t until the sun began to lower - softening the city into something golden - that Esme spoke.

“So,” she said, casually. “Flynn.”

Meg’s head tipped. “That’s not a question.”

“It’s also not subtle,” Esme admitted. She picked at the sleeve of her coat. “I just… I’m not trying to fight with you, Meg. I’m really not.”

Meg’s voice was wary. “But?”

Esme sighed. “But he’s a professional bad decision. A charming one, sure. But you and I both know he’s not going anywhere. Not really. He floats. You deserve more than someone who drifts in and out depending on where the next good time is.”

Meg leaned back, looking away. “It’s not like that. We’re not like that.”

“I’m not judging. I can tolerate Flynn, when he’s not driving me insane. But you - ” she paused. “You moved here with this spark. Like the city couldn’t even dare to ignore you. And now…”

“Now what?” Meg asked, quieter.

“Now you seem tired. Like you’re waiting for something that never shows up.”

Meg didn’t answer. She just watched a child pretend to run a monster through with a sword below them.

Esme reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper - creased and softened at the edges. A flyer.

“Look,” she said, setting it between them. “Community art classes. Tuesdays. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s real. And you used to get this look in your eye when you painted. Like everything else faded away.”

Meg stared at it for a long time. “I don’t know if I still have it in me.”

“Then go find out,” Esme said gently. “You don’t have to prove anything. Just… try.”

The paper fluttered slightly in the breeze. Meg didn’t pick it up, but she didn’t shove it back either. Instead, she sat there, thoughtful. Silent.

When they finally stood to go, Meg slipped the flyer into her coat pocket.

She didn’t promise anything.

But she didn’t leave it behind.

Chapter Text

Foundations

The art studio smelled like old wood and turpentine, and something faintly floral - like someone had opened a window too late to chase the scent of summer.

Meg lingered in the doorway longer than she meant to, clutching the folded flyer Esme had given her like it was a hall pass she didn’t quite believe in. Her boots stuck slightly to the scuffed floor as she stepped inside.

It was warm, cramped with easels and half-finished canvases. A long skylight ran overhead, casting watery gold light over everything in the room. The walls were hung with student work - some terrible, some unexpectedly beautiful.

The air buzzed with soft chatter and the scratch of charcoal against paper.

She didn’t belong here. Not really. But no one looked at her twice.

A middle-aged woman with paint-stained jeans and a crown of curls welcomed her in with a kind smile and a wave toward the back. “Find a spot, love. We’re just warming up.”

Meg did.

She slid onto the worn stool at an empty easel. A clean sheet of paper was already clipped in place. A tray of charcoal sat between her and the petite blonde beside her, who offered a bright open smile but didn’t try and make conversation. Meg was grateful.

She stared at the page for a long moment, her hand hovering.

Then she picked up the charcoal.

Her first line was wrong - too hard, too nervous. She smudged it out with the heel of her hand, leaving a grey smear on the page. And on her skin.

She tried again.

And again.

Each line came easier. Each mistake less important. The world outside the studio - the pressure, the noise, the ache she carried like a second spine - faded.

She stopped thinking.
Stopped planning.
Just let the marks spill out.
Just moved.

Something surged through her - not quite memory, not quite instinct. Something older. Something real. She didn’t know what she was drawing, didn’t care if it was good. She just… was.

Her fingers darkened with charcoal dust. Her wrist began to ache. Her breathing slowed.

When the teacher finally called time, Meg blinked like someone waking up.

---

The city was cooler by the time Meg stepped back onto the street.

She tugged her jacket tighter and fell into step with the crowd, her sketchbook under one arm. It felt heavier than it should. Like it had weight. Like it meant something. Something solid blooming in her chest

Not hope exactly.
But close.

She didn’t take the subway. She walked.

Every so often, she looked down at the charcoal smudges on her fingers, pressed her thumb against them as if to be sure they were real.

She hadn’t told Esme she was going.

She hadn’t told Flynn anything at all.

For the first time in a while, it felt like she had something just for her. Not borrowed. Not tangled in someone else’s expectations.

Just hers.

The streetlights blurred a little in her vision - maybe from the wind, maybe from something else. She wiped at her face quickly, as if the night might catch her crying and tell someone.

The walk back to the apartment felt longer than usual. She didn’t mind.

The familiar creak of the front door, the peeling number above it, the comfort of someplace known. All of it waited quietly.

She climbed the stairs slowly. Paused beside the fire escape window and glanced out on reflex.

Empty.
No Flynn.

And for once, she was grateful.

Not because she didn’t want to see him - but because she couldn’t explain this. Not yet. Not when it still felt like something half-formed, too new to name.

Inside, Esme wasn’t home. Probably working late; saving the world one byline at a time.

Meg toed off her boots, dropped her bag, and stood in the middle of their small, cluttered living room, not moving.

Her sketchbook was still under her arm. She ran a thumb along the edge.

Then, on impulse, she crossed to the table, cleared away Esme’s old coffee cups, and opened the book flat.

She turned to the page she like best and propped it up against the lamp.

Stepped back.

Looked at it.

A breath left her.

Maybe it wasn’t perfect. But it was hers.

And right now, that felt like something.

Chapter Text

Distance

Flynn liked the city best in the late mornings - when the rush had burned off and everything felt just slightly worn in. He’d take his time walking nowhere in particular, coffee in hand, jacket open even when the wind bit.

He was in between gigs again. Not that he minded. He liked the space between things. The freedom to float.

Lately, though, it didn’t feel as light.
Flynn noticed it in the quiet ways.

Meg still showed up. Still answered his texts - eventually. Still said yes when he asked if she wanted to hang out. But lately, her yeses came slower. Her smiles didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She didn’t stay as long.
Didn’t laugh as loud.
Didn’t look at him the way she used to.

It started - he was pretty sure - after that Serious Talk with Esme. The kind that came with lattes and loaded silences. Meg came back from it different. Not angry. Just… quieter. Like she was somewhere else, someplace he couldn’t see.

When he asked what they’d talked about, she’d shrugged. “Nothing scandalous. Sorry to disappoint.”

And he’d let it go. That was how they worked.

But a few days later, they were sitting at some café neither of them could afford but always ended up in. Meg was staring into the distance, fingers twitching restlessly on a napkin. Flynn reached into his bag without thinking and set a pen on the table beside her, sliding it gently into her orbit.

She didn’t even look. Just picked it up, started sketching. Quick, instinctive lines - like her hand remembered something her heart hadn’t given permission for. She didn’t notice him watching.

Didn’t notice that he’d known, somehow, that she’d need it.

He watched her for a while. The way she leaned in, fully absorbed. The way her face softened - not happy, but present.

Then she blinked, looked down at what she’d drawn like it belonged to someone else. Her jaw tightened. She crumpled the napkin and shoved it into her bag before he could say anything.

Flynn leaned back on the park bench, hands in his coat pockets, teeth picking at a thumbnail. He watched her from the corner of his eye. Meg sat beside him like she always had, but something in her posture felt farther away.

He didn’t know what was going on in her head. He never really had.

But he knew what it felt like when someone started sketching the outline of a life that didn’t include you.

Not because they were cruel. Just because they were going.

He shoved his hands deeper into his coat. “So,” he said, casual, easy, like none of it mattered, “did Esme finally talk you into becoming a productive member of society?”

Meg blinked. “What?”

He smirked. “You’re different lately. Thought maybe she got to you.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just turned her gaze to the river, the sunlight glancing off the water and catching gold in her hair.

“Maybe,” she said softly. “I don’t know. I just… I needed something.”

Flynn’s smile tugged at the corners of his mouth but didn’t quite settle. He nudged her shoulder. “You’ve already got something. Me. Terrible ideas. Questionable moral compass. What more could a girl want?”

Meg let out a breath of laughter - just air, no warmth.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

And that-
That stuck.

Flynn glanced at her, but she wasn’t looking at him anymore.

He didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know how to fix something when he didn’t know what was breaking.

So he let the silence stretch between them, long and thin and fragile.

The wind stirred the trees above. Somewhere behind them, a dog barked and traffic hissed past. The city moved on, oblivious.

But Flynn knew something had shifted. Just a little. Just enough.
He couldn’t name it.

But he felt it all the same.

Chapter Text

The Artist

The gallery wasn’t one of the fancy ones.

It sat tucked between a shuttered bakery and a dry cleaner that hadn’t been open since spring. A sandwich board out front read NEW ARTIST SHOWCASE – ONE NIGHT ONLY, scrawled in messy chalk, the kind that smudged under a careless sleeve.

Meg would’ve walked right past it if she hadn’t been killing time before meeting Esme.

She hadn’t planned on feeling anything that night. Just filling the space between now and later.

But the lights inside were warm, and music floated low beneath the quiet buzz of conversation.

It was one of those in-between places - trying hard, but not too hard. That made her pause.

She didn’t expect much. Just hopeful canvases and bad wine. Something to glance at, not get caught in. She wasn’t in the mood to feel anything she couldn’t shrug off.

But it smelled like paint and ambition, and something in her chest shifted - small and quiet. Like something loosening that had been held too tight.

The art was raw.

Messy.

Unapologetic in a way she didn’t know she’d missed.

Sculptures welded from street scrap. Portraits that didn’t care about likeness. Abstracts like arguments on canvas. She moved through it slowly, hands in her pockets, the buzz of conversation thinning behind her.

She shoved her fingers deeper into her jacket, thumb brushing the edge of the sketchbook she had started carrying again, as easy as a muscle memory.

And then - she saw him.

He was magnetic. Surrounded by people, all of them leaning in just a little too far to hear him better. Tall. Lean. Dark curls half-tamed by a last-minute hand-through-the-hair effort. Someone said his name - Theon - and it landed like something practiced, like the room already knew it.

He was tapping an unlit cigarette against his palm, laughing at something a girl said.

Not big and theatrical. Just… easy. Like someone who hadn’t had to try hard in a long time.

And then he looked at Meg.

Really looked.

And just like that, he peeled away from the group. Slipped out of orbit like it was nothing. No showy exit. No explanation. Just motion - straight toward her.

Of course he was that kind of confident.

“You look like you’ve got opinions,” he said when he reached her, smiling. “About the piece. You were staring.”

She arched a brow. “I was deciding whether it’s brilliant or completely insufferable.”

That got a real laugh out of him. “What’s the verdict?”

“Still out,” she said coolly. “Leaning slightly brilliant. With strong insufferable undertones.”

He followed her gaze to the canvas behind him - mixed media, charcoal and acrylic, sharp edges and bleeding colour. It was jagged and raw and urgent. The kind of work that didn’t care if you liked it.

“You think it’s pretentious,” he guessed.

She tilted her head. “I think it’s trying not to be. Which is almost worse.”

“Ouch.”

“But,” she added, “it’s honest. And that counts for something.”

That surprised him.

“I’ll take that,” he said. “Honest is what I was going for.”

He offered his hand. Charcoal still clung to the creases of his fingers. “I’m Theon.”

Meg took it, her grip light, noncommittal. “Meg.”

“Theon,” she repeated, deadpan. “Of course you are.”

He laughed again, warm and unbothered. “That obvious?”

“You’ve got a whole tortured-artist-who-smells-like-turpentine-and-knows-it vibe going. Would’ve been weird if your name was Steve.”

“Steve,” he said, mock-offended. “Harsh.”

“Sorry. Greg, then.”

He was grinning now, relaxed in that way some people are when they know they’ve already caught your attention. “You from around here?”

Meg didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t the first charming boy in a gallery. But something about him felt less polished. More... unfinished. Like he didn’t mind being seen before the paint dried.

“Brooklyn,” she said eventually. “Not originally.”

He nodded, eyes dropping briefly to the sketchbook just visible beneath her jacket.

“You draw.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Sometimes.”

“You should show me.”

Meg gave him a look - dry, a little amused. “Is that your line?”

“Nah,” he said, leaning in slightly. “Just for the ones who use words like ‘insufferable undertones’ and still hang around.”

She looked at the painting again. “It felt like you were trying to claw something out.”

His smile faltered slightly. Something in his expression shifted. “That’s exactly what it felt like.”

A beat passed.

Then: “So, Meg,” he said, that easy charm sliding back into place, “can I convince you to come to the real show?”

She narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t it?”

He jerked his head toward the side door. “This is the appetiser. I meant the roof.”

He was already walking.

Meg hesitated.

Of course he was the kind of person who had a rooftop.

And of course she followed anyway.

The stairwell smelled like rain and old wood, like it had absorbed a hundred storms and never dried out properly.

Meg followed, her trainers scuffing faintly behind Theon’s longer stride. He took the stairs two at a time. She kept her pace slower - deliberate. She wasn’t chasing him. Just… observing the situation she’d apparently decided to walk into.

At the top, he pushed open a rusted door and held it for her with a crooked half-bow.

“After you, Meg from not-originally-Brooklyn.”

She gave him a look as she passed. “You’re not going to make me smoke clove cigarettes and talk about Ovid’s Metamorphoses, are you?”

“Only if you brought a bottle of red and a tragic backstory.”

“Sorry,” she said. “Fresh out of both.”

“Shame.”

The rooftop was strung with fairy lights, most of them flickering or half-dead. A collection of rusted folding chairs, upturned milk crates, and a sagging loveseat surrounded a dented fire pit filled with long-cold ash. Someone had graffitied the side of the HVAC unit with something abstract and vaguely obscene.

Theon dropped into a chair like he’d lived there his whole life.

Meg stayed standing.

Arms crossed. The skyline stretched behind her - wide and sharp and indifferent. The wind picked at her hair, cool and insistent. 

“This where you bring all the girls?” she asked.

He tilted his head. “Only the ones who look like they might tell me my work’s derivative.”

“Oh, I will,” she said, deadpan. “Eventually.”

“Good,” he said, grinning. “Keep me humble.”

She shifted her weight, her eyes scanning the rooftops beyond. It was quiet up here. Not peaceful, exactly, but removed. Like the city had taken a step back and left them floating above it.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Theon said, more gently now. “But… you seem like someone who’s trying not to want something.”

Meg blinked at him.

“That supposed to be poetic?” she asked, brushing hair from her face.

“Not really,” he said. “Just true.”

She didn’t respond. Not right away.

He waited.

Meg peered over the edge, down towards the alley, where the streetlight glow cast long shadows against the bricks. Not a fan of heights, she shuddered and stepped back. 

“Why does everyone come to this city thinking it’ll fix them?” she asked.

He smiled faintly. “Because they want to believe in the myth. Concrete and miracles.”

“And you?”

Theon leaned back, gaze fixed on the skyline. “I just want to make it mean something.”

Something caught in her chest. Stupid. Sudden.

She shook her head, half a smile curling her mouth. “You’re very committed to the tragic-artist bit.”

“Only when it works.”

She rolled her eyes. But she sat down.

Not because he’d earned it. Not because she trusted him.

Just because she wanted to.

And that, more than anything, scared her.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke again, quieter this time.

“I haven’t shown anyone my sketches in months.”

Theon didn’t nod. Didn’t make it a moment.

He just looked at her. Steady. Serious.

“Maybe it’s time.”

Chapter Text

Something Like Light

It wasn’t their first date.
Might’ve been their third. Or fifth. It was already hard to tell.

He was already waiting. Same spot as always. Same lazy slouch against the gallery railing, like the city was built around him.

Theon looked up when she approached, grinning like he’d known she’d show.

“You came,” he said, easy.

“You always this smug?”

“Only when I’m right.”

Meg rolled her eyes but didn’t turn back. She could’ve. The train station was only two blocks down. But instead, she let him fall into step beside her.

Like it was nothing.
Like they’d done this before.
Like they’d do it again.

They didn’t make plans, not really. They just met - between shifts at whatever job she hadn’t quit yet, between the hours he lost in his studio, between the gaps that life offered when you weren’t paying attention. The city filled in the rest: museum courtyards, cracked park benches, the back steps of his building where the light hit just right in the early evening.

Theon talked about light the way other people talked about music. Said it moved like memory – sharp one moment, slow the next. That scaffolding had rhythm. That shadows were stories nobody bothered to write down. He pointed things out constantly - moss on the edge of a brick wall, murals faded by sun, the way telephone wires stretched like brushstrokes across the sky.

Meg mostly listened. She liked the way he saw the world.

Not just looked. Saw.

It was hard not to be drawn into it. Like stepping into someone else’s dream where the everything shimmered slightly, and even the silence felt like part of the painting.

They wandered into the Whitney by accident, slipping past the ticket check like it was a dare.

They moved slowly through the exhibits, Theon pausing to frown at a sculpture, muttering something about brushwork or composition. Meg was content to trail behind, until they reached the Hopper.

“Summertime.”  Her favourite.

She said it quietly, like a name she hadn’t spoken in years.

They’d been walking through the space for nearly an hour, but this was the painting she stopped for. Like always.

The woman stood in the doorway - sunlight slicing across her body, casting long shadows behind her. One foot half-raised, like she wasn’t sure whether she was coming or going. Her white dress catching the light like a promise she didn’t remember making.

Meg crossed her arms loosely. Not guarded. Just comfortable. She tilted her head slightly, narrowing her eyes - not with judgment. With thought.

Theon stood beside her, hands deep in his pockets. “She’s waiting,” he said softly. “For someone. A lover, maybe. Someone who said they’d come back.”

Meg didn’t respond right away.

The painting filled the air between them.

“I don’t think so,” she said finally. “She’s not waiting.”

He turned his head toward her. “No?”

“No,” Meg repeated. “She just stepped out for air.”

Theon studied her, not the painting. Her posture, the soft crease between her brows. The way her voice dropped on the word air.

“You sound certain.”

“She’s not expectant,” Meg said. “She’s not tense. She’s not even hopeful.”

She nodded toward the shadow behind the woman’s feet. “She’s breathing. She needed space. She wanted sunlight.”

Theon’s smile turned quiet. “Maybe she needed to feel like she still existed. Outside the room.”

Meg looked at him then, something unguarded slipping through.

“Exactly.”

Silence lingered.

Then he reached for her hand.

And she let him take it.

They stood there a long time, side by side. One woman, caught in sunlight. Two people pretending they understood her. A future neither of them could see yet, already waiting in the wings.

He walked her toward the bridge after, stopping just before the incline.

The skyline stretched out wide around them - buildings blinking to life, streetlamps flickering on like small, quiet promises. The air had cooled, but Meg hadn’t noticed until she stopped walking. She folded her arms against the breeze, but didn’t move.

Theon stood beside her. They looked out together for a long time. The city buzzed below them, but up here in the in-between, it felt like the pause between breaths.

“I keep thinking about how I’d paint you,” he said, quiet. “How the light hits your face when you laugh.”

Meg narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even know me.”

He smiled. “No. But I see you.”

Meg didn’t say anything for a moment.

She just watched the light scatter across the water. Felt the pull in her chest - not hard, not sudden. Just a steady tilt toward something she didn’t want to name yet.

He kissed her on the walk back. No dramatic swell. No orchestrated pause.

Just the hush of the street. The taste of coffee on his mouth. The curve of her smile between them.

Days blurred.

She found herself at his studio more than she’d planned. Sometimes she brought her sketchbook, sometimes she didn’t. Theon never asked. He worked barefoot, paint in his hair, the music low and unbothered. He didn’t fill the silence. Didn’t need her to either.

Some nights they sat by the window, sharing a cigarette neither of them ever really finished. Meg didn’t smoke. Not usually. Not before this. But there was something about the ritual - the quiet flick of the lighter, the way Theon passed it back without looking, the soft exhale that filled the space between them.

She didn’t like the taste. But she liked the rhythm. It felt like a conversation without needing words. And in those moments, the city felt like theirs alone.

She didn’t tell Flynn. Didn’t bring it up to Esme.

Not because she was hiding it, exactly. But because, for once, she wanted something that was just hers.

That mattered.

She knew better than to name it.
Not yet.
It could still be nothing.
A flicker. A maybe. A moment.

But it felt good.

And she wasn’t used to that being enough.          

Chapter Text

First Impressions 

The apartment was quiet when Esme got home, save for the ticking of the old kitchen clock and the hum of distant traffic. It used to be the kind of quiet that meant Meg was out doing something ridiculous with Flynn, or stretched out on the fire escape sunbathing in her old high school track shorts and a T-shirt she definitely stole from him, pretending she wasn’t eavesdropping on the neighbours.

Lately, the quiet felt heavier.
Like Meg had taken something with her when she left the room - and hadn’t brought it back.

Esme had filed three stories that week and deleted twice as many half-written texts to Meg. She told herself they were both just busy. That life was shifting, not ending.

She kicked the fridge door shut after grabbing a seltzer and let her bag drop with a thud. Something had been off with Meg for weeks. Not bad, exactly. Just... elsewhere. Like she was living somewhere Esme didn’t have the address for.

There was music playing faintly down the hall. Jazz, maybe? Soft and unexpected.

Esme followed the sound and knocked once on Meg’s bedroom door.

“Come in,” came Meg’s voice - brighter than Esme had heard in a while.

She opened the door and paused.

Meg was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook open, a half-finished charcoal portrait in progress. Her hair was a mess, but her face was bright - lit from inside, like something had taken root and was blooming quietly, just for her. The room smelled faintly of pencil shavings and something citrusy. New perfume, maybe.

“Well, this is a mood shift,” Esme said, folding her arms and learning against the door frame.

Meg grinned over her shoulder and grinned. “Hi to you, too.”

Esme raised a brow. “You’re alive and drawing? I was about to call the non-emergency line.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Meg waved a hand. “I’ve been… around.”

Esme stepped further in, stealing a glance at the sketch. It wasn’t like Meg’s usual work. This one was softer. Looser. Almost tender.

“Is that someone?” she asked.

Meg hesitated. Then: “Maybe.”

Esme narrowed her eyes. “Okay, what’s his name?”

Meg laughed. Actually laughed. “God, you’re never ‘off’ are you?”

Esme’s eyes lit up. “So there is a name.”

Meg gave a half-shrug, trying for nonchalance and failing. “Theon.”

“Theon,” Esme repeated slowly, testing the shape of it. “Let me guess - mysterious, brooding, quotes Rilke at parties?”

“He’s not like that,” Meg said, but the corners of her mouth were still lifted. “He’s an artist. And smart. And kind of a mess, but in a way that makes sense.”

Esme sat on the bed, sipping her drink. “And you like him.”

Meg didn’t deny it. “I like how I feel around him.”

There was a pause. Something in Esme’s chest twisted a little - quiet and unspoken.

“I’m sorry I’ve not been around much. I’m not trying to disappear,” Meg added, quieter now. “I just… I feel like I’m finally waking up again.”

Esme softened. “That’s good. You should feel that way.”

Meg glanced at her. “You don’t hate him yet?”

“I haven’t met him” Esme said. “Though I reserve the right to hate him immediately on principle.”

Meg smirked. “You won’t.”

“We’ll see.”

Esme stood, stretching. “You want to grab dinner later?”

Meg hesitated. “Can I rain check? I think I’m seeing him again tonight.”

Esme tried to keep her face neutral. “Sure. Just don’t forget I’m still your longest relationship.”

Meg smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But when Esme left the room, she paused in the hallway. The laughter. The slight blush in Meg’s cheeks. The sketch on the floor.

It should’ve been a good sign.
So why did it still feel like something was slipping away

Later

Esme wasn’t expecting the rooftop.

She followed Meg up the last flight of creaking stairs, a breeze curling around them through the half-open door above. The building was old - chipped paint, crooked light fixtures - but the view it offered was breathtaking.

“You didn’t tell me this was a date,” Esme murmured as they stepped out into the open air.

“It’s not,” Meg said. “It’s an introduction.”

Theon was already there, leaning against the railing, cigarette smouldering between his fingers, a beat-up sketchbook tucked under one arm. He turned as they stepped through the door, and for a split second, Esme saw Meg through his eyes - wind-tousled, flushed with anticipation.

“Theon,” Meg said, “this is Esme. My best friend-slash-conscience.”

“Emphasis on conscience,” Esme added with a wry smile.

Theon stepped forward, easy in his skin. “I’ve heard good things. Mostly.”

His handshake was light but steady. Present, not performative. Esme clocked that.

The air carried the faint chill of early autumn - clean, crisp, and just sharp enough to feel new. Below them, the city buzzed - horns, music, the distant hum of a train. Up here, it felt paused.

They settled on a ledge together, takeaway drinks between them. Meg perched beside Theon, their shoulders brushing. Esme didn’t miss that either.

“So,” Esme said, slipping into her journalist tone, “what’s your deal?”

Theon chuckled. “Direct. I like that.”

“She’s a reporter,” Meg said. “Interrogation comes free of charge.”

“I just like to know who’s sweeping my best friend off her feet,” Esme said.

Meg groaned. “Please stop.”

Theon’s smile twitched, thoughtful. “I’m a painter,” he said. “Mostly abstracts, sometimes figures. I work out of a studio in Clinton Hill I can barely afford. I teach some community classes to cover the bills I pretend I didn’t see.”

Esme tilted her head. “Sounds… romantic.”

“Sounds broke,” he said, laughing. “But yeah. It’s a good kind of broke.”

There was a moment.
Theon glanced at Meg.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense to me,” he added, quietly.

The way he said it - low, certain - reminded Esme of people who already knew what they were painting before the brush ever touched the canvas.

Meg’s eyes flicked down, like that meant more than it should’ve.

Esme watched them - this thread pulling taut between them. Not restless, like with Flynn. Not defensive. Softer. But something unsteady hummed beneath it.

“So how did you two meet?” she asked, watching Meg more than Theon.

Meg answered before he could. “His art show.”

Theon added, smiling. “She spent ten minutes critiquing one of my pieces before realising I was standing behind her.”

Meg shrugged. “I stand by everything I said.”

Esme smirked. “And he still asked you out?”

“I appreciated the honesty,” Theon said, leaning back. “Most people just nod and say ‘interesting composition.’”

Esme let the moment stretch. Then, lightly, “You know if you break her heart I’ll print your face all over the city, right?”

Theon grinned. “I’d expect nothing less.”

They stayed until the sky turned violet, the lights of the city flickering awake beneath them. Theon got up to grab them more drinks from downstairs. When he disappeared, Esme leaned over to Meg.

“He’s not what I expected,” she said.

Meg looked at her sideways. “Good or bad?”

Esme hesitated. “I don’t know yet. But he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the room.”

Meg’s expression faltered for half a breath. Then she smiled.

And Esme felt it again - that quiet, inevitable shift.

Only this time, it didn’t feel like a phase.
It felt like a line they’d already crossed.
And Esme wasn’t sure Meg even knew.

Chapter Text

Studio Hours

Content warning for mild steamy stuff. 

The studio was always a little too warm, even in last flushes of September. The windows stuck half-shut with old paint, the fan pushed lazy circles overhead.

Theon never seemed to mind. He moved through the space in threadbare button-downs, sleeves rolled, forearms streaked with paint. His curls fell in his eyes until he pushed them back absently, leaving smudges across his cheekbones. He always looked like he was in the middle of something. Like he lived halfway inside a painting.

Meg brought iced coffee. She found her usual spot near the window - knees to her chest, sketchbook balanced - and let the studio fill in around her. The smell of turpentine and linen. The scratch of charcoal. Theon's music, always too soft to catch the lyrics.

Some afternoons, they worked in tandem. Others, they barely spoke. She liked that. Liked how he didn’t need to fill silences. Liked how the light came in angled and gold, catching in the curls at his neck, making even stillness feel like movement.

It didn’t feel borrowed.

It felt like something that might last.

“You’re better than you think,” Theon said one afternoon, eyes still fixed on his own canvas. “Your lines - they’re quiet, but they say something.”

Meg tilted her head. “That’s not what you said last week.”

“I said they were restrained.” He glanced over, a smile curling slow at the corners. “There’s a difference.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to compliment me or critique me?”

“Yes,” he said, and she laughed.

There was a rhythm to them. A natural gravity. He asked questions that made her think, and then didn’t always wait for the answer. She liked how he saw the world - talked about it in shapes and shadows. He made ordinary things feel like metaphors.

And maybe that was what got her.

Not just how he looked at the city - but how he made her feel like she belonged in it.

Some days, they painted. Other days they ended up in the bed, limbs tangled, her head on his chest, his fingers tracing small shapes along her arm. Once, he told her her laugh sounded like something he used to try to capture in oils but never could.

He didn’t ask about her past. Not the way others did. Not with that expectation of revelation. He just let the quiet fill in what he didn’t know.

Meg - who had spent so long being watched, warned, and worried over - let herself breathe.

She hadn’t told Esme about the studio. Flynn definitely didn’t know.

If she told Esme, there’d be questions.
If she told Flynn, there’d be jokes.
And right now, Meg didn’t want either.
She just wanted something that felt like peace.

And sitting cross-legged on the paint-stained floor, a breeze stirring the hem of her shirt, her pencil moving slow and steady across the page - she almost believed this could be the life she got to keep.

The light shifted.

And she didn’t move.

Another day, the light hitting the studio wall the same way.

Meg was lying on the couch, one arm flung over her eyes, her knees drawn up beneath the oversized shirt she’d pulled from Theon’s floor that morning. It smelled like him - linseed oil, coffee, and something sharper underneath.

He was standing by the canvas again, shirtless, brush in hand, bare feet smudged with charcoal where he’d stepped through something without noticing.

“Do you ever stop moving?” she murmured.

Theon didn’t turn. “Do you ever stop watching?”

She didn’t answer. Not because she couldn’t. Just because she didn’t want to break the stretch of air between them.

Outside, the city leaned against the windows in soft golds and greys. Inside, time felt thick. Still. Like they were holding something by the edge and not naming it on purpose.

Finally, he turned. “Come here.”

Meg blinked up at him. “Why?”

He just held out his hand, fingers stained blue and ochre, like they’d forgotten how to be clean. “Trust me.”

She slid off the couch without argument. The floor was cool under her feet, the hem of the shirt brushing her thighs.

He didn’t speak. Just guided her closer, then dipped his thumb into a smear of red on the palette and touched it lightly to the curve of her collarbone. Meg sucked in a breath.

“What are you-?”

“I wanted to see something.”

Another dab of colour, this time lower, just above her sternum. His fingers were warm. Gentle.

“This okay?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded, as he pulled the shirt over her head.

He kept going - lines and shapes across her skin, nothing literal, just motion. Just instinct.

Meg stood still. Let him.

Theon’s brow furrowed like she was a surface he hadn’t expected to read. His brush dragged faintly across her ribs, just under the swell of her chest. Not erotic. Not quite. More… deliberate. Devotional.

“You’re so still right now,” he said. “But it’s not quiet. You hum, Meg. Even when you’re not moving. Even when you’re trying not to be seen.”

Something twisted behind her ribs.

She didn’t know what to say to that.

So she kissed him.

Not out of obligation. Not out of heat. Just need. Need to meet that look in his eyes with something that said I hear you. That said stay.

He caught her by the waist and pulled her in.  Her hands curled over his shoulders, wet paint pressing between them. She didn’t know if it came from his hands or hers. Just that it was there - bright, streaked, messy - and neither of them cared.

They didn’t make it to the bed.

They stayed there on the floor - painted and undone and half-laughing into each other’s skin, the city a faint echo behind them.

Later, when his breathing slowed and the sky darkened into something violet and quiet, he turned to her and said -

“You make me want to get it right.”

Meg didn’t ask what it was.

She just tucked herself in closer, cheek to his shoulder, and let herself believe it could be true.

She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve it. But she didn’t want to move in case it stopped.

Chapter Text

Message Read

Flynn was midway through a half-baked hustle involving fake catering badges and a wedding in Prospect Park when it hit him - Meg would’ve had a better name for this.

She always named his scams.
The Museum One. The Drunk Groomsman. The Turkish Coffee Disaster.
This one? He hadn’t even tried.

His mark was a guy in linen pants and a Bluetooth earpiece who kept calling the bride “babe” and the officiant “bro.” Easy pickings. But Flynn’s heart wasn’t in it.

He pocketed the cash anyway, waved off the caterer’s clipboard, and ducked around the corner to light a cigarette he didn’t really want.

He pulled out his phone instead.

Meg’s name was still pinned to the top of his texts, next to a photo she didn’t know he’d taken - her sitting on the kitchen counter at someone’s terrible house party last spring, boots scuffed, Solo cup in one hand, mid-story and mid-smirk. Her head was tipped back laughing, hair a mess, eyes bright like she owned the whole room. She probably had.

He hadn’t meant to keep it. But he never deleted it either.

The last message was from him, four days ago.

You alive or buried under a gallery somewhere?
No reply.

He hadn’t followed up.
Didn’t want to be the guy who chased.
Didn’t want to admit he’d noticed she was slipping.

But he had.
Not just slipping - drifting.

Still Meg. Still dry-witted and sharp when they did talk.
But something in her edges was going soft.
Fading out like ink on bad paper.

He’d heard about the guy. Theon. Art boy. Apparently not the worst. Esme had mentioned him once with a shrug that said don’t ask me to like him yet.
Meg had said even less.

Flynn scrolled back up through their old thread. Dumb photos. Worse jokes. One night in June when she texted him a blurry napkin sketch titled “Passable Scam Artist, Possibly Thinking About Feelings.”
He hadn’t deleted that either.

A breeze caught the hem of his shirt. Somewhere nearby, a saxophone player was mangling Sinatra.

Flynn exhaled and thumbed his screen dark.

He wasn’t worried, exactly.
Just-

He missed her.

And for someone who lived by the rule never get sentimental, that felt a little too much like a warning.

Chapter Text

Small Explosions

The art store was old enough to feel accidental.

It sat on a crooked corner downtown, half swallowed by a newer, shinier coffee chain. The windows were dusty, the floorboards bowed. Inside, the shelves leaned into each other like old men telling stories. An ancient radio crackled from somewhere behind the counter, the radio floating over the rows of canvases, pigment powders, battered easels.

It was the kind of place where you had to dig.
The kind of place that felt like it had been built by artists, not for them.

Theon had brought her here once on a rainy afternoon, laughing about the grumpy owner who kept a parrot in the back room and only took cash.
That day, it had felt like a secret they were in on together - tucked into the warmth of that odd little world.

Today, it felt different. The light coming through the high windows felt too stark. The walls seemed too close. Or maybe it was just Theon.

He moved quickly, yanking jars of gesso off shelves, tossing sketchpads into a wire basket like he was racing something. His shoulders were tight, jaw set. His movements were quick, restless. He barely looked at what he was grabbing.

Meg trailed after him, fingers brushing over racks of brushes and stained paper palettes.

She hesitated by a fan brush - worn, loose-bristled - almost identical to one she’d seen him snap in two last week, muttering about texture and frustration.

She turned toward him, holding it lightly. “Hey, do you still-”

He spun toward her too fast. The wire basket clipped a low display stand. A dozen paint tubes clattered to the floor, noisy and uncontained.

“Just… stick to your own list, alright?” he snapped. Sharp. Loud enough to turn the cashier’s head.

Meg froze. Her grip tightened around the brush without meaning to. Something instinctive.

Theon scrubbed a hand through his hair, muttering a curse under his breath.

“Sorry,” he said, softer. “It’s just - I’m behind. Deadlines. Stupid shit.”

She nodded, too quickly. “It’s fine.”

She crouched, gathering the fallen paint tubes with steady fingers. The plastic was cold against her skin.

Everyone had bad days.

Flynn once walked three miles in a thunderstorm because his phone died mid-scheme.
Esme once cried over a headline change and called it a ‘slow death by soft edits.’

This was no different. Probably.
Small explosions.
Nothing permanent.

Still, Meg put the brush back on the rack. She didn’t reach for another but followed him to the register.

She watched Theon from a slight distance as he paid for his supplies with a crumple of bills, already tapping his foot like he was waiting for the next emergency.

Outside, the wind had picked up. A gust tugged at her sleeves.

Theon didn’t reach for her hand as they walked.

Meg didn’t offer it.

Later, in the apartment she still shared with Esme, Meg sat on her bed, sketchbook open in her lap. The pencil moved before she knew what she was drawing - quick strokes, half-thought lines, the muscle memory of wanting.

When she finally looked down, she realised she hadn’t drawn anything whole.
Just the suggestion of hands - reaching, brushing, but never quite catching hold.
The edges blurred like the memory of something you almost remembered.

She stared at it for a long time.

Across the apartment, Esme’s door was closed. The clack of keys was faint but steady - work, always work.

Meg thought, briefly, about knocking.
About saying something stupid like, Hey, can we talk about nothing for a while?

About flopping on Esme’s bed and trying on her laundry.
About asking for something without earning it first.

But the clock ticked louder.
Esme was on deadline.
And Meg knew how to carry her own weight.

She could handle it. Couldn’t she?

She closed the sketchbook, tucked it onto the nightstand, and turned off the light.

The room settled into darkness, thick and quiet.
She lay awake for a long time, listening to the radiator hum, the faint sound of Esme typing - tireless, a world away, just one door down.
And taught herself, quietly, how to need a little less.

Chapter Text

The Name

The newsroom at The Current was always too loud.

Not in the way Esme expected, back when she dreamed of investigative deadlines and high-stakes exposés. It wasn’t typewriters, pen and ink, and ‘stop press!’. Here, phones rang, fingers flew, and someone’s Spotify bled faintly from a too-loud laptop speaker. The air smelled like burnt coffee and stale granola bars. It resonates with that particular buzz that came from a dozen people all trying to shout louder than the algorithm in a city already screaming.

Esme lived for it.

Even if her desk was wedged beside the water cooler and her bylines were buried behind clickbait headlines.

It wasn’t where she wanted to end up. But it was a start.

Every week she pitched serious stories. Every week she got assigned fluff. But she was making herself known. She’d learned fast. Worked faster. She still felt the rush of seeing her name printed, even if it was next to articles like Ten Subway Hacks for the Broke New Yorker or Inside the Pet Psychic Boom of Park Slope.

She kept a Word doc on her desktop labelled “Real Work” where she logged leads and connections no one else cared about. She did her writing at night, her digging during lunch breaks. And when senior reporters pinged her emails with a "could use your eyes," she said yes before she’d even opened the attachment.

On this particular Tuesday, she was elbow-deep in notes for a piece she was ghost-writing for one of the senior columnists, Clopin Trouillefou. Not the warmest of mentors, but a good guy. Sharp when he wanted to be, caustic when he didn’t. He wore scuffed boots to the office, drank his coffee black and took more meetings in bars than in conference rooms. He was tenacious, worn around the edges, and too good for the paper’s budget.

“I need your brain on this,” he’d said, dropping a manila folder onto her desk without preamble. “Organised crime in the shipping yards. Lotta whispers, no proof. Find the threads.”

“Mob stuff?” she asked, flipping it open.

“Old blood, new tactics,” he replied. “But if I disappear, start looking in the East River.”

She laughed. He didn’t.

She liked that about him

“So who are we after?”

“That’s the thing,” he said. “No one knows.”

Esme liked puzzles.

Especially the kind that weren’t supposed to be solved.

She dug in fast - ports, shell companies, busted unions. There was a rhythm to it, once you got used to chasing ghosts. Esme had a gift for seeing patterns in static. Her walls at home were still papered with old clippings from college exposés no one else had cared about.

Three hours in, her desk was a nest of sticky notes and legal pads. Her browser had thirteen tabs open - two spreadsheets, a union newsletter, four maps of the port. She’d made a connection between three shell companies and a disused property in Red Hook when Clopin appeared beside her again, sipping coffee from a chipped Mets mug.

“You come across a name yet?”

She blinked up at him. “Which one?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, lowering his voice, he said, “Hades.”

Esme frowned. “What kind of name is that?”

He didn’t smile.

“One you should know. If you haven’t heard it yet, you will.”

She straightened. “You’re kidding, right? This is some sort of hazing?.”

Clopin looked over his shoulder - habit, or paranoia - and pulled up a chair.

“You’ll see it crop up in whispers. Never in writing. Never in court docs. But the name gets whispered. People flinch when you say it too loud.”

“What is it? A code name?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Esme leaned forward. “Is it one person?”

Clopin hesitated. “Most people think so. Man. Sharp. Invisible. Operates through proxies. No emails. No traceable accounts. But the moves? The moves are loud.”

“Give me something concrete.”

“Can’t. That’s what’s so fucking frustrating. I’ve been sniffing around this for months. Every time I get close, something scrambles the trail. Witnesses clam up. Stories run dry. People disappear. I had a source from the yard - good guy, scared but talkative. Disappeared after one meeting. Didn’t show up to work the next day. Never collected his last pay check.”

“Dead?”

“No body.”

Esme sat back, frowning. “So you’re telling me there’s a guy in this city who’s so powerful he can make people vanish and no one’s talking about it?”

“Oh, people talk,” Clopin said. “Just not publicly. No one wants to end up gone. Or worse - on the wrong side of a deal.”

She tilted her head. “You ever tried to write about him?”

“Three times.”

“And?”

“First time, the piece got spiked.”

“Why?”

“No reason given.”

“The second?”

“My hard drive crashed. Files gone. No backup.”

She arched a brow. “Coincidence?”

Clopin smiled - crooked, tired. “Maybe.”

“And the third?”

He hesitated.

“Tried to run a paragraph about him in a piece on waterfront corruption,” he said finally. “That same night, someone broke into my apartment. Didn’t take anything. Just moved stuff. Flipped a photo of my mom face down. Put a fresh cigarette in the plant pot.”

Esme stared.

“Never filed anything since,” he said. “Didn’t even tell the editors why.”

“You think it was him?”

“I don’t know,” Clopin said. “But I think someone wanted me to stop looking.”

Later, when everyone else had cleared out to families, dates, drinks in bars, Esme jotted the name down on a sticky note.

HADES.

All caps.

She’d chase it. Eventually.

She didn’t know it, but it would come to haunt her. That name. That shadow. That whisper in the walls of the city. It didn’t look like much. But it made her skin prickle.

Back then, it was just a curiosity.

A ghost story tucked into her research folder.

She’d look back one day and remember this moment - the chill of it. The weight.

But for now, she just stuck the note to her screen and got back to work.

Across town, in another corner of the city, someone else heard the name for the first time - not in a newsroom, but in a bar where warnings came cheap and danger cost more.

Flynn was having a good night.

He’d offloaded three fake first-press vinyls, sweet-talked his way into a free drink, and still had most of the cash tucked safe in his jacket. The bar was loud and sticky and smelled like ambition - kids hustling pool games, someone setting up a bad idea in the corner booth. It was the kind of place where if you stayed too long, you’d either make a friend or lose a wallet.

Flynn fit right in.

He liked nights like this. Nights where the scams were small, the stakes were low, and the worst thing you had to worry about was losing twenty bucks and a little dignity. Nights where you could forget, for a while, that the city was heavier than it looked.

He was packing up his crate of records, humming under his breath, when Al Siddiqi slid into the stool beside him.

Al wasn’t quite a friend but not really a threat either.
One of those guys who orbited the same scams and backdoor gigs, a half-smirk away from trouble at any given time. Always one step ahead or two hustles deep.

Flynn didn’t look up. “If you’re here to buy, you’re late.”

Al snorted, flagging the bartender with two fingers. "Buy? Please. I know you too well, man. That ‘first pressing’ you sold Eric last month? Sounded like it was recorded underwater."

Flynn grinned, tucking another sleeve into his crate. “Tell pretty-boy Eric to clean his damn ears.”

Al chuckled — dry, knowing. “One day, someone’s gonna call you on your bullshit.”

“One day,” Flynn agreed easily, slinging the crate strap over his shoulder. "But not tonight."

He tucked another sleeve into his crate, fast and loose.
He wasn’t worried. Nights like this didn’t ask for worry.
Not until Al leaned in, voice low and cutting through the noise.

“You should watch where you work, man. You're stepping into infested waters.”

Flynn raised an eyebrow. “You worried about me, Al? I’m touched.”

He shook his head. "Not you. The territory. Things are getting tight down here. Guys like you, guys like me - we don’t move without someone noticing anymore. Eyes everywhere lately."

Flynn leaned back, weighing him. “Yeah? Whose eyes?”

Al hesitated. Just enough.
Then he said it:

“Hades.”

No heat. No drama.
Just a name, dropped flat and heavy.

Flynn’s fingers paused on the crate’s handle.

He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.

Names had power in this city.
Names could open doors — or lock them.
And some names didn’t open anything.
They swallowed you whole.

He went for casual instead. “Never heard of him.”

Al smirked, like he’d expected that. Swirled the melting ice in his glass, deliberate. "Yeah, well. Most don’t. Not until they’re already under."

Flynn made a show of reaching for his jacket, like the conversation bored him. “So what’s the bedtime story? Bogeyman stuff?”

"More like ghost story," Al said. "The kind that doesn’t leave footprints."

Flynn shrugged. "He roughed up a few bookies? Big deal."
Al gave a low laugh. “You remember Nick Wilde? Used to run little card games over by Canal?”

"Sure," Flynn said. "What about him?"

"You won’t see him again. Nick got cute. Tried to stiff Hades. Thought he could hustle around the edges."

Al dragged a fingertip across the bar, slow and final.
“Found him face-down in the Hudson two weeks later. Hands tied. No wallet, no cops, no noise. Just… gone.”

Flynn tilted his head, giving a half-smirk. "That’s a lot of legend for a guy you can’t even prove exists."

Al leaned in a fraction closer. "That’s the thing about ghosts. You don’t have to see ‘em to end up dead."

For a second, Flynn almost asked more.
Names like that didn’t crop up for no reason.

But something in the way Al said it - quiet, certain, like he'd already seen too much - made Flynn leave it alone. Just tucked the story into that private, guarded place where you keep the things you know better than to say out loud.

He slung the crate fully over his shoulder, flashing an easy grin. "Sounds like you need a hobby, Al. Conspiracy theories aren’t paying out."

Al clinked his glass against the bar. “Maybe. But if I were you, I’d stick to the places that don’t echo.”

Then he slipped back into the crowd, lost in the thrum of voices and spilled liquor.

Flynn stayed where he was, letting the jukebox's dying song fill the space.
Something grimy about bad choices and bus tickets west.

The night outside felt colder than it should have.
Colder, and wider.

He wasn't worried.
Not yet.

But the name - and the story behind it - settled low in his gut, a splinter he knew he wouldn't be able to shake.

Hades.

Flynn filed it away.
Not panic.
Not paranoia.

Just a quiet recalibration - the way you learned to cross a street without looking twice if you grew up in a place that bit back.

Some names weren’t warnings.

They were promises.

Chapter Text

Cracked Canvas

The studio felt colder than usual when Meg arrived, not just the air, but something under it. The windows were cracked open just enough to let the autumn air curl inside, lifting the edge of a stray canvas, rattling a jar of brushes.

Theon was already there, standing in front of a half-finished piece.
He didn’t look up when she came in.
Didn’t smile.
Just kept painting - broad, heavy strokes that didn’t seem to be taking him anywhere.

Meg hesitated near the door, toeing the worn rug with the side of her sneaker.
Normally he’d greet her with some half-smirk, some offhanded joke.
Today he just wiped his brush harder against the canvas, like trying to scrub something out.

She set her bag down carefully, making her movements soft, unobtrusive.

“Hey,” she said gently, her voice threading into the space between them.
"Hey," he said like the word cost him something.

There was a tightness in his voice she didn't know how to answer.

Meg hesitated.
She didn’t want to walk on eggshells. That wasn’t who they were.
But today, the ground already felt cracked.
She wandered toward the big table stacked with tubes of paint and broken brushes. Ran her hand lightly over the edge, as if smoothing the tension between them.

Outside, the street buzzed with evening traffic - normal life, moving on without them.
Inside, the room felt too still, like a painting stretched too tight across the frame.

She watched him work for a few minutes in silence.
Something about the painting was angrier than usual - scratches of colour slashing through each other, forms collapsing.
It wasn’t what he usually did.

"You’re pushing the tones pretty hard," she said, trying for lightness. "Maybe you need a little more contrast?"

It was what she would have said any other day.
A small offering. A place to start.

But today wasn’t any other day. Theon stiffened like she’d slapped him.

Theon turned, too fast, paint still dripping from his brush.
His mouth twisted into something sharp.

“Jesus, Meg,” he snapped. “Maybe I don't need a fucking critique every time you walk in here."

She froze.
The words hit sharper than they should have.
Not just the words - the heat behind them. The venom in the way he spat them. Like she'd broken something by breathing wrong.

She opened her mouth - what the hell – then thought twice and bit it back.

"I wasn’t - " she forced instead.

But Theon cut in, voice low, bitter: "Christ, you're not even working on anything real. You sketch on napkins and call it art."

That landed harder.

Like a hand pressing down on a bruise.

He dropped the brush into a jar, scraping his hands through his hair, pacing a few steps back from the canvas like it had betrayed him.

He exhaled sharply. "Forget it," he muttered. "I'm just - I'm just off. It's nothing."

The silence after was sharp and metallic, like copper on her tongue.

Meg didn’t know whether to speak or back away.
She hated how small she felt, standing there with her hands curled into fists she didn’t remember making.

But she also knew what it felt like to lose something by pushing too hard.

Finally, he crossed the distance between them.
Slow. Like realising too late that he’d knocked something off the shelf.
The fight bled out of his posture, leaving something hollow in its place.

"Come here," he said, softer now.

She should have stayed where she was. Just for a second longer. Just to prove she could. But because some part of her still craved the way he could be - because she wanted to believe this wasn’t about her, wasn’t about them - she went.

He pulled her in, arms wrapping around her with a force that felt almost desperate.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it" he murmured into her hair. "I’m just... tired. Everything feels like it’s slipping."

The apology was in the words, but not quite in the voice.

Meg squeezed her eyes shut.
Pressed her forehead into his chest.
Let herself believe him for a moment.
Let herself believe that was all it was.

If she didn't look too hard, maybe she could believe it.
Maybe she could hold this version of him - the soft one - for a little longer.

And that was the dangerous thing about Theon.
He always said sorry like he meant it.
He always held her like he could undo the break with the softness of his hands.

Later, the city churned around her as she made her way home, back to her place.

She kept her head down. Hood up against the rain. Hands deep in her jacket pockets, clutching the strap of her bag like an anchor.

She could still feel the way his words landed. Brutal. Careless.
Still feel the way he'd kissed her after, too desperate to be sweet.

At the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change, she pulled out her phone.
Thumbed absently through her contacts.

Paused on Flynn's name.

She could call him.
Hear him crack a joke about her questionable taste in men.
Hear him say something ridiculous just to make her laugh.
Hear someone who didn’t look at her like a piece of work not worth finishing.

Her thumb hovered over the call button.

The light changed.

She shoved the phone back into her pocket and crossed the street without looking back.

Chapter Text

Mixed Signals

The community art centre wasn’t much to look at from the outside.
Crumbling brick, a battered green awning, a flyer taped crooked to the door.

But inside, it was warmer. String lights zigzagged the ceiling. Someone had laid out folding tables with cheap plastic cups and boxed wine. Canvases and sketches covered every inch of wall space, taped and thumbtacked wherever there was room.

Meg had helped hang them herself - crooked lines, lumpy horizons, earnest portraits that didn't quite resemble their subjects. Her own piece - a rough sketch of two girls sitting on a subway bench, heads tipped toward each other, caught in a moment of laughter - was tucked between a still life of bruised apples and a charcoal portrait of someone's grandmother.

It wasn't perfect.
But somehow, it felt honest.

Meg smoothed her palms down her jeans - black, ankle-cut, a little more polished than usual. Linen shirt flowing gently. Hair pinned up messily but deliberately.
It wasn’t a date.
It wasn’t a performance.

But she still wanted tonight to matter.

The door creaked.
Meg turned - heart lifting - but it was Esme who stepped inside first.

She looked around with an assessing sweep of her eyes, then smiled when she spotted Meg. "Classy joint," she said, making her way over, toting her laptop and her usual paraphernalia straight from the office.

Meg laughed. "You didn’t have to come."

"Please. Like I was gonna miss seeing you in your natural habitat."
Esme pulled her into a quick hug -  all tight arms and perfume that smelled a little like ambition.

"You look good," she added, pulling back. Then, sharper, "Nervous?"

Meg shrugged, feigning casual. "It’s just a class show."

"Uh-huh." Esme's eyes crinkled, seeing through it but letting it slide.

They leaned against the wall, surveying the room.

"This yours?" Esme asked, nodding toward the subway sketch.

"Yeah."
Meg tucked her hands in her pockets. "It’s nothing, really."

Esme gave her a look. "You know that's not true."

Meg smiled, small but real.

The door creaked again.
This time Flynn strolled in, a battered denim jacket slung over his shoulder and boots scuffing noisily on the floor.

"Well, well, well," he said, spreading his arms wide. "Look who’s getting all fancy."

Meg rolled her eyes but couldn't help grinning.
"You’re late."

"Fashionably." He kissed her cheek, quick and familiar, then nodded at Esme. "Troublemaker."

"Degenerate," Esme said back without missing a beat.

They shared a smirk - that familiar, adversarial affection - and then turned together toward Meg, expectant.

She laughed, tugging her sleeves down nervously.
"They’re starting the talks soon," she said, more to fill the space than anything.

Flynn looked around, taking in the room. "Art’s not bad," he said, sounding surprised.
Then, softer, "Yours is better."

Meg ducked her head, warmth blooming low in her chest.

Esme bumped her shoulder lightly.
"You hear that? A compliment. We should get it notarised."

Meg shook her head, smiling.
Outside, the city kept moving - taxis hissing past, streetlights blinking on one by one.
Inside, the night felt suspended -  a little awkward, a little bright, a little full of hope.

The only person missing now was Theon.

They milled around for a while, pretending not to watch the door.

Flynn snagged three plastic cups of terrible wine and passed one to Esme like a peace offering. She took it with a suspicious look, but didn’t comment.
Meg kept leaning against the wall, eyes scanning the room - casual, if you didn’t know her.

Flynn and Esme knew her.

They caught the way her gaze darted to the entrance every few minutes. The way she shifted her weight from foot to foot. How she laughed a little too quickly at a joke Flynn cracked about the paint fumes probably being a cheap way to get high.

“He’s coming, right?” Flynn asked, aiming for casual, missing by a mile.

Meg shrugged, overplaying the nonchalance. "Yeah. He’s just late."

Flynn exchanged a glance with Esme -  brief, conspiratorial.
Esme raised an eyebrow. Flynn smirked.

Meg caught it.
Her spine stiffened almost imperceptibly.

“I told you,” she said, sharp-edged, “he’s coming.”

Flynn lifted his hands in surrender. “Hey. No one’s judging.”

“Speak for yourself,” Esme muttered into her wine.

Before Meg could retort, the door swung open again - and Theon stepped through.

Theon was exactly the kind of late that said he hadn't really rushed.

He strolled in like he belonged there - leather jacket on, sketchbook tucked under his arm, grin already in place.

Meg's whole face changed when she saw him.

She pushed off the wall, relief loosening her posture, her smile catching fire like it had been waiting for him to arrive to light it.
Flynn saw it happen. Esme did too.

Theon crossed the room with a casual wave at Meg - the kind you gave to someone you were already sure would forgive you.

"Sorry," he said when he reached them, not sounding particularly sorry, he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her - easy, practiced, just shy of her mouth. "Got caught at the studio."

Esme gave him a quick once-over - a polite, practiced smile in place. "Long day?"

Theon shrugged. "Always."

Then his gaze landed on Flynn.

There was a brief pause -  just long enough for Flynn to feel it.

Meg jumped in quickly. "Flynn-Theon. Theon-Flynn."

Theon stuck out his hand, easy. "Good to meet you, man."

Flynn shook it - firm, but not aggressive.
Sizing each other up the way guys who should know better still sometimes did.

There was nothing wrong with Theon.
No obvious red flags.
No overt sleaze or hostility.

But there was a hum underneath it.
Something a little too slick.
Something that said: I know how this game works. I know how to win.

Flynn smiled - lazy, disarming - and filed the feeling away.

Meg was saying something about the class - the turnout, how nervous she'd been - and Theon slid an arm around her shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It looked casual.

It looked possessive.

Flynn caught Esme’s eye again.
No words needed.

They both saw it.

They found seats along the wall while the rest of the small crowd thinned out - classmates packing up, folding chairs scraping over the old floorboards.

Meg perched on the edge of her chair, still riding the afterglow of the night. Her sketchbook sat closed in her lap, one thumb hooked over the edge like she couldn’t quite let it go yet.

Theon sprawled beside her, legs stretched long, fingers tapping a loose rhythm against his knee.
He wasn’t looking at her work.
He wasn’t looking at her, either.

Flynn leaned back, tossing his jacket over the chair behind him, trying to make it easier. "So, Meg says you’re a painter?"

Theon shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah. Try to be."

Esme jumped in - trying to smooth it over. "What kind of stuff do you like to work on, Theon?"

He smirked a little. "Whatever doesn’t bore the hell out of me."
His gaze flicked toward the nearest wall - at some of the posted sketches from Meg’s class - and something in his mouth tightened, like he was biting back a comment.

Flynn didn’t miss it.
Neither did Meg.

"You know," Flynn said, offhand, "everyone’s gotta start somewhere."

Meg’s hand tightened slightly over her sketchbook.

Esme smiled thinly. "I think the point is to try. Right?"

Theon chuckled - not unkindly, but not exactly warmly either. "Sure. Just don’t mistake effort for talent."

Flynn stiffened but kept his mouth shut. Barely.

The air shifted - a degree colder.

Meg gave Theon a look - something halfway between warning and pleading - but he missed it. Or ignored it.

Instead, he reached over and ruffled her hair, affectionate in a careless way that made her flush - not from pleasure, but from something sharper.
A quiet, careful mortification.

Flynn leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Nutmeg’s got more talent in her little finger than most people I’ve met." Flynn didn’t miss the wince of mild disgust Theon shed at the nickname.

Theon tilted his head, studying Flynn like he was a curiosity. "Yeah? You a critic?"

Flynn just smiled - wide and lazy. "Nah. Just know what’s good when I see it."

There was a beat of silence.
Long enough for everyone to feel it.

Theon sat back, letting the tension dissolve like he hadn’t even noticed it.

Meg fiddled with the edge of her sleeve, laughing too quickly. "Okay, boys. I get it. I’m a prodigy."

"Better be careful," Theon said, slinging an arm back over her chair. "You’ll get a big head."

It was meant to be a joke. Probably.
But it landed heavy.

Flynn caught the tightness in Esme’s lips – that same quick, sharp flicker between them.
Agreement.
Concern.

Two people who barely agreed on anything, suddenly on the same page.

Meg missed it.
Or pretended she did.

She stood, forcing a smile. "Come on. Drinks are on me."

They headed for the door - Theon’s hand finding the small of her back as they moved through the crowd.

Flynn stayed half a step behind, the weight of the night settling in his chest.

It was small things.
Nothing you could point to.

But it all felt wrong.

Outside, the night had cooled into something sharp and electric.
Steam curled up from the subway grates.
The streetlights blurred a little at the edges - the city breathing around them in long, heavy sighs.

Theon tugged his jacket higher, one arm finding its way over Meg’s shoulder without looking.

“So where are we headed?” asked Esme.

“Yeah, about drinks…” Theon started “let’s call it a night” he said to Meg, not glancing at the other two.

Meg hesitated - just a second.

“You sure?” she asked glancing up at him, a flicker of hope in her eyes.

“Yeah.” Theon sighed finally, muttering something about studio time, a deadline to make.

Esme was standing with her arms folded, Flynn with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. Both watching — both pretending not to.

“Sorry, guys” Meg said, trying for easy. “Rain check?”

“Of course, Nutmeg. Anytime you want.” Flynn offered, giving a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Esme nodded silently.

Theon barely waited, already turning to start down the block. Meg turned back toward them, not ready to just disappear.

"Thanks for coming," she said, voice lighter than she felt.

Esme smiled - the real kind, soft at the edges. "You were brilliant, Meg."

Flynn gave her a wink. "Knew you’d kill it, kid."

The knot in Meg’s chest tightened - something half-grateful, half-splintered.

Theon tugged on her hand - casual, but insistent. And Meg let him pull her away before she could change her mind, weaving into the current of late-night wanderers, neon and noise.

Esme and Flynn stood on the sidewalk, the streetlamp above them flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to stay on. The city murmured around them - low music from a bar down the block, the distant screech of a train, laughter spilling from a cab window.

Neither of them spoke.

“She seems happy,” Flynn said eventually, not looking at Esme.

Esme crossed her arms. “She seems something.”

Flynn huffed, half a laugh. “You don’t like him.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She tilted her head, watching the street. “You don’t like him either.”

He shrugged. “Haven’t known him long enough not to.”

“But long enough to get a read.”

Flynn tilted his head, watching headlights pass on the avenue. “He’s all edges,” he said finally. “Hides them well, but they’re there.”

Esme looked at him then. “And Meg?”

A beat. “She used to laugh more.”

That one hit. Esme’s gaze drifted to the corner Meg had vanished around. “She says he makes her feel awake.”

“Yeah.” Flynn’s jaw shifted. “That’s the thing about falling - it can feel like flying.”

They stood in silence, watching the corner their friend has disappeared around. The one who always remembered their birthdays, surprised them with pastries she couldn’t really afford, who sent them playlists she’s meticulously constructed for them ‘just because’.

The city pressing in from all sides. Horns in the distance. A siren, faint and far away. Somewhere, someone yelled something unintelligible into the night.

Esme shifted her weight. “You think we should say something?”

Flynn didn’t answer right away. Then: “Would she listen?”

“No.”

They stood a little longer. Side by side. Two anchors Meg was already starting to drift from.

Flynn broke the quiet. “Let’s just keep our boots dry.”

Esme glanced at him.

“In case we have to go in after her,” he added.

She nodded once.

And they both walked off in opposite directions, quiet and wary, the city swallowing their footsteps.

Chapter Text

Burn Marks

Flynn had to bribe her with dumplings.

And not just any — the ones from that hole-in-the-wall in Sunset Park she used to swear could cure heartbreak, hangovers, and seasonal depression. He texted her a photo of the bag and wrote: Come outside. Before I eat all of them.

No answer.

But five minutes later, the apartment door creaked open, and Meg appeared, denim overalls and sunglasses perched on her nose even though the sky was just starting to turn dusky pink. It was probably the last evening of the year you could leave a coat behind. She kicked the door shut behind her with one heel.

“You’re lucky I was hungry,” she said, voice dry as the cracked sidewalk.

Flynn held out the bag. “You say that like I haven’t mapped your entire food-based vulnerability system.”

“Mm. Tragic legacy.”

But she smirked — just enough to know he’d won.

They wandered toward the park, the plastic bag swinging between them. It was one of those long Brooklyn evenings that smelled like exhaust, corner store incense, and somebody grilling too much meat too close to the curb. The streetlights buzzed alive overhead, catching the copper strands of Meg’s hair when she tilted her head back.

Flynn pulled a soda from his jacket pocket and handed it over.

She took it with a small, almost imperceptible shrug. No thanks, but no resistance either.

For a while, it was easy.

They sprawled on the grass near the tennis courts like teenagers skipping something important. Flynn kicked off his trainers. Meg folded herself down beside him, legs tucked under like a dancer who’d forgotten she was supposed to perform.

He caught her looking at the sky - really looking - and smiled.

“I can’t believe you wore sunglasses for this entire walk,” he said eventually.

“I’m trying to not be perceived right now.”

“Nutmeg, you’ve got about three layers of artistic mystery on. You’re five minutes from quoting Sylvia Plath at me.”

She laughed - real, sharp, sudden - and tapped the side of his shin lightly with her toe of her New Balance.

“Screw you.” She said, pushing the sunglasses up into her hair.

“There she is,” Flynn said, grinning.

And for a beat - just a beat - it was almost like it used to be.

Not Meg with a boyfriend, or Meg with her walls up. Just Meg. His Meg. The girl sat with him on rooftops and talked shit about the world like it didn’t own them yet.

They sat there until the dumplings were gone and the shadows blurred the lines of the trees.

Flynn dug a bottlecap from the dirt, spinning it absently under one finger. He waited until the light softened, until the easy part ran out.

Then he said, too lightly, “So.”

Meg didn’t look at him. Just leaned back on her palms. “So.”

“I met your guy.”

Her jaw tightened.
Almost invisible. But Flynn knew her better than that.

“He’s a real charmer, that one.”

“Flynn.”

“No, seriously,” he said, aiming for teasing but missing. “It’s not every day you meet a guy who looks at your friends like they're gum on his shoe.”

Meg sighed. “You don’t have to like him.”

“Don’t worry,” Flynn shrugged, plucking a blade of grass and tearing it down the middle.  “I don’t.”

She gave him a sidelong look — sharp, defensive.

And Flynn, fool that he was, pushed anyway.

“You never used to let people walk all over you, Meg.”

“He’s doesn’t -” She cut herself off. Pressed her lips together. “He had a bad night,” she said finally.

Flynn rolled the grass between his fingers. “Maybe. But lately it feels like you’re the one making excuses for people who don’t deserve them.”

She sat up straighter, tension rising between her shoulders.

“You’ve been having a lot of those nights too,” Flynn said, softer. “Bad ones. Except you don’t call. You don’t show up. You don’t even tell us when something’s wrong.”

“I’m fine.” Automatic. Mechanical.

“You’re not,” Flynn said, frustrated now. “You’re - god, Meg. You’re fading and I don’t know how to fix it.”

She stood up then. Too fast. Dusting off her palms like the conversation had physically dirtied them.

Flynn stood too, slower.

“I’m not accusing you,” he said. “I’m just - remember when we used to tell each other things? When you didn’t have to carry it alone?”

“I still tell you things.”

“Then tell me why you look like you’re falling and pretending you’re flying.”

She turned to him. Eyes sharp.

Not angry. Worse — tired.

Tired of this.

Tired of him.

“I don’t need saving, Flynn.”

And that - that was it.

The line he wouldn’t cross. The wall he hadn’t known she’d built.

Flynn didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at her. Really looked. The way he used to when they were broke and reckless and dreaming about something better. But now there were circles under her eyes, a fold in her brow that hadn’t been there last spring.

She wasn’t lying.

And she wasn’t asking.

She was telling him.

Telling him to back off.

Telling him she wasn’t his to catch anymore.

He swallowed the hundred things he wanted to say.

Swallowed them all.

“Yeah,” he said finally. Voice rough. “Okay.”

Meg’s shoulders dropped. Not in relief. Something smaller, resignation.

She turned and walked away

He didn’t stop her. Didn’t follow.

Just stayed behind while she walked off, into the darkening street, a shadow that used to be his favourite person.

Flynn dug his hands into his pockets, the cold of the bottlecap still pressed into his palm.

He didn’t know what she needed.

Didn’t know how to pull her back.

But somewhere deep in his chest — deep and dangerous — he knew he’d failed at something he hadn’t even realised he was supposed to be holding onto.

The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the coat hooks.

Esme startled, then glanced over her shoulder from the couch, the light of her laptop painting her face in faint blue. “You good?”

Meg dropped her bag with a thud and kicked off her trainers, stamping on the backs of them. “Flynn’s being an asshole.”

“Ah.” Esme turned back to her screen, clicking through something without really seeing it. “That’s not new.”

“No, I mean - get this…” Meg paced into the room in front of her and spun back, hands on her hips. “…he thinks I need saving.”

Esme closed a tab, then another. “From what?”

“From Theon. From myself. From - god, I don’t know. He doesn’t even know what he means half the time.” Meg exhaled through her nose, pacing again. “I invite him to one thing. One night that’s about me, something that matters to me - and he turns it into an intervention.”

Esme saved her document. Closed the lid.

“You’re quiet,” Meg said, watching her.

“I’m on deadline,” Esme replied, too quickly.

Meg folded her arms. “No opinion at all? That’s a first.”

Esme looked up then, really looked. At her oldest friend - cheeks flushed, tension in her shoulders, still wired from the argument she’d carried home like a storm cloud.

“I have opinions,” she said carefully. “But I wasn’t sure you wanted them.”

“Try me,” Meg said. Sharp. Daring.

Esme pushed off the couch, walked towards the kitchen, avoiding Meg’s eye as she said it. “I think Flynn’s right.”

There was a pause - sharp and unnatural. Like the room had skipped a beat.

Meg blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t like the way Theon talks to you,” Esme said, turning to her now, voice steady. “And you’ve been different lately, Meg. Not in a falling-in-love way. In a forgetting-who-you-are way.”

Meg’s laugh came out small and disbelieving. “Jesus. Did you both get together and rehearse this?”

“No,” Esme said. “But I wish we had. Because I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this for weeks.”

Meg stayed standing, arms crossed like a shield. “Say what?”

“That you’ve changed. Not just in the obvious ways.” Esme took a breath. “You’ve stopped replying. Stopped sketching anything that isn’t his face. You missed your last class. Cancelled all our plans. You don’t even laugh the same.”

Meg’s mouth pulled tight. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m watching you.”

Esme didn’t mean for it to sound so raw. But it was. It was all raw now.

“Oh, come on-” Meg folded her arms tighter. “You don’t even know him.”

“I know what it looks like when someone starts folding themselves up to fit inside someone else.”

Meg flinched, just slightly.

And Esme hated the way it made her feel. Like she was tearing something instead of fixing it.

“I’m saying this because I care about you. Because I’ve watched you get smaller around him.”

“That’s not true.” Meg’s voice was rising now. “God, you think everything is a warning sign. You never liked Flynn, either. No one’s ever good enough for me, are they?”

“That’s not what this is.”

“No?” Meg’s eyes flashed. “Then why does it feel like you’ve never been happy for me? Not once.”

Esme stared.

The words landed with a heat she hadn’t expected. Not from Meg. Not here, in this living room with the half-dead houseplant and their photos still framed on the mantle.

“That’s not fair,” she said quietly.

But Meg wasn’t backing down. “You say you want what’s best for me, but it always has to be your version of best. The second I find something good, you start clocking the exits.”

“I’ve seen what happens when you chase things that aren’t real,” Esme said. “I’ve had to pick up the pieces.”

“And I’ve had to deal with your silence when I needed support.” Meg’s voice dropped. “You weren’t there when I’ve been miserable. You didn’t ask.”

Esme opened her mouth. Closed it.

This wasn’t the fight she’d wanted to have. She hadn’t wanted a fight at all. Just a chance to reach her. To pull Meg back across whatever widening space had opened between them.

“I didn’t know how,” she said finally.

Meg looked at her like that wasn’t enough.

Maybe it wasn’t.

She turned to go, footsteps soft on the worn rug.

“Meg-”

But the door to her room was already closing.

Esme stood alone in the echo of the hallway light.

She went back to the couch, opened her laptop, and stared at the blinking cursor.

It was still early evening, but it felt like the kind of night that left smoke in the walls.

Meg went to Theon’s that night.

She packed a bag, just enough for a couple of nights and hopped a Citi Bike to Clinton Hill, kicking it until it unlocked the way Flynn had taught her. Theon buzzed her in without asking why.

He was in one of his softer moods. Music playing low, tea already steeped, paint drying slow on a new canvas. His smile when he saw her wasn’t sharp like it had been lately. It was gentle, expectant. Like she’d done the right thing just by showing up.

She didn’t tell him what happened with Flynn or Esme. Not really.
Just rolled her eyes, muttered something about people overreacting.
About how certain friends couldn’t let go of the past.

Theon didn’t push.
He just listened, brushed hair back from her face, kissed her forehead like it was something sacred.

“You don’t need that noise,” he murmured. “You’ve got me.”

She didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.

Later, they curled beneath the paint-stained sheets and let the night blur around them. His touch was warm. Steady. Reassuring in the way a strong current pretends to carry you until it’s too deep to swim back.

And Meg let herself believe it - just for a little while - that she’d made the right choice.

That this was easier.
Quieter.
Safer.

She fell asleep with her hand on his chest and a knot in her stomach she refused to name.

Chapter Text

The Chill

She was only supposed to stay a few nights.

She hadn’t packed much. A sweater, two t-shirts, a week’s worth of denial.
Enough to pretend she’d be home by the weekend.

But the weekend came and went, and the bag stayed under Theon’s coffee table, half-unzipped, like a mouth mid-apology.

No one had called since Thursday. Flynn had stopped texting after the second unanswered We okay? Meg couldn’t bring herself to listen to Esme’s voice note.

She missed them.
But missing them meant remembering why she’d left. And she told herself she liked the stillness.

Theon’s studio didn’t ask much of her. The lights were soft. The heat came and went but mostly stayed on. There was no expectation to talk, no confrontation waiting in the hallway. Just low music, blank canvases stacked against the wall, and the clean smell of turpentine and rain.

It was easy to sink into.

He didn’t ask why she hadn’t gone home. Didn’t mention Esme or the fight or how long her toothbrush had been in the bathroom cup.
He just kissed her good morning and made her coffee without asking how she wanted it.
She drank it anyway. Even when it was wrong.

But even he was different lately. More and more, he was gone before she woke.

He said he was working - gallery stuff, meetings with people who didn’t text, didn’t leave voicemails, didn’t have names.

Meg believed him. Or wanted to. Or didn’t want to test what would happen if she asked.

She’d curl up on the couch with his hoodie on, sketchbook balanced on her knees, drawing nothing. Watching the light shift on the walls like time couldn’t decide what to do with itself.

The place absorbed her slowly.
Her charger lived beside the bed now. Her socks hung over the radiator. She found herself stacking the mugs in his kitchen into her usual order. Rearranging the towels. Wiping the bathroom mirror with the sleeve of his sweatshirt when it fogged.

She stopped checking in on her own life. The world could wait.

She wasn’t hiding. She was resting.
That’s what she told herself.

Resting.

He was kind, mostly.

Quiet, affectionate in his own rhythm.
Sometimes they’d eat takeout on the floor and watch something half-forgotten on a laptop. Sometimes he read aloud from art theory books, half-mocking, until she laughed at the nonsense of it.

There were good hours. Sometimes even good days.

But the main studio door was closed now.

Not in a harsh way. Just - closed. Like something private had taken root there, and she was no longer part of it.

She used to sit in the corner while he worked. Used to watch the way he moved through the mess like it made sense to him.

Now, she waited in the other room.

One night she reached for the handle without thinking.

It didn’t turn.

She stood there for a second, hand still on the knob, blinking like someone who’d walked into the wrong house.

She didn’t try again.
Just stepped away, quiet as a thought.

The next morning, Theon pressed a kiss to her temple and said, “You sleep okay?”

Meg nodded.

Neither of them mentioned the door.

She woke one morning with his hand resting on her ribs.
Not her waist - higher, just beneath the curve of her chest, like he was holding her heartbeat in place.

It wasn’t sexual.
It wasn’t even possessive.

It felt like something else entirely.
Like he was checking she was still there.

She didn’t move.
Kept her breathing slow, steady. Waited to see if he was awake.

But his eyes were closed. Brow creased. Lips parted just enough to whisper something she couldn’t hear.

She stayed like that for minutes. Letting him anchor her. Letting herself believe this - whatever this was - still meant something.

But the longer she lay there, the more her chest ached.

She wasn’t sure if she was comforted by the weight of his hand…
Or terrified of what it would mean if he ever took it away.

Days passed

Theon had always been moody. It was part of the charm, once.
The drama. The temperament. The fevered bursts of genius that pulled him from her arms at 3 a.m. and sent him pacing across canvas-strewn floors with paint in his hair and music too loud in his ears.

But this wasn’t that.

This was different.

This was tension that didn’t create.
This was silence that didn’t soothe.

He stopped looking her in the eye when he came home. Brushed past questions with kisses that landed half a beat too late. Answered her how-was-your-day with “Fine,” then disappeared into the studio she no longer had a key to.

Once, she caught him scribbling something on a torn envelope and tucking it into the pocket of his coat. When he saw her watching, he smiled too quickly.

“Notes,” he said. “For a piece.”

He didn’t say what kind of piece.
He didn’t ask if she wanted to see it.

She came back early one afternoon and found him at the kitchen table, counting money.

Stacks of bills, all twenties and tens, spread out like a game of patience.

He didn’t hear her at first.

Just sat there in the quiet, eyes fixed on the numbers, one thumb tapping the edge of a folded envelope like it was ticking down time.

When he finally looked up, he startled - just a flicker, quickly masked.

“Gallery deposit,” he said, too quickly. “That job finally paid out.”

She nodded, even though he hadn’t told her about any commission.

Even though artists didn’t get paid in cash.

He stood and kissed her like nothing was strange.

She didn’t ask about the envelope.

And he didn’t offer.

He started carrying his phone everywhere. To the bodega. From one room to the next. Even into the shower. She never saw him charging it.

Sometimes, he left the room to take calls and came back with his jaw tight and his knuckles white where he gripped the doorframe.

She wanted to ask. She did.
But she remembered how he’d looked one night - when she’d brought up the bruise on his ribs - and how long it had taken for his voice to soften again.

So she kept quiet.
Just watched. Waited.
Measured the weight of his absence even while he sat beside her on the couch.

The call came on late one Thursday night.

She’d gotten up to refill the kettle - couldn’t sleep, the rain was too loud - and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

Theon was in the studio, door cracked just enough for sound to carry.

She didn’t mean to listen.

She also didn’t mean to freeze.

But something in his voice - low, clipped, too fast - sent a jolt down her spine.

“I said I’ve got it,” he snapped. “Just - tell him I’m not late. Tell him it’s handled.”

A pause.

“No, I don’t care what he heard. Just tell Hades I’m handling it.”

The name stopped her cold.

She stood perfectly still, eyes on the stove, mind across the hallway, breath held like it might betray her.

The conversation kept going - lower now, muffled. But the name echoed. Louder than it should have. As if the room was still repeating it after he was done speaking.

Hades.

She didn’t move until the water boiled over her knuckles.

He didn’t know she’d heard.

When he came to bed, he curled against her like nothing had changed.
Like she was still warm and safe and his.

Meg lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, counting cracks she couldn’t see.

The name curled in the back of her mind like smoke from a fire still hidden, but already spreading.

Not panic. Not certainty.

Just pressure.

Just weight.

It didn’t feel like the beginning of something.

It felt like something was already in motion.
And she’d only just noticed the ground shifting.

At dawn, she slipped out from under the covers.

Poured herself coffee she didn’t drink. Stood at the kitchen counter in one of his old sweatshirts, staring at nothing.

Eventually, she swiped her phone open.

Typed the name into the search bar.

Hades. New York.

Her fingers hovered before she hit return.

She wasn’t sure what she expected. A mugshot, maybe. A news article. Some grainy thread on Reddit detailing a criminal empire with a god complex.

Instead, she got noise.

Tech start-ups. An off-Broadway production. A half-broken link to an underground rave in Queens.

Nothing that matched the weight of Theon’s voice when he said it.

She added the word debt. Then dangerous. Then real?

Still nothing.

Just blank air. Gaps where information should be.

The kind of name people didn’t write down.
The kind of man who lived between whispers.

She leant back against the counter, fingers curling into her sleeves.

She didn’t know what scared her more:
That the name existed.
Or that no one seemed willing to say it twice.

Chapter Text

Whispers and Warnings 

Meg picked Flynn.

He wasn’t the easiest option. They hadn’t spoken since the fight.

But Esme would’ve asked too many questions.
Esme was too good for what Meg had to offer right now.

Flynn, however. Flynn knew things. The kind of things you didn’t Google. The kind of things that crawled up out of the subway grates when the city was sleeping. He knew how to navigate shadows. How to read a name like a warning label.

And once, not even long ago, he’d held her trust like it was something worth protecting.

She sent the message before she could think too hard.
Just: Can we talk?
No explanation.

He replied four minutes later.

Sure. Same booth?

The diner on 10th hadn’t changed, despite everything else feeling like it had.
Peeling red booths. Fluorescent lights that made everything look vaguely sick. Burnt coffee and a waitress who’d seen too much to bother judging.

Meg was already there when he walked in – hair up, eyes rimmed with the kind of fatigue that didn’t come from lack of sleep.

Flynn spotted her, gave a nod like they hadn’t gone weeks without speaking, and slid into the booth across from her.

He looked better than she expected.
That was annoying.

“Hey,” he said, half a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “This is cozy.”

Meg didn’t smile. Just wrapped her hands around the chipped mug in front of her and nodded.

“Thanks for coming.”

Flynn leaned back, jacket rustling. “Didn’t know we were still on speaking terms.”

She didn’t rise to it. Didn’t look up.

That was her answer.

His smile faded. He reached for the sugar, poured too much in to the coffee she’d ordered him and stirred like he needed something to do with his hands.

“You look tired,” he said eventually. Not quite an olive branch. Not quite an accusation.

Meg traced a crack in the table with one finger. “Yeah. It’s been a weird few weeks.”

He hummed, noncommittal.

They let the silence settle for a minute. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t sharp either. Just tired. Just full of things neither of them had figured out how to say.

“How’ve you been?” she asked, after a stretch.

Flynn raised an eyebrow. “Now you ask?”

She didn’t flinch.

“I was trying to give us both some space,” she said quietly.

He stirred his coffee, slow and deliberate. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“You didn’t have to say anything. Just…” He shook his head. “Three weeks is a long time, Meg.”

She nodded once, barely. “I know.”

Flynn looked at her again, and this time it wasn’t guarded. Just tired. Just sad.

“I’m here now.” She offered.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Yeah, you are.”

She didn’t say I missed you.
She didn’t have to.

The waitress topped off their coffees without being asked. Flynn nodded his thanks, then nudged the sugar packet toward Meg like muscle memory.

She blinked at it.

He always knew what she needed before she did. A pen. A hair tie. Gum when she was about to walk into a hard conversation.

She took the packet. Tore it open. Let the quiet stretch between them like a thread neither of them knew how to tie back together.

Flynn leaned on his elbows, watching her with something softer in his expression now - warmer at the edges, like a window catching the last light before it fades.

“You used to talk to me about everything,” he said, not accusing. Just remembering.

“I know.”

Meg looked down at the steam rising from her cup. One hand curled tight around the ceramic.

“I want to,” she said. “I just… I don’t know where to start.”

Flynn didn’t rush her.

Didn’t fill the silence.

Just nodded, like he understood the cost of asking for help when you’re not sure what kind you need.

And that was what undid her.

That quiet patience. That stillness.

That’s what cracked it open.

“I need to ask you something,” she said finally. Her voice was low. Careful.

Flynn didn’t move. Just gave her his full attention, like it was still second nature.

“It’s… off the record,” she added, even though they had never been ‘on’.

He gave a small, crooked smile. “Always.”

Meg looked down again. Her fingers tapped once against the side of her mug, then stilled.

“Do you know the name Hades?”

The shift was instant.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just a stillness that settled over him like a curtain falling.

Flynn didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

The air between them felt different now - thinner, charged.

“Where’d you hear that?” he said, and his voice wasn’t gentle anymore.

She hesitated. “I overheard Theon on a call. He was… tense. Scared. He said the name like it meant something.”

Flynn leaned back slowly, the motion deliberate, like trying not to spook something dangerous.

“Meg,” he said, “what exactly did he say?”

She ran a hand down her sleeve. “He told someone to tell Hades he was handling it. That he wasn’t late.”

Flynn muttered something under his breath that she didn’t catch. Scrubbed a hand over his mouth. Looked away.

“That bad?” she asked.

Flynn’s jaw worked as he searched for words. “It’s not good.”

She waited.

He looked back at her, and there was something new in his face now - real fear, not for himself.

For her.

“Hades isn’t just some guy,” he said. “He’s the guy the others answer to. Quietly. Carefully. If you’ve heard his name, that means you’re already too close.”

Meg sat very still.

“He deals in debts,” Flynn went on. “In secrets. In things people don’t come back from. You don’t want to be on his radar.”

“I think we already are,” she said quietly.

And for the first time, Flynn’s composure cracked.

Flynn let out a low breath and leaned forward, elbows braced on the table now like he needed to steady himself.

“You said Theon’s scared?” he asked.

Meg nodded. “I’ve never seen him like that.”

Flynn shook his head, mouth tight. “Then he’s already in too deep. Hades doesn’t work with people, Meg. He owns them. Once you’re in, that’s it. There’s no backing out without a price.”

Something in her face must have shifted - something subtle, but enough. Flynn narrowed his eyes.

“You’re not involved, are you?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Not really. I just - he’s been acting strange. The studio is always locked, there’s cash, phone calls he takes in the other room…” She trailed off. “I needed to know if I was right to be worried.”

“You were.”

That landed like a weight.

Flynn sat back again, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You always did pick the complicated ones.”

Meg didn’t rise to it.

Didn’t argue.

Flynn looked at her, really looked, and some of the sharpness faded.

“I get it,” he said, softer now. “I know what it’s like. When someone you love starts to crack and you tell yourself it’s just pressure, just a bad week, just something that’ll pass if you hold on tight enough.”

Her throat tightened.

“I need to help him,” she said.

Flynn’s eyes flashed. Not anger - something hotter. Fear. Frustration. Helplessness.

“Meg, no.” He shook his head hard. “No. This isn’t some bad debt or sketchy gallery deal. If Hades has his claws in him, you don’t get him out by holding his hand.”

“I have to try.”

“No, you don’t. You have to walk away. You have to run. Let Theon deal with the mess he made.”

She looked down. Her fingers had curled tightly around her spoon. She hadn’t even noticed.

“I can’t.”

Flynn’s jaw clenched.

She raised her eyes. “I can’t lose him.”

The silence stretched long between them.

Flynn didn’t speak.

He didn’t scream, or argue, or throw his coffee at the wall like he wanted to.

He just swallowed hard and sat back like someone who’d just watched the gates close.

“You already are,” he said, quietly.

Meg flinched.

Flynn exhaled through his teeth, then leaned in again.

“Fine. If you won’t walk away now, then promise me one thing.”

She didn’t answer.

“Promise me,” he said, voice low and sharp now, “you’ll stay the hell away from Hades. You hear his name again, you leave. You go home. You cut ties.”

“I….”

“Call me,” Flynn cut in. “Or Esme. I don’t care how late it is. I don’t care what’s happened. You call someone.”

She looked at him. Eyes rimmed with sleeplessness, spine stiff with whatever hope she was still gripping like a lifeline.

Her throat worked. She nodded.

“…Okay,” she said. “I promise.”

Flynn didn’t believe her.

But he didn’t say that either.

He just nodded once, like it hurt.

Like it wasn’t enough.

Chapter Text

Interlude: The Brief

The conference room was too quiet. Just the low hum of power being maintained.

It wasn’t large - just long enough for intimidation, just wide enough for control. Everything inside it was deliberate. A matte-black boardroom table bisected the space like a blade. No windows, no soft surfaces. The walls were panelled in dark walnut, gleaming faintly under recessed lighting. The air had weight. Not the stale kind of sealed rooms - but something curated, as if even oxygen didn’t circulate here without permission.

Anton stood at the far end of the table, flipping absently through the corner of a folder. He didn’t pace. He didn’t fidget. He simply waited.

That was what Anton did best. Obey, execute, disappear. He wasn’t flashy, but Hades didn’t hire flash. He hired precision. And Anton delivered.

He’d worked with Hades for years - long enough to understand the rhythm. Long enough to know that most people who found themselves in this room didn’t leave with the ground still steady under them. But Anton wasn’t most people.

The door opened at exactly 4:00 p.m.

Hades entered without ceremony.

He moved like gravity listened to him first. Dressed in charcoal - no tie, cuffs unbuttoned, watch catching only the faintest gleam - he crossed the room like he already knew how the conversation would end.

Anton didn’t bother with formalities. They didn’t need them.

“Your two o’clock went quiet,” he said. “Bank records wiped, phone dead, contact vanished.”

“Of course he did.” Hades moved to the head of the table and took a seat. “He’ll resurface. Rats only run when they think the floor’s on fire.”

Anton slid a folder across the table. Thin. Clean. Efficient.

“Options?”

Hades opened it. Didn’t look rushed. Just thoughtful, like he was reading a poem. He flipped through three pages, then closed it.

“Leverage the sister. Quietly. No threats. Just a whisper.”

Anton nodded, already making a note.

There was a pause. Hades tapped a finger against the closed folder, a soft, deliberate rhythm. Then his gaze lifted.

“And the other one?”

“Theon Lycos.”

Anton reached for a second folder already resting on the table, sliding it across.

Hades flipped it open and skimmed the top page. His expression didn’t change, but Anton saw the tick of muscle in his jaw. Brief. Controlled.

“Painter. Studio out in Brooklyn. Borrowed more than he can repay and thought being charming would cover the difference.”

“Charming’s never free,” Hades said, leaning back, closing the file.

Anton gave a half-smile. “No. And he’s unravelling.”

“How deep?”

“Sixty-eight. Could be higher. The numbers don’t line up cleanly. He’s juggling three different debts and a fake ledger.”

Hades tilted his head. “We collecting?”

“Not yet. He’s sweating. Might panic.” He paused. The smallest of hesitations. “There’s someone close - he’s keeping her out of the loop, but she’s asking questions.”

Hades looked up again. Sharper now. “Who is she?”

“Don’t know yet. Young. Smart. Not involved, but... watchful. Like she knows something’s about to drop and doesn’t know if she wants to be under it.”

Hades didn’t reply.

Anton continued. “I’ve seen girlfriends in the splash zone before. She doesn’t behave like one.”

“No?”

“She watches him,” Anton said. “Not like she’s afraid. Like she wants to carry it for him.”

A pause.

“She’s sharp, but it’s not strategy. It’s care. The kind that gets heavy if you hold it too long.”

Another beat.

“And she’s already holding too much.”

Hades was quiet. Still. The kind of stillness Anton had learned to pay attention to.

Then, almost absently - like the thought had just occurred, or maybe had been there all along:

“They’re the kind who break the loudest.”

He didn’t look at Anton when he said it.

He didn’t need to.

“Get me her name,” Hades said. “Eyes only. If she’s what you say, she’ll come closer on her own.”

Anton nodded once. “Understood.”

As Hades stood, he paused - just for a moment.

“People like that think they’re choosing. I want her to believe that.”

Then he was gone.

The door shut behind him, silent and certain.

Anton stood alone in the stillness, the city pulsing beyond the walls.

No name yet.

But it wouldn’t be long.

And Hades never started a game he didn’t intend to win.

Chapter Text

Theon in Freefall

It didn’t happen right away.

A week passed after the diner. Maybe a little more.

Flynn’s warning had been loud in her head at first, echoing through every silence, tucked into the folds of Theon’s movements. She’d wake to his back turned in bed, phone lit under the covers. Hear footsteps pacing the studio at 3 a.m., then nothing but the low silence of something electric and wrong.

But time dulled even the sharpest sounds.

She told herself she was waiting. That if something was coming, she’d see it. That watching from inside was better than wondering from outside.

But the waiting cost her something. She could feel it. The way she stopped calling her own apartment home. The way she flinched when Theon touched her too gently - like he was saying goodbye without saying it.

The name sat heavy at the back of her mind: Hades.

She didn’t say it aloud. Not even to herself. Like it might hear her.

So she waited.

Waited for the drop. For the crack. For the thing she could no longer excuse.

And then.
Late one afternoon.
She opened the door to find the storm had hit. She stepped inside - and stopped.

The air was still, but the studio looked like it had been torn open.

Canvases slashed. Paint smeared across the floor in bruised streaks. A table overturned. One of the windows cracked, just enough to whistle when the wind caught it.

Theon stood in the middle of it all.

He didn’t move when she entered. Didn’t turn, didn’t speak.

He just stood there, breathing hard, like he’d run a mile without leaving the room.

His hands were red - not with blood, but with paint. Or both. She couldn’t tell.

Meg didn’t speak right away.

There were a dozen things she could have said. Should have said.
But all that came out was: “What happened?”

Theon didn’t look at her.

“I fucked up,” he said. Quiet. Flat. Like a confession to no one. “I fucked up,” he said again, this time barely above a whisper.

Theon had always been reckless. But this wasn’t defiance, wasn’t charm. This was the sound of someone who’d run out of moves.

Meg took a step closer. Careful, like approaching something wounded.

“Theon…”

He sank down onto the edge of the overturned couch, elbows on his knees, fingers streaking red through his hair. “I thought I could fix it before it got like this.”

She didn’t ask what ‘this’ was. Just waited.

“It was just a loan,” he said. “Just a little help to cover gallery space. Materials. I thought - he offered, and I thought… why not? You know?”

Meg’s heart thudded once, hard. “Who?”

Theon didn’t look at her. “You already know, I know you do.”

She crouched slowly across from him, her knees nearly touching his. The smell of spilt turpentine made her eyes sting. “Say it.”

He laughed - thin and tired. “Why? So we can both be scared of the same shadow?”

“Theon…” She said again.

“Hades.” He said it like it cost him. “He’s the one who gave me the money.”

She didn’t flinch.

He looked up at her then, finally, like he was surprised she hadn’t.

“I thought I could flip it. Get out ahead. Do one job, make it clean, pay him back before he even noticed.”

“But you didn’t,” she said quietly.

“No,” he said. “I missed the window. Got greedy. Got slow. Doesn’t matter. There’s no fixing it now.”

He let his head fall into his hands, voice muffled. “I can’t breathe. I haven’t been able to sleep. I keep thinking - every sound in the hallway, every knock - what if it’s someone coming to collect?”

Meg didn’t move.

Didn’t touch him.

Not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew the kind of quiet he was sitting in and nothing she said could break it. Not when he was already falling.

He sat like that for a long time. Hands in his hair. Paint drying in his nail beds. Breathing like it hurt.

Meg didn’t move.

She could feel the quiet pressing in around them. Not soft. Not forgiving. A quiet with teeth.

Then, slowly, he looked up.

“I tried,” he said. “I really did.” Theon laughed once - dry and brittle. I thought I could still pull something together,” he said, voice low. “Do a job. Sell a few pieces. Call in some favours.”

Meg stayed quiet.

He gestured vaguely at the room, at the slashed canvases and torn up floor like it was all someone else’s doing. “Tried to make it all look like I was still in control.”

“You’re not,” Meg said, softly.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “They said I had until the end of the week. That was three days ago.”

Meg’s stomach turned, slow and cold.

He didn’t meet her eyes.

“I think they’ve stopped waiting.”

Something twisted in her chest.

That was the moment.

Not the fear. Not the wreckage. Not even the name.

That.

The hollow in his voice when he said it. The certainty that no one was coming to save him. No one but her.

He didn’t ask. Not for help. Not for forgiveness. Not for her to run.

But she could feel it. The weight of his silence. The way he looked at her like she was already part of the fallout. Like he knew he’d handed her the fire, and was pretending he hadn’t.

Her hand curled around the edge of her sweater, knuckles white against the fabric.

She wasn’t ready to speak yet.

But the decision was already starting to form.

Meg watched him, the way she had for weeks. Not with anger. Not pity, either. Just… stillness.

There was a version of her - last year, maybe even last month - who would have begged him to run. Who would have shouted, shaken him, demanded he fight harder, do better, be better.

But that version had worn thin. Rubbed down by too many days of managing his moods, stepping around sharp edges, smoothing things over before they cracked.

She’d shrunk to fit the spaces he left her, until the fight felt like noise. Until she wasn’t sure where she belonged - only that it wasn’t here, and it wasn’t anywhere else either.

Theon was broken. Maybe he always had been, and she’d just been too busy filling the cracks to notice how wide they’d become.

And still, God help her, she loved him.

Still thought maybe if she could just hold the weight for both of them a little longer, it would even out. That if she knocked on the right door, said the right words, offered the right part of herself, she could buy them time.

Even if she knew, deep down, that wasn’t how this worked.

She looked around the wreckage of the studio, her sketchbook still half-buried under a fallen chair. The paint drying in angry strokes across the floor.

Theon hadn’t asked her to save him.

But he hadn’t told her not to, either.

And that - more than anything - told her he’d already made peace with the cost.

She stood. Quietly.

Pulled her jacket from the peg by the door.

Her movements were slow, deliberate. Not dramatic. Not desperate.

Just done.

Theon didn’t look up.

Didn’t ask where she was going.

Didn’t stop her.

Meg stepped out into the hallway, the city pressing in on the other side of the walls like something waiting to swallow her whole.

She didn’t know what she’d say. Didn’t know what she’d trade

Only that it would cost her. And that she’d pay it anyway.

Chapter Text

Interlude - Almost

It was raining when she left the studio.

The kind of rain that didn’t care if you had an umbrella. Thin and slanting and mean. She didn’t bother trying to stay dry. Just walked until the streets blurred into sameness, until her shoes were soaked and her jacket clung to her arms.

She didn’t go home like she should have done.

Not back to the her and Esme’s apartment. Not to the little crooked hallway with the coat rack that never stood straight, or the plant by the window they kept forgetting to water.

She didn’t want to see the empty mug on her nightstand, the mail piling up. The place where her life had been before it cracked.

So she kept walking.

The streets were washed in gold and gutter water, rain slicking the pavement in streaks. Her hands were numb.

Eventually, she ducked into a diner she barely remembered. One of those places that always looked like it was about to close but never did. There was a flicker in the neon sign, and the windows fogged at the corners.

Didn’t take her jacket off.

Didn’t order.

A waitress came by, poured her coffee without asking.

Meg wrapped her fingers around the mug and stared into it like it might tell her what to do.

Flynn’s plea played in her head like a heartbeat.

“You hear his name again, you leave. You go home. You cut ties. You call me. Or Esme. You call someone.”

The promise sat heavy.

She pulled her phone out slowly, like it might bite.

Unlocked it.

His name was still near the top of her messages. Nothing new since their détente across the table.

She opened the thread.

Typed: I know you said not to get involved, but -

Paused.

Deleted it.

She scrolled to Esme. Her face stared back from her profile picture — bright, expectant, like she hadn’t given up yet.

Meg tried again: I’m sorry.

Backspace.

I need you.

Backspace.

Eventually, she set the phone down face-up. Let it glare at her while the coffee went cold. She let her chin fall into her hands with a slump.

It wasn’t just because things were strained.

It wasn’t just pride, or guilt, or the ache still sitting between her and them like something cracked and unfinished.

It was because she knew what would happen if she reached out.

Flynn wouldn’t let her do it. Esme would talk her down. They’d steady her, make her look the truth in the eye.

And if she did that - if she said it out loud - then she’d have to let go.

Of the hope.

Of Theon.

Of whatever flicker of belief still kept her here, believing she could pull him back from the edge.

Calling them meant choosing herself.

And choosing herself meant losing him.

So she didn’t call.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t give them the chance.

Because she already knew what they’d tell her.

And right now – for everything it would cost her - she wanted to be the one doing the saving.

Outside, the rain hit the windows in soft staccato. Inside, the hum of the refrigerator, the buzz of the light overhead, the rattle of a fork two booths over.

Life going on.

She sat there until the waitress stopped asking if she was going to order anything.

Then she left a crumpled bill and stood.

The phone stayed in her pocket.
Turned off. Just in case someone still thought to try.

Chapter Text

Aftermath

Hades didn’t move right away. Just stood there, watching the door she’d walked through, the air still disturbed in her wake.

Most people left his office with something broken: voice, posture, pride.
She hadn’t.
Not yet.

No begging. No threats. No tears.
Just a girl in a soaked denim jacket, jaw set like someone trying not to flinch.
Someone who hadn’t felt the teeth of the snare she’d just stepped into.

A faint smile flickered at the corner of his mouth.

She thought she’d made a trade.
Thought the lines had been drawn.

But there were no lines here. Only invitations mistaken for choices.

He turned back to the desk. The file waited: neat, unassuming, precise. Anton’s hallmark. Her name on the tab like it had always belonged there.

He flipped it open.

A few pages. Basic identifiers. No criminal record. Minimal digital footprint. Just a trail of sharp departures, loose employment, old student records, a single blurry photo that didn’t do her justice. And list of people who’d tried to keep her close — and failed.

He skimmed past Anton’s observations: Loyal to a fault. Wired for deflection. A tendency to fracture under the weight of silence.

Then his own note — written in the margin in tight, slanted script: Watch what she clings to. That’s where the leverage is.

He closed the file.

He’d give her a few days. Let the weight settle. Then they’d begin.

He looked across the desk, to the chair she hadn’t sat in. The chair designed to make people small. She’d stayed standing.

Good.

He opened the drawer. The stack of business cards lay nestled inside like pressed shadows.

One was gone.

He closed the drawer again, softly. Turned his gaze to the window, toward the city she still believed belonged to her.

“Meg,” he said to no one, trying her name out again now that she was gone.

He said it like he owned it.
Because now, he did.

The deal was done.
No witnesses. No undoing.

The door whispered shut behind her, too smooth, too soft for the weight it held.

It didn’t slam. It didn’t lock.

But still, it felt like something had sealed.

Meg stepped out onto the sidewalk, and the city hit her like a wave.
The rain had stopped but the air still hung with damp, colder than before. Sharper. As if the skies had been watching. As if the streets knew what she’d traded.

The bass from the club still throbbed behind the wall, pretending to be just a place, not a threshold.

She didn’t move right away. Just stood there, jacket pulled tight, hands buried in her pockets. Like if she stayed still long enough, she could pretend none of it had happened. That the deal was still hypothetical. Still reversable. Something that might come undone.

Her fingers brushed something unfamiliar.

She drew it out slowly.

A card - black, smooth, heavier than it should’ve been. No name. No number. Just a single gold ‘S’ pressed into the surface like  a promise sealed in wax. Final. Absolute.

She hadn’t seen him give it to her.
But of course it was there.
Of course he’d already decided she’d carry it.

She turned it over once, then again, like a coin, like it might tell her if she’d just won something or lost everything.

She thought of the way he’d said her name - not like a stranger learning it and testing it out for size, but like someone reclaiming what had always been his.

A cab passed, spraying gutter water across the curb. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
Just let the city keep moving without her.

Her breath fogged in the air, pale and fleeting, the only visible sign something had left her.

Not regret.
Not yet.

But something.

She slipped the card back into her pocket like it might scald her if she held it too long.

Then, slowly, she turned.
She wasn’t lost. She wasn’t wandering.
She knew exactly where she was going.

Back to Theon.
Back to the reason this all started.
Back to the boy she’d just bartered her future for, and who hadn’t even asked her to.

Her boots scuffed the curb. Rain dripped off the edge of her sleeve.

And for the first time since she walked into that room -

She wasn’t scared.
She just felt absence.
Like she’d handed over a piece of herself, and he hadn’t returned it.

She walked the whole way back.

The cold only settled deeper in her bones - wind-swept and needling  through the collar of her jacket and running down her spine. Taxis passed, but she didn’t flag one. Didn’t think about it. Her feet kept moving, like they knew the route better than she did.

She should’ve been relieved. That’s what deals were supposed to bring - relief. Resolution. A way forward.

But her body didn’t feel lighter.

If anything, it felt like she was walking through something denser than air. Like the city had thickened around her. Like it knew what she’d done.

Every red light seemed longer. Every sidewalk crack, deeper. By the time she reached Theon’s street, her limbs ached and her fingers had gone numb, but she didn’t stop. Not when she reached his stoop. Not when she opened the door.

She let herself in. The door creaked the way it always had, off its hinge by a quarter inch, familiar and unthreatening. But the sound landed differently tonight. Like something final being announced at half volume.

The familiar shapes met her like ghosts, softer, dimmer, somehow smaller than they had been. The studio was still in disarray, the upheaval of the world she’d buried herself in, torn open and left to rot.

Theon sat where she had left him on the couch. Elbows on his knees. He sat like someone waiting for a verdict.

He didn’t look up when she entered.

She closed the door behind her and stood with her hand still on the knob. Her breath settling in the warm air.

He finally raised his head. And when their eyes met, something flickered across his face, recognition, relief, maybe something else. But it passed too quickly to name.

“You’re soaked,” he said.

She didn’t answer. Just stepped out of her boots and crossed the room, her socks leaving a damp parade of footsteps on the floor behind her.

“I thought…” he began.

She stopped in front of him.

“Don’t.” The word came out in a half breath. The silence between them crackled.

Theon leaned back. Ran both hands through his hair and laughed, low and rough, like something breaking open in his chest.

“You did it, didn’t you?”

Meg didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, arms crossed over her shivering body, waiting for him to understand what her silence meant.

Theon looked at her like he wanted to say something more, like there was a right phrase hiding somewhere behind his teeth. But instead, he just reached out, slow, uncertain,  and caught her wrist.

His fingers were warm, and that used to be enough.

For weeks, she’d wanted this. A gesture. A reach. Some sign that he saw her, wanted her close. Not just near. Not just useful. Wanted.

But now, now it felt like someone else’s dream.

He pulled gently, guiding her down beside him. She let him.

The couch cushions sank beneath them, and for a moment, they sat like they used to, shoulder to shoulder, their bodies touching in places that didn’t need permission.

But the warmth of contact didn’t stitch her back together like she expected.

He wrapped his arm around her. She let her head tip onto his shoulder. And for a second - just a second - she let herself pretend.

Pretend the air didn’t taste like ink and ash.

Pretend the club hadn’t happened.

Pretend she hadn’t just signed her name to something she couldn’t comprehend.

Theon’s hand curled in the fabric of her sleeve. Anchoring her.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said.

And just like that, the illusion cracked.

Meg pulled back, barely. Enough to lift her head. Enough to look at him.

“I didn’t do it for gratitude.”

She didn’t say what she had done it for. She wasn’t sure she could.

He looked at her, eyes bloodshot, lips parted like he might argue.

But he didn’t.

He just nodded.

Like he knew.

Like they both did.

They sat in the hush that followed - too quiet to be comfortable. Theon’s breathing evened out beside her, slower now, like the panic had worn itself thin.

His thumb traced a loose thread on her sleeve, over and over. Not tender. Just… lost.

After a while, he asked, “What did it cost?”

The words landed like a drop in a still pool. Soft. But deep.

Meg didn’t answer at first. Her mouth went dry.

She thought of the office - the gleam of the desk, the way he’d looked at her like he already knew what she’d trade. She thought of how he hadn’t told her what came next. Of how she hadn’t asked.

There hadn’t been terms. Not really.
Just silence. And expectation. And a door that had closed like a vow.

“I don’t know,” she said finally.

Theon was quiet.

She could feel him looking at her, could sense the apology forming in his mouth. But he didn’t speak again.

Didn’t ask more.

Didn’t promise to make it right.

Just sat there, holding her sleeve like it might fall away if he let go.

Meg stared out into the studio. At the ruined canvases. At the paint smeared into the floorboards like bruises that wouldn’t heal. The silence pressed in again.

He hadn’t said sorry.

She hadn’t asked him to. But somewhere in her chest, the ache turned sharp.

And in the damp of her jacket pocket, the card burned against her side.

Not a token. A tether.

She lay back beside him, eyes wide open to the dark.
He slept like the danger had passed.
She stayed awake, knowing it hadn’t.

Chapter Text

Days of Nothing

She was still awake when the light changed.

Theon’s arm was slung across her waist. His breath was warm against the back of her neck, slow and steady - almost peaceful. Like he had finally, truly exhaled. Like it was over.

She didn’t move at first. Just lay there, watching the dark soften into something lighter, thinner, greyer. It wasn’t quite morning yet, but it would be soon. The kind of hour that made everything feel further away than it really was.

There was a strange quiet in the room. Not comforting. Not even still. The kind that hummed, like a wire pulled too tight, waiting to snap.

She shifted, careful not to wake him. Her jacket was draped over the chair where she’d left it the night before, when she’d finally crept into bed, slow and quiet, as if the decision might still unmake itself if she stepped carefully.

She hadn’t wanted it touching her. Not the jacket, not the night, not the weight of what she’d done. She thought if she could peel off enough layers, she might get back to who she was before she walked through that door.

Now she crossed to it, reached into the pocket. The card was still there. Still smooth. Carrying more weight than anything that small should.

She held it in her palm for a long time, studying the gold pressed into black like a mark she hadn’t earned but couldn’t wash off.

Behind her, Theon turned over, pulling the blanket with him. She didn’t look.

She held the card a moment longer. Then crossed the room and pulled open the drawer of the narrow desk in the corner - the one where Theon kept half-used charcoal sticks and receipts he never filed. She buried the card beneath a stack of old flyers and closed the drawer with care, like she was laying something to rest.

Out of sight.
Not out of mind.

She exhaled slowly and sat down on the edge of the mattress, her back to Theon. Outside, the streetlights cut thin lines across the windows, bright enough to remind her the world was still turning. A siren in the distance. A dog barking once, then stopping.

By the time she lay back down, the first of blush of sunlight was finally breaking through, and her mind echoed with exhaustion. Theon shifted beside her, stretching with a groan like the night had been good to him.

She watched him from beneath the fold of the blanket. Curls wild. Shirt askew. A smudge of red paint still on his forearm, like the wreckage from the day before had only brushed him in passing.

He looked beautiful like this. Almost untouched. Her heart ached for this version of him, the one she’d stepped through that door for. He felt out of reach even though her skin could brush against his with only a fraction of movement.

"Morning," he said, blinking at her with a lazy grin. "You’re still here."

It was a stupid thing to say. And it only made her heart ache more.

“Yeah,” she said. “Where else would I be?”

He kissed her shoulder and rolled out of bed like a man unburdened, stepping over yesterday’s mess without pause. She heard the fridge open. The clink of a spoon in a jar. He hummed to himself.

The quiet had left him. But for Meg, it was just getting louder.

She stayed under the blanket a little longer, trying to tell if she was cold or just hollow. When she sat up, the imprint of his body still dented the mattress, she reached for it, just to see if it was still warm.

They didn’t talk about it that morning. Not the deal. Not the man who’d made it.

Theon made eggs, barefoot and whistling, the cracked kitchen window letting in a breeze sharp enough to make Meg flinch. He’d never cooked for her before. Not properly. Not like this. But now he moved around the space like it meant something, like scrambled eggs and burnt toast could smooth the lines off what she’d done.

“I thought we could eat in for once,” he said, sliding a plate across the table. “Save some cash.”

Meg nodded, though neither of them acknowledged the irony.

She sat while he poured coffee, while he talked about a new gallery opening uptown - one that hadn’t returned his last email, but might, if he sent the right piece. There was a thread of optimism in him now. Not manic. Just buoyant. Like something dark had been peeled off his shoulders, and he could stand straighter without it.

“You okay?” he asked at one point, eyes scanning her face a little too carefully.

“I’m fine.”

He nodded, satisfied, as if that was all it took.

Later, she offered to run errands while he cleared the upheaval of the studio. She toured the corner store, the pharmacy. She stood too long in the cereal aisle, staring at boxes she didn’t take in. When she returned, the studio was restored as if the storm had never hit - music on, canvas prepped, the beginnings of something new spread across the floor. Theon didn’t look up when came in carrying the groceries. “Thanks,” he said simply, already reaching for a brush.

That evening, they watched something on his laptop. A movie she couldn’t follow. He fell asleep partway through, slouched against her shoulder, as if relief had unstrung him. Meg stayed still, letting the weight of him press into her. She didn’t reach for the blanket. Didn’t move to adjust the screen. Just stared ahead, letting the flicker of light paint her face in frames.

It was the closest they’d come to peace in weeks.

And yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was waiting for something. Something that had already started moving, just not toward her yet.

The days passed, quiet and fragile.

She kept herself busy. Cleaned the studio. Rearranged the kitchen drawers. Tried new recipes that Theon didn’t notice. Winter was creeping in, but she opened the windows and let the city breathe on her.

She told herself she was waiting for the world to right itself. That this was what relief looked like for them both: slow mornings, shared meals, the silence of something awful not happening. But the longer it stretched, the more that silence sharpened.

It followed her into sleep. Into the shower. Into the hum of the radiator when it kicked on too late at night. Theon didn’t seem to feel it. He was working again - really working - whole afternoons spent in front of a canvas with no door between them now. He’d talk about colour theory like it mattered. The tension in him had drained like a fever breaking.

He’d been spared.

And Meg was the one still burning.

She checked her phone more often now. Told herself it was habit. Routine. But the truth curled tighter than that. She opened her texts. Scrolled to Esme. Years of messages, underscored by the voice note still unplayed. She scrolled to Flynn, still open on words she’d never sent.

She stared at it, thumbs hovering. Her brain supplied Flynn’s voice too easily - low, concerned, sharper than it used to be.

“You hear his name again, you leave. You go home. You cut ties. You call me.”

She could still call. They’d say wasn’t not too late, even though it was. They’d tell her to run, to undo what couldn’t be undone. But they hadn’t seen the look in Hades’ eyes. The way he had said her name. They didn’t know what the absence felt like, the thing she’d left on that desk.

She set the phone down, screen face-down this time.

The next day, someone knocked on the neighbour’s door. Two short knocks, then silence. Meg froze mid-pour, coffee spilling over the rim of her mug. No one came to their door. No one said her name.

But the fear didn’t leave.

It wasn’t constant. Not yet.

But it was learning how settle in.

She jumped when the kettle screamed. Stupid. She knew it would. Knew the water had almost boiled. But still, the sound cut through her like a siren.

Behind her, Theon rummaged through a drawer with practiced distraction. Giving up on finding a spoon, he started eating cereal dry from the box.

“You okay?”

Meg busied herself with mugs. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You’ve been tired for days.”

She didn’t answer. Just poured the tea and handed him his without meeting his eyes.

He took it, leaned back, and watched her. There was a pause. The kind that meant he was choosing his words - or deciding not to.

Then, gently, “You’re not sleeping. You barely eat. You flinch at birdsong.”

Meg stood there, tea in hand, staring out the window. For a moment she was silent. “I keep thinking the door’s going to knock,” she said finally.

Theon blinked. “What?”

“Just…every time it’s quiet for too long, I think it’s him.”

She didn’t have to say the name.

Theon leaned against the counter, box still in hand. “Meg, it’s been four days.”

“Exactly.”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s over.”

She turned to look at him, and something in her face must’ve landed because he straightened slightly.

“I’m serious,” he said, softer now. “Maybe you went in, made your speech, did the whole noble thing, and he... I don’t know. Let it go.”

“You really think that’s how he works?”

He hesitated. Just for a second. “Maybe you bored him.”

Meg’s mouth pursed. “Thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

He gave a crooked smile - too forced. “I just mean... you walked in there like a storm, and then maybe he realised you weren’t much use to him after all. Not in the way he wanted.”

Her spine went rigid. Theon didn’t notice.

“Or maybe,” he continued, gesturing vaguely, “he just took the gesture. Thought it was pathetic. Brave. Whatever. Felt sorry for you.”

He shoved another handful of cereal into his mouth. “I mean, you’re not exactly a player in that world, Meg.”

Theon looked away. “It’s not like you’ve got anything to offer him. Not really.”

It landed like a slap. Not because it was cruel but because it was casual. Thoughtless.

He used to hurry to keep up with her. Used to lean in when she tore apart his work, asking for more. There was a time he’d called her the sharpest person he knew.

Now he looked at her like someone who’d wandered into the fire by mistake.
Not the girl who chose to walk in. Not the girl who did it for him.

He couldn’t see the strength in her. Not anymore.
And maybe that was the worst part - how easily it had vanished in his eyes.

And that was the moment that the ache in her heart started to form into something sharper. A fracture.

The silence that followed was heavier than anything he’d said aloud. Like even he could feel the shift, his posture slackening, confidence retreating just enough to show the outline of doubt.

Meg moved past him. Picked up a dish towel. Folded it. Unfolded it again.

“This isn’t me being dramatic,” she said. “He’s not just going to forget.”

“He might.”

“He won’t. He didn’t forget you.”

Theon didn’t push further. Just leaned his weight back into the counter and let the conversation die, as if silence could fix what words had cracked.

He wandered off not long after that. Said something about checking in with a friend, maybe sketching in the coffee shop for a while. She didn’t answer. Just let him go.

The door swung shut behind him, and the apartment settled into stillness.

Meg stood in the middle of the kitchen, the towel still in her hands. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t full of possibility. It was full of pressure. Of waiting.

She set the towel down and crossed to the window, arms folded tight across her chest.

It was barely past noon, but the sky outside had already dulled to a thick, indifferent  city grey. The kind that pressed against the windows like fogged-up glass. A delivery van idled at the curb for a few minutes too long and she caught herself counting the seconds, heart ticking up with each one. When it finally pulled away, she let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

She turned from the glass. Wandered into the living room. The couch cushions moulded to their shape. The shape of what they were trying to pretend they could get back to.

She sat.

For a long time, she didn’t move. Just stared at the opposite wall, at the shadow of paint the still spilled across the floorboards, at the flaked edges of paint on the old trim. Something in her wouldn’t uncoil.

Eventually, she pulled her phone out for the hundredth time that day. Opened her messages, just checking.

But there was no message. No signal. No sound. Just the ache of knowing there might be.

She repeated Theon’s theories to herself like a half-believed prayer, hoping they might sink in: maybe she was useless to him, maybe it was over, maybe he changed his mind.

She tried to keep the days full.

Made coffee in the morning. Washed the same dish twice. Folded laundry that hadn’t been worn. Rearranged books she wasn’t reading.

Theon came and went, lighter and lighter, whistling sometimes. He didn’t seem to notice how little she slept. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t want to ask.

At night, she sat on the couch and listened to the building breathe. Watched the shadows move across the ceiling.

And then, a few identical days later. Her chest felt the message arrive before her phone even buzzed. The way an old speaker would vibrate with the signal of something incoming.

The screen lit up.

Just a number. No name.

But her body had already answered, even if her mind hadn’t caught up: shoulders locked, breath caught, heart climbing into her throat like it wanted out.

She knew.

Before she read it, she knew.

This wasn’t Theon.
Wasn’t Esme.
Wasn’t Flynn.

This was the sound of the trap springing shut.

She tapped it open with a hand she couldn’t steady and read:

22:00. Pier 39. Come alone.

No signature. No context. No further instructions. But there didn’t need to be.

She stared at it a moment longer. The waiting was over.

Chapter Text

The First Task

She walked.

Not because it was close, but because once her legs started moving, they wouldn’t stop. Because the subway felt too contained, too loud. Because waiting at a bus stop might mean giving herself time to turn back.

And she wasn’t turning back.

The wind off the water hit harder as she neared the dock - sharp with salt and engine oil, cold enough to reach through her coat and scratch at the soft places underneath. A cargo ship groaned in the distance. Seagulls circled overhead watching the rot.

Meg kept going.

Pier 39 wasn’t the tourist trap out west that shared its name. Wasn’t one of the gentrified pleasure gardens along the Hudson where she and Esme ate ice cream in the summer. This one was rusted iron and chain-link. Shipping containers stacked four high. A narrow stretch of concrete slick with algae and tyre tracks. A place that felt like it had been carved out of the city’s mouth and left to rust.

There was no one waiting for her. Just the water, black and endless.

She didn’t know where to stand. But she picked a spot beside some pre-fab building. Just beyond the reach of the safety light, feeling too exposed in its synthetic gloom. Her eyes swept the dark. A single buoy blinked red in the distance, then gone again.

Flynn’s voice came back like a ghost on the wind: "You hear his name again, you leave. You go home. You cut ties. You call me. Or Esme. You call someone."

She hadn’t done any of those things. She hadn’t told Theon about the message either. Not when he got home. Not when she’d gone quiet over dinner and he didn’t notice. Not when he kissed her temple and left again without asking what she’d be doing that evening.

It wasn’t lying, not exactly. Just a silence she chose to keep.

She’d arrived early. Ten minutes. Maybe twelve. Wishing she hadn’t while the minutes eked out painfully in front of her.

The wind cut through the seams of her coat like it held a grudge.

She tried not to pace. Tried not to shift every time a car passed on the far road or a gull shrieked like it knew something she didn’t.

And slowly, minute by minute, the winter darkness deepened around her.

That was the worst part. The not knowing. No clear instructions. No backup plan. No out.  She’d spent days waiting - for something, anything. The text had broken the silence.
But it had also left a chasm beneath her feet, wide and wordless, full of questions no one was going to answer.

Just a time. Just a place. Just her. That’s all she had.

She didn’t know what she’d expected to find here. Hades to appear in a cloud of smoke? A man in a suit with a gun and a threat?

The silence was almost worse.

Her heart thudded. Her feet itched to move to - run or bolt - but she held herself still.

Waiting. Always waiting.

Then, footsteps. Not loud. Just the quiet rhythm of someone who knew exactly where they were going.

She turned, already bracing.

And saw the man approaching.

It wasn’t Hades, but someone else.

He was tall, clean-cut, too neat for the docks. His sleeves sat just so, not a crease out of place. No weapon in sight. He didn’t look like muscle. Didn’t look like the kind of man who broke kneecaps for a living.

He looked… efficient.

He stopped a few feet away. Considered her like she was a problem someone else had handed him. Perhaps she was.

“You’re Megara,” he said.

It wasn’t a question but she nodded anyway.

He gave a small, humourless smile. “Anton.”

No last name. Of course.

She saw him more clearly now. He was older than she was, but not by a lot – mid-thirties, maybe. It was hard to tell. He was all sharp lines. A faint scar slicing just beneath his temple like a misplaced comma. His coat was tailored but utilitarian, designed to blend in, not stand out. The kind of man who didn’t make noise unless he needed to.

The kind of man you didn’t notice until he was already behind you.

“You came,” he said. Not with approval or surprise, just factual.

“I got the text,” she offered.

“Congratulations on your reading comprehension.”

He started walking. No instruction. No glance back.

She hesitated only a second before following.

They passed a rusted chain-link fence and a tower of stacked shipping crates. The pier stretched wide and empty before them, lit only by a flickering bulb near the edge. The water below was black glass.

Anton didn’t slow his pace.

“I assume no one knows you’re here,” he said.

It wasn’t curiosity. Just inventory-taking.

She said nothing.

He nodded to himself, satisfied. “Smart. Keep it that way.”

Meg kept her eyes ahead. “You always this friendly?” The words slipped out before she could catch them.

“Only on special occasions,” he said. “And this - ” he gestured around them - “is not one.”

They turned a corner, passing a crate marked with faded orange paint. Somewhere beyond it, a container had been left slightly ajar, its metal hinge rattling in the wind.

Meg’s eyes flicked to it, then back to him. Something about the angle of the door – open an inch more than it should be - made her skin crawl.

Anton caught the glance. “Rule one,” he said. “If you think you’re alone, you’ve missed something. Rule two - if you’re right, ask who cleared the space for you.”

He looked at her again now, observant. She felt suddenly juvenile in her jeans and trainers but he didn’t pass comment. Instead he reached into his coat, pulled out a slim black envelope.

“This is your first task. Consider it... a preliminary assessment.”

“What’s inside?”

“Something that doesn’t concern you.” His tone was dry. “Your task is to walk to the next pier, meet the man in the blue windbreaker, and hand it over.”

“That’s it?” Her voice sounded too thin in the wind.

“You asked for a deal,” he said. “This is what deals look like. No red carpets. No job titles. Just orders.” He said it with just enough bite to make it clear this was not a favour. Not a courtesy. A test.

Meg stared at him.

The wind snapped a plastic tarp somewhere behind them. She could taste salt on the air, sharp as a warning.

“So I’m a messenger?”

He gave a faint shrug. “You want a better job, earn it.”

She nodded, slipping the envelope into her coat.

He gave her a look. “You’re an unknown variable. This is how we find out if you’re going to be an asset or a liability.”

A gull screeched in the distance. The water lapped at the edge of the pier.

“And if I’m a liability?” she asked.

Anton smiled - thin, precise. “You really want to find out?”

Then he stepped back, disappearing into the dark between two containers without another word. He had vanished as cleanly as he’d appeared - no crunch of gravel. Just gone, like fog off glass. The kind of exit that made you wonder if he’d ever really been there.

She was alone again.

The envelope pressed against her ribs like a second heartbeat. Instructions in her head. Heartbeat climbing.

She stood in the wind-shadow of the container, the air buzzing faintly in her ears. The envelope felt too light. That was the part that bothered her. If it were heavy, she could imagine cash. A thumb drive. Something solid enough to explain the pit in her stomach.

But it weighed nothing. Which meant it could be anything.

She looked down the stretch of dock ahead - quiet, empty, just like Anton had left it.

“Just hand it off.” She thought to herself. Simple. So why didn’t it feel that way?

Meg exhaled through her nose, tried to shake the doubt.

She wasn’t here to play detective. She’d made the deal. Stepped into the room. Signed her name. That had been the hard part.

And this? This was delivery. Clean. Contained.

The kind of thing Flynn could handle in his sleep. But she wasn’t Flynn. And her nerves weren’t settling.

Still, she took one step forward. Then another.

The envelope secure in her coat.

And somewhere behind her, she swore she felt the weight of eyes that weren’t there.

She moved carefully. Not slowly - just carefully, too carefully, like the ground might shift if she stepped wrong. She felt like a stranger in her own body, even walking felt like a performance.

The envelope stayed close, tucked flat beneath the inside pocket of her coat. Her hand hovered near it without touching. It was small, no one would have seen it. There wasn’t anyone around to. But still, she felt obvious. Observed. She didn’t want to look like she was guarding it. Didn’t want to look like she was carrying something of interest. Even if she was.

The next pier stretched ahead of her, wind-blown and skeletal.

Empty, just like the first. But still -  she watched the shadows.

She wondered how many people had walked this dock not knowing they were crossing a line. And how many had known, and kept walking anyway.

The man was ahead now. Blue windbreaker. Hands in the front pocket, staring out at the dark water. He hadn’t seen her yet, she could still turn around. Could still tear the envelope in half and drop it in the water.

But her feet didn’t stop. Because this was what she’d signed up for. And her name was already on the books.

He didn’t turn when she stopped a few paces away. Just said, “You’re late.”

Meg glanced at her watch, she hadn’t known there was a deadline. “It’s ten fifteen.”

“Exactly.”

He looked her up and down, impassive. No introduction, no small talk. Just eyes that flicked once to her coat. “You have it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Waiting for something else, something more. She was waiting for him to ask her name. Or demand a password. Or frisk her. Something.

But the man only stepped slightly to the side, as if clearing a lane for the exchange.

“Envelope,” he said, impatiently this time.

She hesitated - just enough for it to show. Suddenly unsure what to do with her hands.

His brow ticked up. “You new?”

“No,” she lied. Badly.

He sighed, not with anger. Just... tired. “Next time, don’t flinch before you answer.”

At last Meg pulled the envelope from her coat. Held it out. The man took it without touching her, flipped it once in his hand. Weighed it. Not a word.

Then he squinted past her, toward the warehouses behind.

Meg tensed. “What?”

“Nothing.” He tucked the envelope into his jacket. "You weren’t followed." It didn’t sound like a question, but she fumbled for an answer anyway.

“I don’t think…” glancing over her shoulder.

He scoffed slightly, then muttered under his breath, “Jesus.”

She bristled, “I wasn’t.”

He nodded slowly, “uh-huh.”

For a moment, she thought he was going to walk away, turn and vanish just like Anton had, like this never happened. But then he paused.

“You do know what you just handed over, right?”

Meg’s stomach clenched.

“No,” she said honestly.

He actually laughed at that. A quick huff of breath through his teeth. “Well. Maybe that’s better.”

She stepped back, arms crossing tight over her ribs.

He tilted his head. Studied her again. Less dismissive now. “You don’t look like one of his.”

“I’m not.”

He smiled faintly. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, babe.”

He didn’t wait for a response. That’s when he turned on his heel and started walking - back toward the road. Hands in his pocket where the envelope had disappeared into.

Meg stood there until he was out of sight, feeling the pulse in her throat.

Her first job. Done.

There’s been no gun, no threats, no blood. Just a handoff.

And yet she felt like she’d just thrown something off a ledge without checking how far down the drop was.

She waited.

One minute. Then another. Realising she hadn’t asked Anton what happened now.

Was that it? She’d done what was asked – she’d fumbled but she’d handed off the envelope, even when her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

No message. No voice behind her. No movement from the shadows.

Just the wind tugging at the edge of her coat, the faint spray of water in the air, the weight of her own breath moving too loud in the stillness.

She told herself it had gone fine. That maybe she could handle it if this is what was asked of her.

She thought of Flynn again, not the warning this time, but a different night entirely.
The diner, late. He’d been teaching her how to short-change someone without getting caught. Just a dumb trick, all charm and sleight of hand. She’d laughed so hard she nearly dropped the coins.

Now here she was. Handing off envelopes to men on empty piers.

He’d be furious if he knew. She’d broken her promise. Cut the line between them.
But still - she wondered what he’d see if he looked at her now.

Would he be let down? Wonder what happened to the girl he used to know?

Or would some part of him recognise the girl he once taught to cheat a receipt, and think - damn.

Her phone was in her pocket. One press and she’d see his name.
But she didn’t reach for it. Didn’t call. Didn’t type. Because if she did, she’d have to say it aloud. She’d have to admit the thing she’d just made real.

She looked out over the black water. The city flickered at her back. She pulled her coat tighter and started walking. It didn’t feel like an ending. It didn’t even feel like the start of something. It was the pause between lightning and thunder.

The walk back felt longer. Each step thicker than the last. And when the lot came into view again, Anton was there - leaning against a car she hadn’t seen earlier, half-swallowed by shadow. The same clean stillness as before. One hand in his coat pocket. The other loose at his side, fingers curling rhythmically like he was counting something.

He didn’t move when she approached. Just watched her, expression unreadable.

She stopped a few feet away, not sure what came next. Not sure if she was meant to speak first.

“Well,” he said finally, his tone dry, almost neutral. “You didn’t run.”

She didn’t answer.

He opened the passenger door.

“Get in.”

Not praise. Not reassurance. Just an order.

She stared at the open door for a beat too long. Wondered where they were going, too afraid to ask.

Then ducked inside.

The door clicked shut behind her. The car smelled like leather and clean metal. The dash was spotless, not even a fingerprint. She wondered for a second if he was naturally this clean or whether someone had wiped it down recently. 

She sat stiffly, fingers pressed to her knees.

The car eased away from the curb like it had been waiting all night for this one moment.

Anton drove without speaking. One hand on the wheel, eyes forward. The hum of the engine and the faint flush of her coat whenever she shifted in her seat the only real sound between them.

Meg stared out the window, watching the docks recede into the dark. Lights smeared against the glass splattered with sea spray.

She tried to keep her breathing steady.

Tried to keep her hands still.

He broke the silence first.

“You hesitated.”

She turned slightly. “That a professional assessment?”

Anton didn’t smile. “You were nervous. You lied badly. You let him take the lead.”

Meg stiffened. “I handled it.”

“You got through it,” he corrected. “Handling it comes later. When you stop waiting for someone to tell you if you’re doing it right.”

She looked back out the window.

“You’re not the first,” he said eventually. “Some people crack right away. Some coast for weeks before they fold. But nobody walks in clean and stays that way.”

She didn’t ask what kind of person he thought she was.

He went on now. “You weren’t sent in for anything complicated. But it was a test. They’re all tests at first.”

Meg’s stomach twisted.

“Which test comes next?”

He didn’t answer that. Just flicked on the blinker and turned into the shadow of an overpass. The street narrowed. Dimmer now, city light giving way to concrete hush.

“But you followed instructions,” he said. “You didn’t panic.”

There was something like approval in his voice - so faint she almost missed it.

“And the envelope?” she asked. “He asked me if I knew what it was.”

Anton glanced at her. “I told you. Not your concern.”

She felt reprimanded. But he went on: “Sometimes it’s not about what’s inside,” he said. “It’s about who’s holding it. And who’s watching.”

They crossed back into familiar streets, the kind she used to know better. And she realised, with silent relief that he was taking her home. She took in the late-night bodegas with flickering lights. A shuttered deli she and Esme had once stumbled into at midnight for emergency snacks and a bad bottle of wine.

Anton turned without speaking, easing the car down a quieter side road - a block or two from Theon’s building, but tucked out of sight. Unremarkable. Unmemorable. The kind of corner nobody thought to linger on.

The car slowed.

Stopped.

He didn’t put it in park. Just looked ahead through the windshield like he was still calculating something.

Meg turned to him. “So what now?”

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then said, “Now you wait.”

She nodded slowly, jaw clenched, as if it hadn’t been the waiting that was splintering her slowly from inside out.

“For how long?”

A beat. “That’s his call.”

There was no comfort to be found in that.

The door unlocked with a click.

Meg unbuckled her seatbelt, hand on the door handle, when he finally added: “He said you didn’t screw it up.”

She stilled.

Anton didn’t look at her. But she could hear the faint edge of something in his voice. He let the words settle.

Then added, “That’s high praise.”

She swallowed, before she opened the door and stepped out. The night met her like it was waiting.

The car pulled away before she’d taken three steps.

She didn’t look back.

Not at the car. Not at the street. Not at the place where a different version of her might’ve still been standing, wondering what it meant to pass a test she never asked to take.

She passed a row of shuttered shops, a laundromat still humming with ghosted movement, a streetlight that blinked as she walked beneath it.

She’d done it. There should have been relief in that.

And there was, in the thinnest sense - a slackening of the coil in her stomach, the faint loosening of the knot behind her ribs as the adrenaline fell away. She had crossed a threshold and not fallen flat.

“He said you didn’t screw it up.”

That was what passed for approval, apparently. That was the standard.

She turned a corner. She’s left the wind at the docks but she still pulled her collar tighter, a chill settling into her spine.

Anton’s voice stuck with her more than she wanted it to. Not the tone - dry, distant - but the things he’d said.

About the ones who cracked.
About how no one walks in clean and stays that way.

She wasn’t naïve. She’d heard the ghost stories of this type of world before, wrapped in the bravado of drunk bar stories from Flynn’s friends. But this had been something colder, something real.

She thought about the man with the windbreaker and the envelope. The way his eyes had slid past her like he didn’t expect to see her around again. And the way that had cut deeper than a threat would have.

She thought of the card in her drawer, of the way the club door had closed behind her without a sound.

Most of all she’d thought of how she had kept Theon safe.

That was the line she clung to. That was the point, wasn’t it? It wasn’t about how it felt. Or about what came next. What mattered was that she’d bought him a second chance. Bought him breath.

Even if he didn’t really understand what it cost.

She reached the building. Climbed the steps. Paused with her key at the door, hand resting on the chipped frame.

She noticed there were no sirens behind her. Only the hush of a city exhaling.

She let herself back in, back to the life she’d sold everything to keep, the man she’d sold herself to save.

Inside, the lights were dim. Warm. One of the lamps by the couch was still on - soft amber haloing the table, the pile of books, the paint-smudged mug she’d left there that morning.

Theon was asleep. Stretched out on the couch in an old hoodie, one arm curled behind his head. He looked… peaceful. Or maybe just unaware. She was beginning to forget what that felt like.

She stood in the doorway and watched him breathe.

It wasn’t long ago that this was all she wanted: coming home to quiet nights, shared air, maybe a sketchbook between them. A world small enough to feel safe. A world that she belonged to.

But tonight the hush was wrong. Like it was covering tracks.

She stepped forward. Slow. Careful. Then knelt beside the couch and touched his arm.

“Theon,” she said, softly.

His eyes opened - slow and heavy. He blinked. Focused. And when he saw her, his brow knit.

She smelt the faint haze of cheap cocktails and cigarettes on his breath, the remainder of some evening she hadn’t been invited into.

“Meg? I didn’t know where you were” he said, voice still half-asleep.

She said nothing. Didn’t mention that he hadn’t called to find out. She just sank down onto the floor by his side. The room spun for a second. Or maybe it was just her breath catching up.

“He called in the debt,” she said.

That woke him up.

He sat up straighter, pulling his legs under him, hoodie creased from sleep. “What?”

She glanced toward the window. Couldn’t look at him. “Hades. Well, someone working for him. I got a message.”

His jaw tensed. “When?”

“Today.”

“You went?”

She nodded. “I handled it.”

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then Theon let out a sharp exhale - almost a laugh, except it wasn’t.

“So it’s started.”

Meg didn’t say yes. Didn’t need to.

He rubbed a hand over his face, fingers dragging slow.

“You’re okay?”

She shrugged. “I’m here.”

Theon nodded, eyes fixed on a point somewhere behind her.

She slid up onto the couch and reached for him.

It wasn’t dramatic or desperate. Just a hand on his knee, a shift forward until her shoulder touched his. She leaned her head against his chest like she used to, asking him carry the weight, listening for the familiar rhythm, the comfort in the ordinary.

For a moment, he let her. His arm slid around her automatically, fingers brushing her shoulder.

It should’ve felt like safety. But it didn’t.

His heart beat too fast beneath her ear. His body didn’t curve into hers like it once had - it hovered, tentative, not distant but not anchored either. She closed her eyes and tried to hold onto the shape of it anyway. Of them.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said into her hair.

She didn’t answer. Because she wasn’t sure she was.

The silence thickened again.

After a while, he pulled back just slightly. Just enough to tilt her chin up and study her face.

“What did he ask you to do?”

She hesitated.

“It was nothing,” she said. “A handoff. Just a test, I think.”

Theon looked away at that. Like even a simple errand weighed heavier than he wanted to admit.

Meg sat up straighter.

“You said he might not come for me,” she said. Not accusing - just tired. “You said maybe he’d forget.”

“I wanted to believe that,” he said, not quite meeting her eye.

“So did I.”

They sat in the hush of it, the space between them hardening a little like cooling wax.

She watched him closely now. The way his jaw tightened, the way his thumb picked at the seam of the couch cushion.

He was relieved. She could feel it.

Relieved that it had started. That it was happening to her, not to him. That he could be the one asking, instead of answering. Watching, instead of drowning.

She didn’t blame him for it, she couldn’t.

But something inside her shifted. Not anger. Not resentment.

Just the lengthening shadow of distance.

Theon fell asleep first, this was their pattern now.

One minute he was beside her, rubbing a hand over his face like he was about to speak - The next, his head had dropped back, breath evening out. His body went slack in that now familiar way.

Meg didn’t move.

She didn’t move, but she kept her eyes on the window, letting the city’s hush roll in through the cracks.

She hoped she’d be able to sleep too. The waiting was over; had broken like a fever. She’d done what needed to be done. Hades had tested her, and she’d survived it. Nothing dramatic or even all that dangerous. Just a handoff and a drive and a verdict she hadn’t been sure she’d earned: You didn’t screw it up.

Was she supposed to be relieved? She didn’t feel it. Because Anton’s words pressed against her, both soft and sharp at once: “Some people crack right away. Some coast for weeks before they fold. But nobody walks in clean and stays that way.”

She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them like she used to when she was small and couldn’t fall asleep. She stared into the dark corners of the room - not at anything, just through them.

He hadn’t scared her. Not exactly.

But there was something about the way he’d looked at her — like he already knew which one she’d be. How long she’d last. How far she’d fall. Like she was already halfway there. She had wanted to ask him for his prophecy, because she sure as hell didn’t know.

She curled tighter, letting her forehead rest against her knees.

Theon shifted beside her, half-murmured something in his sleep. She didn’t answer.

She stayed like that until her legs started to prickly,  her arms wrapped tight around her knees. Not looking at him. Not anymore.

She remembered the museum - how he used to trail behind her with his sketchbook, scribbling fast while she read the placards.

“Stay there,” he’d whispered, tugging her back into frame. “You. In the light like that - it works.”

That was the boy she made the deal for.
The one who saw her like she was art. Like she was worth capturing.

But that boy wasn’t the one asleep on the couch.
And maybe she wasn’t the girl he wanted to draw anymore.

Maybe she’d blurred beyond recognition.

Chapter Text

Chapter 26: Orientation

The brownstone, as she’d come to know it, didn’t look like the kind of place where people disappeared.

It stood quietly on a tree-lined street in Gramercy Park, tucked between an ivy-choked law firm and an apartment building with a doorman who always looked bored. Three adjoining townhouses of elegant restraint - like they’d been there forever, watching the city shift around them.

From the outside, the building didn’t announce menace. Didn’t have to. The windows gleamed perfectly. The ironwork was unchipped. But, instinctively, no one walked too close to the front steps.

Only one hint marked the door: a brushed bronze plaque the size of a postcard, mounted beside the central stoop.

Styx Enterprises
The letters were clean, serifed, unapologetic.

Meg stopped in front of it, the soles of her boots catching on the wet sidewalk. The thin covering of snow hadn’t settled, but the streets still smelled like damp concrete. Her breath caught in her throat as she tried to take a breath that would steady her nerves.

This was it.
This was where she’d been summoned.

It had been a few days since the pier, but the distance hadn’t softened the tension inside her. She was still wired with tension and unanswered questions.

She adjusted the collar of her coat, coaxing it to lie flat, pulled at her cuffs to try and straighten them. Something about the building made her feel like she should have worn something sharper. Like it could see the fraying threads at her sleeve. Most of her better clothes were still in the apartment she shared with Esme, and she wasn’t about to show her face there. It wasn’t as if she’d been given a dress code. But she felt the indecision in her spine all the same.

She checked the message for the fiftieth time.

13:30. 97 Gramercy.

That was all it had said. No greeting. No name. No signature. Not that it had needed one, she still found herself here.

She climbed the steps and rang the bell. A moment passed, and then the door eased open without a hand in sight.

Inside she was met with polished wood floors, elegant cornicing, and a poise that felt effortless. This wasn’t just quiet, it was curated silence, the kind you found in museums, in private collections. A space designed to hush you on entry.

The walls were pale, the lighting warm but precise. A study in tempered opulence, the kind that whispered wealth instead of flaunting it. Meg felt it immediately - the weight of taste, of money, of rules she didn’t know how to follow.

She paused just inside the threshold.

There was a narrow reception desk, sleek and low, carved from some wood she didn’t recognise. Behind it sat a young man in a dove-grey suit, immaculate down through the length of his spine. He didn’t look up. Just continued scrolling through something on a screen that didn’t reflect in his glasses.

Behind him, a staircase rose to a landing before splitting in two directions, left and right, curving like mirrored brushstrokes. They didn’t look like passageways. They looked like choices. Ones you didn’t get to make twice.

Meg stepped further in, careful not to let her boots make a sound on the parquet floor. The urge to move quietly here wasn’t fear, exactly, it was instinct. The way you lower your voice in a gallery full of things you could never afford to break.

The young man’s eyes flicked to hers at last. Impossibly poised, like someone had painted him into the setting in oils. He didn’t even ask her name.

“Take a seat,” he said. “He’ll be with you shortly.”

She sat on one of the low, modern chairs,  all angles and tension, deliberately not built for comfort, and tried not to fidget. She spotted a damp outline of her boot at the entryway and immediately wished she could scrub it away. Like it was a fingerprint that proved her existence in this space. Somewhere she’d already dirtied.

Across from her, a panel of smoked glass caught her reflection. For a moment, she didn’t recognise the girl staring back. She looked small. Out of place. Like someone who’d come alone and was starting to feel it.

Then she noticed it: a narrow lens in the corner where wall met ceiling. Almost nothing. Too curved for a vent, too angled for decoration. A camera, she realised. Watching. Recording.

She wasn’t sure if she was meant to be intimidated. Mostly, she felt caged.

She pressed her palms against the leather of the chair. Told herself it was fine,  she’d made it through the first test. She could handle this one.

Movement on the stairs caught her eye. Anton stepped through the space liked it had been designed for him. Same clean lines. The same unreadable face. He moved like everything around him was already accounted for - like he wasn’t arriving, just resuming control of a space that had been waiting in stillness for his return.

“Meg.”

She stood instinctively.

He didn’t shake her hand. Didn’t ask how she was. There was a moment - one beat where she thought he might acknowledge the last time they’d met. Maybe a dry remark about the docks. About the envelope. Something to break the tension, or at least tether this surreal moment to the memory of the last one. But it didn’t come.

“Follow me,” he said. “It’s time you saw the place.”

His tone was familiar from their first meeting. The same cool efficiency which she now heard echo across everything else in this place.

She followed him up the stairs to the landing, then through an arched doorway on the right. The hallway beyond wasn’t what she had expected. It was sleek and quiet, the wall lined with glass, intersecting the vaulted ceilings to create what looked like office spaces. Too corporate. Too clean. Every footstep echoed back at here, as if the space was listening.

“This is one of three buildings,” Anton said without looking at her. “Each one purchased under a separate holding company. But inside, they’re connected.”

He walked without hurry. He was only a few inches taller than her, but she still had to lengthen her stride to keep up.

They passed a man in a charcoal suit typing something into a secure terminal. He nodded at Anton, didn’t glance at Meg.

“This is the admin division. Project coordination, acquisition strategy, business operations. These are the salaried teams; KPIs and PTO.”

Something in the way he said it made her feel like this was not where she’d find herself.  

“Is everyone here…” she began, then stopped.

“Here voluntarily?” Anton said, still walking. “Mostly.”

She wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a joke. It didn’t sound like one.

The space was hushed but occupied. It felt reminiscent of other offices she’d know, not that the list was long. Phones rang softly. Keyboards tapped quietly. A woman with glossy black hair spoke into a headset with a quiet laugh, while another in a sharp pantsuit was marking something up in red on a whiteboard.

Meg hovered in a doorway. She felt like a smudge in a museum.

Anton looked back over his shoulder, impatient: “Try to keep up.”

She got the sense he wasn’t giving a tour so much as checking whether she could match pace. Whether she’d ask the wrong question. Whether she’d be one of the ones who broke early.

They moved on. Around a corner to a side of the building that was wider and a little warmer. A floor-to-ceiling window overlooked a small courtyard, where a man in suit smoked a cigarette and scrolled his phone. Soft chatter spilled from a small kitchen and a common room with low tables. The hum of a kettle. Someone laughing at something low and sharp. Two people glanced up as they passed. One raised an eyebrow. The other looked away too quickly.

Anton didn’t acknowledge either.

Then they passed a threshold into a different wing – maybe a different building, she couldn’t quite tell. But the atmosphere shifted all the same, emptier now, less corporate, more intimidating. They trailed past doors she couldn’t see through.

“What's back there?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t look back. “Rooms.” Not at all illuminating.

She waited.

Then: “If you need to ask what kind, you’re not cleared for them.”

Something cold threaded through her ribs.

He opened a door for her with the touch of his pass. It swished shut behind them on its own. They’d moved into the leftmost building she’d gathered as she plotted the corridors in her mind. The world beyond this door was too silent for raised voices. Too austere for comfort, and somehow that made it all the more unsettling.

Meg said nothing. Just walked. But her mind was ticking - faces, doors, exits. Postures and gestures. Who seemed to belong. Who looked like they didn’t want to be noticed. She didn’t know what she was cataloguing for. She just knew to keep track.

No one ran here. That was the strangest part. No shuffling, no urgency. Just a kind of stillness wrapped in motion. Like everyone already knew the consequences of moving wrong.

“What division is this?” she asked.

“Operations. Not everything here runs on spreadsheets.” He said no more than that. Every silence felt like a shape she was meant to read.

To the left, they passed a glass-walled room glowing blue with screen light. Inside, six people sat at a curved terminal - tracking something. Numbers, timestamps flickered across the monitors. Meg caught the words drop point and exfil window before the angle changed.

She didn’t know what this was yet - this place, this job, this version of her life. But every detail seemed practiced. It wasn’t performative, but it felt like a system running on secrets.

Ahead, a woman in a charcoal blazer was standing stiffly in front of a door with her ID card held out. A light above the panel blinked red.

She tried again. Red.

Her brow tightened. Not frustration. Something colder.

Anton moved past her without so much as a glance. “Shut out,” he said under his breath, though Meg couldn’t tell if it was meant for the woman or for her.

She thought about what he’d said at the docks: ‘Nobody walks in clean and stays that way.’

And suddenly it didn’t feel like she was walking through an office any more. It felt like she was being filed. Logged. Processed.

She glanced up, at another discreet camera tucked into the corner of the ceiling. No blinking lights. No obvious movement.

But she knew it saw her.

She wondered if there was a list somewhere. A file with her name already in it.

She realised she hadn’t taken a full breath since she stepped inside.

They climbed another set of stairs, the third: she’d counted. Up here the corridor was emptier still, more ornate, more perfect, their footsteps were muted on carpet now.

She stalled. Up ahead, a man was being led through a coded door. Flanked by two men who were wearing gloves but didn’t touch him. He looked like he might’ve once been tall, confident, the kind of guy who filled a room. But now his shoulders curled inward, like they were trying to shield what remained.

The door opened - soundproofed, reinforced, a flush panel of varnished oak. The man walked through without looking back. No resistance. No fight.

Anton didn’t slow. Didn’t glance. Just kept moving.

Meg followed. Breath caught in her chest.

“What was…”

“Nothing to do with you. Keep it that way.” Anton said. Crisp. Flat. “If it ever is, you’ll know.”

She didn’t ask again.

But when they passed that door, she saw it had no label. Just a faint scuff on the wall, like someone had braced themselves there before letting go.

Further down the hallway Anton opened a different panelled wood door and motioned her to follow him.

“Orientation,” he said, with no ceremony at all.

Meg followed him into a room that didn’t look like an office so much as a holding pen dressed in taste. Sleek furniture. A long, low credenza. No personal items. The room felt like a waiting room for power, not the seat of it.

A single chair sat across from the desk. Anton gestured to it.

Meg sat. He didn’t. Just walked around to his side and leaned against the edge of the desk, jacket unbuttoned, wristwatch catching the light.

He opened with no preamble.

“For starters. There’s no handbook. No induction. No one’s going to hand you a name tag.”

Meg raised an eyebrow. “Shame. I was promised a branded water bottle.”

Anton didn’t smile, and for a second she wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

“Here’s what you need to know,” he went on, voice flat. “You’ll be given assignments. Success builds trust. That’s the only way forward. There’s no title, no promotion, no desk with your name on it. You earn reach by proving you don’t need to be watched. You follow instructions. You handle what you’re given. You don’t improvise unless you’re very good at it.”

That last line was sharper. She caught the edge.

She nodded once, barely.

Anton tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was a risk on the register he wasn’t sure whether to flag.

He pushed away from the desk and opened a drawer. Retrieved a file. Laid it open beside him.

“There are rules. They’re not written. You’ll learn them. Break them - ” his eyes flicked up “- and you’ll find out what kind of correction you merit.”

A beat.

“If you’re lucky, it’ll happen in private.”

Meg felt that one behind her ribs, but she didn’t look away.

“No one here sees the full board. Operations are layered. Compartmentalised. You’ll be told what’s relevant. Nothing more.”

“But what is here?” she asked, finally. “What does this place actually do?”

Anton’s glance deepened then - sharp, like a camera lens clicking into focus.

“We facilitate,” he said. “We enable. We ensure that the right people have what they need - whether that’s a connection, an influence, or a problem smoothed over.”

“And the wrong people?”

He didn’t answer.

“Neat,” Meg said, anything to break the silence. “Sounds like plausible deniability with better stationery.”

That one got a flicker of something - approval, maybe. Or warning.

“It’s no different to anywhere else. You’ll find most lines in this city are blurrier than people like to admit,” he said. “But yes. Some of the work is… non traditional.”

He made a note in the file, one she didn’t see. Then flipped it shut against the desk pressing firmly with his palm, like whatever was inside might escape.

“Most new recruits report directly to me.”

She felt a space in that. A missing piece.

“But not me?” She said, searching him.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Something flickered behind his eyes - not resentment, exactly. Just knowledge. She’d skipped a step. Or been skipped.

She dropped her gaze. Her mouth wanted to say something dry, something deflective. But her throat felt too tight.

Anton turned to a draw in the desk and retrieved a small tray, placing it on the desk in front of her.

Three items, spaced evenly like exhibits in a private collection.

“A few essentials.”

Meg leaned forward instinctively, but didn’t reach for any of them.

He gestured to the first.

“Keycard,” he said. Matte black, marked only with the same etched ‘S’ of the business card from that first night. “Limited access. Only what you’ll need. If that changes, it’ll be updated.”

His eyes flicked to hers.

“Don’t try it anywhere you’re not meant to be. This place remembers things.”

Next: a slim, silver phone. Too sleek to be a burner - but that’s what it was.

“You’ll keep this on you. At all times. This is how you’ll be contacted. Wipe it frequently. Replace the SIM as instructed.”

Meg nodded, but the air had shifted. The room felt colder, more deliberate.

Then Anton picked up the last item.

A credit card.

It gleamed faintly under the desk lamp - metallic, weighty.

He turned it over once in his fingers before placing it on the tray again with something like distaste.

“Quit your job,” he said, as if she still had one. “This will cover what you need. Within reason.”

He checked something on a tablet. Paused. His mouth pulled tight. He didn’t tell her the limit. But whatever number he saw, it didn’t please him.

Meg stared at the card.

“This is debt,” she said softly. “Why would he -”

“It’s nothing,” Anton said, voice low, calm, final. “compared to what you owe.”

The weight of it settled slowly in her chest like a coin dropped into deep water.

She didn’t ask what happened if she spent too much. She could make a pretty good guess.

Meg didn’t move at first. Just looked at the tray - at the card, the phone, the keycard - and felt something quiet unravel within her. Not fear exactly. Not yet. But the beginning of something that could become it.

Then, slowly, she reached out.

Took the keycard first. Slipped it into her pocket like it might vanish if she held it too long.

Then the phone - cool to the touch. Heavier than it looked.

And finally, the card.

She held it between two fingers. Studied the shine. No name on the front. No numbers either. Just the smooth curve of something that looked like freedom and felt like a shackle.

This wasn’t what debt was supposed to look like. She’d imagined the faint taste of shame in the air. Instead she’d been handed a credit limit with no name attached.

In one sharp second, it was like fog burning off glass. She could see everything too clearly. She it all. The deal, Hades, everything that came with him. Access. Tools. Surveillance disguised as generosity. A system that was already moving to accommodate her. Absorb her.

She almost set the card back down. Almost said, I’m not ready.

But then she breathed. Just once. Shallow, controlled. And slid the credit card into her coat pocket beside the keycard.

Her hands stilled. Her shoulders squared.

If she was already in it, she was going to learn how to hold the weight.

Anton watched her the whole time. Not impatient. Not indifferent. Like there was something he was waiting for her to realise. Like there was something he might have said - if it were his place to say it.

But the silence stayed untouched. And he let it go.

“Any questions?” he asked instead.

She had a thousand but her own phone buzzed sharply against her side before she could ask.

Meg pulled it free. Screen lit.

Esme: Call me. Please.

A name she hadn’t seen in days. A voice she hadn’t heard since…

Anton didn’t look at her directly. “Outside relationships are often a distraction.”

She darkened the phone with one thumb, the faint echo of something closing.

“I didn’t reply.”

“That’s not the point.”

Meg lowered the phone slowly back into her pocket. She didn’t switch it off. But she didn’t touch it again either.

Anton disappeared the tray and took the seat behind the desk for the first time.

“That’s all you need to know for now,” he said, tone clipped, clearly signalling that whatever this was, it was ending. Meg didn’t move immediately, her head still full of cautions, of what she wasn’t allowed to know and of consequences no one had described.

Then Anton’s phone rang, sharp against the polished desk. He glanced down, his expression didn’t shift. He answered with a curt, “Yes.”

Just that.
One word.
A pause.

He hung up without another sound. Then turned to Meg.

“You’ve been called upstairs.”

She blinked. “Upstairs?”

“Top floor. End of the hall. You’ll find it.” Dismissing her. Moving on to the next item on his agenda.

Something in the way he said it - impersonal, inevitable - sent a flicker of cold down her spine, like she was being released into something she had to face on her own.

Meg stood slowly but didn’t step away. Instead she asked quietly: “You said most new recruits report to you.”

Anton didn’t look up from whatever file he’d just opened. “I did.”

“So why wouldn’t that apply to me?”

He set down his pen. Lifted his eyes. Measured her.

For a second, she thought he might say nothing. Or that he’d dismiss it the way he had everything else she wasn’t cleared to know.

But instead, he studied her like she was a half-finished draft. Something not yet final.

“He likes a project.”

It wasn’t a compliment.
It wasn’t not one, either.

Anton’s gaze lingered just a moment longer, then dropped back to his paperwork. As if the conversation was over. As if she hadn’t felt something shift in the air between them.

Meg took the step she didn’t want to take, towards the door. She hesitated with her hand over the handle.

“Any advice?” she asked over her shoulder.

This time he didn’t look up.

“I’d say be yourself. But I suspect that’s what got you here.”

Chapter Text

Terms and Conditions

The stairs curved tighter than she expected, narrowing as they rose. Old wood, newly varnished. Polished to a mirror. They didn’t creak, nothing seemed to here.  

This part of the brownstone was more imposing than the areas Anton had toured her through. Gone were the distant conversations and the quiet performance of civility. Up here it was thick carpet and heavier intent.

Halfway up, she paused to let two men pass on their way down. One was lanky and alert-eyed, the other squat and slope-shouldered. Neither looked at her, but something passed between them anyway - just a glance, a twitch of a smirk. Recognition, maybe. Or amusement.

They weren’t like the people she’d seen in the offices so far - no perfectly shined shoes or quiet keyboards. These were the kind of men she’d expected when she first heard the name ‘Hades’. The kind you sent to do your dirty work. Brutes in suits. Proof that whatever business-like façade the lowers floors kept pristine, this floor held the shadows.

Meg kept her eyes straight ahead.

The landing opened into a smaller corridor, richer somehow, less trodden. A door at the end, open and beckoning. The light inside was low - amber against the cool of the walls. No sound but the hum of something precise.

She hovered a moment just out of view of the doorway. She fussed with the hem of her skirt, tightened the elastic of her ponytail. Procrastinating. For a second, she wished Anton were still with her. He was cold, sure. But he was legible. Everything with him had a rhythm. A line you could read, even if you didn’t like where it led.

She remembered that he hadn’t been like that.

She didn’t know what “he likes a project” meant. Didn’t know if she wanted to.

Finally she braced herself, knocked once - light against the wooden frame - and took and stepped onto the threshold.

The office that lay out before her was beautiful.

Not lavish in the obvious way, no gaudy excess. But everything in it was the best version of itself. Leather that hadn’t creased. Shelves that had been read and then arranged like evidence. Lighting warm, but precise. The desk: minimalist, flawless, sharp at the corners. Nothing out of place. Everything designed to say something.

Anton’s office downstairs had been spartan. Clean. Efficient. Functional – all Anton.

This was something else.

It was taste - expensive, unshowy - but more than that, it was control. Every object was placed, not left. The rug aligned perfectly with the grain of the floorboards. The chairs didn’t face each other, they were angled, subtly, toward the desk. His desk.

The room didn’t invite. It arranged.

A place like this made you aware of your breath. Of your shoes. Of the way you stood.

Meg felt that if she opened her mouth, the room might tell her to lower her voice.

Then her gaze was drawn magnetically to the painting that hung above the fireplace. It wasn’t oversized or ostentatious, but it held the wall like a verdict.

Brushwork like bruises - thick with motion, streaked in murky reds, greens and ochres. Two figures emerged and blurred again, indistinct but straining, as if caught mid-lurch or lament. One reaching, one recoiling. The whole canvas seemed to sink downward, as if gravity had turned vindictive.

It wasn’t beautiful. Not exactly. But it demanded attention.

She didn’t recognise the artist, but she knew quality when she saw it. This wasn’t decoration. It was a choice. The kind you didn’t make unless you understood what power looked like - and how to frame it.

She looked away before it pulled her under too.

Now her eyes landed on him.

Hades was seated behind the desk, one arm resting loosely on its edge, the other holding a phone to his ear. His eyes weren’t on her. Not yet. But he’d seen her. She could feel it.

She remembered the night of the deal, their first meeting. She hadn’t taken him in then, not properly.  She’d been too caught in the blur of her own decision. Focussed on the shape of the choice in front of her. On what it meant to say yes. On what she thought she was saving.

In the weeks since, the memory of him had blurred - warped by the waiting and the dread. But now that she saw him again - fully, plainly - that night came flooding back.

The cold precision of his voice. The stillness. The sense that the moment she stepped into his orbit, the rest of her life had already begun to narrow.

He looked the same. But the clarity made it worse, because this time, she understood what she was seeing. He hadn’t changed, but maybe she was starting to, and she wasn’t sure which version of her he’d been waiting for.

Without interrupting the call, he lifted a hand and made a single gesture. Sharp. Effortless. A flick of the fingers that said: come in.

It wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t impatient. It was a command, dressed like invitation.

Meg stepped forward over the threshold. Quiet as she could manage. She didn’t speak. Didn’t dare. The room seemed to inhale her, and the spark that had let her edge a little too close to boldness with Anton didn’t follow her in. It had vanished the moment she saw him.

His voice cut through the tension that ran through her.

“I don’t care what kind of leverage they think they have,” Hades said, voice smooth and vicious all at once. “If it were real, they’d have used it already.”

A pause. Not a generous one.

“Remind them how that worked out for the last poor bastard who mistook me for patient.”

Meg hesitated. He hadn’t raised his voice. But something in the tone was dangerous enough to stall her step.

“If it’s still broken by the weekend, so are they.”

No goodbye on the call. No sign-off. Just the threat, clean as a blade. He set the phone down. Slowly. Precisely.

Then he looked at her. All of him, at once.

“You like the Weie?” hand flicking to the painting.

Meg blinked. She hadn’t expected that to be his first move.

“It’s striking,” she said, fumbling for something insightful and failing.

His mouth curved - something between a smirk and a dismissal.
“Striking,” he echoed. “That’s one way of putting it. I’d go for bold, unyielding, difficult”

He reached for the glass on his desk, took a measured sip, then added, “Not quite your little boyfriend’s style, is it? His work always looks like it’s trying to say something profound. But never quite knows what.”

Meg’s skin prickled defensively, but she bit her tongue.   

“And yet here you are,” he went on, setting the glass down with a quiet clink, “standing in front of something that doesn’t beg to be liked.”

He tilted his head, just slightly.

“Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

She felt the rise of a retort in her throat, tried to smooth the edges off before it tumbled out: “You didn’t call me up here to talk about art.”

That earned the smallest flicker. Approval, maybe. Or just interest.

“No,” he said, smooth as lacquer. “But it tells me something.”

He stood. Slowly. Not to loom - he didn’t need to. His presence did all the work.

“People lie all the time about what they want. What they need. What they value.” He stepped around the desk, unhurried. “Art doesn’t. It reflects their truth - even the parts they’re not ready to see. What they chase. What they reach for when they think no one’s watching.”

Meg didn’t move. She wasn’t sure if he was talking about the artist, Theon, or her.

He stopped a few feet away - close enough to examine her expression, far enough to give the illusion of space.

“But no,” he said again, quieter now. “I didn’t summon you to talk brushstrokes and bad taste.”

A pause. The smile that followed was sharp but unreadable.

“How was the tour?” He turned away without waiting for an answer, crossing to the drinks cabinet near the window. He refilled his glass with something amber - neat, deliberate. No offer to pour her one.

Meg fumbled again, thrown by the change in tone.

“Precise,” she said, trying to keep up. “Orchestrated.”

He glanced back at her. Smiled. “Of course it was. You’re not being welcomed. You’re being measured.”

He took a sip. “Didn’t Anton explain that part?”

“He said I was being ‘oriented.’” Her voice was dry. “Which I assumed was code for ‘watched.’”

Hades gave a soft huff, not quite a laugh. “You’re quick. That’ll help.”

He leaned back against the sideboard, his spare hand rapped against the polished surface.

Meg stood a few paces from the desk, pulse thrumming faintly in her throat. Hades hadn’t offered a seat, and she wasn’t about to pretend the invitation was implied. His attention was sharp now - fully on her - and she felt the shift in the air pressure as clearly as if someone had flicked a switch.

She steeled herself to ask the question that had followed her up the stairs and into the office: “Anton said I’m a project,” she said, keeping her tone even. “What does that mean?”

His brow raised a little.

“Did he now?” he said. “That’s uncharacteristically loose of him.”

Meg didn’t blink. “He made it sound like it wasn’t his choice.”

“It wasn’t,” Hades said, almost pleasantly.

He let the words hang for a moment.

“So?” she said finally, when it became clear he wasn’t going to fill the silence on her behalf.

“So,” he replied, matching her tone, “it means you’re here. And I don’t make an investment without expecting a return.”

She didn’t know what to make of that, but she felt the chill all the same.

He walked back around the desk now, not sitting, just standing - hands loose at his sides, gaze steady. The mahogany intersecting the space between them.

“I’ve got jobs lined up,” he said. “Small ones to start. I need to know what you’re good at.”

“You want a résumé? I’m a broke girl with the first year of an art degree and a sketchbook. I don’t have special skills.”

His expression didn’t shift. “Then we’ll find some.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut across her.

“What I really need,” he said, quiet now, “is loyalty.”

The word didn’t bite, but it settled. Heavy and inevitable.

“And fear,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Most people forget that part. But fear keeps things sharp.”

Meg’s fists curled at her sides.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, only half believing it.

He paused. Then, gently - so gently it almost sounded like mercy - he said, “Not yet.”

His eyes followed a lock of her hair where it had come loose and was curling near her cheek -  too measured, too intent.

“But you will be, Nutmeg,” he said. “And it’ll make you better.”

Her whole body went still.

The nickname hit like a pressure point. She didn’t shudder - wouldn’t give him the satisfaction - but her voice came tight through her teeth.

“Don’t call me that.”

She thought of Flynn. She’d never felt further from him than in this moment. The nickname that had been sweet on his tongue curdled in her ears now, soured by the way Hades said it, like a claim instead of a kindness.

Hades arched a brow, examining her like she was something under glass. “Why not?”

“It’s not yours to use.”

A reaction passed over his face, curious, maybe even faintly amused. Then he stepped towards her now, slow and smooth, as if granting space was a favour that he’d decided not to extend.

“Everything about you is mine now,” he said lightly. “I assumed the nickname came with the territory.”

This time his smile held no sharpness. Just a faint curve, like it held back a thought he hadn’t said out loud.

She didn’t know why it unsettled her. Only that it did. The first flicker of that fear he’d mentioned threaded beneath her skin.

“You’ll hear from me when I need you,” he said, as is the floor hadn’t just given way beneath her. “You’ll follow instructions. Be where you’re meant to. Don’t go off-script unless you’re sure you’ll be applauded for it.”

He still held her gaze but she could tell his attention was already shifting to something beyond her.

“You’re not a prisoner, Meg. But don’t mistake that for freedom.” He said, somewhere between a courtesy and a warning. She recognised the shape of the words, just didn’t know what they meant yet.

She stayed still a second longer. Acknowledgement, not acceptance.

“Oh, and Meg? One more thing.”

His voice came softer now. But it cut cleaner for it.

“I don’t like liars,” he said. “But I can tolerate a little defiance.”

It was only when she left the office and closed the door behind her that she realised her hands were shaking.

Chapter Text

The Ground Beneath 

Meg didn’t run, but she walked fast.

From the Brownstone in Gramercy Park to The Bowery, straight down the spine of the island, breath misting sharp in the early evening air. The streets weren’t crowded, not really, but she stuck to the edges anyway, hugging the scaffolding, skipping the red lights. Trying to put space between her and the Brownstone as quickly as possible.

By the time she reached the gallery on Grand Street, her feet ached. Not from distance. But from pacing. From not stopping. From everything she hadn’t let herself feel since she’d left the offices and the door had closed behind her.

It hadn’t worked. The walk. The city. The cold. Her head was still full of it.

The gallery was smaller than she remembered. Or maybe it just felt that way now - clean walls, quiet trip-hop, everything curated to be stared at not just glanced. The kind of place they used to wander into without meaning to, hands brushing, time stretching. Before.

She almost didn’t see him at first - Theon - inside, already halfway down the main corridor. The windows blurred slightly from the heat inside, condensation fogging at the corners. Through the glass, he looked still and composed, standing in that casual way he did when he felt comfortable. One hand in his pocket. A glass of something red in the other. Listening to someone with a slight tilt of his head, a nod here and there. Not waiting. Just there.

She paused before pushing the door open. There was a flicker of something - hesitation, maybe. Or just the cold sting of walking out of one world and back into another.

The heat hit first, soft, dry, the smell of varnish and wine. Light pooled from overhead fixtures and wall lamps, throwing warm glow over clean lines and curved frames.

Theon turned as she approached. His expression flickered - recognition, then a smile.

“Hey,” he said, like this was still something they did. He leaned in, kissed her cheek. Familiar. Distant.

“You started without me.”

“You’re late.”

Only by eight minutes. But fine. She let it lie.

He held up the glass. “Want one? They’ve got wine, some kind of sparkling thing.”

“I’m okay.”

“Sure?”

She nodded.

He didn’t ask where she’d come from.

Didn’t ask about the walk. Or why she needed it.
Didn’t ask about the building she’d left behind.
Didn’t ask about the man who’d summoned her.

She didn’t tell him.

They moved into the gallery together, Theon falling into an easy practiced rhythm, stopping every few feet to linger in front of a piece. He talked as they walked. About the artists. About the last time this space was open for a collective showing. About a different studio he might rent if the price came down. A man he’d run into who used to be someone, and still acted like he was.

Meg listened. Or she tried to. The words kept skimming off her like rain on glass. She nodded where she was supposed to. Murmured assent when he looked at her. He didn’t seem to notice the delay.

He kept talking. She kept walking.

The gallery was full of strangers, the kind that wore earnestness like cologne. Art students. Collectors. One woman with the perfect undercut. Someone had brought a dog - small, quiet, tucked under a bench like a handbag. It was the kind of crowd Theon could disappear into. She used to love that about him. The way he could belong anywhere without losing himself.

Now it just made her feel peripheral.

They reached the corner where a mixed media piece climbed the wall - torn paper, paint, thread. It looked like a staircase in red, collapsed in on itself as is someone had tumbled down and torn the world down with it.

It reminded her of something Theon once said about art allowing you to fall apart.

She stopped. He kept walking a few steps before realising.

Meg looked at the piece. At the seams where the thread ran out. At the edges that curled away from the canvas. At the way the whole thing felt unfinished, like it had simply given up halfway through.

Theon doubled back, slotting into his place beside her.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She didn’t answer right away. Usually, she’d have a whole paragraph. A critique, a counterpoint. Something clever about intention or negative space or the pretence of ruin.

Today, all she managed was: “It’s good.”

Theon nodded, already glancing at the next piece. “Yeah. Thought you’d like it.”

And that was it.

He didn’t notice that she hadn’t said anything at all and moved on.

After a minute or two they drifted a little further, deeper into the space. The gallery curved in on itself, like it was designed for quiet revelations. Just soft murmurs and the occasional clink of glass. The corridor became smaller, more intimate. Ceilings lower and angles flatter. There were fewer people here. The pieces on the wall leaned minimal - greyscale, fine lines, framed with too much white space.

Meg was reading the placard on a graphite sketch when a voice cut in.

“Theon,” someone said, warm and certain.

The woman approaching wore sharp boots and sharper eyeliner, her dark hair cropped to the jaw. One of those women who carried herself like she had a gallery of her own somewhere else and wasn’t particularly impressed by this one. She wasn’t intimidating on purpose. That was just how she came. Just knew herself in a way Meg thought she might have once, and now wasn’t so sure.

“Amelia,” Theon said, stepping in to greet her.

They didn’t hug, but their proximity implied history - gallery history, art fair history. A handful of years overlapping in the same circles. She said something Meg didn’t catch, and Theon laughed. A real laugh, low and easy.

It lasted a second too long.

Meg stood half a step behind, waiting.

It wasn’t until Amelia’s eyes flicked toward her that Theon seemed to remember.

“Oh - yeah, this is Meg,” he said, gesturing without really turning. “Meg, this is Amelia.”

Amelia offered her hand smoothly. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Meg said, taking it.

No mention of my girlfriend. No context. Just a name.

“I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?” Amelia asked.

Meg wanted to say, not lately. But just nodded instead.

Amelia gave her a pleasant enough smile, but the attention was brief. She looked back at Theon. “You know, I’m curating a group show in Chelsea next month. I have a wall space if you want it.”

“You’re serious?” His voice lifted, something eager threading into it. “You’re normally booked six months in advance.”

Amelia smiled. “I can always make room for you, Theon.”

Meg let the conversation fade out, not because she wasn’t listening, but because it was easier that way. She could still hear every word. But it wasn’t hers.

Theon looked good in this room. Comfortable. Aligned. His shoulders weren’t tight like they’d been the last few months. He gestured with both hands when he spoke, and Amelia mirrored him without even thinking about it.

They smiled at each other like they’d been smiling at each other for years.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even intimate.

But it was present. Immediate.

Alive.

Meg didn’t feel jealous. She just felt like she wasn’t part of the conversation. Like she hadn’t been invited into the room at all.

There it was again: peripheral.

They left the gallery when the wine ran out. No lingering goodbyes. Just a nod from Theon to someone across the room and the soft thud of the door behind them as they stepped out into the night.

The cold caught her off guard. Not dramatically - just enough to make the hair on her arms lift beneath her coat. The kind of sharpness that crept up from the pavement, settled in your sleeves.

They didn’t speak at first.

The street was wide and uneven, one of those older stretches with buckled concrete and mismatched lamplight. Theon walked on the inside, closest to the buildings. Shoulders slightly hunched. The wind caught at his collar, but he didn’t fix it. A hand tucked into a his back pocket, not hers like he might have done once. It wasn’t hostile. Not exactly. But it wasn’t easy either.

He used to touch her constantly. Thoughtlessly. The light drag of his fingers along her hip when he passed behind her. The way he’d press his mouth to her shoulder while she made coffee. The heat of his hands at her waist, pulling her into him, grounding her.

She remembered how easily she used to fall with him. How certain her body had felt under his touch. Like maybe she could be held together by it.

Now she couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched her just to feel close. Just to say I see you. I’m here.

And she hadn’t realised, until this exact moment, how badly she wanted him to. How desperately she needed him to look over and say something – anything - that would make the day feel less like a noose slowly choking her with everything she hadn’t said, of everything Theon hadn’t asked. The brownstone, the tour, the office upstairs. Hades.

They passed a shuttered bookstore. A man smoking under an awning. A cab crawling too slowly down the block with its light off. Meg kept her eyes forward. Let the quiet build until it started pressing against her ribs. It should’ve been enough. It used to be. That was another thing she used to love that about him. That they could exist in silence without it turning cold.

She’d thought the gallery might loosen something. Let her feel normal again. Let her slip into an old shape. But the seams didn’t fit anymore.

The walk was supposed to help too. It didn’t. If anything, it made the absence ring louder. Like she was carrying the weight of the day alone and it was starting to burn.

She could’ve kept it in. She almost did.

What was the point of saying it, really? He didn’t want to hear it. He hadn’t asked. Maybe he never would. But it was there, rising into her throat like smoke.

She needed someone to hold a piece of it. Just a corner. And he was the only person left who could.

So, finally, carefully - like she was laying something fragile down between them, she said:

“I saw him today.”

Theon didn’t stop walking. He didn’t ask who.

Didn’t glance at her. Didn’t even slow right away.

Just kept moving, his footsteps steady on the uneven sidewalk, like maybe if he didn’t acknowledge it, the words wouldn’t stick.

But Meg saw it - the shift in him. Barely there, but unmistakable. The set of his jaw. The way his shoulders pulled in a fraction tighter, like something had braced in his chest.

She let the silence hang a second longer.

Then, quietly - like underlining something that had already been written: “Hades.”

He heard it that time.

He nodded. Once. Still didn’t look at her. Still didn’t speak.

They kept walking. Past a lit deli window. Past a subway grate humming warm air. Past a stretch of scaffolding she ducked beneath out of habit, even though she didn’t need to.

She waited.

Counted her breaths: One. Two.

Then: “Aren’t you going to ask how it went?”

Theon’s breath came out rougher than before. Not a sigh. Not quite.

“Maybe it’s better if we don’t talk about it.”

He said it lightly. Like it was a kindness. Like silence was something they could still afford.

Meg nodded, once. Reflexive. Maybe he was right.

They walked a few more paces like that. The street rolled out in front of them, street lamps and headlights, a straight line that she couldn’t see the end of.

She thought again of the Brownstone. Of Anton’s coded warnings. Of Hades’ eyes making silent notes. Of the way she took the stairs down from the office two at a time.

She glanced sideways to Theon - who used to sit cross-legged on the floor sketching her face like he was learning it by heart. Who used to reach for her in every room they were in. Who used to know when she was about to speak before she even breathed in. But now he was the Theon who hadn’t asked where she’d been. Who hadn’t asked what she’d done. Who was walking next to her like this wasn’t burning a hole through her.

And that was when the anger hit.

Low. Clean. Inevitable.

“We’re in this together, you know.” she said. Not loud. Not sharp. But there was steel under it. “You don’t get to pretend it’s not happening.”

She didn’t look at him. If she did, she might lose the thread. Might say too much.

He didn’t answer right away.

They crossed the street in silence, his footsteps a half-beat ahead of hers.

Then, finally, he said it:

“I didn’t ask you to do this.”

Not cruel. Not raised.
Just tired. Unwilling.

She halted mid-step, boots catching on the pavement. For a moment all she could hear was the blood in her ears.

Theon took another two steps before he realised she’d stopped. Turned back, frowning like he didn’t know what he’d done.

Meg stared at him.

Really stared.

And for once, she didn’t hide the way her jaw tightened. Didn’t smooth it over. Didn’t play reasonable.

Her voice, when it came, was low and furious.

“No,” she said. “You just let me.”

The words didn’t rise. They cut.

He blinked.

She watched the hit land. Watched him take it - no argument, no deflection, just that slight recoil like he’d finally seen the edge she was standing on.

“Meg - ” he started, but didn’t finish.

She didn’t give him the space to. She started walking again, past him, faster this time, the air sharp in her throat.

And he followed. But a few steps behind.

She didn’t break stride until she reached the top of the subway stairs, the light above them too bright and vicious.

The street behind them was washed in white headlights and the bitter hiss of a bus slowing at the corner. Meg could feel her pulse in her hands, her throat, the space behind her eyes.

She turned on him with a look that could’ve frozen blood. Fury carved clean across her face.

“You didn’t ask me to do it,” she spat. “Fine. I know that.”

Theon didn’t speak.

“But you didn’t stop me either.”

His eyes shifted - guilt, maybe. Or embarrassment.

“You think that makes you clean? That just because you stayed quiet, it wasn’t still you I was doing it for?”

He didn’t respond. Just looked away, like maybe the night had something more forgiving to offer. Her breath hitched. She didn’t let it break her.

“You were in danger, Theon ” she said, her voice beginning to shake - not with weakness, but from the weight of keeping it in too long. “And I did what you wouldn’t. I went to him. I made the deal. I said, take me instead.”

A couple passed behind them, heading toward the train. The woman glanced over. Registered the tension, the set of Meg’s shoulders, the way Theon didn’t speak. Just two people in a public argument. A woman angry. A man silent. The usual shape.

“Meg, please…” Theon glanced over his shoulder, hands flicking in a weak, placating gesture - not to soothe her, but to quiet her. To keep it contained. To keep it from looking bad.

Meg’s voice dropped lower, but it didn’t soften. She wasn’t going to be hushed, not by him, and not for his sake.

“You don’t wait to be asked. When you love someone, you throw yourself in front of the fucking train.”

Her chest burned.

“I did it because I love you.”

Bare. Honest.

Theon looked at her. Held her gaze.

And for a moment, she really believed he might say it back, the way he always used to.

But he didn’t.

Instead he just said, quietly - regretfully - “I should have stopped you.”

It felt like the kind of hurt that didn’t come from a blow but from the space where one should have been. Not cruel. Not even cold. But not enough.

Meg swallowed. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t blink. She let the silence sit between them like a verdict. Because that was it. That was the moment. She’d handed him everything. And he’d let it drop.

She nodded, once. Small. Final.

“Right.”

Then she turned. Started down the stairs, fast and steady, like if she kept going her heart wouldn’t crack open.

The train was half-empty.

He’d followed her down the stairs. He was here. But the silence wasn’t companionable. It wasn’t penance, either. It was something quieter. Sadder.

They sat side by side and didn’t speak.

Theon’s hands were folded between his knees. Meg’s were in tight fists pressed against her thighs. The train filled the space between them, sharp and mechanical, like a rhythm her heart was failing to match.

The subway rattled too loud for them to talk over. It was just as well. There wasn’t much more to say.

She stared at the black smear of tunnel outside the window, the occasional flash of graffiti, the flicker of a station they didn’t stop at. Her reflection looked unfamiliar in the glass. Pale, stiff. Someone who’d finally admitted the thing she’d been holding for weeks - and had nothing to show for it.

She loved him.

And for the first time, when she needed it the most, he hadn’t said it back.

Her chest ached with it. Not sharp like before. Duller now. Deeper. Like a bruise blooming under the skin, invisible but spreading.

They didn’t touch. Not once.

At the next stop, a man got on with a guitar case. A woman with smudged lipstick. Theon shifted slightly to make room but didn’t move closer to her.

By the time they reached their stop, Meg had gone very still.

She led the way out, climbing the stairs back up into the night.

The studio wasn’t far. Just a few minutes. They walked the stretch in silence, feet scuffing against the sidewalk, the weight of the words they’d left in Manhattan hanging low over both of them.

When they reached the front steps, Meg climbed to the top and paused, his key in her hand.

This was the part where he would follow her up. Where they’d throw coats on chairs, drink leftover tea, sort through the wreckage of the evening.

But Theon didn’t move.

He stayed just beyond the bottom step, eyes on the street.

“I think I’m gonna grab a drink,” he said.

His voice was light. Too light.

“Just a friend. Won’t be long.”

He didn’t say who. Didn’t ask her to come.

Meg looked at him. Really looked.

“You know this is the moment, right?” she said. “This is where you come inside. This is where you try.”

Theon’s gaze flicked to her, then back to the street.

“I just… need to clear my head,” he said.

It wasn’t callous. But it wasn’t brave either.

Meg nodded. Once. She didn’t fight him.

“Okay,” she said. “Go clear it.”

He lingered for another second - like maybe he thought she’d call him back. She didn’t. So he turned and walked away.

She watched him go, watched the shape of him disappear down the street, shoulders hunched, collar up, not once looking back.

She didn’t follow. Didn’t move.

Just stood there on the stoop, heart unravelling thread by thread.

His life was returning to normal. Hers wasn’t. She had given him everything. And he was still walking away.

The ground beneath her hadn’t settled. It might never.

But Theon - Theon had already stepped off it.

Chapter Text

The Guilty Parties

The sun was just beginning to rise when he emerged onto the street, all washed-out lavender and construction dust. Flynn blinked into it, breath clouding in the early morning air. His back ached. So did his shoulder - from crouching to rifle through the filing cabinets, or maybe from jimmying the window that didn’t open like the client swore it would.

He dropped the duffel at his feet and leaned against the wall of the alley, exhaling, letting the adrenaline leak out of his muscles. The job was simple enough. A scumbag property manager who'd been forging tenant signatures to fake renovation permits, pocketing city kickbacks while the buildings rotted. Flynn had spent the last hour in the guy’s office, slipping past the outdated alarm, photographing everything from forged leases to the private folder temptingly labelled "DO NOT OPEN!!" He’d probably left the place tidier than he’d found it: you’re welcome.

He hadn’t taken anything for himself, not really. A flash drive of dirty secrets maybe. Enough to sell on, or enough to rattle someone, but that was just his commission. All in all, it had been a good night’s work. It wouldn’t made him rich, none of these jobs would. But it was clean: no blood, no guilty conscious. And it was money earned on his own terms - untraceable and enough to keep him ahead of anything that might catch up.

Flynn liked money. Not for the flash, not for the brag, he liked what it meant. A plane ticket. A bolt-hole. A chance to change the story if this one ever ran out of road. Money bought options. And Flynn liked having options.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in permanence - he just didn’t trust it. So he kept his wallet padded, his exits open, and his conscience clear enough to sleep. Except on nights like this, when the city held its breath and he couldn’t.

He cracked his knuckles, working warmth back into them. He was tired, but not in the way that made you sleep, he felt frazzled around the edges, wired from the come-down of the job and full of thoughts he’d been dodging all night.

The main culprit: Meg.

He hadn’t heard from her since their detente at the diner, and that had been what? Two weeks now. Once that kind of silence from her would have had him marching round to her apartment on the way to file a missing person’s report. But after these last few months, the distance was starting to taste familiar, with an undercurrent of bitter. 

She’d said stay out of trouble. Said she’d be careful. Promised to call if she decided to do something stupid. He hadn’t wanted to push, she would have hated that. But now things were too quiet.

He reached for his phone. Checking it for the first time since the start of his stint at breaking and entering. It had been a slow night clearly, just a spammed group text from someone he hadn’t worked with in a year. Nothing from her – no change there.

But then one message caught his attention.

Al: Rumour going around about some new girl in Hades’ circle. Sounds like your friend. Thought you should know.

Flynn stared at it. Read it twice.

His heart picked up speed, that same tight coil he used to get when a scam started to go sideways.

No. Not Meg. Not without telling him.

He swore under his breath and his thumbs fumbled as he called Al, not caring what time it was. Knowing Al, he was probably keeping the same dubious hours as him. The line rang twice before he picked up.

“I figured you’d call,” he said, voice too casual for what was coming.

Flynn’s tone was impatient. “You want to explain that message?”

“Great to hear from you too, man” Al yawned down the line.

“Cut the crap, Al. What did you hear?”

A beat. Then: “Just what I said. Rumour about some girl Hades has on the books. Not the usual lackey. Heard she’s sharp, but green. Like someone who didn’t know what she was getting into.”

Flynn’s gut twisted. He paced a small circle in the alley, hand to the back of his neck.

“What makes you think it’s her? Could be a mistake,” he said, too quickly. “A coincidence. There’s gotta be a dozen girls in this city chasing something dangerous, trying to get close to him for all kinds of reasons.”

But his gut told him it wasn’t going to be a mistake. The second he read the message, it tugged somewhere low and sick in his stomach. Because of course she hadn’t called. Of course she’d done something reckless. And of course it would be now - after weeks of nothing, after the diner, after that look on her face when she swore to him she wouldn’t.

He’d wanted to believe her. He had believed her, for a little while. What kind of idiot was he to let himself think maybe she was still deciding? That if she didn’t reach out, it meant she’d chosen not to go through with it. After all this was Meg they were talking about. Romantic, headstrong, stubborn, and absolutely not about to be told what to do by anyone, even him.

“Sure, maybe” came Al’s reply. “Except I didn’t just get it from the rumour mill.”

Flynn stilled.

“What?”

“I mean I heard the whisper, sure. But I recognised it because she came to me first.”

Silence.

“Meg,” Al added, like that clarified anything. “Your girl. She came asking how to find him.”

Flynn’s blood ran cold.

“No -” he started, but the word felt weightless.

“Didn’t tell me why,” Al continued, unconcerned. “Just said it was important. I figured she was bluffing. Or trying to scare someone. You know how it is.”

Flynn was already shaking his head. “No, I don’t know how it is, Al. And neither does she. This isn’t her world and you know it. And then what? Did you draw her a fucking map?”

“I thought she was just digging, man. And if she was, better she didn’t stumble into the wrong door.”

“Jesus, Al.”

“What? She’s your girl. Why’d she come to me?”

Flynn didn’t answer. His anger burned a hole through the question, because it was the same one he was asking himself. He hung up without another word and was already calling her. Already listening to the ring that stretched on the line like a dare. Two rings. Four. Six. Each wound him tighter than the last.

Come on, Meg. Pick up. Pick up. Just. Pick. Up.

The ringing stopped. No voicemail. No nothing.

Only the beep of a dropped call, the kind that he recognised now. That bitter feeling was turning in his stomach again, but this time it was laced with guilt.

He stared at the screen. Waited, stupidly. Like she’d call him back before the moment fully passed, like she’d simply hadn’t reached the phone in time.

But she didn’t.

Flynn swore again. Soft this time. Under his breath and worn down at the edges: ‘Goddammit, Nutmeg.’

Then he shoved the phone into his pocket, grabbed the duffle and moved. Fast. There was only one place to go.

The morning was already against her.

Esme moved through the apartment in frantic increments - bag half-packed, toast uneaten on the counter, a stack of case notes shoved under one arm as she tried to shrug on a coat. She’d slept through her alarm, again. Third time this week, she was spending too many late nights framed in the glow of her laptop, only to wake up and do it all over again. She was three pitches behind, two deadlines past due, and her inbox looked like a slow-motion car crash.

Not that any of it mattered. It was all bus route changes, corporate rebrand nonsense, press releases dressed up as impact journalism. She was grateful to have work, technically still chasing what she’d always wanted - but it all felt thin. The kind of stories that didn’t rattle anyone. Didn't change anything. Just filled pages. Paid rent, which had doubled now that her oldest friend had dropped off the face of the earth taking her meagre household contributions with her.

Still, she flitted across the small apartment like she could make up the time. Like motion might count for something.

She fumbled with her keys as she reached for the door, files starting to slip. Then she froze, because Flynn was standing on the other side. His hand not even raised to knock. Just there. Eyes stormier than usual, not that excruciating smoulder she’d seen him use on girls across sticky dancefloors. Today it was a look that told her something was broken.

She didn’t need to ask what this was about. There was only one topic she and Flynn ever had reason to speak about.

“If you’re looking for her, she’s not here.’ Esme said, before he could speak, “I haven’t seen her in weeks. And I’m late for work.” It came out sharper than she meant it to, but he had that effect on her.

Flynn didn’t acknowledge her, and he didn’t wait for an invitation. He just brushed past into the cramped living room. Esme sighed, certain now she was going to miss the morning stand up, all thanks to whatever melodrama these two were embroiled in now.

His footsteps trod heavy on the uneven floorboards as paced the small expanse like he was trying to outrun what he’d just learned. Eyes wild, breath quick, as if the air outside hadn’t been enough. He was already talking.

“She said she wouldn’t. She promised me, swore up and down she’d stay away, and now – fuck…Esme, I told her - ”

“Flynn? What?” Esme shook her head, only really taking in every other word.

“And, you know what’s crazy? I believed her. Because we don’t lie to each other. Sure, she’s self-sabotage in human form but I didn’t think she had a goddamn death wish.”

He stopped moving just to rake both hands through his hair in exasperation, but his stream of consciousness didn’t slow.

“And now she’s in danger. Deep in it” he said, words tumbling fast, barely shaped. “I knew something was wrong, I knew it. I should’ve - ”

Esme heard the word danger and her stomach turned over. Everything else, every petty annoyance she felt, fell away.

Her keys clattered at her feet as she dropped her bag. A folder slipped free, papers fanning out across the floor, but she didn’t look down. Didn’t move to fix it.

Flynn’s voice kept going - spiralling, angry, too quick to follow.

“Flynn,” she said, firmly.

He didn’t notice, still muttering desperately.

“Flynn,” louder this time. “Just - stop!”

He did. Paused. Hands still mid-air, like he was trying to implore some divine intervention that was not about to hear him.

Esme took a slow breath. Stepped toward him. “You said she’s in danger?”

He nodded, jaw tight, but something had cracked behind his eyes - an exposed, searching kind of helplessness. Like he needed someone else to share this with him. It wasn’t a look Esme had seen before. Not on ‘Icarus-in-a-leather-jacket’ Flynn. And it was that look that put more fright in her than the word itself.

“Then I need you to stop pacing like a lunatic and start from the beginning.”

Flynn drew in a breath and blew it out again. Shaky. Frustrated. “She came to me. A few weeks ago. Said Theon, that arrogant piece of shit, was in trouble - some kind of debt. I don’t know the details. Just that it was bad, and she was scared and didn’t know how to help.”

Esme’s brow furrowed. Her arms folded, sharp with concern now. “Go on…”

“And I told her to leave it. I told her not to get involved.” His voice pitched, bitter with hindsight. “She said she wouldn’t. Swore she’d call if it got worse.”

A beat.

Flynn’s jaw flexed. “Next this I hear, she’s tangled up with this guy called Hades.”

The name dropped like a plate. Brittle and sharp. Her mind reeled back, Clopin’s hushed warning at her desk, months ago. The name he told her to pay attention to. The one still stuck to her monitor on a curling Post-It note. A man who didn’t just deal in money, but in power, loyalty. In consequences that never made it onto the record.

Her breath caught in her throat. Flynn didn’t notice, instead he kept going.

“This guy, Esme. He’s not someone you mess with. Not someone you find unless he wants to be found. His name doesn’t even show up in half the places it should. He’s like a ghost. But everyone in the wrong corners knows who he is.”

Esme cut across him. “I know who he is.”

That stopped him.

Flynn blinked, thrown. “You do?”

Esme nodded, tight and slow. “What, you think I just write listicles? I’m a reporter, Flynn. A good one. Not that you ever ask. People talk to me. They whisper. When it matters. Sure, I don’t have much, but enough to know he’s serious. Dangerous. And not the kind of person Meg should even know exists.”

Flynn ran a hand down his face. “Well, she does now.”

“How?”

He looked up. There it was; the question he’d hoped she wouldn’t ask.

“How does Meg know about Hades, Flynn?” she repeated, daring him to answer.

He hesitated, and Esme didn’t blink.

“When she came to me.” He admitted finally. “She’d heard Theon say his name. Asked me who he was.”

The words landed heavy. They didn’t echo - they just sat there, between them, too loud for the small apartment. Meg’s apartment. The place where she should be right now, clambering in from the fire escape with her wry smile and some smart remark. The two of them filled the space but it still felt empty somehow, like she’d taken the warmth with her.

Esme stared at him, incredulous. “And what, you just clued her in?”

“What I told her,” Flynn snapped, “was to stay the hell away from him! And she sat there and promised me she would…”

“She shouldn’t have had to promise you anything!” Her voice cracked sharp across his. “It sounds to me like she told you she was in trouble, and you didn’t help her.”

Flynn flinched. “Wait. What? No, that’s not what this is. I said I told her not to! Jesus, Esme, I - ”

“Of course you did,” she said, almost with a scoff. “Of course you did. That’s your whole thing, isn’t it? You play the wild one, the cool one, give her the ghost story and enough space to screw herself over.”

Flynn opened his mouth, but she was already moving, already pressing forward.

“What happened to going in after her, Flynn?” Esme demanded, “That’s what we said. That’s what we agreed.”

“You think this is my fault? Aren’t you forgetting the dirtbag that gave her the reason?”

“Oh believe me, I’ve got pages I could recite about him.” Esme fumed. “But no, Flynn – you’re the one who should have known better. Should have known her better. I don’t even know why I’m surprised.”

She shook her head. “You’re always there for the thrill, the high, the nights when she’s laughing. But the moment it gets complicated? You start looking for the exit. Like it’s not your problem. Like standing back and calling it ‘agency’ somehow absolves you,” Her voice cut. “Letting her play at being brave isn’t noble, Flynn. It’s cowardly.”

Flynn tried to interject but this was Esme’s moment now.

“I could see it coming for miles,” she said, heat rising. “You with your charm and your half-baked schemes. But all you’ve done is prove that you don’t know her like I do. I’ve known her since we were fourteen, Flynn. I’ve seen every crash, every near miss, every time she was one breath from falling apart - and I’ve held her together.” Her eyes were bright with something halfway between rage and grief.

“I’ve spent years of my life keeping her from stepping off the path. And now look at her.” Her voice broke. “Look what you let her do.”

Flynn’s anger flared. He wasn’t proud of it but the words came anyway: “If you’re the one who always saves her, Esme…why didn’t she come to you?”

Esme stilled. Her shoulders hitched, defensive.

Flynn hesitated. His words still hung in the air when it hit him: he’d heard them before.
Not in his voice. In Al’s: She’s your girl. Why’d she come to me?

He’d hated it. Hated how fast it landed, how deeply it had twisted. And now here he was, throwing the same blade. But it was the only one he had. He needed her to feel it too – to carry just a fraction of what he’d been holding since the message came through.

“She’s known you forever,” he added, the edge a little softer than before. “But she came to me.” He didn’t meant it to be cruel, but it landed the like the way truth often does – sharp and undeniable.

A wound opened in Esme’s chest then, deep and hollow, one she hadn’t needed Flynn to carve out because it was already there. She knew how it would have gone, if Meg had come to her. She would’ve stepped in. Changed the course. Dragged her back from the edge like she’d done a dozen times before.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Meg hadn’t come to her – not because she didn’t need saving. But because she didn’t want to be saved be her. The one who always had a better plan. Who always knew what was best. Or thought she did. The righteous heat that had carried her this far flickered, thinned. And in its place: something smaller,  something sharper. The ache of being left out - not by accident, but by design.

Flynn and Esme looked at each other again. But there was no venom, no judgment this time. Just the truth, laid bare.

“You think I don’t blame myself?” Flynn offered, quiet now. “Think I didn’t want to show up on her doorstep and drag he back here? I thought I was keeping her close by giving her space.”

Esme placed a hand to her forehead like she could press the regret back in. “God. I thought she was just holed up with Theon. I thought she was mad at me. I thought - ” Her voice faltered. “I didn’t think it could ever be this.”

“You thought she’d come back with a story and a cup of tea,” he said, gently. Not accusing - just naming what they both knew.

“And I’d get to be right.” Her words landed like a confession. A quiet, devastating one. Silence settled. They were both bleeding now, just in different places.

Esme looked down. Let out a breath that sounded more like a surrender than anything else. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, slowly - like the weight hadn’t lifted, just shifted - she straightened.

“We need to work out what’s actually going on.” She said “What this means.” Trying to rearrange the tension into something useful. She reached for her bag, still crumpled in the doorway, and pulled out a notebook.

“Tell me everything.” She said, pulling a pen cap off with her teeth.

They tried to piece it together. The way Meg had shifted under Theon, what she had stopped telling them, the arguments, the tension of too many unanswered calls. Flynn told Esme about the diner, every flicker in Meg’s eyes, every twitch of her hands that had stuck in his memory. The text, the call with Al, and the rumour of a new girl in Hades’ arsenal. Not certain, but certain enough.

It wasn’t a lot. But it was enough to scare them.

Esme was the first to say it: “What does it even mean - working for him?”

“Could be anything.” Flynn said. “Courier. Lookout. Runner. Someone to charm the right people in the right places.” He hesitated. “Could be worse.”

“Worse how?”

“Depends what he thinks she’s worth”

Esme recoiled slightly, the air thickening between them.

“But what would someone like that even want with someone like her?”

Flynn didn’t answer right away. A dozen scenarios flashed through his mind - most of them ending badly. He wanted to shudder, but didn’t.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “But she’s sharp. People always underestimate her.”

“We just have to hope,” he added cautiously, “that he does too.”

Esme set the notebook down and stared at it, like it might reveal an answer.

“Do we go to the police?” she asked - not because she believed it, but because it was the kind of thing you were meant to ask.

Flynn shook his head. “You think they care about girls like Meg?”

“No,” Esme said. “I know they don’t.”

She didn’t need to tell him about the name on the Post-It. Or the bylines that had wordlessly disappeared. Flynn didn’t need to tell her what it meant when the police looked the other way. They both already knew.

“At least she’s got Theon,” she said, like saying it out loud might make it less pathetic.

Flynn didn’t reply right away. Just looked at her.

“Some comfort that is.”

He held her gaze, and for a moment, they were on the same side of something vast and dark. Something shifted in Esme’s face - a crack in the armour. He recognised it, because he felt it too: fear.

A long moment stretched between them. The notebook sat open on the table, filled with scraps and fragments - none of it enough.

Esme didn’t look at Flynn when she asked it.

“Did we fail her?”

Flynn almost said she made her choice.
Almost said we didn’t know enough.

But all that came out was: “Yeah.” and then, softer, “We did.”

Chapter Text

Interlude - The Gossips

They were gathered in breakroom - an analyst, two assistants and a junior logistics guy who always wore shoes that squeaked.

These were the kind of people who filled the Brownstone during daylight. The ones with targets, one-to-ones, and at least some semblance of a door. None of them had been here long, but longer than her.

Pheme, the analyst, leaned against the counter, one heel hooked behind the other, fingers curled around a washed out “Finance & Fury” mug. Her nails were lacquered a glossy pink, her hair swept up with the kind of precision that suggested both time and intent. Her voice, as usual, carried farther than it should.

“I’m telling you,” she said. “She didn’t even go through recruitment. Just showed up. Brought in direct.”

Across the room, the logistics guy raised a brow and took a sip of whatever passed for espresso in this place.

“No one gets brought in direct.”

He leaned his full weight on the fridge door like he was part of a play he hadn’t read the script for.

Pheme pressed on. “Right? It’s weird. People get vetted for months to get in here. And she’s… what, sitting in his office on the first day?”

“You’ve been stalking the schedules again.” He smirked.

“I call it staying informed.”

One of the assistants glanced towards to the open door and pressed a finger to her lips. But lent forward despite herself. “Who even is she?”

“That,” Pheme said with satisfaction, “is the question, isn’t it? Minthe in Personnel told me she’s not even reporting to Anton.”

The delight in her tone made the others lean in.

“She looks like she’s lost half the time,” The fourth of their little coven said, scrolling through his phone. “First day, I watched her trying to figure out the doors like they might bite her.”

Pheme wrinkled her nose. “She’s jumpy.”

“She’s hot,” the logistics guy offered. “Not relevant, just factual.”

Pheme gave him a long-suffering look. “Of course that’s your contribution.”

He grinned. “Come on. Have you seen her eyes?”

“She doesn’t smile,” added Pheme. “Like, ever.”

“Maybe she’s a bitch,” the assistant mused. “Or maybe she’s British.”

The group laughed, not kindly but not cruelly either - just the sound of boredom trying on sharpness.

“I give her a week,” said phone-guy, finally glancing up.

The mood shifted. Just a touch. Because they’d all heard the rumours - not lasting didn’t just mean leaving.

And then – everything stopped. Because a figure had filled the doorway.

Anton.

The room chilled like someone had shifted the thermostat.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stepped forward, neat and unreadable, holding nothing but a tablet and the sort of stillness that made people straighten their backs.

He didn’t need to raise his voice.

“If you’ve got time to gossip,” he said, looking at each of them in turn. “you’ve got time to reconsider your future.”

That was all. But they scattered – mumbling, shoes squeaking, coffee abandoned.

Anton waited there until the room was empty and shut the door behind him with a quiet finality.

Back in the office, Pheme settled back behind her  monitor. “Well,” she muttered, to no one in particular “guess she’s not the only one being watched.”

Meg tapped the screen harder than necessary. The interface on the internal system was supposed to be “intuitive,” which apparently meant whoever built it assumed everyone here had been trained since birth.

She’d tried three passwords. None of them worked. She couldn’t even get to the file queue.

It had been five minutes.

Then ten.

She wasn’t going to ask.

Behind her, the low buzz of voices filtered in from the hallway - half a conversation about scheduling, half just the kind of noise that got louder when people were procrastinating.

She tried one last time, and the machine gave a defiant beep. She was about to give it a swift kick when a voice floated over her shoulder.

“Need a hand?”

Meg turned.

It was the girl from Finance. Phoebe? Pheme? Something that sounded popular. She was flanked by the logistics guy with the squeaky shoes and an expression that said polite curiosity, but meant taking notes.

“I’m fine,” Meg said.

Pheme gave a light shrug. “It’s a common issue. The system likes to pretend it’s secure.”

The logistics guy stepped forward, gesturing to the screen. “You have to use a project code, not your ID. It’s a separate field.”

Meg frowned. “That’s not in the instructions.”

They exchanged a look – brief and familiar.

“There are no instructions.” Pheme said, all cheer and condescension.

She stepped closer, lightly touching a flurry of buttons in a way that felt irritatingly theatrical. “Here. See?”

Meg watched. Memorised the clicks.

“You’re welcome,” Pheme added, sweetly.

Meg looked at her. “Didn’t say thank you.”

“Still,” she laughed. “Consider it a freebie.”

The guy chimed in. “So, are you, like… in Ops? Or something higher?”

Meg blinked. She didn’t know how to answer that, not because it was classified but because it wasn’t clear.

The printer chugged to life.

“I’m where someone wanted me,” she settled on instead.

The girl’s smile didn’t waver.

“Sure,” she said. “We just don’t usually get new people outside the usual chain of command. Makes people twitchy.”

“Not my problem.” Meg pulled the page from the tray, tucked it into a folder, and walked away. Didn’t rush. Didn’t look back.

Behind her, Pheme murmured, “Bit of an attitude, huh?”

The guy snorted. “No idea who she thinks she is.”

Around the corner and out of sight, Meg thought, that makes three of us.

The office was thinning out. Desks emptying. Screens darkening. Not the whole brownstone - just the office workers. The people who signed off with polite goodbyes and walked out like the work ended at the door.

Meg watched them gather their bags and coats, call out half-formed plans for drinks or dim sum. There was an ease to it, a structure. She didn’t know what half of them did, but she knew they belonged to some version of this place she hadn’t been invited into.

She wasn’t sure what her role was yet. But she was pretty sure it wasn’t with them.

She sat in the borrowed conference room in the admin division. Her back straight but her eyes aching. The files in front of her were still half-noted - names she was meant to remember, organisations that bled into each other like watercolour. Anton hadn’t told her what to look for. Just handed over the folders to her when she walked in the door that morning with the instruction: “reading material”.

She’d expected jobs. Assignments. A purpose. But for the last two days she’d just been reading. And waiting. She hadn’t seen Hades again since her first visit to the Brownstone. “Busy” Anton had said when she’d asked, and she hadn’t pressed, just felt a thin breath of relief run through her.

Footsteps passed outside the room. Laughter, low and easy. She glanced up.

That Pheme girl again – her usual air of intrigue now accessorised with a shoulder bag and red lipstick. Her small crew around her, moving like a pack. Half buoyant, half buzzed already. She spotted Meg through the glass and slowed, hand on the doorframe.

“Still here?” she asked, one brow lifted.

“Looks like it.” Meg said, bored.

“We’re heading out. Little place round the corner. Nothing fancy, just happy hour and complaining.”

A guy she vaguely recognised, “You should come. We usually go Thursdays, sometimes Tuesdays. Loosest excuse wins.”

Meg looked at them, their unshackled frivolity, and shook her head. “I’ve already got friends.”

Pheme smiled. It wasn’t unkind. But it wasn’t warm either. “Sure,” she said. “Suit yourself.”

She turned on her heel and disappeared down the hallway. The squeak of shoes followed a beat later, she heard a laugh disappear around a corner and the floor was empty again.

Meg flipped the file in front of her closed. Rested her head back against the chair for a second.

Friends – that had been a bold claim. Did she still have friends? Or had she let too much space settle in? Either way, the last thing she wanted was to start feeling like part of this place.

Then came the sound of a different footstep - quieter this time. She didn’t turn.

Anton leaned against the doorway, arms folded. Watching her like she was a situation he’d been told to monitor, but not interfere with.

“Not joining them?” he asked, as if he was just making conversation, as if he wasn’t making a note of it.

“I’m not here to sip after-work cocktails, Anton.” She pulled another file from the stack. “Ideally, I’m not here at all.”

Anton gave no reaction. Just watched her for a moment longer, then walked away. No further comment.

She could have gone. Could’ve had a drink, let someone else talk, maybe even laughed at the right moment. But that would have meant something, and she didn’t want them to think she was staying. Not when she still wanted to believe she wouldn’t be.

She stayed where she was. Let the silence resettle. Above her, the motion sensor light clicked off. And for a few seconds, the whole room went dark.

An hour later, maybe two, she slipped her arms into the sleeves of her jacket like she was getting away with something.

No one had come to tell her to stop. No clocking out, no debrief. But at some point she had to ask herself: was she waiting to be dismissed, or hoping she wouldn’t be? It wasn’t that she wanted to be here, but the depleting stack of files had made a decent enough excuse. An excuse not to trail back to the studio, an excuse not to face Theon. He’d been warmer lately. Softer, almost – asking about her day in that offhand way of his, like he didn’t want to look like he was trying. She’d told him little, but even that had landed awkwardly, like a thread he didn’t want to pull.

She slung her bag over one shoulder, returned the stack half-decoded files to the upstairs archive. She should have filed them properly but she dumped them in the nearest cabinet; she wasn’t going for employee of the month here. Then she headed for the small elevator tucked away at the back of the building. Her footsteps echoed faintly - the floor so quiet now it felt like walking through a morgue.

She turned the corner toward the back stairs - and stopped. 

Hades.

Immaculately dressed, coat folded over one arm, phone in hand but not in use. He wasn’t looking at her — not at first. But the moment she saw him, her pulse skipped: a sharp, involuntary thing she tried not to resent.

She thought for a moment about turning and taking the stairs. But – too late - he glanced over, catching her in his gaze. He didn’t startle, just took her in.

Meg straightened instinctively.

“Working late?” he said.

She kept her voice level. “No one told me to stop.”

“Of course they didn’t. I can’t imagine anyone told you anything much.”

A beat. Just enough for a smile to pull faintly at the corner of his mouth.

“But don’t pretend you’re clocking up overtime, Nutmeg. You’re avoiding something.”

Meg didn’t answer.

The elevator chimed. He stepped inside. She didn’t move to follow, but he nodded her inside anyway.

“Theon will be wondering where you are.” Hades said as they started their descent, his eyes fixed on the elevator doors, not on her. “Won’t he have dinner waiting?”

She shifted her weight slightly - enough to say don’t push me, without a word.

“Domestic bliss doesn’t suit you, Megara.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t look over at him.

The doors opened before she could think of a comeback. He strode out ahead, but held the front door open for her when he reached it.

Outside, a car was quietly waiting, black, sleek, the kind that never hit red lights. Before he stepped towards it, he looked at her with the faint interest of someone watching a flame to see if it would flicker out or catch.

“Perhaps it’s about time I put you to use.” He said, like he was turning an idea over in his mind. “Tomorrow. I’ve got a job for you.” And with that, he was gone.

The car pulled away, soundless, disappearing down the street like it had never been there at all. Meg watched it pull away. Her eyes stayed on the corner where the taillights had vanished, as if watching could anchor her to something. But the night gave her nothing back.

She wanted to run. But every direction felt the same — a loop, a snare.
No matter where she turned, there was a man who’d taken something from her.

Chapter Text

The Second Task

The words had been echoing in her head since last night. “Perhaps it’s time I put you to use.”

They hadn’t sounded threatening, not exactly. They hadn’t been flippant either. But they had kept her awake as she stared at the ceiling trying to decode them.

Meg stepped into the Brownstone that morning with a coat too thin for the cold and a pit in her stomach that no amount of caffeine had managed to cut through. She scanned her ID in a way that was starting to feel dangerously like habit. It could have made her feel comfortable, like she belonged here, just enough to walk down the corridor without flinching. It didn’t.

Anton passed her in the hallway near the stairwell. Sharp suit, sharper expression, as usual. He gave her a nod as they crossed paths, nothing more. And she found herself nodding back instinctively. Like this was routine. Like she was just another staffer moving through the ranks.

That was what unsettled her most - how easy it was to return the gesture. How familiar the rhythm of the place was starting to feel, even just after a few days. The low hum of conversation behind closed office doors. Footsteps softened by the floor’s polish, like the place had a way of smoothing things over. She hated that it felt something close to normal.

She found herself once again outside Hades’ office, her first time since ‘orientation’, if that’s what she could call it. She’d spent the last few days tucked amongst the offices downstairs, amongst the machinery but still at its edge. Up here the tension of that first afternoon laced itself between her shoulder blades like it had been waiting.

She’d dawdled getting ready this morning - because how were you meant to dress for a job you didn’t even know you had? In the end, she’d settled on something that looked deliberate but pretending not to be, careful but not calculated. Like she fit, but wasn’t trying to.

She paused a beat outside the door. Drew a quiet breath. Knocked once.

“Yes.”

His voice was smooth, unreadable. He was stood by the window, surveying the street below, a coffee mug gently swirling in his hand.

The blinds were half-drawn, muting the sharp morning light into clean slats across the floor. He didn’t step forward, didn’t speak - just left her standing there, aware of herself in a way she didn’t like. Like a new instrument waiting to be tuned. Or dismantled.

Meg shut the door behind her. Straightened. Crossed the room on legs that threatened to betray her.

“Interesting choice,” he said mildly, looking her over in one long, clinical sweep.

She raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realise there was a dress code.”

“That outfit says civil litigation,” he replied. “We’re not in court.”

He gestured to the seat across from the desk before she could reply. “Sit. Lucky for you, this job doesn’t require a closing argument.”

She sat, already irritated by the cadence of command. He came to lean against the edge of the desk, casual and unhurried. She felt small – and hated that she did.

He slid a folder across the desk. It made no sound as it travelled; even the stationery here had learned to be discreet.

“There’s a man,” he said. “An intermediary. Says he works for me. Lately, I’m not so sure.”

Meg opened the file. Headshot. A few clipped notes underneath - timelines, venues, a list of known associates.

“He has a meeting tonight,” Hades continued. “At Carroway. Upstairs bar. Members only.” He paused, almost sneering. “Pretentious little place. But it serves a purpose for men like him.” He looked back at her. “You’re on the list.”

She frowned. “And what exactly am I meant to do?”

“Observe.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Listen. I want to know who he’s talking to, what he’s offering, and whether he’s smart enough to hesitate, or dumb enough to think he can move against me.” He looked at her. Sharp. “Tell me if I’m right to be concerned.”

The instructions were clear, technically. But they landed wrong. Like she was being handed a weapon she didn’t know how to hold. There were rules here, codes, stakes she didn’t fully understand. And yet she was expected to walk in and act like she did. It made her feel green. Exposed. Like one wrong glance would give her away.

He watched her as she read through the file, gaze faintly narrowed - not sizing her up, exactly. More like seeing what she’d do without prompting. Like he was trying to read her mind, or was trying to write himself into it.

Then, “How would you handle it?”

She looked up from the file, caught off guard. “Hmm?”

“The meeting,” he said, a note of impatience threading the words. “You’re there. He’s talking to someone he shouldn’t be. How d’you play it?”

Meg straightened, pushing a bit of steel into her posture, though it didn’t quite reach her voice. “You said to observe, listen, not get noticed.”

His mouth twitched. “That’s a description. Not a plan, Meg.”

She forced herself not to fidget. “I’d get there early. Keep my distance. Watch who they talk to. Let them talk too long. People say more when they think no one’s watching.”

Hades nodded, slow. “And if you’re noticed?”

She hesitated, her thoughts stopped there. This was the edge of her experience - the part where things got real, fast, and there was no blueprint.

“I -” she started, then faltered.

“Smile if you have to.” he said, like he was doing her a favour - handing over the answer she hadn’t been able to find.

Her stomach turned. Not at the words but the sentiment and how readily he’d reached for it. Like it was the most obvious tool in the box.

“But don’t push it,” he added, almost offhand. As if the warning was just another part of the lesson. “There’s a difference between charming and cheap.”

It rankled, the implication that she might cross that line, or ever be in a position where she had to. But she kept her face still, her silence sharper than anything she could say.

Instead she scanned the notes again. “Is he dangerous?”

“Not to you.” Hades said, “Not if you don’t get caught.”

Her fingers tightened slightly on the file.

His eyes moved over her like he was weighing variables. “Wear something suitable”

She glanced up, her eyes catching his dead on. “That’s vague, even for you.”

He paused like he might correct her tone, but let it go with a shrug. “Something that doesn’t make you look like you got lost on your way to an internship.”

She felt an eyeroll but suppressed it. “Right.” She said and closed the file.

“Any questions?” he asked.

“Just one.”

He looked at her, still unreadable.

“What if I don’t want to do this?”

The silence that followed wasn’t long, but it was deliberate. He let it hang there like a choice she didn’t really have.

“That’s not the question, Nutmeg. You should be asking what happens if you don’t perform.”

That pause wasn’t accidental either. It was there to press on her chest. To remind her whose game this was.

“Let’s see if you’re worth the space you’re taking.”

The club was discreet - the kind of place designed to whisper its exclusivity and rehearse power over top-shelf whisky. It was all wood-panelled walls gleaming like they’d been varnished with ego. The lighting was low, but performatively so - dim enough to suggest secrecy, deliberate enough to signal cost. Even the air seemed curated. Nothing here was accidental. Everything had been vetted, approved, and left to marinate in its own pretension.

The entrance had given nothing away from the street. Just a black awning and a single, unmarked door that didn’t open unless you were expected. All the trappings of old money - if you squinted. The kind of place that rehearsed its elegance, then paused to admire the effect.

Meg stepped inside, coat still buttoned. She’d bought a dress that afternoon in one of the Soho boutiques she didn’t really have the confidence to visit, but she had the feeling that H&M wasn’t going to cut it tonight. She picked something out, steering away from glamour and seduction. Instead she went with something that looked simple at first glance, but was sharp in the details - a dress that didn’t try to impress, only to suggest you’d be wise not to underestimate her. She’d shuddered at the price, handed the credit card over like she was committing a small crime. The whir of the receipt startled her, although it shouldn’t have. Of course everything that came from Styx played the role it had been assigned.

The coat had been the real indulgence. She’d seen it once that summer with Esme. Dark twill, tailored shoulders, a belt she didn’t tie. She’d stood in the dressing room mirror longer than she meant to, trying to see if the reflection looked like someone who belonged.

It didn’t. But it would pass. And that was what mattered.

She gave the hostess the alias she’d been told to assume. The woman nodded without smiling, without asking for ID, and gestured her through with a flick of her head. Meg moved lightly halfway across the lounge, where she could see the bar, the layout, and the man she was here to watch - recognisable from the photos, though slicker in person.

She felt like she was in costume. There was a stretch in her spine, a calculation to the way she stood at the bar - part posture, part performance. Every man in the room was wearing a watch you could sell for a deposit. Every woman looked like she’d been dressed by intuition and silence.

She kept her hands visible. Her expression composed. And told herself, for the third time that night, that this was just a job. A strange, testing job in a place that didn’t welcome questions. One she wasn’t qualified to carry out. But a job, nonetheless.

He hadn’t told her what failure looked like. But she could tell she wouldn’t want to find out.

That was the thing about Hades’ instructions - they had sounded simple. Blunt. Almost dismissive. But out in the world, they hung off her shoulders like a uniform that didn’t quite fit. Observe. Report. Smile if you have to. The words sounded like permission, but in the field they acted more like riddles - sharp-edged and impossible to solve cleanly.

Now she was at the bar ordering a drink she wouldn’t touch with a pulse that wouldn’t slow, pretending this was normal. That she’d done this before. That she knew what she was doing. There was a note on her phone with the names of the men she was watching - their companies, their ties to Styx. Some she’d memorised. Others she was still sounding out in her head, trying to get them to stick.

She kept her line of sight open, just oblique enough not to draw attention. But the longer she existed here, the more she felt like something decorative that didn’t quite belong.

Her fingers itched to take notes, to anchor herself to something, but that wasn’t the brief. The brief was to blend.

She’d read enough in the files to know that two of the men were clean, or clean enough -one of them had a contract Hades wanted renewed, the other was leverage for something else entirely. The third… the third was slippery. There had been suggestions in the record. Faint tells. A reshuffling of company assets, a cousin listed on a rival business registry, a late-night call that had landed on a burner line that Hades’ wasn’t supposed to know about but did.

She was here to listen. To confirm what Hades already suspected.

And yet all of it felt like guesswork - a game she’d been dropped into three moves too late. The pressure of getting this right was coiling live beneath her skin. She knew too little and the margin for error felt too thin.

She settled near the mark’s table, close enough to catch the murmur of conversation, but not so close that it looked intentional. The seat had been a lucky find. Or maybe not,  maybe the club was designed to make you feel like luck was on your side.

She crossed her legs, kept her posture open but neutral, her drink untouched in front of her. She tilted her head at just the right angle - alert, but not invested. Like she was waiting for someone to show, or maybe just killing time. The conversation at the next table dipped low, then picked up again. A few names surfaced. Ones she recognised from the file. She caught the word contract, then alternative supplier - her pulse ticked up. She leaned in, tuning her ear to the rhythm. Let the rest of the room melt away.

And then, as if scripted by the gods of unwanted attention, a man tried his luck.

“Long day?” The voice was confident. Polished. Laced with enough bourbon to think he was charming, and not quite enough to realise he wasn’t.

She didn’t look up right away. Like if she didn’t look at him she could will him out of existence.

“I’m waiting for someone.” She said finally, when his shadow didn’t shift.

“Lucky them.” he said, sliding in beside her anyway, like this was a joke and she was the punchline.

Meg tensed. A flick of panic rose in her throat, mixed with sharp frustration. She couldn’t afford this. Not tonight.

Across the room, her target was leaning in to speak to the man beside him. The volume had dropped again. A phrase skimmed the air - not the usual pipeline. She strained to hear. She needed to hear.

But now the man beside her was talking, launching into something about portfolios and equity, the kind of self-important finance babble that made her want to claw her way out of her own skin. He spoke just loudly enough to muddy the air between her and what mattered. He smelled like cologne and conceit, and he was too close. If she got up, she’d draw attention. If she snapped, she’d be remembered. She couldn’t risk either.

Her stomach curled. And then - worse - the mark looked up. Briefly. Just scanning the room. But his eyes landed on her.

Reflex kicked in. She let out the faintest laugh - a smile, tilted toward her intruder. She shifted slightly toward him, giving the impression of engagement, of mild amusement. A distraction, nothing more.

The mark’s gaze slid past her. Onward.

She could breathe again.

Her new companion mistook the change in posture for an invitation. “See? I knew you had a smile in you.”

She breathed, long and slow. It took everything she had not to bite. Not to spit something back sharp enough to draw blood.

She held her expression - casual, sweetened by performance - and let the burn crawl down her spine instead. Her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the base of the glass. Just enough to feel the tension pass through her without showing it.

She didn’t answer. Eyes back on the table. Focus.

One of the men leaned in. A murmured exchange - something quiet, but important: “I’ll move it quietly,” he was saying. “No trail. It goes to my guys first - not Hades’.”

There it was.

Her breath caught - not visibly but inside, she felt the shift. That was the line. Not definitive, not damning, but close enough. She had what she came for.

She rose, slowly. The man beside her opened his mouth to protest, but she gave him a look. Something cool and final that made it clear she wasn’t walking out with him - or anyone.

“Thanks for the distraction,” she said, voice clipped.

And then she was gone.

She stepped out into the street, her spine drawn a little taller. The city hadn’t noticed her - that was the point - and something like a quiet thrill sat uneasy in her chest.

She hadn’t done anything remarkable. Hadn’t charmed, hadn’t pushed. But she’d listened, kept her head, and come away with exactly what she’d been sent for. Even with the interruption - the misread smile, the unwanted voice at her shoulder - she’d stayed the course. Adapted. Endured.

That was what unsettled her most.

There’d been a flicker of something in it, it wasn’t pride or satisfaction, but something sharper. The feeling of a door creaking open inside her, of realising she might know how to do this. Could even be good at it.

And that wasn’t supposed to be how this worked. This wasn’t supposed to fit.

She crossed the street, hands in her pockets, the polish of her coat wrapped around her and kept walking. The Brownstone waited. She didn’t look in the windows as she passed. Didn’t want to see what had changed.

It was quiet when she returned, the kind of quiet that didn’t come from emptiness, but from control. Meg stepped through the front door of the Brownstone, the flash of city noise sealed out behind her like it had never existed. Her heels struck the floor with a little more purpose than before. That flicker of confidence - small and fragile, but real -  had crept inside of her and hadn’t quite left. She’d done what he asked. Navigated the unknown, kept her cool, and returned with what she’d gone in to find.

She wasn’t sure what to make of the feeling. But it was there, and it carried her up the stairs.

She found him in one of the upstairs lounges. The door was open, the lamplight low and warm. Hades was seated on one of two opposing leather couches, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled just enough to seem deliberate. He looked relaxed. Which meant nothing.

“Better,” he said as she stepped into view, gaze sweeping from shoulder to hem. “You took the note.”

“I dressed for the part,” she said. “Not the critic.”

She thought she caught a flicker of amusement behind his eyes, but it was gone before she could say for sure. He reached to a decanter on the side table and poured two glasses without asking.

“Drink?” he offered, offhand. As if were harmless. It wasn’t. Despite herself, she stepped forward and took the glass.

His gaze didn’t linger on the handoff, but she could feel it - like heat on the back of her neck. She crossed to the couch opposite him and sat, carefully. Not stiff, but not at ease either. The leather was too soft. The room too calm. He watched her settle, she could feel it - the silent audit of his eyes, cool and clinical, as though her presence was still under review.

She took a small sip of the drink. Warm, clean, expensive. Nothing like the too-sweet cocktail she hadn’t touched earlier.

“So?” he asked, finally. A simple word. Measured. “How did it go?”

Meg kept her voice level. “Like you suspected. He brought up a logistics contract he’s trying to reroute. Didn’t name names, but he floated the idea of shifting it to another operation, not yours. The others didn’t bite, but no one shut it down either.”

Hades didn’t blink. Didn’t even nod. Just his eyes flicking across her like he was still deciding something. Then:

“Not bad,” he said, taking a drink. “for your first time.”

The words gave little, barely a breath of approval. But they found her anyway, curling somewhere beneath the surface, where disgust should’ve lived. She didn’t want them - hadn’t asked for them - and still they scraped raw against the place that wanted to be seen.

“So what happens now?” she said quickly, in case he chanced to see her betray herself.

“Now?” the edge of a smile flickering at Hades’ mouth like an afterthought.

“The guy I was watching,” she said. “The one plotting his moves.”

“Look at that, you’re curious,” he said, almost to himself. “Didn’t take long.”

Meg didn’t answer. Just held his gaze, steady. Hades set his glass down, the sound soft but deliberate.

“I don’t move on every transgression” he said. “Some people hang themselves more efficiently when given a little slack.”

She couldn’t tell if that meant mercy, or something much worse. A chill threaded down her spine, cooling whatever confidence she’d walked in with. But he moved on before she could fully sense the depth.

“Any trouble?”

This wasn’t small talk. His words had weight behind them - like they were meant to catch her in something if she answered wrong. She thought for half a second too long.

“Nothing that derailed it,” she said carefully.

His eyebrow lifted - not surprised, just interested.

“There was a guy,” she added, before he could press. “Not part of it. Just... the kind of complication that tries to buy you a drink.”

Hades didn’t smile, but there was something loaded in the pause that followed.

“And?”

She shrugged, feigning more calm than she felt. “I handled it.”

He continued to study her with dry interest. “Most would’ve let that rattle them. But you found a way to use it.” A sip. “That’s what interests me.”

Meg’s eye locked tight on his, “You were watching me?” Her words were edged in a way she should have held back. A flare of heat under the surface, quick and involuntary.

He looked amused, or maybe that was just the lighting.
“I watch everything I put in play.”

Not everyone - everything. Like she was a piece, not a person.

Because the implication wasn’t just that he’d seen her. It was that he’d placed her. That every move she thought she’d made on instinct, he’d already accounted for.

She turned the glass in her hands, mostly to steady her anger. “Go on then,” she asked, trying to make her voice sound lighter than she felt. “What did you see?”

His smile curved again, just slightly. “Enough to know you’ll do.”

There it was again, the faint flicker of praise, and the cloying feeling she felt as the words washed over her. This, she realised, was what it felt like to be useful to him. And it made her feel more tethered than the deal itself.

The days that followed blurred at the edges.

There were no formal routine, no clear signposts to tell her when something began or ended. Just a quiet summons - Anton appearing in a doorway,  a message passed from reception, a Post-It on a file that hadn’t been there the night before.

Some days she reported straight to Hades. Other times, she found herself trailing someone else around unfamiliar corners, handed off like a package, briefed in ten words or less.

Her roster of ‘special skills’ was expanding. Surveillance. Listening. Discreet handoffs that left her fingertips cold. Once, she followed a man through a bar for twenty minutes just to watch who he handed a note to - and then walked away before he noticed. She never found out what was in the note.

She stayed on the fringe. That was where he kept her. Not trusted. Not excluded. Just placed. Assigned to tasks that didn’t require muscle or menace, only presence and silence. Hades dictated the frame. Anton delegated the details.

She absorbed. She adapted. The files she used to stumble through began to cohere. Connections sharpened. Timelines settled. She started to see patterns: the kinds of people Hades kept close, the kinds he wanted watched, the ones who disappeared between meetings.

And somehow, the work began to fit. Just like the coat she’d brought and had started to forgot how to take off. The card she’d flinched to use became just another part of the performance. At some point she stopped checking the price tags and just made sure she looked like someone who belonged wherever she was going. She didn’t, not really. But the mask got easier to hold in place.

It wasn’t just the work. It was the rhythm. The deep, creeping weight of structure - and the way it settled in your bones when you forgot to stop resisting it. She found herself recognising people in the halls. Eyes meeting, automatically, before catching herself. She learned the quiet codes of the Brownstone. The way Anton hummed faintly when he didn’t approve. The set of Hades’ mouth - loose when he was indulging something, razor-edged when he wasn’t.

She’s seen it happen in a debrief. One of those sessions where roles were dissected, risks tallied, and everything ugly was swept into clean, clinical language. Meg had done her part - surveillance only - and she’d done it well. She was there because she’d been told to be. Because it mattered, apparently, to witness how this place handled mistakes.

The conference room was over-warm and over-lit, the table long enough to separate people into camps. Anton sat beside Hades, silent but unmistakably watchful. Across from them, a senior logistics coordinator held court with a stack of papers he hadn’t been asked to bring. Beside him, a younger man, errand-runner, fidgeted with a pen like it might save him. Further down the table, others lingered in uneasy quiet, department heads, maybe, or just people with enough stake to want a seat.

Something had gone wrong. Not catastrophic, but messy enough to need parsing.

Hades listened as the logistics coordinator explained. Too many words, Meg thought. Too many justifications, caveats, contingencies. She didn’t know all the details, but she knew the air was off. And Hades hadn’t interrupted once.

“And we thought, given the circumstances, it was better to maintain proximity rather than risk losing them.”

“You’re telling me the part you want me to hear. Not the part I care about,” Hades said.

He didn’t raise his voice. Just laced it with something quieter. More final. The room contracted.

He picked up the slim black folder in front of him and flipped it open, slow and smooth. Meg couldn’t see what was on the page, but she heard the sound of it turning. It felt like the room breathed in and didn’t exhale.

“You had the parameters,” Hades said. “You had the route, the window, the clearance, all set up for you. And you still made a different call.”

The man stammered. “I thought in the moment - ”

“And there’s your problem,” Hades cut in, soft as silk. “You mistook the moment for yours.”

The space between the words wasn’t sharp this time - it was suffocating. Even the lights seemed to dim. Anton didn’t move. No one did.

Meg sat still, her heartbeat somewhere in her throat. She wasn’t the one bleeding, but it felt like she was standing in the spray.

Hades leaned back in his chair. Not relaxed. Coiled.

“If I set up the board,” Hades said, voice cold and smooth as ice, “and you lose the game, I don’t blame the pieces.”

He let that settle.

“I blame the hand that moved them.”

Then, eyes still steady on the man: “Anton. Reset it.”

Anton nodded once. That was it. Meeting over. People stood. The man - the one who’d been flayed without a single curse or shout - didn’t look up again. He was already finished.

She didn’t speak as she left the room. She walked carefully, like the wrong sound might put her in the spotlight. She knew she wasn’t just watching the board anymore, she was on it. And she’d just seen what happened to a pawn who acted like a knight. So she kept her head down. Stayed useful. Let the routine take hold, and the strange thing was how easily it did.

Her hours at the studio bled quiet. She came home later now – sometimes in the early hours, her body heavier than when she left, the residue of someone else’s control still clinging to her.

Sometimes Theon was there. Sometimes not. Even when he was, the distance between them often beat her through the door.

Once, she might’ve been greeted with the glow of lamp light, a half-finished sketch, a glass of cheap wine on the table. Now, more often, it was stillness. A plate left in the sink. A note scrawled on the corner of a grocery receipt, always something breezy and inconsequential - late night, don’t wait up - sometimes an exclamation mark like it was substitute for affection.

She told herself she understood. He had his freedom - she’d made sure of that. Who was she to say he couldn’t use it? But the ache didn’t listen to reason. It came anyway. In the moment before she unlocked the door. In the hush after the water of the shower shut off.

One evening she wandered over to the canvas he’d left propped in the corner. Still wet in places. She traced a shape with her eyes and frowned. The palette had changed. So had the lines. He was painting like someone unafraid, and she didn’t remember what that felt like.

She closed her eyes and tried not to picture the way Hades had looked at her today, when she'd handed him a name he’d asked for. Just a nod. A glance that lingered half a second too long. It had folded inside her, low and unwelcome. Control, threaded quiet and deep. He hadn’t said good girl. But she had felt it. She could still feel it even now.

The sacrifice had been made. Now it was up to her to survive it.

She sat in the dark, alone with her thoughts and the steady tick of a clock, waiting for Theon to return. There was still time to correct their course, she told herself. Still them, in some version.

That was until one day - a week later – when he wasn’t there at all.

Chapter Text

Anatomy of a Heartbreak

The day before Theon left was unremarkable, hopeful even, in a way that would come to hurt her more than any fight could.

There’d been no summons that morning. No assignment. No test. Instead the day had started softly: the pale morning light creeping across the studio and the sound of their bodies shifting under the covers.

She and Theon wandered out together mid-morning, coats half-zipped, takeaway cups in hand, and took a long, aimless stroll down to Bedford Avenue. She’d picked her old coat off the peg, she couldn’t bear the weight of the Brownstone on her shoulders today.

They explored the second-hand bookshops, browsing through cracked spines and pencilled margins, sharing little but space. Theon flipped through travel essays. Meg skimmed the jackets and watched the door.

The burner sat in her pocket like a weight. She checked it in quiet moments - when he was focused on the shelves, pretending not to notice her watching him. But today an empty screen stared back at her and she let herself feel grateful.

In Prospect Park, they settled on a bench and watched the city happen around them. Runners passed in pairs. A kid tried to fly a kite with her father. A couple sat entangled in each other’s laps opposite. Meg watched them all. People living visibly, carelessly, like their world hadn’t sharpened in the way hers had.

Theon stretched out his legs and she pulled her sleeves down over her hands. They didn’t talk much, not the kind of kind of conversation that buzzed with promise and possibility anyway. Now theirs was blunted at the edges, it felt like habit rather than choice. Once, on this exact bench, they’d talked about the future, places they might find themselves. Slow trains through Spain. A month in Palermo. Just them, living out of sketchbooks and rucksacks, eating well, drinking late. It hadn’t been a plan so much as a picture, something blurry and lit from behind.

She’d said they weren’t ready.
Theon had said no one ever is.

She hadn’t thought about that conversation in months. Now, she didn’t even know if he was watching the same things she was. They were beside each other, but not with each other.

A shared bench. A borrowed day. That was all. Still, it was presence. And that counted for something.

They didn’t stay long. Theon said he was getting cold and Meg didn’t argue. They walked the long blocks home, shoulder to shoulder but never quite brushing.

Back at the studio, the light had shifted. Late afternoon slipped into something flatter, greyer. The windows steamed a little. It felt like a memory - one already half-forgotten. Like she’d look back at this evening and struggle to remember if it was real.

Theon busied himself with a canvas. Switched on the speaker, something low and wordless played - soft bass, the kind of music that seemed to slow the passing of time.

He painted. She didn’t sketch. Instead, she cooked. Chopped onions slowly, let the garlic catch in the oil. Took her time with it, like the shape of the day depended on the motion of her hands.

It wasn’t like it used to be. They didn’t share spoons or steal bites from the frying pan or fall into conversation between stove and table. But she leaned into the faint press of his hand on her shoulder as he reached across her to grab the glasses. There it was, the smallest flash of tenderness that she’d longed for.

She cleared the small dining table of mason jars and paint brushes, stiff and dry with colour. He uncorked a bottle of wine they’d been saving. Not for anything special - just because once they’d said they would. He poured them both a glass and swirled the cherry-red liquid, glancing at the light through it. Then, lifting his glass and catching her eye, he said: “To you. For carrying more than your share.”

Eyes down, Meg found a small smile. It was unexpected, not quite a compliment, not quite an apology. But it was acknowledgement. And tonight, Meg needed that more than anything. She tapped her glass to his and, for a moment, let herself hope. Maybe there was a way back, maybe what they needed was time – for the dust to settle, to step back from the edge. Because that’s what love did, it didn’t flinch, it endured, it stayed.

Despite herself, something in her eased

Maybe that was why she reached for him in bed that night.

The wine had worn off but left its flush, a slow burn still trailing in her limbs. His words played in her head as she shed the day, slipping beneath the sheets beside him – for carrying more than your share. Theon was turned away, his back a long line beneath the sheets. She hesitated, just a breath. Then reached out, her hand settling lightly on his spine like a plea, not a demand. She let her touch say the thing she hadn’t dared speak aloud in weeks: Don’t let this fall apart.

He turned to her, moving quickly, his mouth finding hers before either of them could speak, hands to her waist, pulling her over him like he’d been waiting for an excuse. They kissed as if they were trying to find their way back into something - into each other. As if there was something they could catch if they moved fast enough.

Meg’s fingers found his jaw, then his chest, tracing across familiar lines. She pressed closer, deepening the kiss, anchoring herself in them. His hands moved like they remembered her, skating down her spine, curving around her hip.

They moved together, searching and familiar; clothes pushed aside, breath catching, bodies tangling in the dark. But the rhythm was off. A beat behind what they used to be. She felt it in the way he moved - steady, practiced, but slightly detached. His palm slid over her hip and down her thigh. Fingers pressing too hard, then not hard enough. Meg let herself want, let it burn low and honest. Not because it felt perfect - but because it felt possible. He slipped a hand into her hair, the way that used to feel reverent. Now it felt like gesture carried out by memory, not meaning.

Her name rose from his lips: “Meg”, but it caught at the edge of his throat, on something she couldn’t see, as if it had fallen out of him instead of being offered. She tried to meet his eyes, but he didn’t hold her gaze. Just blinked, shifted, and lowered his mouth to her neck instead, like he couldn’t bear to be caught in it.

Meg tucked herself in closer, trying to hold them in place through force of will alone. She remembered - unbidden, unwanted - the way he once said “You make me want to get it right.” He hadn’t said it since, and now, with his hands on her skin and his eyes closed to hers, she couldn’t tell if he’d meant it at all.

But Meg, still holding tight to that flicker of hope, told herself this could be enough. That if he was still here - if he still kissed her like this, even clumsily, half lost - then maybe they hadn’t fallen apart completely, that they could still get it right.

His breath was warm against her collarbone. She closed her eyes and believed.
Just for the night.

The vibration woke her. Not loud. Just a low, angry buzz against the nightstand.

Meg’s eyes opened immediately. She reached for the phone by instinct, fingers closing around it before the sound could come again. Before it could wake him. Before it could shatter whatever she’d just started trying to rebuild.

The brightness hurt her eyes.

08:00. Upstairs.
No name. No question. Just the shape of command. The ache landed before she could stop it. Whatever she’d tried to rebuild last night - whatever softness she’d managed to find – it fractured beneath the glow of the screen.

She slid out of bed as quietly as she could. Her movements small, efficient. She gathered her clothes from the floor, dressing like she was leaving a crime scene, not leaving for one.

Theon stirred once, arm shifting across the sheets. But he didn’t wake. Didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t say her name. Meg paused beside the bed, watching him for a moment. She tried to summon the shape of last night - the weight of his hands, the warmth of his mouth. But it felt far away and paled around the edges. She thought about tucking herself back into the curve of him, stealing a few more minutes. Instead she stood there, the phone still in her hand, the cold already creeping into her chest.

She didn’t know it was the last time.
Didn’t know what she wouldn’t come back to.

She only knew she couldn’t stay. Not if she wanted to protect what little she had left. So she turned, pulled on her coat and stepped into the hallway and closed the door gently behind her. Like silence could keep something from breaking.

Meg knew heartbreak. Not the dramatic kind with door-slamming and grand gestures - though she’d lived those too.

She but knew the quieter kind. The ones that rewrote you slowly.
The kind that didn’t shatter you outright, just left a fault line beneath the surface.
The kind you only realised had changed you years after the fact.

Her first was Shang, The high school track star. One of those boys who ran like he couldn’t imagine being slow. Effortlessly fast, effortlessly confident, and somehow always at the centre of things without trying.

He liked her because she didn’t try to be noticed. She’d skipped warm-up once to sketch on the bleachers, and when he saw her - really saw her - he smiled like he’d uncovered a secret.

“You always like this?”

She shrugged. He liked that too.

What followed was fast. She was sixteen. He was seventeen. They kissed behind the supply shed and texted through the night and made vague plans about the future that felt monumental at the time.

He liked how self-contained she was. Until he didn’t. It ended the way fast things often do. He grew out of it first. Said she was intense. That he had ambitions in life that didn’t allow space for her: “You’re too much, Megs.”

They broke up in front of a café she didn’t even like. She cried ugly on the street as he did it. She hadn’t forgotten the way he’d looked at her in that final moment - like she’d taken too much space. Like the mystery had dissolved and he didn’t like the view it had revealed.

There had been Naveen.

A bartender at the place Meg worked when she first moved to the city. He was kind of man who remembered everyone’s drink and no one’s birthday. Charming. Loose-limbed. He winked at her like the city couldn’t touch him.

They were never officially together - just circling and colliding. Fingers brushing over receipts. Long conversations that started after closing and never made it home.

It wasn’t serious, but it mattered.

Naveen had a way of making everything feel theatre, like a scene unfolding, even if you didn’t know what it was building to. He liked the way Meg listened. Said she was sharp. Said she made him think more carefully about what he said.

They were all slow kisses in the storeroom when no one was watching. Quick ones in the break room, half-laughing, tasting salt and citrus. And sometimes - when the nights ran too long and neither of them wanted to go home - there was more. Hands on skin. Breathless, half-dressed moments in the dark.

But even then, it stayed undefined. No labels. No aftermath. They kept it casual. That was the unspoken rule. And Meg told herself she liked it that way. Some nights, she almost did.

It went on like that for weeks. Until he told her - three days before leaving - that he was moving to Berlin. Just like that. No drama. No question. No ask for her to follow.

Meg said she was happy for him.
She had meant it, sort of.

He gave her a book on his last night. Something beat-up and underlined.
She never finished it.

It didn’t break her. Not the way some heartbreaks do. But it stung. The type of sting that comes from not being chosen - not even because of who you are, but because someone never even considered what it would mean to leave.

And then, there was Flynn.
The momentary kind of heartbreak. Fleeting. Transient. But sharp.
The sort that caught you off-balance on the wrong day and then left you wondering if you even cared at all.

It was a party. A night where everyone had too much wine and too many opinions about music. Flynn had been flirting with the pretty red-haired barista from the corner café for weeks - Meg knew that. He’d made no secret of it. She just hadn’t figured he’d go there.

But he brought her.
And then he kissed her.
In the hallway, beside the coats and pile of shoes, while someone in the next room was shouting about the Overton Window.

Meg saw it by accident.
Not a long kiss. Not dramatic. Just easy. Certain.
Like it was always going to happen, and maybe she’d just missed the cue.

She shut herself in the bathroom and cried quietly on the rim of the tub. It wasn’t that she was in love with him. She wasn’t even jealous. But she felt displaced. The sudden, sharp realisation that she could be replaceable in someone else’s highlight reel. That something load bearing might crumble beneath her.

Esme found her twenty minutes later. Didn’t ask. Just sat beside her on the tile floor and let Meg talk in drunk half-sentences. For once she didn’t try to solve it, just stayed.

The next morning, Meg made them pancakes while her head throbbed, and acted like nothing had happened. Flynn complimented the batter. She didn’t meet his eyes.

And that was it. Barista girl came and went. The pain passed, but it stayed, too - in that small, stupid place where almosts go.

None of them had prepared her for this.

Those heartbreaks had endings. Clean or messy, sharp or slow - they each had a shape. At least they looked her in the eye. This one didn’t. This one just…left.

She made her way home late that evening. The streets were still wet from rain that had fallen while she had been tucked out of sight.

She’d spent the day trailing behind one of Hades’ lieutenants. A man with too many enemies, too little self-awareness, and who clearly hadn’t wanted her company – the feeling was mutual. There’d been a meeting in a half-lit dive bar with questionable sanitation, and another in a glass tower downtown where no one said anything real until the door was closed.

Meg wasn’t there to speak. Just to watch. To listen. To learn what mattered and what didn’t. She had nodded when she was supposed to. Smiled at the right moments. Watched people fold under pressure that didn’t look like pressure.

By the time she left, her head ached from the effort of being invisible and alert all at once.

The phone buzzed in her pocket - probably some vague instruction she was meant to care about. She didn’t check. She was too tired to be useful, even more tired of pretending she knew how to be.

By the time she reached the studio, all she wanted was silence, shower, sleep and - if she let herself admit it for a second - him. A version of him at least, and if that was the one from yesterday, half-turned toward her instead of away, she would grab it with two hands and hold it in place. A quiet slice of something they might have started to find again.

But she opened the door, and knew.

It wasn’t the dramatic kind of knowing. Not a gasp. Not a dropped bag.
Just that cold, immediate clarity that something was wrong. The echo was off, that was the first sign. The door closed and the sound rang out, cutting through the room differently tonight, not dull, but hollow.

She stepped inside. The lights were out, but enough glow spilled in from the street to see by. At first glance, nothing looked unusual.

But then - the coat hook - Bare. His jacket, fraying at the cuffs, always hanging just a little off-centre. Gone.

She crossed the room slowly. Flicked on the lamp by the couch. The blanket that usually lay askew was folded neatly on the armrest. The book he’d been reading was missing from where it had sat face down on the coffee table.

She turned toward the shelves. His brushes weren’t there. The cheap ones he swore by, the three he’d ‘borrowed’ from her, the one with the red tape around the handle. And the canvases - the stack he always kept leaning by the far wall. Half-finished, too precious to toss, too personal to share. They were gone. He was gone. But not cleanly.

The towel he used was still slung over the bathroom door. Still damp.
The trash hadn’t been emptied. There were two bowls in the sink, one rinsed, one not.
A shirt of his hung on the back of the chair - creased at the collar, faint smudge of oil on the cuff.

He’d left the mess.
Left the evidence.
Left the pieces she would have to carry.

She saw it last, a note sat on the table. Folded once. No envelope.

She didn’t pick it up right away. Just stood there, staring at it like it might do something on its own. Move. Apologise. Catch fire.

Eventually, she reached for it. Her name at the top - Meg - she read it in the way he’d said it last night, with a hesitation.

Then beneath it, in slanted, too-neat handwriting:

I’m sorry. I won’t forget what you did for me. But I can’t carry this the way you can.

That was all.

She read it once. Then again. Then again.

No.

She must have missed something. A second page, maybe. A longer thought, still waiting to land. Her thumb traced the edge of the paper like it might unfold itself if she held it right. Like the act of reading it harder could change what it said.

But the letters didn’t shift and the words didn’t grow. They just sat there - silent, final, devastating.

She scrutinised the shape of the letters. The way he curved his rs. The way the tails of the ys dropped too low. As if those details might explain. As if the handwriting could offer an answer the words didn’t.

The note said almost nothing, it was all he had to say.

It started to boil beneath her skin, a raw heat. Like something vital had been knocked loose within her. A twisting, bristling pressure that didn’t know where to land. She stood in the middle of the studio, the note still in her hand. Her grip pulling it into her fist without her noticing, the too few words folding in on each other.

How dare he.

That was the shape of it, at first. One sharp thought, repeating like a pulse:

“I won’t forget what you did for me.”

She almost laughed. Would’ve, if her throat hadn’t drawn to a choke.

Forget? She’d ruined her life for him. And he couldn’t even look her in the eye while he gutted her.

She pressed her hand to her mouth. Hard. Like she could trap the sound trying to claw its way out. It didn’t work.

A breath escaped - choked and furious. Then another. Then she screamed. It tore its way through her like something that had been waiting weeks to be let loose, scraping the walls on way out. He’d left, walked out, and he’d taken the future she’d been holding onto with him. He been the answer to all the questions she had asked herself in the darkness of the sleepless nights. The why she’d done what she’d done. The how she’d make sense of it all. The whether sacrifices meant something. And now he’d crushed it underfoot with a few careful sentences and no signature.

Her breath hitched. She braced a hand on the edge of the table, like the room had shifted.

And there it was, the question. Small at first, just a flicker in the back of her mind, gaining oxygen with every breath until it consumed everything the rage had built.

What did this mean?

What did it mean that he could leave? That he had? If he’d loved her - truly, fiercely, the way she loved him - then he wouldn’t have been able to. But he had, which meant he hadn’t. Maybe that was it, maybe that had always been it. He’d said it himself ‘I didn’t ask you to do this’. And she’d done it anyway. Maybe that’s what had ruined it, not the debt. Not Hades, but her.

The thought snuck in sideways, cruel and vicious: It wasn’t that he didn’t love her enough. It was that she made it impossible to love her at all.

Too intense. Too loyal. Too stupid to see it coming. She’d made her bed, and now she had to lie in it. Alone.

And maybe that’s all she’d ever been: someone who had loved to hard, held too tight and never knew when to stop.

Months later, she would see him across Canal Street.

It would be raining - sharp and slanted, the kind that turned up the volume of the street. He’d duck beneath an awning, one arm holding his jacket above his head to shield himself from the worst of it, the other around a girl’s waist.

He would pull her close. Both of them laughing, disappearing into their own little world, like it had never rained on anyone else.

She’d pause, hand on the car door. He wouldn’t spot her, wouldn’t even glance her way. And even if he had, he might not recognise her. She looked different now. Or maybe just emptier in ways that sat behind her eyes.

Then a voice would sound her name. Not the way he used to say it. But in the precise, impatient tone of someone waiting.

She would turn away, into the car and out of the rain. And no one would ask her why she was silent for the rest of the ride.  

Chapter Text

Low Fidelity

It wasn’t rage that drove her. Rage would’ve taken more coherence, more energy, more certainty. This was something rawer; desperation sharpened by fatigue. A kind of helplessness that let her walk straight into the fire because - honestly - what the hell else did she have to lose?

She hadn’t slept. Maybe she closed her eyes at some point - her body twisted into a corner of the couch, wrapped in the shirt he had left behind - but nothing in her brain stilled long enough to drift. Theon’s departure had hollowed out the studio just as it had hollowed her, every echo jolting her back to the realisation that he was gone.

By the time the sounds of early morning crept through the window, Meg was already moving, head full and heart empty. There wasn’t any plan just the unsteady rhythm of someone with no better option. She showered but didn’t wash her hair. Pulled on the first things she found, wrinkled jeans, a sweatshirt with paint on the cuff. No makeup. No mask.

She didn’t look in the mirror. There was nothing in it worth fixing.

The streets were barely awake as she emerged from the subway. Shop shutters half-closed. Coffee carts only beginning to steam. But the Brownstone was already murmuring when she reached it - lights on, security at the desk, floors washed clean of whatever darkness had trod the halls the night before. She didn’t even know if he’d be here. Didn’t care, she’d wait.

It wasn’t like the first time she’d come to him. She’d been desperate then too, but then she still believed she had someone worth saving. She’d gone in with purpose. With a plan. With the belief - however fragile - that she might walk out whole. She remembered rehearsing lines in her head. A plea. A trade. A mistake.

Whatever version of herself had carried her through those doors the first time had long since burned out. Because Theon was gone. And whatever meaning she used to cling to - that she was here for something, for someone - it had vanished along with him.

Now she was here for herself.

She took the stairs. Five flights. Not enough to burn, but enough to make her pulse match the ache in her chest.

The corridor stretched out in front of her like it was daring her to try her luck. Whichever nameless assistant had lasted the week stepped out as she cleared the floor – startled and scrambling, clutching a tablet like a shield.

“Um, you can’t just-”

Meg didn’t stop walking, just shot a look that said try me.

“He’s isn’t expecting…”

She pushed past. The assistant didn’t chase, just disappeared wherever they came from, ducking for cover before the blast hit.   

The door was ajar but she shoved it open with the flat of her palm. Hades was at his desk already, jacket off, glasses on, like he’d been working - but with an expression that said otherwise. He looked up at the sound of her intrusion, and a grin curled across his face like a ribbon unfurling.

“Meg” he said, “to what do I owe the storm clouds?” Too bright. Too easy. Like this was a social call.

It threw her off. She’d come in hot, ready to spit, ready to claw something out of him - but the ease in his expression wrong-footed her. Slipped a crack into the half-formed speech she’d been rehearsing since she’d left the studio. Her breath caught somewhere between ferocity and fatigue, her eyes fixed on the one person who held the key to everything she no longer had the power to take.

“He’s gone.”

It came out flatter than she meant. Bitter. Her voice hitched just slightly and she hated that he’d hear it. Hated that she was standing here, saying this out loud to the man she’d sold herself to. Telling him that Theon - the reason, the fragile anchor she’d clung to through the worst of it - had walked away anyway.

She steadied herself, lifted her chin. There was no point pretending this wasn’t a humiliation, but she could choose how to wear it.

Hades looked at her with mild curiosity, then leaned back in his chair just a little, like she’d arrived with a piece of gossip, not a gut wound.

“Well, he finally did it, did he?” He made a thoughtful noise, almost a hum, then added, “Damn, I owe Anton a hundred bucks.”

A breath left her, involuntarily, not in pain but disbelief. She’d dragged herself here on no sleep, raw and unravelled, every part of her fraying at the edges - and he sat there smiling. It felt like a slap to the chest. It wasn’t that she didn’t expect cruelty - she was fast learning who she was dealing with - but because it was so casual. He hadn’t even tried to mask it. Like her collapse was entertainment, like this had always been the punchline.

“Excuse me?” she hissed, venom on her tongue.

“Relax, just a friendly wager,” he said coolly. “I said you’d be on your own before the month was out. He gave it two more weeks. Guess he had more faith in your boyfriend than I did, but then he’s always been a romantic deep down.” Hades shrugged like it was sport.

“You bet on my heartbreak?” Her anger surging.

“No, that was always inevitable. I bet on the timing.”

Meg blinked. Once. Twice. The burn behind her eyes wasn’t tears - it was rage. Acid-hot and clawing.

“You think this is funny?” she said, voice low, unsteady. “You think this is some kind of game?”

Hades just shook his head, unbothered. “Not a game, Meg. Just the natural order of things. You wanted permanence from a man running on borrowed time.”

Her fingers curled into fists. “You did something.” The thought dawning on her. “You must have.”

He raised his brows, all mock-innocence. “To your bargain basement Basquiat? Please. If I’d wanted him gone, he would’ve vanished long ago and with considerably less mess.”

“You scared him off.” She stepped forward now, like proximity could make it true. “You pulled some string, made some threat - I don’t know-”

 “Didn’t have to, babe.” He cut in smoothly, voice like velvet. “He pulled this off all on his own. That’s the thing about people, Meg. Once the shine wears off, they don’t need a push. Just an excuse.”

Her hands rose to her temples and traced small circles, trying to make sense of the pieces that lay in front of her.

“I offered you a trade,” Hades went on, standing now. “He got to coast on that. Free and clear, didn’t he? And once he knew he was safe, once you’d done your part… what else was left to hold him?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He stepped closer.

“You gave him what he wanted. And then - well. People don’t tend to stick around after that.”

He paused, almost thoughtful.

“They never do. He wasn’t different, Meg. You just wanted him to be.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Better you learn that now.”

Meg closed her eyes to him, breath shallow. Each word had landed with surgical precision leaving a hollow, twisting feeling like air was being squeezed out of her soul.

And then he said it, just an offhand titbit - “I’ll give him this, though. He stuck it out longer than I expected. Especially once Little Miss Soft Focus came into the picture.”

That snapped her back.

“What?”

“Oh, she didn’t come up?” He made a sympathetic face. “You know the type, indie darling, all poetry and Polaroids. I’ll have Anton lend you the file.” A shrug. “Seems like a nice girl. Bit dull, if you ask me. But hey - we can’t all be fire and fury, can we, sweetness?”

He was talking fast - too fast - and she only caught every other word, but the meaning landed. The world swam. Whether it was rage or grief or some fresh new cocktail of both, she couldn’t tell.

She took a step back - from both him and the weight of it all. The sheer, sickening inevitability. Of course there was someone else. Of course she hadn’t been enough. The realisation felt like a tide rising, finding cracks and seeping through every part of her. Theon hadn’t just walked out. He’d been walking for a while, she just hadn’t wanted to see it. He’d replaced her, while she’d been negotiating deals with devils for him. He had been sketching some new girl into his life, laughing with her, touching her, kissing her with the same mouth he’d used to toast her.

Maybe that was what their final night had been, a goodbye, a piteous attempt at ‘thank you’ and a quiet handoff to someone prettier. Someone simpler. Someone not bound to a man like Hades. Meg’s throat burned with the shame of it all.

This was her reality now, the one person left in the room with her… was Hades. And that was the most unbearable part, that there was no rescue coming. No exit. No purpose but whichever one he chose to give her.

She tried to grab the spark of rage that still flickered inside her - sharp, bright, alive. She reached it like a lifeline. But it didn’t hold. It fizzled before it could land. Instead it was panic that overwhelmed her now, sudden and clenching. Like the walls had shifted an inch closer without warning and the floor beneath her had thinned to glass. 

She couldn’t breathe, not properly. Her chest wouldn’t open. The air stuck in her throat, ragged and rising.

She turned from Hades. She needed to see something that wasn’t him. The windows. The sky. Anything to remind her that there was still a world out there. A way this didn’t have to be the end of everything.

But she was going to fall apart if she didn’t move, if she didn’t at least try to save herself.

So, fear still coursing through her, she turned back - slowly, deliberately - and met his eyes.

“I want out,” she said. The words landed sharp and brittle. It wasn’t quite a demand, but it was the only thing she had left.

He didn’t respond.

“I’m serious.” Her voice cracked at the edges, but she kept going. “This. The deal. All of it. I need out.”

He said nothing. Just watched her. Calm. Patient. Like someone indulging a child mid-tantrum.

Her palms flexed against each other, part prayer, part a feeble attempt to calm herself. She pushed forward with all the strength she could muster.

“I didn’t come for me,” she said. “I never did. I came for him. To protect him. That’s what the deal was for. But he’s gone now. He left. That should mean it’s over.” She didn’t believe it - not really - but she needed it to be true. Needed it with a desperation that tasted like blood.

She took a half-step closer, forcing herself to keep his gaze.

“I’ll pay it back. Whatever you think he owed. I’ll find a way. Or you can take it from him. I don’t care. I just -” A feverish sound in her voice. “- I can’t do this.”

There it was. The rawest thing she’d ever said. Laid bare, right there at his feet.

And for a moment - just a moment - there was silence. The kind that could still break either way.

Then finally he moved toward her, closing what little gap there is between them now, with the unhurried ease of someone who already knew the ending. He smiled, soft, pleased. Like he’d been waiting for her to arrive at this moment.

“Nutmeg,” he said. “Come on. You’re smarter than this. You don’t get to walk into my office and request a refund. There’s no returns policy. You signed the receipt.”

She flinched, eyes skating down - dishevelled and fracturing - just slightly. But he saw it.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I didn’t make you do anything. You came to me. You asked. You knew what this was.”

She opened her mouth, but he raised a hand - one quiet gesture - and she stopped.

“I let you choose. That was the deal. You wanted his safety. I gave it. You offered loyalty. I took it. What part of that is confusing you now?”

He paced a step - casual, comfortable. Almost like this was all part of the performance for him.

“And now he’s gone,” he went on, softer now. “So you want to undo it. Rewind. Pretend none of it ever happened. I get it. I do.”

He looked at her fully then, and shook his head.

“But that’s not how any of this works, Meg. Not in my world.”

He stepped in again. Just enough to press on the air between them.

“You said you’d give me whatever I needed. And I took you at your word. Don’t sulk now that the bill’s come due.” A flicker of something sharper lit behind his gaze. “Granted, the packaging’s a little less polished today. But I’m still satisfied with my purchase.”

He gave her a look – cool and deliberate – like he was waiting to see what she’d do with it.

Something broke through her fog then. Heat, rising like steam under pressure. She straightened - barely. but it was enough to meet his eyes again.

“You smug son of a bitch,” she said, voice rough with whatever strength she could muster. “You stood there and watched me hand myself over knowing he’d leave. You didn’t just take advantage, you were counting on it.” Her mouth twisted. “Was it fun? Watching me believe in it? Watching me try?”

She swallowed hard, something sour building in the back of her throat.

“There was no version of this where I didn’t lose, was there?” she said, more to herself than him. “The only choice I had was what I was willing to lose first.”

His smile returned - lazy, insufferable. “Hey,” he said, spreading his hands like he was being generous. “I know about loss. I’m out a hundred bucks, if it helps.”

That did it. She felt last of her hope sputter out. Because this – this cruelty dressed up as charm, this mockery in a bespoke suit - was who he was. And now, this was all she had.

She didn’t wait for permission, instead she stole her way out of the Brownstone before anyone had the chance to stop her. The corridors were still hushed in the early light - quiet in that particular way they only were before the day began to turn. Doors still closed, the hum still low. She didn’t take the elevator, she took the stairs again, one hand trailing the banister as if to steady herself against the aftershock of what had just happened.

When she reached the street, the cold met her like a hand on the back of her neck. Not bracing, but possessive. The kind that settled in early and didn’t shake off all day. She crossed the road without looking.

Gramercy Park was still empty, the gates locked, but the corner near the west side had a small ledge, just low enough to clamber over. She hopped the fence with no ceremony, and sunk down on the first bench she came to. Pulled her coat tighter. Pressed her hands between her knees.

Her strength had finally given out. Theon was gone. The deal was sealed. And the man she’d made it with had laughed in her face and dismissed her like a chapter he’d reread too often to care how it ended.

Hades had said it like a kindness: “Take the day. Get your head sorted.” A mercy, maybe. Or a condescension. She couldn’t tell anymore.

She wanted to cry. To let it all break loose - the anger, the betrayal, the humiliation. The raw, bottomless grief of knowing that even her biggest sacrifice hadn’t been enough to make him stay.

But nothing came. No tears. No sound. Because tears were a loss of control, and control was all she had left. She’d been stripped of everything else - power, pride, love. So she held on to the only thing she could, her composure. Even if it rang hollow.

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone, the real one, the one with missed calls and old photos and his number still at the top of her last dialled list. She stared at the screen. Maybe she wanted to scream at him. Maybe she wanted to beg. She didn’t know which would come out first and that terrified her. But either would split her open. She stilled her hand the same way she stopped the tears; she couldn't afford to falter.

Instead, she held down the button until the screen went black, severing herself, finally, from everything that had once felt like hers. She let the absence settle, let it wash over her with the slow, final stillness of disconnection.

She tucked the phone away. And sat there, as the city began to stir around her, alone in a life that someone else now made the rules for.

Esmeralda Cooper was nothing if not resourceful.

At The Current, she was making a name for herself - tracing loose threads, pulling at knots, and weaving them into stories with teeth. Most of them never saw the light of day, casualties of a cautious editor and a newsroom that still called crime bosses “alleged” even when everyone knew better.

Ninety percent of the time, she put her skills to noble use. Stories that mattered. Justice, corruption, the quiet failures of power.

The other ten percent?

Well, sometimes a girl needed to know why her college roommate’s new girlfriend had mysteriously vanished from all tagged photos after a weekend in Montauk. Or how come a certain Assistant DA had been dining at the same bistro every Thursday night - with the same woman, who definitely wasn’t his wife.

She wasn’t proud of it, but she’d learned early that the same instincts that helped break stories could also be put to more personal use - like, for instance, when your best friend ghosted completely and left nothing but unanswered texts in her wake.

This time, Esme wasn’t chasing a headline. She was chasing Meg.

She hadn’t seen her since the night of their argument, when she’d slipped out without saying a word. But Esme had sensed her. Here and there - faint traces. A jacket missing from the hall when Esme came home from work. The perfume she kept in the bathroom gone. Once, a dress of Meg’s that Esme had borrowed and then left buried in her own laundry basket, vanished. 

Their text chain was one-sided now. Esme’s messages ranged from casual check-ins to increasingly panicked pleas, especially after Flynn had arrived at her door. Still, she hadn’t stopped chasing. She hadn’t known where Meg was exactly, but she knew who she’d be with.

And now, she was stepping in.

She started with what she had: a name, a neighbourhood, and a vague sense of how Theon liked to play starving artist. Clinton Hill had always been a little too proud of its grit, but it was the kind of place he would’ve found aesthetically authentic. Esme had been there once, some half-lit performance art space where a woman screamed into a jar for twenty minutes. It was meant to be a commentary. So was the wine, apparently. Still, it was enough of a thread.

A few keyword combinations, a deep dive into property tax records, and a creative use of The Current’s LexisNexis login later, and she had it: a studio space registered under a business name Theon Lycos had once used to sell screenprints. It was technically inactive, technically delinquent, and technically owed the state about $326 in unpaid filing fees.

But it had an address.

She had no interest in seeing him, she needed Meg on her own. So she checked his socials - public, performative, of course - and timed her visit to the studio for when he was posting from a café in Dumbo, captioned with something unbearable like “caffeine + clarity = process.” That gave her a window.

If Meg was staying there, or even just hiding out, Esme needed to know. Not as a reporter. As a friend. Or something like one.

She leaned back against the lamppost across the street, picking her moment. There had been a time when stepping in had been easy. When Meg would let her, an unspoken understanding that Esme would pull, and Meg would come. That was how it had always been. But that was years ago. Before secrets, before silences. Before Meg started calling it interference.

Esme frowned, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. Maybe that was the problem. She didn’t know how to fight without grabbing hold. And Meg had learned to run the moment anyone reached for her.

Still, Esme couldn’t stop reaching. That part hadn’t changed. It hadn’t changed since the very first time.

The dead space behind the gym was unofficial territory. No one claimed it, but everyone knew what it was for - skipping class, airing gossip, smoking things that definitely weren’t school-sanctioned. A no-man’s-land of chain-link fences and cracked pavement.

Meg had been at the school for three weeks. Long enough for the stories to catch up. Private school girl. Rich, or used to be. Father had run off with the last of money or the secretary, depending on who you asked. Now she was slumming it with the rest of them. No one really knew, but that didn’t stop them guessing.

They circled her like wolves.

It started like it always did - jokes with an edge, laughter with teeth.
“Bet your shoes cost more than my house.”
“Daddy finally cancel the AmEx?”
“What’s it like being the fall of the House of Atreus?” That last one, predictably, came from a theatre kid.

Meg gave as good as she got - biting back, matching tone for tone. But they could smell it. The hesitation, the tightness at the corners of her eyes. The slow, steady flush of the disgrace she was trying not to show.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t hold her own. It was that she didn’t yet know how to hide the hurt.

Then - Esme. Arriving the way Esme always did. Mouth first.

“Nice move,” she said from the edge. “Pick on the girl who didn’t ask to be in your little drama. Real brave..”

The ringleader, some bimbette from the year above, turned. Rolled her eyes. “Who invited you?”

“No one,” Esme said, stepping between them anyway. “But if you’re going to punch down, try not to look so proud of yourself doing it. It’s embarrassing.”

Silence. Then the shift - those tiny social earthquakes that happened when someone realised they’d just lost the upper hand. The girls peeled off, tossing barbs over their shoulders - “Whatever, she’s not even interesting.” It didn’t matter. They were gone.

Esme turned. Meg hadn’t moved. Still standing there like she was holding a match. Her chin was up. Her mouth locked tight. But the fire was sputtering.

Esme grabbed her by the arm and pulled.

“Come on.”

Meg resisted, but not hard enough to matter. “I didn’t need saving.”

Esme didn’t stop walking. “Yeah? Well, I did it anyway.”

They reached the corner of the yard before Meg spoke again, voice low. “I wasn’t going to break.”

Esme looked her in the eyes for the first time and said, “You shouldn’t have to.”

That stopped her. Meg didn’t say thank you. Didn’t soften, but she followed.

Now here on the sidewalk, Esme shifted her weight and stared up at the building steeling herself. This wasn’t a playground scuffle. It wasn’t a bitchy joke at someone’s expense. This was bigger.

If Meg was working for Hades, then this wasn’t just a bad decision - it was dangerous. Real-world dangerous. The kind that left bruises that didn’t fade and debts you didn’t get to walk away from.

She crossed the street before she could think better of it.

A woman exited the building just as she reached the door - arms full of laundry, keys between her teeth. Esme offered a tight smile and started patting her coat pockets like she’d misplaced something. The woman gave her a tired glance and nudged the door open wider with her hip.

“Thanks,” Esme murmured, already stepping inside.

The stairwell smelled like dust and leftover takeout. Every footstep echoed.

She didn’t know what she expected to find. Meg, angry. Meg, broken. Meg, halfway through a bagel and rolling her eyes at the intrusion. She could have handled any version, but not the empty space where her best friend used to be.

She paused outside the door to the studio. Being here made it harder to pretend - harder to ignore the backlog of unread messages, the widening gulf between what they used to be.

Esme let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. She didn’t expect a warm reunion - or even a response. But she had to know she’d done something.

She knocked.

The sun was lower now, brushing the rooftops with light that looked almost gentle, but only if you were in the habit of looking up. Meg wasn’t, not today. She had been walking for hours. Nowhere in particular - just far enough, long enough that the city had started to blur at the edges. She didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to feel. It had kept the questions quiet and the hurt at bay.

But now her feet ached. Her legs were heavy. And eventually, even escape ran out of pavement. She turned at last toward the only place left to go - back to the half-empty studio that waited for her, where the life she had carved out for herself had packed up and left without her.

She saw it as she twisted the key in the lock, an envelope caught between the door and the floorboard. Cream coloured and a little creased. Her name on the front in Esme’s handwriting.

She stared at it for a moment. Then bent to pick it up, holding it a little too tightly around the edge as if its contents might hurt her. Inside, folded carefully: a note and some cash.

The note wasn’t long. It didn’t ask questions. It didn’t make demands. Instead it said:

You don’t have to explain.
Whatever you’re in - I’ll help.
It’s not too late & you're not too far.
I miss you.
I love you.

Please come home.
- E

Meg’s hands were shaking by the time she reached the end, but her eyes were dry.

The money was tucked beneath the paper, soft bills, neatly pressed, like they'd been counted and recounted before being placed here. It was practical love, the kind Meg had never learned to ask for, and never known what to do with when it came.

She closed the door behind her, slid to the floor, and just sat there.

Theon had left her a line - barely a sentence. But Esme was offering what she needed, a reminder of who she was and what she had. A lifeline. An exit.

But Meg knew she wouldn’t take it. Not because she didn’t want to. God, she wanted to. But because it was too late. And because she wouldn’t - couldn’t - drag Esme down into the dark with her.

She pressed the letter to her chest, just once, just briefly. Then folded it carefully and placed it on the table.

The cash, she didn’t touch.

She wasn’t going home.

Chapter Text

The Birthday Party

The sun was already setting by the time Meg stirred. A final slant of light cut across the studio, catching on the rim of an abandoned glass and shining across her eyelids. She turned her face away, screwing her eyes up against the imposition. A shadow stretched slow across the ceiling like it had nowhere better to be. That made two of them.

The blanket draped over her was half slipped from her shoulders, twisted somewhere around her legs. One arm tucked beneath her head, the other stretched out toward nothing. The floor was cold beneath her spine. Uncomfortable and unyielding, it felt right.

The rhythm of her days had faltered since Theon left. Sleep came in jagged stretches - too little, or too much. The rest she filled by moving where she was told, when she was told. Errands. Messages. Quiet hours listening and reporting. And when she wasn’t doing that, she was here. Surrounded by the last of his things. A list he wrote still sat on the table, his handwriting frozen mid-thought. She hadn’t touched it. It wasn’t a reminder of him, so much as a reminder that he was gone.

Her sketchbook hadn’t moved from where she’d dropped days now, tucked between couch and cushion, warped slightly where it had absorbed the spill of something - wine, maybe, or tea. She didn’t remember.

It had been a week, give or take, since Theon walked out. Since Esme left the envelope with the words Meg had committed to memory: It’s not too late & you're not too far.

She’d spent every day since proving otherwise.

Takeout boxes stacked by the sink. Dust gathering in the corners where she used to light candles. Hair tangled. Clothes worn on rotation. A single half-smudged note on the fridge: Pay rent. She hadn’t. Everything else blurred into whatever version of survival this was.

She thought, sometimes, about texting Esme or turning up on the doorstep of their crooked little apartment with an apology and a broken heart. But the thought always stopped in the same place: Esme was better off without her.

Flynn was harder. Thoughts of him were laced with guilt of having done exactly what he’d told her not to - and the deeper shame of what he might say if he saw her now.

Staying silent was the closest thing to keeping them safe. She’d made her choices. Burned the maps. She didn’t get to ask for lifelines now. But it didn’t stop her thinking about them, and about the life she had shut herself off from.

Eventually - more out of muscle memory than decision - she reached across the floor for her bag. It slumped onto its side as she pulled it closer, a few receipts and gum wrappers spilling out like confetti; a ticker tape parade for her pity party. She found her own phone at the bottom, cool and heavy in her hand. Familiar in the way a bad habit was.

She considered it for a moment, then turned it on. The screen lit slowly. A soft vibration in her palm. Then another. Then more.

Notifications trickled in: apps she meant to unsubscribe from, an MLM sales pitch from someone she couldn’t quite place, a three-day-old group invite from a girl she’d met once on a rooftop and hadn’t seen since. Nothing that mattered. But they came all the same - small digital echoes of a life that hadn’t stopped just because she had.

She scrolled. Not because she was looking for anything, but because the motion felt normal, mechanical. She opened one message thread, then another. Read the first line of something and didn’t finish it.

It was like looking into a room she used to live in, now watched from behind glass. Everything inside looked intact. But the door had locked behind her, and she didn’t have the key.

One thread caught her eye. A group chat she rarely opened - some spillover of friends-of-friends Flynn had picked up along the way. Party people. Influencer-adjacent. The kind of crowd that always seemed to know the newest basement bar and the best dealer on short notice.

Meg had been added long ago at a street party she barely remembered. Someone had passed her the phone - “what’s your number, babe?” - and she hadn’t thought twice. She never spoke in it, just lurked. Observed. A soap opera she could follow without ever risking a line in the script.

The latest message had come in that morning: REMEMBER, people. My birthday tonight at Primo's. 10pm. No excuses. If you're not there, I'll assume you hate fun.

Jasmine. Of course.

Meg knew her a little - through a crashed Soho House guest list and five or six cocktails charged to someone else’s tab. Jasmine lived somewhere between Dimes Square and her own reflection, a girl who seemed built for curated chaos. The Cut had published a feature on her last year - “A Whole New Worldview: Inside Jasmine Ansari's Downtown Kingdom." Meg had read it one Sunday morning in Esme’s bed, reciting choice quotations to each other and trying to decipher whether it was satire.

She scrolled the replies, a string of hearts and fire emojis. One person threatened to rollerblade there "for the bit." Another promised to DJ for exactly 23 minutes. All of them giddy. Unbothered. Free.

Then her thumb stilled on a name.

Flynn: “Rain check, Jas. Got a job on. Have two for me.”

That was all. Short. Easy. Flynn, exactly as he always was - flirting at the edges of the scene, never fully in it, but somehow still adored.

There was no reason for the way her chest caught. No reason for the flicker of something sharp and sour between her ribs. It was just a throwaway message in a sea of them. But it was proof all the same: he was still out there, moving through the world. And here she was. A girl laying on the floor waiting for the weight to take her under.

She stared at the message longer than she meant to. The thought came gently, ten o’clock at Primo’s. A room full of people who wouldn’t notice if she showed up late or halfway to breaking. No one would ask what she’d been doing for the past month. No one would ask who she’d been doing it for. She could stand in the corner. Take a shot. Let herself be folded into the blur of it - just for a night.

She toyed with idea. She could hear Flynn’s voice, if she tried hard enough:

Nutmeg, come on. That doesn't sound like your kind of party.

Yeah, well. I'm not really myself tonight.

A pause. A shrug: Alright. I’ll lift you a drink and the cab fare. Don’t say I don’t look after you.

She shook the ghost of his voice away. This wasn’t about him; he wasn’t going to be there. It wasn’t even about wanting to go. It was about not wanting to lie here any longer. About the way that shadow on the ceiling had started to look like a hand reaching for her. About remembering what it felt like not to be tethered.

Something shifted, a flicker of that old “fuck it” energy she hadn’t felt in weeks, maybe months - thin and warped and nothing like it used to be. But it was there, barely, and it was enough to make her move.

She got up. Her head swam slightly as she did. Her legs were stiff. Her spine ached. But she moved - out of the blanket, toward the bathroom, toward something that might feel like reclamation.

Shower, makeup, performance. A little concealer under the eyes. Just enough to dull the edge of the shadows that had settled. She tugged on a dress that still fit like it used to, even if she didn’t. Heels she hadn’t worn since – well, since. A spritz of something that smelt like nighttime, all bergamot and vetiver. Hair pinned to look like some sort of attempt at effort. Lipstick, steady-handed. She judged herself in the mirror, the pretence would hold for a few hours, at least. She wasn’t going out to feel better. She was going out to feel different.

Primo’s was already full when she stepped inside, full with people, with the cling of smoke and spirits, with the sharp flash of camera phones and the kind of laughter that cut through bass-heavy music like it was daring someone to look.

Lights flickered low and blue above the bar. Somewhere in the back, a velvet curtain hung half-pinned open. Jackets draped over banquettes. Someone’s sunglasses perched on a lampshade. A girl in silver heels danced by herself with her eyes closed and a bottle of champagne raised like a trophy.

Meg lingered just inside the threshold, long enough to consider whether this was a good idea and to decide that she didn’t care.

Jasmine spotted her almost immediately. “Baby girl,” she squealed, stumbling out of a half-hug with someone else to throw her arms around Meg like they were old war buddies. She hit in a rush of grapefruit peel and gin, the sweet–sharp lift of expensive shampoo still clinging to her hair.

“You came! I didn’t think - I mean, Flynn said he wasn’t coming, so I assumed...”

Meg smiled quick, bright, and hollow in the middle.

“Guess I’m full of surprises.”              

Jasmine shrieked with delight, already tugging her forward. “You’re not allowed to stand there looking like a sad movie star. Come on. First shot’s on me - and by me I mean Eric’s tab.”

A shot appeared in her hand before she had time to refuse it. Something clear. Cold. She tipped it back. The glass clinked on the nearest table. Jasmine whooped.

More people surged into the space around them. Hands on shoulders, air kisses, half-recognised faces. Meg clocked Ariel – Jasmine’s flame-haired best friend, perched on a banquette and already too drunk to string a sentence together, though she was gamely trying.

And then - Al, across the bar. Dark hair falling into his eyes, one hand in his pocket, the other cradling a drink he didn’t seem in any hurry to finish, like the room hadn’t offered him anything better.

Meg stilled. The noise seemed to fold inward for a second. She hadn’t expected to see him here.

She’d forgotten about the thing between him and Jasmine - whatever shape it was taking these days. On again, off again. Mostly on when she wanted to piss off her father. Al was good at that, good at slipping into whatever part someone need him to play. She’d only met him a handful of times, but always on nights like this - where the lighting was bad and the hours felt borrowed. Where something in the air promised that no one would remember the details in the morning.

She remembered the night she’d called him - late, panicked, running on instinct. Not because she trusted him, but because he didn’t know her well enough to try and stop her. That was what she’d needed then: the right door, the right answer, and someone who wouldn’t ask why.

And here, face to face, he didn’t ask anything either. He just gave a single nod and quiet recognition. Like she was a subplot he'd expected eventually. A quiet sense of relief washed over her as Jasmine pulled her back into the crowd. This was a room built for noise, not answers, and she was fine with that.

The drinks kept coming.

She didn’t ask for most of them. Jasmine pressed two into her hand within twenty minutes and someone else topped off her glass when she wasn’t looking. The room hummed with movement, layered voices rising and falling like overlapping waves. Laughter spiked too loud, then softened into the bassline. Neon curled across the ceiling. At some point someone arrived with a parrot for no discernible reason.

Meg let herself drift through the night.

She leaned against a leather backed booth that stuck slightly to her bare shoulders, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass, and nodded at whatever was being said. She smiled. She tilted her head. She said “god, totally” in the right places. No one seemed to notice that her mind was four beats behind the conversation, or that she hadn’t caught anyone’s name.

That was the thing about these people, they never looked too closely.

Jasmine ranted about her father for twenty straight minutes - something about frozen accounts and “emotional warfare” and how she was being punished for living in her truth. She gestured with her drink like a conductor. The guy next to Meg leaned in with a compliment about her dress that started innocent enough and then veered vaguely anatomical. If she rolled her eyes, he didn’t notice.

The night carried. The music got louder. Someone pulled the curtain closed. Someone else lit something that smelled floral and illicit.

And still - no one asked her anything real. No one asked where she’d been. What she was doing. Why her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

It was exactly what she’d wanted. To be in a room full of noise and sweat and shallow heat. To be anonymous. Disposable. A girl in lipstick who looked like she was having a good time.

She let herself lean into it. Drinks blended into each other. Time bent sideways. At some point she lost her coat. At another, she let someone spray something across her collarbone that glittered faintly in the light.

It didn’t matter that no one here would remember her in the morning. In fact, that was the goal.

After a while the booth emptied. People came and went in waves - bathroom trips, cigarette breaks, dramatic exits leading to dramatic returns. Jasmine had disappeared into a crowd of friends Meg didn’t recognise, and the guy with too many compliments had finally wandered off in search of someone more impressionable.

For a moment, she was alone.

The music kept thudding. Someone laughed too loud near the bar. But around her, the space dipped quieter - like the night had paused to take a breath.

It was then that Al slid into the booth beside her without ceremony and without small talk. Meg didn’t look at him right away. She kept her eyes on the table and the dancefloor beyond, bodies moving like waves.  

She thought, for a second, that he might say something. That he might bring up the last time they spoke. The call. The name she’d needed. The thing she hadn’t wanted to admit she was doing.

But none of that came. Instead his hand slid beneath the table. Rested, for a moment, against her knee. Present. Offering.

And then - her hand opened automatically, almost without her meaning it to. And he pressed small pink pill into her palm.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t explain. Just let the weight of the moment hang there between them, suspended like smoke in the dark.

It wasn’t permission. It wasn’t pressure. It felt like gesture of understanding or escape. Or maybe it was just Al being Al – delivering what he thought she needed without asking who she’d be on the other side of it.

She hesitated. Long enough to feel the chill of her drink against her other hand. Then she slipped it onto her tongue. The drink followed - sharp enough to chase whatever came next.

She still didn’t turn to him. And he didn’t wait to be thanked.

At first, it was what she wanted. Not a rush - more like a gentle slide. The floor softened. The music smoothed at the edges. The lights tilted warm. Her body felt like it belonged to someone better, someone lighter. The beat curled inside her ribs like breath. Like something she could move with, not against.

People came and went around her. She felt them more than she saw them – brushing past in soft streaks of light and colour. Someone handed her a drink in a glass that shimmered pink. She laughed as she drank it. The sound felt strange in her mouth

Voices blurred together, layered and syrupy. Words came slower than her brain could catch them, then too fast to follow. The neon bled at the corners. Jasmine reappeared, lipstick on her cheekbone, saying something about midnight, about magic, about Miami. Meg smiled like she understood.

Her body hummed. Not with joy exactly – just motion. Permission. Like someone had handed her a temporary reprieve from herself.

And then - she was moving.

Dragged by the wrist, she didn’t know by whom, across the floor and into the crowd. The bass thudded - low, steady, insistent. Like a second heartbeat. The lights strobed harder now. Colours fractured. Her limbs felt detached but reactive - like her body was responding to signals she didn’t remember sending. She laughed again, but this time it felt further away.

The crowd moved like water, warm, think, continuous. Hands grazed her waist, her back, her arm. Everything brushed a little too close, a little too sharp. Her mouth felt too dry. Her legs too fluid.

Something started to shift. The lights flared, then dimmed. Her bracelet pinched at her wrist. Someone bumped her shoulder and the jolt landed too hard, like she'd been hit from the inside.

Her smile was still on her face. She wasn’t sure who it was for.

The guy from earlier reappeared. The one who liked her dress. His hands found her hips – certain and practiced. She let it happen at first. It was easier that way. To be held, moved, desired - even if it wasn’t real. Even if none of this would matter beyond this moment.

She turned toward him. Let her fingers rest on his chest. The room blurred. He leaned into her, said something she didn’t hear.  And then – his hand slid lower. The spark that lit across her skin wasn’t pleasure - it was alarm. Electric. Invasive. Too much.

Her body reacted before her thoughts could catch up. She flinched. Pulled back. She felt lit up – not with sensation but with awareness – hyperreal and crawling.

Her own body was too vivid now. Sweat at the small of her back, a drip sliding down her spine. Her hair stuck to her neck. The neckline of her dress constricted.

The music pounded louder. Off-beat. Wrong. The heat rose. Her limbs floated, heavy and weightless all at once. She couldn’t find her balance. The crowd surged and folded like waves that didn’t care what they swept away. She was the only still point in a room that wouldn’t stop spinning.

And in that moment, she understood: This wasn’t freedom. It was exposure.

She didn’t bother to excuse herself. She fled. Elbowed past a girl dancing with a drink in each hand. Squeezed between bodies. Shoulders. Heat. Glitter. Breaths too close.

The floor tilted. Or maybe she did. Someone called her name - Jasmine, probably - but she didn’t turn just pressed forward to her escape.

She was at the door and then she was through it, spilling onto the sidewalk like she’d fallen through the edge of the night.

On the other side of the door, she could still feel the bass reverberating through her veins, but now it was joined by the stuttering of late night traffic, a siren wailing out in the distance. She stood on the concrete and tried to breathe.

Her coat was long gone, but her limbs tingled with a false warmth, a residue of something that was already leaving her behind and alone on the sidewalk. She felt lit from the inside – but not glowing, just raw. The night didn’t care.

The doorman asked gruffly if she was alright, but all she could do was shake her head and walk away. Not toward home - not anywhere she could name. Just forward. Away from the heat and the press of bodies, the hands and the mouths. Away from the too-muchness of it all.

The high wasn’t done with her. Not yet. Her chest was tight and her pulse skittered - too fast, too light. Her skin felt stretched thin, from the feeling of being watched and touched and not seen at all.

It took her half a block to realise she wasn’t walking so much as drifting. Her steps were too wide. Then too narrow. Her heels struck unevenly against the concrete. Every few seconds, she had to stop herself from stumbling. But she kept walking, like she needed the motion to keep upright, as if stillness would crack her apart.

Whatever softness the pill had offered at first had hollowed out. The chemical sheen was peeling back, revealing the mess underneath. The alcohol surged to fill the vacuum - heavy in her blood, making her body feel like it was moving on a delay. The cold was settling in now as the sheen of sweat across her was drying in the chill.

She thought she heard her name, but maybe she imagined it. She turned down a quieter street. The sidewalk was cracked, buckled, unfamiliar. The streetlights here were further apart. Their glow cast hard-edged shadows that swayed and stretched with her movement.

Amongst the unfamiliar storefronts she felt the comedown start to hit in pieces. There was no afterglow. No haze of joy to carry her through the night. Just the dull, scraping edge of reality reasserting itself - slowly, cruelly, relentlessly.

She felt shame, for believing – even briefly – that escape was something she had access to. The quiet of the street wasn’t safety, it was just still enough to imagine danger. She glanced over her shoulder once. There was no one out here for her. No Flynn. No Esme. Not even a stranger to cross the street for. Just her, the uneven echo of her own steps. Her heartbeat fluttered against her collarbone like it didn’t know what rhythm to choose.

So she ducked her head and let her hair fall forward to mask her. She looked like a girl trying to disappear. And in the dark, she almost did.

It was then - quietly, and without rush – that a car slid into her vision, moving with the kind of inevitability that made it feel less like it had arrived, but like it had been waiting for her to notice. Its body was a muted black that caught the streetlight in sharp lines, the windows dark enough to turn the interior into rumour. No one hailed cars like this; they simply appeared when they were meant to, gliding to the curb without so much as a sigh, the way only expensive things could.

Meg glanced over, and her pace edged up. The shift unbalanced her – her feel snagged slightly, her knee tightening against the wobble – but she didn’t slow.  

The passenger window eased down with a soft mechanical hum.

“Miss Megara?”

Her head turned before she could stop it, and she cursed herself for doing so.

The man who leaned toward her didn’t look like the threat you crossed the street to avoid. There was no appetite in his eyes. He was simply there – composed, watchful, dressed in black the way some people wore a wedding band: with a long habit of belonging to something.  The accent was local, the voice calm. His gaze had the settled quality of someone who had seen worse than her and come through without a stain.

She didn’t recognise him, but she knew what he was. Everyone who worked for Styx had the same precision, the same almost imperceptible polish – as if someone had gone over them with a lint roller and a silencer.

She shook her head once, and turned away. The wind kicked at her hem of her dress as she stumbled forward, faster now. Her stomach lurched. She didn’t look back.

The car didn’t press, it simply moved with her - a shadow she couldn’t outrun - like it had all night to follow her.

“Mr. Hades sent me,” the man said, his voice carrying just enough to reach her without touching the quiet around them. “You need to come with me.”

Chapter Text

The Comedown

“Mr. Hades sent me. You need to come with me,” the man said.

Meg stuttered in her step, caught somewhere between dumbfounded and not at all surprised. The laugh that rose caught in her throat, cracking halfway through - was more breath than humour.

“Yeah?” Her words dragging as though her mouth didn’t want to cooperate. “Tell him he can go jump off the bridge. Throw some rocks in his pockets, make a night of it.”

The pavement caught her heel, jolting her forward. She muttered a curse under her breath. The man didn’t so much as blink.

She kept walking, but the pace wouldn’t hold - fast, then slow, then fast again. The car kept its alignment with her like they were linked by an invisible string.

“If I were the second person he considered sending, you’d already be in the trunk.”

That pulled her up short, though the stop came with a small, unsteady sway. Her mouth was dry, her head aching with the slow, staticky crawl of the high’s end.

She turned toward the car, finally meeting his eyes the edges of her vision slipping in and out of focus.

“You’re charming,” she said, the dryness in her throat turning it almost sincere.

“And you’re not as invisible as you think.”

It was that - more than the threat - that stymied her protest. The words settled between them with the quiet weight of something already decided. She walked on for another few steps, the car in unbroken alignment at her side, until the effort of pretending she might outpace it thinned to nothing.

“Fine,” she said at last, her voice low and blurred. “But if I ruin the upholstery, that’s on him.”

The lock released with a discreet click, the sound almost polite.

She climbed into the backseat without ceremony, one knee finding the seat first, her hand catching a headrest for balance. The leather was cool under her skin, and the car smelled suffocatingly like polish and the faint ghost of someone else's expensive cologne. The padded thud of the door cut off the night in a single breath.

In the rear-view mirror, his eyes found hers. Still steady and assessing, but less sharp than most of Hades’ associates.

“Charon,” he said after a moment, with the easy familiarity of someone who'd been summoned too many times to count. “I drive for Mr. Hades.”

Meg let out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Sorry to hear that.”

The mirror broke their gaze as he reached forward. A faint crinkle, then a cold weight touched her knee. A bottle of water, cap already loosened. She took it because refusing would have required more will than she had left. Her hand shook as she lifted it, but the water was clean and mercifully plain. She drank in small, careful swallows, trying not to feel how dry her throat was, or how the liquid seemed to cool her from the inside out.

They didn’t speak for a few minutes. The city slid by outside - streetlights smeared into pale ribbons, shopfronts shuttered and dark. The hum of the engine was steady enough to almost soothe her. Almost.

He checked the mirror again. Not prying - just confirming she was still there. She tilted her head back, let it rest against the seat, and watched the street roll on.

“You’re not taking me home, are you?” she said, once the quiet felt still enough to hold the words. “You know, Brooklyn? Big bridge. Looks great on a tote bag.”

“No,” he said. No apology in it. No pleasure either. “My instructions are to take you to Mr. Hades. Directly.”

She turned her face to the window, the glass cool where her temple touched. The route confirmed it: they were moving uptown, lanes changing with the unhurried certainty of someone who knew every light by heart.

“Then maybe miss the next turning,” she said, not looking at him. It wasn’t a plea so much as a test - of him, of herself, of whether any door in this night would open if she pushed.

He didn’t turn around. “I don’t change instructions. I follow them."

She scoffed - too flat to be funny, too tired to be sharp. “You’d be amazing at following me off a cliff.”

"I’d be out of a job.”

She leaned forward like they were swearing a pact. “And I’d be off the hook. Look at us. Teamwork.”

"You're trouble," he chuckled quietly but kept driving. She slumped back in the seat, defeated, letting the bottle rest in her lap, her fingers still curled loosely around it. The water had settled the worst of the spinning in her head, but the rest was still there, restless under her skin. Outside, a delivery guy cut across the lane, and Charon’s foot eased the brake with the kind of reflex that came from years of practice. He didn’t curse. He didn’t perform competence. He just had it.

“He always send you to pick up the strays?” she asked, voice low.

“Just the ones he wants found,” he said.

“Lucky me.”

He didn’t answer that. The mirror caught him; she thought she saw the flicker of something - recognition, maybe, of the specific kind of wreckage she was wearing. She closed her eyes and counted heartbeats until the bass in her ribs finally gave up and admitted it belonged to the engine.

The rest of the ride folded into a hush she didn’t have to fight. Uptown unspooled in orderly blocks: the park’s black edge to the left, stoops giving way to cleaner facades on the right. She watched the numbers climb on the street signs and felt nothing but the steady, low drum of the road under her and a car that knew exactly where it was going.

When they turned onto a quieter cross street, the buildings changed register. Limestone, not brick. Brass that had been buffed enough to catch perfect circles of streetlight. Charon steered effortlessly to the curb and cut the engine. He stepped out first, and when he opened her door the night seeped in, colder than she remembered. He offered a hand she didn’t take.

“Straight through the lobby,” he said, voice pitched for her and no one else. “Elevator at the back.”

“I’m not going in,” she said to him and to the flimsy petulance of her own mouth. It came out more like a wish than defiance.

“You can't sit here all night, Trouble. And we both know you're not going to run,” he replied. There was a patience to his voice that she hadn’t heard from anyone in a while.

With a huff, she swung her legs out and found the ground a half beat later than she’d planned. She was still drunk, still carrying that thin, metallic hum under her skin, but a sliver of clean thought cut through it now: whatever waited in that building, it wasn’t safety.

When she looked back, Charon gave her something between a nod and nothing - an acknowledgement with the corners sanded off. It might have meant ‘you’ll be alright’. It might have meant ‘good luck’. She couldn’t tell, and didn’t trust either.

A doorman shepherded her across a hush of stone and carpet to a bank of elevators that reflected her back from three angles, none of them forgiving. He swiped a keycard; and the button marked ‘PH’ woke up like a warning signal.

Inside, the floor seemed to shift under her feet. The upward pull tipped her stomach and she swayed, catching the rail too late to make it look graceful. She straightened, smoothed her dress, and tried to stand like someone who’d chosen to be here. She fixed her lipstick with a fingertip in the mirror and watched her reflection fail to convince her.

The doors opened onto a seat of power; both soft and hard. High ceilinged atrium, pale stone, a smear of midnight city through black-framed glass. Modern lines laid carefully against old bones - cornicing that had watched generations come and go, and a staircase built like it belonged there before the city did. A scent laced through, sandalwood maybe, and a chill that could have come from the thermostat, or its owner.

She noted almost none of it. The work of standing taking all her attention.

And there he was, waiting, not in greeting but in judgement. Leaning in an interior doorway as if he were giving the room a chance to remember who owned it. Off-duty, but only in the sense that the clothes were different. Everything else about him was the same - clean, exact, quiet as a closed door. He wasn’t smiling this time. Whatever kept him still wasn’t patience, it was restraint - as thin and breakable as glass.

She stepped in, but didn’t close the space. Neither did he. Distance, it seemed, was the only thing they held equally.

“Nice place,” she said, because the silence made her mouth reckless. “I was expecting more skulls.”

Nothing shifted obviously in his face. The only change was the way his attention narrowed, the temperature drop she’s seen him direct at other people right before something inside them came apart.

The line of his gaze didn’t even flicker.

“Do you want to walk me through the thought process that ends with me retrieving you?” Hades said at last, not stepping forward, not stepping aside, letting the words do the moving. It was the voice he used when a problem had stopped being interesting.

A laugh slipped out too late to catch. “Which version do you want? The PR one or -”

“The real one,” he cut across her sharp as a paper edge. “Start from the point you decided to completely take leave of your senses.”

She touched her mouth with her hand to stifle another laugh before it escaped. “It was a party,” she said. “I was -”

“Visible?” he said. “Altered? In a room full of nobodies - exactly the kind of people who don’t matter… until they see something that does.”

She felt his scrutiny like a bruise, but refused to give in. “I was off the clock.”

“How do I explain this to you, Meg? You don’t get ‘off the clock’,” he said, voice still level but only just. “You take my money. You carry my reputation. You breathe my air. And in return, I let you exist in my city.”

The words caught. She stood a little straighter to pretend it hadn’t. The floor didn’t tilt, but her balance did - just enough to show. The heat under her skin had turned icy, her jaw ached from clenching.

“I wasn’t -” she started, and found nowhere to put the rest. Instead she bent to unbuckle a shoe that was suddenly pinching, meaning to make a point of steadiness and finding none. The room tipped. Her fingers missed the strap. She caught the sideboard with her palm, hard enough to send the lamp skittering a bright half-inch, its shade rattling a warning.

He didn’t flinch. That was worse than if he had. His gaze pinned the wobble, then returned to her face like the verdict had already been filed.

“Weak ankles,” she said, breathless, a flash of smile that didn’t belong here.

He moved then. He closed the distance in three decisive strides. His hand caught her just above the elbow, fingers pressing into skin; the correction was firmer than necessary, as if she needed reminding which way was up. She tried to twist free on principle and her heel skidded; his grip answered without effort, steadying her with a pressure that said both enough and don’t test me.

With his other hand he settled the rattling lamp without looking, then found her jaw. Fingers along the edge, thumb pressing into her cheek, he angled her face toward him until the atrium light took her whole.

 “Look at me.”

Up close he could catalogue the night on her: pupils blown wide, glitter dusted at her collarbone, the sweet-sour ghost of liquor under her perfume. When he spoke again, the consonants clipped clean, a flare of anger pared down to function.

“God, you’re wasted.”

She tried to hold his stare. “Are you in the habit of manhandling your employees?”

The pressure at her jaw increased a fraction, enough to make focus feel like work. “Only those I have to pick up off the street.”

She swallowed, and the room listed a degree she tried to ignore.

He let her go - less like a release, more like a discard - and turned into the living space. With anyone else it might have looked like a retreat, with him it read as a choice of battleground. She followed because momentum had her by the wrist.

The penthouse was curated to the inch, more modern than the aesthetic of the brownstone, every surface deliberate. Lines cut clean through the space - wood, metal, and stone in a quiet geometry - tempered by the weight of texture in low sofas and deep armchairs. Nothing clamoured for attention, yet each piece held its own, the kind of beauty that came from everything knowing its place.

Beyond the glass, the park lay in a black seam; further out, the city lights receded into a careful constellation. He stopped with his back to the view, so the windows made a mirror of him.

When he spoke, he didn’t need volume to fill the room.

“You think this was freedom?” His voice came sharp. “It wasn’t. It was weakness. And you made it my problem.”

She pulled in breath for a defence she hadn’t prepared. He didn’t let her use it.

“Whatever you took made you forget who you were.” His words came faster now, teetering on the edge of something dangerous. “Whatever you drank made you forget who you belonged to. Put them together, and you’re a liability in heels.”

She felt the words like a hand at the back of her neck.

“I don’t belong to you.”

And that did it.

His move was just a step, but it was all he needed to send her pulse kicking. Something in his face cracked enough to let heat flash through; it made her stomach knot and her breath stick.

“Say that again,” he said, his voice fizzing with fury. “Say it like you didn’t walk in and say ‘please’.”

She didn’t. Couldn’t. Something snapped in her spine and her jaw locked. A flash of anger tried to climb her throat but she forced it down. Swallowed hard enough to feel it burn.

He watched her do it. Then he stilled, straightened, dragged it all back behind his eyes.

“Yeah. I didn't think so.”

His voice dropped into something deadlier.

“You don’t get to make your private weather my operational risk. You went out in your little dress and made eyes at oblivion. And you did it with my name in your pocket.”

“I get the message - loud and clear,” she bit out, too vicious to pass for agreement. “I’m on your leash. That do it for you?”

“Meg.”

Her name landed like a warning.

“I’m not your handler. I’m your consequence.”

The room held still as the weight settled in her soul. Then, almost offhand, like it cost him nothing:

“You want the lights out?” he said. “I can make that permanent.”

The threat slid under her skin with surgical cold; the fog in her head thinned just enough to make room for fear. Even drunk, even buzzing, she understood he’d just stepped over a line he hadn’t crossed before - and he’d done it like he was ordering a drink. 

Fear left cracks, and through them seeped everything else – fast and merciless. The week she’d been keeping at bay came back in one piece: the empty studio, the still-warm dent in the couch, the hollow where Theon had been. The ache that followed her into every room since. It pressed up through the fading high until her chest felt small, her pulse too loud.

Her balance tipped; she caught herself on the back of a chair.

“I just…didn’t want to feel anything,” she said, her eyes looking beyond him to the window that was throwing back a version of herself, one which already looked halfway dimmed.

Her words sounded too close to breaking, too close to the truth. For a moment he only looked at her taking the measure of what she’d let slip. If there was anything human in the flicker that passed through his gaze, it was there and gone before she could name it.

“Go to bed, Meg.”

She pushed off the chair, already angling for the door. “Great. Thanks for the hospitality.”

He stepped into her path, not abrupt but absolute, as if the room had been arranged to put him there. One hand found the edge of her shoulder – not enough to hold her, but enough to mark the point of contact.

“Not home,” he said. “Here. Spare room.”

Something in his tone caught - not just tonight’s command, but the faint suggestion that home was already up for revision.

“I’m not staying here.”

“You are. That’s already decided.” The words left no space for an answer and he didn’t wait for her to give one. He turned, expecting her to follow, and took the stairs at a pace that would have made refusal look childish. She went because standing still would have felt like conceding more.

At the landing he paused, opened a door that interrupted the clean lines of the hall. The room beyond was as deliberate as the rest of the penthouse - a spare room in every sense. Pared down to a bed, a low arm chair, a single lamp. No clutter, no warmth, no history. The kind of stillness that felt kept rather than used.

She crossed the threshold without looking at him, because meeting his eyes now might break what was left of her spine.

“You’ve got work in the morning,” he said, standing in the doorway like he could block the night out if he wanted to, he closed the door behind her.

She thought about protesting, about running, about throwing something after him. But the bed was too neatly made, the air too even. She fell onto it sideways, eyes catching on the angular light fixture cut against the centre of the room. The metal lines seemed to aim at her.

“Fuck you.” She told the ceiling. It was meant for him, but in this room, it didn’t have far to travel before it found its way back to her.

Chapter Text

The Morning After

Meg woke with a jolt, as if her body was punishing her for something her mind hadn’t yet remembered.

The room was dark. Not night dark, engineered dark. Blackout curtains sealed the windows like theatre drapes, soft and soundless. Her eyes strained for the shape of the room. These sheets weren’t hers. This scent wasn’t hers. She didn’t know this bed. But she knew exactly where she was.

She sat up too fast. The nausea came at her sideways, coated in stale vodka and regret. Her hands found her temples before her thoughts did.

A dim glow from a digital clock blinked 8:13 AM.

Morning.

Her mouth was dry, impossibly dry, but it was the hollowness beneath that sent the panic rushing in, the hot, splintering kind that comes after a long night and the wrong kind of chemical relief.

Fragments landed one by one, out of order but unforgiving:

The press of the club.

The cloying scent of the car.

The sharp air outside.

The stupid pill.

Him.

That memory came cleanest. The flash of rage from beneath the calm and the way he shut it down like it was nothing, pushing it back simmering tirelessly beneath the surface. And how she’d tried to hold herself still under it. As if stillness could save her. As if she hadn’t already been snared.

Meg swung her legs over the side of the bed carefully. Her head throbbed with the kind of pressure that made thoughts feel like dangerous terrain. She tried to breathe past the dry tightness in her throat.

Even as she stood tentatively the room still seemed to lurch. For a second she thought she might pass out - everything tightening into a narrow tunnel of air and ache. Her head pulsed in sync with her heartbeat, fast but thick like syrup.

She moved on instinct, one hand trailing the wall until she found a door she hadn’t noticed the night before. Inside: cool tile, the ghost-scent of expensive soap. A bathroom, dimly lit by the same soft shadow as the bedroom.

Meg dipped in front of the sink like it was an altar. Twisted the tap, water coming fast and clean. She drank straight from the flow, swallowing greedily, letting it flood her mouth, her throat, her chest - anything to clear the thirst that gripped her.

When she finally looked up, the mirror wasn’t kind. Pale skin, mascara clinging in smudged crescents beneath both eyes. Lipstick long gone, but the memory of it still there - like a smudge from some other version of her. Her hair was tangled at the back of her neck. She hadn’t taken it down. Hadn’t washed. Hadn’t thought.

Behind her, the line of light around the curtain seams grew sharper, cutting diagonals across the floor. She didn’t open them. She didn’t need to see any more.

The knock that came was soft, but it landed like a gunshot to her head. Meg startled - hands braced on the sink, breath suddenly shallow again. She wiped at her face with the heel of her palm, but it didn’t do much. The mirror still showed the same faded girl. Just more awake now. More cornered.

She turned back to the bedroom and opened the door.

Hades stood in the hallway, already dressed for the day - soft slacks, a white button-down, collar undone but cuffs still fastened. He looked rested. Composed.

The tension that had radiated off him last night was gone, or buried. Whatever storm she’d stepped into then had passed. Now, he was back to still water - flat, reflective and impossible to read.

“You look terrible,” he said, looking her over, and the ghost of a smile returned. Like he hadn’t threatened her mortality a few hours earlier. Like they were back on familiar ground.

She didn’t respond, her head hurt too much for witty repartee. Her eyes dropped to the shopping bag he extended toward her. Thick paper. Black rope handles. The name on the side wasn’t one she recognised, but it looked selected.

“Downstairs in twenty,” he said. “Get dressed.”

Her mouth parted - whether to protest or question, she wasn’t sure - but he was already walking away.

“Twenty, Nutmeg.” He didn’t wait for a reply. Just kept moving, calm and certain, disappearing down the stairs.

She shut the door behind her, firm enough to place something solid between her and his voice. The bag was heavier than it looked. She set it on the bed and peeled back the tissue paper with cautious fingers.

Trousers, silk chemise and a fine-gauge sweater, neckline sharp and high. No colour louder than a whisper. The kind of outfit that wouldn’t draw attention in a boardroom - or a private viewing room. Not her style exactly, but unmistakably her size. That fact alone unsettled her more than waking up here. Of course he knew. She tried not to picture her name on a file somewhere in the depths of the Brownstone. Measurements. Preferences. Whatever flattened her down to ‘intel’.

Part of her wanted to defy it. Stay in the dress from last night, reek of the decisions she’d already made. But the idea of sitting in stale liquor, cold sweat, and regret was worse. The fabric smelled like a night she didn’t want to remember. Like reprimand and consequence.

She peeled it off and stepped into the shower.

The water was hot and sharp. It didn’t make her feel clean, but it gave her something to hide in for a few minutes. She scrubbed her skin until it flushed and tried to ignore the way her stomach turned with the scent of the soap.

When she emerged, she tied her hair back with a band she found in the bottom of her bag, slipped into the clothes, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The woman looking back could’ve worked for Styx. Clean. Controlled. Curated. Almost confident - if you didn’t clock the crash happening behind her eyes.

She didn’t check the time. Just slipped on the shoes that she’d abandoned the night before and made her way downstairs, each step steady but not slow. No performance, just progress.

The kitchen had the stillness of a showroom - dark cabinets, pale stone, soft gold hardware. Nothing flashy, nothing out of place, just like the rest of this place. A morning that dressed better than most people.

Hades was already there, standing at the island. Relaxed in all the ways that weren’t accidental: newspaper open in front of him, eating an apple with the unhurried precision of someone who already knew how the day would go.

He looked up as she entered - just once, slow and deliberate.

“On time,” he said. “I wasn’t sure we’d get there.”

He nodded toward the counter. A glass of water. A pair of aspirin.

“Start with that. It’ll help. Probably.”

She hesitated out of habit, mostly. But her mouth was still dry, and her body didn’t care about principles today. She drained the glass along with the tablets.

“You can walk, can’t you?” he asked.

She blinked, the taste of the tablets souring her tongue. “Walk where?”

“Breakfast,” he said casually. “You need food. And I’m not running a BnB.”

The street was Sunday-morning quiet when the stepped out of his building, the low angle of the sun hit her like a slap. It bounced off the sidewalk, caught her straight in the eyes, forcing a grimace she didn’t have the energy for. Everything smelled too sharp out here: exhausts, laundry, something sour drifting from a trash can across the street.

Meg pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, trying to steady the nausea.

The heels from the night before - an afterthought in the bedroom - were now an active punishment. The leather bit at her toes. Every step jarred up through her spine like a warning. She kept walking.

Hades didn’t speak. Just moved with purpose, crisp and unhurried, paper tucked under one arm. She tried to match his pace but fell behind by half a step. He noticed. Didn’t say anything, but slowed enough to close the distance.

Never generous. Always calibrated.                                    

They turned a corner onto a tree-lined avenue, too charming for how she felt. The café came into view - exposed brick, potted herbs at the window, the sound of a coffee grinder cutting through the morning calm. It was the kind of place she might have brought herself to once, on a slow morning. A book, a pastry, the illusion of a life she couldn’t afford.

Hades didn’t ask. Just steered her toward a table outside, and she let him.

The metal chair scraped faintly as she sat. The breeze lifted the weight from her skin, just enough to remind her she still had some.

A waitress appeared almost immediately, notepad in hand. Before Meg could speak, he glanced up and said, with quiet authority “Two black coffees. Toast. Please and thank you.”

The girl smiled, nodded and disappeared without hesitation.

Coffee and bread, ordered with civility and finality - like a penance chosen for her.

Hades settled back in his chair and unfolded his newspaper, as if this wasn’t a breakfast built entirely out of tension and unresolved sins. Meg told herself to be grateful for the silence. Just the crackle of the pages, sharp against the soft clink of cutlery and conversation from the other tables.

Her eyes flicked to the masthead of his paper. The Current. Her stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with the hangover.

Esme.

He wouldn’t know, or maybe he would, but it didn’t matter. Just the sight of it - familiar font, clean columns - was enough to drag Esme into focus. Still fighting. Still believing in something. And Meg, who once had stood beside her, had stepped out of their shared world without a backwards glance.

The waitress returned. Two coffees. One plate of toast.

The smell hit her first - scorched espresso, warm bread. It might have been pleasant in another life. Today it was a threat.

“Eat,” he said without looking up.

She blinked down at the food and her stomach swam. “I can’t…”

He turned a page. “I just spent fifteen dollars on toast, Meg. You’ll eat it.”

She picked up a slice and tore a corner from it with slow fingers, chewing like the wrong bite might undo the delicate balance she was barely holding onto.

The toast sat heavy on her tongue, each bite harder to finish than the last. She chewed like it might buy her time. Like it could drown out the flood gathering at the edges of her memory.

But it came anyway. Fragments of the night before. Embarrassments. One after the other. The way she’d laughed - too loud, too sharp - at a joke she hadn’t really heard.
The slur in her voice when she’d played defiant with Charon, pretending not to notice the way he clocked it. The moment in the atrium when she’d stumbled, catching herself barely. And that look he’d given her, like he was saving it - every misstep, every slip – for later.

Her stomach twisted, the toast suddenly leaden. Each remembered detail sharpened her humiliation like a whetstone.

She wanted to crawl under the table. Or back in time. Either would do.

The silence that hung between was more torture than gift. Her stomach still felt volatile, her chest too tight. But the shame was worse, it prickled beneath the skin, alive and unforgiving.

When she finally looked up, he was watching her.

Coffee cup raised, expression unreadable. He wasn’t leering or smug, but he had that steady, unsettling quiet again -  the kind that made her feel like all her secrets were being filed and indexed.

She sighed slowly. “Go on, then.” Her voice was low, dry. “I know you’ve been silently rehearsing act two.”

That earned the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. “Why waste the breath?” he asked, setting the cup down. “You’re giving a compelling enough monologue all on your own.”

She frowned, confused, bracing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hades leaned forward, gaze still steady. “The way you screw up your face. Right before it hits. Another highlight from your big night out. Shame suits you even better than the dress did.”

Meg bristled, enough for him to know he’d hit the nerve.

“You get this little crease,” he went on, casually tapping between his own brows, “right here. Like you're trying to wince without wincing. It’s not subtle.”

She wanted to roll her eyes. Or scoff. Or say something cutting. But all she managed was, “You’re imagining it.”

“No, I’m not,” he said simply. “But I’ll let you keep the illusion if you need it, babe.”

She looked away first. Back down to the cooling toast, the coffee she hadn’t touched.

The worst part was knowing he was right. The second worst part was knowing he could see it before she could feel it.

Breaking the pause, she said, “Are you ever not dissecting someone?”

He glanced at her, mildly.

“I mean it,” she added, quieter. “Do you ever look at someone and let them keep their private moments?”

“Rarely,” he said. “But I tend to wait until they’ve forgotten I’m watching. Makes it more honest.”

She snorted, softly. “That’s bleak.”

He shrugged. “It’s a talent. Seeing what people show when they think they’re safe.”

Something about the way he said it made her stomach shift again. Not nausea this time - just the feeling of being very, very seen.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning the street. “Pick someone,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I see.”

She hesitated. “What, like a party trick?”

“Like a lesson.” A quiet cue that this moment wasn’t just about toast and recovery anymore. It was instruction.

She let her gaze wander – glad give up the toast - until it landed on a man across the street, standing outside an apartment building. He was holding a bouquet, something bright and overwrapped, pacing between the front step and the curb.

“That one,” she said, nodding toward him. “Someone’s got some making up to do.”

Hades followed her line of sight, then returned to his coffee.

“Go on,” he said. “Since you’ve started.”

She sighed but turned her eyes back to the man. “Generic apology bouquet. Stiff shoulders but can’t stand still. Probably messed up, or said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Stalling before he rings the buzzer.”

Hades tilted his head. “You think it’s guilt?”

“Isn’t it always?”

He watched the man for a moment more. “No. That’s fear.”

Meg raised an eyebrow. “Of what?”

“Of the answer. That’s not an apology bouquet - it’s a test balloon. He’s hoping she takes him back. But he’s more afraid she will than she won’t.”

She scowled. “That’s a reach.”

Hades gestured slightly with his coffee cup. “He’s not dressed for the day. Those trousers? Creased at the ankles - they’ve been draped over a chair all night. No overnight bag, no jacket. He got kicked out last night. That bouquet isn’t from some little shop either - he went out of his way for that one. Overspent. Trying to prove something rather than make amends. Plus, no one's favourite flowers are blue roses.”

They both watched as the man finally stepped toward the entrance, then stopped again. Looked down at the flowers like they might betray him.

“People tell you what they’re afraid of all the time,” Hades said quietly. “You just have to listen.”

He set the cup down. Then, softly with a smile:

“And that, Meg, my sweet… is leverage.”

The word settled in her chest like a spark in dry grass.

Hades didn’t press it. Just nodded, almost lazily, toward the sidewalk a few feet from their table.

“My pick,” he said like this was a game.

A woman stood at the nearby coffee cart, two spots from the front. Early thirties, blazer over a knit dress, hair pulled back into a ponytail. She shifted her weight between her boots, tapping one foot, glancing toward the barista, then back at her phone.

Meg followed his line of sight. “She’s dressed for the office even though it’s a Sunday. She’s already late for something, but not willing to give up the coffee. I know that math.”

Hades didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

“She’s not skipping the caffeine because she’s bargaining with the rest of her day,” Meg added. “If she gets this one thing right, maybe the rest of it won’t go to hell.”

He gave a small nod, eyes still on the woman. “She’s had a morning.”

“And?” Meg asked.

“And nothing,” he shrugged. “That’s a decent read.”

She leaned back slightly, searching his face for something more. “But it’s not leverage.”

“No?” He said, testing her.

“No. That’s just New York,” she said. “Everyone’s late, everyone’s coping. Doesn’t mean you can use it.”

Hades tilted his head. “They you missed something.”

Meg looked back. The woman glanced down at her phone again - screen lighting up as she checked the time. There, clear as day, the lockscreen photo: a golden retriever with its head cocked and one ear folded, tongue flopped sideways in the most ridiculous expression of joy.

“The dog,” Hades said simply. “That’s the pressure point.”

Meg narrowed her eyes. “I’m not threatening her dog, Hades.”

He chuckled. “Of course not. We’re civilised,” then added, too casually “but you'd be surprised how far people will go to protect something that loves them unconditionally.”

One cruel second passed.

“Or doesn’t, as the case may be.” Pinning her with his gaze. She looked away so he wouldn’t see how it pierced her chest.

Hades drained the last of his coffee and folded the paper in one practiced motion, the corners aligning like he’d done it a thousand times.

He slipped a fifty beneath the base of his cup, without hesitation.

“Speaking of late,” he said, standing, “class is over.”

Meg looked up at him.

“You’ve got a job to do.”

He didn’t wait for her reaction - just turned and stepped out onto the sidewalk like the decision had been made long before she’d sat down.

She followed him to the curb, her limbs sluggish but obeying, glad to leave the remnants of the coffee and the education behind. Hades pulled open the door of the same car from the night before; she hadn’t even noticed it arrive.

Charon glanced over his shoulder as she slipped inside. No grand reunion but he shot her half a wink which felt like it was only hers to see.

Hades settled beside her, already pulling a tablet from the seat pocket as the car pulled away.

“You mark is John Smith,” he said, passing the profile towards her “Executor of the Ratcliffe Estate.”

Meg stared at him. “John Smith? That’s the name we’re going with?”

 “Yeah, yeah - try to contain your disbelief.” He waved her off.

“I’m just saying, if I’d known we were going after clichés this morning, I’d have worn a trench coat and called myself Jane Doe.”

He smiled something adjacent to amusement.  

She leaned her head back against the leather and closed her eyes, wishing she’d drunk the coffee after all. “And what exactly does this John Smith have that’s worth ruining my Sunday?”

“You ruined your Sunday, Meg.” he said smoothly. “I’m just giving it purpose.”

She rolled her eyes, he chose to ignore it.

“Our guy is carrying the buyers manifest. High-value. All about to get their hands on pieces that should never see daylight, let alone auction. That list alone is worth more than most of the paintings.”

“And you want this why?”

“Sometimes it’s not about the art. It’s about who thinks they can afford it.”

She returned to the screen, already exhausted. “Right. Enlighten me, then. What’s the plan?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just watched her, long enough for it to feel like a test. Then: “You’ve just had a full tutorial, Nutmeg. What do you think the plan is?”

She frowned, turning the question over.

“You want me to find his weakness,” she said slowly, assessing his face to figure if she was on the right track. “Figure out what he’ll trade the names for.”

He nodded. “You’ve got eyes and instincts. Use them.”

Her fingers twitched. She hated when he did this - handed her a live wire and waited to see if she’d burn.

“This would be a great time for a little guidance,” she muttered. “You’re the one always preaching ‘no improvisation’, Anton’s practically got it printed on a motivational poster.”

His mouth curled faintly. “This isn’t improvisation. This is application.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a small silver earpiece. “For when you need reminding what the stakes are.”

Meg turned it over in her palm like it might bite her. “So you’ll be listening.”

“I’ll steer if I have to.”

Her jaw tightened. “How reassuring.”

“Let’s call it Leverage 102,” he said, leaning into the seat with a faint smirk, eyes on the blur of passing buildings. “You were paying attention, weren’t you?”

The car pulled to a smooth stop a block away. Ahead, the building was anything but conspicuous. Three storeys of quiet stone, discreet to the point of invisibility. A single plaque beside the door that read Virginia House - meaningless unless you already knew. Within it, the city's most secretive auction was being prepared. Not some headline-grabbing spectacle with numbered paddles and champagne. This was the other kind. Private rooms. Silent bidding. Names that never made into provenance.

She approached, trying to press down the remnants of her, still very punishing, hangover and summon the shape of someone who had every reason to be here. She reached up to adjust her hair, slipping the earpiece into place beneath it. She exhaled. Then, uttered flatly:

“Still there?”

Hades’ voice came through a breath later, smooth as always. “Of course. Though a little enthusiasm wouldn’t kill you.”

“I’m thrilled,” she muttered. “You in my ear all day - what could be better?”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“God, I hope not.”

Inside, the lobby was warm and sleek. Art on the walls, real flowers by the check-in desk, connoisseurs who smelled like old money and discretion. Meg slowed just enough to let the air settle around her, to look like someone who belonged here.

Then she saw him. John Smith from the briefing photo. Nothing remarkable immediately. Tan coat, leather document file, attention anchored all in one place. He was speaking to a woman - polished, professional - the kind of goodbye that had been practiced before. A tap of fingers on her wrist, a smile that lingered a moment too long. Just enough warmth to suggest familiarity. Not quite enough to confirm it.

Then she caught it. He shifted as he watched her walk away and rubbed his thumb against the base of his ring finger. Bare. But not forgotten. A subconscious movement. Habitual.

Meg’s breath caught, just a little. That was it; the pressure point.

Hades’ voice crackled softly in her ear. “What did you see?”

She didn’t answer right away. Let instinct edge out doubt.

“Married,” she murmured. “The ring’s off, but the muscle memory’s still there.”

A pause. Then, low and satisfied. “Good. That’s your thread. Now pull.”

She waited. Her mark settled himself into a low leather sofa near the back corner of the floor, angled just enough to keep an eye on the comings and goings without drawing attention. He set the document file on the table beside him, then pulled out his phone.

Meg drifted toward a coffee station. Water only. She sipped slowly, stalling.

Her head still throbbed, the lights too warm, the hush of the place just a shade too sharp - like a stage set with nowhere to hide. But the part had to be played. So she steadied her posture, and crossed the floor like someone who didn’t need to bluff.

“Sorry…” she said lightly as she neared him, a half-apologetic smile blooming. “John? Didn’t we meet at the Weston House preview last month?”

He looked up, blinking once. Guarded. Calculating.

Meg kept her expression open. Just enough curiosity. Just enough recognition. A tilt of the head that could be mistaken for hope.

“Possibly,” he said, polite but uncertain. “I was at Weston.”

“Thought so,” she replied. “I remember you.” She cocked her head and let the smile deepen, “never forget a British accent.”

That got a laugh. Small, but there. He shifted his phone back into his pocket, straightened a little.

In her ear, Hades’ voice, barely a breath: “Ask what he’s working on.”

Meg didn’t flinch. Didn’t respond. Just tucked a piece of hair behind her ear like she was buying time.

She eased into the seat beside her mark, diagonal not direct. Still playing familiarity.
“You were deep in conversation with someone over that Hepworth, if I remember right. A curator?”

“A colleague,” he said. “We work with a few institutions. Estate transfers, mostly.”

Meg hummed, slow and approving. “Lucky estates.”

“Push a little.” Came Hades’ voice again. She closed her eyes, just for a blink.

“So…what brings you here?” she said, trying to block out the co-star in her ear. “Still chasing collectors?”

That got a slightly longer pause. He glanced at her again. “You could say that.”

She leaned in, warm and easy. Just a woman at the right kind of auction, remembering a face from the last.

“Good,” Hades, low and approving. “Let him come to you.”

 She let her posture soften keeping her eyes on John Smith.

He glanced at her again. “You’ve got a good memory,” he said, tone casual but curious now. “Sure we met? Because I think I’d remember you.”

Meg hesitated - just a breath too long. She could hear the static edge of Hades in her ear, waiting to pounce. So she took the risk.

“I doubt it,” she said with a little shrug, eyes tracking the run of his thumb against the spine of an item catalogue. “I wasn’t there long. Spoke mostly to your wife, actually.” A risk. A reach. And she knew it. She braced for a backfire and a reprimand.

That got his attention. His hand stilled. His smile flickered, then half returned.

“Did you?”

“Briefly.” She let the word hang. Gave him just enough rope. “Lovely woman. Funny, I didn’t recognise her in the girl you were talking to a few minutes ago.”

There it was. The switch - real, fast, unguarded. The pure animal flash of being caught off balance.

“I think you must be confusing me with someone else,” he said quickly, reaching for his things like a man desperate to reorient. “Happens all the time in this crowd.”

Meg beathed, slow and easy, and didn’t blink.

“Maybe,” she said. “Faces blur.”

But she let her eyes hold his just a little too long. Just enough to make him wonder what she saw. What she knew.

In her ear, a warning: “Watch it, Meg.”

He twisted in his seat to look her head on. “You want something,” he said, volume low and tone bitter. “What is it?”

“I think we can help each other,” she said evenly. “You give me what I’m looking for… and I forget who I saw.”

A beat. No reaction. No flicker.

“I want the names of your buyers.”

That landed. Not visibly, not in a way that anyone else in the lobby would clock - but she felt the shift. A recalibration. Something brittle clenching behind his eyes.

The air between them thinned.

He scoffed - too quiet to be theatrical and rose from the seat in a quick, efficient motion like he’d made a decision and was done with her.

“Bitch.” It came as a violent whisper. Then he turned on his heel, his folder tucked under his arm and strode toward the elevator.

Meg stood on instinct. For a half-second, nothing registered – his departure too sudden, too sharp. But then her body caught up, stiffening around the familiar burn of her own nerves. She’d blown it. Misread the moment. Pushed too hard, too soon and fumbled the play.

A wave on panic flushed hot in her chest. She could feel it coming, any second now, that crackle in her ear would give way to ice. His voice. Her failure.

She was still standing there, heart kicking up in her throat, when she saw it: The catalogue. Resting neatly on the low table beside her seat - exactly where his hand had been when he paused. A short list of names protruded slightly from the edge, crisp white against the dark of the pages. Left like a tip. Or a bargain.

Meg stared. Then grabbed. Her fingers closed around it, and for a second, all she could hear was the white-noise roar of her pulse.

She had it.       

Her breath came sharp, shallow. The comedown still clawed at the edges of her ribs, but the adrenaline overrode it. She turned, catalogue tucked tight under one arm, and made for the door, doing all she could not to run.

“Got it,” she said so no one else would hear.

“Well, look at that.” Hades’ voice again. “You do have teeth.” She tried not to let the faint taste of praise sink in. She shouldn’t have worried:

“Ah,” he continued, as she pushed through the door and down the steps. “Faithlessness. Always the easiest lever.”

She felt the sunshine on her face.

“You of all people should learn that.”

Meg stalled in her step on the curb, the cruelty hitting harder than the sun.

“Go to hell, Hades” she spat under her breath. And with that she pulled the earpiece free. Dropped it to the pavement. And crushed it resolutely beneath her heel.

For the first time all day, there was quiet. No voice in her ear. No eyes on her back. Just her, the air, and the weight of the win she wasn’t sure she wanted.

She stood still on the pavement, breathing.
One full inhale. One clear exhale.

Then the world tipped – her head swam. She turned and ducked into the narrow alley just beyond the building. Gravel underfoot. A rusted drain. Steam curling from a vent near the curb.

She caught herself against the wall. Bent forward. And threw up.

Could’ve been the comedown.
Could’ve been the shame.
Could’ve been the sick thrill she already hated herself for.

She couldn’t even tell anymore.

Sundays came in all shapes and sizes, and Flynn’s was shaping up pretty darn well. He stepped out of the bodega with the kind of satisfaction that only came from low expectations being happily exceeded.

Coffee in one hand, foil-wrapped miracle in the other. BEC - perfectly constructed, still warm, roll not too squashed. A rare and sacred thing.

He paused on the sidewalk and lifted his face to the sun. The air was clear and crisp today, sky a show-off shade of blue. Somewhere, a child shouted. Somewhere else, a busker was trying their best with a trumpet. It was, by all accounts, a good morning.

Better than he deserved, probably. But Flynn didn’t look gift hours in the mouth.

The city felt open today. Like he could walk anywhere, be anyone, make a dozen bad decisions and still land on his feet.

He took a bite of the sandwich and closed his eyes for a second. Perfect.

“Flynn!”

The voice came from down the block - familiar, excitable. He turned, squinting past the sun.

Jasmine, of course. Sunglasses on, glossy hair untouched by sleep or shame. She looked like she’d stepped out of a music video. Altogether too put together for someone whose night had ended - according to the group chat - with glitter, sirens, and a missing parrot.

Beside her, though, was the real scene. Ariel - pale, glassy-eyed, and visibly regretting every life choice that had led to this moment. She was half-shielding her face with one hand, the other clutching a handbag that dangled like it had given up. Her heels wobbled with every step, defying both physics and mercy.

Jasmine came bouncing over, pulling him in to a tangle of a hug and air kisses. “Oh em gee, you missed a Night. Thief boy.”

Flynn raised his coffee in greeting as they broke apart. “So I gathered. You alive in there, Ariel?”

Ariel let out a noise that could’ve been a groan, a whimper, or a curse. It was hard to say.

Flynn smirked, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Jasmine took a slow sip of her own drink: iced matcha, judging by the pale green tint.

“It has lion’s mane, for recovery” she said, as if anyone had asked. “And a splash of vodka. For balance.”

Flynn arched an eyebrow. “Breakfast of champions.”

“Believe me, I need it. I feel worse than when my dad made me return that jet.” she sighed like the weight of the city rested on her shoulders. “You really should have been there though. It was wild. Ariel did body shots off the bartender. Al tried to fight the DJ because he wouldn’t play Chappell. There were actual fireworks. Indoors. Don’t ask me where they came from.”

Flynn laughed - half amused, half relieved he’d dodged it. But Jasmine wasn’t done.

“So good to see Meg, though,” she added, like it was nothing. “We never see her anymore. You two were joined at the hip.”

“Meg?” Flynn blinked, squinting again - but this time not because of the sun.

Jasmine sipped her drink. “Yeah. I figured one of your schemes had put her into witness protection or something, we hadn’t seen her in so long. Left early, though. Missed the most unhinged bits.”

Beside her, Ariel made another vague groaning sound, lifting her wrist like it weighed ten pounds to block the light.

“Yeah, that sounds like her. Slip in, vanish, leave a ghost behind?” Flynn asked, trying to make it sound casual. It wasn’t.

“Uh huh…” Jasmine adjusted her sunglasses. “Ari and I went after her but she got picked up by some guy in a car before we caught her.”

Flynn’s stomach flipped - subtle but unmistakable. “What kind of guy?”

Jasmine shrugged. “Didn’t get a good look. Nice car though, if you’re into that quietly menacing brand of luxury.”

Flynn didn’t answer. He just nodded slowly, like the information needed sorting.

Jasmine tossed her cup into a trashcan with practiced ease. “Anyway. We should go before this one passes out,” she said observing Ariel over the top of her shades.

Ariel tried to sound something that had the shape of “I’m fine” but nothing emerged.

“Don’t bail on me next time. Or I might not forgive you.” Jasmine scolded through a parting round of air kisses. They began to drift down the sidewalk. Jasmine glanced back once, with a flash of a perfect smile.

“Oh, and check on your girl, Ryder!”

Then she turned and walked on, arm looped through Ariel’s, two disasters heading into normalcy.

Flynn stayed where he was, coffee in one hand, sandwich in the other, and a new, unwelcome loss of appetite.

People still said it like that: Your girl.

A memory of a rooftop fizzled through the haze of their last summer, all festoon lighting and cheap liquor.

The guy had been circling for a while. Too many glances. Too much cologne. The kind of man who thought proximity was permission, and that looking nice meant she’d been waiting for someone to tell her so. Meg had clocked it immediately. She always did.

Flynn was leaning against a railing, sipping something limey and cheap, watching it unfold across from him like theatre.

He’d seen the shift in her spine, the slight roll of her eyes.

The guy inserted himself midway into her sentence with someone else, all swagger and a smirk that said, ‘you were waiting for me anyway.’

“You look like trouble,” he’d said, too pleased with himself.

Meg turned to him and tilted her head sweetly, like she was trying to hear him better. Dangerous.

Then she’d smiled. Also dangerous.

“Oh,” she said. “I am trouble. But not the kind you’d survive.”

He laughed, like he thought he was in on the joke. She took a step closer. Close enough that he leaned in, as if she might share a secret with him.

“How about I save us both some time?” She said.

The guy blinked, “huh?”

“You’re about to compliment me like it’s a currency. Offer me a drink like I owe you something. Maybe slide in a line about fate or chemistry or whatever you rehearse in the mirror.”

“I just thought - ”

“No, see, that’s your problem.” She tapped her own temple. “You thought that because I’m here, looking like this, laughing like that, that I’m some kind of fair game vending machine. That me enjoying my evening has anything to do with you.”

He tried again. “Look, I only wanted to -”

“Finish that sentence,” Meg said. “Go on...”

Flynn choked on his drink, grinning like a fool.

The guy backed off. He muttered something - “Bitch,” maybe. Something tired.

“I hope that sounded devastating in your head,”  she called after him, eyes bright, voice airy, lifting her glass as he retreated.

She walked back toward Flynn, radiant, unbothered, heels clicking like punctuation.

“Brava,” Flynn smirked and tipped his cup. “To putting men into therapy.”

She touched her glass against it. “Believe me, they need it.”

He laughed, but she was already looking past him, out at the city.

Flynn watched her.

“You ever get tired of it?” he asked, still smiling.

Meg shrugged. “Women don’t get to be tired, Flynn. That’s when someone starts to decide for you.” She looked at him sideways, the glint in her eye all smoke. “They’re going to call me difficult anyway,” she added, mostly to herself. “Might as well earn it.”

Flynn nudged his shoulder against hers.

“That’s my girl.”

She turned her head just slightly. Not quite an eye roll - but adjacent.

“You’re lucky I’m letting that slide.”

He grinned wider then. “You always do, Nutmeg.”

She downed the rest of her drink. Untouchable. Her gaze fixed on the city like she was already halfway to burning it down.

Back in the sunlight, Flynn blinked against the glare. People moved past him. The ordinary thrum of a city that didn’t care who you used to be.

He sat down on the curb, sandwich forgotten in his hand.
They still called her his girl.
But she wasn’t. Not anymore.

And he didn’t know if she ever would be again.

Chapter Text

The Loft

Anton had a way of debriefing that felt less like conversation and more like being slowly sanded down – a process where all the rough edges of personal flair were tortuously scraped back to standard issue.

It was just the two of them in his office, which meant mistakes had been made. Not monumental ones, but the kind Anton cared about even if no one else did. The kind Meg suspected he kept a ledger for. Possibly colour-coded.

The coffee that she had brought in with her had gone cold. A few inches away, her report lay open, annotated with so much red pen it looked like a crime scene. They were currently forty five minutes deep into a standoff over the fine detail of the last night’s job: an intel lift at a minor political function dressed as high culture, one that required Meg to flirt with a man who thought ‘Rothko’ was a kind of pasta.

Today, compromise wasn’t on the menu - even if it was, Anton would’ve eighty-sixed it.

“No,” he said, tapping the edge of the paper with his pen like it had personally disappointed him. “You stepped left when the exit route dictated right. The CCTV blind spot is two paces shorter on that side. It left you exposed.”

Meg leaned back in the chair, arms folded, unimpressed. “I made it out fine.”

“You made it out seen,” Anton corrected. “If anyone in the control room had been competent, you’d have been picked up in a second. The fact they weren’t is not a strategy.”

“You want to send them a report card too?” she said, sweet as vinegar.

He gave her a look that was usually reserved for people who hit ‘reply all’. It was impressive, really - how much reproach he could pack into a pause.

“Item nine,” he said, turning the page with bureaucratic exactness. “Your tone. You told the mark the sculpture looked like - ” he glanced down, “‘trauma with a side of cocktail sauce.’”

“It was a six-foot shrimp made of barbed wire,” she said. “It was a fair critique.”

“He was insulted.”

“So was I. By the shrimp.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Are we at the part where you tell me my shoes squeaked yet?”

Anton didn’t look up. “Item ten: your shoes squeaked.”

Meg groaned and dropped her head back against the chair. “I think you make these lists up just to ruin my day.”

He set his pen down with neat, surgical precision. “Your day isn’t my remit. Your survival is; as impossible as you seem to want to make that for me.”

Meg rolled her head to the side, giving him a look that was all mock innocence edged with exasperation. “Maybe I just like the sound of your voice as you list my every failing.”

“Then, I’ll be sure to read the eulogy at your wake.” He delivered it like fact, not threat.

Any retort forming on her tongue was interrupted by sound of the door opening behind her.

Hades filled the frame - coat over his shoulder, that faint, unreadable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he surveyed the scene of their quiet battle, all fought in bullet points and red ink.

“Are you finished torturing her yet?” he asked.

“No.” said Anton.                                        

“Yes.” Meg cut across him.

“She’s disputing reality,” Anton added dryly.

“She’s disputing your reality,” Meg muttered under her breath, earning a sharp look from Anton and another notation in the report.

Hades arched a brow at her, then at Anton. “She looks alive. I’ll take that as success.”

“She’s alive by chance,” Anton replied. “Not design.”

“Oh relax, that’s half the fun,” Hades said, with a sideways look to Meg. “If you’re finished chastising her footwear, I need her.”

Anton didn’t sigh, but the shift in his shoulders did the job. “We’re on page eight of twelve.”

Meg turned to Hades with an expression uncharacteristically close to pleading; desperate times called for desperate measures.

“It’ll keep ‘til tomorrow,” Hades said mildly, gaze shifting to Meg. His head cocked toward the door. “With me.”

Meg rose like a student dismissed from detention. “Only because it gets me out of whatever circle of hell this is.” She savoured the small, delicious rebellion of leaving mid-debrief. “See you tomorrow, Professor,” she said over her shoulder as she turned, throwing him a wink.

It was not met with approval.

“Tomorrow,” Anton said, already underlining the word ‘insubordinate’ in the margin.

As she stepped past Hades, he leaned in, just slightly, voice low with amusement. “Must have be bad if you’re coming willingly.”

Meg didn’t miss a beat, “Don’t read into it. I’ve got a strong flight reflex.”

“Tell me he was gentle, at least?”

“Excruciating,” she said. “I think he highlighted my entire existence as a tactical liability.”

“He’s not wrong,” Hades replied, turning down the stairs. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got something better than lectures.”

“Is it a trap?” She studied him suspiciously from the top step.

“It’s a very nice trap,” He said.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Outside, the car was already waiting, Charon gave her his now customary wink as they pulled away. Hades didn’t volunteer a destination. And Meg tracked their path out of habit - her own private defence against being caught off guard. She recognised the turn of the streets and the shift in traffic as they drifted downtown, towards the moneyed hush of the southern tip of the island.

For a while, the only sound was the city’s low, ceaseless rhythm: engines, footsteps, the staccato bark of a horn. She watched the streets wind beyond the glass, each block a flicker of lives not her own - dog walkers, coffee drinkers, kids in uniforms wrangling skateboards and backpacks. The morning was full of spring and promise, but behind the tinted windows it all felt a step removed; not for her.

Hades broke the hush first, snapping her out of whatever line of thought she really should’ve known better than to follow.

“You know,” he said, with the faintest glimmer of a smile, “you could stand to be a little nicer to Anton. It’s not easy managing someone with your… creative approach to protocol.”

“That’s what you’ve been quietly contemplating?” She looked over, noting the casual breeziness in his tone. “I’m perfectly civil to Anton. We have an understanding: he doesn’t like me and I don’t lose sleep over it.”

Hades gave a small, dry laugh. “Anton doesn’t like anyone. He tolerates you, which in his world is an affectionate gesture.”

“That’s what I’ve been getting? Affection?” she said, eyes wide. “I’d hate to see his courtship phase.”

He smirked knowingly, “Anton doesn’t court. He drafts binding agreements.”

She shook her head and chose not to rise to it. But then - before she could help it – she gave in to her curiosity, “You’re in a good mood.” It was more question than observation.

“Why not?” He stretched his arm along the back of the seat, all easy confidence. “Business is good, no one’s proven themselves to be monumentally incompetent in the last twenty-four hours. Even you seem marginally less intent on self-sabotage than usual.”

Meg let the corner of her mouth twitch, but she didn’t give him the satisfaction of a real smile. “Don’t jinx it.”

She let the city glide by. Their usual tension wasn’t gone, just changed. Dampened now, like the silence after a fight where no one really one.

Hades had a way of reading her that made her want to scrub herself a new skin. The ‘self-sabotage’ crack stung more than she’d admit. She told herself it wasn’t true. But maybe it was more true than it used to be. And that was a problem.

The last few weeks had been…easier? Not peaceful, but less volatile certainly. There’d been no repeat of the sleepover-cum-hostage situation at his penthouse. The worst of the storm seemed to have passed. The air remained charged, but the thunder rumbled elsewhere now.

She thought about what Anton had told her on her first day at the Brownstone – when she was still half-sure she’d walk away – that “success builds trust”.

And lately, she’d been succeeding. Not flawlessly, not the way Anton might script it, but enough. The type of enough that meant that corrections had been delivered elsewhere, not to her. Enough to earn Hades’ personal brand of sardonic approval – the corner of a smile, a “try not to let it go to your head, sweetness.”

But if that meant, for the most part, she was allowed to operate without a voice in her ear, without a glance over her shoulder, without Hades’ logic tilting the ground under her feet every five minutes, then maybe she could survive this – just for now.

She felt an unease deep inside her, because if that’s what passed for trust here – a loosening of the leash, the absence of consequence, then perhaps this wary truce wasn’t temporary at all. Perhaps it was the best it got.  

Meg cleared her throat. “So, are you going to tell me where we’re going, or do I have to guess?”

He just smiled, eyes sliding back to the city, “Why ruin the fun?”

She gave a small huff, almost a laugh, “Your idea of fun could use some work.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “That’s what I have you for, Nutmeg.”

The car turned off Broadway and glided to a smooth stop on a chic side street. Classic Tribeca. Old brick, black window frames, fire escapes that looked like they had been pressure-washed into submission. The kind of buildings that had once housed someone’s grandfather’s fabric warehouse, now softened into million-dollar conversions.

Hades didn’t say a word, just opened the door and stepped out, pausing only to nod for her to follow. Meg’s her suspicion flickered again. Because silence was never just silence with him. It was placement - intentional, curated, a decision to let her imagination do the work. She hated how effective it was.

She stepped out onto the sidewalk and glanced up. The air was sharp with the first flush of cherry blossom. Above her, a building of careful proportions and sympathetic restraint. She didn’t recognise it from the usual rotation of Styx-related properties she found herself in and out of. But she was learning not to expect consistency – only strategy.

She followed Hades through the entrance. The lobby was cool and anonymous, art chosen by committee, a whiff of something crisp and expensive that was probably intended to be cleansing. The kind of place that wanted you to forget the city pressed in on all sides, but only ever managed to keep it at a polite arm’s length.

He called the elevator and Meg caught a hazy outline of the two of them in the brushed metal doors. Two figures moving through a city that never let her forget who owned it. She didn’t ask what they were here for. She could’ve. Maybe should’ve. But the part of her that wanted to know was outweighed by the part that refused to give him the satisfaction.

The elevator climbed. The doors opened to reveal a soft, carpeted landing with a single matte-black door. Hades stepped forward and produced a key. Brass, heavy-looking, like it had weight beyond its metal. Out of place in his world of touchpad access and digital locks.

He didn’t hand it to her, but he held it between them like it meant something more than entry. His eyes on her as if waiting to see how she’d react. Meg didn’t bite. Instead, she did her best imitation of indifference, cataloguing the details: the shape of the key, the way he held it, the fact that he still hadn’t explained a thing. She straightened her shoulders, meeting his gaze with practiced boredom. Hades smiled, just enough to acknowledge the game and choose let her win this round. Then he turned the key in the lock, unfazed and unhurried: “After you.”

Meg hovered at the threshold, the way you might pause at the edge of a long drop - uncertain whether it was the height or the invitation that made you hesitate. Then she crossed the line.

The space that lay beyond was unnervingly beautiful. High ceilings, original brick offset against beams blackened with honest age. Large windows framed the street outside like a painting, softened only by gauzy linen drapes which caught a breeze that brought life in along with the light.

A soft living space gave way to an open kitchen, subway tile splashback, warm oak, matte steel, everything purposeful and necessary. Not a single useless gadget, nothing superfluous - just a knife block, a coffee maker, and a fruit bowl that looked more like punctuation than food. At the far end a spiral staircase - black iron, elegantly industrial - twisted up to a mezzanine bedroom set just high enough to keep its secrets.

It was, she realised with a jolt of irritation exactly the kind of place she would have dreamt for herself if she ever let herself want things. Near perfect in all the ways things are when someone’s been paying too much attention.

She could sense him in the doorway behind her, not crowding the space, letting the understanding spool out. It was his favourite trick: see what she’d do with the empty air. She didn’t know what this was exactly, but she felt apprehension she didn’t want to name. Every inch of this place felt like a carefully constructed argument - a list of reasons to surrender.

Finally, she turned, meeting him across the clean expanse of the room. She didn’t bother hiding the distrust in her voice, “What is this?”

He answered like he long knew what she’d ask. “It’s yours.”

“I already have a place,” she said firmly.

“Meg,” Hades said as if reasoning with a child, “your current arrangement is - let’s be generous - an exercise in denial.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed her face, “It’s fine.”

But even as she said it, the words turned sour in her mouth. It wasn’t fine. It wasn’t even hers, it was Theon’s. His name on the demands that appeared under the door, his echo laced into the walls, the memory of his footsteps which never came home.

She bristled before she could stop herself. “I don’t live in cages.”

Hades gave a slight shrug. “Not what this is, babe.”  

“No?” Her eyes narrowed in challenge, “Then what is it?”

He didn’t answer right away. For the first time he stepped into the space properly, as if arriving in a kingdom he’d built.

“Call it what you want,” he said. “I call it a solution.”

Meg stood perfectly still, she kept her hands to her sides, wary of brushing against even the soft corner of the couch. She had the sharp, irrational sense that if she touched any of it, claimed it, even by accident that the place would snare her, hold her, refuse to let her go.

He’d been right, if this was a trap it was a very nice one. It didn’t come with bars or chains, but it came with that now familiar feeling of having been measured when she wasn’t looking, and she hated the certainty he was watching her with from across the room.

“So?” he asked.

She turned the possibility over in her mind. She hadn’t meant to stay in the studio this long. At first it had been inertia - somewhere to exist, to wait for the next summons, the latest act of penance. But the longer she stayed, the deeper the pain he’d left her with was settling in her bones, like a wound she kept pressing on.

This place though - this place didn’t ask anything of her. Not yet. It was calm and light and impossibly steady. She hadn’t known steady in months. Not the type that wasn’t waiting to break.

And if she could just keep him at bay, if she didn’t let herself give in, didn’t make the mistake of wanting anything more, then maybe she could pause. Just a little while. Just long enough to catch her breath. Just long enough to sleep without flinching.

Sleep. The thought settled in her chest, unwelcome but warm. She hadn’t realised how badly she wanted to rest - if only for a minute - until she stepped into this stillness. It wasn’t that she was relaxing, she wasn’t - her fight still burned inside her - but something in her, traitorous, aching, was starting to imagine what it might feel like if she did.

She looked back at him. He was leaning against the kitchen counter now, with a tranquillity that was only ever surface deep.  

Meg crossed the room slowly, keeping her tone level, her eyes sharp. “Fine,” she said, “but on my terms.” She wasn’t just bargaining with him, she was bargaining with herself.

Hades quirked a brow, entertained but silent.

“No more tracking. I don’t want to see drivers lurking around corners like the grim reaper in business casual.”

He said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“No more earpieces. If you want the job done, let me do it my way.”

She took one final glance around the room.

“And if I find out it’s bugged, I’ll burn it to the ground.”

Hades let out a low, dry laugh. “You know, sweetheart, when accepting a gift the correct response is ‘thank you, Hades. You’re too kind’.”

Meg kept her mouth a clean, tight line, “I learned from the worst.”

Hades let out a soft breath - half sigh, half amusement, “Alright, alright, have it your way. Never say I’m not accommodating.” And with that he dangled the key between two fingers, letting it catch the light.

She didn’t reach for it. Instead, she considered him a moment longer, “Does Anton know about this little upgrade?”

His smile deepened, all quiet satisfaction, “He nearly choked on his coffee.”

That did it. Meg took the key and closed it in her fist.

“Well,” she said, turning it over in her palm, “isn’t that just the cherry on the cake.”

Hades had gone. A buzz of a phone, a flicker of distraction crossing his face - some business elsewhere, some fresh fire to extinguish or stoke. She’d watched him go, no formality, no goodbye. Now it was just her. Here. Alone.

Finally, slowly, she allowed herself to pace a tentative circuit – no real destination – just to feel what it was like to exist in this space. She kept her steps light, her touch lighter. She didn’t dare leave a mark, just the lightest brush of the banister, a fingertip against the countertop, across a curated bookshelf.

She was trying it on, the space, the idea of her within it. It didn’t feel like home, not yet, but, maybe, it felt like somewhere she could be.

The thought of home hurt her. Theon’s studio had never been much, but she’d tried to make it feel like somewhere for the two of them to belong. She’d lit candles, hung the lampshade, learned the creak in the kitchen floorboard. She hated how easily he’d left it. How easily he’d left her.

Worse was the memory of what she’d given up for him: her own home with Esme. The one place she could breathe, laugh, be entirely herself. Evenings spent on the couch, takeout containers spread between them, Esme laughing so hard she nearly choked on noodles. That had been theirs, and she’d let it go without a fight, thinking she wouldn’t need it.

And now here she was – in a place that wasn’t her own, but at least didn’t ache with someone else’s absence.

Then it came, the flicker of a thought. Pressure. Heat. Something she didn’t dare let fully form: maybe this is what permanence looked like now.

Not just the space, but all of it. All of this. A place picked out for her, decisions made of her behalf, and her trying to resist the inevitability of it. Because what was beginning to realise - and what scared her more than anything - was that Hades hadn’t walked away, hadn’t cast her aside. It didn’t matter that she didn’t trust him, that every night she dreamt of running, that she hated how the board constantly shifted around her like he was always two moves ahead of her. The truth of it was he had stayed. Or she had. But the difference between those two things was starting to feel dangerously thin.

The idea chilled her through, both the thought and how easily it had come to her, like a part of her had already begun to accept it. She needed that thought to go very far away, very fast.

She shook it off, physically, as if movement could scatter the weight of it. She crossed to sideboard and opened a drawer without thinking - anything to interrupt the spiral. Inside sat a slim box of charcoals, the good type, sitting like they hadn’t been placed but simply appeared - drawn into being by the shape of her need.

She shut the drawer hard, like she could snap gravity itself.

Meg made an art of avoidance; old habits, careful timing. She waited until evening, when she knew Esme would be out - Tuesdays meant yoga at the community centre, the same class they used to take together back when they lived out of each other’s pockets and shared secrets like breath, unthinking and necessary.            

Their key still dangled on her keyring, next to the new one like uneasy bedfellows. It fit the lock without protest, muscle memory carrying her over the threshold before she could think better of it.

The apartment was dark and still. A soft clatter of pipes somewhere deep in the walls, the tick of the fridge, and the familiar smell of toast and tea laced against Esme’s perfume. She didn’t need to switch on the light, she could still move here by feel and heart.

The place felt smaller than she remembered. Tighter. Or maybe she was the one who didn’t fit anymore.

Meg moved quickly, knowing exactly what was hers and where it lived. The shelf with her records. The shoes she’d left behind. The sketchpad Esme had given her one Christmas. She didn’t take much - just what mattered, just what felt like her.

There was no drama to it. No reason to imagine Esme standing in the hallway, catching her mid-flight. That part of her brain - the one that used to spin those scenes like a fantasy - had long since gone quiet. She was fast learning that hope wasn’t for her anymore.  

Then, on the tiny dining table, where the morning light used to hit just right, she left the envelope. The same one Esme had slipped her full of rent money and stubborn grace. Meg had added to it - enough to cover what she owed in rent, maybe a little more. She didn’t count it.

She scrawled on the back of the envelope, beneath where Esme had written ‘Meg’ in her perfect handwriting: I’m sorry. Nothing else. She didn’t have the words Esme deserved.

At the door, she paused. But only for a second, feeling the cold of the handle against her skin one final time. She didn’t look back. Just stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind her.

One more place she couldn’t go home to.
One more version of herself left behind.

Chapter Text

Recruitment

Seventeen minutes. That’s how long she’d been waiting.

Meg checked the time again - not because it would change anything, but because it felt like a kind of protest. Hades was never late. She wondered, idly, if he might be dead - one could hope.

The corridor outside had been unusually quiet. No assistant today - no nervous upstart trying to impress. Just an empty desk, neat to the point of suspicion. Either he was between hires, again, or she’d scared the latest one into the stationery cupboard. She liked that thought. It was petty, maybe, but power came in scraps here.

Now, in this moment, she was bored. Deliciously, blessedly bored. She let the peace wash across the room, let the minutes tick uselessly by. Boredom, it turned out, was a luxury – a serene rebellion all its own. She let herself wander the room. She’d never been alone in his office before. Usually, she was called in and waved out, like a messenger who never got to read the letter.

The dark wood cabinets against the far wall caught her eye. Sleek. Polished. The kind with real weight behind them - no cheap locks, no labels, no sign that anyone ever opened them at all. She walked over and ran her finger along the surface – as if she was admiring the joinery. Plausible deniability. It was difficult to picture what they held. Because this – this wasn’t where he kept the routine stuff. Not the type of information she retrieved from the downstairs archive, the surveillance photos, the leverage dossiers, the murky currency that Styx traded on daily. This was the spine of the whole operation - the kind of truths you buried so deep they started sounding like lies. The pattern behind the chaos. She didn’t know what was inside. She only knew that if she ever opened one of those doors, the world might finally make sense - and never feel safe again. She didn’t reach for the handle. Even if it was unlocked, she already knew: nothing good would be found in there. She stepped back. Let the moment pass.

Instead, she retreated to the couch, curling into the corner like she belonged there. There was an auction catalogue on the coffee table, one of the oversized ones made up of thick paper and overvalued ego. She picked it up and flipped through it absently. A few pieces were asterisked. Probably for insurance laundering or taste-signalling, she couldn’t be sure. Both reeked.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a pen. She wasn’t in the business of helping him - not unless commanded - but she also couldn’t sit there and watch someone waste money on bad art. A girl had to draw the line somewhere. She turned to a particularly offensive abstract and wrote, ‘Pedestrian, in the saddest possible way.' That, at least, passed the time.

Eventually the door opened behind her.

Meg didn’t turn. She just flicked the corner of the page and said, in perfect invocation of his voice – all slow mockery and low-grade threat:

“Late, Megara, tells me you don’t respect your schedule, or the man who keeps it.”

Then she added, dry as ash, “Remind me how that one ends? Something about consequences?”

A pause. Then the low, familiar voice. “Careful.”

She heard him cross the room - unhurried - and drop a handful of files onto the desk with a sound that felt weighted. When she looked up, he was watching her, his face playing with a civility she knew better than to trust.  

“You don’t look like you’ve had any trouble making yourself at home,” he said, nodding toward her place on the couch.

Meg finished scrawling the word ‘gaudy’ against Lot 66, “Just trying to bring a little taste to the place,” she said, eyes on the art.

His attention moved from her to the desk, as he started sorting through the pile of folders with a groan that sounded pained enough to be theatrical.

“So,” she said nonchalantly, “what’s been keeping you so busy you neglect to come torment me on schedule?”

“Wasn’t aware my time was on your watch, Meg.” He paused, just long enough to make her glance over. “But, since you’re asking - month end.” He said it like it caused him personal suffering.

“Ah.” Meg made a noise of amused recognition. “Bet Anton’s in his element. Nothing thrills him like turning people into decimal points.”

“Anton’s only happy when the numbers add up.” Hades signed.

Meg allowed herself the faintest smile. For a moment, it almost felt routine - this sideways kind of banter, practised enough these days that she didn’t have to think too hard about it.

Then he slid something free from the topmost file. A single sheet. A crease down the middle, soft from handling. And there - bleeding faintly through the back of the page - the angry smears of neon highlighter. Her eyes caught it, the all too familiar shape of a credit card statement.

“Speaking of which,” Hades said, flicking the page like an afterthought, “you wanna explain this?”

Meg leaned an elbow on the arm of the couch, chin in her hand, gaze returning to the catalogue. “You’ve already got the speech prepared. Don’t let me stop you.”

She made it sound off-hand, almost flippant. That was the trick: say it light enough, maybe he wouldn’t hear her bracing underneath.

He placed the page squarely on the desk, as if arranging evidence.

“I do review your spending, you know.” It wasn't impatient or irritated. It felt worse: ritual - a reminder he intended to deliver again and again until it wore grooves into her.

Meg kept her eyes on the page in front of her, pen dangling loosely between her fingers like she hadn’t noticed the shift. “Good to know we’ve dropped the pretence of boundaries.”

“Your card. My money, babe.” He said, sharp as glass. “You kissed ‘boundaries’ goodbye a while ago, remember?”

He scanned the page, eyes tracking down the column of charges with exacting precision, like he knew just where to aim.

“This month you’ve spent…” his finger tapped once against the ledger. “Three thousand dollars at The Row.”

Meg shifted slightly on the couch, preparing for the inevitable toe-to-toe this was bound to become.

“New dress,” she said breezily, as if that explained everything. “For,” she gestured generally at the room, "work".

His gaze flicked up. “You have dresses.”

“Well,” she said, lips quirking, “now I have another. Call it uniform. I’m sure Anton can file it under business expenses.”

His brow ticked, unimpressed. “That’s not how it works, and you know it.” He cleared his throat and went back to the sheet before she could argue. “Dinner at a restaurant I can’t pronounce, at a price that suggests theft.”

“Surviving,” she said flatly - but she let the word land with a kind of satisfaction, as if daring him to challenge it.

He didn’t. Moved on, “And the three hundred on wine?”

“Surviving you,” she muttered bitterly, pitched so he would only just hear it. The cool silence that followed made her skin prickle. Whatever expression he was wearing, she didn’t risk catching it.

When he spoke again, there was the faintest hitch of exasperation in his voice. “And what - please tell me -” his finger tapped the page, a soft reprimand, “- is Santal 33?”

“Perfume,” she said plainly.

“It’s two hundred dollars.”

“It’s a signature scent.” She shrugged, like this was the least offensive line on the page.

His smirk was anything but casual, “How artisanal. You done torching my accounts, or is there a candle to match?”

Meg finally looked up then, and all saccharine sweet. “Would you prefer I smell cheaper?”

His exhale was slow, sharp, almost a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”

Meg let the catalogue fall shut and dropped it onto the table with a flat thud. Then she twisted in her spot to face him fully.

“And you’re just pissed because Anton made you look at a spreadsheet.”

The way his expression narrowed told her she was right.

Meg let herself lean back into the corner of the couch again, smoothing her skirt over her knees like she’d drawn a line under it. “Fine,” she said, with a brightness that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll cut back. Since you asked so nicely.”

She knew when to quit. She’d landed her jabs, maybe even scored a point. Better to bow out now than let him press the advantage. But Hades’ eyes didn't leave her. He didn’t so much as glance at the page again.

“Nice try, sweetness. But you know the bill always comes due.” His voice too calm. “And I have just the way you can make it up to me.”

The words slid over her like cold water. She didn’t react outwardly - nothing more than the faint arch of a brow, the pen turning once between her fingers before she set it neatly beside the catalogue. But inside, she felt something coil tight, her annoyance flaring hot. Of course there was an angle. She should have seen it. Should have known better. And now she was already off-balance, watching him step away from the desk and make his way across to her.

He’d made his move. And she was about to miss hers.

She stayed where she was. She told herself not to straighten - but she felt her spine tense anyway, the air thinning as his shadow lengthened over her.

When he stopped, it was no more than a foot in front of her. The angle forced her head back if she wanted to meet his eyes. The taut line between them - her sunk low, him standing tall - felt calculated. She sensed the turn before the words even came, that faint pull in the air that told her the conversation had stopped being about dollars and cents.

Something in him had gone still. The way a predator stills - not to rest, but to strike. The mask of irritation dropped, replaced by something quieter. More precise. The kind of quiet that told her whatever came next had already been decided.

“A vacancy’s opened up in my operation,” he said, as if explaining basic facts. “And you’re going to fetch me someone to fill it.”

Meg gave a short laugh, sour on her tongue. “Yeah, because I’m the poster child for the happily employed.”

The sound hung in the air when she realised he wasn’t laughing with her. His expression hadn’t moved.

She glanced up again, scanning him now - the set of his shoulders, the stillness in his face. He was serious. Deadly so. Inside her, a warning sparked, sudden and certain: get out now, before the water starts to boil. 

Meg flicked her hand through the air, like she was waving away smoke. “You’ve got half this city on your payroll. Call one of them. I’m not about to serve up some fresh soul for you to torture.”

Hades didn’t flinch, "Oh, you will,” he said, sure as a verdict. “Because this isn’t about another warm body. I need a…certain set of skills.”

He let the pause dangle like a thread, taunting. Long enough for her to feel it encircle her.

“I need a thief.”

He said it as if he’d placed a card on the table he knew she couldn’t beat. A flicker touched his mouth and was gone. His eyes didn’t move, steady and unrelenting, watching for the tell.

Meg felt her pulse kick before she could calm it. Fear flickered, quick and unmistakable, and she looked away first. She hated herself for it. She pushed herself up from the couch, ducking around him with a little more speed than she meant to, angling for space. Standing gave her the feeling of control - a way to drag herself out from under that line he’d pinned her with.

She crossed to the window, arms folding as if she were simply bored with the conversation, not rattled by it. Her reflection wavered in the glass, pale against the grey outside.

“Can’t help you,” she said, forcing a shrug, her tone light, dismissive. "My circle’s disappointingly respectable.” She flicked a look over her shoulder, lips twitching into something that was meant to have passed for a smirk. It was front. They both knew it.

His voice, when it came, was almost gentle. But there was no mistaking the blade beneath it: “Yeah. But that’s not true, is it, Nutmeg?”

When their eyes met again, the veneer split clean through. Heat surged in her chest, her pulse ricocheting so hard now she could feel it in her fingertips.

“Forget it.” Meg said, too fast. “Not a chance in hell, Hades.”

She regretted the vehemence as soon as it left her mouth - not because she didn’t mean it, but because it revealed too much. And he watched her with the kind of cold observation that left no space for denial.

She felt the urge to keep talking rise up - to add something flippant, to wave him off, to fill the growing space with noise. But she caught herself. Forced her mouth shut. Even now, even here, she knew better than to let panic do the talking.

They both knew who they were talking about. But she didn’t say his name. She wouldn’t. Even the thought of him in Hades’ presence felt dangerous - like it might rupture something if he crossed her mind too clearly. She shifted slightly where she stood, aware of how tight her chest had gone, how much colder the room felt now. Whatever this was - whatever game he was playing - it wasn’t hypothetical anymore.

“If you think for one second I would bring him into this,” her voice brittle now, the words carefully measured, almost bitten off, “that I would bring him to you…” she faltered.

“Hmm? Didn’t quite catch that." His head tilted slightly. “Want to try that again like someone who remembers who she belongs to?”

There was a smile on his face now, and he stood there, with all the arrogance of someone who knew that they were the centre of this small universe between them.

“You’re forgetting I’ve got about a hundred ways to make you do this, Meg,” he continued, utterly composed. “This just happens to be the only version that ends in ‘please.’”

She bit the inside of her cheek - a sharp, bitter press - and there it was, the truth of it. However much slack she thought she’d been granted lately, however loosely she’d let herself drift in his orbit. Here he was, reminding her, with nothing more than the subtlest twitch of the leash, that this was all it ever took.

She crossed her arms and pressed her nails tight into her own skin. There was only one defence left now, and it wasn’t strategy, it was the brittle edge of hope - thin, defiant, and already starting to splinter.

“Then prepare to be sorely disappointed. He’s reckless, but he’s not stupid.” She said, biting back a small smile of pride. “He’d run a mile before he even lets your name near his conscience.”

Hades didn’t rush to correct her, he let her pride sit heavy between them like a bet. Then, finally, satisfaction came - brutal and vicious. The kind that said he’d already won.

“Meg,” he said, like her name was the punchline to a private joke. “Please, we've been over this. Everyone has their price.”

He stepped toward her and reached out. One hand lifted, light as breath, and he tucked a piece of hair behind her ear with all the delicacy of affection. But the look in his eyes stripped it of any tenderness.

“And I happen to have the two things Flynn Rider wants most in this world,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “cold hard cash… and you.”

And just like that, the floor dropped out from under her. She felt it - the sickening tilt of the world as the last of her defences cracked. No comeback. No angle. Nothing left to throw between them but the bare, bloody truth.

“I hate you,” she said, more breath than voice.

His smile widened, “Yeah, I know you do,” he said, keen as a knife. And then, almost with sympathy, “But somehow, it doesn’t really matter… does it?”

It was the cruellest smile she’d ever seen on him. And it didn’t waver.

Hades watched her retreat with that same studied attention he used for everything that mattered. The steel was there - he could see it in the line of her spine as she made it to the door. Always that last performance of defiance, the illusion of dignity, scraped together like coins from a gutter. But it was the slight curve between her shoulders that gave her away. That’s where the truth always settled - in the places she couldn’t see.

He’d learned a long time ago not to waste time listening to what people said when they were trying to win. It was what they looked like after they’d lost that told you everything.

She shut the door with enough force to prove his point, but not enough to make him go after her. Instead he felt the shape of her absence hanging in the room like static waiting to be discharged.

Meg. She always went down struggling. That’s what made it easy to miss the moment she cracked. For her, seething and breaking happened so close together you could barely draw breath between them; that was her design. A kaleidoscope of fury, hope, and barely-contained despair, always shifting, always colliding. It’s what kept him interested.

The thief angle was lucky. It had come with the kind of serendipity he didn’t believe in, but never ignored. He’d spent the night before sweeping aside the last man to hold the post. Skimming. Not unusual in this business, but always a disappointment. Especially when they thought they were being clever about it.

It had ended messier than it needed to be; they always made it messy in the end. But sometimes the stains were worth leaving behind. A smear could do what a dozen whispers couldn’t.

So the spot was open, and there was Meg with the solution tucked right there beneath her skin: Flynn Rider. All worn denim and easy grins - the kind of charm that made people overlook the hand in their pocket. She’d kept that particular heartache folded away, wrapped with care that she thought he couldn’t see. She’d learn better eventually.

And Flynn was the ideal test. Not of her skill, of her seams. He wasn’t a threat in the obvious sense, he wasn't stupid or reckless enough to challenge him, but he was someone who still believed in her, and someone who still believed she could be saved.

Hades wanted to see what she’d do with that. Whether she believed it too. Because if she did, he’d remind her. This was about pressure - carefully applied. And he knew exactly where to press. Her precious thief wasn’t just leverage - he was proof. A way to see what she still clung to, and how tightly. To see what illusion she had built for herself, and whether it was ready to shatter.

He reached for the catalogue she’d been thumbing through, her pen resting beside it - poised like a blade. The pages whispered as he turned them, past all the polished fictions of provenance and value, until he found her hand. Pedestrian. He could hear it in her voice – dismissive and damning.

He let it sit for a moment, his thumb pressed just beneath the ink. Not many people told him the truth. Fewer still did it in handwriting. She hadn’t only seen through the piece. She’d seen through him - or close enough to make a game of it. And she’d left it there for him to find. A flicker of defiance, hidden in plain sight. It should have irritated him. And maybe it would, eventually. But for now, he chose to enjoy it.

Let her play at the edges. Let her learn to aim. It didn’t matter - his version of this was already written, long before she'd picked up the pen.

“One night. Big pay. No strings attached.”

She mouthed the words to herself. She didn’t believe them, but they were the only ones available. Hades’ words - assured, unshakable, unbearable, and she memorised them like a story she had to sell, to him and to herself.

She shifted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, trying to shake the feeling that the weight inside it was more than paper. The envelope Hades had handed her burned a hole. Flynn’s name on the front in someone else’s handwriting. She hadn’t opened it, but knew what was inside – a recipe for betrayal.

She’d fought Hades on this. Dug her heels in, argued hard, harder than she’d done before - and watched it slide right off him. Her resistance meant nothing, just another way for him to unbalance her. That was the lesson she kept learning: fighting back didn’t make her stronger; it only gave him more to work with.

Her feet moved fast down the stairs. She knew she wouldn’t go to him yet. But she couldn’t stay here with the weight of Hades still on her shoulders. Anton caught her halfway down. He was reading something as he walked, but he didn’t miss a thing. His eyes flicked up, carrying the usual observational precision.

“If you’re thinking of procrastinating, don’t.”

Meg didn’t falter, “Don’t you have a spreadsheet to terrorise?”

It wasn’t a win. It wasn’t even clever. But it gave her enough cover to make it to the door.

Outside she felt like she could breathe, like she could clear smoke from her lungs. She wandered without direction. Each block stretched longer than the last, every corner became a delay, a detour, a memory. She passed a building with a rooftop pool they’d snuck into at 3am. A chain café where he once stole her a coffee and called it an ‘act of resistance’.

Her pace dropped, each step was its own petty rebellion - small, hesitant, and doomed not to last. She needed to figure out how she could control this. Futile, probably, but it was all she had. She’d told Hades straight, Flynn wasn’t going to take this, and she clung to that like a lifeline. Of course, if he refused, there would be a whole different problem waiting for her. She didn’t know what would happen, only that it would. She’d seen what happened when Hades felt thwarted, when people failed him. So she had to thread the needle. Don’t sell too well. Don’t plead. Let Flynn say no - but in a way that made it look like she'd tried, enough to satisfy the ask.

And if he said yes? Oh god, if he said yes.

Flynn could handle himself. He always had. Sharper than he let most people see. Quicker, too. She’d seen him talk his way out of impossible corners, seen the easy tilt of his smile distract from the skeleton key he kept tucked out of sight. But this was different. She remembered the shift in his face when she'd said Hades’ name out loud, the way his eyes had scanned the room. A flicker of something she couldn't comprehend at the time. Something she understood now. Intimately.

Back then, she told herself he was overreacting. She wondered how long he’d known what she was only now grasping - that you don’t walk away from a man like that. You orbit. You serve. You survive. And you do not bring in people you care about. Not if you want them to keep them.

She paused on a corner and pulled the envelope from her bag, slicing through the seal. Inside, as expected – a profile, an offer and an address she didn’t recognise. There was something grotesque about it, to see her best friend apportioned down to bullet points. She looked at the address again. New. No great surprise - Flynn wasn’t the kind to put down roots. But her stomach dropped to think of him in an apartment she’d never seen, a life unfolding room by room with no space carved out for her.

That was when she started to betray them both. Because what cut deepest wasn’t just what she’d been told to do, it was how badly she wanted to see him, how much she missed him. Not just the memory of him, or the version she still held sacred within her. The real him. Full of spark. The smirk that meant he’d just thought of something both clever and completely idiotic. The way he could make even your heaviest moments feel like something you might survive, just by being with him.

She missed the sound of her own laugh when he was the one who earned it.
She missed having someone who’d learned her rhythms thorough love, not surveillance.

And now she was walking toward him with a knife wrapped in ribbon. She could tell herself she was following orders, walking a line that had been handed to her like a map. Never mind that it was one she’d traced in her mind a hundred times before.

The knock came late enough in the day that it felt judgemental.

Flynn was half-tangled in sleep, the weight of a bad dream lingering in his jaw. He blinked at the ceiling - a water stain that looked vaguely like a duck - and reached for his watch on the floor. Gone noon. Shit.

He rolled upright. The shirt he’d crashed in was creased to hell and smelled like the con he’d worked the night before - spilled gin, someone else’s cigarettes. He scraped a hand through his hair, found the coffee table with his toe, and stumbled toward the door. Probably the Super he’d been avoiding. Or the guy who’d promised him burner phones by Tuesday. Not a priority either way.

The door stuck on its hinges, same as always. Flynn yanked it open with a practiced wrench and a muttered, “Alright, alright, hold your -”

He froze.

Meg.

For a second, he thought he’d imagined it - conjured her up from memory or grief, from that raw place he couldn’t quite cauterise. She looked wrong somehow, unfamiliar around the edges, like someone had drawn her from recall but gotten the shading off. Her posture was too taut. Her eyes too dark. And she didn’t smile. But it was her.

The part of him that had been waiting leapt forward before the rest could catch up. All the pain of missing her flaring to the surface like a struck match. He moved without thinking - arms around her, breath catching, pouring himself in the shape of her. Real. Warm. Alive. His chest locking around her like an oath. He couldn’t even find the words.

She didn’t return the hug. Startled, maybe. Her arms hovered at her sides, caught between tension and instinct, but she didn’t pull away either. Flynn didn’t care. He buried his face in her hair - perfume unfamiliar, not drugstore-sweet like it used to be - and held her anyway. Exhaling her name like a breath he’d been holding.

He glanced both ways down the landing before pulling her inside like someone might try to take her back. One hand at her elbow, the other shutting the door firmly behind them.

He took her in properly then. Standing in his cramped space like she didn’t belong there, like the apartment had no business containing her. Hair smoothed, makeup deliberate. Gone were the soft, smudged angles he remembered, this wasn't Meg in a t-shirt she’d stolen from him with last night in her eyes.

Now she was sleek, polished, sophisticated. The sharp lines of her coat, the gleam of a bracelet at her wrist. Nothing accidental. She looked curated in a way that made everything around her look poorer for it. The apartment - a sublet of a sublet – wilted under the comparison. Stray furniture, a couch with one leg propped on magazines. Dishes hoping to soak their way clean. A patch of peeled paint behind the radiator. It was a space Flynn barely inhabited. And yet here she was, lighting it up and hollowing it out at the same time.

Flynn stared at her like a question he didn’t know how to ask.

“Jesus, Nutmeg.”

It slipped out - familiar, laced with care - but the sound of it seemed to find her differently now. Her eyes flicked, abruptly, like a warning not to touch something breakable. He didn’t understand, but he caught it and backed off a step.

“You look…” he started, then stopped. There were too many endings to that sentence, and none of them safe.

Meg tilted her head. “Different?”

He gave a half-laugh, rough and dry. “I was going to say expensive.” He meant it as a compliment, but it fell from him with an edge, a truth too real for nostalgia.

Air folded between them, the type that was dense with all the things neither of them knew how to say. Flynn let out a slow huff, trying to size how he felt about her being here at all – whether he was relieved of angry. He leaded back against the door as if stopping her from escaping again, arms folded across his chest. He chose angry.

“I’m really fucking pissed at you,” he said, finally. No heat to it, but burning with honesty all the same.

Meg’s throat bobbed. She didn’t look away, “I know.”

“And you came back anyway?”

She nodded, almost imperceptibly, “Yeah.”

Flynn tipped his head back, eyes tracking a crack in the plaster, trying to find the balance between wanting to shake her and wanting to keep her. The ache and the anger braided too tightly to pull apart. He pushed off the wall, moving before he even knew where he was going. The apartment was small, but he paced it anyway - one hand dragging across his unshaven jaw.

“I told you not to do it.” He said, not able to look her in the eye. “And then I had to hear it from someone else? Do you have any idea what that did to me? That you didn’t even trust me with that?”

Meg looked down, a little sheepish.

“I tried to find you, Meg. You think I didn’t try?” His voice cracked - raw and wavering. “I pulled every favour I had. Called people I hadn’t talked to in years. Went to your building, Esme, all those pretentious galleries you used drag me to. I even asked around in places I shouldn’t have, and I got nothing. Nothing.”

He turned to face her again. “It was like you’d been wiped off the map.”

Meg’s face gave nothing away. But something flickered in her posture - a shift, small but there. He caught it.

“Did he-?” he started, but stopped himself. He didn’t want to finish the thought. Didn’t want her to answer. Couldn’t handle knowing.

She didn’t fight back, didn’t offer some polished excuse or barbed retort. But she stood there - heavy-limbed with something like regret in her eyes - and he found couldn’t hold the heat of his anger anymore. It fizzled. Like all arguments between them eventually did.

Flynn glanced around the room, looking for something to ground them. His eyes landed on the tin of coffee perched above the microwave - dented, half-empty, and probably stale.

“I’ll make us coffee,” he said, the words coming out gentler despite himself.

Meg blinked, caught off guard by the offer, then gave a small nod. She followed him to the kitchenette - if it could be called that. A half-counter wedged between the fridge and the bathroom door, barely room for two people to stand side by side. Still, she stepped into the space like she belonged there. She always had.

“I’ve only got instant,” he warned, opening the tin with a squeak.

She leaned against the counter like this was any other day. “That’s fine.”

Flynn arched a brow. “You sure? You look like you only drink single-origin beans hand-washed by monks now.”

Meg side-eyed him, “Funny.”

“I mean, come on,” he pressed, reaching for the kettle, “you’re the girl who cried when that corner café burnt the filter coffee.”

“I was deeply hormonal that day.”

“Sure you were.”

She didn’t smile, but something shifted in her shoulders. A little less tension, a little more room for him.

Flynn placed the mugs on the counter and she reached without thinking, fingers wrapping around the one she always used to take. Slightly chipped at the rim, but it sat right in her hands. Like muscle memory. He noticed. Said nothing.

They stood there in the soft hum of the kettle, steam curling between them like truce.

“So…” he said eventually, voice quieter now. “How’ve you really been?”

Meg shrugged a little, “Alive.” She tried to make it sound like a joke, but it landed flat. Too honest, maybe.

“That’s something,” he said.

She glanced up at him, all lashes and avoidance. “You?”

Flynn laughed, “You know me. Cockroach in the apocalypse.”

That got the ghost of a smile at last. A crack in the armour. It wasn’t comfortable, but it held the memory of something familiar. Mug in hand, she crossed to the couch and sat down carefully. She tucked one leg beneath her, curled into the cushions the way she used to – a shared history through his rotation crumbling apartments, and how she’d treated them each like home.

For a second, he saw her. Beneath this new, polished version. Beneath the coat or the gloss or whatever walls she was walking around with now. Her. The one who played records too loud and rolled her eyes at his taste in movies, who could make peeling an orange look like an art form, and who never said sorry unless she meant it.

He stayed at the counter, watching her like if he moved too quickly, she might vanish again. He could feel something hanging in the space between them. A pause with weight behind it.

When she spoke, it was tentative and tinged with guilt, “I didn’t just come here to say hi.”

It hurt, more than he’d expected. Like some part of him had been hoping -  idiotically - that this was a social call. That after everything, she’d turned up simply to see him. To be here. His expression didn’t change, but something in his chest gave way - like a latch slipping loose. He let her get there on her own time. She set the mug down, and bit her lip, as if she didn’t trust her own words.

“I’ve got a job offer for you.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Watched.

“One night. No strings,” she added.

Flynn’s brows lifted slightly, but his face stayed unreadable.

And then - like she couldn’t bear to say anything else - she reached into her bag, pulled out a small folded note, and set it on the coffee table between them.

He looked at it for a moment. But eventually, he picked it up and unfolded it. His eyes flicked over what sat inside; a figure. Whatever he might have guessed - it wasn’t that. He looked shaken. Both by the offer, and by what it meant.

This was real. This was serious. Whatever this was - it had teeth. Flynn stared at the number for a second longer, then dropped the note back onto the table like it scalded.

“No.” His voice was firm. “I’m not touching it.”

Meg lifted her eyes from the coffee mug a little, and he caught something that looked like relief. “I hate that I’m asking,” she said softly. The way she said it pained him, because it sounded honest.

“It’s not you asking through, it’s him – isn’t it?” A slither of spite in his tone now.

She let out a breath and leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees, face in her hands for a second like she needed to pull the next words out from somewhere deep.

“I’m not trying to drag you into anything. It’s one job. One night. You’d be with me the whole time. In, out. No commitment.”

“You think for a moment that’s how this works?” Flynn shook his head.

Nothing. She didn’t try again. Didn’t push. Didn’t plead. She just looked at him - really looked - and something in her face gave her away. He saw it now. Beneath the poise. Beneath the tired calm. There was desperation. The kind that sat behind the eyes and made everything else an act.

Flynn had only seen it once before. It had only been a flash then, the night she’d said his name like it was something dangerous. Like saying it aloud might be enough to draw blood.

And now here she was, asking for a favour. One that he knew could only end badly. He should have been furious. He should have thrown her out of the apartment there and then. But that flash across her face unmoored him. The guilt he’d been feeling these last few months rose in his throat.

His fingers curled around the lip of the countertop. He could already feel the shape of this resolve waning - the way it settled in his bones before it ever reached his mouth. He didn’t need to look again at the figure she’d offered, the money meant nothing. He was counting her instead.

Sitting forward, eyes rimmed with something brittle, something close to the edge. He searched her face for that old spark, the one that used to light up a room, set him spinning. It wasn’t gone, but it was worn down to a flicker, smouldering like coals. He knew her too well not to see the wear.

He exhaled painfully, the last of his resistance leaking out with it. “Meg,” he said gently. “If I do this, I need you to know that I’m doing this for you. You ask, I show up. That’s how it’s always been.”

Her reaction was instant, as if it caught her by surprise - a twist of something tangled. Gratitude and guilt. Disappointment and relief. A breath of weight lifted from her chest only to settle somewhere deeper.

She didn’t cry. Not quite. But she blinked like the thought had passed through her. Instead she stood as if something had shaken free inside of her, and she crossed the small room all at once. Her arms wrapped around him fast - too fast for her to think better of it, like she’d been holding herself back so long, and it was the only way to close the gulf between them.

This time, it was real. Solid. Full. No hovering arms or startled stiffness. Just two people who had once known what it meant to stand like this, and hadn’t quite forgotten. She fit like no time had passed. He let his chin drop to the crown of her head as she tucked into his chest and closed her eyes.

And then she murmured into the creases of his shirt, “I’m sorry, Flynn. I promise I’ll keep you safe.” He didn’t believe her promises anymore. But it still mattered that she said it.

Chapter Text

Partners in Crime

Flynn had been hanging on the same block for the better part of an hour, the soles of his boots sticking slightly to the sidewalk with city grime and indecision.

The improbable civility of Manhattan blurred around him, all scaffolded chaos and skyward shine. The late afternoon sun catching on windshields and mirrored glass until everything looked a little too bright, a little too sharp, as if it had opinions on the choice he’d made that morning. As a result, he'd been circling the address Meg had given him like it might disappear if he didn’t look directly at it.

It wasn’t like him to drag his feet, but he knew the cause: he’d said yes.

And now, with the city grinding around him like a rusted gear, he was wondering if he’d just made the dumbest mistake of his life.

If you'd asked him this yesterday if he’d ever job for someone like Hades, he’d have laughed you out of the room. Maybe stolen your watch too, just to prove a point. It wasn’t a matter of principles, Flynn’s were flexible at the best of times. But, like he’d told Meg that night in the diner, once Hades had a grip, you didn’t shake him loose.

He didn’t deal with people like that. The shadows were fine, sure. Grey areas, off-books gigs, a little corruption around the edges - that was where he lived. Where he liked it too. Murky enough to disappear when he needed to, clean enough not to rot.

But Hades? From what he’d heard, that wasn’t a grey area. That was the void. This city was full of myths - urban and otherwise - and most didn’t come with names attached. But if you ran in the circles Flynn did, you heard them. Stories passed around in barbacks and boiler rooms. Never directly. Never by anyone who’d seen it firsthand.

A bartender once told him about a guy who tried to skim off a luxury poker game uptown. Left town the next morning. Next time his name came up it was in probate.

A fence he knew whispered about a girl who used to move diamonds for half the Upper East Side. Sharp as glass. No one’d seen her in two years.

It never paid to dig, that was the rule, but Flynn had been asking questions. Quiet ones. Gentle ones. And if you could get anyone to talk - really talk - the threads always seemed to lead back to one man.

A name no one used too often, like saying it out loud might count against you.

But he hadn’t counted on Meg, living and breathing, to be sitting there in his apartment like a warning or a prayer. A tiredness he’d never seen before on her shoulders, one that came from being on guard too long. She hadn’t asked with desperation. But he’d seen the shadow on her face, the one she didn’t want him to see. Like a crack held together with shaking hands.

And the truth was, he’d had always been a sucker for Meg when she looked like she was about to fall apart. Not out of pity, but because she never let herself. She’d hold it together with grit and tape and eye rolls, and he’d find himself saying yes before the request even left her mouth.

Their whole friendship was built on that kind of gravity. Heady nights of bad ideas, whispered plans made at bus stops and on fire escapes. A constellation of moments where one of them said should we? and the other said fuck it, why not?

So yeah, he'd said yes. Not to Hades. Not to the money. To her.

And maybe, if he was being honest with himself, because he needed to see the shape of the fire she’d walked into. To map the wreckage. To understand what she’d gotten herself caught in. And what better way to find out than burning with her?

Meg had stayed until her mug was empty. Long enough for Flynn to wonder if the shape of them might still hold.

It wasn’t steady. The edges of their conversation kept catching. But there was movement to it, slow and circling, like a river rediscovering an old path. They didn’t talk about Hades, or what had happened to her, or why she hadn’t come sooner. Just let the conversation drift toward lighter ground - like they always had when the mood got too thick.

At one point, they ended up laughing about the time they’d snuck into a stranger’s wedding on a whim, only to see if they could get away with it.

“You told the bridesmaid we were second cousins from out of town,” Flynn said, mouth curling around the rim of his mug.

Meg lifted a brow. “You danced with the groom’s mother, remember?”

“You dared me to.”

“She cried on your shoulder.”

“And invited me to Thanksgiving.”

Meg laughed, "All that for a slice of cake.” .

“I earned it,” Flynn said, and then, quieter, “that was a good night.”

Meg didn’t answer right away. Just gave a small nod, the kind that meant she remembered too.

It felt enough for now. Until she started running through the loose outline of the job.

“Just light exfil,” she said, like she did this all the time.

Flynn barked a laugh, “Since when do you say things like ‘exfil’?”

Meg gave a lazy shrug in reply, noncommittal. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

He narrowed his eyes, suspicion prickling under his skin like a bad sunburn.

“Nothing is ever light with you,” he said. “And that’s not evolution, that’s a whole new identity.”

She threw him a look, “I’m still me.” And he caught a flash of hurt in her glare.

That was when her phone buzzed. It was muffled by the fabric of her bag, but it cut through the moment like a wire snapping.

Meg didn’t look to it. Didn’t even react. She kept talking, eyes on his, calm as anything. But her hand inched slightly closer to the zipper. Barely perceptible, unless you were watching her the way Flynn was.

He nodded toward it. “You wanna check that?”

Something shifted in her expression. A flash of annoyance, not at him, but at the interruption. Like she resented whatever world she was about to be dragged back into.

Still, she reached for the phone. Checked it, and her face darkened almost immediately. A faint tightening of her mouth, the crease between her brows deepening. When she looked back up at him she looked older, not in years, in burden.

“I better go,” she sighed with no explanation. “See you tonight?” She said it casually as she stood, but it felt like a test. Like she wasn’t sure he’d actually show.

He nodded, “Yeah, see you tonight.”

Meg gave him a small, closed-mouth smile, the kind that could just as easily be a frown, and she’d let herself out. Him standing there, unsure what to do with the lull she’d left behind.

And so, this was how he’d ended up following her directions to a non-descript building  tucked between a boarded-up bookmakers and a deli with the 'O' in Open flickering like a dying star.

The kind of building you’d walk past a hundred times without ever noticing, blank-faced and low-slung, with windows that didn’t seem to belong to anyone and a buzzer panel rubbed matte by time.

Flynn stood on the far side of the street, watching the building like it might blink first. He’d been standing there a while. Long enough for his intention to solidify and a kid on a scooter to almost take his foot off. Eventually, he crossed. Slowly. Hands buried in his jacket pockets like they might keep him from reaching for the kill switch.

He thought, briefly, about calling Esme. He should, he would.

But the truth was, Flynn didn’t know what he’d say: Meg’s back, and she’s asking for favours she doesn’t want to need. I said yes, and, yes, I know it’s a bad idea.

Esme would tear him a new one. Because while he was out here diving headfirst into whatever mess Meg brought to his door, Esme was trying plot a way out with names and evidence and routes to daylight.

Her language was justice. His was devotion carved into bone.

She’d tell him he was being reckless. That Meg didn’t need an idiot willing to bleed for her - she needed someone willing to stop her. This? What he was doing? To her, it’d look like setting a match to the map.

And maybe she’d be right. But he still wasn’t going to call. Not yet.

He reached the door, stared at the column of buzzers, he pressed the one that was unlabelled. The intercom crackled, thin and grainy.

“Yeah?” Came Meg’s voice, no greeting attached.

Flynn leaned in. “It’s me.”

There was a pause. A static-filled breath. Then the door buzzed open with a sound like a broken mosquito. He pushed it, shoulder-first. The hallway beyond smelled like dust and old wiring. Unpolished floorboards underfoot, beige walls marked with scuffs that didn’t feel accidental. Everything was just clean enough, the kind of tidiness that could hold up under scrutiny.

He took the stairs, rather than the elevator. Instinct. Places like this, you didn’t want to get caught waiting for a cable to pull you to safety.

The door at the top was already ajar. Meg didn’t appear. He let himself into the hollow hush of a space that was designed for disappearing. He knew a safe house when he saw one.

It wasn’t that he’d ever been deep in organised crime. His vibe was more opportunistic and chaotic. Looser edges. Faster exits. But he’d been around enough to know the signs: furniture with no personality, blinds drawn sharp, the faint hum of electronics too new for the rest of the place. Everything in this apartment felt temporary. The kind of place you escaped to or escaped from, if you were lucky.

Meg appeared from a side room, moving with the kind of purpose that suggested her mind was already halfway down the next corridor.

“Hey,” she said.

Flynn gave her a nod, casual on the surface: “Hey.” Just enough to mark that they were here, in the same space again, still circling each other like neither wanted to be the first to land. Or the first to ruin it.

“You sure you want to do this?” she asked, worrying at a nail.

No - Flynn thought, but instead he tilted his head, “And miss seeing you full femme fatale?”

That got him the ghost of a smile. Her mouth twitching, like it remembered how. She only half met his eye, but there was something there - a glimmer of old mischief, sitting behind sharpened edges.

He watched her as she moved - how she checked the clock, how her gaze shot to the window and back again like a habit she didn’t know she had. She’d always been quick. But this was different. Practiced. Honed. Like she was running on training now, not instinct.

“So,” he said, relaxed, as if they weren’t about to break a number of laws. “What’s the plan?

Meg looked over. “We’re waiting on the brief.” She said it evenly, but there was a tension in her voice that came from knowing exactly what was about to walk through the door.

Then, right on cue, she jumped slightly at the sound of a car door shutting on the street below. She crossed to the window and tweaked the blind with two fingers, just enough to peer down. Then let out a low laugh to herself, and her shoulders eased a fraction. When she threw a glance back to Flynn, there was something different in her face - a glint behind her eyes, a flash of teeth.

“Prepare to meet your nemesis,” she said. “Oh, he is going to hate you.”

Flynn raised an eyebrow. But she was smiling now, glee blooming at the edges, like a private joke had just gotten funnier.

Moments later, a man entered with the kind of presence that didn’t ask permission - just assumed protocol.

“You should keep this locked,” he said, by way of greeting. He didn’t look at either of them, just closed the door behind him and clicked the latch with surgical finality.

He walked in with the kind of military posture that suggested he ironed his socks. In one hand, two garment bags. In the other, something that looked suspiciously like paperwork. His expression said he’d been recently - and profoundly - inconvenienced by the existence of other people.

The man looked Flynn over in one glance - brief, impersonal, like checking for rust - and turned to Meg.

“This him?”

Meg didn’t miss a beat. “Best bad decision I’ve ever made, and it’s a long list.”

That earned her a look, a flat line of dissatisfaction this guy probably came out of the womb with.

Flynn offered a hand, half out of politeness, half out of assertion. “Flynn.”

The man ignored the gesture, “I know.”

Flynn let his hand drop, taking the hint and storing it, “Great. See we’re off to a warm start.”

“Play nice, Anton. He’s a guest. You’re embarrassing the brand.” Meg said with amusement. “Flynn, this is Anton - Chief of Staff, operations and explicit disapproval.”

Anton hummed faintly but said nothing. Instead he set the bags on the table. Without a word, he pulled two folders and handed them over - one to Meg, one to Flynn. Flynn took his like it might bite.

The cover was laminated. The pages inside were crisp and double-sided, complete with colour-coded tabs and a contents page. There were profiles, exit routes, appendices. Flynn caught sight of an annotated diagram and what looked suspiciously like footnotes.

He half-scoffed, holding it like it might ruin his reputation by proximity. His jobs usually came through whispered intermediaries - passed across sticky diner tables or down static-laced payphone lines. Occasionally on a napkin, once via a matchbook. Never like this.

Meg was already flipping through her document, brow furrowed in concentration, one thumb moving steadily down the margin like she was skimming for subtext.

Flynn glanced between them, then down at the folder again. “Do I get a highlighter with this, or is that a signing bonus?”

Anton didn’t dignify the comment with a response. Just tapped a finger to the second page of Flynn’s brief.

“The target is Khan,” he said. “Hedge fund royalty. Old money with new teeth. Tends to park his cash in places the IRS wouldn’t recognise. We’ve been tracking his offshore vehicles for a while.”

Flynn blinked. “Did you just say ‘vehicles’ like they weren’t cars?”

Anton ignored him. “He’s running a gala tonight. Private venue, Midtown. Something vague and philanthropic. Black-tie, limited security. Just enough opportunity to make this worthwhile.”

Flynn flipped the page. A photo of the man stared back - square jaw, bottle tan, too many teeth and with the kind of arrogance you could only buy. The type of man who said ‘my guy in Geneva’ and meant three accountants and a lawyer on retainer.

“Meg, you’ll be inside,” Anton continued. “Guest list cover. You’ll run interference - movement tracking, security pattern confirmation, exit eyes.”

Flynn arched a brow. “And me?”

“You’ll be on staff.” Anton gestured to a photo of waitstaff uniforms in the logistics section. “We’ve arranged placement with the caterers. You’ll stay mobile, pick the right moment, and make the lift.”

Flynn huffed because pushing buttons was free, “Can’t I get a role with a better outfit?”

Anton didn’t blink. “You get gloves.”

“Well, that changes everything”

Anton shot Meg a look, displeased.

Meg didn’t even glance up from her folder, “Don’t look at me, I’m not the one who decided it was ‘bring your friends to work day’.” Followed by the twitch of a smile for which she was not remotely sorry.

Anton cleared his throat - or possibly just sighed out his entire will to live - and flipped a page in his own brief.

“Floorplan’s on page five. We’re after financials - internal files Khan doesn’t want traced. Terminal access is in a back office, northeast corridor, second floor. You’ll need to time your move for when the room clears during the scheduled toast at 9:20. That’s your window.”

Flynn flipped to the page. The layout was marked with jargon and figures Flynn didn’t recognise but assumed meant bad news.

“The terminal itself is secure but local - no network access. Coded directory structure. You’ll find the target files listed in your packet. Memorise them. Find them. Lift them onto this.” 

He passed Flynn a thumb drive.

“Oh, and the door’s old-fashioned. Manual lock. Needs picking. Bring a steady hand.”

Flynn whistled low under his breath. “Nice to see the one percent still believes in tradition.”

“Security cameras will be looped externally, but you’ll need to monitor patrols once you’re inside. If the pattern shifts, you adapt. Quietly.”

Anton looked up - squarely at both of them now, “If you get caught, don’t come crying. We’re not coming in after you.”

“Warmth and reassurance. Just what I look for in an employer.” Flynn deadpanned.

Anton turned to the next page. “Do not get creative. Do not go off-page. And under no circumstances should you try to snag a souvenir. We don’t need the heat.”

Flynn opened his mouth - dangerously close to a remark that might earn him an early grave - but Meg snapped her folder shut and handed it back with a flick of her fingers. “Got it.”

Flynn hesitated a beat longer. Flipped back to Khan’s photo, then the floorplan, then the file list. He didn’t like it. But then again, he wasn’t here because it sounded fun.

He handed the folder back. “I’ve done worse.”

Anton didn’t look convinced.

Meg reached for one of the garment bags and slung it over her shoulder.

“I’m going to get changed,” she said, already halfway down the hall. “Try not to get too attached to each other.”

Flynn watched her go, then looked back at Anton. “So,” he said, leaning against the corner of the table, “we doing small talk or skipping straight to mutual distrust?”

Anton didn’t bother to respond.

Flynn tilted his head. “Alright. Let’s start easy,” he said, in the tone of someone stuck at an occasion he hadn’t meant to RSVP to. “How’d you get into this line of work? Always dream of middle management for the criminal elite?”

Anton didn’t look up from the brief. “You’re confusing this for a networking event.”

Flynn nodded thoughtfully. “Sure. Just felt like we were at that stage. The icebreaker exercise.”

Still nothing.

“Now you’re meant to ask me what I do for fun.”

“I already know,” Anton said, finally. “I wrote your file.”

Before Flynn could process that, Meg reappeared, fastening an earring as she stepped back into the room.

Flynn looked up and gave a low whistle. The dress was simple but sleek, deep blue, clean lines, the kind of tailoring that made everything else in the room look like a thrift store donation. The earring caught the light as she turned, glinting like it had somewhere better to be.

“Classy,” he said. “You’re going to steal more than a USB tonight.”

Meg didn’t answer. But there was something soft in the way she didn’t - a glance in his direction, a glimpse of something unspoken and fond. It barely passed between them before Anton spoke, “Meg, a word.” It wasn’t a question.

She sighed - the long-suffering kind - but followed him into the hallway without protest. The door didn’t close fully behind them. Flynn stayed where he was, pretending not to listen, which mostly meant watching the door like it might help him hear better. Their voices were low, shaped for privacy. But even across the room, a few snippets filtered through the gap.

“…expects results…

… don’t confuse trust with freedom…

…you’re not as untouchable as he lets you think.”

Flynn didn’t catch the rest, but the tone was unmistakable: quiet pressure, control wrapped in procedure.

Meg’s reply came softer, half sigh, half exasperation. “I know, I know,” she said, “Then tell him that.” The brush-off was casual, but the posture wasn’t. He caught the way she deflected and dodged until she just absorbed.

Flynn didn’t like the implication. Didn’t like the way Anton spoke to her - the orders, the reminders. Like obedience was enforced as well as expected. Like she belonged to something now. And not just anything. Something with rules. Teeth. A leash he couldn’t see.

His gaze drifted back to the table. Anton’s folder still sat there, neatly squared with the edge of the wood. A silver pen lay beside it - sleek, expensive-looking, clearly not the kind of thing Anton meant to leave behind.

Flynn picked it up without thinking. Gave it one lazy spin and slipped it into his pocket.

Call it instinct. Or maybe just his way of evening the score.

The door creaked open again a moment later. Meg stepped back into the room first, Anton just behind her. Whatever mood she’d worn in the hallway - irritation, defiance, defeat - she wiped it clean before she reached the table. By the time she faced Flynn again, her expression had reset. Cool, composed, and carrying just enough glint to cut glass.

She fastened the second earring and gave him a look that was all invitation. Flynn grinned, slow and sure, the silver pen tucked in his pocket like a charm.

“Well?” she said, voice silked with danger. “Are we ready to rob a billionaire or what?”

The venue was one of those Midtown buildings that cost more per square foot than most people earned in a year - gaudy architecture, gold fixings, too many lilies. A private equity firm’s idea of subtlety. An event space for the city’s most glamourous form of tax evasion.

Tonight’s excuse was a charity gala, black-tie, open bar, and a guest list full of names that moved money faster than gossip at a dinner party. The theme, if it had one, was generic luxe: champagne towers, live jazz in a corner and enough scent in the air to knock out a small mammal. Every surface gleamed. Every laugh was just a little too loud.

Flynn sussed the crowd as he passed - hedge fund types and their mistresses, high-gloss wives pretending not to notice, power players fresh off the Hamptons circuit. The usual parade. Too much money. Too little self-awareness.

The building was three floors. Main event on the first, offices and ‘private lounges’ above. Exactly the kind of place where a man like Khan might keep something he didn’t want too many people seeing - or something he liked to check on himself between speeches.

Flynn moved through it all with the tray balanced steady in his hands, dressed in black and white like every other waiter in the room. The uniform itched and the bowtie was too tight, but he beamed through it.

He scanned for Meg - she’d gone in first, separate cover, slotted onto the guest list courtesy of Anton’s quiet strings. He caught sight of her by the bar. Drink in hand; composed, striking, just out of reach. She didn’t shimmer like the rest of them. She didn’t need to. Her pull wasn’t designed for rooms like this - too full of people performing for their own reflections to notice anything quieter. But Flynn was watching. And what he saw was precision disguised as ease, a current under still water. She was scanning. Tracking. Calculating. Her gaze never lingered too long, but it never missed anything either.

They circulated separately. Flynn navigated the room like this was any other job -  easy grin, the right kind of forgettable. He slipped between conversations like a shadow carrying canapés, catching scraps of market gossip and merger talk, the rich-people-speak of yachts and expensive divorces. Every so often, he ate a canapé - perk of the job.

This wasn’t his world, but it was his hunting ground. Skimming the edge of someone else’s spotlight, working a room for all it was worth. He didn’t want to be them. He wanted what they didn’t even know they were giving away.

And, Meg. He watched now, as she leaned in to say something to a man in a crushed velvet blazer. Her laugh was light, enough to flatter, not enough to crowd. Her eyes did most of the work, piercing behind the softness, already halfway to the next person in the circle. He’d seen a hundred grifters pull the same moves. Knew the weight of intention behind a hand on an elbow, the way attention could be turned into currency if you knew how to spend it. But seeing Meg do it - really do it - was different.

It suited her. And that, more than anything, was what troubled him.

She caught his eye then and gave the slightest nod toward the edge of the room. Nothing obvious. Just enough to make it seem like his idea to move. He peeled off smoothly, circling with the tray until they met by an alcove just shy of the entrance, close enough to feel part of the crowd, far enough not to be overheard.

Meg leaned against the wall, glass dangling from her fingers, expression nonplussed.

“Tell me the shrimp isn’t as rubbery as it looks,” Flynn said, holding out the tray like an offering. “Because I’m emotionally invested at this point.”

Meg took one, bit into it and winced. “I’m not going to lie to you.”

“I’ll pass your compliments to the chef.” He glanced around, then dropped his voice a notch. “Security does a loop every six minutes. Three guards, clockwise. One at the bar, one in the hallway, one by the stairs. I’ll make the lift during the next pass.”

Meg took a sip of her drink, then flicked her eyes toward the balcony level. “Four.”

He frowned. “There’s three.”

She didn’t argue. Just gestured subtly with the rim of her glass. “There’s a fourth. Lurking near the landing. He’s not in uniform, but he’s clocking the exits.”

Flynn followed her gaze, spotting him now - a tall man in a suit a little too plain for the occasion, pretending to nurse a drink.

He let out a low whistle. “Alright. Four. Good catch.”

Meg’s smile curled slowly. “Guess that’s why I’m not the one carrying the hors d'oeuvres.”

Flynn looked at her, properly. The dress, the confidence, the way she held the whole room at arm’s length without breaking a sweat.

He let out a low breath, a little impressed despite himself. “Remind me to never play cards with you.”

“Only if you remind me to never let you shuffle the deck.”

“Unbelievable. One bent card and no one trusts you again.” He sighed.

The clink of crystal from across the room signalled the call to the toast. Meg tilted her glass towards him in a quiet salute. “There’s your cue. Try not to get arrested.”

Flynn grinned. “You try not to miss me.”

She gave him a look as she moved, the kind that said ‘don’t screw it up’, softened by something he couldn’t quite name.

She slipped back into the crowd and he disappeared with practiced ease, dropping his tray onto a waiter’s cart without slowing pace. No eyes on him - just another face in service black-and-white. The crowd was gathering near the stage, flutes raised for some cloying tribute to excess. Just as predicted, page seven, bullet point eleven. Anton’s voice echoed in his head, annoyingly precise.

Flynn ducked into a side corridor, his footsteps quick and silent against marble. The stairwell was clear, and he took the steps two at a time. Second floor. Northeast corridor.

The door to the office was plain - unmarked, heavy, old brass lock.

“Hello, beautiful,” he murmured. The lock was custom, hand-cut. Someone had paid extra for it back when money still bought privacy.

He crouched, rolled his shoulders once, and got to work. Flynn was in his element. No passcodes, no fingerprints, no firewalls. Just metal, tension, and listening for the click; and he was a good listener. It gave after twenty-two seconds. Not his best time, but satisfying. He eased the door open and moved fast, shutting the door behind him and crossing to the terminal. He pulled the drive from his jacket pocket. Let’s make this quick.

The machine was on, but not networked. Old-school in a way Flynn respected. The login screen glowing with smug, institutional confidence. No password, no access.

Flynn snorted under his breath. Cute.

He slipped the thumb drive from his pocket, plugged it in with practiced ease, and gave the keyboard a quick combo tap - forcing a restart. When the boot menu flashed, he selected his own partition, a quiet little trick he'd picked up from a friend in Flatbush with too much time and not enough conscience.

The terminal opened. No fancy GUI, just raw commands.
Flynn rolled his neck once, fingers already moving.

Bypass the user auth.
Mount the local drive.
Search the registry for target keywords.
Manual copy - no time to clone the whole thing.

The drive began its transfer, light blinking softly. He exhaled - satisfied.

That was when he heard the footstep down the hall.
Soft. Padded. Wrong.

He paused. Listened.
Another.
They weren’t moving away.
Another. Closer now.
Too close.

His jaw tensed as he flicked his eyes to the drive. Still copying - the light blinking slow and steady, oblivious to his rising pulse.

Another step. Then another.
Then stopped.
Right outside the office.

Seconds passed - long, knife-edged ones.

Flynn held still, pulse hammering against his ribs like a warning.
The terminal ticked upward - 72%, 73%. Still running.

He willed the transfer to hurry the hell up, hand hovering over the drive.
Ready to pull. Ready to bolt.

The faintest sound.

A hand on the doorknob.
A whisper of skin on metal.
It turned - just a fraction.

Flynn’s gaze darted to the corners of the room.
One window. One vent.
No good options.

The drive blinked.
His heart did too.

Then - the sound of a voice.

“Hey, I know this is going to sound insane, but I just saw someone wearing the exact same dress as the Mayor’s wife. She’s heading for her now. Six-inch heels, full glass of chardonnay, and a look that says: murder by stiletto.”

Meg. Coming from just down the hall - and then the footsteps outside shifted. Retreating, fast and purposeful, the way they’d come.

A beat later, the door creaked open.

Meg stepped inside, framed in the soft hallway light like she'd planned it that way. Champagne flute in hand. Cool as ever.

“You’re welcome,” she said casually. “I knew you’d forget about the fourth guard.”

Flynn smiled, more relief than ego. “No faith in me at all?”

Meg arched a brow, and closed the door softly behind her. “Oh, I have faith. I just know where your blind spots are.”

Flynn relaxed and popped the drive from the terminal, watching her with new appreciation. “Very smooth. Who knew you were such a good liar.”

She paused at the corner of the desk. “You're lucky I like a good rescue,” she lifted her champagne flute and took a slow, deliberate sip

“Megara,” he said, faux scandalised, “drinking on the job?”

“Got to get my kicks somehow.” She glanced over the rim of her glass. “Besides… you’re not the only one who likes a bit of risk.”

Flynn laughed and leaned back lazily in the chair. He glanced around, trying to imagine himself amongst this grandeur on the regular. “Tell me why we’re really doing this.”

Meg’s eyes didn’t move, but something in her spine shifted. “What do you mean?”

“This,” he held up the thumb drive between them. “What’s he want it for?”

She snorted, but it was dry. “Classified.”

“You don’t know.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you’re not curious.”

“I was. At first,” she reached out, took the thumb drive from his fingers, turned it once between her own. “But what else are the spoils of moral bankruptcy for? Greasing palms, twisting arms, buying silence.”

Flynn frowned. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Adaption.”

He tried to lighten it. “And I’m supposed to be the one with the wonky moral compass.”

The joke didn’t land, not even close. Meg just tucked the thumb drive into her clutch. “Let’s just finish the job, ok?”

 At that, Flynn locked the terminal again, fingers moving quickly over the keys. The screen hummed once before dimming to black. Done. Meg was already at the door, checking the hall. “Clear.” They slipped out, steps light but shoulders tense - the danger zone. And yet, Flynn felt it, that buzz just under the skin. The pulse of a job pulled off clean. The gamble, the precision. The sharp focus of knowing one wrong move could blow the whole thing. And tonight, she was in it beside him.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, the noise of the gala washing toward them - the clinking of glasses like the world was made of endless champagne. They were about to split off - Meg to disappear back into the crowd, Flynn to pick up a new tray - when she paused.

“Wait.”

He turned. Without warning, she tipped her champagne flute and poured the half-glass straight down the front of her dress.

Flynn blinked. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting you off your shift.”

Before Flynn could get a word out, Meg shoved the now-empty glass into his hand.

“Ugh!” she cried, loud enough to cut through the nearby murmur of the guests. One of the staff looked over, alarmed.

She stepped back from Flynn like he’d personally committed a crime against couture. “You’ve ruined it,” she exclaimed, gesturing to the dripping front of her dress. “This was vintage.”

The head waiter hurried over, hands raised in apology. “Madam, I’m so sorry…”

“Just get him out of here,” Meg cut in, livid. “You better believe I’ll be sending you my dry cleaning bill.” And with that, she turned on her heel and stormed off, a flurry of indignation and damp satin.

Flynn was left holding the glass, the eyes of the room briefly on him before returning to their own private dramas, the head waiter shaking with quiet fury beside him. He was swiftly marched toward the staff exit without any pretence of professional hospitality. He cast a look over his shoulder, just in time to catch Meg by the far doors, already halfway into her own exit. She glanced back to raise two fingers in a salute, barely more than a flick of the hand.

He was shoved into the back alley - rough, efficient and entirely unnecessary - and the door slammed unceremoniously behind him. He grinned. So long, promising career in high society catering.

The air outside was crisp and clear. Somewhere behind him, the sounds of the party carried on – jazz and ego bleeding through the walls. Flynn shed the gloves and the bowtie, and walked off down the street. Back to the city he belonged to.

Halfway down the block, his phone buzzed. Unknown number. An address of a dive bar three blocks over. Signed: M.

He found her at the bar, perched on a stool that swung lazily under one heel. The lighting here was low and the music barely reached. One of those places that knew how to keep secrets. The kind of place they might’ve once let a winter night unravel between them, cheap drinks, warmer talk, hours slipping past unnoticed.

Now, though, she cut a strange figure. Stained ball gown beneath a leather jacket he half-recognised, one she used to throw over everything, back when everything still felt like hers. The clash was stark. High gloss and old grit. As if two versions of her had met in the middle and hadn’t quite agreed on who got to stay.

Two glasses sat side by side. One already half-drunk, the other untouched. He slid onto the stool beside her, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt.

“Well this is a contrast,” he said, clocking the peeling posters and sputtering light bulb in the back.

Meg nudged the full glass his way, “Thought this was more our vibe.”

He took a sip, then glanced her over. The soft bar light caught the curve of her cheek, the faint gleam of an earring, the thread of tension not quite unravelled in her shoulders.

“You were good,” he said, casual but meant. “I mean - really good.”

Meg caught him dead on, “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not surprised,” he said. “I’m impressed. And maybe… a little concerned.”

“You think I’m dangerous now?” She traced the rim of her glass with one finger.

“Oh, that was never in doubt,” he said, lifting his glass.

She huffed a laugh and maybe it was pride, just a flicker, but it softened her all the same.

He watched her a moment longer, then tipped his chin toward her with a wry smirk.

“So? What about me,” he asked. “Did I pass?”

Meg looked at him sidelong. “You want a scorecard?”

“Sure. Marks out of ten. Outfit, timing, charm.”

She considered it, swirling the drink in her hand. “Initially eight. Then you nearly blew it.”

“Brutal.”

Meg leaned in slightly, just enough to close the space without making it mean anything. “You want the truth?”

“From you? Always.” He nodded.

“We made decent accessories to the crime.”

They rode the glow for a moment. The high of success, no casualties, no missed marks. The city still pulsing outside but muted in here, like they’d hit pause on the world, like they did this every night.

Flynn rolled the glass between his hands. “You hear the woman asking if the oysters were sustainably sourced?”

“While sporting a crocodile handbag? Yes.” She said.

“Hypocrisy’s very in this season.”

She took a small sip, “goes with everything.”

And just like that, the tension cracked open into something lighter. Like an earlier draft of them from some other night had slipped into the bar instead. One with nothing to lose and nowhere to be. The drink loosened their limbs. The laughter started to feel earned. They were even - God help them - a little smug. For now, at least, they felt like they’d gotten away with something.

He clinked his glass gently against hers. “We need to toast our first foray into organised crime together.”

Meg tilted her head, gave him a look. “Not sure it’s something to celebrate.”

“Come on,” he said, easy, teasing. “What are we calling this one?”

She blinked. “Calling it?”

“You always name my jobs.”

Her face brightened with the memory. She leaned back, letting the thought settle in her glass like the last sip of something warm.

“One Night Only,” she said finally. Quiet. Crisp.

He gave a soft, amused nod. “Has a ring to it.”  

Flynn twirled a pen between his fingers, half-absent, half-showy. Meg’s eyes narrowed as it caught the light.

“Wait, is that Anton’s pen?”

He didn’t even try to deny it. Just offered a smirk. “Call it a souvenir.”

She reached across, plucked it from his hand, “You’re going to get me into so much trouble.”

But she was laughing - really laughing - something full and sharp and unguarded. It caught them both by surprise. For a breath, everything stilled. The space between them felt more honest than anything they’d managed all night. Something warm but unsaid hanging in the space between what they were and what they used to be.

Then, just like earlier, a buzz from her clutch. Sharp against the wood, loud in the hush that was finally settling between them. Meg sighed as she checked it. Her smile still tugging at the corners, but the moment was sliding away like condensation down her glass.

“Come on, thief” she said, draining her drink in one practiced motion. “Time to meet the boss.”