A strange, possessive warmth bloomed in Noctar's chest as he scanned the digital whispers S.A.R.A. fed him in real-time. "Rose Knight's Secret Love." "Mystery Man at Vermont Estate." The headlines were speculative trash, the images grainy captures of their brief, charged exchange on her porch the night before. The assumption woven through every line, that Ardyn Vermont was his, was illogical, statistically baseless, and yet he found he didn't dislike it. Not at all. It was a bug in the public's perception, a glitch in the narrative, and it painted a picture he was unexpectedly drawn to.
But then his focus shifted from the text to the live feed S.A.R.A. pulled from a traffic cam half a block down Ardyn's street. He saw her face. Not the composed mask of the woman who'd flicked his forehead, but the subtle, telltale tightening at the corners of her mouth as she exited her gate. He saw the way her golden eyes, usually so alive with knowing amusement, hardened into polished shields as she deliberately ignored the forest of raised phones pointed at her like digital spears. The faint frown that touched her features wasn't one of anger, but of weary resignation—a noble beast tolerating gnats. That resignation felt like a personal insult, a stain on something that had, in the span of hours, become inexplicably precious.
The possessive warmth in his chest flash-froze, then shattered, replaced by a cold, static fury that began a slow, deliberate bleed into his veins. It was a familiar sensation, a physiological precursor to the kind of problem-solving that didn't bother with fines or lawsuits, but with scorched-earth recalibrations. It was the same calm that settled over him before debugging a planet-eating meme-virus.
// Boss, while I admire the initiative, initiating a targeted digital and physical extermination campaign against the local paparazzi is statistically an overreaction and would negatively impact our primary mission parameters.
// ...You know what? When you put it that way, their lack of data privacy protocols *is* offensive. I'm compiling a list. We could start with a distributed denial-of-service attack on their media outlets. Just a little one.
Ardyn, somehow feeling the shift in the air around him, the drop in temperature, the silent promise of violence she turned her head. And she smiled.
It wasn't her professional smirk or a look of exasperation. It was a small, genuine, sweet smile that reached her eyes. In that moment, she didn't see a cosmic-level threat or a walking paradox. She saw a man, whom she'd known for less than a day, ready to burn the world down because some strangers with cameras had annoyed her. The sheer, ridiculous, over-the-top protectiveness of it warmed a part of her heart she'd kept locked down for years.
"Behave," she said softly, her voice cutting through his murderous haze. Then, with a final glance that held a universe of unspoken understanding, she got into her car and drove away to the Hunter's Authority.
Noctar watched her go, then turned his glacial glare back to the lingering paparazzi. He took one deliberate step towards them.
The voice was Ardyn's. It wasn't a memory; it was crisp, clear, and spoken directly into his mind. He froze mid-step.
// Analysis: A B-Rank telepathic message. A simple but effective packet of data, her voice, her intent is delivered via a localized telekinetic burst. Impressive control. She must have cast it just before she drove off.
The knowledge that she'd anticipated his reaction, and had taken measures to stop him, was somehow more satisfying than actually committing the murders would have been. He relaxed, the killing intent dissipating. She was managing him. And he found he didn't mind being managed by her.
Shaking his head, a faint, actual smile touching his own lips, he turned his back on the disappointed paparazzi and walked into the sleek, frostily air-conditioned lobby of the Ming Real Estate Agency. Their whispers, hungry and derisive, followed him through the automatic doors.
"...probably living off her," a slick-haired agent in a too-tight suit muttered to his colleague, not bothering to lower his voice. "Boytoy with a good tailor."
"Lucky bastard. What does he have that we don't? A prettier face?" the other sneered, eyeing Noctar with a mix of envy and contempt.
Noctar ignored them. Their jealousy was a background process, a trivial daemon consuming negligible resources, too insignificant to even register as a system error. He walked straight to the main interactive holographic display, a massive topographic map of the city and its outskirts shimmering in blue light. His eyes scanned available properties not with the wonder of a buyer, but with the detached, analytical focus of a programmer reviewing lines of critical code for vulnerabilities and upgrade paths.
A penthouse in the glittering towers? A liability. A townhouse in a secure compound? A trap. He didn't want a residence. He required a fortress. A secluded, impregnable command center with redundant systems and strategic oversight.
His gaze halted, zooming in on a listing at the edge of the map. Blackstone Peak Refuge. A modern, minimalist mansion designed by a paranoid genius, built directly into the granite face of a mountain range six kilometers from the city's edge. It was remote, accessible only by a private, defensible road. It came with independent power, water synthesis, a private, high-bandwidth mana conduit for SARA's operations, and a panoramic view that was also a perfect strategic overlook. The copy called it "a triumph of solitary luxury." He saw it as perfect debugger architecture.
"I'll take this one," he announced, his voice flat and final, to the nearest stunned agent, the one who'd made the "prettier face" comment.
The agent blinked. "Sir, that property is our premier listing. The price is—"
"Full payment. Immediate asset transfer. Now." Noctar didn't look at him; he was already interfacing with the display, pulling up the cryptographic contracts.
The snide remarks in the lobby died an instant, humiliated death, replaced by a stunned, gilded silence. The agents watched, their earlier contempt evaporating under the stark, blinding light of generational wealth. This was no boytoy. This was a client who could, by all indications, buy the entire agency, its parent company, and the city block it stood on with the loose digital change in his account. The slick-haired agent's face paled, then flushed with servile enthusiasm.
As Noctar finalized the transaction with a biometric seal that made the agency's security system chime with awe, his thoughts were not on the granite walls or the mana conduits. They were on the seclusion the mountain fortress offered. A quiet place, away from prying eyes and buzzing insects. A clean, well-defended space.
And the quiet, persistent hope that a certain Rose Knight, weary of gnats and armed with a psychic whisper, might one day find her way up that private road, to a door he would leave irrevocably unlocked for her.