Jas couldn't sleep.
The storm outside had quieted, but the echoes of gunfire still clung to the walls of the mansion. Every creak, every groan of old wood in the night made their chest tighten.
They pulled the blanket tighter around their shoulders, sitting on the edge of the bed. Mark had insisted they rest, even carried them upstairs when Jas's knees threatened to give out after the fight. But Jas hadn't missed the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes—the way his hands lingered a moment too long before letting them go.
Now, hours later, Jas heard it: footsteps. Slow, deliberate, barely audible against the marble floor of the hall.
They froze.
The footsteps weren't coming closer to their room. Instead, they drifted down the hall, steady and heavy with intent.
Curiosity—and maybe something deeper—dragged Jas from bed. Their bare feet brushed cold marble as they followed the sound.
Mark.
He moved like a shadow, shoulders taut, every step controlled. A blade glinted faintly at his side, though there was no battle here, no threat left in the night. He walked as if haunted.
Jas trailed him at a distance, heart pounding. They had seen his strength, his violence, but now… now he looked like a man burdened by ghosts.
Mark stopped at a door at the far end of the hall. His hand hesitated on the handle. For a moment, Jas thought he wouldn't go in. But then he pushed the door open.
The room inside was dim, lit only by moonlight spilling through tall windows. Dust coated the furniture. A bed remained untouched, sheets folded neatly as if waiting for someone who never returned.
Mark stepped in slowly. His broad frame looked smaller in that stillness, almost fragile.
Jas pressed closer to the doorframe, holding their breath.
Mark's voice was low, a whisper not meant for anyone. "I told you I'd keep you safe."
He set the blade on the nightstand, fingers brushing over the dust as though searching for a memory. His shoulders shook, so faintly Jas thought they imagined it.
"You always said I was too stubborn," Mark murmured, almost smiling, but the sound was broken. "Guess you were right. You're gone, and I'm still here. Still killing. Still… me."
Jas's throat tightened. Whoever this room belonged to, they weren't alive.
Mark sat at the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. The silence that followed was raw, suffocating. It wasn't the silence of a killer. It was the silence of a man who had lost something he couldn't bring back.
Without thinking, Jas stepped into the room. The floor creaked under their weight.
Mark's head snapped up instantly, mask sliding back into place. The cold steel returned to his eyes as he rose, towering, as if daring them to say something.
Jas hesitated, words tangled in their throat. But then they walked forward, soft but steady.
"You don't have to carry it alone," they whispered.
Mark's jaw tightened. "You shouldn't be here."
"Maybe not," Jas admitted, meeting his gaze. "But neither should you."
Something in Mark's chest cracked. He turned away sharply, fists clenching. "You don't know what this is. What I've done."
Jas reached out, fingers brushing his wrist. The touch was feather-light, hesitant, but it burned like fire.
"I don't need to know everything," Jas said softly. "I just… don't want you to keep breaking yourself when you're already bleeding."
Mark stared at them, breath uneven. The walls he'd built—iron and unshakable—shivered under the weight of their gentleness.
Jas's touch slipped away, but the warmth lingered.
For the longest moment, neither spoke. The silence between them wasn't heavy anymore. It was fragile, like glass—dangerous, yet beautiful.
Mark finally exhaled, his shoulders sagging. "You should sleep."
"And you?" Jas asked quietly.
Mark's lips curved in the faintest, bitterest smile. "I don't deserve rest."
Jas's heart ached, but they didn't push. Instead, they turned toward the door, pausing only to whisper, "Maybe one day you'll let yourself believe otherwise."
When they left, Mark stood alone in the ghostly room. His blade gleamed in the moonlight, a reminder of what he was. But Jas's voice lingered in the dark, wrapping around him like a thread he couldn't cut no matter how sharp his weapons were.
For the first time in years, he closed his eyes—and let himself feel the weight of what he had lost.
---
Elsewhere in the mansion, Lucias leaned against the railing of the grand staircase, cigarette smoke curling in the dim light.
He had seen Jas follow Mark. Had seen the door close.
And for a man like Lucias, who trusted no one, that simple act of closeness struck deeper than any bullet.
His storm-grey eyes narrowed. "So, even ghosts find comfort in the living," he murmured, smoke slipping from his lips.
Behind him, Kai's voice cut like a blade. "Eavesdropping? That's pathetic, even for you."
Lucias smirked, not turning. "Says the man who pretends not to care but can't take his eyes off me."
Kai's footsteps stopped at the bottom of the stairs, sharp and precise. His glare could've frozen fire. "Don't project your loneliness onto me."
Lucias finally turned, the ember of his cigarette glowing in the dark. "Then why are you here, instead of running while you had the chance?"
Kai's chest tightened, but his voice stayed cool. "Because I haven't finished what I came for."
Lucias smiled, slow and dangerous. "Neither have I."
The storm inside the mansion hadn't ended. It had only shifted.