Disclaimer: Graphic content
Elvira woke to the sound of Avegar singing under his breath.
It was soft. Barely a hum at first. Then—words. Half-lost in the rasp of morning, like something he didn't even realize he was saying.
"Spend all your time waiting..."
She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the soft gold light seeping through the half-closed blinds. The world outside was quiet. No cars. No footsteps. Just the low sound of Avegar in the kitchen, his voice trailing into a melody that made her heart ache without knowing why.
"For that second chance... for a break that would make it okay..."
Angel.
The song. That song.
Elvira sat up slowly, muscles stiff, her dress creased and cold against her skin. She was still wearing it—last night's dress. The deep emerald one. Silk, now wrinkled. Her heels had been kicked off by the front door, and she realized one of her earrings was missing.
Her body remembered what her mind didn't want to relive—the tension in Michael's grip, the sting in her arm, the shatter of glass, and then...
Avegar. His fists. His voice. The look in his eyes when he held her.
She looked around.
The apartment was still quiet. Sparse. Real. The kind of place a man lived in when he didn't want distractions. Papers on the desk. A cup of black coffee forgotten near the windowsill. And from the half-open door to the kitchen, the smell of something—eggs? Toast?
And that voice.
Avegar, still humming Angel, just low enough to make it feel like a secret.
She stood slowly, hugging her arms around herself as she padded barefoot toward the doorway. Her dress brushed her thighs, cold and wrinkled, the material clinging awkwardly now. She felt raw. Vulnerable. But not unsafe.
Never unsafe here.
When she stepped into the kitchen, he was at the stove—back to her, sleeves rolled up, the curve of his shoulder flexing slightly as he flipped something in a pan. Eggs, yes. Toast already browned. A kettle steaming nearby.
The domesticity of it was disorienting.
This man—the same one who had slammed Michael into a wall less than twelve hours ago—was now making breakfast like it was a Sunday morning in some quieter life.
She didn't know what to say.
But he beat her to it.
"I was gonna wake you," Avegar said, still facing the stove. "But you looked... like you needed to sleep."
Elvira's lips parted slightly. His voice was gentler now. Like worn denim—frayed at the edges but soft from too many washes.
She didn't reply right away.
Then he turned.
Plate in one hand, tea towel slung over his shoulder, eyes meeting hers with something softer than she expected. He took her in from head to toe—creased dress, tired eyes, bare feet—and his expression flickered.
No judgment. Just quiet concern.
"You should shower," he said. "I'll set clothes out."
She swallowed. "I didn't want to assume I could stay."
He stepped closer, putting the plate down on the counter. "You're not assuming."
She nodded once, slowly.
Avegar reached out then—just a touch. His fingers brushed her cheek, the pad of his thumb grazing lightly under her eye like he was checking if the night had left shadows behind.
"You're okay?" he asked.
The way he said it, it didn't feel like a polite check-in.
It felt like a vow.
Elvira blinked. "I think so."
His hand lingered, just for a second too long, before he dropped it and turned back to the stove.
"I made breakfast," he added, unnecessarily.
"I smell it."
She smiled faintly, and so did he—but neither of them quite met each other's eyes for too long.
"Bathroom's through the hall," he said. "Towel's clean. I left a shirt on the door."
She hesitated. "Thank you, Avegar."
At that, he finally looked at her—really looked—and something in his expression unraveled just a little.
"Don't thank me," he said quietly. "Just... don't disappear."
She didn't know what that meant.
Not yet.
But she nodded anyway.
---
The water was hot.
Too hot, maybe—but she let it sting her skin anyway. Like punishment and comfort rolled into one. Her makeup ran down the drain in streaks, and she stood there for longer than necessary, her forehead pressed against the tile, trying to remember how to breathe without shaking.
Avegar's shirt was soft when she pulled it over her head. Oversized, smelled faintly of smoke and pine and something unmistakably him. She didn't bother with pants. Her legs were bare, but she didn't feel exposed. The shirt hung low enough. She rolled up the sleeves.
When she padded barefoot back into the kitchen, Avegar had already set the table.
Two plates. Two mugs. Butter. Jam.
Toast cut diagonally. Eggs soft.
She froze in the doorway.
He looked up from pouring tea.
And for a second—it was like time dropped its sword. No tension. No damage. Just the quiet moment between two people who used to mean something and still weren't sure what they meant now.
He gestured to the chair. "Sit."
She sat.
He slid the mug toward her, then sat across, elbows resting on the table like they were at a quiet breakfast in a life where none of last night had happened.
For a long moment, they ate in silence.
Then she asked, gently: "Who were you singing this morning?"
Avegar looked up.
His expression twitched.
He didn't answer right away.
Then, "Sarah McLachlan. Angel. My mom used to play it when she cooked."
"Your mom?"
He nodded once. "Before things got complicated."
She didn't push. But her gaze didn't waver.
Avegar's eyes lingered on the edge of his toast. Then—he glanced up. "You ever just sing something and not know why?"
"All the time."
He nodded again. As if that mattered more than he'd admit.
Then she asked it.
The question she hadn't meant to ask. The one that hung between them like fog in the corners of a warm room.
"Who's Elijah?"
He froze.
Not fully. Just a flicker. Like a skip in the record.
Then he exhaled slowly and leaned back in the chair.
"Elijah..." He rubbed a hand over his jaw. "He was... someone important."
She waited.
Avegar met her gaze.
"I met him right after I left the corps. I was raw. Quiet. Thought I knew how to love but didn't know how to let anyone in."
He paused.
"Elijah was all in. All fire. Always too much. And for a while, I needed that."
Her fingers curled slightly around her mug.
"What happened?"
"I left." Avegar's voice flattened. "He wanted more than I could give. I started shutting down. He wanted light and noise and touch and... I was barely surviving myself. Eventually he said being with me felt like sleeping next to a locked door."
Elvira's throat tightened.
"And was he right?" she asked.
Avegar looked away.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "He was."
Silence.
The kind that made the hum of the fridge sound like a heartbeat.
Then Elvira spoke again, softly. "Do you... do you like only men?"
Avegar's eyes flicked to hers, sharp—but not unkind.
Then he softened.
"Yes," he said. Simply. "I do."
Something inside her sank.
She didn't let it show. Not fully.
But he noticed. Of course he did.
Avegar leaned forward slightly, hands resting on the table, and in his gaze was something unspoken. Not pity. Not apology.
Hope?
She couldn't name it.
And she couldn't bring herself to ask the thing that rose behind her ribs like a scream. Then why do you still look at me like that?
Instead, she tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear and said nothing.
He glanced at her again. Then, his fingers brushed his collar.
She noticed it now—beneath the edge of his jaw. A visible scar.
"Your scar," she said suddenly. "Is that... from Elijah?"
Avegar stilled.
He didn't speak for a beat. Then two.
Finally: "Yeah."
She blinked. "He hurt you?"
"Once," he said. "We were drunk. Angry. He didn't mean to. But it was the moment I knew I had to leave."
She didn't realize she was holding her breath until she let it out.
"And now?" she asked.
"Now he doesn't get to touch anything I build," Avegar said, voice low and firm. "Not my life. Not my mind."
Her chest ached at that. A strange kind of pride blooming behind the sadness.
And in that moment, Avegar stood slowly.
He moved around the table.
And without a word, he bent down and pulled her into him—arms wrapping around her, one hand gently at the back of her neck.
A hug.
Not possessive. Not protective.
Just... present.
He didn't say anything.
Didn't need to.
His body was warm. His scent, grounding.
And yet—
As he held her, something shifted in him again.
That cord.
That strange pull. Like a thread coiled somewhere low in his stomach, tightening each time she breathed against his chest.
He didn't understand it.
Not fully.
But he didn't let go.
And Elvira didn't ask why.
She just closed her eyes, and let herself be held.
They lingered in the quiet after the hug, the softness between them folding into the stillness of the room. Avegar's fingers brushed along the scar tracing his face—from just below his eye, sweeping down across his cheek and jawline—like it was a map he carried without words.
After a moment, Avegar's voice came, gentle and low, breaking the silence.
"You never told me much about your clan," he said.
Elvira looked away for a second, then met his eyes. Something about his calm made it easier to share.
"I guess... I never really talked about it," she admitted. "There's not much left of it now. Mostly scattered, broken. I'm... mostly alone."
Avegar waited quietly, giving her the space to keep going.
"There's a secret place," she said finally, her voice dropping. "Deep inside Rowegan Castle. It's an old part, sealed off to most people."
He stiffened ever so slightly at the mention of the castle, but said nothing.
Elvira took a breath, pressing her fingertips lightly against the table. "I've heard that Elijah stole a part of my family's legacy, and that's why it's kept there—locked away."
She swallowed, the weight of those words heavy between them.
"It's a room full of memories—portraits, relics, whispers of those who came before me.
When I go there in secret, it's like I can call on all my ancestors. I'm not so alone."
Avegar's jaw clenched, eyes darkening.
"Elvira..." he started, but she shook her head gently, stopping him.
"My father..." she said softly. "He's a prisoner. Probably held by Elijah."
The room felt colder at the admission.
Avegar's chest tightened. He knew too well where her father was, but couldn't bring himself to say it.
Instead, he swallowed the guilt like a bitter pill.
His voice cracked when he spoke again.
"I don't want to become a killer like my father."
Elvira looked at him, surprised by the vulnerability threading through his words.
"My father started the Jinshi dynasty," he said, voice low, "with nothing but blood and fire. I don't want that legacy."
A tear slid down his cheek, quick and sharp.
She reached out, touching his arm gently, steadying the rawness between them.
After a deep breath, Avegar said softly, "Close your eyes."
Elvira obeyed, curiosity flickering.
Avegar's voice softened as he said, "Now open them."
Elvira blinked, curiosity tugging at her as she lifted her eyelids. In his hands was a canvas—fresh from Atelier 7, still warm with the energy of creation. The painting was of her, but not like any mirror reflection she'd ever seen.
The face behind the riot of red and black hair wasn't just a jumble of colors. It was a quiet storm, fierce and tender all at once. His brush had captured every sharp line, every soft curve—the way her eyes held a world of stories, both shadow and light.
He had painted her not as a victim, or a prize, but as a force. As someone who could hold her own in a world that tried to break her.
Elvira's breath caught. She reached out, fingertips trembling, and brushed a stray strand of painted hair away from the face—a silent acknowledgment of the woman she was too scared to fully see before.
"This is you," Avegar said quietly, eyes locked on hers. "The part you don't always let the world see. The real you."
She swallowed hard, her gaze lingering on the eyes in the painting—eyes that held strength and sorrow, hope and fire all at once.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice thick. "It's... more than I expected."
He nodded, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. "You deserve to see yourself like this."
For a moment, the weight between them lifted, replaced by something fragile and raw.
Avegar carefully set the painting aside on the corner of the table, his fingers lingering for a moment on the canvas's edge as if reluctant to let go. The image of Elvira—her blue eyes shining fiercely beneath the tangled red and black hair—burned behind his eyelids, a vivid reminder of something he hadn't expected to feel.
Without a word, he slipped away from the room, the warmth and fragile connection fading behind him as he walked down the hall to the bathroom. The door closed quietly but with finality, shutting him in a cold, silent world.
The harsh, sterile light flickered overhead as he stared at himself in the cracked mirror. The scar across his cheek—the one that traced a violent story on his face—seemed suddenly insignificant compared to the turmoil raging inside.
His breath caught, thick and uneven.
He had always known who he was. It was simple, a clear truth he had accepted long ago: he was gay. That knowledge had shaped everything—his choices, his defenses, his sense of self. It was a steady flame, unyielding, that kept the darkness at bay.
But now, that flame was flickering.
Because tonight, when he looked at Elvira, felt the warmth of her hand in his, saw the fierce spirit in her eyes—even captured it in paint—something shattered within him. A part of him he thought he had buried deep, a forbidden ache, stirred awake.
It wasn't just admiration or friendship. It was something raw, confusing, and terrifying.
He pressed his palms against the sink, as if trying to hold himself together. The pounding in his chest became unbearable, a chaotic storm of feelings he couldn't name.
No. This can't be real. I'm not like this. The thought was a knife twisting inside him. I've built my life around the truth I know. Who am I if this—if she—changes everything?
Tears welled up, blurring the mirror. He blinked hard, unwilling to surrender to the flood of emotion, but it was too late. The cracks inside him widened, spilling doubt and fear.
What if I'm broken? What if I'm lying to myself?
The fortress he had built around his identity, his heart, even his soul, was crumbling under the weight of something impossible.
He barely recognized the man staring back at him—a man lost, afraid, and unraveling.
A choked sob escaped his throat. The silence around him was deafening.
"I don't know who I am anymore," he whispered to the glass, voice trembling with raw vulnerability. "I don't know what I want... or who I'm supposed to be."
Avegar stared at the cracked mirror, the silence of the bathroom closing in like a noose.
His hand trembled as he reached into the drawer, pulling out the small, sharp blade he always kept hidden—an old relic from another life, one he thought he'd buried for good. But tonight, everything inside him felt like it was splintering apart.
The painting. The warmth in her eyes. The desire twisting in his gut.
He dragged the blade across the inside of his forearm—just once, not deep, but enough for the sharp pain to slice through the fog in his mind. Red bloomed slowly, a thin river curving down his skin.
Not to die. Just to feel something that made sense.
He stared at the blood, breathing hard. "What am I doing?" he whispered. "What the hell am I becoming?"
The weight of his confusion, shame, and longing became unbearable.
Then—her voice tore through the quiet like lightning.
"Avegar!"
Panic. Real, raw panic.
The blade clattered to the sink as he stumbled toward the door, blood still dripping, heart pounding.
"Elvira?"
Her scream came again—louder this time, desperate and shaking.
"Avegar?!"
His heart jumped violently. He wiped his face roughly, took a shuddering breath, and opened the door.
Avegar's eyes searched the dim hallway, heart pounding as Elvira appeared, pale and trembling, her blue eyes wide with panic.
"Something's wrong," she gasped, clutching her stomach. "I… I feel it inside me—burning. Like I'm about to…" She swallowed hard, lips pale. "I think I'm going to be sick."
He stepped forward instantly, steadying her by the shoulders. "Okay, breathe. I'm here. Just try to calm down."
Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, her body stiffening. The room darkened as night slipped through the windows, shadows crawling along the walls like living things.
"I don't want this," she whispered fiercely, her voice shaking. "It's like something's waking up inside me—something I can't control. I think… it's from my mother. From her blood."
Avegar's chest tightened as he watched her struggle. Her skin, already pale, began to shimmer faintly, like moonlight caught beneath her skin. Her hands trembled, claws almost forming where nails had been. The blue of her eyes deepened—glowing now, fierce and unearthly.
A silence fell—thick, charged, as if the very air held its breath.
Then, without warning, Elvira arched her back, letting out a low, guttural sound—part anguish, part power.
Her hair, the wild tangle of red and black, seemed to move with a life of its own, swirling around her like a dark flame. The shadows themselves appeared to lean closer, drawn by something ancient and majestic rising within her.
Avegar stumbled back, breath caught in his throat.
She was no longer just the woman he had painted—fragile and fierce.
She was something else.
Majestic.
Terrifying.
Glorious.
Her transformation was breathtaking—pain and beauty intertwined. The light around her bent and twisted, as if acknowledging the arrival of a queen.
Her voice, when she spoke again, was steady and deep, echoing with power that made Avegar's knees buckle.
"I didn't ask for this… but it's mine," she said, eyes blazing. "A legacy I can no longer deny."
He sank to the floor, stunned and trembling, overwhelmed by the sight before him.
The Elvira he had known was gone—replaced by something otherworldly, regal, and raw with unspoken power.
For the first time, Avegar saw her not just as a woman or a friend, but as a force that could reshape worlds.
Avegar's eyes involuntarily traced the curve of her abdomen beneath the shimmering skin, the faint outline both delicate and powerful—unmistakably beautiful, undeniably captivating. A surge of something unfamiliar stirred within him, a tension that both confused and unsettled him.
But now… it could not be.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away, to silence the impossible desire.
He nodded slowly, as if sealing a quiet truth within himself, a silent acknowledgment that some things must remain unreachable—no matter how fiercely they burned.