The line clicked.
"Eron, it's Eamon. What's going on? Are you alright?"
There was a beat of silence, then a sharp intake of breath, followed by a trembling voice.
"Eamon, he... hic... he found me again."
The sound of Acheron's panic gripped Eamon by the chest. He stood, already moving through the dark apartment as if action alone might help.
"Okay, okay, breathe. Just breathe for me." Eamon's voice softened, slow and deliberate. "You're safe. I promise. Tell me—who found you?"
He could hear Acheron's rapid breathing over the line, fast and shallow like a frightened animal. Then came a string of disjointed words: first colours and numbers, then just nonsense syllables. A grounding technique, Eamon realised, something to steady himself.
After a few moments, the breathing slowed.
"You still with me?"
"Yes," Acheron whispered, voice hoarse. "Better now."
"Good," Eamon murmured, his tone laced with reassurance. "You're doing great. Now tell me exactly what happened. Start from the beginning. No rush."
"It's probably silly," Acheron said after a pause, his voice trembling, "But you said I should tell you if I get anything strange... like messages or packages."
"I did. That wasn't silly. Did you get something?"
"I was painting... just painting... and then I got a text. From an unknown number."
Eamon's jaw tensed. "Do you know who it was?"
"I do," Acheron said quietly. "It was him. Hadeon. He somehow got my new number."
The name hit like a punch. Eamon had to force himself to stay calm.
"What did the message say?"
Acheron's breath caught audibly. "He said...'I miss you, my love.'" The disgust in his voice was palpable. "He used to say that to me all the time, and it used to make me happy. Now it makes me want to throw up."
Eamon's hand curled into a fist by his side.
"Acheron, listen to me. You are safe. He can't get to you. I'll handle this, alright? You don't need to carry this alone."
"O-Okay." The words were fragile, but something in Acheron's tone shifted, some small weight momentarily lifted.
"First, don't delete the message. Screenshot it and forward it to me. Then block the number. He might not message again, but we can't take any chances."
"Okay... I can do that."
"We'll also get you a new number again, just in case."
Acheron hesitated. "Will it matter? He'll just find that one too, won't he?"
"It might delay him. Every layer of distance counts. I'll make sure we take extra precautions this time."
Acheron only hummed, not yet agreeing.
"Eron," Eamon said gently, "You're not alone in this. You've got people who care about you. Your family and you have me. I will do everything I can to bring him to justice. You did the right thing by reaching out."
"Thank you, Eamon," Acheron murmured, quieter now, the hiccups gone, replaced by the faint, uneven sound of sniffles.
"Try to get some rest, okay? You did well tonight."
"I'll try... Goodnight, Eamon."
"Goodnight, Eron."
The line went silent.
Eamon stayed still for a moment, phone still pressed to his ear as if the connection hadn't ended. Then he lowered it slowly, eyes sharp with purpose. So Hadeon was trying to crawl back into the shadows. Let him try.
Eamon's footfalls thudded softly against the thick, expensive rugs that lined the dark hardwood floors of his apartment, their rhythm measured and deliberate as he moved down the corridor toward his home office. The city lights, fractured through floor-to-ceiling glass, painted fleeting patterns on the walls as he passed.
Once inside the office, sleek, minimalist, and bathed in the soft glow of recessed lighting, he pulled his phone from the pocket of his robe and called his assistant. It was well past midnight, and he began with a quick, sincere apology.
"I know it's late, but I need you to take this down."
He didn't wait for her sleepy protest. His voice was crisp but calm, efficient, as he laid out the situation: the text Acheron had received, the name behind it, and the severity of the threat.
"Contact our private investigator immediately. I want him to trace this number. Use whatever resources you need."
He paused for a beat, chewing briefly on the next instruction. "Also… prepare a new number for Acheron, just in case. I know he might decline, but I want the option ready for him."
His assistant assured him she would handle it, and the moment the call ended, Eamon grabbed his keys and headed for the elevator. His laptop, still locked in his car in the private underground garage beneath the high-rise, now felt like a necessity.
Despite knowing rationally that the text was nothing more than psychological warfare, a tactic designed to destabilise Acheron, he couldn't shake the sharp coil of unease tightening in his gut. The Blackwells didn't bluff. They had money, reach, and a brazen sense of entitlement. This wasn't a message. It was a threat, plain and clear: we can get to him. Eamon wouldn't ignore it.
The elevator ride was swift and silent. The garage was nearly empty at this hour, the hum of the security lights overhead a low, constant buzz. He moved quickly, retrieved the laptop from the back seat, and returned upstairs without encountering another soul.
Once home, he bypassed the staircase to the bedroom completely and made for the kitchen, where he brewed himself a strong espresso. Sleep was no longer on the table. His mind was too active, too focused. The smell of roasted beans curled around him like armour as he settled into his office chair and opened the laptop, its glow casting cold light onto his face.
An hour later, his phone buzzed.
The PI's voice crackled on the other end of the line, enthusiastic but long-winded, offering a web of technical jargon Eamon had no patience for. The summary, however, was clear:
The number was a burner. Untraceable in origin, and now shut off. The signal had, however, briefly pinged from a foreign country before going dark. While the message itself couldn't be tied directly to Hadeon, the investigator, who had been keeping loose tabs on the Blackwells, confirmed that Hadeon had left the country two days ago. Smuggled out via private jet, with no official record of his departure or arrival.
"He's not hiding from just you," the PI said. "The courts haven't been able to subpoena him because they don't know where to send it. That's why the case is stalling."
The jet had made several stops across multiple international locations, an intentional misdirection. Too many variables left without a single trace.
"Are you unable to follow the trail any further?" Eamon asked tightly.
"Not without jurisdiction, and I don't have reliable contacts in any of the likely countries."
Eamon ended the call with a clipped thanks and sat back in his chair, staring blankly at the far wall before slowly rising and crossing to the glass window. Beyond it, the city glittered like a living map of possibility and consequence.
Eamon knew that he could just wait for the court to eventually track Hadeon down themselves, but he didn't know how long that would be.
Besides, he hated being reactive; he'd take matters into his own hands.
He opened a secure browser and began making a list. First, he eliminated any countries with strict extradition agreements. Then, he removed those with conservative laws around alcohol and clubbing. Hadeon wasn't the type to stay sober or out of sight for long. Finally, he filtered for countries with elite academic institutions. The Blackwells would never hide their son somewhere uncultured or common. Prestige was part of their brand.
It narrowed his list to just one location.
Eamon blinked at the name.
Tiresa
By either sheer coincidence or blind luck, one of his closest friends from university, a fellow Alpha who now ran a successful international law firm, was based in that very country. They hadn't spoken in a few months, but they'd always kept a standing understanding: favours came with no questions asked.
Eamon's eyes sharpened.
Eamon sat behind his desk, the espresso now empty beside him, and placed the call. His fingers drummed softly on the wood as the dial tone buzzed in his ear. It didn't ring long, likely because it was normal working hours in Luca's time zone.
"Mr. Freezy, how's the weather over there in your ice castle?" A familiar voice greeted him, laced with warm amusement.
Eamon huffed out a soft laugh despite himself. "Still a comedian, I see."
"Always," Luca replied. "Someone has to keep your overly serious ass from sinking into total darkness."
Eamon could already feel the knot in his chest beginning to loosen. Luca had always had that effect on him, whether by charm, timing, or sheer chaotic wit.
"I need a favour," Eamon said, not bothering to ease into it.
There was a low whistle on the other end. "You know this is gonna cost you."
"I've paid in advance, Luca. If I remember correctly, my notes got you through Torts, Contracts, and Constitutional Law."
"Touché," Luca laughed, unbothered. "I still think about those colour-coded tabs like they were divine intervention."
"Glad to know my suffering wasn't wasted."
"Alright, alright. How can I help?" The humour faded from his voice, replaced by a quieter seriousness. He knew Eamon didn't ask for help lightly.
Eamon leaned back, his fingers loosely folded across his lap. He hesitated, not because he doubted Luca's willingness, but because of the weight of what he was about to ask. For all his easy charm, Luca was loyal to the core. If he agreed, he'd follow it through to the bitter end.
"I can't give you everything," Eamon said. "Some of it's confidential, tied to an ongoing case."
"Understood," Luca replied without missing a beat.
"But here's what I can say."
Eamon began to recount the past few weeks. The initial incident, the trauma, the struggle of a young man trying to rebuild his life while the shadows of his past clung stubbornly to him. He spoke of Acheron's strength and how hard he was working to appear unbothered, though the fear still lingered in his eyes. Eamon's voice was steady, measured, but there was a rare softness beneath his words—one Luca didn't miss.
He described how Hadeon reached out again, how he'd somehow found Acheron's new number. A manipulation meant to undo all the fragile progress Eron had made.
Then, he moved to the facts. How he'd narrowed down Hadeon's location through the legal process of elimination, how all signs pointed to Luca's country.
"I need your PI," Eamon said at last. "I trust your firm. Discreetly, I want someone watching for any trace of him. Clubs, private properties, and universities. Anywhere someone like Hadeon might be hiding or causing damage."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then a quiet, firm, "Done."
"I'll have my guy start looking tonight. And if I can help in any other way, just say the word."
"Thank you," Eamon murmured, meaning it.
Luca exhaled, and his voice took on a different edge, anger now tempered by personal experience. "You know… before I bonded with Matéo, he had a few run-ins. A couple of Alphas and Betas who thought they could scare him into submission. I didn't have the power back then to protect him, not really. But now? I do. And if someone like that bastard is out there terrorising someone again, especially someone who's already been through hell, I won't stand by and do nothing."
"I know," Eamon said quietly. "That's why I called you."
"But I need to warn you," Luca continued. "The Blackwells aren't just powerful in your part of the world. They have fingers in more places than either of us wants to admit, including here. If you bring this to trial, and if he's found guilty, don't expect him to get the punishment he deserves. They'll twist the outcome however they can."
"I'm aware," Eamon said, his tone cooling again. "But I won't let that stop me."
There was a hum of approval. "Didn't think you would."
The call was winding down, the gravity of the task hanging between them, but Luca wasn't one to end things on a heavy note.
"Visit me soon, Freezy."
"No way. You should come here," Eamon replied, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "My couch still has your name on it."
Luca barked a laugh. "That couch saved me more times than your notes did. I think I still owe it an apology for how many times I puked on it."
"And yet I still let you sleep on it," Eamon said dryly.
"Exactly."
They exchanged a final goodbye before the call disconnected.
Eamon sat there in the quiet for a moment, the line now dead, but the sense of momentum stirring in his chest.
Eamon wasn't sure how long it would take for Luca to track Hadeon down. The man was resourceful, and his team capable, but even the most skilled investigators needed time, and Hadeon wasn't just hiding. He was being protected.
There wasn't much more Eamon could do tonight. Midnight had long since passed, and the city beyond his windows had quieted into a glittering hush. Yet rest felt distant, unreachable. His body was tired, but his mind still churned with possibilities, calculations, and quiet concern.
He wandered to the kitchen and fetched a few light snacks: a bag of roasted almonds, a sliver of dark chocolate, and a glass of water before climbing the stairs back to his bedroom.
The room was dim, the ambient light from the city painting soft strokes of silver across the high walls. Eamon sat on the edge of his bed and opened his laptop once more. He didn't expect to find anything new, but he needed the distraction, something to hold his thoughts in place.
He opened the folder marked Desrosiers and browsed through the collection of files until he came to the attached images. Most were from the background research he'd done during his initial investigation: photos of the High School campus, dormitory layouts, staff rosters. Then came the pictures of Acheron's artwork, catalogued quietly, carefully, like they were more than just exhibits in a case file.
Each painting drew him in. They were dark, sometimes unsettling, but always arresting. There was something about Acheron's compositions that made them chaotic, layered, and thick with meaning. They demanded to be looked at longer. Every line seemed loaded with pain, every colour deliberate, even when smeared in violent swathes.
Months ago, he'd contacted a psychologist who specialised in interpreting the emotional and psychological state of artists through their work, by reading brush pressure, colour theory, and repetition of form. She was cautious in her initial assessment but intrigued. According to her, one could track emotional progression through a series of paintings, almost like watching trauma unravel, or deepen, on canvas.
Eamon wasn't entirely sure he believed in the method, but in the courtroom, every edge mattered. If Hadeon's team dared to argue that Acheron's pain was fabricated or exaggerated, then Eamon would be ready, with more than testimony. He'd be ready with proof that couldn't lie.
His cursor hovered over one of the photos. He paused.
It was a candid shot taken during art class. Acheron stood at his easel, the unfinished painting behind him awash in blacks and muted blues. His silver hair was much shorter than the way he wore it now, cropped neatly to reveal the constellation of piercings along his ears. A single ring glinted at his lip. His green eyes were focused, brows slightly furrowed in concentration as he stared at the canvas. He wore a loose black shirt, oversized and speckled with dried paint, a chaotic tapestry of colour and carelessness.
He looked… alive in that moment. Real and unfiltered.
Without meaning to, Eamon felt a small curve tug at his lips.
He thought back to Acheron sitting across from him in his office, fists clenched, posture defensive, like a cornered animal ready to bite if pushed too far. The image clashed with the one on his screen now. Creative, expressive and alive.
He's stronger now, Eamon thought, the smile fading into something more solemn. I can't let anything ruin that.
Almost unconsciously, his hand moved to his phone. He opened his chat with Eron. The last message still glowed there. Simple, desperate and typed in a panic: Call me, please.
Eamon hesitated for only a moment, then began to type.
[If you can't sleep, call me. I'll be awake.]
He stared at the message for a beat before pressing send.
There were still many unknown trials ahead, shadows that hadn't yet fallen, but for tonight, he could offer this much: the knowledge that someone was there. That Acheron wasn't alone in the dark anymore.