ZAYAN — POV
The ground makes that wet slap under my shoes — concrete soaked from last night's rain, dust clinging to the edges like the place is holding its breath.
The old construction site stretches around me, silent except for the faint hum of water dripping from broken pipes above. Half-finished pillars rise like skeletons, ribs cracked open, shadows hanging between them like something alive.
I move slow.
Not because I need to — because it feels right.
Every step echoes in that hollow, empty way that tells me I'm walking into a place no one sane ever chooses to be in.
The air shifts when I turn the corner.
Light dies instantly.
One second I'm in muted grey daylight, the next it's just… black.
Thick.
Still.
Like stepping straight into someone else's nightmare.
There's a flicker overhead — one dying bulb twitching in and out, barely strong enough to outline the dust floating in the air. I walk deeper anyway, letting the dark swallow everything behind me. My footsteps sound heavier here, slower, betraying nothing.
I reach the metal door at the end.
Rust crawls over its edges like old scars.
I push it.
The hinge gives a low, satisfying groan — the kind of sound that tells you a place has been left alone too long. Perfect. Fits the mood. Fits the purpose.
Inside is colder.
Not the weather kind.
The kind people feel when they realize they're truly alone.
I step in.
The door shuts behind me on its own, clicking into place like the room doesn't want anything escaping.
It's quiet for exactly two seconds.
Then I hear it.
Breathing.
Shaky.
Ragged.
Like someone's trying not to choke on their own fear.
And that's when my mouth pulls into a smirk — slow, automatic, completely out of my control.
I let my voice drop into the room, steady and almost friendly.
Almost.
"How you doing?"
Silence swallows the question first. Then that breath stutters, like the person attached to it is trying to hide in their own ribs.
I take a few steps forward, not rushing. Letting my steps announce themselves one by one.
"Service okay?"
My tone tilts, amused. "Accommodations comfortable enough?"
There's a shift in the dark — a tiny scrape of metal, a low panicked exhale — and fuck, the sound is delicious. Not because of cruelty. Because of control. Because I've got every piece of this exactly where I want it.
I drag my fingers across the steel table beside me. The temperature bites against my skin, cold and clean.
"You know," I continue, lightly, "outside's raining like hell."
Another step. My shadow finally reaches his corner before I do.
"You cold?"
The breathing spikes. A short inhale, the kind people make when they're trying not to cry or scream or both.
Good.
I stop right in front of the darkness where he's sitting. I can feel the tension vibrating off him — sharp, frantic, desperate. He doesn't realize how loud his fear is. People never do.
I lean slightly to the side, letting my silhouette cut across the flickering light.
"Don't get shy now," I murmur, voice soft but wired with control. "You've been here two days. You know the routine."
He shifts again.
Fast.
Nervous.
Like he's trying to disappear into the chair he's tied to.
A quiet laugh slips out of me, low in my throat. I can't help it.
He's pacing in his head. I can fucking hear it.
"I asked you a question," I say, tone barely above a whisper but heavy enough to pin him in place. "Are you cold?"
The light flickers once, hard, revealing the outline of him for half a heartbeat — hands bound, knees shaking, sweat dripping down the side of his face.
Then darkness again.
Perfect.
I step closer until the air between us is almost nothing.
"We'll get to the real shit later," I say calmly. "For now…"
I let the sentence trail, a slow dangerous line he has to follow on his own.
"…answer the damn question."
I let the silence stretch a beat longer just to feel him twitch in it, then I drop down into a crouch in front of him. My boots scrape against the concrete, slow, deliberate, like I'm giving him time to understand exactly how close I am.
The light flickers again, catching the edge of his face for half a second — the fury in his eyes fighting the fear choking him from the inside out.
I meet that look head-on.
Calm. Steady. Owning the room the way oxygen owns lungs.
"Daniel…"
My voice drops, low enough to scrape bone.
"…are you scared?"
His breath punches out through the tape — a broken wheeze, a pathetic attempt at a threat or a plea, I can't tell which. Doesn't matter. Both taste the same.
I tilt my head, studying the rage shaking under his skin like a dying engine.
For a moment, that fury spikes — hot, stupid, useless — and it only makes my mouth pull into a slow fucking laugh.
"There it is," I murmur, leaning closer. "That pretty little mix of 'fuck you' and 'don't kill me.' You wear it better than I expected."
His chair rattles when he tries to jerk back. The legs scrape the floor. The sound is ugly, desperate, perfect.
I let the smirk settle deeper.
"Don't worry," I say soft, almost comforting. "You won't be alone long."
His breathing stutters again.
Good.
He heard it.
"Your friends?" I continue. "They'll be here in no time. Just be patient. I want all three of you together."
I let my fingers drum against the metal beside his knee, slow taps, like I'm keeping count.
"One room. One moment. One fucking truth."
The tape muffles his next sound — a panicked half-groan that tries too hard to be tough. His eyes are doing all the talking anyway. They're loud as hell.
I lean in until my face is a breath away from his.
"You know," I say, tone dipping, "I could kill you now."
A pause. Not dramatic. Just honest.
"But I won't."
His pupils blow wide.
"I want you three at the same damn time. Makes the fear real. Pure. No pretending. No performing."
My jaw flexes, my voice flattening into something harder.
"And I'm giving you mercy, Daniel. You get to die with your brothers. Not everyone gets that."
His chest jerks — another wheeze, another try at some muffled curse. He's trembling full-body now, but fighting it like he thinks I can't see.
I stand up slowly, letting the shift of my height smother him in shadow again.
"That's enough warm-up for today."
He whimpers through the tape, barely audible, like the thought of being left alone scares him more than me in his face.
I walk to the door, palm dragging over the peeling metal.
"I'm going," I say over my shoulder, voice steady, bored. "I'll come back."
My hand closes on the handle.
"You should enjoy the rain," I add, glancing back with a tiny razor-thin grin. "Might be your last."
The door moans when I open it — that same long, unsettling groan that feels like the building's reacting to what I just promised him.
I look at him one more time, hold his eyes through the darkness, then give him a slow, unhurried wink.
Then I walk out, letting the door slam shut behind me, swallowing his fear with it.
___________________________________
ARSHILA'S — POV
The living room is a fucking war zone.
Not the violent type.
The idiot type.
Eshan and Razmir have been camped on Zayan's couch for almost two hours, controllers in hand, yelling at each other like two toddlers fighting over a single brain cell. The rain outside is insane, slamming against the windows like it wants to break inside and join the chaos.
I'm sitting cross-legged on the carpet, watching them because I have no fucking clue how these games work. They're sweating like they're fighting for national pride. Razmir keeps leaning so far left every time he drifts a car that I swear he's trying to steer with his spine.
Eshan kicks him without looking. Razmir bites back. They're both disasters.
I stare at the screen, then at their hands. They're moving so fast it's basically a blur.
"How the hell are you so good at finger work?"
Eshan freezes mid-combo.
"Huh?"
Razmir doesn't miss a beat. His mouth curls into that stupid Idrakhan smirk that screams trouble.
"I think the answer is inappropriate."
I groan and kick his shin. Not gently.
He grunts, smirk growing like he deserves pain.
Idiots. Both of them.
And then—
Fuck.
My neck burns.
That specific slow heat crawling up the back of my spine like someone pressed a hot finger right there.
Goosebumps explode down my arms.
I know that feeling.
My body knows it before my brain does.
He's here.
I turn.
Zayan is standing in the main doorway, rain still clinging to the shoulders of his black shirt, hair a little messy from the wind, jaw sharp enough to slice my oxygen supply in half.
Why is he this handsome? Who approved this? Who allowed this man to exist?
His eyes land on me.
Sharp. Dark. Heavy enough that my lungs forget their job.
I snap my gaze away so fast I probably look guilty of something criminal.
His voice drops into the room like thunder wrapped in silk.
"What are you motherfuckers doing here?"
Eshan doesn't even turn around.
"Oh, you came?"
Razmir snorts like he's been waiting for this.
Eshan continues, controller clicking nonstop.
"And for the question… can't you see what we're doing?"
Zayan moves.
Not fast.
Just… that slow, controlled walk that makes it feel like the space shifts to accommodate him.
He drops down onto the couch beside me.
Too close.
Way too fucking close.
My breath gets stuck in my throat like it's trying to hide.
He doesn't look at me but I can feel him. Heat. Gravity. Some other bullshit he radiates like a flex he doesn't even notice.
"You have your own place to play your fucking games."
His tone is flat, unimpressed, king complaining about peasants.
Razmir clicks his tongue.
"Nah. Yours is more luxurious. More comfortable. More wide."
Zayan scoffs.
"You're unbearable."
Razmir grins like yes, he knows.
Zayan leans back, one arm resting on the back of the couch behind me, casual as hell, like he's claiming territory without saying shit.
"Where's the prince?" he asks.
Eshan shrugs mid-kill.
"He had an appointment. I think. Or maybe he made it up? I don't know. He's acting fishy these days."
Prince.
Yeah. He's definitely acting shady as hell. That Man is a walking suspicious activity report.
I need a distraction. Anything. Because sitting this close to Zayan is slowly frying my nerves.
"I want to play too," I say, pretending I'm totally calm and not suffering next to a man who looks like every intrusive thought I've ever had.
Razmir moves instantly, making space like he's been waiting for this.
I slide in between them, squeezing myself into the middle spot—the dumbass sandwich position.
The controllers vibrate in their hands. The game lights flash on their faces.
But all I feel is the weight of Zayan's gaze burning a hole between my shoulder blades.
Because even though he's not looking at me…
He's looking at me.
And I know it.
And the next moment is about to get messy.
_____________________________________
ZAYAN — POV
The stupid part is… I see it coming.
She squeezes herself between those two idiots like she belongs there, laughing under her breath, legs folded up, controller held like she's holding a bomb instead of a damn console.
And my brain does this glitchy, fucked-up thing—like I want to drag her by the back of her shirt, haul her into my lap, wrap myself around her and growl mine into her skin.
Can't do that.
Shouldn't.
Won't.
YET.
So I sit here like a sane person and pretend I'm not two seconds from committing a felony.
She's smiling. Actually smiling. Not the sharp one she uses to stab people with. The tiny one. The one she thinks no one sees. It punches me straight in the throat.
Razmir is losing. Eshan is yelling. The whole room is stupidly loud.
But I'm watching her.
And she's not even pretending to play. Her fingers press the wrong buttons, she leans too much, she bites her lip when her character crashes, she curses at pixels like they insulted her ancestry.
I hate how much I love it.
Razmir groans. "Arshila, you're playing like someone's grandma—"
"Fuck you," she mutters, soft, focused.
Eshan snorts. "At least the grandma is cute."
I shoot him a look that says try that again and you'll lose a tooth.
She doesn't notice. She's leaning forward, hair falling over her shoulder. Long wavy strands slipping forward every time she moves. She flicks it back. It falls again.
Eshan squints dramatically. "Fuck, your hair is in my eyes—"
She giggles.
That stupid gremlin sound she makes when she finds herself funny.
It hits me right in the chest.
Fucking hell.
Razmir pipes up, mouth full of useless commentary. "You always put it in a bun—why not today?"
She shrugs, eyes still on the screen. "Because I felt like it??"
Her voice has that little attitude kick at the end, like she's challenging gravity for letting her hair fall.
Eshan laughs and turns to her, still mid-game, lifting his hand toward her face like he's going to move her hair aside.
He doesn't even touch her.
She flinches.
Hard.
So hard her whole body jerks like someone ripped the floor from under her feet.
The controller slips in her hand. Her shoulders lock. Her eyes don't blink. She freezes in this weird, silent shock—like she got hit, except no one touched her.
My spine goes cold.
Eshan's hand stops mid-air.
Razmir's smile drops.
The whole room… stops breathing.
She fixes her hair like nothing happened. Keeps playing. Doesn't even look up. Doesn't even realize she reacted like someone lit a match under her skin.
Eshan slowly lowers his hand, eyes cutting to me.
He looks shaken.
And I…
I feel like someone punched me in the sternum.
I stare at her.
Still playing.
Still pretending.
Still holding herself together like she's afraid someone will notice she cracked.
Fuck.
I lean back slowly, the couch creaking under me, arm sliding along the backrest behind her like it always does.
Act normal.
She needs normal.
Not my anger.
Not questions.
Not pressure.
Not the storm clawing up my chest at the idea of someone making her flinch like that.
I force my body to still.
Force my breath to even out.
Force my voice to stay steady.
"Relax," I mouth, to him.
Eshan swallows and nods, eyes still glued to her like she's a puzzle he just realized is missing half its pieces.
Razmir's jaw ticks.
And her?
She's back to muttering "fuck off" at the screen, completely unaware that she just exposed something raw. Something she hides behind that attitude, that sharp mouth, that fake fearlessness.
She's not what she shows the world.
There's another version of her—
the one who flinches,
the one who expects pain,
the one who thinks she has to pretend she's fine so no one sees she's not.
And now I've seen it.
Now I can't unsee it.
Now I know.
But I won't touch it.
Not yet.
She'd run.
She'd shut down.
She'd bite my throat out before she ever lets me see that part of her willingly.
So I stay here.
Watching her laugh with my friends.
Pretending I don't want to burn the world for making her react like that.
Pretending I'm not memorizing every tiny detail for later.
Pretending I'm not already planning to find out who the fuck made her like this.
Until she's ready?
I act like nothing happened.
But inside?
Inside I'm one second away from tearing reality apart.