ARSHILA — POV
"DC Group former director Damien Cross has been found dead in his apartment."
I freeze.
Pen slips out of my fingers again because apparently my hands are dramatic today.
I stare at the TV like it just called my name.
The anchor doesn't blink. Same calm face. Same newsroom lighting. Same "this is just another Tuesday" energy.
"…Cross was abducted weeks ago in what authorities believe was a Black Wraiths operation. He was discovered earlier this morning inside his own residence."
My mouth opens a little.
Then closes.
Then opens again because my brain is lagging.
Dead.
Apartment.
Not dumped. Not disappeared. Not erased.
Found.
I lean forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked. My heart starts doing that annoying fast thing like it's trying to warn me about something it already knows.
So I was right.
He wasn't dead when the money moved.
The anchor continues, voice steady, professional, almost boring.
"According to preliminary autopsy reports, Cross showed signs of severe physical assault. Officials confirmed prolonged deprivation of food and water. Disturbingly, forensic findings indicate traces of human flesh."
I make a face without meaning to. "Ew. What the fuck."
That's… not even cruelty anymore. That's personal. That's someone making a point with a capital P.
"…authorities also confirmed that four days prior to his death, Cross personally liquidated all assets and transferred the funds to multiple orphanages and shelters under his own name. The transfers were signed, verified, and legally processed."
My brain tilts sideways.
Okay. Stop. Pause.
Black Wraiths don't do this.
They don't starve you. They don't keep you alive long enough to make paperwork neat. They don't leave bodies where people can find them neatly tucked into beds like a statement piece.
And they definitely don't give the world closure.
If Black Wraiths take you, you vanish. No body. No confirmation. Just fear and rumor.
So why now?
Why here?
And human meat?
I swallow hard, disgust curling in my stomach.
That's… excessive. Even for monsters.
"…police state there is strong suspicion of Black Wraith involvement; however, no definitive evidence has been recovered. Investigators report the absence of the group's known signature, including the black cross marking, making formal attribution impossible at this time."
I sit back slowly.
So.
Abducted like Black Wraiths.
Handled like a vigilante.
Killed in a way that's too cruel even for criminals.
Left in public, breaking every known pattern.
None of it fits clean.
Which means someone wanted it that way.
My thoughts start tripping over each other.
If Black Wraiths really took him, the vigilante wouldn't touch him. That's known. Territory rules. Shadow politics. You don't poach someone else's kill.
And if the vigilante did it, why use Black Wraiths' name first?
Unless the name itself is the weapon.
Unless fear is cheaper than bullets.
I'm still spiraling when footsteps echo down the hallway.
Slow. Familiar. Barefoot.
I don't look up right away.
I smell soap. Clean. Sharp. Something expensive and annoyingly good.
Zayan walks in like he owns gravity.
Freshly showered. Hair damp. Dark shirt clinging in places I refuse to notice. Skin still warm like he hasn't cooled down yet.
Asshole.
He catches my expression and smirks. Of course he does.
I look back at the TV like I wasn't just mentally mapping a murder conspiracy.
He drops onto the couch beside me, close enough that I feel the heat off him.
"Watching your crime stories again?" he asks casually.
I tilt my head toward the screen. "Damien Cross got killed."
"Oh," he says. Flat. Mild. Zero shock.
I narrow my eyes. "Why are you not surprised?"
He shrugs, leaning back, arm stretched along the back of the couch like it belongs there. Like I belong there.
"Why would I be?" he says. "A criminal died."
"That's it?" I scoff. "You don't find it weird? The timing? The money? The fact that he—"
"You've been talking about this case for weeks," he cuts in smoothly. "It's not a big deal."
I roll my eyes hard enough it should count as exercise.
"You're impossible," I mutter.
He glances at me sideways, lips twitching like he's holding back something. Always holding back something.
The TV keeps talking in the background, but suddenly it feels like white noise.
Because Zayan is here.
And for reasons I don't like examining too closely, the room feels heavier now.
Charged.
Like something dangerous just sat down beside me and asked if I wanted popcorn.
He watches me for a second, like he's deciding whether to poke the bear or feed it.
"Why do you even like this stuff?" he asks, nodding at the TV. "Murders. Vigilantes. Psychopaths with branding issues."
I open my mouth to give him a proper answer. The kind with psychology and control and patterns and why my brain lights up when chaos pretends to be logic.
"It's hot," I say instead.
His head snaps toward me. Slow blink. One brow lifts.
"That's creepy," he says.
I scoff. "It's not creepy. It's about power. Fear. Control. The human brain—"
He doesn't let me finish.
He just… moves.
One second he's upright. The next, his head is on my lap like that's a normal thing that happens on a weekday evening.
My soul leaves my body.
"WHAT are you doing?" I snap, hands flying up like he just dropped a live grenade on me.
"Shh," he says softly, already settling in, cheek against my thigh. "I'm tired, baby. Don't move."
Baby.
That word hits like a slap and a kiss at the same time.
"Zayan, get up," I hiss. "This is not—this is not normal behavior."
"Please," he murmurs, eyes closing. Just that. No attitude. No control games.
My body betrays me instantly. I don't move.
Heat spreads everywhere. Thighs. Stomach. Chest. Places I refuse to mentally acknowledge. My heart starts racing like it's being chased by the cops.
This is the first time he's done this. Ever.
After that night. After I opened up things shifted quietly between us.but still _
This feels… intimate. Too intimate. Illegal intimacy.
And the worst part?
I like it.
I look down at him. His damn hair is falling over his forehead, damp strands brushing his lashes. He looks stupidly calm. Safe. Like he trusts me without saying it.
My fingers move before my brain can stop them. I brush his hair back, slow, careful.
He inhales and opens his eyes immediately.
I panic. "Uh—your hair. It was—on your face."
Excellent arshila, nice explanation.
He studies me for half a second, something unreadable passing through his eyes. Then he smiles, soft and dangerous, and closes them again like nothing happened.
I swallow.
Fuck.
He closes his eyes again like nothing happened.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and start playing with his hair, gently, like I'm not one wrong move away from combusting.
"What do you think?" he asks suddenly.
"Huh?" My brain is fried.
"Who did it?" he says. "Who killed him?"
I refocus. Force my thoughts back into place. "I don't know," I say slowly. "But it looks like someone who wants the world fooled by his brilliance."
He smirks without opening his eyes. "Oh? Someone brilliant like me?"
I roll my eyes. "This isn't corporate data. It needs patience. Skill."
"And I don't have those?"
"Nope."
His smirk deepens. Like I just challenged him to something dangerous.
The anchor's voice sharpens.
"Breaking news. A photograph believed to be the chief commander of the Black Wraiths—known as Zy—has been leaked to the public."
The screen switches.
Black and white. Stark. Controlled.
A masked man sits on a bench in what looks like an industrial locker room. Metal lockers line the wall behind him.
He wears a tight black shirt stretched over hard muscle, tactical gloves, camouflage pants. A gun rests easy in one hand.
His posture is low. Grounded. Balanced. Like someone waiting for the world to blink first.
Only his eyes are visible. Sharp. Alert. Watching the camera like it's already disappointed.
A crescent patch marks his upper arm.
My stomach drops.
"That guy looks like you," I say quietly.
Zayan opens his eyes and looks at the TV.
Then he says, calm and absolute,
"THAT'S ME."