Helios had already treated his fifth patient of the day. But instead of letting work distract him, he was still irritated—downright seething with frustration. And the day could have been so beautiful.
He had spent almost the entire Sunday in bed, thanks to Davis keeping his promise with meticulous care. Afterward, he hadn't been able to walk properly. His lower back ached, and the only comfortable position had been lying down.
Gradually, he came to the conclusion that this was Davis's new method of forcing him into taking a break. A gentle sabotage—effective and deeply pleasurable.
Still, Helios couldn't be mad at him. His body had been in a constant state of stress these past weeks, and that lazy Sunday had been long overdue. His heart beat faster whenever he thought about everything Davis had done to him.
His heart practically jumped out of his chest when he recalled the sex they'd had in that filthy alley.
Just before Davis had found him, Helios had killed that annoying brute. He had only meant to put the man to sleep, but when the guy shoved his tongue down his throat, Helios had been so disgusted that he'd chosen the poison over the tranquilizer.
He couldn't even explain why he'd had the poison with him in the first place.
It had been his first kill. With his own hands.
And damn, it had felt far too good.
Sure, he never left the house unprepared, but carrying poison wasn't supposed to become a habit. The dose he'd given the man had been strong—he'd mixed in a tranquilizer and high-dose beta-blockers. It hadn't even taken a minute for the guy to die, quiet and uneventful.
The lucky bastard probably hadn't even realized he was dying.
A shame, really—but Helios hadn't had time to observe the death anyway. In that alley, with all the people partying across the city, he could've been discovered at any second.
But only Davis had found him. And then, they had been far too busy with each other for him to watch the man die.
From that moment on, everything revolved around Helios. His desire, his lust, Davis' undivided attention.
The sex—intense, rough, almost primal—had been even more intoxicating because of the murder. The adrenaline had electrified every touch. And though Helios had feared Davis might notice something the entire time, his lover had seemed completely absorbed in him.
Helios had soaked up that feeling greedily—being loved, desired, utterly consumed by someone's gaze.
That high had lasted until Monday night and had only been amplified by his next appointment—with Edward and another walking dead man.
Helios had chosen a different poison that time, and the rush of watching it take effect had reawakened something in him.
At the moment, everything was going exactly the way he wanted.
Nothing stood in his way - and more importantly, nothing could stop him.
Today was the day Spider was supposed to carry out his assignment. Target: Dante.
At last, Helios would find out what Dante had been hiding from him. He didn't know how Spider planned to do it—but that didn't matter. He trusted the assassin. Still.
Even after what had happened with Davis. Even after the gunshot wound he himself had sustained.
Spider knew what he was doing. And Helios knew: He would get what he wanted. Sooner or later.
But of course, his father had to ruin the day.
It was almost ironic. Of all moments, it had to be now—right when he was looking forward to this single, long-awaited event, the moment his plan would finally be set in motion—that his father stormed back into his life with that damned topic.
Did it really have to be now?
Helios' stomach twisted, as if someone had shoved a burning stone into it. His heart pounded dully with pain, his head felt like it had been stuffed with gelatin, and his tongue carried a lingering bitterness—like he'd just spat poison.
How long had it been since the last time? Apparently just long enough for his father to think it appropriate to drag it all up again.
Letting go was clearly not part of his vocabulary.
And Helios felt it rise within him—a cold, paralyzing anger that tightened around his chest like a vice.
Not a single one of today's cases managed to distract him. Everything felt gray, monotonous, lifeless. Time crawled by, each second stretched into eternity. Again and again, he caught himself glancing at the clock, hoping—willing—it to finally be time. Time for the hit he had ordered.
He just wanted to go home, and he was seriously considering whether he should allow himself a drink for the first time that evening. Whatever it would be—he didn't care.
Tonight, he needed it. He wanted nothing more than to drink himself into unconsciousness.
Even though he had never touched a single drop before, he had watched his father do it often enough—drowning his worries in glass after glass of wine.
Maybe alcohol would help, if only for this one night.
Maybe Davis could keep him company.
He longed for his warmth, wanted Davis to wrap his arms around him and share that comforting heat. He wanted to talk to him about what his father had demanded again—vent his frustration, let it out—and whatever happened afterward… would only be a welcome bonus.
The thought of Davis was like a warm blanket settling over his raw, frayed nerves. Davis, with his calm, his quiet presence, his steady warmth.
Helios yearned to collapse into him, to press his forehead to Davis' shoulder, and—for just a moment—not have to function in any way.
He dismissed the thought of alcohol again—but maybe, later, he would just sneak into Davis' room.
It wasn't often that Helios felt this emotionally torn.
Now he stood in a treatment room, examining a young woman who had come in with a peculiar rash. She sat with her back exposed, the fabric of her blouse neatly folded over the back of a chair. He had sent everyone else out—partly to spare her the embarrassment, but mostly because he simply couldn't stand having anyone around today.
"Please get dressed," he said calmly, though his voice sounded colder than he had intended.
As she awkwardly pulled her blouse back on, Helios turned to his medical case. With practiced precision, he measured a few substances, weighed out a small amount of powder, and mixed it into a fresh salve.
"You're having an allergic reaction," he explained matter-of-factly, not looking up. "Next time, I'd suggest avoiding any intimacy while rolling around in monkshood. With a little less luck, you could've poisoned yourself severely."
The young woman froze—then turned beet red.
"W-What?! How do you know that?!" she stammered, her voice high-pitched, somewhere between embarrassment and indignation.
Helios met her eyes and gave a small, composed smile—not mocking, but firm.
"It wasn't hard to figure out. The rash follows the exact pattern of contact allergy with Aconitum. It's extremely toxic—a little more skin exposure and you could have died. Also, there was a petal still stuck to your blouse. Let's just say... it was obvious."
He handed her two small vials and the jar of freshly mixed salve.
"Take one vial in the morning and one in the evening. Apply the salve three times a day—for five days. The rash should improve significantly by then."
He paused for a brief moment, then nodded at her in farewell.
"Get well soon."
She left the room with her head lowered and cheeks still burning.
Helios remained behind, resting both hands on the metal counter and taking a deep breath. His gaze drifted back to the clock.
If he wasn't mistaken, she had been his last patient for the day. Which meant he could finally go home.
He placed the pen down with a deliberate gesture, closed the case, neatly stacked the documents, and returned everything to its proper place. His movements were routine, almost mechanical—like a well-oiled machine just waiting to be shut off.
Once everything was tidied up, he made his way out with Davis and Dante by his side.
Helios was genuinely relieved to have nothing left to do.
And by now, curiosity was beginning to stir in him—what exactly had Spider prepared for Dante? A small glimmer of anticipation at the end of an otherwise exhausting day.
At last, he would see what Dante had been hiding from him.
His mood lifted, just a little.
They walked through the hospital, their footsteps echoing off the cool, sterile floors. When they reached the entrance hall, the two remaining guards joined them, and together, they stepped out into the evening.
Outside, the sunset bathed everything in a warm, glowing red.
Helios liked this time of day.
It was the perfect in-between—no longer day, but not quite night. A moment of stillness, where the world seemed to hold its breath for just a second. The light was gentle, almost melancholic, painting the city in a golden-crimson glow that would soon fade into darkness.
He felt something inside him loosen, the tension of the day beginning to fall away.
Though the thought of running into his father later that evening threatened to sour his calm again. Maybe he'd skip dinner altogether. Or ask Thomas to bring him something small to his room.
The cool evening air was a welcome change after the suffocating rooms he'd spent the day in. Helios inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air swirl in his lungs like a cleansing current.
They moved slowly toward the car.
Spider was nowhere to be seen. Not yet.
When would he strike? Or better: How? Would he leap from the shadows? Kill silently—or loud and theatrical?
Then—
A gunshot.
Ah. A pistol, then.
Helios didn't even flinch as the shot tore through one of his guards, dropping him where he stood.
It didn't surprise him when Davis immediately began barking orders.
His pulse remained perfectly steady even as someone yanked him off his feet and slammed him hard onto the ground. A dull ache pulsed in his side, but he ignored it.
The second guard—the one whose name he'd never bothered to remember—had landed right on top of him.
Another shot rang out—precise. Deadly.
The bullet pierced the forehead of the man lying on top of him. A sharp jolt ran through the guard's body—then he went limp instantly.
Warm blood seeped onto Helios' face, heavy and viscous.
The sudden weight crushed the air from his lungs.
Okay—this was neither good nor comfortable. Even though, in a twisted way, he almost enjoyed the sensation of warm blood dripping onto him.
No matter how much pleasure the death candidates brought him—nothing compared to the intimacy of watching a bodyguard die right above him. Blood on his skin. Warmth still clinging to the flesh.
A soft sound escaped his lips, almost a sigh.
Helios licked a drop of blood from his mouth, closed his eyes for a second, letting the metallic taste melt on his tongue.
He would've liked to savor this moment a little longer.
But the corpse on his chest was heavy—far too heavy.
A massive, lifeless block of meat crushing down on his ribs.
With a low growl, Helios tried to push the body off. Useless.
He shifted slightly to get more room to move, only to feel a nerve stretch somewhere it definitely shouldn't.
No chance—he wasn't getting out of this on his own.
Where was Davis?
Or Dante?
Or someone who could pull him out of this bloody, macabre embrace?
He hated feeling helpless.
Hated it even more to be trapped in a situation where he wasn't in control.
And yet… he smiled.
"Davis…!" Helios gasped, still struggling beneath the dead weight of the guard.
"Helios?! Where are you?!" Davis' voice called out—close, almost directly above him. Was the idiot blind now too?
"Down here!"
"Down?! Oh, shit—hang on, I'll get you out!"
Not a second later, the heavy body was pulled off of Helios. The weight lifted from his chest, and finally, he could breathe again. He gasped for air and coughed a few times.
Damn—his bodyguards were way too muscular. Sooner or later, one of them was really going to crush him.
Still, his pulse remained remarkably steady.
His eyes drifted to the side—just a few steps away, Dante was fighting two assassins. Fluid in his movements, but clearly under pressure.
Then—another shot.
Dante's leg buckled, and although he had defended himself with impressive efficiency, the tide was now turning in favor of his attackers.
"Shit…," Davis muttered under his breath, tense.
One of the assassins seized the opportunity, stepped in, and plunged a knife into Dante's upper arm.
Dante let out a cry of pain, then slammed his fist into the attacker's face—a hit that cracked with audible force.
Then, grimacing, he grabbed the knife still buried in his shoulder, yanked it free—and without hesitation, drove it into the throat of the second assassin.
Blood sprayed.
The man collapsed in silence, the blade buried deep in his neck.
Dante staggered for a moment but quickly regained his footing. His gaze—dark, deadly—locked onto the last remaining attacker. Helios watched the scene unfold with cold fascination, all the while calculating how many allies they had left. Two of his best guards were still standing. At least that.
But when another assassin stepped into the scene, Helios' inner alarm flared.
The pistol the man raised wasn't aimed at Dante.
It was aimed at him.
Helios stared at him in disbelief. Why the hell would this bastard target him? But the assassin only grinned—a cruel, mocking grin. He was playing a twisted game. Then—suddenly—he shifted the aim back to Dante and pulled the trigger.
Suddenly the world shattered into fragments.
Davis grabbed Helios and yanked him behind cover just as the first bullet hit.
Gunfire tore through the air—not measured, not precise—just a hellish barrage.
And yet—every shot struck true.
Dante's body was riddled with bullets: two into his chest, one tore into his abdomen, another slashed open his cheek— and the final bullet shattered his forehead.
He fell. Like a heavy, wet sack, hitting the pavement with a dull thud. His eyes half-open, empty. No movement. Only blood, seeping from his body in dark, spreading pools.
Helios stared at the corpse.
He could hardly believe it. Dante was dead. Just like that. And that hadn't been the plan.
Rage rose inside him like poison—hot, sharp, and all-consuming.
That goddamn assassin hadn't revealed anything—he had eliminated. That was not the deal. Helios clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay composed. Then, in a voice that sounded far calmer than he felt:
"He's dead, Davis. Let's get out of here. Now."
But Davis didn't respond.
"Davis…?"
His eyes shifted toward him—and what he saw made the blood in his veins run cold. Davis swayed. His knees gave out, and he slowly collapsed to the side.
Helios lunged forward, trying to catch him—but he was too late.
Davis hit the ground hard. Motionless.
A scream tore through the air—raw, furious. "Belladonna! You absolute fucking idiot!"
Spider.
The assassin's voice was warped with rage, so furious that Helios' head whipped around to him.
What… what the hell had just happened?
Was this still part of the plan? Or had everything completely spun out of control?
And more importantly—why was Davis lying on the ground now too?
Helios' heart started racing—not out of fear, but from cold, merciless clarity.
But the voices around him faded into a distant hum, muffled and warped—like they were coming from another world.
Helios dropped to his knees beside Davis.
His lover lay on the ground, struggling to breathe, the life visibly draining from his body with every weakening heartbeat.
Helios shut everything else out.
"Davis, don't do this…" he whispered, stunned, almost childishly disbelieving.
His mouth went suddenly dry, his hands trembled as he crawled closer and grabbed Davis by the shoulder. Gently, he turned him onto his back—and froze.
His entire chest was soaked in blood.
Helios' heart skipped a beat.
Without hesitation, he pressed both hands down onto the bleeding wound, right over Davis' heart, where the blood pulsed out in thick, rhythmic waves.
"No… no, no, no…" he murmured in desperation.
Davis barely reacted. No sound, no twitch, no pain in his eyes—only that labored breathing, like each breath might be his last.
The realization hit Helios like a punch to the chest: He's not going to make it.
His throat tightened. It felt like all the air was being crushed out of his lungs.
"You're going to be fine. I'll fix you up again, like always…" he whispered, voice shaking. Tears streamed down his face, unstoppable. "And in a week…" A choked sob broke through his words. "In a week you'll laugh about this. Like every other scratch… ugh…"
"...lios…" Davis breathed weakly.
Helios immediately looked up.
His eyes met Davis'—peaceful. Far too peaceful. His breathing was barely audible now, his heartbeat thinner than a whisper.
He was dying.
Desperate, Helios let go of his chest and cupped Davis' face in both hands. His fingers brushed gently over the blood-smeared cheek. Davis' lips moved… but no sound came.
"I love you, Davis! Do you hear me?!" Helios sobbed. His voice trembled, cracked with grief.
But Davis didn't answer.
He had stopped breathing.
"DAVIS!" Helios screamed—desperate, broken. "Please don't leave me! You can't just die like this!"
If he could tear his own heart from his chest and give it to him, he would—without a second's hesitation.
He leaned down, his lips pressing against the motionless mouth of the man he loved more than anyone else in the world. It was a final kiss—salty with tears, desperate, and full of pain.
"Why you…" Helios whispered, his voice barely audible. He brushed a blood-crusted strand of hair from Davis' forehead, gently running his fingers through his hair. "Nothing should ever have been able to hurt you again…"
But everything had failed.
"Helios… so…" The voice came from the side.
Spider.
Helios didn't move. His gaze remained fixed on Davis' lifeless face.
Then, cold as ice: "Leave, Spider. We're done. If I ever see you or your damned partner again, I'll kill you myself."
And he meant every word.
If Spider came even one step too close, Helios would end him—here and now, without hesitation. His hand moved almost imperceptibly toward the inside of his coat, where the syringes waited, ready for use.
"It was an accident," Spider said quietly, almost remorsefully.
"Leave."
"You won't get rid of us that easily, Helios. We'll see each other again. Of that, I'm pretty damn sure," Spider replied calmly before disappearing into the darkness.
Then Helios was alone.
Alone with Davis.
Alone with the dead guards.
He knelt there, unmoving, his blood-smeared hands trembling, his face soaked with tears.
How was he supposed to get Davis out of here? Could he even make it to the car with him in his arms?
He wanted to cling to that thought—but the grief was too heavy.
If you could just get up, he thought. If you'd just look at me and laugh… tell me I'm overreacting, like always…
But nothing came. No voice. No movement. No warmth.
Only silence.
Only death.
He wanted to see that glow one more time—that specific shimmer in Davis' eyes, just before their lips met. That quiet hunger flickering within them, right before they lost themselves in each other.
He wanted to see him again, walking ahead with that serious expression and unwavering determination, ready to protect Helios with his life.
His gentle smile…
Only for him. Only when they were alone.
But none of that would ever happen again.
It was all over.
And only because he had given the damn order.
Only because he'd wanted to know what Dante was hiding.
Only because his curiosity had outweighed his trust.
Davis was dead.
Because of him.
Helios cried, the heavy weight of his own actions were pressing him down.
A faint groan pulled him out of his hollow daze.
Helios' head snapped around—and his gaze locked on Dante.
Dante was sitting upright. Blood still clung to his face, but his eyes… they were alert. Alive. Focused.
Helios' heart skipped another beat.
In slow motion, he watched as the gaping bullet wounds on Dante's forehead and cheek began to close—skin sealing over bone, blood vanishing as if it had never been there.
"W-Why…?" Helios whispered, his voice choked with disbelief.
Is he… immortal?
Dante had been dead. There was no question.
No breath. No sound. No life.
And now…?
"Why are you alive?! And why… WHY did Davis have to die?!" Helios suddenly screamed, his voice cracking with pain.
Tears streamed down his cheeks again—hot and bitter.
He couldn't think clearly—everything blurred together in pain and guilt.
This wasn't right. This wasn't the plan.
None of it was.
Dante looked at him as if he didn't understand what was happening—then something in his expression changed.
Coldness.
Determination.
In the blink of an eye, he was on his feet.
Helios registered only motion—then suddenly, fingers wrapped around his neck. Hard. Merciless. He was slammed to the ground, the air ripped from his lungs in an instant. Dante's hands clamped down around his throat like a vice.
Helios gasped, his own hands instinctively clawing at Dante's wrists, trying to push him away—futile.
The world narrowed, shrank. Dots danced in front of his eyes.
He's going to kill me…