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Chapter Text

They once said that the devil knows more from being old than from being the devil. In Reki Kyan’s case this quote was nothing short of false. 

During his ultimately short-lived life, he felt as though he had seen enough. More than he needed to at his status, at least. For a street dweller the knowledge of Spanish philosophers would get him merely nowhere. The lower down the financial food chain you went, the more need there was for brawn and the less there was for brains. 

However, some situations allowed the slim and silent to make themselves a good living. And his of course, was pick pocketing. Reki definitely didn’t plan this from when he was young of course, only less than a decade ago did he want to make flames shoot from his feet so he could fly to the moon. But the second he hit adulthood did the harsh realities of Earth strike down his dreams in a flash. 

With no family left, it was a kill or be killed situation.

High class chortling made Reki’s ears bleed. How dare they find such a life of privilege among those who were suffering a laughing matter.

“And Lord would you never believe what happened next,” guffawed the painfully well groomed man in front of Reki.

“Oh my, do tell!” replied his equally of an eye sore wife.

“The young man then reached- hey, get back here, you jackal!” 

Reki bolted through the street with the man’s satchel of coins stuffed in his pocket. 

Jackal. 

That is the moniker Reki had earned himself with such a lifestyle. Not to be confused with the Scarlett Eye Jackal, the stone cold murderer that roamed the streets of Madrid killing anything in their path. He was nothing of the sort. He stole money and hurt people’s pride, but that was really as much as he could bring himself to do. The man, of course, being one of those high class bastards couldn’t exactly outrun Reki with his tight suit and oiled moustache.

Reki ducked into a narrow alley, his breath steady as he blended into the shadows. He could hear the man’s footsteps falter, followed by a string of curses as he realised the chase was futile. The rich always thought they could outwit the poor, but they never understood how the streets belonged to those who walked them every day.

Reki waited in the darkness, listening as the man’s frustration echoed off the walls before he finally gave up and stormed off. It was always the same: a brief moment of triumph, followed by a bitter reminder that no amount of stolen coins could fill the void left by a life of hardship. He didn’t need to count the coins to know they were more than enough to keep him fed for a few days, maybe even a week if he stretched it. But what would he do after that? Find another mark, another opportunity to survive another day. It was a cycle, endless and suffocating, yet it was the only life he knew.

Emerging from the alley, Reki kept his head down, his hand clutching the stolen satchel inside his jacket. The streets were beginning to quiet down as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows that hid the faces of those who had nowhere else to be. He walked past vendors packing up their wares, past beggars who were a mirror of his future if he ever lost his edge. But something was different tonight. The usual murmur of the city was pierced by whispers of a new horror. A fresh victim, they said, found near the river with a clean slit across the throat. The Scarlett Eye Jackal had struck again.

Reki felt a chill crawl down his spine. The Jackal was a ghost story that parents used to frighten their children into obedience, but Reki had seen the aftermath of one of the killings with his own eyes. The lifeless body, the blood, the eyes wide open in eternal terror — it was an image that had haunted his dreams for years.

But it seemed the Spanish government was finally starting to take notice of how many working class people went missing every month or were found behind pubs with their eyes gouged out. Word had it that an experienced detective all the way from North America had been hired to track the Jackal down after all these years. Despite his good deed and social sacrifice, somehow all people could think about was his wealth. A successful career in putting the worst of the worst behind bars was bound to make you a good fortune, but apparently his legal business put him right up there with the aristocrats.

The detective’s name was Oliver Hasegawa, and even the way it was spoken in hushed tones by those who had crossed paths with him made Reki’s blood run cold. Hasegawa wasn’t just a good detective. He was a relentless one, a bulldog of a man who had made a name for himself in cities where no one else dared to tread. His reputation had preceded him, the way he’d found connections no one else could, the way he had solved cases that seemed impossible. But he was also known for something else — the fact that he would do anything to bring a criminal to their knees, no matter the cost. That kind of obsession was dangerous in Reki’s opinion, what with all of the pride and malice in the modern world.

However, that was none of a concern for someone like Reki. For now, at least.

The stolen bag of coins in his pocket rattled in sync with his steps. It was always a hard decision on what to spend the unfortunate amount of money but it usually depended on what needed the most attending to that week. As of now, Reki realised he hadn’t eaten in two days and should probably get on top of that before he perished in the middle of the street.

Joe’s bar was always a welcoming refuge for people like him: lonely, bitter, and needing to drown a thousand half-thoughts. Reki pushed the door open, the old wood creaking like a complaint from the building itself, before stepping inside. The usual crowd of drunk regulars glanced up for a second, but they all knew better than to say anything. The air reeked of cheap whiskey, stale beer, and the faint scent of something that might have once been food.

Joe, the bartender, gave him a lazy nod from behind the counter. Joe was the kind of man who’d seen everything there was to see but still knew how to laugh about it. He probably had his own demons, but they didn't bother him too much as long as you paid your tab and didn’t get too rowdy. Reki slouched onto one of the stools, laying the small bag of coins on the counter.

“Got anything edible for a guy who’s too proud to beg for handouts?” Reki asked, a smirk twisting at his lips. Joe had looked out for Reki since he was 16, but still knew how to keep him in his place.

“Not stolen, is it?” Joe suggested while cleaning a plate with a raised eyebrow.

Reki groaned. “Well how the hell else am I supposed to provide for myself? It’s not like anyone will hire me.” It sounded like an excuse, but it was true. Nobody in Madrid wanted to have a sleazy orphan who didn’t have anywhere to go working for them.

Joe chuckled dryly, shaking his head as he slid a chipped plate in front of Reki. "You’ve got more excuses than a drunk priest. But as long as you’re paying, I’ll keep feeding you. Just don’t bring trouble through my door."

Reki rolled his eyes but took the plate without argument, wolfing down the meal like it might vanish if he didn’t eat fast enough. Joe watched him with a mixture of pity and amusement, but before he could make another comment, the bar door slammed open with the force of an angry hurricane.

Reki flinched, nearly choking on his food, as every pair of eyes in the bar turned toward the doorway. Standing there, larger than life and brimming with authority, was Oliver Hasegawa. His sharp eyes scanned the room like a hawk searching for prey. Behind him, dragging his feet and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, was a very tall, younger man with snowy hair that almost shimmered under the dim bar lights. The guy was definitely out of place — too clean cut, too prissy to be caught dead in a place like this. Reki examined him for a moment. He was handsome, but there was no tone of personality shining through him. Maybe he just had a great poker face. He was seemingly ignoring Reki despite his intense stare. In fact it looked like he was ignoring everyone. His hands were buried in his pockets as he pursed his lips awkwardly, eyes darting.

Joe’s face darkened, and he set the glass he’d been cleaning down with a deliberate clink. "We don’t want any trouble, sir," he said, his voice steady but carrying an edge.

Oliver strode in like he owned the place, ignoring Joe’s warning entirely. "Trouble finds its way in whether you want it to or not," he said coolly, his voice deep and authoritative. He stopped in the middle of the room, giving everyone a once-over that made even the drunkest patrons sit up straighter.

Reki tried to shrink into his seat, hoping to blend in with the shadows, but of course, Oliver’s gaze landed on him. It was like being pinned under a magnifying glass.

“Who here saw anything suspicious around Salamanca last night?” Oliver asked, his voice carrying over the quiet hum of the bar. “We’re looking for witnesses to a killing. The Jackal’s work.”

The mention of the Jackal sent a ripple of unease through the room. Conversations hushed to whispers, and a few people made a point of looking anywhere but at the detective. Reki kept his eyes firmly on his plate, trying to ignore the heat rising in his chest. He hadn’t been near Salamanca last night. He made sure to avoid places where the Jackal was rumored to roam, but he didn’t need Hasegawa sniffing around him for any reason.

Oliver’s gaze lingered on Reki for a moment too long, but then the detective turned his attention to the bartender. "You, Joe, isn’t it? Seen anything unusual?"

Joe shrugged with a practiced indifference. "Same as always. People come in, they drink, they leave. Nobody talks about their night, sir. That’s the way it works around here."

Oliver didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder at the man behind him. "Langa," he said sharply, "what do you make of it?"

Langa, who had been examining the bar with the mild disinterest of someone dragged into a bad movie, sighed heavily. "It’s a bar, father. People drink. People lie. Nothing groundbreaking."

Reki smirked at the sarcasm, but Oliver didn’t seem amused. He shot Langa a glare that could’ve melted steel. "You’re here to learn, not to joke. Pay attention."

Reki couldn’t help himself. He leaned over the counter and whispered to Joe, "Looks like even the great Oliver Hasegawa’s not immune to babysitting duty."

Joe snorted quietly, but Oliver’s sharp eyes snapped to them, and Reki immediately sat back, pretending to focus on his empty plate.

"Anyone else?" Oliver barked, his patience clearly thinning. The room remained silent, the patrons collectively deciding that they valued their lives, or at least their peace, more than getting involved with a murder investigation.

After a tense moment, Oliver sighed, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a curse. "Fine. But if anyone here remembers anything, you know where to find me."

He turned on his heel, his coat flaring dramatically as he marched toward the door. Langa trailed after him, giving the room one last look, his expression unreadable. But as he passed by Reki, their eyes met for a split second. Reki wasn’t sure why, but he felt a strange jolt. Like Langa had seen right through him. And then they were gone, the door swinging shut behind them. The bar was quiet for a moment before Joe broke the silence with a low whistle.

"Well," he said, "if that ain’t the storm passing through, I don’t know what is."

Reki leaned back in his seat, his mind racing. He had no idea why, but something told him this wouldn’t be the last time Oliver Hasegawa and his reluctant protege crossed his path. And that thought made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t like.

Chapter Text

Oliver strode down the cobblestone street with all the grace of a charging bull. Langa trailed behind him, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets.

“Did you catch that?” Oliver barked, glancing over his shoulder.

Langa blinked, startled out of whatever reverie he’d been lost in. “Catch what?”

Oliver groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The details, boy! Every shift in body language. Observation is the cornerstone of detection. If you’re going to inherit the firm, you need to sharpen your instincts.”

Langa sighed. He hadn’t asked for this. Not the attention, not the expectations, and certainly not the responsibility of following in Oliver’s footsteps. But here he was, trailing after the man like some reluctant puppy, learning the ropes of a profession he didn’t even want.

“They were all scared of you, y’know. Is that really the image you want to put out?” Langa offered after a beat.

“Absolutely,” Oliver said, his tone as sharp as the knife strapped to his hip. “Fear is an ally. Use it wisely.”

The city was quieter now, the hum of life replaced by the occasional distant shout or the clatter of a horse-drawn carriage.

“Why do you do this?” Langa asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness.

Oliver slowed, his gaze narrowing. “Do what?”

“This,” Langa said, gesturing vaguely to the city around them. “Chasing killers. Does it even make you happy?”

Oliver stopped walking, turning to face Langa fully. For a moment, the detective’s expression softened, though his sharp features still held an edge of menace.

“It’s not about happiness,” Oliver said finally. “It’s about giving people the closure they deserve, even if it costs me my peace.”

Langa frowned, his eyes searching Oliver’s face for a trace of vulnerability. But his father had already turned away, his coat billowing behind him as he resumed his march down the street.

Langa hesitated for a moment, watching Oliver’s broad figure disappear into the fog that had begun to creep over the road. Even if it costs me my peace.

Was peace really so easy to give up? Langa wasn’t sure.

He jogged a few steps to catch up, falling into step beside Oliver. “But what about your own closure? Doesn’t it get to you?”

Oliver let out a sharp laugh, one that was more bitter than amused. “Closure is a myth, boy. What, you think I’m still standing here because I’ve found happiness? It’s because I dedicated my life to making a good fortune and protecting people while I was at it.”

Langa flinched at the bluntness of the words, but he couldn’t bring himself to question his father's strange life moral any further.

Oliver didn’t offer further explanation, his long strides propelling him forward. But as they approached the next intersection, he stopped suddenly.

“Something’s off,” he muttered.

“What do you mean?” Langa asked, though his instincts were already on edge.

Oliver didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned his head slowly, scanning the empty street. The fog hung thicker here, shrouding the dim glow of gas lamps.

“Listen,” Oliver said, his voice low.

Langa held his breath, straining to pick up whatever had caught Oliver’s attention. At first, there was nothing but the usual sounds of the city at night. But then, faintly, came something else: hurried footsteps.

They were uneven, almost frantic, echoing faintly against the stone walls of the narrow street to their left.

“Mr Hasegawa! How unexpected to see you here tonight! Shouldn’t you be at your hotel room?” A voice called out from across the street. Mr Shindo was a government official who had arranged Langa’s father's transport to Spain, but Langa really didn’t catch the charisma everyone said he had.

“Of course, it’s just you, Mr Shindo. We’ve just been inspecting the local premises. Showing this one the ropes,” Oliver said in an instinctively chirpier tone, nudging Langa way too hard.

Caught up in their conversation, Shindo and his father completely forgot about Langa and strolled down the street together towards the hotel. Rubbing his arm, Langa realised this must be his opportunity to have some time to himself.

The roads felt much different from Canada. Warmer, of course, but strangely more welcoming. To him, at least. The people in his hometown all thought ill of him apart from his mother, seeing as he was incredibly hesitant to pursue law, rather literature.

By this time of night, no one was around — except for a man lying on the side of the road. Langa knew to be wary of robbers, but this man didn’t have an air about him that seemed harmful; in fact, he didn’t have an air about him at all. Cautiously, he stepped closer and was met with an unsettling sight.

The man was dead.

Langa felt his stomach lurch as he accidentally stepped in the puddle of blood, seeing his own reflection. Was this the Jackal’s work? Must’ve been.

He swallowed, his hands trembling as he forced himself to step back. I need to tell Dad. But as soon as the thought formed, another quickly followed. No. If I tell him, he’ll drag me deeper into all of this. I need to get out of here.

His feet moved before his mind caught up, carrying him swiftly through the empty streets. He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he needed to find someone, anyone, who could help. The blood on his shoe felt like a burning brand.

As he turned a corner, a familiar sight caught his eye.

The bar they had investigated before.

Langa rushed to step in, but right before he opened the door, someone else did and collided with him. He looked vaguely familiar. That was right; this boy had laughed at Langa’s remark to his father.

“Ah, sorry!” he said quickly as he guided Langa past him and began to walk off.

“Hey!”

Reki barely had time to react before Langa grabbed his wrist, his grip tight with urgency.

“I need your help,” Langa blurted, his breath uneven.

Reki blinked, staring at him. “Uh… what?”

“There’s—” Langa hesitated, glancing around as if someone might be listening. His voice dropped to a whisper. “There’s a dead man in the street.”

Reki’s brows furrowed, his posture straightening. “You serious?”

Langa nodded, and for the first time, Reki really looked at him. At the way his shoulders were stiff with unease, at the way his hands trembled ever so slightly.

Reki sighed. He definitely didn’t want to help him. “Alright, fine. Where is he?”

Langa didn’t waste another second.

He grabbed Reki’s arm, making him gasp, and led him down the road, not realising that he was a much faster walker than the boy behind him, who was practically running to keep up.

"Oi, slow down, will you?" Reki panted, nearly tripping over the uneven path. "Not all of us have legs like a damn racehorse!"

Langa barely heard him. His mind was still spinning, his pulse roaring in his ears as he retraced his steps back to the alley.

They turned the final corner, and Langa slowed.

The alley was empty.

His breath caught in his throat.

The blood was still there, dark and slick in the lamplight. But the body — the body was gone.

Langa took a step forward, eyes darting around as if the corpse had simply gotten up and wandered off. His chest tightened. No. No, I didn’t imagine it. It was here. I stepped in the blood. He glanced down at his shoe. The proof was still there, staining the leather.

Reki let out a low whistle, crossing his arms. "So, where’s this dead guy of yours, huh?"

Langa turned to him, heart hammering. "I swear he was right here."

Reki arched his brow. "Well, he’s not anymore. So either you’re messing with me, or…" He hesitated, taking a shallow breath, his gaze flickering to the bloodstained ground. "Or someone took him."

Someone had taken the body.

Which meant someone had been watching.

And that meant—

Langa whipped around, scanning the shadows, the rooftops, and the far ends of the alley. The city suddenly felt too quiet, too still, like something unseen was lurking just beyond his vision.

Reki clicked his tongue, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. "Well, that’s unsettling. You’re sure he was dead?"

Langa swallowed hard. "Yes."

Reki exhaled through his nose, glancing back toward the street. "Then we’ve got a problem. Dead men don’t just walk away."

Langa felt his pulse hammer in his throat. Dead men don’t just walk away. The words echoed in his head, sinking into the pit of his stomach like a stone.

Reki shifted beside him, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off a chill. "Okay, so let's think about this. Either you're insane—"

"I'm not," Langa interjected, his voice sharp.

"Right. So, assuming you did see a dead body, that means someone else saw it too." Reki crouched, inspecting the blood on the cobblestones. "And whoever they were, they didn’t want anyone else finding it."

Langa followed his gaze, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The Jackal.

"You said he was lying right here?" Reki gestured at the bloodstain, his fingers hovering over it.

Langa nodded. "Face down. His coat was torn." He stopped himself. "It was bad."

Reki let out a low hum. "Sounds messy." He straightened up and dusted off his knees, his expression unreadable. "You really don’t seem like the kind of guy who’d make this up."

Langa’s mouth was dry. "Because I’m not. I suspect the Jackal."

Reki laughed. “Hey, if it was the Jackal, we’d be dead in a ditch with our throats cut by now. You’re jumping to conclusions.” Langa just gave him a look so dirty it was nearly offensive.

"Right, right." Reki exhaled through his nose. "Well, good news is, if the body’s gone, that means we won’t have to explain to some officer why we’re standing over a corpse in the middle of the night."

Langa shot him a glare. "That’s not good news. That means someone took him."

Reki pursed his lips. "And we don’t know who."

Or why.

The silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts. A breeze swept through the alley, carrying the damp scent of the city and rattling the loose shutters of the buildings around them.

Langa felt like they were being watched.

He turned sharply, scanning the rooftops again, but there was nothing. Just shadows, just darkness.

Reki must have noticed the way he stiffened because he let out a sharp sigh and grabbed Langa’s wrist, tugging him back toward the street. "Alright, I don’t know about you, but standing around in a crime scene with no crime isn’t exactly my idea of a good time. I’m leaving."

Langa hesitated. Leaving felt wrong. But what else could they do? He had no proof now — just his bloodstained shoe and the way his gut twisted with unease.

So he let Reki walk away, his mind still racing.

He made the decision on the spot to never go around by himself after dark in this area for the rest of the time he was in this country. Luckily, the hotel Mr Shindo had offered to his father was close by, but he still kept his walking speed swift.

When he turned inside, only then did he notice how dirty his shoe was with blood. He should wash it off. But instead he just stared at his feet right up until reaching the door to his room.

“Off on an adventure, were you?” His father reprimanded from behind him. Langa jolted and quickly let go of the door handle, trying to come up with some excuse.

“I lost sight of you, father. How is Shindo?” he said quickly, making a poor attempt to change the subject.

His father — ever the man to see through weak attempts at deflection — folded his arms.

“Shindo is perfectly fine. You, however, seem to have developed a habit of wandering off without explanation.” His voice was clipped, cold. Then, his eyes dropped to Langa’s feet. The moment stretched unbearably as he took in the stained shoe.

Langa barely resisted the urge to tuck his foot behind the other.

“What on earth have you been stepping in?” His father’s lip curled in disgust.

Langa exhaled slowly, measuring his words. “Blood.”

His father’s expression barely shifted, save for the tightening at the corners of his mouth. “I see.”

Langa braced himself.

“You’re twenty years old, Langa,” his father began, his voice smooth but laced with quiet contempt. “When I was your age, I was already running a firm, managing a household, providing for a family. You, meanwhile, are out past midnight with blood on your shoes like some common street delinquent.”

Langa swallowed the sharp retort that threatened to surface. He’s baiting you, he reminded himself.

“I wasn’t out causing trouble,” he said evenly. “I found something concerning, and I was looking for help.”

His father let out a short, humorless laugh. “Help? From whom? One of those low-life bar rats we made such a desperate attempt to converse with?”

Langa’s jaw tightened. “What do you mean, low-life?”

His father’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You know exactly what I mean. Stragglers who can’t pull themselves together. Where are their businesses, their education, their place in society?”

Langa’s fingers twitched at his sides. “Not everyone is given the same privileges, father. You measure a man by status and wealth. I measure by character.”

His father’s expression darkened, but his tone remained infuriatingly calm. “Well, how poetic of you. And naïve.” He took a slow step forward, his presence imposing. “You will inherit this firm. You will follow in my footsteps and you will be going to Schulich next year whether you like it or not. That is the only path for you.”

Schulich. Langa met his gaze, unflinching. “You assume I want that.”

His father didn’t blink. “Want? That word has no place in our world. You will do as you are expected, because that is what men do.”

Langa had always known his father was an immovable force. But tonight, he realised something else: he was just as stubborn.

“That is your definition of man? Interesting,” he said coolly.

For the first time, his father faltered. Just for a second. A flicker of something almost resembling surprise crossed his face. But then it was gone, buried beneath cold disappointment.

“Tomorrow we are going to Mr Shindo’s welcoming gathering,” his father continued, his tone regaining its usual condescension. “And you will act as though you’re excited for the opportunity to take over. You will make small talk, and you will not embarrass the family with your... inconvenient ideas about life.” He paused, “And clean your damn shoes,” his father muttered before turning away.

Langa watched him disappear down the hall, his fists still clenched, his chest tight with something he couldn’t name.

Maybe he should wash the blood off.

But instead, he just stood there.

Chapter Text

Langa had hoped that his label of an antisocial teenager would go away once he became an adult, but unfortunately, that did not happen. He had unwillingly come to the realisation that a people hater will stay a people hater no matter how hard they try to like them. However, this did not excuse Langa from constantly finding himself in elite community situations that made his prayers seem pointless, such as tonight: Shindo’s welcoming gathering.

Glittering chandeliers dangled like the guillotines of the rich, threatening to drop and put him out of his misery at any moment. The perfume cloud in the air was thick enough to be classified as a separate entity — one that was actively conspiring against his lungs. And the people? They milled about in silk and arrogance, their laughter just a bit too sharp, their smiles carrying all the warmth of a banker rejecting a loan.

Langa nursed a glass of something expensive and tasteless, swirling it idly as he tried to look as unapproachable as possible. It was a skill he had perfected over the years, standing at a social event while exuding an aura so repellent that even the most persistent small-talkers hesitated before attempting conversation. Unfortunately, his father was immune to such deterrents.

“There you are,” Oliver said, materialising out of nowhere like a particularly judgmental specter. His eyes swept over Langa’s posture, his barely-sipped drink, his general aura of disinterest. “Must you always skulk in the corners like some kind of tragedy? Stand up straight.”

“I am standing up straight,” Langa replied without looking at him.

Oliver sighed, but Langa wasn’t finished.

“I think I’ve been cursed, father,” he continued gravely. “Somewhere, somehow, I must have deeply offended God, and now I am doomed to spend my youth at events where people discuss stock prices and the importance of networking. ” He said the last words with such profound distaste one might have assumed he was talking about a flesh-eating disease.

His father gave him a look that suggested he was mentally preparing a eulogy for the son he wished he had. “Well, your misfortune continues. I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

Langa stiffened. Oh, no. No, no, no. Not again.

“Not another suitable young lady, dad, I’m still recovering from the last one.”

Oliver’s expression remained unmoved. “This one is different.”

“They always are,” Langa muttered. “First, there was Evelyn, who spent an entire dinner explaining why women such as herself shouldn’t have too many thoughts. Then there was Beatrice, who asked me if Canada had roads . And we mustn’t forget Ophelia, who—”

“Enough,” Oliver cut in, his patience clearly thinning. “You will speak with her, and you will behave.”

“I always behave,” Langa said. “Just not in ways you approve of.”

Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. “Langa.”

“Father.”

“Go.”

Langa sighed dramatically, as if being asked to participate in this conversation were equivalent to being drafted into war. But he followed. Mostly because he knew his father would make his life unbearable if he didn’t.

They approached a girl who looked exactly like every other girl his father had paraded in front of him: well-dressed, well-mannered, and well-trained in the art of looking interested in men like Langa for purely financial reasons.

“Langa, this is Juana Duran.”

Langa gave her a tight smile. “ It’s a pleasure to meet you. ”

The girl hesitated, then—unexpectedly—laughed.

“I hear you have quite the mind for literature,” she continued. “I read often myself. Perhaps we could exchange recommendations?”

Langa took a measured sip from his untouched wine glass, only to immediately regret it as his father’s expectant gaze burned into the side of his head.

“Oh, of course,” Langa said, voice smooth as honey but laced with a kind of amusement only he was in on. “Would you prefer a discussion on Notes from Underground? Or perhaps something a little more satirical — The Beggar’s Opera, perhaps?”

His father’s smile stiffened, but Miss Duran, delightfully oblivious, tilted her head. “I’m unfamiliar.”

Langa sighed dramatically. “Ah, well. Notes from Underground follows a deeply self-destructive man, a civil servant who’s estranged from society and fixates on his own misery. The other revolves around a group of thieves and prostitutes, exposing the hypocrisy of both high and low society.” He smiled politely. “Quite a fitting selection for the evening, don’t you think?”

His father cleared his throat so sharply it could have cut glass. “Langa.”

Langa gave him his best ‘what? I’m participating’ look.

Miss Duran blinked, clearly unsure if he was joking or not. “That... sounds rather bleak.”

“Oh, incredibly.” Langa nodded.

His father’s hand twitched at his side. He was one well-placed remark away from dragging Langa into a private corner for a ‘discussion,’ and frankly, Langa was feeling bold.

“Langa is simply being playful,” his father said through clenched teeth, forcing a chuckle as he turned to Miss Duran. “He’s quite the academic, you see. A bit... unconventional in his choices.”

“Oh, no, I quite like unconventional,” Miss Duran said with a bright smile.

Langa internally sighed. Of course, she does.

His father clasped a hand over his shoulder, fingers pressing just a little too firmly. “Miss Duran’s family is quite established. Her father and I have spoken of future collaborations .”

Langa glanced between them, gaze dry. “Fascinating. Is that what we’re calling arranged courtship now? Collaborations?”

Miss Duran, to her credit, stifled a giggle behind her gloved hand. His father, on the other hand, looked like he was about to combust.

“We will speak later ,” he hissed under his breath.

Langa simply raised a brow. “Oh, I’m counting the minutes.”

Miss Duran, seemingly unaware that she had walked into the middle of a silent war, smiled pleasantly. “I do hope we can talk again soon, Mr. Hasegawa.”

Langa gave a slow nod, a sarcastic smile following shortly after. “Of course. Perhaps at my next scheduled obligation. I hear I have plenty of those.”

Miss Duran’s giggle followed her as she turned away, leaving Langa to brace himself for the inevitable fallout.

His father exhaled sharply through his nose. “You think you’re clever.”

“I was only making an attempt to enlighten the poor woman.” Langa took another sip of his wine. “So, perhaps.”

Oliver exhaled through his nose. “Get out of my sight.”

“With pleasure.”

His father muttered something about ungrateful sons before storming off to salvage what was left of his plans for the evening. Langa, meanwhile, strolled toward the nearest balcony, leaning against the railing as he let the cool air wash over him.

For a moment, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the quiet settle his thoughts.

Then he opened them.

And immediately regretted it.

Because there, dangling rather ungracefully from the edge of the balcony, was the very same red-haired boy who had joined him just last night.

Langa blinked. Slowly.

Reki, it seemed, had not noticed him yet. He was too busy struggling with the small sack tied to his belt, which — judging by the faint clink of valuables — was not full of charitable donations.

It took a moment for Langa to fully absorb what was happening.

Then, calmly, he crossed his arms. “Are you seriously robbing this party right now?”

Reki startled so violently that he almost lost his grip, fingers scrabbling against the stone ledge. “Oh, for f— Are you seriously talking to me while I’m in the middle of robbing this party?! ”

Langa tilted his head, leaning on the railing right next to the boy’s elbows. “Well, I was going to ignore it. But then I realised that if you fell and died, I’d be responsible for not stopping you.”

Reki made a frustrated noise, somewhere between a groan and a curse. “Great. Love that for you. But maybe save the lecture until after I successfully don’t break my neck?”

Langa sighed. This was not how he expected his evening to go.

He extended a hand. “Here.”

Reki eyed it suspiciously. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because watching you plummet to your death would be inconvenient for my conscience.”

Reki rolled his eyes but finally reached out, gripping Langa’s arm. He was surprisingly strong for someone whose entire plan of breaking and entering seemed to rely on guesswork and enthusiasm.

With some effort and a lot of Reki swearing under his breath, Langa managed to hoist him over the railing and catch him. The moment Reki’s feet hit solid ground, he doubled over, panting.

“Oh, man,” he muttered. “My arm strength could use some work.”

Langa raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you doing this?”

Reki straightened, dusting himself off. “Because rich people have too much money, and I have none. It’s called wealth redistribution, ever heard of it?”

Langa rolled his eyes. “I don’t think robbing a government official’s guests counts as wealth redistribution.”

“Well, it should,” Reki shot back. “What do you care, anyway? You look like you belong in there with all the fancy-pants lawmen and oil barons.”

Langa stiffened. “I don’t.”

Reki gave him a look. “You do , though.” He gestured vaguely at Langa’s expensive coat, his polished boots, the general air of someone who had never known what it was like to go hungry. “It’s not your fault. Just saying, you and I? Two very different worlds, man.”

Langa didn’t respond. Because for the first time, it truly hit him — how stark the difference was between them. He had spent his entire life trying to outrun the expectations forced upon him, but no matter where he went, they clung to him like a shadow. Meanwhile, Reki was—

Well. Reki was dangling off balconies to steal pocket watches .

Still, that didn’t mean Langa was just going to let him get away with it.

“I could report you,” Langa said casually, watching for a reaction.

Reki didn’t even flinch. “You could,” he agreed, scratching his cheek. “But then I’d have to tell everyone you helped me, and that wouldn’t look too good on you, rich boy.”

Langa exhaled sharply through his nose. He should’ve known Reki was smarter than he looked.

But, he ignored the sarcasm. “You won’t get far by picking pockets at events like these. You’ll get caught eventually, and what then? Have you thought about the consequences?”

Reki snorted. “Please, I’m quick on my feet. If anyone’s getting caught, it’s not me.”

Langa arched his brow. “Really? Because I just caught you.”

Reki opened his mouth, closed it, then scowled. “That was an exception.”

Langa gave him a long, unimpressed look before shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re boring,” Reki shot back. “What are you even doing out here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be inside and talking about... I don’t know, property taxes or something?”

“I was getting fresh air.”

“You sure? You sound like someone who just finished a very painful conversation about property taxes.”

Langa glared. Reki grinned.

Then, just as Langa was about to sigh and let this ridiculous conversation end, something clicked in his mind.

Wait.

His hand went to his pocket.

It was empty.

Reki, watching the realisation dawn on his face, had the audacity to burst out laughing.

“Oh, no way ,” he wheezed, hands on his knees. “ You ? You, the moral high ground, the upstanding citizen — got pickpocketed ?”

Langa’s eye twitched. He patted his other pocket. Also empty.

Reki wiped a fake tear from his eye. “That’s rich. Well, maybe not anymore. I think I just found my new favourite moment in life.”

Langa inhaled sharply, schooling his expression into something eerily calm. “Hey.”

Reki took a step back with a catty smirk. “Mr Hasegawa.”

“Give it back.”

Reki grinned, bouncing on his heels like he was thoroughly enjoying himself. “Now, see, this is wealth redistribution. Hope you’re as fast as you look!”

And with that, he unexpectedly hoisted himself back to the ground with no issue and booked it. Despite the fact that Reki was most likely messing with him, well he hoped, Langa had no choice but to run after him.

He wasn’t quite as agile as Reki, but thankfully he was just as quick.

Chapter Text

The two of them raced into the dead of night across the road. What was it with this boy and dragging Langa out in public underneath the moon?

His shoes were not made for this. The cobblestones were uneven beneath his feet, and yet Reki moved effortlessly ahead of him, weaving between alleys, vaulting over crates like this was routine.

Hell, it probably was.

Langa grit his teeth and pushed forward.

"You can’t be serious—" Reki yelped as he glanced over his shoulder, only to find Langa much closer than anticipated. "You’re actually keeping up?!"

Langa didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he lunged forward, fingers just barely grazing the edge of Reki’s coat—

Reki twisted at the last second, ducking under Langa’s arm with an infuriating ease. Langa barely had time to recover before Reki caught his wrist mid-motion and yanked him forward.

They collided.

Hard.

They staggered, Reki’s back hitting the brick wall of the nearest building, and somehow, Langa did not let go.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Their breaths mingled in the cold air, ragged from the chase. Langa felt the rhythm of Reki’s chest rise and fall beneath his own. His pulse thundered in his ears.

“…Are all aristocrats so fast?” Reki murmured, voice lower than before, something unreadable in his eyes.

Langa swallowed. He hadn’t realised how golden they were up close.

He cleared his throat, straightening his posture but not pulling away. He didn’t even bother to ask for his wallet, rather just shoved his hand in Reki’s pocket. Why did he have so many pockets?

Reki hummed, tilting his head, and pulled Langa’s wallet from a pouch tied around the back of his belt. “Want this?”

He lifted the wallet between two fingers, as if offering it.

Langa reached for it—

Wrong move .

Reki lifted his arm above his head (which, now that he thought about it, was totally pointless considering Langa’s height). Langa scowled at him and finally took the wallet from Reki’s grip.

“Careful,” Reki whispered, his voice barely more than air. “Wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea…”

Langa’s grip on Reki’s coat tightened. The wrong idea? What was he on about?

Reki sighed, and then leaned against the wall, Langa still trapping him. “Well, if I can’t have your money, why don’t you do something for me?” he asked with a smirk.

Langa didn’t like where this was going.

Reki definitely noticed the sudden panic behind Langa’s eyes, because he started laughing. “Relax! What, you think I’d ask you to take me home and kiss me after all this? Hell no!”

Langa stiffened, not entirely sure if the flush creeping up his neck was from frustration or something far more embarrassing. He glared at Reki, but the boy was too busy laughing at his expense to care.

“I just need a favour, yeah? Not your money, not your… well, whatever that thought was.”.

Langa did not dignify that with a response.

Instead, he crossed his arms, stepping back just enough to give Reki some space but not enough to let him escape again. “What do you want?”

Reki grinned. “Ah, so you do know how to talk. Thought you were one of those brooding noble types — y’know, lurking around parties like some sad romantic hero.”

Langa blinked. “I do not brood.”

Reki gave him a look. “You so do.”

Langa definitely was not having this conversation.

Reki sighed dramatically, tilting his head back against the wall. “Anyway. Favour. I need a way inside that fancy place. I have something to take care of.” He jerked his chin toward the grand estate Langa had just walked out of. “You are an aristocrat, aren’t you? Shouldn’t be too hard.”

Langa narrowed his eyes. “You want me to help you break into Shindo’s party?”

“‘Break into’ is such a strong phrase. I prefer casual, uninvited attendance.”

Langa crossed his arms. “Absolutely not.”

Reki groaned. “Oh, come on . What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You could be arrested.”

“Well, obviously I’ll be careful.”

“I’m serious,” Langa said, his tone firm. “This isn’t a game. You can’t just waltz into a high-society party without serious consequences.”

Reki, unfazed by the gravity of Langa’s warning, casually adjusted his jacket. “Look, I’m not planning to go in and start a riot. Just need to slip inside, do what I need to do, and leave before anyone notices. No harm, no foul.”

Langa let out a frustrated breath, shifting on his feet. There was something about the way Reki said it — so casual, so sure — that made Langa hesitate. The idea of doing something reckless, something spontaneous, appealed to him, even if it terrified him all at once.

“Now you’re crazy,” Langa muttered, though his voice lacked the venom it usually held when he was dealing with people who frustrated him. Instead, it was more resigned.

Reki’s smirk returned, sharp and almost knowing. “You’re still thinking about it, huh? You’re way more interesting than I thought. Kinda makes me think you’ve done your share of sneaking around too.”

Langa flushed at the implication but kept his expression neutral. “I don’t sneak around,” he said stiffly, though his heart was suddenly beating a little faster, not from fear but something else. Something deeper.

Reki eyed him, his grin widening. “Uh-huh, sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

There was a pause — an odd silence that settled between them, thick with the kind of tension only two people who were absolutely not supposed to be getting along could create. Langa’s fingers twitched, and he instinctively stepped closer. He couldn’t help it. Something about Reki had his thoughts scattered.

Before Langa could stop himself, he found himself saying, “What’s so important to you that you’d risk getting caught?”

Reki’s grin faltered for just a second, enough to make Langa’s stomach twist. But it quickly returned, albeit with less bravado.

“It’s nothing you need to know about,” Reki said simply, his tone oddly quiet now. “Can’t really explain it, but it’s important.”

Langa’s instinct told him not to press further. Something about Reki’s voice, so uncharacteristically serious, made him second-guess his initial judgment.

“So, what’s it going to be, Mr Hasegawa?” Reki’s voice was back to its usual teasing lilt, though it was softer now, almost coaxing. “You gonna help me out or what?”

Langa hesitated. The warmth of the night air wrapped around him, and for a brief, fleeting moment, he wanted to do it. To step outside the rigid boundaries his father had set for him. To feel alive for once, instead of trapped inside a carefully constructed world. But that was dangerous.

But... then again, maybe it was time to stop being so careful.

“I’m not doing this because you asked me, understand?” Langa said finally, his voice cold again, more guarded. “I’m doing this so you’ll leave me alone.”

Reki’s grin returned in full force. “That’s all I need to hear.”

Without another word, Langa grabbed his wrist again, more gently this time, pulling him toward the estate with a swift, sure motion.

The two of them walked briskly in an awkward silence, but Langa could feel that Reki’s steps were much more bouncy than his own.

As they neared the estate, Langa’s heart raced. Not from the thrill, but from the bizarre sense of tension hanging between him and Reki. His mind kept wandering back to that brief moment when Reki’s usual cocky grin faltered, replaced by something more earnest, something Langa couldn’t quite decipher.

They slipped into the shadows just as the front door swung open for a new wave of guests, Langa ducking into a narrow gap in the stone wall to avoid being seen. His fingers gripped Reki’s wrist tighter than necessary, a subconscious reaction to the anxiety creeping up on him.

“You good?” Reki whispered, tilting his head to glance at him. The light from inside the party flickered in his eyes, and for a brief second, Langa saw something vulnerable in his expression — something fleeting, like a crack in a mask.

Langa didn’t respond at first. His focus was on the door. He felt the blood rushing in his ears.

“Just stay close,” Langa muttered. “You’re on your own after we get in.”

Reki shot him a grin, one that seemed almost too confident for the situation. “No problem, Mr Hasegawa. You’ve got my back, I’ve got yours.”

“Don’t call me that,” Langa said, a tad more defensively than he intended.

Reki snickered and his voice lowered to a complete whisper. “What do I call you then?”

“Langa.”

“Aren’t you going to ask for my name?”

Langa rolled his eyes. “What is it then?”

“Reki.”

Langa didn’t know if he could trust him, but at this point, he wasn’t sure what he could trust about any of this.

He led Reki through the door, slipping past the crowd unnoticed. He didn’t know how he’d pulled it off. Maybe it was the way no one was paying attention to a pair of young men sneaking through the fringes of the crowd. Either way, they were in.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Reki slipped away from Langa’s side like a shadow melting into the night. Langa stood frozen in the grand hallway, trying to blend into the background. There were whispers around him, the sharp scent of perfume mingling with the clink of glasses and soft laughter. The elegance of the room was suffocating, like the kind of world Langa was born into but never quite belonged to.

Langa glanced around the opulent space, the sudden realisation hit him that he hadn’t actually thought about what he was supposed to do while Reki made whatever moves he needed to make. He wasn’t really here for the party.

The longer he stayed, the more he noticed how much he wanted to leave once more. He hated to admit it, but he somehow enjoyed relentlessly chasing Reki down the streets more than whatever this was. It was just too much — the over the top conversations, the gossipy laughter, the tension in the air. He didn’t want to risk drawing attention to himself. So, he leaned against the nearest wall, adjusting his collar, trying to look like he belonged.

It wasn’t long before Langa’s peripheral vision caught sight of Reki again, slipping quietly into a side door, the faintest shadow of movement in the crowd. Langa’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t expected Reki to disappear so soon, and he definitely hadn’t expected the knot in his chest to grow so tight.

Still, he lingered, watching Reki’s retreating figure disappear into the unknown.

An hour passed.

Langa found himself pacing at the edges of the room, awkwardly dodging the attention of a few well-dressed guests. His mind raced. Not just about Reki, but the strange sense of purpose he felt in this space, this world that felt so different from the one he’d known.

“Where the hell have you been?” A painfully familiar voice said, cutting through Langa’s train of thought. His father stood there with Miss Duran, who honestly looked sympathetic towards Langa.

“I was speaking to a business manager outside,” he lied. “What do you want?”

His father raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to press further in front of Miss Duran. The look he gave Langa was sharp, the kind that suggested the young man had done something wrong — a feeling Langa was all too familiar with.

“Just checking on my son’s progress,” his father said coolly, giving Miss Duran a polite nod. “You’ve spent enough time lurking around like some ghost, Langa. People are starting to ask about you.”

Langa resisted the urge to scowl, shifting uncomfortably. Of course, his father would make sure to remind him of his place in the hierarchy of things, just like always. “I’m fine,” he said flatly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I’m not here to entertain anyone.”

His father’s gaze hardened, his lips thinning in that disapproving way Langa had come to expect. “You never learn, do you?”

Langa couldn’t help the bitterness that crawled up his throat. He glanced at Miss Duran, her eyes softening in a way that almost made him feel like someone had peeled back the layers of his life, exposing a tenderness he couldn’t quite name.

But before he could shoot back, a wave of gasps fell throughout the crowd. Langa stood on his toes to catch a glimpse of the commotion, when he saw the worst possible outcome — Mr Shindo had Reki by the collar, roughly pulling him through the sea of people.

“Fuck you, let go of me!” Reki snapped, making an unsuccessful attempt to push Shindo off of him. 

Langa’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t expected this. Not this. Not in front of everyone, not like this.

His first instinct was to make a scene, to step in and take Reki’s side, but then reality hit him: he couldn’t be seen as involved. Not here, not now. The guests were already whispering behind their hands, eyes flickering over to the altercation with growing interest.

Langa’s gaze locked with his father’s, who was watching the scene unfold with a cold, calculating expression. He could see the glimmer of disappointment there, but also something darker — perhaps a reminder of the order that his father believed needed to be maintained, regardless of the cost. So Langa stepped forward.

“What are you doing?” his father hissed, voice low but heavy with command. “Get back here.”

Langa paused, his mind racing. His father’s expectations always carried the weight of consequence. But this was different. He could feel the tension in the air. It was his decision now.

“Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted me to do, father? Step in when criminals are making a commotion?”

Without looking at his father again, Langa turned on his heel, gliding through the crowd with ease. He couldn’t afford to stumble now. Not when the eyes of the entire room were on him.

He approached the center of the fray, where Reki was still struggling in Shindo’s grasp, his face a mix of frustration and defiance, and blood dripping from his nose.

Langa cleared his throat, forcing his voice to carry through the tension in the air. “Mr Shindo,” he said, as if the scene were just another inconvenience. “This is unnecessary.”

Shindo turned to him slowly, an eyebrow arching in mock surprise. “Oh? What exactly are you trying to achieve here?”

Langa straightened. “I don’t believe this person is deserving of such humiliation. If you would allow me to handle it, I will ensure it’s resolved swiftly.”

Reki’s head jerked up at Langa’s words, a flicker of recognition passing over his face. But Langa quickly turned his attention back to Shindo before Reki could say anything.

Shindo chuckled, a low sound that felt more like a growl. “And why, exactly, should I listen to you, Hasegawa? What is your interest in this gutter rat? I caught him going through my government files.”

Langa felt the anger rising, but he forced it back down. His voice was even, unaffected. “I find the mistreatment of those less fortunate to be distasteful. Besides,” he added with a pointed glance, “we wouldn’t want to risk causing a scene, would we? It’s in everyone’s best interest to handle this quietly.”

Reki’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say a word. He seemed to understand what Langa was trying to do, and for once, he didn’t seem too eager to speak out.

Shindo’s grip tightened for a moment, as if he were deciding whether to throw Langa’s offer aside and drag this out further. The crowd was watching, whispering, waiting for some kind of spectacle. But after a long moment, Shindo finally released Reki, shoving him into Langa’s arms.

Chapter Text

Langa barely managed to steady himself as Reki stumbled into him, his weight knocking them both slightly off balance. The warmth of Reki’s body against his was jarring, contrasting the cold tension in the room. He could feel the way Reki’s breath hitched — whether from the pain or the surprise, Langa wasn’t sure.

Shindo dusted off his sleeves like the mere act of touching Reki had soiled him. “Since you’re so eager to take responsibility, Hasegawa, I’ll expect you to clean up this mess. Quietly.” His smirk was all teeth, his voice laced with condescension. “Wouldn’t want to trouble your dear father with it.”

Langa didn’t rise to the bait. He held Reki upright, gripping his coat just tightly enough to keep him from swaying, before finally murmuring, “Come with me.” It wasn’t a request.

Reki didn’t resist as Langa steered him toward the nearest exit, but he also didn’t make things easy. His steps were heavy, uneven, and Langa suspected he was worse off than he was letting on. Still, Reki had enough energy to tilt his head up toward Langa, grinning despite the blood smeared across his lips.

“Didn’t take you for the chivalrous type,” Reki muttered, voice hoarse but playful. “Guess I’m wrong about a lot of things.”

Langa ignored him, focusing on weaving through the murmuring guests. He could still feel his father’s gaze drilling into his back, and hear the whispers floating around them like ghosts. Hasegawa’s son, interfering? Why does he care? Did you see the way he—

It didn’t matter.

Once they were past the main hall, Langa found an empty corridor and pulled Reki inside, finally letting go of him with an exasperated sigh. “You’re bleeding.”

“Wow, really? I was gonna start a new fashion trend, actually.” Reki swayed slightly but caught himself, wiping the blood from under his nose with the back of his hand. “So? You here to scold me or patch me up?”

Langa stared at him, jaw clenched. He should be furious. Reki had done something reckless. Stupid, even. And yet, the only thing Langa could focus on was the way Reki still smiled through it all, like he hadn’t just been thrown around and humiliated in front of a room full of nobles.

He sighed, loosening his collar. “Both.”

He pulled a small handkerchief from his pocket and brought it to Reki’s face, when he heard a soft thud on the ground. His notebook had fallen out.

Langa didn’t notice at first. He was too focused on wiping the blood off Reki’s face, which, he quickly realised, was an impossible task considering the boy kept grinning at him like some insufferable street cat that refused to be tamed.

But Reki did notice.

“Wow,” he hummed, stepping back just enough to scoop up the notebook before Langa could react. “What’s this?”

Langa froze.

Reki had already flipped it open. “What kind of— oh?”

Langa watched as the teasing spark in Reki’s expression flickered into something softer. The pages were filled with words — his words, carefully penned in an elegant but slightly rushed script. Some passages were neat and methodical, others erratic, scribbled over with furious scratches of ink, like they’d been written in a moment of emotional weakness. Poetry. Observations. Thoughts that, had Langa been a more foolish man, he might have confessed out loud to someone who deserved to hear them.

Reki turned another page, his eyes scanning the words, his mouth parting slightly. “Damn,” he muttered, and Langa didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

He reached forward, making a grab for the book, but Reki twisted away effortlessly, still staring at the page. His voice was quieter now, as if reading something meant for someone else.

“ I watch because I have no place, in this Eden, I am a shadow. The fruit is bitter, and the contusions cleave irreversibly. My name is not written in the loam, nor in the breath of the wind on the cedars. But I am no son of Abel, no architect of fragrant offerings. ”

Reki let out a low whistle. “Hase- I mean, Langa, ” He finally glanced up at Langa, and for once, he wasn’t smirking. “This is, uh, kind of amazing?”

Langa hated how warm his face felt. “You’re bleeding on it.”

Reki blinked, then looked down at the book. Sure enough, a faint smudge of red stained the edge of the page. “Shit. Sorry.” He actually looked sheepish, rubbing the back of his head. “Guess I got carried away.”

Langa snatched the book from his hands before he could make it worse, quickly tucking it away in his coat. “You shouldn’t have read that.”

Reki tilted his head, studying him. Then, after a beat, he grinned again — this time, not in his usual cheeky way, but something almost appreciative. “Didn’t take you for a poet.”

Langa adjusted his cuffs, looking away. “And I didn’t take you for someone who could read.”

Reki gasped in mock offense, clutching his chest. “I can read, thank you very much. I read a lot, actually . I can catch all kinds of literary talent.”

Langa rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite to it.

Then, Langa glanced at him, the warm glow of the lanterns catching on the smudge of dried blood beneath his nose. “Why were you looking through Shindo’s files?”

Reki stretched his arms behind his head. “Dunno. Just felt like it.”

Langa didn’t believe that for a second.

The night air was heavy with the scent of wine and crushed lavender. Behind them, the sound of music and laughter was already beginning to swallow up the brief disturbance.

“Do you make a habit of stealing important documents just for fun?” Langa asked.

Reki gave a lopsided grin. “What, you think I’m some master thief? Come on, give me some credit. If I was that good, I wouldn’t have gotten caught.”

Langa sighed. He was doing it again — avoiding the question, turning everything into a joke. It was a habit, Langa realised, one Reki had no intention of breaking.

Somewhere in the main room, a man was shouting something about debts and honor, but it didn’t concern them.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Langa tried again.

Reki grinned wider, as if he were amused by the persistence. “What do you think?”

Langa thought that Reki was going to get himself killed. He thought that whatever game Reki was playing, it wasn’t one he was meant to win. But he didn’t say any of that.

Instead, he said, “Your nose is still bleeding. You’re lucky Shindo didn’t have you executed or something. People are killed for stealing teapots these days, let alone official government files.”

Reki wiped at it half-heartedly. “So it goes.”

Langa frowned. Like it was just another trivial thing, like a bloody nose, like a bruised rib, like a life that could be snuffed out in an instant and no one would blink.

He let the words settle between them, tasting the weight of them on his tongue. Reki had no reason to be careless, and yet, he was. He had to be. That was the only way someone like him survived, wasn’t it? If he stopped to think about it, he might realise how dangerous it all was. How easy it would be to disappear. How quickly the world moved on.

Langa shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “You’re lucky I stepped in.”

Reki made a face, sticking his tongue out like a petulant child. “I had it handled.”

“You were getting your face bashed in.”

Reki’s grin stretched wider, too wide, almost like he wanted Langa to believe it. “Yeah, well, I’ve had worse.”

Langa stared at him for a long moment. Then, as if deciding the conversation wasn’t worth the effort, Reki turned and started walking out of the building. Langa, undeterred, went after him.

Reki looked back at Langa every few steps, his pace quickening with each glance. Was this guy trying to run away again?

Langa tried again. “You never answered my question.”

“Did I not?” Reki replied, taking wider steps now.

“Why were you looking through the files?”

Reki stretched, letting out an exaggerated yawn. “You ever wonder why the sky’s blue?”

Langa narrowed his eyes. “Are you serious?”

Reki wiggled his fingers. “Who knows? Maybe it’s not actually blue. Maybe it’s just the way our eyes trick us.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an answer to something.”

Langa sighed, pressing his fingers against his temple. This was going nowhere. Again.

They turned a corner. The lights from the party had faded into the background, distant now, like a different world entirely. Here, it was quieter. Just the two of them. The cool night air, the scent of damp stone.

“Do you always do that?” Langa asked.

Reki glanced at him, head tilting. “Do what?”

“Avoid things.”

Reki let out a low whistle. “Didn’t realise this was an interrogation.”

Langa didn’t laugh. He just kept walking, his expression unreadable. Reki rocked on his heels, staring at him for a moment before shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Sometimes,” Reki admitted. “Guess it depends on the thing.”

Langa didn’t know what to do with that answer. Maybe it was the most honest one he was going to get.

They walked a little longer. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Somewhere, a woman laughed, high and sweet. Somewhere, someone was probably being dragged out of a back alley, forgotten before sunrise.

Reki exhaled, stretching his arms above his head. “Welp, I should probably head back before I make a bigger mess of things. Don’t follow me please.”

Langa hesitated.

Then, against his better judgment, he said, “Don’t be stupid, I’ll walk with you.”

Reki blinked at him, surprised, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he just smirked, bumping their shoulders together. “Damn, Langa, didn’t know you cared so much.”

Langa rolled his eyes, but he didn’t push him away.

Eventually the two of them had to part that night. As if Langa’s reputation wasn’t damaged enough, it wasn’t like he could bring the boy home. Even if he didn’t mind. The hotel room felt vaguely empty, despite the fact that it was filled with high end furniture. There didn’t seem to be a spirit. Langa sat at the edge of the bed, undoing the first few buttons on his shirt, staring at nothing in particular. The room was too quiet. Too still. The kind of quiet that made his thoughts louder, made them claw at the inside of his skull like rats in the walls.

He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head back. The chandelier overhead cast fractured light across the ceiling, opulent and cold, like everything else in this place. He should be grateful. He should be content. It was a nice room. A safe room. But for some reason, it just felt like another cage.

The echo of Reki’s voice still clung to his thoughts. Didn’t know you cared so much.

Langa ran a hand through his hair.

Maybe he shouldn’t have walked with him. Maybe he shouldn’t have stepped in at all. Maybe he should’ve let Shindo beat him bloody, let the night swallow him whole. Wouldn’t that have been easier? Wouldn’t that have been the rational thing to do?

But he had stepped in. He had walked with him. And now there was something restless sitting in his chest, something that wouldn’t settle.

He glanced toward the window. The city stretched beyond the glass, golden lanterns dotting the streets below like fallen stars. Somewhere out there, Reki was moving through the night, probably with another grin plastered on his face like nothing had happened.

Langa scoffed softly, shaking his head. It was maddening .

He stood, moving toward the small writing desk in the corner of the room. The notebook was still tucked inside his coat, pages smudged with Reki’s blood. He set it down, hesitating before flipping it open.

His eyes trailed over the words. The ones Reki had read. The ones he hadn’t.

I am a shadow. The fruit is bitter.

He turned the page.

My name is not written in the loam.

Another page.

No architect of fragrant offerings.

Langa swallowed. Then, before he could think better of it, he grabbed his pen.

The ink bled into the paper. A single line.

But neither am I Cain.

He stared at it for a long moment. Then, with a sharp exhale, he snapped the book shut.

Maybe he should sleep. Maybe he should let the weight of the night crush him into the mattress, suffocate whatever thoughts still threatened to crawl out.

But even as he lay back against the pillows, even as he closed his eyes, all he could see was red.

And a boy who never answered his questions.

Then a knock at the door snapped him out of his thoughts. It wasn’t the polite kind. It was firm. Expectant.

Langa’s stomach twisted. He already knew who it was before he opened the door.

Shindo stood there, still dressed in his evening attire, though his coat was slightly askew. His expression was all sharp edges, his mouth curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a sneer.

“Well, well,” Shindo drawled, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “I was hoping to have this conversation in a more appropriate setting, but since you were so eager to make a fool of yourself earlier, I figured I’d save us both the trouble.”

Langa closed the door behind him, schooling his expression into something neutral. He didn’t respond. Just watched.

Shindo hummed, pacing the room slowly, like a wolf circling its prey. He glanced at the writing desk, his gaze lingering on the notebook before he turned back to Langa with something dangerously amused in his eyes.

“You made quite the impression tonight, Langa. Thought you were smarter than that.”

Langa crossed his arms. “If you’re here to scold me, you’re wasting your breath.”

“Oh, this isn’t a scolding.” Shindo stopped in front of him, tilting his head slightly. “This is a warning.”

Langa didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. “A warning?”

Shindo smiled, slow and deliberate. “You seem to be under the impression that your name protects you. That your father’s influence means something to me. It doesn’t.”

Langa said nothing.

Shindo leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something lower, something private. “Oliver will be on my side, one way or another. And if you—” he flicked his hand dismissively, “—or your little street pet think otherwise, you’re in for a rude awakening.”

Langa clenched his jaw.

Shindo’s gaze flickered, watching him carefully. Then, as if he were simply adjusting his cufflinks, he added, “If I have to step over your battered corpse to get what I want, so be it.”

Langa’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “That sounds awfully desperate of you.”

Shindo chuckled. “Desperate? No, Langa. I’m thorough. ”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Then, Shindo straightened, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in his sleeve. “You should get some rest. I imagine you’ll be needing it soon.”

He made his way to the door, pausing just as he opened it. “Oh, and do tell your little stray to never step into my premises again. I’d hate to see him end up in a ditch. Would be such a waste.”

The door shut behind him. Shindo’s last comment felt rather strange.

Langa let out a slow breath. He stood there for a moment, unmoving, staring at the floor as if it might give him an answer.

It didn’t.

It never did.

Chapter Text

Reki’s mornings always started the same. Albeit, in a different place. He would awaken by the sound of carriages being pulled and some vendor yelling about his sales. It was nothing grand. Nothing special. But for some strange reason, Reki found himself looking forward to what was to come today. He didn’t quite know why, but something had switched; a change of heart, perhaps.

Maybe it was because, for the first time in a long time, someone had stepped in for him.

Not in the way Joe did, with gritted teeth and a heavy sigh, like it was just another inevitable part of looking out for him. Not in the way his mother used to, with quiet exhaustion behind her eyes, like she was afraid to hope for better.

Langa had done it with a kind of cold precision. A calculated move.

Reki should have been annoyed by that. Should have found it condescending, the way Langa acted as if it were just another part of the night’s decorum. But he hadn’t. Because beneath all of that, there was something else — something Reki wasn’t used to seeing.

Concern.

And that was a dangerous thing.

Reki stretched, joints popping as he sat up from his makeshift bedding in the storage room of a tailor’s shop. He’d worked there for a bit, once. Long enough for the owner to let him sleep here when he needed to. However the new manager didn’t seem to be all that fond of him. He was a man slightly older than Reki, with flowing hair a striking beauty to him that honestly intimidated Reki. People called him Cherry.

He wasn’t sure where the guy came from or why a man like him had decided to manage a humble tailor’s shop, but he was certain of one thing: Cherry did not like him.

Which was exactly why it was no surprise when, before Reki could even shake the sleep from his limbs, the door to the storage room swung open.

“You’ve overstayed your welcome,” Cherry said smoothly, stepping into the room with an air of elegance. “I’d say I’m surprised, but I’m not.”

Reki groaned, rubbing his face. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

Cherry’s lips curled in something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a sneer. “It’s noon.”

Reki blinked, glancing at the sliver of light peeking through the boarded-up window. “Huh.”

Cherry exhaled sharply, folding his arms. “Are you quite done loitering?”

“I wasn’t loitering. I was sleeping. Very different things.”

Cherry’s expression remained unimpressed. “Do I need to remind you that this is a tailor’s shop? Not a boarding house for strays.”

Reki grinned, standing and stretching with a dramatic sigh. “Well, you know, if you’re gonna be so uptight about it, maybe you should charge rent. Business opportunity, right?”

Cherry’s gaze flickered over him, assessing. “And what would you pay with? Foolishness? Dirt?”

“Wow,” Reki deadpanned, placing a hand over his chest. “You wound me, sir.”

“Not yet,” Cherry muttered, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “Now, unless you’d like to contribute something of actual value, I suggest you leave.”

Reki rolled his eyes but grabbed his things. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Don’t let the door hit me on the way out.”

Cherry watched him for a moment, something unreadable behind his sharp eyes. Then, as Reki passed him, he spoke again.

“I heard about last night.”

Reki stilled. “How?”

“People talk. It’s rather suspicious, you know, seeing you and a higher up getting on like that.” Cherry tilted his head, studying him like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. 

Reki grinned, though it felt a little forced. “We don’t ‘get on’.” he said, quoting with his fingers. “He just happened to help me out.”

Cherry didn’t smile. “Help you out? If I took everyone’s word for it I’d say you were up to something else.”

Reki’s fingers twitched around the strap of his bag. “The fuck does that mean? Do people think we’re hooking up or something? Gross.”

Cherry leaned against the doorframe, his gaze cutting through him. “You should be more careful, Reki.”

Reki swallowed. “You worried about me, boss?”

Cherry exhaled through his nose. “I’m worried about this shop having to clean blood stains out of the cobblestone.”

Reki laughed, but it felt hollow. “Well, I’ll try to keep my blood to myself. Say hi to Joe for me”

Cherry hummed, his expression unreadable. “See that you do.”

Reki took that as his cue to leave.

The streets outside were loud, alive, bursting with movement. Wheels clattering over uneven stone, laughter cutting through the air like a well-honed knife. But for once, Reki wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

He walked fast, hands shoved into his pockets, trying to shake off the weight of Cherry’s words. He hated when people looked at him like that. Like they were seeing something he couldn’t.

The whole situation was getting too much attention. That wasn’t good.

As he rounded a corner, something changed.

The air, maybe.

The way people subtly stepped aside, like water parting for something sharp and dangerous.

Reki slowed.

And then, he saw him.

A man standing beneath the shadow of an old clock tower, coat crisp and dark, hands folded neatly behind his back. He wasn’t particularly tall, nor particularly broad, but there was something about him that made Reki’s stomach twist instinctively.

The man wasn’t looking at him.

Not directly.

But Reki knew.

Knew in the way one knows when they are being watched by something far too patient.

“Reki Kyan,” the man finally said, his voice calm, deliberate.

Reki forced himself to scoff. “Damn. Didn’t know I was famous.”

The man wasn’t amused. “Not famous. Just expected.”

Reki tensed, gripping the strap of his bag. “Who the hell are you?”

The man took a single step forward, unhurried. “My name is Tadashi Kikuchi.”

Reki’s heart kicked against his ribs. He knew that name. Everyone did.

Secretary. Right-hand man. A shadow in the wake of Ainosuke Shindo.

Reki knew how the world worked. He knew that power was rarely held by the men who stood in the light, but rather by the ones who whispered in the dark.

Tadashi was one of those whispers.

“Great,” Reki said, trying to keep his voice steady. “So, what? You’re here to finish what your boss started?”

Tadashi tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. Then, he gestured towards the narrow alleyway beside him. “Walk with me.”

Reki didn’t move.

Tadashi sighed, his patience measured. “If I intended to harm you, we wouldn’t be speaking.”

That didn’t make Reki feel any better.

But he glanced around, noting the eyes on him — people who would pretend they saw nothing if things went sideways.

With a deep breath, he took a step forward. Then another.

And followed Tadashi into the alley.

The silence was heavy for a moment and Reki began to suspect he was about to have his organs harvested or something, when Tadashi finally spoke. “You were involved in an incident last night.”

“Incident?” Reki played dumb, scratching at the back of his head. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. I get into a lot of incidents .”

A pause. Then, carefully, Tadashi said, “With Governor Shindo.”

Ah.

Reki shrugged, forcing a grin. “Oh, that? You mean the part where I got my ass handed to me in front of a bunch of fancy people? Yeah, real fun time. What about it?”

Tadashi took a step forward. Reki fought the urge to move back.

“You were caught attempting to steal official documents,” Tadashi said, voice calm, even. “But you weren’t detained. You were rescued.” His head tilted slightly, like he was examining something under a magnifying glass. “That’s interesting.”

Reki scoffed, pushing off the wall. “I’m an interesting guy.”

For the first time, Tadashi’s lips curled into something almost resembling a smile. But there was nothing warm about it.

“I’d watch yourself, if I were you,” he said. “Governor Shindo isn’t known for his generosity. And neither are his men.”

Reki frowned. “His men?”

Tadashi took another step closer, lowering his voice. “You’re meddling in affairs far beyond your understanding, Kyan. Whatever it is you think you’re looking for, you won’t like what you find.”

Reki felt his pulse spike.

This guy knew. He knew what Reki had been after last night. Maybe he even knew more than Reki himself.

For a split second, he considered asking. Considered demanding answers.

But something about the way the man watched him, calm, assessing, completely certain, made Reki realize something.

He wasn’t the one holding the cards here.

So instead, Reki forced himself to grin. “Wow. You really do sound like one of those scary noble guys.”

Tadashi didn’t react. “You’ve been quite busy,” he said, voice even.

Reki forced himself to smirk. “Yeah, well. I like to keep people on their toes.”

Tadashi’s gaze was steady, assessing. “Governor Shindo doesn’t take kindly to thieves.”

Reki swallowed. “Oh, I know. Your boss made that real clear.”

Tadashi didn’t react. “And yet, here you are, still walking free.”

Reki forced a grin. “Guess I’m lucky.”

Tadashi didn’t smile back. “Or someone has an interest in you.”

Reki’s stomach twisted again, but he kept up the act. “Man, you guys really love making things sound creepy.”

Tadashi ignored the comment. “Shindo does not appreciate unfinished business. I assume you understand what that means.”

The lightheartedness drained from Reki’s expression. He knew what that meant. Of course he did.

But then Tadashi did something unexpected.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He held it out.

Reki hesitated before taking it. He unfolded it, eyes scanning over the neat, precise writing inside. His fingers twitched as he processed the words.

A meeting. Tonight.

Alone.

Reki glanced back up. “Seriously? An invitation? I’m flattered.”

Tadashi still didn’t smile. “Be there.”

And then, without another word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd as if he had never been there at all.

Reki let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He looked down at the note again.

His luck had officially run out.

Reki spent the next ten minutes pacing.

Then another five muttering to himself about how stupid this all was.

Then another three pretending he wasn’t actually considering what he was considering.

And then, eventually, he did the worst thing he could possibly do:

He went looking for Langa.

Not because he needed help. Absolutely not. He could handle this. He always did. But, well, maybe just this once, just for convenience’s sake, he could use someone who was, y'know, good at not dying.

The problem was, Reki had no idea where Langa was actually staying. Rich people had a thousand options in this city, and all of them were too fancy for Reki to just walk into. So he did what he always did: he relied on instinct, luck, and a complete disregard for common sense.

After an hour of loitering, eavesdropping, and sweet-talking some lady who clearly didn’t believe he was an "official courier," he managed to track Langa down to a hotel so absurdly high-class it made his teeth ache.

Reki stood outside the lobby, staring up at the building. The chandeliers inside looked like they cost more than his entire life.

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “This is so stupid.”

And yet, somehow, he found himself walking through the entrance anyway.

The lady at the desk gave him a once-over, eyebrows raising slightly. Yeah, okay, maybe he looked a little out of place. A little bruised. A little like someone who should be thrown out immediately.

“Can I help you?” she asked, already sounding skeptical.

Reki leaned against the counter, flashing what he hoped was a winning grin. “Yeah. Looking for a guy. Real rich, real cold, real blue. Can’t miss him.”

The lady blinked. “Sir, we don’t just give out guest information.”

Reki sighed. “Of course not. That would be too easy.”

He tapped his fingers against the desk, glancing around. There was no way Langa would come down here on his own. He was probably up in some stupidly expensive suite, drinking stupidly expensive tea, being stupidly unaware of how much Reki was struggling right now.

With no other choice, Reki turned back to the receptionist.

“Okay, new plan,” he said. “You don’t tell me where he is, but you do let me go up there and find him myself.”

The woman’s face remained blank.

Reki sighed, already bracing for rejection —

And then, just his luck, a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Why are you here?”

Reki turned, grinning before he could stop himself.

Langa was standing there, his shirt slightly undone like he hadn't left the building at all that day. His hair was a mess. His eyes, half-lidded with sleep, blinked at Reki in vague confusion. He then raised an eyebrow. “Reki?”

Reki, whose stomach had just done something really fucking annoying, crossed his arms and looked away. “Wow. Took you long enough.”

Langa just stared at him, unimpressed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got that from the whole ‘rich people only’ vibe,” Reki said, waving a hand. “But, uh, I figured we should probably talk.”

“About?”

Reki hesitated. He wasn’t exactly great at this part. The part where he asked for help.

So, instead, he did what he always did, he deflected.

“Well,” he said, grinning. “Mostly, I just wanted to see if your room is as ridiculous as I think it is.”

Langa sighed. “You’re not subtle.”

“Never claimed to be.”

Langa studied him for a moment. Then, with an exasperated shake of his head, he turned on his heel.

“Come on,” he muttered, already walking toward the stairs.

Reki let out a breath.

Somehow, against all odds, step one of his terrible plan had actually worked.

Eventually, after an unnecessarily high climb they reached the obnoxious door that opened to Langa’s room. Reki didn’t even bother looking around, knowing he would completely humble himself either way.

Reki clicked his tongue. “Okay, first of all, before you say anything, I don’t need help.”

Langa continued staring. “...Alright.”

Reki shifted. “I could probably handle this myself.”

Langa hummed. “I’m sure.”

Reki sighed sharply, rubbing at his temples. “Fuck you, okay? I just —” He exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to look at Langa again. “I have a meeting. Well, ah, I was invited to one. With Shindo. Tonight.”

Langa’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened. “Wait, what?”

Reki waved a hand vaguely. “Yeah, yeah, his guy tracked me down, gave me this fancy-ass note, whatever. Point is, I could handle it myself —”

“You can’t.”

Reki scowled. “Hey, I could .”

Langa just kept looking at him.

Reki groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Look, I just — If you’ve got, like, any tricks up your sleeve for dealing with this kind of noble bullshit, maybe I’d be willing to hear you out. But only because I —” He paused, then forced the words out. “— I guess you’re not completely useless in a crisis.”

Langa’s lips twitched.

Reki pointed at him. “Don’t fucking say anything.”

Langa raised his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Reki dropped onto the couch like his body had given up. “I hate this.”

Langa shut the door behind him, watching him for a moment before sighing. “You should’ve come sooner.”

Reki muttered something unintelligible into the cushion.

Langa took a seat across from him, fingers steepled together. “Tell me everything.”

Reki let out one more suffering groan before forcing himself upright.

“Fine.”

Chapter Text

“Fine,” Reki said again, more to himself than anything.

Langa was watching him. He always watched too closely, too intently, like he was seeing through the words rather than listening to them. It was annoying.

Reki leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and let the words stumble out. “Shindo’s guy —Tadashi, or whatever — found me earlier. Gave me a letter. Basically, I’m supposed to show up alone tonight, and I don’t think it’s for a friendly chat.”

Langa nodded, slow and considering. He didn’t look nearly as concerned as Reki thought he should be.

Reki scowled. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, that’s great,” Reki said dryly, throwing up his hands. “Glad to know my impending doom is just another Tuesday for you.”

Langa tilted his head slightly. “You’re important now.”

Reki blinked. “Uh. What?”

“To them,” Langa clarified. “You’re important to them. Otherwise, they wouldn’t bother.”

Reki huffed, crossing his arms. “Not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.”

Langa didn’t respond, just kept watching him with that same unreadable expression. The candlelight flickered, casting soft shadows over his face. His shirt was still loose at the collar, and Reki was —

Reki was looking at the damn bookshelf.

Because of course this guy had a bookshelf. An entire wall of thick, heavy books bound in leather, like he actually read them and didn’t just have them for decoration. Some looked expensive. Some looked old. And one, tucked neatly between two grander volumes, looked… out of place.

Reki narrowed his eyes, standing. “Hold up.”

Langa blinked as Reki crossed the room, dragging a finger along the spines before stopping at the worn, faded book. He pulled it free, flipping it open. The pages were thin, the text small and cramped, but even without reading the words, he could tell what it was.

A Bible.

Reki let out a low whistle. “Didn’t take you for the religious type.”

Langa was silent for a long moment. “I’m not really.”

Reki flipped a few pages. “Then why do you have this? Explains that writing of yours.”

Langa’s eyes didn’t leave him. “Why do you care?”

Reki snorted, closing the book with a soft thump . “I don’t. Just surprised, that’s all.”

He set it back on the shelf, but his fingers lingered against the cover for a second longer than they should have.

He wasn’t religious, either. Not at all.

But his mother was.

And when he was younger, when the world wasn’t as sharp, as cruel, he used to sit beside her and listen when she read from it. He’d never really understood the words. But he remembered the sound of her voice. The warmth in it. The way, just for a moment, things felt like they made sense.

She used to tell him that prayer was a way of speaking to something greater. That sometimes, when there was nothing else to do, no way to fight, no way to fix things, all you could do was speak.

Reki ran his tongue over his teeth.

Maybe that was what he was doing now. Talking to something greater than himself. Or maybe just something richer, colder, and a little too good-looking for his own damn good.

He shook the thought away.

“Anyway,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Back to the whole ‘I might die tonight’ situation.”

Langa exhaled softly, leaning back in his chair. “You won’t.”

Reki raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You got some divine prophecy or something?”

“No.” Langa met his gaze. “I just won’t let it happen.”

Reki stared at him for a beat longer than he should have. Then, with a sharp exhale, he flopped back onto the couch.

“God, you’re dramatic.”

Langa didn’t argue.

Reki sprawled out on the couch like he was trying to melt into it, dragging a hand down his face. “Alright, genius. What’s the plan?”

Langa leaned back in his chair, gaze steady. “We go over what we know first.”

Reki groaned. “Boooring.”

Langa ignored him. “Shindo is dangerous. He wouldn’t call you to a private meeting unless he had a reason. And if he had a reason to actually kill you, you’d already be dead.”

Reki blinked. “Comforting.”

Langa continued like he hadn’t spoken. “That means he wants something.”

Reki sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Probably wants to know what I was trying to steal last night.”

Langa hummed. “And?”

“And what?”

Langa tilted his head slightly. “Were you?”

Reki sat up, frowning. “What? Stealing? No shit.”

Langa’s lips pressed together, like he was trying to hold back a sigh. “I mean, do you know what exactly you were stealing?”

Reki clicked his tongue. Thought about it.

“…Okay, rude,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “I know some things. Just not, uh, specifics.”

Langa just stared at him.

Reki scowled. “Listen, I wasn’t trying to get involved in all this, alright? I just… I heard some rumours. About other government officials. And documents.”

Langa nodded, waiting.

Reki huffed, running a hand through his hair. “There’s this whole thing with Shindo. People go missing around him. Papers disappear. Quick business cover-ups, that kinda crap.” He glanced at Langa. “You seriously never heard any of this?”

Langa didn’t answer right away. But something flickered across his expression, just for a moment.

Reki narrowed his eyes. “You have heard something.”

Langa’s fingers tapped lightly against the armrest. “It doesn’t matter.”

Reki scoffed. “Sure. Totally. Because I’m the only one with problems, right?”

Langa gave him a long, unreadable look before changing the subject entirely. “We need to plan your approach.”

Reki groaned dramatically, dropping back onto the couch. “We’ve been talking forever.”

Langa checked his watch. “Twenty minutes.”

“Forever.”

Langa sighed. “You should at least look like you know what you’re doing.”

Reki scoffed. “And how do you propose we do that?”

Langa studied him for a moment, then stood.

Reki sat up warily. “Uh. What’re you doing?”

Langa didn’t answer. He just stepped over to a small cabinet and pulled it open, rifling through its contents.

Reki watched as he pulled out a crisp, expensive-looking coat and tossed it onto the couch beside him. He  frowned. “What’s this?”

“You’re wearing it.”

Reki looked between Langa and the coat. Then burst out laughing. “There’s no way in hell I’m wearing your clothes.”

Langa’s lips twitched. “You want to look like you belong, don’t you?”

Reki snorted. “Dude. I could never pass as one of you rich guys.”

Langa tilted his head. “Then don’t. Just look like you’re worth something.”

Reki blinked.

Something about the way he said it made his throat go a little dry.

He looked away quickly, picking up the coat and holding it out in front of him like it was diseased. “Ugh. Is this really necessary?”

Langa rolled his eyes.

Reki sighed, standing up and reluctantly shrugging it on. “I swear to god, if I start feeling entitled —”

“You’ll be fine.”

Reki adjusted the sleeves that were slightly too long, shifting uncomfortably. “How do I look?”

Langa stepped closer. Reki didn’t realise just how close until Langa reached out, adjusting the collar with a casual ease that sent a weird jolt up his spine.

Reki swallowed. Langa’s hands were cold. Which was a really annoying thing to notice.

Langa leaned back slightly, considering. Then, with a small nod, “Better.”

Reki cleared his throat and immediately stepped back, yanking at the sleeves. “Yeah, well. If this doesn’t work, I’m blaming you.”

Langa just hummed, still watching him.

Reki ignored it.

They left the hotel soon after, stepping into the damp evening air. The sky had been heavy all afternoon, the kind of grey that made the world feel smaller, quieter. Reki pulled the borrowed coat tighter around himself, scowling when Langa shot him an amused glance.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

Langa didn’t deny it.

They wove through the streets, their destination unspoken. Reki wasn’t sure where they were even going — he was supposed to be preparing for his meeting, but it wasn’t like they were making any progress with that. Langa had some vague idea of scouting the area, but if Reki was being honest, he was just following his lead at this point.

And then, as if on cue, the rain started.

It wasn’t a light drizzle or a slow build. It was sudden and relentless, pelting down like the sky had just given up. Reki cursed as cold water slipped past his collar, already soaking through his shirt.

Langa, of course, didn’t even flinch.

Reki shot him a glare. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

Langa blinked at him. “I control the weather now?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Reki muttered. “You already act like you know everything.”

Langa ignored that, instead nodding towards a nearby building — a small, warm-lit shop tucked between larger storefronts. The sign above the door read Secondhand Books .

Reki hesitated, but the rain was getting worse, and frankly, he didn’t want to drown in Langa’s fancy coat. So, with a huff, he followed him inside.

The bell above the door chimed softly. The scent of old paper and ink curled through the air, familiar and comforting. Shelves stretched high, packed tight with books of all sizes, their spines worn and faded with time.

Reki let out a low whistle. “Well, this is fancy.”

Langa, already scanning the shelves, murmured, “It’s not.”

Reki raised an eyebrow. “Says the guy who probably owns half the stuff in here.”

Langa hummed noncommittally.

Reki shook his head, stepping deeper into the shop. His fingers drifted over the bindings, brushing against embossed letters and peeling covers. He wasn’t a huge book guy, not really, but —

His hand stilled.

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde .

A first edition.

Reki inhaled sharply. He lifted it carefully, running his thumb along the edge. “No way.”

Langa appeared beside him, gaze flicking to the title. His expression shifted, just barely, but enough. “You’ve read it?”

Reki scoffed. “Duh. Everyone’s read it.”

Langa’s lips quirked. “Not everyone.”

Reki turned the book over in his hands, avoiding his gaze. “Well. I have.”

He could feel Langa watching him. He always watched too closely.

Reki cleared his throat. “It’s kinda funny, actually. The whole duality thing. How Jekyll thought he could separate the good and evil in himself, but…” He hesitated.

Langa’s voice was quiet. “But?”

Reki frowned down at the book. “But the ‘evil’ was always part of him. He just gave it a name.”

Langa didn’t respond right away. The rain tapped against the windows, soft and steady.

Then — “You think people are just pretending to be good?”

Reki blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”

Langa tilted his head slightly. “You said the evil was always part of him. Do you think it’s like that for everyone?”

Reki faltered. He hadn’t really meant it like that.

“…I don’t know,” he admitted, running his fingers along the book’s spine. “I mean, people aren’t one thing, right? No one’s all good or all bad.” He huffed a small laugh. “Honestly, I think Jekyll just wanted an excuse.”

Langa studied him for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Maybe.”

Reki opened his mouth to say something else, but just then, the shopkeeper coughed politely from behind the counter. They both turned. The man gave them a knowing look, gesturing toward the book in Reki’s hands. “That one’s not cheap.”

Reki winced.

Langa, without hesitation, pulled out a few neatly folded bills and set them on the counter.

Reki stared. “Dude.”

Langa just picked up the book and handed it back to him. “You were going to steal it, weren’t you?”

Reki scoffed, shoving it against Langa’s chest. “I was not. Why don't you keep it, rich boy . I don’t need your charity.”

Langa clasped the book, along with Reki’s damn hands, and pushed him right back. “Then think of it as a loan.”

Reki eyed him warily. “…Loan?”

Langa nodded. “You read it to me. Then return it.”

Reki blinked, thrown off. “You… you can read, right?”

Langa exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “It’s more interesting when someone else does it.”

Reki huffed. “That’s the laziest excuse I’ve ever heard.”

Langa didn’t argue.

Reki looked down at the book, then back up at him.

And, despite himself — despite the fact that he shouldn’t — he found himself smiling. Just a little.

“...Okay. But I better not catch you dog - earing the pages.”

Langa’s lips curved slightly. “Deal.”

Outside, the rain kept falling.

But of course that moment couldn’t last forever. Before they knew it the sun was setting, and it was time for Reki to face his inevitable doom. Well, to put it in perspective at least. 

The two of them had come to the ultimate decision that Langa would wait outside the building while Reki got pestered or who knows what, then if Reki needed to make a necessary run for it Langa would be right on his tail.

The walk to the meeting place was too quiet. The rain had faded to a fine mist, leaving the streets slick and shining under the dim glow of street lamps.

Reki had never been good with silence. It made him antsy, made his thoughts run places they shouldn’t. And Langa? Langa didn’t mind silence. He sat in it, comfortable, like he was waiting for something.

Reki scoffed under his breath. “You’re awfully calm for someone about to witness a murder.”

Langa rolled his eyes at him. “You’re not going to die.”

Reki shot him a look. “Oh? The all-knowing Langa has foreseen my survival?”

Langa didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached out so casually like it was nothing, and brushed his thumb against Reki’s cheek.

Reki froze .

“You had ink on your face,” Langa murmured, like that explained anything.

Reki’s brain completely short-circuited. He barely registered his own voice when he stammered, “Dude, warn me before you do stuff like that!”

Langa just blinked at him. “Why?”

Reki threw his hands up. “Because! Because people don’t just do that!”

Langa tilted his head slightly, and damn it, why did he have to look so unbothered? “You do,” he pointed out.

Reki opened his mouth to argue, then promptly shut it.

…Okay, fine. He was kind of a touchy person. But that was different! When he touched people, it was friendly. It was casual. It wasn’t —

Reki swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away. “Whatever,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Just… keep your weird hands to yourself.”

Langa didn’t reply, but Reki felt his gaze linger.

The tension sat between them, heavy and annoying, all the way to the meeting place.

By the time they reached the designated building, Reki was back to scowling. The entrance loomed ahead, its dark wooden doors practically swallowing the dim light around it. Langa came to a stop beside him, expression unreadable.

“This is where I leave you,” he said simply.

Reki huffed, shaking out his hands. “Yeah, yeah. You remember the plan, right?”

Langa nodded.

Reki took a breath. His fingers twitched at his sides.

Then Langa spoke again.

“Reki.”

Reki blinked up at him. “…What?”

Langa was quiet for a beat too long. Then, softly, “Be careful.”

Something tightened in Reki’s chest.

He ignored it.

Instead, with a grin he definitely didn’t feel, he clapped Langa’s shoulder and said, “Relax, man. I’ve got this.”

Langa didn’t look convinced.

But he let him go.

Reki turned away and stepped inside.

Chapter Text

The door shut behind him with a dull thud , and just like that, the outside world — Langa — was gone.

He was alone.

Reki exhaled slowly, forcing himself to move forward. The corridor was dimly lit, lined with polished oak paneling that absorbed more light than it reflected. The flickering glow of a chandelier barely reached the long, intricate carpet beneath his feet. It was eerily quiet, save for the distant murmur of voices behind closed doors.

“You’re late.”

Reki startled, head snapping to the side.

Tadashi stood there, half-shadowed in the dim light, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes carried something close to amusement.

Reki scowled. “Didn’t know we were keeping track.”

Tadashi tilted his head slightly, then, without another word, turned on his heel.

Reki hesitated before following. He kept his shoulders square, his steps measured. It wasn’t his first time bullshitting confidence, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be his last.

They walked in silence down a narrow hallway, the murmur of voices growing louder. Then Tadashi stopped in front of a set of ornate double doors and knocked once.

A voice from within, smooth, rich, and unbearably smug said, “Enter.”

Reki clenched his jaw.

Tadashi pushed the doors open.

The room beyond was warm, lavish, the kind of place meant to make its guests feel excruciatingly small. A fireplace crackled in the corner, casting shifting shadows over the deep mahogany furniture. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes that probably cost more than Reki made in a year. And in the center of it all, seated comfortably in an armchair like a king on his throne, was Adam, so the streets called him. Something about being the first man of the manor.

Governor Shindo.

Reki felt something crawl up his spine.

Adam smiled. “Ah. Reki Kyan . ”

Reki forced a grin, even as his pulse kicked up. “Wow. First-name basis already? I’m flattered.”

Adam chuckled. “Come. Sit.”

Reki didn’t move. “I’m good standing.”

Adam just hummed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “You know, I have been thinking a lot about your little… mishap the other night. Quite interesting now that I pay it some attention.”

Reki swallowed. “Yeah? Sorry to disappoint, but it wasn’t that interesting. You roughed me up a little and that was that. I —” Reki knew not to explain himself into the dark corner.

Adam’s smile sharpened. “Oh, but I think it was .”

Something about the way he said it made Reki’s stomach turn.

He forced himself to keep his stance relaxed, to meet Adam’s gaze without flinching. “So,” he said, tone light, “what exactly am I here for?”

Adam leaned forward slightly, setting his drink aside. “I wanted to understand you , Reki.”

Reki bristled. “I’m not that complicated.”

Adam chuckled. “No. But you are… entertaining.”

Tadashi, still standing by the door, shifted slightly.

Reki caught it.

The air in the room was different now. Tighter .

Adam’s smile didn’t falter, but something behind it changed.

“You see,” he continued, “people like you… they don’t simply walk away from men like me.”

Reki’s blood ran cold.

Then Adam stood.

And the real game began.

“I would like to know exactly why you were rummaging through my private information like some kind of trash.” Adam snapped, his tone significantly more angry than before, which made Reki nervous.

“Well why wouldn’t I?” Reki started, his voice trembling slightly, “You’re a riveting guy. And with that ego I’d guess you agree with me.”

Adam’s lips curled. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Reki.”

Reki forced a smirk. “Didn’t think you needed flattery, Governor. Thought you got enough of that from the people too scared to call you out on your bullshit.”

Tadashi shifted slightly by the door. Adam, however, didn’t move.

Reki’s heartbeat slammed against his ribs. His fingers twitched at his sides, but he willed himself to keep his stance loose, his grin sharp.

Adam exhaled, slow, measured. “You know, I truly admire your spirit. It’s… charming.”

Reki scoffed. “Yeah? You gonna put that in a letter of recommendation for me?”

Adam chuckled, but it was empty. A hollow sound, like a knife dragging across porcelain. “You mistake my amusement for patience, Reki.”

The air in the room shifted once again.

Reki swallowed, but his voice didn’t waver. “And you mistake my nerves for fear.” That, however, was a lie. Reki was in fact scared shitless but he wouldn't dare show it.

Adam’s gaze sharpened, assessing him.

Reki took a careful breath, then, slowly, deliberately, took a step forward.

“You wanna know why I was looking through your records?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “Why I’m so curious about you?”

Adam didn’t answer.

Reki leaned in just slightly, his voice lowering. “Because it’s funny, isn’t it? How people disappear around you? How they vanish without a trace?”

Adam’s expression remained unreadable.

Reki’s pulse pounded, but he kept going. “And those reports — the ones you so graciously keep hidden — they tell an interesting story.” He let the words settle, let the weight of them sink into the room. “Almost like a pattern.”

Adam remained silent, but Reki could feel it now. A crack in the facade.

Reki’s breath was unsteady, but his mind was razor-sharp. “I think,” he murmured, watching Adam carefully, “I have every right to suspect that —”

Something slammed.

Before Reki could finish, before the words could leave his tongue, Adam moved.

Faster than Reki had anticipated, faster than anyone should be.

A hand grabbed his wrist hard, and Reki barely had time to react before he was yanked forward.

The world tilted. The breath in his lungs vanished. And suddenly, he wasn’t speaking anymore.

Adam’s grip was iron. Cold, unrelenting. Reki’s shoulder wrenched as he was dragged forward, inches from Adam’s face.

He could feel Adam’s breath in a way that sent a sharp jolt of dread down his spine.

“You’re quite bold,” Adam murmured, voice low, almost gentle. “But boldness, my dear boy, often leads to recklessness.”

Reki gritted his teeth. “Get off me.”

Adam smiled. “Oh, Reki.” His grip tightened. “You didn’t think you could just walk away from another conversation with me, did you?”

Reki’s heart slammed against his ribs. His pulse pounded in his ears.

I am not dying here.

With all the force he could muster, he jerked his wrist. Adam’s fingers didn’t loosen, but Reki used the movement to his advantage, then without hesitation, stomped down hard on Adam’s foot.

Adam hissed, just barely. His grip faltered.

Reki didn’t wait.

He ripped free and ran.

His boots slammed against the polished floor, sending echoes through the hall as he barrelled through the doors, nearly knocking over a stunned Tadashi.

“Stop him! ”

Reki didn’t look back. Didn’t think. He could sense Adam's security preparing to come after him, but he was already moving, already pushing forward through the entrance, down the stone steps, straight into the street where —

“Langa!”

Langa barely had time to react before Reki grabbed his wrist and tugged him forward.

Footsteps thundered behind them.

Langa didn’t question it. He just ran.

Their breath hitched, their legs burned, but they kept going. Through alleyways, past carriages, shoving through the crowded streets as shouts rang out behind them.

Reki’s mind raced. Where? Where do we go?!

Langa’s grip tightened around his wrist. “Here!”

And suddenly, Langa swerved, pulling them into a narrow side street, barely wide enough for them to fit. This felt uncomfortably familiar.

The sound of their pursuers faded slightly.

Reki gasped for breath. He could still hear something. Footsteps, distant shouts, but they weren’t right behind them anymore.

Still, they couldn’t stop.

So they kept running.

After winding the streets for what felt like forever, they reached a large building that seemed to have no life to it and went behind. The abandoned church — had not been touched since 1832. When Reki was young it always freaked him out, as though the saints trapped there could peek into his brain and punish him for what he was thinking, even if it was totally pointless.

“Fuck… I think we lost them.” Reki huffed, doubling over to catch his breath.

Langa hadn’t said anything, didn’t even ask why Reki had bolted out of there. Just stared at him.

Reki looked up to meet Langa’s eyes. They looked different. They were glazed over and considerably dark, but still somehow still pierced through Reki’s heart in the pale moonlight. His breath was still ragged, his pulse hammering in his ears, but something about the way Langa was looking at him, watching him, made it impossible to focus on anything else.

He swallowed. “What?”

Langa didn’t answer. Just kept staring, chest rising and falling too evenly for someone who’d just been sprinting for his life.

Reki shifted, suddenly hyper-aware of how little space there was between them.

His skin still buzzed with adrenaline, his mind still whirred with what had just happened. But all of it, every thought, seemed to shrink under Langa’s gaze.

“You —” Reki started, voice hoarse. He didn’t even know what he was going to say. Didn’t get the chance to finish, because Langa took a step forward.

Reki’s back hit the cold stone wall behind him.

Langa didn’t stop.

Reki sucked in a sharp breath. “Dude, what —”

And then Langa kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was pure and unrelenting, the kind that stole the air from Reki’s lungs.

Reki’s brain barely had time to catch up before instinct took over, before he was throwing his arms around Langa’s neck and scrunching his hair in his hands, forcing him closer and kissing back just as hard.

He didn’t care that they were still out in the open, that they had just barely escaped death, that every rational part of him was screaming that this was insane .

All he cared about was this.

The warmth of Langa’s hands, gripping his waist like he’d let go of everything else before he let go of this. The way he tasted like breathless laughter and something Reki couldn’t quite name. The way he tilted his head just slightly, deepening the kiss like he was making a goddamn point.

Reki pulled back just enough to gasp in air, only for Langa to chase after him, closing the gap between them again.

Reki’s fingers were shaking where they clutched Langa.

Langa’s eyes — still dark, still burning — searched his. And then, soft, quiet and entirely too obvious of what he was implying.

“Why don’t you read me some of that book I bought you?” he said slowly.

Reki stared at him.

Langa just looked at him, gaze heavy.

And it hit Reki all at once.

His stomach flipped. Heat crawled up his neck.

“You absolute fucking — ”

Langa just smirked.

The journey back was a blur.

The streets were quieter now, the chaos from earlier fading into the city’s usual nighttime murmur. Their footsteps echoed in the dimly lit alleyways, their pace brisk but not frantic. Still on edge, but no longer running for their lives.

Reki’s pulse hadn’t fully settled. It was half from the chase, half from, well. Everything else .

He shot a glare at Langa, who, unlike him, looked perfectly unbothered. “You could at least pretend to be shaken up, you know.”

Langa glanced at him, one brow barely twitching. “I’m not, though.”

Reki scoffed. “Of course you’re not.”

The worst part? Langa wasn’t lying. He moved with that same calm certainty he always did, like he was in control, like nothing could touch him.

It should’ve been annoying. Should’ve had Reki gritting his teeth.

But instead Reki kept replaying the last few minutes in his head. The way Langa had looked at him. The way he had grabbed him, like letting go had never been an option.

Reki exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I hate you.”

Langa hummed. “After what just happened, I find that extremely hard to believe.”

Reki glared at him again but didn’t argue.

The walk stretched on, the city winding past them in flickering gaslights and stone streets. It should’ve been suffocating.

But with Langa beside him, his shoulder just barely brushing Reki’s every few steps — it felt different.

The adrenaline hadn’t quite faded. Like something else had taken its place.

Reki swallowed. “So, uh. Your place?” 

Langa nodded.

Reki nodded back. Neither of them said anything else.

By the time they reached Langa’s hotel, Reki was almost convinced he’d imagined everything. Almost.

Because the second the door shut behind them, Langa turned to him, eyes steady, lips barely curled again.

Reki cleared his throat, looking away quickly. “So! Hah, that book you got me —”

He dug into his coat pocket, pulling out the worn copy of Jekyll and Hyde. His fingers were a little shaky when he flipped it open, but he ignored that.

Langa sat down on the couch, watching him expectantly, and pulled Reki down next to him, their knees brushing against one another.

Reki inhaled. Focus. Focus.

They stared at each other for a moment before he found the first page and started to read aloud.

“ Mr Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance …”

He made it through a paragraph. Maybe two.

Then he noticed Langa shifting, leaning forward slightly, gaze impossibly heavy.

Reki tried to keep reading.

Tried to ignore the way Langa’s fingers were hardly an inch away from Reki’s leg.

Tried to ignore the way he was watching him now, not the book, not the words, but him .

He swallowed.

Langa’s voice was low, teasing. “You’re nervous.”

Reki scoffed. “No, I’m reading .”

Langa reached forward, fingers slipping under Reki’s chin, tilting it up just slightly.

Reki’s breath caught.

Langa leaned in. Close enough that Reki could feel the warmth of his breath, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips.

Deliberate.

“Then keep going,” Langa murmured, clearly trying to suppress a smile.

And Reki — well.

He tried.

Chapter Text

Reki really, really tried.

His eyes darted back to the page, brain scrambling to pick up where he left off. His lips parted, and he almost managed to form a word, but then Langa shifted again, his knee pressing just slightly more against Reki’s.

Reki cleared his throat. Focus. Focus.

“He was — uh, he was austere with himself —” He swallowed, glancing at the book as though it could physically save him from this situation. “Drank, um… gin when he was alone —”

Langa made a quiet, amused sound.

Reki’s grip on the book tightened. “Dude, stop that . ”

“I’m not doing anything.”

Langa was absolutely doing something.

Reki could feel his gaze, heavy and unwavering, like it was pressing into him. Could feel the warmth radiating off of him, the way he wasn’t moving away.

Reki forced himself to look at the page. Words. Just read the words.

“The —” He barely got through a syllable before Langa’s fingers brushed against his wrist. Light. Barely there.

Reki flinched, jerking away. “ Hey. ”

Langa blinked at him, all innocent. “What?”

“You know what.”

Langa tilted his head, that smirk still playing at his lips. “You’re distracted.”

Reki gaped at him. “You think?”

Langa chuckled, leaning back slightly. His fingers, the ones that had just ghosted over Reki’s skin, trailed up to his own collar, lazily tugging it loose. The top button of his shirt came undone.

Reki’s brain completely stopped functioning.

His mouth felt dry. His pulse was a hammer in his ears.

Langa watched him. Smirking. Smug.

Reki slammed the book shut. “Okay, that’s it.”

Langa’s brows lifted. “Oh?”

“You suck . ”

Langa’s lips barely twitched. “Do I?”

Reki threw the book onto the table, whirling to face him fully. “I know exactly what you’re doing.”

Langa raised a brow. “And?”

“And you’re an asshole . ”

Langa was closer now. Reki barely noticed when it happened, but the space between them had all but disappeared.

Langa tilted his head, eyes dark and knowing. “So stop me.”

Reki’s breath caught.

Langa didn’t move. Didn’t reach for him. Didn’t say anything else. He just waited .

Reki could still feel the warmth of his fingers against his skin. Still hear his voice, soft and teasing, curling in the air between them.

He could shove him away. Could laugh it off. Could do anything else.

But he didn’t.

He grabbed Langa’s collar, pulled him forward, and crashed their mouths together instead.

Langa made a sound against his lips — something pleased, something triumphant — and suddenly they weren’t sitting anymore, weren’t talking, weren’t thinking.

Langa’s hands found his waist, pulling him forward, pulling him closer, and Reki let himself be pulled.

Somewhere in the blur of heat and movement, the book slid from the table and hit the floor with a quiet thud .

Neither of them noticed.

Reki’s jacket had barely been discarded when Langa’s hands moved slowly, deliberately, and everywhere.

They skimmed over Reki’s waist first, fingers pressing into the fabric of his shirt, curling just enough to make him shiver. They trailed upward, one palm flattening against the small of Reki’s back, the other pressing against his ribs, thumb tracing the curve just under his chest.

Reki sucked in a breath.

Langa swallowed it, mouth pressing harder against his, like he wanted to devour the sound before it could even escape.

Reki barely registered the way they moved, the way Langa was guiding him backward, until he let himself fall, Langa landing half on top of him.

He felt weightless for half a second before Langa’s hands anchored him, fingers spreading over his hips, pressing down just enough to keep him in place.

Reki gasped, hands flying to Langa’s shoulders, gripping the fabric of his half-unbuttoned shirt like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

And Langa — Langa, that bastard — tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his hands moving again, exploring .

One slid up Reki’s back, fingertips ghosting along the dips of his spine, pressing into every notch. The other trailed down this time, skimming just under the hem of Reki’s shirt, a warm, searing brush against bare skin.

Reki tensed, breath catching in his throat.

Langa pulled back slightly, barely enough for their noses to brush, and exhaled against his lips. “You’re shaking.”

Reki’s fingers tightened around Langa’s collar. “I —”

But he didn’t get to finish, because Langa moved again, pressing closer, lips trailing from his mouth to his jaw, then lower, skimming down his neck in slow, unbearably precise movements.

Reki clenched his eyes shut, his breath completely wrecked, hands twisting in Langa’s shirt, somewhere between pulling him closer and shoving him away before his brain fully stopped working.

Langa’s lips found the hollow of his throat, lingering and pressing.

Reki’s thoughts went static.

His hands tore at Langa’s shirt, pushing it off his shoulders with a level of impatience that made Langa chuckle, soft and breathy against his skin.

Then Langa leaned up again, eyes dark, lips parted, looking at him like he was the only thing in the world.

Reki swallowed hard, his pulse roaring in his ears.

And then, voice low, unmistakably teasing, “Why don’t you read me some more?”

Reki gaped at him. “You…”

Langa smirked.

Reki shoved him, but Langa just laughed, catching his wrists, pinning them to his side with infuriating ease.

Reki’s heart nearly punched its way out of his chest.

Langa’s hands found his again, threading their fingers together, lips brushing against Reki’s ear, soft, quiet and entirely unfair.

“Or we could do something else.”

Reki’s stomach flipped.

His hands twitched in Langa’s grip.

His voice barely worked when he muttered, “You absolute —”

But whatever insult he was about to hurl got swallowed whole when Langa kissed him again, harder this time.

“Stay,” Langa whispered against him.

Reki didn’t need to think about it.

He was already staying.

The room was quiet now, save for the faint rustling of sheets and the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing.

Reki was warm. Too warm. But moving wasn’t an option. Not with the way Langa was still on him, half-draped over his side, an arm lazily looped around his waist like he had no intention of letting go.

Reki huffed, shifting slightly, and immediately regretted it.

His whole body ached.

Langa must have noticed his flinch because he made a sound, somewhat of a half laugh, before murmuring, “Are you okay?”

Reki turned his head just enough to glare at him. “You should be asking yourself that.”

Langa blinked. “Why?”

Reki smirked, voice dry. “Because you did all the work.”

Langa stared at him, expression unreadable, before a slow, knowing smile curved his lips.

Reki immediately regretted everything.

“Are you saying —” Langa started.

“ Don’t. ”

Langa’s smile widened. “That I —”

“Langa, I swear to God . ”

Langa grinned. "That I was... good at it, perchance?"

Reki groaned, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “For the millionth time tonight, I actually hate you.”

Langa hummed, unconvinced.

A beat of silence passed between them before Langa exhaled, shifting onto his side to face Reki fully. His fingers brushed lightly over Reki’s knuckles and pressed them to his lips, tracing the shape of them absently, like he was committing the feeling to memory.

“You look different like this,” Langa murmured.

Reki cracked an eye open. “Like what?”

Langa’s lips curled faintly. “Like you’re glowing.”

Reki sputtered. “Oh my God . ”

Langa laughed, soft and breathy, his fingers still tracing absent lines against Reki’s skin.

Reki let his hands fall away from his face, staring at him flatly. “Do you actually say this stuff on purpose?”

Langa just shrugged, unconcerned. “Usually, but I don't need to this time. It’s true.”

Reki hated how easily that made his stomach twist.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. What had just happened, what this was , hung between them, a quiet, lingering thing neither of them seemed ready to touch.

Then, finally, Reki inhaled, staring at the ceiling.

“So, uh.” He licked his lips, suddenly feeling way too self-conscious. “Was that just…?”

Langa didn’t answer right away.

Reki’s chest tightened.

Then, Langa squeezed his hand, just slightly.

“…I don’t know.”

His voice was soft, almost hesitant. Not something Reki was used to hearing from him.

Reki swallowed, nodding once. “Yeah.”

Neither of them moved.

Reki could still feel the way Langa’s fingers had curled around his, still feel the warmth of his body pressed close.

But for the first time that night, the silence wasn’t comfortable.

Langa’s thumb brushed over Reki’s knuckles again, slower this time. He was still watching him intently, like he was searching for something in the set of Reki’s jaw, the downturn of his eyes, the nervous way he chewed at the inside of his cheek.

“I just…” Langa’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean for it to feel like nothing.”

Reki’s throat tightened. He opened his mouth, closed it again. “I didn’t say it felt like nothing.”

“But you’re afraid it was,” Langa said, eyes still on him, voice too calm. “Or that I’ll treat it like it was.”

Reki’s chest ached. Not in the good way. Not the way it had minutes ago.

“…It’d be easier if you just made another shitty poetry comment right now.”

Langa actually smiled at that. It was small, lopsided. A bit tired. “Really?”

“No,” Reki said too fast.

Langa leaned in anyway, mouth a breath from Reki’s ear. “You taste like something I’ve been dreaming about longer than I’ve been brave enough to admit.”

Reki shoved his face into the pillow with a muffled groan. “You’re disgusting.”

Langa laughed, the sound vibrating softly against Reki’s side as he curled in closer. “You asked for it.”

“I did not ask for that . ” But Reki didn’t push him away.

In fact, he turned his head again, meeting Langa’s eyes. His face was annoyingly perfect up close, all soft angles and moonlight shadows, his hair a mess and lips still parted like he’d been waiting for Reki to say something else.

Reki didn’t.

He just leaned up and kissed him.

It wasn’t urgent. Not like before. Warm and grounding, like they were both clinging to something that hadn’t quite been said aloud.

Langa kissed back with the kind of focus that made Reki’s brain go foggy all over again. His hand slid up from Reki’s waist to cup the side of his face, thumb resting just beneath his cheekbone.

It was so stupidly tender .

Reki let out a breath against Langa’s mouth, fingers threading into the back of his hair. “You kiss like a guy who just fell in love.”

Langa pulled back half a second, eyes dazed, as he admitted without thinking, “I might’ve.”

Reki blinked.

Dead silence.

Then, finally, after a long pause and an even longer stare, Reki said:

“…You really couldn’t just stick with the horny poetry.”

Langa smiled and then turned on his back to stare at the ceiling, his grin fading.

Reki's eyes burned into Langa's annoyingly proportionate profile. His voice was barely a murmur. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” Langa asked, not looking away.

Reki raised an eyebrow. “The brooding thing.”

Langa smirked, although it was gentler now. “Maybe I’m just thinking.”

Reki narrowed his eyes, but rested his head beside Langa’s shoulder. “Dangerous habit.”

The awkward thing between them from before was still there, sure, but now it felt like it was tangled with something warmer. Something neither of them really knew how to name.

Then a knock at the door.

Both of them froze.

Reki yanked himself away from Langa’s arm with a gasp, eyes wide. “Oh my god.”

“Who the hell —” Langa started, voice thick.

“Langa? Open up. It’s your father.”

Reki’s soul left his body.

In a panic, he scrambled off the bed, tripping over the blanket, slamming straight to the floor with a thud so loud it could’ve been a gunshot. He cursed under his breath, wincing, scrambling to grab his shirt and any article of clothing that looked less like he’d been thoroughly ruined hardly ten minutes ago.

Langa just blinked down at him, still flushed, and for some godforsaken reason, still smiling.

“Don’t answer it,” Reki whispered harshly, crawling like a man possessed toward the far side of the room. “Tell him you died.”

Another knock. More insistent this time.

“Langa. I heard something. Are you alright?”

Reki froze mid-crawl.

Langa stood, hair a mess, and completely unbothered.

“Reki,” he said quietly, like a traitor, “you’re on the floor.”

“ No shit! ”

And the knocking continued.

Langa padded across the room like they hadn’t just been doing things no one’s father should ever be within five miles of, and Reki genuinely considered launching himself out the window.

“Don’t you dare open that door,” Reki hissed from behind the couch, still in nothing but boxers and one sock. “I’m begging you. I’m not emotionally prepared for your father to see me here out of all people, particularly when we're postcoital!”

Langa turned slightly, and snorted. “You said coital? ”

“Focus, Romeo!” He couldn’t find a better solution, so he rushed behind the closed curtain right before Langa opened the door.

There stood Oliver, not quite the imposing, dramatic figure Reki had seen before — but still a far cry from the kind of man you want to see while you’re pressed against a window trying to hide your hickey-covered soul.

Oliver didn’t look mad as Langa usually said he did. Or even particularly interested in the questionable state of the room.

His expression was grim. Sharply focused. A wrinkle between his brows and something unreadable shadowing his face.

Langa’s shoulders squared. “What is it?”

Oliver glanced past him briefly. His eyes skimmed the room, caught a glimpse of the shirt draped over the back of a chair and the rumpled sheets behind Langa, but said nothing about any of it.

Finally, he spoke, voice low and clipped. “The Jackal’s claimed another one.”

Langa stilled.

Reki’s heart dropped.

“Where?” Langa asked, tone suddenly a lot colder than before.

Oliver’s jaw tightened. “Just outside the hotel.”

A heavy silence dropped between them, thick and suffocating.

Oliver nodded toward the hallway. “You need to see it.”

Langa swallowed. “Okay. Can I have a minute?”

Oliver didn’t answer but pursed his lips and shut the door.

Langa looked back at Reki who was now grabbing his shirt from the floor. 

“So…” Langa murmured, voice softer now. “That happened.”

Reki was still buttoning his shirt, fumbling a little. “Yeah. That did happen.”

There was a silence that followed, not awkward, but not exactly comfortable either. It felt like they were both trying to hold on to what they’d had a few minutes ago, while the weight of the outside world was already pressing its way in.

Langa looked like he wanted to say something more, like he should say something more. Instead, he just stepped forward and gently reached out, smoothing Reki’s collar like it somehow made this all more real. More solid.

Reki glanced at him, eyes flickering with something between affection and anxiety. “Do I look like a guy who definitely wasn’t just in your bed?”

“You look like a guy who’s about to get murdered by my dad.”

Reki grimaced. “Yeah. Awesome. Perfect.”

Langa’s lips quivered just slightly, but the tension behind his eyes didn’t leave.

“Hey,” Reki said, quieter now. “You okay?”

Langa hesitated. “No.”

And Reki didn’t push. Just nodded, standing a little closer, like proximity might count for something.

But then Oliver knocked sharply again.

Langa sighed through his nose and turned to answer, pausing with his hand on the knob. “You probably shouldn’t be here when I get back.”

Reki flinched, just a little. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “No, of course. I was gonna leave anyway. I mean, you know. Important stuff.”

Langa looked back over his shoulder. “That’s not what I meant.”

Reki stared.

“I meant — if he sees you here, right now , he’ll lose his mind.” His voice dropped. “You know how he thinks of you.”

Reki’s mouth tightened. His stomach sank with it.

“Street rat,” he muttered, like a curse he couldn’t wash off.

“Don’t call yourself that.” Langa said very softly, his eyebrows furrowing. 

“Well, it’s true.”

Langa’s expression fell sorry, but he didn’t push the conversation any further. He turned the doorknob and slipped out of a very slim gap in the door so Oliver wouldn’t catch a glimpse of Reki.

“Ready?” he asked Langa, clipped and cool.

Langa nodded once, but before stepping out, turned back. He looked back at the door for a moment — he could sense Reki staring back at him.

Chapter Text

Everything was wet. The cobblestones glistening with dew, the hotel’s iron gate slick under Langa’s hand as he stepped out behind Oliver.

They didn’t speak, not at first. Oliver moved with purpose, coat sweeping behind him, boots echoing down the alleyway with each clipped step. Langa followed in silence, hands shoved deep into his pockets, breath puffing visibly into the chill.

It was strange how quickly the night had shifted. Moments ago he’d been in Reki’s arms, skin to skin, breathless and dazed. Now the city felt colder than ever.

They turned the corner, toward the service entrance of the hotel. Oliver didn’t look back when he spoke.

“One of the bellboys said he saw it. Neck was slashed. Same pattern.”

Langa’s jaw tensed. “Where?”

“Right here.”

Oliver stopped abruptly, gesturing to a stretch of stone behind the hotel’s loading dock. Crates were stacked neatly against the wall and a broken lamp post was leaning like a snapped bone.

But the space was empty.

No blood. No body. No signs of anything out of place except the silence itself, too heavy, too intentional.

Langa blinked. “…What?”

Oliver’s expression darkened, just slightly. “It’s gone.”

He crouched beside a shallow puddle, running a finger through the muddy water. “They always seem to vanish. In a very short matter of time, too.”

Langa stared at the empty ground, brow furrowed. “But there was a body?”

“Yes.”

Langa’s voice was quieter now. “Identified?”

Oliver rose, dusting his gloves off. “One of Shindo’s men. Authorities said his name was Harry.”

Langa stiffened.

Oliver didn’t seem to notice. “Security. Uniform still intact. Looked like he’d been after someone. His boots were scuffed, coat torn at the back. He was running when the Jackal got him.”

Langa’s throat went dry. Reki.

He didn’t say anything, but he could feel it like a thread tightening in his chest. That man had been chasing them earlier tonight. He remembered the sound of footsteps behind them, the way Reki had grabbed his hand as they ducked down side alleys, unaware of how close danger had actually been.

He hadn’t looked back.

Oliver turned to him now, something unreadable in his expression. “You saw nothing when you came in?”

Langa shook his head. “Nothing.”

Oliver’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, as though weighing his words — and then he just nodded once, slow. “That’s what I figured.”

But Langa knew that look. That tension behind his father’s shoulders, the clipped edge to his voice. He was worried, even if he’d never say it aloud.

“Was it fast?” Langa asked suddenly. “The attack. Did anyone hear anything?”

“No screams. Just blood.”

The words settled like stone in his stomach.

“Keep your wits about you, Langa. Don’t go wandering tonight.”

Langa nodded, still frozen in place. He wasn’t planning on it.

Oliver clapped his shoulder and only then did he let out the breath he’d been holding.

He looked down again at the empty stretch of street. Imagined what might’ve happened. Imagined how close it had come.

Reki could’ve been that body if Langa didn’t choose to accompany him.

Langa needed to see him. Just for a second. Just to know he was still there. Still real. Still alive .

He ran a hand through his hair, turning back toward the direction of the hotel, his chest tight.

“Let’s go. We shouldn’t be here much longer.” Oliver ordered, starting to walk.

Langa followed.

His limbs felt heavy, like the gravity in this part of the city was stronger somehow. He didn’t say anything as they made their way back to the front of the hotel.

Oliver said something else — something about Shindo, about needing to notify someone at the Ministry — but Langa only half-heard it. The ringing in his ears was too loud. He just kept walking.

The hotel doors were still open when they got back, the expectedly pale bellboy inside offering a stiff nod. The lobby was dimmer than before, the night having fully taken hold. A fire crackled weakly in the sitting room to their left.

Oliver stopped just short of the stairwell.

“I’ll be in the lounge. I need to send a wire.”

Langa nodded mutely.

“Don’t stray far.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just disappeared into the next room.

Langa stood still for half a second, the weight of everything sinking deeper into his chest.

And then —

Movement. From the corner of his eye.

He turned.

There, halfway across the lobby, slipping out through the side entrance like a ghost, was Reki.

A bag slung over one shoulder, coat haphazardly pulled on, eyes darting side to side like he knew he didn’t belong here.

And suddenly Langa was moving too.

“Reki,” he hissed, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the quiet.

Reki froze mid-step, shoulders tensing. Slowly, he turned.

Langa caught up to him in three strides, grabbing his arm just before he could disappear into the fog again.

“What are you doing?” Langa asked, breath shallow.

“I’m leaving,” Reki said, voice too calm. “Like you told me to.”

Langa shook his head, words coming faster now. “Not like this.”

Reki raised an eyebrow. “You want me to go out the front door instead? Maybe tip my hat to your father while I’m at it?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Reki’s tone cracked just slightly. “This was fun, but I’m not your problem, Langa.”

Langa’s grip tightened. “That’s not what this is about.”

Reki didn’t answer, but the stiffness in his posture said enough.

And Langa, still reeling from the thought of that body — that almost-body — being someone he cared about, couldn’t let it go.

“The body was one of Shindo’s guards. And it disappeared within a few minutes of when it was found. Just like last time”

“Well, who would have thought,” Reki snapped, but for a second looked mildly perplexed. Like something wasn’t adding up.

“Reki,” Langa shot back. “That body? That guard? He was chasing us, Reki. It could’ve been you.”

Reki flinched.

Langa exhaled hard, trying to steady himself. “You think I could sleep tonight knowing you’re out there? After what we just found?”

“I don’t have a choice.” Reki’s voice cracked properly now, low and raw. “You think I want to sleep in alleyways? That I want to sneak out of places like this so no one sees what kind of mess you let in?”

Langa looked at him like he’d been slapped.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

And then carefully Langa said, “You’re not a mess.”

Reki’s laugh was bitter. “Tell that to your father.”

“I don’t care what he thinks.”

“You do. Your ego just can't afford to.”

Langa’s jaw clenched. “That’s not fair.”

Reki shrugged, trying to pull his arm free. “Nothing about this is.”

Langa didn’t let go.

Instead, he reached out with his other hand, cupping Reki’s cheek just like he had earlier, when things had felt simpler. More like possibility than fallout.

“You’re staying,” he said, quieter now. “Just for tonight.”

“Langa —”

“You can sleep on the bed. Hell, I’ll sleep in the damn hallway, I don’t care. Just… don’t leave. Not now. Not like this.”

Reki didn’t move for a long moment. Didn’t speak.

And then, slowly, he exhaled. Something fragile unraveling from his shoulders.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “One night.”

Langa nodded.

One night. For now.

But already, it was more than either of them had ever allowed themselves to ask for.

The room was dim when they got back.

No words were exchanged as Langa closed the door softly behind them. He paused just long enough to slide the latch into place — quiet but firm, like the decision itself. Reki’s staying.

The lock clicked.

Reki stood awkwardly in the center of the room, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the carpet like it might open up and swallow him. His coat was still half-buttoned, damp from the mist.

“You can use the washroom first,” Langa offered, voice low.

Reki didn’t meet his eyes. Just nodded and slipped into the adjoining room without a sound.

Langa exhaled once he was alone, pressing his palms briefly to his eyes. His mind was racing. Too many details, too many threads. The missing body. The guard. The fact that this was now the second time someone had died right under their noses and disappeared like smoke. But under all that, just beneath the static hum of it all, was the shape of Reki’s voice in his head.

I don’t have a choice.

He hated that more than anything else.

When Reki emerged a few minutes later, he looked marginally less like he’d been dragged through the underworld. Hair dripping, shirt a little wrinkled but clean, sleeves rolled up haphazardly like he couldn’t be bothered to do it properly. He hesitated in the doorway, hovering like a stray caught halfway between hunger and pride.

“I’m not taking the bed just because you’re guilt-tripping me,” he grumbled, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just cold. That’s all.”

Langa blinked once. Then nodded, playing along. “Of course.”

“And don’t go trying to be noble and sleep on the floor either. That’s just stupid.”

Langa managed the ghost of a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Reki gave him a suspicious glance, like he still expected some kind of trap. Then, muttering something about rich kids and their feather mattresses, he climbed into the far side of the bed and turned his back.

Langa moved more slowly.

He peeled off his coat, undid the top buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers, and sat on the edge of the mattress, watching the firelight dance across the room.

It felt surreal. The same bed. The same room. But a completely different kind of quiet now.

He laid down carefully. Reki didn’t turn to face him, but he also didn’t shift away when Langa slowly, slowly let himself inch closer until their shoulders brushed. He could feel the warmth of him and the faint tremble of his breathing. Like proximity, after everything, was some kind of permission.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence was full — brimming with every word unsaid, every question they didn’t know how to ask.

But then Reki shifted, just slightly, and Langa felt fingers brush against his.

Not an accident.

Not this time.

He didn’t move, didn’t push. Just curled his fingers around Reki’s slowly, like he was afraid it might shatter whatever fragile truce had formed between them.

Reki didn’t pull away.

His thumb rubbed once barely there against Langa’s knuckle. Then he muttered, so soft it was nearly swallowed by the dark.

“I get cold easy.”

Langa almost smiled.

“As one does,” he whispered.

The air between them settled like breath on glass. Delicate, fogged up with warmth. Reki eventually rolled over, gaze barely visible in the low light, and Langa watched him blink once, slow and tired.

And then, hesitantly and in short quite awkwardly, Reki let his head drop against Langa’s shoulder.

His voice, muffled against the fabric of Langa’s shirt, said, “Don’t make it weird.”

Langa’s heart kicked once, sharp and vivid in his chest.

“I won’t,” he said.

They didn’t kiss. They didn’t speak again. Just lay there, bodies pressed close in the quiet, like puzzle pieces finally slotted into place, imperfect but fitting, each curve and edge of them warming into the other.

Outside, the city murmured and shifted. Somewhere far off, a whistle blew. The Jackal was still out there. So was the case. The danger. All the pieces left to untangle.

But here, in this moment, Langa let his eyes close.

Just for a while.

Because Reki was warm.

And real.

And most importantly, still alive.

The sun slipped in gently through the thin curtains, gold and slanted, casting long lines of light across the wooden floor.

Langa stirred slowly.

There was a moment. Just a moment where he didn’t remember. Where all that existed was the warmth of the blankets and the scent clinging faintly to the pillow beside him. Smoke and engine grease and something sweeter underneath, something like the ghost of laughter.

But then his arm reached out, and found nothing. The space beside him was cold.

He blinked blearily and pushed up onto his elbows, heart already in his throat. The fire had burned down to embers. The room was quiet, undisturbed. Too quiet.

Reki?

He turned, half hoping and half terrified, and found the bed empty, sheets wrinkled where a body had been. No sign of a struggle. No sign of anything, really. Just a folded scrap of paper resting where Reki’s head had been.

Langa snatched it up.

The handwriting was messy. All sharp angles and rushed curves like the author had written it while pacing.

        morning, prince.

        didn’t want to risk the big man catching me in your bed. that’s not exactly the best way to start your dad’s morning or end mine.

        also I stole a scone from the room service tray in the hallway. hope that’s not a crime. or like more of a crime.

        I know you’ll probably say I should’ve stayed, but I figured I’d let you get back to your important detective brooding without distraction.

        anyway, I’ll be around. you know how to find me.

        P.S. you snore. it’s endearing.

        — R

Langa stared at the note for a long time. It shouldn’t have felt like a gut punch and a hug at the same time.

His chest ached. With something fond yet sharp, so he stood.

Because it was morning now, and there were bodies going missing. Because someone was moving through the city making Langa and his father look like deer in headlights. But also because his father didn’t believe he had it in him.

Langa needed to prove he could do this.

He crossed the room in a few strides, gathering his things with quick, efficient movements. Coat, gloves, notebook (which, after Reki’s sticky fingers found it, he had to keep safer than ever) and the old revolver his father had insisted he keep hidden under the floorboard. The weight of it now felt more grounding than threatening.

He paused in the doorway.

Looked back at the bed — still rumpled, sheets twisted where two bodies had tried to occupy a space not quite big enough for everything between them.

Chapter Text

By the time Langa made it downstairs, his father was already waiting near the carriage with that same look that always made Langa feel twelve again — like he was late for something he didn’t understand.

“Good,” Oliver said, giving him a once-over. “You’re learning punctuality.”

Langa didn’t respond, just tugged on his gloves and climbed in.

They rode in silence, the clatter of hooves and wheels the only sound between them. But Langa didn’t mind. Not today. His mind was already ticking, gears slotting into place. Reki had left, but he was safe. For now. That mattered more than the ache still stuck somewhere between his lungs.

The board meeting was being held in one of the grand rooms of the Ministry building. All gold filigree, velvet drapes, and self-importance. The long mahogany table was already half-filled with men in tailcoats and collars too stiff to be comfortable. The smell of cigars and ego hung in the air.

Langa kept his head high.

They walked in together, father and son, but for once, Langa didn’t trail behind. He matched Oliver’s pace. Met the gazes of the men around the table without flinching.

And then he saw him.

Adam Shindo.

Looking like sin and silk and the devil wrapped in a maroon cravat. He lounged at the head of the table like he owned the building, one leg crossed over the other, cane resting beside him even though everyone knew he didn’t need it, coat cinched at the waist like he was arriving at the opera instead of a government meeting about serial murders.

Langa’s jaw locked.

“I wasn’t aware Shindo had taken an interest in public safety,” Oliver said coolly from his seat at the head of the table.

Adam offered a lazy bow, one hand on his chest. “One of my men was recently killed, Mr Hasegawa. Forgive me for caring.”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

Adam’s eyes flicked to Langa, slow and amused.

“Well,” Adam said, voice honeyed and razor-sharp, “if it isn’t the prodigal son. Detective Hasegawa Junior, I presume?”

Oliver’s hand tensed slightly at his side. Langa ignored it.

“You presume correctly,” Langa said, voice calm, clipped.

Adam’s smile widened, teeth too white in the dim light. “How lovely. Just like your father. Only less insufferable. For now.”

“Don’t test the limits,” Oliver muttered.

Before Adam could respond, a smaller voice cut through the tension.

“Is this gonna be boring? Because if it’s gonna be boring, I need something to throw at someone.”

Heads turned.

A kid — maybe fourteen, fifteen at most — was slouched in a side chair with a notebook open on his lap and an apple half-eaten in his hand. Collar pulled high, eyes sharp and half-lidded like he’d seen everything in the room and already decided it was beneath him.

“Miya,” a man across the table sighed. “Manners.”

“Right, right,” Miya grumbled, not looking up. “Apologies, Your Royal Lameness.”

“Is that—?” Langa whispered.

Oliver sighed. “Government official’s son. Miya Chinen. Don’t ask.” Oliver actually looked amused. Langa, for his part, tried not to let his face crack.

“This is Miya,” his father, supposedly Governor Chinen, introduced wearily to Adam. “My son. He insisted on coming. Said something about wanting to ‘witness the bureaucratic downfall of Western civilization firsthand.’”

Adam gave a low, delighted laugh. “Charming.”

“Proud,” the father said, deadpan. “Very.”

Miya looked back down and started scribbling in his notebook. Langa caught the edge of a sketch. It looked like a rat wearing a top hat labeled ‘Parliament.’

The meeting commenced. Talk of curfews. Patrols. The vanished guard. Whispers of fear spreading in the street. Reports of strange sightings near the river. Oliver spoke with sharp precision. Adam dripped sarcasm like venom in a glass of wine. Miya yawned. 

And then it was Langa’s turn to speak.

He had never actually been acknowledged at important meetings like this before, but his father had pushed for him to take part seeing as his role in the investigation was becoming more active by the minute. Langa stood, all eyes (well, except Miya’s) on him.

The room fell into a hush, heavy and expectant. Langa didn’t clear his throat. Didn’t fidget. Just adjusted the cuff of his shirt slightly beneath his coat and began to speak. Several officials straightened in their seats. Even Adam tilted his head slightly, lips curling at the edges.

Langa’s fingers grazed the edge of his notebook as he spoke. “The guard that went missing last night wasn’t the first, but he was the first one directly connected to Shindo’s private enforcement unit. The other victims so far have all had low-level ties to surveillance networks. City eyes and ears. The victim found just over a week ago was identified as general law enforcement personnel. ” 

Langa’s eyes swept the table. “There was no blood trail leading to the site. No drag marks. No sign of a struggle. But he was definitely killed there. Which means whatever got him is clean, fast and efficient.”

“Implying what, exactly?” someone asked from across the room, skeptical.

Langa’s gaze didn’t flinch. “Whoever is behind this knows the system. They know the patrol rotations. They’re not just evading detection, they’re selecting people with the direct motive of silencing them.”

He flipped his notebook open to a neatly inked page, revealing a network diagram so clean and meticulous it looked printed. Thin, branching lines. Names. Time stamps. Circled intersections. It was scarily efficient.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “You did that by hand?”

Langa didn’t answer.

Adam leaned forward, fingertips pressed together. “How compelling. You have the voice for it too. Did you inherit that from your mother?”

Langa ignored him. “There’s a pattern in the map. Each disappearance creates a hole in the city’s ability to watch itself. And each hole leads us further underground. Literally. The sewers, the tunnels. abandoned tram lines, etcetera.”

He turned a page. More lines. An overlay of the city. Heat zones. Blackouts.

Adam actually looked interested now. “And you think the Jackal — or whatever you believe this monster is — is hiding there?”

“I suspect they’re hunting there, more like,” Langa replied. “And I believe they’re choosing victims based on what they know. On how close they are to… something.”

“Something like?” asked Governor Chinen, folding his hands.

“I don’t know yet,” Langa admitted. “But it’s not random. And it’s not just violence. It’s surgical.”

The silence that followed had weight.

Oliver looked half-impressed, half-concerned, like he wasn’t sure whether to be proud or afraid of how fast Langa had turned the corner from moody son to cold-eyed investigator.

“And what of the Jackal?” someone asked. “The symbol. The name. Is it man? Monster? Myth?”

Langa didn’t hesitate.

“I don’t think it matters,” he said, quiet now, and more dangerous for it. “Because whoever’s behind it is using the fear of that name as a shield, like some ghost people are too scared to chase.”

He shut his notebook, but kept speaking. “I suggest we send out authorities to man any underground escape routes in the city, at least two per post so they don’t appear vulnerable. Double the number at sundown.”

The room was silent for a beat.

Then Adam leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly. “Well,” he purred. “He is pretty, after all. Brains and bone structure.”

Oliver gave an audible sigh.

“Don’t flirt with my son, Shindo.”

“No promises,” Adam sang.

Langa didn’t blink.

“The facts remain,” he said, voice cool and unhurried, like he hadn’t just been propositioned by one of the most powerful and deranged men in the city. “We’re losing people. And if we don’t act now, we’ll lose more.”

He stood at full height now, taller than most remembered, posture cut from the same steel as his father's but refined.

Across the table, Miya raised an eyebrow. “You always like that?” he asked, not even trying to whisper. “All composed and tragic-looking?”

Langa glanced over. “You always eat fruit during murder briefings?”

Miya shrugged. “Keeps the mind sharp. And scurvy-free.”

Langa gave the faintest curl of a smile, then returned to the room like Miya hadn’t spoken at all. “The tunnels under Calle de Atocha are mostly unused now. The ones near the river even more so. I want groups posted at every entrance by sundown. Anyone caught lingering near access points is to be brought in. No exceptions.”

A man at the other end of the table grunted. “And what if they run?”

“Then don’t let them,” Langa said simply, like it was obvious.

Someone coughed. The minister of internal defense, Langa thought. “And who exactly will be handling the logistics of this operation? Because the last time we let a civilian with a theory take over, the archives burned.”

Langa didn’t so much as twitch.

“I will. I’m not a civilian,” he said. “And I’m not guessing. I’m proving . ”

His eyes flicked to his father, who was looking at him now with something unreadable. A calculation paused mid-equation.

Then back to Adam.

“Unless, of course,” Langa added, “someone would prefer we leave the back alleys and sewer systems unguarded. Let them slip away again. I’m sure some of us wouldn’t mind that.”

Adam’s smile thinned like melting wax.

Miya let out a slow, “Oohhh, damn,” and took another bite of his apple.

The governor, to his credit, sighed through his nose and stood. “Enough. We’ll deploy by sundown. Hasegawa —” he looked to Oliver “— your son seems to have earned his seat today.”

Oliver waited until the room emptied. Chinen shook his head as Miya trailed behind, humming some jaunty, inappropriate tune; Adam disappeared with a flourish like he’d never even been there. And when the last pair of polished shoes had echoed down the hall, Oliver finally looked at his son.

Not the way he usually did. Not like he was measuring Langa against some invisible yardstick and finding him lacking. This time, it was with something closer to reluctant respect. Still clipped at the edges, but honest.

“You’re free for the rest of the day,” Oliver said.

Langa blinked. “I thought we—”

“You’ve earned it,” Oliver cut in. “And I can’t have you burning out before we’ve even scraped the surface of this mess.” He stepped past, then paused at the doorway with a glance back. “Go make a friend, Langa. For once.”

The joke was dry. Barely there. But it wasn’t sharp. And Langa, shockingly, didn’t bristle.

He only nodded once.

Meanwhile, at Joe’s bar, the midday light filtering in through stained glass and dust, Reki was already two-thirds through his explanation and one hundred percent too smug about it.

“I’m just saying,” he said, nursing a glass of something aggressively non-alcoholic, “if he’s half as good at crime-solving as he is at kissing, the case’ll be wrapped by sundown.”

Joe, polishing a glass behind the counter, paused.

Then looked at him. “...Wait. You kissed him?”

Reki’s smirk went feral. “Define kissed.”

Joe set the glass down slowly. “Reki.”

“I mean, technically we slept together, so…”

“ Reki. ”

Reki shrugged, positively glowing with self-satisfaction. “What? I didn’t plan on it. One minute we’re nearly dying on the streets, the next I’m waking up in a feather bed like some regency-era concubine.”

Joe stared at him.

“And then I left him a note,” Reki added, sipping his drink like this wasn’t the most chaotic revelation of the week. “Like a gentleman.”

Joe dragged a hand down his face. “You— okay. So you slept with the junior detective. Hasegawa’s son . The one who’s investigating a string of murders and currently being hunted by half the city.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah.”

Joe didn’t say anything for a second. Just leaned on the bar with both forearms and gave Reki the kind of dad stare that bypassed annoyance and landed squarely on tired concern.

“You didn’t embarrass yourself, right?”

“ Joe. ”

“I have to ask.”

Reki snorted. “No. And I’m not gonna fall desperately in love with him, and I’m not gonna spill any actual secrets about you or the bar or the people we know, and I’m not gonna get murdered in bed by a haunted trench coat. I’m not that stupid.”

“You’re twenty,” Joe muttered, picking the glass back up and scrubbing it like it had personally offended him. “About time you lost your virginity, I guess, but damn. The detective? ”

“I have taste.”

“You have trauma.”

Reki grinned around the rim of his glass. “Can’t it be both?”

Joe sighed again, then softened. A little.

“You like him?”

Reki’s expression shifted — just barely. Still teasing. But the edges were quieter now. More honest.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I do.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “You gonna tell him that?”

“No,” Reki said immediately. Then after a beat, “Maybe. If I live.”

“Fair.”

“And if he kisses me like that again,” Reki added with a groan, slumping forward like he had the weight of a hundred excellent memories on his back, “I’m gonna tell him everything . Like, bank codes. Underground hideouts. My shoe size.”

Joe snorted. “Please don’t. I like this bar.”

Reki grinned.

Joe didn’t say anything else for a while. Just slid a second drink across the counter, a little sweeter this time.

“Don’t do anything dumb,” he said finally.

Reki winked. “Too late.”

Then the bell above the bar door chimed.

Joe looked up, still wiping the same glass like it owed him something. Reki didn’t. He just said, “If it’s a debt collector, tell them I died.”

But then something in the air changed. A flicker of silence behind the door swing, a pause that didn’t belong to drunks or regulars or debt collectors at all. It was quieter than that. Sharper. And then Reki felt it. That strange electricity. The kind that crawled under your collar and warned, he’s here .

Langa stepped into the bar like the room was his. Not in the loud, arrogant way Adam did. Langa just was . Calm, deliberate, a thread of winter air trailing in behind him. Coat still crisp from earlier, gloves in one hand, expression unreadable but unmistakably looking for something.

Or someone.

“Holy shit,” Reki muttered. “He’s even hotter when he’s morally burdened.”

Joe turned around so fast he nearly knocked over the glass.  “You’re not supposed to say that out loud.”

Langa found him with his eyes immediately.

Walked straight past the other patrons, past the haze of cigar smoke and leftover conversation, right to the bar. Right to Reki.

And without even saying hello, he asked softly, “Are you busy?”

Reki blinked. “Uh… what?”

Langa’s voice was low. Serious, but soft around the edges. “Come with me.”

That was it. Not a command. Not a question. Just a quiet, steady pull that Reki didn’t even pretend to resist.

Joe opened his mouth to say something — a warning, maybe, or a joke — but Langa was already gently taking Reki’s wrist, fingers cool and certain, like this wasn’t the first time he’d done it. And Reki, like some idiot peasant swept off his feet by the prince in a cheap romance novel, followed right behind him .

“I’m not wearing proper shoes,” he mumbled as they reached the door.

“That’s fine,” Langa said.

“Also I don’t think I paid for that drink.”

“I’ll pay for it.”

Reki looked back once, caught Joe’s exasperated “Are you serious?” face and returned it with a shrug and annoyingly smug grin.

The door shut behind them with a soft jingle.

Back at the hotel, Langa’s room was the same kind of absurd luxury it had been the first time. High ceilings, velvet drapes, the kind of furniture that looked like it had opinions.

Reki stood just inside the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, trying not to feel wildly out of place. “So… do you bring all your flings back to your royal boudoir on the daily, or am I just special?”

Langa turned, walked up to Reki like there wasn’t space between them at all, and kissed him. “You are special.”

Just like that. No preamble. No warning. Just one hand at Reki’s waist, the other brushing his jaw, and that same impossible softness from the night before, as if kissing Reki was something sacred.

Reki melted into it, because of course he did. Because this wasn’t the kind of kiss you escaped from. This was the kind that rewired your sense of gravity.

Langa pulled back only an inch, voice a breath against his lips. “I missed you.”

Reki blinked, dazed. “You saw me not twelve hours ago . ”

“I know,” Langa murmured, already kissing him again.

And honestly, Reki didn’t care how many murders were happening in Madrid or how haunted Langa looked, because he was being kissed like he used to dream about.

Like the world was burning down outside and the only safe place left was here, in the arms of a cold-eyed genius with a gun in his coat pocket and the quietest, most dangerous heart in the city.

Chapter Text

Langa was already dressed when Reki woke up.

Which was a little disorienting, because the last thing Reki remembered was falling asleep with Langa’s fingers in his hair and an entire thigh between his legs. Now the bastard was halfway across the room, sleeves rolled to the elbow, shirt wrinkled in that “I’ve been working for hours” way, and a half-dozen maps were spread across the desk like war plans.

Reki blinked at the absurd velvet canopy above him, blinked again at the open curtains spilling gold morning light across the floor, then let out a sleepy groan and flopped face-down into the nearest pillow.

“You’re up early,” he mumbled.

“I never went to sleep,” Langa replied, not even looking up.

Of course he didn’t.

Reki dragged himself out of bed and crossed the plush carpet barefoot, blanket still clutched around his hips like a toga. He slumped over Langa’s back like a koala, chin on his shoulder, arms draped lazily around his waist.

“I was gonna come over here and molest you gently,” he said, yawning, “but apparently you’re busy.”

“I need your help,” Langa said instantly, pushing a map toward the edge of the desk.

“Oh my god,” Reki muttered. “Do you ever say good morning? Or, like, ‘how was last night?’ Or maybe, ‘hey, Reki, you’re really attractive in the mornings, do you want me to rail you again real quick before we get into the murder stuff—’”

“I’m sending coded directives to the Detectives’ Guild to be distributed to the outposts by sundown,” Langa interrupted, the way someone else might say ‘pass the salt’. “I’ve categorised the tunnel exits into priority zones, and I need your help double checking the structural access points on Calle de Atocha and along the riverfront.”

Reki paused. “Huh?”

“I’m serious,” Langa said, and turned around just enough to face him, those pale blue eyes sharp in the morning light. “This is time sensitive.”

Reki groaned like a man deeply wronged by the universe. “I know it’s time sensitive. But so am I.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Langa said. “After.”

Reki blinked. “You promise?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

That did things to him. Stupid things. He should’ve been annoyed, maybe. But instead, it just made him want to follow this man to the ends of the earth. Ugh. Gross. Reki grabbed the nearest shirt from the floor — one of Langa’s, of course — and pulled it over his head like a sleep deprived cryptid. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Tell me what you need.”

Langa handed him a marked-up blueprint of the city’s underways, some of which were so old they looked like they'd been drawn in blood.

“I sent a message through the Guild this morning,” he said, already sliding into his brisk, analytical rhythm. “It details posts for each guard team, coordinates, behaviour patterns to watch for, and a reporting protocol that routes directly back to me, not the board.”

“You don’t trust the board?”

“I don’t trust anyone who smiles too much,” Langa said simply.

“Langa,” Reki said, deadpan, “I smile too much.”

Langa didn’t even flinch. “Yes,” he said, “but you're also chronically anxious. It doesn’t count.”

Reki laughed — short and surprised — and leaned over the desk, blinking blearily at the map. “So what do you want me to do? I’m not a detective.”

“You’re quick. You’ve been on rooftops most of your life. And you know how to get into places people don’t want you to be.”

Reki raised an eyebrow. “You trying to romance me or recruit me?”

“Both,” Langa said.

Reki actually froze for half a second.

Then: “God, you’re annoying. Let’s go.”

They made it down to the streets by mid-morning, the city already humming with the heat of the day and the scent of roasting chestnuts and tension.

Langa walked fast. Naturally. Like he’d memorised every cobblestone in Madrid and calculated the most efficient footpath over each one.

Reki trailed after him with a half-buttoned shirt, scuffed boots, and absolutely no idea what his job was. “Do I get a codename or something?” he asked, dodging a cart. “Like a cool secret-ops title? Street Fox. No, wait. Alley Viper. Too dramatic?”

“Don’t talk to anyone who calls you by name,” Langa said, ignoring him entirely. “If they’re in uniform, ask for clearance numbers. If they’re not in uniform, don’t speak. If you see anything suspicious—”

“Define suspicious.”

Langa finally slowed down just enough to glance back at him. “Unusually quiet buildings. People in clean shoes loitering. Smoke from sewer grates. Anyone carrying packages with both hands.”

“Okay, weirdly specific.”

“I have reasons.”

They turned off the main street toward the southern district, where the older stonework bled into alleys and iron railings, and where you were more likely to find gossip than streetlights. A pair of guards passed them at the corner — crisp jackets, straight backs, holsters gleaming in the sun. Reki stared openly.

“Do you think if I asked nicely they’d let me try on the hat?” he muttered.

“No,” Langa said flatly. “And stop staring.”

“They’re good looking!” Reki protested. “Not as much as you, obviously. But like, objectively speaking.”

“I’m right here.”

“Exactly,” Reki said cheerfully. “Object permanence be damned.”

Langa didn’t even twitch, just veered left and cut down a narrow stairwell into the skeletal frame of a mostly abandoned warehouse. Inside, shafts of daylight streamed through missing planks in the walls, and a few uniforms moved through the gloom, adjusting weaponry and unfolding maps. There was an urgency in the air — that low thrum of “something’s coming” that even Reki could pick up on now.

“This is where I need you tonight,” Langa said, stopping just short of the main staging table. “Corner of Calle de San Pedro and the canal. You’ll have elevation from the adjacent building, and a clear view of the river crossing. You don’t engage. You don’t interfere. You just watch. And if something goes wrong—”

“I run.”

“You come straight back to me.” Langa’s voice was firmer now, the kind that didn’t leave room for argument. “No detours. No heroics. If you so much as hear shouting in your direction, you leave.”

Reki opened his mouth.

“No,” Langa said preemptively. “I mean it.”

“Okay,” Reki said. He was quiet for a beat. Then, just a little softer, “You’re worried.”

“I have reason to be.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.” Langa said, lightly brushing Reki’s cheek with his finger.

Before Reki could offer a snappy retort or something emotionally devastating, a tall figure in navy uniform approached. A captain, judging by the stripes on his coat and the stiff posture.

“Detective,” the captain said with a quick nod. “Is this the message?”

Langa reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a tightly folded slip of parchment. Wax sealed and intricately marked in a cipher that Reki was sure only three people in the entire country could read.

“This is the original,” Langa said. “No copies. Deliver it directly to the station chief at Lavapiés. He’ll distribute the details from there.”

The captain took it with gloved fingers and tucked it carefully into his vest. “Understood. I’ll have confirmation before dusk.”

“You’d better,” Langa said. “The last thing we need is another delay.”

The captain nodded again and turned away, disappearing through the far exit into the sunlight.

Reki watched him go, then glanced back at Langa. “You don’t trust him either?”

“I trust people to do their jobs,” Langa said.

“But not to stay alive long enough to do them,” Reki added, only half joking.

Langa didn’t answer. Just looked out the warehouse’s warped window toward the sprawling city.

Down in the alleys, the wind shifted.

Somewhere, not far off, the church bells began to chime — twelve, sharp and solemn.

Night came down slow and heavy, the kind that stuck to the air like a warning. Reki crouched behind the edge of a crumbling balcony, coat pulled tight against the chill, legs already sore from holding the same position too long. The river below glittered darkly beneath flickering gaslights, and somewhere in the distance, a horse’s hooves echoed like gunshots off stone.

He’d been here for over an hour. Watching. Waiting.

Nothing.

Which was either a good sign or a very, very bad one.

He was mid-way through contemplating whether or not he could eat the last stick of gum he’d found in his back pocket when a voice spoke from just behind him.

“You look like shit.”

Reki flinched so hard he almost pitched off the roof. He whipped around, hand instinctively going for the tiny blade in his sock.

A figure leaned against the adjoining chimney, all black coat, ginger hair, and fixed eyes. Tattoos crawled up one arm, barely hidden by the frayed sleeve, and his grin was the exact kind you’d expect from someone who looked like they enjoyed blowing things up for fun.

“Who—”

“Shadow,” the man said. “Don’t freak out. I’m with your sweetheart.”

Reki stared, brushing off the weird assumption. “...You’re with Langa?”

“I mean, technically I’m with the Guild,” Shadow said, pushing off the chimney and strolling over like this wasn’t a rooftop stakeout and he didn’t look like a bouncer in a goth opera. “But yeah. He knows I’m here.”

“You don’t look like a detective.”

“Good,” Shadow said. “That’s the point.”

Reki blinked. “So… are you my backup or something?”

Shadow shrugged. “More like insurance. He didn’t want you up here alone, but there weren’t enough men to station a full team. So you get me.”

“Lucky me,” Reki muttered.

Shadow snorted. “Hey, I could’ve let you get jumped and stolen for spare parts.”

Reki rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, fair.”

They lapsed into silence for a bit. Below them, a stray cat darted across the alley. The wind shifted again. Sharp. Wrong.

Reki was about to ask Shadow what his actual job was when the older man suddenly said:

“Listen, kid. You know this whole thing with the Jackal? It’s not what they’re telling you.”

Reki stiffened. “...What do you mean?”

“I mean Oliver Hasegawa’s been keeping this city quiet by any means necessary. Always has. But this… this isn’t some generic spree killer. It’s not just random violence.”

He paused, checking the street again before continuing.

“They’ve been burying the truth. Witnesses, informants. People close to the Guild. Some of the earlier victims weren’t just targets — they were threats. Whistleblowers.”

Reki’s mouth went dry. “But why would the government cover that up?”

“Because the Jackal isn’t working alone,” Shadow said grimly. “And I don’t think he’s working against the system either.”

Reki felt something coil in his chest. Cold, oily dread.

Shadow opened his mouth to say more—

—but then something exploded in the distance.

Not loudly. Not enough to be a real bomb, but enough to send pigeons scattering and a ripple of shouting through the street below.

Shadow’s entire posture changed in an instant. “Shit. Go.”

“What—?”

“Run. Now. Whatever that is, it’s a diversion. Your boy was right to be paranoid—”

“I’m not leaving—”

“Yes, you are,” Shadow snapped. “You’ve seen enough and he’ll kill me if I let you get hurt. Go!”

Reki didn’t move. Not at first.

Then: something shifted in the alley. Something that didn’t belong. A shape that didn’t walk right.

Reki turned.

And saw—

A body.

No.

Parts of a body.

Fresh.

Still twitching.

Draped over a railing like discarded clothing, the uniform soaked through with blood that gleamed black under the gaslight.

The same uniform he’d seen that morning.

The captain .

The one Langa had given the message to.

Reki choked on a breath. Something warm slid down his throat — nausea or grief or the sharp, blunt sting of reality.

He heard Shadow curse behind him.

But then footsteps. Not running.

Just walking. Slow. Sure. Close.

“ GO! ” Shadow barked.

Reki ran. He didn’t look back. He didn’t see who was following. B ut he felt it. All the way to his bones.

The hotel hallway was a blur.

Reki didn’t remember how he got past the doorman, or up the stairs, or through the second floor security, just that his hands were shaking and his lungs were clawing for air by the time he slammed his palm against the suite door.

It opened before he could knock.

Langa stood there, shirt sleeves half-rolled, hair damp like he’d only just stepped out of the shower, and looked at him like he’d been expecting this.

Reki didn’t wait.

He practically collapsed forward, fingers knotting into Langa’s shirt, breath coming out in uneven gasps. “I—I didn’t—there was a guy, and I didn’t even catch his name but he—he knew things, Langa, like real things, like he said people are being targeted and they’re baiting you and I swear to god I was just talking to him and then there was a noise and he made me run but I think someone’s dead—”

“Reki,” Langa said, calm but firm, pulling him inside and shutting the door with one hand. “Slow down. Start again. You’re safe.”

Reki kept talking. Couldn’t stop. “He wasn’t on your list, and he said the list was wrong, that people were dying for a reason, and he said the board’s not following rules anymore and then there was this—this bang, or a flare or something, and he made me leave, but I think—” His voice cracked. “I think I left him to die.”

Langa exhaled, steady, and guided Reki to sit on the edge of the bed like he was defusing a bomb. He crouched in front of him, both hands gentle on Reki’s knees.

“Describe him,” he said. “What did he look like?”

“Big,” Reki said, still breathless. “Military coat, looked like he’d seen hell.”

Langa nodded, but then went very still. “Shadow. I vouched for him.”

Reki saw it just for a second, that minute shift in his posture. Then Langa stood, walked over to the desk, and picked up a folded slip of paper. He handed it to Reki without a word. Reki opened it.

His heart dropped through the floor.

“This is… this is your note,” he said. “The one you sent to the outposts.”

“Yes,” Langa said. “It was returned. No signature. No courier trail. Just on my desk when I came back.”

“That…no,” Reki’s voice caught in his throat. “That’s not possible. The guy you gave it to was… I saw. He’s dead. I— I saw him. There was blood.”

Langa didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Because the paper in Reki’s hands was the same one Langa had written. His handwriting, his seals, his encryption mark — but something about it felt wrong. Subtly. Like a duplicate made by someone who understood the rhythm but not the meaning.

Reki looked up. “It’s been rewritten, hasn’t it?”

Langa nodded once.

Very, very slowly.

And in that instant, something changed in the room.

The air. The light.

Like the ground beneath them had shifted and they just hadn’t noticed until now.

“They’re not just watching,” Langa said quietly. “They’re inside.”

Reki swallowed. His throat felt raw. “What do we do?”

Langa’s expression was unreadable. “We burn the script.”

He walked to the fireplace, slipped the note between two fingers, and struck a match.

Reki watched it curl into black, ash dancing up the chimney.

And for the first time since he'd met Langa, he wasn’t sure if they were winning anymore.

Chapter Text

The fire had long since died, but neither of them moved.

Langa sat at the desk, unmoving. Elbows resting on the wood, fingers clasped in front of his mouth like a prayer turned threat. The glow from the hearth had scorched the tension into every surface, walls still pulsing with the memory of flame. Reki sat stiffly on the bed, watching the last ember fade behind the grate like it owed him something.

“You’re quiet,” he said finally. His voice felt like it didn’t belong to him.

Langa didn’t answer. A full ten seconds passed before he blinked and turned his head slightly, not enough to meet Reki’s eyes.

“I’m thinking.”

Reki scoffed, quiet but sharp. “Yeah. You do that a lot.”

That earned him a look. Not a glare. Not even anger. Just that blank, distant focus Langa got when he was already too many steps ahead for Reki to catch up. It stung worse than shouting.

“I didn’t mean for any of that to happen,” Reki added, too fast. “If I’d known—”

“I’m not angry with you,” Langa said, but his voice was colder than before. The kind of calm that meant something ugly was coiled tight underneath.

Reki stood. “Then what, Langa? What exactly did I do? Because you’re looking at me like I did something.”

“You didn’t,” Langa said, finally facing him. “But you got dangerously close to being a catalyst.”

“ You’re the one who sent me out there!”

“I also told you not to ask questions.”

“Oh, sorry, next time someone tells me people are being murdered and the list is fake, I’ll just sit there and sketch the scenery!”

“That’s not what I—” Langa cut himself off. Exhaled like he was burning it back. “I told you to observe, not to get involved.”

Reki laughed, dry. “Right. Because nothing ever goes wrong when people just watch.”

Langa’s jaw clenched. That was low, and they both knew it.

Reki regretted it the second he said it, but something stubborn kept his spine straight. “If you don’t trust me to do anything, then stop asking me to help.”

“I do trust you, Reki.” Langa said. Too quickly.

Reki tilted his head. “You sure? Because the second I act on something, suddenly I’m a liability.”

“You’re not—”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?” Reki asked, voice rising. “Like I should’ve known better. Like I can’t handle this. Like I’m not built for the kind of shit you’ve seen.”

Langa stood. Not to intimidate — he never needed to — but because he’d finally lost the ability to stay still.

“I don’t think that,” he said, and there was actual heat in it now. “I think you got caught in something we don’t understand, and I’m trying to protect you before it happens again.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to protect me.”

Langa blinked.

Reki’s heart was pounding now, but he didn’t back down. “Maybe I want to understand. Maybe I’m tired of being the guy who waits at home while you deal with everything alone.”

Silence stretched between them, thin and dangerous.

“I didn’t ask you to wait,” Langa said.

Reki stared at him. “And I didn’t ask you to decide how much I can take.”

They stood there, shadows tangled on the floor, each waiting for the other to flinch. But the silence didn’t break. It fractured when Reki turned first.

“I’ll give you space,” he said, low. “Since that’s what this is really about.”

Langa didn’t move.

Reki walked to the door, every step too loud in the quiet room. He paused with his hand on the knob.

“By the way,” he said without looking back, “if you’re right, and they’re already inside? Then protecting me won’t fix anything. You’re just making it easier for them to tear us apart.”

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

He didn’t really want to leave, but he couldn’t even hear his own thoughts let alone everything surrounding him. Not the stairs. Not the sound his boots made as they slipped from clean stone into cracked, blistered pavement. The city blurred, smeared like charcoal over canvas.

It was funny.
Or tragic. Or stupid.

He couldn’t tell anymore.

Maybe he was a liability. It was possible Langa had always known that, and tonight was just the first time he stopped pretending otherwise. Reki shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and kept walking, faster now, like motion could outpace the voice inside his head.

He’d meant what he said. Every word of it. But even then, he still felt sick. Like peeling open his chest and handing Langa the heart he’d been hiding just to watch him flinch.

“Maybe I want to understand.”

God. He’d said that out loud. Like a desperate kid standing in the rain outside a locked door asking to be let into a war. He didn’t even know what he wanted, all he knew was that when Langa looked at him like that, like something to shield, not stand beside… it twisted something sharp behind his ribs.

Because Reki knew he wasn’t Langa’s equal.
Not in blood nor in legacy.
Definitely not in the way he navigated darkness that spoke his name.

But he was trying. Wasn’t that enough?

His breath caught as the filament light changed. He’d wandered back into the underbelly — the part of the city that didn’t clean its teeth for nobles, didn’t bow for coins it never saw. These streets didn’t forget him, not really. One could drag themself up into cleaner districts, iron their voice, trim their conscience, but the moment their boots hit this soil again, it remembered what they were.

And what they weren’t.

Reki stopped under a rusted awning and leaned against the wall, hand fisting in his coat. The fabric felt too tight around him, even though it was Langa’s. 

What did it mean to love someone like Langa?

To really love him?

Not in the easy ways. Not in the stolen touches and stupid jokes and warm silences, but in the terrifying, complicated, bleed-for-you kind of way. The kind that meant accepting he’d always carry something Reki could never name, let alone lift. That maybe love wasn’t about being useful. Or even right. Maybe it was just—

No. That was too easy.

Because Reki did want to be strong. He wanted to be useful. To stand in front of danger, not behind Langa’s shadow. To matter, not just emotionally, but practically. To be something more than soft hands and shaky bravery. Necessary.

And tonight had shown him how far he still had to go.

He exhaled, throat dry, eyes stinging. Maybe he should’ve stayed, or argued more. He should’ve just shut up and let Langa protect him. That would’ve been easier. 

But no.

No, he couldn’t go back. Not after that. Not until he figured out what the hell was happening inside his own skin. Not until he knew whether this ache was pride or pain or both clawing at each other for dominance. Certainly not until he knew if he was staying because he loved Langa or because he didn’t know how to be anything without him.

Love.

The word tasted wrong tonight.

Reki dug his nails into his palms and stared up at the cracked sky. A light flickered in the distance. Maybe a lantern or something burning. Either way, it didn’t look safe.

Which meant it was exactly where he needed to be.

The street narrowed as he walked, paths giving way to uneven brick and dirt that stuck to his shoes. Lamps hung crooked from rusted posts, flickering with a light that looked more apologetic than functional. Somewhere, a cat screamed, or maybe it was a child. Honestly, Reki didn’t care.

He’d been here before.

Long before Langa, before missions, before the idea of lists and conspiracies and men bleeding out in alleyways while whispering secrets. Back when “survival” meant skipping bread lines and knowing which crates behind the butcher’s stall weren’t nailed shut.

He turned a corner and ducked under a sagging laundry line. Someone’s underclothes slapped him in the face.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, peeling a damp sock from his shoulder. “Yeah, sure. Why not? Absolutely nothing says ‘emotional clarity’ like being attacked by someone’s cholera drawers.”

The wind laughed in his ear, or maybe that was just his own brain humouring him out of pity. Either way, Reki was convinced the whole district was trying to make him stay humble.

He passed what used to be an apothecary, its front now boarded up with planks that looked vaguely like teeth. A drunk man was asleep in the doorway, face down on a newspaper from three weeks ago that declared the Bishop was a fraud and someone had finally poisoned that one rich man’s peacocks.

Maybe I should do something noble, Reki thought, stepping around him. Like warn him about splinters. Or join him.

He didn’t. He kept walking. Because for all his dramatics, Reki wasn’t actually ready to give up. He just wanted to punch God. Or Langa. Or himself. Perhaps all three, in descending order of emotional damage.

And then, as if summoned by some divine “fuck you,” he heard it.

A sharp whistle. Low and mean. “Well, well. If it ain’t the little noble’s toy.”

Reki stopped walking. He turned his head slowly, already regretting everything he’d ever done, including being born.

Three figures sat sprawled on crates in a corner where the alleys met, a makeshift court of smug bastards draped in threadbare coats and arrogance. One of them, a wiry guy with a scar slicing through his brow like punctuation, stood up and dusted off his sleeves like he was about to receive royalty.

“Didn’t think you still knew how to walk down here,” he said. “What, the palace toss you out for pissing on the wrong rug?”

Reki sighed through his nose. “Good to see time hasn’t made you funnier, Vito.”

Vito grinned, revealing a gold tooth that had probably been a knife in a past life. “And here I thought y’forgot my name. I’m touched.”

“Touched in the head,” Reki muttered.

That got a few snickers from the other two; one with a lazy eye and a cigarette behind each ear, the other chewing what might’ve been tobacco or just a piece of someone’s roof.

Reki scanned them quickly. Same faces, different grime. The ghosts of a life he’d tried to shed like a skin, now staring at him like it hadn’t worked.

“Y’slumming for fun, or did your blue eye side fuck cut'ya loose?” Vito asked, stepping closer.

Reki’s spine locked. “I go where I want.”

“Do ya now?” Vito stepped again. Close enough that Reki could smell the sour on his breath. “Funny. Looks to me like you come runnin' back here when things get hard. Always did have a habit of crawlin' back with your tail tucked.”

The other two laughed.

And Reki? Reki smiled. But it wasn’t kind and sheepish.

“Try me,” he said softly. There was a knife of a pause.

Vito’s smirk twitched. Just barely. Then came the laugh — low, derisive, rolling like old coins across rotten wood.

“Try you?” he echoed, tossing a look over his shoulder to the others, who were already nudging each other like kids at a cockfight. “Come on, boys, hear that? Reki’s picked up a spine along with his sugar daddy.”

Reki didn’t blink.

“I mean, seriously,” Vito went on, circling him now like a vulture in boots. “One day you’re patching up cuts and stealing soap with the rest of us, next you’re out there actin’ like some lace-wrapped courtesan for the nobles. Man disappears for a few months and comes back smelling like lemon oil and cocky sadness.”

More laughter.

The guy with the roof-chip grin cackled, slapping his thigh. “Heard it too, y’know. Word got ‘round you were all curled up in Hasegawa’s son’s pocket. Heard he writes you love notes in code. Y’gotta blow him to decrypt it?”

Reki’s hands clenched. Not fists quite yet, just excruciatingly painful tension. All through the shoulders. That low, acidic churn that said don’t bite .

But they weren’t done. Of course they weren’t.

“C’mon, don’t get shy now,” Vito said, still orbiting. “That why you came back, Red? He finally got bored of the street mutt act? Tossed you out with last season’s jacket? Or did you cry too loud when he used you up, and now you’re hopin’ the old kennel’ll take you back?”

Reki didn’t mean to speak.

He didn’t plan it, didn’t shape it, didn’t even feel it coming, but when it did, it came cold and exact, like the crack of a rifle bolt.

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

Vito stilled mid-step.

Reki looked up, slow and sharp, like he was lifting a veil of ash to show the fire underneath. “Say whatever the hell you want about me. Do it ‘till your throat breaks and your friends piss themselves laughing. But you don’t talk about him.”

Vito blinked. “What, ‘m I wrong?”

“You’re a lot of things,” Reki said, stepping forward, “but you’re never that interesting. So no, you’re not wrong. You’re just boring. Boring, bitter, and pathetic.”

“Pathetic?” Vito repeated, with a barking laugh. “You think that cold blooded American freak loves you back? You think he even sees you?”

“I don’t care what you think,” Reki snapped, the heat rising now, full and cracked and ugly. “You think I followed him because he was rich? I followed him because he saw me when the rest of you were too busy spitting in the dirt to notice I was drowning.”

“Oh, so it’s love now?” one of the others snorted. “Tell me, does he kiss you before or after he wipes his boots on ya?”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” Reki said, voice low and dangerous.

Vito stepped close again, right up into Reki’s space now. His breath smelled like old garlic and sour wine. “Looks like I hit a nerve.”

“You didn’t hit shit.”

“Then why’re you shaking?”

Reki smiled again. This one had teeth. “Because I’m deciding if I’m gonna make you eat those knuckles you’re so proud of.”

And just like that, the air snapped taut.

The wind stilled. The slum held its breath.

Someone dropped a bottle somewhere behind them, and it didn’t even shatter — it just landed, stunned into silence by the fury humming off Reki’s bones.

Vito didn’t even flinch.

He swung first, shoulder low, a clumsy punch meant more for humiliation than harm. Reki ducked it and came up hard, slamming his fist straight into Vito’s gut with a crack that echoed off the alley walls. Vito wheezed and bent double.

Reki followed it up with a knee to the ribs that would’ve floored any one of them if they’d ever fought clean. But this wasn’t clean.

This was three on one.

The guy with the lazy eye lunged from the side, grabbing Reki by the collar. Reki twisted, elbowed him in the throat — once, twice — and sent him staggering back, coughing like he’d swallowed sawdust. But that was all the opening the third one needed.

A blow landed against Reki’s jaw. Then another to his ribs. Then someone pulled his hair, coward’s move, but it did the trick. He stumbled back, vision splintering.

“Stay down,” Vito growled, voice ragged with pain. “C’mon, whore boy. You ain’t noble down here.”

Reki spat blood at his feet.

“You think you scare me?” he rasped. “I’ve bled for worse men than you.”

He lunged again. He should’ve lost, but he didn’t. He bit, clawed, punched until someone screamed. He dodged a brick and threw a bottle. He was slipping in mud and fury, held together by spit and bone-deep spite. But his breath was breaking, his vision swimming, and all three of them were still on their feet.

One of them caught him in the back with something metal — a pipe, maybe, and the pain exploded white behind his eyes. He dropped to one knee, dirt in his teeth.

“Shoulda stayed gone,” Vito growled, dragging him up by the collar.

Then—

A voice.

Far down the alley, ragged and panicked. Echoing off stone and sky like a siren.

“THE JACKAL’S BEEN CAUGHT!”

Everything froze.

The hands on Reki’s collar went slack and the guys behind him stopped moving. Even the sky seemed to hush.

The same voice, closer this time, running down the lane. “I swear to God, I saw it! They got him, cornered him near the basilica tied up like a dog! He’s done ! The Jackal’s done !”

Vito dropped Reki like he was suddenly on fire.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You hear that? The bastard’s actually caught.”

Reki didn’t move.

His lungs were still heaving, his mouth still bleeding, but his heart — his heart had stopped cold.

Caught.

The Jackal.

They caught the Jackal.

But—

The Jackal had to have killed another man for him to be caught now, right?

Or worse.

What if the man… was Langa?

Chapter Text

Reki ran.

Or, something like running. His knees kept buckling, ribs screaming where a foot had landed solid and cruel, and one eye was already swelling shut, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. His jacket flared behind him like a broken sail, and his shoes pounded uneven rhythms against the street. He didn’t care. He didn’t stop.

He tasted blood. Thought it might be his. Didn’t matter.

The wind slapped at his face, cool with the sour scent of river air and horses and smoke — old Madrid, coiled tight and watching like it always did when something went wrong.

But this wasn’t just something.

Caught. The Jackal.

The words didn’t make sense, not really, not strung together like that. They bounced around his skull like dropped cutlery. He couldn’t make them fit. The Jackal didn’t get caught . The Jackal didn’t slip . That thing wasn’t human enough for mistakes.

Reki’s stomach twisted so violently he nearly tripped. He caught himself on a lamppost, breath catching in his throat. His fingers left a red smear on the brass.

Don’t you fucking do this to me.

His legs moved again before his brain told them to. Faster now. Faster.

He tore through the narrow streets of Lavapiés, shoving past merchants, startled children, a woman balancing oranges in a basket that exploded like fireworks behind him. A man yelled something about “criminals with no respect for fruit,” but Reki didn’t look back.

The closer he got to the basilica, the louder the noise became.

Voices. Footsteps. Drums, maybe. Church bells? No, no, not bells. Metal on metal. Batons. Chains.

Something was happening.

Something big.

And Langa might be in it.

Reki could barely breathe. His chest felt like it had been kicked open and now the world was pouring in, heavy and choking. Every heartbeat a countdown. The Jackal’s face kept trying to rise in his mind, but all he could see was Langa’s — calm, cold, eyes like frost, voice like gravity.

And what if someone mistook that stillness for menace?

What if someone wanted to?

No — no, no, no, no—

The basilica loomed up like a leviathan, towering and pale in the low evening light, its spires slicing into the sky like blades. Ironic. The crowd hit him before he even saw it; tight-packed bodies, torches swaying, a ring of noise and tension like the eye of a storm.

Reki skidded to a stop just short of the square. His lungs were burning and his mouth was full of iron.

He shoved past a wall of onlookers, heart hammering.

And then he saw it—

The commotion. The mob.

The crowd writhed.

Not stood, not gathered. Writhed. Like a living thing, each body part of something larger. Shifting, pressing, breathing smoke and spit and sweat. There were shouts layered on shouts. Men waving papers like pitchforks. Someone with a camera jostling for a clear shot. Reki shoved past an elbow, then a shoulder, then someone who tried to grab his arm with a bark of “ Watch it! ”

No time. 

No space.

No air.

“Langa—”

It came out like a hiccup. He didn’t even mean to say it out loud. But then it was happening again. Again. Louder.

“Langa, Langa, shit — Langa— ”

His voice cracked. He couldn’t stop. It burst out in pieces between gasps and gritted teeth, like it was the only word his body still remembered how to form.

Langa Langa Langa please please please…

His palms scraped against someone’s coat buttons, knuckles catching on a brass buckle. He ducked low. Got kneed in the ribs only making it even harder to stand. He clawed forward like a drowning man, ribs aching, eyes wild.

He couldn’t see him.

And if he couldn’t see him, that meant—

“Langa!”

A hand, not the crowd's, snatched him by the collar and yanked.

Reki whirled, fists rising, still shaking with adrenaline, only to come face to face with Detective Inspector Oliver Hasegawa.

Straight-backed, sharp-jawed, dressed like a man who never sweated and never begged, standing out in the chaos like an unyielding statue that someone had carved to look disappointed. And underneath that hat and crisp overcoat?

The eyes of someone looking for a ghost.

“What did you just say?” Oliver asked.

Reki blinked. Swallowed. Too late.

“I… nothing,” he said automatically. Then, “I’m — I’m looking for someone.”

Oliver’s brow didn’t move. “So am I.”

The grip on Reki’s collar didn’t ease. “Tell me,” he said coolly, “why a filthy little guttersnipe like you is screaming my son’s name outside a riot scene.”

Reki didn’t pull away.

Couldn’t. Maybe wouldn’t, even if he could. His legs had stopped working the second that iron grip found his coat, and now they felt like they belonged to someone else entirely. Too heavy, too hollow. His heart kept slamming against his ribs like it was trying to break out first.

“I asked you a question,” Oliver said.

There was no volume to it. Just that cold, official tone, shaped for confessionals and courtroom steps. Every word felt like a judgment.

Reki opened his mouth. No sound came out. His throat clenched around nothing, dry and hoarse and shaking.

“Speak,” Oliver said. “Who are you, and why are you looking for my son?”

“I’m… I’m not—” Reki swallowed hard. “It’s not like that—”

He sounded pathetic. He knew it. Weak, stammering, hunched like a boy half his size. There was blood in his mouth again and tears in his eyes. The pain in his ribs was starting to lurch with every breath. His hands were still trembling — he couldn’t stop them — and his knees had begun to bend slightly under the weight of everything, not just the fight, not just the fear.

Everything.

Oliver took a long, slow breath through his nose. His grip didn’t tighten, but it also didn’t release. Reki didn’t even try to pry him off.

“Then explain,” he said. “Because it looks, to me, like you just crawled out of a back alley brawl, smelling like cheap liquor and desperation, shouting my son’s name in the middle of a public disorder. So you tell me. What exactly is it like?”

“I just…” Reki winced as his voice cracked again. “I just wanted to make sure he was okay…”

“And why would he not be?”

Reki blinked.

The question hit him like a brick. Not because he hadn’t considered it, but because it had never occurred to him to frame it that way. Why wouldn’t Langa be fine?

Because Langa was perfect .

Because Langa always made it out .

Because the world bent to make space for people like him.

Didn’t it?

“I— I thought maybe—”

“You thought what?” Oliver pressed, stepping slightly closer. “You thought something happened to him? You thought you’d be the one to find him? You, with your bloody lip and ragged coat and back alley face?”

That one landed. Reki flinched, not from the insult, but from the truth of it. Because yes. Yes . That’s exactly what he thought. Because when something breaks in front of you, you fix it , don’t you? No matter who you are. No matter who they are. That’s what you do when you care.

But he couldn’t say that out loud. Not to this man.

Not to his father.

“I just wanted—”

The words stumbled over themselves. Tripped. Fell. Died.

He was cold, even though Madrid was warm this time of year. Purely from the chill that curled inwards. That lived in the seams of you. That whispered, You are not enough. You never will be.

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “You’re shaking,” he said flatly.

Reki bit the inside of his cheek. Hard.

“Where did you last see him?”

Reki didn’t answer.

“Where,” Oliver repeated, with a little more steel behind it now, “did you last see my son?”

“I don’t know —” Reki snapped, and immediately winced again at his own voice. Too loud. Too broken. He could feel the eyes of the crowd nearby turning, slowly, curiously.

Oliver studied him for a long, quiet moment.

Then, in that same even tone, he asked:

“Do you think you know him?”

Reki blinked. “What?”

“My son,” Oliver said. “Do you think you know him?”

Reki looked up at him. Really looked.

And all at once, the question stopped being about Langa, no matter how unintentionally.

It became about him.

His place. His worth.

His filthy boots on polished marble floors.

His broken ribs at the altar of someone untouchable.

His voice trying to answer to someone who had never, once , needed to listen.

“I don’t…” Reki mumbled. “I— don’t think—”

The rest of it didn’t make it past his throat.

Because just like that, he cracked.

Not loud. Not sobbing. Not a grand, operatic collapse. Just a slow, silent, awful breaking.

He lowered his head and trembled.

Oliver didn’t move, not at first. But something had shifted.

It clearly wasn’t pity, he wasn’t the sort. But perhaps some kind of awareness. A subtle recalibration behind the eyes.

“You,” he said, after a moment. “I remember you.”

Reki couldn’t look up, despite his efforts. His shoulders were curled in, his chin tucked like the weight of his own thoughts was too much to carry upright.

“You’re the thief,” Oliver continued. “The one from the Shindo estate party. The boy who caused that little scene.”

Reki flinched.

“And my son,” Oliver added, tone sharpening like a scalpel, “shielded you.”

There it was. The connection. That famous calculus. Oliver’s gaze darkened — surprisingly not with his usual anger, but with something far more dangerous: interest.

Because men like Oliver didn’t deal in sentiment. They dealt in variables. And a bleeding street rat wasn’t worth jack shit…

Unless he was. Unless this boy knew something no one else did.

“I—” Reki croaked. His voice was wet and hoarse and barely holding shape. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I just needed—”

“—to steal,” Oliver finished for him, curtly. “You needed to steal. And now, what? Langa is your saviour? Your meal ticket?”

“No!”

That came out too fast. 

“I just…” He was swaying now. From exhaustion or blood loss or the sheer weight of being seen wrong again and again and again.

“I just want to know if he’s okay,” Reki whispered. “That’s all.”

And for the first time, Oliver really saw him.

Not the mud and bruises. Not the ripped coat or split lip or low-born grime. He saw the trembling, the wild glassy eyes, the cracked voice and the way Reki clutched the air with empty hands like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. Like his panic had nowhere left to run.

“Because someone said the Jackal was caught,” Reki said. “And they’d have to catch him doing something awful. Something big.”

Oliver didn’t blink.

“And I thought,” Reki continued, voice barely holding shape, “what if he— what if he killed someone. What if it was— what if—”

The words dissolved, but the implication didn’t.

Oliver’s brows twitched. The faintest furrow. “You dare to think the Jackal killed my son?”

“No—” Reki’s throat tightened. “I thought maybe… he was, I didn’t… I didn’t know— I just—”

He trailed off, chest heaving. He looked like he was waiting to be struck.

Oliver exhaled once, slow and calculated. His fingers finally slid from Reki’s coat. “You’re a mess,” he said. “But you’re not a liar.”

Reki let out a sound that wasn’t quite a sob, but wasn’t far from it.

Oliver’s eyes scanned the crowd, then landed back on him like he’d just made a decision no one would understand until later.

“Follow me.”

Reki blinked.

“I said,” Oliver snapped, already turning, “ move , boy. You want to find Langa? Then move your feet before I decide you’re better off in a holding cell.”

Reki stumbled after him, ribs screaming.

Oliver didn’t ask if Reki could walk. He just gripped his arm and dragged him forward with all the grace of a hanging verdict.

The crowd hadn’t thinned. If anything it had swollen, buzzing with the kind of hysteria that only fed itself. The phrase The Jackal’s been caught had grown legs, mouths, and imagination, spreading faster than reason could catch up. No one really knew what they were looking for, but they all wanted blood.

Reki stumbled more than once. His legs didn’t want to hold him. His ribs screamed with every jostle, his vision blurring at the edges like the whole world was wrapped in gauze. At one point he fell hard — knee to stone — but Oliver didn’t even slow. Just yanked him upright with the same briskness one might show to a stray dog blocking the street.

“Keep up,” he muttered.

Reki’s voice cracked open like an egg. “I’m trying—”

But then the crowd parted by force, uniformed officers pushing back the tide with barked orders and bored elbows.

And there he was.

Langa.

Standing beneath the shadow of the basilica, bathed in flickering torchlight and the distant shudder of church bells. He looked untouched. Confused, even. His shirt was wrinkled like he’d been sleeping. His hair still damp. There was no blood. No cuffs. Just a faint furrow in his brow and that unsettling calm he always wore when the rest of the world was losing its mind.

Reki stopped breathing.

He didn’t think. Didn’t ask. Didn’t remember the fight. The words. The fire still smouldering between them. Didn’t even feel the pain anymore.

He ran.

Stumbled, then ran again.

He didn’t cry out Langa’s name. He didn’t have to. His body made the sound his voice couldn’t. A wounded, strangled gasp, like something broken being forced into motion. And then he hit him.

Not hard, more like collapsed onto him. Full force, full speed, ribs howling and lungs empty. Arms around Langa’s shoulders. Face buried in the crook of his neck. Shaking like a fever.

Langa didn’t fall.

He caught him.

Instinctively. Like he’d been ready for this exact moment since the hour they met. One arm locked around Reki’s back, lifting him off the ground for a moment as if afraid he would pass out if he touched it.

“Reki?” Langa asked softly. “What—”

Reki couldn’t answer.

The sobs came soundless at first — just the tremor of his chest, the quiver of his mouth against Langa’s collar. Then the air gave way, and it broke from him like something dug up from the marrow. Ugly and hot and real.

He couldn’t speak.

He opened his mouth, but all that came was the wreckage of his voice and a repeated, choked:
“I— I thought—”
“I thought—”
“I thought—”

And Langa just held him.

Held him like he wasn’t angry. Like nothing had changed. Like the last twenty-four hours hadn’t torn through them like a storm.

“It’s okay,” Langa murmured, voice low and calm, his hand at the back of Reki’s head. “I’ve got you. Everything’s fine.”

Reki sobbed harder.

Behind them, Oliver stood at a distance, watching the scene like a man studying a painting he didn’t remember authorising.

And then, quietly, to no one in particular:

“Huh.”

Because the boy wasn’t just close to his son.

He was in his arms like he belonged there.

And Oliver Hasegawa did not like unknowns.

Langa didn’t set Reki down fully yet, just shifted him in his arms so the weight sat more evenly across his chest, so that Reki’s feet brushed the ground but didn’t have to hold him. One of Reki’s fists stayed twisted in the fabric of his collar like an anchor. His face was half-hidden, blotchy, red, leaking tears like a cracked basin, but his eyes were open and watchful.

“Explain yourselves,” Oliver said, stepping forward at last, boots echoing off the stone.

Langa barely glanced over his shoulder. “Reki thought I was dead.”

“I can see that.” Oliver’s tone was dry, but not unkind. “Why would he think that?”

“Because someone shouted the Jackal had been caught,” Langa said, voice level. “In the street. Loud enough to wake the city. He panicked. Same as everyone else.”

“And yet,” Oliver said, eyes narrowing, “not everyone else came tearing through the mob with blood on their shirt and fear in their teeth.”

Langa didn’t answer right away. Just looked down at Reki — at the flushed face tucked against his shoulder. At the tear tracks and bruises like thumbprints from fate itself.

“He’s not a threat,” Langa said quietly. “He was afraid. That’s all.”

Oliver’s jaw shifted, skeptical. But before he could say more, another officer approached at a near-run, breath huffing visible in the chill air.

“Sir!” the man barked, saluting once. “We’ve confirmed it. He’s in custody.”

Oliver turned. “The Jackal?”

The officer nodded grimly. “Tadashi Kikuchi. We caught him near the old granary outside the city walls. He had… tools on him. A body not far from the site. And we found these.”

He held up a cloth bundle.

Oliver peeled it back with a frown.

Surgical blades. Bone saw. A rosary soaked in something dark that one could only assume was not wine.

Reki went still in Langa’s arms.

Tadashi.

He was familiar with that name.

They had met before, but Tadashi didn’t seem like the kind of guy to be a criminal. He was always half a step behind Adam. Always just there, silent and folded in shadows like a well-trained ghost.

“Tadashi?” Langa said, not loud, but not unsure, either. “He’s been sided with the board and the Detective’s Guild for years. Why would he —?”

“Why does anyone kill?” Oliver asked. “Maybe he snapped. Perhaps the masks were a symptom all along. It’s very likely we’ve been letting monsters eat from our hands.” He turned back to the officer. “Where is he now?”

“Being questioned. He’s not talking.”

Oliver grunted. “He will.”

The officer bowed and stepped away.

Reki didn’t move.

His mouth opened slightly, like he was about to say something. But the words didn’t come. Just the smallest twitch of disbelief. Of knowing . From pure, unbridled instinct.

Surely Tadashi wasn’t the Jackal.

It was too neat. Too… public .

Tadashi might’ve been at the scene, but was he really the kind of person to kill a man out of mere spite? Reki couldn’t afford to be making assumptions at a time like this.

But Reki just hadn’t seen it. Not even directly, but in the glint of his eyes. In the way he laughed too loud at everyone’s jokes and never walked in front of anyone.

He couldn’t say any of that. Not here. Not while Oliver Hasegawa was still standing there, measuring him like a riddle with dirt under its nails.

Instead, he clung tighter to Langa. Said nothing. Let himself disappear behind his shoulder like he was just part of his silhouette.

Langa still didn’t push him away, he just folded his arm tighter around Reki’s back and looked his father in the eye.

“If Tadashi’s the Jackal,” he said, “I’ll go with you to question him myself.”

Oliver’s brow lifted. “Do you believe it?”

Langa’s voice didn’t change.

“I believe there’s always more to that man than meets the eye.”

Behind him, Reki finally blinked, slow and heavy, like he was seeing the shape of something bigger coming through the fog. Not the end.

Just a beginning in a better disguise.

Chapter Text

Somewhere behind the cathedral, the world roared on. Boots stomped orders into the cobblestone, bells rang over rooftops like iron-throated prophets, and names were whispered like prayers, or curses, or both.

But here, beneath the dark ribs of a cloister where only one half-broken lantern hung, there was only the sound of Reki breathing too fast and Langa not letting go.

They’d slipped away from the crowd having barely exchanged a word, just Langa tugging Reki gently by the wrist until they were swallowed by silence and old stone. No one had stopped them, let alone noticed. The crowd wanted monsters, not boys.

Reki sat slumped on the cold marble bench, head in his hands. Langa sat beside him, not quite touching, but close enough that Reki felt it like heat. The silence between them was soft now. It no longer buzzed with things unsaid or resentments caught between their ribs, it just… was. Space, held gently. A breath being taken.

“Sorry,” Reki croaked, wiping at his eyes with a sleeve that smelled like brick dust and smoke.

Langa looked over. “For what?”

“For everything,” he said. “For snapping at you. For not listening. For thinking— for assuming the worst. For coming back. For—”

“Reki.” Langa’s voice cut through sharp. “Stop.”

Reki did.

Langa leaned forward, elbows on knees, and ran a hand through his hair. “You think I’ve never assumed the worst of you? You think I haven’t said things I regret the second they leave my mouth?”

Reki blinked.

“I station you near a murder and then act like you’re the problem?” Langa said, shaking his head. “I was an idiot, and I was scared. And when I get scared I—”

“You get cold,” Reki finished. His voice was quiet. Not bitter.

Langa glanced at him.

“And when I get scared,” Reki went on, “I start talking too much. And then I get stupid. And then I run.”

A pause.

“And bleed,” Langa said.

Reki huffed out a laugh, choked and rough. “Only on special occasions.”

They sat in silence again, but this time it curled around them warm and full, like the inside of a quilt. There was still ash between them. But the fire was out.

After a minute, Reki leaned his head against Langa’s shoulder.

“I thought you were dead,” he said. Barely more than a whisper.

“I know,” Langa murmured. “I could feel you thinking it.”

Reki laughed again, bitter and soft. “Ugh. Gross.” He muttered it into Langa’s shoulder, but didn’t move. His limbs had stopped obeying hours ago, and honestly, this was the first time he’d been warm in what felt like days. The first time his thoughts had stopped sounding like sirens. Langa chuckled, quiet and under his breath. His chin dipped down a little to rest lightly on Reki’s hair, like he was pressing a kiss there without quite kissing it. Reki felt it anyway.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Langa said, and his voice wasn’t angry or accusing. More like a confession. “I didn’t know where you went, you didn’t tell me. You left with so much pain in your eyes and I— I couldn’t breathe.”

Reki blinked against the sting in his lashes. “Yeah, well,” he croaked. “You scared me first. So we’re even.”

Langa didn’t reply right away. He shifted instead, and Reki felt the way he sat up straighter, the mood changing a little. Intent.

Then Langa got up. Reki was about to complain (his shoulder was cold now, thanks a lot) when he noticed what was happening. Langa sank down onto his knees in front of him.

Like, actually knelt.

“Okay, woah,” Reki said, blinking rapidly. “This is either gonna be extremely alluring or extremely concerning. You’re not dying, right?”

“I’m not dying,” Langa said. “Shut up.”

“You know how this morning I said I’d make it up to you?” he continued, meeting Reki’s eyes now.

“Yeah?” Reki said, brows furrowed. “Is this the part where you tell me I’ve been a good little street rat and deserve a treat?”

Langa ignored him. Which, frankly, only made it worse.

“I’m going to do that now,” he said.

And Reki’s entire brain, already held together by chewing gum and trauma, completely short-circuited. “Okay, look,” he blurted, holding up both hands like he was about to be frisked. “I’ve never had sex in public before but I’m open-minded, I just feel like we should discuss the hygiene situation first because I am literally covered in someone else’s blood and also might be concussed.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Langa looked up at him with this expression. Like the sun rising after a week of storms. Like he’d just heard something sacred and stupid all at once.

“Reki.”

“Yeah?”

“I am not about to pursue you on a bench.”

“Oh thank God,” Reki muttered, visibly sagging. “Because that would've been enjoyable but also genuinely traumatic.”

And then Langa reached out, took his hands.

Held them like they were breakable. Like they were answers to questions he'd asked his whole life.

“I love you,” he said.

Reki stopped breathing.

“I love you,” Langa said again, firmer now, like it needed to be said twice to exist properly in the world. “And I’m sorry it took me this long to say it. You deserve someone who says it every day. Who doesn’t make you guess, or fight, or especially bleed to prove your place.”

Reki swallowed, hard. Something behind his eyes began to sting again.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” Langa went on. “You burn like no one’s ever told you the world gets cold. You act like love is something to apologise for. But I’m telling you now, don’t. You’re not a mistake. You’re not some sidekick. You’re not the distraction from a mission. You are the mission. You’re what I want to come back to when it’s over. You’re what makes it worth doing in the first place.”

Reki’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“Say something,” Langa whispered. “Please.”

Reki blinked. “Uh. I think I just ascended.”

And then, without warning, he tipped forward and pulled Langa into him, tight and trembling and everything he’d been afraid to want.

“I love you too,” he mumbled into Langa’s neck. “You idiot.”

They sat there a moment longer, clinging like survivors to each other.

Langa then shifted, still on his knees, and brushed Reki’s cheek with the back of his knuckles so gently, that Reki might have vanished if he pressed too hard. Then he stood, slow and fluid, and tugged Reki to his feet with him, never once letting go of his hand.

And then, like it was the simplest truth in the world, Langa said—

“You make the world feel less cruel.”

Reki didn’t think. He just kissed him.

It was instinct, oxygen, inevitability.

Their mouths met like magnets, like matching wounds. It wasn’t fast or desperate, not this time — it was tender, ruinously so, like Langa wanted to read every scar Reki had ever earned with the press of his lips. Reki was something holy, Langa a devout sinner trying to repent in physicality alone.

Reki gripped the front of Langa’s coat, still damp from the night air, and let himself melt into it. Their noses brushed as they shifted, breath catching between them. Langa’s hands moved, one curling against Reki’s jaw, thumb stroking just under his ear; the other slipping beneath the hem of his shirt at the small of his back, not greedy, just… needing to touch, to anchor . To remind them both this wasn’t a dream.

The kiss deepened just slightly — heat curling at the edges, a soft inhale from Langa as Reki tilted his head a little more. It was dirty only in the sense that it felt too intimate for the open air. Like this belonged behind curtains, whispered under blankets. The kind of embrace that left fingerprints on the soul.

When they pulled apart, Reki’s lashes were wet.

Langa pressed their foreheads together.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “You okay?”

Reki sniffled and made a noise that was definitely meant to be a yes but came out more like a whimper.

“Oh, angel,” Langa murmured, thumb brushing beneath his eye now. “You’ve had a rough night, haven’t you?”

Reki let out a helpless laugh, like the kind you choke on when you’re one second from breaking down completely.

Langa just smiled, tilted his head, and whispered it again.

“My angel.”

Reki folded. Right there. Like origami in Langa’s arms.

Wrapped himself around him like a second coat and buried his face in his neck, trying to breathe past the ache in his chest and the stupid, overwhelming feeling of being loved.

He’d been punched, hunted, insulted, interrogated, and damn near trampled by a mob tonight.

But now he was being held like he mattered.

Like he was somebody's everything.

And he was.

God help him, he was .

The morning had the audacity to be bright.

Langa sat opposite his father in the closed carriage, watching the Madrid streets roll past through a fine veil of condensation on the window. His coat was pressed, his collar starched, and he looked — if you ignored the subtle bruising beneath one eye — like a perfectly respectable young man on his way to assist the constabulary with formal questioning.

Oliver Hasegawa looked like he was en route to execute a man with his bare hands and bill the Crown for it.

The silence was... not comfortable.

“Your boy,” Oliver finally said, tone like a surgeon selecting a scalpel.

Langa blinked. “What?”

“The one who cried all over my coat last night.”

Langa shifted. “You mean Reki.”

“Oh, he has a name. Good.” Oliver tapped his cane once against the floorboards. “I thought perhaps we were still calling him ‘the street rat.’ Or has he graduated to ‘angel’ permanently?”

Langa squinted. “You were eavesdropping? ”

“I was holding him upright while he sobbed your name into my shoulder like a war widow,” Oliver snapped. “Forgive me if I picked up a few context clues.”

Langa tried not to laugh. He failed.

“He’s not…” Langa’s mouth quirked, eyes fixed on the blurred city beyond the glass. “It wasn’t like that.”

Oliver gave him a long, unblinking stare that could sand furniture.

“Then allow me to clarify,” he said, dry as parchment. “You were discovered in the aftermath of a riot, disheveled and covered in the blood of someone else’s child, clutching a half-conscious boy who calls you ‘his entire life’ and has bite marks on his collarbone. Am I missing any pieces to this riveting domestic tapestry?”

Langa pinched the bridge of his nose. “He got into a fight.”

“With a terrier?” Oliver deadpanned.

Langa gave up and leaned his head back against the padded wall of the carriage, groaning. “I’m not discussing my love life with you.”

“Ah. So it is your love life.”

“Father.”

Oliver hummed like he was filing that away for later blackmail on Langa’s 30th birthday. “Has he robbed you yet?”

“No.”

“Poisoned your food?”

“What? No!”

“Convinced you to abandon your position, identity, and morality for a cause you don’t understand and almost certainly haven’t thought through?”

Langa blinked. “Not… recently?”

Oliver folded his hands over the wolf’s head of his cane and stared like a gargoyle thinking about taxes.

Then, after a beat: “Do you love him?”

Langa didn’t dare to open his mouth and swallowed.

“...Yes,” he said quietly. “Very much.”

Oliver stared. For a long moment, he didn’t move.

“Good grief,” he muttered, turning back toward the window like it had personally betrayed him. “You always were your mother’s child.”

Langa smiled faintly. “She’d like him.”

“No, she’d try to fix him. And you’d let her.” A beat. “And then we’d have two soft-hearts at the dinner table and a staff full of frightened footmen.”

Langa chuckled, but then the smile slipped as the looming Basilica drew into view up the road — the spire rising like a blade against the pale sky, stone grey and immovable. A place for confessions. He sobered. “Do you think he’s guilty?”

Oliver followed his gaze. “No.”

Langa turned to him. “No?”

“Tadashi Kikuchi is a gullible coward,” Oliver said simply. “He’d hang if you told him it would save face.”

“Then why would he confess?”

“Because someone told him to,” Oliver said, voice like the calm before a guillotine drop. “And he listens. That’s the problem with footmen who think they’re kings. They don’t know where to fall until someone points.”

Langa felt a chill despite the sun.

Oliver’s knuckles tightened on the cane. “The real question is… who’s been giving orders.”

And with that, the carriage slowed — the basilica steps looming, crowded with officers, whispers, and the press of history.

Inside the basilica, the air was cool and cruel.

A room carved for God but commandeered by men, where stained glass saints watched impassively as detectives paced like jackals and Tadashi Kikuchi sat at the centre of it all — hands folded, spine straight, every inch of him trying very hard not to look like a man falling apart.

He failed at that, too.

The table in front of him was bare save for an inkwell, a fountain pen, and the folded sheet of parchment on which he’d already written — in neat, shaking script — the words:

I acted alone.

Langa stood just behind his father, arms crossed, jaw tight. Oliver looked like he wanted to peel skin off with his cane.

Tadashi didn’t look up. Not when the door shut, not when boots echoed across the stone. He stared at the middle distance with the dead-eyed resolve of a man who’s been promised salvation if he keeps quiet and only if he bleeds politely.

Oliver said nothing at first. Just walked a slow circle around the table, the clack of his cane rhythmic and methodical.

Then he stopped. Tadashi flinched. Oliver hadn’t even touched him.

“You know,” Oliver said lightly, “I always assumed the Jackal would be taller.”

Tadashi blinked. “Sir—”

“Or stronger. Or… sentient.” Oliver gestured vaguely at his whole existence. “But here you are. A secretary with a taste for graveyards.”

Tadashi swallowed. “I’ve already confessed. The statements were submitted to the constables at—”

“Yes, yes,” Oliver cut in, waving him off like a fly. “Lovely penmanship. I especially liked the part where you single handedly committed over sixty separate murders over the course of ten years while also attending every one of Ainosuke Shindo’s public functions, managing his estate, and polishing his shoes.”

“I—”

“You must be very efficient,” Oliver added, smile thin and awful. “Do you murder while polishing, or is that a nighttime hobby?”

Tadashi’s face twitched.

Langa, behind him, just exhaled. Quietly. Like he couldn’t bear the sound of this charade a moment longer.

“Why are you protecting him?” he asked, not with anger, but with quiet, burning confusion. “You don’t owe him that.”

Tadashi’s eyes flicked to him. Just once.

And in that second, Langa saw it.

Desperation.

Like a dog who’d been beaten so long, it no longer knew the difference between a hand and a whip.

“I owe him everything,” Tadashi said softly.

Oliver arched an eyebrow. “Does he owe you back?”

Silence.

A drip of water somewhere in the rafters.

Tadashi lowered his eyes. “Again. I acted alone.”

“Then tell us how you disposed of the body four months ago when you were documented at the governor’s dinner that same hour,” Oliver said, voice now dipping into scalpel territory. “With diagrams, please. I adore diagrams.”

Tadashi didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Because every time someone mentioned a corpse, he nodded like it was a courtesy. Every time someone said The Jackal , he wore it like a crown made of nails.

Langa leaned closer to his father.

“He’s not lying,” he whispered. “But he’s not telling the truth either.”

Oliver didn’t reply. His eyes were already narrowing, zeroing in on the soft spot.

“Ainosuke Shindo,” he said casually. “Where was he the night the body at the Alcázar was found?”

Tadashi froze.

It was barely perceptible — a flicker, a pulse. But it was enough.

He hesitated. Then: “Home. I’d brought him dinner.”

Oliver smiled. And this time, it was worse.

“You cooked?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know it was home?”

A pause. “I was there.”

“And you left when?”

Tadashi hesitated.

Langa saw the crack. So small. But spreading.

And deep, deep in his gut, Reki’s voice echoed.

The board’s not following rules anymore.

But Langa was seeing it now.

And Tadashi Kikuchi, martyr on a leash, was unraveling in slow motion.

Oliver didn’t speak. His silence was more eloquent than a slap.

Tadashi sat too straight, his fingers interlaced too tightly. The candlelight licked the edge of his jaw and cast his eyes in shadow, and somehow he still looked like a child caught in the wrong room of the house, hands bloody with someone else’s sin.

“Recently, a witness placed Shindo at the Prado,” Oliver said, calm as a prayer. “You were not with him.”

“I never said I stayed.”

“No, you just imply it with the dedication of a priest defending a saint,” Oliver murmured, stepping closer. “It’s fascinating, this loyalty. Is it religious? Sexual? Financial? I’d love to label it before your trial begins.”

Tadashi opened his mouth but closed it shortly after. His tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth like it could block whatever betrayal was about to leap out.

“I…” He inhaled. Shaky. “I handled all of it.”

“All of it?” Langa clarified, his voice quieter, but cutting through like frost. “You never killed them.”

“For the last time, I said I acted alone.”

“You’re lying.”

The words hung there.

And Tadashi didn’t flinch nor did he argue. He just looked at Langa, and for the first time, there was something in his eyes beyond fear. Something resigned.

“If he is the Jackal,” Langa said, “then what is his mark? I say we ask.”

Oliver tilted his head. “Very good, son.”

Tadashi blinked. “What?”

“The signature,” Langa pressed. “The throat wound. The mark they all have. If you killed them, then show us how you did it.”

Tadashi’s breath caught. He hadn’t expected that.

Because he didn’t know.

Because he’d never done it.

“You want me to reenact a murder?” he said finally, voice weak. “I— I’ve confessed. What more do you want?”

“For God’s sake, the whole truth,” Langa snapped. “For once.”

Oliver’s hand shot out fast and precise, and slammed a folder onto the table. Papers spilled like entrails, black ink scarring the page. Crime scene sketches, postmortem drawings. The kind of ink that haunted children’s sleep.

“You do understand,” Oliver said slowly, “that these poor families want closure. Not your love letters to Ainosuke Shindo.”

Tadashi twitched at the name.

Oliver saw it. He smiled again. That awful, surgical thing.

“Tell me what he promised you. Was it money? A title? A room in his mansion where you could pretend you weren’t just his errand boy?”

“I am not—”

“You are not anything,” Oliver snarled. “Except a man who takes out the trash for the devil and calls it penance.”

Langa’s jaw clenched. He wanted to stop him, but he didn’t. Not yet. Because Oliver was digging with the precision of a mortician, and the truth was gasping just under the surface.

“I committed all the murders,” Tadashi muttered. “Every single one.”

“Every single one?” Oliver echoed.

“Yes. Even the ones you never found.”

“And just how many bodies does that add up to in the long run?” Oliver’s voice dropped. “Hundreds? Thousands? The boy on the steps of the Basilica, the girl from Chueca, the sailor strung up in Plaza Mayor, how many, Tadashi?”

Tadashi’s hands shook.

”Scum of the Earth,” Oliver muttered, although he did not make the greatest effort to conceal it.

Langa stepped forward then. Absolutely not to comfort him, just to be closer. To see.

“You’ve always worn gloves at the estate,” he said softly. “Even in summer.”

Tadashi blinked.

“Why?”

“I—” A breath. “I didn’t want to track anything in.”

Reki would’ve said it out loud: Blood, you mean. But Langa just nodded, like that was enough.

It was enough.

Because the room didn’t smell like guilt anymore. It smelled like rot. Something long buried beginning to thaw.

“You think you’re saving him,” Langa said. “But he’s already damned.”

Tadashi’s eyes widened. “Don’t say that—”

“Why not?” Langa stepped closer, voice trembling now — not from nerves, but fury. “He let you take the fall. He’s watching this from a throne while you sign your death warrant.”

“I’m protecting the man I serve,” Tadashi said. “That’s all I’ve ever done.”

Langa scoffed. “Then you’re a fool.”

Something in Tadashi’s face broke then. Not physically. No tears, no sobs, but a quiet folding-in, a man finally realising the wall he’d leaned on was paper.

Oliver leaned over the table, both palms pressed down.

“You will be hanged,” he said. Flat and inevitable. “That is, if you continue to protect him.”

Tadashi closed his eyes.

“I know.”

And the silence that followed was not peace. It was dread.

Langa felt sick.

“Tadashi,” he said, quieter now. “Please. Just… tell the truth.”

“I am.”

“No.” He stepped even closer. “You’re telling a version. That’s not the same thing.”

But Tadashi didn’t move. Just sat there, a statue in a cathedral. Burnt offering in a suit.

Oliver exhaled, long and slow, like the fuse had run out.

He picked up his cane. “Prepare the carriage,” he told one of the aides near the chapel archway. “We begin trial tomorrow.”

“Sir,” the aide nodded, vanishing into the hall.

Tadashi still hadn’t moved.

Oliver turned to go, but Langa lingered, just watching him.

“You’re going to die for him,” he said finally. “And he won’t even remember your name.”

It wasn’t cruel, really.

It was a fact.

And it landed like a hammer.

Tadashi didn’t answer.

Because he couldn’t. Because maybe Langa was right.

Because maybe that was the only punishment Tadashi would ever allow himself.

Chapter Text

Langa returned to his suite like a man returning from war.

The hallway smelled like lemon oil and old money. His boots made neat little clicks against the polished floor. Every part of him looked composed: coat buttoned, tie straight, hair neatly slicked to the side. The bruising under one eye had faded into something almost fashionable. He looked like the kind of man who’d walk into court, shake hands with death, and win the case out of sheer spite.

But inside?

He was ten kinds of exhausted and four kinds of emotionally compromised. The Tadashi interrogation had left a sour taste in his mouth, like burnt sugar. It didn’t sit right. None of it did. The lies. The loyalty. The way Tadashi swallowed guilt like communion wine.

And now Langa had a trial to attend, a murderer to maybe exonerate, a father to dodge, and a lover—

He froze in the doorway.

Correction: a lover currently sprawled on his windowsill like a morally ambiguous cat.

“Hey handsome,” Reki said, barefoot and wild-haired, looking deeply unrepentant and very pleased with himself. “Miss me?”

Langa slammed the door shut before anyone passing could see. “How the fuck did you get in here?”

Reki grinned. “Magic.”

“Reki.”

“Fine, secret magic.”

Langa groaned and leaned against the door, letting his head thunk lightly against the wood. “You can’t just break into my hotel room.”

“Done it before. And I didn’t break in,” Reki said, swinging his legs idly. “I snuck in. Big difference.”

“There are armed guards—”

“I know.” His grin widened. 

“I’m—” Langa’s voice cracked, not with emotion, but with restraint. “—impressed you didn’t trip the guards on the way upstairs.”

“I threw a rat at one of them.”

Langa actually choked.

“You what?”

“I said ‘hey look, a rat’, and then I actually threw a rat. Like, a real one. Just scooped it off the street and went full Les Misérables on his ass. Works every time.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“He screamed,” Reki added cheerfully. “Dropped his lantern. Ran the other way. It was so beautiful I almost cried.”

Langa stared. “You’re insane.”

“You’re pretty fond of it.”

Langa was, in fact, trying very hard not to show how much that was true. His fingers twitched where they gripped the edge of the door. His jaw clenched. The top button of his shirt suddenly felt like a noose.

Reki hopped down from the windowsill and sauntered forward, hands tucked into his waistband like he owned the place. His linen shirt was slightly torn, his curls were windblown, and there was a smear of soot across one cheek like he’d kissed a chimney on the way in. He probably had.

Langa’s brain short-circuited.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, weakly.

“Don’t worry,” Reki said. “I’m not staying.”

Langa blinked. “You’re not?”

“I just needed to make sure you didn’t get, like, emotionally devoured by your father or whatever.” Reki shrugged. “Also, I stole a knife from the downstairs cabinet. That’s for me. You can’t have it back.”

“…What?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Langa watched as Reki inspected the edge of said knife and tucked it into his belt like he was about to rob a stagecoach. Then he walked over, completely invading Langa’s space like he hadn’t just committed a series of minor felonies.

There were maybe six inches between them. Four. Two.

“I missed you,” Reki said, almost too casually.

And Langa — well. Langa had survived war zones of the heart before. But nothing made him want to sit down and scream into a pillow more than this boy looking up at him like that, messy and brave and heart first, always.

“I was gone for three hours,” Langa muttered.

“Three hours too long.”

Reki’s eyes searched his, then dropped, then rose again. “Wow,” he whispered. “You’re really… um. You’re really staring.”

Langa didn’t blink. “I’m trying to commit this to memory in case my father has you shot on sight.”

Reki grinned. “Aw. Romantic.”

“No, seriously. This might be the last time I see your face.”

Reki gasped, mock offended. “I’ll have you know I’m very good at hiding in laundry carts. You’ll see me again.”

“Reki—” Langa said, voice raw.

But Reki just reached up and tapped him on the chin. “Go be a hero or whatever. I’ll be watching.”

“From where?”

“The walls.”

Langa sighed. “Of course.”

And then, as quickly as he appeared, Reki slipped back toward the window like some streetwise ghost. With one leg already through the pane, he paused.

“Oh,” he said brightly. “Tell Shindo I said hi.”

“Don’t—”

“Bye!”

And with that, he vanished.

Langa stood in the silence that followed, heart hammering, head full of Reki’s grin and the phantom warmth of almost-touching lips.

The trial hadn’t even started, and he was already losing his mind.

He didn’t move for a long time after Reki slipped out the window.

The room felt a few degrees warmer, and not just from embarrassment. His palms were sweating. His pulse hadn’t settled. And the ghost of Reki’s voice — bright, irreverent, holy in the way only thieves and saints could be — still clung to the corners of the space.

He glanced once toward the windowsill, where a dirty footprint had been left behind. He walked across the room, picked up a book from the nightstand, stared at it without reading, and finally dropped it face-down with a thud. 

The strange thing was, he felt lighter.

Reki had that effect on him. Like a bloodletting, or a storm breaking after weeks of thick, unbreathable air. Even when Langa wanted to strangle him for being reckless, for risking his life over a boy who couldn’t even legally vote in most of Europe, he still found himself clinging to that recklessness like a lifeline.

God, he was in so deep it was embarrassing.

And the worst part? It wasn’t even lust. Not really. It was affection. Real, brutal, spine-bending affection. He was completely doomed.

Langa went back to the window and made sure it was locked. Twice. Just in case his human firework of a lover decided to return with a sack of ferrets and a plan to sabotage the entire judicial process.

By the time he finally lay down, the sun was blinding him through the translucent curtain. It was only mid day.

Madrid, for once, was quiet.

But not for long.

By the time the bells began to ring from the Basilica the next day, Langa was already dressed in navy and bone. Cravat pinned. Hair combed. Shoulders squared like he’d been carved from some statue of stoicism and barely given time to dry.

He ate nothing.

His mouth felt like parchment. His tongue a lump of lead behind clenched teeth. His mind ran in circles, loops and spirals, always doubling back to the same place.

Reki.
The trial.
Reki.
The trial.
Reki.

And then—

Adam.

Ainosuke Shindo’s name hadn’t been uttered aloud that morning, but it hung behind every sentence. He didn’t see his father much in the hour before they departed. Only caught a glimpse of the man’s reflection in a gilded hallway mirror: perfectly groomed and impossibly cold. 

Oliver did not knock when it was time.

He simply appeared in the doorway and said, “We go.”

And they did.

The carriage this time was quieter. Not because it was void of sound in itself, but because the tension had evolved — less like flint against steel. Langa watched the city blur past again, but this time the crowds had multiplied. Citizens lined the edges of the Plaza like theatergoers, eyes wide, waiting for blood. Vendors hawked chestnuts beside men holding hand-painted signs: El Chacal será juzgado. The Jackal will be judged.

He caught another sign that made his stomach turn:
Shindo es inocente.
Shindo is innocent.

Langa swallowed it down, but it fought.

When the carriage finally halted at the courthouse steps, Oliver Hasegawa descended first, not bothering to wait or glance behind him. Langa followed, but he didn’t trust the ground not to tilt beneath him.

The grand marble pillars loomed, ancient and blind. A hundred shuttered windows watched them pass beneath the arch.

And still, in his head:

Reki.

Did he eat? Did he climb back into someone’s attic and hide beneath a pew? Did he feel the weight of this trial as much as Langa did?

More, probably. Reki always did.

The courtroom doors opened with a groan. Inside: chandeliers, oaken benches, whispering silk and ink-stained wigs. There was no jury — this was Spain, after all — but there was a crowd. Press. Aristocrats. Clergy. And near the front, men Langa recognised by their rings and teeth and coats: Adam’s orbit. Still loyal, and still dangerous.

Langa followed his father toward the stand. His seat was beside a row of notaries, all scratching away with sharpened quills like vultures picking flesh from a kill.

He sat down.

Back straight. Breath measured.

The trial was on the edge of beginning. And already, the judge was late.

Not by much — a handful of minutes, maybe seven — but long enough for every occupant of the room to simmer in the collective tension of their own expectations. It gave the journalists time to fuss with their inks, gave the priests time to cross themselves, and gave Langa time to quietly lose his mind.

Tadashi Kikuchi sat at the defense bench like someone had poured him into a human mold and forgotten to give him permission to breathe. His hands were folded politely atop the table. His suit was pressed to perfection, not a crease in sight. The only indication that he was not, in fact, a wax statue, were the dark, oily shadows beneath his eyes and the way he blinked every few seconds.

Langa tried not to stare. Really. It wasn't an attraction. Not primarily, at least. It was more like… anthropological curiosity. Tadashi was beautiful in that devastating, glass figurine way. And that was the issue, wasn’t it? Because beneath the well-cut coat and starched collar, beneath the precisely parted hair and the submissive posture, was a man who had confessed — proudly, dutifully, stupidly — to thirty murders he almost certainly hadn’t committed.

Thirty.

And all, apparently, in the service of Ainosuke Shindo. Langa shifted in his seat, frowning.

“He’s got martyr syndrome,” he muttered to Oliver beside him, who didn’t look up from the notes he was scribbling.

“He’s got idiocy,” Oliver replied. “If martyrdom is a disease, then he’s dead for good.”

Langa scratched the edge of his jaw, eyes flicking again to Tadashi. “But he doesn’t look scared.”

“No,” Oliver said.

The judge entered with all the pomp of a biblical flood. Gavel gleaming. A few constables stood to attention, and the crowd fell into a hush so total it seemed to suck the air from the walls.

“Proceedings in the matter of The Crown v. Tadashi Kikuchi shall now commence,” the clerk intoned.

And just like that, the trial began. It started civil.

Questions about Tadashi’s employment history, his relationship to Shindo, his activities in the months surrounding the earliest Jackal killings. Most of his answers were crisp and legally unimpeachable. But now and then, something slipped.

“I was at home that evening,” he said at one point.

“Whose home?”

“My master’s,” Tadashi answered.

Langa flinched, and he wasn’t the only one. A ripple went through the audience, subtle but sharp. A word like that — master — didn’t sit right in mouths that dressed in powdered wigs and called themselves progressives.

Oliver leaned toward Langa, voice like a saw through velvet. “He’s signaling,” he murmured.

“To who?”

Oliver didn’t answer. Just jotted something in his notebook with a little too much force.

A piece of damning testimony was read aloud and Tadashi sat through it like it had nothing to do with him. The body of a banker, throat slit, throat always slit, found in the Rastro district, same alley where two other men were discovered over the past year. Witnesses claimed seeing a tall figure, coat trailing, vanishing down a side street minutes before the first scream.

When asked if it had been him, Tadashi replied, “I cannot deny the possibility.”

Not yes.
Not no.
Just that.

Like he’d memorised the exact coordinates between guilt and devotion and parked himself there indefinitely.

Langa’s knuckles tightened on the edge of the bench. The thing was, he believed Tadashi. Every word. Every dull, tragic, unflinching word. He believed Tadashi had cleaned up blood, arranged bodies, maybe even paid someone off here and there.

But thirty murders? Thirty perfect, surgically cruel murders?

That wasn’t Tadashi. That was someone with poetry in their violence. Someone who loved it.  And Tadashi, for all his limp-spined loyalty, was trying very hard not to be seen.

The break was called with the sound of the judge’s gavel and a hundred murmured exhalations.

The air in the courtroom felt sucked dry. People rose from their seats like exhausted marionettes, voices fluttering and colliding in uneven bursts. Even the dust motes seemed restless.

Langa stayed where he was.

He didn’t even realize he was gripping the bench until his fingers ached. His pulse throbbed in his palms like something trying to claw out. The whole room had blurred into the color of candle wax and whispers.

He couldn’t look at Tadashi anymore.

He tried, he really tried, but every time his gaze flicked that direction, something in his chest twisted. Not pity, not exactly. More like watching someone calmly drown.

Tadashi was still sitting there, unmoved and composed. The absolute picture of civility. Hands folded, head slightly bowed. The defense counsel whispered something to him; he nodded, obedient as ever.

Langa thought he might be sick.

He stood abruptly, muttered something to his father — who gave him a look that could sterilize surgical instruments — and slipped into the corridor.

The hallway outside was cold, echoing with the faint metallic click of boots on tile. The scent of ink and rainwater clung to everything.

Langa pressed his back against the wall, dragging a hand down his face.

It shouldn’t have been this hard to breathe.
It shouldn’t have felt personal.

But it did.

Because Tadashi Kikuchi wasn’t just lying; he was performing. Performing guilt. He was performing this almost holy reverence for Ainosuke Shindo like a priest caught between worship and sin.

And somehow, that was worse than any real confession.

A memory tugged at him — Reki, whispering in the dead of night, He’s protecting Adam.
Langa had dismissed it back then. Too simple. Now? It sat in his head like a ticking clock.

“Son.”

Langa straightened. His father’s voice had that awful calmness to it, the kind of calm that meant a storm was on its way.

Oliver Hasegawa approached, his cane tapping once, twice, like punctuation. “You’re pale,” he observed. “Don’t tell me you’re fainting over courtroom theatrics.”

“I’m not fainting,” Langa said tightly.

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “You’re distracted.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Ah.” A humorless smile. “That’s the dangerous one.”

Langa didn’t respond. He just stared ahead — at the closed double doors that led back to the trial room — and said, more to himself than to anyone else, “I’m completely certain that he’s not the Jackal.”

Oliver said nothing.

“You saw it too,” Langa pressed. “He’s lying, but he’s not that kind of liar. His tells don’t line up with violence. He flinches at authority. He’s afraid of saying the wrong thing, rather than of being caught.”

Oliver gave a slow, thoughtful sigh. “I did notice he avoids pronouns.”

“What?”

“When he speaks of Ainosuke,” Oliver said, “he uses no direct reference. No ‘he,’ no ‘the man,’ just my master or the estate. As if he’s terrified of naming the sun that burns him.”

Langa frowned. “So you agree with me.”

“I agree that you’re over-involved.”

“Father—”

“You’re trembling.”

Langa looked down. Damn it — he was. His fingers were shaking, his breath too shallow. He pressed his hand to his chest like he could steady it by force.

Oliver’s expression softened, but only slightly. “You’ve always had this problem,” he murmured. “You confuse compassion with clarity.”

“It’s not compassion,” Langa said, too quickly.

Oliver arched a brow.

Langa exhaled through his teeth. “…It’s curiosity.”

“Curiosity,” Oliver repeated, unimpressed. “Is that what we’re calling guilt these days?”

Langa looked away.

The break ended.

Everyone returned to their seats, a low hum of tension buzzing under the marble arches. Tadashi remained the same picture of quiet ruin, but Langa thought he could see it now — the microtremors under his control. The exhaustion starting to seep through the seams.

When the judge resumed, the tone was final. Fatal, even. The questions turned sharper, phrasing more direct. The journalists leaned forward, pens ready to immortalize every drop of scandal.

And when the final statement came, it landed like a closing coffin lid.

“Tadashi Kikuchi, by your own admission, you stand guilty of the crimes attributed to the Jackal. The Crown shall proceed with formal sentencing pending final review.”

Murmurs spread like sparks.

Langa’s stomach dropped.

Tadashi just bowed his head. No protest. No flicker of relief. Like he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

Oliver stood — as was his right — to address the court before adjournment. His voice carried easily, refined and unflinching.

“With due respect to this court,” he began, “my department has reviewed the confessions in question. While we do not dispute the defendant’s admission, we must acknowledge irregularities that suggest further investigation is warranted.”

The judge frowned. “You imply doubt, Detective?”

“I imply prudence,” Oliver replied. “It would be… inconvenient to execute a man whose guilt we cannot yet verify in its entirety.”

Langa glanced up, meeting his father’s eyes.

And for once, for one rare, disarming moment, Oliver looked proud of him.

Because Langa was already on his feet too.

“I agree,” he said, voice steady. “Keep him detained. But don’t hang him. Not yet.”

The courtroom stilled.

And in that fragile silence, Tadashi finally lifted his head, just enough for his eyes to find Langa’s.

There was no gratitude there. No pleading. Just a quiet, exhausted kind of recognition.

Like he knew this was postponement.

And outside, through the high court windows, Madrid’s bells began to ring — a hollow, echoing sound that made the whole city feel like it was holding its breath.