Atelier 7 smelled of cedarwood, warm fabric, andthidden things.
Elvira stepped inside slowly, her boots pressing softly into the velvet carpeting, the hallway lights dimmer than usual, casting lazy shadows across the gallery of antique mirrors and cracked portraits. Her steps were hesitant, her breath shallow. Her body still ached in the phantom rhythm of bruises and dreams, but she was standing—walking, breathing. Alive.
Barely.
She shouldn't have come.
But there was something about Atelier 7. Something that drew her here—something magnetic and dreadful, like a place where fate tied its knots and then waited for someone to trip.
The grand staircases spiraled above and below her. Somewhere, muffled jazz filtered through the walls. Someone laughed faintly behind closed doors. The whole place felt like it was holding its breath.
And then he appeared.
Michael.
He leaned against the balustrade with that easy posture, arms crossed, hair as tousled as ever, one foot resting lazily on the step above. He wore a black turtleneck beneath a bone-colored blazer that fit him too perfectly. Too intentional. His face held the same irreverent smirk it always had, but his eyes were too sharp—too knowing.
"Well, look who dragged herself back from the dead," he said casually, voice like silk dipped in sarcasm. "How are you feeling, Elvira? Iron deficiency still acting up?"
Her jaw tightened. "I shouldn't have come."
"No," he said, shrugging, "but you did. Which is so very you."
She took a slow breath, steadying herself. "What do you want, Michael?"
"Want? Darling, I'm just the concierge tonight." He gestured toward the velvet-curtained hallway. "But before you wander too far..." His smirk twitched. "You should look out the window."
She frowned but turned. The hallway's wide Gothic-style windows overlooked the street.
Her stomach flipped.
Down below, the street that normally buzzed with luxury cars and soft-footed clientele now swarmed with bodies dressed in matte black. Men and women moved in coordinated precision, their armor gleaming dully under the streetlights. Weapons cradled against their chests. Shoulder patches bore a golden sunburst—the sigil she'd seen only once, and in a dream she hoped had lied.
National Institute of Anomalous and Paranormal Affairs.
The hunters.
Her mouth went dry. "What the hell are they doing here?"
Michael tilted his head. "What do you think? They're looking for you."
Elvira's heart dropped.
She spun to face him fully, her blood pulsing loud and fast in her ears. "What did you say?"
Michael gave a slow smile, the kind that made her skin crawl. "Oh, don't look so surprised. It's all over the news, sweetheart. Your face. Avegar's name. Anna's delightful exposé. We're the new monsters in the closet." He tapped the glass lightly with one long finger. "And out there? That's the army that comes when bedtime stories stop being fiction."
"You know," she whispered, voice barely audible. "You know what I am."
Michael's smile never wavered. "Of course I do."
Something inside her twisted. Not fear. Not anymore. Something else. A sick, crawling sensation that made her want to scrub her skin raw.
Because she remembered.
Michael's hands on her shoulders.
Michael's mouth too close to her throat.
Michael, not laughing this time. Michael holding her down, not in violence, but in ritual. Feeding something into her. Taking something out.
She looked at him now, and her stomach churned.
He was beautiful, yes.
But beauty was just another form of camouflage.
"You wanted to use me," she said, spitting the words like venom.
He laughed softly. "Oh, darling. Everyone uses everyone. The only sin is doing it badly."
She took a step back. He noticed.
Michael stepped forward, just one pace, but it was enough to make her heart hammer against her ribs. The hallway suddenly felt too narrow. Too quiet. Too sealed.
"They'll find you, eventually," he murmured, his voice just behind her ear. "It's only a matter of time. Avegar won't be able to protect you anymore."
She flinched.
His presence loomed behind her, a threat more psychological than physical—but no less dangerous. His gaze felt like needles.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because," he said, turning away slowly, "I always loved watching a beautiful tragedy unfold."
She stood alone in the hallway, her pulse hammering in her ears.
The world knew.
Avegar was gone.
Marco had tried to kill her.
And Michael—he had never been innocent. Never even pretended to be.
But now, there was something more than danger in his eyes.
Obsession.
And she realized: Michael wasn't done with her. Not yet.
The city was hunting her like a disease.
And fear pressed on her chest like a hand.
Her hands trembled. Her skin burned where his voice had slid too close.
But deep beneath her breastbone, that ancient iron-and-garnet pendant pulsed once.
Warm.
Alive.
Avegar had caught her when she fell.
—--
Avegar's pov
Avegar moved like shadow incarnate, a blur of midnight through the alleys of New Carthage. His coat billowed behind him, ragged at the hem, the last remnants of a world he could no longer step back into. Around him, spotlights sliced the fog, mounted to armored trucks bearing the sun-sigil of the Institute.
They had come for him.
And yet, all he could think of—through the cold wind, the metallic stink of war—was her.
Elvira.
He didn't even know if she had woken up.
The thought cracked something deep inside.
He leapt from a low rooftop to a higher one, boots scraping stone. Across the block, two soldiers in black plating flanked the bell tower, their rifles raised.
He felt them before they even saw him.
He dropped behind the first one with a sweep of his arm. The man turned too late. Avegar's fist slammed into his helmet with a crack that echoed like thunder. Bone crunched beneath polymer. The soldier collapsed like a felled tree.
The second one whirled, already firing. Bullets tore through air—too slow. Avegar caught the muzzle, yanked it upward, and smashed the man's face with the back of his elbow.
The soldier staggered, but didn't fall. "Monster," he hissed.
Avegar's eyes narrowed.
"Where is the girl?" the soldier barked. "Where is the half-blood?"
Avegar didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He drove his palm into the soldier's chest, cracking ribs beneath armor, then shoved him into the stone parapet with a force that shattered the edge.
"Calling her that," Avegar muttered, voice low, "is your last mistake."
As the man crumpled to the ground, Avegar's breath came faster. He blinked away the heat rising behind his eyes. Something about the soldier's voice—sharp, unforgiving, spitting hatred—had cut deeper than expected. It echoed.
It resembled another voice.
His father's.
The exact timbre. The same seething disgust.
"Weakness. Blood traitor. Shame."
The memory of that voice thundered in his skull. He felt it in his bones. Heard it in every lie he'd ever told himself. Avegar's fists clenched so hard they trembled.
He wanted to cry.
But instead, he killed him.
Silence followed. Not peace. Just emptiness.
He staggered back from the bloodied bodies, the cold wind scraping across his cheeks. He lifted his eyes to the moonlit clouds. Somewhere, behind hospital glass, she might be sleeping again. Safe.
Or maybe she had awoken. Alone.
He hated the thought.
It pulled something hollow and furious from within him. A gnawing ache that worsened the longer she stayed away. She had been the only real thing in his life in years. The only one who had looked past the fangs, the half-truths, the fear.
And now, he had endangered her. Again.
"Forgive me," he whispered to the dark.
He wasn't sure who he was talking to. Elvira. Himself. Or some old, forgotten god.
He moved forward. Not because he had to. But because the only thing more dangerous than being hunted… was losing her.
The rest of the squad was approaching now—five soldiers, infrared beams scanning the roofs, boots hammering across concrete. Avegar dropped low and waited.
They advanced silently, coordinated like wolves.
The moment they crossed the broken parapet, he struck.
He flung himself from above, landing between them like a fallen angel. A blade flashed from his sleeve—dark iron, forged with a name he hadn't spoken in a decade.
He didn't speak now. He just moved.
Steel hissed. Blood sprayed.
The first soldier fell with a gurgle, throat open.
The second turned too slow. Avegar ducked low, swung upward, and drove his fist into the man's visor, glass shattering into his face.
"Stand down!" one of them shouted, but his voice was trembling.
Avegar advanced. Two rifles fired—silver bolts, hissing through the air. One grazed his side; pain flared, but he didn't falter.
"You don't belong in this world!" another one screamed.
He grabbed that one by the vest and flung him off the roof.
Then it was just him and the last two. They stood back to back, shaking.
Avegar raised his blade, hair matted with sweat, blood seeping through his coat.
He could have killed them.
But he didn't.
He let them run.
Because fear was enough. And because Elvira would not want his hands dirtied more than they already were.
He turned away from the battle's end, panting, hollow. The sky above him stretched dark and infinite, and in its quiet, he heard her voice in memory.
The way she had whispered his name.
The way she had trembled in his arms before she fell.
Avegar dropped to one knee, clutching his ribs. Not from the wound. From the ache.
He missed her.
Every breath was sharper without her. Every shadow lonelier. He could still feel the brush of her fingers in that in-between place, the ghost of her heartbeat against his own.
She was alive.
But so far away.
And the worst part—the thing that made the night colder than it already was—was that he didn't know if she'd want to see him again.
He had pulled her into his world.
And now it was burning.
Avegar stood slowly, body aching, gaze fixed westward.
Toward Atelier 7.
He would see her again.
Even if it was the last thing he ever did.
—--
Avegar entered Atelier 7 disguised beneath the heavy trench coat of a city inspector—badge forged, hat pulled low, and the shadows of his collar masking the sharper edges of his face. He moved with quiet purpose through the servant's entrance, slipping past the noise and the hum of enforced order outside. The soldiers had already swept the upper quarters, their boots pounding like a death march across marble floors. No one expected him to come through the back, let alone as one of them.
The basement halls were narrow, with brick walls stained by centuries of secrets. Atelier 7 had once been a sanctuary for the elite, a place for forbidden art and whispered pacts. Now it pulsed with danger. The city above hunted monsters, and the monster they feared most had just slipped past their gates.
Avegar made his way into the hidden quarters, an old performance chamber buried behind soundproof velvet. Candles still flickered there. They hadn't been put out. Someone was here.
And then he heard it.
The voice.
"Do you not see what you did? They're going to kill me!"
Elvira.
She stood in the center of the velvet-draped space, her voice ragged with fury and fear. Her body trembled, but not just from anger—he could see it, feel it, like smoke curling off her skin. She had already sensed him before she turned. Her fury struck him like a blade.
She whirled on him, eyes glassy and bloodshot. Her breathing was shallow, panicked. Her words came sharp, spit between clenched teeth.
"You used me."
It wasn't a question.
Avegar didn't move. Her voice shook the air between them like thunder across an empty field.
"You knew what I was. You knew what they would do. You knew everything. And still—you let me fall. You let me believe you were the only one who could save me."
She took a step forward. Her eyes were wild.
"I trusted you, Avegar. You stood there. You caught me. After I jumped. After I couldn't take it anymore. After the pressure, the whispers, the stares—everything. I jumped. And you caught me. But you didn't stay. You left me to wake up alone."
Her hands balled into fists at her sides. He wanted to scream inside. Then, with a sudden, desperate surge, she struck him—her fists pounding into his chest, once, twice. He didn't move. He let her hit him.
"They want to kill me because of you!" she cried. "Because you brought me into all of this—because you made me feel like there was something more—and then you disappeared."
He flinched again. Just slightly.
The words hung between them. Avegar searched for the strength to respond. He wanted to say her name. Just her name.
But before he could—
A new presence filled the room.
Elijah.
He stepped out from behind a curtain, his movements slow. His shirt clung to him with theatrical precision, open just enough to show his collarbone, his movements far too graceful to be uncalculated.
Avegar stiffened.
Elijah's gaze swept over him like frost. Then, too casually, he moved to Elvira's side.
Avegar's jaw tightened as Elijah placed his hand around Elvira's waist. Not on the hip—lower. Too low. Fingers splayed, grazing against her lower stomach, just above the curve of vulnerability. It wasn't intimacy. It was control.
Elvira's body went rigid, but she didn't pull away.
Avegar felt the first pang—hot, raw. Confusion and fury burned together.
Elijah leaned in closer, his lips nearly grazing Elvira's ear. "You shouldn't yell so much. It disturbs the acoustics," he said, fingers trailing deliberately up her side. Then, with exaggerated tenderness, he placed two fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face toward him.
Avegar's fists clenched. Every part of his body tensed as Elijah slowly ran his fingers across her jaw. She flinched, but she did not move. Her eyes fluttered closed—not in surrender, but in discomfort, like someone bracing for the touch of something cold and unwelcome.
And then Elijah kissed her.
Avegar's world shattered in silence.
It wasn't a kiss returned. It wasn't a kiss sought. But it happened—slow, drawn out, lips brushing hers with forced softness. A performance. A message. A violation.
Avegar's mind fractured.
Did my ex just put his filthy hands on the only woman I've ever—
No. Impossible.
He took a single step forward.
His boots scraped the floor.
Elijah broke the kiss and turned with that same feline smile. "Ah. Still here, Avegar? I assumed you would have slithered away by now."
Elvira blinked, dazed, her hands shaking. She looked at Avegar, eyes wide with something broken.
Their gaze locked. And in that moment, nothing else in the room existed.
Avegar's soul trembled.
He saw her pain. The betrayal she wore like armor. The fear. The disgust. And the hope she had nearly killed herself to bury.
And she saw the man who let her fall, even as he caught her.
"I never meant for this," he whispered.
But it was too late.
The trap had already been sprung.
And Elvira was at the center of it.
And Elijah's hand still gripped her waist.