-8 hours later; The Crimson Phantom Guild (The Organization); In a Room-
A suffocating silence weighed down the dimly lit room, the air thick with tension and unspoken concerns. The elite assassins of the Crimson Phantom Guild, known for their lethal efficiency, now found themselves facing an unprecedented challenge.
Cillian stood beside Soren, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture rigid and alert. His spinel-red eyes, usually sharp and calculating, now held a hint of something deeper—perhaps concern, or frustration. The recent revelation about his personal life seemed to have added an extra layer of complexity to his already enigmatic persona.
Soren, ever observant, kept glancing at Cillian, trying to gauge his leader's mood. The golden-eyed assassin's fingers twitched slightly, betraying his unease with the situation.
Kryll hesitated before speaking, his vibrant purple eyes scanning the room, assessing the mood of his fellow assassins. When he finally broke the silence, his voice was careful, measured.
"As per the information we found," Kryll began, choosing his words with precision, "the performances in the three locations were already over by the time we arrived."
A heavy pause followed his words. The implications hung in the air, unspoken but understood by all present. They had missed their target—a rare occurrence for the guild known for its flawless execution.
A flicker of something unreadable passed through Cillian's spinel-red eyes. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the only outward sign of his inner turmoil. The others watched him closely, waiting for a reaction, a command, anything to break the mounting tension.
Theon, his blond hair slightly disheveled from hours of investigation, stepped forward. His emerald-green eyes, usually glinting with tactical brilliance, now held a grave expression. When he spoke, his tone was somber, laden with the weight of their discovery.
"And the worst part?" Theon's jaw clenched, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "The people who attended those performances... don't leave their houses anymore."
The room stilled, the silence now oppressive. Each assassin processed the implications of Theon's words, understanding the gravity of the situation they faced. This was no ordinary target—this was something far more sinister, far more dangerous than they had anticipated.
Dylan shifted uncomfortably, his ice-blue eyes darting between his comrades. Ethan's hand unconsciously moved to his weapon, a reflex born from years of facing danger. Even Aaron, still nursing his wounds from the earlier confrontation, seemed to forget his grudge momentarily, his face paling at the news.
Cillian remained motionless, his spinel-red eyes now focused on some distant point, his mind clearly racing. The others waited, the tension building, for their leader to speak, to guide them through this unexpected turn of events.
Ethan frowned. "What do you mean?"
Theon exhaled, his voice dropping lower. "The villagers say they hear screams coming from inside their homes. At irregular intervals."
Dylan leaned forward, his usual sharp gaze even more focused. "Some believe their minds have been tampered with. Others say they've been cursed."
A cold silence filled the room.
Cillian didn't react. His posture remained rigid, his gaze flicking toward Soren. Waiting.
Soren exhaled. "We—" he hesitated, but forced himself to continue, "we found something strange."
All eyes were on him now.
"Two children seem to be involved." His voice was measured, cautious. "But there's no record of them. No background. No origin."
Something flickered across Cillian's expression, but it was gone before anyone could decipher it.
Soren swallowed. "And we—" his voice faltered, before he steadied himself and locked eyes with his teammates. "We found traces."
Aaron frowned. "Traces of what?"
Soren's jaw tightened. "Traces of different magic."
The tension in the room turned suffocating.
Ethan narrowed his eyes. "The Joker's magic?"
Soren shook his head. "No. Multiple types. Different sources. In every single location he performed."
Cillian remained silent. His expression unreadable.
-Night; Helia Palace; Domino; Helios' Chambers-
The fire crackled softly in the dimly lit room, its golden glow dancing against the cold stone walls of Helia Palace. Roxana sat at the edge of the bed in Helios' chambers, her crimson nightgown pooling around her like spilled ink, a stark contrast against the muted tones of the chamber. The silken fabric whispered against her skin, a gentle reminder of the luxury that now surrounded her.
The door to the adjoining bath creaked open, the sound echoing in the hushed atmosphere. Helios emerged, a towel slung low around his waist, his bare chest still damp, water trailing down the defined ridges of his skin. Scars from his past marred his body—reminders of a childhood neither of them ever spoke about. The flickering firelight cast shadows across his form, accentuating the contours of his battle-worn physique.
His wet hair clung to his forehead as he rubbed a towel over it, oblivious to the way Roxana's gaze lingered on him for a fleeting second before she spoke. Her eyes, deep and mysterious as the night sky, traced the lines of his body with a mixture of concern and admiration.
"I told you to keep applying the ointment," she murmured, rising to her feet, her voice carrying the faintest trace of reprimand. The words hung in the air, soft yet weighted with unspoken care. "It helps the skin recover."
Helios stilled, caught off guard by her attention. He had expected her to simply mention it in passing, but instead, she approached him—slow, deliberate. The rustle of her nightgown against the stone floor was like the whisper of secrets long held. He let her take the towel from his grasp, her delicate fingers brushing against his calloused hands, a stark contrast of softness against strength.
Since she was shorter than him, Roxana couldn't quite reach Helios' head. The height difference between them was a stark reminder of their physical contrasts - her petite frame against his towering stature.
Without a word, Helios inclined his head, allowing her closer. The simple gesture spoke volumes, a silent acquiescence to her care that belied the hardened exterior he often presented to the world.
The firelight flickered, casting long shadows across the room as she carefully ran the towel through his damp strands. The world outside was quiet, but in this moment, the silence between them was anything but empty. It was charged with unspoken emotions, thick with tension and unsaid words.
For three minutes, neither spoke. The only sounds were their soft breathing and the occasional crackle from the fireplace. Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into eternity.
Roxana worked in careful strokes, her touch gentle, as if tending to something fragile. Her fingers moved with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the harsh realities of their world. It was only when her gaze drifted lower—to the scars stretched across his torso—that her hands momentarily faltered. The raised lines on his skin told tales of pain and survival, each one a chapter in a story she longed to understand.
Helios noticed her hesitation. His keen senses, honed by years of vigilance, picked up on the slight change in her demeanor.
"I'm—" He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. "Sorry."
Roxana's hands stilled, hovering just above his skin. She exhaled softly before feigning indifference, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of emotion. "May I inquire as to why you would say such a thing?" Her voice was carefully controlled, masking the curiosity and concern that lay beneath.
Helios met her gaze, the weight of a thousand unspoken words lingering between them. His eyes, usually guarded, held a vulnerability that was rarely seen.
"No reason," he replied, his tone betraying more than his words ever could.
Her lips parted as if to argue, but she didn't. Instead, she turned, her hair cascading behind her like silk, catching the firelight in its waves. She crouched beside the bedside table, setting the towel aside, before pulling open the drawer. A small tin of ointment gleamed under the firelight, its metallic surface reflecting the dancing flames.
"Sit on the sofa," she instructed, her voice soft but firm.
Helios obeyed without question, slipping into his black pants before settling onto the cushions. The leather creaked softly under his weight as Roxana approached once more, twisting the steel lid of the ointment.
It wouldn't budge.
Her brows furrowed in frustration, lips pressing into a thin line as she tried again, this time with more force. The struggle, small as it was, seemed to symbolize the larger battles they both faced - the difficulty of opening up, of letting someone in.
Without a word, Helios reached out, his fingers brushing over hers as he took the tin. The brief contact sent a jolt of electricity through both of them, though neither acknowledged it.
Click.
The lid twisted open effortlessly under his strong grip. The ease with which he accomplished the task was a reminder of his strength, both physical and otherwise.
Roxana blinked, her lashes fluttering like the soft wings of a butterfly. A fleeting smile graced her lips, delicate and tinged with embarrassment, as though it had been caught unawares. Without hesitation, she dipped her fingers into the cool cream, its texture smooth and yielding against her touch. Leaning in, she pressed the ointment gently onto Helios' scars, her movements deliberate and tender.
Helios flinched at the cold sensation that spread across his skin, his muscles tensing momentarily—but he didn't pull away. This was familiar. It was a ritual they had shared countless times before, a quiet act of care that spoke louder than words ever could. Always. Until they parted ways.
And yet, here they were again.
Close.
Silent.
The firelight flickered in the room, casting shadows that danced across their faces and walls, as if echoing the intimacy of the moment. The silence between them wasn't empty; it was brimming with unspoken emotions and memories that lingered just beneath the surface—almost as if nothing had changed at all.
Roxana's fingers moved with precision, applying the cream with featherlight strokes that seemed to carry an unspoken reverence. Her brows furrowed in concentration as she worked, each touch imbued with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the rough edges of Helios' scars. He watched her in silence, his crimson eyes fixed on her every movement—a quiet observer to her careful ministrations.
And then—without thinking—Helios did something unexpected. As Roxana leaned in closer to reach the scars near his shoulder, he tilted his head down and blew softly against the side of her neck. The warmth of his breath brushed against her skin like a whisper carried by the wind.
Roxana gasped, her hand jerking slightly against his chest as surprise rippled through her. The sound escaped her lips like a note from a song abruptly interrupted.
"Helios!" she scolded, pulling back sharply, her voice carrying equal parts indignation and disbelief.
He smirked, his crimson eyes glinting with mischief—a rare spark of playfulness breaking through his usual stoicism. "What? You were too serious," he teased, his tone light yet laced with undeniable charm.
Roxana narrowed her eyes at him, a mixture of irritation and amusement flickering across her face. "I was focused," she began sharply but faltered mid-sentence. She shook her head with an exasperated sigh as if admitting defeat to his antics.
And then—unexpectedly—she laughed. The sound was soft at first but grew fuller, filling the room like sunlight spilling through cracks in a stormy sky. It was unguarded and genuine—a fleeting moment of levity that softened the tension between them.
A soft, melodious sound filled the quiet chamber, echoing off the stone walls and dancing with the flickering firelight. Helios stiffened, his smirk fading, replaced by an expression close to awe. It wasn't often that he heard her laugh—not like this. Not freely, without restraint.
"Why are you laughing?" he asked, frowning slightly, as if he truly couldn't comprehend the source of her mirth.
Roxana wiped an imaginary tear from the corner of her eye, her amusement still bubbling in her voice. "Because my husband is so cute."
Helios froze.
His entire body tensed as his mind replayed her words over and over, each repetition sending a jolt through his system.
Husband.
Cute.
Him?
His mouth parted, but no sound emerged. For once, Helios—the ever-composed, ever-stoic Helios—was utterly speechless. His crimson eyes widened, betraying his surprise as clearly as if he had shouted it aloud.
Roxana only laughed harder at his reaction, her eyes sparkling with mischief and warmth.
She placed a hand on his cheek, her thumb brushing gently against his skin, eyes warm with something Helios couldn't quite name. The touch sent a shiver down his spine, a sensation both foreign and oddly welcome.
"You should smile more," she murmured, her voice soft and intimate in the quiet room. "It suits you."
Helios felt his heart stutter for a brief moment before he scowled, turning his face away to hide the flush creeping up his neck. "Tch. Stop saying nonsense."
Roxana only hummed in response, clearly unconvinced by his gruff dismissal. The knowing smile that played on her lips spoke volumes, hinting at a deeper understanding of the man before her.
She returned to applying the ointment, her touch gentle yet purposeful. But this time, there was a new energy in the air, a shift in the dynamic between them that neither could fully ignore.
And Helios—despite himself—couldn't stop his gaze from drifting back to her. His eyes traced the curve of her smile, the way the firelight danced in her hair, and for a moment, he allowed himself to bask in the warmth of her presence.
The chamber's atmosphere shifted, the once warm glow of the fireplace now casting ominous shadows that seemed to writhe and dance with malevolent intent. Roxana's eyes, previously soft with affection, now gleamed with a dangerous intensity as she snapped the lid of the ointment shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the suddenly oppressive silence.
To be Continued...