POV: Narrator
The sharp clang of weights echoed in the solitude of Zion's home gym — a room built into the sleek basement of his parents' modern house, its glass walls misted slightly from his breath and sweat.
Each rep was clean, controlled.
Each breath, steady.
Each movement, precise.
This wasn't training.
This was ritual.
With his shirt clinging to him like a second skin and soft music thrumming in the background, Zion tossed the dumbbells aside and exhaled through his nose. The bruises from Kevin's earlier dirty tricks had faded almost completely — not that they'd ever really bothered him.
He stared at the pull-up bar above him and smirked to himself.
"Always one step ahead..."
"You just haven't figured that out yet, Kevin."
He said it out loud this time — not for drama, just clarity. The truth tasted sharper when spoken.
After a quick shower, Zion stepped out, towel slung low around his waist, steam curling around his feet as he walked to his room. His phone buzzed with a message from Mabelle:
"Still on for today?"
His lips twitched again, this time softer — a rare full smile.
He dressed with minimal effort — black jeans, fitted white tee, silver chain. Simple. Effortless. Dangerous.
Minutes later, he was behind the wheel of his car — a matte black coupe that purred beneath his fingers like a beast tamed only by him. The streets blurred past until he arrived outside Mabelle's house.
She was already waiting by the gate.
Flowy cream dress, low heels, hair in soft waves, and a smile only Zion ever got to see. She slid into the passenger seat like it was muscle memory.
"Took you long enough," she said, smirking.
"I'm always on time," he replied. "You just like making me wait."
"Maybe I just like seeing how far you'd go to impress me."
"That's the thing..." He turned to her. "I never try to impress anyone."
"Exactly," she whispered. "That's why it works."
The Date
They ended up at a quiet rooftop restaurant in the city, one Mabelle had discovered and claimed as "our spot." It wasn't flashy — just perfect.
Fairy lights blinked above them.
The city stretched out below in gold and shadow.
Soft jazz played in the background.
They shared a plate of pasta, drank mocktails, and fed each other fries. Mabelle took photos of the food. Zion took a candid of her laughing mid-sip.
But what mattered most were the quiet moments in between.
"Do you ever wonder," Mabelle said, twirling a spoon, "if we're pretending too hard to be just friends?"
Zion shrugged. "We do couple things. People assume things. But we don't correct them."
"Why not?"
"Because it doesn't matter what they think. We know what this is."
She leaned forward slightly. "And what is this?"
He didn't look away. "Whatever you want it to be."
Her breath caught for a second. Then she smiled, eyes gleaming.
"Careful. That sounded dangerously close to a confession."
Zion just smirked. "Or maybe it was."
Later that night, Mabelle posted photos and videos from their outing across all her socials — Instagram, Snap, even the group chat. Her captions were cheeky but vague. Enough to make people wonder.
"Dinner with the favorite 😘 #matchenergy"
"My photographer's better than yours 💅🏽"
"You wish you were him."
Elsewhere...
Kevin's phone lit up with notification after notification.
He wasn't looking for them. But they came anyway.
His thumb hovered over the photo. Zion and Mabelle laughing over a mocktail.
Another one — Zion resting his hand on her waist, his usual smirk painted like a victory across his face.
Kevin sat motionless for a second, blood pounding in his ears.
Then slowly, a grin cracked across his lips.
It wasn't joy.
It was strategy.
"If I can't beat him..."
"Then I'll join him."
And destroy him from the inside out.